Happy Valentine's Day! Hope yours wasn't too hellish. I did something different tonight: Went to a Moth "Story Slam" and told a "Love Hurts" story. (Yes, I have hellish tales in multiple categories.)
I had to go first and I came in second - not bad for a storytelling virgin. It was exhilarating, except that even now, almost three hours after I spoke, I still feel like throwing up. Public speaking doesn't scare me, but it does sort of make me sick.
Without further ado, here is my story.
In 2007 my marriage of 19 years ended and I had to confront the five stages of divorce. I’ve made it through the first four:
Denial
Anger
Bargaining and
Depression
I think of this as a sort of Rip Van Winklevoss period – that’s where you wake up to find that someone shockingly young has stolen something valuable from you. You do get compensated, but somehow, no matter how much you get, it never feels like enough.
And now I’m in the fifth stage, dating. I’ve adjusted to the differences between dating in the ‘80s – the last time I was single – and dating now. They seem mostly related to hair removal and dating technology. I’ve learned how to write a compelling online dating profile. What I haven’t quite figured out yet is how to read between the lines of others’ profiles. I specialize in the unemployed masquerading as the high achiever, the obese masquerading as the “height-weight proportional,” the alcoholic masquerading as the social drinker, the married masquerading as the single.
I’ve done a lot of dating since my separation, the vast majority what I call one and dones, because once is definitely enough. But even given the low bar, only one gets the distinction of being the worst of the worst.
It happened in Laguna Beach in the summer of 2009 where a friend and I were spending the weekend. I was pretty discouraged by dating in LA at that point, so I figured I’d give the OC a try. I went on OK Cupid and hit it off with Mark, whose picture showed him with a golden retriever – and a baseball cap, to indicate he was bald. He threw me a little when he said we looked like we might be cousins and asked about my ethnic background. I told him my ancestry was English, German, Irish and Italian; he was full-blooded Scottish. And so we scheduled coffee, at a little bakery across PCH from my hotel.
We met at about noon. His golden retriever looked just like her picture, but I can’t say the same for Mark. Yes, he was wearing a baseball cap. But his face had three or four little bandages; he said he’d just had some “things” removed. But I didn’t care - it’s not so much about looks for me. It’s the conversation I was interested in.
After some small talk about the dog and Laguna and Michael Jackson’s recent demise, he started telling me about himself. He was a retired foot surgeon. He lived on a golf course in a gated community just south of Laguna and had sold his practice just before the recession hit. He was quite smug about it: his timing had been great and now he didn’t have to deal with anyone unless they could make it past his gates.
It was clear that Mark and I, a devoted Democrat, were not soulmates. Hell, I liked his dog more than I liked him. Even asleep under the table she had more personality. I was listening politely and plotting my escape when this came out of his mouth: “To quote Hitler, we used to have a Jewish problem, now we have a Muslim problem.”
I’d like to tell you that I leapt to my feet, threw coffee at his bandaged face and yelled, “You’re a facist asshole!” before fleeing down PCH. But I didn’t. I just sat there, stunned, then angry – yet still polite. It took at least five minutes before I could stammer out something about how I had to get back to my friend, and left.
I called my friend as I walked back to the hotel. I told her I was starving and needed food and especially a drink, and that she wouldn’t believe what had just happened. She promised we would start drinking as soon as I got there, and we hung up.
I got to the crosswalk leading directly to the hotel, checked for cars and stepped out. I almost made it to the double-yellow line when suddenly an impatient driver whipped around a waiting car and hit me. I don’t remember the impact, but I vividly remember the lifeguards swarming around me once I came to. Someone told me there were nine of them. They asked me if I knew what day it was, and I did; if I knew my name, and I did. Then they asked me if I knew who the president was. I actually yelled, “Yes! Barack Obama! I have his sticker on my phone!” I wanted those OC-ers to know I wasn’t one of them. They were obviously trying to kill me, all those lifeguards aside.
After a trip to the ER and the kind of tests that might have saved Natasha Richardson, I spent some time limping and in pain, but I never complained. As bad as I felt, at least I got out of Laguna, and I never had to see Mark again.
After almost five years of dating, I’ve reached the real final Kubler-Ross grieving stage, acceptance. At my age, being picky – in other words, holding out for someone honest and self-supporting and not racist – means I might die alone, and I accept that. Just please don’t let it be in Orange County.
