A Few Words about Turkey...comedy reprinted with permission

Today, we are going to talk about Christmas.  Basically, about the inequities between men and women, when approaching the subject of preparing for Christmas.

Women, for example, approach Christmas from the point of view of shopping for presents, selecting and decorating the tree, cleaning the house for company, cooking the holiday dinner for 10, and flopping from exhaustion just in time to hear Dasher and Dancer on the roof.

Men, on the other hand, tend to regard Christmas as something that precedes the Superbowl.

In order to properly conduct this extremely scientific study, it’s necessary for us to delve deeper into the proverbial muckbin of sexual politics.  Let us look at the different attitudes between the sexes when considering the subject of turkey

Her job:  buy the turkey, defrost the turkey, stuff the turkey, cook the turkey, make the turkey gravy, serve the turkey.

His job: eat the turkey.  (Also, be the turkey.)

Let’s further examine the role of men and women when purchasing gifts for the average North American family.

She buys for:  the kids, the dog, the husband, his mother, her mother, his father, her father, Aunt Gertrude, Uncle Larry, his best friend, her best friend, the kids’ teachers, the crossing guard…

He buys for:  her.

Lest this seem a tad inequitable, let’s remember that there is a good reason the world is aligned this way.  There is no possible way a gal WANTS her guy to buy for everyone on the above list.  This is because most guys’ idea of a really neat and original thing to buy is a gift certificate from Canadian Tire or Fred’s Rods and Live Bait.

Which is why – although it is often the only present they have to get – many men revert to the time-honoured guy tradition, which is try to ignore it and maybe it will go away, aka “leave it to the last minute.”

This is why, on Christmas eve, you are apt to see hundreds of crazed men running through local shopping malls buying anything that doesn’t move, yell or bite.

Him (in department store, 9 PM Christmas Eve, clutching something that resembles a blouse):  “It’s perfect!  How much?”

Clerk (world-weary):  “This blouse is a size 62.  Are you sure your wife is a 62?”

Him:  “Blouse?  I thought it was a tent.  Oh well, maybe it will shrink.”

Ca-Ching.

So darling, if you’re reading this, the tree is up, and I have a few things on hold at Tiffany’s.  You choose.

Lecture 27 - "When *I* was Young..." reprinted with permission

For mothers everywhere....

3:30 at the local school and it’s raining like autumn in Vancouver.  In front of me, two hundred Audis and no parking.  I pull my trusty Chevy in behind them and prepare to match up with my offspring.

It’s a funny thing about kids.  They can do gymnastics three times a week, soccer on Saturday morning and cruise the mall for hours.  But don’t ever ask them to walk home from school.  Some can’t even make it as far as the car.

“What took you so long?”  Daughter number one waits until the car pulls directly in front of the entrance before venturing a foot out from the overhang.

“Precious.  It is pouring rain.  I have been doing the complete Dallas Cowboys Cheerleading routine at the side of the road trying to get your attention.  I think the least you could do is walk the distance to the car."

“You want me to WALK?  In THESE shoes?  You’ve got to be kidding.  I might get them wet.”  The door slams shut and we start to inch along the circular drive.  “Besides, I’m tired.  I’ve been in school all day, you know.”

“How come you can cruise the whole of Oakville Town Centre with your friends, but can’t make it twenty feet to the car?”

I can’t help it.  Maybe the drenching has made my brain soggy.  Lecture 27 spews forth of its own accord.

“When *I* was young, we walked to school.  Yup, two miles, in the freezing cold, through four foot snow drifts-“

“Uphill both ways.”  She interjects.

“-uphill both ways,” I finish.  I think she’s heard this one before.  “AND another thing.”  It gets worse.  “About those shoes…when I was young, we didn’t have fancy shoes like that.  No sir, we made do with sneakers, and – by golly – we were grateful.  We even wore them until they had holes in them.”

“You want me to wear shoes with holes in them?” she asks, excited.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“What IS the subject?”

“Genetics.  Natural selection as it relates to the modern world.  How kids today should have been born with wheels instead of feet.”

“MOM!”  She is jubilant.  “You bought me roller-blades?”