Thanksgiving for Dummies

Last night we asked each other the same question we usually ask on Saturday nights: "What are you gonna do tomorrow?

My answer is always the same: "Football."

Jodi's answer changes. This week when I asked her the question, she answered, "I'm gonna start organizing for Thanksgiving."

I'm not kidding. Today my wife will be "organizing for Thanksgiving." And actually, today's not even the start of that. The organizing already started a few weeks ago. The Thanksgiving holiday really begins the moment I first hear the question: "So what should we have for Thanksgiving this year?"

I don't even know why that question comes up. We have the same thing for Thanskgiving every year. It's the same dishes every single year. Because if we don't have the same dishes every year, Jodi's mom's head will explode.

That's okay with me. I don't care what we eat, as long as it has fat and sugar.

This is the big difference between Jodi's family and my family. Jodi's family always designed every single one of their holidays and vacations around one thing: food.

My family, on the other hand, always designed every single one of our holidays and vacations around going to Catholic mass. That's because Catholics have created a patron saint or a patron sinner or a patron mixed drink for every occasion under the sun. And whenever there's a day off, you can damn well bet you're gonna be dragged to church for something. I remember just sitting there in the living room as a little kid and someone would say something like, "C'mon Paul, it's a holy day. We have to go get dirt put on our foreheads." Then one day later, "C'mon Paul, it's Cheesecake Thursday. Gotta go to mass. St. Cheesecake will be waiting." Then the next day, "C'mon Paul, it's Good Friday. Time to go to mass again and eat fishsticks." I swear to God, Catholics can ruin any day off from school or work by making you spend it sitting in a hard wooden pew.

The good thing about being Catholic, though, is that mass only lasts about 45 minutes on average, even though it always seems a lot longer. And not only that, as long as you say certain words and do a few simple things, they release you back into the wild like a catfish and you can do practically anything you want until the next mass. You'll be sitting there in church and it'll be something like:

Priest (in very monotone voice): "Oh God, in your bountiful wisdom, do that one thing."

Congregation: "Lord hear our prayer."

Priest: "Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third."

Congregation: "Lord hear our prayer."

Priest: "Now go, get out of here, in the peace of the Lord and junk."

Congregation: "Lord hear our prayer."

And then everyone would race out of there, and they'd all go drink and smoke and fornicate and murder. But it was okay, as long as you went back the next week, said three Hail Mary's, and kept repeating "Lord hear our prayer."

So that's what I was used to growing up. Jodi, on the other hand, lived in this family where everything was about food. And that's the routine I've now had for the last 18 years. And I can tell you exactly how this Thanksgiving is going to go, because it's the same EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

Today Jodi will get out the pad of paper and work out her schedule, her remaining "to do" list, etc.

Then she's taking the entire week off work. To shop and cook.

Let me repeat that. She's taking the entire week off work... To shop... And cook.

For four people.

So this week there will be multiple trips to multiple stores. There will be all kinds of pots filled with all kinds of I don't know what. Hours and hours and hours of preparation.

On Thanksgiving day, Jodi's mom will come over to say that she's going to help cook. But as soon as she gets here, she'll announce that she's tired and will go into the other room to take a nap. She'll sleep for a few hours and magically will wake up about 15 minutes before we eat.

As for me, I'll be in charge of cleaning the house, as if we were expecting the Queen of England to show up. Even though the same four people have seen the house as a mess a million times before, the house MUST be cleaned, sanitized, and fumigated because that's the way the early Americans celebrated Thanksgiving. That, plus they would go out and murder all the Indians. Well, what do you expect? They didn't have football on Thanksgiving in those days, so they had to find some kind of activity. They just happened to choose murdering all the Indians.

Then we'll sit at the table. And Jodi's mom will look at me and say, "Paul, would you like to say grace?"

I haven't said grace at the table in forever, but she'll still ask me, because I have a penis. At least that's the rumor circulating in the family. I have a penis. And she goes to some whacko Baptist church, and that means the prayer is supposed to be said by the person with the oldest penis at the table. And that would be my penis.

But I don't say grace. I don't like to say grace. I don't even know why it's called "grace." I think a person's religious beliefs are a very personal thing between that person and his paranoia.

I've never liked the whole "saying grace" thing. At least in my Catholic family it was quick and dirty. Everyone would say it, not just one person, and we'd say it as fast as we could: "Bless-us-oh-lord-and-these-thy-gifts-which-we-are-about-to-receive-from-thy-bounty-through-christ-our-lord-amen." Beautiful. Four seconds of some rambling words and you're elbows deep in the mashed potatoes.

