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I decided during a particularly rough spot of my misery late last night, that I've being going about Thanksgiving all wrong and will be implementing a new plan of attack for next year. I starved myself all day in anticipation of the bounty to come, so essentially I felt miserable until I finally sat down with my over indulgent plate of fanfare.

I enjoyed 8 minutes of blissful palate delights. Then, feeling slightly deprived of the things I couldn't fit on my plate the first go, went back for seconds...another 5 minutes of pleasure. Now add 2 minutes of heavenly pause...... and then the weight of my purge sank like a rock into my guts and I spent the remainder of the day, miserable, stretched out in a feeble attempt to give digestion room to work magic. 15 whole minutes of my day were spent in triumphant gluttony. The rest, I'll call it what it was, misery. Obviously I'm going about the day wrong~~~

At my Thanksgiving there is no such thing as matching silverware polished to a fine sheen. I've never seen coordinating place mats nor a candelabra centerpiece to hypnotize it's patrons. Fine china would never be brought out for such an occasion (far too dangerous) and I'm pretty sure mayhem would break out if someone got cocky and tried to use place cards. Food items are not revealed one at at time in pretty little serving dishes (I'm pretty sure that sort of slow progression would cause mutiny) and I've never witnessed a moment of pause, or silent thanks, or group prayer or anything that would try to hold back the tidal wave of people frothing at the mouth. Thanks, is the responsibility of individuals at large.

When my Mother, who reigns Queen on this day, (it's her house, and her turkey), says, "Time to eat." (and no one would dare touch so much as a deviled egg until she makes her official announcement) The swell of the crowd presses in on itself and it becomes a dog eat dog world. Every soul for themselves sort of deal. Survival of the fittest. Neanderthals with manners.

The thing is, if you don't dive in right away, something could run out (one year mashed potatoes ran out, that horror will go into family folklore) , and then there is a matter of Real Estate. One must find a good chair at various eating stations located all over the house. I've never seen anyone have to sit on the floor, but there is real estate at Mom's house that feel like a beach side resort, and there is what one might consider ,the low rent district. One must stake a claim quickly and then be prepared to protect it (show claws and sharp teeth).

I love it.

I think refined dinning, the picture of Martha Stewart perfection is geared toward little families, you know 20 or less type numbers. Mature affairs hold an air of mystery for someone like me that grew up, with potluck dishes and buffet expectations. I'm not sure of the count on yesterdays fiesta, but I can say, it swelled beyond 40 family members.

The house vibrates with the sounds. Children laughing and running. I watched one little 4th or 5th cousin ( it's humanly impossible to keep track anymore) of mine skating across my Mom's travertine floors with her 'built in skate shoes', back and forth, a big old grin on her face because no one seemed to care. There's the noise of plastic forks on paper plates. And conversations. So many conversations overlapping one another that I imagine an unskilled visitor would get a headache trying to follow everyone and everything going on.

It's easy to imagine what it would be like to be a mind reader in these gatherings. I just closed my eye's, and imagined myself in a library of quiet and listened. I realized yesterday that if I didn't focus on one specific voice, I could delight in a huge array of conversations all at once. Stories, detailed accounts of recent surgeries, or births. A shopping trip gone awry, a car that broke down. God. Atheism. Elections and hope. Sex. TV shows. Books. Gossip. Movies. Wolves. Future. Recipes, And the most important, memories of someone now gone.

I realized that story telling is the principle symbol of all my family gatherings. The people who capture the biggest slice of center stage have booming voices and can spin a tale or recall family history in a way that captures a good portion of the ears around. The story tellers are animated with hands, facial gestures and often stand up to encourage complete attention. There is little family glory in being shy or the quiet one, (there's very few of those anyway) so I'm right up there narrating my own memories and stories with the best of them.

It's all a little crazy, but I fully understand now how grateful I am for such a booming, procreating family. My family style Thanksgivings, paper plates and all, would never make the cover of Martha Stewart and the notion of cultured or refined is a foreign concept to my family posse.

And that's all right by me~~

7th Day

I'm feeling anxious today and typically the antidote to that feeling is writing. I've taken liberties this morning at all my normal writing stations and thus far still feel unsatisfied, so I'll dump here for a bit as well, lucky you.

