Leaves have begun slow blending into ochre in Thompson Square Park. Rustling and giving way under my feet with a satisfying dry crackle. The top layers of skin relaxing under fuzzy cloth or beaming alive with brisk air accupuncture. The rumors on the wind smell like Autumn. The fall might actually be here in earnest. Dope.

Weighing the travel options. Seems as if the Midwest has the strongest support in the polls. As far as destinations go, I'd rather make a second trip to New Orleans, or traverse the oceans toward unfamiliar lands. The infernal geek engines would not unshackle their binds from me last year. Had to skip out on my second favorite holiday, and the only traditional yankee calendar inspired family get together that generates warm feelings. So, Thanksgiving in St. Louis seems to be the clear favorite.

However, the celebratory feast has been hijacked by the inlaws in the last four years. Baby Sis's Hubby's controlling mother insists that she is in charge of the turkey day get together. All her sons, all four of them, and their respective wives and companions must spend the evening at her house. My folks and I snared up in the mess. Has twisted what I consider a lovely family Thanksgiving all up.

The devious gears spinning efficiently with a fresh application of grease. A dangerous attribute I possess is charm. I have skirted trouble and capture from figures of authority since I was five with cunning use of messy haired, aquamarine irised, dimple cheeked charm. Often, what I want becomes what others want, without them even knowing how I altered their compasses. The world I would sculpt is a better shaped rock than what the rest of the mob could imagine anyway.

So, I will contact Ma and Pop, and casually drop hints I am thinking of spending two weeks back in the old November homestead. Slide in tidbits of how I'd love to prepare the Thanksgiving meal this year. Pop, while loving cooking, does get quite overwhelmed with the ordeal, especially in his advancing age. Put him in charge of the pumpkin and cherry pies, his favorite Thanksgiving dishes to prepare anyway. Steer the minds toward simple immediate family warm hearth feel. Chump that massive unfun besmirching of a sacred day that has been engineered by that other woman. It basically will be made clear that I don't want anything to do with that inlaw bullshit, and if they want the prodigal son to return, different party arrangements are necessary. Sorry lady, your sons may fold easier than perforated paper upon your nagging, I am made of different stock. You wanna test my parents loyalty to me rather than you, the mother of their son in law? You will find yourself upset.

I refuse to spend another Thanksgiving fighting for couch space in that garish salmon trimmed canary yellow livingroom. Plate balancing on my knees. The brothers four noisily sparring over the television remote. Pesky inlaws prodding me about my Gotham life. Unsuccessfully pretending I am having a good time.

Hubby's parents can belly up to the spanky table if they want. Open invite. Severely doubt that would happen. This woman makes it her business to cement a permanent ache in the ears of her children till they do what she says. Her stubborness would keep her from my plate. The thunder and lightning over her son, the Hubby, accompanying his wife, the Baby Sis, to my soiree will be immense. As if I give a gram of anal gas about creating another "relative" that paints me with horns and a pitchfork.

This is an innoculation. I need to spend familiar times with Ma, Pop and Sis. Been quite removed. It ain't cool. I will toss endless buckets of blood on anyone who tries to spoil the healing. Too many of my once reliable clement events have had other thumbs dragged into them. This year I take back the family. There will be no hostage negotiations.