Thanksgiving Weekend with Fran and Stan - (A story in three acts deserving of a show on Broadway) - Part 1: Two Chickens and a Novice

     Thanksgiving.  My family has never been one for many traditions when it comes to this particular holiday.  Sure, we have a bird and some trimmings, and we all sit around the big table and talk at once.  But that's about it.  No fights over the wishbone, no sporting events on the TV, no mystery cranberry wobble for everyone to place bets on what it's made of.  We're pretty laid back that way.  This was Thanksgiving to me and I never had reason to question it until I got the phone call.  

My mother had informed everyone that, as turkey is not her favorite bird, she would be serving two chickens for Thanksgiving.  The Yankee nearly had a heart attack at the thoughts of a turkeyless Turkey Day and was reeling from the shock.  “No turkey, Bert?  How is that even possible?”  As he wandered from room to room like a lost child, muttering “No turkey?” to himself, the phone rang.  It was Fran, my cutesy-poo cousin (who’s seven-foot husband Stan likes to tell everyone how he shook hands with D.B. Cooper just before the parachute went off), who squealed and said, “Hey! Come go Black Friday shopping with me!”  “Black Friday?  Are you nuts?” I laughed.  She was not phased.  “We’ll get up at 2am, get dressed up with a little Christmas cheer, and head out for the best deals.  You HAVE to come!”  I have no sisters and Fran has no siblings, so we have to rely on each other to do sisterly crap.  I tried to keep this fact in mind as I weighed the options of a life-long “sisterly” memory versus driving in traffic to sleep a few hours and get up to shop.  “Are you there?” she asked.  “Sorry,” I said, “Just got a little lost in thought.  I’ll have to talk to The Yankee about it.  He’s still mourning a Thanksgiving feast devoid of turkey.  Mom’s decided she wants chicken.”  “At THANKSGIVING?!” she shrieked in my ear.  “Tell him if he’ll come along, he can have all the turkey he wants.  And beer.  Turkey and beer.  Tell him.” 

     My mother had informed everyone that, as turkey is not her favorite bird, she would be serving two chickens for Thanksgiving.  The Yankee nearly had a heart attack at the thoughts of a turkeyless Turkey Day and was reeling from the shock.  "No turkey, Bert?  How is that even possible?"  As he wandered from room to room like a lost child, muttering "No turkey?" to himself, the phone rang again.  It was Fran, my cutesy-poo cousin (who's seven-foot husband Stan likes to tell everyone how he shook hands with D.B. Cooper just before the parachute went off), who squealed and said, "Hey!  Come go Black Friday shopping with me!"  "Black Friday?  Are you nuts?" I laughed.  She was not phased.  "We'll get up at 2am, get dressed up with a little Christmas cheer, and head out for the best deals.  You HAVE to come!"  I have no sisters and Fran has no siblings, so we  have to rely on each other to do sisterly crap.  I tried to keep this fact in mind as I weighed the options of a life-long "sisterly" memory versus driving in traffic to sleep a few hours and get up to shop.  "Are you there?" she asked.  "Sorry," I said, "Just got a little lost in thought.  I'll have to talk to The Yankee about it.  He's still mourning a Thanksgiving feast devoid of turkey.  Mom's decided she wants chicken."  "At THANKSGIVING?!" she shrieked in my ear.  "Tell him if he'll come along, he can have all the turkey he wants.  And beer.  Turkey and beer.  Tell him." 

     I walked through the house and found The Yankee, pale and wide-eyed, muttering "No turkey?" to himself.  "Hey," I jabbed his shoulder with my finger.  "Fran wants us to drive 4 hours in Thanksgiving Day traffic so you can keep an eye on Buttercup and I can get up at 2am to go shopping with her."  He awoke from his turkey-daze and answered with an emphatic, "HECK.  NO."  Fran could hear our exchange over the phone, "You didn't mention the turkey, Bertha-Butt."  (Her nicknaming gives her that endearing quality.  I keep telling myself that.)  I sighed, "Fran says you and Stan can shop for guy stuff like oil filters and sandpaper."  He was unmoved.  "I am not driving through all that traffic just so you can shop in the middle of the night like somebody with no sense."  "She has beer."  He snorted, "So does my refrigerator in the garage."  I paused.  "She has turkey."  "What time should we be there?"

