SINGIN' IN THE RAIN

It's always this time of year that gets a little difficult for some.

The cold fronts, the rain, the weight of the clouds, the seemingly neverending overcast days, and the downpours and the snowstorms and the chill.

And you just don't wanna get out and run errands. You don't wanna get out and go anywhere.  You just want to stay home because some part of you is comforted by that thought, by some romanticized childhood ideal, even as the other part of you clearly recognizes and shouts from the rooftops the dangers inherent in trapping oneself in an enclosed building with two wired, stir-crazy children for any significant length of time.

So, you pull yourself together.  And you remember that your little Pisces fish were also born in Seattle.  That they love the water and the rain because you used to.  Before it made you sad.  Before it felt like God was crying.

You load up your brood and you make it all the way down the street, a whole 10 blocks away, to the bank, so that you can at least check that one thing off your list this week.  And as you turn away from the ATM, annoyed at the brisk breeze stinging your cheeks, and the mist weighing down your product-laden hair, ready to usher your little swamp monsters back into the shelter of the warm and dry vehicle, you see them smiling like sunshine and hear them laughing from deep down in their bellies, and for at least those two seconds you really do remember what it was like to run carelessly through rain puddles, all barefoot and gangly, picking up earth worms and splashing one another with rainwater, and you involuntarily stick your tongue out to feel suddenly smaller than the world around you, and yet somehow connected...to everything.

And maybe sometimes...

on some days...

for some kiddos...

and their mother...

a little rain and a couple of brand new umbrellas make absolutely everything okay for a little while.

Singin' In the Rain

...

HOW FAST DO SNAILS ACTUALLY TRAVEL? I MEAN, LIKE, WHEN THEY REALLY REALLY HAVE TO?

No. Really. How long must the sliding door have had to have been left open, screen and all, in the middle of a cold spell, in order for a SNAIL to actually make his merry way out of the grass, across the cement porch, up the two cement steps, over the lip of the sliding door thingamajig, inside my house, and up the rosemary plant?!?!

I just can not fathom how this happened?  Or why it's bothering me so.

And did you know they were LOUD? No? Me neither.

But they are. At two o'clock in the morning.  When the TV's stuck on some channel in between the channel you left and the channel you never made it to, and there's no noise in the house at all, and all you can hear is this shhhrrrup, shhhrrrup, shhhrrrup.  And it wakes you out of a dead sleep.  Well, dead-ish. As much as you can be, on a sofa, with a crick in your neck because of the overpropped pillow beneath your head because, of course, you had no intention of falling asleep there. Again. Loser.

And at first, naturally, I thought it was in my head.  Where all weird things reside.  Then, I thought, no, maybe the window. But I'm not gonna look out THERE, in the dark, alone.  But, then, perhaps, it was coming from the fireplace. No. Under the sofa? No.  Behind the giant-ass TV? No, nothing. Then, I pretty much became obsessed. Ob. Sessed. Because it was all I could hear. And it seemed to be growing louder by the minute.  It was all very Tell-Tale Heartish.  Only I hadn't killed anyone and ripped out their snail.  At least not that I could recall; it HAS been a rough couple of years.

So I'm on my hands and knees crawling around the living room, laying my ear to the floorboards, lifting rugs, sniffing for...God knows what.  And that's when I ended up in the plant cemetery.

Well, no, of course it didn't start off that way.  There used to be a live orchid, a live herb garden, a couple of live poinsettias, two live chrysanthemum plants (one gold, one burgundy), and one live green-leafed thing with white blooms.  But, clearly, they've all died now, although their scraggly brown crisps of skeletons remain. Still potted. It's all very morbid.  I'm sure I've mentioned my black thumb before.

And it was there that I saw, with the flashing of the TV light, the silverly slimy glint and glow of the irrefutable snail trail.  And it wasn't a direct route either.  That boy had been making donuts on my indoor/outdoor rug, for crissakes!  And diligently (and, granted, a little psychotically) following the mucous, I tracked that little fucker right to my rosemary plant.  And it's not like he was buried down in the soil either. Oh, no. Not this boy. He had inched his way to the very tip top of the 2-foot-tall plant. There was no place else for him to go.  And I'm almost positive he was about to wave a victory flag before I snatched him off with a suctioning schwap and tossed him back out into the yard.

