Disclaimer: no one was injured in the writing of this post
November 29, 2006
From the flurry of emails and comments on my recent posts I feel compelled to remind people that I wasn’t talking about them. I wasn’t talking about their turkey. And those of you who emailed telling me what an ungrateful bitch I am or commented anonymously, wow you are so brave. And also you have lots of time on your hands.
I don’t write anything here about my husband’s family that I wouldn’t say to their face. My sister-in law’s turkey cooking skills have been the butt of family jokes for years, more years than I have been a part of the family that’s for sure. I didn’t go through the list of things she prepared for dinner and tear them all apart. That would be harsh and uncalled for. But sharing a funny, I thought, quote from my 9 yr old was no way harsh.
Should I have prefaced the story by saying that he was sitting at the “children’s table” in a completely different room from the grown-ups and brought no attention the fact that he was putting an ice cube on his plate on top of the turkey? That my sister-in-law just happened to walk by and ask him what he was doing? Should I have shared that she laughed and came ito the dining room and related the story to all of us? Or how about my brother-in-law who told her that her punishment for making crappy turkey was that she would be forced to host Thanksgiving again next year? And then how one of her teenage children asked for the ice bucket? Christ she has teenagers, do you really think someone calling her turkey dry is going to phase her?
And the photo? It was one of many that I took that day. I have four or five others of my son standing there smiling in front of the food, even more of him smiling in front of the dessert table, but this photo struck me as funny. But that is really beside the point.
To me writing about that damn turkey was a metaphor for alot of other things that I couldn’t or wouldn’t write about. Things that are personal and have to do with our differring religious, political, and parenting beliefs, or based on the fact that some of us are sane and some of us clearly are not.
Instead I should have written the quote that my sister-in-law’s husband said whe his teenage daughter expressed an interest in working at a tanning salon in town, “Only degenerates and hussys go to tanning salons.” I wonder if that would have inspired such vitriol.
I could have written about how I host Christmas every year at my house and how every single year we make something that his family laughs at. One year it was a five onion soup, one year it was homemade gravy, another it was homemade cranberry sauce. I love me some homemade cranberry sauce, but no one else does and so I now buy the canned stuff and you want to know a secret, it really IS easier to use on a turkey sandwich later with left overs the next day.
Sometimes I think that people don’t realize that what I, or any of us, write and share are but obscure details in our lives. What is written here on the internet is but a tiny tiny glimpse into our lives.
I try to write about things that made me laugh, made me think, occassionally things that annoyed me. Sometimes writing helps me to find the humor in things that otherwise might not be humorous, like most of this mothering gig, or to find something positive to write about when everything in reality seems to be spinning out of control.
Everything that I write is true, but it isn’t the whole truth. This isn’t a diary that I keep locked and stored under my Hello Kitty pillow where I dot the i’s in my name with tiny little hearts or smiling faces.
My children don’t walk around amusing me endlessly every day with their funny one-liners. In fact I have to remind a few of them that we aren’t living in a sitcom and can they please tone it down a bit.
I lose my temper.
I yell at my kids.
My kids yell at me.
We watch more tv than I would ever like to admit.
And in just the past week my husband has run over two skateboards and a scooter that were left laying in our driveway.
And he fell over a bicycle that was left in front of the porch steps and he was unable to see it in the dark. And when he came inside and told all of us we laughed. Because a suit wearing Dad coming home from work late at night, in the dark, carrying his briefcase, and falling over errant toys is comedy gold.
I have threatened to call Santa to make sure the kids are on the naughty list.
My kitchen is filled with sheetrock dust, as is most of my upstairs. I have been living in a construction zone of a house for so long that it seems normal to me to ask guests to keep their shoes on.
My Christmas shopping isn’t even close to being done.
We forgot to go tag our tree at the Christmas farm last week and so now we will probably end up with one too big to fit in the house or else a Charlie Brown tree.
Oh and speaking of Charlie Brown, did you watch the special when it was on last night? We didn’t either. And yes I knew it was on when I sent my kids to bed.
And I like having sex with my husband. If I withheld sex everytime he said something stupid we’d only have one child. Likewise if he withheld sex everytime I complained about being out of shape and gaining weight, while sitting on the couch eating Lime Tostitos, cookies, or twix bars. Well we probably wouldn’t even have one kid. That is what makes it funny.
Perhaps I just need to have parenthetical explanations after every sentence that I write. (kidding, of course)
Or perhaps people just need to lighten up.
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