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A Skewed Look at Valentine's Day (Videos)
Dating Losers
Vintage clips from a video dating service. Even in the '80s these guys must have looked dated...although it's unlikely they ever did. Some of the most unintentionally hilarious material ever recorded.
Love Hurts
Watch out for cupid's arrows.
Worst Valentine's Day Gifts Ever
Flowers were hurt in the making of this video, when really it should have been her man.
Love Is the Drug
The dark side of love: chemical imbalance, mental strain, addiction and depression!
Happy Chinese New Year!
I have a dear friend who is a qi gong master and a devotee of Chinese Astrology. She informs me that one's Chinese astrological sign is not just an animal (such as today's New Year of the Dragon) but also an element: fire, water, etc.
I looked into it and learned that I was born in the year of the Rooster and that my element is Fire. How hellish is it that my astrological sign is a burning cock!
I looked into it and learned that I was born in the year of the Rooster and that my element is Fire. How hellish is it that my astrological sign is a burning cock!
Drunk for the New Year
It’s a new tradition: recording drunken and humiliating behavior on New Year’s Eve, then posting it for all the world to see. Most are hilariously funny – but only to other drunk people. There’s lots of yelling, slurring, puking, falling down and showing of undergarments. The most innocuous statements – “my foot hurts” – generate peals of laughter. Hellish Holidays culled through way too many dreary ones to come up with the best of the worst.
Her resolution: Match.com.
Lindsay Lohan in about 10 years.
This woman can’t even get out of her house to celebrate.
She’s…hornier.
Reasons to quit - as if the above weren't enough.
Her resolution: Match.com.
Lindsay Lohan in about 10 years.
This woman can’t even get out of her house to celebrate.
She’s…hornier.
Reasons to quit - as if the above weren't enough.
10 Ways to Have a Hellish Family Holiday
Recent experience has given me insights into how to make a bad thing worse. Others push fun, family and time-saving tips, but Hellish Holidays is all about keeping it real. Don't know how to have a Hellish Holiday? Here are some steps you can take:
1. Multiple Generations. Two generations can be grating, but it's hard to be hellish without a grandparent in the mix. In a pinch, aunts and uncles can raise issues thought to have been put to rest for decades.
2. Lowered Expectations. "Can't we all at least pretend to like each other this year?" In other words: let's not actually like each other, just fake it for a few hours. Sadly, even this dream can die hard.
3. Kitchen Disasters. The turkey caught fire, the oven died, the dishwasher broke — holidays with ruined food and hand-washing of service for 18 are classically hellish.
4. A Well-Placed Insult — and Its Riposte. "I always knew you felt that way! Now I can tell you how I really feel about your [significant other, relationship with Mom, personal cleanliness, Jello mold...]."
5. Inappropriate Escorts. Bring a date with full-body tattoos and an ankle monitor to Grandma's house and you're just asking for a memorable meal--and not in a good way. Ditto someone too old or young, too poor (no such thing as too rich) or too felonious.
6. Special Diets. "What do you mean, is the turkey organic? Of course not. You don't get a breast like that without hormones!" Watching someone load up on one food and bypass all the others gives the whole rest of the table something to mutter about.
7. Sports. Hours and hours of NFL as a soundtrack can fray nerves and build resentment as we flash back to the '50s when women slaved away in the kitchen while the menfolk sat around. The only thing worse would be hockey.
8. A No-Show. Your sister blew off the dinner? Dad ran to the store and never came back? While it's fun to build unanimity among those left behind by trashing the departed, missing relatives cast a shadow over the proceedings.
9. Physical Injuries. Someone slipped on cranberry sauce and had to go to the ER. Grandpa didn't make it up the stairs - so much for that new hip. Let's face it: when paramedics show up, the holiday goes straight to hell.
10. Special Announcements. "I'm going to be a mother--and there is no father." "I'm quitting my job to stalk Courtney Love." "You know, Rush Limbaugh has it all figured out." These kinds of comments don't just ruin dinner, they shatter lives.
1. Multiple Generations. Two generations can be grating, but it's hard to be hellish without a grandparent in the mix. In a pinch, aunts and uncles can raise issues thought to have been put to rest for decades.
