Turkey time

Thanksgiving. The day we all come together to celebrate a uniquely American tradition: carb-loading like we’re prepping for the Olympics.

Every year, we gather around the table, and swear “this time I won’t overeat.” Cut to an hour later: you're sprawled out on the couch, pants unbuttoned, clutching your stomach like you're smuggling a watermelon.

It starts innocently enough. You sip a little wine, nibble on an appetizer— maybe a rogue deviled egg. Then the turkey arrives, and it's bigger than your first apartment. Followed by the mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and the perennial mac and cheese.

And let’s not forget those soft, buttery Kings Hawaiian Rolls that seem harmless until you’ve inhaled six of them in under sixty seconds. You tell yourself you’ll space it out, but last year you didn’t get thirds on pumpkin pie and that’s not happening again.

Then there’s the conversation, the yearly revival of the same script, performed live by your family.

First, the weather commentary. Wherever you live, someone will complain it’s too hot, cold, rainy, or windy. Next there’s the politics grenade. Someone throws it in the middle of the table like a Molotov cocktail, and everyone braces for impact.

“If I ran the country things would be different,” says an uncle who couldn’t run a lemonade stand without losing money. Five minutes later, we’re knee-deep in a debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t).

And yet, as the night winds down, the vibe changes. Everyone settles into quiet resignation of a food coma. Maybe it’s the tryptophan, or the second bottle of wine. But something unexpected starts welling up inside. Gratitude.

Not the hashtag kind of gratitude, where you post a filtered photo of pie with a caption about “feeling so blessed.” This is the raw, messy gratitude that sneaks up on you when you’re hit with the realization these are your people, and you wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And there it is. The point of Thanksgiving. It isn’t to be perfect. Or poised. Or even politically correct. It’s to show up. To gather. To try.

So, this Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos, the carbs, and the conversations. And when you’re lying on the couch, full to the brim with turkey and love, remember: you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if you did promise yourself you’d only eat one roll.

850

Break out the champagne, drop the balloons and cue the DJ. This post right here you're feasting your eyes on is my 850th blogpost. Well, 850th published one.

Like all bloggers, I have a whole slew of drafts and false starts—over 70 of 'em—that, for one reason or another I didn't deem particularly post worthy. They have titles like "The creepy clown" "Jasper is enough" and "I'll have what he's having."

Maybe they were too long. Too short. Too bad. Too late. Too serious. Too light. Too revealing. Too sexy (always a problem). Too similar. Too repetitive. Too likely to get me sued. Too poorly written. I know what you're thinking: "I've been following you for a while. Since when is 'poorly written' a criteria?"

OK smartass. Let's talk about it after I see your 850 posts.

The point is at least I have some kind of filter. Occasionally though, shields are down, my judgement is off and something gets put up here that shouldn't be. But thankfully I have a support system of several other exceptional writer friends that let me know immediately when they think I've crossed a line and should take a post down. Sometimes they're gone before you even know they've been there.

The posts, not the writers.

The other thing is 850 may not be a big number to other, more prolific writers (which would be about all of them). But it's my number and I'm happy about it.

Any writer will tell you filling the page can be challenging. But I have a feeling I'm going to have plenty of things to write about for the next four years. Or with any luck, the next two.

In the meantime, stay tuned for 851. I don't know when it'll be here, but I hear it's going to be worth the wait.

Once more, with feeling

There are always telltale signs of New Year's Eve. Like the news telling you at 7a.m. it's already new year's in Australia, and showing you the fireworks over Sydney harbor. Wonder how the new year's going for them so far?

And of course what celebration would be complete without the Year In Review on the Today Show, reminding us all of stories and moments we'd more often rather forget than remember. I'm speaking specifically about what Matt and Savannah dressed up as on Halloween, and all the shots of Savannah visiting the set while on her maternity leave to show off her new baby (I don't know if you're aware of this, but apparently she's the first woman ever to have a child).

Even though I feel more encouraged and optimistic looking forward instead of in the rear view mirror, I think it's a good thing to take a little inventory now and again before saying goodbye to the year (as long as it doesn't include pictures of Savannah Guthrie and her baby).

As I look back - and don't panic, this isn't going to be a Christmas card 'All About My Year' letter - several great things happened. For example, I did some great work for agencies I've never worked for before. I got to work again with my pal Johnny. I got over myself and went to a reunion for one of the agencies I've worked for, and saw friends and colleagues I was surprised I'd missed so much. I also worked with new people, like Jim and Nicky, that I'm excited about working with again.

On a personal note, I was reunited with a long lost friend. I had lunches with people who matter to me. I also started college tours with my handsome, talented son (that's an objective opinion by the way), which is good because I just don't get enough reminders in the day about how fast time is passing.

We also got a new puppy. Which seems like a good time to mention I'm offering a generous reward for the first person who invents a self-cleaning yard.

Anyway, enough looking back. Here's to health, happiness and prosperity for all my family, friends and loyal readers.

All five of you.