SOMETIMES IT IS HARD TO REMEMBER THAT THANKSGIVING IS ABOUT giving thanks. I do not believe in God, exactly, but I do believe in some kind of universal cosmic force, and to this force, I would like to take a moment to mention the things I am most thankful for. Though, being all-powerful, it probably already knows.
I am thankful for Fresh Direct, as it saves me from having to shop for food at Duane Reade Pharmacy, which is a very good thing because you can only serve Frosted Flakes and ramen noodles for dinner so many times before one of your kids calls Child Protective Services. I am also thankful for paper plates, because I detest not only shopping and cooking but also the aftermath. Cleanup is exponentially easier when I can just plow the leavings of the dinner table into the garbage can.
I am thankful for Adderall, Ritalin, Focalin, et cetera, because a medicated child is a happy child. Likewise, I am thankful for Nicorette gum, Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, and Tanqueray martinis straight up with olives, because a medicated parent is a happy parent.
I am thankful for my personal technology, whose artificial intelligence surpasses my own. Spell-check: you are brilliant, and if not for you this book would read as if Larson had written it. To iPod shuffle: playing “Stairway to Heaven” and “Highway to Hell” back to back was a stroke of genius. If there is a god, you are probably it.
I am thankful for my long-wear lipstick and my power panties. You keep my lips and ass in place, respectively, and save me valuable time in front of mirrors. And my beloved Birkin bag, not only do you faithfully carry around all the crap required to get me through my day, but you offer me a sense of security: if I ever decide to split this scene, I can stop by that high-end resale shop on Eighteenth Street on my way out of town and raise enough cash on you and your little sister to live for six months. Throw in Judith Leiber and I get a whole year!
I am thankful for my girls, Alicia and Nicole. Your hard work and dedication keep me from becoming a homicidal bitch. And Zoila, my husband’s true wife: other women in his life have come and gone, but for thirty years, you have been there for him, and you’ve never once washed his cell phone. Sorry again, Peter. I am equally thankful for Blake, our manny, because only a gay man would have found the show tunes channel on XM and served it with breakfast.
I am thankful for my family. For Peter, who never complains about the price of my Manolos, though his accountant hates the fact that I charge them to his business American Express and has repeatedly asked me to stop. Peter has never asked me to stop, and until I get the word from the big guy, I’m taking that as a “You just go ahead, honey.” I am thankful for my hilarious kids, who are a constant source of good writing material. Believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up. I am thankful that my daughter attends a state college—wow, what a tuition break. I am thankful that my father taught me to shoot, and my mother taught me to sew, because being a size 6 on the top and size 8 on the bottom makes it impossible to buy a dress off the rack.
And finally, I am thankful that my in-laws are dead, because I can serve Thanksgiving dinner out of a box and straight onto paper plates without feeling like a failure.