Bring on the nightmares, baby!
...

TALES OF A SECOND-GRADE SMARTA$$

Chago's work on the left;
his teacher's comments on the right

Cleaning out Chago's backpack after their first week back from the holiday break.

Evidently, our boy's not quite ready to fully re-engage with academia.

But...it's...just...enough.

I'VE GOT A CRUSH ON YOU...SWEETIE PIE

Chago and his New Year's creampuff

 When I was 7 years old and in second grade, I kissed a boy.

Now, that in and of itself is not the point of this post, although you may be surprised (or not) by that tidbit of information.

I do think I remember who it was, but I don't trust my memory for anything, and, truth be told, I think it likely could've been one of at least two, maybe three, now that I think about it.  But that's a whole 'nother story.

So, I'm fairly certain it was on the playground of our elementary school, under the big slide.  We didn't have tanbark then. It was concrete gravel, or some other ungodly combination of knee-mutilating material.  But that, too, could be yet another embellishment of my actual reality.

What I do know for sure is that my being 7, and in second grade, and kissing someone for the first time, is a really really sweet (albeit foggy) memory for me.  And although I suck at the specifics of it, the FEELING of the memory is still so warm and comforting and home.

What I also know, though, is that hearing for the first time that my son has an official crush on someone in his class nearly gave me a fucking aneurysm today.

He was all giggly and giddy afterschool. Stealing secret moments with his sister, who was also blushing and sheepish and smiling from ear to ear. (This, people, is NEVER a good sign.)

We finally get to the truck and she says, "Mama, Santiago wants to tell you something." [giggle, giggle, snicker, giggle]

Saia with her New Year's creampuff

"What is it son?" I ask, turning up the radio and putting the truck into drive.

"Nothing," he grins, and covers his face.

"What's going on, pop?" I ask.

"I don't want you to get mad," he says.

I move the truck from drive to park, turn off the radio, and turn all the way around in my seat.

"Talk to me, boy."

So, he proceeds to tell me, between chuckles and hand-over-mouth, that his latest best friend (a recent transfer from L.A.) finally confessed her true full-fledged affection for him.

And as he's already prepped me with the thinking that I might be mad comment earlier...clearly, I can't now be mad. (I know, I know, he's a freaking genius.)  So, I put on my best I'm-listening-as-objectively-as-I-possibly-can face, and he spills it.

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

"That I felt the same way about her," he said. My heart fell on the floor and dissolved into a million water droplets.

"So..." I begin, knowing I reeeeeaaallly didn't want to know any more, but finding it utterly impossible not to ask, "where were you guys when you had this discussion?"

"Well," he begins, and his sister is just g-r-i-n-i-n-g, "she asked me to walk with her by the lake."

"BY THE WHAT?!?!"

"The lake," Saia intervenes. "It's really just an oversize puddle in the play yard off to the corner in the back..."

[Oh, dear God, just shoot me now.]

"And we walked around the lake together and she was asking me things about myself," he says, "like...my favorite color...and my favorite food..."

[Ooooh, she's good.]

"And did you ask her anything about her?"

"Huh?" he says.

[Oh. Hell. No.  But we'll have to save that discussion for another day as I'm currently trying to re-inflate my womb with my fleeing babies. :( ]

WELCOME TO THE WORLD, LITTLE BREE GEE!!!

Brecia Jessica Gee

Saia and Chago welcomed a brand new baby cousin into the world this morning!

Congratulations, Uncle Trevor!! We're so proud of you (and Sonya, too, of course). ;P

Ms. Brecia Jessica Gee is a cutie patootie, weighing in at a cool 7lbs 5.5oz and 20" long! Just look at them lips, Angelina!!

And congratulations to Mommy on becoming a new aunt. We all can't wait to see little Bree Gee in person.  Something about sniffing baby heads and chewing on baby feet just makes me utterly high.

What a phenomenal way to start the new year (the new life, not the altered state -- although, that works, too).  ;P

wordless wednesday: somewhere over the rainbow (eva cassidy)

FISHING FOR MICE. AND THIS AIN'T NO METAPHOR.

Yes, it's mine. And no,
see, it's not pink!

Yes, the saga continues.

And the dead mouse smell that has been driving me insane for two weeks...FOUND!!  At long last.

