"We don't got no gingerbread."

What? What do you mean you don't got no gingerbread? It is 10:45 on the Monday after Thanksgiving. Of all the Mondays in the year, this is the one on which I second-most expect a cup of Christmas cheer! I hold in my hand a Starbucks gift card. This is $100 of pre-paid gingerbread lattes. So I know that when you say you don't got no gingerbread, what you actually mean is that you got some gingerbread in the back and you will now go get it for me, right? Right?

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Hello. Welcome back to my blog. As I sit here nursing a distinctly non-Christmasy vanilla latte, I am caused to reflect upon my festive holiday weekend.

Actually it wasn't festive. Thanksgiving was pleasant, mostly because I fell asleep in the living room before everyone started getting rambunctious and annoying. There's never tension in my family, but they mock-fight and horse around a lot, and I always end up with a headache. Before that was nice, though, in the way reading old issues of People magazine at the dentist is nice: it's kinda mindless and the gossip is interesting (if a tad irrelevant) but you know something yucky and torturous is about to transpire, and you're trapped in there waiting for it.

In this case, the dentist is my mom's brother, who this year announced his arrival louder than ever. We were all talking quietly in the family room with the hors d'oeuvres when suddenly: "HEY FAGGOT!" My uncle had arrived. Oh, and he was talking to the dog, not to me. We don't tell Uncle Nate about me.

So dinner. My (other) uncle's turkey is always awesome, and I get a leg. The stuffing had no mushrooms this year, which earned it an A+. And of course, we had my favorite food: can-shaped cranberry sauce. I ate so much. My cousin refuses to touch it. I tried convincing her of its merits by saying "It's like Jell-O, but gritty", but she didn't understand.

The conversation was peppered with disparaging comments about other cultures and races from my charming uncle. You know the one. Although, there was considerably less "chink" and "nigger" talk this year, which surprised me until I realized he was focusing on gypsies.

Gypsies. I was thinking "Is this the Byzantine Empire, Nathan, do we even have gypsies anymore?" But I came to understand that he was using "gypsies" to refer to "Various peoples of color when that color is not black." It was a catch-all term for Middle-Easterners, Indians, Native Americans, Mexicans, et al. Also Russians. In addition, certain individuals of the Caucasian persuasion may be classified as "gypsy" if they also fall into the category of "People Nate Doesn't Like."

We discussed the gypsies living in my grandmother's building (a nice Pakistani couple), the gypsies that my uncle arrested the other day (he's a cop), and the gypsies causing all sorts of problems in Iraq (sometimes the word "Arab" was substituted in the interest of variation). Charming, really.

So that's what was happening across the table from me. To my left, my grandmother (my dad's mom) was letting me in on America's best-kept secret. She didn't want to tell me if I was going to make fun of it because she didn't want to waste her time on people with closed minds. When I finally assured her I have the most open mind at the table, she told me. I'm going to share this with you guys because I trust you all. Here's what you do.... invest in real estate on Mars. It's going to be a hot commodity soon because we can't live on Earth very much longer. So buy land on Mars. And Jupiter too. Pluto's too far away to be profitable.

I listened. I tried my very best to keep a straight face, but I accidentally laughed a little, but I masked it well by turning the sound into the beginning of a question: "But, isn't Jupiter made of toxic gas?" At this point I was labeled as a "close-minded fool like the rest of them" and I had to convince her that it was just a question and that given enough effort, Jupiter could be made habitable as well. I finally admitted that I have no significant savings to invest, which prompted my cousin Janice to ask me about my job and salary. I could have hugged her for providing the escape route, but I contained myself.

Things looked up when dessert came because my Aunt Donna works at Starbucks, and she brought in a tray of cranberry bliss bars, which I consumed with great abandon. I even got to take a bunch home. I have one in my bag right now, but it's kinda squished. A cranberry bliss lump, really.

Then it was nap time.

So... best Thanksgiving in years, really. The rest of the weekend was spent reading 4 novels, watching How to Marry a Millionaire (on which I took notes) and sitting doing a jigsaw puzzle while watching old episodes of Charmed on TNT.

I never do my Thankfuls on Thanksgiving because it never works. I always wait until the week after. Here goes:

I'm thankful for living in New York, far away from my family. I'm thankful for cranberry bliss bars and can-shaped cranberry sauce.

I'm thankful for 2 hour lunch breaks during which you get piss drunk and then go back to work and write in your blog.

Like right now.

I'm thankful for not getting fired.

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Open Letter of Thanksgiving

Dear Nonexistent God in False Heaven,

Thanks for the America. It's really great. It fits perfectly, and it goes with just about everything I have.

Thanks for making my family totally weird. Without them, I'd have nothing to write about in my blog.

Thanks for alcohol, without which I would not have fallen asleep and survived Thanksgiving. Nor would I make it through this work day.

Yours,
~2H~