Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The flying turkey and the dead chihuahuas.

Today, I am filled with self-doubt. Moreso than usual. It's not so much the fat-girl doubt where I'm tugging at my clothes or sucking in my gut (and then passing out just a little) or throwing clothes around the room because they don't fit and it's all their fault, not my own fat fault.

This self-doubt is related to my abilities. Particularly as related to turkey.

You see, I have never ever ever been responsible for doing anything with the turkey ever in all the history of Thanksgivings past. This was always man's work and was always done way earlier than I ever dreamed of getting up to help. Or was forced to get up and help, as was the case in my defiant teenage years.

The turkey tasks were just not part of my list. Even now, those tasks fall to my betrothed since he is the master chef in our household. He has a system that is very precise, requiring many complicated steps which he seems to complete with ease. Unfortunately, is working this year and the turkey tasks have become mine.

I have argued that he needs to be relieved of his job duties in order to attend to his turkey tasks but my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. They just don't seem to appreciate the delicacy of the system. Or the fact that such a delicate system should not be left in the hands of an oaf such as myself.

MB has faith in me, or so he says. I think he may be lying. (The fact that he is able to lie so well frightens me, but that's a post for another day.)

He is giving me a pep talk on the phone, but I can picture the truth in my head. His hands are wringing, beads of sweat are on the brow which is furrowed with concern. His body language is very clear to me -'oh god, please don't let her screw this up like she does with everything else that is sacred to me, for the love of pecan pie.'

Poor bastard. I don't want to ruin Thanksgiving. I like pecan pie, too (mmmm, pie). I just have doubts.

As he is telling me that all I have to do is put the turkey in the cooler (it's a complicated and serial-killerish sort of system), I am a nervous wreck. He envisions a three step process of: 1. Take the turkey out of the fridge; 2. Put the turkey in the cooler with the brine; 3. Leave overnight for deliciousness to ensue tomorrow.

Silly boy. I already know this is going to be much more involved. My steps are more like this:

1. Open the fridge to get the turkey.

2. Get distracted by the tubs of icing on the top shelf.

3. Search the cabinets for anything icing-worthy, because now I have to have icing.

4. Decide that saltines would be a waste of icing and pop some popcorn instead.

5. Enjoy said popcorn in the recliner while watching reruns of Criminal Minds. (I love that show.)

6. Remember that I was supposed to be doing something. Something really important. What the hell was that?

7. Trip over the pup as I have an 'aha' moment when it comes to me and I realize what I am supposed to do.

8. Open the fridge again, averting my eyes from all things sugary and delicious, and attempt to get the turkey out.

9. Gaze in shock as the turkey is projectiled out of the fridge and into the kitchen window as I am hurled backwards into the sink.

10. Continue to gaze in shock (after I un-wedge my fat ass from the kitchen sink) as the air conditioner is then projectiled out into the driveway in some sort of weird turkey domino effect.

11. Restrain the pup who is attempting to follow the turkey out the window, because who can resist a flying turkey?

12. Continue to gaze in shock as the air conditioner plummets into the windshield of the Jeep, shattering it into itty bitty little pieces.

13. Remain in shock as the turkey then bounces off of the air conditioner, which is now wedged into what used to be the windshield of the Jeep, and flies over the fish pond into the neighbor's yard, taking out two chihuahuas and a cat, who shouldn't even be in the yard anyway (stupid neighbor and his mannerless cats).

14. Sprint downstairs and hop the fence at lightning speed so I can retrieve the turkey before anyone sees what happened. And so I can scoop it up and rinse it off while the 'two second rule' still applies.

15. Turn off all the lights and remain hidden as neighbors start to gather, trying to piece together the mystery of the two dead chihuahuas and one dead cat (whose cat like reflexes are apparently not cat like enough to avoid a projectiled turkey).

16. Compose a story to explain how the air conditioner mysteriously fell out of the window and into the Jeep. (I'm not proud to say this, but it may involve blaming the pup.)

17. Plan my tropical island vacation, courtesy of Butterball. Have you ever eaten glass? It can do ugly, ugly things to the human mouth. Who wants to see my fat ass on the news with bandaged up lips, telling my horrific story of a Thanksgiving gone horribly wrong due to someone's negligence? No one, that's who. Hence, the Butterball payoff.

You know, I wasn't feeling very confident about this whole thing until now. I could really use a vacation. Maybe this will work out after all.
Happy Thanksgiving to me!

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