A Thanksgiving Week
by Heather White
Monday
There was a small poof of dust as I gave the decorative pillow on the sofa in the front room a pat. Great. Something else to add to The List.
My in-laws were scheduled to invade my home in T minus three hours to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with us. I loved them, but I suspected that my mother-in-law, Phyllis, kept a mental list of all the ways that I fell short as the ideal daughter-in-law.
Number 1: Candace is an atrocious housekeeper.
Of course, that was not new information. I have been married to her Sam now for twelve years, and the evidence of an unorganized pantry can be hard to keep hidden for too long.
I attacked the offending sofa with a vengeance, dragging my over-priced Kirby vacuum behind me. During one of their visits a few years ago, Phyllis had informed me with a condescending smile directed toward my banged up little Dirt Devil, that a housekeeper is only as good as her tools. A few weeks later, my Christmas present arrived. I had fantasized over what the large, heavy package could possibly contain, only to discover the shiny new vacuum. It felt like a slap in the face. How could such an impersonal gift feel so….personal?
The sound of a herd of elephants crashing above my head, coming from the direction of the kids’ bedrooms, suddenly drowned out the whirring of the vacuum. The noise made its way down the stairs, punctuated in turn with bouts of laughter and a screaming wail.
“Mom!” My blond curly-haired daughter, Dixie, ran in to tell me what horrors her brother had inflicted on her. “Ian said that my picture is ugly and it doesn’t even look like a unicorn because unicorns aren’t purple! Unicorns are purple, aren’t they, Mom!”
Turning the vacuum off, I heaved a sigh. It was never earth-shattering dilemmas that I had to resolve between the kids. It was always the dumb little things.
Ian rounded the corner and said defiantly, “I didn’t say your picture was ugly! I said it was stupid because unicorns aren’t purple! You’re ugly!”
“Well, you’re stupid!” Dixie countered.
“Enough!” I bellowed. “No one is ugly and no one is stupid! You are both beautiful and brilliant. Ian, tell your sister that you’re sorry. Dixie, I thought that you were cleaning your room, not drawing pictures.” They both started talking at once, arguing over whose fault the argument was.
“I don’t want to hear it!” I cried. “Grandma and Gramps are going to be here in a few hours and we still have a lot to do!”
They continued to argue as I sent them off to finish their jobs. A moment later my cell phone started buzzing and emitted a tinny rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” The caller ID informed me that it was Sam calling.
“What?!” I barked, as a greeting.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Sam said.
“Your parents are going to be here in less than three hours, what do you think is going on? I am trying to get this house into Phyllis-approved condition!”
“Stop stressing about it!” Sam said. “It’s just my parents. It’s not like they aren’t expecting a little mess. We’ve got kids.” He said it in such an irritating, matter-of-fact manner, it was a miracle that he wasn’t standing in the room next to me, or he would have lost his head, or at least some major body part.
“Just your parents?!” I shrieked. “Your mother already thinks that I can’t keep this house clean enough. I have to at least appear like that isn’t the case!”
“Come on, Candace, you worry too much,” Sam said, unhelpfully. “Oh, by the way….Mom called and said they left a couple hours ahead of schedule. They should be at the house in about an hour.”
I didn’t even have time to gasp in response, before the door bell was ringing.
Once again, there was the pounding down the stairs, with the additional noise of arguments over who answered the door. Ian, being the oldest and biggest, was able to make it to the door first, and he swung it open to reveal his grandparents.
Phyllis and Roger were here. Three hours early. Wonderful.
Both the kids flung themselves into their grandparents’ arms.
“Hey, Sport!” Roger chuckled, as Ian wrapped himself around his waist.
“Gramma, Gramma!” Dixie chimed, jumping up and down, while Phyllis tried to aim a kiss in the direction of her head.
“Did you bring anything for me, Gramma??”
“Of course! What are Grammas for? It’s a surprise….” She then looked up and saw me standing in the entryway to the front room.
“Candace, dear. How are you, Honey?”
I issued the obligatory hugs, getting dizzy from Phyllis’ expensive perfume.
“Wow! You guys are early!” I faltered. “You must have made really good time.”
“Well, you know how Roger hates the rush-hour traffic. We decided to leave a little early to avoid it.” As in, three hours early???
“I think I made a new record, Candy,” Roger said, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khaki pants, rocking back and forth on his feet. I could tell he was impressed with himself. He kept a mental record of how long it took him to drive to our house, and reported where he stood in relation to previous trips every time they came.
“Six hours, twenty-three minutes,” he beamed. “I’m sure that I beat the time we drove over last summer for Kevin’s wedding by at least thirteen minutes. And that’s compared to summer roads, even! You never know what you’re going to get in November!”
“Yes, the roads were quite dry,” Phyllis interjected. “But you never know what they will be like when we go back home.”
“You will have to be sure to leave extra early, to ensure the roads are in good shape,” I urged earnestly. “We would understand if you had to leave a little earlier than you planned….to avoid the weather, of course.”
“Don’t be silly, dear!” Phyllis said. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving any earlier than we have to! We want to spend every possible minute with you and the kids! Now tell me, kids, what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since this summer! Goodness, how you’ve grown!”
The procession made their way back into the kitchen, where Dixie wanted to show off her collection of drawings hung on the fridge.
I grimaced when I saw the plates with half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches and an empty bag of chips still sitting on the table from lunch. There were chip crumbs all over the table and floor, as though someone had taken the bag and swung it around their head, just to see how far the crumbs could reach.
“It looks like someone didn’t finish their lunch, or clean up their mess…” Phyllis said in a sing-song voice.
Number 2: Candace doesn’t do the dishes….
Number 3: …or make her kids do their chores.
Number 4: Candace doesn’t feed her children healthy meals (chips??)….
Number 5: …or make them finish the meals on their plates.
“Come on, kids, let’s clean up this mess together!” Phyllis said gaily. They jumped right in. It isn’t work when you’re doing it with your grandma, after all.
This wasn’t good. They had been here less than five minutes, and I was already at Number 5. How was I going to make it through this week?
“I’m going to check on the laundry,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while, so your bed isn’t made yet.”
“No hurry, dear. We’ll be fine,” Phyllis insisted.
I heard them talking and laughing, happy to be working together, as I left the room.
Tuesday
I woke up early, wanting to start a nice breakfast for everyone before they got up. But before I could even get up, Sam’s alarm went off, and he rolled himself out of bed and into the shower, beating me to it. Scowling, I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and headed downstairs. I was not a morning person.
Phyllis was already in the kitchen, fully dressed and ready for the day. She was busy wiping out my microwave when I came into the room. The counter tops were gleaming, completely cleared of all the usual clutter of school papers, old mail, assorted pens and markers, and misplaced library books.
Number 6: Candace has a dirty microwave.
Number 7: Candace is unorganized.
“Good morning, dear!” Phyllis chirped.
“Good morning,” I mumbled in response, feeling inadequate in my bathrobe and frizzy morning-hair.
Number 8: Clearly, Candace is not a morning person.
“Phyllis, you don’t need to do all that…”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really! I just want to help! I was going to make some breakfast, but there doesn’t seem to be much in your pantry….”
Number 9: Candace does not shop for groceries.
“Yeah, I was thinking we would do our grocery shopping today,” I shrugged. “I just need to pick up a few more things.”