But Protestants are different. With them, saying grace is like really bad performance art. I swear, I think these people believe that saying grace should have been one of the categories on Star Search, right next to the Spokes Model competition. That's how they treat it anyway. I've seen some really impressive performances by some really crazy Protestants in my time, and it's never pretty. It always goes on and on forever, while all the food on the table starts developing ice crystals...

"Oh dear Lord God Jesus Christ Immanuel Savior Player to Be Named Later, Thanksgiving is a special, wondrous, glorious occasion filled with everlasting blah blah blah blah blah..."

Two hours later...

"And God! Let your manna fall from heaven like the snows of the Rocky Mountains..."

Two hours later...

"And Lord! We're not prejudiced or anything, but the reason we hate black people and Mexicans is..."

Two hours later...

"ShouldacomeonaHonda! ShouldacomeonaHonda! Who here has the intrepretation of the tongues? Please step forward to the microphone and give it please!..."

Two hours later...

"And the Lord also says, Why have your foresaken me, America? Why have you voted for that black guy? Did I tell you to vote for the black guy? Verily nay, I told you to vote for the old senile white guy and the retarded lady with the nice rack. Why have you foresaken me? Don't you know the Lord your God is an angry God?! And the Lord also says, Health reform is bad! Health reform is evil! Why should we have to pay for the health problems of others?! The Lord says, We work hard every day! Those people should have to pay for their own health care! Screw them! For as our Lord said on the Sermon on the Mount, Blessed are the... MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE!..."

Two hours later...

"So Lord, without further ado, please bless this food and nourish it to our healthy bodies as we now proceed to eat our weight in gravy. Amen."

That's what she wants me to say. But I won't do it. So I say, "No thanks. I don't want to say grace." And that's why she always has to say grace herself. This happens EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

So there it is. It's an absolute frenzy of activity. Weeks and weeks of talking about what foods will be eaten, days and days of planning, preparing, cooking, cleaning, and praying. We'll get out the good dishes and napkins. We'll sit down. All those weeks, days, and hours leading up to this one moment...

And then we'll gorge ourselves mindlessly, and 27 seconds later it'll all be over. A month of planning, organizing, shopping, cooking, praying.... 27 seconds of eating.

EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

And then, because I didn't do any of the cooking, I will have to spend the next few thousand hours doing dishes.

And then if I'm lucky I'll get to watch some football.

And then the planning will begin for what we will eat for Christmas.

"Lord hear our prayer."

Hiking -- The Stupid Recreational Choice

Every time we start to plan for our next family reunion, there it is among the suggestions -- hiking. In the 18,000 family reunions we've had, hiking ALWAYS comes up. Wanna know how many times we've actually gone hiking? Zero. Wanna know why? Because hiking is stupid. It's just another way of saying "work," and nobody wants to work on their vacation.

Don't get me wrong, I've walked among trees before. I've been in wooded areas from time to time. But I've always been there because I'm trying to get my dog to poop. I've never grabbed a walking stick and just meandered around, climbing up and down hills for fun saying things like, "Oh, look at the interesting growth under these leaves! Come, let us forge on and explore the bark over there."

I suppose there are some people who go hiking a lot and enjoy it. People like serial killers and child molesters. "Oh, what interesting patterns on these rocks! Come, that clearing over there looks like an ideal location for a shallow grave."

I guess I just move in different circles than some people. I move around in a certain circle of people where, if I were to say, "Let's go hiking," my circle of people would respond, "No. Let's go into Pottery Barn instead and buy things we don't need."

But if you open a travel brochure, any travel brochure, there it is -- hiking. Right in the middle of all those other recreational activities... "Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, hiking, rafting, or shopping."

Now, of course, not one thing on that list appeals to me personally. I don't want to go swimming, sunbathing, golfing, rafting, or shopping on my vacation. I want to eat, sleep, and sit in a comfortable chair with a drink while I make fun of people who walk by. Then I want to eat and sleep some more. None of that other stuff gets me excited. But I can understand why some people might enjoy swimming, sunbathing, golfing, rafting, or shopping.

But hiking?

Hiking always sticks out in those lists. It just doesn't belong. It's like finding cottage cheese in lasagna. Get that crap outta there!

Here, let's try a little experiment, shall we? See if you can detect the one thing in the following lists of recreational activities that most closely shares the spirit of hiking...

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, repairing a roof, rafting, or shopping."

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, finding and organizing rusty nails in an old shed, rafting, or shopping."

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, sitting around with a bunch of old people you don't know who smell like they need to be changed and trying to think of things to say to them because your wife said you have to while you know your game is on TV in the next room, rafting, or shopping."

