As I was just telling my friend Julie, you know you're getting dark and twisty (and living in France too long, and possibly watching too much "Grey's Anatomy") when you're rolling your eyes at the voice messages left on your phone by Americans wishing you a happy gobble gobble day.
My first year in France, I flew home for Thanksgiving. Last year I felt like an ambassador, mildly festive, mildly observant.
This year I'm going to see Borat with Julie and trying not to write any more blog posts comparing breaking up with getting run over by a bicyclist.
To those of you who are celebrating Thanksgiving today: enjoy your turkey and your day at the mall tomorrow. I am thankful for all that I have, and I'm thankful for it every day, I don't need a holiday which bears the faint whiff of genocide to remind me.
I do miss my family, and the comforting sound of (American) football on television, with a fire going in the living room. So I give thanks that they're there, even if it is without me, and I give thanks that I'll be on a plane in three weeks to be with them for Christmas.
Gobble gobble indeed.