It’s Almost Here…

Thanksgiving is coming!!!  I’m so excited; it is the one holiday that celebrates the two things I am best at: cooking and eating.  It is the one day of the year where stuffing your face until you have to unbutton your pants is not only expected but celebrated.  And what makes the day even more spectacular is napping afterwards to make more room for leftovers is just part of the schedule.

Personally I plan to carefully select my wardrobe for the day in order to accommodate for the face stuffing.  Stretchy pants are a must (obviously) but I am considering using spray on Scotch Guard this year on all my attire.  This way spills and crumbs will just slide right off.   Besides it would be more classy than tucking my napkin into my shirt and rolling up my sleeves.

Yesterday I began the pie preparations.  Despite there being only seven of us I will be making three pies.  That is practically half a pie per person since the seventh person is just a baby and does not yet know the natural wonder that is pie.  Besides I am also bringing supplementary desserts that are un-pie related.  The pie process must allow for proper resting time for my homemade dough.  Thus preparations begin early.  Today I brave the stores to elbow away the other ladies to get at the best Braeburn apples.  Bitches in my way get stitches!  Then I can begin apple nuditizing and nut roasting.  I can hardly wait!

So yeah, Thanksgiving is some serious business around here.  Go big or go home!  May all of your turkey and pie related dreams come true too!

Cat Pee Didn’t Stop Me

This may be the drugs talking, but I am feeling much happier and more relaxed today.  Despite discovering a cat pee soaked towel in the bathtub I am feeling pretty damn good, which is saying something.

The last few weeks uncertainty and self doubt have had me in a snare.  It’s felt  inescapable.  As soon as I would start to feel better about the rest of the world, I would find something I said or did to perseverate worry on.

I haven’t had a break from my own head at all lately.  Trying to stay busy helps, but then I find myself worrying about having to stay busy.  When I fall down the rabbit hole of anxiety I swear I become the most creative worrier known to man.  I can always find something new to freak out about.  I wish I were that good at ideation in the rest of my life.

With the help of my husband, prescribed pharmaceuticals, getting lost in a few books and movies, and some extra sleep I seem to be doing a bit better.  I know I will shake it off, eventually.  I always do.  Besides, the cat pee didn’t send me into a total panic, so ehhh maybe I am moving towards the bright side.


I started to write a post today about the ridiculously hot November weather.  While it still remains true that it is nearly impossible to think of baking pies in 85 degree weather, I realized I was doing in writing what I frequently rely on in every day life when I don’t know what else to say.  I start to talk about the weather.

The truth is that there is a bunch I have to say, but I am too scared to say it.  Not so much scared of what other people will think as I am scared of the massive panic attack admitting my fears out loud will induce inside me.  My eye starts to twitch just thinking about it.


I have people all around me telling me not to worry that everything is going to be alright.  I cannot tell you how much I hope they are correct.  But I am a little ball of anxiety and there are not enough hot baths, medications, or soothing words in the world to help assuage my fears.  I am just going to have to lean into this discomfort and learn to live with it.

This must be a similar feeling of fear and uncertainty people have felt for millennia during wars, missile crisis, plagues, or various other horrendous events.  I guess I have just never been old enough during a major period of uncertainty before to know what it feels like to endure.  This is shitty.

I would now like to apologize if I ever minimized any old person’s experiences during times of panic.  I am so sorry.  I had no idea what it felt like.

Here’s hoping I am overreacting.  Here’s hoping I will read this post in four years and laugh.   Here’s hoping.

Unfinished Projects

Sometimes my crafting gets out of hand.  Around Christmas time I find myself in a pit full of yarn, mason jars, fabric, glue, felt, and copious amounts of glitter.  Suddenly all my craft projects that I have had delusions of grandeur about finishing all come due.  I need to make so many things my vision blurs.  Everywhere I look there is a partially complete project staring at me.  I work until hand cramps stop me, but there is always a little more to do.

This year though all those projects had to wait.  I had a special project.  My sister in law got married and her shiny new husband needs a stocking.  Usually my mother in law would painstakingly sew sequin after sequin perfectly in order to create a pristine stocking masterpiece.  But she died and she left an unfinished stocking among the broken hearts and lost dreams.  I couldn’t do much to fix any of the pain, but I could take that stocking home to finish.

I’m not as precise and not nearly as flawless a seamstress as she was, but I got it done.  I finished that sock mimicking her style the best I could.  So this year my new brother will have his stocking.  It won’t be perfect, but it will be there to hang on the mantle.  She would have wanted it that way.  At least I proved in the end that she was the far superior stocking maker.

