Marry an orphan, son. Please.

So, how was your gynecologists appointment? This is the opening statement of Thanksgiving Weekend ’09 as soon as the in-laws show up. Literally. I say “fine” and change the subject. I didn’t even think about how exactly my sister in law  knew I had one. She then asks a more detailed question later. Did you have an infection? I quickly say no and then tell her I don’t discuss my vaj during Thanksgiving. President’s Day maybe. Not Thanksgiving.

And so it begins. The holidays. I have a complex relationship with the holidays. I don’t really like them. I mean, I know I should, and there is potential. But I find them highly overwhelming to my senses and I have a hard time coping with them. I touched on this when I wrote Obligations with a Side of Stove Top. And my in-laws, while perfectly decent human beings, are a bit complex for me too.

The jist of it is this. I really worked hard on this huge meal. My sister-in-law and mother in law both take a lot of medication for self-induced health problems. They take a lot of pills. Now according to Western Medicine and probably an ancient medicine man somewhere in a frozen tundra , it’s a given that one must take meds with food. A banana maybe. Or a slice of bread. Perhaps even just a small cup of milk.

Not this family. No. One devours about 10 huge peanut butter cookies with her pill. The other walks in hours later with a Little Caesars pepperoni pizza. On Thanksgiving. About 2 hours before dinner. From Kmart. I am sweating in my kitchen, timing things out, cleaning like a fool, worrying about my turkey. And she walks in with a pizza. Little fucking Caesars from Kmart? You don’t even have the common decency to pick up a good old school Chicago classic like Gino’s or something?

My 2-year-old was distracted enough to stay out of the kitchen for the most part, and I really got a lot done. Until my husband swung him around by his ankles, which he usually loves. This time he tried to aim for my sister-in-laws waist as a good landing spot. Forgetting that she in fact does not have a waist, the boy landed on the back of his head. Crying ensues.

At dinner it was stone quiet. Except for the breathing. My mother in laws companion is an 80-year-old man who is half dead and even more deaf. He snores, even when awake. The heavy breathing that went on at that table was just incredible. I felt as if I was feasting with Jason Voorhies, Darth Vadar and the last living confederate soldier. Of course very little was eaten. You know, because of the delectable Little Caesars appetizer.

Now back to the gyne appointment. In case you were wondering, Gore Vidal is going to write a piece about it in the New Yorker. Steven Spielberg is attached to direct the movie. No word on who will play me. Turns out my husband innocently enough just mentioned it in passing that I had one to the mother in law, who in turn made it into the topic of conversation on the 12 hour drive in. The same mother in law also somehow knew better than to ask me directly about it, she asked my husband when I went out into the garage. Apparently my sister in law didnt give her the memo that it was none of their fucking business, and however concerned they are is ridiculous. I don’t care about other people’s crotches, and I think that is fairly normal. Don’t you?

Here is what’s good about my weekend. My 18 year old stepson is splendid. My husband and I worked as a team with our mutual amazement of what goes on with that family. My 2 year old was well behaved and I am thankful he is here. My husband also loved my stuffing and pulled a last minute audible and pulled the Stove Top out of the game onto the bench.

I hope to God my son marries an orphan.

Happy Thanksgiving. My crotch and I hope you are happy and healthy this holiday season.

Pizza Pizza.



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