Thanksgiving had never been my favorite holiday, which is crazy, because c’mon…food! Hooray for food and all the goodness it brings to your belly! My family, though; they are not gourmet cooks, and my uncle used to like the kind of mashed potatoes that come in a box, and the meals were not particularly inspiring (I wonder where I get my lack of talent in the kitchen?), so the food was, while not outright terrible, not something to particularly look forward to.
When I got older and wiser and dropped my hipster, cynical pose leftover from my goth days and embraced my deeply sappy, drippy, sentimental side, I decided that Thanksgiving was a time to give—wait for it—thanks. And that I would be thankful for life and love and happiness and bluebirds and laughing babies and beautiful sunsets and kittens and doing it in the butt. Which is lovely, and fills you with a warm sort of glow, easily augmented with copious quantities of wine and cheese. And so Thanksgiving moved up in the pantheon of holidays, above St. Patrick’s and Arbor Day, a little below my birthday, Christmas, Halloween and Talk Like A Pirate Day. Now, if there were a way to combine all of these into one mondo mega-holiday with cheese, I’d be the happiest girl in the land.
Even without presents and going "Arr" and miniature Snickers, it was a
lovely, lovely weekend, and I say thanks, universe, because it is good
manners to say thank you when you get a very nice present. That’s what
it felt like—a present, a gift, something I’ve been waiting impatiently
for, and which surpassed all my expectations. It is always nice to have
your expectations surpassed. Unless you are expecting horror and blood,
and what you get is horror, blood and death. Surprise!
There was no horror, blood, or death (except, of course, for the
turkey). There was a half-day on Wednesday, unexpectedly shorter than
half, even. I ran over to Forever 21 because I felt the need to
celebrate life with a sassy new—something. I am not sure what I wanted.
I did not get it, because Forever 21, as it turns out, is for the 21-year-olds. Crazy! So I headed to K.T.’s house, where they had built
themselves some musical instruments (because they are crazy creative
like that) and we ordered Chinese food and we talked about babies and
grad school, and drank wine, and then I headed home, ostensibly to
change and go out, but what actually happened is that I collapsed at
8:30 p.m. and slept until 11 a.m. the next day. And that was the first miracle.
The second miracle was that I got all my freelance stuff done, and lo,
there was rejoicing and an iced latte to celebrate, as well as a run to
the grocery store to buy cheeses and bread (asiago!) as my contribution
to Thanksgiving dinner (please note the lack of cooking. Yay!). Then
showering, wiggling into my cute dress, flinging myself out of the
house and onto the train and then into a cab when the bus didn’t show
for 20 minutes, and then a night of all the cheese in the world, and
all the wine, and all the food (including lasagna, which is traditional
for my family, and so delicious) and all the pie and all the lying
around groaning about being all the full. It was the good kind of full,
where you are bursting with happiness and also too is your heart. And
that was Thanksgiving.
The rest of the weekend was driving up to Sacramento with the
spectacular S. to see a gorgeous new baby and eat more pie, and
hammering out the details of the subletting (I am moving in a month,
holycrapholycrap) and hanging out during her tattoo (gorgeous) and then
sangria and tapas and crawling into bed full and happy. And that was
the third miracle.
Sunday I spent locked in the house, not wearing pants and watching
every single thing on my TiVo, and it could not have been more perfect,
unless someone were to have delivered perfectly cooked protein-rich
foods to me every four hours or so. I did not get anything done that I
was supposed to have gotten done—my closets should have been clean at
the end of these four days, and a list should have been made of all the
things I have to do to get ready to move (holycrapholycrap) and more
freelance projects should have been more close to completion and I
should have, I could have, why didn’t I? Except that I am thankful I
had four days of friends and rest and sloth and food and happiness, and
my closets will still be there next weekend.