Luckily, a halal butcher shop had chosen to stay open.
“I have turkey feet,” the Pakistani man suggested.
“Well….I can’t really serve feet as a main course.”
“I have turkey neck.”
“Thanks….but it’s just not as festive.”
“Wait! Wait,” he suddenly cried out. “Just a minute,” he said as he ran into a back room. A minute later he came out with something wrapped in butcher paper. “Turkey breast,” he proclaimed triumphantly. Then he sniffed it to be sure, “It’s good.”
Taking his word for it, I then proceeded to my side dishes---some potatoes from the Chinese vegetable stand, a few canned goods from the Egyptian deli, some cider from the Spanish bodega, and bread at the 7-11 from the Indian guys.
A real American Thanksgiving.
As I made my way back to my apartment with my numerous bags, I suddenly realized my travels had led to a road block.
The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Shit.
I will never understand parades. It’s just a lot of stuff going by. Oh, here comes something. And there it goes. Oh, here comes something else. And there it goes. Probably what a goldfish thinks every time you walk past the tank.
The streets were blocked off with blue NYPD barricades for blocks as the parade was in full swing. North or South, there was no way I was getting past Sixth Avenue.
As I made my way thru the crowd, I saw a small break in the parade between the Cincinnati high school marching band and the Shriner’s Club Clowns. At the intersection, there was a break in the police barricades.
I guessed it was where you could cross.
I took a deep breath, held onto my grocery bags, and took off running across the street.
Just then, a motorcade of clowns sped by, causing me to trip over a large television cable and I dropped my groceries. My potatoes rolled down the street. A police officer tried to step in to help, but a clown got to me first.
I should probably mention now that I’m terrified of clowns. I believe it stems from an early Jack-in-the-Box incident. A clown helping me to my feet sent me into shock.
I just stood there. Frozen. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Meanwhile, the clowns began juggling my sweet potatoes and used my loaf of French bread as a baton.
And then they picked me up and paraded me around.
Oh my god. I was in the parade. I could just hear the parade commentators in my head.
“What’s going on down there? Can we get a close shot on that?”
“Looks like a young woman broke into the parade.”
“Young? I’d say more like thirty-five.”
“I think you’re right. About thirty-five. Boy, she looks terrified!”
Thankfully, one of the clowns realized I was going into apoplectic shock. They put me down and gathered up my groceries.
“Sorry about that, lady,” the clown said in a deep Brooklyn accent. “They warned us at Clown School about people like you. But we’re the good clowns. We’re not here to scare you. Happy Thanksgiving!” he said as he handed me my shopping bags and went on his merry way.
As I stumbled past the barricades, I heard a familiar voice.
“Ohmygod! Dorrie! Dorrie!” Timmy called out.
He broke away from a group of elves and came running towards me.
“Ohmygod! You were in the parade!”
“Why are you still an elf?” were the only words that came out of my clown-phobic mouth.
“Just supporting my fellow elves in the parade.”
Out of nowhere, a microphone was shoved in my face.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell us what happened out there?” a reporter asked.
And then there was a camera right in my face.
“Um…I was just trying to cross the street.”
“During a parade,” she laughed that fake reporter laugh. “What were you thinking?”
“Hi Mom!” Timmy yelled into the camera. “This is my friend Dorrie! Happy Thanksgiving!!!” he screamed. Literally screamed, like a fourteen year-old girl seeing The Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
“So Dorrie, anyone you would like to wish a Happy Thanksgiving?”
“Um…no. That’s okay,” I muttered and tried to get away.
“What did you think of your friend in the parade?” she asked Timmy.
“Ohmygod! It was SO exciting! I was totally not expecting it!”
As she moved her focus to the more camera-friendly Timmy, my cell phone rang.
“Hi honey. It’s Dad. We’re watching the parade on TV and....well, your mother is upset that you didn’t wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. You know how she’s been, with the change and all. Could you just say hello to her? Don’t ruin our Thanksgiving.”
“Okay,” the reporter was winding up the segment. “from Clown Control to Mission Control…”
“Wait…” I stopped her. “I do have someone to say ‘hi’ to. Hi Mom! Happy Thanksgiving!” I said as festively as I could.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, honey,” my Mom said on my cell. Dad had obviously passed it onto her. He never was a big phone guy.
