The first WORK email I received today started with this:

Good morning Laura,

Are you feeling fat and sassy this morning?

I don’t know this person, but they’re clearly watching me, big brother style.  When am I ever NOT feeling fat and sassy? And the day after Thanksgiving? The answer is, “Amen, sister, can I get a hallelujah!”

Thanksgiving is theoretically the most wonderful time of the year. It’s all about overcoming our differences to come together and eat until we pass out in front of the TV, just like the Pilgrims and the Natives did. I like that. Normally, I stretch this joyous holiday into a 5-day weekend in California, over-consuming and over-exercising with the entire Belquist clan, none of which has ever heard of the word “moderation.” This year marked the first Thanksgiving in Divorced Kid World, as well as the last chance for Adam to catch the CU (powder puff) football team play Nebraska at home. To appease all parties, we opted to stay in Colorado for this one, and Adam and I agreed (through extortion and coercion) to cook Thanksgiving at Mom’s house after we did our brunch duties at Dad’s.

Such a monumental occasion suggests documentation. Without further ado, the play-by-play:

8:50 am: I wake up to a text from Adam requesting I text him when I wake up. I do so, find out he’s in South Denver, and suggest he drives himself to Dad’s for brunch, since picking him up would mean driving over an hour out of my way. We fight, he tries to manipulate me into picking him up anyway by telling me he hates people who don’t follow through on promises. I passive-aggressively don’t respond and get in the shower. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

9:35: Apparently confused about what holiday it is, I dress like Santa Clause, if Santa wore short red dresses to family gatherings.

10:10: I load the day’s necessities into my car—my toothbrush, laptop, and a case of wine. I look twice at the tequila and try to convince myself I won’t need it.

10:37: I arrive at Thanksgiving feast numero uno feeling awkward and wishing I’d picked Adam up after all. After I cut my coffee with Bailey’s, Dad’s gf Wendy suggests we open the champagne, and I agree, relieved. Since I’m the resident wine-o, this task falls to me. I can’t get the cork out. Fail. Wendy’s son Dustin does not fail. I’m both demoted and dejected.

11:12: We sit down to eat. Brunch conversation surrounds witty comments on the use of instant mashed potatoes in Thanksgiving dinner and, remarkably without my doing, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, the corn lobby, and why processed food is a manifestation of everything that is wrong with the world. I bask in my sphere of influence, happy that I’ve created an army of foaming-at-the-mouth food issue people, even if they’ve taken it a step further than me and inexplicably eliminated plastic from their homes. At least we’re not eating turkey bacon. Thank you, Michael Pollan, Patron Saint of all things locally raised and organic, may you bless yourself.

12:29 pm: My armpits start to get sweaty from the caffeine-nervousness combo. Maybe because Wendy’s telling me all about how she made her cranberry sauce and stuffing the night before, I have yet to start, and I still have no idea how to cook a turkey. She gives me a recipe that involves making a foil tent, which is impossible for me to envision without including foil sleeping bags and foil pillows. She also offers to send me home with cranberry relish and her own homemade stuffing. Wisely reasoning that Mom probably wouldn’t like eating Thanksgiving sides made by her ex-husband’s girlfriend, I politely decline. Besides, that feels like cheating, so I freak out and announce an early departure about 4 minutes later, thinking about the fact that Grandma Judy has already threatened to write me out of the will if dinner isn’t served between 7:30 and 8.

1:11: I arrive at Mom’s house.

1:12: Grandma Judy and I get into a fight about how to cook a turkey. I’m obviously acting like an expert since I’m now armed with instructions and a vision of a foil tent. She looks down at me from her turkey ivory tower, built through 48 years of experience, and tells me the only way to cook a turkey is in a bag. I tell her to go sit down. She tells me I’m going to fail miserably, and also that if I don’t use a bag to cook the turkey, the entire family will get AIDS. 9 minutes later, I’m deaf and hoarse, and I grudgingly agree to let her take over all turkey cooking activities. Win for Grandma Judy.

1:21: Apparently taking over all turkey-cooking activities does not include washing the turkey. I struggle with the 22-pounder, making sure to get water in every orifice. Grandma Judy loudly suggests I use soap so as not to give everyone salmonella. I loudly refuse so as not to make everyone ingest chemicals.

1:24: Grandma Judy and I take 9000 photos of her favorite part of the turkey, the neck. She makes me hold it and makes a lot of jokes about posting those pictures so as to threaten ex-boyfriends, stalkers, and would-be suitors. I think that sounds like a great idea.

