Guess what, I took exactly ZERO pictures yesterday on Thanksgiving. So I stole Josh’s.
I don’t know what came over me.
Anyway, so yesterday was Thanksgiving. It was lovely, really, all the food and sugar and food and people.
But I have to admit something: Thanksgiving doesn’t feel real anymore.
That sounds strange I know, but it’s really the only way I can think of to describe it.
I’ve had lots of Thanksgivings, from the legendary McRib Thanksgiving of 19something to awkward high school holiday sharing with boyfriend family, pregnant Thanksgivings, everything you can think of pretty much.
And it’s always a blast. I love my family – both sides and every person involved, and it’s never been a stress or a chore for me. Josh gets to cook, I get to bake, and everyone gets to eat. It’s fun stuff.
This year was fun, but….different. The meals were over and I was left with a huge feeling of anticlimax.
Maybe I’m just getting older, maybe Lucy was bratting it up because she’s getting new teeth. Maybe I was just in a weird mood, maybe the moon was in Shintippies and my oodles were noogin, but I think holidays may need to change a bit.
Come with me into my vision.
The day arrives with no less preparation. The kitchen is full of dishes and smells so thick you can taste every spice and ingredient. The fridge is packed, the oven is humming, and every bit of counter space is either messed or full of waiting pyrex.
BUT…no one is in a flurry. There is no ticking clock.
The kids watch movies in their pajamas, football takes over the bigscreen, and we sit outside in shifts with mimosas and lattes.
Family arrives, family from ALL THREE SIDES, and instead of a big production of sitdown and proper…they just join in the day. Watching football, having conversations. The focus isn’t on minutes wasted or time shared and split. The focus is on being together. Enjoying each other with a mutual understanding of ease and fun. People leave, people arrive. Instead of stuffing face over a couple of hours, the whole day is there to be taken. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Whatever, whenever.
I’m willing to bet the day would wind down with a much more peaceful atmosphere.
Anyway. Maybe it’s just a pipe dream. Maybe it can really happen.
So you’ve stuck around this long, huh?
Want to know who the winner is?
Kim, email me or give me a shout on Twitter. I’ll hook you up.
I love giveaways. That was fun. Maybe I’ll do it again sometime.
(Last night was the election, but to spare you political yammering, I’ve asked Lindsey from Campfire Song to grace us with her presence. I found her on Twitter, and I think I love her. Also, if you’re new here, you can follow me using one of the buttons on the right. I love it when people do that.)
When I asked Emily for a topic to write about today, she suggested, among other things, maxi pads.
I really wanted to write about maxi pads, just to see if I could do it.
Annnnd, I couldn’t.
But I thought for a few days about her suggestion, and what maxi pads mean in the world today… or at least who uses them.
Here goes – sort of.
I’ve never really considered myself to be a feminine woman. I know I’m attractive and all that, but somehow I’ve always thought of myself as slightly masculine. It might be the short haircuts I sported during my teen years or the fact that I’m an awful dresser or that I don’t have a cutesy voice or that many of my friends are men – I don’t know.
At face value I can identify myself as a woman in terms of being a wife, mother, sexual being – but what power does being “woman” give me? What makes me special to the world as a female? What do I offer that a male can’t?
Femininity can’t be all about hemlines and boobs and a sultry perfume, right?
Are my best qualities what they are because of my gender, or my personality? What makes me different from my husband, for example, might be
• my sensitivity
• my generous spirit
• my ability to make our house a home
• my desire to take care
• my drive to do what’s right, even facing adversity
• my profound ability to talk (much like every other woman, right?)
Recognizing the benefits of the female gender is difficult for me because both sexes have their strengths and purpose. Many of my best (and worst) traits are also shared by men. An individual’s actions don’t represent the entire gender. And gender transformations lend to the idea that femininity might not be all about biology or looks, either.
Maybe it’s… a feeling?
Some women don’t feel like women unless they’re done up in the mornings. I don’t feel feminine without a great hairstyle. For some it’s clothing, others it’s pampering, yet others it’s attention from their men that makes them feel powerful.
To me it seems to be something that’s in our heads. It’s a desire to embrace who we truly are, without conforming to societal expectations, that allows us to truly be feminine.
Have you ever wondered why you were born the sex you are? Or what your responsibility (if any) is to fulfill that role in your life? I’m still figuring out what my femininity is for.
Because some days (like when I’m 40 weeks pregnant or PMSing) I’m sure it’s a curse.
Lindsey is mom to four kiddos under the age of five. She writes at Campfire Song about life as a military wife and SAHM, growing up, social media and funny stuff. She’s @dashingly on Twitter, and she sometimes haunts Facebook too.