I've been unable to use my dishwasher for a week now because the last time I ran it, it smelled like a little rodent sauna.  Oh, yes. I'll let that simmer a while just so you can feel the full effect.

Needless to say, I was pretty certain the little fucker had up and died somewhere beneath or behind the dishwasher, which is screwed into my granite-top counter. By a professional, no doubt.

So I text my landlord ('cause he's cool like that) and ask him for his suggestion.

"Do you have a tool belt?" he asks.

Uh...hello...I'm a lesbian.

But then I had to really psyche myself up for it, had a double-chai, flipped my leopard print hat on backwards ('cause, well, just 'cause), and strapped on the brand new, never-been-used belt.  As soon as I tried to unscrew the thing with my tiniest philips screwdriver, I quickly realized this was gonna be nothing like replacing the batteries in Chago's roaring dinosaur.  I'd have to pull out the big guns for this one.

So, I grabbed my flashlight, my Ryobi, kicked off my 5" heels, laid flat on my belly, and got smacked right in the face by the putrid odor.  My eyes welled with tears immediately and I reached frantically for the Lysol, Fabreze, and some crystal gel odor-eating thing I had at the bottom of the nearest cabinet.

So, finally all geared up to go, I then find that it helps to have had your power tool plugged in and charged first. For a while, apparently. And I'm thinking this is a life lesson, applicable across a number of scenarios.  So just take note, and we'll revisit this one later.

Thirty minutes later then and we're back in the saddle. I get the bottom cover off and unscrew it from the countertop with surprisingly little effort.  The heft and vibration of the power tool make me wonder why I haven't taken up carpentry before.  Or, at a minimum, a QA position with Babes in Toyland.  But the jiggling of the dishwasher to carefully maneuver it out of its very tight spot reminded me that you probably need a whole heck of a lot more patience than that with which I come naturally equipped.

Poor little dude. Time's up, buddy.

Under the further misimpression that the dishwasher was just gonna slide all the way out to allow me clear and complete access, I was thoroughly disheartened to discover I'd have to resolve this entire issue from my flat-belly position on the floor.

Flashlight back in hand. Odor-neutralizing gel within reach. I scanned the area behind the dishwasher for less than 2 seconds before coming across the flattened, furry, rigor-mortised, little body.

"HA! HAAAA!" I cackled to no one.  "I've got you now!!"  And I suddenly had a flash of the crazy 90-year-old woman I would eventually become.

But for now...how to get him out.

My mind immediately went to the 3am commercials and that hand-held reach extension thingamajig with the pincher on the end.  Yeah. You know the one.  That would TOTALLY work. Perfectly.  But the nearest As Seen On TV Store is at least 10 miles away. (Do NOT ask me why I know this.)  And right now, I'm on a mission.  And, typically, very easily distracted.  See, there I go again. Stop sidetracking me, people.

Giving a whole new meaning to
what's in your toolbelt?

So, I search my garage, search the kids' outside toybox, search the holiday boxes, the giveaway stack, the gardening corner. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

And then I see a little glint out of the corner of my eye.  Something tucked just behind the tackle boxes.  I stepped closer. Sneaking up on it for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I quickly push aside the scooters to reveal a silver fish. Dangling midair. From fishing line.  Attached to a rod.

I think I may have actually wrung my hands like the old witch in Snow White just before she doles out the apple.

But out he came. His stiff little paw curled tightly around the line. If only you'd found me last week, his rancid aura whispered.  It was all very melodramatic.  I'm fairly certain Celine Dion was playing somewhere.

[End scene.]

Lesson learned: ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS just go get the damned live mice traps. Or a cat.
...

LEAFDANCER: A FALL-TO-WINTER PERFORMANCE IN 60 SECONDS

DO YOU DO CLASSROOM GIFTS?

We don't, typically. As a rule.

Or at least, I didn't think we did.

Until the kids asked what we were going to be doing for the classroom holiday gifts this year.  And I'm sure I had the same blank expression then that I have on now because for the life of me, I have no idea what they're talking about.  And then it occurred to me, it must've happened during the black-out.

You know, the Christmas shopping black-out that begins the day after Thanksgiving and continues up until about the 23rd of December?  It's that place that you go to in order to justify to yourself and to your dwindling bank account and smoking credit cards that you haven't. yet. covered. everyone.