1:59: Adam has chopped 2 onions, a whole bunch of celery, all of the sweet potatoes, a bulb of garlic, chives, rosemary, and sage. I have toasted a few pieces of bread and burnt a couple of them. Adam is the detail person. I am the higher level visionary. I have also already had a lot of wine.

2:37: I find the can of cranberry sauce and the bag of stovetop stuffing mix Grandma Judy bought in addition to my shopping list of ingredients. It’s good to know my family has faith in my ability to pull off a fully homemade Thanksgiving feast.

3:10: The pies, cranberries, and stuffing are finally done and the turkey is in the oven. I eat 3 cookies I find in a bag on the counter and go nap on the chair in front of the TV.

5:15: I wake up to find Adam half on and half off the other chair in the living room, yet inexplicably still asleep. He looks like he’s practicing for international flights. I wake him up to finish the feast preparation. We promptly get in a fight because apparently the cookies on the counter were his and apparently they cost a fortune. He calls me a fatty. I call him an ass hole. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

5:27: The potatoes are boiling, the chicken stock is reducing, and my béchamel is bomb. I threaten to light Adam on fire because due to football and my consumption of his precious cookies, he’s decided he’s no longer helping. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

6:42: Mom’s friend Luke arrives while I’m mid-meltdown because everyone’s bailed on me for appetizers and Broncos at the last minute. Luke is 4 years older than me and tells jokes that I liked in third grade, but he’s also objectively one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. My brain is confused, so I’m tossing back glass after glass of champagne, eating cheese, and trying to watch the 37 things on the stove top/not burn myself.

7:10: The turkey comes out of the oven to rest. I mutter a comment about it being dry, Grandma Judy must have sonar hearing because she retorts that the bird is more MOIST than any turkey she’s ever seen. I spend a precious 3 minutes in repulsed convulsion over the word moist; Adam takes the opportunity to drop a few more words I hate (ointment… blech).

7:36: I begin rotating things in and out of the oven in an effort to keep everything warm while Grandpa Jim teaches Adam how to carve a turkey. Patience not being my strong suit, I make a suggestion or 25 about how maybe this learning experience could be put off until a year when we have the luxury of an extra 30 minutes before dinner. I also notice at this point that Adam didn’t whisk all of the flour lumps out of the gravy. I tell him this. He must be deaf because he ignores me.

7:51: We sit down to eat. The gravy is cold. Grandma Judy is trying to outdo Luke with bad jokes. Mom can’t figure out why a water pitcher is useful. Adam is still calling me a fatty. I hate everyone. So does Grandpa Jim, but he’s a lot more subtle about it.

7:53: I ate too much cheese. I’ve taken three bites and I’m stuffed. Everyone else loves the food, or pretends to love it, probably because I will rip their throats out if they say otherwise.

7:54: Apparently Luke doesn’t eat carbs. I mentally cross him off all invite lists for future parties.

7:55: The turkey is moist. Grandma Judy gloats. I congratulate her on using foolproof modern technology to achieve her desired effect.

7:59: I’ve inexplicably cleaned my plate and have reached the wall of death or vomit.  Probably vomit since I’ve had a mild case of the stomach flu since last night.

8:05: Pie. Thank god I have a second stomach for dessert.

8:07: Grandpa Jim busts out his notes on the characteristics of the generations and baits all of us (uh, Grandma Judy and me) into a discussion. Highlights of his generation: loyal, career-oriented, don’t like fun at the office. Highlights of my generation: networking attention whores, whimsical non-executors, don’t like the office, period. Luke must not have a joke on the subject because he is silent. Mom is subtly trying to fit herself into a younger generation.

9:05: Grandma Judy and I decide to play Scrabble. Grandpa Jim bets on Grandma Judy to win. My first play is worth 70 points. My second play is worth 66 points. I tell Grandpa Jim to get over his generational prejudice because I have arrived.

9:17: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

9:54: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

10:11: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

10:32: I show Grandma Judy where she can get more points because I feel kind of bad for her. She calls me a friggin’ horrid bitch. I laugh. She laughs. She’s still losing.

10:59: I win 390-262. Grandma Judy tells me at least she knows how to cook a turkey in a bag.

Key takeaways:

1. I survived.
2. This entire day built up to 15 minutes of consumption. Due to the appetizers pregame and the stomach flu, it wasn’t even an enjoyable 15 minutes.
3. The global system will crash during my generation due to ADD and a lack of execution on lofty goals.
4. Michael Pollan rules.
5. I am now the family’s reigning Scrabble champ.  Proudest. Moment. Ever.