Thanksgiving around the corner, I can almost taste the turkey. Ah, sweet family drama. The last few years have actually been quite pleasant. Wednesday night the family (minus my father) prepares food and plays games. Usually full of laughs. Then Thursday, we all play some more games, maybe watch a movie, eat, play more games.

This year might be different. My father came over last night, brought some flowers and tea, and chatted with my sister and me. (Yes, it is 'me' and not 'I', take out the word sister and you'll see). I asked him what he was doing for Thanksgiving and he said he had no plans.

I know he left my mother. I also know that all four of us daughters agree that it was the right thing for him to do. It was also a silent agreement that because he did the leaving, mom would get us for the holidays. All of them, so she doesn't feel as if everyone in the world has left her.

So anyway, I mentioned to dad that I would like to do something with him on Thursday. I said we could eat, go to the park, the ocean, something. I think he thought it was a pity thing. He said he'd rather not cause drama in the family, that we could do something over the weekend.

I thought about it, and the truth is, I'd rather spend time with my father that day. Not to spite my mother or create a scene. Let's face it, things haven't been exactly peachy between the mothership and Barb. It's effort to be around the woman. She could try the patience of a saint, and trust me, I am FAR from a saint. I enjoy getting to hang with all of my sisters and brothers-in-law.

So it's up in the air. Everyone thinks I'm stupid for starting "drama". It's not about that. I don't want my father to be alone. And in all honesty, I'd rather spend effortless time with my father, time filled with stimulating conversation and genuine focused interest in what we each have to say -- than strained, tense, talking to the blank face of my mother that interrupts with nonsensical questions and thoughtless innuendos. Call me crazy.

I guess we'll see. On a sidenote, the hottie that lives upstairs knocked on my door last night. No shirt, fitted pants, did I say no shirt? I look over my shoulder at my sister with a crooked smile and opened the door. There he was, standing there, looking hot, arm extended, and what was that? Dangling at the end of his hand? He didn't say anything, had a coy look on his face, an almost michievous expression. Mine was one of horror and humor, I never thought the two could mix so well.

As soon as I realized it was my black silk (let's just say "undergarment" it sounds much classier than g-string), I said, "Yeah, could you not hold it like that?", and snatched it out of his hand, promptly shutting the door. It was funny, really, I thought that nothing could embarrass me. The heat in my cheeks said different.

Next time, I'm checkin' the dryer twice.

-Barbarella

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