So it’s my first Thanksgiving without mom. Which isn’t as big a deal as it sounds, because we never did holidays in the traditional way. She had some kind of giant bird hangup and never cooked much anyway, but especially never birds. She was always more of a cheeseburger kinda lady. The few Thanksgivings I can remember with dad and his 2nd wife were forced and full of bizarre East Coast traditions. See: oyster soup? I’m by nature a rather happy person, so this total lack of annual rhythm in my formative years never phased me. I just ate my cheeseburger and was psyched about that little bag of cookies in my Happy Meal. Snapping off Hamburglar’s head with my teeth. Never got better than that.
The holidays are harder now that I’m the grownup and I’m supposed to be festivity ringleader. Having no real-world experience of how it’s done or how to even start, I only have rough guesstimates and Norman Rockwell archetypes to go on. So I usually try to take a sprinkle of Carol Brady, a dash of Andy Griffith, a pinch of Betty Crocker, and spackle the gaps with coworkers’ photocopied biscuit recipes. Most years I get by fairly well, and the inner struggle is pretty easy to mask. This year, I feel frozen by grief and it’s not just my usual laziness and lack of organization getting in the way of a Hallmark-moment holiday. I’ve done nothing, and I mean nothing, yet. I don’t even have any fucking festive gourds.
Still thankful though, just bad at executing. But next year, watch out. Because next year I will rock it SO HARD (also an optimist) (also possibly delusional).
The Gmail (1) plus the Tumblr (1) plus the Twitter (1) equals
an inability to maintain concentration for even a fraction of a second. Times 3, or is that (3)? I also have a tendency to glance up, see the ( ) there and freak out: (17) new emails? but how? only to realize I’m looking at the wrong tab. Yep, I’m a blowtorch of scorching focus.