What I Wanted To Say

        As is often the case with me, a moment of my Saturday triggered something in me that I can't get out of my teeth. I've written this post at least fourteen times in my head since this afternoon, and so, I suppose I had better just come out with it so I can move on. 

        I went about my Saturday in a good mood, things are changing for me, and while some people find that a new year brings new goals, I have usually found that, for myself, things tend to change in the fall. Spiritually, I think it all has something to do with letting the things that no longer serve me fade away like the green on the leaves, but that's way too 'meta' for the post I am about to share with you, so I'll just say that things are changing and I was feeling pretty good about me. Especially after I got my hair cut after way too long. I cruised into the grocery store and grabbed a cart and things took a weird turn. 

        The cart I grabbed had....problems. One front wheel wasn't touching the ground and the other front wheel REALLY wanted to turn to the right. I just went with it, because I wasn't there for many items. I thought I could handle it. The cart guy was trying to steer one of those unbelievably long rows of carts from outside into the cart return and I didn't want him to think....anything? About me or my picky cart issues. Off I went, to the meat department to find some dinner inspiration, fighting this ridiculous cart through a busy produce section and around several errant children in the baking area. I made it to the meats, found a pork roast that looked like I might want to feed it to my family tonight, and a chicken to roast for Sunday. When I put them in the cart, their combined five pounds made Terrible Cart get worse, and I started laughing at myself for sticking with it. I still had to go to the frozen foods and produce. But, I am a stubborn lady, and I wound my way around to frozen foods, slowly adding a few items here and there, nothing heavy. When I got to the produce section, I almost lost hope, because there were FAR to many people shopping for me to have any hope of not accidentally taking someone out with my Terrible Cart. So, I parked the cart out of the way, grabbed my purse and ran back and forth to it with random produce. Does this sound like a lot of work for a stupid grocery cart? It was. Too much work. 

        I paid for my stuff, went to the cart return area and promptly switched my bags into another cart, because NO WAY am I fighting this rat bastard cart out in the parking lot. I parked Terrible Cart off to the side, and a gentleman walked up and I said, "Don't take that one, it's the worst!" And his response was, "Was it the cart, or the driver? You just need a little muscle." 

       I turned and stared at him, while holding a bag with a whole chicken in it, and offered my silence. I pushed my groceries, in my Not So Terrible Cart, out the door. I thought about the exchange the entire way home. 

        Here's the thing, Random Grocery Store Stranger: You can go ahead and underestimate me. I've been doing it my entire life. I've doubted myself since forever. I've always been willing to make things harder for me if it meant making things easier for someone else. I don't know how to reset my default setting from Undervalue, but I can give you a list of things I've tried that didn't work. Thanks to my genetics, my frame is slight, but it's strong enough to carry the burden of crippling anxiety around everyday. So, I'm not sure it's a muscle problem. 

        Random Stranger, I made 479 right turns with Terrible Cart, and I warned you, so you wouldn't have to, and you paid me back with what I am sure you thought was charming humor, but I have to tell you, I was not charmed. Your response was like a slap in my face. It WAS the driver. It was my willingness to battle a damn faulty grocery cart, rather than let someone see that things weren't going perfectly for me. Logic tells me that the cart guy wouldn't have even bothered to notice me switching carts, but anxiety tells me that he'll think I'm too picky and hard to please. One side of me knows that nobody is looking, and nobody cares, but the anxiety tells me not to stand out in any way. One part of me is having a chill Saturday trip to the grocery store, while the anxiety is telling me to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible, without drawing any kind of attention to myself. Living with anxiety is like, well......battling a faulty grocery cart. I get through it, but I make it a lot harder than it has to be. Also, Random Grocery Store Stranger, may I say to you that I'm not going to be like this forever. The way I know that is that I recognize it. Next time, I will exchange the cart before I put any groceries in it. Next time, I will say what I wanted to say after I left, which was something like "Bless your heart" but less southern. 

Isaiah 41:10- So do not fear, for I am with you, do not be dismayed, I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous hand. 

