My parents are here.  They brought food, cards, presents, warm clothes, hugs, and food.  Life is good.

When they got here, I took them on a tour of campus via a rather circuitous route based around the submission of my final paper.  After, Mummydear helped me tidy my room and wash my dishes¹ while Daddy played on my computer.  Then we took a cab² to their snazzy hotel⁴ and ate dinner at a nearby pub. Then we hung out in their hotel room again, where they pretended to make plans⁵ and I attempted to thaw out.  Then they sent me in a cab back to campus so I could pack, shower, and sleep.

***Spoilers for Sherlock.  If you haven't seen it, go watch it now, then come back for this paragraph.***  Also, spoilers for The Princess Bride, but if you haven't seen that, then there's no hope for you.

Seriously.  Have you watched Sherlock yet?  Because it's an awesome show and you really ought to.  If you don't, and you read the next paragraph, you'll want to, but you'll be kicking yourself for reading this and therefore already knowing how it goes.  So you should really just take my word for it and watch the show.  It's only three episodes (so far), so you really have no excuse not to.  It's not like you have ten years to catch up on or anything.


Highlight to read:

The cab ride is when things get interesting.  Now, I'm not saying I suspect the cabbie of being a serial killer, but still, I couldn't help but wonder…was he working for Moriarty? Would I be forced to chose one of the pills under threat of an elaborate cigarette lighter? The cabbie's game was similar to Wesley's, but the presentations are different enough to prevent my ability to win the way Sherlock and Wesley did.  Wesley rigged the game.  We saw the Sicilian's thought process in working out which cup to drink from, but it didn't matter (to either of us) in the end because both were poisoned and Wesley was immune.  Now, we can assume Sherlock was correct when he chose the pill, because he is brilliant, but we were not treated to his thought process in choosing that pill.  So when I found myself in a cab facing the (distant) possibility of such a game, I had no advantage over the bottles.

Okay.  To those weirdos who ignored me and didn't watch Sherlock, but were at least smart enough not to read where I told you not to, you can start reading again now.  I'm done with the spoilery bits.

So that's my night.  Oh! For the first time in I don't know how long, I submitted my paper a couple hours before the deadline.  I'm feeling pretty impressed with myself.  Feel free to ignore me; I'm going to go pack now.  And by "pack" I mean "throw random stuff in my suitcase and hope I have everything I need."

A poll: I've compiled a short list of possible tumblr names I'm currently considering.  Which do you like? One of these, an idea of your own? If you have any questions about how I came up with them (some are from  quotes⁹, just holler.  And leave your votes in the comments below.⁷

Own the Night

Splendiferousness (or Splendiferoni)

Not Always Wise

Boldly Going Nowhere

Aim to Misbehave

Words Between the Lines

Stubborn Things

1. Thanks, Mummydear!

2. After waiting fifteen minutes outside³ for it.

3. Today was cold and drizzly.  I am sincerely reconsidering the affection I placed in this country.

4. Their shower has a rain faucet.  As in the water comes from the ceiling. And the tub has a TV and a tray that goes across with a stand for a book.  I could live in that tub.  And their bed is about as big as my entire Box, with big enough pillows to cover my bed in squishy comfort.

5. They say they made plans, but I have yet to hear anything definitive, so I am still rather doubtful of these claims.⁶

6. I can say these things because they only have internet access via my computer, and since we're travelling together, what could I possibly blog that they don't already know? 

7. Oh, yeah.  Beggin' for comments like a fanfic author whoring herself⁸ out for reviews.  Not that I've ever done that…

8. And bam! Sexism, or is it?  Am I overturning the generic "he" by using a generic "she"?  Or am I making an unsupported assumption that all fanfic authors are female? (and where does the whoring come into play?)
9. Props if you can figure them out, though.

Soooo...

