A package? For ME?

I received a very special surprise in the mail yesterday, from my exceptionally awesome cousin Tiffany in Seattle:
It's a Joe Mauer Dugout Doll of my very own!

I have yet to find out how he came to be in her possession in Seattle, but apparently the DemiGoddesses have been in on this one and did an excellent job of keeping it on the down-low.

At first, I put him in my bedroom, in between my official Doug Mientkiewicz limited edition Rapala fishing lure and the ball My Ho caught when we were at Safeco. But then he started to freak me out, so I had to move him to the living room.

Dude's got the CRAZY EYES.

How Bad it Got

The Day After

From: Concerned Co-Worker
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:41 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

are u ok?


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:45 AM
To: Concerned Co-Worker

Pretty far from it, actually.


From: Concerned Co-Worker
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:46 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

We got robbed - I don't know what they were thinking.


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:52 AM
To: Concerned Co-Worker

It doesn't matter any more. I've decided to become a Cleveland Indians fan.


From: Concerned Co-Worker
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:55 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

That is crazy talk. You are not abandoning your team!!!


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:59 AM
To: Concerned Co-Worker

I can't take the Twins' brand of baseball any more. I need a team that's willing to pay to keep its talent, not pass it on for not even a handful of f*cking PROSPECTS.

Besides which, Grady Sizemore is HOTT.


From: Concerned Co-Worker
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 10:00 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

You are changing teams for a piece of as$. I am so disappointed in you.


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 10:06 AM
To: Concerned Co-Worker

It's always been about the butts. I've never pretended differently.



The Day After The Day After

From: Sister Meghan
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008, 8:01 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: HYA

How are you today? Feeling better?


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 8:08 AM
To: Sister Meghan
Subject: RE: HYA

I think I'm having an existential crisis. Asking the hard questions.

I'm also thinking of taking up ceramics. That seems like a nice, non-painful hobby, and at least I'd have something to SHOW for it.


From: Sister Meghan
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 10:18 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: HYA

What hard questions are you asking?


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 10:29 AM
To: Sister Meghan
Subject: RE: HYA

Oh, you know, questions like:

Why would I continue to be a Twins fan when every time I grow to really love a player, they disappear to the free agent market or get traded for a microphone?

Should I quit baseball all together? Could I if I even wanted to?

Or, should I just quit the Twins and find myself another team? Because, clearly, I am constitutionally incapable of NOT becoming overly emotionally invested, to the point where my mental stability is in peril.

And, if I do abandon baseball, or even just the Twins, then what exactly does that leave me with? Who would I be then?

Those kinds of hard questions.

And, of course, the hardest one of all—how interested am I, really, in living in a world without Johan?


From: Sister Meghan
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 10:32 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: HYA

Well, you could become a Mets fan. At least he didn't go to the Yankees....


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 10:41 AM
To: Sister Meghan
Subject: RE: HYA

Yes, thank God for that. It is a small consolation that he's gone to the National League, which means I'll hardly ever have to SEE him pitch in another team's uniform. I don't know if my heart could take it.

Or, make that, I don't know if the cold, dead space that used to be my heart could take it.


A Few Days After That

From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Monday, February 4, 2008, 10:50 AM
To: Batgirl
Subject: Johan

None of my co-workers were at all surprised that I took a sick day on Wednesday.

On Thursday I took down all the photos that I had up at work.

The next, and most painful, step will be to take down all the stuff at home and put away my jersey.

And I am straight-up mad at everybody.


From: Batgirl
Sent: Monday, February 04, 2008 1:41 PM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: Johan

i know, i know. i've chosen to pretend it hasn't happened.


From: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Monday, February 04, 2008 1:49 PM
To: Batgirl
Subject: Johan

Yes. That's probably best.

Except that, well, the change will become painfully apparent on opening day, when a certain butt is noticeably not doing a certain waggle on the pitcher's mound.

(*Insert pained, weepy sigh here.*)

But then again, I probably won't be able to see anything through the tears, anyway.

I serously cried for five hours on Tuesday night. I came home from work, grunted in the general direction of the children, and then went directly to bed with a box of tissues and a pizza. The girls didn't even know it had happened until My Ho called and told them.

