No Turkey Died For Me

Shamelessly stolen from Her Bad Mother.

I can't eat turkey. It gives me a migraine. Every year, I have all the other stuff - not that I'm complaining, because, really, who complains over having to eat more mashed potatoes, more stuffing and more cranberry sauce? Not me, that's for damned skippy.

This year, though, is different. This year, we didn't go anywhere for Thanksgiving. This year, I had to drive That Canadian Boy I Married to the airport for a 6 a.m. flight. I got up at 3:45 a.m., people. Three-forty-fucking-five.

This year, I'm roasting a chicken, thanks to Joke's recipe, or what I can remember of it, having lost the original in a move, I made a pumpkin pie, I mashed potatoes, I'm making carrots with cranberries and some stuffing. I got to watch the entire Macy's Day Parade (is it only me that calls it that? Because I swear that's what it was called when I was a kid) and tonight I'll have the television all to myself. Note: There will be no football.

And then tomorrow, I get to be at Big Box Store for 5:45 in the freakin' morning, to deal with all the lunatics who will run thru the place like Visigoths on speed.

I'll just keep singing this, though. Because this? Was the highlight of my morning.

Four

Four years ago, on Thanksgiving morning, I woke up early because I had to pee. After finishing my business, I walked back to the bedroom and felt this pop. And then a gush. And then we were on our way to the hospital, where, 10 hours later, this little muffinhead made her appearance in the world.

Expressing her opinion on the whole affair.
I heartily concurred. Umbilical cord wrapped
around her neck four times, blue baby, no crying
for several, long, heart-stopping minutes, and then
she was fine. Pink, crying, letting the world know
just how she felt.

Times were tough, but we did draw the line at baby soup...

...and she made it to her first birthday.

Two years old and a bit shell-shocked at the
arrival of the usurper a few months earlier.

At three, she was a ham for the camera.

Which hasn't changed in the past year.

Happy birthday my Boo. Even though you drive me mad at times, you still make my heart sing.

Take Five

The girls woke us up at the ass-crack of dawn this morning. I think they need to go to bed later - we've been putting them down around 6:30, but tonight we're moving it back to 7. Being woken up at 5:30 on a Sunday morning just isn't cool.

After vainly attempting to get them to sleep with us for a little bit, we surrendered and went downstairs. We had breakfast and then I remembered that I am now the proud owner of a subscription to the Sunday New York Times. So I sprinted out to the front walk, retrieved my shiny new paper and went inside.

That Canadian Boy I Married had made coffee, bless his little cotton socks, and we sat down with our steaming cups.






Then we drove ourselves half-crazy by trying to solve the crossword puzzle. We're still not done, but we're trying. Together. Which was kind of nice.


We listened to a little of this (among other tunes) and had a thoroughly relaxing morning together.



And it was very, very nice. Nice has been in short supply around here lately.

Killing Me (Not So) Softly

I got home from work on Saturday or Sunday (the weekends are a blur these days) to this:



A very blurry shot, but Boo had chopped off The Bug's hair, to about an inch and a half. All over the top of her head. She also has this interesting half-long, half short look going on in the back. This on a girl who didn't have a lot of hair to begin with. Boo also chopped her own hair, but I don't have the heart to post that particular debacle. All I can say is it's a good thing I got a $10 off coupon to the salon the other day. Oy.


The Bug decided that the Daddy doll needed to spend some time in the oven. With his paintbrush (as you do). Unfortunately, the live Mum didn't discover this until she'd already turned on said oven to make dinner tonight.




And just to round it all out, Boo decided to color her hand red. Not with any old marker, though. With the permanent marker.



In other news, Friday I became the answer to Life, The Universe and Everything. If this weekend is anything to go by, it's looking to be a totally craptastic year.


Send vodka.

Open Letters To Big Box Store Guests

Dear Female Guests,

When you have nails like this:


How do you pick up this?


More importantly, how do you: zip your jeans, wipe your ass or, well, do anything?

