Observant, Are We?

It was silly for me to stress out about Thanksgiving- seriously, the food was delicious, everything turned out okay and my in-laws LOVED it. In fact, I've been told I am now responsible for Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Easters from now on. I think I can handle that.

Instead of shopping on Black Friday- which, I NEVER do, we put up our Christmas decorations. I can't stop staring at my Christmas tree- I am that entranced by how beautiful it turned out. I'll have to post pictures later, really. We also put up some of mom-in-law's old Christmas decorations (the ones that butt-husband has sentimental value attached to, anyway).

One of the pieces is a Santa Claus, you know, one of the ones that you plug in and it holds a little candle that lights up. He's officially part of the butt-household. We call him "Butt-Crack Santa" because every once in awhile, if he's plugged in for too long without supervision, his pants start sliding off as he's moving around.

But today was the FIRST day that Emma noticed Butt-Crack Santa- she rushed up to him and started growling, and then backed off immediately, cowering behind me, continuing to growl. And no matter what I did, she would not relax; she continued to rush him and then back off...and back and forth. After about 45 minutes of attempting to get her to relax, I took the easy way out and just unplugged poor Butt-Crack Santa.

Some guard dog.

Thanksgiving Menu

Here it is, 11:15PM on Tuesday night, butt-husband is downstairs hanging out with his two buddies from the cities (poker night) and I'm finally finalizing our Thanksgiving meal menu. Here it is folks:

Turkey (and I might get a ham, too, maybe)
Corn Souffle
Green Bean Casserole
Stuffing (of course!)
Eggnog Cranberry Salad
Pumpkin Cheesecake
French Silk Pie (butt-husband will not eat fruit, so, he requested chocolate instead)
Sweet Potato Whip
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Dinner rolls
Sparkling Grape Juice (and maybe wine, if butt-boy will go to the liquor store tomorrow)
Spinach Dip and veggie/relish plate

Did I forget anything?
What are YOU eating for Thanksgiving?

Christmas, Already?

Lil' Brother: "Amy, I missed you Amy, where've you been?"
Big Brother: "Amy's here; where've you been?"
Me: "Aw, you missed me like a toothache! Sucking up doesn't get you anywhere!"

Lil Brother (5 minutes later): "Amy, why've you got a tooth-cake?"

I've been back to work now for two days; but they certainly know which of my buttons to push: the "Behavior Analyst stuck in the office or not here, oh-how-I've-missed-you-spend-time-with-me" button.

Truth be told, I let them push that button. I kinda like when they push that button. It means I can spend some time with them, doing things, rather than spending time stuck in the office working on their medical and program books, or paying bills, worrying about the schedule and/or stressing over the what seems like million emails that get sent my way. So I spent the evening spending time with my favorite men. Which is my favorite part of my job. (And, the part of the job I'd rather NOT leave.)

After supper, Old Man Mayo and the brothers sat down and put together homemade Christmas cards. It was pretty neat to see what they came up with; and it was actually pretty fun using glue sticks to stick cardstock cut-outs of holiday items (i.e. stockings, candy, Christmas trees, Santa, etc) onto blank cards. They're always so sweet; so careful to really spend time thinking of who they want to send cards to- not only family members and friends, but also former staff. And each card was homemade and totally unique (really, very unique!)

But I can't believe it's already time to start thinking about Christmas cards!
Ack!! The holidays seemed to have blind-sided me. Oh gosh.

What is Your Favorite Thanksgiving Memory?

Hm. I have a pretty good memory for most things, I think. I can remember random obscure facts, such as what butt-husband had to drink at Starbucks on our first date; I can rattle off important phone numbers at work, like fax numbers and phone numbers. I can tell you when Emma had her last heart worm pill and when I last saw the doctor. I remember my blood pressure readings for the last two trips to the doctor (this week). But when it comes to remembering important events as a kid or teen, I suck... that's my kryptonite.