DemiGoddess the Elder made me snickerdoodles.

Making Room for Jesus

The homecoming dance was Saturday night, and the DemiGoddesses both looked appropriately sparkly and fabulous, in spite of the fact that I cruelly forced them to do housework on Saturday afternoon. This caused major dismay on the part of Demi the Younger, who voiced concern that she might "smell like bleach" at the dance. As the bathroom-cleaning she was engaged in at the time was five hours before her scheduled departure, I assured her that she would have plenty of time to take a shower and de-bleach her loveliness.

Another crisis was narrowly averted when I realized that I had absolutely no idea what to do with Demi the Elder’s hair. It’s curly, you see, which my own most definitely is not, and so the wash/volumize/blowdry routine that works so well on my head was not translating well on hers at all, and my ineptitude with a diffuser attachment soon became painfully apparent. Fortunately, my sister Molly, who is gorgeous and who has almost the exact same hair as Ms. Elder, arrived in time to save the day. A little conditioner, a little scrunch-scrunch-scrunch, and sister Betsy was ready to add the finishing touches with the curling iron. Voila!

Demi the Elder’s date was the Adorably Geeky Boyfriend (the AGB, for short), who apparently has not been to a lot of dances with girls, because when presented with the yellow rose boutonniere Ms. Elder brought for him, he tried to pin it on HER. There was no sign of a corsage. (Does this boy not have a mother?)

Grandma and grandpa, the aunts and I all fussed and admired and took pictures, and as Ms. Elder was on her way out the door, Demi the Younger reminded her sister to “make good choices” and “make room for Jesus.” This is Demi-speak for keeping enough space between oneself and one’s date to allow for the holy spirit to interpose and preserve the purity of all involved.


I have no doubt that Demi the Elder would have behaved herself at the dance anyway, but it was reassuring to know I’d have a mole in attendance who would be more than willing to report back on any Jesus-squeezing that might have been going on.

Can’t Quite Bring Myself to Type the “N” Word

Tiny tots were rocking the Goddess household last Thursday night, as my sister-cousin Kerry left her two children with the DemiGoddesses and me for the evening. It has been a long time since people that small occupied my home for six consecutive hours, not to mention that one of them was of the male persuasion. As we’ve established, I’m still figuring out what exactly one DOES with these “boy” creatures.

Keara is six months old now, and at one of my very favorite baby stages. She smiles and laughs and responds to funny faces with cute little gurgly noises, but is still mostly immobile and easily entertained by anything colorful and/or fuzzy.

Zeke, the BOY, at age 2½ is as delightful a child as there ever was—easygoing, agreeable, chatty and completely charming. I unearthed as many boy-friendly toys as I could find buried underneath the Polly Pockets, Beanie Babies and Barbie accoutrements in the Demis’ old playroom, and he entertained himself happily enough with that odd assortment. But the real score was when My Ho showed up with a big box of wooden Brio trains from The Youngster’s archives. Like magic, Zeke was suddenly all about constructing wooden bridges and having deep philosophical conversations with Thomas the Tank Engine. Boy toys to the rescue!

I must admit that at one point, as I pondered how to schedule the dinner, bottle, two diaper changes and bedtime ritual that would need to take place within the next hour, I wondered how in the hell I used to manage all of this on my own every day. How quickly we forget.

Another thing I forgot—that time after both children are finally tucked into their beds, fed, dry and freshly jammied. Those sweet, sweet few minutes when you finally get to sit down and breathe. Delicious.

As it turned out, my evening of hanging out with Zeke was perfectly timed preparation for the arrival of my sister Meghan’s new baby, who came into the world early on Friday morning, and is totally a BOY.

I know. Go ahead and take a moment to let that sink in.

Thankfully, the loveliness of both Zeke and Batgirl’s baby Dashiell have done much to temper what would otherwise be utter shock and dismay on my part. The baby’s name is Ben, which has morphed into “Big Ben,” since he came into the world weighing 9 lbs., 6 oz., and was 22½ inches long (oof).


Welcome to the family, Big Ben. And thank you in advance for your patience as we figure out this “boy” thing.

