Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste. 

From Austin to Boston: Part Three - Send in the Clowns

Part One and Part Two 

******

Is it horrible for me to admit that I can't decide what makes me happier: the fact that Anders' condition has improved, so he was discharged from ICU earlier this morning; or the fact that this new unit doesn't impose restrictions on the number of visitors he can have at any given time?

Okay, I'm going to be an asshole and say it: I'm just happy I won't be third man out, because even when I'm present, Terie and Sally are becoming, like, BFFs—right in front of my face, no less. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if I were stuck in the waiting room, unable to provide interference?  It would be all...Ooooh... "Sally, you like Haribo gummy bears, too? OMG, so do I! We have so much in common," or... ooooh... "Terie, thanks for cleaning up the room. You are so AWESOME," or... "Look, Anders, Terie bought you a Spider-Man action figure. Isn't Aunty Ter, Ter the best?"... and blah, blah, blah, OH MY GOD, I'm going to fucking puke rainbows and unicorns.

Despite their budding friendship, which resembles two lost kindred spirits reuniting after years of separation, I'm secure enough to know where I stand as a friend. I AM NEEDED, god damn it, and I will do anything to prove it! Which is why, when the nurse announces that it is important for Anders to pee, I over zealously volunteer to help him like I'm some kind of pedophile out on parole. Sally, suffering from a back injury, doesn't put up a fight. Like, at all.

Unfortunately, Anders not only makes peepee, but he also makes poopoo. This is considered great progress from a post-operative point of view, but to me, it is totally gag worthy. I don't complain, though, because I'm an AWESOME friend like that. And I don't complain when Sally asks me to help him a second time, either. The third time, however, I've gone from being Sally's loyal friend to being her bitch, and I am more than happy to let her new best friend assume the responsibility.

In our ardent efforts to keep Anders entertained, we do all the things that he loves to do. We play Uno, which, strangely enough, he keeps winning. Unbeknownst to me, Sally and Terie are letting him win.

I am not.

Because Anders is obsessed with all things booty, we let him smack our butts, and we do little dances while shaking our ass-ets like dancers in a rap video. And though we probably shouldn't be encouraging this behavior, we actually foster it, because guess what? The kid just had open-heart surgery and if this is what makes him happy, so be it.

Right around lunchtime, we notice two clowns walk by our room. Sally, unable to contain her excitement, tells the nurse that Anders would love a visit from the clowns. Terie and I, trying to suppress our excitement, are also eager for a visit from the clowns, 'cuz said clowns are flippin' hot. And it is this very admission that makes me stand back and ask myself, "How the hell did I get here?" And by "here," I mean the point in my life where I'm so sexually deprived, I am openly admitting in a blog post that I'm getting all hot n' bothered over a pair of clowns. I feel a little better knowing that Terie is also drooling over this dynamic duo. So is Sally, but she won't admit it.

When the clowns finally come to see Anders, he couldn't care less. Teri, Sally and I, on the other hand, sway to-and-fro in time with their silly songs, while joyously clapping our hands and laughing flirtatiously. We look like three adolescent girls swooning over Justin Bieber, except we have wrinkles and saddle bags, and the objects of our affections are clowns. Clowns!

After they leave, Terie and I create pretend lives for the clowns so as to make ourselves feel less pathetic about finding them attractive. We decide they are starving musicians who have to do the clown gig by day so they can hone their real craft by night.

It is Sally who finally suggests that Terie and I go do some sightseeing around Boston. "It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so why don't you guys go out and enjoy this beautiful day."

"Oh, Sally, we simply can't; we'd feel too guilty leaving you here at the hospital," we conscientiously reply.

"No, seriously, you guys g—"

"Well, OKAY! Only if you insist," we say, our voices trailing off because we're already halfway out the door.

Seconds later, we are in a cab, on our way to Newbury Street, a trendy street lined with novelty shops and eateries. Because we are trying to cram as much in as possible, we do some quick shopping and then decide to do appetizers and wine at a couple of different restaurants.

The first restaurant, Piattini Wine Cafe, is absolutely amazing. We share three appetizers and have a flight of wine each. Terie gives it two thumbs up:

Our next stop is Tapeo, where we are more impressed with the ambiance and the bartender than we are with the appetizers. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel deep in my core is a result of the wine, or if it's a response to the bartender's Latin American accent. But my heightened arousal to his accent reminds me of the time I went through this phase where I was intent on only dating guys with accents. This phase was inspired by the movie Unfaithful, a suspense thriller starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane, in which Lane has an adulterous affair with an incredibly sexy French man, who ends up getting his head bashed in with a snow-globe by Gere, Lane's jilted husband. Ooops, sorry. I guess announcing "spoiler alert" is a moot point.

Anyway, this intense desire to date a guy with an accent landed me in a one night relationship with a French Canadian guy, who, in his drunken state, mistakenly confused my bathroom drawer for a toilet. Needless to say, the relationship ended poorly the next morning when I found my makeup drenched in piss. It was hardly the Diane-Lane-experience I had been hoping for.

