I don't do my happy dance for trivial things. I did it when I turned sixteen and my dad let me buy my very own car. Sure it was a 1935 Studebaker that could barely hit forty five miles per hour, but it was freedom. I danced when I beat the Selective Service (the military draft, for you kids) during the height of the Vietnam War. I told them I was gay, they told me that they didn't want me. I danced when we sold our other income building and made a huge profit on it. Mark and I blew through that money much too quickly, it's all gone now. So you know it was something big when I did my happy dance around the living room last Saturday. Mark and I were invited to Thanksgiving dinner by some friends. What, you ask, how is that a big deal worthy of a happy dance? I'll tell you how. For the last sixteen years Mark has done Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner for us and a few friends. Each year it has become a bigger and bigger event. Mark usually starts planning weeks in advance, with a couple of people invited. By the time the big dinner rolls around the number of people invited has ballooned, and the number of dinner courses has entered the double digits. The part I hate is the cleanup. I am cleaning up before Mark cooks, while Mark cooks, and after dinner I am in the kitchen cleaning up for hours while Mark and the guests yuk it up in the living room. This year I won't have to do that. I won't have to lift a finger unless I want to. Our friends have saved me from that drudgery, or should I say our very good friends. And I won't be dining down because the fellow doing all the cooking is every bit as good as Mark. So Saturday, when Mark asked me if I minded not having Thanksgiving at our house, it was like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Now about Christmas, I do have something planned that should get me out of doing Christmas dinner. It involves feigning illness, dog poop, and changing religion.