My parents decided to get a second dog this summer. Our family didn’t get its first pet, an adorable cockapoo I named Dawson, until I was a freshman in college. (Yes, this also happened to be around the series finale of Dawson’s Creek, but whatever. I thought Pacey was cuter). I figured my parents were trying to make up for lost pet time. Or my sister and me living on opposite coasts.

I met Zoe, a black Wheaten Terrier, when I went home in July. She immediately tried to eat my face and attack me at every opportunity. I didn’t hold her much because she wouldn’t stay still. I thought she was crazy. My parents said it’s called being a puppy. I won’t fight about semantics. I’d just like to keep my face.

Should Zoe be perching on the coffee table? No. Do my parents care? Not a bit. Does Dawson? Don’t even get him started.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, I was curious what my 10-day visit would be like. My parents would have to work. I would be alone with the dogs. They said she was doing well in puppy school and was learning “tricks.” I wondered if one of the tricks happened to be “don’t eat Jacky’s face and sit still.”

As soon as my parents brought me home from the airport, Zoe tried to attack my face. And my legs. And my head. This girl can jump. I retreated to the corner of the living room as my parents laughed at me. Then got out the video camera.

Zoe stays in her crate when my parents go to work. I left her there in the basement, closing the door to the upstairs, trying to remain as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t realize I was home and start crying. I made sure to pay special attention to Dawson. I thought he was depressed and neglected. As older siblings, he and I really have to stick together.

My dad comes home at lunch to play with Zoe, and eventually I let him leave her out. And then I told my parents to keep her crate-free in the mornings too. I’d still have crazy attacks from her in which she’d pounce on the bed and attempt to eat my ponytail, but now she actually settled down and would curl up right next to me, or down at my feet, a soft furball footwarmer.

By the end of my trip, we’d officially bonded and I was sad to leave her. I didn’t need my dad shoving Zoe’s face in mine for goodbye kisses (uh yeah, on the lips. Ew gross.) but I had managed to find more room in my heart for this happy little crackhead who just wants to be around people.

I saw them sitting at a table in a local restaurant eating breakfast one morning. Two cowboys facing each other deep in discussion about things that I will most likely never know. They were like mirror images to each other. Both had on well-worn, black Stetson hats perfectly creased; plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled neatly to their elbows; tight, dark blue Wranglers and boots that told stories of hard work, trust and love for the life they led.

The cowboy closest to me had hands that were big enough to strangle a cow. The signs of age were apparent, with a gnarled thumb and strong veins that one only finds in hands that have seen years of manual labor and earth driven tasks that weed out the city boy from the cowboy.

I was eating quiche because it was left in the buffet that morning. I had gotten up late and ventured outside only after procrastinating at home. No more bacon and eggs at the buffet… only quiche. I was slightly embarrassed and hoped that these two icons of the west didn’t notice me as I took another quiet bite of the light and fluffy crust filled with warm spinach. Could I be more of a pansy? In reality I was more concerned that I would miss the meeting of these two men in a society that has moved ahead of them. I was probably staring too much, but I didn’t care.

I tried to imagine their daily routines as they spoke to one another in soft voices with a stillness and purpose that was very focused. It seemed that these two lived their lives with poise and never did anything that would waste energy, words or time.

I had another bite. They drank their coffee black and the one closest to me, with the cow-strangling hands, stood up. His belt buckle was bigger than the full moon on a clear night. He turned and walked past my table, and the time around me stood still for just a moment. I remember trying to smell him… trying to gain any sensory information about this relic of a time gone by. It was as if he was on a higher plane of existence and he could probably have given Ralph Waldo Emerson a run for his money.

Right then, as I took a sip of my sweet, warm, cream-laden coffee, it was apparent that I had lived life without a purpose. I was struck down in my seat mid-spinach quiche breakfast. What the hell was I doing eating spinach quiche and wearing clogs, designer jeans and a tight T-shirt?

What I needed was some turkey hash. This is not as funny as it seems. It was a basic need and reality. I needed a hearty iron skillet full of turkey hash and a black coffee and the chance to be a man with another man in the middle of a crowded breakfast establishment while wearing dirty boots and tight jeans.

I am not saying that a man, such as myself, shouldn’t eat quiche or wear designer jeans. I am saying that a man shouldn’t lose his sense of lore and purpose and simplicity in a world that has become so confusing and complicated that we sometimes eat quiche. Do I want to be a cowboy? Not really. Do I want to strangle a cow? No… for sure not. Do I want to sit in a chair 50 years from now across from my friend and be noticed by a young man behind me who is eating quiche and thinking about my legacy? Yes.

I think some greater force must have been looking out for me when they blessed me with a big family. As someone who is extremely introverted, I have always found it convenient to have so many people to lean on. It’s also been a lot of fun to have four siblings who I consider best friends.

