What Thanksgiving Means to Me- A Brief Essay- Part 1

Thanksgiving means friends and family gathered in the kitchen:

Wednesday night Heather walked in through the garage with a casserole dish. In the dish was an unceremoniously positioned, skinny, dead chicken that they had slaughtered in 19-degree weather. The feet were still intact and there were several tiny feathers that looked like black and grey hair. When Greg picked it up by the wings to show me the entire body, it was in full rigor mortis and looked exactly like a rubber chicken with a hairy chest. Although Greg claimed her name was Tanya, I was secretly suspicious that it was an elderly chicken named Frankie who got whacked for squawking too much.

I watched Greg cut off the feet and feed them to my dog. Who chewed them for a long time, unable to figure out what to do with the tough, hand-like bits. Finally, he realized he could just gulp it down and swallowed it whole. He made quick work of the second foot. It was all kind of gross but really funny. I was laughing and delighted while Sara cringed. Later, when I told John about the chicken looking like a novelty toy, his comment was, “I wouldn’t have been able to resist slapping someone with it; the temptation would have been too much to resist.” That thought never would have crossed my mind; leave it to a dude to bring the Marx Brothers to Thanksgiving dinner.

Thanksgiving means sharing your food and culture like the pilgrims and the natives:

So we tried to go to dinner Wednesday night. Matt suggested Munchies (Chinese, I think), so we drove over and found the windows dark and the restaurant empty. I suggested Shoga (Japanese and, of course, a surprise to anyone who knows me;). So we trekked over to Orem to discover that they were closed, too. Then I said something ignorant, “Wait a minute, if we have learned anything from Ralphie’s family it is that Asian restaurants are open on Christm…. Crap. Wrong holiday.”

We ended up at Pho and consequently the Vietnamese are now the only Asians I trust. They can come to my Thanksgiving any time; this is an open invitation. Bring on the Jalapeño Bombs!

Humanity Disappoints

This morning, as I was stepping into the shower, I heard a knock on the door. It was an aggressive, incessant knock: the kind my older brother does when he is too lazy to walk around to the garage and open the door with the key code. I was alone in the house and undressed. The front door was locked.

As I stepped out of the shower I heard a stranger’s voice. Slowly, I walked out into the hallway, dripping in a towel, to find a person I have never seen before standing at the bottom of the stairs. Lies and a confrontation ensued.

Now, this person was immature and incredibly stupid, possibly coming in third for the Most-Ignorant-Person-I-Know Award. So I decided to be merciful and tell the police officer that despite the fact this person had been hostile to me, endangered my life with a moving vehicle and committed a felony, I wasn’t going to press charges or make him file a report that would lead to an arrest.

As furious and as violated as I feel, this halfwit does not need a felony charge to ruin their future life. Although, this is another example of why the mastery of standing one’s ground versus exercising leniency evades me. Was I unreasonable? Was I not hard enough on this twit? All I can do is hope I did the right thing.

Before Chanel

A thought hit me while watching Audrey Tautou dressed in boyish clothing, teaching herself the art of millinery and tailoring dresses. Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel, never married, never raised children, never had a steady and fulfilling relationship that lasted, but she did become valuable member of society. By learning to trust her instincts and letting go of what she thought her life would be, Chanel led the shift from restrictive, Victorian clothing into an era of comfort, grace and elegance.

The portion of her life, before her great successes, was fraught with restriction, male oppression and discouragement. I felt a great deal of empathy for this woman who was socially prescribed to behave in a certain way, mostly by men with whom she was intimately involved. The fascinating part about the kind of oppression I have experienced is that it has come from the most ironic of sources: men who think of themselves as progressive. The truth is, their idea of liberation is just another phallocentric construct: defining a woman’s freedom by the opposite of what tradition has dictated. The framework is still male designed, forcing a female to fit into their understanding of how she should think and behave. This understanding is completely at odds with the idea of a woman defining her own identity and forming her own life, the thing they claim to support.

And so we flock together: intelligent, opinionated women. There is nowhere else for us to go. What average man would want to take on such a female? How can one partner with someone who does not want to live within the social or theoretical structures built by the most treacherous of enemies: a man who thinks he works for the cause of women? There seem to be only a few places for such a person.

I had these two depressing conversations, on separate and recent occasions, about what kind of person would make a good match for me. Sadly, from the perspective of these two men I spoke with, the only person who would want to live with me would essentially be a pushover. I have never really liked bobble headed, “yes-men” but considering my past experiences with stubborn, narcissistic men, it may be an undesirable truth. I am on the lookout for someone gentle and kind with patience to match…. (funny story, I have been sitting here trying to think of the right man to finish this metaphor and the only people who are coming to mind are women… curses.) Maybe I could tolerate a pretty boy who just did what I said? No relationship is perfect. Right?

