it's more like a Thanksgiving dinner with a dysfuntional family.
There I'm standing in a hot kitchen. My hair hasn't been done and my makeup is from yesterday, and I'm holding a turkey I'm not overly proud of.
Despite my dreams of succulent meat and perfectly seasoned, crackling skin, I am holding a disappointment. This isn't how I wanted my turkey to be. It's not what I worked so hard for.
In comes MawMaw. I look to her for support. I quickly pour my sad turkey tale onto her shoulders.
She replies, "Yeah, that's how it is, I had a turkey like that".
I don't feel any better. I almost feel like her failed turkey comment is a veiled accusation-- like I was the reason for her disappointing turkey.
I'm not sad to see her back as she returns to the dining room.
My relief is short-lived. PooPoo enters. Oh Poo Poo. For years he's said what he means and what he says is mean, but he gets away with it because he is old. He takes one look at the turkey and says, "You know, if you disciplined those kids more, you'd have more time to have a terrific turkey. There's no reason they can't help you more-- activities, Pah! I never had activities when I was young, I worked and I worked hard. Your problem is you do too much for those kids and look where it got you."
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| Everybody Loves Raymond |
My entire failed turkey can be blamed on the way I chose to raise my kids.
Such a ray of sunshine. So glad he's here. He may die in this decade so we all tolerate him.
People are buzzing past me like little garden bees, landing on pies and jiggley jello salads, some proclaiming that their cranberry sauce is the best anyone could ever hope for.
Side dishes people. Anyone can pull off a great side dish, but a whole, main course turkey?
Uncle Hee Hee comes into the kitchen for a drink. I love Uncle Hee Hee and tend to gravitate towards him at these family gatherings.
I show him my turkey. I know he will understand why I am wanting to crawl into my bed and live there for the rest of my time on Earth.
"Pull yourself up, girlie. I know people who aren't even lucky enough to have a turkey! My son has never had a turkey and he's nearly forty. He's gonna look back one day and be sorry for the decisions he made eating at fast-food places all of these years and here you are complaining because your turkey ain't perfect." He smiles and leaves with his lemonade.
Hmmm. Not quite the pep-talk I was expecting.
Feeling more than a little emotionally depleted now, I brace myself for Auntie Looloo.
It's not enough. No one can really brace for Auntie L.
"Oh, yeah. I had turkeys like that and you know what? I got through them. AND I worked full time and never had the luxury of trying to perfect my turkey-- noSir-ee, I worked hard and I accepted what came my way".
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| Little Miss Sunshine photo |
Strange. All of this empathy, support, turkey condolences aren't making me feel any better.
I'm hoping Aunt Sweet will arrive shortly because all I want is for her to come in and put her arm around me and say, "I know Sweetie, I know." That's all. I don't want her to compare my turkey to hers, or tell me how I could have done better-- or worse, how I should never expect better.
I just want her to say, "I understand. It stinks sometimes and you are not wrong for feeling that way".
In my self-pitying state I am acutely aware that I carry a little of each of these people in me. I can't seem to listen to someone without one-upping or trying to fix them. At least I hope there's less of Aunt Looloo than the others in me!
Truth is, I'm actually a good cook and I have one of the fattest, juiciest turkeys around, it's just that the way it's come out of the oven isn't at all how I envisioned it. It's not the turkey I dreamed of having.
Hopefully, I can get it back on track, but for now, I'll try to focus on the gravy:
This experience could just mold me into some future distraught daughter/daughter-in-law or granddaughter's Auntie Sweet...
when she's standing alone in her futuristic kitchen wondering, "This is it?" I'll give her a hug and say, "I know sweetie".