Tom Petty and My Dad

     My dad listened to country music. The twang-ier the better. As a kid, I didn't care much. I sang along to a lot of the songs and didn't think too much about it until a certain teenage boy introduced his baby sister to the wonder and joy of Metallica and AC/DC. I had several older siblings with an eclectic array of music playing in their cars, and my musical horizons expanded and at some point, I could barely stand to be in the same car as my dad's music, let alone listen to him croon along with the words. I turned sixteen in the winter, and when I got my driver's license, I didn't do a lot of driving 'for pleasure'. To school and back. Maybe to the grocery store if it wasn't icy. But the following spring, freedom was waiting behind the wheel of my dad's red Chevy S-10 with a topper on the back.

     My dad and I struggled for common ground quite a bit. We loved each other, but we didn't really understand each other. He was practical and went to work and came home and mowed the yard and expected his youngest to follow the rules and be home on time and do the dishes. I was sixteen and a girl. I was about discovering who I was and the world outside 538 West 10th and I could not give a rip about dishes. (But you better believe I did them!) He was a good guy. We just didn't always speak the same language.  If I asked for $5 for gas, most often he handed me a ten. Five dollars was enough to 'cruise the square' all night.  Ten was enough to  'cruise the square' all night, and get yourself a pop and (if my brother's friends were around or the right guy was working at the gas station) a pack of cigarettes.

     Once I asked my dad to borrow the truck to go out, and he told me that I could use it if I gave him a ride to work and put gas in. Then he handed me a twenty and told me that he needed to leave early to make a stop at the Warehouse before work. On our way to the truck, he tossed the keys and said, you can drive. This was an unusual situation, and I was nervous but I hopped in and carefully buckled my seatbelt, assuming it was some kind of test. I mean, I had passed the driver's test, but had I passed the Dad test? When I started the truck, I automatically changed the radio station, which visibly irritated him, but Tom Petty was coming out of the speakers, "You Don't Know How It Feels" was a bit of an anthem for me, as I was in a misunderstood, angst-y frame of mind. So I asked him to listen to the song, hoping to send him a message. I think I lost him at "Let's get to the point, let's roll another joint..." But he didn't change the station. When it was over, I said something like, "Isn't that a great song!?" and He responded with a shrug and said, "I didn't hate it as much as some of the shit you usually listen to. And change my radio back to my station when you get home."

     It wasn't exactly a rave review, but I felt like I had made my point. He didn't know what it was like to be a sixteen year old girl, but in all fairness, I didn't know what it was like to be a 48 year old father, husband, and grandfather.

     Later that evening, I pulled into the gas station and grabbed that crisp twenty and bought myself a fountain pop, which, upon leaving, I set on the roof the truck so I could dig my lighter and cigarettes out of their hiding place. Then I promptly drove away, and the pop when sliding down and cascaded over the windshield, and into the open window. Not the best start to an evening out. Some time later, I smelled something strange, and the truck wasn't running the best but I remembered that I was supposed to have put gas in, so I pulled up to the pumps at a different gas station (I'm no glutton for embarrassment!) and pumped five dollars worth of gas. Surely that would fix the problem. I picked up my dad at eleven that night. When he came out of the jail (where he worked! Not where he was incarcerated!) , he found his truck overheating, covered in Dr. Pepper, and Tom Petty's American Girl blaring from the stereo. He, believe it or not, was even less impressed with this situation than he had been with the earlier song review. I distinctly remember a vein appearing down the side of this forehead. "DON'T YOU BOTHER TO LOOK AT THE GAGES!?"

"I promise to start looking at them right now, Dad!"

"JESUS HOLY CHRIST, JENNIFER!"

*Oh, yeah, alright. Take it easy, baby, make it last all night! She was, an AMERICAN GIRL!*

"MAYBE IF YOU TURNED DOWN THE RADIO, YOU COULD HEAR MY TRUCK BLOWING UP???"

"Good tip. Will do!"

He had to have my brother in law help him replace the head gasket. And the door remained a little bit sticky for as long as he owned that truck. Plus, he found my secret cigarette stash and I never found out what he did with them, but I would be willing to bet that he smoked them, one after the other, while he watched his engine smoke in the driveway.

    Twenty-five-ish years later, I sat by his stone at the cemetery where he is buried. I don't often feel connected to him there. When I was young, I visited the grave of my mother and felt comforted because that is the only place I remember her being. With my dad, it was different. I remember him being at home. I remember him being outside in the swing, I remember him almost everywhere except a cemetery down a gravel road on the outskirts of a town I don't really know. So, often, when I sit with his stone, I try to connect by talking.  "Well, dad, as I'm sure you know, things are ok. I'm kind of struggling with some things and I'm wondering we ever get to figure this 'life' thing out, or if we just have to keep guessing?"

