Oh my goodness. My blog has been neglected. Bless its little heart. Sorry! It's just because I don't like lyric essays and so I don't like blogging anymore!
Thanksgiving has always been so traditional; so similar to the one before. This holiday is so heavily dependent on rituals with my grandma. Every year, Grandma's basement--which is really just one long, empty room--is transformed into an endless abyss of tables and chairs. The tables, and the many chairs slid underneath,will sit 80+ relatives. On each of these tables is a simple white tablecloth and a pilgrim centerpiece. And at each spot on the tables is a name tag decorated by my grandma. Our silver and sparkly names are written in a cursive script by my grandma, and we in turn are expected to sit where our name tags are placed. This is a source of drama--if Grandma knew we had preferences, you know she'd be disappointed, but there are just some crazy cousins that you simply can't sit by. Before the meal, a secret "black market" exchange takes place--with each cousin grabbing the name tags surrounding their spot, and then bartering off different relatives' names to ensure that they have the best spot. This is always tricky: the timing is essential. If you get the ideal seating arrangement too soon, it's still subject to change. I mean, some cousins will simply switch name tags without consulting you (heartless!). But if you do it too late, Grandma may notice, and then you're just in a heap of trouble, where you get lectured about what a joy it is to have so many wonderful cousins and how it doesn't matter where you're seated. And then you're just plagued by guilt AND you have to listen to the stories of computer processors from the very cousin you'd tried to avoid.
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