a fowl thought

As I was watching some ducks land in the pond across the street from my abode this gloomy Thanksgiving morning, I thought to myself, "I bet they're thankful they're not turkeys today."


And then I remembered the Turducken.


Oh well.

the gnomes who beat me in the night

There have been many times when I've gotten in the shower in the morning and noticed some new bruise that appeared for no reason that I could remember.  For instance yesterday morning I was greeted by a bruise on my upper abdomen, about 4 fingers up from my belly button and over to the left a little bit.  This is not a normal place for a bruise.  (Normal places are places that normally get whacked on a table or doorknob within the course of a day - shins, forearms, etc.)  It makes crossing my arms very difficult since that's where they tend to rest.  Up until now I never realized just how often I cross my arms...

Now, I bruise easily.  Very easily.  I mean, nibble on my neck just the tiniest bit and I'm marked up.  (Yes, I wore a lot of turtlenecks in high school.)  Many times I can vaguely remember telling myself, "Ouch - that's gonna leave a mark," though I don't remember exactly what I did to incite that response.  But those times when it's a mystery, well, I'm beginning to blame the violent gnomes that must be attacking me in my sleep.

It's the only thing I can think of.  Tiny little bearded men carrying small clubs who sneak in to my bedroom, bypassing the dog that barks at the slightest rustle, silently opening the door, and tiptoing over to the side of my bed where one stands on the other's shoulders, takes his club, and gives me a good whack to some odd part of my body. 

Why don't I wake up?  Gnome wizardry.  Probably why the dog doesn't bark either. 

Then those little bastards take off and laugh.  Oh, how they laugh!  They know that I'll wake up and be completely puzzled as to how that sore black and blue mark appeared on the top of my foot overnight when I didn't do anything the previous day to warrant it.  My confusion gives them total joy.  I can just imagine their little gnomish cackles echoing in my brain even now.

I think I need to start wearing full body armor as my pajamas.  Of course, the armor would probably bruise me up as well.  Dang it!  I will no longer be a victim of gnome violence.  I need to come up with another idea.

turkey trotting

Thanksgiving approaches!

Honestly, I have never gotten into Thanksgiving.  I'm not that big into turkey because we cook it when it's not a holiday as well,  The sides aren't that exciting to me.  I don't like stuffing, can take or leave cranberry sauce, was never one for yams, green bean casserole makes me wanna hurl, and I can only take small doses of pumpkin pie.  Yes, I enjoy mashed potatoes and gravy and rolls and jello, but I can have those any time.

Would a hearty "Bah Humbug!" apply here? 

It would be so much easier if we had a Thanksgiving Eve along with a Thanksgiving Day so that we can celebrate with both families without having to eat two separate dinners in one day, all the while hearing them either outright complain or subtly hint that they wish we could spend more time with them.  It causes stress that none of us need. 

If it were up to me, I'd have Thanksgiving Eve with one family, the day after Thanksgiving with the other family, no rush, no guilt, and sit at home with my own little family on Thanksgiving day/night, eating loads of appetizers, grilled beef tenderloin and crab legs (who needs turkey?), leisurely sipping whiskey, playing board games and Wii bowling.  That sounds like a pleasant and relaxing Thanksgiving for everyone!

Alas, I guess it's all about tradition and spending time with family even if you do see them all the time.  The family tradition that my husband, son and I have every year, amidst the running between meals, is watching Home for the Holidays.  If you've never seen it, I highly recommend you find it and watch it this year.  We like to laugh at the characters that remind us of members of our own families, and then we become thankful that things aren't quite as insane on our day as they are in the movie. 

Enjoy your dead bird!

orion's belt

I had one of those days yesterday where everything was irritating me.  From people persistently jabbering on  about their little kids to the constant rhetoric about the Occupy Movement (both sides) to family issues and the normal work issues.  I was having a rough time letting things slide or shaking my head and laughing it off.  I hate days like that. 

Luckily I had a lecture to attend a couple of towns away and was able to see friends who I haven't seen in some time and listen to things that made me remember that I was giving too much energy to my irritation.  I knew it, but I just needed to hear it.

Anyway, on my way home after the lecture, I noticed that the constellation Orion was right in front of me.  (Hey, I don't recognize many constellations - just Orion, the dippers and Cassiopeia)  That dang belt was in a straight vertical line pointing to the horizon right in front of me and it kept grabbing my attention.  This probably wasn't the best thing as we're in the height of deer running out into the middle of the road and smashing your car season.  Those three stars, Mintaka, Alnilam, and Alnitak (no I'm not that smart, I just looked them up), were a constant distraction for me. 

Was I supposed to think of it as a sign?  To keep looking at the horizon and not get so caught up in today's worries?  Or do I just get easily distracted by shiny objects?  I guess the subject is up for one's own interpretation.

i'm a good girl, i am!

