Thanksgiving

It's Thanksgiving.

Happily, I have something to do because my favorite cousin moved to Jersey City this week. He's cooking a fabulous low-carb Thanksgiving. And I am going to dine with him and his boyfriend at a small dinner party.

You have no idea what a relief it is to have real Thanksgiving plans. With family, no less. Usually, other than Christmas which I spend in Florida with my parents and sometimes my sister-- holidays are rather lonely times for me. Oh, sure-- there's always the friend willing to take in the "orphan" for the holiday meal. It's been interesting, through the years, to note those of my friends who invite me to share holidays with and those who doesn't. In Thanksgivings past, there have been good riends with nice families and nice children who I might have enjoyed dining with. I have sometimes hoped for an invitation but rarely received one, though I've known that if I hinted broadly enough, I would be welcome there. One does though hate to intrude. Annually, though, the offer is made by the friend whose child behaves so appallingly that I find it difficult to eat at her home. I spend the meal wishing someone would slap the enfant. I am usually to be found cutting turkey furiously, telling myself under no circumstances to put the utensils down because if my hand is empty leaving a free path between my palm and the child's face, the person who does the slapping might just be me. Somehow it seems like a less than courteous action for a guest to take even under the most justified of circumstances.

Once, for example, in the course of a grown-up's conversation, this child, then aged 5, interupted something I was saying, exclaiming, "No, No, Cupcake! I don't want you to talk!"

I was stunned into silence, and gratified when my friend, the parent, immediately responded to her offspring's declaration. "That is very rude, Bratface!" (Not the vile child's real name, FYI.) "You should say, 'Please, Cupcake, I would really prefer it if you do not speak."

I stared at her in horror, enraged. I shall let the reader guess if, during the remainder of my visit to their home, I used more than 20 words and if the mother, absorbed in her own matters and in worship of her Devil's Spawn, even noticed.

Several weeks later, when I had calmed down enough to speak rationally to the doting parent, I repeated the exchange to her. She seemed puzzled at my invocation of the incident.

"But, Cupcake" she explained, "I want her to grow up speaking English properly, not sounding ignorant. And you of all people must know the importance of phrasing things well."

"Um, yes, Person Who Was My Friend For 20 Years Before She Created This Monster" (not her real name, FYI)--"Yes, I do understand the important of diction. But you did in fact validate your 5-year old's telling me to shut up."

Even more confused at my lack of understanding of the arcane skills of parenting, she stammered, sincerely, slowly, as if explaining to a dim-wit, 'But Cupcake, I would never invalidate her opinions!"

Ah, yes, Readers. This is why Cupcake shudders when people tell her that the children are our future.

And this is also why Cupcake has, for many years, spent Thanksgiving alone. Usually she has spent it in the car driving to Vermont, happily scheduling the drive to take place when most Americans are seated at the bosom of their family, so not only is there no traffic but also so she can avoid the fact that she has nowhere to dine.

But this year, Cupcake has family to dine with. Other people too, guests at her cousin's house, which will be nice. But for a change, Cupcake will feel like she belongs somewhere, she belongs TO somebody. That where she should spend the holiday is obvious, possibly even obligatory.

That's a very nice change. A very nice change indeed.

And for that alone, along with many other reasons like that she made a decent amount of money on the sale of her house, and that she has good health and a fun working situation and all her teeth, Cupcake gives thanks.

Happy Turkey Day, everybody!