Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner Read Online Free PDF Page B

Because we feeeeel? Like watching
Goldfinger
.”
    Stacey laughs and says, “That can’t possibly be true,” while I nod emphatically. We arrive at WFM and find a cherry parking spot on the second floor next to the door. We exit the car and enter the store, taking the long escalator that dumps out right by the bar. “Need to cocktail up before you finish the story?”
    “Yes, but I won’t. Oh, and this
totally
happened, most recently from Thanksgiving 1992 through 1994 until my brother’s family entirely stopped coming for that holiday, and Christmases 1999 through 2006.”
    “Oy.” We grab matching carts and begin to peruse the most perfect stack of Honeycrisps. Each one is the size of a softball and they easily weigh one and a half pounds. We both murmur in admiration while we stuff them in plastic produce bags.
    “Yep. Hey, speaking of—sometimes my mother would take the thing my father dreamed about all year, her one home-run swing, the apple pie—and she’d substitute zucchini instead. Just because. Ask me how well that went over. I mean, I appreciate her looking out for my father’s health, but it’s one freaking dinner over the course of three hundred and sixty-five days. Hey, how about we
don’t
make it a fat-free Thanksgiving? I’m not saying she was all Joan Crawford because that’s certainly not the case, but believe me when I say I never looked forward to any holiday.”
    Stacey pats me on the arm as we wend our way past the fancy lettuce display. “Then? Every meal ended in recriminations when we’d make my mother angry by accusing her of hiding the butter and emptying all the saltshakers and filling them with No Salt. Which, of course, she did. By the way? When you put Smart Balance HeartRight Light Spread on mashed potatoes? I totally
can
believe it’s not butter. Passive aggression; it’s what’s for dinner.”
    Stacey stops in front of the fresh-cut fruit fridge. “Oh, peanut, I’m sorry.”
    “It is what it is.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m not all scarred and I don’t need therapy or anything. It’s just that the idea of going over the river and through the woods? Holds no appeal.”
    “What about Fletch?”
    “Ironically, our traditions were a step up for him. At least
we
had James Bond. Poor Fletch used to get stuck in the mountains of Virginia with no television and his grandmother would boil a chicken for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d serve the big, flaccid, gray mass of meat and say, ‘Let’s eat and get it over with already.’ So when we’re all
A Christmas Story
and order Chinese this year, don’t feel sorry for us because we’re going to have the best non-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving ever.”
    Stacey furrows her brow while debating pineapple chunks or rings. Then, after a few seconds she says, “No.”
    “No pineapple?”
    Stacey bangs on her shopping cart. “No. No, no. You need to celebrate Thanksgiving.”
    “What part of my
I hate the holidays
diatribe did you not understand?”
    “You don’t
hate
Thanksgiving. You hate conflict. You hate bad food. You hate chaos. Thanksgiving is inherently happy. No one hates Thanksgiving.” She stops herself. “Well, Native Americans maybe. Point is
you
can’t not be happy on a day where pie figures in so prominently. What you need to do is
reclaim
Thanksgiving. You need to flip the script.”
    “We tried that last year and it was lame.”
    “Because it was just the two of you. This year, you invite guests.”
    I protest, “Who’s going to come? Everyone always has Thanksgiving plans.”
    “Yeah, miserable plans.
I can, in fact, believe it’s not butter
plans. Plans they’re dreading because they never had your awesome Thanksgiving Day dinner as an option before. Start askingaround. You’ll be surprised at how many people would rather go to your house. I’m telling you, flip the script.”
    “But—”
    “Flip it.”
    “I can’t—”
    “Flip. It.”
    We’re still debating when we run into our dear friend