Thanks For Giving Me Cough Medicine

My Thanksgiving started like most people's: at a lesbian karaoke bar. In all honesty, it must be some kind of tradition, because even at just past midnight on Thanksgiving, the place was packed to the extent that none of my party had the opportunity to sing. That's okay, we had some fun, then some minor drama, then someone threw up on my nicest pair of shoes -- my bowling shoes, but it all ended fairly nicely with a group hug incited by strangers. You know, typical pilgrim stuff. Since I've been fighting an intense cold, once home, I self medicated with some nighttime liquid medicine and knocked myself out for a few hours before waking and concerning myself with cooking.

I was in charge of the turkey. I sampled a few online recipes before choosing the most promising, and got to cooking. I rinsed the bird then followed the directions to "pat it dry." I did so by slapping it repeatedly with my bare hands. Michael Michael and Phoebe laughed at me and told me to use a towel; Phoebe compared it to an Amelia Bedelia moment where I followed instructions a bit too literally. I felt stupid, but not deterred.

The turkey was a bit of an enigma. Everything I read suggested it would take at least three hours, if not four and a half, to complete. Within two hours, however, the meat thermometer revealed that it was done. I was thoroughly confused, but sure enough, it was complete. That caused a bit of a problem since now the turkey was done a good three-four hours before dinner was to be served. Plus, the bird looked ugly. It just looked a bit off. I told my friends about how my family always coos "what a good looking bird" to compliment holiday turkeys, but that no one would find themselves saying that for mine. Kindly, people appeased me, sporadically noting it was a "good looking bird." They're cute. Fortunately, it tasted good. Or at least average. Overall, I'd rate my first cook-a-turkey-by-yourself experience to be an adequate job. I could do better. Maybe.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was barely functional. My illness was taking over. When the post-meal nap rolled around, I went down for the count. Most of my friends slept off their tryptophan spells within an hour, but I was unable to wake up for dessert or do whatever. By 10:45, however, it was time to go bowling, and by virtue of sleeping through earlier festivities, I slipped into a designated driver position. Fortunately, I was already wearing my bowling shoes (all vomit had been cleaned, though not disinfected) and went on my way. Unfortunately, we got there toward the end of the promotion and opted to wait an hour for the cheaper games.

While most people sat and drank beer in the interim, Michael Michael, Phoebe, and I went hunting for wood to make a fire later in the night. This expedition turned out to be the most part of the night. There's something thrilling about being mildly delinquent and cruising the streets for timber. We trespassed on a public park after dark, constantly watching our backs for police. To the side, we spotted a row of shrubbery, some of it dead. We disassembled some of the dying ones, collecting the branches into piles. We knew we'd get in trouble if we were caught, but in actuality we weren't doing anything worse than some landscaping/groundskeeping for the greater good of the town. That's the kind of wrong-doing I get off on: petty crimes that are inconsequential. I pulled up the getaway car, they shoved the wood in my back seat, and we sped away! Actually, we were going under the speed limit, scanning the sides of the street for wood. After traveling for a few more minutes, we came across a school. "Maybe there'll be wood!" This location actually caused me to panic, since I know police officers frequently check schools to prevent trespassing and vandalism. Just as we were about to give up on the spot, we spotted a whole lot of wood located behind the dumpster. It was far too large to fit in my car, so we had to snap it in pieces as quickly as we could. Then we sped away again (again, not so much speeding though). Phoebe wanted to stop to pick up a piece of litter on our way out, but I screamed "there's no time!" Sure enough, a minute later, we encountered a police officer. Whew. A close getaway for the wood crew.

Bowling was fun, although no one got a turkey on Thanksgiving. Disappointing. I was the spare king, I spared just about every turn, but it culminated in the high score of 161 -- not bad for a sicko. (The likely equation at play: my illness < others' intoxication.)

Then we came home, built a fire, watched as Michael Michael was overly paranoid about using a gas fireplace, and played charades until passing out. Most absurd was the time Stacy tried to get us to say "Margaritaville" and acted out $2 and all of the rituals of Margarita Mondays without us managing to guess "margarita." I kept guessing "2 buck chuck" and "wine", but never margaritas. Pathetic. But hooray for Thanksgiving!