The Thanksgiving Story

Gather ye round, children, it's time for the story of the original Thanksgiving.  It's important to know history, because those who don't know history are doomed to only talk about the Kardashians at dinner parties.

First, it's important to know that Franklin Roosevelt actually set the current date for Thanksgiving, which is on the fourth Thursday of November by an act of Congress.  FDR set that date because he had plans on the last Thursday of the month with his mistress, Lucy Mercer, to cover themselves in oil and see if the turkey was done, and Eleanor wouldn't argue with a date set by Congress.

The original Thanksgiving is widely thought have been in 1621, back when KFC was still Kentucky Fried Chicken and the green bean casserole with fried onions on top was still just a twinkle in Charles Campbell's eye.  The pilgrims at Plymouth had been near starvation, and they were saved with the help of the Wampanoug Native Americans, who taught them to work the land and fish the seas.  (Interestingly,the name 'Wampanoag' translated loosely, means 'no good deed goes unpunished'.)

Before the celebration began, the squaw of the Wampanoag chief called the wife of the mayor of Plymouth, and they had a very polite, yet, terse, conversation about where the Thanksgiving feast should take place.  "But you hosted the Corn Festival!" complained the wife.  "Yes, but all of the children went to your village for the summer solstice!" said the squaw.  A deal was struck where the first year would be held in the village, where the wife would serve her traditional stuffing and a pumpkin pie, and the next year would be with the tribe, and they would have beaver pate and Rocky Mountain oysters.  This was the first documented argument of the mothers arguing over who should spend Thanksgiving where.

Of course, the Wampanoag arrived a little late, which messed up the whole meal for everyone else because the mashed potatoes were getting cold and the gravy was burning, and the mayor's wife had that one extra glass of wine while waiting that changed her from hospitable to bitchy, and she started making snide comments about how civilized people wear underwear to dinner.  Everyone ate, making awkward small talk about their jobs and kids and what home improvement projects they were working on, and by dessert, everyone was in a food coma and had to lie down on the floor and watch the second half of the Redskins v. Cowboys game.  Of course, the Cowboys lost.

Near starvation, yet dressed impeccably.

And no one ate that dog, which I'm

happy about, because roast dog for Thanksgiving

would've been a bad tradition.

The next morning, the mayor's wife woke everyone with fresh cinnamon rolls, which were delicious until she told anyone who would listen about how much work they were and how they didn't turn out right, and the squaw's rolls were undoubtedly better and they would all be happier next year when they were at the Wampanoag's house, and then she went off to the outhouse to cry and everyone looked at each other with the rolled eyes and ate their rolls.  Then everyone went to WalMart to beat the shit out of the other shoppers to get $20 off on a toaster oven.

Then everyone went home, talking about Uncle Truman's awkward insistence on kissing of all of the young girls, how Aunt Rosemary is still bitter, and how Miranda Petticoat's children are completely out of control brats.  By September of the next year, they couldn't wait for Thanksgiving again, because like labor, the pain is easily forgotten, especially when there is pumpkin pie involved.  Or beaver pate.

Happy Thanksgiving, and have a great weekend!

I Don't Want To, Either.

First, can I just say that I had one of those rare weekends of pure bliss. Why? Because it was completely ordinary and uneventful.


On Friday we traveled a few hours to see Oldest Daughter perform in Junior Honors Orchestra (have I mentioned that yet? I'm a little puffed up about it, probably because I never played an instrument, and if she is accomplished, then by extension I must be as well.)  We drove home and stopped at McDonalds twice - once for crispy fries and sodas, another time for ice cream - and Current Husband and OD dropped me off at the door of The Gap Outlet for 10 minutes of power shopping while they got said ice cream.  Poor CH.  He thinks I can't do much in 10 minutes.  He should really stop underestimating me.

My Mother In Law drove nearly 3 hours to be home when my youngest two got home, and she helped them make cookies and gave them pizza and brought pumpkin bread and let them talk about what they want for Christmas for five hours straight, so it's Hero Time in the Grandma department.  She stayed for The Son's basketball game, which was awesome, and then she left for home.  I turned off my cell phone at the game, and haven't turned it back on yet.  I didn't check e-mail all weekend.  I didn't even get the mail on Saturday.

Isn't he cute?  Sigh.