I hadn't been posting all that regularly before because I didn't think anybody was actually paying attention. Also, because I just didn't have anything to say.  But now that I know that my charming sister, BioKatie, has been checking every day,¹ I feel compelled to update more often. And so, dear readers,² I will make an effort to post…something every…so often, even if I don’t have anything to say.³

So today’s rambling nonsense is this:

I hate Word’s obsession with automatically numbering things.  If I want to number things, I will do it myself.  I’m a big girl, Word, I can (usually) count, and I’m not afraid of typing out the numbers myself. If I want your help, I will ask for it.  I just don’t always like the formatting they include with their automatic numbering, and I don’t always want it for whatever I’m numbering.  It’s very frustrating when I try to number things by myself, Word butts in, and won’t let me do things my way.  You’re a computer program, Word.  What makes you think you know what I want better than I do?

A testament to my laziness:  I’ve taken to only eating things I can consume with my fingers or chopsticks so I don’t have to wash my forks.  This includes, but is not limited to: peanut butter on toast, boiled eggs, pears straight from the jar (so I don’t have to wash a bowl, either), pasta, potato wedges, pizza, and, of course, Chinese take-out.  Why All-Unied sent me one set of silverware but ten pairs of chopsticks, I’ll never know, but it certainly makes my life more interesting.

The kitchen smells like fish.  I am not okay with this situation.

I just found my last Fruit Roll-Up in the back of one of my desk drawers.  I’d say I’m torn between saving it as a reward for finishing my last paper, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to become my dinner tonight.⁴

I have recently been convinced to get a tumblr. I have a problem with naming things, though.  Every time I open a new account (email, fanfiction, blog, et cetera), I agonize over choosing my username, password, and title (if applicable), and after weeks of thought, I’m still never happy after.⁵  So, to the ones of people reading this, do you have any ideas for my tumblr to be called?

Hum…I think that’s it.  For now.

1. I imagine her sitting down at her computer everyday, asking, “Has she updated yet? Damn.” And then when I do actually post something she’s all, “Yes! She updated!!!” and eagerly reads every detail of the post, glad that her patience has finally paid off.  Like a puppy waiting for belly scratchies.

2. I say “readers” plural just in case there’s somebody else out there reading with my sister.

3. Don’t you just love my specificity?  I don’t know how often I’ll actually write.  I might be too busy or too boring to bother.  I might forget.  But I’ll try to be more frequent and more interesting than I have been.

4. Or, you know, part of it, anyway.

5. Or I get crap from other people about it.  Take this blog, for instance.  I named it “Haunting Thoughts” because I created it for a class wherein we were reading ghost stories and whatnot.  I thought it was clever.  But everyone just gives me this look that says “really?  Well, aren’t you all angsty and plagued by your super deep musings.  Will we be seeing you at any poetry readings in the near future? Maybe one in a basement where everyone lounges on pillows in the dark and you wear a beret and somebody plays the bongo while you soulfully pontificate on the trauma of your birth?”  Well, you know what, Judgmental World?  You can take your poetry reading and shove it up your bongoed ass.  I like my clever title, dammit.

I just had a dream that I was going to go into space. NASA was going to send me up to the ISS for awhile, and when I got back, I was going to get proper astronaut training (I don't know why this wasn't going to happen the other way around). I found out about this from a girl at Otterbein.  I don't know why she knew and I didn't.  My grandma (who had been cracking dirty jokes) was also going to be working for NASA; I can't remember if she was going into space or not, but she was definitely going to be on Earth while I was on the ISS. And all of this came after shopping for a new bed.  The bed was big and comfy and had curtains all around. And I want to say there were cupcakes.

Even with all the weirdness, that was the best dream ever.

4:30 a.m.

Fire drills suck.

That is all.

FOOD

Mmkay.  So I love food.  Like, I really love food.  I have been known to say that if food were capable of informed consent, I would marry food.  I’ve often had trouble answering the question, “what’s your favourite food?”  Actually, I’ve always had trouble answering “favourite” questions in general, because I tend to categorize within each category. I do this with “best friends” (seriously, when I was little, I had a best school friend, a best church friend, a best neighbourhood friend, and a best friend of multiple categories), books (single book, series, classic, collected works of an author), musicals (first love vs. obsession of the moment), and, of course, food. Like, when you say “food,” do you mean “vegetable” (carrots and cucumbers), “meat” (steak, medium), “dessert” (which breaks down into cakes: chocolate, pies: apple, cookies: chocolate chip, hot from the oven, ice creams: homemade, and other: peach cobbler), or “meal” (oh, god. I need more categories)?

