I am thankful for ibuprofen and elastic waistbands.

It is Thanksgiving and my ovaries are celebrating, wildly. They've shaken themselves into spasms of delight. Oh, I adore being a girl.

Luckily, we have liquid gel ibuprofen and nothing do do but bake and go to Grandma's house at three. I've got four dishes working, only two they're expecting, but I was motivated to make cranberry relish and a corn pudding (experimental and only going to the party if it turns out) on a whim. They know I'm bringing a butternut squash dish and green bean casserole.

The apartment smells great and I am guessing this will be one of those periods where I inhale food constantly. Today I can do that without shame. I am totally wearing my fat jeans.

Last week, my cold sore returned. This one is nasty. I had hoped it would be gone by today but it cracked and bled this morning. So I am bloated, crusty lipped and tender over every square inch of my body. I thank God I had the day off. If I were working in this state, I would snap or cry. Strangely, my psycho hormones have not been acting up all week. I didn't drink at all for two or three days and I gulped water. I think this health stuff actually works. I felt really good. Of course I drank a bottle of sauvignon blanc last night, so the ibuprofen is working double duty.

I wish I could throw a paper bag over my head and call it a day. I don't want anyone to actually look at me.

Brief Update

Work is draining my life force this week. I'm on the slow climb that leads to the holiday season. I need to make my body and mind accustomed to the unbelievable multitasking. It's bizarre. So many phones ring and so much shit happens in every minute. I could pledge my first born to a person and totally mean it one minute. The next minute, I have no idea what happened. Worse, if I don't write it down, it never happened. I really hope I'm shipping something to correspond with every credit card I've swiped.

Tomorrow will be a festival of crazyness - a fiftieth birthday celebration taking place in the store during normal business hours. Employees will be trashed and customers worse. My job is so wierd.

In other news. I pulled the entire front of my hair into a barette today. I haven't done that since last spring when I allowed Jason to cut the pixie cut of doom. I will have real girl's hair by spring. I can feel it!

Tired

I had a very long day for a Sunday. Bill can't drive so I took him to work. We left at 7:30 and I had purple teeth and wine breath from dinner Saturday. Still, I decided to swing around the city and visit my sister's place instead of going home and adding miles to a long enough trip. My mother was visiting and the reason I'd been drunk on wine the previous night. She was already at my sister's place. Mom wakes up at 4 am or some similar ungodly hour every day. I prefer eight hours minimum. I've been told I need "to get over that," as if proper sleep is a drug habit. I toughed it out to see everybody and spent the day with my fabulous niece who babbles in full sentances constantly. She takes me by the hand to play and is extremely, extremely energetic. We put her down for her afternoon nap and she cried when I told her I had to go bye-bye while she slept.

I skipped writing class to hang at home with Bill tonight. I surprised him and picked him up. His commute is less than twenty miles but two trains are spaced so it takes two hours on a Sunday. It is a pain in the ass to drive out there but it's a lot easier on my end than his. I bought groceries and made a delicous dinner: shrimp with garlic and ginger, rice with onions and almonds and sauteed broccoli rabe. I even did the dishes.

We got home and I managed to take a shower and brush my teeth only twelve hours late. I stole all the hot water and just leaned against the wall with the stream on my back. I cannot believe I've driven well over a hundred city miles in the last day and a half. I cannot believe how smart and wonderful my niece is. It's 8:30 now and I'm having a beer. My class has another half hour left but I could be snoring in twenty minutes.

Merle

"Oh, what is it? What is it?!" she wailed.

"What is what?" I asked.

"I can't remember the name of it. Chateau Poo-poo. That wine? The one I want it was right here. Where is it? I just saw it."

"Poujeaux? Pommerol? Petrus?"

"NO! The one I found. The one for my lawyer. I just finished physical therapy. I'm so tired."

"I can imagine."

"They make me do the eliptical."

"Even I hate the eliptical. Good for you."

"Chateau-poo-poo pants?"

"Oh, the Chateauneuf-du-Pape from last time?"

"Yes! Why are you hiding it from me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's right over here. Let me hold your bags."

"You're so good to me. When are you going to marry your boyfriend?"

"Maybe next year. We want to buy a house first."

"You know Harold married me after three months. We were dating and he said 'That's it. We're getting married or it's over.'"

"He must have loved you instantly."

"Oh, he did. You know he's dead now."

"Yes, I know."

"I have his wines. I should put them up for auction. I really should. I don't know what he would want me to do with them."

