Archive: November 2009

Our Thanksgiving get-together at my in-laws’ house was just as I expected. We ate lots of turkey,

got sleepy,

and took naps.

We watched some football and basketball. We took many family pictures. We played Musical Catchphrase, Blokus, and Perudo.  I started knitting what will turn out to be a massive scarf, ate green Jell-O salad for breakfast one morning, came away with fuchsia shoes on Black Friday, and zoomed through a margarita sampler.

However, as far as the main events were concerned, Ted had them down.

Last weekend, JG and I went out to dinner with the help of a gift card we received over the summer. The restaurant’s website specified business casual attire (fancy!), and the dining room was quiet and peaceful, although its decor was a little zany. The chairs were upholstered in leopard print and the art on the walls depicted cats of all kinds in various human outfits. We took it in stride, and the hostess seated us next to the fire place.

I wanted to order a drink, but there was only a wine and beer menu. Once again, I kicked myself for not taking the effort to find even one wine I like. Much to my shame, I am rather paralyzed without a mixed drinks menu, partially because I like to be reminded of what goes into everything, but also because I feel more comfortable when I know how much things cost. I went back and forth, but I was ready when the waiter came to get our orders.

“I’ll start with a cup of the crab bisque, and I’d like the seared scallops for my entree,” I said. “And … could I have a dirty martini?”

In that split-second before the waiter responded, I knew it was coming, and I wasn’t prepared. The Vodka Question.

Let me rewind to our honeymoon. I ordered a cosmo, and when the waiter asked me what kind of vodka, all I could remember was the dire warning not to say “top shelf.” I timidly responded, “Bottom shelf?” And then JG laughed at me, and really, has not stopped since.

Back at the restaurant, my mind swirled as the waiter asked, “What kind of vodka would you like?”

“Bottom shelf, bottom shelf!” rang in my brain, but I knew I couldn’t say it. I automatically looked straight at JG with a panicked glint in my eyes.

“She’ll have the house vodka,” JG said. Right! “House” is the right answer!

When the waiter finally left, I said to JG, “Please, please, please, whenever I order a vodka-based drink, remind me what to say beforehand.”

“I was going to, but then I thought you’d tell me that you knew what to say.”

“No, I didn’t even think about it.”

“Okay, I will. You know that when you look at me for the answer and I say ‘house,’ the waiter thinks I’m the cheap husband, right?”

And that is just one reason why JG is always what I’m most thankful for year after year.

After lunch, JG and I will hit the road for Thanksgiving travels. This year, some things are going to be different, and some things will be the same.

Different: For the first time since I’ve been a part of the in-law Thanksgiving, we won’t be at Mimi’s house. She downsized sensibly into a smaller townhouse, so we’re all landing at JG’s parents’ lake house in an initial attempt at transition. No one is talking about a time when Mimi won’t be around. Let us not talk of that.

Same: Not to be held back by a new location, Mimi is still doing all of the cooking. My MIL briefly attempted to re-assign food items, but that proved to be a lost cause.

Different: JG’s immediate family is the only one staying overnight, changing our usual 2-day tournament of eating, football-watching, and game-playing into one (relatively short) day.

Same: I will be completely shocked if we don’t manage to do all of the above, time limit notwithstanding. We are bringing a new game to share, and people will lose no opportunity to discuss the latest in the college football scene. In keeping with tradition, I will be reading as I keep an ear out for games of Speed Scrabble or Catch Phrase.

Different: Since we won’t be at Mimi’s house, the traditional one-club golf tournament will not take place, along with the requisite smack-talking.

Same: The community where the lake house is situated has a golf course, and JG and his dad will go out the day after Thanksgiving if the weather holds up. As for the smack-talk, this is the first year that the family is competing in a fantasy football league, so there will be no shortage there.

Different: At Mimi’s house, in order to join hands before the Thanksgiving meal, we would form a circle in the kitchen around a giant load-bearing column, and someone would gripe good-naturedly that we couldn’t all see each other. There will be no column this year.

Same: We’ll still join hands and share what we’re thankful for, one by one. Even though I will have practiced mine ahead of time, I will be nervous when my turn comes, and JG will squeeze my hand after I’ve said my piece. As circumstances change and the faces at our Thanksgiving table aren’t always the same from year to year, we’ll still go around and say how we’re thankful. That’s not changing any time soon.

At the end of my senior year, my mom and I were on our way to the high school for the spring band concert, and I was driving. And then I hit a turkey.

I will let that sink in so you can laugh. Go ahead — I know it sounds funny.

…

But it was really scary. We were in my old, tiny Ford Escort, and I was wearing a pink dress with strappy sandals because the seniors were going to be recognized at the end of the concert. We were zooming along the normal route to school, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a wild turkey approach the right side of the road. I tapped the brake, but the the turkey suddenly took flight right into the car. Its body landed in the center of the windshield with a horrible crash, forming a giant spiderweb of fracture lines. Tiny glass splinters sprayed over my mom and me, and we both screamed as I pulled over to the side of the road. Once we had determined that we and the car were intact (except the windshield, of course), we switched places. My mom drove home by sticking her head out of the window and peeking through the non-shattered parts of the windshield.

At home, my dad threw a tarp over the windshield and cleaned up the glass as well as he could while my mom and I jumped into a different car. We had already lost a lot of time, so all three of us launched into get-it-done mode. On the way back to school, my mom kept asking me if I was okay. Yes, I said. I was okay. I just had to get there.

I ran into the building in the back entrance by the school building, and one of my color guard friends came up, exclaiming, “We didn’t know where you were!” And then she saw my stricken face. “What happened?”

“I hit a turkey on the way here!” I wailed.

My friend stifled a giggle. I didn’t blame her.  She pulled herself together enough to ask if I was okay, if the car was okay.

“Mom drove it home and then we took another car here. She’s dropped me off. I guess she’s in the auditorium somewhere.”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s comb the glass out of your hair.” We stole the color guard beauty kit and went to the locker room.

Looking back at this bizarre incident reminds me of being a really new driver, and I hate thinking about the noise and the glass and the sense of being derailed. I don’t tell the story very often because it still shakes me up, even after so many years, and I cringe at the thought that the scariness of it will be overshadowed by that punchline: I hit a turkey.

Okay, so it sounds funny — I concede it. To answer your immediate questions: no, I don’t know what happened to the turkey, and yes, there was a head-sized crater in the windshield.