Sometimes it is hard to remember that Thanksgiving is not about food, but in fact, about giving thanks. I do not believe in God per say, but I do believe in some kind of universal cosmic force, and to this force, I would like to take a moment to mention the things I am most thankful for. Though being an all-powerful universal cosmic force, it probably already knows.
I am thankful for Fresh Direct, an incredible grocery delivery service we have here in New York. With a few clicks of a mouse, I can order everything I need for the week, and it magically arrives at my door. This saves me from having to shop for food at Duane Reade, which is a good thing, because you can only serve Frosted Flakes and Ramen noodles for dinner so many times before Child Services gets involved. I am also thankful for paper plates, because not only do I detest shopping and cooking, but the aftermath of clean up is exponentially easier when I can just plow the contents of the dinner table into the garbage can.
I am thankful for my hilarious kids, who are a constant source of good writing material because, believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up.
I am thankful for Adderall, Ritalin, Focalin et al, because a medicated child is a happy child. Likewise, I am thankful for nicotine gum, Dunkin Donuts coffee, and Tanqueray martinis up with olives, because a medicated parent is a happy parent.
I am thankful for my personal technology whose artificial intelligence surpasses my own. Spell-check; you are brilliant, and if not for you this essay would be unintelligible. iPod Shuffle: playing Stairway to Heaven and Highway to Hell back to back was a stroke of genius. You make me smile.
I am thankful for my long-wear lipstick and my power panties. You keep my lips and ass in place, respectively, and save me valuable time having to check mirrors. And my Birkin Bag, not only do you faithfully carry around all the crap required to get me through my day, but you offer me security; if I ever decide to run away, I can stop by that high-end re-sale shop on eighteenth street on my way out of town and raise enough cash to live for six months.
I am thankful for my nannies, Alicia and Nicole. Your hard work and dedication keep me from becoming a homicidal bitch. And our housekeeper, Zoila, my husband’s true wife. Other women in his life have come and gone, but for thirty years, you have been there for him, and you’ve never once washed his cell phone. Sorry, Peter. I am thankful for Blake, our manny, because only a gay would serve show tunes with breakfast.
I am thankful for my family. For my husband, who never complains about the price of my Manolo’s, though his accountant hates the fact that I charge them to his business American Express, and has repeatedly asked me to stop. Peter has never asked me to stop, and until I get the word from the big guy, I’m taking that as a go ahead. I am thankful for my hilarious kids, who are a constant source of good writing material because, believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up. I am thankful my daughter attends a state college; wow, what a tuition break. I am especially thankful that my crack-addicted forty-seven year old twice-divorced brother moved back in with my parents, and not me. Hang in there, Mom.
Laura Bennett was trained as an architect but has since established her career as a fashion designer by becoming a finalist on Season 3 of the Bravo hit television series Project Runway . Bennett lives amid complete chaos in New York City with her husband and six children, Cleo, 20, Peik, 13, Truman, 10, Pierson, 6, Larson, 5, and Finn, 2.