If my appliances could talk...

 If my refrigerator could talk, it wouldn't be speaking to me right now.

 

In a world of stress, war and struggle, we are fortunate that our Thanksgiving leftovers are crammed into every nook and cranny in that thing. And that's after sending home most of a ham, meals-to-go for two, one whole pie, treats for others and the night and day-after of sampling favorites.

It didn't help that we met our Jacksons for our annual Friendsgiving dinner last night and brought home two more containers of food. My fridge might be complaining, but I'm not. 

Deb couldn't make it, but sent a pan of her cheesy potatoes, which weren't as good as having her here, but did solidify her in-spirit participation. Donna's student has not surpassed the master, but Becca's rolls were amazing and nearly gone. Donna's pumpkin roll will be a memory today, I'm sure if Jeff didn't finish it off when I wasn't looking. 

If the refrigerator is mad at me, I'm lucky the televisions haven't gone on strike. Continuing his and Ali's on-again, off-again holiday treat of watching bad shark movies, the Captain treated us to Sharkula, a movie so terrible I hesitate to mention it. This wretched history of cinema includes all (I think) of the Sharknado series, Santa Jaws, Megaladon, The Meg, Ghost Shark and a series of films with former pop star, Debbie Gibson. 

Jim Morazinni's review of Sharkula is better than the movie. "I have extremely modest expectations when I sit down to watch one of (Mark Polonia's) films. Sharkula didn't even come close to meeting them," he writes. So, yeah: you should definitely waste at least a few minutes fast-forwarding through it. Especially if you know Chris Austin and want to see his head explode.

At one point Friday, as Ali and I were in the throes of our decorating tradition, Jeff brought up a storage bin of decorations. I was in the kitchen mulling over what to use and asking myself, “where could those little snowman candles have gotten to?” when he pulled me aside and pointed to her at the tree.

 

“You might not get many more of these,” he said, reminding me of his dad every Christmas who said to us, “One year, you won’t want to come home for Christmas.”

 

I relayed the comment to Alison and asked her when she won’t want to spend her Friday-after-Thanksgiving putting up our tree. “Well, one day I’ll be dead,” she said.

Good girl. 

 

Jeff, like his father was at times, is crazy. The only thing since 1996 that has kept us from Maine at Christmas was the pandemic, and this year, which we’ve converted to a January trip back to Turks & Caicos where we’ll scatter a bit of Gary’s ashes to mark the many family Spring vacations we spent there.

 

I get credited, unfairly it seems to me, with Ali’s occasional brash behavior. She has had limited exposure to my sister Diane, but I think their times together have been potent. Take this exchange no doubt over Diane nibbling pre-feast:

 

Somehow, they’d gotten on the subject of vaping. Diane is a classic cigarette smoker. At her age and life situation, she’s always going to be a smoker. She told Ali a story of being outside puffing away (She is and always has been a considerate smoker who takes her habit outside.) outside somewhere down home when a man she didn’t know approached her.

“You know,” he offered, “those things’ll kill you.”

 

She leveled cold brown eyes on him and replied, likely through smoke, “You know what else’ll kill you? Stepping into other people’s business.”

 

He stepped back and asked if she was threatening him.

 

“Are you stepping into my business?” she asked.

 

He scuttled away.

 

Ali, recounting the story, sighed and said, “I just love her.”

 

It’s hard not to love Diane, who’s always been outrageously funny. But don’t cross her. She can carry a grudge over hot coals up a mountain and back and never forget she owes you.

So yeah. It’s been a great weekend, with more to come, as I'm writing this Saturday morning. Hopefully Ali will take at least half of the leftovers and share some of them with Kevin, her former room-mate who was supposed to be with us but fell ill. It's only partially Ali and her college laundry's fault that another appliance may be thinking of going on strike. 

Entertaining creates a lot of recycling, laundry and garbage, but it's totally worth it.

It'll be fun to be at home for Christmas this year. More time for gathering with friends and stressing out the appliances. We’ll make a trip down to my family at some point before Christmas to see those we missed this weekend. Ali will collect more Diane stories and perhaps solidify a date where she plans to drive down to Donna’s and get some sort of cooking lessons.

It's Sunday morning now. Jeff is downstairs nursing a cold that I don't want. Ali has packed up a lot of leftovers, most of her now clean laundry and assorted things we picked up. Ten minutes after she left, I had a moment of panic when she called from the road, but she hadn't crashed: she'd just forgotten her shampoo & conditioner and was headed back to get it. 

I'll take it. And I will not be sad that my house is quiet without half-empty glasses and cast-off shoes scattered about. I'll instead look forward to next month when we have another holiday break together.

And the appliances will be happier.