“Did you get your ticket to come home yet?” she asked.
“Um…no. Not yet,” I said both to my phone and the camera that was still in my face.
“Oh sweetie, the flights are going to sell out,” she warned.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dorrie’s Mom!” Timmy yelled into the camera.
“Honey, is that your new boyfriend? He looks a little young for you.”
When I finally got off the phone, Timmy was still standing there.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I’m…making dinner. It’s kind of last-minute.”
“That still counts,” he said with his usual optimism.
“Where are you going for dinner?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed. “My family’s all back home. But there’s a diner by my house. The Thanksgiving special comes with a free can of soda.”
I was starting to think Dr. Prince was onto something.
“Why don’t you come over to my place? It’s just me and my friend Steve. There’s plenty of food.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to break up Thanksgiving with your boyfriend.”
“He’s just a friend. His family’s in Korea this week. So come over”
It didn’t take too much convincing.
“Mom, I’m curious,” I said on the phone later that morning as she gave me tips on turkey preparation. “Why didn’t you and Dad ever want any pets?”
“It’s not that we don’t like animals. But they’re a lot of work. And you have to be home for them all the time. Remember how your Aunt Rose was with those dogs of hers. She never went anywhere.”
I hesitated to say that they never really went anywhere, either. After all, I’d been in New York City for four years and they hadn’t come to visit me once.
“When you and your brother were growing up, we talked about getting a dog. But then we remembered how you were when that hamster died. That was horrible. You built a shrine out there for that rodent. In the summer, we couldn’t even get the lawn mower too close to his grave or you’d start bawling again. You were just too emotional, honey. We didn’t want to go thru Cuddles again. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be around you when that cat of yours dies.”
That was something I wouldn’t need to think about for a long time. Heidi would always be around. Well, not always. And she certainly wasn’t around now. Houseguests always sent her into hiding. But she was very healthy and would certainly live to be at least twenty-five or maybe even thirty. Possibly a contender for Oldest Cat Alive.
As I began work on the sweet potatoes, Steve came in the kitchen to help. Immediately realizing that he was no help at all, I began grilling him about Nate.
“He just mentioned that he saw you here and that it was weird that you were seeing Alex, that’s all. Don’t worry, I won’t say anythin
g. How’s the turkey?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I opened the oven. “Does it look done?”
“Isn’t it supposed to be brown on top?”
“Maybe it just needs a few more minutes.”
An hour later we were still looking at a tan-colored turkey.
“Do you have a meat thermometer?”
“You’re lucky I have meat.”
“Shouldn’t it start smelling like turkey in here? That’s how I know it’s done at my Mom’s house.”
This went on for another two hours. To pass the time, we played a board game. Sorry. That seemed to be appropriate.
By four o’clock, we were starving. I pulled out a 500 piece puzzle, which we half-heartedly began putting together. But the turkey still refused to turn that golden brown we’d all seen at Mom’s house.
By five o’clock, Steve had fallen asleep on the couch while Timmy read a two month-old fashion magazine. This was terrible. I was the worst hostess ever. No appetizers. Not even a bit of salad to stave off the famine. At one point, Steve opened his eyes, asked if the turkey was ready, I said “not yet” and he rolled over back to sleep.
Then Timmy fell asleep.
Okay, I’ll accept the award for Worst Hostess Ever, but in my acceptance speech, I’d like to thank my shitty guests. Who falls asleep on Thanksgiving before they eat?
“Oh honey,” my Mom said on the phone while washing her Thanksgiving dishes, “It sounds like your oven’s broken.”
I took off the oven mitts and touched the pan with my bare hand. The oven said 350, but it was barely a hundred degrees in there.
An hour later when the pizza arrived, I woke them up.
“What happened to the turkey?” Timmy asked as he wiped the sleep out of his eyes.
“It’s a turkey pizza. With cranberry sauce,” I added as I opened the can.
As I opened the pizza box, suddenly Timmy let out a squeal and dashed to the TV to turn up the volume.
