This year I almost bit (it).

And I'm kinda embarrassed.

Thanksgiving is a day I like to spend reflecting on what I am grateful for in my life -- a whole lot--and, duh, eating. Instead, I came outstandingly close to gobbling my dinner, leaving the dishes piled up in the sink and hightailing it to the nearest Connecticut big box, to wait outside for hours, like a loser, in a Black Friday line.

At 6pm on Thanksgiving Thursday.

'Cause all of that just really screams me.

Trust. I'm not in need of holiday gifts. I've already said, thanks, but no thanks, to the sad hyped up machine o' consumerism that brings Christmas to a retail outlet near you 'round September. I was in need of something way bigger.

A new TV.

Our current viewing situation? Literally, a 'tube'. Stop laughing. We had the outstanding good fortune of replacing our hardware just as prices came down on HD units. Remember the days when they used to cost close to a grand? Me too.

But now we're ten years out. With a 27 incher that refuses to bite the big one. Truth be told, we'd probably continue to suck it up, if involuntary picture cropping hadn't become part of our reality. Never witnessed this phenomenon? Few have been so lucky.

The skinny: Apparently, since 2009, the 16:9 aspect ratio has reigned supreme as the measurement of choice around the world for HDTV programming. Our boob tube? Not exactly wide screen friendly. Consequently, we're clearly missing some info with our viewing. How much? No one knows for sure. And that joke has gotten old.

So when I heard, recently, that Black Friday circulars were available on-line for my browsing pleasure, nearly two weeks before the big event, I decided to check out the options. You know. Research and all.

And, indeed, there I saw it. A 32-inch HDTV advertised for less than a Benjamin. Granted, I had never heard of the name brand. Ever. But with a price so low that we could even pay cash, I thought about going to check that bad boy out in person.

Until I abruptly returned to my senses.

It was the actual Black Friday theme song on the site that irritated me first. (Seriously AC/DC? Did you really just sell out like this.) And then I methodically started the calculations: How many hours would I have to stand outside? In the Northeast chill? I estimated four. Which, depending on the weather could quickly feel like eight (teen).

What time would I have to eat dinner? Around noon. Or 8 PM, if I still had an appetite.

And the big one: Why in the hell was I doing this to myself?

I'm a shopper. A good one. I know the actual price of things, as well as the value. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the real key. So I started investigating the specs of this TV to even see if it was really worth it. That'd be a negative. The resolution wasn't up to par, nor was it a Smart TV. I browse on.

The truth of the matter? No matter what lies you're telling to yourself, I don't think Black Friday is about shopping at all. The internet provides amazing opportunities, with coupon codes AND free shipping. No one stands out in the cold, or gets trampled, and you can save a huge amount of cake.

In fact, I'd go as far to argue that Black Friday is all about frantic fake anticipation--best served to the millions of people who don't have any means to generate excitement in their daily lives--by big business. A Sisterhood of Shopping if you will, that every single year, millions of already cash strapped people fall for.

Hate on me if you want, but I know Black Friday is all about living on the edge, for those who never take the opportunity in their everyday lives. It's about doing something crazy, like waiting in line while it's still dark and rest of the world is asleep. It's about the adrenaline that comes from rushing inside after the doors are unlocked. Like a way sadder Running With The Bulls--only the prize is an overloaded bin of $1 fleece scarves.

I don't want any part of that. Ever, but especially this year, as Black Friday blurs into Turkey Thursday and more givens, like the once simple concept that everyone, even minimum waged retail workers, could enjoy a whole day of rest with their families, get eroded by greed.

This Thanksgiving, I am outstandingly thankful to live in Rhode Island, where our blue laws restrict retail store openings on Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Yay to you Massachusetts and Maine for also continuing the tradition.) Because these so called bargains? They're costing all of us way way more than you even realize.

I never really thought much about my relationship with the UPS man.

I order things. He delivers. Pretty cut and dry really. But then he started messin' with my shoes.

In my advanced age, my feet have become increasingly more temperamental. Yet, I refuse, REFUSE, to go the traditional route of the American white sneaker. Contrary to popular belief, they do not go with everything. My solution? Bargain shopping stylish shoes on-line that are, gulp, given a seal of acceptance by the American Podiatric Medical Association.

Thank God they exist. And they arrive at my house on the creep. That's usually the easy part.

Granted, in the two years we've lived here, two things we were anticipating were never delivered: a pouch of prescription drugs (hope those water pills provided you with an outstanding high) and a pair of costume clip-on earrings. But in both instances, there was no proof of delivery, so replacements were issued immediately.

We've since smartened up, placing a vintage milk tin at the side door for the smaller stuff, which consequently makes us appear to be the only folks in the 'hood receiving a fresh milk delivery, as well as obsessively tracking the packages so we know which day to expect them.

My new shoes? The tracking status claimed they were delivered to the rear entrance. Now that's odd, because our UPS man du jour, while parked outside our house at the time that delivery was recorded, didn't exit the truck. I was watching. I know how this can go. So I called the on-line vendor, who launched the UPS investigation.

Such a serious term for a lost pair of sandals.

And thus began my intensive UPS education, where I learned, thanks to my new, slightly combative, pal at the national customer service center, that an investigation for a lost package takes 1-8 business days. During this time, not one, but two members of the UPS team, first national, then local, call to make sure you haven't somehow recovered your lost package, next to hypodermic needles in a weed filled lot.

I also learned that the UPS drivers have a whole lot of power. If no signature is required, they have the discretion to leave your box. Ho-hum. But much more disturbing: if a signature is required, they can use their authority to approach a neighbor, any neighbor, and ask them to sign for your package.

Say what?! Indeed, I trust my neighbor across the street, he's from Kansas after all, but I couldn't believe UPS asked him to sign for my new computer if I didn't come to the door.

Yup. All in the very same week.

As my shoe investigation entered its second week, the national office said the next step would be for the driver to return to the scene to see if he could remember where he left the package.

LOL indeed.

Two days later, the local office told me they'd be happy to close out the investigation, and refund my money, because it appears that someone is following said UPS driver around the neighborhood and stealing packages. Clearly, this must be one really quick thief. So quick, that I almost wonder if they hitched a ride on the truck. You know, on the back bumper or something.

So Brown, now that my case is officially closed what can you do for me? I'm so glad you asked.

1. Stop giving your full support to clearly incompetent drivers and/or scammers. 2. Consider that all of those boxes you are processing everyday actually have something in them--that the receiving party would like to see, instead of being obsessed with just the sheer volume of movement and the money that goes with it. 3. Work on getting someone cute to do my route, 'cause if we're going to be brushing hands over the delivery pad, seeing that my address now requires a John Hancock, it might as well be slightly enjoyable.

And then all might be forgiven.