We took the kids to see Harry Potter, complete with requisite popcorn and peanut M&M's mixed up (if you haven't tried this artery-clogging treat, you are totally missing out on the joy that is the perfect mix of salty and sweet.)  Brief review, because I am a full-service blog:  Harry Potter was good.  There were two parts where I covered up Youngest Daughter's eyes because it was scary.  However, it felt like exactly what it is - the first part of a two part movie, and it was too long, but that's okay because you really don't want Harry Potter to ever end.  C'mon, JK Rowling, can't Harry and Ginny  and Ron and Hermione have kids and start a whole new series?

After the movie, we all went to Village Inn for breakfast at 4 p.m.  Awesome.  Then home for a game of Scrabble and college football.  Slept in this morning and CH made coffee.  Spent the day unpacking more boxes and getting OD's room in order.  It is so cool, I want to live up there.  We caught up on laundry, ate leftovers, had a generally satisfying time. 

Until Bedtime.

Youngest Daughter had been misbehaving off and on during the day, getting hopped up on Grandma Cookies and milk.  I get that.  But at bedtime, we went into her room, and I saw the pile of freshly laundered, folded clothes on her bed.

ME:  "Why didn't you put away your clothes?"
YD:  "I didn't feel like it."
SCREECH. My head spins around 360 degrees.  HUH?
ME: "What?"
YD: (slowly) I. Didn't. Feel. Like. It.
Let me say that I am not a big spanker, but this did merit a small swat.  A "Can I please get your attention" swat.  Easily confused with a "Oh, I brushed a mosquito off of you" swat.
YD:  "HEY!"
ME:  "That is for thinking you can tell me you won't do what I ask you to do because you don't feel like it.  (Insert 10 minute speech about what I don't feel like doing here. This is when time actually stops, and everyone in the family freezes, unable to see, hear, or speak.  Their eyes get glassy, and drool seeps out of their mouths.) And because of that, you are grounded from TV tomorrow too."
I would like to point out that YD was COMPLETELY nonplussed by the swat.
YD:  "So, how much TV are we talking about?"
ME:  (in disbelief that she doesn't care) "ALL DAY. NO TV."
YD:  "Okay, I'll read a book instead."
CURSES!  She has turned a punishment into an admirable activity!
ME:  "Um, okay.  Good night.  I love you."
YD:  (brightly) "I love you too, Mom!  Good night!"

I walk slowly in to the living room and tell CH the story.  We are agreeing that this particular child is crafty, and unaffected by punishment.  As if to punctuate what we are saying, YD skips into the room, grabs her iPod, and skips back out of the room, happy as a little bunny rabbit.

Dang it. She's pretty cute too.

She seems so happy.  I'm taking this as a life lesson, and the next time my boss asks me to do something, I'm going to say, "I don't feel like it."  I have a feeling it's going to end well.  Probably with me in my room, reading a book.  Or the want ads.

Have a great week!

It's Boreticulture Friday. Issue 1

Boreticulture: The industry and science of boring the socks off of your readers. Boreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of crochet, vanilla ice cream, and Yanni music. The word is composite, from two words, bore, from teenagers meaning "lame", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Boreticulture Friday exists to make you wish you were reading absolutely anthing else but this.



Today's topic: State Honors Orchestra

I'm not going to lie to you people, I'm going to bore your socks off today.  So take another slug of that espresso and finish your Jolt Cola, because it's going down now.

I spent my entire day thinking about what to write about for Whoreticulture Friday, but I had one of those days where unfunny things just kept happening all day long.  You know what I'm talking about....I like to think of them as pinata days, when you are all full of candy and you're all colorful and fun, and then someone picks up a bat and tries to knock the paper maiche smile off of your face.  But at least eveyone got to eat some candy.

On the happy front, Oldest Daughter was one of five kids at her middle school asked to play at state honors orchestra, which is kind of a big deal.  To me, anyway.  She was one of two cellists, and she left for Ames, Iowa today to spend the night in a hotel with a bunch of other middle schoolers.  Yikes!  I felt safer with her in the bar seeing Neon Trees under my tutelage than in a hotel room three hours away with a pack of teenagers.  She has been texting all night about her evening, so at least Mommy is pacified.  Tomorrow, after CH and I drop The Son at his early morning orchestra rehearsal and take YD to school, we are driving to Ames for the performance.  CH and I both graduated from Iowa State, so it will be terrifyingly aging  fun to see her there.