“You’re kidding me,” I said as I looked at the television set. “They’re playing How the Grinch Stole Christmas on Thanksgiving? Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“Don’t be a Grinch, Dorrie,” Steve laughed.
They were my guests, so I had to keep them happy. Lousy, sleeping, food-eating guests. As Boris Karloff’s creepy voice read about the happy Whos down in Whoville who just lovedy-loved Christmas and The Grinch who didn’t quite so much, Steve rubbed it in even more.
“Oh my god, Dorrie---that’s you!”
“That is not me! I’m not The Grinch!” I replied as The Grinch listed all the things he hated about Christmas. The bells and the noise and all the Whos singing.
“Dorrie, that is totally you,” Steve started cracking up.
“You do complain about Christmas a lot,” Timmy admitted reluctantly.
“You don’t get it! Even The Whos don’t sing for two months!” I tried to explain as the song about what a mean one that Mr. Grinch started to play.
Was I really a Grinch? I wasn’t trying to ruin anyone’s Christmas. I had no plans to steal the trees and the presents and even the Roast Beast. Just then, as The Grinch tied a horn to the head of his little dog Max, I realized what was really going on.
10
“I am not The Grinch. I’m that little dog Max!” I declared to Dr. Prince the following week. “That dog who has to do all the work and gets pushed around and has to drag a heavy sleigh up and down the side of Mount Crumpit. I’m trying to wag my tail, but I have to haul my wet towels and laundry up and down five flights of stairs. There’s no happy ending for me. Where’s my Roast Beast and a pat on the head?”
Dr. Prince just sighed and wrote some stuff down on her yellow legal pad.
“You don’t get it,” I wasn’t about to be deterred by yellow paper. “You’re one of the Whos. But I have to live just north of there. It’s not prime real estate, but it’s the best I can do right now. And you saw the parade…and my oven…and turkey pizza… I’m trying. You saw me trying,” I trickled out.
“Wow,” she said in reply. “You’ve got some shitty luck.”
I was surprised she was finally on my side. So much so that I found myself taking the opposing viewpoint.
“But…don’t you think…that sometimes people make their own luck?”
“Not in this case,” she said with certainty. “You got some bad juju going on. I saw you trying. I mean, like on National fucking TV trying.”
“I was. I was trying,” I said breathlessly.
“Maybe you’re cursed.”
“Don’t think I haven’t wondered about that,” I laughed.
But she looked serious.
“Did you piss somebody off? Like a voodoo priestess or…oooo! You know what? Maybe it’s Santeria?”
“I…don’t think so,” I tried not to insult her. “I don’t believe in any of those things.”
“Oh, you don’t have to believe, mami. It just happens. No, you are definitely cursed.”
“I… I really don’t think so,” I tried to bring her back to earth. “You know, it was probably just bad luck, that’s all.”
“What happened to you, I would not wish on a dog. Do you have a priest? One who does exorcisms?”
“No. But I don’t think it’s as serious as all that. Just a bad week, that’s all.”
“Bad week? That was like the week of Passover. Wait a minute---lamb’s blood. My brother-in-law is a butcher. Yeah, yeah, I’ll give him a call,” she said as she reached for her cell phone.
“I don’t think I need lamb’s blood,” I tried to stop her from dialing. “I’m sure next week will be better.”
She put down her phone and just stared at me for a moment.
“Then why did you make me listen to that shit for forty-five minutes?”
“I….I don’t…I just…” I started to stammer, “you asked me about my week, so…I just…”
And then I trailed off into a sigh.
“Dorrie, you come in here every week like you’re fucking dying. I’m sitting here, a highly trained psychiatrist, and I’m listening to a fifteen minute story about a piece of turkey. Ay dios mio, I will stick the fucking needle in your ass myself if you say the word ‘meat thermometer’ again.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do therapy.”
“Look---let me put this into perspective for you. One of my patients is on a suicide watch. One actually IS dying. Two are going thru divorces. Three alcoholics. A heroin addict. And a guy who thinks he’s Ted Nugent. And you come in here whining because you were in a parade?”
“I figured I’d be in and out in a couple of sessions. All fixed.”
Just North of Whoville Page 11
