Turkey Day

Every year the President pardons a turkey. I don't know why-- it's a symbolic gesture, and a hypocritical one at that since he'll turn right around, walk into the White House and eat a less fortunate turkey a few hours later. I mean, who knows. The Bush family spent a lot of time in Maine and maybe they eat lobster for Thanksgiving and he's right to pardon the turkey. But it seems a little preposterous to pay double time and a half to the Secret Service to protect the leader of the free world during that inane ceremony.
Also, the turkey is probably all, "This asshole is going to pardon me? He tries to go through locked doors!"
But I love Thanksgiving. You know why? Mashed potatoes. I could do without the corn, without the turkey, without the wine (especially the wine right now, since I'm still hungover from Saturday, mentally speaking) but if there are no mashed potatoes, you can bet I'm going to be a real sourpuss. My Mom makes them the best-- a little sour cream, half-and-half, loads of butter, a dash of dill. She leaves the salt and pepper out since I load my half-plate wide, inch and a half high stack with salt regardless of whether she's added some already or not, so she's hoping that heart disease will be staved off another year.
I also think I love Thanksgiving because my Mom has always been into the holidays and it's just so infectious. She waits by the television at the end of the Macy's Parade, waiting for the very convincing Santa Claus to come down the street and signal the beginning of Christmas. This is then usually followed a few days later by what my Mom calls "The Christmas Dream." Almost every year for the past few years she dreams that she forgets Christmas. She wakes up on Christmas Eve day and there's no tree, she hasn't bought any presents, she forgets to pick me up at the train, and there's no food for breakfast. The morning after this dream I get an email demanding my Christmas list or else I'm getting a check.
I'm also one of the sick freaks who loves to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. Seriously. I love the bargains, the excuse to go out and spend hundreds of dollars in one fell swoop. I love that Target will call me on Friday to get my ass out of bed and out to consume. This is America. Smell the consumerism. I go too crazy for the kids I babysit, I buy my Mom more than I should (because no one else is going to) and usually get myself a couple of things. But I love coming back on Friday night, exhausted and sore, knowing things are underway.