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This is the week we celebrate Thanksgiving. In many ways, it is one of the craziest weeks of the year. Now I know I am talking about other people’s families because there is no one here who is going to take the traditional Thanksgiving Day drive.

You know the one where you get up Thursday morning, pile into the family car, and fight bumper-to-bumper traffic down the I-5 corridor at white-knuckle speeds ranging from 75 miles per hour to a dead stop. Then you take the exit ramp too fast slide the pumpkin pie across the trunk it hits the fender knocking the entire pie filling to one side of the pan. Your wife looks at you and says, “Slow down before you kill us all.” You then push the gas pedal tight against the floor, because you are not going to be outdone by your brother-in-law, who is also on his way.

The kids in the back seat begin to scream and yell as if there was a python slithering across their legs. Why? Because one of these cheery sibling actually touched the other one. Now that the children are yelling at each other, the adults are yelling at the kids. You turn the corner clip the crib; you hear the bowl of mashed potatoes rolling across the trunk slamming into the back of the seat as the car comes to a complete stop in front of your in-laws, exactly 3 minutes, 45 seconds ahead of your brother-in-law. Then after 5 and a half hours of reserved aimless conversion with a gathering of people you only know because you are married to your wife. You get back in the car and begin the journey home by saying the exact same thing you said last year, “I will never come here again.”

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