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I'm thankful that the drive to Sedalia is only three hours. Had it been more than that, I would have thrown myself out of the truck while going 80 m.p.h. down the interstate to escape the two hours of whining that morphed into an hour of bloody-curdling screams. Over the river and through the woods to toddler hell we go!

After lunch (and the first two pounds of stuffing), B., my dad and The Cuz and I braved the frigid cold to play ball with my dad's dingo Australian Cattle Dog, Chigger, and The Cuz's new boxer, Mr. Rileypants Nonuts. I'm thankful that the police didn't drive by and arrest us on suspicion of hosting an illegal dogfight with a dingo and a pit bull. Because that's certainly what it looked like we were doing.

Even though I played softball for a decade - and played hard-throwing positions like third base, catcher while batting clean-up - that's no match for throwing a ball 8,492 times in the freezing cold for the dingo and faux pit bull. I'm thankful that rotator cuffs are among the handful of body parts that are replaceable.

I'm thankful for the first five pounds of stuffing. The other four pounds can rot in hell for all I care.

It's not a family gathering unless someone busts out the dominoes. When B. and I first met we thought it was pure serendipity that we both came from families of domino-players. In his family, though, they actually concentrate on the game. In my family, the game is secondary to whatever other chaos we can create. I'm thankful that today's domino game involved the dingo and faux pit bull fighting under the table. I'm also thankful both dogs probably gave themselves irrepairable brain damage by repeatedly pounding their skulls on the underside of the table hard enough to make the dominoes jump. I'm thankful that Clara "Oh oh domino" Jane spent the game sitting on the table, counting domino dots and not once mentioning the number four. She's well on her way to participating in the next thing for which I'm thankful ...

I'm thankful that every single person in my family shamelessly and unironically asks, "Hey! What does the 12 (or 10, 11, 13, 14 or 15) domino look like?", while another family member helpfully offers, "It's the one with 12 (or 10, 11, 13. 14 or 15) dots, Dumbass." In my family, we can't diffrentiate items numbering in the double-digits unless they're color-coded. Except for B. But he married into the family. Since he's good with numbers and shit, he keeps score. And still manages to lose almost every game.

I'm thankful that my codependent partner in crime is house/dog/catsitting for me. I'm even more thankful that she forgot to pack her pajamas, just because that information tickles me to no end.

We've already had Dad's annual Thanksgiving accident, and it didn't involve hunting rifles or chainsaws. About a month ago my dad purchased a sulky. That's a chariot-style horse cart, for the uninitiated, like me. Yesterday, he and the dingo took Bubba, the cart-pulling horse for a little sulky ride. Bubba got spooked and decided he wasn't feeling too sulky. I'm thankful that, while the sulky looks a bit like a big pile of toothpicks, Dad and Bubba made it through with just some scrapes and cuts. The dingo was unharmed. Unfortunately.

I'm thankful that another hour has passed and there's still more dressing in the fridge.