How I saved Thanksgiving Day

Today I polished off the Thanksgiving stuffing. I was the only one who touched any of it b/c I forgot to take it out of the oven until everyone was done eating last Thursday. I am confident in saying that stuffing is henceforth banished from this house. I would be eating turkey into the afterlife if de-meating that huge beast hadn’t given me the heebee-jeebees. But I de-boned enough to make me hate fowl for at least 1 eternity. The mashed potatoes are still outstanding (and by that I don't mean they are "excellent," but "still in existence.").

We went for a hike the next day. The Orlinians will notice that's not David, but a good, old buddy. David was the photographer, the kids were the strippers.

Now on to the circuitous story of how I saved Thanksgiving Day. At one point in my life, my aspirations shifted from being the first female president of the USA to a car mechanic. I must admit I didn’t want to be president to create world peace nor to cure hunger. It was mainly so people would think I’m totally cool (which of course I realize now is not congruent with presidency. By the way, did I ever mention that Mitt Romney was my first bishop, my dad was in the bishopric with him, and if he would have been voted president I would have invited all y’all to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for a slumber party? Oh well…). You see, car mechanics work with their hands, which I’m re-realizing is much better than curing hunger and federal financial reform. When I was a kid, one of the keys on our piano went dead. I jerry-rigged the chord on the inside of the piano with folded paper, fixing the problem. Of course my mom still called a maintenance man. What a feeling of pride when I saw he had done the same thing I did, but with fancy felt. Today I am neither the president nor a car mechanic, but oil or grime in the grooves of my fingers gives me a tingle of satisfaction. A few weeks ago I replaced the tubes under the kids’ bathroom sink (after cracking them, trying to fix something else), which segued well to Thanksgiving Day when I killed the garbage disposal with potato peels. We thought all might be lost—I have known people who have known of people who have died of turkey dehydration on Thanksgiving. After donning a cape, I pulled out the vinegar and baking soda, boiling water and a plunger, and finally disassembled the guts of the sink and cleaned them out piece-by-piece. When the water started flowing again I knew, deep in my heart that I, just like the ghost of Thanksgiving past, had saved my family and friends from a gloomy future. It was like the feeling I got years ago when I made spaghetti for my dad and Leah (my mom was out of town) and I used all the rotting vegetables and made it taste passable and I complimented myself so much at dinner that my dad told me I was breaking my arm from patting myself on the back so much. And the story continues. Today I replaced the housing gasket in the pool pump. Yes, I will take a bow. Congratulations to me, and after you kiss my feet I will not tell you that another, bigger leak sprung up after I reassembled the pump and instead of saving $100, I may have cost us much more. But I didn’t say that, and anyway, I can just blame it on my genes. My dad has tried to play Mr. Fix-it a few times. While de-clogging a toilet (or was it a sink?) he somehow punctured the plumbing with a straightened wire hanger, flooding the bathroom. When trying to change a lightbulb, he removed the whole inner metal plate. How many men does it take to change a lightbulb? Frankly, I surprised he didn’t fry himself with that one. So, in a few weeks I will either have a beautifully tiled bathroom, or I may crack the foundation. Either way, I will be singing, “Goodbye nasty carpet!”

PS. I still have never cooked a Thanksgiving turkey nor dared to shop Black Friday sales, which probably disqualifies me from running for president anyway.