With nightfall fast approaching, Terie and I brave the subway system... translation: the nice security guard maps out our route and also helps us buy tickets from the electronic ticket dispenser. As Terie so accurately puts it, "You'd think we were two girls fresh off the farm."

Our next stop is Sweet Caroline's, a newer restaurant that is located a block down from our apartment. Having both eaten to the point where we could puke, we decide to only order wine.

After a couple of glasses, we discuss how cute Anders is and how we feel terrible for abandoning Sally. To make up for it, we write, produce, direct and star in the following videos...

Ladies and gents, send in the clowns:

After sending them to Sally, we get this in return:

Sally texts us to tell us that Anders loved the videos, and he watched them over and over again, all the while laughing. 

For some reason, I am quite content in knowing that we were able to make Anders laugh, especially when he didn't even crack a smile for the clowns. Perhaps Terie and I have missed our calling. 

To be continued...

From Austin to Boston: Part Two - Butt I Wanna Go First!

⇈ That title up there will hopefully make sense by the end of this post. If it doesn't, I can't help it if you are not as profound thinking as I.

This will make more sense if you read Part One first. Oh, c'mon. What else are you going to do tonight?

*****

Terie and I arrive in Boston midafternoon on Wednesday. Eager to get to the hospital, we catch a cab to the apartment. Yes, that's right, we stay in an apartment 'cuz that's how we roll. Okay, fine, it's the apartment that Sally has rented for her month's stay in Boston. 

At the apartment, we find Sally's mom, Anthea, waiting for us. She and her husband Grog, Sally's dad, have been staying with Sally as a show of support. I adore Sally's parents. The fact they are British only solidifies my love for them because, as we all know, I love me some Brits. I really wish I'd been born in the U.K.. Though my mom denied it until she was blue in the face (that seems like a horrible idiom, considering I really did watch her turn blue in the face) I'm pretty sure I was conceived in England, but that would have meant my mom and dad played the "Lock-n-Key" game before they were married; hence, my mother's need to deny it vehemently.

After our initial salutations, Anthea gives us a quick tour of our swank accommodations, and then she takes us to the hospital. The hospital is in walking distance from the apartment, which is a good thing because a) we don't have a car, and b) the walk will give us a chance to burn off some of the calories we are likely to consume over the next five days. (Update: we consume a lot.) Anthea clearly takes Terie and me for two girls who are incapable of curbing their caloric intake, because she is intent on pointing out the Burger King that is conveniently located on our way to the hospital. Can't blame her, really. I have, after all, gained like three of me since we last saw each other.  

As we walk, I notice that Boston has a very scholarly feel to it. Perhaps it's all the college-aged people carrying their attache cases, scurrying to get coffee before their next lectures. Or maybe it's because I'm reminded of Good Will Hunting (yes, I know, MIT is located in Cambridge, but I'm hardly a stickler for details, people). Whatever it is, it makes me want to go back to school. I'm sure this feeling will pass once I get back to Austin. (Update: it does.)

When we arrive at Boston Children's Hospital, we meet up with Sally and Grog. Anders remains in the ICU, where only two people can visit at a time. I'm really eager to see him, so I get to go first, leaving Terie in the waiting room with Anthea and Grog. 

When I see Anders, my heart melts. It's difficult seeing anyone when he or she is sick, but seeing a child who is sick, especially one you love, is unbearably sad. Like, Million-Dollar-Baby sad.

What's even more touching is seeing Sally interact with Anders. I've always considered Sally an excellent mother, but seeing her in this light makes me regard her as the Mother Teresa of mothers... but without the hymen. She is one of the most caring and loving people I know. (Snap! She is going to love this paragraph.)

I spend some time with Anders, who isn't talking much at all—most likely a result from having been extubated earlier in the day. Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Grog has convinced Terie to buy a MacBook Air. What is it with these Grogonos and their ability to persuade people into using Macs? I became a convert, myself, after living with Sally years ago. I swear the lot of them are vested in the company. 

Because it is getting late, and Anders is drifting in and out of sleep, we decide to bid farewell to Sally and Anders. Sally declines my offer to stay the night with Anders so that she can go back to the apartment for a good night's sleep. She refuses to leave him... understandably so. 

This is a more lucid Anders later that evening, after we left. 

Sally's parents take Terie and me out for a drink to a sports bar a block down from the apartment. And by drink, I mean one each, because we are not about to get crazy-drunk in front of Sally's parents. The last time I got drunk with a bunch of Brits, I ended up making a total ass of myself and regretting it deeply. 

After a pleasant evening of appetizers, beer, and a candid conversation about Sally's childhood, we head back to the apartment. Because Anthea and Grog are flying home in the morning, we retire for the night. But only after a quick picture... okay, more like six pictures; I couldn't figure out how to work the flash. 

Terie, Anthea, Steve Jobs, and Me.

With them in one room, Terie and I have to share a bed in the other, which means we stay up whispering, taking care not to disturb them, while muffling our giggles like a couple of school girls at a slumber party.