"I think you should do whatever you want with them."

"Maybe I'll give them to my son. I think I'll leave now. You don't want an old lady ruining your day."

"No, you're no trouble at all."

"No, I'll leave. I'm tired. Walk me to my car. I'm so cold."

"Of course."

The Snob Bakes

My mother calls me her Nancy Reagan daughter. If you heard the tone of voice she uses when she says it, you would be certain that this is not a compliment. I was born the week Reagan was inaugurated and my life has always been tied up with his presidency in my mother's mind.

I am the family priss. I see things too often as black and white, whereas my mother sees the world in a soft gray haze. It never helped that my sister was rebelliously cool from age two. She was the one insisting on wearing a Hawaiian print t shirt instead of a dress and I was off crying that we wouldn't match in our Sears portraits.

If you looked into my messy cheap apartment or saw me on the street, you would see a scatterbrained and entirely normal woman in her late twenties. Still, the role chosen at birth sticks in Mom's brain.

I have deviated so far from that role but one thing keeps pulling me back. I am a total snob on a few fronts. I am a food snob (tm my best friend W). I am a restaurant snob. I am a party snob. Working in restaurants and hotels will do it to you but I've always been this way. It's the reason I ended up in those restaurants and hotels.

This explanation leads up to today. I drove Bill to work and was wide awake. I was thinking of a fun activity to do on a Sunday at 8:00 am that didn't involve Jesus and I decided to go to Whole Foods while it's still empty. Being a recent young person turned old person, I had no idea what time a supermarket opens. Luckily, it opens at 8:00. I was car number four in the parking lot.

I had decided to try pie again. I made a very good first berry pie over the summer but I wanted to surprise Bill with pecan. He likes desserts in general but his favorite flavor is sugar. The sweeter the better and I thought pecan pie was the perfect thing. For it I bought a premade pie crust. Oh, did you think I meant cut-frozen-butter-with-two-knives pie? Silly me, I wanted to make it's-my-day-off-lazy-smells-good pie. I also bought dreaded High Fructose Karo syrup for the first time. (What is with those stupid commercials anyway?) .

The couple in front of me at the check out had about a dozen of the really cool guilt inducing reusable bags in all bright colors. They were buying organic produce that they carried, unbagged, to the register. I imagined they were the happiest and nicest people ever - shopping early to have plenty of time to volunteer. I was buying four types of sugar while the sun was barely up. They won, hands down. Ringing up my processed crap and bulk nuts with no hip cloth bag, my inner snob twitched.

Still, I smiled and bought my fructose, sucrose, dextrose and molasses. I went home a made pie. While the pie was finishing and I spent a few minutes peeking to be sure the crust didn't burn, I thought of how nice a freshly baked something would be-right now. But, it was 11:00 am. I had to save the pie for Bill and that meant after 9:00 pm when I get back from writing class. I wanted something hot right now.

I dug around the pantry. It's pretty deep. I recently found some beef soup purchased before I gave up meat in February 2007. I pulled out a little box of Jif pizza crust. It required water and five minutes to make dough. I was thrilled. Two convenience foods on my day off? Two carbtastic dishes made together? My snob yelled from within but I suppressed her with fantasies of surprising Bill with a note that says, "Your dinner's in the fridge. Heat in a 350 degree oven for ten minutes. Love Ya!" How fucking cute, right? Just like a housewife off on an evening adventure.

So, I made four small calzones. I steamed the last of the aging broccoli and mixed in cottage cheese, shredded cheddar, basil, parmesan and garlic. These were not authentic in any way, but I was winging it. The dough was too sticky and I kneaded in flour. It wasn't relaxed or risen, but the box said it was ready, I shoved the filling in, pinched and baked. They turned out great. Each one leaked somewhere, but after baking for only 15 minutes, the ooze was gooey and only browning on the edges. Man, is baked cheese good. I ate two as soon as they were cool enough to only burn me slightly. I wrapped two in foil and put them in the fridge, so later tonight I can write that note.

I think I am always wishing to be perfect. Wishing I were skinny or acclaimed or wealthy. I want a marker of my goodness that will show to everyone. I want to feel worthy of what I already have. I have so much love and such good things in my life. I couldn't want anything else and yet I do, all the time. I want to be better. I want to be comfortable. I want to win but have everyone like me and I want to do it without trying.

It seems that the only thing I actually do instead of wanting, is cook stuff. That makes me happy.