I would say my favorite Thanksgiving was last year. It was our first Thanksgiving as a married couple and our second Thanksgiving as a couple. We spent Thanksgiving together last year, just the two of us. We took a long walk in the morning with Emma (knowing we wouldn't want to walk later), spent the morning cooking up a storm, ate a fantastic meal, and spent the afternoon decorating for Christmas.

But my Thanksgiving in grad school was pretty memorable too. When I lived in student housing in graduate school, I was lucky enough to live with people from different countries: BraSil (yes, with an "S"), Japan, China, and Mexico. And each week, we would get together with all of our friends and have a dinner, where one individual (or group) would take turns cooking food from home. As an American, I HAD to cook Thanksgiving dinner for my turn. It was the first time my Japanese friends had ever seen a turkey, let alone tasted a turkey! And it was a GORGEOUS turkey. I'm sure it tasted great too.



This year, my in-laws are coming over for Thanksgiving. I'm a little apprehensive about cooking for a crew of eight; not that I can't do it, but because my mother-in-law is a domestic goddess. She can cook, clean, sew, carry on home remodeling projects, participate in church/community events, and has a ton of hobbies that involve her creativity and talents. Whereas I ... sorta.... try hard.

Haha.
To say the least.

So, what's on the menu, folks? Any ideas? And what are your favorite Thanksgiving memories?

A.... What??

Due to the past week in bed, all of the yucky gunk has settled into my nasal passages and my chest. Fantastic; I love that I sound like a frog (when I do have my voice, that is).

First thing this morning, I went to the clinic with hopes of coming home with an antibiotic for a possible sinus infection. You'd think that they'd get sick of seeing me there and would just send me home with what I want, in order to shut me up and make me go away.

And they sent me home with a teapot.

Yes, a teapot.


*sigh*
Really?

I had to call my mother-in-law who works as a nurse for the local ENT specialist at the Famous Clinic.

"Is this legit? Seriously?"

After 10 minutes of giggling and laughing with my butt-husband about the little funky shaped tip of the teapot(resembling a part of the male anatomy), I decided I'd at least shut up and give it a try. I mean, I didn't go to medical school. I also don't work in a clinic and see sick people all day long. But yet they send me home with this crazy idea...

What in the heck?

But I'm also sick and tired of being sick. It's been almost a week. I'll do anything. Even if it means sticking the tip of a plastic doll-sized teapot in one nostril...

Despite my husband eyeing me cautiously thorough our false kitchen window, giggling, I was able to try the rinse.

Hunh. It worked. It really worked. Better and quicker than any antibiotic I've ever been prescribed. And combined with the Sudafed (I had to sign my life away in order to acquire behind the pharmacy counter), I'm feeling better than I have in over a week.

Thank goodness!

"Damn You, Old Man Mayo, Damn You."

I completely forgot to tell this story! I LOVE this story.
(And, I haven't told a real work story in a long time!) I've been a bit preoccupied with the flu, butt-husband, and promotions...

Sometimes I need a reminder that the men I work with are developmentally disabled; every once in awhile, you catch a rare glimpse or have a little bit of an interaction where you genuinely think, "Hunh, it's like talking to someone without cognitive disabilities...it's like, they are a normal, regular, everyday person- and not someone with mental retardation."

It only happens rarely; and it always shakes me. Catching those rare glimpses is like Christmas- well, it's even better than Christmas. It really is what makes me LOVE my job.

On Sunday, (before I was sick), I was sitting at the head of the dining room table after lunch, alternating between surveying the goings-on of the home and going through the Program Books, critiquing/revising programs for the men. Big Brother was sitting to my left, watching me as I looked through his data book, crunched numbers into a calculator, wrote some more, flipped a page, added a page into the binder, removed a page... every once in awhile, he'd whisper, "Amy, our secret, go buy a Big Buddy after supper, Amy?"

Knowing that I was busy, he knew he was going to be ignored until after I was done with what I was doing. So he just sat there, waiting patiently.

The other men were all sitting in the living room, watching a football game. And the other staff working was sitting at the kitchen island, reading a newspaper, listening to the game, and drinking a cuppa. It was a nice, quiet Sunday.

