Is It Dressing? Is It Stuffing?

Families and friends will gather 'round the table today, sitting with their Chinet plates before them, piled high with Thanksgiving delights. There will be cranberries and corn bread and discussions will start off cordially, then turn to the jugular, as someone asks for dressing, and is then offered stuffing.

When is it dressing? When does it become stuffing?

On FunnynotSlutty today, the truth about what goes down around the dinner table. Is it dressing? Is it stuffing? Do I have to be right for you to be wrong?

*see if you can guess if I'm a stuffing girl. Because dressing? We all know it's for salads.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

A Holy Day

Venerated, sacred, good, devoted to. These are the words listed under the dictionary definition of "holy."

Thanksgiving is a rare holiday--it's non denominational and crosses into ecumenical realms as well as being observed separately from religion. It's a beautiful American holiday when we open our homes to others to share and celebrate a day spent centered on history, family, and our need to give thanks.

When I was little, I used to call Thanksgiving "practice." I would tell my grandmother that it gets people "practicing" being nice before the holidays begin. I still think of it that way. Warming up to start anew. Refining ourselves and polishing up our act a bit--rubbing off some of the selfish that serves no one.

We give thanks and concentrate on the gratitude. It's when we put on the glasses of gratefulness that we see the blessings we were too blind to notice before we corrected our vision.

Earlier this week, I had to take my youngest in for an annual blood draw. It's something he's had to do every year since he was two. He doesn't like it, but he knows he has to do it. He always tells me on the morning of our appointment that he's going to be brave this time, but when we arrive at the hospital, he gets quiet.

While we were waiting for his name to be called with this last visit, a small girl came over, sliding next to us to watch Grover singing on Sesame Street on the TV monitor mounted on the wall. She stared at my son who was leaning against my shoulder and asked him, "Do you have diabetes, too?" My son looked at me, not knowing how to answer.

I prodded him, "Go ahead, honey, tell her why you're here. So she knows."

"No, I'm here for something else ..." and his voice just stopped. I could tell he knew to say more, but didn't know what.

"No, honey," I looked at her pretty face. "We're here for something else. Are you here for a diabetes check?"

"Yeah. I've been here since this morning. I have to stay here all day till they say I'm done. I had to come yesterday, too."

"Oh. Well, you are as brave as my son. You both are so brave."

Her parents called her back, and she left us.

Soon it was our turn, and I held my son on my lap as they drew his blood. It was over quickly, but that didn't lessen his anxiousness. We waved to the little girl as we left the lab and I took my boy to the pharmacy next door, where they have penny candy and little white sacks that I let my son fill until he feels there's enough Swedish Fish and Nerds and Twizzlers to make him feel right again.

We drove home quietly, the only sound in the car the rustling of his paper sack as he fishes out his favorite candy.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey."

"Nothing like a trip to the hospital to change your perspective. Yesterday I felt so sad that I have to do this every year and my friends don't. But then we saw that girl, and she has to come all the time. I'm really lucky."

I was quiet while the wisdom of this ten-year-old boy settled over me. He knows more now than grown people learn in a lifetime.

"Yes, baby, sometimes we're lucky, and we don't even know it."

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, and I wish you moments in life of finding yourself feeling just how fortunate we all are.

***

Why Is It Still In The Closet?

When my youngest was four years old, we took him to a build-a-bear store to, well, build his own bear. For those not familiar with build-a-bearing, your child chooses from among 15 barrels filled with what look like fuzzy mini sleeping bags. These are the toy animal pouch carcasses that will soon be stuffed with plush animal batting via a hose you stick up the butt of desired baby panda, baby bear, or baby dinosaur.

Swooosh and you watch your fuzzy new baby come to life (both of them) as the stuffing is pumped in by your little one. But, my son thought as he controlled the foot pedal to the tuft dispenser, hmmmm full is good, fullER must be da bomb. And so, that's how we came home from the mall with what looks like a baby panda float from the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Can you picture it? Like a puffy cheeked Kung Fu Panda about to toss his cookies.

I tell you this because THAT'S what my closet looks like.

But why? My post today, brought to you by Aiming Low: First World Problems, the Walk-in Closet. I try to answer why do we hang on to the things we do, for years on end, in our closets. 

I hope you'll join me there, and Happy Thanksgiving build-a-bear overstuffed faces to you!

ICYMI

Back to the best of the internet this past week. A few pressing things moved my usual In Case You Missed It post out of its Monday time slot, but I can squeeze one entry in before Thanksgiving posts are due. At more than one place.