So, evidently, during these black-outs, I've been easily convinced in previous years to purchase classroom gifts for each of my kids' classes. I'm still in a state of shock as to how this actually happens.  Apparently, I'm a pretty functional shopaholic. Buying, wrapping, tagging, shipping.  Even the postman gets a little sum'n sum'n (no, not THAT kinda sum'n).

So, I'm still staring at Saia, mouth completely agape, as she regales me with tales of our wonderful shopping sprees, and how much she enjoys being able to give something to every single person in her class, so that no one feels left out, and how she's so happy with the gift we picked up for her teacher, and how much she's loved wrapping gifts so early for our family this year, and how it was really cool that we adopted that family last year and that we should really do that again, and how she's already been thinking about what to do for her class this year.

And I felt myself beginning to hyperventilate.  Suddenly, it was all beginning to make sense.  The flood of bills in January.  The inexplicable loss of funds. The utter sense of emptiness and gloom at the end of the year.  I was shopping myself into oblivion without even realizing it.

"Mama?" she says.  "Are you listening?"

And I grab the corner of the table to stabilize myself.

"So, Mama, can I tell you my idea for this year?" she continues, oblivious to my impending heart attack.

"Sure, sweetheart. What is it?" I eek out, my cheeks all flushed, perspiration beginning to collect on my brow.

"Well, see, we all have pencils at our desks and little pencil sharpeners, but the sharpeners we have are for regular pencils, and they don't work on colored pencils because they're just a little bit thicker, and since we have both regular pencils and colored pencils in our own pencil boxes, it would make more sense if we all had little colored pencil sharpeners at our desks that sharpen BOTH kinds of pencils, so that we wouldn't have to stand in line to wait to use the electric sharpener."

She takes a deep breath.

And as the color begins to seep back into my face, I feel a smile overtaking me from head to toe. I mean, seriously, who is she kidding? She cannot possibly be this adorable. :)

And I'm off to Staples this afternoon.

[Incidentally, as I was googling for an image for this post, I typed in "group gifts." Eww...just don't. Not the combination I was looking for.]
...

IT'S OK, BABY, I CRY OVER MY BUDGET, TOO

Working on her budget

So, the monsters' school held their annual fundraiser, a holiday gift shop, which included trinkets and chincheria from a quarter up to $17.

But new this year was a little budget envelope that accompanied the flyer.  On it, were three columns: Name, Amount Budgeted, Amount Spent.  And then the whole thing was divided up into categories, like Family, Friends, Pets, and Others.

So, the kids sat down and started listing the folks they wanted to pick up gifts for.  It started out with 8, and ended up somewhere around 15.  Each. Mommy and I huddled to determine a reasonable budget max.  Then huddled twice after that to adjust and re-adjust it.

Upwards.

Is that a genetic trait? Spending?

Anyway...

Working on his budget
with Mommy

Gift Shoppe day finally arrives, which is clearly meant to be a charming holiday experience, as evidenced by the intentional use of the Old English spelling of "shoppe," with its aggressively quaint double p, and, therefore, providing implicit permission to thoroughly enjoy and spend at will, as opposed to "shop," which clearly means a bunch of flea market crap we got donated to us and are trying to hock to your children for their allowance money using the classic marketing tools of guilt and compassion.

Two. Hours. Later.  And Saia finally appeared to be done. I checked and rechecked her calculations, and was pretty pleased to see that she'd come in under budget by $5, which she promptly pocketed. :)

Santiago, however, took his right up to the very last penny. Not that there's anything wrong with that. He absolutely got his money's worth, and at least he didn't go over.

The 5th graders provided complimentary gift-wrapping with purchase, so the monsters insisted on getting the gifts that they'd bought for Mommy and I wrapped before we headed home.

When Saia was done, she came right up to me with a half-smile on her face.  She looked nervous. Something was wrong. And then she said, "Mama, you know that little jewelry box we picked out for Sally?"

"Yeah, baby."

Waiting to check out

"Well, did you like it?" she asks, forcibly stretching the corners of her mouth into an eerie joker-like grin.

"Um...yeah, I liked it fine, sweetheart. I think it's a perfect choice for Sally," I said a little tentatively.

"Well, good," she says, "because I wrapped it for you instead." Big cheesy smile.

"Wait. What?"

