So in the spirit of the holiday season, I found out that Wednesday was “Day Without A Gay.” I found this out while I was standing at the Troubadour nightclub on Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, where I still live, though I do have these crazy moments when I think about pulling out a mid-life crisis card and moving to Hawaii. (I am seriously considering whether or not I could learn to surf. Or at the very least, whether a super hot, super young, though legal, surf instructor could teach me to do so.)

In any case, I had gone with this soon-to-be-divorced friend of mine to this fund-raiser thingy that was going to raise money for at risk kids and teach them to make videos. Now I am all for putting art back in the schools, and twice a year I take Mr. Handsome to make sandwiches for the women’s shelter, so I figured this event was right up my alley. The holidays can be a very lonely time in L.A. (well, anywhere, I imagine) and I was glad that in this era of economic deprivation people were still willing to give money to at risk youth of whom there are sadly, plenty in this neck of the proverbial woods. (Stuff like this makes me so relieved that Roo and Mr. Handsome are still young enough to be basically well adjusted, despite the obvious and sometimes not-so-obvious fuck-ups of their well intentioned, though messed up parents.)

It took a while to get to the club, since we had to leave our West Side comfort zone and actually venture east. We drove in the station wagon that used to belong to my friend’s wife. He gave his ex the fancy Beemer and took over the ripped up “family” car as his own.

It was just about one year ago that I wrote my first gratitude journal. I must admit, it was not easy to feel grateful about a whore-mongering husband or a best friend who decided to set her beady, near-sighted eyes on my philandering spouse. But I remember thinking even at the time that it was important for me to take the high road. (Plus I had recently read in People that stress ages you, which was so not an acceptable option.) In any event, I remember sitting at my dining room table (which seemed so much larger once I kicked Jeffrey out) and trying to say the phrase, “Thank-you.” I kind of stuttered over the syllables, like suddenly English was a foreign language, and I remember my tongue felt like cotton in my mouth. (That might also have been the lobster I consumed in celebration of my newfound freedom. It seems that liberation gives me hives.)

However, even in my drunken stupor (of course, there was Chardonnay involved) I recognized my need to move beyond the petty stages of anger and frustration (I am at times, highly intuitive) and to embrace the new life that I knew was about to be mine. That said, there are many things that I am thankful for this year. So, in honor of Thanksgiving and new beginnings and cheating ex-husbands who give us all a new lease on life without even knowing it, I am going to share a few. If you would like to share back, please feel free. I am feeling the love this year.

So again, in no particular order (if you were here last time, you know the drill) here goes:

In general, I like to talk about sex way more than I like to talk about politics. I always feel more satisfied after a good girl gab that has to do with our sex lives (or lack thereof) than one of those boring meetings about who is running for city council. So when Annabelle said she was getting a bunch of us together for Chinese I got very excited. First of all, we all find Chinese kind of an aphrodisiac. (Annabelle says it’s the Five Spice Powder but my vote goes to the MSG.) Second, the delivery guy from California Wok has killer abs and wears skintight T-shirts that say things like, “Soy Boy” and “Stir Fry Guy.” Last but not least, I love Chinese food. I love the flavors, I love the way it fills me up fast and I love the way an hour or so later it leaves you wanting more. The way I see it, Chinese food is like sex, only better because you can get it any time you want. (Actually, if you are Jeffrey you can pick up the phone and call for sex and have it delivered just like Chinese food. But you sure can’t trust the egg rolls, if you know what I mean.)