Thanks-sucking. (Wait, was that even clever?)

I'm going to start this post off by listing the things I'm thankful for. This way, when I start moaning about how shitty this Thanksgiving is actually going to be, I don't have to worry about being bitched out for being a wretched ingrate. So here we go:

Scrub pants. My mother finally being complaint-free. Mint chocolate chip ice cream. Dear husband. The fifteen Law & Order marathons that were on tnt this year. My squatter wombmate. The new orlando IKEA. Not having to work. Seedless grapes. Knowing I'm going home for the Christmas hols. Williams & Sonoma catalogs. Valet trash service. Oh. And not having been disowned by any memeber of my family for being a teenage statistic. So for all that, thanks, God. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Sweden.

Now then, that out of the way-- FUCK ME, THIS THANKSGIVING IS GONNA SUCK.

No, seriously. While the rest of you lucky bastards are going to be comatose in front of the tv, picking bits of turkey out of your teeth and basking in the warm glow of familial love, there is a good chance that I'm going to be in a mighty sulk, balled up in the corner of the couch, waiting for my extra large pizza stuffed crust pizza to get here (Pizza Hut does deliver on Thanksgiving, right?). And dear husband? Undoubtedly snoring miserably in bed with a fever. That's right, the poor sap went and got himself sick two days before we were supposed to make the hike down to Fort Meyers Beach to turkey it up with his family.

Okay, so it might have been a painfully awkward affair meeting his father and his good ol' boy grandpappy all in one fell swoop like that-- not to mention the three hour drive there and back in hellish traffic... but there would have been FOOD! Lots and lots of free food. And people! People to talk to! ...Oh my God, I'm tragic. But come on, there's no shame in admitting that I'm a little starved for socialization or expensive hors d'ouvres (these people just bought a recreational army tank... I'm sure they'll spring for something sprinkled with caviar), is there? Whatever. I don't care. We're probably not going, anyway. Apparently, Christian's grandfather's health is in such bad shape that the chance that Christian might pass along whatever bug he's fighting off might just be too much for the old man. And I guess no number of fancy pants appetizers or adult conversations is worth putting the poor old guy in jeopardy.

So instead, I get to play Florence Nightingale with my darling, wretched, snot nosed husband. Hot tea and toast Thanksgiving feast for all!

...Man, that little punk's lucky I love him. Even with the snotty nose.

With love and chicken soup,
a.