Every year, I like to think that turkeys look forward to today as much as we do. I like to believe that turkeys are born with the innate sense that they have a lofty goal … to be deliciously browned, buttered, and stuffed for our pleasure. Perhaps turkeys have special workout routines they do, to make themselves the most delicious butterballs they can be. Maybe they have Turkey TV equivalents of our US Army commercials … BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE.
Which makes me feel pretty bad for the turkey that gets pardoned by the president. I mean, that pardon has got to be a badge of shame in a community of turkeys that understand their purpose in life. What do the pardoned turkeys do, once all their fellow butterballs have shuffled off that mortal coil? Do they sit around, in the Playground for Presidentially Pardoned Pariahs, watch movies about their missed calling, and sob into their feathers? Do they give depressing bios of their fellow cast-offs to newcomers?
I can imagine one old geezer, his beak wrinkled with age, saying, “Nash was pardoned in ’92. He figures that the fact that the humans didn’t eat him is proof that he IS a human. Now he walks around in those ridiculous pants, trying to convince the keepers that there’s been some horrible mix-up, and he’s supposed to go with them.”
Pointing (do turkeys point? or do they just nod in the right direction?), “Over there’s Bubsy. He was pardoned back in ’85. Now he just stares at that wall all day long. He sleeps facing the wall. He eats facing the wall. Delightful conversationalist, though!” and, “That’s Bartleby. He’s the oldest one here, pardoned in ’79. Figures that he can’t die. He used to try, dunking his head in the water trough, choking on corn. Now he thinks he’s some kind of zen master. Trying to convince us all that we’re eternal. Says the ones that do die just never believed in themselves.”
Yes. It’s a nice thought that turkeys are aware that they exist to please us. Except for the pardoned ones, poor suckers. Let’s do them a service, troop over to their old folks’ home, and eat them all today. We could have signs, outside the White House: “Eat a Pardoned Turkey, Save a Turkey’s Dignity!” It’d be really moving. We could get Susan Sarandon to be our celebrity spokesperson – she’s always looking for a cause.
But if you don’t have time for Turkey Activism, just remember, as you suck on the skin of a delighted turkey while his gobbling little soul looks on above… you’ve made one turkey the kind of man he’s always wanted to be.
And if this entry makes you want to vomit a little in your mouth, well, you’re probably a vegan.
This entry brought to you courtesy of my sick mind, the powers of rationalization, a strange conversation with Jason, the Butterball Corporation, and the letter T.

Dear Stuart:
Last Thursday marked one month of our marriage (that 30-day risk-free trial period is over, buddy) and eight months of knowing each other. So, that’s, what, seven months and 28 days of being in love? Not bad, so far, huh?
People who read this blog are pretty sick of this stuff by now (or they can’t get enough, the sappy freaks) but the thing is, I’m not. Last night, we were coming home from celebrating Jen’s birthday, and I was flipping through the evening’s pictures, and you were playing snooker on my cell phone. And I remember you asked me what I was thinking. I said something about printing photographs, but moments later I started thinking about what kind of photograph we’d make, right there, playing with our toys.
See, I remember riding the subway and seeing couples doing their own thing and thinking, “man, they’ve got nothing to talk about, together?” and I think I get it now. We’ve got plenty to talk about. On Saturday night, we tried to sit on our respective arm chairs and read our books but you ended up explaining that gravity funnel to me. I learned it, remember? And a few weeks ago, we stayed up laughing for about an hour because you innocently mentioned something about people not being able to lick their elbows and I spent ten minutes in the bed, contorting myself and getting cramps from laughing, but I finally managed to get my tongue within an inch of my elbow. We scared people at the perimeter of the Central Park Zoo because we were laughing so loud about God making animals when he was soused (“How’s the sea lion going to get AROUND, God?” “TAXI”).
We’ve got so much to talk about, sometimes I get frustrated that the hours of the day are limited. But last night, coming home after an evening with friends, after kissing a lot on the extra-wide sidewalks (made for kissing), we were quite happy to flip through pictures or beat cellphones at inane games.
Because when we got home, like we’ve done for so many other nights in the past two months, I ended up sitting in your lap with my arms around your neck, talking odds and sods until past midnight.
And of all the great things about marriage – cool extra money on my paycheck every month being the least of them – I think that’s what I’ve liked the best, so far. That we’ve talked about how we both get soppy at angel-movies, even though we’re strict atheists. That I can say a boy’s name and you know that I’m referring to the fact that we can’t think of one we both like (cmon, what is WRONG with SIRIUS?!). That I know all the places you want to go before you die, and you know mine (um, but I’m telling you, you’re doing Ethiopia on your own).
We’ve talked. That’s the absolute greatest thing we’ve done for these eight months. And the more we talk, the more it all makes sense, the more that intuition I had back in March proves itself true. You’ve honored me by being my husband, Stuart, but the most amazing thing you’ve been this first month of marriage … is my best friend.
I love you with all my schmoopy, squealy, thing-I-do-with-my-voice-when-I-really-need-to-hug-you-super-hard heart,
Krissa

