Here we are on the precipice of another Thanksgiving holiday.  All around this country, women are busily planning menus, shopping, cooking and cleaning.  What is wrong with that statement? I will tell you.  Note that I only mentioned women, not men.   And no, it was not an oversight.  Whether we want to admit it or not, most (if not all) of the work, and yes it is work, that goes into Thanksgiving dinners is performed by women.  Why in this supposedly enlightened age is this still going on?  I ask because I am one of these women.  Every year,  in addition to working a full-time job, I bravely take on the extra task of planning and executing a fabulous Thanksgiving with little or no help from my husband.  And every year, as I am staring at a cold turkey, muttering to myself at 4 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, I think “This is the last time. Next year it will be my husband with his hand inside this cold turkey at an ungodly hour.”  But here I am, once again, tackling Thanksgiving myself.

Not only am I frustrated by this, but I am also saddened.  I am so exhausted by the time the food hits the table that I can’t even enjoy it.  On more Thanksgivings than I like to admit, I have fought falling asleep at the table.  What kept me up?  The lively conversation of my guests?  The fabulous food and exciting wine?  No.  The thought of having to get up from the table and clean the kitchen and get all the damn food put away.  Because for women, the work continues after the meal.  There are turkeys to strip, dishes to wash, wine glasses to hand wash, leftovers to put away (and never enough Tupperware) and kitchens to clean.

To add insult to injury, not only am I tired, but I also look like death warmed over.   Tired already from a week spent cooking, cleaning and shopping, I then get to cook all day.  So many Thanksgivings guests were arriving and I was still in my pajamas, covered in food and running to at least put some jeans on.  So you won’t find me in many Thanksgiving photos.  If you do, I am the unkempt woman with yams in her hair and flour on her chin.  Just once I would like to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner not looking like an escaped mental patient… Dirty jeans, pajama top, greasy messy hair, smeared mascara and covered in food.

I know I am not alone.  I see all the tired harried women shopping the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving.  I have talked to my girlfriends and they all say the same thing, “It would be so much easier if my husband would help.”  Why do we continue this madness?  Why don’t we strike and leave Thanksgiving up to the men? I blame my mother.  That’s right, I said it.  I grew up watching her do EVERYTHING for Thanksgiving while my father planned what football games he was going to watch.  On a subconscious level I think this is what women do…

Last year I got so fed up that I told my husband we were going out to eat.  It was a disaster.  Bad food, sad lonely people and the worst part, no leftovers for turkey sandwiches.  No apple pie at 3 a.m.  Nothing.  We vowed to never do that again.  He even promised he would help.

Is he? Not a chance.  I have made the shopping lists.  I have started the shopping.  I have cleaned and decorated.  I have bought the cheese, wine and champagne (okay, so it isn’t all bad).  I have planned the menu.  Sigh.  I could brow beat him and make us both miserable, but what is the point?  We watched our mothers and the men, well they watched their fathers do absolutely nothing.

What is the answer? Well, all you women out there with sons, include them in the process.  Our generation may be lost, but maybe we can make the future brighter for the next generation of women.  Let’s give ourselves a break.  I find myself maniacally cleaning baseboards at 2 a.m. the week before Thanksgiving and obsessing about every little fleck of dust or ounce of dirt.  Of course we don’t want guests to eat in a house out of the T.V. series Hoarders, but I seriously doubt any of our guests would think less of us or enjoy the meal any less if we didn’t take a Magic Eraser to every surface of the house.  Let’s not try to make eight appetizers, three different kinds of cranberry sauce and five pies.  If someone asks if they can bring something, say, “Yes.”  I don’t know about you, but for some reason I become possessed by Martha Stewart every Thanksgiving and this year I am performing an exorcism.  Finally, let the men clean up.  Yes, I know, wine glasses will be broken, food will be shoved everywhere and you WILL have to reload the dishwasher (men have better spatial reasoning my ass!).  So what?! Is the world going to end?  This year, while the men clean up I am going to sit my dirty disheveled butt on the couch with my girlfriends, drink wine and plan the REAL Thanksgiving.  You know, the next day.  Because the day after Thanksgiving I don’t shop.  I sleep, eat, drink and repeat.

Happy Thanksgiving sisters!  Let’s make this one where we can actually enjoy all the fruits of our labor.  I will be thinking of all of you as I once again tackle that cold bird…