I was already a nervous flipping wreck the month before Thanksgiving. My sister told me she and her family will be joining us for the holiday this year. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled, but panic immediately set in, as did that nasty patch of eczema I get this time every year, sending me further into my seasonal freak-out funk.

You see, I am, let’s just say a very “relaxed” housekeeper, to say the least.

I “fluff” weekly, which is a phrase we volley about to mean “dust only the things on the surface my mother can see”.

I’m not a down-on-my-knees, knitty-gritty house cleaner; in fact, I’m barely a “raise my one arm to clean the blown-up rice pudding in the microwave” kind of gal.

Plus, I splurged on a manicure this week and didn’t want to chip my “Chick Flick Cherry” enrobed digits.

My sister and her husband, on the other hand, are superiorly impeccable in both home and appearance. I think we can safely say, on both issues, I am not.

But my sister has the good fortune to have a cleaning crew come into her home weekly to do a heck of a lot more than fluffing, that’s for sure. My cleaning crew’s name is Maria and she’s been on sabbatical for about six years now. Something about a bad back, irritable bowel and insultingly low pay.

So, three days before Thanksgiving, white-knuckled panic set in. I was freefalling and I was taking everyone down with me.

I saw things scurry across my floor that should have leashes and names, but we’ll just call them steroid-induced dust bunnies. I attacked them mercilessly. I actually relented and poised, knees to floor, in order to clean every crack and crevice of those old floors.

I Swiffered, swept, Dirt-Deviled and Pledged.

I put old tube socks on my feet and scurried to and fro across the hardwood to old Polka tunes. Finally, after four choruses of Roll out The Barrel, my floors shone.

I looked like a crap sandwich, but I had clean floors.

Imagine my dismay when I awakened the next morning to discover those damned bunnies reproduced and moved back to town. Specifically, under the couches and dining room table. I gave up and decided dim, dim lighting would be in order for Thanksgiving dinner.

Or, screw the lights. I’ll just put a birthday candle in everyone’s turkey thigh and call it a celebration. I look better in candlelight or opaque, inky darkness anyway. And this way, no one will notice I forgot to wax my upper lip.

Bonus.

And, I had another dilemma: wardrobe. I believe my sister has a personal shopper and that’s something we have in common. My personal shopper is my daughter. I give her a twenty, send her to Target and tell her anything on the 60% off sale rack, size Jumbo, will be fine.

I did sport what I thought was a kicky little outfit for the holiday, though.

My daughter disagreed.

She stopped dead in front of me and stared at my ankles.

“WHAT?!!” I shrieked, spatula slick with coagulated yams in my hand. “Is it more of those satanic dust bunnies!??”

“Mom. Please. Anyone over the age of twenty-five should not, I repeat, NOT wear leggings! What are you doing?”

“I thought they were cute and festive! What’s the problem?”

She shook her head and sighed heavily. “Oh, if you don’t know, then I really can’t explain it. And, p.s.: you have to change out of the bedroom slippers and shave your ankles if you insist on wearing that ensemble.”

I was as deflated as my pumpkin souffl�.

But I wore my leggings, because, at that point, unless I wanted to drape the tablecloth around me toga-style, there were no more options.

And that toga would just bring back some shady, lost memories of my Senior Prom after-party, anyway, and who needs that?

Well, Thanksgiving came, just like it does every, single year. And just like every, single year, I scurry straight to Gerrity’s, where my entire meal awaits me, pre-cooked and packaged in a nice, big cardboard box.

It’s my little secret… until right now, I guess. Hopefully, unless my sister grabs a Dispatch en route to the airport, she may never know.

But I decided that if I take all the shortcuts the world has to offer on a holiday and no one is the wiser – then I think that makes me very smart.

It also makes me very lazy and I know my mother-in-law is sitting in some church pew, shaking her head forlornly right now and praying for me… but guess what? I have half the headaches and half the shenanigans that everyone else faces on Thanksgiving.

To be honest, I do concoct a few side dishes just so I don’t feel like a complete fraud, but I’ll tell you this: nothing beats someone else preparing your meal for you.

I wonder if, for the right price, those nice people at Gerrity’s could come over and clean my floors, too.

There’s a sweet pair of tube socks in it for them.

About the Author

Maria Heck covers for the Times Leader. Reach her at or .

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