Have any of you ever seen that show "Parenthood?" You know, the one based in Berkeley where a beautiful, interesting, and intelligent 3-generation family lives, learns, laughs, and loves together? Well, that was literally my Thanksgiving. Except, do you remember that uncomfortable-looking weirdo who just sits in the corner and shifts every once in a while to indicate that she's still alive while everyone around her laughs uproariously about shared memories of the past? Oh, right. That character doesn't exist. And there's a REASON that character doesn't exist: that character is a wet towel. She's lame, yo.
I think you know where this is going. This Thanksgiving, I was that wet towel.
This may not need clarification, but my Thanksgiving plans didn't actually include crashing someone else's dinner. I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. I won't go into details because it can pretty much be summed up by "poor health ruins everything," but when I walked into my grandparents' kitchen after a 9-hour trek from Eugene, my grandma very eagerly informed me that I would be "spending Thanksgiving with the _____ family this year!" I think she thought her peppy tone would confuse me into being excited about it. In her defense, it almost worked. But then I paused to take it in.
Excuse me? The _____ family? Who are these people? Oh, twenty generations ago so-and-so's brother adopted a son whose birth cousin got divorced and then married the milkman's stepdad, who happened to have the same surname as your great grand half-mammy? I'm glowing with family closeness right now.
Joking aside, it really wasn't that bad. But I had only met one of the attendees before, and that was when I was 8. The only shared memory we had to reminisce about was "Weren't you the sibling that read a lot?" Dinner was uncomfortable, certainly, but I survived. Shit happens, and they were very kind to take me in.
So that pretty much sums up what I've been up to, right? Oh. No? You guys are a tough crowd. Here are some pictures of California to placate you, along with a promise to write more in the (hopefully not-too-distant) future.
From a hike on (around?) Mount Diablo this afternoon.
View from I-5. Not too shabby for a highway, eh?
Shasta, you looker, you. I want your snow.
Everybody loves goats. At the Lafayette Reservoir.
Don't ask me what that is, because I don't know.