Mature

Every time I think about sitting down and writing about Thanksgiving, I get a little overwhelmed. It was really great, and I worry that I’ll leave some detail out. So let’s just say that it was super groovy—I got to hang with both the Niesslein ladies and our extended family—and dinner was delish. And now, as is my way: on to more unpleasant things.

The first night we were there, Brandon ran up to Giant and bought some beer. The fridge was full of Thanksgiving things so we put the beer on the front porch to keep cold. We all were in and out of the house, having cigarettes, grabbing another beer, taking Mom’s dog out. We were singing some karaoke and having a good old time.

Until someone stole the beer right off the porch.

I try to be generous of spirit. I try to be forgiving. I try to turn the other cheek, take the high road, wonder what Jesus would do. A lot of time I succeed, but there is a deep vein in me that is decidedly un-Jesuslike. This streak is more like the ancient gods, getting their undies in a bundle over petty things, smiting indiscriminately, flinging lightning.

I threw on my coat and shoes and ran out into the street to look for the perpetrators. My head was thrumming with adrenaline. I stomped around in the darkness, peering down the bike paths for a figure that had a Stella Artois-shaped box on his person. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I caught the thief, but he would be sorry. (Because there’s nothing more intimidating than a chubby thirtysomething in a puffy jacket.)

Brandon had followed me out, not to assist in my quest but to make sure I was safe. When I finally realized that the beer was gone for good, I came back in. I hatched a plan that I would put something really gross in the empty beer bottles and I’d then leave those on the porch. Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Sweet vengeance!

These sorts of plans are not new to me. When I was fifteen, I dated a man who was twenty. I figured he was immature for his age, I was mature, it was okey doke. He’d take me to Friendly’s for ice cream, or to the movies. One night, though, I sat in the living room for far too long, ready to go, dressed up, make-up on, waiting for him to show up at the door. He never came. That weekend, I bought a few containers of chicken livers; they come in a small vat of blood. I asked my friend to drive me to where he lived and I poured the blood over one of his belongings, and I never spoke to him again.

This weekend, I didn’t even collect the empty bottles for the plan for vengeance. After my adrenaline ebbed away, I realized that it just wasn’t worth the effort. I guess you could make the case that all that has happened from when I was fifteen to now is that I just got lazier. I like to think, though, that I’ve matured.

Also, I couldn’t figure out how to get the bottle caps back on.