 I didn't get an answer from the trees, or the granite. But when I got in my car, Tom Petty was singing, "The waiting is the hardest part, every day you see one more card, you take it on faith, you take it to the heart. The waiting is the hardest part."

     I'm taking it on faith that when I asked dad a question, he answered me in a way he knew I would hear.

Of Eyebrows and Deep Thoughts

     I've got a lot on my mind, and bedtime is looming.
     I grew up in a family with a lot of 'steps' and 'halves' and such. There weren't many of us that did things in the order that we were taught was correct. A lot of babies before marriage and divorce, and remarriage and his kids and her kids and their kids. When I was a kid, it didn't occur to me to care, or notice. It was what it was. These were the people I loved. When I started to get older, I started to recognize a gap. A difference, of some kind. It took a long time to put my finger on it. And a lot of heartache, and in truth, a lot of therapy, to learn that people don't necessarily love you the same way you love them. If you're reading this, and you already know that, count yourself lucky. If you didn't know that....first, I am sorry to break the news, and second, it's ok. You'll learn to live with it. You'll find the people who love you beyond measure, and you'll find yourself outside the bounds of what I will refer to as 'obligation' and you'll be ok. But it isn't easy. For a very long time, I enacted my right to remain silent. I wordlessly hoped against hope that these people who formed me would confirm for me that I was worthy of their love. Then, my dad died. and what I THOUGHT were slight gaps turned into great, dark, deep canyons. So I found myself grieving the loss of my father, and the loss of the relationships with others who also loved him. It was a complicated time.
     At some point, after the revelation that not everyone I had spent a lifetime loving, loved me the same way, there was an accident. It was very scary, because it happened to someone that I love deeply and have a damaged but manageable relationship with. We were called to a hospital, and I spent a long drive wondering if the relationship had reached a point that we could both be satisfied and at peace with one another.
     I was surrounded by people who love this person, who have very different relationships with each other, and with me. All of them, I have known for as long as I can remember, but age had given me a different pair of glasses with which to view them. I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by these people who were present because of love, but not necessarily love for each other. Or, maybe we all had love in common, but there wasn't a lot of "like" to go around? It was a bizarre setting. Uncomfortable and caffeine fueled silences lingered. Some of us on one side of the room, some of us deliberately on the other, almost all women.
     At approximately 3am, a woman from the other side called to me as I stirred sugar and creamer into my coffee. "Jennifer? Is that your natural hair color?"
     And, after a long sip of my too hot coffee, I responded, "No. Are those your natural eyebrows?" (Spoiler Alert: They were definitely, definitively,  NOT her natural eyebrows.)
     The lone man in the room immediately got up and headed for the elevators.
     I don't know where it came from. It was a word burp that, had I been rested and not on the verge of experiencing a caffeine overdose, I would have chocked back down. But there it was. So, I sat back down and grabbed my phone, thinking that it would be smart to start recording, because I was about to be killed and my children would someday want evidence, that YES, their mother was stupid enough to pick a fight with a pride of lionesses.
     I wish I could tell you that I remember what happened after that. I don't. It's not because somebody knocked me out with their purse. I just....don't know. Sooner or later, a doctor came in to tell us that the accident had been severe, and recovery would be long, but would happen. Sooner or later, I left that waiting room. Sooner or later, I left that hospital.
     This morning, while I was getting ready for work, for some reason, the whole scene replayed in my mind. I have no idea why. I've been thinking, on and off, all day about it. Am I sorry? Possibly. Am I as sorry as I should be? Probably not.
     What had really and truly happened that very early morning, was that I stopped being silent. I stopped considering the feelings of people who hadn't, probably ever, stopped to consider MY feelings. It was equal parts liberating, and terrifying. So, tonight, I am thinking that perhaps it is time that I, once again, revisit my silence?
     I write a lot of things that I don't share. I don't share out of consideration for folks who may read my words and recognize themselves in the pages. Maybe it's good. Maybe it's bad. But maybe it's also time to honor what truly makes my heart happy. So. If, in the coming weeks, you find yourself among words I have written on this blog....I promise to change the names to protect the guilty. Unless it's me. Then, I promise to own it.

