In eleventh grade, as part of my French class, we had to read Le petit prince by Antoinede Saint-Exupéry. I loved reading it and it has remained one of my favorite books of all time. This is my favorite passage from that book:

"Les grandes personnes aiment les chiffres. Quand vous leur parlez d’un nouvel ami, elles ne vous questionnent jamais sur l’essentiel. Elles ne vous disent jamais : « Quel est le son de sa voix ? Quels sont les jeux qu’il préfère ? Est-ce qu’il collectionne les papillons ? » Elles vous demandent : « Quelle âge a-t-il ? Combien a-t-il de frères ? Combien pèse-t-il ? Combien gagne son père ? Alors seulement elles croient le connaître. Si vous dites aux grandes personnes : « J’ai vu une belle maison en briques roses, avec des géraniums aux fenêtres et des colombes sur le toit… », elles ne parviennent pas à s’imaginer cette maison. Il faut leur dire : « J’ai vu une maison de cent mille francs. » Alors elles s’écrient : « Commec’est joli. »"

After reading that, I promised my 17-year old self that I would never be like "les grandes personnes" from the story. I wanted to grow up and ask the essential questions: the things that actually pull people together. Numbers, "les chiffres" are arbitrary definitions to quantify things that don't derive their value from the number attached to them. They aren't really that important. Alas, I may have broken my promise to myself.

I'm taking two tax classes and another one with a strong tax emphasis. Another class is on international trade law--so it deals with duties and imposts. Most of my world right now deals with numbers and figures--the things that aren't supposed to matter! AHHH!!

Sometimes I feel too wrapped up in "serious things." Frankly, serious things are lame. I understand that they're important...but not THAT important. They're not as important as knowing that if you make your friend laugh really hard he is likely to spritz his pants; or that humid summer days and dust storms set the stage for the best sunsets; or that your sister won't let you see her burp unless she's had a glass of wine; or that your dog loves chasing squirrels but hates the vacuum; or that in the second week of October the big trees in your yard have reached the peak of fall colors.

It's with this mind that I'm about to have to force myself to read about capital gains and losses, carryover, DNI consequences, forms 706, 1040, and 1041, and a whole mess of schedules. As you can imagine, the obstacles to beginning the task are nearly insurmountable...nearly.

Idk...maybs I just don't won't to grow up. Case in point: I just said "maybs"...I'm too old for that $#@!. I'm hoping for an epiphany that will reveal the human dimension to the otherwise perfunctory and soulless process of determining tax liability--and planning around it. For now, I hope it will be enough for me that, in learning all these things, I can help put people at ease so that they are better able to enjoy their loved ones, sunsets, and yards. I hope.

***Disclaimer: this is another dumpy, humanity-is-awful, whiny rant.***

I'm a little baffled/upset/disappointed in myself. NEWS FLASH!

Really, though, I am. I applied for a Spring Break pro-bono opportunity to Corpus Christi (in South Texas) and just found out that I was NOT selected. At the time of the trip I'll be a third-year law student; I speak Spanish; AND I have significant ties to that area...still, they didn't want me. No one ever does. :

Life is poopy at times. I guess the important thing is that I tried. I know that compared to the people here who have real problems this isn't a big deal. Still, I was hoping that this would be an opportunity for me to make a positive change (albeit late) in my law-school career...especially considering that that city is one of the areas where I can see myself enjoying living and working in the future.

Oh well. That's what I get for hoping. My inclination is to tell the program director to shove his wait-list offer up his you-know-where. But, I shall reserve any further correspondence with hum until I'm no longer miffed. That's probably wisest.

Although, a part of me is really curious about who they did pick. As far as I know, I'm only one of a few bilingual students at my school and I'm not sure that they all applied. I guess multilingualism isn't as important an asset as I thought it would be. BOO!

***End rant***

"La musique commence là où s'arrête le pouvoir des mots." --Richard Wagner

In keeping with the theme of my last post, I thought I'd get a sense for how others enjoy music. Some people will dance along with the song, others sing, others, like me, do both--very poorly. I have a pretty rigid--although very broad--framework for "testing" music, and I'm interested to see if anyone else ear-proches music in the same way.

For me, music is all about synthesis. I like how many different sound pieces work together to express a message. The communicative power of a song (or even just a piece without lyrics!) transcends any singular component. For me, the beauty and pull of music lies in the relationships and interplay between all the elements--how they work with, influence, and build on each other.

