Look at Me: I'm Thankful (Again)

365 days ago, I let my small corner of the blogging world know that, on Thanksgiving Day, 2009, I was thankful for my undershirts.

Aren't I clever?

This year, I don't know what it is, but I'm not feeling especially clever. Or witty. Or funny. Or subversive. Actually, I don't know exactly how I'm feeling as I start to type this post, which is always a little dangerous, because I have no idea how this post is going to turn out.

And, honestly-- I kind of like that. It's pretty much the only risk I take in life. Besides speeding-- and I speed in a Volvo, so it's almost not even that risky anyway. Speeding in a Volvo is a bit like having bareback sex with a photograph of a prostitute.

Thanksgiving is a tricky time for renowned cynics and muttering bastards the world over, and I struggle with it, too. On the one hand, it's predictable and cloying-- inspiring some of us to pen odes to our undershirts. On the other hand, as a nation that takes everything, from its oxygen to its Blackberries for granted, a little dose of Rockwellism once a year couldn't really damage us too irreparably.

It wouldn't hurt this generation to bow its head and hold hands around that anachronistic thing called a dining room table-- not one little bit.

I've undergone a lot of changes between the Thankgiving of my 29th year, and that of my 30th. The smarmy, winking little brat in me wants to be funny and light this year, to poke holes in and poke fun at tradition and syrupy Little House on the Prairie idealism-- and the burgeoning adult in me wants to cry and hold my family, people who unbelievably seem to grow more distant and unfamiliar every week-- or is it month? I forget.

What I can't forget is that I am both the punk and the idealist, I am the smiling bugger and the thin-lipped grandfather-in-training-- always thinking, obsessing over what is right and what is expedient, and how to tow the line between the two. Or if I should. And what would it matter if I never decide to make the choice at all?

While I was writing this meandering mess, it popped into my head that I ought to be thankful for my sanity, a notion that has crystalized now that I work at a mental hospital. Sorry-- "crisis center," let's be politically correct, if we can stand it. I've now worked there long enough to see patients get discharged and re-admitted multiple times, and, even sadder, I've worked there long enough to see names from my ancient past, and not-so-ancient past, on the admitting sheet, and I have chatted with these gowned ghosts in the halls, and I know that, for one synapse misfiring, or not, it could have been me. Without the I.D. badge, without the keys. And that is enough to make anyone bow his brown-haired head at the dining room table.

Of course, I'm still thankful for my undershirts. Even the ones I've had to force myself to throw out between this year and the last.

Happy Thanksgiving, my dears.

If They All Just Disappeared...

Thanksgiving's a nice time of year to be a blogger, and have blogger friends.

You're probably waiting for a "But...," but there isn't going to be one. I'm for realz. Yo.

As a blogger in late November, you get to read all about what the folks you care about are thankful for. For some, it's their health. For others, it's their significant others, or their jobs, or their cats. For most, it's their family.

And that's, just, well, nice.

As I was driving around downtown Philly tonight, I tried to think about what I was thankful for. After a notably awkward and stilted Thanksgiving dinner at my parent's house, I reinforced the admittedly uninspired fact that, yes, I am thankful for my family. But I tried to reach beyond that to find something slightly more off-center that I was decidedly thankful for, something everyday that maybe didn't receive everyday approbation or appreciation. And then it hit me.

My undershirts.

I am thankful for my undershirts.

There isn't really an article of clothing that I depend on more than my undershirts. I have lots of different kinds of undershirts-- and they are truly the day-in, day-out workhorses of my wardrobe. If my dresser was Jay Leno's multi-car garage, my undershirts are the equivalent of his Honda Accord. There it sits, amidst the Dusenbergs and Lambos and Lotuses, waiting patiently for its chance to prove itself as the banal, mundane, yet essential motoring companion.

My undershirts are Jay Leno's Honda, and I never realized it until tonight.

I have two types of cotton crew neck undershirts. I have two types of cotton v-neck undershirts. One of them has a very slight v, the other is the equivalent of a plunging neckline. Very sexy. I also have an endless supply of Coolmax white crew-neck undershirts, thanks to my father, who manufactures them. The Coolmax t-shirts are excellent at wicking moisture, which, when you're an anxious sonofabitch, you tend to produce a lot of. The necklines, however, of the Coolmax t-shirts are very thick and high, so it's difficult to wear these undershirts underneath dress shirts with ties, as nothing makes a man look like a 4-star d-bag than wearing a dress-shirt with a tie and a little square of white t-shirt peeking visibly over the closed dress-shirt collar.