I'm beginning to think nothing will help. I shall blame my current agitations on an extended bout of insomnia, lucky me.

I've been thinking about what Marc wrote in his comment from the below entry.

Marc from Le Trash Whisperer wrote, " I have a similar yearning for the hero's of Jane Austen novels. Of course, the question is, is what makes them so desirable the very fact of their unavailability, in that all-encompassing way?"

Yes. Yes. And *sigh* Probably.

I've been toying with your thought since you wrote it. I blame and credit writers.

A good writer understands that to reach in and toy with peoples emotions is a clear path to our hearts. Through the art of illusion that writers should participate in, it seems only natural to caress the senses of a readers most basic human condition.

~The need to be seen, cherished, protected and loved.~

A great writer will satisfy, usually after toying and teasing it out, all the needs of their fictional characters. Writers can't leave us readers hanging with the realities of life's little slices of loneliness. No one needs to taste that more then we already do.

Since I'm feeling like everyone is lucky today, I'll use myself as an example here for a moment. I'm 36, been married, been divorced, never really been single for more then a month and have had enough lovers to consider myself 'experienced' enough to blanket remark on my life's little realities.

Honestly, I don't feel like any of the men I've ever loved have actually 'seen' me. One I will grant, came close, but that book falls into the Greek tragedy genre. Seen, as in the way a writer can make their character see his leading lady. Truth is, they just never continued asking questions. They have all accepted me for what I gave on the surface, but didn't continue with a quest to know the all encompasssing. To this day I still find it remarkable only one man in my life has ever asked, "Hey, can I read what it is your writing all the damn time...." (Is it just me, or isn't that strange?)

Fictional hero's drag everything out of their ladies whether they want to spill the beans or not.

I don't blame the Men in my life for this oversight, or unrealized secondary pieces of me. The fact I don't believe I've ever felt anything that resembled all encompassing is because I remain in reality. I know love, in it's boundless glory and until I discover something different, I'll simply cherish that gift. It seems to me that people are generally happy and content with surface and sometimes the less they see the safer their own little world can remain. I understand that. Accept it. We all play off what we feel needs to be given or taken, a writer simply forces the issue and completes the whole package (i) deal.

If I was writing my own hero, for my own book of reality, I'd have my hero give me a music box that played Clair De Lune just because he thought that would make me smile. My hero would ask me endless questions and actually listen. He would ask me about what I was writing all the time. He wouldn't throw a letter or note I wrote him in the garbage. He would always put his hand on the small of my back when we were standing next to each other and every night when we slept he would let me rest my head on his chest so that even if I couldn't fall asleep, I could listen to the sound of his heartbeat.

I would think.....Such simplicity...............

Hence, Writers created unavailable Hero's on the seventh day.............

I have an admission.

I am 36 years old and I read tweenie books. YA= young adult, if we may.

I'm sure it has to do with the fact I have two teen daughters that I've raised to be book addicts. Like good little addicts, once they've had a good hit or high, they want to share the euphoria with another. I will label the next stage, (sh) (p) eer pressure.

They will chant things like, "Come on Mom, you'll like it" or "Mom, every one's reading this one" or even, "Mom, just read a few chapters, if you're not hooked, then put it down." They are accomplished little book dealers if I do say so myself.

Many Moons ago the daughters and I were having a read in. 'A read in' is the three of us snuggled up on my King sized bed enjoying our individual books, or writing, or drawing. Whatever appeals to the individual, as long as everyone is together collectively broadening our minds. During that particular read in I was reading an age appropriate book that had me so agitated and frustrated I actually chucked it against the wall in a fit of unparalleled book disgust.

Little did I know, that was the day I would join the cult of teenage obsession and become a Twilight addict. Shelby did it. I blame her. She shoved the paper pulp up my nose, I mean, she pressed the tweenie book into my hands and swore I'd fall in love a vampire. (Which I did) (Which is damn near embarrassing to admit at my age) (But I did) (Unless you've read the series, you cannot assign judgement here) (You just can't)

Now, with any book that creates a cult like following (it isn't just me, every single book in this series has been best seller knock out) they must make a movie. That movie came out Friday and you bet that like any good addicted little book readers, we wanted the visual to go with the words.

