Being a freelancer on an academic calendar means that Thanksgiving week is a blur of family and daily attempts (and failures on my part) to do work.
But now everyone has gone home and I am delighted to be back at my little desk, even on a Saturday morning, looking at a possibly rainy day, gearing up to do a little writing work.
I had to cancel NanoReviseMo in order to get my poetry book updated to 2015 standards to submit to a contest, but I think I will restart revising next week.
I see pictures of perfectly laid out tables, everything pristine before the guests come. There is a concept I’ve heard of. Table decorations? This is not how we do things at Fangs and Clause Central. No, ma’am.
If you come early, you’re given a beverage of your choice and put to work. If you come on time, you’re given a beverage of choice and urged to eat appetizers. If you come fashionably late, I’m too involved in getting food where it needs to be to offer you a drink. But I usually can manage a hug.
The problem with a friendly delicious Thanksgiving is that it doesn’t make a good story. Little Bruno (who is a friend dog) didn’t even get into the cheese dip this year. We had no obviously racist guests, no family fights, DP and I didn’t even manage to fight. Awkward Sister was only somewhat awkward. And the best example of that is small enough to not make a good story.
(Socratic learning does not work on 40-year-olds in their own house. Never say, “there, isn’t it nice to have [random surface] all neat and organized?” to your youngest sister. For she will stare blankly back at you and say, “Sure, I guess” in a tone that means I don’t fucking care. If I did care, the entry table would be neat and organized at all times.)
The real scandal happened off screen in a neighbor fight of epic proportions. But it’s too real and sad and irritating to write about here.
Tell me about your scandals. Did you make it through Thanksgiving unscathed?