So, did you watch Monday Night Football last night?  Packers vs. Vikings and the Pack won...big time.  It was a good game and I had to watch it all alone because my hubby's out of state for a few days.  (Ironically he's in Minnesota, but I digress...)

Unfortunately I was away from the game when it first started, but was listening to it on the radio and could hear that I was missing quite a bit.  Radio just isn't the same.  So when I was finally able to get home, I rewound the DVR (whoever invented that contraption is my hero) and was able to catch up on everything.

When dearest hubby called me this morning to check in (still intoxicated from excessive celebration, but I digress...), I relayed my story of distress over missing the good stuff and my relief due to the invention of the DVR.  He retorted, "Oh, I'm sure you were rewinding and pausing on Clay Matthews over and over since I wasn't there."

My jaw dropped.  "I didn't!  I swear!  I just watched the game and quietly celebrated every sack and every touchdown.  I even cheered for the second string quarterback who got to do the Lambeau Leap."

"Uh huh."

That's it?  Uh huh?  He didn't believe me?  I don't understand why he'd even think that...

I mean, what kind of a girl does he think I am anyway?

the 36-year-old woman illustrated

While looking for something completely different on the internet this evening, I came upon some pictures from The Last Sitting by Bert Stern.  "Last sitting" as in this was the last official photo shoot that Marilyn Monroe ever did, taken only weeks before she died at the age of 36 in 1962.

Wait, 36?

I'm 36.

I went through a short but strong Marilyn Monroe phase in high school.  She was sexy, classy, funny...everything I wanted to be.  She was also lonely, fragile and misunderstood...everything that I was.

I read biographies left and right, watched almost all of her movies, listened to the songs that she had recorded, and imitated some of her style.  Well, what I could as a high school student in the early 90's anyway.  

I never believed her death to be a suicide.  There was a small part of me that wanted to believe the conspiracy theories that the Kennedys were involved and killed her off to keep her from talking (mainly because I never liked the Kennedys), but most of me believed, and still does, that it was an accidental overdose of prescription drugs.  We're all too familiar with that these days.

Why didn't I go along with the "probable suicide" cause of death given by the coroner?  Because she was going through a renaissance of sorts.  She was going back to work, taken up her acting lessons again, lost weight, and was ready to do things on her own terms, not just do what the studios wanted her to do.  She wasn't giving up - she was starting over.  She still had problems - big problems - but she was taking steps in the right direction.

I think many of us go through some sort of rebirth at this age.  We're at a point in our lives where we're no longer the young crowd, but we're not middle-aged yet either. We see what we used to be, what we wanted to be, where we are now, and decide if we like our current direction or if it's time to make changes.

The photos that Mr. Stern took of Marilyn at this point in her life conveyed many of the different aspects in the life of a 36-year-old woman.

The mature woman, beginning to age just a little

The vibrant woman who loves to smile and laugh and have fun

The woman who is a very sexual being, comfortable with herself, making some improvements, but still living easily in her skin

And the woman who sometimes feels like the weight of the world is on her shoulders

I had never identified with photos the way I did with these.  So many facets, all so real, all so easy to relate to - even with the fancy clothes and accessories, bright lights and huge amounts of makeup.

Marilyn wasn't able to see what her changes would have brought her,

but I can't wait to see what my own renaissance will bring.

All photos were taken over a three-day period in June 1962 by Bert Stern for Vogue magazine.  The complete set of images is available in the book Marilyn Monroe: The Complete Last Sitting.  

and we should care....why?

"Zsa Zsa Gabor Rushed To Hospital"

Ummm...she's old.  Very old.  Isn't she in her nineties?  And why are you popping up on my breaking news feed?

Yes, I made the mistake of putting entertainment news headlines on my internet home page, but that's because I like reading about movies and music...not celebrities.  There should be a difference.

I don't care if Susan Sarandon made a comment about Nazis.  I don't care if Lindsay Lohan is going to jail, drinking again, or posing for Playboy.  I didn't follow the trial of Michael Jackson's doctor, I don't keep up with the Kardashians, and I really don't care what Donald Trump has to say about anything. 

What is the fascination that the world has with celebrities' lives?  Why does it matter who they marry or date or go to a party with and why should anything they say about anything other than their own area of expertise have any bearing on our day-to-day lives?  I just don't get it!

Even if you're like me and don't watch E! or Bravo to know what's going on with these people 24/7, all you have to do is go to any supermarket checkout counter and you're bombarded with headlines about cheating spouses, tv stars' weight loss tricks, the latest celeb baby.  Ugh!  (I miss the days of the Weekly World News and Bat Boy.  At least that was entertaining.)