Twilight Fever. We all had it on Friday. Me. My daughters and three spare loyal teen worshippers I picked up along the way (with their parents permission of course). I cut work, the kids felt ill at school and got really sick with Twilight fever around 11:00 a.m, just in time for me to pick them all up and head to a hopefully less crowded theater--- The only antidote to our feverish delirium.

On the way to the theater the car was roaring loud with anticipation. Everyone was talking about their favorite parts of the book, wondering if it would be included in the movie. The girls were really nervous Rob Pattinson (the actor playing our hero) wouldn't live up to their standards of what Edward Cullen would act like or look like.

The character Edward Cullen, albiet a vampire in the book, is every females ultimate fantasy in a male. I've realized it doesn't matter if that female is 13 or 36, or even 56, we all want an Edward Cullen in our lives. (Sorry real life guys, your at a real disadvantage'll need super powers, an immortal soul, fangs, golden eyes, play the piano and possess an undying need to love and protect your lady at every second of the day to even compare. Edward would never need to be asked twice to take out the trash or find a remote control worthy of his time)

And then the movie.

And then back in the car. Devotion is now locked tight within all of our hearts.

At this point in time I'd knock over 20 teenies to have a go with a man that remotely emulates an Edward Cullen.

And that my friends is the power of a well written, well plotted and beautiful book.


I'm slacking. I promised myself throughout the hibernation season I would post here more often, with acceptable frequency and dare I say, even predictability. But, I'm one of those easily distracted people who focuses exclusively on whatever my mind has wandered off too. A bit of a compulsive disorder if I say so myself. My latest obsession is Ray Bradbury books and german glass glitter........both sparkly things I can't get enough of. I adore sparkly.

I do however feel the internal tugs of writing compulsion coming on and imagine this little space will be on the receiving end of that mood~~

Now, it came to my sparkly attention span as I was making my rounds visiting journals, that I was given one of the ~~Marie Antoinette, A Real Person, A Real Awards~~ This gave me a sparkly smile and I won't even assign a viral plague to Sheria like I did to my poor friend Indigo when she tagged me alittle bit ago.

I read the rules and regulations and fine print regarding this award, but damn, I cannot deny it. I am a rule breaker. I'd love to bestow this fun sparkly award on another, but to be honest, I struggle with that. Thats right, I'm a wuss and typically take the low road by ducking my duties.....

But, I'd like to say thank you to Sheria. If you aren't visiting her pages, let me tell you bluntly, your missing out. Here's a clear cut link to a fantastic writer, thinker and thought provoking journal..........>>...Sheria @ The Examined Life/....<<..........Go, visit, think, enjoy, and appreciate. She is the best sort of sparkly.

Oh, and question, is it just me and my quickly aging eyes, but when I post these things, is the font just tiny? Because when I use the next size font, it seems just HUGE. I cannot find a happy medium here............

A Prompt

Yesterday I was overcome with a writing attack while driving down the road. For those of you who don't know the mental signs & symptoms of such an attack, let me explain. It starts like a boulder sitting atop the Mountain of the Mind. Something triggers a rolling descent and the next thing a soul knows, that boulder is rolling down thy thoughts at a pace that is damn near critical emotion.

It makes the person (or maybe this is just my own little affliction) hold their breath, their eye's go dazed....... panicked. Their hand may wave blindly around seeking a writing utensil and if this person is driving, well, you may notice only one eyeball is actually watching the road, one hand could be on the steering wheel, or knee driving may be employed. If they couldn't find a pen, they could be writing in the dust on the dashboard and they may even sit through a green light oblivious to the world around them. Don't honk, they could be writing a masterpiece, you just don't know.

The only medication for relief is a pen and paper (laptop if ones lucky enough to have one with them.) Now, since I already have this mental condition, I know the only safe course of action is to pull over at the first cafe, coffee shop or parking lot and write until the urgency has passed.

My attack brought me tire screeching into a little grease cafe yesterday. It was that, or the Pizza Hut across the street, no contest.... This was the sort of cafe that hasn't been updated, nor painted in a zillion years. It had the complimentary orange vinyl seat covers and an overbearing smell of bacon. It was perfect for my moment of need. I read the "seat yourself" sign, glanced around, saw not another soul eating and dived into the nearest booth next to the window. A coordinated gesture had my pen and paper on the table the moment my ass squeaked across the vinyl.

