Watch as Clifton finds the true meaning of Thanksgiving. (This is a rare instance in which I came back and changed the title at the end. This post gave me an interesting bit to think about.)

I've been home for a while now, having hung around my parents' house for a while after Thanksgiving dinner. I watched the first 40 minutes of the 10:00 Simpsons hour on WB6 with my brother, then figured I'd drive on home before I was tempted to just zonk on the couch there and try (and, likely, fail) to get up at 5:30 to stop by my apartment and get changed for the day's work.

Anyway, so I've been sitting around debating whether to actually post on here tonight. I've been trying not to make this the Bitch & Moan Corner, because, hey, who likes to read about other people's self-pity festivals? But there it is. You can pretty much just skip the remainder of this post if you want. I just feel like putting it into print, because it's giving me a headache.

Thanksgiving blew.

*shrug* The day has just sucked overall. No major catastrophes or anything, but it hasn't left me feeling fulfilled like Thanksgiving's supposed to. I wanted to sleep in, but my bladder had other ideas at, oh, 9:45 or so this morning, when I'd fully intended to sleep until 1 or 2 in the afternoon. So I called and/or emailed a bunch of my friends to wish them a happy holiday (if I didn't catch you, don't feel snubbed or anything... sorry) and settled in to watch TV until dinner.

I should note that the suckness started last night, when I was informed that I was going to be housesitting and chauferring my brother around all weekend (Friday morning until Tuesday night) as my parents will be up in Wheeling getting started on the kennel up there. Of course, I asked my sister to help out, particularly on Friday and Monday, when I work from 6-11 and 3-midnight, and she laughed and said, "You expect ME to give up MY days off to watch Zachary??" ... which doesn't surprise me, and wouldn't surprise you either if you know my sister. Even though, I get to give up MY days off to do it, but... well, anyway...

Where was I? Oh, so anyway, I find out last night that I get to forfeit my weekend. Again. Oh well... not like I had plans or anything. I WILL be turning the thermostat down, though. I swear, they keep it at like 82º in there year-round. And I'll be doing my laundry on their nickel, too. I didn't want to grouse about it too much in front of my brother, because I don't have any problem with him personally, and I don't want him to get that impression. I have a great time hanging out with him. I just wish I'd known about this in advance.

But on the other hand... like I said, what plans did I have to cancel anyway? I was just going to end up renting a movie or something, probably.

And then dinner was really not that great. It's nice to know my parents will never read this... as far as they believe, all I do on the Internet is sit at Yahoo!Chat like I used to do when I was, oh, 16 or so. They don't even know about my website, let alone my blog. So, anyway, I can feel secure in divulging that the dinner wasn't very good. I feel bad, because I know the time and preparation that went into it, but... it just seemed like everything was kind of blah. I dunno, maybe it was just my mood. I do know that my favorite Thanksgiving dish -- my grandpa's scalloped oysters -- was a wreck. He brought it over basically straight from the oven without bothering to check it, and it wasn't done. It's supposed to be kind of quiche-like in texture, and it was basically oysters floating in hot milk with clumps of flour bobbing around. I ate some to be kind, but that was sort of disappointing, because I always enjoy that dish.

Anyway, then I went to the craphole Walmart with Kristy, because she needed juice and water to help with her flu but Walmart was the only store open by 7:30 pm, and who wants to go to the craphole Walmart (the one in Tower Plaza) by themselves after dark? So I picked up a couple of things as long as I was there... a chunk of Port Salut cheese, some canisters of Crystal Light, a 12-pack of caffeine free Diet Pepsi, a couple of other things. Then my debit card refused to work at the register. It's worn out, yeah, but it still works most everywhere. Well, the Checkout Lady From Hell gives it a few lame swipes herself, then tries the plastic bag trick, and then just hands it to me and says, "It's all scratched up. It won't work." I asked, "Well, run it as credit, then." She tried a couple of times, said, "Still won't work." I said, "Can't you type in the numbers?", like, I'll note, EVERY GROCERY STORE I'VE EVER BEEN TO CAN DO WITH A CREDIT CARD. She says, "No. Can't," then just sits there and stares at me. Well, Kristy offers to put it all on her card, which at least freed me from that temporary embarassment, since I hardly ever carry cash or other cards. I marched over to the ATM while Kristy was checking out, had no problem withdrawing a $20 to pay Kristy back with. I made sure the cashier noted the speed and ease with which I used the ATM, although in my foolhardy attempt to make a show of superiority, I paid a total of $3.50 in ATM fees. So then I felt pretty stupid about that, too, since I cold have just driven down the street and used the B of A ATM and paid no fees. So the fact that I made an ass of myself in front of a friend didn't help much with the mood, either.

Anyway... sorry... I don't like being embarrassed in public like that. That's probably my biggest fear.

So I dropped Kristy off, went back to my parents' house for a little while (watched TV, as mentioned above), then drifted on home.

Now, as the day had been going, should it have come as a surprise to anyone that there was a silver Pontiac Aztek parked in my spot? And that there was NO parking to be found save for a group of spots about as geographically far away from my apartment as possible?

Of course, what do I do? Complain? Have it towed? Sure, and be known throughout my complex as The Asshole That Had A Car Towed On Thanksgiving, let alone just The Asshole That Had a Car Towed, period. So I pulled out a copy of my Parking Spot Notice form letter that I keep in my console. It's the one the begins, "Hi. I hate to point out the obvious, but this is a reserved space -- mine, in fact." It goes on to explain that obviously, they had trouble finding parking near whomever they were visiting for the evening, so now *I* can't park near where I'm visiting for the evening (i.e., my apartment), and that they shouldn't feel particularly bad, because obviously since I'd taken the time to print this form letter out, it's happened numerous times before; as it says, "You're not the first, and I'm sure you won't be the last, either." Anyhow, on the bottom, I scrawled, "Happy Thanksgiving. Hope your holiday was OK. Mine sucked, if you were wondering." I stuck it under a windshield wiper and drove on around to an open spot.

*sigh* I honestly hope you're not reading this far. I hope you'd've given up by now, because even though I don't necessarily want everyone reading about my trivial problems, if I don't post this out in the open, I won't feel like it's beeen lifted off of my chest. Tacky as it sounds, my headache has subsided. I may not keep this page updated as much as I like, but it sure is damn therapeutic when I need to blab about crap that's bugging me. And if I get it down in print, it doesn't keep bouncing around in my head.

I know that in the long run, dealing with watery scalloped oysters, unhappy Walmart clearks, and people who disregard signs that say "Reserved" are just that -- trivial crap. And, you know, though I mentioned before that I was feeling strangely unfulfilled tonight, now I can see the forest instead of the trees. If the fact that I have to spend Saturday watching TV at my parents' place instead of watching TV at my place is the worst thing I have to deal with all week, well, I guess I've got plenty to be thankful for tonight after all.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.