Chapter One Hundred twenty-four: Ma’am would be a better turkey than Pilgrim…

Thanksgiving will soon be upon us. I have a lot in common with a Thanksgiving turkey. I am plump, have a turkey neck, and am middle-aged so, my days, like turkeys during this time, are numbered. I also sweat a lot and am judged by my weight. The way my teenage son listens to what I say, I might as well be saying: “Gobble, gobble!” Yes, I would do extremely well as a turkey.

I also have been thinking about the Pilgrims crossing over on the Mayflower. I could have never survived the perilous journey from the stench on the ship alone! I also am most POSITIVE, definitely that I would have contracted scurvy. If Confused Husband was with me, I can guarantee he would have thrown me overboard into the Atlantic. I suppose this is why we have never gone on a cruise.

If; I was fortunate enough to survive the journey and wound up on Plymouth Rock. I would have been relieved, as well as disappointed that I almost lost my life to land on a rock. Perhaps I would be happy to have gotten off of the ship after what I can only imagine was a hellish voyage. But now, I would have to survive foraging in the woods for food and shelter. I have never camped hence; I could certainly not be a proper Pilgrim! I would have to build a home and, the thought of this exhausts me! I am GREAT with decorating but building? No way! Having to plant a garden, deal with bugs, wild animals, and then wanting to sit down but wait! No chair so, I have to friggin whittle one from some damn tree.

I would have tried to befriend the Native Americans, all the while trying to act like I was low maintenance because I wouldn’t want to be rude. I mean, I couldn’t insult them by rejecting their offer to share one of their teepees. I am extremely claustrophobic and feel that I wouldn’t do well in a small enclosed place. I also am squeamish and don’t think I could have hunted with them. I enjoy wearing makeup but not like its war paint. Sitting around the campfire with them, listening to their stories of survival. Yes, they would have considered me high maintenance. They would have figured out that I am not a “happy camper”; no pun intended and probably sent me packing.

Like a sweaty turkey basting in the oven, that is me during one of my hot flashes.

I feel cooked, stuffed, and sweltering, served up on a platter, put a fork in me I am done. Gobble, gobble…So overall, I guess between having to be a Pilgrim or a turkey, the closest I am is the poster child for Butterball…

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three: Is Ma’am a Short Order Cook?…

Confused Husband has an uncanny ability to drop his food order at me like I am a Short Order cook and have just hollered through the little window: “What will you have Buddy?”

Case in point: I am scrubbing the toilet, and he meanders in the doorway nonchalantly asking: “How’s it going?” I look up from my chore at hand and debate which answer flashing through my mind I should give. Did he REALLY just ask me that?!

He smiles lopsided and without, waiting for an answer, says:” You know, I could really go for a toasted on whole wheat with a smidge of mayo and perhaps a slice of provolone between two pieces of a bologna sandwich.”

I retort:” Well, I could go for perhaps size six sweatpants, with a smidge of Pinot Grigio served to me by two guys who look like George Clooney. But guess what? It’s not happening!”

He then realizes he has overstepped and scurries away.

Later on, ensconced on the sofa shoveling peanut butter into my mouth like there is no tomorrow, he attempts to circle the drain again.: ” I was thinking about a lightly breaded chicken breast with a side of some sort -of vegetable, and maybe either roasted potatoes or some sort- of pasta.”

I look at him: ” Funny you mentioned that because I was just thinking about Prince Charming with a side of swooping me up on his horse to take me to his palace or perhaps his NYC penthouse but, oh yeah, I have a better chance of being eaten by a shark or struck by lightning as do you than any of what I have mentioned for either of those phenomenons to occur.” 

He looks crestfallen. What do I have on a paper hat and a crooked name tag? As he screams his order into the clown’s mouth and, all I hear is static?

Not one for ever getting a hint, he then suggests: “How about you rustle up ( who is he? Hoss from Bonanza and I am on a Dude Ranch?!). Some of your infamous scrambled eggs with a bagel, and your perfect coffee?” He smiles sheepishly like he has just suggested we have sex.

At times I am still dumbfounded that I am married to him. I blink like I am sending morse code. ” How about officials from Buckingham Palace arrive on our stoop, to inform me that my 23AndMe results came back and I am Queen Elizabeth’s fifth child and heir to the throne, and they are here to collect me and bring me to my true family, where I belong. Finally taking my rightful place!”

He then tries to argue his case by bringing up the time that we were in a dimly lit restaurant, and I didn’t have on my reading glasses. I wound up ordering the MOST expensive item on the menu and some very exorbitantly priced wine. He still likes to bellow how along, with a mortgage, we are paying off my restaurant bill. The least I could do is cook him a meal. That’s all you got? I calmly point out how he used one of those City Bikes and didn’t close the App after use and, it ran for a good 24 hours, or about the time while watching an infomercial at four in the morning, he decided it was a grand idea to sponsor some kid named Javier for just pennies a day. According to my calculations, Javier should now have a Ph.D. and a beach house with the money he has received from us. I continue on with my evidence:

” Let’s talk about Hal, the sad Willy Loman type salesman that showed up at our door selling some crazy vacuum? It was the price of a car payment and, guess what? It still is in the box unused but, Willy Loman got his commission and money for his hair transplant!”

The look on his face is like he just found out there is no Santa Clause. He mutters: “Shall we order pizza or Chinese?”

Ah! Now you are thinking!

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two: Is Ma’am a G.O.A.T?…

GOAT, I had no idea what that meant. The goat I know is an animal that lives on a farm. According to Webster: any of various hollow-horned ruminant mammals (especially of the genus Capra) related to the sheep but of lighter build and with backwardly arching horns, a short tail, and usually straight hair. 

Apparently, GOAT is now a hip term that means something else. Greatest Of All Time…I ask teenage son if I am a goat? He looks at me like I am insane. He says:” We’ll you are goat-like when you don’t wax your chin. ( WTF??!!!), and when you get mad, you sound like a goat, and definitely your feet because you haven’t had a pedicure are goat-like hooves, you know like a cloven hoof mom? So yeah, you could be a goat!” He says enthusiastically. I glare at his ridiculous smile and have a visual of his photo on the back of a milk carton with the word “Missing” under it. I can’t believe that I have to explain which goat I mean! He nods and says, “Yeah, sure, that is you! He snickers and runs out of the room. I overhear him on the phone, sharing with his friend our ludicrous conversation and how he said I was GOAT. But then he says Grouchy, Old, And, Tired and bursts out laughing.

Yes, this Old goat is about to dig a hole in the back garden with her goat hooves for Missing On a Milk Carton Boy…