Because we were sad about OD being gone, the rest of us ate a Papa Johns pepperoni and sausage pizza and a cinna-pie to drown our sorrows, and watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  George the Superpet had Purina Dog Chow.  Todd the Squirrel ate nothing, as he is dead.

Are you bored yet?  Let me work on that a bit more.  Hmmmm.  I'm currently reading "Bobby and Jackie", by C. David Heymann, which basically asserts that Jackie Kennedy Onassis was a slut and had an affair with Bobby until he was killed, and then she freaked out when Bobby was shot and had to get her kids out of the country, so she agreed to marry Onassis because he was filthy rich and could essentially hide her in Greece.  Interestingly, it appears Jackie was sleeping with both RFK and Ari, and the men were bitter rivals, so Ari said he had "bagged the queen" the first time he slept with her so RFK would find out.  Those people in the Sixties, they be having lots of sex up in here.

Here's another uninteresting tidbit from my week - I've mentioned that I'm now training to be a hooker, and one of the old hookers was on the phone with me from North Carolina, ordering some equipment for her craft.  We talked about hooking, and then she said something I couldn't hear, and when I asked her to repeat, she said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just taking a gulp of wine."  Not a sip, not a drink, a gulp.  I pointed this out to her, and she laughed and said, "Just you wait, honey, the older you get the more things change, and the more fun you'll have.  I love wine, I love rug hooking, and I love sex."

In that order? Rug hooking must be awesome.

She continued on to tell me that post-menopausal sex is the best ever, and to keep hope, it will all be great in the future.  I thought to myself, "How, in ordering new blades for her wool cutter, did this lovely, well-meaning woman get the impression I don't like sex?"

When I got home that night, I told CH about it, and he told me how many days had passed since we'd had sex, and then I realized CH is praying for early menopause.  I'm stocking the wine rack and looking into rug hooking.  What happened to the semi-slutty party girl he married? Poor CH.  He suffers so.

Well, I hope you are fast asleep.  Thus concludes your first issue of Boreticulture Friday.  Have a great weekend....it can only get better, right?

OD's Mom Has Got It Goin' On

Okay, not really.  But I like to remember a time when I might have had it goin' on. 

After I posted the video for the song "Animal" by Neon Trees last Friday, Current Husband had one of those rare moments when he surprises me.  In a pleasant way, even, which is a double bonus, because the unpleasant surprises exceed the pleasant ones.  I give you his penchant for jalapenos.  Unpleasant surprises.  But I digress.

CH came into our room with his laptop and made an announcement.

CH: "Hey, you know that band you like, Neon Trees? They're playing at Ribco Tuesday night.  Wanna go?" 
ME:  "Um, yeah!  But why do you want to go, CH?  You get annoyed in packed bars."
CH:  "Because it would be a fun date night."
ME:  "Whoa there, padre!  Oldest Daughter would kill me in my sleep if I did this show without her."
CH:  (sighs.) "Okay, get three tickets."
ME:  "You're all full of crazy if you think we can take OD and not take The Son.  They're both into music."
CH:  "I suppose now you're going to say we have to take Youngest Daughter because we can't take the other two and leave her."
ME:  "What's wrong with you?!!?  I'm not taking my 7-year-old to a bar!"
CH:  Walking away shaking head.  "You do what you want."
And this, my friends, is the line that ends most of our conversations.

We found one of those perfect solutions for the night - we have some friends who have three children who are the same gender and general ages, so the mom came with us and her OD and Son, and their dad stayed home with our YD and theirs.  We got to the bar and got our Over-21 bands, bought the girls concert t-shirts, and found our first round of beer for the adults and water for the kids.  The place was pretty packed, and there were two opening acts - one with the word "Giants" in the name, and they were pretty good, and then New Politics, which I have to say I hadn't heard of because I'm 41 and listen to NPR when the kids aren't in the car.  New Politics was like a blend of Nirvana and The Sex Pistols, and I couldn't believe they could get as much sound out of a guitar and drums and a singer as they did. 