I have a really strong taste memory.  If I so much as see a picture of a cartoon lemon, I pucker up from the sour.  And when I hear people talking about pancakes, I can taste the butter and syrup and pancakes swirling around in my mouth.  My roommates sometimes like to play this game where they try to see what I can taste (I do have limits.  Goat cheese, for example, only brings a memory of gagging, but does not actually make me gag anymore; I blocked the memory of the taste itself).  So they start talking about mashed potatoes and cheesy eggs and chalk and hot sauce and watch my face to see how I react to the assortment of imaginary flavors.

Being so far from home, my homesickness does not manifest as “I need to cuddle a puppy” or “why isn’t the weather weirder?” or obsessively rereading the notes and cards from people back home.  No, my homesickness manifests as “god I miss X food. I wonder if I can get something like it here…”  And yes, I can.  I can buy carrots and cucumbers and jars of pears at the grocery store.  I can get potato wedges (which bear a striking resemblance to Arby’s curly fries, with which I have a long time love affair) in the café next to one of my class buildings.  I can order pizza.  But there’s just too many foods I can’t get.  Some of them are just not the same here (steak.  Brits don’t know how to cook their cow), some of them are just plain unavailable (I have yet to see a Panera), and some of them are things that I would have to cook myself and I have neither the talent nor the resources to pull them off (chicken broccoli braid. No recipe, no reliable food prep/cooking implements, no cooking ability of even a mediocre sort.).

So although I know I’ve done this before (in the Thanksgiving post), I’m going to list as many foods as I can think of that I really want to eat right now.* 

Scrambled eggs, bacon, and cinnamon rolls.  Extra large cup (plastic, not glass) of milk.  Possibly also some syrup, but I’m not sure why it’s there, since my mouth has not informed me of any pancakes or waffles in this imaginary meal

Egg rolls (from Hong Kong Wok, because I have never found an egg roll that can match theirs in sheer magnificence)

Lettuce wraps

Puppy chow (rumor has it Chex is selling it premade now)

Chocolate fudge, no nuts (Damn you, Warehouse 13. “Have you noticed the smell of fudge when there is no fudge?” No, but now I do.  This is why we hate MacPherson.)

Godiva truffles

Peach pancakes

Graham crackers and icing

Lindt truffles

Arby’s roast beef sandwiches (with Arby’s sauce) and curly fries

Chex Mix (to my junior high friends: remember in seventh grade, when every day at lunch, I had to eat my Chex Mix in a very specific order?  Still do.)

Fridge Raids (a meal unique to hanging out with Kayla.  Basically, we go through the fridge, freezer, and pantry, pull out everything that looks at all appetizing, pitch everything that’s gone bad, make up weird logic to justify it as healthy (Cookies, for example, have flour, butter, and eggs. So that’s grains, dairy, and protein.  Perfectly acceptable dinner choice.), and chow down straight from the containers. It’s the best thing ever.)

Smoked cheddar cheese

Homemade strawberry jam

Still chicken thumbs from Copper Blue (Every time I think I’ve gotten over them, I see mention of them when I update my blog and then bam. The craving hits again.)

Freddie Salad

Steak (I don’t think this is ever going to be not on my list. I just want a nice sirloin, marinaded and grilled to perfection or a filet mignon, medium.  Sweet Merlin, I miss good meat.)

Angel food cake

Cool whip (when everybody else serves it on their pumpkin pie, I eat it by the spoonful.)

Potato sausage chowder (with butter-soaked cornbread on the side)

Cottage cheese (we have a bit of a love-hate relationship.  Sometimes I love it, sometimes I don’t.  Right now, I’m in an “absence makes the heart grow fonder” kind of mood.)

