When I was much younger than I am today (ahem), my father and I shared an especially insightful afternoon during which told me the story of my existence. I’m grateful for his having found sobriety and his treating me like an adult even in my 17th year with my facial piercings, unruly hair and excessive teen angst. Had it not been for conversations like this one, much of my history would have gone to the grave with him and/or with my mother.

Mom had Jennifer and Brian in June 1964 and November 1965, respectively. When Mom was pregnant with Brian something happened – a car accident I think – and she had to have a spinal fusion. We joke that her having been anesthetized while carrying him explains a lot – hardy har har, family humor. Following the operation, the doctors told her that in the interest of her health, she shouldn’t have more children.

Five or six years later, she decided to go against that advice; my father none the wiser and we were blessed with Kevin in September of 71. Because of the age gap between the boys, my folks thought it wise to create a playmate for him: I arrived in December of 72.

This weekend a friend called us “Irish twins”. I’m certain I’ve heard the phrase before but never thought of it in terms of Kev and I. I like it. It fits us.

So here we are, a fragment of our youth locked in a photograph. Before puberty and identity and the ten year stretch of not being able to get along.

Life has a way of working things out if you give them enough time, you just have to be careful that you’ve actually got time.

How can you NOT love Kevin in these Larry Bud Melman glasses?

Half marathon – check.
Turkey dinner – check.
R & R – check.
VanGogh exhibit – check.
Heaps of laughter – check.
Day spent in wall to wall sunshine, basking in the glory – check.

Despite the time that has passed since my last official “family” Thanksgiving, each year continues to surprise me with the ways the universe has of opening itself and embracing me.

Many times, I stubbornly insist I’d prefer to be alone (which I truly would) only to be surrounded by friends despite myself.

I thought happy thoughts and gave thanks silently and continually over the last four days. For friends, for my health (in whatever state it is), for a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

I’m thankful for the healthy legs that carried me 13 miles Thursday morning. I’m thankful that despite the lessons of my life, I’m still able to laugh and find the beauty in random daily happenings. I’m thankful that I’m still (as of this writing) able to see the screen as I type this. I’m thankful that as my fingers dance across the keyboard with their musical clicking, I haven’t yet had to deal with full-on carpal tunnel.

All in all, I’m thankful to be alive.

PS How fun does this look!?!

Tomorrow at the bootie crack of dawn, I’ll attempt my first half-marathon. Think happy thoughts and have a wonderful (and safe) holiday.

No actual Muppets were harmed during the sitting for this picture.
heh heh heh 

This will forever be my favorite Thanksgiving item…or at least it will always rank in the top 5. For the past 6 years or so I’ve e-mailed it to family and friends around this time of year with a not-so-heartwarming note. This year, I share it with you.

As an aside, the device should not be called “hands-free” if I have to jam it in my ear with my finger and hold it there for the duration of the call. Mmmm-kay?

Things are not always what they appear.

Elections, oppression, faith, crime riddled city streets. Me.

I’m exhausted. It cuts my vocabulary by 40% and slows my brain-to-lips travel time by about the same. What comes out is the verbal equivilent of watery oatmeal.

The wonder of words and their embarrassment. I’ve never spoken well and I’d just as soon write my thoughts down…better that than betray them by staggering around them and two stepping on them.

Bah, who cares.

Leah called last night from outside the Beacon Theatre (in NYC) where she could hear Michael McDonald performing from the spot where she stood on the sidewalk. She blessed my voicemail with a hysterical impersonation of him “hearing it through the grapevine” and as always, her wish that I was there. Me too.

To replenish my soul and clear my mind this weekend, I’ll drive out to Tybee. I’ll put my toes in the ocean, take a few deep breaths, maybe work on the script a little in a random little coffee house in Savannah, and come back “home”.

Oh, one last thing: who are you and what exactly do you want from me?

I must have dozed off somewhere around 18, because I’m having difficulty fathoming that enough time has passed to remake this song.

How has it been 20 years?

I remember buying the VHS “The Making of Band Aid” with part of my Dividend.

I’m not surprised that Bob Geldof looked like Death on American Morning a few minutes ago. And frankly, it’s just not going to be the same without Duran Duran. John Taylor…in my youth he was the perfect grown-up man. Hubba hubba.

Alright. So I fixed my phone but apparently it was the duct tape variety of fix because it petered out on me again. Rebooted itself 3 times when I was trying to call someone last week, resulting what must have appeared on caller ID to be a psycho move.

I conceded. It was time to get help.

I zipped over to my non-neighborhood T-Moblie store with time I really didn’t have to spare and copped a ‘tude with the boy behind the counter trying to eat his pizza dinner…as only I can. If you’ve witnessed me getting to this point, you know exactly what I’m talking about and you feel really sorry for the guy and embarrassed for me. You also know that by the end of it I was fine and I had him smiling.

So my new/old phone arrived yesterday and when I swapped my SIM card I realized I was screwed, yet again. The worst part: it wasn’t even good for me. WHY can’t they program those stupid things to hold on to my address book? I imagine this will involve another visit to my new boyfriend…we’ll call him Mr. T (for T-Mobile, get it?).

Duck and cover, my friend.

In other news, my tusks are clean, my hair is cut, I have my final vaccination (for when I run away to South America), and, most importantly: I’m too sexy for my socks with Birkenstocks. Yeah c’mon.

feet ala Techwood “non-office”

Loosly related open letter to Santa – this is what I’d like for Christmas this year. I’ve been both naughty and nice, that’s got to be worth something.