But that's not what I'm getting at. That is guilt finger-scratching at the corner of my vision. It's my mom's gentle disapproval. Perhaps when we doubt the seriousness of the process of living we would be better off dead. Even the frivolous is sustenance, such as this glass of wine, my body gets just as many calories from three glasses as it would get from an average meal. It fuels my brain just as well, and I dare say is filled with fewer frightening chemicals than most manufactured foods.
Celebration is a necessary practice similar, I think, to laughter. I'm not proposing a theory as to exactly how it is necessary (you know I'm cooking one up), but we don't want to imagine a life without laughter, its ability to cut through nervous, awkward, obscene, terrible, fantastic or profound experience. I propose that celebration is a vacation from sorrow. Christmases have taken place as they would any other year in the face of deaths and diseases, like the year I was four and my grandmother had just died from ovarian cancer. It was a celebration with her, knowing we had to act as she would, with a supreme love for family and an abundant warmth.
Then again, there is this party I am to host in a few hours.
My major concern is the flow of drink and presence of food. I baked a pie but have nothing really to offer other than some cornichons, olives, and a dwindling pile of pumpkin seeds. In the beverage department, I have no intention of offering more than two bottles of wine and a little beer and gin. The rest is up to these crazy people who have agreed for some reason to attend this party. I'm not concerned yet with celebration. I guess we either will or we won't. I'll write a speech just in case:
"Beloved guests and other guests: Welcome to my home. If you have not already poured yourself a glass of something, please do, because I will offer a toast after this unnecessarily long-winded speech. As such, pour a fuller cup than you might be accustomed. Hell, grab the bottle. Also, there is at least a pound of butter in the pie. I thought it would be a good way to guarantee that Jessica would arrive. The topic of this party is Thanks But No Thanks Giving, which is just a clever arrangement of words, but I really to have an intention here, or at least I have made one up in time for this party. Next week we will probably all get together with family and friends to give thanks, mostly as a sort of abstraction, for as much as we give thanks for Grandma, it's hard not to yell at her when she makes racist remarks. We give thanks for the food, too, but the turkey is always dry and your brother's girlfriend doesn't eat anything, and you might want to throw something by the end of it all, if you weren't too drunk to stand. We give thanks.
"It's nothing against Grandma, but I'd rather be here. I'd rather choose the company I keep and keep it well as a practice of living rather than as an ablution. I'd rather care for my pie than have it from a can because that is what everyone expects. I'll say no to dry turkey and gloopy cranberry jell from a can. I will no longer pretend to be interested in cousin Alisa's second baby with that dirt bag she's married to. We are pioneers, making new friends in old lands, making family with strangers. We appreciate finer common denominators. We'll enjoy a pound of butter in our pie, thank you very much, and we're not apologizing for it. Thanksgiving? Thanks, but no thanks.
"Please remember to behave yourself this holiday season. Also, don't spend beyond your means. Also, I have love in my heart for each and every one of you with no more than two or three exceptions. My toast this evening is to you, my friends."
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