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that's me, clinking my glass.

The benefit of not having written a blog here in more than a year is that I didn't write my traditional Thanksgiving post in which, instead of enumerating my gratitudes like people do, I complain about how very much I miss the United States on the last Thursday in November. I am bored of enumerated gratitudes and do not believe there is anything wrong with a holiday that has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with gathering, food, and people you love, like, tolerate, or loathe-but-must-suffer, and their plus ones. I wish it happened quarterly instead of annually, and I wish it did not come with the shadow of imperialism and genocide, but no one has asked me yet to create my own holiday, though you are all free to celebrate my birthday next year if you want. I will tell you the story of how my grandmother burst through the hospital door marked No Admittance while my mother was in labor with me. We can make a rite out of that, can't we?
Instead, on this non-holiday, I stained wood and made black beans with tomatillo salsa for Myron and a dish of chipotle tuna salad for me. I stayed away from Instagram and the stream of a thousand turkeys with trimmings. I put the last of my December obligations into my planner, and I felt the illusion of control. That's an addictive drug, right there.
I hope if you Thanksgivinged, it was a good one. And I hope if it was just another Thursday, that it was a good one of those, too.