Teaching Under Fire

     Well! Things have certainly gotten.....interesting, haven't they? 

     It's Monday. There are currently 18 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Nebraska. Zoe's school has closed for what we hope is two weeks. Supplies are flying off shelves. We're smack dab in the middle of the strangest time, my brain has never been this happy to play it's favorite game of Worst Case Scenario. I spent my weekend furiously updating websites. I went to bed last night and I couldn't sleep.

     I went into work early today at the request of the director. We've implemented new procedures at drop off that require staff and I was torn between wanting to stay safely ensconced in my house under my blankie, Googling, or if I wanted to get out into the world and see if everyone else seemed as shell-shocked as I feel. I couldn't make up my mind, even as I pulled into the parking lot. 

    As it turns out, it was pretty much business as usual. Do you want to know why? Three year old's don't much care about COVID-19. Three year old's care about toys, snacks, and who is the morning helper. We washed our hands more than typical. We talked about germs and where they like to hide at Circle Time. We created an obstacle course out of packages of extra toilet paper. We made shamrocks and rainbows and read a book about a Leprechaun. We carried on. Preschoolers help keep your feet on the ground. When you ask a preschooler where germs like to hide, they might say something like, "Down your pants." and it will drag you back to reality and make you giggle and try your hardest to find a way to say, "Yes, that's true. Please keep your hands out of your pants" while also trying to figure out what choices you made in your life that led you to a moment where you have to say things like that on a pretty regular basis. 

     I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring. I don't know anyone who does. But I know this, tomorrow, I will go to work, and I will be happy to see all of my daycare babies, and I will worry about who isn't there, and I will worry about the ones that are there who have a little cough. And I will carry on, business as usual, because there is no crying in baseball, and no social distancing in daycare. I will wash my hands and I will wipe their noses and I will remind them to cough into their elbows and that we should be keeping our hands to ourselves. (Not just because of a virus.) 

      If you're stressing, I encourage you to remember what your friendly neighborhood childcare provider is telling your children. 

1. Wash Your Hands.

2. Don't touch that. Or that. Or that, either.

3. Kleenex, not fingers.

4. Pick that up off the floor and put it in the trash, please.

5. We need to use nice words to our friends. 

6. Sharing is caring.

Have a good one. Stay safe out there. 

Spring Fever

     It's the second to last day of February. There's a foot of snow on the ground and temps have been hovering near 20 degrees for what feels like weeks. I'm done with Winter. Done with bleak and cold and gray. I'm tired of being warm only immediately before the dogs have to go out or the alarm goes off.  I'm praying for the green of Springtime and a place to sit in the warm sun. I close my eyes and see myself on Scott's boat on the river, with a cold drink and the hot sun, and kicking myself for not appreciating it more. "Next summer", I say to myself, "I won't take it for granted. I'll soak in the sun and heat and hold it deep in my soul like a savings account for next winter." But I know that I won't.  I don't imagine I'm any different than any other person in the region, but as endless as the Winter seems, it's brought some joy with it.
     I'm sitting in my office, newly decorated and organized. Finally got my own room, after many, many years of joking. I'm typing on a computer that was a Christmas gift, with my favorite things all around me and candles burning behind me, with a blue topaz crystal (the Writer's Stone) hanging in above my monitor. This is my space now. This is my sanctuary from the desolate and ceaseless winter. And I love it desperately.
     The problem, for me, with having my own territory, where I can write and write and write, is that I have to write. And there's nothing scarier than a blank page. My blog page has seven unpublished drafts. I wrote things that scared me, and I wrote things that made me sob, but they aren't ready yet. They've got to sit on the shelf awhile longer until the brave parts of me are ready to push the Publish button and let them free. So, until I can, let's have an update, shall we?
     As of this moment, we are three in the house. (Well, five, including the dogz.) And so, in our three bedroom house, the third bedroom evolved into the very office that I write to you from. Three is so quiet, sometimes. But three can also be very loud, especially while discussing Zoe's Freshman schedule for next year. A Freshman. And to think, that just yesterday I dropped her off at preschool three days a week and watched the two hours drag by. We are well, but everyday we creep closer to empty nesting and WOW, it's strange to be on this side of the parenting hill. I find that I wish I could go back and do it all again, do it all better, be more and appreciate more and laugh more. I suppose that's what grandchildren are for? We are anxiously anticipating number nine in early May. Another reason to hope for Spring.
     We moved last May. We have neighbors again. Neighbors that have watched me drag my reluctant dogs into the cold yard to do their business while dressed as what I can only imagine scientists in the Antarctic dress like. It was a surprisingly easy adjustment, moving back to civilization. It's not as though we moved to a booming metropolis, you could fit the whole town in a regular size envelope and mail it for less than a dollar, but I did think I would miss the peace of the country. Turns out, I thoroughly enjoy paved streets that get plowed and the diner that's a half a block away. (Try the cauliflower and cheese! Or the pork tenderloin sandwich, hand breaded! Or the gyro! Or.....)
     There's more. So much more. It will have to wait. Today I'm feeling a little braver than I did yesterday. Today I wrote this, so that tomorrow I can write something else. Something braver, something deeper. I don't know what the Something is yet. But it will come. It's not too far away, I know. Like Spring.

