: bursting with thanks or something :

Please bear with me, I’m dopey from tryptophan. Dopey and sleepy and deeply regretting my choice of pants. They fit so nicely when I put them on this morning, now they’re a tool of the devil. I can’t breathe, I can’t bend, I’m as overfilled as a parade balloon. Stand back, ladies and gentlemen, I could blow any second.

While we’re waiting, let me tell you what I’m thankful for on this fine Thanksgiving Day. ¹ It’s not the same old chestnuts, the ones that get trotted out every year along with the good china — family, friends, food, shelter, etc. They may be politically correct and lovely sentiments, but ho-freaking-hum, right? Come up with some new material. Puh-leeze.

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Me, I’m thankful for forced air heating. Elevators. Cheese. Springtime. Recliners. Coffee. Squirrels. A clear conscience. Warm socks. And lights at the end of tunnels (also called hope).

You know what else I’m thankful for? Pockets. Without them, hands just hang there looking awkward, ungainly, and really, really dorky. Seriously, what can you do with hands when they’re not busy? Fidget? Whittle? No, you shove them in your pockets where they can’t get into trouble. And when your hands are occupied with other things, voilà, storage space.

Right now, however, my hands are homeless. They have nowhere to go. I couldn’t cram them in my pockets with a crowbar, that’s how tight my pants are. The turkey wasn’t half as stuffed as I a … hey, did you hear a rumble? That’s ominous, what was it?

There it is agai

 

Copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

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¹ Thanksgiving is an enduring, unchanging tradition. So’s this post; it’s a reblog from 2013. I’ve reviewed the text thoroughly and, surprise!, it passed the sniff test. It doesn’t stink.

In fact, the piece bears the unmistakable aroma of white sage and nutmeg, with the barest soupçon of Dior. You see, Thanksgiving will always and forever remind me of dear old mom and her holiday dinners. They were grand, elegant affairs where soft drink cans and water bottles were banned from the table; manners and civility were expected; casual attire was allowed. And so was I, every year, although I sometimes failed to abide by the rules. Well, failed? No, I neglected to comply. Even so, I was welcome — but watched closely.

Happy Thanksgiving to you!