As owner-operator of The Neurosis Files, I work hard to keep thoughts of gratitude at bay. Though tempting at times, they’re a luxury I can’t afford. Entertain just one and, before you know it, I’ll be devoting posts to puppies playing in meadows, William Shatner’s endearing qualities and my Aunt Chloe’s miraculous way of reviving wilting chrysanthemums. Then where will I be?
This Thanksgiving, however, I’m choosing to indulge.
Here’s what I’m grateful for:
The freedom to express my disdain for parades whenever I feel like it.
Limited access to Starbucks — as otherwise I’d end up in financial ruin, guzzling caramel Macchiatos from a paper bag under a bridge somewhere.
That my cat’s shit rarely stinks.
Sufficient room in my purse to accommodate a bottle of Paul Mitchell’s Freeze and Shine hairspray without compromising my organizational system.
That I can tease my gynecologist when he sticks his finger up my ass. (“You just can’t resist, can you?”)
The word “lurch.”
That my pharmacy will deliver, so I don’t have to give up a decent parking space.
Personal humiliations that make for excellent blog posts.
Concerta (Attention deficit disorder)
Ex-Lax (You do the math.)
My tubal ligation.
Britishisms: wanker, arse, fag, shag, suss out, and, my personal favorite, “I daresay.”
Books that, unlike Anna Karenina, don’t ramble on about Russian farmers.
The right to refuse being weighed by my doctor when I suspect that I’ve put on a few pounds.
But…most of all, gentle reader, I’m grateful for you.