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Turkey-pot resolution is worth one whisper
(by Christine Thome - January 28, 2010)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Turkey-pot resolution is worth one whisper
It took nearly 2,000 years to build the Great Wall of China and over 30 years to build a single pyramid. Yet it only took my husband, John, 59 days to wash the greasy, dirty Thanksgiving Day deep-fryer turkey pot.
For those who did not read my previous column, I allowed John to purchase a turkey deep fryer to prepare the Thanksgiving turkey, with only one, small condition. No matter what, I absolutely would not, under any circumstances, clean the turkey pot. John assured me that he would be completely responsible for the care and cleaning of the turkey pot, and yet, since Thanksgiving, the dirty, greasy turkey pot has only moved at a snail's pace from the grassy yard, to the side porch, to its final resting place in our basement.
The responses John and I continue to receive from the original dirty turkey pot column are abundant and varied.
The women, including John's mother, all ask me if the pot is cleaned yet. When I say no, they cluck knowingly, shake their heads and insist that I do not clean that pot, even if the bacteria levels become too dangerous to breathe.
The men, on the other hand, ask John if he's cleaned the turkey pot yet, and, when he answers no, they chuckle and give him an "atta boy!" slap on the back.
Obviously, there are a lot of people with "dirty turkey pots" in their relationships.
Maybe your "dirty turkey pot" is the leaky faucet that has dripped for six months straight, or the decaying muscle car from his youth that sits in the garage waiting to be restored, or even just his balled-up socks on the living room floor that never make it to the hamper without the assistance of a feminine hand. Whatever it is, we all have a "dirty turkey pot" that sits perilously on the fence while husband and wife stubbornly stand on opposite sides of the fence just waiting for the pot to tip.
I love my husband dearly. Contrary to some of my columns, he really is a very considerate person who goes out of his way to make me happy. He is my best friend, and, although we hardly fight, it breaks my heart when we do, which is why I very rarely choose to go to battle with him over something as stupid as dirty socks, discarded tools and leaky faucets.
But for some reason, the turkey pot is a stance I feel I must make and see through to victory -- not just for me, but for my daughters and for all the women of the world. I expect a turkey pot statue to be erected in my honor sometime soon.
Last weekend, John was at the store when a man approached him and asked if he had cleaned the turkey pot yet. When John sheepishly admitted he hadn't, the man grabbed his shoulders, looked in him the eyes and pleaded with him. "Don't clean that turkey pot, man! You are representing all men. Whatever you do, promise me you will not clean that turkey pot! We cannot let them win!"
"That's just a little creepy," I said when John told me the story.
"I know, I thought so too at first, but then I got to thinking. Maybe he is right. Maybe I do represent something larger than myself," he contemplated.
"Larger than yourself? Are you kidding me?" I said with disgust while I attempted to get my emotions under control.
"OK, I didn't want to have to do this," I said sternly, "but it's gone on too long. I am going to have the last word in this argument. Anything you say from this point on is just starting a new argument. Do you understand?"
John obediently nodded his head up and down.
"Good. Now go back to the man tribe you represent and ask them if they would prefer to live a celibate life," I stated.
"Celibate life? You mean like no sex? Ever?" he cried.
"That's right. Do you want to live a celibate life, John?"
"No," he stammered.
"Then go clean the turkey pot, darling," I whispered in his ear.
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