When my sweet little itty bity teenie tiny white haired waitress came up I admit, I barely gave her a glance when I ordered my pathetic little ticket worth of barely justifiable items to take up vinyl real estate. Diet Coke and a muffin. I was writing! I was in a panic! I needed to be left alone!

An hour later, three diet coke refills and half a muffin nibbled off, I finally felt at ease. That's when I finally paid attention to my sweet teenie little white haired waitress. She came over and asked if I'd like a fourth refill, pausing, looking at my carnage of papers scattered on the table and asked, "Are you writing a novel there sweetie?" I told her I honestly had no idea what the purpose of my writing was for, it's just something I must do.

And we talked, and talked some more. I asked questions and she asked me questions. She reminded me of my Grandmother Mary that passed away this year and she told me I reminded her of a granddaughter she hasn't seen in a very long time. She told me that she worked as a waitress because, "It feeds me 2 times a day and the money helps pay for things a person just needs in life."

That sentence was and IS a humanity gut punch. Remember what I wrote about my big huge soft spot for elderly? It makes me nauseous that someone so far along in their years has to work at a grease pit to earn money. Life should not be that way. She was too sweet, too old and too precious for such a station.

So, this is what I did. I got my $2.39 cent ticket. I took a hundred dollar bill out of my purse and wrapped it with 3 one dollar bills. I wrote her a note and folded it all together with the ticket wrapped around the outside. I left it on the table and walked out. I got in my car and watched through the window as she came over and unraveled my surprise.

All I will say was that was the best diet coke and muffin I've had my entire year. Well worth it.

Please take care of our elderly. Anyone can do what I did, and have done in the past. If not me, and if not you, then who? Even better then money is the gift of Time......Please do something kind for them, now, today, tomorrow.


Truth is, I will pity the person who doesn't vote in this election. Frankly, that would be considered, in my humble opinion, irresponsible and a blatant waste of ones power to make a choice.

Remember, the ability to put a choice out there into the world is one of humanities greatest gifts.

We have choice, we have power, individually and collectively.

Rarely, if ever, has my journal spoken of politics, but do not assume that means it isn't important to me. My opinion is one of millions and today I'll let it speak loud and clear at the voting booth. I don't look at it as I'm just one little old vote. Instead I look at it as I'm part of a living evolution, a leaf on a tree that would be less beautiful if I wasn't part of it.

I do make one request, a moment of pause, a perspective to consider. Should you be in a state that has a Proposition proposed that would deny someone their civil rights based on your religious beliefs...think carefully before you cast your judgement. Because that is what it comes down to......acceptance, love thy neighbor, embracing all of humanity.......or casting judgement against individuals based on what you think or have been taught the bible suggests. The God I can appreciate would be ashamed people were casting stones in his name. We know better, or we's time to end that hypocrisy. Need more perspective? Visit Marc and read his post.....No on Prop 8, Yes to Love


If anyone ever wondered how a plague or virus can spread through humanity like wildfire, one need only observe the general phenomenon of 'journal meme'............

This is where I grumble and curse (as only an endearing friend would) Indigo over at Scream Quietly for intentionally infecting me, despite years of my careful hand washing. I really thought I was damn near invincible. Evidently my immune system has a weak spot because here I am getting ready to do the unthinkable........a meme........(oh and perhaps I should mention, my dear friend Indigo, and I say this with genuine love....... paybacks a bitch~~~grin~~~)

And the 'rules and regulations' are as follows............
* link to the person who tagged you * list 6 random things about yourself * tag 6 new people * let each tagged person know by posting a comment on their blog * link to the 6 people you've tagged * and let the person who tagged you know that you posted. Easy enough....*

1) The Rosy and fuzzy picture:::::I'm a tomboy at heart and can rough and tumble with the boys any day. I did learn how to embrace my feminine side which can be quite sexy and fun. I'm 36 years old, but don't feel a day over 36 years old. I can kick some one's ass if there's a reason to do so and a long time ago I got an assault charge on my record for doing just that. I would never slap or pull hair. I also accumulated 13 drinking tickets before the age of 21. I don't drink, I can, but I won' epilepsy doesn't play nice if I have a sweet glass of wine. Growing up people called me the nickname Becky, I am soooo not a Becky and it always bugged me. (don't try it) I collect art because it's much more meaningful then a TV and costs about the same. I am the eternal optimist, a hopeless romantic and hate the word poet. Oh, and I hate the dentist. I can keep a secret, my own or others and never ever feel the desire to tell anyone. And the truth is, I don't make a great full time friend, especially if someone is 'needy', my Best Friends understand my limitations and give me lots of room and turn I'm loyal to the core and would do anything in my power to give them whatever their hearts desire.

