It's a farmer thing.

I fucking hate Thanksgiving. I think my family is too normal for true appreciation of the national dysfunction holiday. No one gets drunk. No one shoots anyone else because they thought he was a deer. See? Boring. No trips to jail or the emergency room. Other than the raccoon that popped out at me in the barn when I went to pee, everything was pretty low key. (Yes, we have an indoor bathroom, but six people in my grandma’s house for a weekend and bathroom access is limited. It’s like Jeff Foxworthy says, you spend the weekend askin’ “Is someone in the bathroom right now? I ain’t peed since Tuesday, y’all know that?”)

But really, Thanksgiving was pretty low-key. Just holidays aren’t my thing. And since most of my family is pretty sober, there’s not a lot of drink-talk afterwards. So it’s weird because we eat early, then sober up by five o’clock. But I can still get some work and a workout in tonight, so it’s cool. Counteract all that stuffing. I couldn’t do turkey. After the evil encounter with the chicken a couple weeks ago, poultry and I are not friends. Maybe when we get some chickens in the spring and Dad and I butcher them out, I’ll be able to eat chicken again. Weird, I know. That’s why when I find a guy who thinks I’m hot in Carhardts and rubber boots, I’ll never let him go. It’s a farmer thing.