2. Lowered Expectations. "Can't we all at least pretend to like each other this year?" In other words: let's not actually like each other, just fake it for a few hours. Sadly, even this dream can die hard.
3. Kitchen Disasters. The turkey caught fire, the oven died, the dishwasher broke — holidays with ruined food and hand-washing of service for 18 are classically hellish.
4. A Well-Placed Insult — and Its Riposte. "I always knew you felt that way! Now I can tell you how I really feel about your [significant other, relationship with Mom, personal cleanliness, Jello mold...]."
5. Inappropriate Escorts. Bring a date with full-body tattoos and an ankle monitor to Grandma's house and you're just asking for a memorable meal--and not in a good way. Ditto someone too old or young, too poor (no such thing as too rich) or too felonious.
6. Special Diets. "What do you mean, is the turkey organic? Of course not. You don't get a breast like that without hormones!" Watching someone load up on one food and bypass all the others gives the whole rest of the table something to mutter about.
7. Sports. Hours and hours of NFL as a soundtrack can fray nerves and build resentment as we flash back to the '50s when women slaved away in the kitchen while the menfolk sat around. The only thing worse would be hockey.
8. A No-Show. Your sister blew off the dinner? Dad ran to the store and never came back? While it's fun to build unanimity among those left behind by trashing the departed, missing relatives cast a shadow over the proceedings.
9. Physical Injuries. Someone slipped on cranberry sauce and had to go to the ER. Grandpa didn't make it up the stairs - so much for that new hip. Let's face it: when paramedics show up, the holiday goes straight to hell.
10. Special Announcements. "I'm going to be a mother--and there is no father." "I'm quitting my job to stalk Courtney Love." "You know, Rush Limbaugh has it all figured out." These kinds of comments don't just ruin dinner, they shatter lives.
A Birthday Confession
In honor of my birthday this week, I reveal a deep, dark secret.
It was the very late '60s, giving guys an excuse to wear jerseys with the number 69, which we all knew was dirty, although we had no idea why. I was 11, a pre-pubescent sixth-grader praying to lose the pre-. I felt like the only girl in my class who hadn't gotten her period. Now I know that my December birthday placed me at the end of the development line. But at the time, as I aspired to an AA cup, it felt pretty humiliating.
That spring, I suddenly had unfamiliar cramping pains in my abdomen. Doubled over and crying, I scared even my mother, whose advice for everything was either "gargle with salt water" or "lie on your side with your knees up." When these stalwarts failed to help me, we headed to the emergency room.
A comprehensive examination revealed exactly nothing. The pain subsided and I went home, told that most likely I would shortly be getting my first period. My excitement about "becoming a woman" was tempered by the not irrational fear that womanhood involved searing and mysterious pain.
That night, my father came into my room to say goodnight. He sat on my bed - a tradition that by then had faded - and said, "My little girl is becoming a woman." Those words must have been so hard for him to say, but at the time I didn't realize that. I only cared that they were hard for me to hear. I blanched, horrified. It felt so personal, so female. We, who never spoke of personal feelings or bodies, were not meant to have this conversation. I stammered something non-responsive and poor Dad left the room probably feeling sorry he had brought it up.
As much as I didn't want to get into it with my father, I couldn't wait to spread the news at school. Even though my pain had subsided and left nothing to show for itself, I assumed I would be breaking out the long-awaited Modess shortly. It was so imminent, why wait to make the announcement? During Gym class I told the entire locker room that I had gotten "it." (Yes, after extensive training in Health and Science classes about Fallopian tubes, menstruation and cycles, we chose the term "it" to describe this momentous change of life. As in, "I can't go swimming - I have 'it.'")
I was congratulated, even offered nickels in case I needed to use the sanitary napkin dispenser. I preened and felt part of the club.
Except I wasn't. Sixth grade ended and summer came. Men landed on the moon but still I continued to be flat-chested, hairless and cycle-free. Seventh grade started and...nothing. For some reason I still can't fathom, I kept the ruse going. By my 12th birthday that December, everyone assumed I was being honest when I complained about cramps and tried to get out of gym class because it was "that time of the month."
