We have a saying in our house: It’s just not Thanksgiving until there’s a plumbing emergency. And guess what? It’s really and truly Thanksgiving now.
Eh, it’s not really an emergency, unless you consider it absolutely essential to have running water in the kitchen. I suspect it’s a failing faucet, nothing my husband can’t handle, but this week he is Sick, Sick with a capital S, and if there’s anything unpacking a faucet requires, it’s a clear head. I could call a plumber, I guess, but I know Alan will veto that one out of hand. He comes from a long line of men who solve their own problems. And so this problem will be solved with much cursing and misery.
We have an extra day in all this, as we both have to work on the holiday, and we’re not celebrating much until the day after, when Alan’s sister arrives, along with NN.c’s webmaster J.C. Burns, along with his plus-one, Sammy. So there’s time. But it’s dwindling.
I meant that about the plumbing emergencies. In back-to-back years, we had clogged drains, first at my parents’ and the following year at my sister’s. It was the classic Thanksgiving clog — potato peels. As I didn’t learn this until I was 35 or so, I say this now to those of you who might not know yet: Don’t put potato peels down a garbage disposal. They don’t get chopped, but slip out the vertical slots in the unit to form stubborn boluses downstream, generally about one inch past the reach of whatever drain snake you might own, and no number of goddammits will free them. You will end up calling a plumber, most likely. The plumbers’ lobby is the reason DON’T PUT POTATO PEELS DOWN THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL isn’t tattooed on every turkey, and the focus of all those tiresome Today show segments on how to eat healthy at Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving, plumbers gather at the union hall and wait for the desperate holiday-rate calls to come in, while their wives stay home and shop online for resort wear, as they’re all headed for a warm climate as soon as the checks clear.
As for me, I have a million things to do today, and that’s without considering parent-teacher conferences, for which I should at least shower. This will be my first F2F with Mrs. Algebra, who terrifies half the class and bestowed the first B Little Miss Honor Roll has gotten in two years. Better wear the sparkly earrings.
Half the world is already phoning it in, so let’s go straight to the bloggage, eh?
And with that, a thousand sad journalists took their copy of “All the President’s Men” to the dumpster. Sally Quinn, today:
My husband and I are “Dancing With The Stars” fanatics. We plan our social life around it, often regretting invitations that fall on the night of the show. Only in emergencies would we try to TiVo.
Of all the things I could have gone the rest of my life happy not to know, it’s that Ben Bradlee watches “Dancing With the Stars” fanatically. Well, he’s an old man now.
I don’t know about you, but I cannot wait to see the Coens’ remake of “True Grit.” Cannot wait.
I’m really enjoying Salon’s Hack Thirty.
And now it’s 9:30, and I’m supposed to be dialing someone’s digits right now. So best get going.