(NEPHEW. There. I did it.)

Examine My What?

I did not see Justin Morneau get his lung bruised on Friday night because sister-cousin Tiffany was in town from Seattle, and that is cause for much hoopla and celebration, as well as lots and lots of sangria.

Tiffany and the rest of the sister-cousins all attended parochial school back in the day, while my parents opted to send my sisters and me to public school. I always considered my 1970s Catholic upbringing to be very “Catholic Lite.” For us, CCD class was heavy on the touchy-feely, peace-and-love. We never once darkened the door of a confessional, and I couldn’t say a rosary to save my life. So we did not know until Friday night that in parochial school health classes, my sister-cousins and their little Catholic-school girlfriends learned some very interesting methods of birth control family planning. I won’t go into the gory details, but the phrase “examine your mucus” became the punchline at more than one point in the evening.

Gross, yes, but still arguably less traumatizing than seeing the American League MVP coughing up blood on TV.

DemiGoddess the Younger spent the weekend up north with my former mother-in-law, while Demi the Elder chose to stay home due to her numerous and pressing social obligations. Well, really, due to just one social obligation, which involved a certain sophomore boy from the cast of “The Visit,” with whom she shared a couple of spectacularly John Hughes-esque moments backstage during rehearsals. So this particular social obligation came in just a smidge higher on her priority list than spending the weekend in Brainerd with grandma. She had little heart bubbles bursting over her head all weekend.

I also took Ms. Elder out to practice driving on Saturday morning. The first time I let her drive my car was over Christmas vacation, and the fact that it took me six months to do it again is absolutely not a reflection on the quality of her driving. It simply took me that long to recover from the cramp in my right wrist, incurred as a result of an extended death grip on the passenger-side door handle during our first lesson.

For our second lesson, I chose the parkway around Lake Harriet, where the traffic is one way and the speed limit is 25 mph. She circled the lake three times, did not hit anything and was only honked at once. And I can still grip a pencil, so I’m calling it a success.

Post-Party

My Ho's big birthday blowout happened last night. The evening was remarkably low-stress, thanks mainly to the fact that my kind and generous sister Meghan (to whom I am now indebted big time) let me have the thing at her house. Because her house is bigger and nicer than mine, and also because she has one of those husbands who likes to clean.

(I had thought those were an urban myth until I saw him doing it with my own two eyes.)

The details--the food and the drinks and the party supplies--all came together nicely. The balloons and decorations were in Chicago Cubs red and blue, the cat was black, and the fake ivy (which was everywhere) and the miniature replica of the Wrigley Field scoreboard were green.

The cake caught the immediate attention of my niece, Madge, who dragged a chair to the table from halfway across the room so that she could get up close and gaze adoringly at it. "Oooooooh..." she purred, "That's a cool birthday cake!" And it was--with the red Wrigley Field marquee sign ("Home of Chicago Cubs") reproduced in icing on the top. Again and again, we reminded Miss Madge that she could look, but mustn't touch. She obeyed for the most part, although at one point I did see her carefully pluck a single colored sprinkle off the side. Even so, her restraint was admirable.

My Ho’s friends are interesting and social enough that the people from work mingled comfortably with his old college chums, who got along swimmingly with the members of my own family. Even my brother-in-law’s friend Steve, who crashed the party after seeing all the cars in front of the house and popped in to see what was happening, fit right in. My Ho's Youngster, after a long day of helping my sister Molly's aspiring-filmmaker boyfriend make a music video, made a cheerful, if weary, appearance.

And that, I think, was the best part. Seeing My Ho so happy to be surrounded by all of his favorite people, who were there to celebrate his birthday.

He makes it very easy to do nice things for him.

It Was Organic, At Least

Earlier this evening, while her mother shopped, I spent a good thirty minutes in the produce aisle with my 2½-year-old niece. Together we did a thorough review of everything from Brussels sprouts to sweet potatoes. We sniffed the ginger roots. We contemplated parsnips, beets and fennel. We did a side-by-side comparison of a tiny button mushroom and a giant portobello mushroom.