Before I wax theoretical again, let me close by saying, this feels like my “Before Chanel” period… that I am on the cusp of the real beginning of my life. A long, discouraging trail before something wonderful, of my own creation, begins.

Someone Call a Doctor

My subconscious might be trying to send me a message and that message might be that I am a creepy person.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store on my lunch break and wandered through the produce section. Craving the crisp crunch of a refreshing cucumber (I have been stuck on alliteration lately. Annoying, right?), I grabbed two of those and put them in my basket. I looked at apples and berries and really wasn’t feeling up for any of them, but when I walked past the bananas, I decided the yellow, self-wrapped fruit would be a good snack and easy to transport. I got two of those. The meat section offered me steak, which I was craving and after wandering through the rest of the store I ended up with those three items (five if you count the duplicates) in my basket. First of all, that is a weird lunch; second, what does this say about my subconscious?

But wait, it gets weirder. I go home, grill the steak and while I am waiting for it to bake in the oven, I turn on AMC. What is on? The Silence of the Lambs. What do I do? I sit transfixed, shoving bloody steak into my mouth while Jodie Foster is chased around Ted Levine’s chamber of death and Anthony Hopkins talks about “having old friends for dinner.”

Today I am writing a short, silent film treatment about Lizzie Borden as I chomp on the other half of that bloody steak. Gross.

It is possible that I am a sick woman.

Stir-Crazy

It is possible that I have spent so much time in front of my computer, pounding out documents other people have assigned, that my eyes are crossing.

I did spend some outside yesterday, clipping, kicking at, jumping on, and cutting down a 10 foot-tall bush to make room for a garden plot. There is nothing like manual labor to keep a body from going completely bonkers. Thank heaven for soil, leaves, saws and a touch of brute force.

From time to time electronic devices become manacles and telephones, shackles to responsibility. I read this article in the Smithsonian magazine by J.R. Moehringer; he says, “…I don’t enjoy writing, but I enjoy having written.” I know I will feel that way when December 1st comes around, but right now all I want to do is chuck my implements of bondage across the room.

Try Not to Panic.

New building. New processes. New project. High profile production. Intimidating producers. Abundance of variables. Different style. Cannot screw up.

Applications. Deadlines. Ridiculous hoops. Hope mashed with fear. Desperation for change.

Weird health stuff. Stress worsening symptoms. Avoiding grumpiness. Barely.

Stupid stumbling around. See something. Rage and sorrow course through veins. A reminder. Situation precarious.

(un)tie

Divorce. Separation. Dissolution.

Marriages are ending all around me. People who seem reasonable, kind, and lovely are finding that they cannot live with the person they promised to love forever. I don’t know the details. It is not my business. Even if one party had told me everything, there would still be more pages of explanation unturned. My sympathy goes out to them, maybe even some empathy. To feel ripped apart by conflicting and coexisting emotions is how I understand hell.

frustration combating peace
longing coexisting with repulsion
laughter while sobbing
intimacy paired with distrust

There are two couples in my life that are model denizens of the connubial community. They give me hope when happiness for a man and woman seems impossible. Their marriages are not perfect but I see a flexibility in their bond. Patience abounds. When tiny threads are severed they retie their knots forming:

Cohesion. Accord. Unity.

For this I am grateful.

Snippets

Potential House Fire Avoided:

Sunday, Greg and Heather came over to do their laundry, as per usual. Greg was pulling the clean laundry out of the hamper to fold when he discovered a nylon stocking, tangled and wedged in the tightly packed clothing. He yanked the pantyhose and after a few tugs he lost control of them. The elastic stocking went flying up and hit the light fixture and stuck. As he walked over and retrieved it from the chandelier, he yelled, “Heather, I tried to light your socks on fire! I failed.”

Distracted Week:

After work on Tuesday, I exercised my 19th amendment right and then went to an appointment. As I was sitting there chatting with my doctor, I touched my ear and realized was missing an earring. “Damn it, this is the second earring I have lost this week!” I removed the lonely bit of silver from my ear and stuck it in my purse. When I got home that night I walked upstairs to my room, began undressing and glanced at the dressing table where my earrings were sitting this morning. There, gleaming up at me, was the “missing” earring. I had walked around all day without anyone mentioning to me that I was only wearing one. Are people polite? Unobservant? Apathetic? I don’t know. It doesn't say much for me, though.

Out of Place:

I went to buy a hard drive at the BYU bookstore this morning. As I approached the aluminum and glass that composes the entrance of the Wilkinson Center, I came across a black, furry blob that turned out to be, upon closer inspection, a feral cat stretched out in front of the door. It (I respected its privacy) looked at me like I had no business being there; undaunted, I reached down to pet the surprisingly soft fur. It began to purr then after a minute of petting, it bit me. Lately, that seems to be what I get for trying to be nice.