So all my unfinished craft projects have a little more meaning this year.  When someday I do the inevitable and die, I hope there is someone there to pick up my projects and finish them, someone to leave their own crafts on hold to finish mine.  Because I know if there is someone left to do that it means I had someone who really loved me.  And isn’t that what life is all about…to love and be loved.


Spiderlegs, Spiderlegs

I am getting older.  So far it has been going ok, if you ignore the early onset arthritis I got at 29 and the missing body parts the doctors have had to remove.  Other than that, I’ve been fine.

However, yesterday I was laying in bed and I was looking at my pasty white legs.  I noticed a few more spider veins than usual.  Ugh.  Another side effect of aging.

That is about the time I got pissed. WTF!  Why the hell don’t spider veins come with some sort of superpower.  Spiderman gets to shoot webs from his wrists and swing around New York.  I get nothing but the possibility of a massive bill from a dermatologist to correct things.

I cry sexism!  If men got spider veins more than women, I bet there would naturally be some sort of super power attached.  This is bullshit!  If I am going to be turning into a spider from the legs down I deserve compensation.  I want to be able to swing around on silk, or maybe climb walls, or even just have the ability to bite someone that pisses me off.  I’m not picky.

He’s Just Jealous

A few weeks ago I was reading the hard news from the reputable source, BuzzFeed.  Yeah I know, but what can I say I am half Millennial, we have already covered this.

Anyway one of their quizzes was about into which house in Harry Potter your cat would be sorted.  Well, duh!  When presented with a scientific opportunity like this of course I am going to participate.

So I decided to take the quiz for my cat, Lucy. 


Lucy is 13 and ornery as shit, but I love her dearly.  I had to answer hard hitting questions about her napping and eating habits.  There were questions about her choices in play activities and where she would be found hanging out in Hogwarts.  It was intense stuff.

Butterflies fluttered in my tummy as I pressed the last answer and Lucy was sorted into her house… A Gryffindor!!!


Now even though I have been sorted into the clearly superior house of Ravenclaw, I was still incredibly proud of my furry little Gryffindor.  I tugged at Ryan and contentedly waved my phone in front of his face showing him Lucy’s new house.

He was not nearly as impressed as he should have been, but he did ask me where his cat, Ethel, was sorted.  To which I replied, “Take the damn quiz yourself and find out.”  He was having none of that.  Apparently he is above spending his precious time taking on-line quizzes for cats.  I don’t know what is wrong with him.  Being the devoted wife I am, I told him I would take the quiz for Ethel as well.


She’s a Slytherin.


Ryan didn’t believe me.  He couldn’t believe it could possibly be his cat that was tempted by the dark arts.  I promise I was honest though.  I suspect Ethel’s habit of unprompted biting and her inability to tolerate lap sitting had something to do with the results.  Ryan pouted, and I explained I was sorry that his kitty was clearly lacking in moral fiber, but this was a scientifically based test and Ethel had obviously been sorted correctly.

I would never embarrass my husband by telling the world how much he pouted about his cat being a Slytherin.  I am too faithful a wife to say that he was grumpy about it every time I brought it up.  And I promise, I only brought it up like 50 more times or so…that day.

Never Listen To Yourself!

Ever hear a recording of your voice?  It’s horrifying.  When I hear my voice, not only do I cringe, but I also feels bad for everyone else in the world that has to listen to me speak.

From inside my own head I don’t mind my speaking voice so much. But dear god, my voice recorded is like nails on a chalkboard.  It is grating, annoying, and most of all it doesn’t sound like me at all.   I think it is one weird trick the gods played on us to make us think we sound one way only to discover we actually sound like a tone deaf laughing hyena.

I plan to cope by just pretending everyone else hears me like I sound in my own head.  Otherwise I may never utter another word out loud for as long as I live.  Come to think of it though, some people might be more happy if I did the latter.

Ragweed, Burn In Hell

Dear Ragweed,

I hate you.  My face is swollen from the inside out.  I am not positive, but I also think a tiny elephant may have moved in behind my eyes and is now trying to escape with a pick-axe.  I blame you, ragweed!   

Some parts are dripping while others seem to be completely sealed and stuffed up.  For the love of god how can one stupid little plant reap such horrors.

Ragweed, I want you to know I have googled your ass and now I have your embarrassing photos.  I’m talking nudie pics of you, all naked stalks and leaves.  Pics of you looking all sorts of voluptuous flaunting your pollen.  Go away or I am going to send them to your mom!  Yeah, that’s right, how do you like them apples?

Ugh.  I’m desperate.

Your nemesis,