Maybe it’s just because my inner 13 year old is getting so much attention with all the New Moon talk (and because I’ve been listening to the audiobook all weekend), but I can’t stop thinking about the phrase “my entire life depends on it.” I don’t know how many times I squealed that as a tween. “My entire life depends on my finding the right pair of combat boots to wear to Prom.” “My entire life depends on my sinking this free throw.” “My entire life depends on matching my banana clip and t-shirt clip every time I leave the house!”
It continued as I got older, too. “My entire life depends on getting into the right college.” “My entire live depends on landing the right job.” “My entire life depends on getting Mariah five hundred rain ponchos.” “My entire life depends on making Director by 30.”
I’m the first to admit I have a tendency towards being dramatic. (Well, maybe I’m not the first…Mom, Dad, Rocco, Gwen, the siblings, and pretty much everyone I’ve ever written about might say it even faster.) I like to exaggerate and embellish as much as the next Middleton, but I’m reeling a little this morning knowing that the next statement really isn’t an exaggeration at all; my entire life depends on tomorrow. I don’t mean that in a my-life-might-never-be-the-same or this-is-a-pivotal-point-in-achieving-success-or-a-specific-goal kind of way. I mean it in more of a gee-I-hope-I’m-not-dying kind of way.
Nope, no freaking out at all over here…I’m totally zen…nothing to see here.
This being the week of Thanksgiving certainly hasn’t mellowed my whirling little muddled mind, either. So just in case, to hedge my bets, because I’m still thankful today and I’m not entirely sure how I’ll feel on the actual Day of Thanks, I’m going to pretend this is my Thanksgiving post. See? I’ve even included a cheesy picture of a turkey made entirely of butter cream icing! Ew. I like to think Fat Elvis would have loved a hunk a hunk a that cake.
While certainly not our absolute favorite of holidays (that’s reserved for the 4th of Tequila…I mean July), we Lonon’s used to throw a mean Thanksgiving – back when we all lived in the same state. My retarded Aunt Lynn, clad in her seasonal sweater for the year, would lead us all in a round of “God is Great.” Then the dining and chatting would officially begin. Grandpa would adjust his hearing aids to confirm that his sweet adorable grandkids were, in fact, discussing smegma at the dinner table. Dad, overcome with a bout of silent shaking laughter would raise his napkin to mop off the beads of turkey grease laden sweat as they formed on his bald head. Mom would huff in protest of the subject matter, hiding her face in her hands while horrified by the Lonon clan in general, and then awe us with a biting flippant comment that would make Chelsea Handler blush. Come to think of it, that pretty much describes EVERY family dinner I can recall.
After we gorged ourselves on green beans, cornbread (please Northerners, you need to understand cornbread should never ever happen in Pyrex – hallowed be the cast iron skillet, bitches), and Mom’s Cheesy Potato Casserole of Goodness, we’d all roll ourselves out to the yard for our annual soccer game. At the Lonon house, Thanksgiving isn’t over until some one pukes or cries…the year Thom broke my ankle, I got to do both.
Holy Mother of Cheez Whiz I was mad at that boy. I was madder than the time in the back of the Volkswagen bus when he kicked out my two front teeth with his cowboy boots. Fucker.
He felt bad, of course. He ran downstairs to retrieve my crutches as I hobbled into the kitchen. I gingerly settled into the pink and blue plaid armchair and carefully placed my rapidly swelling cankle on the ottoman. What? Of course we already had crutches on hand. If you have a sensitive stomach don’t you keep a bottle of Pepto around just in case? Well, if you tend to trip on level ground (or have siblings that like to sweep your leg during family soccer games) you keep crutches around just in case.
Thom sheepishly crept into the room and waited for a way to help, crutches crushed to his chest. Mom said something from the pantry about an ice pack. Thom spun to answer her, somehow raising the bottoms of the crutches and gracefully swinging the pair of wooden planks directly into my throbbing ankle. Stars, people. I saw stars. And little tiny winged Joey McIntyres.
I won’t be seeing the fam this year, unless you count Thom. (Ok maybe I still hold a teeny little grudge.) I will be making Mom’s Cheesy Potato Casserole of Goodness and baking my cornbread in a cast iron skillet as the good Lord intended, damnit. Will it end in vomiting or tears? I’ll have to get back to you on that…