After dropping the kids off at school, Sam headed for work, and Phyllis and I headed for the grocery store. We left Roger at the house, watching a football game from Sam’s well-loved recliner.
When we got to the store, I pulled out my shopping list from my purse. It was scribbled on the back of an old envelope from my junk mail pile. Phyllis pulled out a list of her own. It looked like a long cash register receipt, reaching practically to the floor.
“Is that your naughty or nice list, Santa?” I asked, pointing to the long strand of paper.
Phyllis laughed. “I wanted to make sure that we had everything we needed. I’m not sure if you have all the ingredients for some of our favorite Thanksgiving dishes. They are a little fancier, after all. And I know that Roger and Sam would be disappointed if I didn’t make my apple-parsnip dressing.”
I remembered Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing and grimaced inside.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to make you do all the cooking, Phyllis. You’re here as our guests. I wouldn’t dream of making you work the whole time you are here.”
“Nonsense! I can’t sit by and watch you slave in the kitchen all week. Besides, you need all the help you can get.”
Number 10: Candace is a lousy cook.
Two hours and two shopping carts later, we made our way through the check-out line. I had bit my tongue when Phyllis loaded the carts with practically the entire stock from the organic herb section, the bean-sprout-fed turkey from the over-priced specialty section, and the perfumed spa-quality extra quilted toilet tissue.
Number 11: Candace only buys cheap toilet paper.
The cashier deftly rang through our purchases, and with each bleep I could feel my heart sinking. This was going to cost me a fortune. I had only budgeted $300 for this grocery visit and I knew that it would go way over.
“That will be $643.19,” he said in his chipper tone, looking at me with an expectant air.
I tried to act nonchalant, like I was planning on spending $643.19 on a cart full of stupid groceries all along. I pulled out my credit card, reserved for emergencies.
“Don’t worry about it, Honey, I’ll take care of it,” Phyllis patted my hand and passed her credit card over to the cashier. It was swiped and the deal was done before I could even say anything.
This was even worse. I hated Phyllis feeling like she had to take care of us. We can afford our own groceries, for heaven’s sake!
As we followed the two attendants pushing our overflowing carts out to the car, I said, “Thanks, Phyllis, but you really didn’t have to pay for the groceries. We can handle it…”
“Oh, I know, Honey. I just like to spoil you guys sometimes. Besides, I am so excited to try that turkey! I found this recipe that looks so divine! That’s what I got the roasted hazelnuts and Valencia rose oranges for! It should go great with my dressing!”
I thought it sounded atrocious with her dressing, but of course I didn’t think her dressing accented anything in a good way.
“Well, thanks, Phyllis,” I murmured and she smiled.
Wednesday
I woke up early the next day, determined to beat Phyllis to the kitchen. This was my prep day. I needed to make the rolls and pies, and get the turkey soaking in its brine for tomorrow’s cooking rush. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, put on a grubby T-shirt, and ran downstairs, ready to work.
Phyllis had my fridge pulled out and was scrubbing the floor behind it.
Number 12: Candace probably only deep-cleans her house when she is moving.
In my defense, who cleans behind their fridge, anyway?
“Phyllis! What are you doing?!” I exclaimed, shock written all over my face.
“Good morning, dear. Just helping you spruce up the place. I know how hard it is to keep up.”
“Umm, thanks…”
“I have a detailed list of all the things that we need to get done today, along with a schedule, dear,” she said, her voice a little strained as she was intent on scrubbing a stubbornly sticky spot on the floor.
I looked at the list.
Wednesday’s Schedule:
6:00 am: Disinfect all work surfaces. (Did she consider the floor behind the fridge a work surface?)
6:30 am: Start on rolls--
1. Start yeast rising
2. Chop parsley, rosemary, thyme, fennel
3. Mix dough
4. Cover with towel and set aside to rise
7:00 am: Start on Jello salads (raspberry, orange, cranberry)--
1. Peel and dice fruit (pineapple, mandarin oranges, pears, cranberries, shredded carrot)
2. Prepare Jello according to directions
3. Let set in refrigerator
7:30 am: Start on pies--
The schedule went on and on, with every minor detail included. I knew exactly what I would be doing at 11:45 am: chopping vegetables (carrots: julienne, celery: small dice, radishes: thinly sliced, green onions: chopped at a 45 degree angle, etc….) for the green salad.
Grunting as she got up from the floor, Phyllis looked at her watch.
“It looks like we are right on track for the 6:30 roll preparation,” she said.
**********
Four hours later, the rolls were about ready to go in the oven, three different Jello salads were cooling and setting up in the fridge, two pumpkin pies were cooling on racks, and I was working on the fancy finishing touches on the top of the apple pies before they went into the oven. I had fought for the traditional apple pies, when Phyllis insisted that we add some new ingredients. She was sure that she saw on the Food Network the addition of oregano and lime slices and it looked delicious. I stuck to my guns and kept the apple just plain apple.
Phyllis was sweating over a huge pot on the stove, the one that I reserve for canning peaches. She was simmering her own brine, insisting that the ingredients needed to simmer for about an hour, then cool, before we could put the bean-sprout-fed turkey into the pot to soak. It smelled ghastly, like how I imagine a tub of stinky, dirty socks would smell if you were simmering them on the stove top. Her brine consisted of water, red wine vinegar, kosher pickling salt, sugar, a handful of finely chopped herbs, liquid smoke, and I think I saw her dump in several cans of my Dr. Pepper. As I watched her, she resembled a crazy old witch, cackling over her brew. I laughed a little to myself. Then I saw her pull out of the pot a bundle of something dark wrapped in cheese cloth, that she had evidently been steeping. She lifted it up, sniffed it, gave the bundle a squeeze, then discarded it next to the pot. She really is a witch, I thought to myself. I didn’t want to know what was in the bundle.
“The brine is ready to cool!” she announced, wiping the sweat from her brow. It looked like she was about to lift the pot herself, to move it from the stove, and I stopped her. I certainly didn’t need an injured mother-in-law on my hands.
Sam came to the rescue, moving the heavy pot out to the garage, where it would cool more quickly. When he came back in, he stood listening for a moment.
“Is it just me, or do you hear a funny clicking sound?” he asked. We all stopped what we were doing, straining to hear. Then I heard it. It was coming from the oven.
I had just pulled the pumpkin pies from the oven, and it was still warm, ready for the next installment of pies.
Sam opened the door to the oven. It clicked three more times, then suddenly there was a snap and a huge spark. The oven went dark.
Sam fiddled with the knobs and controls to the oven. Nothing happened.
“What just happened?” I asked, my voice rising beyond my control. “What’s wrong with the oven?”
“I don’t know. Let me take a look at it.”
Roger tore himself away from the football game long enough to help Sam tear the oven apart.
Two hours later, the boys were still fiddling with it. “I can’t have a broken oven, Sam, not on Thanksgiving!” I was getting panicky. My apple pies were in the fridge, waiting to be cooked, and the rolls I spent hours on, fashioning them into cute little cornucopia shapes, were beginning to droop. “How are we going to cook a turkey tomorrow?!”
“Well, the microwave still works…” Sam said, and then wisely chose to discontinue his thought when he saw the look on my face.
“Don’t worry about it, Honey, we’ll figure something out,” Phyllis chimed in.