Granted, I am thoroughly smitten with this child, but I really can’t imagine anything better than hearing her tiny, gleeful voice screech, “That’s an ARTICHOKE!”

We discussed the fact that while radishes look a lot like cherries, they do not taste like cherries. And when I took a moment to return the little bunch of radishes to its display, I turned back around to find Miss Madge happily munching on a carrot. Totally unpeeled, straight off the display.

“I love vegetables,” she announced.

“That’s good!” I said. “Vegetables are very good for you! They’ll help you grow up healthy and strong.”

“They’ll help me grow up healthy and strong, Jewee.”

I love the way she helps me remember how to really see things again. I had completely forgotten how gorgeous eggplants are.

And yes, her mother paid for the carrot.

Boys: 1, Girls: 12

The boy child has a baby sister!



After astounding us all by producing a son on her first go-round two years ago, my sister-cousin Kerry followed up on Tuesday evening with a gorgeous baby girl. The lovely Ms. Keara brings the count to an even dozen females between my sisters, sister-cousins and our children, and her arrival also means that order has once again been restored to the universe.

Zeke, Keara's older brother, is a delight, but we all knew the whole "boy" thing was, as sister Betsy so eloquently called it, "a blip."

Isn't she pretty?

I had an opportunity to spend a little get-to-know-you time with her last night, and I think she's going to work out very nicely.

Congratulations, Kerry, Erik and Zeke!

(P.S. I totally called it.)

Warning: Do Not Go To This Film

My Ho and I went to see “Babel” on Sunday, along with my sister Betsy.

I admit that it was me who wanted to see it. And the only reason I was interested was because it received the most Golden Globe nominations, and I felt a need to see it before the awards show broadcast last night. This, in spite of my aversion to all things Brad Pitt. I should have known better.

We left for the afternoon show right after the Bears won their playoff game, which is a good thing, because it meant that My Ho was in an exceptionally good mood right before I forced him to sit through over two and a half hours of pointless storylines loosely connected by long periods of excruciating boredom. And Sister Betsy nearly whoopsied from the herky-jerky handheld cinematography.

But don't just take MY word for it.

So you can imagine my astonishment when the film won the best picture Golden Globe last night. Although I suppose the fact that the cameras spent so much of the evening focused on Angelina Jolie's bony clavicles should have tipped me off that things were not going to go well. And, inexplicably, no sign of Isaac Mizrahi, either.

Betsy and I also saw "Little Children" on Sunday (my sister and I, we are the kind of hard-core movie fan freakshows who will pay to see two films, in the theater, in one day) and although the ending was just a smidge too precious, we both found that one ever so much more enjoyable. And decidedly less nausea-inducing. And also, 100% Brangelina free.

Round Robin

Last Saturday, seven-eighths of the sister cousins assembled for our Little House/Sex and the City pre-Christmas flirtini party. After some eating, drinking, catching up and viewing of videos on Tiffany’s laptop, we all hunkered down on the living room floor and began a long-overdue project--sorting and doling out Grandma’s jewelry.

Grandma had a lot of jewelry. Some of it has monetary value, some has sentimental value, and a whole lot has neither. Everything was all jumbled together in trays and Ziploc bags and little boxes—earrings, necklaces, bracelets, pins and rings, as well as a pair of cufflinks, two fancy pens in velvety cases, and a pair of somethings that Tiffany identified as shoe buckles.

We sifted through piles of pieces that nobody recognized until, every once in a while, someone would gasp and say, “Oh…” Then they’d hold up the coral ring, or the Christmas tree pin, and we’d reminisce about the dress she always wore with that one, or how she’d wear that pin to church every Christmas Eve. A lot of the things we'd forgotten that we remembered.

The whole collection had been in my uncle’s basement since we cleaned out Grandma’s condo six years ago. My sister Meghan told us that when she picked up the boxes last week, she opened the biggest one, and when she met with the unexpected scent of Grandma’s perfume inside that box, she burst into tears. I knew what she meant. I have a little quilted coin purse that I carried around for months after Grandma died for exactly that reason. It’s in a drawer now, but it still smells like her, faintly.

