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| Nope. That's not what's it's like. Not even close. |
Thanksgiving appears to me the same way a hostage situation does. In both cases, unwilling captives are fed strange food by their captors, there is political debate among the ring leaders (often liquored and loud), one or more fires are guaranteed to ignite somewhere (I once saw asparagus combust) and too often threats of knife violence seem a bit too realistic to be played off as a joke (relax Mom, it's just a flat soufflé, put down the sharp carving metal.)
As a product of a divorced home, this means that by the time Snoopy floats across New York, I will have had no fewer than 16 different dishes to dig into: turkey at both homes, ham, stuffing, at least four different pies, a few casseroles, potatoes (sweet, and double baked), vegetables, greens (which are the greasy cousins of vegetables), canned cranberries, beans, bacon, ice cream and enough tryptophan to sedate an offensive lineman. I will have stuffed myself beyond comfort, to the diabetic point of replacing my stomach lining with brown gravy. I will consider purchasing a scooter ala Walmart to compensate for actual movement and blame my gushing love handles on a "glandular" problem. So, when my girlfriend told me that we would also be traveling to Lumberton, Texas, a small town outside of Beaumont, for two additional meals with her split parents, my heart stopped as it prepared for the oncoming clot. It's been nice knowing you, regular sized jeans. Sayonara, six pack. In the next three days I will eat four thanksgiving meals, travel 10 hours by car, watch three football games and sidestep the opportunity to arm wrestle a drunken uncle at least twice.
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