hair?”
THE ONLY OTHER HOLIDAY WE CELEBRATE ON ANY REGULAR BASIS IS Thanksgiving. After our full-on approach to Halloween, and before the oppressive approach of Christmas, I choose to get as far under the turkey radar as possible. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about giving thanks, but everyone knows it is really about food. As you probably know by now, I hate cooking and am not especially fond of eating, so I’ve found a way around slaving over a meal that no one in my family is particularly interested in. Luckily, here in the city we have an amazing grocery-delivery service called Fresh Direct. My family would starve without this modern convenience: with just a few magical clicks of my mouse, I order a meal to my specifications, and the very next day Delivery Dude shows up at my door with a fully cooked Thanksgiving dinner, complete with side dishes and zucchini bread. They even send along a little meat thermometer in case you’re feeling guilty and want to overinvolve yourself in the reheating of the fully cooked bird. Years ago, Cleo was horrified when she arrived home from boarding school to find our first feast-in-a-box; she announced that even though the Thanksgivings up to that point had been inedible, this was just “wrong.” Her longing for June Cleaver has finally subsided, or maybe she has given up, and now the arrival of the Dude is not only a given, but a time-honored family tradition.
WE DID TRY AND ENGAGE THE HOLIDAY IN A REAL WAY ONCE. WE live three blocks away from Macy’s, but usually don’t go to the big parade—as soon as we moved into the neighborhood, we discovered it is basically a made-for-television event, with camera trucks completely corralling the store itself and for twenty blocks up Broadway. Only if you’re well connected can you get the premium bleacher seating, but even for that you have to be there a good two hours before the parade even starts, and Thanksgiving is typically the nastiest, coldest day on the planet. What child will sit still, packed in amid total strangers, for three hours waiting for a giant Clifford to float overhead, when he can watch the same thing in the warmth of his own home mere minutes away? That having been asked, one year Peter summoned his courage and took four of the boys to see the various acts practice the night before the actual event. I was unpacking dinner for the next day and also obesely pregnant with Finn, so Peter dared this outing alone, depending on the slightly older boys to help keep track of the much younger ones. Larson, three years old, highly speech impaired, and lightning fast, waited for Peter to turn his head and slipped away. Panic ensued, with Peik stopping every police officer he could find, Truman shouting Larson’s name over the blasting loudspeakers, and Pierson just plain freaking out, which is a mystery to me because he never seemed to care much about the child before he was lost.
“Which superhero was he wearing?” Peter yelled at Pierson, holding him by the shoulders while clutches of families squeezed by, using this moment of confusion to slip in front of the Shelton pack for a better view.
“I… don’t… know!” Pierson sobbed.
“Think!” Peter commanded. “Was it Spider-Man or Superman?!”
“Spider-Man on top, Superman on the bottom!” Pierson finally managed, relieved to have contributed in some way.
“Dad, look!” Truman shouted from the top of the bleachers, pointing toward the middle of the performance area. Peter, Peik, and Pierson all scrambled up to see Larson, in the middle of a clutch of majorettes, surrounded by a giant marching band pumping out a brassy version of “We Are Family,” having the time of his little unintelligible life. One of the cops waded into the swirling instruments and pompoms, picked him up, and hoisted him onto his shoulders as the crowd went wild.
Acknowledgments
SOMETIMES IT IS HARD TO REMEMBER THAT THANKSGIVING IS ABOUT giving thanks. I do not believe in God, exactly, but I do believe in some kind of universal cosmic force, and to this force, I would like to take a moment to mention the things I am most thankful for. Though, being all-powerful, it probably already knows.
I am thankful for Fresh Direct, as it saves me from having to shop for food at Duane Reade Pharmacy, which is a very good thing because you can only serve Frosted Flakes and ramen noodles for dinner so many times before one of your kids calls Child Protective Services. I am also thankful for paper plates, because I detest not only shopping and cooking but also the aftermath. Cleanup is exponentially easier when I can just plow the leavings of the dinner table into the garbage can.
I am thankful for Adderall, Ritalin, Focalin, et cetera, because a medicated child is a happy child. Likewise, I am thankful for Nicorette gum, Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, and Tanqueray martinis straight up with olives, because a medicated parent is a happy parent.
I am thankful for my personal technology, whose artificial intelligence surpasses my own. Spell-check: you are brilliant, and if not for you this book would read as if Larson had written it. To iPod shuffle: playing “Stairway to Heaven” and “Highway to Hell” back to back was a stroke of genius. If there is a god, you are probably it.
I am thankful for my long-wear lipstick and my power panties. You keep my lips and ass in place, respectively, and save me valuable time in front of mirrors. And my beloved Birkin bag, not only do you faithfully carry around all the crap required to get me through my day, but you offer me a sense of security: if I ever decide to split this scene, I can stop by that high-end resale shop on Eighteenth Street on my way out of town and raise enough cash on you and your little sister to live for six months. Throw in Judith Leiber and I get a whole year!
I am thankful for my girls, Alicia and Nicole. Your hard work and dedication keep me from becoming a homicidal bitch. And Zoila, my husband’s true wife: other women in his life have come and gone, but for thirty years, you have been there for him, and you’ve never once washed his cell phone. Sorry again, Peter. I am equally thankful for Blake, our manny, because only a gay man would have found the show tunes channel on XM and served it with breakfast.
I am thankful for my family. For Peter, who never complains about the price of my Manolos, though his accountant hates the fact that I charge them to his business American Express and has repeatedly asked me to stop. Peter has never asked me to stop, and until I get the word from the big guy, I’m taking that as a “You just go ahead, honey.” I am thankful for my hilarious kids, who are a constant source of good writing material. Believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up. I am thankful that my daughter attends a state college—wow, what a tuition break. I am thankful that my father taught me to shoot, and my mother taught me to sew, because being a size 6 on the top and size 8 on the bottom makes it impossible to buy a dress off the rack.
And finally, I am thankful that my in-laws are dead, because I can serve Thanksgiving dinner out of a box and straight onto paper plates without feeling like a failure.
Acknowledgments
BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAVE MORE THANKS TO GIVE.
First and foremost I want to give a special shout-out to the brilliant Amy Scheibe. Her contributions as editor and co-writer were invaluable. I would never have been able to structure this book without her hilarious moments, unending patience, phenomenal organizational skills, and lattes. She truly helped me sew a pile of mismatched patches into a cohesive, well-constructed garment.
I would also like to thank Benjamin Dreyer for dreaming up the entire scheme and lining up the players. Susan Mercandetti, I know it’s cheesy to claim that a writer has become friends with her editor, but in this case it is true, at least until I try to sell her another book. Ben Steinberg, for stepping in when I was in full panic mode and talking me down off the ledge. Robert Best for the illustrations, because every girl wants to look like Barbie.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
