Nov 12, 2015 3 min read

Thanksgiving will be different for me this year. For the first time in probably six years, the post-feast family photos will feature a Beth who looks like a normal, well-groomed human.

It’s not usually like that. Normally, that family photo has me hiding because I didn’t have time to spruce up the way I’d planned.

We’re going to someone else’s home this year, so the morning won’t be like most Thanksgivings.

Because we tend to eat early when we host – around 2-ish – it’s a busy morning, packed with baking and stirring and basting. No matter how much of the prep work I do the night before, there is never enough time the day of.

All those holiday films and commercials are lying. I’ll buy the part about the attractive guests in their cozy rust-colored sweaters gathered at a beautifully decorated table. I’ll even buy the place cards lovingly tucked into miniature pumpkins that have been dressed as turkeys and pilgrims.

What I don’t believe is that hostess proudly carrying the bird to the table. Her hair is perfectly coifed; she’s wearing mascara on both eyes; she’s got on an outfit that’s ironed and cute. All of that is a fib – a cultural construct designed to make the rest of us hostesses feel bad about ourselves.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. There’s family, it’s cozy, there’s my mom’s stuffing, and there are no gifts. Most significantly, though, is the Jell-O pretzel salad. You can have the pumpkin pie – just give me more Jell-O pretzel salad.

But the holiday often falls just short of the ideal, because I always spend it looking like I just came in from raking leaves.

Each Thanksgiving, I wake with the best of intentions -to clean up, set the table and finish the cooking by 1, giving me an hour to get myself ready. But a combination of factors always interrupts.

I blame this, at least partially, on the parade. Whole hours can be lost sitting in front of the TV waiting for the Snoopy blimp to float by. When I finally realize it’s 11 and I still haven’t vacuumed, the Sharknado of cleaning begins. Extraneous bits of household flotsam and jetsam are jammed into closets, and the 15 pair of shoes in the front hall are tossed down the stairs into the mudroom.

By 1:40, with the house smelling delicious and looking not half bad, I head upstairs to make myself presentable. These days, 20 minutes doesn’t get me much. Shower? Yes. Teeth brushed? Yes. Shirt and jeans? Yes. Everything else, including washed and blow-dried hair and makeup, are purely aspirational. Frazzled, I put my hair up in a clip and head downstairs.

My attractive guests are arriving with plates of cookies and stuffing. If they notice I’m looking disheveled, they don’t let on. I feel compelled to remind them I’m normally much cuter than this. But most of them only see me on holidays, so they probably think this is as good as it gets. (Actually, I’m sure they aren’t thinking about my grooming at all. Like the rest of us, they’re thinking about the Jell-O pretzel salad.)

Maybe this year will be different. I don’t have to cook. If I plan things right, I should have time to primp before heading over the river and through the woods. Hair clean, makeup on, ready for my closeup.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.