Vanilla yoghurt (Ditto to the cottage cheese)

Potato skins

Strawberries and sugar (Mummydear slices and sweetens them for ice cream, but I don’t like to mix my foods, so I just have a bowl of strawberries, and eat the ice cream separate, if I’m in an ice creamy mood.)

Sugar cubes

Smores

Pot roast

Donuts (not the cake kind, the yeast kind, like at Krispy Kreme or Schneider's. Glazed or with chocolate icing.  NO sprinkles)

Pickles (bread and butter on a grilled cheese.  Kosher dill on a German bologna sandwich.  Or just a spear just because. Yum.)

Subway: footlong BMT on white bread with American cheese. Lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo, oil & vinegar.
Meatballs

*”Now” has a bit of a transitory definition, given that it’s taking me a few days to compile my list.  I didn’t want to repeat anything from Thanksgiving, but I thought I’d covered most of my cravings there.  So I’m adding to the list as I remember new foods to miss.  So although I no longer have the taste of lettuce wraps, for example, constantly in my mouth, I would still pounce on them if given half a chance.

Blankness: A Thing That Happens

Sometimes I feel like I’ve failed, emotionally.  My parents are coming to visit next week, and we’ll be spending Christmas together and it’s Good.  I know I should be excited about this.  I’ve missed home, I’ve missed food, I’ve missed hugs, I’ve missed the comfort of being in the presence of people I know and love.  But I can’t say I’m “excited.” 

I don’t always like or welcome change, but I generally adapt to it fairly quickly.  Perhaps this is simply a failure in memory, that I forget that the way things are now is not the way things were before.

Cut off a foot of hair?  Sure, I’ll use too much shampoo for a few days, but I won’t feel any different.

Go to college?  Okay.  No tears, no freakout of “where the hell am I?” when I wake up in a new bed in a new room.

My sister gets married, moves out?  What’s the big deal?

Fly to another continent alone?  Okay, bye.  You can let go now. And is the crying really necessary?

Parents come to visit? It’s a thing that’s happening.

Sometimes I am so blank

Sometimes all I can do is distill the Things That Happen in my life down to “and it’s Good” or “and it’s Bad” because I cannot name any emotions to match how those events effect me¹ or because I need that binary to identify whether I’ve had a good day when someone asks.²

“Good” things can be as simple as buying a warm cookie or as major as my parents coming to visit.  “Bad” things can be as tangible as spilling my pasta or as abstract as an unidentified anxiety.³

In this way, my parents’ coming to visit is no different than buying a warm cookie.  They are both Things That Happen and they are both Good. 

“Are you excited?” people ask, and I do not know how to answer.  I cannot honestly or convincingly say “yes,” but I fear their response if I say “no.”⁴

“Why aren’t you excited?” As though it’s a Bad thing.  For me, it is simply a Thing That Happens.  It is the judgment, or perceived judgment⁵, of my Blankness⁶ that is a Bad thing, not the Blankness itself.  But this sense of Wrongness that is instilled in me when I am expected to display emotion and cannot distresses me more than I can say.  How can anybody say that this integral, though intermittent, part of me is unacceptable? Why does a part of me believe that, even if no one has yet said it to me in so many words?  Even though I know that my occasional Blankness is not a Bad thing, I still try not to show it⁷ because I have internalized this idea that a lack of emotion is Wrong.

So though I know I should be excited about my parents’ imminent arrival, I refuse to acknowledge my non-excitement⁸ as a Bad thing.  I know that to someone who does not understand, they may think me cold, unfeeling, unloving.  They would be wrong (well, mostly. The unfeeling thing is occasionally quite accurate.).  Just because having my parents around is comparable to having a cookie does not make it any less of a Good Thing. And perhaps, once they are actually here, it will finally seem real and I will be able to feel, show, name their presence as something other than “Good.” But even if I can’t, that’s okay.

