Turkey Day!!

A day to be thankful for what we have, who we have in our lives, and what we've accomplished.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Fog Is Lifting

This is me today:

http://hungoverowls.tumblr.com/

“Alright. It’s cool. I am in control of my brain again. This can work.”

It's been a long and tumultuous week out here on the Island of Misfit Toys. So intense, that I thought it was just a weekend that I'd lost , but as it turns out...it was a whole week.

All's well that ends well, however.

Just another week of my life that I can't get back again. Another week that my kids spent in the corners of the house while I orchestrated and planned and organized with a telephone stuck in my ear or a computer on my lap. 

Shhhh, kids! Mommy's on the phone with somebody Very Important. Don't interrupt. Be very quiet! No, It's not Oprah this time!

Just another day at the office. Oh, a week. Oh, and I don't get paid for any of it.

I know it's futile to make demands, but Heaven? The spot I have reserved  better come with one Mother of a supply of chocolate and wine, and there better be some massaging action in that there chair. Got that?

It's 11am on Tuesday morning. I've yet to start cooking for the Thanksgiving Feast.

But the excitement is building to epic proportions. There will be turkey! With gravy! And stuffing! A cornucopia of vegetables! And Oh My Goodness, Pies marching in a line across the table!

Yeah, Baby! It's Thanksgiving.

And we've got a lot to be thankful for this year.

I just ordered my birthday prezzie. The Big Guy will not recognize the importance of these words...but all you knitters out there will: Signature Arts Stilettos.

I know!!!!

Shhhh. He loves me. Let's not jeopardize that by telling him what those are, 'kay?

NOT a morning person.

Seriously. This is me EVERY SINGLE MORNING.

hungover owls

No alcohol necessary.

Food Chain

I woke up this morning to the unmistakable sound of crowing.

Rooster crowing.

Under my bedroom window. A rooster.
On my deck.

I do not have chickens. Well, until today.

I explained to him that he was close, but not at his house. I also explained my dislike of germs, including his poop, which I could see he was thinking of expelling on my deck.

Lastly, I explained how I am a huge fan of chicken, which includes roosters. Roasted.
And that I'm a very good shot.

Which I proved with the Super Soaker.

He won't be back.

You know you're in for a great day when the first thing you do is hunt a chicken with a squirt gun.
Good times.

Going for the Gold

There was a dude who lived here a few years ago who moved onto the island and never left, for like, six years.

I kid you not.

He was relatively sane, too, which I could never understand.

I mean, I go long stretches, but six years? He left maybe 4 times in six years.

I'm in the middle of a long stretch right now.
12 weeks.

Twelve weeks of "Can you pick me up some milk, coffee, and um, a clothes dryer?"

I caught myself rocking back and forth today, staring into space.

It's time.

I'm not even in the running for a bronze.


I believe I now hold the title as She Who Never Leaves The Island. I've outlasted  them all. And it's only the beginning of November.

Growing Pains

My kids.

My kids came to me tonight, claiming their independence.
Not moving out or anything, because, you know, I can cook very well. And I take requests.
No, we are going away for the weekend.
Tonight they wanted to pack their own bags.

First, I laughed, because I'm super-supportive of their growth and abilities. High-five!

They're used to this reaction. They waited me out with looks of barely contained impatience.
Then they ran off to their rooms, and I heard drawers slamming and the unmistakable sound of clothes plopping on the floor.

It took Thing One about 5 minutes to return with a cardboard box my Mother had given her to hold pictures, bulging  and threatening to explode.
She instructed me not to open it because it took her a long time to get it to shut, and assured me she had the requisite amount of socks, underwear and a toothbrush.

Thing Two emerged two hours later with a train and a Hot Wheels car.
I took him back into his room, and had him pick out the required clothing. I made him stuff them into his bag himself.
I suspect he will be the child I  will be booting out the door at 30.

After the kids went to bed, I gathered all our crap in one place. There's a lot of crap.

Kids= one bag each and a sleeping bag. (Or, one bag, and one 8x10x3 cardboard memory box in the shape of a suitcase that isn't going to make it off the ferry before exploding)

Me= 1 rolling suitcase, 1 knitting bag that will never see the light of day but must travel with me just in case, the diaper bag (shut up.), a canvas bag with food, gifts, and stuff to be returned, a bunch of empty canvas bags The Big Guy was supposed to bring to the mainland three times and didn't, one booster seat, and a cooler.

That's traveling light.

And that's when it occurred to me that I'd never checked Thing One's packing job.

Now, it's not like we're going to Camp, where socks and underwear and sweatshirts are imperative, irreplaceable, and otherwise unobtainable due to the lack of stores.
Anything she forgot we can easily obtain.
But.
But, really? I'm really not going to see what she brought?

There's every possibility that she packed 2 pair of PJ's, a change of underwear, and four dolls.

I didn't check.
I'm going through with it.

I can do this. She will learn from this.

I'm bringing my Ativan.

Heeeere we go!

I just watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with my son.

Better than winning the election

Yesterday, amid manning the Post Office and the Election Polls, I received a wonderful message from a fellow blogger.

She felt compelled to give me an award.

I know!!

Thank You, JuleeQue. You are too kind.

I will be visiting Greece for the next 6 weeks, virtually, through Julie.
Which is awesome, because I know I would have 'bathroom issues' over there.

My Dad went to Italy a few years ago, and hotel accommodations were handled by Somebody Else.
The area they visited (which shall remain nameless) was quaint and picturesque, and charged 25 cents a square for toilet paper.

My Dad promptly located a Hilton in a heavy tourist area.

I was traumatized just hearing this. I can never go to Italy. 

Apparently, it's much the same all over Europe. I will stay stateside, where I can flush with abandon.

I hope Julie documents everything she sees and eats (I'm all about the food), and has the time of her life!

www.juleeque.blogspot.com

p.s. My Mother's account of Singapore and China was even worse (in terms of bathroom, um, facilities. If by facilities you mean 'ditch'. )
All Hail Sir John Harington, inventor of the flush toilet...and my hero!

Warning:these are addictive!

I email this link almost daily to a few friends who are known to, um, imbibe frequently.


And I've been known to post them on Facebook from time to time.

They beg to be shared, if only for the coolness of the owls, and the expressions on their owl-faces.

Hungover Owls.

I don't know where they get these pictures, but the captions are priceless!

I did. Have you?

I am only one,

But still I am one.

I cannot do everything,

But still I can do something;

And because I cannot do everything

I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

Edward Everett Hale

Now, go vote!

In with the new

We tried. We soaked. We cleaned. We bleached.

It had given all it had.

It didn't make it.

The Big Guy went to the attic and resurrected this antique, yet functional machine.

I said, "Did you wash that before you made that pot of coffee?"

He said, "You cleaned it before you packed it away." (Duh.)

Translation= NO

I wasn't drinking my beloved coffee from a machine that hadn't seen bleach in four years.

I went cold turkey until...

the new one arrived.

And All Is Right With The World.