“Don’t worry about it?!” I began to lose it. “Don’t worry about it?! The most important day of the year to have an oven, and mine is on the fritz, and you say don’t worry about it?!”
Number 13: Candace is losing it.
Sam intervened, “Give Wendy a call, and see if you can use her oven tonight to finish baking your stuff. We’ll keep working on this, and hopefully it will be up and running by tomorrow.”
Thursday
The oven was not up and running.
Despite their best efforts, and having spent the remainder of the day before tinkering around with it, Roger and Sam called it quits. The oven was dead.
Phyllis had optimistically soaked the turkey in her home-made brine anyway. Now it smelled like raw meat floating around in a stinky sock stew.
I rolled over in my bed, not wanting to start this day. What were we going to do? It’s not like we could put a turkey in the microwave oven. Last night I had taken my pies and my rolls to my best friend’s house to finish baking, but I couldn’t bring my turkey over as well. Wendy had a house full of people to cook for already, so I couldn’t go and use her oven again.
I groaned out loud. “Ugh! What are we going to do?!” I cried to Sam, who was just waking up beside me.
“I know you’re disappointed about the oven, but really, it’s not the end of the world,” he said soothingly, giving me a hug. “We can have Thanksgiving without a turkey. The stove still works. Let’s just make do with what we have. We’ll get another oven after the holiday is over.”
Grudgingly I relented. There was no point in stressing anymore over something that I had no control of. I could just make do with what we already had.
I went downstairs to find Phyllis already in the kitchen, of course. This time, however, she wasn’t scouring any of my hidden dirty corners, she was scrolling over a page on the laptop with Roger. They were talking animatedly to each other, but quickly stopped when I walked in the room. Phyllis clicked the laptop closed and motioned Roger to leave.
“What’s going on?” I asked, curious.
“Oh, Roger and I are coming up with a plan for the turkey, Honey. Don’t you even worry about it. Let’s get to work on those potatoes!”
While we peeled potatoes, Roger and Sam kept coming in and out from the garage, talking quietly to each other, laughing, and looking excited.
“Exactly what is this big plan?” I asked Phyllis.
“Don’t you worry, that turkey’s going to taste divine!”
Now I was really worried. What were they concocting out in the garage? Phyllis kept me busy in the kitchen, so I wasn’t able to sneak out and investigate for myself.
An hour later, the potatoes were peeled, bubbling happily on the stove top. At least we would have mashed potatoes. And I had some emergency gravy packets to use, since we wouldn’t have any turkey drippings to make real gravy with.
Suddenly a thought dawned on me. Without an oven to bake the turkey in, we would no longer be able to bake Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing.
A tiny chorus of Allelujah’s filled my head. A tiny miracle in the midst of total darkness!
Finally the boys were ready for their big reveal. They took all of us out through the garage, including the kids, insisting that they would want to see this as well.
On the driveway was our gas stove-top camping grill, and on the grill was my canning pot, full of something bubbling. The turkey was sitting inside a washed out bucket on the ground next to the grill.
As the greasy scent of what was bubbling in the pot hit my nostrils, suddenly I knew exactly what the boys were planning.
“Are you going to deep fry our turkey?!” I cried.
They didn’t seem to notice the panic in my voice.
“Oh yes, Honey, it’s going to be delicious!” Phyllis practically giggled. “I googled how to do it online. It looks easy!”
“Yes, and did you also google how many house fires occur because of deep frying a turkey?! We don’t even have the right equipment for something like that! Have you all gone red-neck on me?!”
“Candace, calm down, it’s perfectly safe. We researched how to take precautions online too, so it’s gonna be fine.” Sam tried to reassure me.
I grabbed the kids and headed for the house.
“Well, we’re not going to be witness to whatever disaster is about to happen!”
“Mom! I want to stay! I want to watch!” the kids complained loudly, resisting my attempts to herd them inside.
“Fine, but we’re watching from over here.” I kept my arms around them, and stood in the doorway to the house.
Number 14: Candace is a party-pooper….and overprotective.
“Suit yourself,” Sam said, then, arming himself with oven mitts and a snorkel mask, “Here goes nothing!”
*********
For the record, the turkey was actually pretty good. A little crispy, perhaps, but it was probably the best bean-sprout-fed turkey that I have ever tasted. Besides, Sam was due for a haircut anyway and the singed ends of his bangs were hardly even noticeable. Plus, we had already been thinking about getting a new garage door. The gaping black burn spot really just helped give the project a little more impetus.
We gathered around the table, beautifully decked out with paper turkeys that the kids had worked on all week. The food was spread around the table in all its abundance. Even Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing had found its way back onto the menu. Ever resourceful, Phyllis had cooked most of it on the stove top, then blasted the top of it with Sam’s mini-torch, which she had found in the garage, until the dressing was as crispy as the turkey. I was surprised that she had even considered using fire twice in one day, as the memory of her throwing one of my grandma’s heirloom afghans over Sam’s head when his hair caught on fire with the turkey was still prominent in my mind, but the second usage was uneventful, other than the triggered smoke alarm, which we forgot was linked to our automatic house alarm system. I’m sure that the kind people at the fire department didn’t mind making a second visit to our house in one day, sirens blazing, hoses ready, only to find Phyllis torching up the Thanksgiving dressing.
As I sat there, looking at each of these people that I loved, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. We had so much to be thankful for. And even though we were a crazy lot of people, thrown in to muddle through this crazy life together, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
*********
While the men snoozed in front of the football game after dinner, I spent the evening stretched out on the floor going through the ads for Black Friday. It was the biggest shopping day of the year, and there was no way that I was going to miss it.
Phyllis looked at a few ads, but wasn’t all that interested. Instead, she propped her feet up on the couch and worked on her Sudoku puzzles. She was crazy good at Sudoku.
Wendy was going to be my shopping partner. I had learned in years past, that in order to successfully navigate a Black Friday shopping experience, it was vital to have a shopping partner. Wendy was a tenacious and fearless shopper. She once took an old man down, beating him to the screaming deal of $10 for a complete set of 400 thread-count king-sized sheets, taking the last pack. You just can’t get any better than that.
I knew that this Black Friday was going to be just as legendary.
Friday
I set my alarm for 2:00 am, planning on being in the Walmart parking lot by 3:00, but I was too excited to sleep. Instead, I repeated our game plan in my head over and over, trying to find any possible flaws in the sequence. When I was finally exhausted enough to consider drifting off, I could no longer allow myself to fall asleep, for fear that I wouldn’t be able to wake up to the 2:00 alarm.
Finally it was time. I threw the covers off, drug a hoody sweatshirt over my head, crammed my feet into my fastest running shoes, and ran out the door. I would have smoked everyone else in a fire drill, seriously.
I picked Wendy up in my beat-up beast of a Suburban. We would be able to load up the back with some serious Christmas stash.
At precisely 2:43 am we pulled into the lot. We were pretty impressed with our speedy arrival, but the sight of a line of people snaking its way around the parking lot dampened our spirits a bit. We had thought that we were plenty early, but I guess everyone else had the same thought. The store didn’t open its doors until five o’clock. We were in for a long, cold two hour wait.
Wendy had the foresight to bring two thermoses full of steaming hot chocolate and two cozy blankets. Clearly, this was not her first rodeo.