I guess I'll have to remove the entertainment headlines from my homepage and just get my movie/tv/music news somewhere else.  Well, for that matter I need a place where I can find news in general that isn't full on sensationalism , celebrity and spin.  Any suggestions?

womanhood

There are many different terms for it:
"That time of the month"
"Aunt Flo"
"On the rag"
"The curse" (This was my grandmother's special term for it)
Or the one that I use, "Oh, thank god!"

Menses.  It's not a pretty thing - it's gross, you gain 5 pounds in water, it makes you feel like you want to curl up and die, you're an emotional wreck...but it only lasts a few days.  It's better than the alternative of nine months of those symptoms multiplied by 20, followed by labor and 18 years of parenting.

Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother, I love my son more than anything in the world, but one is enough...I'm done. 

No matter what kind of birth control that's used, there's always some sort of slim chance, even if only a hundredth of a percentile, that it won't work and those determined little spermatozoa will accomplish the one task they were set out to do...fertilize.  (And some of us are pretty dang fertile.)  So while some women grumble about getting their periods, I give a silent "Woo-hoo!" and fist pump when I get mine.

And do you remember getting the talk about puberty in school?  That special day when they separated the 4th grade boys from the 4th grade girls.  The girls went into the gym and watched a movie that taught them about the horrors that were about to happen to their bodies, that they were gonna get hair in strange places and bleed for days and days every month while the boys stayed in the classroom and got to play Head's Up 7-Up, then they sent us home devastated and full of questions for our moms.  Well, I found the movie that we were subjected to. Now I'm sharing it with you.  It was made by Disney in 1946!



I'm hoping the video they watch now has been updated since then.

when i get low, i get high...well, not really

Oh it's been a week.  I mean, in the grand scheme of things, this is nuthin' but on a day to day basis things can get a little overwhelming.  Between my toast-eating-inducing day on Tuesday and whiskey-chugging-inducing day yesterday (I won't even get into it), things have been a bit stressful.

Yes, I complain.  I wallow...for a little while.  Heck, I even cried the other day - and that's something I rarely do!  But I also know that these minor annoyances are nothing compared to the things other people have to deal with every day.  I still have an awesome, thoughtful husband who I'm still in love with, a great kid who is well behaved, kind, loving, and smart (especially when he actually does his homework)..  We have a great place to live.  I have a steady job (that I can't stand, but in these times I have to keep reminding myself that I still have a steady job).  We live from paycheck to paycheck, but at least we make it (with a lot of MacGyvering on paying things), we have food to eat, clothes to wear (but this kid really has to stop growing so fast), cable, phones, internet...  We make it work.  Barely.  But we do.

So, I'm turning my attitude around...again.  I'm smiling, bouncing around to this awesome Ella Fitzgerald tune, and getting high.

On life.

(Sorry, I'm one of the few people in the world who has never actually gotten high.  Unless you count when I was on codeine after my tonsillectomy at the age of 17 and I had to go to Chicago and tour the college I was planning on attending and we decided to go to the Observatory at the John Hancock Building which also happened to have the fastest elevator in the world at the time.  Wooosh!  Yeah.  That was a little trippy.)

Come on - enjoy it with me!

i turn to toast

Today was stressful.  After a 5-day weekend and on only my second day of work, the world decided to take a big ol' dump on my blissful little existence.  Oh, I'm sure things will be better tomorrow, but today it seemed like I had no happy place to run to, and around every turn was another grumpy, childish adult that I didn't have the energy to deal with.  Eh - it happens.

Now I know in the movies they usually show women turn to a pint of ice cream or a box or two of chocolates when they're feeling bad.  That's not me.  I've never been a huge chocolate person (unless it's dark chocolate preferably with chili).  Nope.  When I had finally hit my limit, I got up from my desk, walked to our cafeteria, and headed right for the bread.  Soft, beautiful, carb-o-riffic bread.  I took a slice and put it in the toaster, set it on high, and let it sit there for 5 minutes.  (Oh - this made it a light brown.  We have the world's slowest toaster at work.)  In the meantime, I found a clean knife and dug some hopefully non-tainted butter from the center of the brick that had been left out on the counter all day.  When I had enough waiting, I forced the toast up from within the toaster and spread the hopefully non-tainted butter on the bread where it melted instantly.  Oh, it was beautiful.  I added just a little salt (because they always seem to give us unsalted butter) and took my first bite.

Bliss!

It was as if the gods created that one slice and it's buttery goodness just for me for this one moment.  (Can you hear the angels singing?)

Though I seemed to devour that one slice of toast, I actually savored every bite.  I guess the lower-carb lifestyle has provided me with a new stress food.  I could have very easily gone through the whole loaf, but I kept it at the one piece.  When it was gone, I wiped the crumbs from the corners of my mouth, the butter from my fingertips, and headed back to my office.  The stresses were still there, but I was just a little bit happier because of the carby-dairy-salty comfort I found in one little slice of toast.

Yeah, toast!