We started by passing around the bangle bracelets. They took several trips around the room, and everyone ended up with a few. Then we did the same with the rings. If something looked particularly valuable, or if more than one person wanted it, we set it aside for later. But because we all have different tastes and different sized fingers and wrists, for the most part, if somebody found something they thought they’d wear and that fit, it was theirs.

Hours later, we had only divided up about half of the collection, but by then it was nearly 1:00 a.m. and everyone was tired. We put the valuable and contested items back into the box, along with the pieces that nobody was particularly interested in. We’ll have to come back to those the next time everyone is in town. Maybe next Christmas.

And even though we hadn’t planned it, the following night at my parents' house on Christmas Eve, the DemiGoddesses and I each had on one of Grandma’s rings. Molly and Betsy jangled with her bangle bracelets. And both Meghan and Shanna were wearing her earrings.

And we all looked fabulous.

I’d Do Much Better on the Amazing Race

My Dad’s birthday was last weekend, and my sisters all pitched in to buy him an “American Girl” Barnes & Noble gift card, because darned if they weren't all out of the ones with the assault rifles and the NRA logo on them. But I went my own way and gave him a Watersmeet Nimrods T-shirt to wear the next time he visits Upper Michigan. Because I am by far the coolest.

While we were at my parents’ house for the birthday festivities, somebody found a drawer full of old photos of the DemiGoddesses from back when they were all little and cuddly and adorable (sniffle), and from the family trip we all took to England and France in the spring of 1999. I found one of those so particularly horrifying that I had to ask out loud, “Who’s the cow on the left? MOOOOOOOO!”

Of course, the cow was ME.

And that photo was taken three years before my Great Weight Loss of ’03, when one of the inspiration tools I relied on to keep me motivated was another photo, a black and white shot taken by my cousin Tiffany at Christmas 2002, of me sitting on a couch with some other family members. Or, more accurately, me taking up waaaaaaaay more than my fair share of the real estate on that couch. Ouch.

Remembering that photo reminded me that it’s Christmas time once again, and how nice it is to be so very toned and HEALTHY these days. Except for, um, those cookies with the pound and a half of butter in them that are all over my dining room table. The ones that I nibble on every time I pass through that room (many, many times a day). And except that my exercise bike has pretty much served as a coat rack for the past several weeks, and my hand weights are buried somewhere behind the gifts under the Christmas tree.

If I don’t get my act together, by next year I’ll be right back in bovine-land, so I resolved that as soon as the holidays are over, I will consume nothing but water and the occasional cup of hot tea for the entire month of January.

Later that night, we all gathered ‘round the TV to watch the Survivor finale, which reminded me that there is no way I will ever hold to my resolution, because unlike Yul and Ozzie and Becky, I am not a Goddess who can function for any length of time without food. And while Yul without a shirt makes excellent eye candy:


(Yummy.)

...one cannot live on washboard abs alone. In fact, as my children will tell you, when my blood sugar starts to get low, I become one ornery Goddess.

My sister Meghan is exactly the same way, and we agreed that neither one of us would ever last a day on Survivor, unless they changed the ultimate goal of the game from being the last one voted out to being the first person to hack all the other contestants to bits with a machete. Then we would totally win.

I've Shaken Them All

A bunch of gifts mysteriously appeared under my tree today. A happy surprise, yes, but not a single one of those packages is TiVo or Wii or Johan Santana shaped, which means that there had damn well better be a pony hidden in the garage somewhere.

Just sayin'.

My gifts have all been bought and wrapped, the cookies are baked, and snow is finally in the forecast. Enough with the prep work already. Bring on the Christmas.

The first of the sister-cousins, Shanna, arrived home yesterday. Tiffany, who thankfully was not blown away or crushed by falling trees during the recent killer windstorm in Seattle (she also assures me that Cupcake Royale is safe, and thank heaven for that), is due in on Saturday, and preparations for the second-annual flirtini party are well underway. This year's theme is "Little House on the Prairie Meets Sex and the City."

The invitation pointed out that there were four Ingalls daughters, there were four girlfriends who regularly met at that coffee shop in Manhattan, and there are four sister cousins in each of our two families. And that cannot be mere concidence.

