This excruciating holiday. Memories of torpid dusky afternoons in brown overheated living rooms, watching uncles watch football on oversized televisions and drink Coors. I was trapped in the boring depopulated holiday zone. No affiliation with the guys, and none with the girls, all cooking or "helping," going about mysterious but crucial domestic tasks without consultation, as if the procedures were genetically wired. One thing I was thankful for, though: No expression of family sentiments, mercifully. A little harmless reminiscing, that's about the extent of it. The old funny stories dusted off and spun on the lazy susan. But no grace, no quiet moment, no embarrassing holiday tenderness. We weren't one of those families, on my mother's side. More solemn and ritualistic on father's side, but those visits were rare. My dad's mother preferred to have the TV off, a big no-no. Another bit of thankfulness: the sexy teenage cousins I only saw twice a year, brothers, whom I'd watch gnaw and suck bones, in awe of the singlemindedness of their appetities, their glazed expressions that of contented animals. I'd squirm delightedly, the thick floral special-occasions-only tablecloth hiding my Thanksgiving tent.