Author: approximately

Let’s face it — Thanksgiving was not created for vegetarians. It’s a well-known fact that pulling that shiny Butterball from the oven is, indeed two-fifths of the fun of Thanksgiving (Grandma’s antics provide the other three-fifths). When you take away the turkey, a herbivore’s delight are the mashed potatoes, the cranberry relish, and the cold pizza that your brother brought home from work last night.

Due to working conflictions of other family members, we’ve not eaten our dinner yet. This is kind of a problem, because aside from the bowl of oatmeal I ate for breakfast/lunch, I’ve been gnawing on cold pizza all afternoon. I’m not blaming this on anyone. Clearly I could run to my refrigerator right now and shove a package of deli meat in my mouth if I so pleased, but in keeping with my desire to remain veg, I’ve restrained myself. Next week marks one year without meat, and I intend to reach that mark and then some. (Note: This is the longest I’ve stuck with anything, ever. Not even my longest relationship, or consecutive months of not shaving my legs beat this.)

I made a grocery store run this afternoon with the intention of buying a bag of potatoes, and a side intention of finding a turkey substitute. In a city where 0.5% of residents claim vegetarianism, and the other 99.5% are on a strict meat and potato diet, I found nothing but buffalo sausage and birds. I was actually skeptical to ask where the tofu was, for fear of that look…you know, the look, the one that reminds you that tofu was not eaten by pilgrims at any national celebration of citizenship and/or discovery. The look that says, “You and your vegetable-eating psycho environmentalist inconveniences of friends are the exact reason why my faith in humanity is waning.” The look that says, “Substitute? Why not just eat potatoes and cold pizza?” I walked out of the store with a sack of potatoes.

On second thought, an orchestra of awkward stares at the questionable turkey substitute on my plate would, in fact, not be worth the trouble. Dodging the questions to follow could prove tricky (“That looks like…what is that?”), and aside from being nutritional, I can’t think of any reason why it would beat cold pizza and potatoes.

One thing to be thankful for: Pumpkin pie. No meat in that.

Happy day, all.

There I was, walking, whistling “The Ants Go Marching One By One, etc.” My face was contorted, about as usual as one would expect from a whistle face. I only do this when I’m alone—and I was, for a moment at least, until he came from the opposite way.

Her mother is dying. She’s made it very clear, through photographs and a description—that description, of fluids and fallacies.

He wants more coffee. He’s made it very clear, waving his thick, ragged index my way, under that crisp foam hat, amidst wrinkles and a livid complexion.

She’s a single mom. She’s making it clear, that her food stamps make it alright to go out on Saturday night, to leave her son with the Dad she mistook for forever, or just mistook.

He’s balding. It’s so clear, it’s painful and alarming. His mustaches conceals hours of sports statistics, and he’s a phony.

She thinks I’m a little demon. In jest she’s made it clear, and she’s willing to borrow me her cat any given day, for the sake of not being alone.

Of course I remember this night. I was lushly drunk off wine and having a darling time, running around in high heels, dancing with dads. I made the floors crush and the doors rush with ready—whoa, whoa steady now! Stand up straight, I couldn’t wait to take another sip and trip over those nasty sidewalks ripped, from years of hot and cold they shift, I drifted clumsy into the night.

Then I fight, a blank memory and scrambled mind of matter and debris, see the couch and long to slink to my knees, to succumb, to breath deep and heave, ho, heave, ho, to release the dance and the heels, the pool, the drunken chatter, my longing to feel, and suddenly…

Breath deep, heave, sleep, and leave. And on to a morning to pull myself together, so secret an abandoned eve.

It’s tomorrow already. I’m still awake, going to bed is and has been overrated since the 17th century. I’ve drank, twice my weight in tea, in thinking of better days. I’m still awake, my hairs are flayed in all sorts of greasy, mystical, maniacal directions of stress and late. I’m past care and before sleep. I’m still awake.

It’s today now and I’m still awake, and I’m going to thank everyone for each day. Thanks, thanks for calling and thanks for smiling and thank you for carrying my groceries to my car. Thanks for writing back, thanks for turning down the radio, thank you. Thank you for doing my laundry, for retaining my sanity, for the gift card and the get-well. Thanks for turning the heat on. Thanks for liking my eyes, thanks for running up the bill, and thank you, thank you for changing the toilet paper roll.

I thank you for each day, for this day we didn’t talk, and that day that I took the time to walk around the block and see, the folks I don’t usually see. Thanks for the .41 between my car seat, thanks for the extra cup with my tea, thanks for staying put. Thanks for the trash, and taking out the trash, and making me feel like trash. Thank you, and you, and you. Thanks for wiping your feet. Thank you for taking the time, and the space to realize that I’m waiting…still.

Everyone, thanks. I’m still awake.

P.S.

More thank you’s available here.