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, digging a shallow grave for the guy you just killed with piano wire, rafting, or shopping."

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, doing your taxes with a migraine, rafting, or shopping."

"Come to Sunny Valley! Enjoy a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, golfing, putting up 40 miles of barbed wire, rafting, or shopping."

So, how'd you do? Did you spot all of the hidden activities that don't quite fit in?

Still wanna go hiking, dumbass?

Sorry, I didn't mean to call anyone a dumbass. It's just that, if you like to go hiking, well, then you're kind of a... dumbass.

The $1,000 Traffic Ticket

I got a $1,000 traffic ticket. In my latest dumb dream, that is.

So there I was in my dream, driving down a highway, when some turd in an ugly boxy sedan swerved right in front of me just as I was exiting the road. Then the guy just hit his brakes and slowed down to about 1 mph on the exit ramp. I wasn't surprised, because this is how most people in North Carolina drive. No, I wasn't surprised, but I did get pissed. So I floored the gas pedal and sped around the guy on the shoulder.

The next thing I know, a highway patrolman is behind me with his lights on. I pulled over. He walked up to my car to lecture me like all highway patrolmen do. If I had to do it all over again, I might be a highway patrolman so I could talk to other grown-ups like they're 6 years old. I'd walk up to their windows and say in my most condescending voice, "And why were we speeding today?" And they'd look at me and say, "Because we felt like it, numbnuts. Nice hair."

So after he pulled me over, I rolled down my window. He looked down at me and said, "And why were we speeding today?"

"Because I felt like it, numbnuts. Nice hair."

Then he handed me a ticket for $1,000. And my first thought was, Crap. Jodi and I might have to sell some of our valuable property to pay for this ticket. I wonder how much we can get for all of our leftover Halloween candy. This is the kind of stuff that goes through your brain when you have stupid dreams like mine.

I thought perhaps we could get $300 or so for our leftover Halloween candy, because Jodi bought way more than we needed this year. 

Most years Jodi and I try to avoid Halloween altogether. We either go out for the evening, or we turn off all of the lights at home, sit in the dark, and ignore the doorbell. But this year we decided to do the Halloween thing. So we made Jodi's niece come over and hand out candy for us.

When Jodi and her niece started to pour bags of candy into a big bowl, I had to intervene. I had to. They were doing it wrong. I said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing? You don't put the good candy in first! You don't put Snickers and Reese's in right away! Don't you guys know anything? You gotta put in all the crappy candy first. You put in the Almond Joys and the Three Musketeers and those disgusting orange peanut things. Hell, when I was growing up, nobody even gave out normal candy bars. You always got stuff like stale popcorn balls with hair sticking out of 'em. You don't bring out the A-list candy unless it's absolutely necessary!"

I really did say all of that, because I'm all about the kids. And Jodi and her niece agreed, so we put the good candy aside. (Actually I would have given a Snickers to Gwyneth, the cutest kid in the world, but she didn't come by this year. And we did have one really cute kid in an elephant costume come to the door. He was worth a Snickers. But really the bulk of the kids who came by were just crappy orange peanut quality kids.)

Fortunately, it began to rain harder and harder as the evening progressed, and it wasn't long before the trick-or-treaters slowed to a trickle. So I said, "C'mon, let's close it down!" So I ran around switching off lights, and I grabbed the good candy and sprinted to the back of the house.

That's why we have $300 worth of leftover Halloween candy. And that's what was on my mind while I had my stupid dream about the $1,000 traffic ticket.

After the highway patrolman handed me the ticket, he made me follow him about a hundred yards to a tiny building on the side of the highway. Apparently this was some kind of ticket processing center. We walked into the building and some clerks began working on my traffic ticket, doing whatever traffic ticket clerks do. As I waited, the patrolman began giving me a big chamber-of-commerce-type presentation about the upcoming "Prairie Dog Days Festival," and he said I really should attend and support my community. Of course, I told him I'd attend. I mean, I had to. I wasn't gonna risk getting another $1,000 ticket, even though it doesn't make sense to have "Prairie Dog Days" in North Carolina, since there are no prairies or prairie dogs in this state. Just dog fights and Waffle Houses.

And while the patrolman is giving me this presentation, I look out the window behind him and there's a big 27-car pileup happening just yards away from the building. The patrol guy looks over his shoulder and sees the cars crashing and burning, but he just turns back to me and keeps talking about the "Prairie Dog Days Festival." And I was thinking, Man, I wish you would shut up so I could wake up and eat a Halloween Snickers for breakfast.

I told you I have stupid dreams.

Can you believe you wasted the last 5 minutes of your life reading this?