What are you looking at, asshole? Peel those carrots!
You did not ask for this, but you're getting it anyway. My Thanksgiving blog, 2014. It’s a little late, thanks...(no pun intended)...to some disappointing web hosting technology. But don't worry, Weebly. I’m not going to point fingers.
Anyway, to help with the flow, let's rewind and start with the travel day.
11/26/14—Wednesday. Thanksgiving Eve.
Okay so we screwed up a little regarding the travel plans. Our destination is outside San Francisco. Our home is outside Boston. Obviously, we need to fly. This is not news to us, we've done this before. San Francisco is where the in-laws live and though distant, is the most logical place to gather given the schedules and life situations of all involved.
The problem this year is that we were lazy about booking flights and scheduling time off, and so we are faced with flying across country, the night before Thanksgiving. Better yet, a well sized winter storm is bearing down on our departure point, and is going to arrive exactly as we are expecting to have wheels up. So departure day is a little stressful. Making things worse, I have to drive to the airport, so I know that I can't start drinking heavily until I'm on the plane.
Still, we are lucky. The worst part of the storm hits all around us, but leaves the airport with only a dreary mix of slushy rain. Our ETD remains on schedule.
We arrive, park, and check in without incident. Now it's just a matter of going to the gate and waiting.
Ah, yes. The gate. That incubator of holiday travel psychosis. As I sit in the gate area with my wife and two children, I get my first taste.
Behind me I hear a mild verbal altercation that is rapidly escalating. It is some sort of domestic disturbance, the specifics of which have eluded me, but it is reaching a crescendo and ends with a male voice heatedly exclaiming, "You're a low life WHORE! I can't stand you! Get AWAY from me! I don't want to see you".
An upset, world weary female walks past me and circles the waiting area to gather up her two teenaged daughters and their belongings, and the trio departs the area. All three look like they've been through this before. Eventually they all return, the father rejoins them, and a contentious cool down conversation ensues. At least I hope that's what it is. It's hard to tell because I'm so distracted by the clenched fist and bulging veins on the dad's forehead, and the fear that somehow he and I will make eye contact.
And Voila! I have something specific to be thankful for this year! I'm not a member of that family!
Incredibly, given the late hour of travel, not to mention the storm, the plane boards on time and the door is closed exactly when it's supposed to be. I have an "extra room" seat (a gift from my wife to help me with my injured back and knee), and even better, an empty seat beside me. I am unfortunately seated separate from my family, but that's their problem, and as they disappear towards the rear of the plane with the crazy people, I promise to myself that if I hear any violent disturbances I will be sure to inquire about their well being when the drink cart comes around.
Now the fun begins.
In short time we receive the usual "Welcome aboard!" greetings and safety instructions. Everybody sits down and buckles up in anticipation. And then...nothing.
We don't budge.
We just sit there. Five minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. The captain comes on the intercom and mumbles (literally) an indecipherable message about ..."Something's not right and we're trying to figure it out." Nothing changes. We continue to sit. No further information is shared. No one is allowed to pee. No one is talking. Just an erie silence bathed in shadowy dim light. Worst of all, the drink service has not started. Finally, after forty-five minutes, we leave the gate. Next stop, the de-icing trucks. At this point I am wondering: Who exactly gets the envious task of standing outside in freezing temperatures spraying airplanes with chemicals on Thanksgiving Eve, and are they paying them enough?
Twenty more minutes and the pilot tells us (although he doesn't sound very optimistic) that we may go.
(His tone of voice leads me to believe that he is figuring, "Ahh what the fuck. Let's give it a shot.) The engines whine, we launch down the runway and you can the feel the plane at times slipping and sliding on the slop, and when we finally lift off (seemingly after an hour) we plunge into a terrifying darkness made of fog an noise. This ends up being the most terrifying take-off I've ever experienced. My only comfort is that at least my family and I are going to die together.
Eventually we get some altitude and distance, and the ride smooths out.
Now I'm free to work on my other neurosis, fixating on the flight attendant. And he's a beauty.
