Thursday, November 26, 2009
Last year I posted some thanks on the occasion of Thanksgiving, which is certainly not original but which seems appropriate, as I'm not yet jaded enough to offer a list of "No Thanks." While I do enjoy cultivating a persona as a sarcastic little misanthrope, I am in fact incredibly fortunate. I am loved and clothed and fed and employed, and The Huffington Post lets me write expletive-filled fashion diatribes that are published on the front page, right next to serious policy discussions. Despite a diet consisting mostly of candy and wine, I have my health (and, perhaps more surprisingly, most of my original teeth). And I am spending today in the company of beloved family, a very affectionate blind labrador, and an abundance of pies.
Now that I've gotten my attempt at sincerity out of the way, here are a few of the littler things I am thankful for this year:
I am thankful for President Barack Obama and his First Lady Michelle, not because of anything political but because the US now has the most smokin' hot first couple of any nation in the free world. Eat it Sarkozy--Carla carried you.
I am thankful for Megan Fox, not just because of her terminal case of verbal diarrhea that keeps the tabloids talking but also because of her freakish pygmy thumbs, which makes me think that God has a sense of humor.
I am thankful for Robert Pattinson, not because he sparkles in the sunlight and has launched a thousand fan sites, but because he makes me feel tan by comparison, and not my normal, skim milky color that causes my sun-loving grandmother to audibly gasp whenever she sees me.
I am thankful for my shower curtain, which is a collage of old movie stills and which ends up hanging just so that Cary Grant is always sort of creepily watching me suds up. (Although yesterday morning I realized that Shirley Temple --the child version--stares at me, too. Not okay.)
I am thankful for my mother, who thought to bring three bottles of wine and a box of Peppermint Bark on our drive to Massachusetts so that in case we got trapped in the car somehow, we would survive indulgently, for my father, from whom I inherited my writing skills (and my penchant for calling inanimate objects "assholes"), and for my sister, who is finally moving back to New York and who shows me how to watch TV shows on sketchy Japanese websites.
I am thankful for my endlessly patient, kind, and newly bearded husband, who finds it endearing that I eat off the floor and have a second grader's grasp of geography.
I am thankful for my extended Zorabedian family and their spastic, scatalogical charm, for my adorable new nephew, and for my beautiful, talented, hilarious friends and their partners, spouses, and children.
I am thankful for all of you--whether you're anonymous strangers or friends or acquaintances or secret enemies--who read this blog and who tell me I'm funny and who make me feel like it's sort of my job to write, which is my greatest wish fulfilled.
But most of all this Thanksgiving, I am thankful that Jonathan Safran Foer is not a guest at my house. Cause I'm about to go to town on a 23-lb turkey, and I don't take mine with a side of sanctimony.
Happy eating, y'all.