Unless, of course, you're wearing a semi-transparent dress-shirt with a v-neck t-shirt underneath, and the people you meet can see the outline of the v underneath your dress-shirt.

This, friends, is why I own lots of different styles of undershirts-- because you can't be successful in life as a man with just one permutation. At least, not if you're crazy.

The one type of undershirt I do not own, have never owned, and would never wear, is the so-called "wife-beater." Maybe it has to do with its negative monkier, maybe it has to do with the fact that my 6'5" Neanderthal freshman-year roommate wore them (even to class) and I still shudder at the memory of the broccoli-like tufts of his shoulder hair sprouted out around the slim shoulder straps.... I don't know, but I've just never been struck with the desire to put one on. I do, however, thoroughly enjoy their aesthetic on the female form.

In this life, as a man you either wear undershirts or you don't. If I didn't wear undershirts, I would ruin all of my precious dress shirts with sweat, so going without isn't really an option for me. If all my dress shirts went away-- if they all just disappeared, well, I would be one messed up puppy. I need them. I hoard them. I crave undershirt diversity and consistency. I would gladly free-ball it for a month-- wouldn't bother me a bit-- but I can't go out in public without the security blankie that is an undershirt.

A good undershirt might just be the most important component of my wardrobe. It's definitely the one thing in life I'm most thankful for.

I mean, after my family and my wife and my dog and my collection of old typewriters and eyeglasses and telephones and antique hats and recordings of G&S operettas and English cookies and orgasms and aimless drives around town and sugar in my coffee and 1970s britcoms and winter coats and meaningful talks with old friends and our sofa and dirty jokes and sad folk songs. And all of you, of course.

Ya Know What I'm Thankful For, Bitches? That's Right: DEAR APRON

You know what this is. You know why you're here. So let's take some letters that were written into Dear Abby, turn them up on their asses, and shove in a festive gourd!

It's DEAR APRON time!

DEAR APRON:

Our family has had a difficult year. We have gone from one drama or trauma to another, but have always managed. There's one issue, however, that I can't fix. My husband, "Arthur," can't keep our problems private. He seems compelled to tell EVERYONE he meets about what's going on in our family.

I have told Arthur repeatedly, "What happens at home should stay at home," and begged him not to take our problems to the neighbors, who have enough of their own. It's embarrassing when our friends, neighbors and extended family are informed about the dramas going on in our home. But Arthur becomes defensive when I tell him I don't like it and says he won't stop -- that I'm being "too sensitive."

Apron, I feel my husband's blabbing is disloyal. I'm worried that he is ruining our reputation because he can't keep his mouth shut. Please help. -- TOWN CRIER'S WIFE

DEAR TOWN CRIER'S WIFE:

Well, Hon-bun, I don't know exactly what you expected here. I mean, after all: you married the Town Crier. In case you didn't know, informing the town of all the latest news is actually "Arthur's" job. Why, in Medievel England, where many people could not read or write, the town crier was the only method by which the uninformed commoners could gain any information whatsoever about local events.

Instead of whining about how "Arthur" goes around blabbing about your daughter's heroin overdose, your son's unfortunate habit of attempting to sire lamp-posts, or distributing the YouTube link for streaming videos of your hysterectomy, you should be grateful that you married a man who performs such a vital public service to the community.

Next thing we know, you'll divorce "Arthur," shack up with Brian Westbrook and then start writing pissed off letters to me because he's always off scoring touchdowns and purposefully running head-first into other black guys.

Jeez!

DEAR APRON:

I am a single mother finishing my undergraduate degree in English. I have a 6-year-old son. His father, "Gil," and I are on great terms. We kept everything out of the courts, and he pays me monthly child support. Gil sees our son whenever he likes, which is often.

I have an opportunity to go to law school 200 miles away, and I'm considering leaving my son with his dad to do so. I have no problem taking him with me, but as parents we thought that uprooting our son for three years was not a good idea.
I am doing this for my son. I come from a poor family, and I am the first to graduate from college. A liberal arts degree won't afford me much in the future. Gil's income is "fair," but neither of us has any real security.

