Thanksgiving cometh. Two days hence, we (at least the greater majority of us since I don’t believe I could possibly have more than a handful of non-US readers) will gather with our families and friends and commit crimes of obscene gluttony upon a poor unsuspecting bird, a generous host of comforting side dishes, and some tasty, unnecessary desserts. At meal’s end, we will push back from the table, loosen our respective belts, sigh with contentment and hopefully find a nice soft living room chair for a nap.
Unfortunately, as I said, that’s two days hence. Between now and then I’m afraid, there’s a whole lot of various stuff that has to be done in order to make that dream of food-gorged contentment possible. You didn’t think that L-Tryptophan coma came free of charge, did you?
Around la casa de Puddin, it’s a pretty serious list, too. Because I’m a huge pain in the Puddinette’s backside, I decided some years ago (once we started producing puddinlings) that I would not be dragging my children all over the greater Cincinnati area to participate in a variety of family meals each November. In my mind, there can truly only be one Thanksgiving dinner. Sure, you might make appearances elsewhere and nibble at a plate of dark meat and fixin’s at each location, but you can really only completely dedicate yourself to one meal.
And have you seen kids at Thanksgiving? Between the endless supply of hors d’oeuvres, running about and getting into fights with cousins not seen but a handful of times a year, and begging for some pumpkin pie, getting an otherwise well-mannered child to sit still long enough to consume just one plate of tasty goodness is a minor miracle. Asking for more than that is, well, asking for trouble.
Also, I didn’t want my mom or mother-in-law to have to cook any more turkeys. They’ve both done their time; plus, I like to cook.
So I put my foot firmly upon the ground and spoke. “We shall haveth Thanksgiving here. Any families so interested may thusly come to us!”
And yes, said proclamation was, in fact, accompanied by a peal of thunder and a sharp flash of lightning. Also, trumpets.
The Puddinette simply rolled her eyes and told me plainly that if that was really my intention, I would be getting off my lazy, football-consumed rear-end to help her clean the house beforehand. Apparently, you’re not allowed to invite everyone you know into your home without applying a fresh, healthy coat of Pledge. I attempted to explain to my young, obviously naïve wife that as she kept our house in a perpetual state of near-perfection, such foolishness was unnecessary. Feeling magnanimous, though, I did allow that I would happily put all the kids’ toys away, including the stash of action figures being held for quick retrieval under their beds.
I don’t remember what she said after that, but I do recall that her eyes became the color of molten fury and she thought directly into my brain how I’d live in my own filth if she didn’t prevent it. Much later, I realized that I’d learned a valuable lesson in not disagreeing with my better half on matters such as how to be a good host during the holidays.
As I’ve suggested many times, the Puddinette makes me a better person that I could ever be on my own. This is never truer than when the holidays roll around. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m pretty thankful that I’ve got her. Also, that she doesn’t let me live in my own filth.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a can of Pledge.