And as Old Man Mayo walked into the room, he saw Big Brother sitting next to me. Instead of sitting down, Old Man Mayo stood behind a chair that was pushed in under the table, and watched me, waiting for me to look up. I avoided looking up because that means he's successfully stolen my attention and then therefore, I will have to listen to some story or walk down to his room with him where he'll show me yet another knicknack or gadget that he's fixed.

He also knew that since I was busy, he would also be ignored until I was finished doing what I was doing.

But Big Brother, not wanting to compete for my (minimal) attention, flips out his coin purse and shows Old Man Mayo that he had two quarters (just enough to buy a can of pop at a pop machine down the street) and then motions that I'm taking him to go buy a can of pop.

So Old Man Mayo, without using any sign language or verbalization of any kind, then pulls out his billfold and flashes a $5 bill and motions to Big Brother that, "Hunh, I have more than you."

Big Brother, not knowing how much $5 is, but knowing that paper money means he can buy a bigger pop than having change, shakes his head, waves his hand, and says, "Damn you, Old Man Mayo, Damn You."

Old Man Mayo: 1. Big Brother: 0.
Needless to say, that got my attention!

Maybe It's the Theraflu Talking...

For some silly stupid reason, (and yes, I really do know better), I thought adults grew out of fevers of 102-103 degrees. I mean, I know people who have surgery or have an infection that requires surgery (i.e. appendicitis) will often spike a temperature, and I have absolutely spiked little retrograde fevers (of like 100 degrees) but I didn't feel sick when I went to work on Sunday morning either.

But yes, I was sick by the time I got home.
Definitely sick.
Like 102.7 degrees of sick.
Like singing nursery rhymes to the dog at 2AM with tears pouring down my cheeks delriously sick.

Fabulous.
Just freakin' great.
Yesterday when butt-husband called home from work to check on me, he said he was bringing home some orange juice and a brown paper bag.

"Baby, you looked like Medusa. You're lucky I didn't take a picture of you."
(It sounds harsh and stupid, but it made me giggle- what a sick marriage we have!)

So I'm holed up in the bedroom again today, propped up on pillows, with enough "stuff" on/in our bed to make a person wonder how there's possible room in it for me, watching Law & Order SVU re-runs (gotta love Tuesday SVU marathons) and listening to the dog snore.

I'm feeling ....erm, well, I'm just feeling today, but that's because the fever has dropped. At least before, I was deliriously happy singing nursery rhymes to the dog in the midst of a fever induced haze; now I feel how sick I was/am.

At least it's a lazy day in bed that can't be argued with.
So I'm watching Law & Order re-runs.

But the Theraflu can't be helping Ceclia Ahern much. In fact, I dug one of her books out from under my side of the bed. "Thanks for the Memories."

Gee.
Boy gives blood.
Girl needs blood.
Girl now has has boy's memories.

*sigh*
I'm starting to wonder if "PS I Love You" was a one-hit wonder?
Oh, okay, "Love, Rosie" wasn't so bad. So, I liked "Love, Rosie" (when I wasn't skipping chapters).

My negativity may be because of the Theraflu and sore throat; but... I do love this:

"Now, standing before the full-length mirror, his whistling stalls, the image of his Fabio self failing miserably against the reality. He corrects his posture, sucks in his cheeks and flexes his muscles, vowing that now that the divorce cloud has lifted, he will get his body back in order. Forty-three years old, he is handsome and he knows it but it's not a view that is held with arrogance. His opinions on his looks are merely undersood with the same logic he applies to tasting a fine wine. The grape was merely grown in the right place, under the right conditions. Some degree of nurturing and love mixed with later moments of being compleely trampled on and walked all over. He possesses enough common sense to recongize he was born with good genes and features that were in proportion, in the right places. He should be neither praised nor blamed for this. It's just how it is."

I'll be sure to remind my husband tonight that I am like a fine wine; even while sick.

It's just how it is.