One of my strongest memories from college is having talked with some other students who were completely caught up in the notion that "the meaning of a song derives from its lyrics." I was flabbergasted. Quite often, the words that a musician puts to a song are incidental to and consequential of the underlying, (usually) preexisting music. The lyrics simply amplify what's already there; they serve to translate abstract swirls of reified impressions into something communicable.

Lately, I've been listening to a lot of music in foreign languages--I've been enjoying the French tracks of Mika's Origin of Love (particulièrementla chanson « Karen, » que j’ai découverte par la page Facebook de @decembriel ), as well as a lot of Brazilian pop (Michel Telo, Gusttavo Lima, etc.). It's not easy for me to understand French sung or spoken...and I don't speak more than three words of Portuguese. BUT! What I like, even if I don't catch the lyrics, is how the voice works with an upbeat melody, the harmonies, and the crescendos...AND even the occasional, well-placed quiet moment.

So, you know, synthesis--like I said at the beginning.

What do you think music achieves as a form of expression that other media don't? What's been "in your ear" lately?

My last few posts have explored the less-pleasant components of human nature: stress, paranoia, shame, guilt, etc. Rather than let you, dear reader, walk (err...click?) away with the sense that everything that happens in my life is woeful, I decided to share a more-positive development in my life.

I recently promised myself  to seize opportunities to do things that I enjoy doing, even if by myself. It is unlikely that I will maintain any kind of friendship for a meaningful period of time. However, I have resolved that I can't let not having friends stand in the way of me living my life. In fact, I think that's probably the biggest lesson I learned while I was in Europe this summer: it's perfectly legitimate (within some restrictions) to do "fun" things alone. The concert that I went to last week was an undertaking in that spirit. Similarly, I've finally started accepting the invitations to a private dance party that I send myself every evening.

It's awesome.

I have a very eclectic taste in music. The genre doesn't matter so much to me as much was what the musicians do with the musical elements they employ. For a dance party, I just need a phat beat and accessible lyrics--"accessible" in the sense that they are easy to learn and that I can sing/mouth while I bust a move.

Lately, my playlist has featured a lot of Latin pop (SURPRISE!) as well as some 80s hits (most notablly, "U Can't Touch This" and "Push It"). I enjoy the variety of sounds, instruments, beats, and rhythms. Plus, it's a pretty good workout...I got a little sweaty last night mastering that lasso move during "Gangnam Style."

The best part about it is that, because I'm the only invitee, I don't have to worry about looking like an idiot--which I absolutely do, but I'm the only one who knows.

The only downside so far that I've experienced is that my "stop, pop, and roll" is hard on my knees. ALSO, I've but some undue stress on my lower back...it made it hard to sleep a couple of nights ago. But, I got through it. And on the bright side, my body roll has never looked better!

How often do you have (private) dance parties? Do you have a trademark move?

« ...Ne fais rien que ton ennemi ne puisse savoir...»

I don't try to hide things here. If I'm not comfortable sharing something; it doesn't get shared--not here, not anywhere. My Xanga isn't a place where I "separate" myself from another presence. I understand people who keep a Xanga for that purpose--at times, I applaud them. But, that's not me. I blog because I want to say something. (Note: I didn't say that "I have something to say"--it's a notable distinction.)

Most of the people who stop by and read are fellow Xangans--my Xangamigos, as I often call them. They are active participants in the Xangasphere and make valuable contributions to what's happening not only to my site, but also all over teh Xangas.

Occasionally I see a searcher-transient--someone who stops in after getting linked from the Google. These interlopers leave almost always disappointed, I must gather. I'm a frantic tag-enterer; I want a strong connection between and among posts. I apologize if this upsets one's Internet searches. Sorry guys.

Still other times, someone I know IRL will stop by...often at my invitation. When I post something of potential interest to the people I know IRL, I usually post the Xanga link to my Facebook wall. That way, when a FB friend feels the inclination, he or she can stop on in. This happens very rarely. "facebook.com" is almost never a referrer when I peruse my footprints. So, I can't always tell that these people have visited. Other times, though, based on the time of day and the browser he or she used, I can make out who precisely it is who has visited.

I like having people over on my virtual site. But, this is only the general rule. What bothers me is that I believe (and I can't be 100% sure) that there is a group of people--and many of them don't know each other--who visit my blog to gather "ammunition" of sorts. I think it is their intention just to keep tabs on what I'm doing...and then wait...just sitting on that information...like they're waiting for something incriminating.