     Knowing Fran and her penchant for, ahem, "accessorizing", I was worried about her ideas for dressing with "Christmas cheer".  As a safety precaution, and the fact that she still can't grasp that I need shirts in a "2X super-duper-extra-holy-crap-you-could-dress-a-giraffe-in-a-shirt-this-long" size, I decided to be proactive and design my own festive attire.  One simple black T-shirt, two bottles of red and green fabric pain, and a box fan later, I had an easy-breezy yet stylish shopping shirt with a Christmas tree on it.  It was inexpensive to make, totally un-embarrassing, and fairly screamed "BERTHA".  Perfect.  Two weeks later, I packed the car, made the requisite pies, and headed out for Mom and Dad's Chicken-giving feast. 

     Despite a dinner devoid of the traditional bird, it was a pleasant (and delicious) Thanksgiving.  The chicken was moist and my pies were inhaled.  We said our goodbyes and hit the road.  With "light" traffic, we sauntered in to Fran and Stan's front door a mere 7 hours later.  Buttercup was asleep before her head hit the pillow and The Yankee made a beeline for the turkey.  Moaning in the ecstasy of a lost love, he savored every morsel of turkey as he stuffed his face standing over Fran's stove.  We gave him (and his love) a bit of privacy.

     "I'm a novice, Fran."  She clapped her hands like a little kid, "I know!  It's so exciting!!"  Just then, the happy squeaky kid disappeared and the platoon sergeant appeared to brief me on the Black Friday drill: "Up at 0200 hours.  Quickest shower on record.  Enough makeup that you look not dead but not enough to take forever.  Attire: festive.  Purse: exchanged for a tote bag.  Shoes: sturdy enough to run.  Oh, and my mother is coming along."

     What did I get myself into?

I walked through the house and found The Yankee, pale and wide-eyed, muttering “No turkey?” to himself.  “Hey,” I jabbed his shoulder with my finger.  “Fran wants us to drive 4 hours in Thanksgiving Day traffic so you can keep an eye on Buttercup and I can get up at 2am to go shopping with her.”  He awoke from his turkey-daze and answered with an emphatic, “HECK.  NO.”  Fran could hear our exchange over the phone, “You didn’t mention the turkey, Bertha-Butt.”  (Her nicknaming gives her that endearing quality.  I keep telling myself that.)  I sighed, “Fran says you and Stan can shop for guy stuff like oil filters and sandpaper.”  He was unmoved.  “I am not driving through all that traffic just so you can shop in the middle of the night like somebody with no sense.”  “She has beer.”  He snorted, “So does my refrigerator in the garage.”  I paused.  “She has turkey.”  “What time should we be there?” 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

             Thanksgiving.  My family has never been one for many traditions when it comes to this particular holiday.  Sure, we have a bird and some trimmings, and we all sit around the big table and talk at once.  But that’s about it.  No fights over the wishbone, no sporting events on the TV, no mystery cranberry wobble for everyone to place bets on what it’s made of.  We’re pretty laid back that way.  This was Thanksgiving to me and I never had reason to question it until I got the phone call.

Knowing Fran and her penchant for, ahem, “accessorizing”, I was worried about her ideas for dressing with “Christmas cheer”.  As a safety precaution, and the fact that she still can’t grasp that I need shirts in a “2X super-duper-extra-holy-crap-you-could-dress-a-giraffe-in-a-shirt-this-long” size, I decided to be proactive and design my own festive attire.  One simple black T-shirt, two bottles of red and green fabric paint, and a box fan later, I had an easy-breezy yet stylish shopping shirt with a Christmas tree on it.  It was inexpensive to make, totally un-embarrassing, and fairly screamed “BERTHA”.  Perfect.  Two weeks later, I packed the car, made the requisite pies, and headed out for Mom and Dad’s Chicken-giving feast.