Since tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day in my sometimes hapless homeland, and since it seems to be as de rigueur as the ginormous fowl itself, I've been thinking of the things I'm grateful for.
I adore my two puckish children, regardless of the fact that for nigh on ten years they still feel the need to burst into the bathroom and watch me pee.
I love my husband--if for no other reason than he's the only man with whom I could ever envision adventuring into the great golden maw of the American Frontier in a covered wagon. I'm serious.
I have many dear and wonderful friends--and an awesome brother--who, despite knowing me, choose to admit it.
I have all my teeth. And most of my senses.
But perhaps the thing I am most thankful for is that I am not, nor will I ever be--so help me God--this woman:
|No, it's not a narrow-minded, gossip-mongering garden gnome|
or a steerage passenger on the Lusitania--
it's the MIL
Nor will I, thankfully, ever don footwear like this (even on my deathbed in the midst of a nuclear holocaust when the only thing that'd save me would be clonking the heels of my immigrant-issue men's clodhoppers together while croaking, "There's no place like home"):
|Jimmy Choo, hardly|
So to all you Turkey Day revelers out there and others with plenty to be thankful for, I wish you a wonderful holiday. Now get thee to a monstrous mound of mashed potatoes, pronto!