The Tempest

Not Exactly Shooting For \”Miss Congeniality\”

Screw Martha…Where’s Sheena?

Posted by Daniel on Friday, November 24, 2006

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I love – love – LOVE turkey leftovers. There’s just something about opening the fridgidaire on the morning after Thanksgiving and seeing the varitable cornucopia of yummies. It just screams “Eat Me!!

It’s so rare that we cook for family on Thanksgiving (we all generally rotate who’s cooking where each year), and we so wanted our turn to be something to remember. You could chalk it up the the gayness, because we so love showing off our inner Martha Stewart.

Did somebody say Irish coffee?

So we’re cooking to beat the band. Lots of family coming over and there are always those certain few that are, shall we say, difficult to impress. (honestly, they win $25 from a scratch-off ticket and suddenly they’re the frakking Rockefellers!!)

We’ve got it all laid out early Thursday morning and it’s all going to go like clockwork – or somebody’s going to get fired!! All the baking items are on one counter ready to go. (our cats seem to know what’s up and are ready to pounce on the first dropped item – “Hi, Annie…who’s a good girl? Okay, now scoot.”) The turkey is already in the oven and well on it’s way to glory. Just purring along.

I’m in the formal dining room setting a table for 12 with our best china, silver and crystal. The table linens are out (having been pressed with the steam iron into the shape of turkey tail feathers – a la Martha).

Did somebody say egg nog?

By this time, the cats are going ape shit all over the house. We’ve viciously rearranged their environment with all the festive decorating and placing of lovely baubles and candles all over the house in order to create the perfect “Over the river and through the woods…” atmosphere. This, of course, is the green light for cats to say, “Ooohhh shiny. Must destroy. You didn’t want those weird turkey feather nakpins on the table, did you? Because we took care of that for you.”

So, while Steve is outside in the bog tending to the cranberries (Martha says grow and tend your own ingredients and Martha is never fucking wrong!!), I’m inside trying to throttle the kids for ‘rearranging’ everything.

Did somebody say Chardonnay?

Fast forward to later that day. The guests are arriving in a fashionably steady stream (Martha says guests shouldn’t arrive in a mass bunch or too early…it’s just fucking rude!) and the holiday has officially begun.

Did somebody say Xanax, Zoloft and a Jagermeister chaser?

Everyone is delighted with the homey atmosphere (see cats?? that’s why we did it…not for your amusement!!! c’mere you little arse tards!!) and even the “Rockefellers” seem mildly impressed. At this point, though, I could give a shit what “Jed & all his kin” (as I’ve come to call them) think. But I don’t want to be rude, so I just smile and say, “Thank you.” (Martha says to always be the gracious hosts…no matter how you really feel about certain guests.)

Did somebody say they saw me duck out to the garage to take a nip out of the bottle of ripple? Lies…all lies!!

So the house is full of people, the smell of turkey and ham permeate the air, the cats are delighting our guests (now their captive audience)with their rendition of tandem “salad-tossing” (they do so love dinner theater), the wine is uncorked (as are Steve and I), the Chiefs/Bronco’s game is on in the background, and now it’s dinner time. (Martha says ambient holiday music in the background is the proper thing for such a get-together, but screw that…this time.)

Did somebody say tryptophan and Percocet don’t mix well?

Fast forward again. Dinner is long ago finished. Chiefs beat the Bronco’s 19 to 10 (finally…now I can take off this rediculous cheerleader outfit!!). The guests are sated, bloated and heading home. Including the ‘Rockefellers’, who’ve helped themselves to gobs of take-home leftovers…the cheap bastards. Someone even helped themselves to taking the giblet centerpiece (again, a la Martha) home as a parting gift. We’ve finished cleaning up and now plopped down in comfy chairs calming and coddling the cats after what, for them, must have been a traumatic no-scraps greek tragedy.

Sheena RoastAll is again calm in our home. After patting ourselves on the backs (figuratively) for a job well done, it’s time for bed. The cats, after having acted like they’ve forgiven us for our breech of etiquette (we forgot to feed them earlier, but I finally remembered), are all laying on the bed, save one. Sheena must still be pissed. Oh well, there’s always Christmas.

I hope she shows up soon, though. She’s always loved watching Martha on TV. Even though Martha is a dog person.

Did somebody say “nightcap”?

Yes, this is actually our cat, Sheena. She was playing around. Lesson learned.

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2 Responses to “Screw Martha…Where’s Sheena?”

  1. tlvkejgi said

    dtdwylvphs

    onpptimvw miulothak xwuluyo ngzcxlzzg

  2. Abi said

    Awesome, man

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