Thanksgiving: If you live in California, the answer is “not much” | Column

What’s everybody doing for Thanksgiving? If you live in California, the answer is “not much.”

Gov. Gavin Newsom recently announced new COVID-19 “safety guidelines” for private Thanksgiving gatherings, and they’re hilarious.

The task force (because you know there was one) responsible for these rules must have been blind drunk, rolling on the floor and yelling at each other: “Hey! [hic] less tell ‘em they STILL hafta wear masks. Hahaha!”

“Yeah, ‘cept when they eat and drink—which has to be outside, har har har!”

The “guidelines” say verily:

• Gatherings must be held outdoors, which will be great for families living near train tracks or in an airport flight path.
• Said gatherings can include no more than three households. (Sorry, Uncle Bob, save the rants for next year.)
• Guests can only go inside to use the restroom. This slays me. Who’s going to monitor the restroom? Or patrol the perimeter to ensure no-one sneaks in through a side door? What if brother Billy cuts his finger carving the turkey--who’s going to run inside for a towel to use as a tourniquet?
• Singing, shouting and chanting are “strongly discouraged.” I take great exception to this, as I always like to belt out “Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother” before the salad course. Also, I’m deaf. If you’re not shouting, I’m not hearing.
• Dinner may last no longer than two hours (synchronize your stopwatches, gang!) This flies in the face of American tradition, which requires us to eat too much, sack out on the sofa with the second cousins and rouse ourselves three hours later to attack leftovers--as my clan calls it, Round 2. A two-hour time limit gives new meaning to “eat and run.” It also means some poor sucker will be doing the dishes alone.
• Masks can only be taken off to eat and drink. No talking, peasants!
• Guests must be seated six feet apart. For folks who don’t want to be there anyway (you know who you are), this is a godsend. But it also means guests are going to be eating green bean casserole in bedrooms, bathrooms (!) and possibly the attic.

What’s next, no jellied cranberry sauce from a can? (If it doesn’t have ridges on it, I don’t want it.)

Newsom’s rules are ridiculous, yes, but he’s a panicked man. More than 975,000 Cali residents were diagnosed with COVID-19 as of Nov. 6, with 18,000 deaths. Experts say the true number of people infected is likely much higher.

None of this is funny. It’s scary.

But reactionary measures so ludicrous that they are widely mocked… well, that’s kind of funny. (Remember, tragedy + time = comedy.) Comedian Rob Schneider--always the best part of any Adam Sandler movie--posted, “If my aunt comes over, can I throw her a slice of turkey from the window?”

I don’t want COVID-19 any more than the next guy, so I’m changing up Thanksgiving, too. I’m just not sure where I’ll be or who I’ll be with.

In recent years Widdle and I have visited a wonderful restaurant buffet, but that’s not happening now. Dining with family isn’t an option as they A) Live in other states and B) Include the elderly and infirm.

Some river friends—whose hospitality and generosity are legendary—have invited us, but the prospect of interacting with folks outside our bubble is too unsettling for me. Widdle, being the gregarious soul he is, will probably go.

I may just stay home and eat a turkey sammich. With canned cranberry sauce.

Julie R. Smith, who won’t miss cleaning up, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.