Lots to laugh over, ponder, smile with, relate, and slap five to. So let's get started, y'all:

In Case You Missed It: (the best of the web this week)


--Life in its heart clutching moments, a post from a delightful blog where two sisters, Jen and Sarah, co-write. On Momalom, Tuning In. Just a few sentences, but such a red hot arrow to the truth of what is life but moments, guaranteed to melt you into a puddle. In the best bleary eyes from tears way.

--Some great advice on how to grab a reader's attention with your first sentences. From write it sideways, a blog you need to follow. They have daily tips on ways to improve your writing, like their post "6 Ways to Hook Your Reader From The Very First Line." In their words, "Since 2009, ‘Write It Sideways’ has been helping you see the world of writing from a fresh perspective. Our experienced team can help you learn new skills, define your goals, increase your productivity, and prepare for publication. Plus, we’ll try really hard not to be boring when we do it.

-- A blog that feeds your mind, your soul, your eyes, your heart. Chookooloonks. I don't have to point you to a specific post there, because anything you find at Karen Walrond's place of beautiful in word and photo, will set you in your day. Truly, Chookooloonks is a gold mine of a find on the internet. Click over, and you'll find yourself just a little bit of an improved, inspired you. Every day.

--And a post that went viral--though it should have gone antibacterial--laugh and snort your way through the tale of what happened to a very pregnant woman who just wanted a late trimester massage. NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH, but so unbelievably well told and ridiculously funny. Hands down, yes--a nightmare of a massage, and yet? Pamie.com makes us laugh. **Pamela Ribons has written four books, and after reading her post here, I am buying every single one of them.

***

Have a great week, everyone!  Remember to count your blessings and write them in stone--and write your troubles in sand. Enjoy Thanksgiving, and all the tales that come along with it. Because family will be involved. 

Maybe you'd like to borrow my doormat?: "Friends welcome. Relatives by appointment."

xo

When SOC is More Like LIM

photo credit: Steve took it via photopin cc

There are several memes, link ups, I've seen that are known as Stream of Consciousness posts. Bloggers write up and link their posts detailing the clear, cool, running waters of thoughts that flow through their psyche. Like a sweet tumbling spring breaking through its winter frost.

Not me--I have no ebb and stream of fluid thought. My mind is more like karate chops at things that invade my senses. Too hot! Ooooh, too cold. Ouch, hard chair. Hmmm, this sweater is itchy--wonder if it's wool.

That's what my *stream* of consciousness would read like. Obviously, this kept me far and away from joining in on any SOC's of the week.

But hey-wait.a.minute? What if I'm not the only one whose inner monologue is a staccato replica of Tony Blair's speech: halting, sputtering, spilling, pulling back in again?

SOC versus LIM, aka loose inner monologue: thoughts that are chopped up in bits, nothing joined, nothing flowing about it.

I'm making a place for my type of mental ramblings, Loose Inner Monologues, right here, on Friday nights: like a colonic for the brain. Move out the old log of thoughts before my brain gets dammed up like beavers' work.

My first LIM on this blog: (because other than drilling a hole in your skull, how you gonna declutter?)


I hope it's nice out tomorrow.

I don't know why I think if it's nice tomorrow I'll do some work outside--I should know by now I'll just do everything but work tomorrow. But the bathrooms need to be cleaned so bad. I think I'll have to do those. I'm embarrassing myself with the dirt. Poor husband, the mirror looks like it's polka dots.

I can't believe I forgot to get apple juice at the store again. It's the reason I went. I spent 107 dollars and had one thing on my list and came home with 12 cans of Pringles instead.

Man my feet are tired. And my neck. I wish I could go for a massage.

No, I don't. I don't know why I said that. Massages freak me out--no matter who it is, it always feels like I'm going to wake up black and blue. People need to learn light touch massage.  But it has to feel like a massage still--not like they're standing behind you in line, tapping you with their fingers.

Whoa, talk about tapping someone in line. What the heck? Did I jump ten feet in the air or what when that clerk tapped me to change lines at the grocery store today.

That jumpiness right there is why I can't do yoga, they make you close your eyes, get relaxed, you're almost asleep--them BOOM the instructor's voice is suddenly hot in your ear telling you to bring your spine down.  Talk about teaching you to keep your guard up. Sheesh.

I have to go to bed. I'm going to go to bed. Take my friend the jelly donuts I bought 18 of today to her in the morning. I think I bought so many because I was acting out over Hostess being gone. I'm so sad about that.

I love Twinkies. I used to think they were little loaves of bread and would slice them up to make doll sandwiches. Everyone has a Hostess story--with Suzy-Q's, or Ding Dongs, or Zingers, or powdered donettes. We all have our Hostess story. Now we'll have to buy Little Debbie, the poor man's Hostess.

 ***

Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.

"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."