I'm a lovely person. Really.

Tonight, I'm catching up on what's truly important.

I ate peanut butter toast, the dietary staple that I haven't consumed in about three weeks. I bet my skin has looked sallow and the sparkle has been missing from my eyes on account of this malnutrition.

I'm watching a new episode of Hoarders, the single greatest TV show ever, with the possible exception of the upcoming Steven Seagal: Lawman.

And I'm checking out Facebook for the first time in about 10 days. I have a few new friend requests. One of them features a photo of a girl I recognize from my sophomore year of high school. I don't remember this girl being super busty, but evidently she feels that's her claim to fame now. Her Facebook profile pic is ... umm ... in profile. And she's sticking out her ... umm ... assets.

But, to give her credit, she did include a personalized message with the friend request: "i remember u."

She didn't capitalize or spell out the last word, but she did punctuate. Hmm.

My dad once told me that I sure can hold a grudge, and I guess that's true. Because boobs and syntax aside, the one thing that came to mind when I figured out who this girl was this:

That bitch tried to steal my bike shorts in 1991.

Yes. It's true.

She transferred to my school in the middle of sophomore year. We were in the same PE class. And I had these really nice bike shorts that I got for my birthday. Because it was the early 90s and bike shorts were cool. And Boob Girl asked me if she could borrow them. Sirens went off in my brain, screaming, "Hell to the no! This new girl cannot be trusted!"

Because she was new. But mostly, she was shifty. But I wasn't practiced at listening to those important gut reactions. I handed over the shorts.

She kept giving me the runaround about getting them back. Finally, after two weeks, I called her house and told her aunt that I needed my shorts back because I was playing tennis the next day after school and I had to have my shorts. Which was a lie. I didn't play tennis (which is a story for another day). And I'm pretty sure that most athletes can, you know, be athletic-like in a variety of shorts. But I thought having a deadline was a good thing.

And Boob Girl brought me my shorts the next day. With a scowl and a smirk.

And then she transferred schools. Not because of the shorts, I'm guessing. But really? She was barely a blip on the educational radar of a group of kids who had mostly known each other since kindergarten.

I'm sure that was a tough situation for her. As an adult, I can appreciate that. But my inner 15-year-old is still pissed about the shorts.

I pretty much accept any Facebook friend invitation. However, on this one? I'm going to listen to that voice in my head that tells me that a) nothing positive will come of any affiliation with Boob Girl; and b) my daddy is right - I do hold a grudge.

Turkey sandwiches. Turkey tetrazzini. Turkey pot pie.

I have blogger guilt.

I've been a crappy blogger this fall. And it's Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, I blogged exactly twice last week, and I don't think I have anything terribly interesting to say now.

It's weird - I started blogging as an exercise in writing, as a way to get into a rhythm of writing for myself again. And then I made all these blog friends ... and now, sometimes? Sometimes, blogging feels like that e-mail that you know you need to respond to, and you know it will only take a few minutes, but sometimes? Sometimes, it just feels like yet another item on your to-do list.

You know?

I'm sure some of this feeling is due to the fact that today, I am faced with leaving my parents' house and returning to the real world. My week is jam-packed. And this long weekend doesn't feel long at all.

Lil' Frankfurter has been partially responsible for the perceived duration of my visit. It's hard to feel rested when, well, you're not.

See, Lil' Frank is generally unsettled the first night we're either visiting or someone is visiting us. That means that our first night here, Lil' Frank woke up every hour. He went outside at midnight and 4:10. After that last foray outside, he went right back to sleep ... and I was awake for an hour. Too bad we aren't one of those families who get up in the middle of the night to put the 89-pound turkey in the oven, because I was so there.

The last few nights have been better, but Lil' Frank is still not in his element. And he's had a few accidents around the house. And he's been obsessed with the closed doors and toys that were purposely placed out of his reach. And, he got carpet burn on the pads of his feet again and bled all over creation.

Basically, he's been a high-maintenance nightmare. I have a feeling my folks will be not-so-sad to see us go.

And, truthfully, I'm emotionally tender. Last Thanksgiving, I lost the Geriatric Poodle. So, there's that.

But, sleep deprivation or no, I have much to be thankful for. I've had a great time with my family. We are all healthy. We have been laughing a lot. We are warm and safe and have the luxury of being sick and tired of turkey.

I wish the same for you.

Insert witty title here.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pilgrim porn.

As you do.

I figured I could write a post about the possible porn titles for different holidays – everything from Arbor Day (think of all the variations on “log”) to Daylight Savings (spring forward, anyone?). And then I decided that I didn’t want my blog to come up in those creepy Google searches. And besides, can you really beat a Fisher-Price pilgrim with a porn stache?

No, you cannot.

But here’s something that made me cackle. I’m thankful for the Muppets. And I’m thankful for all of the wonderful friends I’ve met through blogland. Enjoy.

I got your Thanksgiving right here.

I have been doing my best to ignore the Christmas music that's been playing not on one, but two, TWO local radio stations since November 1.

And I'm turning the channel whenever a Hey-It's-Christmas-Let's-All-Consume! ad comes on TV. I'm trying to make peace with the fact that those awful Gap ads will be playing nonstop for the next month.

And I'm even giving folks with their Christmas lights up the benefit of the doubt, thinking that the lights are up only because it's been nice, and folks are worried bad weather might impede regularly-scheduled light set-up.

See? I'm a giver.

And I'm trying to give thanks. But sometimes it feels like we are small band, as the world jumps from Halloween immediately to Christmas. In other words, eat a bunch of candy and dress like a whore, then immediately buy a bunch of overpriced plastic crap that you don't need.

I know! I don't know why other countries hate us, either.

I also don't know why Thanksgiving seems to be a dying holiday. I think it's pretty kick-ass. What's not to like about eating good food and being mindful of your blessings?

