Skip to main content

The Twelve Must-do’s for Thanksgiving


(To be sung to the melody of the 12 Days of Christmas.  Good luck.)
1.     The first must-do for Thanksgiving: buy a pair of sweatpants in one size larger.
2.    The second must-do on Thanksgiving: run both parades on the TV even though no one will watch them.
3.    The third must-do on Thanksgiving: watch all three NFL football games (or take a nap while they are on).
4.    The fourth must-do for Thanksgiving: create four meals with the leftover turkey.
5.    The fifth must-do: eat five servings of your favorite dish: stuffing, potatoes, pie, whatever.
6.    The sixth must-do: eat six pork tamales to offset all that turkey.
7.    The seventh must-do on Thanksgiving: watch seven holiday specials (parades and football games count also).
8.    The eighth must-do: take 8 shots or 8 squirts of any or all of the following: booze (tequila), beer, wine, canned whip cream.
9.    The ninth must-do of Thanksgiving: if on the ninth day, you still have leftovers in the fridge, throw them away, plastic container and all. Eww.
10. The tenth must-do: give $10.00 to your local food bank for each person living under your roof.
11.  The eleventh must-do: say Happy Holidays to eleven family members or friends before the end of the day, especially those who live alone or live far away.
12. The twelfth must-do on Thanksgiving: learn how to say Thank you in twelve different languages and use them all today. Here’s a starter:
Shukran (Shoe-Krahn) - Arabic
Xie xie (Syeh-syeh) - Mandarin
Merci – French
Danke – German
Efharisto (ef-har-rih-stowe) – Greek
Mahalo – Hawaiian
Toda (Toh-dah) – Hebrew
Grazie – Italian
Arigato – Japanese
Obrigado – Portuguese
Gracias – Spanish

Asante (ah-sahn-the) - Swahili 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread.   On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.   I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take