Please enjoy the turkey, thank you for removing your shoes

Ahhhhh, Thanksgiving. A time when our country finally embraces a few things we are good at: gluttony, football, and naps on the couch. This year was no exception, except that I discovered I was going to be 'forced' to celebrate this delightful holiday two days in a row. Now, now, calm yourselves! I managed to get through two rounds of homemade turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, and pumpkin pie. It was difficult, but I somehow made it through.

It was about halfway through my Thanksgiving hangover Friday morning when it occurred to me, "who celebrates Thanksgiving on Friday?" I was seriously questioning this when I realized... did I really care? These people were going to feed me, they didn't need a holiday to be nice! So I shoved these distracting thoughts aside and mustered up the courage to eat, once again.

Upon arrival to this strange 'Thanksgiving-on-Friday' place, I was instructed to remove my shoes, as pictured here.

It was a very nice house in Santa Barbara, you'll notice the shiny white stuff beneath my shoes; that's white marble baby, the real stuff. Not only was the floor white, the whole house was white, the walls, couches, pillows, everything. Ever flip through Martha Stewart's home-decorating magazines? Well... I don't either, but I imagine they're filled with ideas on how to "brighten your room with a white duvet," or "bring in the light with a white couch." I guarantee that white couch wouldn't last 2 weeks in my house before it had a giant smudge of chocolate across the center cushion. I avoid these things for a reason, and now I was in a house of white terror??? It takes me approximately 1.3 seconds to calculate the amount of damage my clumsiness + the black sole of my sneakers could do to such a fabulous surface.





So, I kindly obliged and switched to these hot kicks (which were provided by the host).






As the night unfolds, I begin to realize what type of people celebrate Thanksgiving on a Friday... weirdos.

Ok, so the shoe thing, yeah, kinda strange. But as the host proceeds to give me a tour of the house, her husband comes around the corner with a parrot.

Yes, a real-live parrot that talks and whistles and has those creepy bird eyes that look like they're about to fall outta it's head, the whole deal. I give the boyfriend a "now I see why you brought me to this place, you didn't want to be alone with these freaks" look and play nice guest.

We chat in the sitting room (gawd only knows if I will one day have enough money for a room with no other purpose then for me to sit in) and this crazy bird-loving husband starts gabbing about all sorts of things irrelevant to me. For instance Qui Tam, (which I originally thought was spelled Kui Tom, thank goodness for those brainiacs at Google 'Did you mean: qui tam?'). After re-reading Wikipedia's explanation, I still don't know what it means so you can only imagine how out of place I felt in the moment. Something to do with lawyer business, so the boyfriend kept him entertained. Alas, I at least had the familiar comfort of my red wine. Which initiates the thought process... what was I, the queen of clumsy, doing with a glass of red wine in a house made of white? I realize this while crazy male host is mid-qui tam sentence. Very slowly and very carefully I put the glass down, squarely on the coaster.

The conversation eventually makes it way back to the bird (and for my fellow MFTs out there, can I just say this poor parrot is being triangulated in this marriage like nobody's business) and all the 'tricks' it can do. Like, 'fly' across the room, getting it's nasty feathers all over the place and scaring the crap out of your guests, who intelligently placed their red wine down prior to take-off. And pretend it's a camera, leaning on tri-pods making strange noises. Oh, and did I mention, pooping constantly?? Which brings me to another thought... I had to remove my shoes to conserve your precious marble, but this bird can just take a dump wherever it pleases?

So, if you're invited to someone's home to celebrate a holiday that doesn't actually take place that day, keep in mind that the host family are probably a bit off in their conversation, pet selection, and home decor, just as they are in their day of celebration.

One ticket to the gun show please?

Last week was ridiculous. Between 3 lengthy papers, endless phone calls from auto financing sleaze-balls, work, and practicum, I was so ready for a break. And by break I mean a weekend of doing nothing, except laying in bed, eating lots of fattening food, catching up on Grey's Anatomy, and viewing all 3 of my Blockbuster Total Access wonders.

However, there were other things in store for me. My self-indulgent plans came to an abrupt halt when I got the call.

The Jude (AKA adopted mom) phoned Thursday afternoon to say she would be driving down (from Washington, where she is currently living) to spend the weekend.

As as in Friday through Sunday.

As in within the next 24 hours.

As in monopolizing my fantastic weekend of solitary aloneness.

Shaking my head in shock, disbelief and a hint of excitement, I prepared for her visit. This entailed cleaning the house (which meant I had to make my bed... something I never do) and other things you do when you find out mom's coming to visit. Like, stock your house with fresh groceries and throw out those Applebee's leftovers that have been sitting in your fridge for gawd knows how long so she doesn't give you that "I know I raised you better then that" look of judgment/disappointment when she enters your kitchen. And conveniently lay out all your school books and ratty shoes, showing her how hard you're working and how badly you need to go (i.e. she needs to take you) shopping.

6:45 Friday night, my phone rings, it's The Jude.


TJ: Hi, Shell? Um, I'm in Sacramento. I just got off the freeway, but I don't know where I am.

S: Ok, well... where are you?

TJ: Well, I got off on Richards... and now I'm in a parking lot, but there's no lights so I can't read the cross-street sign.

S: (Attempting to sound as caring as possible yet trying not to burst out laughing) Ok, well, why did you get off the freeway?

TJ: Well, I don't know, this was a bad idea, I shouldn't have done this!


10 minutes later I was able to calm her down and locate her at a gas station.

We got her checked in at her hotel and had a lovely dinner. She is a very sweet lady, kind and beautiful. She's a loving grandmother and a volunteer at her church (please keep this in mind as you read the next section).

As I dropped her off at her hotel later that evening, she continues to impress me with how surprising she can be.


TJ: You'll never guess what I have in the front seat of my car.

S: What?

TJ: A gun.

S: WHAT?!?! Why do you have a gun??

TJ: My son let me borrow it.

S: Why does your son have a gun???

TJ: Well, actually he has two guns.

S: Why on earth does he have TWO guns???

TJ: He hunts, everybody has guns in Washington. He gave it to me for protection on the drive.


Turns out there were no bullets in the gun (shocking, I know). From there our weekend was rather dull. I think the only way it could have increased with excitement is if she had a dead hitchhiker in her trunk. I mean, when your mom's got a gun, you know that's pretty much the peak of your thrills for a while.