26 November, 2003

It is time for my annual goopy Thanksgiving e-mail, which I mass-mail to those of my friends who don't mind, and customize and send individually to those who do. You know who you are. Under other circumstances, I would compose right here right now, as I am a right now sort of person, but it's cold, it's bedtime, and I had dental work today. Lovely stuff, that.

However. I have a husband home, who went out to bring back filled scrips for painkillers, which, by the way, have a "happy" ingredient, the Ultracet does, anyway, and in deference to familial harmony, I wish to be as happy as possible tomorrow and Friday, when, at my mother's insistance, we will have Thanksgiving Redux. May I just privately (hah!) say, I do not care for this holiday? I mean, in theory, yes. In actual practice, it's a helluva big assed deal, and I'd rather have Brunch, if ya know what I mean.

And the food. Oh, gods, the food. Could there be more opportunities for me to mess up my system? My inlaws, bless their adorable hearts and save their sweet souls, do not understand that vegetables are good even without sugar or chicken broth. Well, let me just earn my reputation for diva-hood with my annoying food sensitivities. I am a delicate person, and deserve to be taken care of properly, and I will see to that, despite familial pressures to the contrary.

Sunday, we have Tribal Brunch Thanksgiving scheduled, which will be wonderful. Scotty and Hawk can bond again, as Hawk will still be home, at least until afternoon. We have not heard yet from all the members, but any turnout of this group should prove to be warm and happy. As I wrote in the invitation, the Tribe is Family we chose for ourselves. Jose wanted to argue the point, but he's like that, and ended up not doing so after all.

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