9:30 a.m. - Turkey in the oven. Other stuff underway.
10: 15 a.m. -- While rushing through the kitchen carrying some vintage china plates, I step on the metal hose part of the vacuum, which is
lying on the tile floor. The hose begins to skid across the tiles, and I cannot shift my weight to step off - or use my arms to regain my balance.
I learn right then that a rounded metal tube can move on tile like butter moves on a red-hot griddle; which is the last coherent thought I have before unwillingly doing the splits like an Olympic gymnast.
10:16 -- Pain.
10:40 a.m. -- I discover that those squeezy plastic bulb things on turkey basters don't last forever. I don't want to serve my guests a big pile of boot leather shaped like a turkey, so I look around for some other thing to baste with...and find absolutely nothing. I briefly consider using some plastic tubing to siphon the juices into a bowl - until my son reminds me that a mouthful of superheated grease could put a damper on our day.
After several plans fail (all ending with me getting sprayed or spattered with hot fat), I empty out a mustard squeeze bottle, and juicy tenderness is again on the menu.
10:53 a.m. -- Pain.
12:37 p.m. -- Some friends unexpectedly drop by to say hello.
I am wearing the following: Shrunken, pickle-green pants made
of long underwear material. A short-sleeved, salmon colored
zip up shirt made of corduroy. Black leather shoes with no socks.
My glasses, circa 1988. Yesterdays' hair.
12:38 p.m. -- Pain.
3:18 p.m. -- I pour baby peas into my favorite blue bowl, take
them to the table, and another Thanksgiving begins.
The turkey is bliss, the gravy divine, and my once-a-year jello
doesn't slip off its plate to land in anyones lap.
There is silence for a moment and I am fed, looking at
these people I love.
1:29 a.m. -- My brother is finally asleep upstairs; an hour and
a half after he first went to bed. First he lost his toothpaste, and
then he lost his cane. He lost his balance in the bathroom at a critical
moment, but D. scored some bonus points by mopping up the pee.
He brushed his teeth for 15 minutes, then he actually got undressed,
but before he even hit the bed...it was back to the bathroom again.
I was ready to kill him, I was planning to kill him - but he crawled
under the covers right before I went for the axe.
Lying there, he looked up at me and for a minute I could see the boy
he was so long ago....
I miss my parents.
I feel the weight of his condition more and more as time goes by.
I worry.
I feel guilty.
Pain.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Oh, Middle Sister. NOBODY can do it the way you do it. You're the Best. The first line of your Thanksgiving should be: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." I, too, know the about the guilt - - I didn't hear from Kevin and I kept thinking of him, wearing holey clothes and standing in some needy-people food line. All through our sumptuous dinner, part of my mind was stuck to Kevin, even though I know his bad choices landed him where he is. Where ever he is. Which does NOT apply to your brother John. Even so.
I LOVE the outfit you were wearing - - what chic! What snazzola! I am sure that your guests would charmed; I would have been. I would have been delighted and totally charmed.
Our Thanksgiving was lovely - nothing went wrong, everything went right - read J's blog for the turkey review - I thought it was wonderful. He is a bit more modest than he needs to be.
I think you should save all your blogs and consider sending them off, later on, to be published into a book.
See you Tuesday!
Bookworm
It sounds like you made it. You're a survivor if you are anything. Great blog, and it was very nice meeting you too. I propose a lunch, with you, bookworm, mom and I. I think we are the most interesting people in the county :)
Post a Comment