out of Kadesh

Well Thanksgiving is here at last. As I mentioned in this post, it isn’t exactly the exciting holiday for me that it once was, but I have actually begun happily anticipating it over the last few days. It’s all about family and tradition, two things I love, and I can’t help getting a butterfly or three in my stomach when I pass by those giant Butterball Turkeys at the supermarket. In my childhood, we almost always went to my great grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, but then she passed away and we started trying to find a new tradition.

Tradition #1: Mam-maw and Pap-paw’s House (Yes, that is what they are called. I am from the deep south, ok? Just be glad it’s not Mee-maw and Pee-paw like some of my friends called THEIR grandparents.) The phrase that describes this Thanksgiving holiday is ABSOLUTE CHAOS, but I truly love it. In addition to the five of us Garlands and Lance, I have three aunts, three uncles, seven cousins, one second cousin, two grandparents, one dog, and a dozen extra people that I don’t even know. In a two bedroom house. WITH ONE BATHROOM. Picture the most southern family you’ve ever seen and then multiply it by about a thousand. Everyone speaks with a twang. People are yelling and playing charades and kids are running around and being chased and screaming and 15 women (plus my dad, who makes homemade cranberry sauce instead of the kind that is shaped like a can) are in the kitchen cooking and everyone is laughing and gabbing. When dinner is ready (usually around 1:00), we all gather around the table for one silent moment while my Pap-paw says grace. He always includes the phrase “Bless those less fortunate than we, and bless those who are laid up ON THE BED OF AFFLICTION.” Yes, that’s what I said, and if your grandfather was Southern Baptist that’s what he would pray too. Then everyone digs in and it’s more ABSOLUTE CHAOS and we’re totally environmentally unfriendly because we all use paper plates and cups and forks because the cabinet doesn’t even hold enough dishes for this many people, for one thing. For another, my Mam-maw always attempts to wash the plastic-ware anyway, before someone stops her. Everyone scatters, and it’s usually not terribly cold in Mississippi in November, so a bunch of us go outside and eat on lawn chairs, and we spend five minutes or so in silence while we eat ourselves silly, then go back for seconds, and then my aunt Renee sits miserably and moans “I wish I could push a piece of pumpkin pie in my mouth” and I say to my dad “I can’t breathe!” to which he replies “stop trying to breathe and you can fit more food in” while piling more mashed potatoes on my plate.

Tradition #2: Granny and Randy’s House (Granny is Dad’s mom, and Randy is her husband so we just call him Randy. Except now I don’t call them anything at all because we don’t speak, as I already mentioned. But for the sake of this post I will explain the tradition without further mention of “The Worst Thanksgiving Ever to Go Down in the History of History”, and try not to cry while typing it out.) The phrase that could describe THIS tradition is THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF TRADITION #1. Somehow their house is always a candle-lit, Cinnamon-scented place and at any time you can hear the strains of some classical piece playing on the stereo. We pour a glass of wine and gather in the living room to talk while dinner finishes up, and dinner is actually at about 7:00 instead of 1:00. My Granny is an excellent chef, so it’s always fun to cook with her. Once she grabbed a fistful of rosemary from her herb pot and stuffed it inside the turkey and was all “Done!” and it came out like the best turkey you’ve ever tasted… more like she sliced up some heaven and served it to us. I think she is secretly magic and learned to cook at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry but can’t tell us because we’re all muggles. So we eat a formal dinner with wine and soft music in the background, but there’s just as much laughter and talking and story telling, and then afterward I watch my Granny strip the rest of the meat of the turkey and feed the gross parts to the dogs. And she usually gets me to come in the kitchen and talk to her alone while she does this, and we talk about religion and politics and sex and all the things you’re not supposed to talk about with anyone, especially not your grandmother. And somehow everything she does fascinates me, even when she puts her hand on her hip and points a greasy finger at me to tell me off about not being smart about something and I’m like “oh yeah… you’re right. I guess I’ll be smart about that from now on.”