My brother Rick and I have been close since we were young. I’ve been told I was very upset when he started attending Kindergarten because I lost my playmate. I’m not sure I would have actually survived my freshmen year of high school had he not been a senior, and a well-known senior at that. Of course, I occasionally grew annoyed with being Rick’s little sister. But at least people noticed me. Plus, it was really fun having senior boys hanging out at my house.

Seven years ago, Rick moved out to Los Angeles to pursue his dream of becoming a stand-up comedian. While I would have liked having him in Lawrence, Kansas with me, trips to visit him in LA are always incredibly enjoyable.

A few weeks ago, I took advantage of a couple days off of work and flew out to visit him in LA. I’ve been there enough times now (14 to be exact) that I’m pretty familiar with the city and all the things it has to offer. This time we enjoyed a day in Santa Monica, a trip to Westwood and one of my favorite thrift stores, and spent our nights at the Comedy Store on Sunset, where my brother performs. Whenever I go to LA, people always ask me if I met a famous person or if I saw any movie stars walking along Rodeo Drive. Besides a few times when I’ve met a well-known comedian at one of my brother’s shows, my answer is usually no.

On my final day there, we decided to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. It was a beautiful, clear day in LA, which is often hard to come by. We didn’t really have a destination in mind so we just drove. We rolled the windows down, listened to some music and talked. We reminisced about our shared childhood, wondered about people from the past and talked about what we wanted out of life. It was a perfect day.

I didn’t meet any movie stars or see a famous person randomly walking down the street, but I got to spend a lot of time with my best friend and brother. The past couple of weeks have been stressful at work and the weather has been cold and grey. Whenever, I feel like I’m going to go crazy, I stop and think about that lovely day in Malibu and how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family.

This Thanksgiving hasn’t been much different from any other. Same people (parents, brothers, sister and family); same place (my mom’s house); same menu (turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, turkey, pie). We drink, we play cards, we snack, we eat tons for dinner and we talk. It’s been that way for some time. And it’s fabulous.

But one little thing changed this year. We decided to draw names for Christmas instead of everyone buying everyone a gift.

This might seem like a small thing, but I think we’ve been in denial for awhile that our family is growing. It’s been especially difficult the past two years to shop for two families, let alone two growing families. Cody has two brothers and one nephew. I have two brothers, one sister, two nephews and one niece. If you include parents and spouses, I’ve had 16 people to buy for. Gifts start becoming “how cheap can I get this gift” as opposed to “what would they really like?”

As we sat around after dinner, discussing how we would do this. (Would it be like a Secret Santa? What will the minimum spending amount be? Can people draw their own spouses? Is the 7-year-old included, and, if not, does everyone still buy her a gift?) This conversation literally lasted 30 minutes. We were going to keep it just between siblings, but my two nephews are getting older (18 and 13) and wanted to be included in the name-drawing, even though we warned them they’d only be getting one gift this year as opposed to lots. They decided that was OK, so Mom wrote all our names on paper and put them in a bowl. The rules: you have to keep it a secret, you can’t draw yourself or your spouse, and the minimum spending amount is $35. (I found it amusing we settled on a minimum and not a limit, but “sky’s the limit” seemed to suit everyone much better).

As the bowl was being passed around, I marveled at how big our family has grown, not even in numbers but in size. My oldest nephew is 18, almost as tall as my husband and with a voice just as deep. My second oldest nephew is TALLER THAN ME with a voice that got deeper since the last time I saw him two months ago. My 7-year-old niece is growing like a weed. Over the past few years, we’ve added my husband Cody and my oldest brother’s girlfriend Lesli. We even discussed adding a kid’s table next year as mom realized we literally couldn’t fit another person at the table, even though my sister’s kids are getting too old for a kids’ table and anyone that Cody and I might add won’t be old enough to sit at a table by themselves for another two or three years.

I can remember going to my grandma’s for holidays when I was younger. The cousins outnumbered the adults, and there was never a lack of someone to play with. But now the cousins have grown exponentially with spouses and children. I hardly ever get together with the extended family, but I feel like I am watching my immediate family grow just as big right before my eyes.

It’s exciting because there will come a day when my nephews will bring girlfriends, and someday fiances and wives. My niece will bring a boyfriend (but not till she’s at least 35, according to her dad), and Cody and I will, we hope, bring children.

I love it. I love that even though this holiday seems like the same old thing, it holds so many possibilities. In the future, we’ll be able to have more than just two Euchre games going at once. We’ll have to cook two turkeys, and have twice as many pies. We’ll have to sit at multiple tables, agree on which football game to watch and squeeze even more people into our group photos. We may have to plan a little more ahead and be a little more accommodating.

And we’ll definitely have to add more names to the Secret Santa name drawing.