Call Me Dark Meat

I'm spending Thanksgiving at a close friend's home. She and I have been tight buddies since Freshman year at B.U. In fact, we've known each other for so long, she remembers my sorority days, my drinking days, the days when I went on dates with boys and the days I frequently slept in a tent outside a Brookline home, birthplace of our 35th President, holding a tattered sign that read, "Has anyone seen my old friend John? Can you tell me where he's gone?" I designed it on my Apple Performa Towers. Man, those were the days.

I anticipate having a wonderful time at dinner on Thursday, even if everyone behaves poorly, treats each other like shit and generally oozes disgust and hatred for their flesh and blood. My enjoyment will stem from one plain fact: they're not my fucking family. My family's poor behavior, shitty attitude and loathing of each other gives me hives and indigestion. Other people's family drama keeps me entertained. So, you betcha, I'll be grateful this year. I'm not with my own family, so I can eat and laugh and go home without being weighed down by a Sam's Club size bottle of Pepto and wearing an adult diaper. I'll also get a turkey's eye view of someone else's familial mess, momentarily convincing me that maybe mine's not so bad after all.

Just to be difficult, though, I'm considering adding some tension to the festivities. I'm flirting w/ staging a protest and not eating. If asked why, I will simply reply, "I am not particularly thankful this year. We're torturing Iraqi prisoners, by the end of the year Bush will have appointed 2 uber-conservatives to the Supreme Court, Arrested Development got cancelled and I've had the trots for more than a week. " Or I might go with a shorter, mysterious retort, "Ask yourself, what ever happened to Lauryn Hill? Now try to eat."