Division of Labor

I was picking feathers off our heirloom turkey when Tiffany and I got
mad at each other on Thanksgiving. It was 7 a.m. Because her aunt was
sleeping on the couch in our living room, we had to be angry quietly.

The fight snuck up on us. All week we'd been happily preparing our
apartment and planning the meal. We borrowed a table to put adjacent
to ours so we had room for Tiffany's aunt, sister, cousin and mom,
Patty. We didn't borrow a sixth chair--Patty sat on our exercise ball.
On the Saturday and Sunday before, we made our pie crusts and dressing
and packed them into the freezer for safekeeping. Then, on Thursday
morning, just after I removed the giblets from our turkey's cavity,
Tiffany let out a big sigh and said:

"I guess I'll do the kale."

"Lucky you," I said, angry that she hadn't volunteered to do the bird.

"But only because I'm letting you do all the fun jobs," she hissed, raising
the bunch of kale up in the air in her fist.

I stared at her, feather in hand.

"What? I only started the turkey because I thought you didn't want to!"

"Can you turn on the water?" she asked, ignoring me.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head, holding up my turkey-slathered
hands. I had a sudden image of taking our turkey by its legs and
putting Tiffany's head where the giblets had been--you know, like that
scene from "Friends."

Glancing at the couch, we scurried behind our open refrigerator door to bicker.

"I wanted to do the turkey!"

"I had no idea! I'd much rather do the mashed potatoes! They don't
have feathers! Or legs! Or necks!"

We stared at each other. Slowly, she lowered her kale, and I widened
my eyes into a more pleasant expression. When we were sure that we
both were going to capitulate, we broke into grins.

Mutually-agreed upon divisions of labor... something to be thankful
for. Arranging them before both halves of a couple burn up with
resentment... even better.