I threw a slumber party that year, with a make-your-own-sundae bar. We watched the movie Peyton Place on TV and played my new album, Long Lonesome Highway, by the adorable star of Then Came Bronson, Michael Parks. We brushed and braided each others' hair. Everything was going great, until Arlene came to me to say she had gotten "it" and needed a pad and belt.
I can still feel the horror that ran through me when I realized my lies - plural, not singular - were about to be exposed. I had no idea if my house even contained the needed supplies. We had an uncomfortable conversation about my possibly having run out and then I went to get my mother, who had no idea I was living a double life.
"Of course we have pads!" she told Arlene (luckily out of earshot of the rest of the party). She went into a closet and came back with what I realized with shame was my kit: everything I would need when I finally got "it." Just to twist the knife - and remove all doubt - she told Arlene, "We're just waiting for Laura to need them."
I will always love Arlene for not running back to my bedroom, triumphantly crowing, "Laura's a liar! An immature, lying little girl! No one should be friends with her!" Because that's certainly what I felt I deserved. But she was one of the rare noble ones and never said a word to anyone, including me.
Later that month, right after Christmas, "it" happened. I was barely 12, a perfectly average age, despite feeling like the tail end of the bell curve. Finally my complaints and need for nickels were legitimate. Finally I was a woman.
This time, my dad said nothing.
It was the very late '60s, giving guys an excuse to wear jerseys with the number 69, which we all knew was dirty, although we had no idea why. I was 11, a pre-pubescent sixth-grader praying to lose the pre-. I felt like the only girl in my class who hadn't gotten her period. Now I know that my December birthday placed me at the end of the development line. But at the time, as I aspired to an AA cup, it felt pretty humiliating.
That spring, I suddenly had unfamiliar cramping pains in my abdomen. Doubled over and crying, I scared even my mother, whose advice for everything was either "gargle with salt water" or "lie on your side with your knees up." When these stalwarts failed to help me, we headed to the emergency room.
A comprehensive examination revealed exactly nothing. The pain subsided and I went home, told that most likely I would shortly be getting my first period. My excitement about "becoming a woman" was tempered by the not irrational fear that womanhood involved searing and mysterious pain.
That night, my father came into my room to say goodnight. He sat on my bed - a tradition that by then had faded - and said, "My little girl is becoming a woman." Those words must have been so hard for him to say, but at the time I didn't realize that. I only cared that they were hard for me to hear. I blanched, horrified. It felt so personal, so female. We, who never spoke of personal feelings or bodies, were not meant to have this conversation. I stammered something non-responsive and poor Dad left the room probably feeling sorry he had brought it up.
As much as I didn't want to get into it with my father, I couldn't wait to spread the news at school. Even though my pain had subsided and left nothing to show for itself, I assumed I would be breaking out the long-awaited Modess shortly. It was so imminent, why wait to make the announcement? During Gym class I told the entire locker room that I had gotten "it." (Yes, after extensive training in Health and Science classes about Fallopian tubes, menstruation and cycles, we chose the term "it" to describe this momentous change of life. As in, "I can't go swimming - I have 'it.'")
I was congratulated, even offered nickels in case I needed to use the sanitary napkin dispenser. I preened and felt part of the club.
Except I wasn't. Sixth grade ended and summer came. Men landed on the moon but still I continued to be flat-chested, hairless and cycle-free. Seventh grade started and...nothing. For some reason I still can't fathom, I kept the ruse going. By my 12th birthday that December, everyone assumed I was being honest when I complained about cramps and tried to get out of gym class because it was "that time of the month."
I threw a slumber party that year, with a make-your-own-sundae bar. We watched the movie Peyton Place on TV and played my new album, Long Lonesome Highway, by the adorable star of Then Came Bronson, Michael Parks. We brushed and braided each others' hair. Everything was going great, until Arlene came to me to say she had gotten "it" and needed a pad and belt.
I can still feel the horror that ran through me when I realized my lies - plural, not singular - were about to be exposed. I had no idea if my house even contained the needed supplies. We had an uncomfortable conversation about my possibly having run out and then I went to get my mother, who had no idea I was living a double life.
"Of course we have pads!" she told Arlene (luckily out of earshot of the rest of the party). She went into a closet and came back with what I realized with shame was my kit: everything I would need when I finally got "it." Just to twist the knife - and remove all doubt - she told Arlene, "We're just waiting for Laura to need them."
