Nevergirl's

I am not in this room, shivering in cat-print jammies. I did not just spend the last two hours pounding away at my laptop, frantically answering emails. Nope, I did not just tear my hair out over the impossibility of winning the war against an inbox that grows fatter by the hour (and in between emails, agonizing where to find a receipt printer at this late hour). I am not in this room. I have not been swallowed by work. I did not just spend the last 10 minutes contemplating an evil deed, ultimately deciding against it. I’m on a bike zipping downhill. The sun is ringing out from an impossibly blue sky, and I’m singing my lungs out to Counting Crows’ Accidentally in Love. Thrice.

When it comes to presents, I’ve the emotional quotient of a 15-year-old. Forget telling me to wait til Christmas to find out what you got me; chances are, I’d tear off the wrapping paper right away. Yep, that’s how ridiculous my EQ is when it comes to presents. And so, you can just imagine how befuddled I was when I tore through what seemed like yards of yellow ecru to end up with a talkbox.

Why on earth would anyone get me a talkbox? Sure, it’s a Dunlop Heil, and sure, it can be set up with a guitar amp. But what on earth would I use it for? A friend says it can be used to make distortions but right now, the only distortion I’m familiar with is visual—and that’s been corrected thanks to my eyeglasses, thankyouverymuch.

I will admit that until last week, I never cared about Thanksgiving. To me, it was just one of those holidays everybody in the Western hemisphere is unusually gung-ho about. Besides, my sympathies are usually with the turkey and whoever ends up with kitchen duties. It can’t be easy spending 10 hours shopping, chopping, cooking, braising, and blanching only to see the food you slaved over disappear in 20 minutes.

This year is different though. Or, it was supposed to be. I had actually looked forward to Thanksgiving, more so because I wanted to see a grandma decapitate a turkey with an ax. I imagined making myself useful in the kitchen. I even thought of buying cheesecloth. I have never bought cheesecloth, but I found a recipe online that required soaking the cheesecloth in wine and butter, and then laying over the turkey’s breast. I liked how gloriously medieval it sounded. Then, to my dismay, I learned that I’d be stuck in Cebu instead of celebrating Thanksgiving back home. I also realized that there won’t be an ax-wielding grandma; this one is no purist and will most likely get hers from Rustan’s, instead of from a farm. They don’t do it anymore like the pilgrims did, alas.

What happens now? Well, since an old-fashioned Thanksgiving lunch or dinner isn’t in my immediate future anymore, I figured I’d properly mourn missing out on the occasion by substituting turkey with tofu. Nothing could be a more dismal replacement to meat than tofu. In its natural state, tofu is odorless and tasteless. You can use it for driveway repairs, tile grouting, or maybe as denture adhesive. In my case, it’ll have to do for Thanksgiving. Ack.

I hope your Thanksgiving turns out better than mine! To quote an old Pilgrim blessing: “May your stuffing be tasty, your turkey plump. May your potatoes and gravy have nary a lump. May your yams be delicious, may your pies take the prize. Most importantly, may your Thanksgiving dinner stay off your thighs!”

Did I just spend the last 15 minutes gawking at all the pretty linens on peacock alley? Ridiculous. I should be hauling ass right now, working frantically to beat the clock—mind a’whirring, fingers a’flying. But sometimes, there’s just so much to do I end up doing nothing at all. I just stare at my To Do list, wonder how it got to be at least two elbows long, sigh over how much work I still have to do, and then in the tradition of all drama queens, self-saboteurs, and good-for-naughts, do nothing. I can’t even remember the last time I feel this worn out and lost. I spent close to two weeks surrounded by buildings, billboards, and streetlamps. Now that I’m back in the boondocks and surrounded by so much space, foliage, and stillness, I feel disconcerted and disoriented.

I should just try to sleep this off. Maybe it’ll all be better tomorrow.

Or then again, maybe not. There are exactly 102 emails on my inbox. I’m willing to bet a month’s paycheck—heck, even a middle finger—it’ll balloon to 150 before the day is through.

You do not want to be me right now.