We spent the majority of the two hour wait fine-tuning our store attack strategy, while scalding our tongues with the molten chocolaty goodness. The main theme of our plan was Divide and Conquer. We grouped together what items we each needed in the store and assigned who would get what.
Five minutes before five o’clock, the crowd began to get agitated. I could tell everyone was gearing up for the dash. The last sixty seconds, everyone started counting down, including me. My blood was pumping, adrenaline was racing…I was just waiting for the gun shot!
At exactly five o’clock, the doors slid open and total mayhem ensued. There was no longer anything resembling a line, it was every man (or highly pumped woman) for themselves, shoving their way into the store.
I needed a karaoke machine for Ian and a Playstation 4 for Wendy’s son, so I headed back to the electronics department, while Wendy braved the toy department with her assigned list. I knew the Playstation would be the hardest, since they only had limited quantities and a high demand. I headed there first.
It was easy to tell where the hot ticket items were, just by looking at the mob of people piling on top of each other to reach them. The Playstations were grouped on a huge palette in the middle of the aisle, with plastic wrap still locking them together. There was already a pile of people surrounding the palette, their frenzied expressions and maniacal tearing at the plastic making me feel as though I was inside a zombie movie.
The first one through the plastic, a scrawny man with bulging eyes and a five o’clock shadow, stood up on top of the pile, his prize clenched fiercely in his hands as he let out a victory roar. The opening that he started in the plastic became his surrounding competitors’ target, and the man was shoved roughly out of the way, toppling off the mountain, disappearing from sight.
This was going to be tough. I stole a second to pump up my nerves then went in blindly for the kill.
Hands, elbows, knees, shoulders, every hard, pointy part on the human body was thrust in my face as I tried to fight my way in toward the quickly diminishing pile of games. I could not fail. Wendy’s son would be devastated. Someone’s head rammed into mine, blinding me for a moment, but then I pushed on. Someone else was lying on the ground, having stumbled during the zombie push. They had put up a noble fight, but not everyone can win in the end. I climbed over his shoulders, using a large woman’s backside for leverage. Out of nowhere, an elbow smacked me in the nose and blood started to gush immediately. No time to staunch the blood, I plowed on. I was almost there, no quitting now!
Finally, a game was within reach! I stretched out to grab it and was stopped by a large foot slamming my hand into the palate. The large woman who had inadvertently given me aid with her large backside, had caught up to me and was about to grab the game. I let out my final battle call and made a lunge, ripping my hand out from under her huge foot. Quick as a cat, I grabbed the game and slipped backward, away from the blood bath. I heard her scream of frustration, and saw her standing empty-handed on the cleared off palette.
Victory was sweet.
And tasted a little like iron.
Wendy and I met back at the checkout line. I was holding the Playstation 4 close to my chest in a death grip, and had nothing else.
“You got the Playstation!” Wendy cried gleefully. “Excellent job! I almost went for that one myself, because I knew it would be a tough one.” Then she noticed the blood still oozing slowly from my nose and a swelling over my right eye. Judging from the pulsing heat hovering over my eyeball, I was sure it would be purple in a few more minutes. “Oh, Honey! Are you okay?”
I reluctantly pulled one hand away from the game in order to swipe the blood from my face.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, and noted that Wendy had done her job, getting Dixie’s Disney Princess Dollhouse Mansion, in addition to several other toys for her children.
“I had to fight off some crazy girl for the dollhouse,” she said, pointing proudly to her prize in the shopping cart. “For a second there I thought that she would claw me to death for it, but luckily someone put another one back on the shelf….Hey, where’s Ian’s karaoke machine?” Wendy asked suddenly. My heart sank. I was so caught up with my Playstation victory that I completely forgot about Ian’s present.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go get it,” Wendy said hastily, pushing her shopping cart into the line next to me. “You hold our place while I run and get it.”
Ian’s karaoke machine in tow, the rest of the morning flew by as we hit three other stores, stacking our amazing deals into the back of the Suburban beast. Finally, at around noon, our lists were complete. We headed back home, exhausted and elated.
Phyllis and Roger were loading up their car when I pulled up.
“How was the shopping trip?” Phyllis asked, trying to peak into the back of my car. “Was it a success?” Then, looking at me and my blood-stained sweatshirt, she gave a jump.
Roger walked up to me, loaded down with pillows and grocery bags full of Thanksgiving leftovers. He also saw my bloody face, but he cracked a grin.
“Did you win the fight, Candy?” he asked, nodding to my nose.
“You bet!” I laughed. “She didn’t stand a chance!”
*******
About twenty minutes later, we all stood around Phyllis and Roger’s car, giving our good-bye hugs. The kids were crying, not wanting their grandparents to leave, which set Phyllis into a flood of tears as well.
“You think you’ll beat the record going home?” I asked Roger as I gave him one last hug.
“You bet!” he laughed. “It doesn’t stand a chance!” I smiled back at him.
Then, while Sam was talking to his dad, giving one last recounting of the final three minutes of Thursday’s football game, Phyllis approached me to say good-bye.
“Thanks for letting us stay,” she said, squeezing me in a tight embrace.
“It was no problem, really. We love it when you come,” I said, and surprising myself, knew that I meant it.
“Candace, I have to tell you. Every time we visit, I am always so impressed with how you manage all that you do,” Phyllis said, holding my hands in hers. “I remember how hard it was when the boys were young and running as crazy as a pack of wild beasts. I didn’t think that I would ever get through those days.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“I just wanted you to know that you’re doing a great job, raising my grandbabies and taking care of my own baby,” she said, nodding her head toward Sam. “He’s lucky to have you and I am lucky that I have such a great daughter-in-law.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I embraced Phyllis with a long hug. All these years, I had thought that she was being so critical of me. Now I began to see that everything she said was just meant to help me out because she cared. She understood, and that gave us a bond that all moms need.
I mentally tore up The List, the list of all my shortcomings. We all have parts of us that we don’t like, or things that we just aren’t that great at. Maybe I would never be less than atrocious at housekeeping or never master the art of organization, but I didn’t need to wallow in it anymore. I was good at loving my children and my husband, and that was a lot more important.
“Thanks, Phyllis,” I murmured, wiping the tears from my eyes. “That means a lot.”
Waving goodbye, as they pulled out of the driveway and headed home, I thought about all the time I had wasted worrying about what Phyllis thought.
Number 15: Candace worries too much.
Wait, I guess some habits are hard to break….
Roger called Sam’s cell phone exactly six hours and twenty-one minutes later. He had beat his time by two minutes. The old record didn’t stand a chance.
*******
About an hour after Phyllis and Roger left our house, as I was trying to recover from the crazy morning shopping trip and taking a nap on the couch, I was woken by the door bell ringing. When I answered the door, there was a delivery man waiting, with a clipboard in hand, standing next to a huge box on my front porch. Around the box was the biggest red ribbon that I had ever seen.
It was a brand new, state-of-the-art, stainless steel gas range and oven. It was beautiful, and so much nicer than any that I would have gotten for myself. The note on the delivery man’s receipt said, “Merry Christmas from Mom and Dad.”
While I had been out bloodying my nose and filling the back of my makeshift Santa sleigh, Phyllis had also braved the craziness of Black Friday in order to get me a new oven.
Never could such an impersonal gift be any more personal. But instead of screaming at me “you’re a lousy cook,” it only said “I love you”-- loud and clear.
