I would love to revolutionize your Thanksgiving speeches, but I have to admit that the blessings I feel grateful for are embarrassingly mundane.

I mean, I’m grateful for weekends, babies, walks in the rain, comfy couches, random acts of kindness, the fact that I pay so little attention to work, I’m definitely exempt from having to sign a non-disclosure agreement…

I am grateful that Abraham’s descendants were blessed to be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand on the seashore, even though they fall short of the number of artificial ingredients contained in a box of breakfast cereal.

I’m grateful that the pace of vote counting in some states is a perfect strategy for dieters. (“Whoa! Turns out the combo meal I ate last Tuesday had 2,000 calories! I’ll have to take that into account next Thursday, when I find out how many calories this chocolate fountain has here!”)

I’m grateful that my taste buds can adapt to sour grapes. This makes it easier when my smartphone camera says “Storage full!” » just as I’m about to take a once-in-a-lifetime photo. (“Ah, who needs a photo of Bigfoot hiding a lost recording of John Lennon on Amelia Earhart’s plane, anyway?”)

I’m grateful that – if there is any justice in the world – all those clothing designers who refuse to standardize sizes and cuts will one day find themselves out of place in their coffin or urn .

I’m grateful that I can still manage to pretend to detect a difference between 500 permutations of (lightly) scented candles. (“Ah, yes – the Buttcheeks & Boysenberry! I will savor the experience until my dying day! Perhaps you would appreciate a little something I call Just Light the Lamp Exertion Water %$ #@. Wait, there’s more! I’m also marketing a new game called Just What Foul Odor Is Debbie Trying To Mask, Anywhere?

I’m grateful that if you smile, the world smiles with you – but not necessarily at the same time and not without sneezes, half-closed eyes and devil horns.

I’m grateful that I can one day be as famous as Robert Oppenheimer, since my kitchen junk drawer is finally approaching critical mass.

I’m grateful that people tolerate my inability to remember names, but let’s be honest: Most people don’t have names that memorable to begin with. You can ask (let me check my list here) my mechanic Brad Pitt, my accountant Babe Ruth and my neighbor John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

I’m grateful that there has been a break in cases of bigots trying to “shove their ideas down your throat.” Of course, the tentative plan to infect you with their opinions via a patch is alarming in itself. (“No, wait. Even better: you can now scan this QR Code to ridicule all your beliefs to the core!”)

I’m grateful to find teachable moments in life, even if some days I’m less inclined to impart my years of wisdom than to announce, “Hey, go raid your grandparents’ closet.” parents and have a 70s dress up day!

Don’t take things for granted this Thanksgiving. Show some respect.

In the words of Patriarch Isaac: “Hey, Dad, next time you want to try a burnt offering, might I suggest a box of Fruity Pebbles instead?”