The girl at the kneaders counter fixed me with a stare that looked like disappointment making out with sadness. She said, "yeah, what we have out there on the racks is usually what we have." I turned around to take in an eye gasm of glitter, bowsilk, and every pretty label style I'd ever imagined. Amongst the color and flare sat 8 powder dusted racks, empty save for two cinnamon bread loafs spaced as far apart as two things could be and still remain in the same store. When I turned back around I knew that look wasn't disappointment for me but at me and my half-cocked idea that a place like this would still have product this close to thanksgiving. Then she made the smile that wasn't a smile and aimed her eyes at the door as directly as if she were pointing her fingers. I think those eyes were telling me to go to Walmart, or maybe Frys if she was forgiving. So decided to skip the whole thing, at least for now. My ego had just been through the equivalent of being rejected by a teenager whilst still being a teenager. A shy, geeked up teenager with ballooning dreams in a sea of needles. I figured the best course of action would be to chalk it up to really good 10 minute material. And here we are. The thing about thanksgiving that always got me was the protocol. It's one thing to bring the proper food stuffs, and another to haunt the seasonal hot spots trying to feign cultural flavor by investing time and income in a company that manufactures such things. Such things, as it were, ought to be carved from the reality of need, desire, history wrought with turmoil and situational awareness You don't buy a turkey because you were supposed to, but because you recognize and are a part of that history and culture you are struggling to recreate in the moment. As the Cowboys take the field tomorrow I'm going to give thanks for being around people and in a situation where the moment is genuine. At least as genuine as anything can be when family gets together