I read the other day about how this decade never really had a name — not something that rolled quickly off the tongue like the 80s, captured the decade in a catchy phrase like the Roaring 20s, or put things into perspective, like how the 70s are best known as “the great polyester infection.” (Or at least they are in my mind.) But this decade, monumental, historic and tragic as it was, has gone without a name, which seems like we’re short-changing it. It deserves an epithet — something that sums it up. Me? I will always refer to it as the “OH-ohs” — similar to “uh-oh,” but grunted more and forlorn. The first “OH” excited and upbeat; the second like, “oh crap!” Think about it: This was the decade we all thought we were rich — OH! — before learning the Chinese were foreclosing upon us — oh! This was supposed to be the decade of interstellar space travel, robots with artificial intelligence, cars that flew, and us all wearing futuristic, super-hot body suits, no matter what our body type. But those childhood dreams never quite came true — my computer can barely get the printer to work, and for most Americans, body suits should be deemed illegal.

It’s so easy to forget what Thanksgiving is all about when there are so many demands on your time — trying not to throw family members off bridges, putting out kitchen fires that rival anything jet fuel could produce, and how you will sweat turkey for the next couple of weeks. But remember it’s really about giving thanks. Too often we forget that, which is why I wanted to take a moment to remind you of this fact (after the fact), and to also share what I was most thankful for this turkey-infused holiday: • The beer fridge in the utility room — To allow for more room in the main fridge, my wife decided to cart a mini-fridge from the shed into the house. She placed it in the utility room and moved beer and anything else she considered “unessential” (pretty much just the beer) into it. “Can that stay there permanently?” I asked, starry-eyed and nearly overcome with joy. When she said “yes,” it was like Christmas early. Never mind that she was really just banishing beer from the kitchen permanently. Truth is it has always been my dream to have an appliance dedicated to chilling brew. And this Thanksgiving that dream came true! Granted, not exactly what the Pilgrims had in mind, but still I’m thankful.

Thanksgiving dinner preparations have begun. I don’t mean shopping and menu planning. Who has time for that? I’m talking about mental preparations. Making sure my mind is sound, ready and up to the occasion. For there is no place for a weak mind on Thanksgiving when you’re the one doing the cooking. That’s how people die, a ladle sticking out of their chest or a cork screw protruding from their temple. Some can’t handle the pressure, crack and get sent off for professional help, screaming, “I told you it was too early to start the stuffing!” Cooking on Thanksgiving is really a cocktail of skills, tricks and mental fortitude — 2 parts food, 3 parts high-wire juggling act, 2 parts actual skill, 11 parts self-doubt (“I just can’t take the heat in the kitchen!”), a pinch of moderated crankiness, and a peeled carrot for decoration.

What is it about carny food that is just so damn delicious? You know, carnival food. Festival food. Street market food. The stuff you buy from vendors who often look questionable, in need of a shower and say things like, “I just can’t figger’ out what happened to the cat? Now you want sauce on this pulled pork sandwich?” What makes it so additictive? So tantalizing? Is it the sight — or the smell! — that lures us in like a tractor beam? “Must eat carny food! Carny food is my friend!” I just can’t resist it. I got to thinking about this at the Riverside Arts Market in Jacksonville last weekend. There were vendor stalls for art, crafts, soap and all manner of things. I was there with the family and wandering about, taking in the knickknacks and assorted “stuff” I didn’t need when a whisper through the crowds called to me, “Brian, it’s your true love. Come to me … over here in the boiling fat.”

And yet we keep doing it to ourselves. We keep going back, asking for more. Please take my money. Overcharge me for my baggage. Lose my luggage. Delay my flight. Make me miss my connecting flight. Give me bags of peanuts that squirrels would laugh at. Make me sit in the airport for hours where I will inevitably devour food that makes my stomach squirm as if it is trying to get out. “Why did you eat that airport gyro?” your stomach whines. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after eating the airport taco? We’re still paying off the ambulance ride and that industrial-strength stomach pump.” We’re to blame. We do it to ourselves. I ate the airport gyro. I let them stuff me like cattle onto a flying sausage with no leg-room. And I believed the gate attendant in Austin, Texas, when she told me, “Oh, sure, this flight might be 45 minutes off schedule, but since all the flights out of Atlanta run late, you’ll have no problem making your connecting flight.”

You know it’s going to be one of those days when your morning begins hosing down dried cat puke from the front walk. Nothing sets the tone for the day quite like that. Even worse: The only reason I noticed was I spied the dog dragging her tongue across it like it was some kind of feline-flavored popsicle. “Are you kidding me!?!” I shouted at the dog. “How many times do I have to tell you NOT to eat cat vomit … especially if it’s neon orange?” How many times, you ask? You’d be surprised … and we don’t even have a cat.