It is a real possibility that I'm paranoid. But, of those weapon-gathering spies who I think visit my site, we never talk about what I've posted. Ever. So, I'm a little confused about what it all means. On the one hand, I don't want to post something that will only be harmful. But, on the other hand, I don't want to hide anything either.

How do you handle people you know IRL visiting your site?

I'm supposed to be reading about international trade law, but I feel like this is a much-healthier endeavor.

I had a terrible weekend. It started out well enough; some of my closest family friends threw a thirtieth anniversary party for their parents. After I helped them set up, I took advantage of the opportunity to get completely sloshed. COMPLETELY. For me, the evening ended when I blacked out, refused to go to bed, tried to drive home (90 miles away, mind you!), was refused keys, tried to run instead (still 90 miles!), and was eventually wrangled into the car after a physical altercation. That led to a nasty diatribe punctuated with moments of incoherent, caustic conversation. I said things that I can't unsay (even though some were wholly fabricated). I may have done some serious damage to my relationship with several family members.

After the sharpest part of shame wore off a few days later, reflection on the "event" leaves me thinking about encouragement.

If you've spent any time reading my blog, you will quickly discover that I love words and the human capacity to express them. I am a self-professed word nerd who loves all aspects of language. For me, words are people too--they will endure long beyond any one of us; and they have the power to shape people's lives as much as any person. Their influence is far and wide. Each utterance is a further contribution to its rich experience with humanity. With this in my mind, I love researching etymologies: they're like little biographies. They tell me something about who a word is, why it is, who are its siblings, parents, children. I get a sense of who a word is over time, how it has grown and changed and adapted itself to fit different mouths over the years--sometimes centuries and millennia! So, when I contemplate a concept, I run first to collect its story from wherever I can.

The history of encouragement is long one. It traces its history in this form back to the 1560s, but its earlier cohorts have roots in the "English" of the 1300s. Since then, it has been made to fit a variety of grammatical forms, with the consequent semantic "squish" to fit therein. The structural affixes are somewhat perfunctory: "-ment" forms a noun from the act of "encouraging"; "en-" forms a verb to describe what one does in placing "courage" into a person. It is this "courage" that is at the heart () of encouragement.

"Courage" came to English, like many words, through French at the early part of the last millennium. And, as most French words, it has its root in Latin--that ancient language that built an empire and whose intellectual tradition is still shaping the world today. In Latin, the form was "cor." Today, you see courage's cousins in "cardiac," the Spanish word "corazon," and the French "coeur." In all these iterations, the image conveyed is that of the heart.

What really gets me excited is when there's information that takes us back further! Apparently, the Greek word kardia preceded its Latin counterpart. But the story doesn't end there--even before the Greeks had it, it is though to be part of the reconstructed ProtoIndoEuropean Language as /kerd/, which even harkens a little to our English pronunciation. From those early beginnings, this idea of a "heart" or "middle" has descended through the linguistic heritage of man in often little-varied form. In fact, I encourage you to look up the extraordinary phonetic similarity of this semantic nugget across a group of incredibly diverse languages.

People have always associated the heart with one's internal dealings. Early on, the heart was the descriptor of all such inner workings: thoughts, principles, values, affections, hatreds, passions, lustiness, temperament, attitude, pride, convictions, and motivations. Historically, then, "courage" was the very seat of what made an individual who he is. As human knowledge grew, we reassigned many of these characteristics to the brain; we began to understand our "essential selves" as a dynamic between our heart and mind. We now consider our thoughts, plans, experiences, and some feelings as brain matters. Nonetheless, we attribute our stronger, profounder impulses someplace deeper in us--in our heart. There, they are the source and substance of human courage.

And it is this courage--this depth of human essence--where our contemporary understanding begins. Courage is among the most virtuous of human attributes. The people who have courage are admired; those who demonstrate it are heroes. The reason is simple: courage lies where the nobility of humanity overcomes its meaner characteristics. Courage celebrates human triumph and the good that can be!

But what about "encouragement"? In drumming up a meaning of courage, did we lose the beat of encouragement? I think not. The meaning of encouragement depends on what courage is. Without understanding "courage," how can we "encourage"? How do we know when we've accomplished that act of instilling courage in others? Despite a dynamic story that very really spans the course of human history, there is a guarded immutability in the message--one that holds fast with all the permanence of Latin.