The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But The Truth

Long time, no type, Bloggies. (I don't know if that's a thing, but it sounded good.)
I can not come up with an excuse for my long absence. I can only say that I promise to tell you the truth about where I have been since November, when I promised myself I would write often and without care for the dissenting voices in my head.
     I have been in a battle. Truth be told, I do not know when, exactly, it started. It came upon me slowly.     
     I noticed sometime around Christmas that a lot of me was gone. A lot of my hope and most of my joy and a terrifying portion of my personality. It all just POOFed on me. January, and turning (gasp) 40 took a lot out of me, and pretty soon I was facing February mostly from the safety and security of my bed, where I would find myself pretty much every moment of the day that I was not working. Sometime in mid-February, I was driving to work one morning, trying to decide how fast my car would have to be traveling in order to kill me if I intentionally crashed it. Then I caught myself counting pills in a bottle of pain medication prescribed to me last summer for a back injury, and Google-ing what the estimated fatal dose would be. There was a great deal of trouble in River City. It took until mid-March for me to admit, aloud, to another human being, how deeply I was suffering and how far down the rabbit hole I had fallen.
I made an appointment with my doctor. I got a prescription for an anti-depressant and the name of a therapist that I made an appointment with for the following week. I've seen her every week since the third week of March. I have missed very few doses of the medications. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it's getting closer every day.
     That's a long winded way of saying that I am being treated for depression and anxiety, and that, at this point, the treatment is working, so I am one of the lucky ones. And I'm grateful. It all seems so simplistic, typed out into a neat paragraph like that, but it's been hard, and complicated, and I am only just now, realizing the impact my mental health has had on me, and my family. The problem with falling down the rabbit hole is that when you climb your way back out again, you have to stand in the light an let your eyes adjust to it.
     A couple of weeks ago, my Facebook feed was jam packed with the news of Kate Spade's suicide. I was sad. That's a sad thing to hear, even though I do not know her, and I have never owned anything she designed. Then, days later, Anthony Bourdain ended his life, and I was even sadder. I was a fan. Something about me is attracted to his brash, unapologetic world view, and there's the added sadness of knowing that even two people who seemingly "have it all" couldn't handle the demons they battled. Days later, I logged into a blog that I have been reading for years. The woman who writes it has inspired me, as a mom, a teacher, and a woman. I have never met this woman, she does not know my name- but I was devastated to learn that she had attempted suicide and had spent two days in ICU and a week in the psych ward of a hospital.
     In March, or even April, this depression seemed insurmountable. I couldn't wish or pray or hope my way out of it. The news of these fellow warriors who lost their battle, and almost lost the battle, have made me nervous. I don't want to go back to that, I'm scared every day that tomorrow I will wake up and feel hopeless and useless again. I worry that I will look in the mirror and only see the woman who failed at so many things.
     I'm grateful that I have a support system that allows me to have a bad day and celebrates my little victories with me, but I can't know if that's going to be enough. I'm happy to have put an end to house hunting and the stress of having to move, but I can't know if that will be enough. I am thrilled to be able to feel the love from my family again, but I can't know if that is enough. The demons are so strong, and so far, I am winning the battle, but I can't know if that's forever, or just for now. I'm a girl who likes a plan, and all of this not knowing is hard to live with, but I am living with it, and I am deeply grateful that I recognized just how dark the world had gotten and that I had to power to ask for help in locating the light switch.
     I'm only now, months into this journey, realizing that it's a marathon, not a sprint, and there are going to be setbacks, but a bad day doesn't mean a bad life. My therapist is helping me learn to ignore the lies that the depression feeds me, and the constant scroll across the screen of my brain that lists my faults and failures. Make no mistake- depression is a liar. The battle to sort out what is truth and what is fiction is exhausting. I don't know what to make of the fact that my own brain sort of turned against me. Or that it isn't the first time it's happened, which is how I recognized the problem to begin with. Depression, and her best pal, Anxiety, are unwelcome house guests who overstay their welcome and eat all the good food from the place. The good news is, I'm done with being a good host to them and I have decided that they should go, the bad news is, it's a process that doesn't happen overnight.
     So, there's my truth. I have depression and anxiety. I'm working on it. I'm doing better than I was last week, and the week before, and the month before that. I'm winning this today. I will wake up and try my hardest to win this tomorrow, as well.