Tradition #3: Mom and Dad’s House (Um… I guess this doesn’t need explaining.) My Mom is kind of neurotic when it comes to holidays (Mom, if you’re reading this, I MEAN THAT IN A GOOD WAY!). No matter what time I arrive, whether I’m coming home two hours before dinner or arriving A WHOLE WEEK before Thanksgiving Day, my Mom is inevitably sitting at the dining room table with about 17 bowls holding various ingredients around her, sleeves pushed up, tongue sticking out, UP TO HER ELBOWS IN STUFFING. Me: “Hi Mom… wow, starting early huh? Thanksgiving is a month away…” Mom: “Well, there’s a lot of prep work involved as you know. Now, can you check the date on that can of pumpkin and start making pie? Be sure to double the recipe.” When I wake up on Thanksgiving morning, The Macy’s Day Parade is always on television and my Mom is in the same position at the dining room table. My Dad is usually in slippers and bending over the Turkey in the oven, holding the baster. Me: “Morning… how the hell long have y’all been awake?” Dad: “Oh, you know your Mom got us up last week around 3am. We haven’t been to bed since, actually.” Then the two of them argue about how much turkey juice my Mom needs. (I should mention in a quick aside that over the years my Mom has apparently lost her taste buds and therefore now puts onions in everything, including the dessert. If there is one thing my mother loves, it’s a good onion. She can eat them like apples. Thanksgiving Day at our house is where onions come to die. One full Thanksgiving meal includes approximately 800 onions.) There are six of us now that I’m married, but for some reason there’s always enough food for about 7,500 people. When we’ve all finished eating (dinner happens around 3:00), we sit around holding our stomachs for a few hours and usually play Texas Hold’em or Five Card Draw and my brother cracks inappropriate jokes and we laugh ourselves silly.

*BONUS* Tradition #4: Shannon and Dan’s House (This is my sister-in-law and her husband. They have four children. Help us, Lord.) This Thanksgiving will be the first I’ve ever spent away from my family. It’s a new tradition, and I admit I am having a hard time accepting it. My parents-in-law will drive up from Alabama and two of the Owens’ friends are coming, so with all of us that’s 12 people. My in-laws don’t drink wine, so I’ll be taking a box of tissues and a paper bag with me so I can cry and hyperventilate during dinner. (What do you drink at Thanksgiving??) My brother-in-law and I are going to have a Stuffing-off, so I have to buy some ingredients for my stuffing today. I am also making the Turkey because they just wanted to do a Ham and um… ew? I might have to give up wine BUT I’LL BE DAMNED IF I’M NOT HAVING TURKEY ON THANKSGIVING. I’m more looking forward to the day AFTER Thanksgiving, when Lance finally lets me buy a Christmas tree and put it up in our apartment. (I’d put it up October 1st if he wasn’t such a Christmas Tree HATER.)

Have a wonderful Holiday, readers. Think about your own traditions and don’t take them for granted. Be blessed and eat lots and lots of food, and drink lots of wine. In fact, drink a glass or five for me.

Him: I got you a present.

Me: You DID??

Him: Yep. (Gives me a handful of trash that was in his seat)

Me: Wow. Thanks a lot Mr. Romance.

Him: Aw, I was just kidding…

Me: I know; that’s the point! Remember when we were dating and you did romantic things all the time? And then we got married and the romance was squashed out of you by the weight of that ring on your finger.

…

Remember when you wrote me that email last week? That was romantic.

Him: I didn’t even mean for it to be.

Me: I keep telling you it doesn’t take much; just something to let me know you’re thinking about me.

…

Do you have any cash?

Him: Nope.

Me: SEE??? UNROMANTIC!

Last night I stayed late for an event at the Theatre and as it was 15 degrees outside, I ended up checking people’s coats, and I just have one thing to say to you men. COOL IT WITH THE COLOGNE! I almost asphyxiated from the fumes in the coat room. Trust me, a little spray on the neck or some aftershave is all you need. It’s sexier if it doesn’t KNOCK US OVER WHILE WE ARE GAGGING FOR A SINGLE BREATH OF FRESH OXYGEN!

