Ho-Made

My sisters and I have a saying, “You can’t turn a Ho into a Housewife.”

I only have a kitchen because it came with the house. If I had my way (which I NEVER do. Scoff!) I would have converted the kitchen into a bar / in-home Starbucks, complete with built-in-the wall espresso machines and IPA’s on tap.

Up until about 3 years ago my culinary repertoire consisted of microwave bean & chesse burritos, quesadillas and stove-top Kraft macaroni & cheese. I feel it is perfectly acceptable to serve appetizers as a meal and I prefer to allocate most of my daily caloric intake to caffeine and alcohol.

In the fall/winter of 2009 – Big D and I were on a collision course barreling toward Divorceville. I was one melt down away from throwing his ass out and doning the “Single Mom” cape for the rest of my life. “Fuck you” was how we greeted each other and we were both incredibly miserable in one another’s company. Fast forward (as this is a period I do not like to dwell in) through couples therapy and some serious soul-searching on both of our parts and I am convinced, without a doubt, that cooking together brought us closer. Well, that and wine. And the simple fact the he plays in a band and looks super hot while doing so, but now I’m getting off…topic.

Last night, Big D decided he wanted to have a Thanksgiving Dinner in a new, innovative way – “Ho-Made”.

D: How do you feel about doing dinner ourselves? Turkey, Stuffing – the real way.

V: It’s less than 48 hours away from the feasting event! I have limits. What happened to Operation China Panda? I’m going to need at least 3 bottles of wine for this and I refuse to shove my hand up a dead bird’s ass! That reminds me, why the hell does Maynard send me an email saying our next wine shipment is ready, charges for it but doesn’t ship it? I stalk the weather in Jerome, it’s been cool enough. I’m going to write a letter and be the first person to bitch Maynard out. ‘Dear Maynard, The high has barely been 70 degrees for the past few weeks. Who the hell do you think you’re fooling, Son? Stop fucking around and ship the goddamn wine! Signed, V is for Violent’  He’s fucking with my head, Honey! Are you going to stand by and allow that?

The panic in my voice was palpable.

D: So then, Yes to doing the dinner ourselves?

V: Well, you’re going to have to get the fixings ASAP or else this may turn into Top Chef, Thanksgiving From Hell. “Your challenge is to make a Thanksgiving feast for five using only the miscellaneous canned food left in your pantry and the wilted veg in your fridge. Your time starts NOW!”

D: Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. You have issues.

This is crazy talk! He’s trying to kill me. He and Maynard are collaborating and this is their master plan to finally snuff me out. He knows I may burn down the house! Is that what he wants? To be hungry, wifeless and homeless on Thanksgiving just because he was feeling adventurous? Why is he so selfish? This house fire will be all his fault.

I woke up this morning and began tracking the wine (it’s on the truck to be delivered this afternoon) and have resigned to bravely face that wasted square footage in my home labelled “Kitchen” on the blue print in order to make some dead bird my bitch. Better yet, I’ll have Big D make the bird his bitch and I will whip the shit out of some potatoes. I will also have shot glasses lined up, the fire extinguishers on stand by along with China Panda’s phone number pre-dialed into my phone.

This may be our last supper or it may end with us in a divorce citing “irreconcilable differences resulting from an unwillingness to fist dead poultry”. Either way – We’re in this together.

I’ll let you know how it turns out.  Wish us luck.

Horns Up, Lovers.

P.S. The UPS guy has driven by twice now and not stopped at my location. What the Fuck, UPS Guy? I know the wine is on that truck! Maybe he is in on this senseless taunting with Big D and Maynard. It’s not cool, you guys. Not. Cool. Don’t you know what happens when you tease a dog? And this bitch bites.

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