2) Head scratch admission:::::Lets see, I have broken just about every single bone in my body. From the top of my head (skull fracture) to my broken neck (I blame the horse), to ribs (horrible minute by breathing minute torture), arms, wrists, fingers, legs, ankles, toes, tail bone (long term torture, think about it, a person is sitting on their ass alot)......the only bone that remains unscathed is my hip and I imagine I'll finish off with that one sometime down the line.

The reason for all of these injuries is basic, I am reckless and devoid of a natural fear factor. I am an adrenaline junkie who pushes the envelope at every chance I get. The physical repercussions are just a possible consequence to a rather grand time. Meaning, I could really care less if I break a bone or two, which I consider collateral damage for doing what I want, rather then cowering and never experiencing something.

3) Another Random moment:::::My only natural enemy is worms (some of you know that and if you didn't, well, it's called phobia of the irrational nature, my one and only fear)......I typically only wear the colors black and white, with the exception of blue jeans. I barely wear makeup, if ever. I can get ready to leave the house, including shower, in 15 minutes...all natural is my motto. I can't stand the noise people make when eating and I for one could care less about food. For me, eating is just something I have to do, like going to the bathroom. I haven't weighed myself in years and don't own a scale. I've never been on a diet. All my friends are short shrimps and I feel like a tree lady next to them (I'm a 6 footer in 3 inch heels, do the math) I hated basketball, much to the school coaches dismay. I have 6 pets. 3 cats, 3 dogs. Random moment over:::::

4) What I dodge::::I don't handle compliments very well. Which probably goes back to I don't like to talk about myself. I prefer to keep any and all spotlights off of myself and a compliment is like shining a light directly in my eyes. Now, I am not one to negate, meaning, I won't put down something I did that someone compliments in order to make it less significant (I hate that twisted little circle)......but other then a possible thank you, I'll change subjects, shift the focus elsewhere, or ignore the compliment completely. I'm not sure why this is, other then my Momma raised me to take pride in what I do and never depend on others for validation. I think I sorta took that to the extreme...........

5) Back to the perspective of the 3-D world::::This isn't a stellar thing to admit, but evidently from the perspective of others, I've been told on more then one occasion I scare people. Not in a boogie man sort of way, but my presence makes many people uneasy. I've been told I 'intimidate' people even when I'm being extremely nice. The problem, as has been explained to me, is that for one, I look people in the eye, sort of 'intensely' and that makes people nervous. And two, the way I move and carry myself....self assurance makes people leery. (I'm just not uneasy or unsure around people, new or known) Now, since I consider myself a nice person, this does bother me somewhat, but the good news is the same people who have told me that, consider me a good friend 'once they got to know I'm not so scary'..........Boo

6) Writing admission::::: I have a hate, sorta like, hate relationship with writing. 90% of the time I hate it. The thing is, I have to write, it's in my blood, oozing out of my brain and my hands are like possessed extensions of a bleeding tree. I would like to write because I want to and enjoy it, rather then this pressing need to eradicate the mind torture. See the difference? My only saving grace is every once in awhile I write something that someone else needed at the point in time and for a space, it feels like the torture finally achieved purpose. Oh, and like this meme, when I write I just can't pull off moderation.


Ok, I'm going the way of Alexander Fleming and injecting penicillin into this endeavor (translation, sorry Indigo, I just can't do it) and taking the low road by not tagging others. It's the contrary neurosis in me........

However, if anyone wants to cough and sputter out 6 (or random crazy like I did, damn the writer in me) masked/unknown things about themselves please feel free to do so and let me know. I'm all about snooping and voyeurism. It's the curious cat in me...................

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