1. Effect, because they may not make me “feel” anything.

2. When I am Blank, I keep track of the Things That Happen, count the Good and the Bad, so that when someone asks how my day has been, I can simply tell them which is in the lead and in this way adequately participate in Small Talk. Communication, particularly Small Talk, is often difficult for me, because even if I am interested in something, I sometimes lack the words or appropriate expressions to show it.  So the Good/Bad Tally is not only useful, but necessary.

3. I think perhaps I use my binary because it does not require degrees or nuances of emotion.  In a world of Things That Happen that are either Good or Bad, I have no need to determine if something makes me merely “happy” or more than that, “joyful.”  I have no need to analyze a negative, to name it “sadness,” “melancholy,” “sorrow,” or “misery.” I have no need to define emotion at all.

I choose to use this binary, even knowing its inherent flaws.  “Good” and “Bad” exist on a spectrum, much as many other perceived binaries do.  Sometimes, though, I need the oversimplicity of the binary in order to name anything at all.  And I do acknowledge other parts of the spectrum, in my own way.  For things that are neither Good nor Bad, they are Things That Happen.⁹ For things that are both Good and Bad, I specifically name the aspects that are Good and the aspects that are Bad and, if I can, why.

4. So all too often I say nothing at all and let the communication die while they wait for my answer.

5. Anticipated judgment?

6. Blankness: A temporary inability to either feel, express, or name emotion (or some combination of the above). May appear in degrees. That is, I may feel something without being able to name it, or be able to name it without being able to show it. Or it may only affect certain emotions, or emotions of a certain intensity.

7. Yes.  I try not to show that I cannot show emotion.  How?  With exhausting difficulty.

8. I say “non-excitement” rather than “lack of excitement” because I do not think I am “lacking” anything.

9. I use this term in many ways.  It describes events in general, events that are neither Good nor Bad, and events that have not yet been categorized.  It is both an umbrella term and a specific term under that umbrella (much like “queer”). 

Thanksgiving Woo!

Please note:  I will be updating this as the day goes on.  So just because you read it once, doesn't mean you've read it all.  Mwahahaha.

So today is Thanksgiving, and I’m stuck happily ensconced in a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.  It’s great; today (and tomorrow) are nothing special here, especially not in relation to Christmas.  No Black Friday.  No midnight stampedes.  A break from American commercialism.  And yeah, officially Thanksgiving is all about being thankful for what we have, and celebrating the survival of the Pilgrims and blah blah, but how many of us can actually, from memory, accurately relate the origins of this holiday?  I’d bet the closest most Americans**** can get is “Well, there were the guys with the buckles everywhere, and the Indians* gave them food hooray!”  In reality, Thanksgiving is the day when we watch Macy’s parade, eat a lot, enter a food coma, and wake up for the Black Friday sales.  Happy Thanksgiving, America.

So I’m glad I’m escaping all that.  I’m thankful for a lack of commercialism (so far as I’ve seen, anyway).  And I’m thankful for the opportunity to let Christmas come when it’s time for Christmas to come.  And I’m thankful for being in a place that has a very good excuse for not knowing the story of Thanksgiving.  And I’m thankful for being in a place that will be no more dangerous tomorrow morning than it was this morning. 

But god, I miss American gluttony.  And I miss having a day off for a holiday no one cares for on its own merits.  I miss getting up before the sun to help make stuffing and watch my daddy do the Chicken Dance with the turkey.  I miss my cousins’ rolling their eyes at Daddy’s antics and my enthusiasm and grumbling about my dragging them out of bed for something so childish.  I miss half a dozen people bustling around a hot kitchen, snacking and gossiping.  I miss bickering with my uncles while we eat.  I miss playing spoons after all the food has been cleared away.  I miss Daddy screwing with the spoons games.  I miss turkey, three kinds of stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy poured over all.  I miss deviled eggs, fresh veggies, corn casserole, and brownies.  I miss artfully sculpted cheeseball.  I miss making bets with my parents over who will be late and by how much.  I miss growling at my Mum early Friday morning when she asks if I want to go shopping, then rolling over to sleep for several more blissful hours.

