Gobble, Gobble, Gobble! The Pilgrim Equivalent of Bah, Humbug?

“Do they have Thanksgiving in England?”

Somebody asks me that every year. Usually a firm, “don’t waste my time you nitwit” stare is enough to jolt their brain cells to life, but occasionally it takes a further prod.

“Well, let’s see now,” I say, “what is Thanksgiving a celebration of?”

“It’s when the Indians and Pilgrims…Ah.”

It’s only one step above those people who ask me if we celebrate the Fourth of July over there. I mean, really.

So, Thanksgiving is a relatively new experience for me. It has no long-held traditions, no “well this is how my mother used to do it”, in fact, no real appeal for me at all—except for the turkey. But it’s such a giant hassle. Even though it’s still more than a month away, the question has been going around for weeks now.

“What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?”

There’s always the family obligation, my husband’s, not mine, but that means facing the freeways and my sister-in-law’s cooking. There’s the annual invitation to my friend’s house. The food will be better, but there’s three times the freeway to get there, and really who wants to face traffic on that day of the year? We had an interesting invitation this year to go for sushi. Trouble is, our friend has yet to find a place that’s open (and I secretly hope she doesn’t for the sake of the poor stiffs who would have to work.)

Of course, there’s always the option to host Thanksgiving here. I love to cook, but it’s a week-long endeavor involving piles of magazines and cookbooks and hard (or sometimes impossible) to find ingredients, like plum jam, chipotle chilies, or barley. Every pot and dish in the house is called into service and the dish washing—my husband’s duty—takes another week to finish. Add to that the fact that my in-laws are Hispanic. When I did Christmas last year, every one of them came late. I was expecting it, of course. After three years together, I know better than to think and event will actually happen on time. What I didn’t plan for was them arriving in a trickle between 3:00 and 7:00. We had dinner—the dinner I’d spent three days making—in three separate shifts, which meant I was cooking, serving and cleaning up pretty much all day.

My first Thanksgiving in this country involved tamales and enchiladas before going to a movie on my own—hardly traditional, but perhaps my best one yet. I had my first true Thanksgiving the following year. I looked forward to the turkey, but couldn’t believe my ears when I was asked to make the green bean casserole. “You want me to do what?” Two cans of anemic green beans and two cans of gray mushroom soup, sprinkled with a tub of deep-fried onion flavored…? What are those things made from anyway? Then the hostess took a perfectly delicious vegetable like a yam--delicious slow baked or steamed with a sprinkle of salt and a blob of butter--and what do she do? Mixes it with its weight in sugar and butter and bakes it with marshmallows!! Marshmallows!! I ask you! Fortunately for me, a relatively healthy eater, my hostess that year included beets on the menu. I didn’t think beets went especially well with turkey, but I do like them, so I took a couple of slices. Well, they weren’t beets were they? No, apparently cranberry sauce, that delicious salsa of soft, tart berries, comes in jelly form, canned and sliceable! Who knew?

So, it’s easy to see why I have little enthusiasm for this particular holiday. Between you and me, I’d rather spend the four days in bed, with a good book, a good man and a cheese and pickle sandwich.

Happy Turkey Day to you all!

Saved by the bell?

Like everyone else these days, I’m a busy person. I have a career as well as a job that actually pays my bills; I have a husband with various needs, and a family of in-laws with assorted other needs; I have a cat and garden, a car that needs some maintenance and a body that needs a little more maintenance than the car. I also have friends with whom I fortunately, with only a few exceptions, enjoy spending time and whom I had always assumed enjoyed spending time with me. It seems that lately though, that is no longer the case.

Don’t get me wrong, my friends still call me, we still plan to meet for lunch, or coffee, or sometimes a drink. They still share their secrets with me and they still appear to be concerned with my welfare, but it seems to me they’re just waiting for something better or more interesting to come along, and more frequently than not that distraction is provided by their cellular telephones.

So, there I am, pouring out my heart about the latest cruel blow life has dealt, or passing on the juiciest bit of gossip I’ve picked up in long time, or even listening intently as they do the same to me, when suddenly it happens. From the depths of their purse/backpack/pocket comes the tinkling sound of their ringing cellphone. It grows steadily louder until the moment it is freed from its confines by my friend, the caller’s identity checked and the little earpiece thing flipped open.