Giving Thanks

     When my eyes opened at 5:05am today, I thought two things. First, that I had 'slept in', because for the previous two mornings, I woke up for no particular reason whatsoever at 4:30am, like that's just a thing I do now, and Adulting is getting more fun by the minute around here. Second, I realized that I had to go to the grocery store. It's 48 hours before the biggest food holiday of the year, and I have to go brave it alone.
     I showered and said a prayer in front of the mirror, "Please God, let this go smooth. Let me stick to my list, let any impulse buy be chocolate. Let me keep a little faith in humanity. Let my journey be safe and swift and, if it's not too much to ask, let stuff be on sale. Let me find a little joy. Let me always remember that if I die in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, it is Your Will."
     Spoiler Alert: I didn't die. Am grateful.
     On the quiet, windy drive to the store, I started running through Holiday's Past. Once, the boy ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner and then barfed, prompting everyone to play our favorite holiday game, "Food Poisoning or Stomach Bug?" The boy turned 18 in October. This is the last holiday season that he is legally required to attend.
On a Thanksgiving Eve, years ago, my dearly departed mother-in-law bragged about a garage sale find- a $1 hand mixer. She pulled it out of the box and started mixing something for the next day's dinner, and then the mixer blew up and the roasted turkey smell competed with the smell of burnt plastic.
My dad loved to take a perfectly roasted turkey from the oven and soak up all of the praise for it, even though I have never been sure what exactly he did to it besides put it into the oven and then take it back out again hours later. But, in all of my memories, I see him standing with his electric carving knife smiling.
Holidays are like that, huh?
I wanted to give my kids picture perfect holidays, straight from a Thomas Kinkade painting holidays,  I wanted Thanksgiving with a perfect turkey and a 'tablescape' straight from the pages of a magazine. But, I'm staring down the barrel of 40, and I'm learning, ever so slowly, that those paintings aren't real. They come from a bottle of paint. (I should note that at least a little of my holidays are going to come from a bottle, too. Thanks Winery of Ellicottville!)
On my trek to the grocery store, I was standing in what I thought was a low traffic area, trying to rearrange the items in my cart to make room, when a lady came from behind. She had a cart piled high with all of the usual suspects and I heard her say, "I converted the recipe wrong, so I was short on green beans." And I honestly wanted to say, "Same." Aren't we all just a few beans short of a full casserole?
I made my way to the beverage aisle and there was a tiny old lady trying to reach a 2 liter of Ginger Ale from a too high shelf, so I offered to help. Maybe I can't give my kids the perfect holiday, but I can reach the Ginger Ale for somebody's grandma. Maybe I can't have everyone at the table that I long to sit with, but I can be grateful or the ones that are there, and hope for the best next year.
     If you are reading this, then you play a role in my life, and I am grateful for you. I give thanks that you're reading this. I hope and pray that you have a smooth and tasty holiday. If you're missing someone special from your table, let me say that I am sorry, and I feel you. If you're alone for the holiday, and you don't want to be, call me, we'll figure something out. If you're expecting the perfect holiday, worthy of a canvas, I hope that you aren't disappointed and that you tell me how you did it. If you still have to go to the grocery store to prep for your dinner- the prayer in the first part of this story seemed to work out pretty well for me.
Happy Thanksgiving.