"I couldn't find the gift that I thought I bought for you, so I just picked out another gift from my bag and they wrapped that one for you. See, here it is," she rushes out.

"Oh, baby. I don't want something you picked out for someone else," I said. "I mean..."

But it was too late. The tears had begun to pour. Her cheeks flashed red. Her nose crinkled. And I began looking for a place to duck. Fast.

Getting her gifts
wrapped

I ushered her around the corner of the building just in time for her to burst, and then she let me have it.

"BUT, MAMA! IT'S A GIFT FROM ME!" she exclaimed. "HOW CAN YOU NOT WANT A GIFT FROM ME??!?!?!"

"Okay, okay, now, wait just a second, baby," I said, getting down onto my knees and trying to get her to focus on me and away from the hundred little demons perched on her shoulders ready to pounce.

"Clearly, you thought you'd put something for me into your bag, but maybe you set it down accidentally," I explained. "That would certainly explain why you had that $5 left over when we thought we had accounted for all of it, wouldn't it?"

"BUT MAMA!!!" she heaves. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST KEEP THE ONE I WRAPPED?!?!"

"For two reasons, mama.  One, you picked that out for Sally. And won't you be disappointed if you can't give that to her? And two, you had something else that you wanted to give to me. That you picked out for me. From you. And that's what I want from you. Not something intended for someone else," I say, suddenly realizing that I'm describing my own penchant for re-gifting with painfully stinging accuracy.

"BUT MAMA!?!? I DON'T WANNA GO BACK IN THERE!! THEY ALREADY SAW ME LEAVE!!"

"Oh, oh, oh..." I say, finally starting to get it. "Baby, there's nothing wrong with going back into a store to get something that you forgot. Mama does that ALL THE TIME.  And you have that money in your pocket already, so all you have to do is go back in, pick up the item that you probably set down, and get back in line to pay for it."

[Sniffle. Sniffle.]

"Are my eyes red?" she asks, wiping her cheeks.

"No, no," I say, blowing softly on her face, "You can't even tell you've been crying," and I kiss her red bulbous nose.

So, she smiles, turns on her heels, and skips off all Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hydish back into the shop.  About a minute later she comes running out...without a gift...money still in hand.

"Mama, can I have another dollar?" she says.

"What? No. That'll put you OVER budget now, babe," I whine.

"BUT, MAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAA!!!! IT'S FOR YOUUUUUUU!!!"

Oh, for pete's sake.  And I just handed over the damn bill.

Chago's Shopping Spree

...

wordless wednesday: please stop using social media, mom!!

THE COCK AND THE PEARL -- IT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK!!

Sitting in Saia's karate class tonight, flipping through my email, reminding Chago every two seconds to focus on his book, he's got twenty minutes left to do.

"Mom, I'm so boooooored with it already!" he says, slouching his shoulders, hanging his head, the whole nine dramatic yards.

"Alright, bubba. Let's find you something else."

[Whip out the iPhone. Scroll thru the eBooks library for new freebies. First children's author I see, I pick. It's alphabetical. It was Aesop.]

He reads solid for the next 35 minutes, gingerly flicking his finger to advance pages as he hops with relative ease from fable to fable to fable.  They're not new to him.  He's read them at home, but suddenly everything old is new again. It's just the gadgetphoria. I know. I get it.  He's all aglow in backlight.  I'm both proud and disgusted at the same time.

When we get home, though, he of course brags to Saia what he got to do while she was working.  Predictably, two seconds later, she says, "Mom, can I..."

"Yes, of course, Saia," I preempt. "Here you go."

So, I'm at the stove making dinner. Mommy's looking over Chago's shoulder as he draws.  And Saia's creepily fondling my iPhone, which, as an aside, suddenly makes me wonder if that's what I look like, all hunched over, fingers flying mindlessly, euphoric grin spreading across her face.  Nevermind, don't answer that.  And she suddenly shouts out, "Mom, what's a cock?"

I Dorothy Hammill spin, spatula in one hand, wine glass in the other, my mouth completely agape.  Amy gives me the what-the-hell-have-you-been-doing-with-your-iphone look.  And Chago, still drawing, waves his left hand above his head and says, "I know. I know."

As it turns out, she'd actually only benignly opened the Aesop's Fables ebook and was referring to the following story:

The Cock and The Pearl 

A cock was once strutting up and down the farmyard among the hens when suddenly he espied something shinning amid the straw. "Ho! ho!" quoth he, "that's for me," and soon rooted it out from beneath the straw. 

