It’s been crazier than usual around here. In the great State of Maine, where voter turnout was the highest in the nation, we rolled over Republican. I’ve been knitting up a storm just like Madame Defarge. Well, maybe not exactly like her. Knitting is a mindless occupation for me, it keeps pesky thoughts at bay.
The other night I had a dream where I told someone, quite earnestly, that my fingers were burning to write a story, when I woke up I couldn’t remember what it was about.
My husband continues to commit infractions. Yesterday, he roasted a 14lb turkey, mashed 5 great Jehovaless potatoes, cooked a mountain of green beans, pounds of sausage stuffing that wasn’t nearly as good as mine is (I could tell from looking because I ate none of it) and a freaking swimming pool full of the greasiest hybrid (part homemade-not the right way, of course- and part bottled) gravy you’ve ever seen. I hear you, out there, clucking, thinking “Oh that poor, long-suffering man.” Whatever.
Yeah okay, so moving right along- This is November, Turkey Month. We only eat turkey on the designated holiday. We don’t spoil it for everyone by having it too soon. No, we do NOT. I told him not to count on me eating any turkey before its time. I told him I would not participate in dining on anything but the regulation turkey on the designated day. Do NOT sympathize with him. He is the enemy. Not only did I tell him once, I had to reiterate and tell him twice, because the first turkey he purchased was ruined during last week’s power outage. Really? You get a message from Gawd and you choose to defy the Great One by appropriating another turkey after the first one was destroyed in a natural DISASTER, really? That was not prudent. The whole house reeked of turkey. I closed the bedroom door and opened the windows. If I wanted my flannel sheets to smell like food I’d slumber in a cafeteria somewhere. I did dishes four times yesterday, by hand. He’ll be eating leftover turkey for a month, force fed or otherwise. I ate homemade guacamole with tortilla chips for dinner.
This morning with the fridge stuffed with leftovers, a deer runs out in front of the car, in front of my husband’s truck. Another message. My husband, who likes to pretend he still hunts, happened to have his hunting license and his gun with him and he put the deer out of its agony. I washed the floor at 4:30A before I trundled up here to work. Of course, he’d called me umpteen times to report the news as it was breaking. Deer, hit-shot, game warden, gutted, butcher, blah, blah, blah. As we’ve established, the floor was clean. Whodoyathink returns? That’s right, it’s himself. Whatdayathink he has with him? A drippy mess, all over the kitchen floor. Nothing would do but I should drop everything to help because that’s what I am, I’m HELPFUL. I get a stupid Ziploc out of the drawer and he looks at me with those big, baby-blues as he puts a bleeding heart in it. I just grinned, stupidly, because I see the irony and I get the message in that.