Deborah Woehr

This is an old movie (1995) and one of my favorites. I love black comedies. The sicker it is, the better. My favorite scene is when the family is clustered around the table and babbling when Tommy (the only son) accidentally flings Mom’s turkey onto his little sister, Joanne. A big drama scene unfolds, where she narcs to Dear Old Dad about Tommy’s gay wedding. If you haven’t seen the movie, rent it. It’s hysterical.

Speaking of which, we had our own moments on Turkey Day. My three year-old nephews are obsessed with the train platform my father-in-law had built. Trying to keep them at the table was a lost cause. All of us (except for their dad) laughed as they brawled over the trains.

The real clincher was the walking, rotting corpse my mother-in-law calls Dutchess. The poor dog is 13 years old and reeks from an oozing infection, caused by rotting teeth. For reasons of her own, my mother-in-law refuses to give the dog any antibiotics or have the teeth pulled. The smell is so bad that it makes you want to throw up.

At any rate, I was very upset when she brought the dog over on Thursday because I can’t eat with that dog underfoot. She told me that the dog had suffered diarrhea the day before, and had crapped around her dining room table on a revenge kick. So that’s why she had brought her over.

Great, I thought. Now she can ruin our dinner and our brand new carpets. Wonderful! When four hours turned into seven, I begged my husband to talk to his mom, but he told me that the drama wasn’t worth it. The dog didn’t ruin our carpets, and we managed to keep her outside when we ate.

My mother-in-law has always been very close to her pets. Since my father-in-law died, they’re inseparable. She brought the dog over again the next day, along with a live Christmas wreath. Just keeping tradition, she said. The real reason she came over was because she’s having a hard time dealing with the fact that my father-in-law is no longer with us. The second year is always the hardest.

I sat across the room and breathed through my mouth while I listened. Having lost a younger brother, I know that talking things out helps. The vent didn’t last long, and I think she felt a little better when she left.

After she left, I got out the Fabreeze and sprayed it around, vacillating between selfishness and compassion. The smell left almost immediately. I think I’m going to look for a Christmas scent version because that damned dog will be over for the next holiday.