I will always love Arlene for not running back to my bedroom, triumphantly crowing, "Laura's a liar! An immature, lying little girl! No one should be friends with her!" Because that's certainly what I felt I deserved. But she was one of the rare noble ones and never said a word to anyone, including me.
Later that month, right after Christmas, "it" happened. I was barely 12, a perfectly average age, despite feeling like the tail end of the bell curve. Finally my complaints and need for nickels were legitimate. Finally I was a woman.
This time, my dad said nothing.
I’m Still Here: A Follies Homage
I recently saw Follies on Broadway. "I'm Still Here" captured a certain era so perfectly, and I thought it would be fun to update. I idolize Sondheim (not to mention Stritch, Paige, Burnett and the others who have done the song proud), so this is done out of respect and love.
Hear the original, by Stephen Sondheim, sung by Elaine Stritch, here.
Good times and crap times,
They’re all on my blog, so it’s clear
I'm still here.
Chanel bought at retail,
Sometimes a Target souvenir
But I'm here.
I've shopped at Goodwill
For used pants
Offered phone sex
To buy implants
Watched TMZ kill my career
But I'm here.
I've slept in shelters,
Funded by donors I knew
But I'm here.
Danced on the pole –
My thong only slightly askew
But I'm here.
I've taken handouts
With celebrities’ kids,
They were ironic,
Me, on the skids
In the Recession was I recessed?
Nowhere near.
Banged a Facebook engineer
So I'm here.
I've been through the recount,
Monica’s blue dress post-grope
And I'm here.
Tea party crazies,
The demise of Change and Hope
But I'm here.
I got through Full House,
SNL’s decline,
File-sharing, emoticons
Kim Kardashian’s behind
Witnessed NASA fade
Pluto degrade
The lost frontier
Lived through two rounds of O.J.
And I'm here.
I've gotten through Bushes 41, 43
The best part was when those years ebbed
Jeez, what a dynasty – not!
On your knees, vow “No Jeb!”
Made a guest appearance
on “Reno 911,” then “The Hills”
And I’m here
Not always coherent
But it paid for my cannabis refills
And I’m here
Been called elitist
By bitter have-nots
Got through it while pissed
On my yachts
I should sign up as a Housewife,
That seems clear.
Still, my family was oh so dysfunctional
So I’m here
Louboutin one day,
Next day it’s in Decades Two
But I’m here
Top billing Monday
Tuesday Gawker asks “Who?”
But I’m here
Through my own show
I once strode,
then a guest on Law and Order,
then a webisode
The posse still lingers but shrinks
Every year
I’m writing an e-book – it’s “content”!
And I’m here.
I live with tourists snapping cell phone photos
Then asking who I once was
And sometimes, “You remind me of someone
Didn’t she used to have buzz?”
Good times and crap times,
They’re all on my blog, so it’s clear
I'm still here.
Chanel bought at retail,
Sometimes a Target souvenir
But I'm here.
I’ve had a blast
And seen it all
Auctioned my past
Held them in my thrall
The internet said that I’d died last year
But I’m here.
Hell, I was there
And I’m here
Yeah, it’s me!
I’m still here!
© 2011 by Laura Foti Cohen
Hear the original, by Stephen Sondheim, sung by Elaine Stritch, here.
Good times and crap times,
They’re all on my blog, so it’s clear
I'm still here.
Chanel bought at retail,
Sometimes a Target souvenir
But I'm here.
I've shopped at Goodwill
For used pants
Offered phone sex
To buy implants
Watched TMZ kill my career
But I'm here.
I've slept in shelters,
Funded by donors I knew
But I'm here.
Danced on the pole –
My thong only slightly askew
But I'm here.
I've taken handouts
With celebrities’ kids,
They were ironic,
Me, on the skids
In the Recession was I recessed?
Nowhere near.
Banged a Facebook engineer
So I'm here.
I've been through the recount,
Monica’s blue dress post-grope
And I'm here.
Tea party crazies,
The demise of Change and Hope
But I'm here.
I got through Full House,
SNL’s decline,
File-sharing, emoticons
Kim Kardashian’s behind
Witnessed NASA fade
Pluto degrade
The lost frontier
Lived through two rounds of O.J.