In my yoga class today, the instructor talked about giving thanks for the big little things ... clean water, our bodies' abilities to practice yoga, not missing a meal.

And that got me thinking about the grave injustice that got me so stinkin' mad yesterday.

See, My Guy has this truly hideous fake tree that the previous owners left at his house. If a palm tree and a piece of green construction paper had a baby, it would look like this tree.

We decided that since he's hosting his family for Thanksgiving that we should decorate The Thanksgiving Tree. So, we bought some ugly decorations at Michaels. And we made turkey hand print ornaments out of construction paper. This was, of course, my excuse to buy a new box of crayons.

Now, there are few things I love in this world more than a new box of crayons. I love the way they smell. I love the orderly way all the even points line up in the box. There's just something so clean and fresh about a new box of crayons - it's about hope and faith and all that is good and right with the world.

Except.

Except, upon opening my brand-new box of 96 Crayolas, I realized that someone had flipped open the top part of the box and used some of my new crayons. Like, maybe someone had tested out the crayons at Target, then plopped the run-down crayons back in the box.

Who would do such a thing?

So, I'm trying to be thankful for my ability to buy a new box of crayons even though it's not the beginning of the school year. And I'm trying to be gracious about whatever random teenager coloring with my crayons. I'm trying to have Thanksgiving in my heart, even if the world around me jumped to Christmas.

The world around me, except for some neighbors who posted what is supposed to be a Thanksgiving flag outside their door. It features pilgrims that look sort of like Fisher-Price people ... except that the guy pilgrim totally has a porn 'stache. Now, every time I walk by that house, I think, "Pilgrims! Bow chicka bow wow!" Which is not really the spirit of Thanksgiving at all.

Do you think there's pilgrim-themed porn? "Oh, Captain Standish ... now I know why your first name is Miles!"

Random much?

I feel like I've been cheating with blogging this week. Yeah, I'll tell you a story ... but I'm gonna crib some movie dialogue or a funny video to pad it all out. You know, so you feel like you're getting your money's worth.

Oh, wait. Reading blogs is free. Whatever.

So lemme tell you the real dirt.

My editorial partner in crime, Dorothy, scored her dream job. Like, angels brought it down from heaven and gently deposited it in her lap while Bon Jovi performed "Livin' on a prayer."

Yes, it's that good.

I am sooooo excited for her. But I've been in a bit of shock-o-rama. We're gearing up for the busiest time at Corporate Behemoth, and the game just changed. And, I'm going to miss my friend.

And, I have cramps.

So, there's that. And I'm still mad as hell about my boob doctor 90-second experience on Monday. And I'm comforted yet completely pissed off that many folks have had similar experiences. Instead of "Livin' on a prayer," many of us have had boob doctor encounters with more of a "Highway to hell" soundtrack.

Now, I love AC/DC as much as the next girl. But their music does not symbolize what I'm looking for in medical care. I will admit, though, that Metallica's "Enter sandman" played as I parked my car at Cancer Pavilion! on Monday, and I felt like a football player going into battle.

Obviously, my brain is everywhere this week.

So, happy weekend to me and to you. I'm going to watch football and do laundry and avoid doctors. What's on tap for you?

My wife's boyfriend broke my jaw with a fencepost.

I have kind of been having this week, you know?

And so, I've taken great delight in the discovery of my two new personal heroes, Rhett and Link. They make epic commercials for local businesses.

Really. Businesses like the Salt Lake Community College Barbering and Cosmetology School - An Unlicensed Salon. And TDM Auto Sales / Cuban Gynecologist in High Point, North Carolina. Really.

But this one is my favorite. C'mon down to Cullman Liquidation and git yo'self a home. Or don't. I don't care.



Check out ilovelocalcommercials.com for more goodness.

Fly the friendly skies.

On my flight to Boston last week, I had two people fighting over the seat next to me. Because I am just that awesome.

Actually, some princess with sunglasses the size of a hubcap wanted to sit next to me so that she wouldn't be in the back of the plane. But the guy whose actual seat it was was all, "Uh, this is my seat. Beyotch."

And so, I met Jim.

Jim and I talked for the duration of the two-hour flight. And not in an oh-Jeezus-leave-me-alone sort of way, or a creepy-stalker-guy sort of way. Just in a we-would-totally-be-friends-in-real-life sort of way.

I love talking to new people - everybody has a story, and real life is way more interesting than anything you could make up. Jim told me about his wife and daughter, and the daughter's autism, and what they're doing for Christmas, and his his recent sinus surgery. And I told Jim about Corporate Behemoth and the burden of outfitting a home without the benefit of a bridal registry and what it was like to be present at my grandma's death.

Because sometimes, it's easier to talk to strangers about intimate things than it is to talk to people you really know. It's like gravity - it just is. See also: blogging.

Jim left me with three awesome takeaways:

1. A kick-ass plane ride that went by in a flash

2. This kind comment as we were getting off the plane: "I've so enjoyed talking with you, Cha Cha. I can't believe you're not married - you're such fun and such a catch." Which totally made up for this summer's "Good luck ever getting married" debacle.

3. Anticipation for the most awesome advertising campaign. See, Jim works in marketing ... marketing of ... well, feminine hygiene. Yes. We talked about tampons and pads and menstruation. And we both agreed that some man wrote the whole "Have a happy period" slogan. Because, seriously? Also, did you know that Tampax invented modern feminine products?

Yeah, me neither.

Anyway, Kotex launched a campaign in Australia that will hit the U.S. in the spring.

It features this guy.

Yeah. Take care of your beaver.

I know it's sort of low-brow, but come on. It's a fact of life, so we might as well laugh about it. And this made me cackle.



And you're welcome.

Image courtesy of Google Images.