I love Thanksgiving.
Even more than Christmas.
The older I get the more cynical I get about Christmas.
The commercialism.
The consumerism.
The humanity that fleetingly appears at Christmas, and then disappears until the same time next year.
Thanksgiving is during my favourite time of year, it isn't really cold, just comfortable, the leaves are at their peak, the sun is bright, and there is no snow to mar driving.
I'm not sitting at home or in my office marking papers and final exams, wondering if I shouldn't just walk to a staircase, close me eyes, and throw them down stairs-assigned-a grade, collect them, slap on a grade and go home to make cookies.
I'm not trying to calculate final grades, wondering just how far my limited math skills can get me before I crack.
Thanksgiving is perfect.
A-less-stressful-than-Christmas-holiday.
While Thanksgiving is less stressful than Christmas, there are some aspects that make both a challenge, no matter how much you love them.
And number one challenge on my list: going to the grocery store to get those last minute items you planned on getting days ago but never managed to.
Superstore pre-long weekend holiday = bad.
Superstore on Friday afternoon = bad.
Superstore on a Friday afternoon pre-long weekend holiday = catastrophic.
Some testosterone filled brainiac decided it would be a good time to put apple and pumpkin pies on sale for 3.97.
You can't make them for that.
And I can't make them at all, so I was hell bent to get my pies.
Another testosterone filled brainiac figured it would be a good idea to put cases of Pepsi AND Coke on sale for $1.99, limit three per family.
A stampede of pie loving cola freaks came out of every corner of the greater Fredericton region driven by their sugar and caffeine animal instincts to get, and get as many as possible no matter what the cost, financial, lives lost, or otherwise.
I overheard a woman saying she was going to get the last case of A&W diet rootbeer, even though she didn't like it, but because it was on sale and she didn't want anyone else to get it.
Um hum.
Pepsi fared better or worse depending on how you look at it, as there were at least some cases of Pepsi and Diet Pepsi left post consumer feeding frenzy.
The Coke shelves were barren, empty, lifeless, attempting to recover from the snatch and grab antics of the cola deranged and hysteria filled consumers.
I just wanted out, in one peice, with my carbonated, flavoured water, my pies and a few other items not generally sought out by the cola delerious masses.
Just when we thought Frankie's uncontrollable urinary output was under control. . . .
Last evening, I'm actually laying on the couch as exhaustion fueled by grocery shopping antics was calling all the shots.
If I'm in the living room at all during the evening, I normally sit on the loveseat, a dog beside me, and watch television or work on the computer.
The last two nights, for reasons I could probably figure out if I just took the time to do so but won't because then I may have to actually deal with somethine, I found myself laying on the couch.
Frankie interprets my being at eye-level with him as "Mummy wants to play!!!!!!!!!!!"
He brings whatever toy he has at the time, the "bad rope" or the obnoxiously squeeky football, and lays its saliva coated self beside my head.
At first glance, you'd think he just wants me to throw it for him.
But I know better and I have the scars to prove it.
Just as you are about to wrap your hands around his drool coated, loathsomely sounding toy, he lunges forward, snatching it, and of your fingers that happen to be in the way.
He'll just keep doing it, too. No matter how often you tell him that you're not going to play tug-of-war with him.
Last night, he's doing this, repeatedly.
As usual.
And then, for no reason I can think of other than insolent, I'm-going-to-get-you-revenge, he walk behind the couch, and lets out a stream of pee that would have sunk a battleship.
The sound alerted me first.
And then Stephen's cry of anguish and anger and frustration because Frankie was peeing on the Persian rug we inherited from Stephen's parents, who inherited it from Stephen's grandmother.
Adrenaline overpowered my exhaustion and I leaped off the couch with such speed I mentally paused in surprise, and ran for a bucket of hot, soapy water.
Frankie knew immediately that he was in the deepest of shit, and he ran straight into his crate.
Had he opposable thumbs, I think he would have shut the door and locked himself in.
And we were having such a peaceful evening.
No permanent damage to the carpet.
Just Stephen muttering under his breath about a house with no pets and we will never be able to have anything nice, ever, so we may as well throw everything out and live in a barn, and do I know what his grandmother is thinking right now, saying right now, and I should be grateful that I don't because it wouldn't be very nice.
Crisis addressed, at the least the physical aspects anyway because the emotional scars Stephen is going to carry will take a lot longer to get over, we settled back into our respective place to attempt to recoup some of the pre-pee-on-the-carpet-state.
The phone rings.
It's Stephen's sister from Vancouver.
The last thing I hear is something about Frankie and Baba's carpet and I'm asleep.
Only to be awakened and hour and a half later when Em calls, shift at Empire finished and wanting to come home.
George Strombolopolous is on the tv interviewing the guy who plays Jasper in Twilight, while I stumble around in my still sleep stage trying to locate my car keys.
Luckily, the cold and blustery wind, plus the frigid interior of the car shocked my sleep-warm body into a state of wakefulness sufficient to operate a motor vehicle.
Its the little things.
The remainder of today will be spent getting ready for the 13 person Thanksgiving meal I am preparing for 5.00.
My parents, the kids and their friends, my jack-in-the-box husband. . .
You just know something is going to happen that will end up here.
You just know.
Title Lyric: Go for Soda, by Kim Mitchell
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