My Thanksgiving this year has gone as follows: 

8:20—Start getting ready.  Take too long deciding on a shirt.  Still not happy with shirt choice.

8:40—Go to library, buy chocolate muffin, croissant, hot chocolate with extra vodka marshmallows.

9:00—arrive at classroom.  Eat croissant, drink hot chocolate, save muffin for later.  Complain to self about having class on Thanksgiving. 

9:32—Send Kayla three texts complaining about time zones and commenting on the awesomeness of the name Chester Starr.

10:00—Class starts.  Learn nothing.  Take haphazard notes about political corruption in Athenian religion, queer issues to discuss over tea, foods I miss,** and musings on inability to focus (Conclusion:  conspiracy between Brain and Stomach to get potato wedges from the Piri Piri place.  That, or Brain knows it’s Thanksgiving and therefore should not have to think, so has decided not to.  May be linked to aforementioned conspiracy.). Compulsively check time, calculate time difference, wonder what’s in the oven, how the turkeys are coming along.

11:20—class break.  Blog.

11:25—class resumes.  Give up on notes, continue blogging.

11:40—did you know that the Ancient Greeks believed that if you’re struck by lightning, you’ve been touched by Zeus?  Quite an epiphany there.  (See?  Still paying attention to class.  Sort of.)

11:57—wonder if Professor is aware of the time.  Class is scheduled to end at 12, and she’s still going strong.

12:00—Yup.  Looks like we’re going to be here late.  Hope no one has another class after this.

12:10—class lets out.  Stick around to talk to professor.

12:16—sudden lower back pain.  Cue suspicion of kidney infection.  Of course Kidneys would join Brain and Stomach in their scheme, whatever it is.

12:25—talk to professor, receive praise for deep thoughts, glow all the way to lunch

12:35—THANKSGIVING DINNER.  I officially go to the best school ever.

Image description:  Menu reading "HAPPY THANKS GIVING  Roast turkey serve with roasted potatoes, vegetables, pigs in blanket and gravy 4.75  Mediterranean vegetable filo parcel served with roasted potatoes, vegetables and gravy 4.50"

12:43—OmnomnomnomnomnomTURKEY.

Tray of food, left to right: fork, knife, bread roll and butter, cup of water, turkey, pigs in a blanket, potatoes, carrots, pool of gravy.

12:47—Yeah.  Still don’t like cooked carrots. Yeuch.

12:51—Now, see, when I think of “pigs in a blanket,” I think of tiny hot dogs wrapped in croissant dough.  Not tiny questionable meat things wrapped in bacon.  I like my version better, even though my version doesn’t come with bacon.***

12:54—The potatoes aren’t bad, but they’re not particularly good, either.  I’m thinking I will succumb to the Organs’ demands and get potato wedges.  Later.  After groceries.  And possibly a nap.  But not too much later.  The Piri Piri place is weird about understanding that it doesn’t count as being open if they’ve already put the food away.

1:00—Mummydear calls.  Ignore call.  Promise to call back in eight minutes. Bus tray and scamper out of Digby Diner. Detour briefly to take picture of menu.

1:02—Detour again to poke hopefully about the mailroom.  No mail for Bethi. L  Return to room secure in knowledge that I received a lovely package from Mummydear yesterday.

1:07—Panic about internet reconnection.

1:08—Call Mummydear back RIGHT ON TIME LIKE A BAMF.

1:21—BioKatie commences communication.

1:24—Turkey dance time!...or not.  Turkey’s getting a bath.  Dirty turkey.

1:29—Now Turkey Dance time!  Daddy forgot the dance.  Silly Daddy.

1:53—Daddy: “I had a York Peppermint Patty the other day.” 

Me: “Yuck.  I don’t know how you can eat those.” 

Daddy: “Yeah, well, you eat boogers.” 

Me: “I do not!  I haven’t in years.”

