Pretty soon, we’ll be snowbound, and the seed catalogs (otherwise known as Porn for Gardeners) will start to arrive.
But this week kicks off not only celebrations of family and holy days for many religions, but a four-week orgy of eating which will hopefully be a feasible explanation for why I’ve been indulging in so much Diet Porn recently.
I’m giving away a signed 5×7 print of our resident turkey who, while grateful we ordered our holiday bird from the local turkey farm and allowed him to keep raiding our front yard, still wants to remind us that next Thursday is Thanksgiving – not Christmas or Hannukah.
So, while you may not want to put this anyplace where guests can see it, if you think it would bring you a little Turkey-day cheer, leave me an answer below to the great cosmic question below –
If you were making muffins for 5 or 6 dozen people, would you make a Sweet or Savory muffin?
I’ll pull a winner at random on Monday.
Less than a lifetime ago I worked Thanksgiving with some regularity.
So when the girl at the big box store told me with a crestfallen gaze that everyone at her store was working this Thanksgiving, I knew exactly how she felt.
I’ve worked more low-wage, lower-respect jobs than I care to remember. And, while I probably work harder physically at any of those jobs than I do at the one I have now, sweat wasn’t the only thing I sacrificed for those low wages.
Sometimes working holidays was rewarding (I spent part of a few holidays at a nursing home helping other people have their family holiday, for example) and it made up for my lost family time to some degree. A lot of times, however, I wondered if the radio or beer I was selling was actually so vital that it couldn’t wait until a non-national holiday. Sure, there was a choice not to work that day, if you also wanted to make the choice not to work for that company again and then try and find a job with a recent firing on your next application, so it wasn’t much of a option.
And I know this girl doesn’t really have a choice.
But this year I do one.
Since so many stores have decided to cancel Thanksgiving (because stores care so much about working people who need deals on DVD players that couldn’t possibly be offered 24 or even 36 hours later so that the working people who work for them could give thanks with their families) and are skipping right to Christmas, our family is deciding to follow suit.
I’m not actually going to wear a red velvet suit even though I am un-uniquely shaped to do it. I am, however, recruiting the Big Guy and the two things for whom we give thanks to play Santa for a little while on Thanksgiving and take some cheer (Thanksgiving or Christmas) and a few baskets of muffins to one of the local box stores near us.
And while I don’t have any illusions that we’re going to change the world or make up for lost family time. But hopefully a little random kindness baked at 350 for 25 minutes will bring a little bit of home to people who need it.
Allow me to get on my detergent box for a minute.
That’s about as long as it’ll take for said box to collapse under my weight as I diatribe while the next load of laundry finishes and the dishwasher wraps up the dry cycle.
See, a couple days ago, I was reading a post about the difference between career writers and a hobby writers (I don’t claim to be either – writing is not something I do, it’s what I am). About halfway through the article I stumbled across the idea that those who write less frequently were suffering ‘bored housewife syndrome.’
I’ve seen variations of that sentiment anytime someone wants to belittle the creative urges and efforts of other artists or writers struggling to keep art in their lives, whether it’s in response to the online work of a mom picking up a camera for a first time and finding a new part of her soul or a mommy-blogger spending a few minutes a day to feed their literary soul.
Behind that phrase is the idea that creative wives and mothers are looking to fill the spare time on our hands rather than something in our souls.
Which leads me to the big question I had at the end of the post – who the heck are these bored housewives and how do I get an application for their club?
(I know it’s been more than a minute, but I’m getting there.)
I’ve been a work-at-home mom for about four years now. During all that time I’ve also been a housewife, and, while my cleaning allergy (I think it really is a medical condition) creates some challenges, I do manage to do most of the same things competent housewives do.
I have made over a thousand peanut butter sandwiches, washed and hung enough laundry to fill the Grand Canyon, ran a taxi service, stayed up with sick kids and healthy kids who needed to eat every three hours.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I voluntarily committed myself to this circus years ago and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it, but one thing I have never been is bored.
I do think the term ‘bored housewife’ belongs in the encyclopedia next to Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and Elvis because I have never met another housewife who is bored, wondering how to fill up the hours in her day.
My time to write – whether in a journal or blog or book – is carved out of the wax of the candle that I burn at both ends of each day. Most days I do it with abandon, hoping that someday it may pay but wanting to do it so badly that I don’t care if I never see a dime for my writing (okay, I’d like to see one or two dimes).
Butf I will not concede that art produced during stolen hours or even minutes, means that I – or any part-time artist – am any less serious about my creative career than the person who has arrived at the place where they do have hours a day to devote to their art.
It just might take me a bit longer to get there.