For some reason, we get to talking about The Human Centipede, a morbidly disturbing movie about a psycho killer who sews his three victims together, connecting them by their mouths and their butts. It's one of those disgusting conversations that is absolutely pointless—one that women our age shouldn't be having. But hell, we are on our holidays. (This same excuse is uttered repeatedly over the next couple of days, every time I shove something fattening down my gullet or imbibe something that will likely damage my liver.)

We eventually laugh ourselves to sleep while contemplating who in the centipede chain is worse off. Clearly, it is the middle person. Right, Ter? I mean, we all know that the person who is first in the chain got the better end of the deal. No ifs, ands, or butts about it. 

Little do we know, thanks to a four-year-old boy, this is the first of many conversations we will have over the next week that is focussed around butts. In fact, the "derrière" will fast become the theme of our trip to Boston. 

To be continued...

From Austin to Boston: A Series

Last week, my friend, Terie, and I took a little jaunt up to Boston to support our other friend, Sally, whose son was having open-heart surgery. Allow me to provide you with the condensed version of Anders' (Sally's son's) condition... in layman's terms, of course:

• 2007: Sally is 22 weeks pregnant with her second son. She is an OB-Gyn doctor, so, having easy access to an ultrasound machine, she does weekly sonos in her office because she is a hypochondriac.
• Nurses in L&D say, "Sally, quit being so paranoid. Enough with the weekly ultrasounds, already."
• Sally doesn't listen. See Sally be defiant. 
• Sally's sonographer notices something wrong with her baby's heart. 
• Sally goes to specialist. It's not good. Like, it's really bad. 
• Sally is given the option of terminating the pregnancy because her baby is going to end up with a one-chambered heart (there are supposed to be four) which is incompatible with life, or she can go to Boston and have intrauterine surgery (surgery performed on fetus while in the womb— I know, right? Friggin' unbelievable).
• Sally chooses Boston. Yaaay, Sally, for making the best decision EVER!
• Nurses in L&D, myself included, feel like total assholes because, for once, Sally's hypochondriacal behavior pays off. Unlike like the time she did a myriad of tests to determine if she had MS, only to find out she was tired (story for another blog). 
• Sally goes to Boston, has surgery, and her baby's heart is repaired. Yaaay, modern medicine! 
• Sally has her baby in Boston, where they do another open-heart surgery on Anders right after delivery.
• Anders returns home with Sally a month later and spends the rest of his recovery in our neonatal ICU.
• Anders' case makes it on national news, and Sally is interviewed by Sunjay Gupta. 
• Rachel (me) does not get interviewed, but I guess taking care of your best friend's other son while his mother and father are in Boston isn't worthy of national attention. Screw you, CNN. Whatever.
• Anders grows into a beautiful little boy who can make your heart melt with just a smile and a smack on the butt.

The first time I went to Boston was two years ago when I accompanied Sally and Anders. Anders had a bunch of appointments to test the function of his heart, so we decided to make a trip out of it. Unfortunately, it was deathly cold, and aside from going back and forth to the hospital, we didn't do too much. Oh wait, I lie. We did do a historical tour, which included some graveyard. Sally pointed out that it was the graveyard in which Paul Revere was buried, and I was all incredulous and, like, "The guy from 'Mad About You'? He's dead?" To which she replied, "That's Paul Reiser, you idiot." Whatever. I grew up in Canada, so American history isn't my forte. It's not like Sally can tell me where Louis Riel is buried, much less who Louis Riel was. Yeah, that's right. Who's the history buff now, Sally? 

So, last week, while I was still in Austin, I talked to Anders on the phone a couple of nights before his surgery. I asked him if he was excited to see me and he said, "Yeah. When you get here, I'm gonna spank your butt!" I could hear Sally in the background saying, "No, Anders, that is not a nice thing to say," because, apparently, she is trying to get him passed the "Anal Stage" on Freud's spectrum of development, where butt and potty humor is the epicenter of his existence. Unlike Sally, I revel in this stage, not because I'm some kind of perv who likes her butt spanked by a four-year-old, but because I like to encourage my four-year-old, male friends to be chauvinistic oink, oinks. I figure if they get it out of their systems at a young age, they will grow up to be respectable men who don't find pleasure in farting on cue or smacking ladies' asses as they walk by. Oh, and I find it fucking hilarious, but that's just between you and me. Shhhh!  Don't tell Sally. 

So, as I mentioned, Terie and I ventured up to Boston. On an airplane. I hate airplanes. But I've decided that my fear of flying is somewhat quelled when someone I know is on the plane with me. I guess dying in an plane crash isn't all that bad if you have a friend with you. Death is kinda like misery: it loves company. 

Wow, this is getting, like, John Holms (I spelled that wrong so you don't think I'm into porn) long, so I am going to make this into a series. If you're interested, the subsequent posts will include the following: how Anders recovers after his surgery; how Sally takes advantage of my being a nurse by assigning me to help Anders poop and pee post-operatively; how two sex-deprived, single girls in a big city act like a pair of dogs in heat; how Anders' obsession with butts and farts inspires an entire video catalog. 

I vow to not be lazy and to actually follow through with this. In the meantime, Sally and Anders, I love you both. Somewhere in the near future, this will all be a memory. Prayers, hugs, healing thoughts, and big butts to you both. xo

Anders 2007