I trust Gil when he gives me his word on an agreement. Many of my friends are supportive, but some of the stay-at-home moms are making me feel like a terrible person and mother. Would I be selfish to do this or should I continue with my plans for a better income and career? -- GNAWING UNCERTAINTY IN WASHINGTON STATE

DEAR GNAWING UNCERTAINTY:

Here's some words of wisdom to always live by:

ALWAYS. BELIEVE. EVERYTHING. STAY-AT-HOME-MOMS. SAY.

These bitches have totally got it going on-- they're the smartest of the bunch. They sit at home or go out shopping on weekdays when stores are uncrowded and cavalierly watch the circus go by, doing stomach-crunches, ordering shit they don't need from Overstock.com, and eating 100-calorie packs of Oreos while their brain-be'numbed children are shackled to Big Bird's teat. All the while, they're content to let their husbands sweat under the corporate fire and then, when their overworked, stressed out, balding, perspiring, unattractive and impotent husbands have aneurysms and coronary combustions at age 48, they go all crazy on e-Cougar.

So, basically, if these women think you're a selfish whore, a terrible person and a mother, well, then you probably are. But I'll bet, with your cut-throat, all-or-nothing, fuck-the-consequences attitude, you'll make one hell of a lawyer.

Oh, and, P.S.-- I hope your husband isn't really named "Gil" because I sure as fuck wouldn't trust anyone named "Gil" with anything that came out of my body. Except a stool sample.

DEAR APRON:

A year ago, my boss was diagnosed with cancer. She had major surgery and a round of radiation therapy. Last week, her doctor discovered a mass, and after biopsy, she may be going in for more surgery.

I am finding it difficult to show much empathy for my boss. Despite having had the disease she continues to live an unhealthy lifestyle. She still smokes, has a couple of drinks a day and eats a lot of red meat. I don't drink or smoke and I'm a vegetarian, so I can't understand why a person would risk her health by doing these things.

We have received several newsletters at work from our insurance provider on how to prevent cancer, but she hasn't taken any of the advice. Apron, it's not like I have come right out and said, "It's your own fault," but it's frustrating to listen to her problems when she won't try to live a healthy lifestyle. She's generally whiny to begin with, and now she seems to want everyone to feel sorry for her.

What do I need to do to be more sympathetic? -- TRYING IN TEMPE

DEAR HOT, STEAMING FUCKHOLE. IN TEMPE:

What do you need to do to be more sympathetic? Hmm. I don't really know. Have you considered obtaining a lobotomy?

Did you ever stop to think that maybe her cancer has nothing to do with her lifestyle? Lots of people get cancer, sweet-pea, even holier-than-thou vegetarian, teetotaler, no spittin', no cussin' ice-skatin' on water virgins like you. Maybe she has anal cancer. Or thyroid cancer. Or brain cancer. You have no idea, and you continue to judge her anyway, because you're a fucking whore and nothing, short of a lobotomy, can change that.

Actually, forget the lobotomy-- it probably wouldn't be covered by your insurance anyway (although you could consult those handy newsletters from your work insurance provider that you're obviously so fond of reading to check and see) what I think you really need to make you more sympathetic is: CANCER.

Maybe, if you got cancer yourself, you'd know what it feels like to be suffering from a wasting disease, waking up every day fearing that it will be your last, enduring a treatment that is poison, and, if that's not bad enough, moving through a painful, lonely, petrifying existence where there are people around you who are actually ignorant enough to question the choices you make and have the temerity to suggest that you somehow deserve your disease.

DEAR APRON:

Is there anything wrong with having a lover solely for the purpose of sex? He is grieving for his late wife (my best friend), and I am separated from my husband. We're both lonely and have supported each other through our pain. A few weeks ago we decided to become lovers.

We both have our eyes open, and we don't expect anything out of this except a friendship with benefits. I am satisfying his needs, and he is making me remember the woman I used to be before I was emotionally beaten down by my husband.

I see myself as enjoying the best of both worlds: I'm finding myself again, and I don't have to answer to anyone but me. So, Apron, what do you think? I guess I'm looking for some validation for our selfishness. -- FRIEND WITH BENEFITS

DEAR FRIENDS WITH BENNIES:

The only thing wrong with it is that you're doing it with your "eyes open." From the tone of your letter, it sounds like you're both easily into your late forties or early fifties, and that's just nasty. Close your eyes and picture someone else whose midsection doesn't resemble some small town's carnival entry for "World's Largest Bundt Cake."

Happy Thanksgiving, you fucking losers.