And I'm here.
I've gotten through Bushes 41, 43
The best part was when those years ebbed
Jeez, what a dynasty – not!
On your knees, vow “No Jeb!”
Made a guest appearance
on “Reno 911,” then “The Hills”
And I’m here
Not always coherent
But it paid for my cannabis refills
And I’m here
Been called elitist
By bitter have-nots
Got through it while pissed
On my yachts
I should sign up as a Housewife,
That seems clear.
Still, my family was oh so dysfunctional
So I’m here
Louboutin one day,
Next day it’s in Decades Two
But I’m here
Top billing Monday
Tuesday Gawker asks “Who?”
But I’m here
Through my own show
I once strode,
then a guest on Law and Order,
then a webisode
The posse still lingers but shrinks
Every year
I’m writing an e-book – it’s “content”!
And I’m here.
I live with tourists snapping cell phone photos
Then asking who I once was
And sometimes, “You remind me of someone
Didn’t she used to have buzz?”
Good times and crap times,
They’re all on my blog, so it’s clear
I'm still here.
Chanel bought at retail,
Sometimes a Target souvenir
But I'm here.
I’ve had a blast
And seen it all
Auctioned my past
Held them in my thrall
The internet said that I’d died last year
But I’m here.
Hell, I was there
And I’m here
Yeah, it’s me!
I’m still here!
© 2011 by Laura Foti Cohen
Wouldn't You Like to Be a Pepper Too? (Videos)
Black Friday 2011: Apparently inspired by UC Davis security techniques, a woman used pepper spray to get an Xbox 360 at half price. The most shocking part: she checked out and disappeared despite being "captured" on countless cell phone videos and leaving a wake of 20 injured shoppers.
Another View of the Mayhem
The Inspiration?
Appreciate Your Own Family...(Videos)
...Just compare them to these:
From the unfriendly mom at the sink to the immobile grandparents abandoned at the cleared table, to the beastly kids, this one just screams Hellish.
What's more disturbing: the fighting or the number of stairs this couple has to climb to get to their apartment?
Brings new meaning to the expression “Just shoot me.” From Columbia, Missouri.
Tip of the Day: Don’t tell the cook that his homemade holiday dressing tastes like puke when he is making the Thanksgiving grocery list.
Given a choice between football and listening to family members fiddling, which would you choose?
Thanksgiving After-Dinner Joy?
From the unfriendly mom at the sink to the immobile grandparents abandoned at the cleared table, to the beastly kids, this one just screams Hellish.
The Thanksgiving Fight
What's more disturbing: the fighting or the number of stairs this couple has to climb to get to their apartment?
Post-Dinner Scrabble
Brings new meaning to the expression “Just shoot me.” From Columbia, Missouri.
Make It Yourself!
Tip of the Day: Don’t tell the cook that his homemade holiday dressing tastes like puke when he is making the Thanksgiving grocery list.
More Football, Please!
Given a choice between football and listening to family members fiddling, which would you choose?
Thanksgiving Dinners Weirder Than Yours (Videos)
Mashed Potato Fight on Thanksgiving
OK, so this one guy wouldn't give this other guy his phone back? So the other guy throws mashed potatoes at the first guy? And then it, like, escalates? Who says you need to go home to have a fight on Thanksgiving? Caution: language alert.
No Need to Dress for Dinner...
Looks like Great Grandma came straight from the pool to the table.
A Hungarian Thanksgiving
Hungarian tradition? This sounds more like a yoga class. Come on, let's eat already! Namaste!
No Room for Guests
Sorry you had to see that.
The Year of the Pop-Up Timer
My dad was not known as a cook. He must have made dinner for himself after my parents divorced, but that’s hard to believe based on the Thanksgivings he put together. He insisted on hosting, and he did his best, but let's just say we didn't go to his place for the food.
Finally, one year he agreed to let me cook. I'd been bragging about my culinary prowess, and he gave in and accepted my claim that I could whip up something more gourmet than what we'd been used to. Now I realize that my baking experience didn't translate into any real dinner-making ability, but at the time I thought I could do it all. How hard could it be?
