And so, the eve of Thanksgiving. On the Upper West Side, where I once lived, the perimeter around the Museum of Natural History is abuzz with Macy’s Day Parade Floats. For the last 15 years, I’ve taken The Teenager to walk up and down that perimeter to view the floats. Spongebob. A Spiderman. Other characters from kid-based pop culture. I’d hold her warm baby hand in mine, careful not to let go, lest we get separated in the scary and overwhelming crush of other spectators. As she got older, she would invite a friend to join us; we weren’t holding hands by then. Always, we’d stop by Josh’s family’s home, for Balloon Night festivities; wine, cheese, children. My daughter would run around their apartment, spouting childisms that delighted the adults; again, as she got older, and eased into dialogue that is monosyllabic, she’d entertain, for the sake of tradition, actual charm and conversational banter. We’re an unorthodox family, with so many of our dearest connected to us by love and the sense of family, rather than blood ties. Like me, The Teenager enjoys tradition. Knowing there is a seat for her at a table, in this home. Josh’s parents have been welcoming my daughter and I into their home for Thanksgiving since the year of the blackout, and we’re grateful to have that in our unconventional lives. Tomorrow, we sit with them, as we have for most of her life, for Thanksgiving dinner. The generosity of having a place set for us, year after year, is what I am always, and ever so, thankful.
I’m so bored with the House Democrats rallying to unseat Nancy Pelosi. Men, of course, pointing the way towards divisiveness rather than unity.
Shonda Rhimes: I consider her a friend. I mean, to her face, I don’t call her Mrs. Obama — I call her Michelle. She is just a person to me. So basically, (humble brag alert) my friend Michelle has written a book.”
On Paula Jones.
Avoid eating romaine lettuce.
And now have a laugh with Rachel Dratch.