Holiday offer

We're holding a place at the table. In Toledo. Act now!

Out There by Mark Bazer

Okay, I've got a deal for you. I simply can no longer go home for Thanksgiving. I love my parents and they love me, but -- and some of you know how this goes -- we love each other most when there are at least two states separating us. Put an ocean between me and my mom, and we practically engage in phone sex when we talk. But being together in the same house is, like my mother's recipe for creamed onions, a recipe for disaster.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I'm not a selfish brat. And I don't want to hear that in a world full of broken families, I take my loved ones for granted. I, personally, just happen to be fed up with the family thing. But I know a lot of you out there, for one reason or another (and I'm not here to pry), don't have two doting parents pleading with you to grace them with your presence at the dining-room table come Thursday.

So here's the deal: I'm offering my family to one of you.

First of all, don't be fooled by this offer's particular placement in the Phoenix. In no way is this a piece of journalism, like the Puzzle. No, this is an advertisement, plain and simple. I am not, like so many desperate writers, trying to milk my family for material. I'm trying to milk them for cash. So let's get down to business.

Here's what you'll get if you take me up on my offer. For starters, you'll receive a plane ticket to lovely Toledo, Ohio, where my parents live. I have to be honest here: my mother booked the flight for me, and she's something of a nut when it comes to finding the best deal. So you'll be flying Thanksgiving morning on Aku Aku airlines (motto: "Hey, sometimes we crash."). It's not a direct flight -- you'll be stopping over in Saugus, Methuen, and Easter Island.

My dad will pick you up at the Toledo Intercounty Airport. He'll meet you on the runway. Please have all your luggage with you, since he will not have the patience to wait at the baggage claim. Please pee in your pants, too, since there will be no restroom stops on the ride home. In the car, Dad will quiz you on your love life. Do not, and I can't stress this enough, use the words penile implant. You're bound to open a can of worms. Which reminds me: also don't mention the "can of worms" incident.

My parents live in one of those cookie-cutter developments, so be aware there's a definite chance Dad won't find their particular house and the weekend will be a bust. (Please note: no refund in this event.) But assuming Dad does find the right Volvo to pull up next to, this will be your chance to head to the living room, relax on the pink sofa, and soak up some of that family you've been craving.

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And lucky you, because there'll be quite a crew at my house this year. My 85-year-old Aunt Lenora, for instance, who has been shipped into town for the holidays. Aunt Lenora has many excellent features, such as her expertise on everything from how to end the conflict in Kosovo to which clothing catalogues sell a turtleneck that won't shrink. "Not L.L. Bean!" she'll shriek, and then add: "If you absolutely have to order something from L.L. Bean, I find their umbrellas are pretty good. By the way, here's a little information I've learned in all my years of traveling around the world: Umbrellas are used to prevent rain from hitting your head."

If you get bored with Aunt Lenora, my parents, like all good citizens, follow historical tradition and invite a few Native Americans to the house each Thanksgiving. These kind and giving people have introduced my family to maize, squash, and slot machines. In return, my sister once gave them all chicken pox.

My sister will, of course, be there. And if you act now, I'll call up my ex-girlfriend and invite her as well. She and my sister will provide all the drama you could possible ask for. They don't get along, you see, so if you're lucky, you'll get a reenactment of Thanksgiving '94, when their petty dispute over my career snowballed to the point where every female family member was bawling in various rooms -- except for Aunt Lenora, of course, who was trying to explain to my dog how tear ducts work, and where to get a doggie sweater that won't bunch up. If such a fight occurs this year, I advise you to quickly and quietly pass the remote to my father. He'll nonchalantly turn up the volume on the football game while muttering "Jesus Christ" under his breath.

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Once things settle down, my dad will head to the kitchen to carve the turkey. One year, he tried to carve Aunt Lenora, who has since learned not to give advice while my father is holding a carving knife. After Dad completely ruins the turkey and tosses it into the trash, Mom will take a pack of turkey dogs from the freezer. Everyone will then sit down at the table, my sister next to my ex-girlfriend to prove they've called a truce. The meal itself will be decent and plentiful, the turkey dogs boiled to perfection. Aunt Lenora, with chewed-up bits of wiener sailing out of her mouth, will suddenly shriek, "Creamed onions! Who the hell likes creamed onions?" You will have to concede here that, for once, Lenora is on the money.

Dinner, which my mother has been slaving over for the past two months, should last 15 minutes. My father will then head back to the TV, my sister and ex-girlfriend back into the ring, and my aunt to City Hall to suggest some civic improvements to the board of aldermen. Mom will want to chat with you while she does the dishes, but to avoid that, I find the following phrase quite effective: "Put a lid on it, Mom. I'm going upstairs to my room."

Of course, it's not really your room. Don't get any ideas. To tell you the truth, it's not really my room anymore, either. My parents converted it into a guest room five years ago. Ironically, in those five years, I have been their only guest.

But not this year. This is your golden opportunity. Give me a call, e-mail me, write me care of the Phoenix. Let's make your dreams come true! I know we haven't talked price, but hey -- let's just forget about cost. My family is yours, and for free. In fact, if you act now, I'll throw in 50 bucks.

Mark Bazer is a freelance writer who doesn't live with his family. He can be reached at mbazer@jellyvision.com.