edge of the continent

I’m not entirely certain what possessed me to declare that I would cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. As my enthusiasm for cooking is heavily, heavily tempered by a near-complete lack of patience for the act itself, my better guesses are in the general vicinity of “delusions of grandeur” and “acute Martha Stewart Syndrome”. I tend to wander off — a lot — to check my email, to read, whatever; these are habits that rarely bode well for whatever dish I have in mind. Despite this less-than-promising history, I volunteered to take on a massive amount of cooking on the very same weekend my allergies got all wonky on me, Texas-style…

…if allergy attacks had a ’style’, that is. Texas is pretty big in many ways (so I am told), ergo ‘Texas-style’. But wait… there’s Alaska, which is considerably larger than Texas both in terms of square-mileage and length of coastline…

Ahem.

…and yet good fortune smiled upon me (in pity, I gather) and led me to discover the secret to marathon cooking, Texas- or Alaska-style: over-the-counter antihistimines. Seriously. Others may drowse after ingesting one of these magical pills, but not I. As my eyes stopped their watering, my nose discontinued its dripping, and my entire upper body called a temporary cease-fire on its allergy-induced itching fit, I found I was energized, I was a machine, I was on it! The turkey was successfully wrestled into the oven, all four burners on the stove got a workout, the table was decorated and set, and, as a bonus, there was a “fun with giblets” moment. There were culinary experiments with a gravy made from the pan-drippings (not so much) and a turkey noodle soup (really quite nice). I even managed to finish a couple of loads of laundry during all this cooking madness.

Much to my delight, the bird was both aesthetically pleasing and tasty-edible. I laid to rest any lingering visions of a poultry-induced intestinal disorder epidemic and happily served my meal to a receptive, ravenous family.

Two days later, I am so over turkey, any-style.

I purchased a PDA almost two years ago after making the (somewhat impulsive) decision to replace my paper planner. The device was wonderfully small — it fit so nicely in my messenger bag! — and easy to use. I could access and modify my calendar, notes, and to-do lists from my computer. I could type in all that information. Best of all, I could download all sorts of interesting games and programs for my unending amusement. What a beautiful, lovely thing. Why hadn’t I done this sooner?

Paper, that’s why. It was the damned paper. That, and my affinity for pens. And for holding pens. And for writing with pens. And for outlining my evil, world-domination plans with pens.

I missed my paper planner so much I would cry (even evil world-domination planners need a good cry, it would seem). I missed hand-writing everything into my calendar and sticking little post-its with updated info in my address book. I missed flipping through the pages and being able to read everything in a single glance. I missed having a secure place to jam my bills and letters, a place I would actually look at everyday that I might remember to mail my stuff in a timely fashion and avoid ominous phone calls from strange people looking for their money. Again. I missed the weird plastic pockets I used for holding receipts, ticket stubs, and the odd photo or two. I especially missed the dorky joy I would feel when purchasing new calendar refills at the end of each year. Oh yes, I missed my little black planner.

But I really liked my little gadgety thing.

So now I carry a larger bag and use both — the gadget for work, the planner for everything else in my life. It is a practice that sort of defeats the purpose of either instrument and yet I persist, content with the knowledge that both my paper fetish and my enjoyment of gadgety things are happily satisfied. How could something so wrong feel so right?

I have toiled at my workplace for awhile now and it has afforded me the opportunity to meet all manner of people with whom I may not have otherwise crossed paths. Two years ago, I became acquainted with a local painter when he was hired to work on a few of our art installations. He was an unassuming man: slight, quiet — meek, almost — and his mannerisms sometimes suggested that he wasn’t quite sure how to fill out and own his own skin. He was kind and thoughtful and I enjoyed our conversations about the work and his projects, but it was when we discovered that both his mother and my grandmother were ailing from senile dementia that we truly bonded. He shared his struggles of having lived with it, experienced it in a day-to-day fashion; he suggested books for me to read, books to educate, books to understand. I looked forward to talking with him. I knew that he got it.

My grandmother passed away as the winter opened its doors to a new spring. His own mother followed in the final, lingering days of summer. We were both moved to a new place of loss and grief, burdens lifted, unanticipated guilt. Neither of us had any answers, but our talks were still a comfort. I knew that he got me.

I was saddened to learn that he died this week. I had not known he was so ill — none of us had — but it would seem that he had lived far longer than anyone had expected. It’s funny how we had shared so much but how I had known so little about the rest of his life: he had brothers and sisters, he had children. It’s only now when he is gone that I got to see the bigger picture beyond the tiny, invaluable slice I had been gifted. Wherever he is, I would like to think that he is still creating his art, and that he is healthy and at peace. I would like to think that maybe now I get him, too.

I’m not much for receptions. Or parties. Or any quasi-social gathering of, say, three or more people where I might actually be expected to mingle and chat with (at best) slight acqaintances or (at worst) complete and utter strangers. If I see you at such a gathering and I know you fairly well, I will cling to you like mildew to grout and cramp your style royally as I will hover by you all evening until you finally flee in desperation. My face will contort and my left eyelid will begin to spasm rapidly as I wrack my brain for something, ANYTHING to talk about. I will crumple the party’s napkin supply in my sweaty palms and nervously clutch my cup of wine/diet coke/painkillers as I scout out the best location for blending into the background.

Heaven-forbid if someone tries to shake my sodden hands.

I will studiously examine every knickknack/dvd collection/three-volume photo album series of the host family’s road trip to Cincinnati as a flimsy excuse for not partaking in the conversations about movies I surely didn’t see/political figures I’ve never heard of/pop bands that give me hives. And the chances are very good that I will offer to wash your dishes/pick up ice/resurface the wood floor in your foyer in order to kill time during the OAP (Obligatory Attendence Period), which varies by event type/relationship to host/length of time before the sedatives wear off.

All told, I had a decent time at last night’s little fete.