Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Turkey and Disappointment

(picture courtesy of

I have no idea what I was thinking.  I have 13 people coming to my house to eat food tomorrow.  This is completely ridiculous.  Thank GOD that most of Husband's family cancelled.  Not that I don't want to see them. Just that four more people would require a third dining table.  Two is plenty.

We usually do Thanksgiving at my mother's house.  My Aunt and Uncles and Cousin join us, and we all cram around their dining room table, unable to eat without elbowing one another, while we look down at the whelping box full of month old puppies that's right next to the table.  They're all cute and stuff, but they shit everywhere and, well, it's not such a nice aroma to go with the stuffing and mashed potatoes.

For the last couple of years I've had to bounce between my parents and Husband's parents.  Go eat some dinner at 1:00 at his father's girlfriend's house, then go try to eat again at my mother's at 4:00.

In an attempt to consolidate everyone, and make it so I don't have to try to stuff down two separate Thanksgiving dinners, I suggested we celebrate at our house this year.  I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again.  Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids.  You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.

What that means

My parents
My brother
My sister, her boyfriend, their daughter
Our roommate
My aunt & uncle
My other uncle
My grandmother
His father
His sister & her baby daughter
(For those who are counting, that's 13 guests.  This doesn't include myself, husband face, or my daughter)

I bought a 21lb turkey.  I actually got the thing for $10 because I'm awesome.  It was the largest turkey they had in the store.  My mother is determined that 21lbs is not enough to feed 16 people.  Maybe she's right.  So she bought another 15lb turkey that she will cook at her house and bring over.

My father is making the stuffing.  He's the stuffing king.  Sausage and celery and chicken broth and who the hell knows what else.  His stuffing rocks.  So he's going to make the stuffing in the morning, stuff his turkey, then bring the rest over to my house so I can stuff my turkey.

I'm making the mashed potatoes.  I also decided today that we should have butternut squash.  Because I'm a glutton for punishment.......and squash.  Since I'm cooking the turkey (or one of them anyway) I'm probably going to have to do the gravy.

My mother is making the green bean casserole.  My aunt is bringing the yams and cranberry sauce.  My grandmother is bringing the rolls.  My father-in-law and sister-in-law are bringing the pie.  My sister is bringing soda. 

That does it right?  Plenty of fucking food?  I actually have issues with serving food.  I'm always horribly afraid that I haven't made enough.  I have a horrible fear of running out of food at a gathering and everyone looking at me like I'm a shitty hostess.

On top of all of the cooking and serving and dishes I will have to do, I have to super clean my house tonight and tomorrow.  Having 7 dogs does not make for a consistently clean house.  I swear that the only reason my husband puts up with having some kind of major get-together at my house nearly once a month is that I'm going to clean like a champ in preparation.

I have to go buy a couple of table cloths.  My dining room table has been painted on, scratched, glued, and otherwise maimed in a number of ways.  My kitchen table has a leaf in it that I intend to make use of.  This leaf is maybe 5 shades lighter than the rest of the table due to never, ever using it.

I have to figure out where to put the mangy mutts.  They make horrible dinner guests.

I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again. Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids. You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.

Wish me luck.

(Side note:  to find the picture above, I googled "retarded turkey". The 13th result was a picture of Eminem.  Ah ha ha ha ha)

Update:  I checked out the website I stole the picture from.  It's actually kinda nifty.

Monday, November 19, 2012

Fun with the Family

Last night my mother treated my sister and I to a matinee performance of Twilight Breaking Dawn Part 2.  I'm a closet Twi-hard.  (Tell anyone and I'll slit your throat in your sleep)
I've read each of the books at least twice.  I've listened to the audio books at least once, more than once for a few of them.  I have been to see each movie during opening weekend.

That said, I typically dislike the movies.  I'm a lover of books.  Once I've read the book, if I loved the book as is the case here, I become very disappointed with the movie.  They always leave so much out.  Things that I feel are important to the overall story line (and my opinion is the only one we'll be worrying about thank you).  I usually disagree with the casting choices and I really, really hate it when they add things.

This one time, I didn't hate the addition.  I will not spoil this for anyone interested.  But it was a cool addition.

But this post isn't about the movie.  It's about my evening with my mother and sister. 

The original plan was to leave around 2:00 and grab some lunch before catching the 4:00 movie, which we already had the tickets for.  My family absolutely can not be on time for anything.  It's as if it's not in the stars for us to get any where when we are supposed to be there.

So, after all the fucking around is over with, we finally leave around 2:30.  I feel that, even though this is opening weekend, 4:00 isn't a super popular time to see a movie and so we still have time for lunch.  My mother feels differently.  She wants to be there like 45 minutes early so we can get good seats.

Mom:  "I'm not sitting at sea level.  If we have to sit up front I'll just leave."

Everything, always and forever, is about my mother. 

So we end up at Wendy's.  I hate fast food.  This pregnancy has me eating celery stalks and cheese because I can't stomach grease in any form.  So we get our shitty fast food lunch and sit down (which only happened because I insisted on at least going inside the restaurant instead of hitting the drive thru).

The only person that ate their entire meal was me.  My sister ordered some burger and chili cheese fries.  She took one look at the fries and declared with an up-turned nose that "these are too wet.  I can't eat them".  I've never thought of chili cheese fries as "wet".  Hey, whatever.  I enjoyed mine.

My mother ordered a salad.  She has a tendency to run. her. fucking. mouth.....forever.  She never stops talking.  I actually have to walk out her front door in order to stop the conversation so I can leave.  Even then, she keeps talking.  To no one.