… just in case your night was somehow lacking in smiling friendly faces.

I think it was at some point in the paint store when we were deciding between THE RAPTURE and FLAMING SWORD that I realized the Baby Jesus was NOT going to be supportive of our office paint job.
We went with THE RAPTURE (which I will now refer to as WHORE OF BABYLON RED just to carry on the apocalyptic theme) after a muted but urgent discussion where words like “looks like a tomato” and “is that hooker red?” were bandied about.
But the real kicker of the evening was having to prime the walls with COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK, because my prior roommate (NOT the Kate) had chosen to paint that room ELECTRIC ACID LILAC. Now people, you know I love pink. I love all shades of pink. I’m particularly fond of BALLET SLIPPER PINK, as well as NEON WATERMELON PINK, without forgetting SUNSET CLOUDS PINK. But from now on, there’s a shade of pink roaming the secret world under my bright red walls known as COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK, and people, that is so not cool with me.
And there was a moment, when half the walls in our office were ELECTRIC ACID LILAC and the other half were already painted COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK and we had two buckets of WHORE OF BABYLON RED at our feet and I seriously started to question our sanity.
Luckily, my Roller-ific husband covered the COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK* before all the eggs in my ovaries died of mortification at the thought of ever being clad in that color, and soon enough, the only memory of that vomitously girly experience was the one dab of paint still on his cheek.

* Here’s the thing about that COLOR. The Seemingly Helpful And Trustworthy But Really Evil Guy at the Paint Counter at Home Depot told us we’d need TWO GALLONS of the COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK to prime our 10x20x9 ft room with ONE COAT which is obviously completely CRAP and now we have a completely unopened gallon can of COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK which in case you’re wondering looks a lot like THIS.
I am very angry with Seemingly Cool Because He Had Dreadlocks But Really Was Just An Evil Corporate Tool Home Depot Guy, but I can’t return this gallon of baby-store puke so if there’s anyone out there who:
1. is crazy enough to want to paint your walls this color
2. is colorblind but really hates their spouse
3. wants to repaint your enemy’s car/house/dog/grandma for revenge
give me a call, man. Have I got the CAN OF PAINT FOR YOU.

If I see one more person using their blog to personally attack Heather and then mask it under “critical analysis” of “The New York Times” or “female bloggers” – I AM TURNING THIS INTERNET AROUND AND GOING HOME.
To put it more succinctly, I’m starting to think my mother was wrong. She said, “If you can’t think of something kind to say, don’t say anything at all,” a policy I’ve tried to observe (except for the infamous RNC rant) here on this site. Apparently, it’s much hipper as, “If you can’t think of something kind to say, blog about it.”
What a shame.

I could barely contain myself from running inside and ripping the sign off the wall, and then poking the man in the face with his excess punctuation.

… The Troika. I’m sure you’re all sick of our arms-length pictures. God knows I have more than I know what to do with and have to maintain a very organized Pictures file, with myriad sub-folders, to account for all the images titled the-troika.jpg.
But I never get sick of this. “These are my girls, yo”, as Shiv would say. And last night, at her engagement party, we were still her girls. We may be drifting, two-thirds-like, to married life… but these are still my girls. YO.

My marriage to Stuart has caused one blistering area of pain in my life: I was forced to read the Television Without Pity recap of last week’s The O.C. because I just cannot bring myself to watch that festering tripe* in front of my sensitive, intelligent, newly-minted husband.
Yet.
*For the record, I fucking love that festering tripe with every cubic inch of my disgusting little heart.

Leave it to Metro to publish a small AP article on page 3 about Arafat’s failing health.
The day after he died.
Ah, Journalism.