The event wasn’t ours so I was refusing tips as people picked up their coats to leave. Most people were fine with this of course, but it was a bit awkward to turn down dollar bills (“Wait… you’re saying you don’t WANT my dollar? But… but… it’s… it’s a WHOLE DOLLAR!”). Most awkward of all was the man who, when I refused his tip, insisted on getting me a glass of wine. Now, I had already had one glass of wine and did NOT need another one, as one glass of wine makes me nice and lusty, but TWO glasses of wine make me sleepy, and I wanted to bang my husband when I got home so I REALLY did not need another glass of wine. Plus, this guy doesn’t even know me. What if I don’t drink? What if I’m allergic to wine? What if I’m pregnant? But like he cared – he seriously would not take no for an answer and brought me back a glass of wine anyway. And then instead of leaving, he embarked upon a tale of his life that was SO long and SO boring that I felt like clawing my eyeballs out, but just nodded into my second glass of wine and THANK GOD I HAD THAT WINE TO SEE ME THROUGH.

I am a high strung, nervous natured person and I can live with this. But I think one reason for my nervousness is this: I’m hetero-phobic. I seriously don’t enjoy straight men nine times out of ten because it seems like they’re always either a) screaming on television that women who choose abortion are murderers; b) honking at me as I walk to work (what the hell?!!! Do you usually get good results that way? Do women often turn right around and flash you their tits? Or jump in the back of your sweet PICK UP TRUCK and scream “Take me wherever you’re going AS LONG AS THERE IS A BED INVOLVED!!! I almost had an orgasm when you HONKED AT ME!” ??); or c) they’re HITTING ON ME no matter how many times I flash that wedding ring. And maybe I’m wrong… maybe they’re not hitting on me; they’re just socially awkward and I seem like someone easy to practice on. Either way I have never known how to deal with that. I immediately turn blotchy red, starting with my chest and floating up to my ears in T-minus-three miserable seconds, and I start looking all around and stuttering, and then I get real mad cause I’m like oh my gosh, I’m a grown woman here with a life and ambition and a husband who I bonk several times a week thank you very much, and I am QUITE SATISFIED with who I am and WHAT THE HELL! All it takes is the man behind the Baja Fresh counter saying “hey, you want rice with th… (looking up) I mean… heeeyy. You want rice on that? Senorita?” And instead of rolling my eyes and acting like all that stuff I just said about being happy, strong, blah blah blah is actually true, I’m all “uh… um… wha? Rice? Yehh… Yeah. Um… yes. I mean, NO. Uh…” And then I come over to the table with Lance and bitch about it to him like “See that guy behind the counter? WHERE DOES HE GET OFF!?!?”

So I was proud of myself at Caribou Coffee the other day when I went in to get a cup of joe.
Me: “Hey. Can I get a small coffee with room for cream please?”
Awkward Barista: “Hey. Sure, you can get a small coffee.” (big smile)
Me: “uh… great. Thanks.”
Awkward Barista: “So, where’s that RANDOM GUY that comes in here with you sometimes?”
Me: “That random guy? That would be my husband.”
Awkward Barista: “oh… Let me get your coffee.”

SCORE!

Me: What are you going to have for dinner?
Lance: I don’t know.
Me: You should pick something up… like Five Guys Burgers.
Lance: I dunno… it would feel wrong without you.
Me: Aw, it’s ok. I would have “five guys” without YOU.
Lance: ….
Me: …..blink….blink….
Lance: Let’s pretend you didn’t just say that.

I had to go to the supermarket after work today to pick up a toothbrush, because I accidentally dropped mine on the toilet bowl brush the other day, and I’ve been sharing one with Lance ever since (and that’s gross even for me). So I’m standing there in the toothbrush aisle and I’m so overwhelmed by the dozens and dozens of different toothbrushes that I start banging my mittened hands against my forehead. Like, what the hell is wrong with us that we need 15 thousand choices for a device that cleans our teeth!? I have to clean my teeth, but I also need one with those rubbery spikes to clean my gums, right? What about the thing on the back of the toothbrush that supposedly cleans my tongue? And there’s another one that cleans my tongue AND my cheeks. I finally just put a hand over my eyes and used my other hand to point at random to one of the toothbrushes, and picked that one. Why does it have to be so stressful to pick out a toothbrush??