At the core of encouragement, this idea perseveres: within a person lies a source of strength that others can ignite.

So, eight paragraphs, five languages, and one history lesson later: encouragement is about getting inside and lifting up. The challenge I see is getting in there. For me, I'm so closed off and walled up that it's unlikely that I can be encouraged, which is probably a dangerous position. I think I'll have to wrestle with that issue in another blog on another day.

How do you encourage others? What's the most encouraging thing you've ever done? What's the most encouraging thing someone has done for you?

***DISCLAIMER: What follows is in the nature of a whiney, self-destructive rant. If you care about how what you read impacts your own personal wellness, I encourage you not to continue.***

It's the time of year when I must begin purchasing gifts for my family members. Since I have a large family, that means I must purchase many gifts. Each gift must be special, personal, and Christmas-worthy. They have to be neatly wrapped and placed under the tree. Naturally, there is a real amount of stress that follows...And it will only get worse as the family grows and my siblings start marrying/procreating. UGH!

There is some limit to this stress if I assume that I need only get presents for my family. For this purpose, it is lucky that I have no friends so I don't need to buy them anything. But what about the other people in my life? Should I get the bus driver I see everyday a present? What about the postman? There are people who provide valuable services who probably deserve a token of my appreciation...but then if they do, then what form does that token take? It's enough to make your head spin...

On top of that, there are other parties, duties, and social obligations that get implicated around the end of the year. On the upside, I think I've just about been able to work up a good excuse not to go to any holiday parties. So, hopefully I can skip those this year.

Then...there's the guilt. I have a LOT to be thankful for, and my future (to the extent I won't destroy it) is brighter than most people's. However, I would give it all up in a minute if I could be assured that I would never have to experience all the guilt that comes with it. (Then of course, one must wonder "Wouldn't you feel guilty about having done nothing with your rich source of resources before giving them for the selfish purpose of being able to live with yourself?" The answer is probably "yes, I probably would still feel guilty." And alas, I would lose at life again!) No one's been able to tell me how much giving/generosity is acceptable/appropriate/optimal...and my own efforts at generosity have not been instructive...even if objectively "generous." Knowing that these awful feelings are looming only compounds the stress.

I think the best Christmas present I could ever receive would be absolution of the need to participate in Christmas. But what are the chances of that? That sounds like something that only Santa could do...

You don't have to be Latino to speak Spanish.

Last night I overcame my more-prudent judgment and decided to roadtrip it up to Dallas (1.5 hours each way) to see a concert. The band was one I knew and have followed for a while. I don't consider myself one of their hardcore fans--let's face it, Reik isn't Shakira.

That's a photo of Reik, btw.

For some reason, I believed the ticket when it said the concert would start at 8:00 and go through midnight. It was an unfortunate belief on my part. I got through the ticket gate by about 8:20 (after a serious parking debauchle) and waited...and waited...no live music happened until about 11:00. Then there were TWO opening acts: the first, "Auranova" was a band out of LA...I didn't think they were so good. Although they played well and had an acceptable score, something the vocals or the lyrics (or potentially a mismatch betwen the tone of both?) didn't work for me. The second opening act was much better. They're from Torreon, Mexico and there name was "Zeri." It wouldn't surprise me if they end up doing well. I've already subscribed to their Youtube channel. Anyway, both acts were a little more hard rock/heavy metal than the upbeat, pop-rock style that Reik usually sings. Although, Reik is also known for many a sweet, ballad-like love song too. Finally, Reik started playing about midnight.

I found that I knew (a little) more of their songs than I thought  I did--due in part because I frequently confuse their songs with that of another group, Camila. I did get the four songs that I really wanted to hear them sing, which was a win. On top of that, they NAILED every song (although it appeared at times that the lead singer may have been lip synching). This is a very talented group. And I'm glad I went; the experience was enjoyable for the most part.

Multiple times throughout the night, though, the band, DJ, or MC-type person would say things like: "Donde esta mi gente de la Raza!" or "Donde estan los latinos?" The group here was probably more than 90% Mexican, chicano, or had strong ties to Mexico (whereas at the Shakira concerts I've attended, even though Mexicans are the majority, there are still sizable showings from South and Central American communities, like Colombia, Ecuador, etc. as well as caucasians). So, every time the question got asked, there was huge response...but not from me. I just kind of wrinkled my face and felt left out in a significant way from the party that was happening around me.

