It is the day before Thanksgiving and I get a text. It’s an invite to Thanksgiving dinner as if I don’t have plans already for America’s number one eating-drinking-and-hating-your-life-by-4pm day. But alas, I have, as one often does, a screening: Rev Road with Leo and Kate. (Milk? Seen it. Erin Brockovich for people who care about style.)
I text back, ‘Movie. Rats.’ Meanwhile, I am looking at the number thinking, ‘Wait a minute. Who the HELL is this? Weirdo? Cute guy? Weirdo? Cute guy?’ Don’t you hate it when you don’t know which? So, I text back, ‘And you are…?’ expecting one of three responses: the ever helpful ‘It’s ME!’, or ‘Bob’ (I know five people and one verb called Bob) or, my personal favourite, ‘You erased my number from your phone?!’
Turns out, it’s from a chap what brings Yankees and other Northern Americans together for chinwags and knees-ups and (add choice of bodypart-action word). ‘We had 4000 for Obama!’ Well, that’s impressive!
I stare at the phone. The text also reads, ‘East End. Bring a bottle’. There are so MANY other five-word combos I’d rather see, such as when boarding a plane, ‘Good afternoon, please turn left’ or ‘Diamond? Perfect but too small,’ or even ‘Is this man bothering you?’
So, do I drag my ass to the Far East and meet a bunch of folks I moved away from America to get away from? Or do I go but act all snobby like I am better than they are? You see, Thanksgiving is not just for being thankful. It is also a time for tough decisions about proper bitchy placement.