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The Year of the Royal Turkey

Every Thanksgiving for many years there was one turkey in our home who escaped harm. It was a 3 pound turkey molded of chocolate and wrapped in decorative foil. Any other time of the year chocolate of any size and shape would have been fair game (pun intended), and immediately devoured.

We took delight in the way Aunt Callie’s annual hostess gift added to the table décor, but after a huge meal followed by pumpkin pie it was easy to pass up inexpensive chocolate. Often the bird remained intact and was replaced by its Easter Bunny equivalent. This year would have been no exception were it not for a moment of sheer desperation, precipitated by an unusually bad case of PMS.

It was a dark and stormy winter afternoon. Feeling premenstrual for at least 96 hours,. I was bloated, cranky, weepy and generally feeling sorry for myself. I was particularly stressed because my husband was away in London on business. The children had been more demanding than usual and were finally down for a nap.

“OK,” I thought. What do I tell others about self-care? I squeezed into some exercise clothes. I recalled those commercials claiming a little physical exertion decreased the symptoms of PMS. I groaned. Never mind. Next, I prepared some herbal tea and sat down to complete a journal entry and add an item to my daily “grateful list.”

“Hmmmmm”, I thought. “Something good about myself or my day. Let’s see. I almost did one sit-up…..and…. there must be something….Oh, yes, I’ve been particularly nice to small animals“, I scribbled pathetically.

The phone rang. It was my husband describing an evening dining at an authentic English pub. I glanced at the leftover Spaghetti-O’s cemented to the tray and one leg of my son’s high chair. A Currier and Ives scene came to mind as I wistfully envisioned the peaceful English countryside.

That was it. I feared I was going over the edge. I reached into the cupboard, groped for Turkey Lurkey, and in one swift move, ate off the entire head!

Sniffling, and sputtering bits of foil, I hung up on my bewildered husband and headed to my room for good cry followed by my own nap.

Later, I tossed the body of the turkey into the trash, paused, and on second thought, retrieved it. Smoothing the wrapper around its little neck, I held the shiny foil toward the heavens and regally decreed the Headless-Foil-Turkey serve as the international symbol of PMS forever more. Off with their heads!