Sincerely,

Curious


Dear Appearance-Concious Guests,

You know that thing that looks like a big mirror? The one that I see you combing your hair in, checking yourself out in, adjusting your bra/boobs/balls in? Yeah, not really a mirror. Really? One way glass. With an office behind it. You might want to think before doing that again.

Sincerely,

Cringing On Your Behalf


Dear Talkative Guests,

Could you please hang up/stop talking/stop texting when you're paying for your crappe? I'm trying to make your transaction quick and painless for both of us, but when you wave me off or completely ignore me in order to chat, it really pisses me off. I'm going to put the shampoo in with your shirts and your canned goods on top of your bread if you don't knock it the fuck off. Also, I don't really want to hear the particulars of your divorce/Aunt Maude's hemhorroid surgery/your best friend's indiscretions. Really. Don't. Want. To. Know.

Sincerely,

Do People Have No Boundaries Anymore?


Dear Guests With Young Children,

Why do you have them in the store at 10 at night? They're nodding off in the carriage, they're whining and shrieking and exhausted. Take them home. And to the guest who let their child completely tear apart everything in the aisle last night and then just smiled at me and walked off? Thanks. I wanted to stay an extra 15 minutes in order to clean up after your little heathen. Shopping is not a family expedition, especially not at 10 at night.

Sincerely,

Sincerely Annoyed


Dear Little Girl,

Last night, as I pondered the pen aisle, I was coughing. You came up behind me and said "Are you OK?" and patted me on the back. You? Rock.

Sincerely,

Major Bedhead

Proposition 8

I've been wanting to write about this for days, and then Keith Olbermann goes and says what I've been thinking. Only, y'know, better.

Oh Look, There's The End Of The Rope

I had a bit of a discussion with That Canadian Boy I Married yesterday. I explained to him that when he kept putting off doing things or refused to help around the house, it did nothing to endear me to him and, in fact, made me resent him. Why I had to explain this to him is a mystery, but there you go, I did.

It's not like he leaves his shoes in the living room for a day or two. He leaves stuff everywhere. He left his rather expensive golf clubs and golf bag (which held his wedding ring, another very, very sore spot) in the yard for two months. I would ask/nag/yell about once a week for him to get them into the cellar or the shed or someplace out of the rain. Finally, on Thursday, I told him that if they weren't moved by Friday, I was listing them on Craigslist. They were put away that night. I shouldn't have to threaten drastic measures in order to get simple things like that done, but that's what it takes, almost every time.

Stuff like this happens all the time. All. The. Time. It's maddening and I find it very selfish and thoughtless. There's also the matter of him not doing anything around the house on the weekends, which is when I work the most hours. It pisses me off no end to come home after work to find that the sofa holds a permanent impression of his ass, that nothing has been picked up and no dishes have been washed. Last night, when I came in after working 9 hours, he smiled and said "Welcome to the disaster zone." And then he fell asleep on the couch. He may as well have slapped me across the face as I walked in the door.

The kitchen was a mess - O had made cookies and not cleaned up. TCBIM had made dinner and not cleaned up. There was ketchup all over the kitchen table and when I moved a picture I had left on the table, water had been spilled, gotten underneath it and left a huge white mark on the table. Not to mention, damaged the picture.

Should I have left the picture on the table? No, I shouldn't have. I had done grocery shopping in the morning, though, and was cleaning out the hutch and before I knew it, I had to get to work. So I left it, telling TCBIM that I would clean it up when I got home. To me, it would have been common sense to move the picture when the girls were eating - they're toddlers, they're messy. And if they'd spilled something, he should have wiped it up.

Instead, all of this stuff just gets left for me to do. And it's infuriating. I work about 25 - 30 hours a week and I take care of the kids. I do all the laundry, I do the majority of the cooking and cleaning and it's pissing me off that when he is home, he just sits on the couch watching football. He doesn't interact with the kids that much, except to feed them. He didn't even give them a bath last night.