I'd never made a turkey, so to be safe, I bought one of those with the pop-up timers. All I had to do was check occasionally and when it popped up, we would eat. I put the turkey in the oven while we played Scrabble. After an hour or so I looked into the oven. Nope, not ready. More looking, more not ready, more Scrabble.
After what seemed like twice the length of time it should have taken, I pulled the pan out and examined what was turning into withered jerky. No timer was popped up. It must be defective. What a rip-off! Those Butterball people would be hearing from me!
But wait. When I took the mummified bird out of the pan and flipped it onto a platter, it turned out that I’d had it in there upside down. That poor little timer never stood a chance: it had been pressed into the pan and couldn’t pop up. Who knows how long ago it started to try.
That year, we dined on rolls, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and plenty of pie to the soundtrack of bitching. "Why didn't you put marshmallows in the sweet potatoes?" "I really wanted some turkey." And you’d better believe that, like "The Fruitcake Story," that tale gets re-told more often than it should.
Finally, one year he agreed to let me cook. I'd been bragging about my culinary prowess, and he gave in and accepted my claim that I could whip up something more gourmet than what we'd been used to. Now I realize that my baking experience didn't translate into any real dinner-making ability, but at the time I thought I could do it all. How hard could it be?
I'd never made a turkey, so to be safe, I bought one of those with the pop-up timers. All I had to do was check occasionally and when it popped up, we would eat. I put the turkey in the oven while we played Scrabble. After an hour or so I looked into the oven. Nope, not ready. More looking, more not ready, more Scrabble.
After what seemed like twice the length of time it should have taken, I pulled the pan out and examined what was turning into withered jerky. No timer was popped up. It must be defective. What a rip-off! Those Butterball people would be hearing from me!
But wait. When I took the mummified bird out of the pan and flipped it onto a platter, it turned out that I’d had it in there upside down. That poor little timer never stood a chance: it had been pressed into the pan and couldn’t pop up. Who knows how long ago it started to try.
That year, we dined on rolls, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and plenty of pie to the soundtrack of bitching. "Why didn't you put marshmallows in the sweet potatoes?" "I really wanted some turkey." And you’d better believe that, like "The Fruitcake Story," that tale gets re-told more often than it should.
Thanskgiving Turkeys (Videos)
Not Ready for Her Closeup
Whipped Cream in the Beer
Sort of makes you appreciate your own family. Sort of.
Fred on Thanksgiving
Isn't he outgrowing this act yet?
Thanksgiving of the Future
Remember to be yourself.
A Puerto Rican Thanksgiving
In April 1988 my mother called from New York and told me she'd had a dream. Not the Martin Luther King kind of dream, where people live together in peace and harmony. No, this dream was more of a hallucinogenic vision: she saw herself living in Puerto Rico.
At the time of the call, I was in the process of preparing for an Academy Awards viewing party at my house in Los Angeles, so I really didn't have the necessary time to throw all the cold water I would have liked on this specious semi-plan. But I did what I could, starting with "But you don't speak Spanish!" and seguing to "But you've never even been there!"
She had an answer for almost everything, primarily related to her lifelong loathing of cold weather and love of the Atlantic (just don't get her started on the Pacific). At the end of the call she acknowledged that she should take a trip to Puerto Rico before committing. I figured that would be the end of that. She'd go, feel like a gringa out of water, realize she had no support system, and start sending away for flyers on Miami.
But no. She returned from her trip having taken a job at an English-language school ("They use the immersion method!") and rented a small house. Packing commenced immediately.
As a parent, I know what it's like to disapprove of a child's decision. This experience brought home to me the helplessness of disapproving of a parent's. It wasn't our first role reversal, the first time I had felt like the comparative grownup, but it was the most significant. After almost 20 years, she is still there, and our positions have only hardened.
Once she settled in, she insisted she had been right to trust her intuition. She invited us down for Thanksgiving. This was partly so we could fall in love with island life as she had, and partly because she thought it would be a fun adventure to make a traditional Thanksgiving dinner in her new environment. She knew someone, Luis, who had a rental apartment for turistas like me and my husband, and we sent a check for $600 to prepay for the three nights we would be there.
