The second-tier-but-still-deserving-of-recognition stuff.

With all due respect to all the health, family, friends, roof-over-our-heads and a great meal before us conversation; here are a few things that don’t get the gratitude they deserve in normal Thanksgiving lists, but still deserve a little shout out:

The fact that neither kid has ever had head lice – Knock on wood, throw salt over my shoulder, and cross myself for good measure, none of these creepy crawlies has ever been borne over our threshold via any of our progeny. I’ve known people who sought family counseling after strenuous rounds of de-lousing. Nobody needs that stress around here.

My eyesight – I’m just really doggone glad to be able to see. My eyes have been deteriorating lately and while it might be funny to have a nickname like Magoo, it won’t be long before I’ve graduated from the grocery store readers and into something more legit. On my last visit, my eye doctor said I was near sighted and far-sighted and something in between, and that I needed different prescriptions for reading, driving, or staring at a screen. Things haven’t improved since then. I just got a postcard in the mail that said it was time for a check up.

Yes it was in big print, smarty clown. Yes, I’ll call.

Sports bras – Sports bras in the 80s were designed like burkas: for coverage instead of comfort. Those ugly things were like someone thought “she should be learning to cross stitch instead of running anyway, so let’s make sure she’s uncomfortable as hell and looks as stupid as humanly possible.”

Today’s sports bra does what it needs to without making me cranky, even given that donning or doffing said sports bra could be a circus act for double-jointed contortionists. While I’m running, a good sports bra keeps stuff immobile without being scratchy or uncomfortable. There’s no “Lift and Separate” action. It’s all about the squish.

Three cheers for the uniboob.

Sweat. I don’t always appreciate the fact that I sweat a lot. I can’t simply adopt my Mary Katherine Gallagher “Superstar” pose whenever the urge strikes, for example, because often my armpits aren’t presentable. But when I want to look like someone in those Gatorade-slash-Nike-slash-Mountain-Dew commercials, with the sweat flying from my face as I give a thousand mile stare and pump my arms like the bionic woman (you’d be surprised how often that desire gets me through a run), my little pores are like Wyatt Earp in the OK Corral: “don’tcha worry, missy, we gotcha covered.”

A dry heat. I love summer. Where we live, the air sucks moisture right out of every living thing. I’m good with it. It means when I’m sweating like a banshee (I don’t know if banshees sweat, but when I’m sweating like something that sweats a lot doesn’t have much of a ring to it), I’m grateful for moisture-sucking heat.

A well-behaved dog. Until recently, it’s been our habit to adopt dogs that were either huge, or soon to be huge, and were pretty much unaware of the space they took up. That made them assholes. They were friendly and all, but as likely to pull me off my feet when on a leash as they were to leave piles of poop as big as chihuahuas.

One of our dogs could actually put his whole face on the kitchen table, he was so tall. When he begged from my grandmother, he would stand on the tops of her feet. He outweighed her by thirty pounds. She said it was no problem, but I think she was intimidated. That’s an asshole dog for you.

Today we have a smallish dog with manners. She gives polite kisses, doesn’t jump on people and if she begs at the table, it’s from a respectable distance.

Dog shampoo. No matter what time of year it is, if my polite, little dog gets a bath, that shampoo makes the room smell like sunshine and buttercups.

My feet. I may have Fred Flinstone toes, but my arches are normal, I don’t have Howard Hughes toenails, and my shoe size isn’t hard to find.

The kids’ hair. I’m so glad neither has inherited my thinning, stringy sad excuse for a head covering.

Math. Not really, but I feel bad for math after last week’s post.

Chicken in a can. It doesn’t mean I understand it, but I’m grateful for it. I’m sure it’s something I’ll appreciate if there’s ever a chicken apocalypse. Or any kind of apocalypse, really. I’d miss chicken. Plus, it’s just dang fun to say: chicken-in-a-can.

Tube tops. This was not part of my list, but when I asked Mike for suggestions, it’s what I got. When I pointed out the paucity of tube tops around here, he acknowledged that it’s been a while since the last tube top sighting, but when he sees one, he’s thankful.

Goofy friends who make me laugh. Some of them will go so far as to wear weird hats and bring me beer in preparation for an early Saturday morning relay in the slush. That’s going the extra mile for you.

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I’m grateful you made it all the way through this nonsense. Now, if I could ask the teeniest extra favor of your vote, I’d probably squeal like a little girl. It’s good you’re not here to see that. It’s disturbing. Thank you.

Oh, and it should go without saying, but comments make me freak out just a little bit too. So don’t be shy …. Say something.