SHARK!! SHARK!! EVERYONE OUT!!
Back in my lifeguarding days, that was the fastest way to clear the water. And I worked, heh-heh, at the city pool.
Such a vivid memory, I can almost hear the sound of my whistle. Nonetheless, two ideas are wrestling each other for the front seat of this article.
One idea is the lifeguarding thing, and the other concerns a mainstream literary topic: baggy pants. Between them, the ongoing racket in my noodle is starting to aggrav-Settle down!! I mean it, both of you! Don't make me come in there…
Where was I? Oh yeah, lifeguarding. Man, I can hear that whistle. Guarding offered challenge and responsibility. It also allowed superficial people like me to twirl the coveted whistle while strutting the deck in shades and a pith helmet.
I worked an indoor pool but, hey, some egos need props. So, what the hell is pith? And can't we call it something else?? Such a vulgar word to those of us with a delicate nature. I mean, it thounds like thwearing.
Okay, lifeguarding had its turn, now on to the pants. Did you read the news that, to mitigate gang culture, some folks want to ban baggy pants? As we head into the holidays, please remember some of us neeeeed Baggy! Officials can slap an oppressive dress code on other age groups, but if they mess with the ex-Hippie crowd, I'm gonna be pithed!
You see, we Boomers comprise an ageing tribe banished long ago from the land of Tight. Our expanding protoplasm now thrives only in Baggy terrain-e.g., a minimum 2:1 ratio of cloth-to-belly circumference. Ergo, my fellow piglets, a smaller ratio cannot sustain life in a multi-holiday climate.
And if some kids' boxers peek above their belt loops?? Ya ya, I say iss no reason to maken verboten der Baggy!
Hmm…the whistling again. Anyway, in a seamless segué to holiday cooking tips, let's turkefy the remaining paragraphs.
Unless you plan to wow your guests with last-minute pizza, remember that thawing a frozen turkey takes days. And for cooking time, experts say to use a chart. Haha, what comedians. Have you seen those cooking charts!? They're all different!! Plus, they don't factor in the time zones, or the BTU differential of digital clocks, cuckoos and sun dials-Duh!! So, while your accountant calculates cooking time, baste that birdie with oil. Olive or machine is fine.
Wait. First, remove the giblets, or that winged rascal will be a slippery little bastard! Remove the who? Giblets. Those quasi-edible lumpies wrapped in paper and shoved back up the turkey's as-teroid belt. I forgot last year, and during cleanup discovered wads of masticated fowl and fiber stashed by guests under their plates.
How does one perform a gibletectomy? One can, of course, suck the innards out with a vacuum hose attachment. An upright machine will also work, but set it on LOW NAP, or you'll mar the bird with unsightly wheel marks.
The traditional way is insert your arm-up to the elbow-into the critter and pull out the disgusting sack. Eeewww! That is so, like, proctological!! Does PETA approve of this?!? To lessen the interspecies trauma, drape a festive napkin over the beast.
Indeed, this will (a) protect the privacy of the gibletee; and (b) calm the gag reflex of the gibleteer. And never, never, don rubber gloves! Instead, put them on. Better yet, you can avoid feeling like a B-movie prison guard performing a strip search if you do the deed while wearing hand puppets.
Excuse me a moment, my guests are here. Ahem. "Yo! Listen up! No shoes! No running! No spitting!"
Holy Hermaphroditus! Seems I have lifeguarding on the brain because of this infernal whistling! Could it be a stress-induced auditory hallucination? Naw, that usually happens in mid-December when the air is really…dry. Whistling…dry air…? Gosh, how embarrassing…
It's my nose.
Copyright © 2008 Mary Tompsett
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