3:03—Play with echo in call to parental units.  Am way more amused than I should be.

3:06—Wonder if I’ve been screwing around with verb tenses and conjugation.  Fear I’ve been dismally inconsistent.  Have decided I do not care.

3:09—Have become quite irritated with the syntax chosen for this timeline.  Keeping it for the sake of consistency.

3:19—Bored of blogging.  Will dissect Maggie Gallagher later, when I can deal with watching her video ad nauseam.*****  Dissection may appear below, or in another post on another day.  Have not decided yet.

3:25—Mummydear ready to hang up to shower.  While discussing plans for future communication, multi-task with blogging and fiddling with collar of shirt.  Because on another page, cannot see own video; forget that Mummydear sees me.  Ergo, do not realize that to MD, appear to be groping self.  Woops.

3:33—GAH I HATE THIS SENTENCE STRUCTURE.  I’M TAKING MY SUBJECTS BACK, CONSISTENCY BE DAMNED.

3:34—edit of 3:25—So Mummydear’s ready to hang up so she can get a shower, right?  Well, while we’re trying to decide how we’re going to make the communication thing happen again later and when later will happen, I’m multi-tasking:  talking to MD, blogging, and fiddling with the collar of my shirt.  And you know how when you’re on skype, you see the video of the other person, and a little window of yourself?  Well, since I was on another page, I didn’t have the little window of myself, and when that happens, I tend to forget that the other person can see me.  So I’m sitting there, with my hand holding on to the collar of my shirt (which is kind of low) and my bra, and THEN I realize:  to MD, I must look like I’m groping myself.  How do I put myself in these situations?

5:05—Reestablish contact with the parental units, BioKatie, and Toddler…just when I was ready for a nap.  Poor timing, family.

5:23—Scarred for life.  BioKatie, I DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT.

5:55—Put pants on to go to the bathroom.  Damn bladder, ruining my laziness.

6:36—Mmmmnaptime.

6:53—Scary boy noises down the hall.  Double check locks, push chair in front of door just to be safe.  Back to sleep.

9:03—Woke up to a call from Mummydear.  Blearily mumble at Aunt Sally and Uncle Sparky, talk to Emily, Aunt Patsy, Aunt Norrie slightly less blearily.  Apologize to Sam for oversleeping.  

Another thing to be thankful for:  Not being related to Maggie Gallagher, who has filmed a video about discussing gay marriage at Thanksgiving.  I'm not sure what's infuriating me more, her stance, or the comments in response.  I just...come on, world.  Is it really that hard to not be a bigoted [bleep]?

*Yes, I know they’re not Indians.  But the “typical American” I mock here neither knows nor cares.****

**In case you’re curious, an incomplete list of Foods I Miss:

Panera:  turkey sandwich on sourdough, no onion;  French toast bagel, toasted with butter

Copper Blue:  chicken thumbs and mashed potatoes

O’Charlie’s:  rolls, loaded potato soup

Peach pancakes

Waffles, saturated with butter, drowning in syrup, sprinkled with powdered sugar

Stir fry

Chicken broccoli braid (that’s right.  Broccoli.  The only way I’ll eat it, and so delicious)

Thanksgiving dinner: Turkey, homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy on all, corn casserole, cheeseball, baked beans with the bacon I’ve fished out, bread with homemade strawberry jam

Ham (not the gross deli stuff.  Christmas ham) on croissant sandwiches

Auntie Anne’s pretzels

German bologna: grilled with ketchup, or grilled on a sandwich with ketchup, cheese, and pickles

Apple pie

Homemade ice cream

Graeter’s chocolate chip ice cream

Steak

***Bacon

BLTs:  I bought one from a café yesterday, and there was too much bread, no mayo, the tomatoes might have iced over, and the bacon was…possibly not bacon.

****And yes, I know that Americans are not all ignorant bigots.  But I'm using the stereotype as an exaggeration to demonstrate we're not as well-rounded as we'd like to think.  (see "Maggie Gallagher")

*****at all.