Every Thanksgiving, I need to watch the Jodie Foster slice of cinematic brilliance that is Home for the Holidays. It's fabulous for several reasons, but the moment that rings most true for me in when Anne Bancroft leans into the front seat of the car where Holly Hunter is sitting and whispers, "Claudia, I can see your roots."
My family is also very much partial to the "Cash is King" conversation over Thanksgiving Dinner, although my Uncle Ted (whom I love very much) won't be there to tell me how I have too much capitalist, unnecessary, classist crap. My brother's best friend John will be carrying that mantle for us this year. I wonder how many times he'll pull his "I was in the Peace Corps" card. My money's on lucky number 7.
There's not a lot to say when someone pulls the "I was in the Peace Corps" card because while he was in the Peace Corps, I was at the Gap. None the less, I can't reach for the Ravenswood this year so here's hoping we avoid any talk of socialized health care, bailouts or when there'll be a little grandchild running around.
I'm about to leave work soon to get my nails did, purchase the hors d'oeuvre I'm responsible for and help my mother color-coordinate everything. Word on the street is that she is going with the very "statement making" black tablecloth this year. Also, we have a Star Wars turkey as my brother seems to have procured a bird from his employer, the details of which I didn't obtain, nor do I particularly care about.
I hope to update you periodically with Spotsgiving-isms because, quite frankly, this is my only form of therapy...