We arrived in Puerto Rico the day before Thanksgiving. We were dropped off at the apartment and climbed the previously unmentioned stairs to find utter filth: dishes in the sink. Dirty leopard-print sheets on the unmade water bed. Dead bugs on the window sills. We didn't dare inspect the bathroom. My husband refused even to bring a suitcase into the place. So we lugged everything to my mother's, about a half mile away. (There were no cell phones in those days except those bolted into cars.)
Naturally all hotel rooms were filled but my mother arranged to have her landlord and next-door neighbor rent us the atypically vacant larger house on the property where she was renting her small house. My mother was thrilled: the additional kitchen space would make Thanksgiving dinner preparations so much easier. We dropped our stuff and headed for the beach, where slumlord Luis operated a hot dog stand, to demand a refund of our $600.
I can still hear Luis laughing. No matter what we said--and we all took turns--it just sent him into peals of hysteria. "It was dirty!" "Hahahahahahaha!" "The bed was disgusting!" "Hahahahahahaha!" "We want our money back!" Double "Hahahahahahaha!" Furious and defeated, we left in a huff. Our only satisfaction came the following year when my mother sent us a photograph of Luis' hot dog stand, flattened by Hurricane Hugo. I'm not normally vengeful, but in his case I made an exception. Hahahahahahaha!
It was more than 10 years before we returned to Puerto Rico, and then we stayed in a hotel.
At the time of the call, I was in the process of preparing for an Academy Awards viewing party at my house in Los Angeles, so I really didn't have the necessary time to throw all the cold water I would have liked on this specious semi-plan. But I did what I could, starting with "But you don't speak Spanish!" and seguing to "But you've never even been there!"
She had an answer for almost everything, primarily related to her lifelong loathing of cold weather and love of the Atlantic (just don't get her started on the Pacific). At the end of the call she acknowledged that she should take a trip to Puerto Rico before committing. I figured that would be the end of that. She'd go, feel like a gringa out of water, realize she had no support system, and start sending away for flyers on Miami.
But no. She returned from her trip having taken a job at an English-language school ("They use the immersion method!") and rented a small house. Packing commenced immediately.
As a parent, I know what it's like to disapprove of a child's decision. This experience brought home to me the helplessness of disapproving of a parent's. It wasn't our first role reversal, the first time I had felt like the comparative grownup, but it was the most significant. After almost 20 years, she is still there, and our positions have only hardened.
Once she settled in, she insisted she had been right to trust her intuition. She invited us down for Thanksgiving. This was partly so we could fall in love with island life as she had, and partly because she thought it would be a fun adventure to make a traditional Thanksgiving dinner in her new environment. She knew someone, Luis, who had a rental apartment for turistas like me and my husband, and we sent a check for $600 to prepay for the three nights we would be there.
We arrived in Puerto Rico the day before Thanksgiving. We were dropped off at the apartment and climbed the previously unmentioned stairs to find utter filth: dishes in the sink. Dirty leopard-print sheets on the unmade water bed. Dead bugs on the window sills. We didn't dare inspect the bathroom. My husband refused even to bring a suitcase into the place. So we lugged everything to my mother's, about a half mile away. (There were no cell phones in those days except those bolted into cars.)
Naturally all hotel rooms were filled but my mother arranged to have her landlord and next-door neighbor rent us the atypically vacant larger house on the property where she was renting her small house. My mother was thrilled: the additional kitchen space would make Thanksgiving dinner preparations so much easier. We dropped our stuff and headed for the beach, where slumlord Luis operated a hot dog stand, to demand a refund of our $600.
I can still hear Luis laughing. No matter what we said--and we all took turns--it just sent him into peals of hysteria. "It was dirty!" "Hahahahahahaha!" "The bed was disgusting!" "Hahahahahahaha!" "We want our money back!" Double "Hahahahahahaha!" Furious and defeated, we left in a huff. Our only satisfaction came the following year when my mother sent us a photograph of Luis' hot dog stand, flattened by Hurricane Hugo. I'm not normally vengeful, but in his case I made an exception. Hahahahahahaha!
It was more than 10 years before we returned to Puerto Rico, and then we stayed in a hotel.
How to Get Attention in New York
The Anti-Defamation League entered the fray when a billboard advertising vodka claimed "Christmas Quality, Hanukkah Pricing." They got it taken down quickly, but claimed they were comparing the single day of Christmas to the eight nights of Hanukkah - hence the bargain. What do you think?
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