“Hello?” says my friend, and I wait to see what terrible tragedy has transpired. “Oh, hi!” they chirp and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, I’m just having lunch with Lisa.”
I wave, assuming the caller knows who I am. And then the conversation from my end goes something like this:
“Oh, yeah, I called you about this weekend. Can you go?...Yeah…Yeah, I think she’ll be there…Did I tell you what happened?…” And so it continues.
And there I sit, picking at my lettuce trying not to listen in on the conversation that’s taking place 18 inches from me ear, and wondering when I became so boring and insignificant.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a cellphonaphobe. They’re lifesavers, sometimes literally. Most of my girlfriends have children and I understand that when you have kids, you’ve got to answer your phone, even if it’s just to help your little one find the remote control (I have sat through the other end of that conversation, by the way!) But when you take a call from one of your other friends, one of your interesting friends, I’ve got to tell you, that’s just rude. You’re telling me my time is of no value to you, and that you are far more busy and important than I am. You’re also telling me that what your other friend has to say is far important than what I have to say. If that’s the case, then do me a favor, just don’t call me, OK? Call your other friend and go have her spend her money on lunch, and then I can just call you in the middle of it and we can visit that way. It’s much cheaper for me and will take up far less of my valuable time.

I know, that would just be anti-social and miserly, but, please, with our ludicrously busy lives the way we are, we get so little time for one-on-one interaction any more, and I actually do like you. So when we do finally get the chance to get together, do me a favor, make it all about me. It’s only an hour and I promise that I’ll make it all about you. Then when we’re done with our time together, you can call your other friend from the car, while you’re hurtling back to work, or on your way to get your kid from judo, you know, some time when you could really do some damage.

Well, if that’s the only other option, I guess I could sacrifice some of my time…maybe.

Miserable Marvin, Parking Poop

What ever happened to Lovely Rita, Meter Maid? We seem to be stuck with Miserable Marvin, Parking Poop.

We are fortunate enough to live in one of those beach cities that afford its residents clean air, breathtaking vistas, and one street parking space per ten residents. Please don’t ask why we don’t just park in our garage or driveway – when our tiny beach cottage was built, back in the 30’s, parking here just wasn’t an issue. Couple with this the obsessive cleanliness of our city public works department and we’re left with two days each week, when either one side of the street or the other is out of commission.

My husband and I regularly do the Friday morning shuffle, when, bleary-eyed-- coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other--we realize that one--or both---of our cars is illegally parked. There then ensues a frantic search for our keys and if time permits, a change from robe and slippers to some more appropriate outdoor attire, followed by a mad dash to our cars to perform an elaborate ballet of three-point maneuvers and illegal U-turns before Miserable Marvin appears, right on schedule at exactly 8:00 a.m.

Unfortunately, we don’t always make it. In fact we’ve had so many parking tickets in the three years since we’ve lived here, I’m considering asking the city to erect a statue to us in honor of our philanthropic contributions to the community.

Now, I know that Marvin’s just doing his job and I’m sure it’s a thankless job—I mean, imagine going to work everyday and having NOBODY pleased to see you—but really, does he have to be quite so crabby? When we beg for absolution for our parking sins, we don’t really expect him to wink and say, “Just this once, then, but don’t tell anyone.” I mean, rules are rules--we know that. But he can’t see the slightest humor in seeing two people who look like they’ve just crawled out from under a hedge, flying down the street in their pajamas faster than Linford Christie? He doesn’t crack a smile, not even an apologetic shrug; he just twangs the windshield wiper on top of the ticket and without even making eye contact, climbs into his truck and goes off in search of the next victim.

So, Marvin, this poem is for you:

Ode to Miserable Marvin

Oh Marvin, poor Marvin,
Your lonesome heart is starvin’
For someone who will say,
“Boy, you really made my day.”

But there’s no-one understands
That the City ties your hands,
And the nature of your work,
Is what makes you such a jerk.

Oh, if folks would just obey,
They would have a nicer day.
But the lows to which they stoop,
Are what make you such a poop.

So this law-abiding slob
Says, “Go on and do your job”
And I’ll add without reserve,
“We all get what we deserve.”