Giving Thanks Like the Publix Pilgrims

Horray for a two-day week!

The self-improvement plan has taken a hiatus until November 30. In the meantime, I shall be consuming mass quantities of meat, butter, pie, and wine. I shall be unproductive. I shall take naps at ten to the hour every hour. I shall neither sweep the floor nor put the clothes away. But that's what Thanksgiving's all about, right? That, and, of course, giving thanks.

I am thankful for:

• My little family, Matt and Mitch. Those boys sure do make me happy.
• My wonderful, smart, funny friends. I am especially grateful for those friends who will give me an honest answer when I start a conversation with, "Now, tell me if I'm being a bitch here. . ." or "Tell me if you think I'm wrong." A truly good friend is more than just a member of the cheering section.
• All of my great kitchen equipment
• Having a wonderful mother and father in-law. I've heard many a horror story, and I'm happy that I don't have to worry about having a crazy mother-in-law or a creepy father-in-law. Truthfully, the ones I got couldn't be much better.
• Having a job, however frustrating it may be at times.
• Facebook. How else would I spend hours per day stalking people, many of whom I don't even like?
• Our health. Let's keep it that way. (Maybe I should get back to that self-improvement plan?)
• My bigger (extended, not fat) family: they're loud and crazy, but full of love. And all of the annoying things about them are going to be useful when I write my tell-all book.
• Cupcakes
• Boxes of wine
• Turkeys
• Naps
• My down comforter
• Having a president with a brain (even if Congress can't seem to grow one)
• Martha Stewart and Real Simple
• My camera
• Dogs in general
• TV shows on DVD
• Pajama pants
• Parks
• The internet
• Publix
• Season-specific salt and pepper shakers. For example, the Publix pilgrims, Paul and Polly. I love breaking these guys out. Their arrival means turkey and naps and love.

I want to use them to season mashed potatoes.

T minus thirty hours until the family arrives. Uh oh.

What kind of sick horsey snuff film is this?

A few things you might not know about me.

• I'm manic. I'm either super productive and getting one billion things done in a day, or I'm lazy, almost catatonic, and sleeping 15 hours a day. Lately, because of the self-improvement plan, I'm in a super productive phase.
  
• I almost always have the tv on when I'm at home alone. I'm usually not even watching it, but I like the background noise.
  
• I am a cryer. Big time. I cry when I'm sad, and when I'm angry, and when I'm happy, when I'm watching American Idol or Amazing Race, when I encounter anything heartwarming. Publix commercials and Cotton commercials are some of the worst offenders, but the worst thing of all is any situation in which an animal dies.

So. . .

Last night, while Matt was at work, I was being pretty productive around the house. I turned on the tv for some noise, and it happened to be on Bride Wars. My productivity began to wane, and I got sucked into Facebook, and for some reason, I didn't change the channel. The pathetic part was that the remote was right next to my hand. I wouldn't even have had to get up out of my seat. But, instead, I suffered through the last fifteen minutes or so of the cinematic masterpiece, then puked all over myself. (In a way, this experience was like the time I fell asleep during Usual Suspects, only to wake up at the very end. The surprise was ruined, and I feel like my movie narcolepsy robbed me of one of the best movie-watching moments of all time.) Let me ruin one for you: at the end of Bride Wars, both girls are pregnant. Thus the puking.

After Bride Wars, I mustered up the energy to change the channel to Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Good and good. But then that ended, and some horse documentary came on. (For the record, I don't give a rat's ass about horse racing.) It was called Barbaro.And I really wasn't into it at all. Something about a horse and "Barbaro, Barbaro, Barbaro, Triple Crown, champion, Kentucky Derby, blah, blah, blah," and so on. But then, when Barbaro was racing in the Preakness, he broke his leg.

Suddenly, I was invested. For the next 45 minutes, I watched as surgeons and rescue people and his owners tried and tried to save Barbaro. For the entirety of that 45 minutes, I was crying like a little baby.

Although I am a news junkie, I had somehow missed everything about this story. Maybe this happened during those years when I did not have cable? Who knows? I was going to turn the documentary off, but decided that I needed to stick around for what I believed would be a happy ending. And I really thought that happy ending would come. All signs pointed to happy ending. There was hopeful sounding music and everything!

But no. Oh no, Barbaro--after months of rehabilitative efforts and surgeries and pain and anguish--dies. His owners and all of the people who loved him said their goodbyes, and it was done. The f'ing horse dies! And all this after I've grown so attached to him that I can't even think about his sweet face without breaking down in tears.

So I wept. Mitch kept looking at me like I was a crazy woman, which I totally am. He tried to lick my tears with his healing dog kisses.

Matt called to ask a quick question, and I tried to pull myself together. He heard through it, however, and was alarmed. "You sound sad. Is everything okay?"

And I broke down again. I explained--through snot-filled sobs--all about Barbaro and how he died and how horrible it was. As soon as I said the name of the horse, Matt said, "Oh no. Yeah, that horse dies. If I'd been there I would have told you not to watch it." (Sort of like how he's forbidden me from watching Marley and Me.) This is a prime example of how work will ruin your life.

And it reminds me of a Friends episode.

Where was Phoebe's mom when I needed her most?