It doesn't help that I'm 6'3", VERY white and was at least eight inches taller than everyone around me. Out of the 300-400 people who were there, there were probably less than a dozen honkies. I think I saw five (but two of them may have been hispanic chicks who dyed their hair blonde). I stood out.

While similar phenomena happened at the JLO/Enrique concert and when I saw Shakira years ago, it wasn't quite to that extent. I would love to enjoy Latin pop without feeling like an outsider--especially when I know the words to the songs as well as or better than the people around me.

Oh well, I can't change my race. I didn't let it get me down because I really did enjoy the concert. Still, a part of me wonders...if we're intending to be a post-racial society, why do we still rely on notions of race/heritage to connect with others? I understand that many people who are part of the same race still share important, common, and relatable experiences within that people-group; but I also think that generalization is less true now than it ever has been. Maybe I'm just impatient...or maybe one's sense of "belonging" is intrinsically tied to the ability to exclude others from a particular group? Mmmm...humans are interesting.

Has being different ever slightly dampened your enthusiams about a particular event?

There was a place in my living room where the popcorn texture had peeled away, exposing the sheet rock. To remedy the ceiling, my parents procured a popcorn-patch kit. After cleaning up the area around the part needing a fixin', the instructions said to insert the spray nozzle into the funnel atop the can and then to apply the produce to the ceiling. After having painted and prepped the area, I discovered that I had no such nozzle.

I may have potentially found a roommate...who wants to see the unit tomorrow. So, there's a rather strong incentive to get all the little things around the house done before the prospect arrives. I needed a fast solution...apparently for me the fastest solution I imagined involved some mild criminal activity.

After getting cleaned up from the paint, I dressed myself like the big boy I am and headed for the hardware store. I wandered the aisles of the Lowe's looking for/at various things: air filters, a strawberry planter/pot, vent covers, ceiling fans, etc. (I may have seen one of my professors with his family--I however quickly diverted course so as not to be seen...because I'm awkward). There were no promising candidates in any of those categories.

I eventually made my way to the paint section where the popcorn ceiling patch stuff was. I found the brand of the stuff that I had bought earlier. I removed the cap...and sure enough, the little nozzle fell out. Why my can didn't have that nozzle, I don't know. Then, I had a decision: I could either buy a new can for $10 in order to get the nozzle that cost probably 25 cents...or I could just TAKE it. I picked the nozzle up from the ground and inspected it carefully. My examination of the nozzle was the external manifestation of the inner tumults of my brain in contemplation of  the decision I was about to make: I looked over each crevice and curve carefully, looking for a clear indication of what course was best.

Before I realized what had happened, I tucked the nozzle into pocket--safely next to a quarter, where the image of George Washington--who cannot tell a lie--rolled his eyes. "Shove it, George," I murmured inaudibly. As I had no more items to procure, I made my way to the checkout. As I approached the exit, another customer with his son was also approaching the exit. Before any of us got to the threshold of the crisp outside air, the alarm went off. That's when my heart started racing.

Fearing that "they were on to me," I shot a judgmental grimace to the man pushing the shopping card. "Clearly," the look said, "this guy is trying to leave with something he didn't pay for." I employ a similar technique when I break detectable "wind" in the presence of others. The man looked confused and a little put out--an employee soon waived him through, saying "Go ahead, no worries." If that employee had only known what sneakiness had passed in the store on her watch!

I know I didn't really get away with anything. If I had taken the can to the store, saying, "My ceiling patch didn't come with the nozzle," they would have done the same thing I did--that is, take one from another can that was already there. Plus, I'm sure I was caught on camera (although, I did get a little nervous and frantically did a perimeter check). If anyone ever attempts to prosecute, I'm sure I'll confess in a torrent of tears, shame, and embarrassment.

The delinquent adventure aside, I did successfully repair the ceiling. It's drying as we speak. I failed to follow the directions about draping the area to limit over spray, so I had a significant mess to clean up afterward. However, what was formerly a blight on my ceiling is not nearly as noticeable. Now, if the potential roommate refuses, it's because of an actual deficiency with the room (or me...cause I'm crazy).

Have you ever shoplifted? Do you think I'm destined for a life of crime?

