Christie Mitchell: Turkey Coma

10-28: There comes a time when you realize you have a sickness. Most girls spend $20 on a new shirt. I bought a turkey.

Yes, a month before Thanksgiving every year, I get so excited that I can’t wait…and I buy a turkey. And I stuff it, and smother it, and baste it, and love on it, and eat the crap out of it until I pass out from Turkey Coma.

Yes, I could get a new shirt, but I bought a bird. Sickness? Nah. Priorities…

10-29: I may or may not have tried on some of those old pageant dresses last night and finished carving the turkey in one…I figured I should dress for the occasion when I’m cracking and boiling bones. I used my ex for added inspiration when it came to hacking at it with the cleaver – great stress relief. Don’t get this confused – I do not wish to hack him up – but boy is it fun taking undistributed hostility out on turkey bones, while wearing a full-length gown, with opera music playing in the background. If you find yourself doubting the credibility here, I promise you: I can’t make this stuff up on my best day. This is full-on, unadulterated truth as I live and breathe it. Seriously though, this exercise to preserve mental fortitude comes highly recommended. I went to bed accomplished, slept like a baby, and woke up wanting to seize the day instead of attacking it. Thank you, turkey bird.

10-30: It has been brought to my attention that the creativity with which I crafted my previous post makes me look like a mixture of Carrie and Kathy Bates in Misery. Apparently, my pseudo-psychopathic depiction got so much traction, it was shared multiple times, by multiple people outside our company. Might I remind you, Kathy Bates won an Oscar for Best Actress, Sissy Spacek garnered the nomination, respectively, for portraying those maniacs.

My self-indulgent FB Acceptance Speech: Thank you to all the adorably-dense gossip addicts. I’m so humbled you have the time and energy to worry with little ‘ole me. If you ever desire to walk a mile in each other’s shoes, I warmly welcome you to enjoy the perspective that it’s okay to be yourself – and really fun to freak people out while doing so. De-stressing by roasting a turkey, being resourceful by chopping up it’s bones for stock, all while dressed in a gorgeous gown you still fit into a decade later is sheer bliss. I’ll wear your shoes and walk around all pent up and miserable, whispering passive-aggressive quips as some kind of elitist overcompensation mechanism. I’ll purse my lips and scowl with that trademark pinched look on my face. I’ll trade so you can experience true and simple joy, never to fear your reflection in the mirror, so you can feel the freedom of being you, loving you – crazy and all, and of course dancing barefoot – because I don’t even like shoes. So c’mon. Walk in mine, put your feet up and relax those pinched butt cheeks of yours. Otherwise, grab some popcorn and enjoy the show. (Exiting Stage Left before the pig blood gets dumped on my head)