Less than a lifetime ago I worked Thanksgiving with some regularity.

So when the girl at the big box store told me with a crestfallen gaze that everyone at her store was working this Thanksgiving, I knew exactly how she felt.

I’ve worked more low-wage, lower-respect jobs than I care to remember. And, while I probably work harder physically at any of those jobs than I do at the one I have now, sweat wasn’t the only thing I sacrificed for those low wages.

Sometimes working holidays was rewarding (I spent part of a few holidays at a nursing home helping other people have their family holiday, for example) and it made up for my lost family time to some degree. A lot of times, however, I wondered if the radio or beer I was selling was actually so vital that it couldn’t wait until a non-national holiday.  Sure, there was a choice not to work that day, if you also wanted to make the choice not to work for that company again and then try and find a job with a recent firing on your next application, so it wasn’t much of a option.

And I know this girl doesn’t really have a choice.

But this year I do one.

Since so many stores have decided to cancel Thanksgiving (because stores care so much about working people who need deals on DVD players that couldn’t possibly be offered 24 or even 36 hours later so that the working people who work for them could give thanks with their families) and are skipping right to Christmas, our family is deciding to follow suit.

I’m not actually going to wear a red velvet suit even though I am un-uniquely shaped to do it. I am, however, recruiting the Big Guy and the two things for whom we give thanks to play Santa for a little while on Thanksgiving and take some cheer (Thanksgiving or Christmas) and a few baskets of muffins to one of the local box stores near us.

And while I don’t have any illusions that we’re going to change the world or make up for lost family time.  But hopefully a little random kindness baked at 350 for 25 minutes will bring a little bit of home to people who need it.

Allow me to get on my detergent box for a minute.

That’s about as long as it’ll take for said box to collapse under my weight as I diatribe while the next load of laundry finishes and the dishwasher wraps up the dry cycle.

See, a couple days ago, I was reading a post about the difference between career writers and a hobby writers (I don’t claim to be either – writing is not something I do, it’s what I am).  About halfway through the article I stumbled across the idea that those who write less frequently were suffering ‘bored housewife syndrome.’

I’ve seen variations of that sentiment anytime someone wants to belittle the creative urges and efforts of other artists or writers struggling to keep art in their lives, whether it’s in response to the online work of a mom picking up a camera for a first time and finding a new part of her soul or a mommy-blogger spending a few minutes a day to feed their literary soul.

Behind that phrase is the idea that creative wives and mothers are  looking to fill the spare time on our hands rather than something in our souls.

Which leads me to the big question I had at the end of the post – who the heck are these bored housewives and how do I get an application for their club?

(I know it’s been more than a minute, but I’m getting there.)

I’ve been a work-at-home mom for about four years now. During all that time I’ve also been a housewife, and, while my cleaning allergy (I think it really is a medical condition) creates some challenges, I do manage to do most of the same things competent housewives do.

I have made over a thousand peanut butter sandwiches, washed and hung enough laundry to fill the Grand Canyon, ran a taxi service, stayed up with sick kids and healthy kids who needed to eat every three hours.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I voluntarily committed myself to this circus years ago and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it, but one thing I have never been is bored.

I do think the term ‘bored housewife’ belongs in the encyclopedia next to Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and Elvis because I have never met another housewife who is bored, wondering how to fill up the hours in her day.

My time to write – whether in a journal or blog or book – is carved out of the wax of the candle that I burn at both ends of each day. Most days I do it with abandon, hoping that someday it may pay but wanting to do it so badly that I don’t care if I never see a dime for my writing (okay, I’d like to see one or two dimes).

Butf I will not concede that art produced during stolen hours or even minutes, means that I – or any part-time artist – am any less serious about my creative career than the person who has arrived at the place where they do have hours a day to devote to their art.

It just might take me a bit longer to get there.

Every morning I come back from the bus stop, our resident flock of turkeys is in the road.

I think they know my car, because they never skedaddle the way you’d think wildlife should when confronted with  a middle-aged mom driving under the influence of missed-the-bus-again-rage.  They used to flutter to get from the hillside to the horse field when they saw me roaring up the hill, but now they lolly-gag. I’ve even had to honk my horn and threaten to get out of the car to shoo them out of the way.

They’re not just ignoring me. They’re actually blowing me off, and there’s something so familiar about the situation (not just because it’s a daily occurence).  It’s  like they think they know everything and I’m suddenly an idiot.

But today I remembered these turkeys were born last spring which right now make them kind of like turkey teenagers. So I should be getting used to this treatment by now.

Of course, whether you own or lease your teenager or wait for other turkeys’ teenagers to finish crossing the dirt road, understanding the problem is not the same as knowing what to do to solve it. I think we’re going to have to wait it out until Christmas when they get their goose’s cooked. Or they have to start paying their own bills.

The first day of a diet is a bad time to make any major life decisions, but if I’m ever famous for only one thing, it will be making bad decisions.

Sunday, the evil being in the bathroom threatened to start ringing a carnival bell next time I stepped on it, and, after a heart-to-heart about the state of my heart, we decided I should say bye-bye to sugar, artificial sweeteners, fat, caffeine, and any other gratuitous dietary pleasure.

I think they’ve made a few horror movies that start out this way.

I’ve tried and failed at this quite a few times but I’m a glutton for punishment.

And, reasoning that, going forward I’d have more sleep and sanity in the morning than at any other time of the day, I also decided to give up being a night owl, set the alarm for 5AM and – voila – be an early bird.

Which is how I found myself in our darkened, dilapidated house at the end of a dirt road wondering if anything funny happens in the absence of caffeine. Or sugar. Or fake sugar. My horror screenplay was writing itself.

I settled onto the recliner with my computer, determined to work at something.  I typed three words and then heard a shuffling sound in the back hall. The dog didn’t get up right away so there was cause to worry if it was a chainsaw-wielding serial killer. What appeared was only half as scary.

Eight-year-old Thing2 appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.  He shuffled over to the couch and arranged my arm into pillow position.  Thing2 then set his mouth on autopilot, covering every topic from the art of hanging upside down on the jungle gym to any secret crimes Thing1 might have gotten away with still.  It was a mastery of morning conversation only a true early bird could, well, master.

I didn’t get a lick of work done for the 30 minutes before it was time to get up and start making lunches and dragging Thing1 out of bed.

I wasn’t the early bird. Monday night I wasn’t the night owl. I was the worm.

The day of no sugar and no caffeine and intensely affectionate eight-year-old will end as another failed experiment in dieting and social engineering before the school bus pulled away from the curb.  But it’s still not too bad when you consider how most horror movies end.