Hey Darling Ones,
When it comes to holidays, Thanksgiving ranks pretty low on the list. The tops are Christmas, My Birthday, Rex Manning Day, and National Donut Day (which sometimes falls on my birthday).
Thanksgiving is a dud for me. I haven’t eaten Thanksgiving Turkey in 25 years and I hate pie and football. This is not a holiday designed for me. What I usually like about Thanksgiving is how much my brother-in-law loves it. He loves cooking the dinner and eating the dinner. The one thing I do like aboutThanksgiving is that it’s the gateway to the winter holidays.
I know going into this holiday season things are gonna be odd. It’s the season of firsts. . . first Thanksgiving since my dad & Danny died. First Christmas. . . etc. And I expect there will be a lot of reminiscing about the lasts. . . last year Danny did this or Dad said that.
Even before my Dad & Danny died, this Thanksgiving was gonna be small. The West Coasters planned on skipping the MN trip this year. It’s an expensive flight for just three days.
It was gonna be me, my mom, and Sister #4 for dinner. I planned on making a chicken with all the trimmings instead of a turkey.
Then Sister #4 got the COVID. She texted us this morning with the news. So far, those of us who were around her last week have tested negative.
So now it’s Thanksgiving for two: the widow and her spinster daughter. That sounds so grey and sad, doesn’t it? It’s not. I promise. There are about 100 other people who would gladly have us over for dinner. But I’m not gonna put on uncomfortable clothes to go to someone else’s house to not eat turkey or pie.
My mom and I agreed to have dinner together at Supergenius HQ. We’re gonna have chicken wild rice soup (her choice) and I’m gonna make some monster cookies (my choice). I’m sure at same point we’ll FaceTime with the West Coast and Sister #4.
Of course, that has not stopped a Rosie O’Donnell “Beautiful Girls” monologue from running nonstop in my head.
“You’ll have these visions. Of you alone, 57, 58, walking around, wearing a nightgown, your hair in a bun, maybe you’re a librarian, heating up a can of soup for one, and worrying about the cobwebs that are growing in your womb.”
For the record, I will be making the soup from scratch — stock and all. Also, I stopped worry about my cobwebby womb a decade ago.
While I feel okay about this weird, small Thanksgiving now I reserve the right to turn into a melancholy baby who whines about loneliness at any moment this week.
You’ve been warned,