As you may recall, I’ve talked once or twice lately about a contest I’m a finalist in.
There’s this website, http://www.inthepowderroom.com, and the best way I can think of to describe it is like a mom/women online magazine/talk show. They have daily articles that are hilarious, timely, sometimes poignant, and always at least a little thought provoking.
They’ve had a contest to fill a “permanent blogger” spot, which basically means that the winner has a static gig of one published article a week, a spot in the community, and moves up at least six points on the stalkable scale.
I want it, I won’t lie.
I have wanted something like this for years. An audience. Motivation. A reason to watch some TV (you know, for cultural relevance).
A “hey, you’re not bad at this, come be a part of us.”
I never said I wasn’t needy.
So, the contest runs until the end of the month. One vote per person/IP address is permitted.
You can vote by clicking here, which should open up your email with the subject “emylibef”. Just send it, that’s a vote.
I’m being featured on the site today, and if you’ve come from ITPR to check me out, then read this because it’s my favorite recent post.
I will work my ass off for this. And as anyone who knows me knows, I don’t have much in the way of ass. Flab I’ve got, but ass is precious.
And mine is yours.
I deliberately skipped day 12, because it was about a musical artist’s life story and I thought it was stupid.
So, here goes this:
day 13 – a memory that never fails to make you laugh
Without embarrassing my husband too completely, I will answer this honestly.
Who am I kidding? He married me, he had to expect to be exploited.
Years ago, we lived downtown in a lovely little house. Terrible heating and cooling, and not enough bedrooms, but the location was great, the floors were hardwood, and every time we drive by now we wish we still lived there.
Anyway, one night we didn’t have the kids (there were only two back then, you know, meeeeeemories), Josh broke out a bottle of muscadine wine which I still don’t know why we had. It was made fairly locally and had no alcohol percentage content on the label, so we thought, you know, no way this can end badly.
The wine was like hot nasty liquid shit in a bottle, so I declined more than a sip (and that’s saying a LOT, because I am all about making generous allowances in the name of alcohol). It was late and I was pretty tired, so I soon after went to bed. Josh wanted to watch SlingBlade (because wine and Billy Bob just seems like a natural progression), so he stayed up.
After….I don’t know, an hour? I woke up to strange sounds from the living room…which, in that house, was about 15 feet from where I slept.
I got up and steeled myself for whatever I might find (which, dude, we had a ghost in that house. Anything could have been waiting) and opened the door.
All the lights were off, the movie was still playing, and the bottle of wine sat empty in front of my husband, who sat with the biggest shiteating grin I’ve ever seen.
Just that moment, that instant, in my sleepy fog with my husband talking like Karl and grinning for all he was worth like it was Christmas Day and he’d gotten a box of puppies and cheesecake, that is one of the funniest things my warped, seizure addled mind will ever recall in full detail.
“Learning to love comment moderation…”
That’s what it says, there at the top of my dashboard homepage. It’s a help topic, for people who I assume don’t like the extra step of having to scan through the comments the first few times someone leaves a thought on their site. A bone thrown for the truly lazy ones, I suppose – or those against any censorship. Or those who ENJOY the “Size DOES matter!!!” comments.
Anyway, I digress.
I like comment moderation. I’d like to have that feature in my real life.
For instance, last night we went to a soiree at a local curiosity shop – a friend of ours invited us, and we decided to stop in and have some wine and a look around. I found myself sucked into the birdcages, wanting to send them across the ocean for the twins’ nursery, eyeing vintage chandeliers, and lusting shamelessly over a striped settee…while sipping white wine and chatting with friends we’d found hiding in the back.
My friend Michaele and I were introduced to a gentleman who also happened to be a hairdresser, and as Michaele made her purchases she mentioned that her long, wavy hair was in need of a trim. Just an inch or two. I agreed with her, that mine, too, had gotten decidedly too long and needed attention.
“Oh, god, yes, ” he said, looking over his expensive glasses and sending us both right back to junior high in the self esteem department. He stood up and ran a hand through first Michaele’s hair and then mine, and then he disappeared.
Um, what? Now, listen, my hair is a little too long, but it’s NOT THAT BAD. It needs a trim. Which I was freely admitting. There is really no need to kick a girl when she’s down. I looked over at Michaele and she was clearly just as miffed. I mean, really.There was wine, there was cheese. Cookies. This was a joyous night. Why on Earth did our hair have to be the downfall?
Not a moment’s peace, however. Not a moment. Here he was with his silver hair and his creamy business cards, spouting off business hours so we could get “taken care of.”
Needless to say, his comments would have been moderated. If only.