We had an awesome thanksgiving. A short summary: Megs, my BFF from home came, we lit the turkey on fire, and my friend A hugged me so hard my earring cracked. Earring-crushing hugs, best friends, and flaming turkeys, these things make for the best thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is less of a big deal here than in “America.” Nevertheless, I con all my Canadian friends into celebrating every year, which is a feat, since in my opinion, so much of Canadian identity is defined by being “not American,” and there is really nothing as American as turkey and pumpkin pie on American Thanksgiving. The Canadians always ask when it is, and I’m always thrown that not everyone knows it’s obviously and always the fourth Thursday of November. I have lovely Canadian friends that, for the most part, put away their disgust (hey, I harbor this disgust, too!) with the good ol’ US of A and participate in Thanksgiving a second time for me. Canadian Thanksgiving is before Halloween and you can celebrate it on whichever day over the long weekend that works best for your family, which is to me, well, blasphemy.
So, 2 days post sentinel node surgery, my BFF from home and I foraged at Jericho beach for decoration supplies and we mashed potatoes and we drank lots of cranberry mimosas. And friends from Vancouver came, and were not scared off when we lit the turkey on fire, even though the smoke made it a bit challenging to see each other across the room. It was lovely. And I am thankful. For friends, for good food, for the best hubby in the world, for people who distract me and laugh and listen and think with me, for the biggest Christmas tree we’ve ever had (purchased the day after Thanksgiving, like a true America), for sweet kittens and for the opportunity to write about something I care about. And also, of course, for quite a bit more.
Today, on this thanksgiving weekend, I’m thankful to have a cousin who has offered to be our surrogate. I knew she was thinking about it, and I was stunned at even the moment of her “I’ve been thinking about it.”
This is a girl who painted my face with red lipstick when we were little, and put my hair in side ponytails even though my father got angry because he thought it was going to make me sassy. We both turned out sassy anyway, thank goodness. This is a girl who served like a hundred tequila shots at her Thanksgiving one year and who painted my old red car like an American flag when I went away to college. This is the girl who had a “Don’t Worry be Happy” t-shirt I loved so much as a kid, and who still paints her nails in patterns and polka dots. This is the girl who understands how my family works like no one else.
There are not words that could possibly approximate the feeling of gratitude and wild compromise and insane love and care I feel towards this girl right now.
One in Six Thousand 