Refelctions on Thanksgiving

How do you know when your self-treatment of SAD is not going well? When you are sitting at your desk drinking your third drink (fifth alcohol unit) in an effort to try to get some sleep before three am, trying to do anything to make it unlike the past week. Plus I think this self-induced hibernation is not going well for my BBA—beautiful body adventure. My belly is hanging over my new skinny jeans. Ugh! At this rate, I’ll only be fucking my fingers and be assless when I make my decent upon NYC for two weeks—I mean, what fun is NYC when you have to pay for your own Dom and expensive dinners?

One second as I grab my fourth drink of the night, a Guinness.

Now that I’m settled in:

First of all, I would like to say, just how much I fucking love Thanksgiving. I know for a lot of people Christmas or even Halloween rank much higher in the fall/winter holiday likeability index, however hear me out.

Unlike it’s more popular holiday compatriots, Thanksgiving is a day that celebrates only gluttony. No dressing up in denial that there is a birth of a savior, nor finding the ‘perfect’ gift for people in name of celebrating that savior. It’s nothing like Halloween in that, unless you are seriously sick in the head, you aren’t getting ass. There is no need to squeeze yourself in your skinny jeans and stilettos, hoping for that man who will buy you Dom or Vintage Vueve. It is a holiday where your only means for a proper celebration is to stuff your face silly with your family and then later in the evening meet up with your friends—not the college ones who’ve known you only since you’ve been cool, but the ones who saw you in braces and watched your awkward first kiss over a spin the bottle. It is the perfect fucking holiday. No pretension, lots of booze, and gluttony with naps interspersed with a great game of football—nevermind that in my family the game is punctuated with my dad yelling because he has $50 riding on the game. But, you know what, in a sick way, it puts me in the holiday spirit, much like hitting up the stores with my mom at 5am and standing online to save $15 on the new electronic of the season.

So, of course as I’m abroad I’m sad that I am missing NYC for Thanksgiving. Especially since there is no pumpkin pie filling, nor French fried onions for a green bean casserole, and definitely nobody here to understand that you party fucking hard on Wed night—sowing those wild oates that will have to remain suppressed for the 48 hours as you pretend to be your parents ideal child, not the asshole who yells at his subordinates in the office and blows lines of coke in the cab en route to the newest spot in Chelsea.

But my concession: my sister and a friend from the US will be in London for the weekend. My friend here to provide the requisite company that I will not have to explain my nasty habit of self-deprecation and why I am a bit too free with my personal details—NYers understand that there is a Woody Allen in us all. And my sister, Kelly, to bring over those hard to find groceries that the British will never understand such as yellow cake mix, canned pumpkin, and cartons of duty free cigarettes for $25.

Suffice to say, I am motherfuckingly excited. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but also my best friend, my sister, will be arriving in like 48 hours. And for those who are a bit too acquainted with me and my excessive nature, know that I’ve already begun to go overboard in my quest for duplicating the Thanksgiving experience here. As it is a pot luck, we are only supposed to bring one dish.

Let’s guess how many I’m bringing?

Four.

It’s just, for me, it isn’t Thanksgiving unless there is bread pudding, or corn pudding, or a pumpkin dessert. And then playing on food network I saw this recipe that, I had to try because, fuck it, I am a bit drunk right now, so I can be honest. It’s just I fucking love entertaining and throwing dinner parties. I pretend that I am a horrible domestic, but, seriously, it’s like my dream! I secretly love it. And much like many of my relationships, it’s just that once I love something, I tend to go a bit overboard.

So, I spent the day shopping and acting all soccer mom, planning just how exactly I am going to manage picking my sister up from the airport, class, a group meeting, and having only two hours to act as a gourmand. I feel embarrassed to admit, but I find it exhilarating! So, like a soccer mom, there will be lotsa prep tomorrow night and zip lock bags to segregate the ingredients for each dish. God I am a fucking dork.

Just keep in mind, this is all contingent that I am not injured in my rugby game tomorrow. Because, if I am, I don’t know how I am going to get to the airport nor cook four dishes.

But in more serious news, so, those who’ve been lifelong readers of this blog know that I am prone to bad seasonal depression. I think my behavior at the moment is offering a glimpse into it: drinking beer in an effort to get to sleep after eating about a half a loaf of bread. I’ve tried natural means. Running, the SAD lamp, the fish oil. And they worked, up until the last few weeks. But, there really hasn’t been sunlight, like at fucking all for more than a few hours here a day. So, not because I am afraid of a bad depression ruining my school work, or making me act like a nutjob to my new friends here, but more because I am deathly afraid of weight gain (which I think I have gained like 5-6 pounds), I am talking to my GP about meds. But, for my close friends who read this, it’s not that I am like MHC depressed, because I still have the pictures, and that was bad. I still look cute! This is just an early catch down my slide. Because, if it wasn’t for rugby, I really wouldn’t have a reason to leave my room. And it’s freaking me out that the last game of the term is next Wed. Plus, you know, it’s like free here. Why the fuck not?

So, since I am a bit tipsy, I’ll let you guys into a secret. I can only write when I am depressed and well, tonight it’s nice being able to sit in front of my computer and have the words just flow. There is a part of me that wants to take my depression, and run with it. See how much of it I can squeeze for my book. I know that is so fucked up, a so adolescent tortured artist but, it’s just, when I am happy, I’m not as cognizant of my own feelings. I don’t have the need to delve into my psyche and understand just why I am so miserable.

But, whatever, you all know I am a freak anyway.

Super excited for the rugby game tomorrow. And there is 200 more pages of reading to be done before Thursday. Luckily, I studied this shit before in my modern architecture class—thank God for a liberal Arts education. It’s made Oxford a fucking cake walk.