When I was seven I sang my first solo in church. It was a Christmas pageant, and I started out as a sheep or something, but then I was promoted to an angel when another girl dropped out. I don’t remember being nervous about it… I just stepped up to the microphone, waved to my parents, and sang my song. Apparently I was great, although of course I can’t remember at all. Someone even asked my mom if she could give me free voice lessons.

From that moment on, I was a singing machine. My cousins and I made a trio group called “The Blackjacks” and sang Christmas carols in unison for stunned family members. (Oh yeah, we were THAT GOOD.) I continued singing solos for church throughout my middle school years.

In high school I auditioned for choir and the choir teacher became one of my biggest advocates. We had an annual talent show/fundraiser for the school and I remember her telling me “you don’t have a choice” about singing in it. I sang solos for choir shows and won medals for vocal competitions. I also sang the lead role in our high school musical.

In college I auditioned for the Auburn choir and began singing and touring with them. The choir professor even told me he wanted me despite my abysmal sight-reading skills. I also sang for the first time on a worship band, which was my favorite of all the things I did. I sang for a couple of Open Mic Nights as well. After college I sang on a Vineyard worship band, and now I sing for the NCC worship band.

I say all that to say this. Next weekend I will be singing in a production called “God on Broadway”, and I could not be more nervous. I am only singing three songs, but I have been losing sleep at night, pushing food away half eaten because my stomach is in knots, practicing incessantly, even bargaining with God. I was thinking about all this the other night and wondering why in the world I am so freaked out by this one thing, when I have essentially been singing my entire life. (I should mention that I always get nervous when I sing, just not like this.) Then the thought occurred to me that no one has ever told me I’m no good. Ever since I was a kid I have been encouraged that I have this “gift” and I should use it, and I have… but now I fear someone hearing me and thinking I’m awful. Like, what if I sing next weekend and secretly people are thinking “wow… she shouldn’t quit her day job!” And then of course, I’m thinking “who cares? why do I care so much if someone doesn’t think I’m any good? I don’t even know them!”

In my heart, I know what I am about to say isn’t true, because my faith tells me that the Lord loves me and has already established my worth, long before I sang even that first solo at seven years old. But I realized what I’ve been telling myself: I’m not really good at anything else. I really think I am so freaked out about this because if I’m bad this weekend, my brain is telling me that I will have absolutely no worth, no value. If people find out my secret, that I really CAN’T sing, I’ll be nothing. Because of this awful feeling I’ve been carrying around, I am grateful that God says that isn’t true. I am grateful that my worth doesn’t lie in any ability of my own. In the end, God won’t think of me any differently if I sound like an angel or a deflating balloon.

Where do you think YOUR value lies?

Ok, in order to properly understand this God-awful scenario, you must make believe that it is 6:00 in the morning and you are mostly asleep and you are awakened by the sound of your stupid effing cat howling his head off because he is having Vietnam War flashbacks. “Does he need food?” you may ask. NO. “Does he need water?” Again, no. “Does he need clean litter?” Nope, all set there too. “Does he merely want to torture you so that you have fantasies of sticking a fork into your eyeballs and/or drinking fire whiskey for breakfast?” Most likely. And this is how our tale begins.

It was a crisp, sleepy morning like every other, when Paddington Bear the Cat began his usual morning routine.
Step 1. Jump up on the foot of the bed
Step 2. Howl
Step 3. Howl
Step 4. Walk around to the pillows
Step 5. Walk across the pillows, making sure to step in at least one eye on the way
Step 6. Howl
Step 7. Jump off the bed
Step 8. Repeat steps 1 through 7, adding extra howls each time, just for good measure
Step 9. Repeat step 8, this time taking care to place all your weight on the groin of the man who feeds you
Step 10. Ignore the screaming man
Step 11. Repeat steps 8 and 9
Step 12. Pause to see if the stupid humans have decided there is no way in hell they will win this battle
Step 13. Continue to howl
Step 14. Go to window beside bed, stand up on hind legs, look over shoulder at poor, innocent sleeping woman AND BEGIN BANGING RELENTLESSLY ON BLINDS WITH FRONT PAW
Step 15. Get kicked out of the room by screaming man and/or furious woman, have door slammed in face
Step 16. Cup front paws around muzzle and position mouth directly in crack beneath door
Step 17. Howl
Step 18. Howl
Step 19. Victory is yours! The stupid humans are now officially awake and grumpy
Step 20. As soon as humans leave bed, take up Kingly place on pillows
Step 21. Fall asleep

