Turkey Redux

Much like Jewel, that snaggle-toothed songstress of yore, I’ve been down so long. Well, not literally down, but certainly bogged down, at the very least. Best to catch up in fragments, lest I avoid catching up at all.

Thanksgiving in Connecticut outdid itself. It was the adventure I expected it to be, and then some. The “some” in question involved meeting The Boy’s former lady love, which, even under the best circumstances, is straight-up, down-right awkward. My face flushed, my throat closed in on itself, my hair and flotation devices refused to behave—and all this at a time when I was supposed to be stunning. When faced with one’s predecessor, one is supposed to be non-threatening, visibly if silently apologetic, and accidentally gorgeous. I can assure you I was none of those. I think my head was tilted the whole time (attempting to achieve visibly apologetic), with my sweaty palms on my face to try to reduce the nerve-induced redness (having accepted there would be no declaration of “gorgeous,” I decided to go for anything involving “accidentally’). Taking all those factors into consideration, I may have achieved non-threatening, but given the gravity of the situation, I probably didn’t nail that one either. So, when asked by The Stepmother at brunch on Sunday if I had “met a lot of new people,” I certainly could respond that I had.

Thursday morning, recovering from the confrontation the night before, I teared up, realizing this was my first Thanksgiving without Pop, and by extension, my first without his (should have been) world famous creamed corn. The Boy sympathetically squeezed my hand, and we were off.

Thanksgiving the day, is really more of an experience than a Thursday. There were two meals, naturally, as there are two remarried parents to include. The first involved The Boy’s tiny, preternaturally preserved paternal grandmother. I am happy to report to my father that late onset greying seems to be prevalent in that side of the family, as the grandmother, at 70, is still mostly raven-haired. He swears The Boy’s father, who is more likely to be seen under a car than in front of a mirror, dyes his hair. Now I can pretty safely say he does not.

The Grandmother did most of the work and made it look easy, and we had a nice time, with The Boy begging off the pie so as not to offend his mother, who had made his absolute favorite pumpkin pie.

Fortunately, the second turkey was stubborn, and the dinner that was scheduled for 3, then 4, finally occurred at 6. Right before we began loading our plates up, The Boy grabbed me by the hand and led me into the kitchen. To the stove. He pointed at a pot on the back burner.

“Look, baby.”

Creamed corn. Even in Connecticut. I think he’ll be milking those extra points well into the new year.

Overall, another successful trip, and one in which we scheduled our next trip, the weekend before Christmas for our own fake Christmas. The Boy makes sure to put the emphasis on “fake” when he talks about it, as this is his first Christmas away from home in his entire life (I know that because I’ve heard the fact, as if for the first time, 47 times since Thanksgiving).

The result of these pre-Christmas festivities (The Mother and her husband will be in town this weekend, weather permitting for a Very Special Christmas Celebration), is chaos—CHAOS—in and between our little homes. In the new house (heretofore to be referred to as The Home), the furnace has taken a vacation. It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight. So The Boy is ripping what’s left of his hair out (he shaved off the head spikes, much to my delight) being master mechanic (in the absence of our home warranty that should be going into effect any day), and I have a crazed look in my eye as I budget for, coordinate, gain approval on, acquire and wrap gifts for two and a half families for five separate Christmas extravaganzas (plus the office holiday parties). Can you say oy vey about Christmas? I don’t know about the implied linguistic intermingling of faiths there, but OY VEY.

Tomorrow marks the first of two (yes, two) of The Boy’s office Christmas parties, tomorrow’s being the only one that involves a stretch Excursion limo and lots of drunk young “professionals.” Actually, that last part probably applies to both.