countdown to turkey day
It’s that time of the year again. No, not NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) though, it is that time too. But not for me. I’m abstaining from NaNo this year. Too much pressure after a grueling month of edits. No, I’m referring to the countdown to Thanksgiving.
First of all, let’s define Thanksgiving. It means to give thanks, right? It’s a day to remember what we’re thankful for in our lives, and to honor it. To surround ourselves with family, love, and football? Wait just a minute. When did football become a part of Thanksgiving? This is what the spare TV is for. And headphones. But I digress…
Me, I’m thankful for my family, and for love, and for the internet, and all that good stuff. But let’s face it, isn’t Thanksgiving about turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes? Pie and hot rolls… and more pie? I’m not knocking the whole “giving thanks” thing. I want to give thanks. But I want the food too.
There’s just a few weeks to go before I need have everything in order the yearly feast. And so far, I have nothing. Not even a list of what I need. Hubby and I haven’t even come to an agreement about who lives or dies.
Put down the phone. No need to call in the authorities, I’m not planning an execution. Well, not a human one anyway. And for the record, I’m not the one planning to kill anyone, or anything. I want to buy my turkey already dead, like everyone else does. I don’t want to knock off one of my little farm babies as a sacrifice to the Thanksgiving gods, or whatever. But the hubby? Oh, he has something evil up his sleeve, and I’m on a mission to stop him.
But is it one of our precious few remaining turkeys with his neck on the chopping block? Or the other rooster we just discovered we had? The rooster I was convinced was a hen until he let loose with a loud “cock-a-doodle-do” this weekend. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m trapped in a Looney Toons episode. Is it turkey season or rooster season?
When it comes to Thanksgiving, I’m a traditionalist. I want turkey. That’s it. No ducks, no rabbits, no Bambi. But the husband? He likes to experiment. And that usually means trouble. Especially when I’m trying to save the resident turkeys. They need to live long enough to reproduce. We need a whole flock of those crazy plumped up birds roaming the yard.
So my mission, if I choose to accept it, is to not only make a grocery list of what we need for Thanksgiving, but also to keep my husband occupied long enough for the turkeys to be taken off the table, both figuratively and literally. Unfortunately, that task will be more difficult than it sounds. But I never back away from a challenge…unless it involves dancing…or waxing…or jumping out of a plane…ok, I run from lots of challenges but I won’t run from this one. Listen up, Tom, I’ve got your back.
Until the next time…I’ll be shopping for a pre-dead turkey and the trimmings!