So as you can see, Reader, the odds are against me as far as EVER HAVING A HAPPY MORNING START. But this particular morning we were totally strung out on no sleep and Lance and I decided that instead of our usual morning coffee, we would have an ALL-OUT, SCREAMING, RAGING, FIGHT. Well, I did most of the screaming. And the raging. And the pounding my fists on various pieces of furniture. (I mean… what?) And during said strongly worded discussion, I may or may not have told the man I love more than anything in the world stuff that I wouldn’t say to my worst enemy.

I can’t tell you what we argued about because obviously I shouldn’t hang ALL my dirty panties out for the world to see (is that the saying?). But I’ll give you an example. Let’s say you tell your husband, “This year, honey, I don’t want any presents for my birthday. And no fuss, either. In fact, let’s just pretend I was never born.” To which your husband replies “Dear, are you sure that’s what you REALLY want?” And you say “Of course! Let’s do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for my birthday. In fact, why don’t you spend the day playing Wii and reading Wired Magazine?” So then your birthday rolls around and what does your husband do? HE IGNORES THE FACT THAT YOU WERE BORN AND PLAYS Wii AND READS WIRED, THAT’S WHAT HE DOES! And of course your heart is broken and you are totally crushed but your poor husband is like “But babe, YOU said that’s what you WANTED!” And how can you be angry at him for doing what you SAID??

So here’s a tip for all you men out there who often wonder why your wives and girlfriends are actually Medusa in disguise. DON’T ALWAYS LISTEN TO WHAT WE SAY. Most of the time we are lying, and we want you to figure it out on your own, because that will prove that you really know us, and love us. It’s not that hard, is it???

Reader, I’m sure by now you are thinking “What the hell is wrong with you!?” The thing is, I am actually totally innocent. I blame the cat.

CAT?? WOULD YOU LIKE TO TYPE ANY LAST WORDS BEFORE WE TAKE YOUR HOWLING ASS BACK TO HELL WHERE YOU CAME FROM????? a;sfliaw39 aj9fw0[uq akpc ‘;xkzfdzv/l ejjofaf0[9awt4t09qu mv/mvxoizsgje

One thing this election has proved is how hateful we can be.

I’ve been reading Facebook status messages today and I think some of you aught to be ashamed of your attitudes. Griping about the election results will do you no good. Regardless of which way you voted, let’s try and think about the good in the situation! If NOTHING else (and I think there are several things), do you not realize that last night we defied all those years of racism and segregation? We said NO, HATRED, you will not get the better of me! For the first time in the history of the United States of America, we have an African American president. We can at least rejoice in that together, right?

And anyway, no matter what you think, the time has come for us to reunite. We are ONE NATION UNDER GOD and we best start acting that way if we care about the good of this country. We aren’t republicans and democrats after all. We are Americans. We have to work together! We have to believe that we can rebuild our great nation!

Lay down your hateful words; abandon your anger. Now is the time to pray! Now is the time to breathe easy! Now is the time to work! Now is the time to be proud.

Lance and I spent Halloween at my parents’ house in K-Town, Tennessee, carving pumpkins and handing out candy to ungrateful little twerps (I don’t know about you, but MY parents raised me to say THANK YOU. Apparently that doesn’t happen anymore). I’d venture a guess that each pumpkin says a little bit about his carver’s personality. Here’s what we ended up with. From left to right: Lance’s, Mom and Dad’s, my sister Ellen’s and mine, and my brother Jeremy’s, which we named The Pumpkin Formerly Known as Prince for no reason whatsoever.
We enjoyed a relatively scare-free evening until I went to bed and dreamed that we were shopping in a big Mega-market and everyone in the store was a Republican, and they turned to us like zombies and pulled out sticks and started chasing us and beating us up as we ran. We jumped in the car and I was screaming “DRIVE!”, while Lance was trying to start the car and ward off the blows of the Republican party.

I’ll be so glad when this election is over.