In the fall of
2009 the entire world freaked out over the swine flu. We weren’t supposed to
call it swine flu though because it was feared that people would stop eating
pork due to the misconception that this strain of flu actually came from a
goddamn pig. The P.C. term was H1N1. I still think someone fucked a pig and
forgot to shower the pig beforehand or themselves afterwards. Either way,
beastiality is generally frowned upon in our society. That Thanksgiving, as the
American nation prepared to go shopping, my best friend, Sara, and I found
ourselves victim to the cruel bitch that was swine flu. Miraculously, Liam did
not catch this. I have no fucking idea how in the hell that happened, but
perhaps whatever benevolent force in the universe that exists thought, for one
shining glorious moment, swine flu was about all I could handle when coupled
with Thanksgiving. Not that I had any major gatherings to attend to. That was
never something I really enjoyed. I would invite whichever of my friends had no
where else to go for the holiday to come to my and Sara’s shitty mold infested
townhome in West Des Moines’ privileged poor sector. Unfortunately… or
fortunately, depending on how you look at it, it was just Sara and I that year.
Once Liam was out the door on Wednesday evening, I went and started preparing
dinner whilst feeling somewhat nauseous, warm and fighting a raging headache –
all of which I just assumed was par the course for dealing with my asshole
ex-husband. By the time Thanksgiving dawned, I had been throwing up most of the
night and diarrhea had kept me wondering which end of me had earned the
privilege of the toilet and which one was going to be dangling precariously
over the side of the bathtub. Thanks to the frequent flushing of the toilet
down the hall, I had an inkling, I wasn’t alone in my misery.
Being the
stubborn WASP that I was raised to be, I still insisted that the Thanksgiving
feast of Cornish game hens, sweet potato casserole, green bean bake and pumpkin
pie needed to be cooked and that to admit defeat to something as stupid as the
flu was not only weak, but damn near un-American. After getting the various
foodstuffs into the oven, I collapsed in a heap on the living room floor,
praying that I had the strength to make it through this holiday with my wasp-y
smile still intact. Unfortunately, it is at about this point that the sweating
began and I had to be grateful for the foresight I’d had to not only bring my
heavy comforter downstairs with me that morning, but to also collapse close
enough to the dvd player and the Netflix pile to be able to throw something in
to pass the time. Just as I used up the last of my energy looking for the
goddamn remote and pondered whether or not I should be concerned about
replenishing liquids or just be grateful I hadn’t thrown up inside the hen
carcasses, Sara came down fully dressed and really upset.
“I have to go
to fucking work.”
“You’re fucking
kidding”
“No, some
asshole called in sick, so now I have to spend the next 2 hours trying not to
throw up on people.”
I gave her a
look of what I thought might be sympathy. I’m not really sure though, to be
honest. In fact, a lot of this is a blur. Anyways, I think I was more pissed
off than anything else. Here I was, DYING, and she was about to run off to
work. I was trying to make thanksgiving nice for her, and she was leaving me in
my goddamn hour of need to go tend to people she couldn’t even talk to me about
thanks to HIPAA. Thankfully, the food still had about four hours left to cook,
so, in theory, I could pass out and when I woke up, she’d be there. My
dependency on her was a little disturbing and I should have figured out then
that we were destined to become the dysfunctional married couple we are today,
but I digress.
I woke up to
the credits rolling on some movie I can’t for the life of me recall, Sara
running up the stairs to throw up in the bathroom and a kitchen timer going
off. Pretty decent timing. I heaved myself off of the floor and checked on
various food. The hens were ready to go in the oven and lifting them off the
counter to carry them the two steps to the oven was an act of endurance I knew I
wasn’t equal to, but still somehow managed it. When Sara came downstairs, I was
curled up in the fetal position on the couch with a mixing bowl cradled in my
arms. She looked at me with sympathy and asked if I needed anything. I think I
may have muttered something about the next movie, but I don’t recall. All I
know is that the next two hours of my life were the most upsetting hours I have
ever spent. EVER. The movie was called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I have a
thing for holocaust movies. Maybe it’s my affinity for Judiaica that has now
become so strong I’m working on becoming one of the chosen people, but on that
day, I wished to Christ I hadn’t ever started down this path of intrigue in the
Holocaust. Most holocaust movies end on a sad, but hopeful note. This one did
not. It involved two adorable boys befriending one another from across a barbed
wire fence, until the one outside the fence decides it’s time to go over (well,
actually, under) to play with his new best friend, who kindly gives him
matching striped pajamas to blend in with. Did I mention that this newly
attired boy’s father was an SS officer? I should have. I think it was
important. The boys run off to take a shower with the rest of the society of
striped clothing enthusiasts and I sat there saying, out loud (I swear I was
only muttering this, but Sara swears I was screaming at the tv),oh dear God,
they wouldn’t. They would never do this. No way. The dad is gonna burst in and
save the kid at the last minute. SPOILER ALERT. He doesn’t. He finds out way to
late and goes to the fence, finds his kid’s clothing in a heap, runs to the
camp and the kid is already in a fire heap. Fin.
Yeah, that’s
how they ended this movie. God. Damn. Happy Thanksgiving. I bet you forgot that
this was a Thanksgiving story. Needless to say, I was traumatized. Here was a
movie that actually succeeded in making Schindler’s List look like a Mel Brooks
comedy by comparison. Then, the kitchen timer went off and I somehow managed to
lift this 750lb pan of two Cornish game hens out of the oven along with all the
aforementioned side dishes. By the time, the food was divvied up, I was
exhausted and looking at a roasted carcass and various vegetables was making me
feel sick again. I took two bites, looked at Sara and said, “I just. fucking. can’t.”
and put my plate in the kitchen, climbed the twelve miles of stairs to my
bedroom and collapsed on my bed. I awoke what felt like 4 days later, but in
reality was more like a half hour, to find Sara lying next to me. When we both
were finally conscious again, I asked her why she didn’t crash in her room, she
simply said that she didn’t want me to choke on my vomit and die. In that
moment, I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone and then I threw up on the
carpet.
