Wednesday

Thanksgiving, I thumb my nose at you.


Pretending I'm Martha Stewart.

With the big "Halloween Night Power Outtage" and subsequent "No Internet Service Since Then" holidays safely behind us (as of an hour ago) I am pleased to report that I am more than ready for whatever Thanksgiving has to dump in my lap. Bring. It. On.

"Tree Pulls Power Box Off the House"? 2009. Did it.

"Garbage Disposal Stops Disposing and Stops Up Sink Mid-Turkey"? 1996. Hmmm, did that one too.

Oh, how about "Refrigerator Gets A Little Hot Under the Collar, and No, Repair Men Do Not Work on Thanksgiving Day"? 1997. Yes, been there, done that.

Wait, there's the old favorite "Husband goes to attic to get the slow cooker and puts foot thru ceiling" routine. That's a good one. 2007. Sadly, I've been front row at that show.

"Hurricane Tears Thru Oak Cliff"? Well, he already lives here, and as you all know, I live with natural disaster every day of every year.

Wait, wait...how about this one? "Freak Ice Storm Hits Dallas on Thanksgiving Day (and Oklahoma Where I am Now Stuck with Super Duper Relatives and Their Six Dogs Until it Melts)". 1992 maybe? Remember that one?

As you can see, me and Thanksgiving have not exactly come to terms with our societal roles: Me = mommy who cooks a beeee-utiful turkey and serves it in frilly Martha Stewart apron while being gazed upon lovingly and appreciatively by adoring family. You = holiday that goes perfectly smoothly.

Where every appliance works.

The house stays clean and smells like a pumpkin pie.

The Cowboys win.

And I come out lookin' like the cover of Food & Wine Magazine, if just for one day.

But, try as I might, I cannot get Thanksgiving to behave.

So this year, I say "Forget YOU" to Thanksgiving. I'll be hunkering down in the bedroom with the plantation shutters sealed tight, watchin' season three of House for the umpteenth time, sucking down a St. Pauli Girl and working my way thru the large container of Orville Redenbacher's Poppycock.



I don't think it will be this particular canister of Poppycock, that my understanding and sympathetic friend Kyle sent me, that I am plowing my way thru at this very moment. No, I'm quite sure this one will be gone by the time Quinn's bus gets here this afternoon. But that's my plan for Thanksgiving this year. No turkey. No mashed potatoes. No Martha Stewart. Just carmely-crunchy-nutty goodness and beer. I boycott you Thanksgiving.

Me and Poppycock thumb our noses at you and all your cranberries.

Go pick on somebody else this year.
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