Proof in the Power of Thinking

turkeyApproximately one year ago, my lovely manface purchased a 22 pound turkey to cook for Thanksgiving. Last year’s Thanksgiving.

He did not cook the turkey.

Instead, the massive bird has been gathering ice in the back of our freezer. For almost a year. About once a month, I beg Lenny to get rid of the bird. Please get rid of the bird. PLEASE, DEAR GOD, GET RID OF THE GIANT ICE BIRD. I AM BEGGING YOU TO THROW AWAY THE TURKEY. I WILL PAY YOU TO DISPOSE OF THE TURKEY.

He did not dispose of the turkey.

While Lenny is on tour, my lovely friend Chelsi is staying with me and playing the role of beloved Housefrau– because you see, I am no domestic. I have no faith in my own ability to cook, I hate cleaning, and when I do get home after my Big Corporate Job I tend to rush to the couch, whiskey in hand, and proceed to kill brain cells until bedtime. And although Chelsi usually radiates irritation and sarcasm for the general population, she is surprisingly good at playing Martha Stewart. All week I’ve been privy to such delights as homemade mushroom risotto, tomato-basil soup, clean dishes, and a tidy living room. She is also putting the cats through Fat Camp, but that’s another story.

Last night, she broke me down and I cleaned the fridge. I ended up with several bags of old condiments, a jar of vinegary mess with half a pickle floating in it, a sweetly rotten banana bunch, multiple soiled Clorox cleaning wipes (from mopping out the fridge after emptying it almost completely), and that GOD DAMN BIRD.

The bird was so large that I couldn’t shove its frozen ass down the garbage chute, and instead, packed it into one of the bags filled with other mess and ventured down the stairs to shove all of it directly into the trash. The hallway light was off, and as I tread carefully down the steps, I thought to myself “Gee…wouldn’t it be comical if I tripped in the dark, with all of this disgusting refuse, and fell? Chelsi would hear me scream and come running, and probably point and laugh for a good minute before helping me up! Ha!” Ha. Ha.

I made it halfway down one of the three flights of stairs before the paper bag in my right hand (which had apparently heard my thoughts and decided to pitch in) exploded in a veritable apocalypse of filth, directly in front of the apartment of the nosy old Korean lady that leaves her door cracked open to stare at passersby.

In this paper (yes, I realize this mistake now) bag: the pickle jar, the effing mayonnaise, the bananas, an already broken glass, some tissues, and oh yes, several empty bottles of booze. Just what I want my neighbors to see. That I’m a disgusting drunk with a penchant for Siracha sauce. Neat.

Old Asian Lady rushed out immediately, as if she were just waiting in the wings for an opportunity to gumshoe her neighbors, to help me clean up the mess– but I was busy standing there with my damp, burst bag in one hand and a forty pound bag of dead bird and select dirty treats in the other, mouth agape, wondering exactly how I was going to murder my boyfriend for essentially being responsible for my current predicament.

I was only able to snap to when Old Asian Lady picked up the half-annihilated jar of mayo and asked me if it was still good, and if so, why was I throwing it away, and could she have it if I didn’t want it?

After running back up to my apartment for a plastic trash bag, briefly explaining to Housefrau what had happened and watching the jerk collapse with laughter, rushing back down, cleaning the disgust, and speeding away from the Condiment Scavenger as fast as I could, I got to the hallway and snagged the bird bag on the corner of building, unleashing the now-melted, ice-cold bird juice all over my feet.

I was wearing flip-flops.



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