My guess is that this guy has only recently been released from rehab, or that quite possibly he is on work release, and the airline has assigned him out of desperation because nobody else is willing to work the Thanksgiving Eve shift. Especially disconcerting is that for some reason he repeatedly goes into the restroom. At one point he disappears into the can for twenty minutes. There are passengers knocking on the door and he isn't responding. He finally comes out, perfectly put together, but over the remainder of the journey revisits the room at least four more times.
Is he sick? Is he lost? Is he trying on dresses? Does he have a pet Chihuahua in there? Does he know some feature of the restroom that the rest of us are not appreciating?
And when he isn't in the restroom, he's essentially useless. Not a single smile. Little eye contact. Shallow breathing. When a passenger exits, leaving the restroom door open, he doesn't move to close it. And so for the next five minutes we are all treated to view of the heavily used restroom in which he seems to thrive.
Even more discouraging, it soon becomes clear that he is not going to make a second pass with the drink cart.
I find myself wondering, "Why does God hate me?"
At any rate, despite the flight attendant, the terrifying weather, the lack of alcohol, four hours of nausea (thanks to an ill-prepared sandwich purchased pre-flight), and the seven hours locked in metal tube with what might be descendants of the Manson Family, we arrive.
I am the first one off the plane. I cut off a woman carrying a baby to make that happen. I ignore the pilot who is staring at the departing the passengers as if they are to blame for ruining his holiday.
My intrepid father-in-law, who has endured the ninety minute delayed arrival by hanging around the baggage area (where the arrival board has continually announced that we are arriving ten minutes early) cheerfully and graciously rescues us and takes us to our salvation, his home.
Day one is complete.
Now it's on to the real show….
11/27/14. Thursday. Thanksgiving Day.
In full disclosure, this is not being written on Thanksgiving day. In truth, as I write this, it is Saturday, two days hence. Thanksgiving has already been consumed and digested. More importantly, the seasonal swell of Black Friday stabbings has already begun to abate. So I apologize for missing that window of humor opporutnity.
But what I want you to appreciate here is that real time journalism was my original intention. I was going to compose these observations, these battlefield dispatches, in the midst of Thanksgiving Armageddon. But sadly, I failed. I let you down and I apologize. You're going to have to settle for an old man's cornucopian recollections dimmed by the fog of war.
At least they are fresh.
Ahhh, Thanksgiving! It begins at daybreak.
As the golden shards of sunrise break over the 2014 Thanksgiving San Francisco horizon, somewhere out there, engaged invested inspired Americans...whole families of them...stare into the melting mist of autumn, some walking hand-in-hand, some jogging as groups, some having sex in the bushes, some just standing. And all communally begin their seasonal celebratory reflections upon the glories of freedom and the wealth of liberty for which they all have so much to be thankful for. As for me, I begin my Thanksgiving morn, farting prodigiously under the covers of my mother-in-laws guest room bed. That misguided airport sandwich from yesterday's journey continues to haunt me. I am thankful for the heavy blankets, and that my bedmate, my son, is so deeply asleep as to never know the horror. He'd drawn the short straw at this way station, but somehow he has survived.
Life is relative, Squanto.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the kitchen, things are heating up. I hear the noises. I smell the food. I know my fate.
When finally I deem myself constitutionally sound, I make my way to the coffee maker, and announce my availability for labor. This is a lie. I don’t really want to help do anything. In truth I am looking for food. Free food. As happens every year, this gesture is warmly received, and gently declined by Kitchen Senior Management who claim to only want my good company and appetite. And as also happens every year, I know that only a fool actually believes these grandmotherly claims that "every thing is under control". I know that in truth, my day is going to be lengthy and laborious, and filled with dish soap, scrub brushes, step stools, and stress. All that other Norman Rockwell stuff about bountiful plates full of warm nourishing food is just so much crap. All claims to the contrary, my day is going to be spent as an itinerant dishwasher who gets an occasional twenty minute break to watch football.
But first, in the spirit of the holiday, I permit myself a little java, a metric ton of helium, and a few early morning moments watching every marketing mook in Manhattan shilling their wares in the Macy's Day Parade.
