by Gabe Berman – the author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

Archive for the category “holidays”

Another Helping Of My New Book

Every year I swear to myself I’ll never do it again, but here I am in Starbucks sending a “Happy Thanksgiving” text to every person in my phone before I meet up with my family for dinner.

I certainly don’t give to receive, but how dare some people not take the two seconds to text back.

I should just delete them. Because what’s more cathartic then a good ol’ house cleaning of the contact list?


Except for maybe an hour long foot rub for $23 at one of those Asian foot spa places. Although, let me say this: RUBBING MY FEET FASTER WILL NOT MAKE THE HOUR GO BY FASTER – PLEASE SLOW THE HELL DOWN BEFORE I VOLCANICALLY EXPLODE WITH ANXIETY! And while you’re at it, stop yanking my toes like I’m one of those old cigarette vending machines. Who does that feel good for? Nobody, thats who.

Just rub. Firmly. And for the love of God, slowly. Thank you.

A few people texted me back already and a few of those few people said they were thinking of me today because they know how hard it must be on the holidays without my dad around.

I thanked them sincerely but the truth is, I miss him so much more on the regular random days. Like while I’m having coffee by myself in the morning. Or when I see his beloved boating magazines in the bookstore. Or late at night, while flipping through channels and stumbling upon Goodfellas.

Or when I want to text my good friend Danny, and have to scroll passed “Dad” in my contacts to get to him.

That happened a few minutes ago.

I just can’t bring myself to delete his cell phone number from my phone. Actually, I can’t even consider it.

Here’s what I will consider however: eating a giant turkey leg. I’m usually the strictest of vegetarians but my dad lived for those damn turkey legs and tonight, for him, I’m going to get all Fred Flintstone on one of them. If not both of them. In each hand. At the same time.

And later, when I’m in the bathroom, dying of stomach convulsions, he’ll look down on me, sarcastically call me a shmuck, and then smile.


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