We have been instructed to wear our best sunbonnets and Manolos, and I'm told the menu will include salt pork, corn bread, and Chinese takeout.

I'm sure it will all make perfect sense once we've had a flirtini or two.

P.S. For those of you who have been up nights wondering if the Goddess is a real or artificial tree person, please note the needles on the carpet.

Black Friday

The doorbuster deals at Toys R Us used to have me shivering in a parking lot at 5:00 a.m. every year on the morning after Thanksgiving, back when $5 Furbys and buy-one-get-one-free Polly Pocket sets could still make the Demis' Christmas dreams come true. I still get a special thrill from combing through the stacks of glossy Thanksgiving day newspaper ads while I watch the Macy’s parade TV. But for the past couple of years, I’ve opted to skip the Black Friday insanity and just sleep in.

I was planning to do just that last week, but then my friend Daniel, the one who so kindly brought my PC into the 21st century for me, found out from an advance online advertisement that Micro Center stores would be offering 160 GB hard drives for a deep, deep discount on Friday morning. He was very excited until he realized that the discounted hard drives would only be available to the first 25 customers through the door when it opened at 6:00 a.m., and the only Micro Center location in the state is a good 45-minute drive from his house.

As it happens, that very same Micro Center location is about 2.5 minutes from my house. So, since I have some experience with day after Thanksgiving shopping, and since I have a lot more time than money with which to repay the kindness he bestowed on my home computer, I told him I’d go to Micro Center for him.

When my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. that morning, I threw on the clothes I had laid out the night before, grabbed the Micro Center ad and a protein bar and ran out the door, thinking that I would wait in my car if no other customers had arrived yet. Moments later I found the entrance to the parking lot blocked by a police car with its lights flashing. It appeared to be preventing a block-long line of people from extending into the street.

Alrighty then.

Since I was up already, I decided to try my luck at a couple of other stores instead, which actually went pretty well except that somebody stole my shopping cart in Menard’s. The mass of bargain-hungry humanity that stood between me and the $3 hand-crank LED flashlights forced me to temporarily abandon it, along with the throw rug, the slippers and the various other items it contained. When I returned, my cart had disappeared and there was no trace of my hard-won merchandise. Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy eternity in your special place in HELL, you cart-stealing bastard.

The checkout line at Kohl’s was freaking ridiculous, but it moved along pretty steadily, and was worth enduring because I picked up skirts and sweaters for both the DemiGoddesses to wear on Christmas, as well as a new pair of gloves for a certain Goddess who seems to have a terminal case of glove/mitten dropsy, all for less than I spend on an average trip to Trader Joe's.

I found out later that my sister Meghan had been out shopping that morning, too. She did Herberger’s, immediately earning my respect because another customer in line at Menard's had told me she had tried to go there but left after being unable to find a parking spot, and then had to fight her way out of the lot. And Meghan was there with a toddler in tow, no less.

Now that’s plain crazy.

Things That Are Neither People Nor Items, But That I Am Thankful For Nevertheless

I am thankful that even though the holidays will soon make it disappear, this year, I actually have money in a savings account earmarked for Christmas. And damn, does that feel good. My goal for next year is to have a little money still in my savings account on December 26. Dare to dream, ESG.

I am thankful that yesterday, for the first time since I can’t remember when, my ex and I had a phone conversation that was very nearly affable. I’m not 100% ready to make a habit of that, but it is definitely progress.

I’m thankful that this year, everybody in my inner circle is healthy, nobody is under indictment, nobody is being audited by the IRS, and everyone is employed. With benefits, even. (Well, except for Dad, who is “retired,” but he does volunteer work, and he is covered under Mom’s insurance).

And I’m thankful that the only items I am responsible for cooking tomorrow are the creamed onions and the sweet potatoes. And everybody who will be having dinner at my parents’ house should be thankful for that as well. Trust me on that one.

Enough with the gratitude. Let’s eat.

(Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!)

People I Am Thankful For

I am thankful for my daughters, for the things they teach me every day and for giving me a reason to keep on keepin’ on, even when I really, really don’t want to at all.