There was a small poof of dust as I gave the decorative pillow on the sofa in the front room a pat. Great. Something else to add to The List.
My in-laws were scheduled to invade my home in T minus three hours to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with us. I loved them, but I suspected that my mother-in-law, Phyllis, kept a mental list of all the ways that I fell short as the ideal daughter-in-law.
Number 1: Candace is an atrocious housekeeper.
Of course, that was not new information. I have been married to her Sam now for twelve years, and the evidence of an unorganized pantry can be hard to keep hidden for too long.
I attacked the offending sofa with a vengeance, dragging my over-priced Kirby vacuum behind me. During one of their visits a few years ago, Phyllis had informed me with a condescending smile directed toward my banged up little Dirt Devil, that a housekeeper is only as good as her tools. A few weeks later, my Christmas present arrived. I had fantasized over what the large, heavy package could possibly contain, only to discover the shiny new vacuum. It felt like a slap in the face. How could such an impersonal gift feel so….personal?
The sound of a herd of elephants crashing above my head, coming from the direction of the kids’ bedrooms, suddenly drowned out the whirring of the vacuum. The noise made its way down the stairs, punctuated in turn with bouts of laughter and a screaming wail.
“Mom!” My blond curly-haired daughter, Dixie, ran in to tell me what horrors her brother had inflicted on her. “Ian said that my picture is ugly and it doesn’t even look like a unicorn because unicorns aren’t purple! Unicorns are purple, aren’t they, Mom!”
Turning the vacuum off, I heaved a sigh. It was never earth-shattering dilemmas that I had to resolve between the kids. It was always the dumb little things.
Ian rounded the corner and said defiantly, “I didn’t say your picture was ugly! I said it was stupid because unicorns aren’t purple! You’re ugly!”
“Well, you’re stupid!” Dixie countered.
“Enough!” I bellowed. “No one is ugly and no one is stupid! You are both beautiful and brilliant. Ian, tell your sister that you’re sorry. Dixie, I thought that you were cleaning your room, not drawing pictures.” They both started talking at once, arguing over whose fault the argument was.
“I don’t want to hear it!” I cried. “Grandma and Gramps are going to be here in a few hours and we still have a lot to do!”
They continued to argue as I sent them off to finish their jobs. A moment later my cell phone started buzzing and emitted a tinny rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” The caller ID informed me that it was Sam calling.
“What?!” I barked, as a greeting.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Sam said.
“Your parents are going to be here in less than three hours, what do you think is going on? I am trying to get this house into Phyllis-approved condition!”
“Stop stressing about it!” Sam said. “It’s just my parents. It’s not like they aren’t expecting a little mess. We’ve got kids.” He said it in such an irritating, matter-of-fact manner, it was a miracle that he wasn’t standing in the room next to me, or he would have lost his head, or at least some major body part.
“Just your parents?!” I shrieked. “Your mother already thinks that I can’t keep this house clean enough. I have to at least appear like that isn’t the case!”
“Come on, Candace, you worry too much,” Sam said, unhelpfully. “Oh, by the way….Mom called and said they left a couple hours ahead of schedule. They should be at the house in about an hour.”
I didn’t even have time to gasp in response, before the door bell was ringing.
Once again, there was the pounding down the stairs, with the additional noise of arguments over who answered the door. Ian, being the oldest and biggest, was able to make it to the door first, and he swung it open to reveal his grandparents.
Phyllis and Roger were here. Three hours early. Wonderful.
Both the kids flung themselves into their grandparents’ arms.
“Hey, Sport!” Roger chuckled, as Ian wrapped himself around his waist.
“Gramma, Gramma!” Dixie chimed, jumping up and down, while Phyllis tried to aim a kiss in the direction of her head.
“Did you bring anything for me, Gramma??”
“Of course! What are Grammas for? It’s a surprise….” She then looked up and saw me standing in the entryway to the front room.
“Candace, dear. How are you, Honey?”
I issued the obligatory hugs, getting dizzy from Phyllis’ expensive perfume.
“Wow! You guys are early!” I faltered. “You must have made really good time.”
“Well, you know how Roger hates the rush-hour traffic. We decided to leave a little early to avoid it.” As in, three hours early???
“I think I made a new record, Candy,” Roger said, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khaki pants, rocking back and forth on his feet. I could tell he was impressed with himself. He kept a mental record of how long it took him to drive to our house, and reported where he stood in relation to previous trips every time they came.
“Six hours, twenty-three minutes,” he beamed. “I’m sure that I beat the time we drove over last summer for Kevin’s wedding by at least thirteen minutes. And that’s compared to summer roads, even! You never know what you’re going to get in November!”
“Yes, the roads were quite dry,” Phyllis interjected. “But you never know what they will be like when we go back home.”
“You will have to be sure to leave extra early, to ensure the roads are in good shape,” I urged earnestly. “We would understand if you had to leave a little earlier than you planned….to avoid the weather, of course.”
“Don’t be silly, dear!” Phyllis said. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving any earlier than we have to! We want to spend every possible minute with you and the kids! Now tell me, kids, what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since this summer! Goodness, how you’ve grown!”
The procession made their way back into the kitchen, where Dixie wanted to show off her collection of drawings hung on the fridge.
I grimaced when I saw the plates with half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches and an empty bag of chips still sitting on the table from lunch. There were chip crumbs all over the table and floor, as though someone had taken the bag and swung it around their head, just to see how far the crumbs could reach.
“It looks like someone didn’t finish their lunch, or clean up their mess…” Phyllis said in a sing-song voice.
Number 2: Candace doesn’t do the dishes….
Number 3: …or make her kids do their chores.
Number 4: Candace doesn’t feed her children healthy meals (chips??)….
Number 5: …or make them finish the meals on their plates.
“Come on, kids, let’s clean up this mess together!” Phyllis said gaily. They jumped right in. It isn’t work when you’re doing it with your grandma, after all.
This wasn’t good. They had been here less than five minutes, and I was already at Number 5. How was I going to make it through this week?
“I’m going to check on the laundry,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while, so your bed isn’t made yet.”
“No hurry, dear. We’ll be fine,” Phyllis insisted.
I heard them talking and laughing, happy to be working together, as I left the room.
Tuesday
I woke up early, wanting to start a nice breakfast for everyone before they got up. But before I could even get up, Sam’s alarm went off, and he rolled himself out of bed and into the shower, beating me to it. Scowling, I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and headed downstairs. I was not a morning person.
Phyllis was already in the kitchen, fully dressed and ready for the day. She was busy wiping out my microwave when I came into the room. The counter tops were gleaming, completely cleared of all the usual clutter of school papers, old mail, assorted pens and markers, and misplaced library books.
Number 6: Candace has a dirty microwave.
Number 7: Candace is unorganized.
“Good morning, dear!” Phyllis chirped.
“Good morning,” I mumbled in response, feeling inadequate in my bathrobe and frizzy morning-hair.
Number 8: Clearly, Candace is not a morning person.
“Phyllis, you don’t need to do all that…”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really! I just want to help! I was going to make some breakfast, but there doesn’t seem to be much in your pantry….”
Number 9: Candace does not shop for groceries.
“Yeah, I was thinking we would do our grocery shopping today,” I shrugged. “I just need to pick up a few more things.”
