November 18: A list

It's not fair. Thanksgiving is mere days away and I'm sick. I am willing it to go away by morning, but tonight I feel like my head is being banged around inside a jar.

I got a lot done this weekend, and spent time with good friends. In spite of the encroaching scratchy throat and drippy head, I managed to play 9 games of pool; blog; spend an afternoon cleaning up the church property (which is what made me sick. I should have stayed out of the dusty, pollen-coated, tall-weeded wetlands. Sometimes I realize too late I've wandered into the allergy zone); pick up my freshly killed turkey from Farmer Mak and catch up with her; bake a pumpkin pie; dance to my favorite classic rock band; evade a creeper (with a little help from my friends); accept a blue-eyed man's number and not throw it away (new chapter, baby. I never even give them an chance .... but more about him no matter how it turns out. Flattery doesn't usually break through my barriers, but the blue eyes gave him a leg up); blog; share a big, abundant Thanksgiving dinner with countless friends (OK, maybe 200 or so); shop for Christmas presents with my girls, Elvira and Coraline (my ass was dragging and I was whining in the most unattractive way by the time we finished -- worse than a toddler); drag myself home; take a long nap; avoid craziness no matter how many enticing hooks it throws out (when someone says he or she is crazy or shallow or a butthead, just fucking believe it and practice active avoidance); start cleaning up my island (should have done it sooner); start the laundry; watch Homeland; make several long lists to guide the next three days leading up to Thanksgiving; blog; determine to go to bed by 2:45 and will away this awful, juicy allergy attack.

That's the highlights, but I'm grateful for almost everything on the list. The creeper .... yeah, not so much fun.

I confess. This is not my most interesting or entertaining post. My apologies. I'm in list mode, and I feel like shit and my muse Dolores is afraid she'll catch what I've got even though I told her it's not contagious. She's so fickle.

And people keep telling me about poop.

I'm opening myself to some fresh winds blowing through my life. First I will give thanks -- for gifts that will continue into the next year and for gifts that have run their course -- and then it's going to be time to write some new chapters for the new year.

Gratitude feels good. Try it. What's on your list for this week?

PS: Two more posts until I reach 300 published posts. Yay!

November 17: Giving thanks

I didn't have any plans for tonight except to pick up the turkey at Farmer Mak's and maybe go to a movie at the our little downtown movie theater. I spent the day at my church pulling weeds and spreading mulch. Not the most exciting work, but it's fun when you do it with friends.

So, the best laid plans and all that. I stayed later than I expected talking and catching up with Farmer Mak, so the movie wasn't looking like a go. But my sisterfromanothermother Trick Shot sent me a message and said a band we like to dance to was playing at a local bar, and I should come out with her and her significant other, Lights. I thought about it for a second and decided to wash off the stench of the mulch and go out.

While we were sipping wine and talking about Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, Lights asked me what's the big deal with Thanksgiving anyway. He said in his family it's just stressful -- get together, eat some food, and sit there and make small talk.

I said Thanksgiving to me is the one pure holiday. It's about nothing but good food eaten with family and friends. No gifts; no eggs and bunnies; no fireworks; no costumes. Nothing but the abundance of food we're blessed to enjoy and the people we are blessed to enjoy it with.

What's not to love? (An aside: The turkey might disagree. She's feeling a little betrayed, but at least she's invited to the dinner.)

Many of my Facebook friends have been posting a daily gratitude journal this month. I enjoy reading their blessings. It's helpful to be intentional about giving thanks. I haven't done it though. Anything I wrote would lead straight back to the people in my life -- the ones on my island -- because they are what give my life meaning.

For that I give thanks. For that I will cook an enormous turkey dinner Thursday and share it with people I love -- my family and friends. I wish I could feed everybody I love and cherish, but it's not possible. And we won't open gifts or search for baskets full of candy. We won't put on costumes or light sparklers. We will simply eat and be together.

 Oh, we will eat a shit ton of food. The table will sag from the weight. We might sing along with a guitar or the piano, or rev up the sound system for karaoke. We might play a game or watch a movie. We will talk a lot and wash a lot of dishes. We will kill a few bottles of wine.

And the point is that it's all about being together. For one day, it's just about being together and being grateful for it.

The perfect holiday, don't you think?

What are your Thanksgiving plans? You might was well tell me, because you're going to hear more about mine. Did I mention this is my favorite holiday? Mmmm. Turkey.

November 16: I've had enough of this shit

This whole poop thing is like the Blob. It just keeps growing and growing, and rolling along like a big sticky turd. I said I was done talking about poop, and it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

One friend -- let's call him Angry Badger -- posted a series of photos of his visit to a local waste water treatment plant or, as he calls it, the poop factory, today. He tagged the following photo with my name, so it came up in my feed as "Angry Badger posted a photo of you." A photo of me? Really?

Poop pit. Is that steam rising?

