Thanksgiving is a Very Big Deal around Squathole Manor, at least to Guido, who takes this opportunity every year to push the earth out of orbit.
Guido will cook. Christ on stilts will she cook. The holiday brings out the Dago and sets free the hounds of gluttony.
But even before she cooks, she cleans. She has devices for cleaning surfaces one rarely sees outside commercial buildings; some direct streams of searing steam deep into bathroom walls and tiles, others exhume archaeologically embedded particulates from soft cushions and hard walls. Then there’s the array of deadly chemicals, astringents, and applicants with their specialized engines of delivery, ostensibly to purify surfaces on which 4-legged creatures pis and puke up hair balls, and husband-critters parade with filthy stained (cloven) hooves. She climbs ladders. She crawls under furniture. She does windows, not the Bill Gates kind. She peels, polishes, and sometimes re-paints. She washes the soap.
One Christmas I got her a Zamboni machine. Why fuck around, right? Her sister got her this vacuum cleaning device I dubbed “The Monica” – it can suck gasoline out of the car’s gas tank from 60 paces. It roars like a 747 in need of a ring job.
Trust me, I’m not complaining. Guido shines this time of year. When she starts cooking, strangers stop their cars and stagger up to the kitchen window, sniffing like hounds. The letter carrier starts grinning in anticipation as she begins her rounds. Neighbors ask her for recipes and advice. The neighborhood Ginzoid is back in her South Philly element.
Today she calls Delaware Chicken, as usual, to order her two 12-15 pound birds. “We don’t take orders any more,” they tell her. “Come by today.” Guido says she can’t: “I’m working,” she says, “and besides, I don’t have anywhere to put them.” “Shove them up your husband’s ass,” says Delaware Chickens. Guido pauses. “How do you know my husband?” she asks.
I get no respect. But I get fed. And laid. Not just on holidays, either. Happy Turkey Day, Pilgrims.