When we were packing up all our worldly possessions back in August, we were trying to be strategic about which items we might need, and which could remain in storage for six months or so. We knew moving from a three-bedroom house to a two-bedroom apartment meant space would be limited, and we didn’t want to clutter up our place with things we could do without.
Unfortunately, we didn’t do a great job prioritizing.
This first became apparent when my parents were visiting during the beginning of October. I was making mashed potatoes for dinner one evening and realized our potato masher was buried in a box somewhere in the garage, along with both the stand mixer and the handheld mixer, either of which would have worked as fine substitutes.
Apparently, we didn’t think we’d be doing any mixing or mashing for half a year. Oh, but we made sure to set aside a giant serving platter so large, it could probably hold three turkeys and a ham.
“Why don’t you ask Nancy if she has one we can borrow?” Tara asked.
“Why don’t you ask Nancy if she has one we can borrow?” I shot back.
You might recall that I mentioned Nancy when we first moved in. She’s the friendly but scatterbrained 80 y/o neighbor in Apt. 1 who latched onto us when we were unloading the U-Haul. As sweet as this lady is, every time we chat, she tells us the same exact stories as if recounting them for the first time. All we can do is nod along politely. Tara and I actually invented a drinking game based on our conversations with her. Every time Nancy tells us she was born in North Dakota, we take a shot. Every time she tells us her age, or talks about living in 17 different countries, or hating trees, or her former house on Main Street, we take a shot. We’re usually three sheets to the wind after just a few minutes. (Keep in mind, we aren’t really knocking back shots right in front of her. It’s more like a theoretical drinking game.)
And once Nancy corners you, you can pretty much kiss the next 10 minutes of your life goodbye. She was literally blocking the hallway door one time, holding us captive while going on and on about being born in North Dakota and living abroad for much of her 80 years and hating trees.
Tara was busy attending to the meatloaf, so though I was reluctant to pay her a visit, desperate times called for desperate measures. Those potatoes weren’t going to mash themselves.
I walked over there, knocked on her door, and she let me in. I asked if she had a potato masher we might borrow, and she said yes, of course, let me just find it. She then starts digging through her kitchen drawers, taking things out, piling them up on the counter. I told her that was okay, I’d improvise, but she insisted she had one. She knew it was there somewhere. Finally, her face brightened up.
“Here you go!” she said triumphantly, handing me a gardening trowel. Which still had clumps of dirt clinging to the tines.
I simply thanked her and carried it back with me. Tara took one look at it and burst out laughing. I ended up beating those potatoes into submission with a wooden spoon. Good thing I like ’em lumpy.
When I returned the garden trowel the next day, she asked me how it had worked out. “Like a charm!” I lied.
So, as Thanksgiving drew nearer, we realized we were still without a potato masher. Not wanting to bother Nancy again and potentially return with a rake or dusty VCR remote or something, Tara suggested we hit up a thrift store. Sure enough, I was able to score a potato masher for $1.99, thus saving the holiday from the ignominy of chunky potatoes. At least we had a giant serving platter for our small turkey…one that we aren’t likely to use again for another 12 months.
Hey, you try packing up your whole house in two weeks!
Thanksgiving was low-key and delicious. We cooked, we ate, we drank, we took a long walk downtown and back, we watched our go-to movies. All in all, it was a very pleasant day.
And because – like the potato masher – all our holiday decorations, including two artificial trees, were buried in No Man’s Land, we had a new dilemma when it came to Christmas. I’d told Tara I was happy to dig through the garage and retrieve everything, but she just smirked and said, “Good luck with that.”
“How bad can it be?” I asked.
Upon opening the garage door, I realized how bad it could be. I would have had to bushwhack my way through boxes and tubs and patio chairs and kayaks just to reach the holiday stuff, and that wasn’t happening. Neither was the two-foot tabletop tree Tara suggested. I wanted at least some semblance of the holiday season, so we compromised: we’d purchase a modest real tree and hit up thrift stores for the decorations.
This ended up working out very well. I was able to find a tree stand, ornaments, and a few knickknacks for the apartment. All for about $40. Aside from the lights, which we picked up from Target, and the glorious foam cheesehead topper, everything on our tree came from a thrift store.
Observing our cheesehead-bedecked Christmas tree, Tara turned to me and asked a simple question.
“Why are we like this?”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. How else are you going to celebrate a new life in Wisconsin? I think the tree looks pretty gouda!
Mark My Words 
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