Through rain and hellish traffic, the 4-hour drive to Brian and Suzan's took just over 5.5 hours. We were grateful to have arrived there safe and sound, regardless of the hour. I love Thanksgivings with them, because it's a Thanksgiving of introversion; you don't have to sneak off to take time for yourself or make phone calls or just be alone. It's understood and encouraged, and I took advantage of it.

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Have you ever wondered where your holiday traditions come from? I think we should make sure our children know the REAL reason for our holidays...

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Sarcastically muttered near the peanut butter: "Holy shit! Thanksgiving is this week? Why the hell didn't anyone tell me? When did this start getting scheduled in late November?"

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I tiptoed back early from Jeff's family's Thanksgiving celebrations, in order to do the house chore I'd been putting off for a month. I'd had a gallon of light blue paint sitting on the back floorboard of my car for a month, and it had been quietly taunting me every time I saw it."You don't have the time or energy to paint with me, do you?"

Every time I got in my car the week of Thanksgiving, I stuck my tongue out at it.

Thursday afternoon, comfortably sleepy on turkey and "fixins" -- although, I might add, at about zero vegetables for the day -- I made myself a plate of Thanksgiving food to go, wrapped it in foil, and drove home. Jeff needed to stay another night at his parents' to work on their computers (it wouldn't be a major holiday for geeks if we didn't work on someone's computer) and I was determined to get this painting done.

Off day, you see. An enforced off day at that.

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Somewhere between the second episode of The Muppet Show and my fourth orange-flavored drink, courtesy of Brian, I began to realize that this Thanksgiving holiday thing might have some merit, after all. Given another couple of episodes and another fizzy drink or two, I might even start singing the praises of this holiday. Read the rest »

Three hours and fifteen minutes into Thanksgiving, I'm playing a nearly-inaudible set of songs over Winamp, cursing my nocturnal habits, and wondering just when the heck I'm ever going to grow up enough to have holidays at my own house.

Southern families have rules. Nobody bothers writing them down, because why waste paper writing down the obvious? These things are all on the same level of obviousness:

• Left shoe goes on left foot. Right shoe goes on right foot. There should be no leftovers, either of shoes or of feet.
• When someone dies, don't send flowers. Send casseroles.
• You're coming home for the holidays, and don't give us any lip about it either.

So what's the dividing line, exactly? What causes the change in stature from Scion Of Existing Family to External Independent Familial Unit? When is it not just accepted, but expected, that your holidays will be spent under your own roof?

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