This lasts about twenty minutes. Next thing I know, an ever lengthening list of "a few final details" begins to emerge. In no time I am standing in my pajamas peeling carrots, chopping celery, plating portions of odd smelling fish Hors d’oeuvres that would gross out a cat, and wondering why God hates me. I look forward to the arrival of the cavalry, otherwise known as the bringers of beer.
False hope, as it turns out. They are under the assumption that the bringer of beer was going to be me. This day might get ugly. Very ugly. Wave two of the extended in-laws arrive. They bring only questions.
"Is the game on?"
No, as it turns out, it is not.
I mentioned things had gotten ugly. They quickly got even worse. Soon after his arrival, my beer-less brother-in-law makes a troubling discovery that will have serious consequences for years to come. There will be no football this Thanksgiving. The television is kaput.
Mort.
Dead!
For the next two hours, switches are thrown, cables are jiggled, support centers are called, and video CPR is aggressively applied, but in the end the efforts are proven moot. At 3:00pm PST, the primary video control center is pronounced brain dead and the plug is pulled. The family gathers in the den to say their good-byes. There is not a dry eye in the house.
Except amongst the women of years. They see this as a chance for everyone to chat.
(Uhhhhhhhh.....the horror!) Chills run through all of our testosterone tinged spines. In less than one hour, guests will be arriving. NON-FAMILY guests. And we're going to have to TALK to them.
SATAN HAS RISEN!!!!
But fortunately, the low point of the day has been realized. Beelzebub has better things to do. (Preparing for Black Friday, perhaps.) Our holiday activities progress. Things begin to improve.
First, beer is discovered in the garage. Approximately six containers of beer leftover from Thanksgiving 2013 (possibly 2012) are quickly put on ice and their appearance temporarily calms the crowd.
There are six beers for five men. I immediately claim two of them.
The others look into my eyes. Nobody challenges me.
Next, as the waves of grief subside, we realize there is a 12" wall mounted electronic device, possibly a television, that is operational in the kitchen. Although it is tiny, standard definition, using a 4x3 aspect ratio, and has never been tuned to anything except Ellen and The Food Network, it is immediately claimed by the males attendees citing the FEMA/DHS/NFL rules of possession.
The women, sensing the futility of protest, back off.
They know. Tactical retreat means they will live to fight another day.
The remainder of the celebration unfolds gracefully with little more in the way of extraordinary drama. A few hiccups bubble up here and there. Noticing, for instance (as we are sitting down) a high profile side dish forgotten on the counter that now needs 1-hour at 350 degrees...The presence of carrots even though nobody wants carrots....The fact that nobody knows the identity one of the guests…
You know, typical stuff.
Okay, that last one went a little under appreciated.
So a guest has appeared and the problem is (for me anyway) that I have no idea who she is. Apparently nobody knows who she is. She's not blood, she's nobody's date, and I'm pretty sure she's not even legally sane. Nobody has introduced her to me, which disturbingly makes sense, given that no reasonable person would want to approach someone who appears to have escaped from a state operated mental facility that was closed back in the 1950s. Imagine the character Aunt Edna from National Lampoon’s Vacation, mate her with Hannibal Lechter, and you’re starting to get the picture.
Our only clue to her identity is a conversation she takes part in (between shoveling fist-fulls of cheese and crackers into her mouth) where she volunteers that she has been a player of the card game bridge for 60 years. As, customarily, most people only begin playing bridge in their mid-forties, we determine that she was born sometime during the Taft administration. Nobody definitively determines her name, how she actually arrived, or why. Collectively, we are relieved when she eventually leaves without attacking any of us with an ax.
Gradually, the party winds down, no fights break out, and after washing every pot, pan, dish, and utensil at least three times, I am allowed a piece of pumpkin pie (I hate pumpkin pie) and the opportunity to drink my second beer.
I am sated.
I am alive.
I am relieved.
Grandma has gone to bed happy.
Thanksgiving 2014 is done.
(c) 2014 Mark Rast
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