Today, instead of hanging out with the girls, who all have the day off, I'll be cleaning up the mess. O will be cleaning the kitchen, since she made the mess in there, but I'm going to have to clean up the living room and dining room because I can't live with this level of mess. It's gross.

When I try to explain how all of this makes me feel, he doesn't get it. He says he doesn't mean to make me feel bad, that he doesn't want me to resent him, but I do. So I spend my time on the computer because I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to be nice to him when he can't be bothered to treat me with any kind of respect. He just says that he doesn't see a problem, that he doesn't mean for his actions (or lack thereof) to make me feel the way I feel and that seems to be it. If he doesn't have a problem, then there is no problem.

This is an ongoing thing with us and I don't know what to do about it. I've talked to my therapist about it and she says to talk to him, to tell him how I feel, but it's not doing anything. I feel like I'm beating my head against a wall and it's wearing me out. His complete obliviousness has me confused and sad.

I don't know how much longer I can go on like this.

Sing A Happy Tune

Probably not too surprisingly, I've been in an incredibly good mood for the last, oh, five days or so. I smile at people - me! Smiling! At random strangers! Pretty soon I'll have fucking bluebirds following me around.

Anyway. What with all the smiling and shit, I thought I'd put up a few grin-inducing (or cringe-inducing, depending upon your musical preferences) songs.

I'd forgotten how happy it makes me feel to hear these songs.


Don't Go - Hothouse Flowers




Happy Hour - The Housemartins




Song 2 - Blur




19/2000 (Soulchild Remix) - Gorillaz




Rudie Can't Fail - The Clash




Only You - Yazoo




And finally, because I do love me some cheese, I give you:

Susudio - Phil Collins

Exhale

I think it's finally starting to sink in. I'm still stunned.



I took Boo with me to vote on Tuesday. Our polling place is only a couple of blocks away so we walked over and on the way, I explained what I was doing, that I was voting for Barack Obama to be the next President. The place was crowded but there were only a few people ahead of me in line. I got my ballot, filled it in and let Boo feed it into the optical reader. As we were walking out of the place, she turned to me and said "So, where's the water, Mama? I thought we were going boating with Barack Obama."


I spent a long time on the phone on Election Night with daysgoby. For much of the time, once the election was called, she and I were silent, watching the crowds gather, watching this thing become a reality, occasionally saying "Oh my god, I can't believe it." It was intense to watch it with someone else who feels as passionately about politics as I do.


And then yesterday, I was sick. Feverish, achey, the whole nine yards. I've had a horrible cold for two weeks, so I don't know if I'm now getting something else or what the story was, but I spent the day on the couch, huddled under blankets, trying to keep down weak tea and toast. My mother was out for a visit, thankfully, which was a huge help. I'm still feeling a bit funky today, but at least I'm functional.


It's funny. I really never thought we'd win. It does seem like a ridiculous comparison, but I've looked at this race the way I used to look at the Red Sox. It always seemed so close, just within our grasp, but then we'd blow it somehow. I was so afraid this was going to happen with this election, that we'd be the 2003 Red Sox and instead we were the 2004 Red Sox and just like that year, I don't know what to do with myself. It's been so long since I've backed the winning team. Man, it feels good.

Election Day

Finally.

Dixville Notch results are in:

John McCain - 6
Ralph Nader - 0
Barack Obama - 15




I'm not going to be able to breath until this is over.

Loads o' Links

In an effort to distract myself from tomorrow's all-day, all-night nail biting marathon, I've been perusing the internets.

The Meyers-Briggs personality test is always a fun one, and scarily rather accurate for me.


I found this old Frontline program via Stumbleupon. It's fascinating.


Play with your food.


All your grammar issues sorted.


Iconic photographs.


Human clock.


Table of Condiments.


And this just made me laugh.


I'm wrapping up this silly post with two videos:

I know what I'm doing tomorrow. Do you?