Here I am!

Hey there! Hey, you! How was your Thanksgiving? Was it good? Mine was good, too!

We hosted Thanksgiving this year for our in-laws. So drunk were we on our relatively roomy new house and our ability to own more than four wine glasses, we actually believed we could put together a well-rounded Thanksgiving meal. Shockingly, we were right. By some miracle, I cooked a twenty-pound turkey that tasted like turkey, and not like tree bark. (In this I was aided by my brother-in-law, who stuck the thermometer into various parts of the turkey as I huddled in the corner, shrieking I JUST DON’T WANT TO POISON EVERYONE.) Many side dishes were also composed and enjoyed, all without incident. My baby niece was just as adorable as I remembered, and I managed to hold her without gnawing at her cheeks, which took considerable strength of will.

The only mishap occurred the day before, when I heated the oven to bake the pumpkin pie, having forgotten that the day before I had sprayed some oven cleaner in there. The kind of oven cleaner that says WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T HEAT UP THE OVEN WITH THIS IN IT all over the canister. I would have paid attention to this, were I able to read. What I needed was a picture of a toy poodle on its back with x’s where its eyes should be and its little pink tongue hanging out, but the E-Z-Off people didn’t care about my needs. So I almost killed us all.

Fortunately I noticed the foamy quality of the oven’s insides mere moments after turning it on, so instead of dying I only had to wipe away some hot oven cleaner. This was the most exciting thing that happened all week. The End.

And now, friends, my mind is cast inexorably toward the last hurdle of 2006, that being The Christ Child’s Birthday, Wherein We All Flirt With Poverty To Praise Jesus. My son, who was so articulate regarding his birthday wishes, now will only tell me that he wants “cool stuff.” He seems to feel that Santa will know what this means, as Santa is all-knowing. Sadly, his mother doesn’t know a thing. And there’s a disconnect between what he claims to like and what he actually plays with for more than five minutes. If I give him a puzzle, he will shrug and ask for the next gift, but then play with that puzzle every day until I want to burn the puzzle. Whereas if I buy him a militia of Power Rangers, his head will explode with joy, and the next day the Power Rangers will be dumped in his Enormous Bin of Guys, to be next seen in the Spring of Aught Eight. Oh, what’s a mother to do?