I am thankful for my niece, Madge, for being my excuse to shop for toys this Christmas, which she is going to get lots and lots of because she now knows my name and runs to give me hugs and kisses whenever I come over. What color pony would you like, my little munchkin?

For my smart, funny, gorgeous sisters and sister-cousins, whose e-mails make me laugh out loud, and who are not afraid to dance entirely without inhibitions whenever Neil Diamond is on. Even when they have not been drinking alcoholic beverages beforehand.

For my parents, and my aunts and uncles and second cousins and first-cousins-once-removed and all the rest of my giant, noisy, often dysfunctional extended family. For my Aunt Linda, who remembered to call me on my birthday, even though she and my Uncle Dave divorced when I was eight years old and she now lives in Louisiana. And for my brother-in-law, Jim, who will soon be helping me hang drywall in my sunroom, although he doesn’t know it yet.

I am thankful for the family members who will attend Thanksgiving dinner in spirit. My Grandma Devoy through her creamed onions recipe, which I wrote down shortly before she celebrated her 90th birthday, and my Grandma Townsend by way of her Fire King casserole dish with the fruit painted on the side, which I will be serving the creamed onions in on Thursday.

I am thankful for My Ho, who is kind and thoughtful and loving and trustworthy, even when I don’t feel very deserving of any of those things. And patient. I am thankful that he is very, very patient. And also that he is bringing pie.

I am thankful for the babies on the way—Batgirl’s Baby Boof, and my cousin Kerry’s new little girl, because it will certainly not be a boy THIS time around.

I am thankful for my friend Liz, who keeps me sane. For my friend Dr. Dave, who makes my brain hurt (but in a good way). For my friend Batgirl, who continues to prove that baseball, good writing and sass make an awesome combination. For Mother Bear Amy, who provides an ongoing example that one person with an idea and a little passion can make a big difference in the world. For Leah, who doesn't care that my dog jumps over the fence to poop in her yard (I seriously am going to clean that up). And for my friend Daniel, who souped up my PC so DemiGoddess the Younger can watch Degrassi episodes online, and so I can now play the latest Age of Empires games, and he did it all for only the price of the hardware and a sandwich from Jimmy John's.

I am thankful for that handful of blog browsers who kept coming here when I was silent for an entire month with no explanation. I don't know who most of who you are, and I don't know why you stuck around, but because of the miracle of StatCounter, I know you were here, and I thank you.

I am thankful for all the Demis’ terrific teachers and Girl Scouts troop leaders and the other adults who are helping them become amazing young women.

I am thankful for doctors and nurses, for police officers and sanitation workers, and all those people who do the jobs that I would never in a million years want to do.

I am thankful for Nancy Pelosi and all the new blue congresspeople. (Please, please don’t f*ck it up in the next two years. PLEASE.)

I am thankful for my dog, who is not a person, exactly, but she still counts as a family member.

And, of course, I am thankful for the Minnesota Twins. All of them. But especially Johan Santana.

Alcohol and Kitchen Appliances Do Not Mix

From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: The Sister Cousins

Can we have another flirtini party this Christmas?

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From: Sister Betsy
To: The Sister Cousins

Molly and I have briefly discussed another flirtini party at our house this year, though we may do something besides flirtinis (but equally as delicious).

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From: Cousin Tiffany
To: The Sister Cousins

I read this great financial planning tip last year--put away a bit of money away every month to spend at the end of the year on Christmas presents. I thought it was a good idea but was more inclined to put $ away for the family's Christmas liquor store bill.

I like champagne drinks best!

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From: Sister Betsy
To: The Sister Cousins

I think we can safely assume that the drinks at our party will include champagne in some form. I got the impression that a few people had enough vodka last time to last them quite a while, so vodka will probably be off the menu.

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From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: The Sister Cousins

No no no no no! I LIKE the vodka!!!

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From: Cousin Tiffany
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

Sylvia Plath has a lovely description of vodka in The Bell Jar. It made me love vodka forever.

Of course, she ended with her head in the oven.

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From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: Cousin Tiffany

Maybe she was looking for the vodka.

In the FREEZER, Sylvia! The FREEZER!