After dropping the kids off at school, Sam headed for work, and Phyllis and I headed for the grocery store. We left Roger at the house, watching a football game from Sam’s well-loved recliner.
When we got to the store, I pulled out my shopping list from my purse. It was scribbled on the back of an old envelope from my junk mail pile. Phyllis pulled out a list of her own. It looked like a long cash register receipt, reaching practically to the floor.
“Is that your naughty or nice list, Santa?” I asked, pointing to the long strand of paper.
Phyllis laughed. “I wanted to make sure that we had everything we needed. I’m not sure if you have all the ingredients for some of our favorite Thanksgiving dishes. They are a little fancier, after all. And I know that Roger and Sam would be disappointed if I didn’t make my apple-parsnip dressing.”
I remembered Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing and grimaced inside.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to make you do all the cooking, Phyllis. You’re here as our guests. I wouldn’t dream of making you work the whole time you are here.”
“Nonsense! I can’t sit by and watch you slave in the kitchen all week. Besides, you need all the help you can get.”
Number 10: Candace is a lousy cook.
Two hours and two shopping carts later, we made our way through the check-out line. I had bit my tongue when Phyllis loaded the carts with practically the entire stock from the organic herb section, the bean-sprout-fed turkey from the over-priced specialty section, and the perfumed spa-quality extra quilted toilet tissue.
Number 11: Candace only buys cheap toilet paper.
The cashier deftly rang through our purchases, and with each bleep I could feel my heart sinking. This was going to cost me a fortune. I had only budgeted $300 for this grocery visit and I knew that it would go way over.
“That will be $643.19,” he said in his chipper tone, looking at me with an expectant air.
I tried to act nonchalant, like I was planning on spending $643.19 on a cart full of stupid groceries all along. I pulled out my credit card, reserved for emergencies.
“Don’t worry about it, Honey, I’ll take care of it,” Phyllis patted my hand and passed her credit card over to the cashier. It was swiped and the deal was done before I could even say anything.
This was even worse. I hated Phyllis feeling like she had to take care of us. We can afford our own groceries, for heaven’s sake!
As we followed the two attendants pushing our overflowing carts out to the car, I said, “Thanks, Phyllis, but you really didn’t have to pay for the groceries. We can handle it…”
“Oh, I know, Honey. I just like to spoil you guys sometimes. Besides, I am so excited to try that turkey! I found this recipe that looks so divine! That’s what I got the roasted hazelnuts and Valencia rose oranges for! It should go great with my dressing!”
I thought it sounded atrocious with her dressing, but of course I didn’t think her dressing accented anything in a good way.
“Well, thanks, Phyllis,” I murmured and she smiled.
Wednesday
I woke up early the next day, determined to beat Phyllis to the kitchen. This was my prep day. I needed to make the rolls and pies, and get the turkey soaking in its brine for tomorrow’s cooking rush. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, put on a grubby T-shirt, and ran downstairs, ready to work.
Phyllis had my fridge pulled out and was scrubbing the floor behind it.
Number 12: Candace probably only deep-cleans her house when she is moving.
In my defense, who cleans behind their fridge, anyway?
“Phyllis! What are you doing?!” I exclaimed, shock written all over my face.
“Good morning, dear. Just helping you spruce up the place. I know how hard it is to keep up.”
“Umm, thanks…”
“I have a detailed list of all the things that we need to get done today, along with a schedule, dear,” she said, her voice a little strained as she was intent on scrubbing a stubbornly sticky spot on the floor.
I looked at the list.
Wednesday’s Schedule:
6:00 am: Disinfect all work surfaces. (Did she consider the floor behind the fridge a work surface?)
6:30 am: Start on rolls--
1. Start yeast rising
2. Chop parsley, rosemary, thyme, fennel
3. Mix dough
4. Cover with towel and set aside to rise
7:00 am: Start on Jello salads (raspberry, orange, cranberry)--
1. Peel and dice fruit (pineapple, mandarin oranges, pears, cranberries, shredded carrot)
2. Prepare Jello according to directions
3. Let set in refrigerator
7:30 am: Start on pies--
The schedule went on and on, with every minor detail included. I knew exactly what I would be doing at 11:45 am: chopping vegetables (carrots: julienne, celery: small dice, radishes: thinly sliced, green onions: chopped at a 45 degree angle, etc….) for the green salad.
Grunting as she got up from the floor, Phyllis looked at her watch.
“It looks like we are right on track for the 6:30 roll preparation,” she said.
**********
Four hours later, the rolls were about ready to go in the oven, three different Jello salads were cooling and setting up in the fridge, two pumpkin pies were cooling on racks, and I was working on the fancy finishing touches on the top of the apple pies before they went into the oven. I had fought for the traditional apple pies, when Phyllis insisted that we add some new ingredients. She was sure that she saw on the Food Network the addition of oregano and lime slices and it looked delicious. I stuck to my guns and kept the apple just plain apple.
Phyllis was sweating over a huge pot on the stove, the one that I reserve for canning peaches. She was simmering her own brine, insisting that the ingredients needed to simmer for about an hour, then cool, before we could put the bean-sprout-fed turkey into the pot to soak. It smelled ghastly, like how I imagine a tub of stinky, dirty socks would smell if you were simmering them on the stove top. Her brine consisted of water, red wine vinegar, kosher pickling salt, sugar, a handful of finely chopped herbs, liquid smoke, and I think I saw her dump in several cans of my Dr. Pepper. As I watched her, she resembled a crazy old witch, cackling over her brew. I laughed a little to myself. Then I saw her pull out of the pot a bundle of something dark wrapped in cheese cloth, that she had evidently been steeping. She lifted it up, sniffed it, gave the bundle a squeeze, then discarded it next to the pot. She really is a witch, I thought to myself. I didn’t want to know what was in the bundle.
“The brine is ready to cool!” she announced, wiping the sweat from her brow. It looked like she was about to lift the pot herself, to move it from the stove, and I stopped her. I certainly didn’t need an injured mother-in-law on my hands.
Sam came to the rescue, moving the heavy pot out to the garage, where it would cool more quickly. When he came back in, he stood listening for a moment.
“Is it just me, or do you hear a funny clicking sound?” he asked. We all stopped what we were doing, straining to hear. Then I heard it. It was coming from the oven.
I had just pulled the pumpkin pies from the oven, and it was still warm, ready for the next installment of pies.
Sam opened the door to the oven. It clicked three more times, then suddenly there was a snap and a huge spark. The oven went dark.
Sam fiddled with the knobs and controls to the oven. Nothing happened.
“What just happened?” I asked, my voice rising beyond my control. “What’s wrong with the oven?”
“I don’t know. Let me take a look at it.”
Roger tore himself away from the football game long enough to help Sam tear the oven apart.
Two hours later, the boys were still fiddling with it. “I can’t have a broken oven, Sam, not on Thanksgiving!” I was getting panicky. My apple pies were in the fridge, waiting to be cooked, and the rolls I spent hours on, fashioning them into cute little cornucopia shapes, were beginning to droop. “How are we going to cook a turkey tomorrow?!”
“Well, the microwave still works…” Sam said, and then wisely chose to discontinue his thought when he saw the look on my face.
“Don’t worry about it, Honey, we’ll figure something out,” Phyllis chimed in.