So she's yapping away and opening her salad.  She opens her dressing packet and starts pouring it on the salad.  A couple of tablespoons later she stops and says "God I hope this isn't fucking ranch, I'll have to puke on my salad."

Meanwhile, at the table next to us, a 7 or 8 year old boy looks distressed.

Me: "Mom, there's definitely a little kid right there."
Mom: "Shit, it is ranch."
Me: "Yeah, it's the avocado ranch that comes with that salad."
Mom:  "They never asked me what I wanted for dressing."
Me:  "No, because that's the dressing that comes with that salad.  They assume you want it because you didn't say you didn't."
Mom:  "Well (pushing the dressing coated leaves of lettuce to one side) I'll just eat this side."

This happens all the time.  My mother is never, ever, ever happy with what she orders.  Ever.  It's like a lovely little family ritual now.  We get food, she hates it.  No matter what.  No matter where we are.  She's going to hate something.  I've actually seen her spit food out of her mouth. 

Even taking pregnancy into account, I can recall every time I've had to actually spit food out of my mouth because it was so bad I couldn't eat it.  Every time involved a texture issue.  Like an egg shell in my eggs or an underdone potato in the potato salad.  The potato salad was actually hilarious because I was pregnant with my daughter and walking through the mall eating potato salad from a deli in the mall.  I bit into a potato that wasn't cooked all the way and my gag reflex went into psycho mode.  If I didn't remove the offending potato from my mouth immediately I was going to be the sad, sad person that threw up in a mall garbage can.  All was well in the end.  I didn't have a napkin or anything so I had to actually spit the unfortunate mouthful into said garbage can.  No vomit though so I call that day a win.

If I find an egg shell in my eggs, or something crunchy in something that should definitely not be crunchy (like peanut butter??) I nonchalantly spit my food into my napkin and just stop eating whatever it is, pretending none of it ever happened. 

If I don't much like what I've ordered, I'll still eat it.  I really can't think of ever eating anything that was so un-tasty that I just couldn't eat it.  I'll just avoid ordering it again next time around.

Not my mother.  She once spit hummus right out of her mouth back on to the plate because it was a little spicy.  It was unsettling to watch.  (Like "bleechhh" mouth totally open with a little bit of velocity, but not much.  Fucking gross mom.) And this sort of this is pretty common.   One would think I'd be used to it.  That I would be expecting it.

Nope.  Not this girl.  I'm hopelessly naive about the situation.  So every time this occurs, I'm surprised.  Not as in "I can't believe that happened", but like "I can't believe I didn't see that coming".

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Attack of the BLOB!!

So, I didn't really want this to turn into a pregnancy blog.  The same went for the wedding blog concept.  They're not funny.  Only ladies who have had the unfortunate experience of being with child will get a giggle out of any pregnancy related humor.  But, sadly, that's all I have to talk about.

I'm so fat.  This isn't funny.  None of my jeans fit me.  NONE OF THEM!!!  I went from eating like a super model pre-fashion week to squeeeeeze into that wedding dress, to eating like a pregnant chick.  I've gained 10 lbs, and I think it's all in the belly.

Thank god that it's in the belly.  Hopefully this time around I'll look pregnant instead of fat sometime before the 3rd trimester.  Not so much last time.

I'm down to 4 pairs or pants that fit me.  All but one pair are yoga pants.  I refuse to buy maternity clothes.  Firstly, they're freaking expensive.  If I'm going to spend $50 on a pair of pants I'd better be able to wear them for a lot longer than the next 6 months.  Next, I won't quite fit into the damn things yet.  They're all built with a belly panel, and I don't quite have the preggo belly yet.  I really refuse to buy pregnancy clothes in stages.  If I'm going to break down and buy them, they'd better fit for the whole sha-bang.  Lastly, as with many other clothing lines, these designers apparently feel that all pregnant women are 5' 10" and size 2 to 12.  Yes, only tall slender women are attractive enough to get knocked up anyway, so we don't have to make the pants in plus size. 

So I'm going to live in yoga pants.  This is acceptable right?  Last time around I was a teenage pregnant chick running around my senior year in pajama pants.  I didn't give a hoot what I was wearing.  As far as I was concerned the school was lucky I'd decided to wear pants.  I can't really get away with that this time.  You know, I like work and stuff now. 

I'm also a cheap bastard.  So they idea of spending $20 on what I feel double as pajama pants is painful for me.  I'm like "I could make that.  If I had a sewing machine.  Or extra time.  Or ambition.  Oh fuck it give me the pants." 

The husband thinks this is all hilarious. I've written about my surety that he's a masochist in disguise. I've said that I didn't think he was mentally challenged, because what would that say about me? I have changed my mind. He's fucking touched all right.

My dear, sweet, darling husband thinks it's acceptable to make jokes like "have you seen her new shoes? Well she hasn't either". Yeah, fuck you honey.

I had a prenatal appointment last week. I got to keep my pants on this time (woo hoo) but they took 18 gallons of blood. (I really, really hate having my blood drawn. Like I get sweaty, and turn white. Passing out isn't really unlikely, though it has yet to happen.)
I come home from this appointment and sorrowfully tell my husband that I'd gained a total of 10 lbs. since I became pregnant.

His response? "That's it?"
My response? ::SMACK::: upside the head
Him: "What did you hit me for?"
Me: "That's it? Fuck you. If you told me that your penis had shrunk an inch, and I said "that's it?" how would you feel about it?  Prick!"

Maybe that hit home.

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Shouldn't You Be Working by Bethany Davenport is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.