In case you're wondering what that slightly-off cackling sound you hear in the general direction of Texas is, it's me. Yesterday, a single and childless relative told me, "Oh, really? I never thought doing laundry was all that bad. In fact, it seems a bit relaxing," and I still have not stopped howling. Nothing against her--I probably wouldn't mind doing her laundry, either.
The holiday went well. I made it through four days of cooking, cleaning and chatting relatively unscathed, save for a minor resurgence in back pain that at least had the added benefit of four hours at home alone this morning while Dowlan took the kids to church, lunch and a playground. Yeah, I owe him big-time.
On the Friday before the holiday, Melody and Dixie's school had a little program before their Thanksgiving Feast. The songs featured the Reluctant Turkey, who, among other things, claimed to be allergic to cranberry sauce and was making plans to break free before T-Day.
A few days later, on Wednesday, I picked her up from a lesson and took her to go grocery shopping with me. The baking was all done, the produce all bought and prepped, but I was saving buying the turkey until last because space in my fridge is always at a premium. When I told her we were buying a turkey, she was quite excited. "Can we buy a turkey that is still alive and have Daddy and Papa shoot it and then we can eat it?"
(See, when I married Dowlan, I was a bit concerned about marrying someone Not From Here. Not that I am opposed to mixed marriages for other people, I was concerned that marrying someone from Oklahoma might damage my native-born Texans in some form. Turns out he contributes just as much redneck DNA as I do.)
Disappointed that this was not my plan, she continued to devise ways to kill a turkey, my favorite of which was, "We could give it some cranberry sauce and tell the turkey it's corn and that way it will eat it and have an allergic reaction and die and then we can cook it up for supper."
I attempted to explain that your average Tom has no known anaphalactic reaction to berries and that this was meant to be funny. She didn't get the joke.
Still, she did not seem disappointed when her plate was filled with the deep-fried goodness that is turkey leg. Dinner went well, until I presented my father with the shocking news: our television had broken the night before. With every electronic store in range closed for the holiday, there was no venue for watching the Longhorns destroy those silly Aggies. Armed with beer, my uncle saved the day with his swanky hotel.
The next morning my father, still shocked by the announcement and nervous that this would become a recurring issue, knowing there were mere hours before LSU would take down the Piggies, he awoke in the donzer-lee-light (think Star Spangled Banner) and set off to find a new 32" LCD haven to meet his footballing needs.
When the children awoke to find an all-new television gracing their living room, there was much rejoicing. Dixie peeled herself away from it later that day to ask me, as I was scrubbing something down, "Mommy, why don't you clean when we don't have people here?"
Ah, you silly, silly girl. Would you like to do some laundry?