“Don’t worry about it?!” I began to lose it. “Don’t worry about it?! The most important day of the year to have an oven, and mine is on the fritz, and you say don’t worry about it?!”
Number 13: Candace is losing it.
Sam intervened, “Give Wendy a call, and see if you can use her oven tonight to finish baking your stuff. We’ll keep working on this, and hopefully it will be up and running by tomorrow.”
Thursday
The oven was not up and running.
Despite their best efforts, and having spent the remainder of the day before tinkering around with it, Roger and Sam called it quits. The oven was dead.
Phyllis had optimistically soaked the turkey in her home-made brine anyway. Now it smelled like raw meat floating around in a stinky sock stew.
I rolled over in my bed, not wanting to start this day. What were we going to do? It’s not like we could put a turkey in the microwave oven. Last night I had taken my pies and my rolls to my best friend’s house to finish baking, but I couldn’t bring my turkey over as well. Wendy had a house full of people to cook for already, so I couldn’t go and use her oven again.
I groaned out loud. “Ugh! What are we going to do?!” I cried to Sam, who was just waking up beside me.
“I know you’re disappointed about the oven, but really, it’s not the end of the world,” he said soothingly, giving me a hug. “We can have Thanksgiving without a turkey. The stove still works. Let’s just make do with what we have. We’ll get another oven after the holiday is over.”
Grudgingly I relented. There was no point in stressing anymore over something that I had no control of. I could just make do with what we already had.
I went downstairs to find Phyllis already in the kitchen, of course. This time, however, she wasn’t scouring any of my hidden dirty corners, she was scrolling over a page on the laptop with Roger. They were talking animatedly to each other, but quickly stopped when I walked in the room. Phyllis clicked the laptop closed and motioned Roger to leave.
“What’s going on?” I asked, curious.
“Oh, Roger and I are coming up with a plan for the turkey, Honey. Don’t you even worry about it. Let’s get to work on those potatoes!”
While we peeled potatoes, Roger and Sam kept coming in and out from the garage, talking quietly to each other, laughing, and looking excited.
“Exactly what is this big plan?” I asked Phyllis.
“Don’t you worry, that turkey’s going to taste divine!”
Now I was really worried. What were they concocting out in the garage? Phyllis kept me busy in the kitchen, so I wasn’t able to sneak out and investigate for myself.
An hour later, the potatoes were peeled, bubbling happily on the stove top. At least we would have mashed potatoes. And I had some emergency gravy packets to use, since we wouldn’t have any turkey drippings to make real gravy with.
Suddenly a thought dawned on me. Without an oven to bake the turkey in, we would no longer be able to bake Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing.
A tiny chorus of Allelujah’s filled my head. A tiny miracle in the midst of total darkness!
Finally the boys were ready for their big reveal. They took all of us out through the garage, including the kids, insisting that they would want to see this as well.
On the driveway was our gas stove-top camping grill, and on the grill was my canning pot, full of something bubbling. The turkey was sitting inside a washed out bucket on the ground next to the grill.
As the greasy scent of what was bubbling in the pot hit my nostrils, suddenly I knew exactly what the boys were planning.
“Are you going to deep fry our turkey?!” I cried.
They didn’t seem to notice the panic in my voice.
“Oh yes, Honey, it’s going to be delicious!” Phyllis practically giggled. “I googled how to do it online. It looks easy!”
“Yes, and did you also google how many house fires occur because of deep frying a turkey?! We don’t even have the right equipment for something like that! Have you all gone red-neck on me?!”
“Candace, calm down, it’s perfectly safe. We researched how to take precautions online too, so it’s gonna be fine.” Sam tried to reassure me.
I grabbed the kids and headed for the house.
“Well, we’re not going to be witness to whatever disaster is about to happen!”
“Mom! I want to stay! I want to watch!” the kids complained loudly, resisting my attempts to herd them inside.
“Fine, but we’re watching from over here.” I kept my arms around them, and stood in the doorway to the house.
Number 14: Candace is a party-pooper….and overprotective.
“Suit yourself,” Sam said, then, arming himself with oven mitts and a snorkel mask, “Here goes nothing!”
*********
For the record, the turkey was actually pretty good. A little crispy, perhaps, but it was probably the best bean-sprout-fed turkey that I have ever tasted. Besides, Sam was due for a haircut anyway and the singed ends of his bangs were hardly even noticeable. Plus, we had already been thinking about getting a new garage door. The gaping black burn spot really just helped give the project a little more impetus.
We gathered around the table, beautifully decked out with paper turkeys that the kids had worked on all week. The food was spread around the table in all its abundance. Even Phyllis’ special apple-parsnip dressing had found its way back onto the menu. Ever resourceful, Phyllis had cooked most of it on the stove top, then blasted the top of it with Sam’s mini-torch, which she had found in the garage, until the dressing was as crispy as the turkey. I was surprised that she had even considered using fire twice in one day, as the memory of her throwing one of my grandma’s heirloom afghans over Sam’s head when his hair caught on fire with the turkey was still prominent in my mind, but the second usage was uneventful, other than the triggered smoke alarm, which we forgot was linked to our automatic house alarm system. I’m sure that the kind people at the fire department didn’t mind making a second visit to our house in one day, sirens blazing, hoses ready, only to find Phyllis torching up the Thanksgiving dressing.
As I sat there, looking at each of these people that I loved, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. We had so much to be thankful for. And even though we were a crazy lot of people, thrown in to muddle through this crazy life together, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
*********
While the men snoozed in front of the football game after dinner, I spent the evening stretched out on the floor going through the ads for Black Friday. It was the biggest shopping day of the year, and there was no way that I was going to miss it.
Phyllis looked at a few ads, but wasn’t all that interested. Instead, she propped her feet up on the couch and worked on her Sudoku puzzles. She was crazy good at Sudoku.
Wendy was going to be my shopping partner. I had learned in years past, that in order to successfully navigate a Black Friday shopping experience, it was vital to have a shopping partner. Wendy was a tenacious and fearless shopper. She once took an old man down, beating him to the screaming deal of $10 for a complete set of 400 thread-count king-sized sheets, taking the last pack. You just can’t get any better than that.
I knew that this Black Friday was going to be just as legendary.
Friday
I set my alarm for 2:00 am, planning on being in the Walmart parking lot by 3:00, but I was too excited to sleep. Instead, I repeated our game plan in my head over and over, trying to find any possible flaws in the sequence. When I was finally exhausted enough to consider drifting off, I could no longer allow myself to fall asleep, for fear that I wouldn’t be able to wake up to the 2:00 alarm.
Finally it was time. I threw the covers off, drug a hoody sweatshirt over my head, crammed my feet into my fastest running shoes, and ran out the door. I would have smoked everyone else in a fire drill, seriously.
I picked Wendy up in my beat-up beast of a Suburban. We would be able to load up the back with some serious Christmas stash.
At precisely 2:43 am we pulled into the lot. We were pretty impressed with our speedy arrival, but the sight of a line of people snaking its way around the parking lot dampened our spirits a bit. We had thought that we were plenty early, but I guess everyone else had the same thought. The store didn’t open its doors until five o’clock. We were in for a long, cold two hour wait.
Wendy had the foresight to bring two thermoses full of steaming hot chocolate and two cozy blankets. Clearly, this was not her first rodeo.
