Happy Thanksgiving? That's questionable.

What I would first like to share is that I am a member of a blended family. And by blended I mean psycho.

When one is a member of a blended family one must become quite skilled at forgetting previous holiday experiences and hoping with all there is for to hope that each new holiday season will be a beautiful and cherished occasion.

*deep breaths*

I was plucked from bed this morning by my brother. He threw a pillow over my face and said, "Get up butthead. Mom's making breakfast." I told him that I was an adult and that I would get up momentarily and/or when I felt like it. Which translates psychologically to, 'You, as a ten year old child, cannot tell me what to do, but thanks for warning me of Mom's wrath and that there's food to be eaten. I'll be down in a minute.' He understood, as brother's do. I put on my glasses, checked my email and went downstairs.

Breakfast was, you know, great! Bacon, cheesy eggs and grits. Also, mimosas.

After breakfast, I was instructed to "do the dishes."

Then we, being my brother, sister, mom, and myself, stuffed the bird. It was comical. Mom forgot that the giblets are stored in the neck and started freaking out because she sent the other bird to a friends to be teriyakied and didn't take the giblets out. I checked it, the friends removed those giblets for us. :)

Then the kids freaked out when they saw the turkey's organs go into a pot. "Ewww! Gross!"

They were sent to the showers. The step-sister hovered nearby; typical. (For all you non-blended family members, here's where things get interesting.)

I snuck downstairs to have my morning cigarettes. (Usually, I have one in the morning but when I'm forced to sneak about to smoke, one turns into, you know, three.) When I came back upstairs, Mom was throwing dishes around the kitchen. Soap suds lined the countertops and you could cut the tension in the air with a knife, that happened to be in her hand. I took the knife from her and started wiping the counters. "What's up?"

"I can't handle it anymore," she explained, her usual conversation-starting phrase which translates into, 'Please listen to me, because I have no one else to bitch to." I sat down.

After the bombardment of emotion. I hugged her. Offered to take out the garbage and informed her that I was taking a shower. When I went to go upstairs, there was the little devil, seated on the middle of the steps listening to everything. She saw me, scrambled up the stairs, and sought refuge in the bathroom. I wasn't about to let her get away with it. "Please don't listen to other people's conversations on the stairwell," I said. To which she replied, "Okay," in that damn pseudo-angelic voice.

Now I need another cigarette, or, you know, twenty.