Enough time has passed that I feel strong enough to discuss this. We don’t have support groups for the holidays, but we should. Thanksgiving is the day of the year I dislike most. Why? Three reasons.
- No one ever believes I’m really not going to eat fowl… “It’s T.H.A.N.K.S.G.I.V.I.N.G!” (Yes, I know. If it weren’t T.H.A.N.K.S.G.I.V.I.N.G I’d be at home drinking a S.M.O.O.T.H.I.E.)
My name is Lydia and I am a vegan.
Yes, I’m a vegan EVEN ON THANKSGIVING. Leave me alone.
When invited to a social gathering that involves food, I RSVP- “I’ll come for cocktails”, because I do not enjoy my food choices being the focal point of dinner conversation. That seems a reasonable alternative to me, but I am not afforded this escape route during holidays that are primarily attributed to eating.
People say vegans are pushy.
I say no, you are.
- This is a day commemorating that first harvest in 1621 when Americans fed undocumented aliens from Europe, and it is now celebrated by hypocritical descendants of said Europeans. It is a holiday based on lies and myths… since we are embellishing, why not make it more interesting? I say the “settlers” flew into Plymouth on the backs of dragons.
- I’m just going to say it, because these people don’t read my posts. This discrepant group gathered around this long table is inconsistent with the worlds natural order. We would never be found eating together in the wild if not for these ritualistic annual celebrations, during which genetics determine our dining partners, our paths might not ever cross. And this 👉🏻 I don’t like your spouse. I’ve tried, but blatant racism over a meal, loud ignorance, crude manners, and controlling behavior is sometimes difficult to ignore.
As much as I complain, I know holidays are hardest on the person who acts as host. Until 2 years ago, when an injury resulted in the removal of my name from the rotation of hosts for these gatherings, I lived it…
Here is a page from my Thanksgiving diary, 2014:
The psychological warfare of hosting a holiday gathering makes home a battle field:
Mission: Complete required celebration with minimal casualties, and beat last year’s time.
The Week Prior
- Fortify supply lines (with the money I pulled out of my ass-orted savings). Purchase and stockpile food. (Yes I prepared meat.)
- Get house combat ready- Start well in advance of strike: Shampoo carpets and curtains, mop floors dust ceilings, launder table cloth and napkins, re-wash and inspect all: glasses, dishes, and flatware, (because someone always indiscreetly inspects their flatware and polishes it on their napkin before they eat), remove obstructions in order to clear a path from the front door to the dining room table, and back to the front door. Fresh paint might be necessary to cover my blood sweat and tears. This all must be accomplished while perpetuating normal life duties, like working a paying job and taking care of immediate family and animals.
- Minor skirmishes randomly ignite among the cadets, (my spawn), who appear to be sabotaging my efforts, resulting in a two steps forward, one step back process of preparation, because one must continue to live.
The Day Before:
- Food prep in the mess hall begins: chopping, slicing, marinating, planning, drinking.
Forge ahead to the day of battle:
- The setting sun and I are two ships that pass in the night. Morning has not quite broken, and I’m up to begin the real preparations. Objective: Food in oven.
- Ready the troops: The melee I hear means the kids (barely still), are finally up, so we are a go. I assign aids to set the table (no mans land), and to bathe the dogs. Meantime, I jump in the shower as the oven is doing its job, and try to think about something more relaxing…maybe war?
- Ambushed: The doorbell rings, (because someone is always painfully early). One of my eyes is still in the makeup kit when they arrive… “A Clockwork Orange” look it is.
- Counterattack: I put on some music to drown out critical questions and comments about the logistics (what we’ll be dining on), and the poor condition of the barracks (my house). They now have beverages in hand, the glasses carefully inspected for tampering before they drink.
- Goal-distraction: I head back to the staging area. I don my apron, the one with a life size speedo clad greased up body builder torso photo on it. This is a diversionary tactic.
- Full invasion begins as the guests arrive. Ex-husbands, ex-wives, ex-carnival workers from the guess your age and weight booth are invited, because I have been told it shows the children… no idea- (whose idea was this?)
**Medical supplies** Ah, back up forces have arrived- ❤️ my sister 👩🏻 with champagne🍾.
- Patrolling the grounds: Someone is always late. Holding up the getting on with it so we can all get the hell out of here and pretend this never happened part of the day. I see the latecomers have arrived.
The Dining Briefing:
We move into no (sane) mans land. As we dine on the rations, we search for intelligence, but find instead:
•Bad table manners
•A Republican 🙀
- A decisive victory is called when the last car pulls out of the driveway.
- Time to clear away the shrapnel.