We spent the majority of the two hour wait fine-tuning our store attack strategy, while scalding our tongues with the molten chocolaty goodness. The main theme of our plan was Divide and Conquer. We grouped together what items we each needed in the store and assigned who would get what.
Five minutes before five o’clock, the crowd began to get agitated. I could tell everyone was gearing up for the dash. The last sixty seconds, everyone started counting down, including me. My blood was pumping, adrenaline was racing…I was just waiting for the gun shot!
At exactly five o’clock, the doors slid open and total mayhem ensued. There was no longer anything resembling a line, it was every man (or highly pumped woman) for themselves, shoving their way into the store.
I needed a karaoke machine for Ian and a Playstation 4 for Wendy’s son, so I headed back to the electronics department, while Wendy braved the toy department with her assigned list. I knew the Playstation would be the hardest, since they only had limited quantities and a high demand. I headed there first.
It was easy to tell where the hot ticket items were, just by looking at the mob of people piling on top of each other to reach them. The Playstations were grouped on a huge palette in the middle of the aisle, with plastic wrap still locking them together. There was already a pile of people surrounding the palette, their frenzied expressions and maniacal tearing at the plastic making me feel as though I was inside a zombie movie.
The first one through the plastic, a scrawny man with bulging eyes and a five o’clock shadow, stood up on top of the pile, his prize clenched fiercely in his hands as he let out a victory roar. The opening that he started in the plastic became his surrounding competitors’ target, and the man was shoved roughly out of the way, toppling off the mountain, disappearing from sight.
This was going to be tough. I stole a second to pump up my nerves then went in blindly for the kill.
Hands, elbows, knees, shoulders, every hard, pointy part on the human body was thrust in my face as I tried to fight my way in toward the quickly diminishing pile of games. I could not fail. Wendy’s son would be devastated. Someone’s head rammed into mine, blinding me for a moment, but then I pushed on. Someone else was lying on the ground, having stumbled during the zombie push. They had put up a noble fight, but not everyone can win in the end. I climbed over his shoulders, using a large woman’s backside for leverage. Out of nowhere, an elbow smacked me in the nose and blood started to gush immediately. No time to staunch the blood, I plowed on. I was almost there, no quitting now!
Finally, a game was within reach! I stretched out to grab it and was stopped by a large foot slamming my hand into the palate. The large woman who had inadvertently given me aid with her large backside, had caught up to me and was about to grab the game. I let out my final battle call and made a lunge, ripping my hand out from under her huge foot. Quick as a cat, I grabbed the game and slipped backward, away from the blood bath. I heard her scream of frustration, and saw her standing empty-handed on the cleared off palette.
Victory was sweet.
And tasted a little like iron.
Wendy and I met back at the checkout line. I was holding the Playstation 4 close to my chest in a death grip, and had nothing else.
“You got the Playstation!” Wendy cried gleefully. “Excellent job! I almost went for that one myself, because I knew it would be a tough one.” Then she noticed the blood still oozing slowly from my nose and a swelling over my right eye. Judging from the pulsing heat hovering over my eyeball, I was sure it would be purple in a few more minutes. “Oh, Honey! Are you okay?”
I reluctantly pulled one hand away from the game in order to swipe the blood from my face.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, and noted that Wendy had done her job, getting Dixie’s Disney Princess Dollhouse Mansion, in addition to several other toys for her children.
“I had to fight off some crazy girl for the dollhouse,” she said, pointing proudly to her prize in the shopping cart. “For a second there I thought that she would claw me to death for it, but luckily someone put another one back on the shelf….Hey, where’s Ian’s karaoke machine?” Wendy asked suddenly. My heart sank. I was so caught up with my Playstation victory that I completely forgot about Ian’s present.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go get it,” Wendy said hastily, pushing her shopping cart into the line next to me. “You hold our place while I run and get it.”
Ian’s karaoke machine in tow, the rest of the morning flew by as we hit three other stores, stacking our amazing deals into the back of the Suburban beast. Finally, at around noon, our lists were complete. We headed back home, exhausted and elated.
Phyllis and Roger were loading up their car when I pulled up.
“How was the shopping trip?” Phyllis asked, trying to peak into the back of my car. “Was it a success?” Then, looking at me and my blood-stained sweatshirt, she gave a jump.
Roger walked up to me, loaded down with pillows and grocery bags full of Thanksgiving leftovers. He also saw my bloody face, but he cracked a grin.
“Did you win the fight, Candy?” he asked, nodding to my nose.
“You bet!” I laughed. “She didn’t stand a chance!”
*******
About twenty minutes later, we all stood around Phyllis and Roger’s car, giving our good-bye hugs. The kids were crying, not wanting their grandparents to leave, which set Phyllis into a flood of tears as well.
“You think you’ll beat the record going home?” I asked Roger as I gave him one last hug.
“You bet!” he laughed. “It doesn’t stand a chance!” I smiled back at him.
Then, while Sam was talking to his dad, giving one last recounting of the final three minutes of Thursday’s football game, Phyllis approached me to say good-bye.
“Thanks for letting us stay,” she said, squeezing me in a tight embrace.
“It was no problem, really. We love it when you come,” I said, and surprising myself, knew that I meant it.
“Candace, I have to tell you. Every time we visit, I am always so impressed with how you manage all that you do,” Phyllis said, holding my hands in hers. “I remember how hard it was when the boys were young and running as crazy as a pack of wild beasts. I didn’t think that I would ever get through those days.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“I just wanted you to know that you’re doing a great job, raising my grandbabies and taking care of my own baby,” she said, nodding her head toward Sam. “He’s lucky to have you and I am lucky that I have such a great daughter-in-law.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I embraced Phyllis with a long hug. All these years, I had thought that she was being so critical of me. Now I began to see that everything she said was just meant to help me out because she cared. She understood, and that gave us a bond that all moms need.
I mentally tore up The List, the list of all my shortcomings. We all have parts of us that we don’t like, or things that we just aren’t that great at. Maybe I would never be less than atrocious at housekeeping or never master the art of organization, but I didn’t need to wallow in it anymore. I was good at loving my children and my husband, and that was a lot more important.
“Thanks, Phyllis,” I murmured, wiping the tears from my eyes. “That means a lot.”
Waving goodbye, as they pulled out of the driveway and headed home, I thought about all the time I had wasted worrying about what Phyllis thought.
Number 15: Candace worries too much.
Wait, I guess some habits are hard to break….
Roger called Sam’s cell phone exactly six hours and twenty-one minutes later. He had beat his time by two minutes. The old record didn’t stand a chance.
*******
About an hour after Phyllis and Roger left our house, as I was trying to recover from the crazy morning shopping trip and taking a nap on the couch, I was woken by the door bell ringing. When I answered the door, there was a delivery man waiting, with a clipboard in hand, standing next to a huge box on my front porch. Around the box was the biggest red ribbon that I had ever seen.
It was a brand new, state-of-the-art, stainless steel gas range and oven. It was beautiful, and so much nicer than any that I would have gotten for myself. The note on the delivery man’s receipt said, “Merry Christmas from Mom and Dad.”
While I had been out bloodying my nose and filling the back of my makeshift Santa sleigh, Phyllis had also braved the craziness of Black Friday in order to get me a new oven.
Never could such an impersonal gift be any more personal. But instead of screaming at me “you’re a lousy cook,” it only said “I love you”-- loud and clear.
