I Really Wannabe in LA

AT LAST . . three hours it's taken! I swear my internet is out to get me. I had a lovely post . . but I didn't save, then I crashed (much like yesterday when I backed into an oncoming vehicle in the car park at Coles but the guy was way decent and said it would probably polish off but we exchanged cards anyway with slightly 'I'm sorry' looks (God I'm turning into Miley).

The gist was . .of the previously written post in notebook that didn't save . . .One thing I like about America and Americans is the celebration of Thanksgiving. The thought of a celebration where Pilgrims are rescued by a scraggy chook and fed by indigenous populations is very romantic and whilst 200 years of history might have tainted this original gesture I love the idea that families come home for Thanksgiving, that families of most races and creeds and colour stick their fingers up the nether regions of an odd looking bird who's only claim to fame is the word "gobble" and as a table centre for hungry patrons. (Don't feel slighted, many of us do it for Christmas but I'm a glazed ham person myself).

I'd love to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner, in the early throes of winter, with a big red coat (why don't New Yorker's wear colour in a drab winter) with the awkward boyfriend and the grouchy carver and listening to criticism of too many apricots shoved up the fowls arse or the fact that pumpkin is pig food and not meant to be put in a shortcrust pie . . .

It sounds much like our Christmas, the one day of the year where the prodigals come home, food is paramount and pressies are exchanged then the whole night degenerates into a boozefest and games of Kings and shattered barbecue tables.

Anyway, this evening, I went Christmas shopping and scored quite well with all gifty poos plonked in a "Save Maddie" recyclable red Christmas bag. I'm glad I remembered the half kilo of prawns and sour dough bread nestling next to the . . .nope, it's a secret.

While I was driving home with a back seat full of silver wrapping paper, blue ribbons and a few pressies . .I lamented that I wasn't in America tonight. Storm clouds were gathering after a temperate afternoon and it all seems wrong having Christmas or Thanksgiving for that matter in a country where it's comfortable enough to sit outside and suffer the intolerable bombings of Christmas beetles in your champers.

I imagine it as perhaps having dinner with the Norman Rockwell family, "pass the beets daddy' and gratefulness for one's lot in life even though you've been ousted by the sub primers. Seriously though, it sounds warm and wonderful and a day when everyone is at one with the world. Women washing up and men snoozing - pogged on the couch while some weird game of football with overly padded men yell 'Hutt, hutt hutt!"

Wishing all my American friends a very happy Thanksgiving. I hope your family and friends are around and that you remember those who are no longer with you and for once in your life wear those matching knitted jumpers that Aunty Whatshername spent all summer putting together (I've got it totallly wrong haven't I?) . . I did smile as I turned into my street listening to the ratio tonight and thought "I really wouldn't mine being a wannabe in LA . ." For tonight anyway!

Does anyone wipe their cooking hands on the back of their pants and not realise that they look great from the front but like a garbo from the rear!