Thanksgiving

The other day at work, I heard someone talk about ordering pies for their Thanksgiving dinner. At first, I was confused. Why would someone order pies? And then I was amused. Heh. She's ordering pies. And that kind of made me sad. Wow...ordering pies. I don't know how to make pie, at least from scratch. I'd just as soon buy a crust and the fillings and follow a recipe and 'make' a pie.

You see, Dear Readers, Tom and I seem to find ourselves caught in a trap. Not a bad one, mind you.

Tom (Mr Realist) is an old soul caught in a young man's body. He thinks he would have been perfectly happy being his age in the '40s and '50s - going to work, coming home to a wife who had dinner made and children playing - essentially Ward and June Cleaver. I think he might have married part of the wrong girl for that.

See, I (Mrs Dreamer) am both a young soul and an old soul, trapped in the same body. I see the simplicity of being June Cleaver (don't get me wrong, each time has it's own problems and issues and faults and suckiness) - making breakfast and lunches to pack the kids off to school and hubs off to work, clean the house, grocery shop, laundry, dinner, help kids with homework. Total June Cleaver.

But the young soul in me screams out for 'equality!' A marriage is an equal partnership. We both came into it with the same fears and hopes and dreams - why should he 'get away from the house and go to work' while I'm here all day long and all my friends are at work and are you serious? you helped dirty this house, you can help clean it!

Sigh.

Dear Readers, if I were to be a SAH-? (since I'm not a mother, I can't be a SAHM), I might be tempted to paint the house pink with blue shutters; move our bedroom to the living room and vice versa; have imaginary friends that only I and the dogs can see. All of my friends work, whether they are single, married, or have kids. I'd go batshit crazy if I stayed in the house all the time (grocery shopping does not count). I'd have to work part time or even volunteer somewhere to take my mind off of the house and hubs and all kinds of stuff. Our house isn't that big. It was built in the 1880s as housing for the mine employees here in our town (when the mine existed, that is). I stumbled across this interesting fact several weeks ago in the coffee shop. The local paper was sitting on a table, and I happened to walk past it with a glance.

Then another.

Then a "Holy fudge, that's OUR house!" Tom looked at it, and I pointed it out. "See? That's our house, that's Granny's house, and that's the Hoosiers' house!" Turns out, it was a copy of the front cover of the pamphlet that was hand drawn in the 1890s about the mine housing. The original is on display at some museum in Springfield. We need to take a picture from approximately the same angle as the drawing and take it up to the museum and get a picture of us with the original. How cool would that be?

He he he...tangent. Sorry. Where was I?

Oh, yes. June Cleaver.

See, there are days I swear I'm MPD (multiple personality disorder) that has integrated. Stephanie is the one in charge. Stevie's the eight year old who wants her stories heard, but is afraid to because one jackass stepfather told her she'd never amount to anything. June (since she didn't have a name before now) is the throwback, apron-wearing, making-sure-everyone's-happy, 1950s housewife. And then there's Helen - brash, modern, 'I can do anything you can do better' woman who doesn't take much shit from anyone. Sometimes June and Helen want to kill each other...and then, over coffee liberally dosed with straight up Jack Daniel's, they find common ground: they both want Stevie to be happy.

I just looked at the title I had picked out for this post... "Thanksgiving". Are you kidding me? The only thing I talked about was pie.

Fine.

Next one.

Be safe out there, and heepwah.