Well played, Thanksgiving

I was preettttty cocky going into this Thanksgiving. I had just run a marathon, meaning my metabolism was satisfactorily high. I was well rested. I had my recipes for my contribution to dinner ready. And I knew there was a swimming pool of wine waiting for me.

As is pretty typical for me, by the time Wednesday evening rolled around, I was just about foaming at the mouth with Thanksgiving anticipation. Since I wouldn't be home in Philadelphia for the customary Night Before Thanksgiving Shit Show featuring an evening of awkward encounters with high school friends, I decided to crash my Massachusetts friend's Thanksgiving Eve tradition with her girlfriends. This would be a safe night out, I assumed. Usually, I deal with awkward encounters with people I haven't spoken to in seven years by binge drinking, which ultimately either makes things significantly better or significantly more awkward, depending on which way the crazy tide seems to be pulling on that particular night.

On a related note, my other pre-Thanksgiving tradition is to wake up with dry mouth, rush to get ready because I'm totally running late, and vomit up the previous night's tequila shots on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. I was determined to break that tradition this year and to actually show up to Thanksgiving dinner looking and acting like a human. A real, adult human with adult-like habits that don't involve binge drinking and vomiting out car windows.

I think we all know where this is going though because a couple hours and a few bottles of wine later, I was waking up in my underwear an hour before I was supposed to be at my in-laws' house and still had to cook six pounds of candied sweet potatoes and a pumpkin pie. Old habits die hard.

Never one to turn down a challenge, I faced Thanksgiving with my usual vigor and still managed to eat and drink myself into an uncomfortable near-comatose trance. Well played, Thanksgiving. You kicked my ass.

I woke up Friday morning still feeling ill, put on a pair of elastic-waisted pants, picked up Michael Farrell from the airport, and prepared myself for a long weekend of overindulgence. And we succeeded because it's Monday morning and I feel like the glutton from the movie Se7en starring that delicious Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman. Gah. Maybe I'll go on one of those colon cleanse diets or something this week. That'll fix me. Psshh who am I kidding? I'd be homicidal after 12 hours. Homicidal ... but probably skinnier ...

To pull myself out of my post-Thanksgiving gluttony funk, I adopted a child. Not a real child, but like, a child who needs Christmas presents. Well technically he is a real child with real child emotions and stuff, but I don't get to take him home or anything. I just get to buy him stuff for Christmas. There's a Christmas tree in my office with all these children's names on it and their Christmas wish lists. I got really excited until I looked at some of the lists. iPods, iPads, video games, DVD players. What the wha? Can I put my name on that tree? I'm way too poor to buy myself an iPad. I'm also incredibly (emotionally) needy. And I want, like, a lot of things. Does that count? Who do these kids thinks is adopting their wish lists? Warren Buffet? Steve Jobs? God? Part of me really wanted to find the most outrageous list and then buy the kid a football and put in an Mac Book box with a note that says "In my day, we used Walkmen with batteries to listen to our dangfangled cassettes. And Apple wasn't even cool yet. GO OUTSIDE YOU FILTHY ANIMAL. Love, Bridget" but I don't want to send mixed messages during the season of love.

Instead, I found the most practical child on that tree. My child is seven years old and requested sensible winter clothing like sweaters and hats and gloves. I imagine him to love Legos and after school snacks of apples dipped in peanut butter. He loves his baby sister and his parents and wants to be a doctor. He also styles himself after Cliff Huckstable. And because any seven-year-old who writes "scarf" on his Christmas wish list is SO adorable in my book, I'm going to buy this kid so much shit. I'm going to fill a shopping cart with Legos and Transformers and sensible winter clothing. And candy. Seven-year-olds and 26-year-olds named Bridget love candy. I can't wait.

I hope everyone's Thanksgiving was as enjoyable and and physically uncomfortable as mine. No. More. Rich. Foods. Happy Monday, ya'll. Get to work. Tweet