Before I begin, I should say that I do love my grandmother dearly (except when she's destroying me at Words with Friends, but that's not directly implicated here). She's very thoughtful and concerned about her family--no matter how weird we are. However, at Thanksgiving, there are a few dishes that she makes that we don't really need (along with several that are CRUCIAL, like cornbread dressing). The offenders are jello "salad" and sweet potatoes.

At this point, the jello salad is too foregone. To the best of my understanding (I haven't eaten it in years!), it's a combination of cool whip and squished jello...maybe with some other stuff? fruit maybe? I seem to recall it being garnished with orange slices one year. I do enjoy seeing this on the Thanksgiving spread...even if it's only a source of quiet, knowing chuckles within the family.

The sweet potatoes, on the other hand, present are a more-interesting subject. The typical sweet potato preparation is out-of-the-can sweet potatoes, placed in a casserole dish with some butter and tiny marshmallows on top. It's pretty basic as far as sweet potatoes. It also seems to fail to live up to Thanksgiving standards. What makes it interesting is that today, during toilet time, I had a thought: what if the sweet potatoes could be transformed before turkey time? What if there were a way to make the sweet potatoes into something befitting a Thanksgiving feast?

Confession time: this Thursday, I'm seriously thinking about commandeering the sweet potatoes and fixing them before Granny becomes the wiser. I really yam. (Get it?)

Here's the plan: when Granny arrives, doubtlessly with a trunk full of food, I sneakily portend to help her bring in the food. I quietly locate the sweet potato dish and dart off with it. Then, my brothers actually help her bring in the rest of the food so she doesn't notice I'm gone. Then...I'll get cooking. The plan is to effect a souffle from the sorry excuse for a Thanksgiving side dish.

Step 1: remove the marshmallows. Marshmallows are properly served with s'mores, bond fires, and feelings of sadness or inadequacies. Unless the turkey fry goes wrong, all these should be far removed from the Thanksgiving meal.

Step 2: mash the sweet potatoes. In the same bowl/dish that she brought, I'll take to the sweet potato hunks with a steadfast, destructive diligence. There will be cream and egg yolks on standby. Only once they have reached the right consistency (right on the verge of runny), can I proceed to the next step.

Step 3: add the pre-prepared meringue mixture. The meringue is what provides the "lift" for the souffle. I can have the egg whites beaten with a little bit of salt, and then add either pumpkin pie spice or sage and bacon. This is the tricky part...if the meringue sits out too long it will deflate--and once you add a protein source, you can't whip it back up. Timing is key.

Step 4: pop into the oven. It needs to bake at about 400 for twenty-five minutes or so. Hopefully, at this point everything else is out of the oven. (We fry or smoke turkeys, so no problem on the winged foul front.)

Step 5 (if necessary): create a diversion. If your family goes at Thanksgiving like mine, all the dishes get grouped according to their type: turkey and ham go together; all the vegetables go together, then salads, and other delectables, and desserts. So, it will be easy to see if there is a dish missing from the grub clusters. The diversion will need to be something that makes it look like there's been a last-minute change to the self-service traffic pattern. This won't be difficult because my family frequently does it wrong (cutlery, napkins, and drinks go at the end of the line so your hands aren't encumbered in the food-heaping process...why does no one understand this?!). In the confusion, a misplaced casserole is believable.

Step 6: remove from oven immediately before the meal starts. Hopefully, the souffle will take and the puff will impress everyone. Thus, Thanksgiving will be saved.

Step 7: Make up some B.S. excuse about why it happened when she figures it out. Grannies have a tendency to be sensitive. Plus, there's some reason she thinks she must make it (like my uncle really like sweet potatoes this way, which I'm not sure is even true). TOUGH BEANS! Like the butterball we're about to consume: that ain't gonna fly. I have several possibilities: "I thought it would be fun to try something new this year;" "This is something my sister, who can't be with us, would have liked to have eaten--it's in her honor." But, my favorite is:

"This is symbolic of our family traditions: each generation contributes its own touch to what we do. This contributes to the richness and dynamism of our ever-growing family. Thank you, Granny, for everything you do for us, and for helping us become the people we are. I'm thankful for you." Secretly, I just want sweet potato souffle for Thanksgiving...

What do you think? Is this appropriate? Regardless of whether it's proper, do you think I can pull it off? Do you have any tips/tricks from your own Thanksgiving subterfuge (or should I say "turkey furtivities"? No, you're right, I shouldn't...)