If you were in line tonight at a liquor store, I am thankful for you

I had to go to the grocery store after work today to buy stuffing and diapers. Mmmm. I'd expected pandemonium. Thankfully it was just congested, not quite chaotic.

Next I hopped over to the liquor store to buy red wine (loving Sangre de Toro for $9.99 by the way. Wine plus a free plastic bull!).

Therein lay the pandemonium. Lines of people snaked through the store. They were out en masse.

As the shoppers clutched their beer/wine/vodka/nips (not unlike someone might cling to a favorite stuffed animal), I stepped back and smiled. I felt all warm and smushy with kindred spiritness.

Can we be honest? Lots of people talk about how thankful they are at this time of year but really, there are some things (like wacky relatives) we just can't be thankful for because they're too weird for words.

Alcohol helps.

Immensely.

Case in point, my father called me at 9:45 last night to tell me he was hosting Thanksgiving. Nine-freaken-forty-five. One day before the holiday. Our family plays the holidays like a hand of poker.

"Whatcha doing for Thanksgiving?"

"I don't know. What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you tell me what you're doing then I'll tell you what I'm doing."

We dance this little dance because deep down, we don't really get each other and would rather that everyone forgot about the other and went about their own decking of the halls. Except that a day or two before the actual holiday, someone has a case of the sentimental warm fuzzies—"Remember that Christmas we all stayed awake and watched TV together?"—and picks up the phone.

"Whatcha doing for Christmas?"

"I don't know. What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you tell me what you're doing then I'll tell you what I'm doing."

It's quite bizarre. I blame it all on my 40-year-old cousin who still lives at home. The same scantily clad women of 1970 (think "Help Me OB1 Kenobi, you're my only hope") are still affixed to his wall on posters. My other cousin? Her mouth is a fire cracker of swear words, Marlboro Reds and Budweiser.

So here's what I want to say on this eve before Thanksgiving: I am thankful—for all the people in line at the liquor store who need to throw back a few to make their day with the relatives more tolerable. Family members are crazy. A drink or two can be a curing salve to an open, Princess Leia obsessed wound.

One that can talk only about Nascar and the Food Channel, which you'd think would be mutually exclusive interests and yet at the end of the night, race cars, Parmesan Roasted Butternut Squash* and chicks swirl together in a beautiful display of colors.

I told you booze helps.

Happy Thanksgiving!

*No, he doesn't bring any of this shit to Thanksgiving.