My first morning in McCain's America starts with a migraine. Fitting. After a quick hit on the Imitrex pipe, I was feeling somewhat human by around 10:00. Human enough to recommence my newfound yoga routine, even.
It started out a bit awkwardly and quickly went downhill from there. My sister's DVD situation is a bit dicey at the moment, so I popped the dvd into my laptop and positioned it on the coffee table. So far, so good. As soon as I press play and get settled cross-legged on the floor, two things happen: 1. my sister commences to mock me and 2. she also turns up the volume on the TV. (I should mention that the base level of any TV my sister watches is LOUD. She turned it up to Almost Earsplitting.)
I'm following along best I can without the benefit of the soothing yogi's instructions (or the mellowing soundtrack), when my adorable four-year-old nephew joins in the routine. Apparently, four year olds don't have the best balance; he fell over a lot. But he put forth a valiant effort. Much more than my sister who was watching Intervention on the couch, eating pita chips and what I thought was cream cheese, but later found out was swiss cheese. Tomato, tomahto.
Oh, and whenever I attempted to lie on my back, my sister's cat, Tigger, amused himself by eating my hair. This is nothing new from Tigger. He always eats my hair. I'm just not usually attempting yoga at the time.
Halfway through my stretching routine, the cable guy shows up. I take a break and start unpacking. The bookshelves in my sister's guest bedroom are hopelessly cluttered with a vast array of picture frames and candles (about a third of which were given to her by yours truly, so I suppose I've little right to complain. However, I won't let that stop me.) My stuff is perched precariously on any inch of open space I can find, such that trying to locate any particular item is like playing Where's Waldo. While blindfolded.
The day was rather uneventful from there. I worked a few hours, watched Sponge Bob with Jackson (um, not recommended), had dinner, blah blah yadda.
So then I'm in the kitchen doing prep for tomorrow's feast when my sister starts watching Law and Order. I sit down when she's about half-way through the episode I've been half-way listening to from the kitchen. She says, "You can rewind it; I haven't been paying attention." (She is presently in the grip of an insidious Facebook addiction.) So I rewind it and get about half-way through when she says, "Do you mind rewinding it? I haven't been paying attention." Do I mind? Yes. Do I rewind it anyway? Yes. Right about the time I'm learning brand new plot points, Jenna's husband walks in. Graciously, he does not ask me to rewind it...
Later, my sister's in the kitchen attempting to put the top layer on her not-exactly-congealed cranberry salad. (As she pointed out, I'm not sure something can actually be called a salad if it contains cool whip, not to mention cream cheese and jello.) She's having quite a time trying to get the somewhat thick cream cheese/cool whip amalgamation spread across the liquidy jello bottom layer. I point out the various mountains, valleys, craters, and faults which comprise the topography of this particular side dish. Yes, I said side dish. Only in the South do you find desserts as a side dish, in lieu of vegetables. On Thanksgiving, we feature two and a half desserts as side dishes: The aforementioned cranberry "salad," the sweet potato "casserole," and the green bean bundles. Yes, green beans are technically a vegetable...until you douse them in bacon, butter, and brown sugar.
Until tomorrow...
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