Archive for November, 2009

When writing about Thanksgiving, I’m mindful that it’s traditional, especially for women, to dwell on one of these tried and true topics:

* How to Prepare the Perfect Sumptuous Thanksgiving Bounty with All The Trimmings

* How to Avoid Going Berserk and Attacking Your Annoying Relatives and In-Laws with a Carving Knife

* How Not to Eat a Bazillion Calories and Subsequently Watch Your Ass Double in Size

* Why, Two Decades After Second-Wave Feminism, Women Still Slave Away in the Kitchen While Men Get to Sit on Their Asses and Watch Football All Day

* Or, the most popular of subjects: Feeling All Thankful and Shit

I’m generally not the kind of person to make a maudlin list of things I’m thankful for, but it does seem to be the obligatory Thanksgiving cliche, so I’ll bite. It goes without saying, of course, that I’m thankful for my friends and family, good (mental and physical) health and that I live in a country where I am free to make such sappy and mushy posts like this one. So, here goes a list of 10 random things I am thankful for:

A job

Considering all the layoffs this year, especially in my field of journalism, I am so grateful that I am still gainfully employed in a job that, for the most part, I love and doesn’t keep my ass confined in cubicle hell.

The Internet

I am so, so glad Al Gore invented this, because how else could I waste time when I should be working than by playing Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook? The Internet also gives me the power to work from home, the opportunity to pursue my passions and hobbies, a soapbox by which I can unleash all my innermost rants and raves and allows me to cheaply indulge my book-buying compulsions. But most of all, it’s allowed me to meet so many awesome people — not to mention, my husband — and to discover and read dozens of smart, witty bloggers. Thanks, Al!

My furbabies

My kitties give me so much and all they ask for in return are food (preferably canned), shelter and the occasional rub behind the ears. I am so grateful for them, as well as the chance to open our home this year to two more unwanted kittens and one traumatized cat.

Morningstar Farms

Seriously, because I think we’d be reduced to eating peanut butter and jelly most days if not for its easy-to-fix line of faux meat products.

Dark chocolate, avocados, eggs, coffee, peanut butter, sunshine

And everything else “experts” warned us were harmful that have turned out to be good for us, after all.

My brother and sister-in-law’s poor planning

Their admitted carelessness means that I’ll be getting a new (and our family’s first) nephew in December! I am so very grateful for the chance to mold little Chase into a Bruce Cockburn-loving, tree-hugging, feminist, vegetarian, lefty Pittsburgh Steeler’s fan.

Having a great stylist on speed dial

My prematurely-bald husband simply doesn’t understand how a good or bad hair day can set the tone for the entire day. Yay for a stylist who knows how to cut short hair well!

Netflix and my DVR

I am grateful for Netflix for how else could I wile away the weekends catching up on the entire 11 seasons of Law & Order: SVU on demand? And to my DVR, for allowing me to mercifully fast forward through those god-awful Jenny Craig and Nutrisystem TV commercials.

Bruce Cockburn

And his 28 (29?) albums that have managed to both sooth and preserve my sanity all these years.

Adderall (and a good prescription health care plan)

Since going on Adderall for ADD a couple years ago, I now no longer have to embark on a daily hunt for my car keys (and other misplaced items) and have managed to actually finish a few projects through to completion. Hurrah for legal amphetamines!

Baby showers are among the strangest social rituals ever to be thrust upon womenkind. Our family threw one for David and Amber the other weekend. In the weeks leading up to it, my mother kept calling me with yet another mind-numbingly infantilizing game she’d found with names like “guess that baby food,” “the poopy diaper game” or (save me already) “pin the binky on the baby.” I haven’t been to many baby showers, but my “I’m not a bra-burner!” mother schooled me in advance on the fine art of such nauseating estrogen fests. Apparently the men — assuming there are any — retire to the basement whereupon they will commence drinking beer, playing pool, talking smack and watching the Bengals on my brother’s 60-inch flat screen HDTV while the women gush over hegemonic genderizing gifts and play ridiculous shower games all in the guise of some universally shared matriarchal longing. Luckily, I claimed the role of photographer, thus sparing me from most of baby shower hell.

Baby Chase has received enough shoes to rival any well-dressed woman and David and Amber’s registry has now been officially exhausted. But nothing beats the bestest gift of all, compliments of yours truly and Cafepress.

“So, how many cats do you have now?” asked the blonde veterinary technical as she prepared the bill for the kittens’ last round of vaccinations last night.

“Umm,” I hesitated, anticipating the wide-eyed look that was sure to follow. “Sebastian and Sydney make six and then I have a foster kitty. It’s like a feline Brady Bunch.” I omitted mention of the four neighborhood cats who’ve laid claim to our front porch.

The eyes widened, but only slightly. I would find out later that she has her own fair share of furbabies, and recently rescued the momma cat and kittens left by her neighbors when they moved to Florida. There is a shared understanding among suckers for a furry face in that we are all patients in the same mental ward.

“So, who are you with?” she asked.

“Who am I with?” I asked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I mean, which rescue organization are you with?” she replied.

“I’m not,” I said, with a laugh. “Oh, no, the craziness is all mine.”

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Meet Sebastian and Sydney, and foster kitty Nigel (who we’ll also probably end up keeping)

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