(We’re driving down the road, post Galaxy-of-Lights,
and as always, Bryan’s hand is on my thigh.
The Boy is in the backseat, humming something.)
The Boy: I like the black men.
(Bryan’s grip on my thigh tightens.)
Me: … what now?
The Boy: The black men.  I really like them.
(Bryan gives me that “We knew this would come someday” look
and I immediately start planning this discussion.
Dr. Martin Luther King?
How people aren’t colors?
No, Sneetches.  Go with the Sneetches.)
Me: Well, you know.. I like black men, too.  But..
The Boy: I like when he delivered that baby alien.
Bryan: OHMYGOD, you mean the Men in Black?!
The Boy: Yeah, Men in Black.  I like them.

I am getting old.

I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s official.  I am old.  And my body is starting to rebel.  For instance, my breasts are angry.  I remember sitting on the couch at my parent’s house some odd weeks ago and my mother looking at me for awhile.  Finally, she exclaimed, “Sarah, your ta-tas are huge!”  They are.  And they’re angry.  I thought I was just exaggerating their abundance before, but today I’m wearing a wrap shirt that I’ve had for years, and it feels like I’ve bound my chest.

Another example?  The mile trek into work, which I’ve walked every morning and afternoon for going on three years now, is suddenly leaving me breathless.  So I’m forcing myself to walk at night with the dogs so that I can feel better.

OH!  And sleeping, which used to be my favorite hobby.  I’ve been waking up every two hours at night.  Why?  I DON’T KNOW.

And the curl has left my hair.  I don’t know where it went.  But it’s not there. (This could be weather-related.)

There you go.  Your bitchy post for the day.

“Does this mean I’m your bitch?
I’ve wanted to be your bitch
from the first day I met you.”
- “In Her Shoes”

I think the best way to sum up my Thanksgiving weekend is the phrase that I found myself repeating for the better part of the holiday: “I know that not everyone is as into Christmas as I am.”  This weekend, I truly missed my roommate, who has my frenzied love of the holiday.  I missed someone being as excited as I am about Christmas.  I missed someone having my same unending energy when it comes to all things Christmas.  I missed someone joining me as we put aside our own exhaustion to adhere to traditions.  I missed that.  A lot.

Come to find out, she was feeling the same way.  We’re just surrounded by people who don’t have that same Christmas gusto that we do.  And had I thought about it, I’d have called her, had her pick up some rum to go with my eggnog or some brandy to go with my cider, and we’d have done it together.  Obviously, that’s the way it was supposed to happen.

Lesson learned.

The best part of my weekend was last night, when Bryan went off to some business dinner and I got to have the house to myself.  It was soooo wonderful.  The Christmas tree was lit, and I had cider, Taco Bell, and a chick flick.  I watched “In Her Shoes”, which I loved.. in spite of myself.  I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed at any other point in my life, but the timing was right, and I loved it.  I bawled.  It’s a great sister movie.  Especially if you’re a redheaded big sister with a gorgeous blonde little sister.

Then I took the dogs on a run.  It was a perfect evening.

Now, after a week off, we’re back to reality.  Hooray.

For Ra:

Driving to callbacks, Elyse and I got to talking about the song Ra and I deplore, “Christmas Shoes”.
Me: I HATE THAT SONG.
E: Ohmygod, I love that song.  It’s one of my favorites.  Mom hates it, too.
Me: We all do, honey.  Because it’s STUPID.  Christmas shoes, really?  Elyse, what child is gonna buy their mom shoes for Christmas?  And how horrible is that father: “Okay, now chilluns, Momma’s probably gonna go meet Jesus tonight, so we better dress her up real nice.”
E: He probably went to the dollar store for the shoes.
Me: Yeah.  Got her some off-brand crocs.
E: Christmas Crocs.
Me: What ALL the good mommas wear when they meet Jesus.