The lead singer, David, was very theatrical and animated on stage, and can stand on his head for long periods of time without hands.  The Son was a little fascinated with him.  After their act, The Son and I went to talk to David, and he was super surprisingly nice to my son, considering he's a punk rocker, and then David signed this memento for The Son, which is now hanging in his room:

Violators will not be asked to leave. 

They will be ejected.

Do two wrongs make a right, people?

Our viewing position at the show was toward the back and to the side, against a brick wall.  The two teenagers had already broken away from us and were angling their way up to the stage where all of the other potential groupies were gathering. 

We kept lifting up the two boys so they could see, and then one extremely nice guy in front of us got a barstool so the boys could stand up on a rung to see the bands.  Earlier, I noticed there was a couple in their 50's sitting at the table near us, and there were two unused barstools under their table.  It was between bands, and the boys were sick of standing, so I asked if they could sit on the two barstools.  The woman said, "Sure, but don't move them, and we have people coming so we'll need them back when our people come."  Fine.  I have saved a seat before in my time.  The boys sat, but the SECOND one of them stood up, her husband threw his jacket across the chair.  Um, don't worry, my 11-year-old isn't going to pee on it OR fistfight you for it.

Two hours later, NOT ONE PERSON had sat on those barstools.  It was about 10 p.m., and Neon Trees had just taken the stage.  We had one barstool that the nice man got for one of the boys.  I leaned over and asked the woman, "Can I use one of these barstools?" She looked at me, all exasperated, and said, "I guess, but don't move them from this table."  By this time, Mommy had finished her third Blue Moon, and manners were taking a nosedive on the list of priorities.  So I said, "REALLY!?! Because I haven't seen ANYONE sitting on these barstools, and you've been reserving them all night." And she said, "The people they are for are right there!" and pointed off to the huge sweaty crowd.  I gave her my BITCH look and said, "Whatever. That's pathetic." and walked off.  OOOOHHHH.  I showed her!  "Whatever" is always the best comeback.  However, I did get have CH get a picture of her to humiliate her on my blog, so the three people who read it could get as outraged as I was.

See all of the barstools around her? 

This is during the headlining act,

three hours after they sat down. 

I wish early incontinence and thick

black facial hair upon this woman.

After Neon Trees finished, the other mom, I'll call her Neen, and I decided to use the bathroom while waiting for the band to come out.  We were in the stalls when this group of drunk bottle blondes came stumbling into the bathroom, talking about ass-grabbing Tyler from Neon Trees and singing Animal at each other's weddings.  Then one of them said this:
"Oh.My.Gawd. did you see the KIDS out there?  A couple of those kids are my students! I mean, like, what kind of parents bring their kids to a BAR? Like, why are there KIDS in here?"

Oops.  Perhaps, Ms. Student Teacher, it was the sign that said "ALL AGES WELCOME" on the poster?  Maybe I brought my children because they play piano, cello, and drums, and they are way into music and I thought it would inspire them as musicians?  Nah.  It was totally so the girls could have tequila shooters and the boys could fantasize about the two goth girls making out right next to them, and I could get out of the house.  I also take them to my meth dealer's lab when I'm low on product.  SO, when I walked out of the stall the same time as Neen, and we looked at each other and laughed a little bit, I turned to Blondie and said, "WE are the parents who bring their 11-year-olds to concerts!  We are the bad parents!  Who-hoo!" and fist pumped as we walked out of the bathroom. 

With the guitarist from Neon Trees,

doing our rock star hands. 

See you at conferences, teachers!

(NOTE: The teachers were NOT from our school. 

I love our teachers, really, I do.)

We got home at about 11:30, tired, hoarse, a little hard of hearing, but happy.  It was a great night out at the bars with the kids, stalking musicians.  I'm so proud. The torch has been passed. 



Is it Saturday? No?

Went to the Neon Trees concert last night with CH, OD, and the Son, and some friends of ours. It was fun, and Mommy had three Blue Moons on a work night, so today is a little rough, because Mommy can't hold her Belgian beer like she used to.


SO, we had a mini-altercation with a barstool-hoarding wench, our thirteen-year-old daughters moved into the mosh pit viewing area, and we met the guitarist for Neon Trees and he was awesome. I have pictures (one of the wench, too!)I will post tonight.


Happy Hump Day!