… even more so now that Smart Phones are becoming ubiquitous. For the better… or for the worst?
To a certain extent it has changed WHEN and WHERE we take pictures. The way we interpret the world. The way we caption the things we see. Now every snap shot that comes through my daily life deserves demands a caption of its own. A running commentary, subtitle of some sort.
Got to go?
Need a job?
Bookstores are fun!
"Mom, that's you!" "Awww. You guys..."
Sarah Palin's new movie?
Thanksgiving has not been forgotten. Well, sort of...
Ready?
Ok.
Are you sure you want to know?
Ok. Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…
"How pumpkin pies are made"* What do you expect?
* This is one of those “Internet Memes” that have been emailed around. I do not claim any credit for the wit and skills involved in answering this specific mystery (Mystery #2854) in life.
This is what I am talking about!
Thanks to Elly over at BugginWord for alerting me to this wonderful, modern rendition of Thanksgiving.
Elly has much to thank for: she beat cancer!
Now let’s all go over and say: Happy first year in remission, Elly!
Even if you don’t know its name, you must have seen this iconic painting by Norman Rockwell:
The name of the painting is Freedom from Want, by Norman Rockwell in 1943. Ever since its appearance and subsequent permeation into the pop culture and the collective American consciousness, it is also known as Thanksgiving Dinner.
This is the quintessential image conjured up whenever a family feast/celebration is mentioned.
Books, movies, TV shows. Countless re-presentation of this painting serving as emulation, improvement, critique, parody, and commentary of the definition of (“an American”) family, the imagining / celebration / debunking of it.
Mr. Monk asked me to make a turkey for Thanksgiving.
“But I am ordering it from Honey Baked Ham. Just like last year. And actually, just like every year.”
“A real turkey?”
“Hmm. Yes…. Turkey breast.”
Truth be told: the whole family, including my parents-in-law who visit us every Thanksgiving, will NOT touch the dark meat, except me. We are also not big meat eaters. Therefore a small turkey breast makes perfect sense. Waste not. Right?
“That’s NOT a real turkey then.”
“What do you mean it’s not a real turkey? You ate it last year and you liked it.”
“But I want a real turkey. You know, like they show on TV with a lot of people around the table…”
“You mean a whole turkey with skins and bones on a big plate? With the wings and legs and everything?”
“Yup.”
“And there are things tied around the legs and the turkey is surrounded by pretty, fluffy, green, things?” It’s obvious I am woefully unaware of cooking jargons…
“Yup.”
So, he does not really want a turkey, he wants what the TV shows and movies depict as a proper family celebration. I may be able to produce a golden turkey, with silver things and red strings tied around the legs, BUT I would still be unable to produce LOTS OF PEOPLE…
Here is his expectation:
Here is what I plan to deliver:
Clearly there is a gap.
This conversation sent me on a trip of soul-searching: Am I not making enough efforts to create the “right” family memories for my children? Am I guilty of depriving my children of living the “American dream”?
You have to forgive me: being a foreigner or maybe just being plain neurotic, I am forever self-conscious of “depriving” my children of the proper “American experiences”. Deep down, out of pride (which as I am well aware is one of the Seven Deadly Sins…) and sheer vanity, I want them to grow up just as American as the next kid can be, in addition to all the global perspectives I am trying to instill in them as well. I don’t want my foreignness to become somehow a liability. Well, like I said, sheer pride and vanity…
I was all ready to make Mr. Monk the turkey after an one-hour long conversation with my lone co-worker who drew diagrams, even a cross-section one, on the white board to explain step by step how to prep and cook a proper Thanksgiving turkey, including where and how and when to put on the silver things on the legs. I asked Mr. Monk again:
“Mommy will make you a turkey if that’s what you really want for Thanksgiving.”
“He’s not going to eat it!” My husband stepped in.
“Mom. I am NOT going to eat it. Just so you know.” Mr. Monk said somberly.
“So you just want to look at it?”
“Uh-huh.”
Note to Self: Do not watch cooking shows with Mr. Monk again in the hope that he may be tempted to widen his palette beyond plain pasta, white bread, and rice. So far, it has not worked.
Note to Self II: Check Mr. Monk’s Letter to Santa in case he asks for Martha Stewart to be his new mom. Not that I could do anything about it. But it would be good to know if I totally fucked up by not cooking him the golden turkey…
I know this is sad on so many different levels… Let’s not even talk about how sad it is that I got so excited over the fact that my “Bring Back Thanksgiving” post is, as of this second, the number one result on Google.
What got me really sad is that not enough people care, or even wonder, about the demise of, the neglect over Thanksgiving sandwiched between the TWO Retail-Friendly holidays. I will not name names. You know who you are, said holidays… Since that would explain why mine shows up on the very top.
But gloat I will, even just for 5 minutes. So…
Oh yeah, oh yeah. Who’s your daddy? Or rather, who’s your emotionally unstable mommy?!
I have to say, and yes, the following reaction says a lot about my pretension, my secretly wanting to appear to be what I am not: edgy, devil may care, swashbuckling, avant garde, ground-breaking, cool, I WAS DISAPPOINTED MY BLOG WAS RATED
WTF? I am seriously crushed.
I would think it at least warranted a PG-13.
I can’t believe I have only said FUCK once. So after all this, I have been exposed as a Prude. Great. Just great… Great as in
p.s. You can also rate your own blog on this dating site. And come back and gloat if you are rated better than G. Yes, come back and GLOAT! So I can curse you and thus improve my rating.
p.p.s. In case it is broken, I tested the accuracy of the rating algorithms with The Bloggess’ website. Fuck. It is very accurate…
p.p.p.s. PSA: Do remember to clear the histories if you are married or in a serious, supposedly committed relationship, you know, so you don’t get into unnecessary fights with your significant other(s). (Am I awesome or what for reminding you this?!)
p.p.p.p.s. I want to ask you guys: this format of Endless Postscripts, you all used it at high school when passing notes back and forth with your girlfriends, right? Don’t let me down.
p.p.p.p.p.s. Turns out I am rated differently on different dating sites. Excuse me, but why are dating sites offering blog ratings?
This must be from a super conservative or Self-denial Anonymous dating site: the reason for my blog’s BETTER rating is cited as Fuck (x1), Death (x1).
Credit: I need to give credit to My Wildlife’s Words. I found this phenom of Blog Rating badge-thingy through her “connections”.
I saw this photo essay on Huffington Post, and it resonated with me somehow. (Actually, not surprisingly…)
The kid’s name is Alex. A-L-E-X.
I hope s/he is doing ok. I hope the smiley face means this was all done tongue in cheek. Perhaps it is a clever maneuver, a sarcastic comment on, a protest against this ubiquitous school project.
Which one does not belong?
.
This post should file under: I am too lazy busy to write a proper post so I will just upload the really cute picture my 6-year-old made
p.s. I know there are some of you that despise those who say “Halloween is my favorite holiday”, secretly condemning those as Heathens. No apology given here. Halloween is OUR favorite holiday. There. I said it.