Thanksgiving Defeat

The year I turned nine a pissed-off gypsy lady put a curse on me, declaring I shall never again partake in the feeding frenzy referred to as "Thanksgiving" for the rest of my life. I think I must have mocked the Halloween chalk/candy she gave me. Ever since then I have been on the verge of death for the accursed holiday every..single..year. Last year, I was bound and damned determined to enjoy it, so I popped vitamin C like Tic-Tacs and instructed the kids at the daycare where I work to stand a minimum distance of three feet away whenever they addressed me, as children are known virus carriers. This would be the year that I made Thanksgiving my bitch.
But on the night before what would have been a glorious day of victory, the black plague crept in over night and rendered both my husband and me completely immobile. Neither of us could move with out vengeful death spewing from all orifices. And George and I had eaten spicy nachos the night before, which by the way is just absolutely awesome to vomit up. Short Stack, apparently unaffected because of his mutant immune system, finally awoke and his two-year old eyes became a-light with pure joy for reasons I still can't explain. He climbed up onto the bed and began jumping up and down and giggling like this was the best holiday ever.

I had to reach for the phone and beg my mother to come and get him and take him with her to my grandparents' house, where he would no doubt discover that he'd already achieved the highlight of his day. George and I continued battling for the bathroom for several more hours. And by very late afternoon, we were feeling well enough to drink some repulsive blue Gatorade and eat a cracker. That was the extent of our holiday merriment.
I have given up hope for a healthy Thanksgiving. Wish me luck tomorrow. And Happy Thanksgiving.