Thanksgiving and the case for my sanity.

Thanksgiving comes but once a year  . . . yea, that’s an in-your-face-you-gotta-be-stupid saying.  None-the-less, even this jaded chick of the moment celebrated the American holiday this weekend.  Did I do it with copious amounts of alcohol? Did I see friends? Did I have another epic Lifetime Movie drama develop? Did I sacrifice sleep and body safety for bone-crushing sales of plastic crap, holiday glitter fashions, and electronics? Well . . .

Last year I had the infamous “I still love you” followed by my throwing up.  Yea . . . the two bottles of wine helped, but . . . None-the-less, this year I was hell bent on having my drama free holiday of wine, French movies, and day old Chinese without the insanity of some dumbass crossing my path.  Did I get it? One word . . . no two words: Hell yes! Now, I sit with trepidation hoping that jackal has finally moved the fuck past me.  Time will tell.  Now, to this one.

Old friends, from the land of Kentucky, had me over to their swanky Lower Manhattan apartment . . . Adam’s Dad was the preacher in our youth, so very literally I had Thanksgiving supper with the preacher’s family.  Good times indeed.  Even better when I might have told the preacher that I call Yankees stadium my house of worship.  Might have given preacher man a heart spasm as he told me that was sacrilegious.  I beg to differ, since as I told him, several other preacher friends agree with me . . . *  None-the-less, the evening was good and jolly.  We caught up on life and people we once knew.  Conversed about the ones we still hold near and dear.  Sadness of my past made brief markers, but we contained those to when everyone else was gone and let them pass without hesitation.  We all already know there is more to me than I care to talk about. 

In our thirties, Adam, Nat, and I have decided we are lame.  We were tired and all crashed—or attempted to—early. 

Then Friday came . . . now here’s what you should know.  In college I worked retail once.  Not only did I work retail, but while holding down two of those gigs I got nailed with Black Friday, Christmas Eve, and New Year’s.  Two words. Holy shit.  Yes, the holy kind and not the regular run of the mill and just stink of the house kind.  People are nuts, and accordingly I do not make it a trend to shop on Black Friday.  Aside from a large amount of diatribes I have on consumer culture, mass abundance, and the need for entirely too much plastic crap . . . I just don’t see the need to put my life at risk—and loose sleep, which I never get enough of because of A) Lupus and B) mild to moderate insomnia—for the latest “deal” of the season. 

More so, seems this year majority of the Wal-Marts in the country had some kind of redneck, jacked up, gonna go git ya some insanity going on: See for yourself, in case ya missed it.

But, sadly this nerd needed printer ink and paper.  Damn.  Yea, two cartridges were thirty bucks, but I contemplated for hours if I really needed to brave the chaos of Staples on this high holy American day.  I did.  Double damn. 

So around two in the afternoon, well after those “door buster” deals were laid to rest, I armed myself with my Doc Martens (as they good for kickin’), my “Just Add Bourbon” shirt (as I was certain I’d be feelin’ the need for it), and three layers of make-up to hide the blooming Lupus rash.  Again, it might be called a “butterfly rash,” but it ain’t nothing like a damned butterfly.  Try having the residual burn of spider eggs bursting under your skin (not on it) and then come talk to me.  We might have a comparison.  Well, down Hoyt Ave. I trotted to arrive at my Staples on the edge of trepidation and outright fear.  Before leaving, I told my friends to start prayin’. I don’t think they prayed hard enough.

Deep breath. I entered and the only area to look like an American holiday war zone was electronics.  I didn’t need those . . . off for paper, refills for my fountain, and then in line to pay and get the printer ink.  Start breathing deep.  Deeper.  Dumbass five people up starts trying to haggle the price on . . . Bic pens.  Apparently, the box was bent (not the pens) and this should require a markdown.  Did I tell you this is in New York City and not some rural stereotype town?  Then he starts arguing about how many pages can be printed from a cartridge of toner.  The box said 800, and the clerk was trying to tell him to buy the cartridge that was 20 dollars cheaper and got 250 more pages.  What does he say?

“That isn’t cheaper because it is smaller.”

He held the line up for fifteen minutes.  In the process of this, two people began loudly arguing over a laptop a few isles over.  Apparently, from what everyone could hear, one thought she should get a discount since she always shops at Staples.  The other was calling her an idiot.  I was calling her a dumbass under my exhales.  Smelly guy behind me decided I looked like someone to talk to.  So I got to hear about his replaced knee cap, the Wild Turkey him and his buddies drank the night before (and it was “mad crazy”), and that he knew more about this place than anyone.  I braved the front and asked his age.  Twenty-one. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. 

Some woman’s teen was literally three feet from her, within eye shot, and she started screaming that her kid was missing.  She wanted the doors locked and the poe poe called.  Some people shouldn’t be permitted to breed.

While waiting in line someone else decided to change her toddler’s diaper.  A shitty smelly one to boot.  Did I say she did this while in line?

Somewhere in here Paul McCartney’s “It’s a Wonderful Christmas Time” began to play.  Now, here I have to back track to December 2007.  My wonderful friend Burberry got that damned song stuck in his head, and in the course of the season—as we walked campus, smoked, and walked up and down the stairs of the Humanities Building at Stony Brook—he sang it so much I had nightmares of that damned tune.  We now have a running joke about it giving me PTSD.  So, this year on Black Friday while standing with crazies in line for printer ink at Staples my Doc Martens, bourbon shirt, and patch did little to keep me within the realm of sanity.  Just when I thought I was going to collapse into a ball of shivers and tears in the middle of Staples, which would have made a hilarious Lifetime Movie of its own, I got to see the clerk.  Thank goodness.  Though, I’m certain I was starting to have beads of perspiration trickle pour down my face . . .

Forty minutes, or so, later I paid and left.  Upon walking out the doors I exhaled.  People are batshit crazy I tell ya.  Upon entering my apartment, I did collapse into a Lupus induced fevered sleep . . . okay, partly Lupus and partly PTSD from Burberry.  

And that my dears is how to have a drama free Thanksgiving.  I just realized, I only had one glass of wine last week.  Such a shame.  Let me go find that bottle . . . I feel PTSD again. 

*I should probably make a statement that I have my faith.  Faith and faithful are two different things.  Just like having faith and going to an organized church are two different things.