I volunteered this year to host Christmas, which I believe is a symptom legally accepted by health insurance companies for admittance to a psychiatric facility.
See, my thinking was that it would be nice to have both my boyfriend’s and my family all together for the holidays. Which I believe meets the criteria necessary to prescribe electric shock treatments. They don’t do those much anymore, except in extreme circumstances, such as when you willingly choose to spend a prolonged length of time with your mother, mother-in-law, and a turkey.
It started to dawn on me that perhaps this wasn’t the wisest move when I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick up “a few things” that I figured we’d need in preparation for the big feast. About two feet into the store I came across turkey lifters. Did I need turkey lifters? I certainly didn’t already have turkey lifters. I must need turkey lifters. Into the basket.
Three feet further and I came across a holiday serving dish. Did I need a holiday serving dish? Of course I need a holiday serving dish – what am I going to put the turkey on?
By the time I got to holiday-themed cloth napkins I was a broken woman. I sat in the middle of Bed, Bath & Beyond, my hair standing on end, my clothing askew, surrounded by a multitude of holiday-themed kitchen and bath items totaling somewhere close to what they say Gen Xers should have in their 401(k) before retiring. “I CAN’T DO THIS!” I bellowed into my cell phone to whoever was unlucky enough to be on my speed dial, while fellow customers sidled cautiously around me and my potential purchases.
In the end, I put everything back except the turkey baster, which seemed like the most important item, and went home.
But, “You don’t need a turkey baster,” my brother explained helpfully when I proudly announced my purchase. “We put the turkey in a bag and it keeps all the juices in.” He was a little baffled when I started to rock silently back and forth.
In addition to the food preparation there is the intricate sleeping arrangement situation. Although I thought we had plenty of space in that our house is about four times the size of my former New York apartment, it turns out that two bedrooms are not practical for hosting a dozen family members. I have resorted to having three people sleep in the garage, and one in the fireplace, standing up. I think this will work.
My boyfriend now goes through life with a braced look about him, prepared for whenever I might, in the middle of something totally unrelated, such as sex, look at him and announce, “I think we’ll need extra pillowcases.” I have learned that sometimes my one-track mind can be a bit of a problem for others.
I have called my mother to hound her about transportation arrangements so many times that I am no longer in her will, and if I spend any more long lunch hours perusing the mall for any holiday-related item I may have missed, such as a three-foot gold ceramic Christmas tree center piece that plays “Greensleeves,” I will be fired from my job.
Which will give me plenty of time to get started on next year! Oh look, I wonder if those kind-looking men in the clean white coats might want a turkey baster for Christmas?
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