What did it turn out to be but a Pearl that by some chance had been lost in the yard? "You may be a treasure," quoth Master Cock, "to men that prize you, but for me I would rather have a single barley-corn than a peck of pearls."

Precious things are for those that can prize them.

Yeah. I know.  Go ahead and read it again.

So suddenly I'm kinda viewing Aesop a little more like Joey from Friends ("Grandma's chiiiiickeeen saaaalaaad").

Is EVERY fable he's ever written so sexually-laden (The Snake and The File, The Ass and The Enemy...)? How is it possible that all these years I never noticed the obvious subtext (The Crow and The Pitcher, The Golden Eggs...)?  Is it just me (The Fir and The Bramble, The Hart and The Vine...)?  It's an age thing, isn't it (The Trees and The Woodman, The Man That Pleased None...)?  And exactly how has someone in the porn industry not picked up on the golden marketing opportunity here?  I mean, you could really do an entire series...

Anyway...whole 'nother conversation.
...

THE CURIOUSLY RANCID CASE OF THE MISSING PANTS

"Santiago, what have you been doing with all your pants?!?!" I yell on Monday morning as I stare at the white plywood bottom of his pants drawer.

"What do you mean, Mom? Nothing! I don't even have any pants!!" he retorts.

"That's my point, papa," I say.

So, I text Mommy, "Do you have any of his pants over there? We have none over here. I don't know where they've all gone!"

"Nothing over here," she says. "They're probably strewn about his room, and in his dress-up box, and under the bed..."

So I traipse upstairs and literally tear their room apart, which, really, just gave me an even bigger heart attack because, jesusagechrist, how can two little bodies make such a horrendously phenomenal disaster disguised under a thin veil of "clean enough"??

But besides the 4 million bits and pieces of army guy body parts, transportation pieces, puzzle corners, crazy bands, legos, legos, and more legos, at least 5 mismatched socks, about 386 crayon halves, and an inordinate number of feathers (that I still can not, for the life of me, place), I didn't find a single. pair. of. pants.

So, I move on to Saia's closet. Could she have hijacked them? They wouldn't even fit her. Why would they be in here? And, of course, they weren't.

I searched suit cases, hall closets, toy boxes, bathroom cabinets, and old backpacks.  Running out of places to look, I began to resign myself to the fact that they just up and disappeared. Went the the way of the lost dryer sock.  Gone. For good. Out there in the in-between world of misplaced clothes. Stuck forever in laundry purgatory.

The laundry?

Hmm...

So, off I go to the garage, flip open the top of the washer and am immediately, brutally, olfactorily assaulted by the smell of 6-day-old wet clothes.

Case closed.
...

HAPPY TURKEY DAY, ONE AND ALL!

Personal Pumpkin Pies	The Spread
Did you get it ALL, Mama?	She insisted the cheese plate be closest to her
Can I eat it NOW, Mom?	Not waiting any longer!!
Cheers, Mommy!	Watching The Haunted marathon on Animal Planet

As for us, we made it through.

I woke up late today, sandwiched between two steamy little bodies who'd snuck in before the sun rose, all of us exhausted from Bubba's coughing and grunting and random bursts of "OUCH!" at his stinging prickly throat all night long.  So I took a poll, and we unanimously agreed to skip our regular morning leche and instead lounged in bed watching The Haunted marathon on Animal Planet for a couple of hours before finally springing down the stairs when suddenly I realized that I couldn't smell the turkey anymore.

Lovely new safety feature on my oven, turns out. Auto-shut-off.  Nice.

But everything made it to the table on time, regardless. That's the great thing about Thanksgiving. It's all day long.  Whenever the bird's ready, it's turkey time.  So, everyone gave thanks for all our blessings. Everyone used their manners, gobbled down their pie, and even cleaned off their place settings. And everyone managed to control their coughing, sneezing, sniffling, and moaning -- for at least an hour.

Then the kids and I spent the rest of the evening snuggled on the sofa, nursing our throats with herbal teas and finishing the last leg of The Haunted Animal Planet marathon.

Quiet. Uneventful. Comforting. And perfect.

Hope your Thanksgiving was everything you needed it to be, too.
...