By the time you read this, you’ve already made your plans for this coming Thursday, which — as you know — is all-day happy hour at the Blue Parrot.

Just kidding, we all know that it’s Thanksgiving, the day designed to allow women to work from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. cleaning, cooking, serving and then cleaning up again, while the men do the important tasks of watching football and drinking beer.

I realize this is a gross, sexist mischaracterization of the day’s events, so all I can say is: Prove me wrong. Send me a photo of menfolk making the Thanksgiving turkey, while the women sit around drinking Chardonnay and watching Hallmark Christmas movies. Then add a photo of the men washing up but — and I want to be very clear here — they have to use soap.

You probably think I’m kidding, but I’m thinking back to an annual camping trip we all used to take on Memorial Day weekend. The women used to cook the meals, because we wanted them to actually be edible, and the men were supposed to do the dishes. So, after dinner, we women were sitting around the campfire drinking wine, and one of my friends sneaked over to see how the guys were doing.

“OMG, they are NOT USING SOAP!” she hissed back to the group. No one wanted to get into a wrestling match with the guys, so, after that, the women just ended up cooking and cleaning. That was fair, right?

I actually really love cooking a big holiday meal, but nowadays I don’t make dinner, I make reservations.

This is because my kids don’t enjoy cooking, and no matter how many times I wake them up early to peel potatoes and stick their hands into a turkey’s innards, they never seem to enjoy it.

Last Thanksgiving was nearly a disaster, because my young adult children, Curly Girl and Cheetah Boy, were feuding, and the girl child was demanding that I eat a separate Thanksgiving dinner, just with her. Now, I have absolutely no problem with eating two dinners in a row. In fact, it sounds fabulous. But it didn’t sound like my ideal holiday meal.

Fortunately, after a ludicrous amount of unnecessary stress, Curly Girl graciously allowed me to buy her an expensive buffet meal, as long as I invited her friend and also paid for her expensive buffet meal. She even sat within a few feet of her brother and, by the end of the dinner, addressed a few remarks to him. Probably due to the mimosas that were being swilled by all. That two hours set me back $300, but, hey, welcome to America, the land of gratitude.

I don’t really know how people will be celebrating Thanksgiving this year, because we will be in Loreto. It’s a small town in Baja California that’s gorgeous, friendly and one of my favorite places anywhere. I wasn’t really thinking about going to Mexico in November, but then I got this ridiculously cheap airfare of $45 round trip, so I announced to the kids, “We’re going.” Of course, we have to fly out of Tijuana, but you can stop rolling your eyes, because it’s not as hard as it sounds.

You park in an airport style lot at the Cross Border Xpress (CBX) which is in eastern San Diego County, right on the border with Mexico. Then, you buy a ticket for the toll bridge and walk over it, going through concierge customs on the way. When you come off the bridge, you are inside the Tijuana airport, which is cleaner than LAX and has a Subway, Carl’s Jr. and Starbucks. Also a wine shop. Then, you go through security and get on your flight.

Some of you are thinking that I shouldn’t travel since I’m ill, but as I’ve often explained, my brain can only process one potentially fatal illness at a time, and I already have one, so I can’t worry about COVID.

Loreto is in Baja California Sur, which is in the southern part of the Baja peninsula. I’m looking forward to a boat trip to a deserted island on the Sea of Cortez, where we might see anything from dolphins to whales to rays.

The other day, Cheetah Boy asked me, “How do you think you’re going to get in and out of the boat when we go island hopping in Loreto? You could barely do it in the Galápagos, and your legs are more messed up now.”

So I told him. “Why do you think I’m bringing you along?” Luckily he works out with weights and can bench press 300 pounds, so if he can’t haul my carcass in and out of a small boat, he won’t make it to the Olympics.

Curly Girl also had a question: “What are we going to eat on Thanksgiving?”

“Tortillas,” I told her. We’re visiting a goat ranch that day, and the lady of the house makes her own tortillas over a fire. She didn’t much care for that answer, but I don’t care.

I’ll be too happy from the margaritas.

 

 

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By Kelley Wheeler

Kelley Wheeler is a Metro reporter covering political issues and general assignments. A second-generation journalist, worked with all major news outlet, she holds a vast expeirience. Kelley is a graduate of USC with degrees in journalism and English literature. She is a recipient of Yale’s Poynter Fellowship in Journalism.

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