Happy Thanksgiving, and woe unto the turkeys.

My own turkey breast is roasting in the oven, and when it's done, Roomie's going to make potatoes and stuffing, so we'll have most of the trimmings. No cranberry sauce, though, which pains me deeply. Cranberry sauce is so tart and tangy and soft on the tongue, and it reminds me of my grandfather's table because every year, at Thanksgiving and Christmas, there would be a tureen of cranberry sauce, and it was always wonderful.

My monthly Red Badge of Boobage has arrived just in time for my mother's visit. Isn't that grand? Ten to one we'll be re-enacting WWE Raw at the Barnhill's, swinging chairs and throwing plates like Chinese stars while screaming insults through snot-clogged noses. If my grandma comes, she can look on in mortified horror and mutter that we're being "unseemly".

My mother will no doubt want to go out on the biggest shopping day of the year, and despite my protests, I'll be herded through the mall in search of bargains, while irritable, stressed, and pitiless professional shoppers shoot me dirty looks for impeding their progress to the latest treasured gift that will go from store to tree to closet in record time.

She'll insist on a movie, too, and I don't know which one to see. She likes Walk the Line and Goblet of Fire, but I've already seen both, and it wouldn't feel right to perv on Viktor Krum next to my mother. Or Joaquin Phoenix, for that matter, and my brain was in my underpants for the entirety of that film, let me tell you. He could be my Man in Black anytime if Snape didn't already hold the title.

ETA: Attention, gamers: The Xbox 360, while certainly a nifty item, indeed, is only a game console. As such, it will not give you fabulous wealth, enlarge your penis size, regrow hair, restore eyesight, or transform your Amorous Amy Lovin' Time doll into Salma Hayek or Jessica Simpson. Therefore, there is no need to trample one another in your quest for the Ultimate Gaming Pleasure. At least, not until Microsoft perfects the blowjob and cunnilingus port, in which case, I'll be right behind you.
The dragon of linguistics homework was slain at midnight last night, and Roomie took it to its final destination this morning. Thus, I am free until next Tuesday. A week of unfettered leisure time; I hardly know what to do with myself. If I'm lucky, I'll make headway on "The Scarf", SLS 53, and SWIC 4, but then, turkey consumption makes me a lazy girl, and I am just as likely to spend my free week on the couch in a contented stupor.

My mother is coming to visit on Friday. If I had my druthers, she wouldn't be, but my grandfather already turned down her invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, and she sounded so lonely that I felt like a crumb begging off. She claims she's coming alone, but I'd bet my Jockeys that when she pulls into the drive, my grandma will be in the passenger seat, dressed to the nines and smiling fit to burst. Which will be fine until she opens her mouth and spews forth a torrent of racist, classist vitriol.

Speaking of my mother, I called her yesterday to ask for help. I didn't call because I felt I was entitled to her maternal charity; I called because she told me when I moved that if I ever needed her help, I could call, and she would do what she could. So, yesterday, I swallowed my pride and picked up the phone to tell her that my teeth were in dire need of repair. They hurt, and I don't have five thousand dollars to fix them. It was, therefore, a legitimate need.

Her response? "Call the health department."

What? I checked with the health department website, and according to them, they offer dental care to those under 21. I am 28. It is entirely possible that they have a program for adult dental health and choose not to publicize it. After all, we wouldn't want the great unwashed wasting tax dollars on such fripperies as teeth. Teeth are for caviar, not Spam. Anyway, I'm going to call the Monday after Thanksgiving to see if any such program exists. If not, my teeth will continue to throb and rot until the nerves die or the infections and abcesses that are sure to come kill me.

It's her money, and if she chooses not to share it, there isn't much I can do about it, but if she never intended to help, I wish she'd never extended the invitation.
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