That's not all. Another friend posted an article on my Facebook wall titled "Everybody Poops, So Why Do So Many Women Avoid Going at Work?" You can read it for yourself. It says something about pooping feeling like getting a cookie, which is total bullshit. I suspect if you think taking a shit feels like an orgasm you might need to spend some time with the old clitoris and see if you can't induce one of those "ah ha" moments. I pity the woman who can't distinguish between a cookie and a dump.

And then later tonight I checked in on Facebook and reported I was playing pool with my friend Trick Shot. And somebody else commented, "I'm sorry but I totally read this as 'Poo!'" Ha! Ha!

OK, I really did laugh, but it was an uncomfortable, "oh my god, is poop going to be the theme for the rest of my life?" sort of laugh.

I simply can't get away from this shit. But the most bizarre coincidence is that I shared this .... whatever these are called .... on my wall yesterday.

Seriously, I will be reporting some page-turning here soon.

And today when somebody commented on it, I noticed up in the corner that it came from a website with the following address: i-am-poopsie.blogspot.ca. What the fuckety fuck? I'm sure that wasn't there when I posted it yesterday. I call shenanigans.

Tomorrow, I mean it: I'm going to write about Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. There will be no more of this shit tomorrow. It ends today. Friday. End of the shit day.

I mean it. Stop it.

November 15: The end of this poop

Have you ever had this happen? You hear about something or somebody for the first time, and then you see that thing or that person everywhere? Or you write about something, and that thing catches your attention with astonishing frequency?

Yeah, that happened to me. With poop. Since I wrote about Gracie's rolling turd, I've noticed poop everywhere. People are writing poop on their Facebooks. People are saying it on TV. I had to change a poopy diaper. And then I had this conversation with my daughter, Elvira.

Elvira: Coraline's little friend Carly is here today. They've been playing with each other and totally ignoring me. I picked up the bedroom and cleaned the bathroom. I don't know what to do next.

Me: Who knows what you might do now with all your free time. You could write your first novel. Or paint a gallery full of paintings.

Elvira: Or I could poop alone. That would be an achievement.
*******

As I promised Tuesday, I have just one more poop story, and this one is also about Elvira .... and poop.

When Elvira was 3, we were at the library one day checking out our books. Another mom and her daughter of a similar age were checking out next to us on the left.

Elvira turned and said to the girl, "How old are you? I'm 3." And she held 3 fingers up in front of herself about a foot from the other little girl's face. It was adorable. I smiled, for about one second.

The other mom, hereby known as Snooty Bitch, drew her breath in sharply and stuck her hand down between the two girls, closer to Elvira than to her own daughter. In fact, very close to Elvira's face.

"Don't let her touch her!" she said in a loud, shrill voice that indicated she thought Elvira might have leprosy. "Don't let her touch her!" Double leprosy.

I stared her down for a few seconds. One of those stop-motion periods of time with her hand in front of my adorable dark-haired daughter and my eyes telling her, "Snooty Bitch, I would be taking you outside and kicking your skinny suburban ass around the parking lot, but I don't want my daughter to know you think your snooty little princess is too good for her. However, next time I might not play nice with you. And you don't want to see me when I'm not nice. I will shank a bitch who hurts my daughter."

Elvira says even now that she's an adult with a child of her own that look makes her want to hand me her cell phone and go to her room for a week. And that's when I'm giving the look to someone else.

I took Elvira gently by the shoulders and moved her to my right side.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I want to play with that other little girl."

"Her mommy won't let her play right now," I said. "Just wait over here while I check out, please."

Snooty Bitch pulled her daughter up against her. We both went back to checking out, Elvira peering around my legs trying to catch the attention of the other little girl.

We both finished checking out at the same time. Snooty Bitch took her daughter's hand and headed toward the door. I also took Elvira's hand so she wouldn't attack the other little girl with kindness. I could tell she still wanted to make friends.

Suddenly she thought of the perfect ice breaker. She shouted, "My favorite color is purple. What's your favorite color?"

Before Snooty Bitch could stop her, the other little girl turned around and said, "Brown. My favorite color is brown."

Elvira stopped came to a dead stop. "Brown? Brown? Why is your favorite color the color of poop?"

I grabbed Elvira by her jacket, dragged her behind a bookcase and ducked down beside her. She was so confused she couldn't think of anything to say. But we heard the other little girl say loudly and clearly, "Mommy, why is that little girl so naughty?"

I didn't hear what Snooty Bitch said. I was trying too hard not to laugh hysterically back behind the bookcase where we were hidden. And I was failing. I was, in fact, almost peeing my pants I was laughing so hard.

Elvira said, "Mommy, I'm not really naughty am I?"

"No, baby girl, you are not naughty," I said. "And thank god your favorite color isn't the color of poop. Let's get the hell  out of here."

No more poop stories, I promise. Vaginas are much more fun. 

November 14: Wordless Wednesday -- Boogie