On Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving isn't really a big deal to vegetarians. I mean, the last thing we want to see is a big ol' bird carcass sitting on the table while everyone picks the poor thing apart. However, to each their own. I used to be a carnivore, I can't be all uppity about people eating some bird on bird day.

Luckily, the family makes some killer "fixin's." I get to dive in to two different kinds of sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, Waldorf salad, rolls (who doesn't love carbs?), deviled eggs, stuffing, olives, and whatever else. Never mind the freshly baked home made pies. Damn!

For me, Thanksgiving is about hanging out with the family. Having a cocktail or two. Listening to the boy cackle with delight as he gets to eat dinner with a ton of people. This is his thing lately, eating around the table with a lot of people, he can't get enough of it. Luckily, I've got a good set of in-laws and there isn't any bickering on the holidays. No one gets pissed off and flips the table over. Everyone just grazes, drinks, chortles, passes out sitting up, you know, whatever. I'm also pretty lucky that the parents get along, not like Clark and Ellen Griswold's parents, so I get to have my homies at the dinner table as well. Score.

Thanksgiving also allows me the time to accept that Christmas is next month. Once "Black Friday" rolls around, I'm all like, "Yeah, bring on the Christmas carols, get Santa's fat ass over for some cookies." I'm actually quite a bit of ahead regarding Christmas this year. The gifts are bought, the Christmas cards have arrived, though I regret not making them snarky, I apologize in advance to those of you who will be in receipt of our cards. The decorations will go up this weekend, despite my house being a torn apart shit hole thanks to foundation work.

On a completely unrelated note, I must mention, because it needs to be mentioned because I find it hilarious, J was shaving his beard off this morning, and G was sitting on the toilet watching him. G began whispering under his breath, "Daddy's not shaving his butt. Daddy's not shaving his back. Daddy's not shaving his boobies. Daddy's shaving his face." I don't know why it's hilarious, but maybe he feels that Dad needs to shave these items and is trying to drop a hint." I tell ya, this kid, he really comes up with it.

So, what are you guys doing on this Thanksgiving weekend? Eating a frozen dinner alone? Working? Hanging out with your family? Hanging out with people you loathe? Whatever you're doing, do it well, Turkeys!

On Book Review #2

Have you ever started reading a book that was so bad that you just couldn't make yourself keep reading no matter how devoted a reader you wanted to be?

This has happened to me a few times, even with a few of my favorite authors. The first time was with a book by Chuck Palahniuk, Pygmy. I love all his books, I love the way he writes, but with all the damn Pig Latin in that book I was going crazy! Reading the broken sentences and the complete disarray made me dread picking it up again. I eventually gave up about half way through.

This happened again with another of his books, Doomed, which is the second in a series about a snarky little girl who has died and gone to hell. I liked the first book, it was different, edgy, but when I got half way through (again) the second book, I was like, "I really don't give a shit about what happens in the end." I felt bad that I lost interest in a perfectly fine book by an author that I adore, but I just couldn't make myself care enough to finish it.

The third time it happened was with a highly anticipated book by Anne Rice, Prince Lestat. I was geeked about, it, I love the Lestat stories because he's such a scum bag and I was thrilled that another one was coming out. Again, I struggled through that book and got about three quarters through, and gave up. I really, really tried to be engaged by it, but it just wasn't gripping me.

These three books I gave up on, I may revisit in the future. Maybe all I need is a different mindset, a different perspective. Well, honestly, I'll probably never revisit Pygmy, but the other two stand a chance.

So, I started reading The Killer Next Door by Alex Marwood and right away discovered, it's British. Nothing against the British, but sorting through their slang and dialect is exhausting. I find this rang true when I read Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh, holy shit, was that a task! I got through 9 chapters, that's it. I was not excited to get to read this every night because those 9 chapters were so choppy, I didn't know what the hell was going on. Some chick disappeared from one of the "flats" in this house, presumably murdered by the landlord and one of the neighbors, I don't even know. This other chick moves in to the disappeared chick's flat with all the former chick's shit still in there and starts wearing her clothes because the only thing she showed up with was a bag of cash. Some of the other chicks that live there were all like, "Who are you? Why are you wearing Rebekah's clothes?" I don't know man, those 9 chapters were drivel, I couldn't make myself continue. Maybe this really is a good book, I mean, book reviews are just a matter of opinion, am I right? Maybe one day I'll get through the whole thing and find that it's amazing. I just don't see that happening any time in the near future.

However, this lack of interest might also be because a new Stephen King book came out on the 3rd, A Bazaar of Bad Dreams. A huge collection of short stories that he hasn't done in years with notes on each one as to how he came to write the story, pretty neat if you care about that sort of thing, which I, of course do. I'm burning through this book and find myself reading much later than I ought to.

I'll probably throw a review out for that one, to possibly bring some more King followers over to the dark side.