American Thanksgiving. I love it, even though I see it through cynical eyes at times. Yes, we love to shop and buy and watch junk tv. We are concerned about Twinkies and Kim Kardashian, yet most of us know next to nothing about the Israel/Palestine struggle (and that apparently includes KK).
But we also care about each other, and lots of strangers help other strangers on a fairly constant basis. Hurricane Sandy and 911 are two examples of how surreal it can be to live here in New York, where people are supposed to be such assholes. We’re not. We’re tough, but we’re kind. Oh sure, we have more serial killers than any other country, but, you know, we’re…bigger. Lots more room for nut jobs to roam free. I’m thankful for the non-nut jobs.
I’m sitting here, simultaneously baking two pumpkin pies in my very own oven and typing on our computer, in my own house, that I never thought I’d have. I get to look out on my backyard during the day and I literally get choked up sometimes, because I was certain I’d spend the rest of my life renting a crappy apartment somewhere that I didn’t belong. Never did I think I’d move back to the town that spawned me. Never did I think I’d have my own home, let alone a child that exceeds any expectation I could ever have had for a child. I’m unemployed, but I have a husband that works hard and would prefer for me to stay home if that’s what I ultimately want. We are all healthy, and we love each other in a very dysfunctional way.
I’m grateful. Happy Thanksgiving.