I’m Not Dead

But I did attend a Dio de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) party last weekend at the Fabulous Miss Amy’s beautiful (and, in spite of what she says, very CLEAN) home last weekend. Attendees had two assignments: 1) To knit up one of these:

and 2) to bring a food to share that would honor a loved one who has died.

I didn’t knit a day of the dead doll, because all I ever knit any more is Mother Bear Project bears, but my Grandma used to knit for charity all the time, so I figured my latest bear could represent her efforts. And anyway, I never could have topped Connie's creation:


The food would pose an even greater challenge. My Grandma was a legendary cook. She was a home economics teacher for many years, and loved nothing more than to get in the kitchen and get her hands dirty (and pretty much everything else in the room while she was at it).

When I thought about what dishes reminded me most of her, the first thing that came to mind was one that I won’t be making until Thanksgiving—creamed onions. The foundation of most of my Grandma’s signature recipes are butter and/or heavy cream, you see. The next thing was twice-baked potatoes, a fairly involved recipe that I only make for Christmas Eve dinner. Because, apparently, I only cook when required to by a holiday.

Then I thought of a little item my family calls simply “Grandma Cake.” It’s a devil’s food layer cake, with each layer split in two so there are really four layers. Freshly whipped cream (sweetened with a smidge of powdered sugar and vanilla) goes between each of the layers, and then the whole thing is covered in chocolate frosting. It’s like a giant Ho-Ho, only way, way better. But I had already asked my sister Betsy to make me one for my birthday, and two Grandma Cakes in the same week would be more decadence than even I could handle.

So, once again, Trader Joe’s came to my rescue in the form of Artichoke Antipasto and a jar of Olive Tapenade. Because, you know, Grandma also loved artichokes. And she always put olives on the relish trays at family dinners.

My favorite Trader fella must have appreciated the gesture, because yesterday he left me a very special voicemail, wishing me a happy birthday, and asking me to marry him! It’s true! And even though his voice sounded suspiciously like a slightly deeper version of DemiGoddess the Elder’s, I am totally going to say YES!

Just as soon as I figure out how to call him back, because my intended forgot to leave his number.

"Serenity"

Photo by my fabulous cousin Catherine and her spiffy new Canon EOS 30D.

This is What My Heart Looks Like

(Photographic evidence that my family is capable of producing a male child.)






(And THAT, my friends, is the view from the outhouse...)


Photo credit goes to my sister Meghan, who took all of these...

A Porch Full O' Patriots

Highlights of the Smackdown included this creation, by Tiffany for Betsy:


Amazing what one can find on Cafe Press when one performs a search using the words "USA" + "Jesus." All Tiff had to add was the lamp fringe around the hem, and a little marabou boa for flair. Tim Gunn would be so proud.

In the "Best Use of Iron-On Transfers" category, we have this piece by Kerry, created for Meghan:


That is a picture of Neil Diamond, in all his sequined, long-haired and sweaty mid-70s glory. The lyrics to his anthem to immigration, "America," are written in glitter ("Freedom's Light Burning Warm..."). Note the silk flower detail around the hem. This ensemble came complete with glow-in-the-dark earrings, a visor, and stars-and-stripes flip flops, winning Kerry an additional nod for "best accessorized."

From the back:

The bottom ribbon is obscuring the signature lyric, "TODAY!"

And then there is my own magnum opus, as modeled by Kerry:

It features two strategically placed, fully functional spangly pinwheels (how long can she keep them spinning?), accented with metallic red, white and blue streamers. Each sleeve sports its own authentic American flag like a proud wing, poised to take flight on the slightest Fourth of July breeze.

And on the back:

...a cape of flag fringe completes the look.

We really did wear them to the Marenisco fireworks. It was about 55 degrees out that night, so we all ended up wearing jackets over our T-shirts which, while disappointing, was probably for the best.

Had they been able to see our patriot wear in its full glory, the rest of the town would have felt really self-conscious about their own conspicuous lack of pinwheels, lamp fringe and Neil Diamond lyrics. And we certainly wouldn't have wanted to make other people feel bad about themselves on the anniversary of our great nation's birth. That would have been downright un-American.