Gratitude

We are so thankful.

This is our Thankful Turkey.

He has appeared at our house each and every November 1st since 1991.

The turkey starts without feathers. Every day each of us adds a feather (or two or ten) that states something for which we're thankful.

Our thanks run from the mundane "Mom's cooking," to the practical "the fireplace," to the somewhat absurd "nasal spray." We are thankful for friends and family, coffee, that my mom is recovering well from her surgery, for our pets, and on and on.

When the kids were little, the ever-expanding feathery-ness of the turkey helped to underscore how many, many things we have to be thankful for in our daily lives.


And it didn't hurt for the adults to be reminded of this, either...

Good Morning...

What greets you first thing in the morning?

Perhaps it's the glory of flowers basking in the sun's rays...

Maybe it's that first cup of coffee, steaming hot and oh, so indispensable...

It could be the grandeur of a sunrise... or the melodic laughter of a wee one.

But if you're me, you are greeted each day by something much more unique than any of the above.

In fact, it's furry, goofy and frankly, a little stinky.

No, it's not my darling husband.

There's nothing quite like waking each morning, turning over, and being greeted by this:

Oh, yes.

It's good to be me...

Sort of.

What's that smell?

My seemingly never-ending search for holiday bargains online has led to more and more store-related email finding its way into my gmail.

The other day, I opened my gmail to find this:

Well, not exactly this but something, unbelievably, inspired by these guys, who, by the way, are members of the Swiss Army.

Who knew the Swiss even had an army?
And besides, even now knowing they do have an army, why would the poster boys (gals) of military neutrality even need to dress in camouflage?


But I digress...

What is this fabulous consumer product inspired by the Swiss Army?
A Swiss army gun, complete with toothpick and scissors?
A -40 degree sleeping bag for those nights spent in the Alps?


Au contraire.
Apparently, the Swiss Army has a secret weapon.

Yes, that's right. For only $23.99, you too may project an aroma of neutrality with either Swiss Army cologne for men or, believe it or not, Swiss Army perfume for women. There's even an androgynous version for those who take non-alignment to heart.
Both fragrances tout their "refreshing" fragrance, complete with tones of "moss... and musk."Now, I don't know about you, but I have never really been attraced to a military muskiness. The men in my life are fully capable of generating an army aroma all their own with seemingly very little effort and even less expense.
And personally, I think it would be somewhat negligent of me to encourage my teenage daughter to wear eau de barracks to high school.

No word yet on whether Swiss Army Fragrance has become standard issue. If so, let's hope the Swiss maintain their neutrality.
I doubt it would take long for enemy combatants to identify that telltale scent of Edelweiss and citrus...

Home for the Holidays

Last night's "Hallmark" moment was brought to me by my family.
My family.
For the first time in months, we all were home together.
We spent the evening gathered around the fireplace, talking, laughing, reminiscing. Even the dog and the cats joined us in family reverie.
It occurred to me then how our definition of family and "coming home" changes with time. I used to consider "home" wherever my parents were, as I'm sure my kids still do today. We moved so often in my childhood that there was never a specific "place" that I equated with home; "home" was wherever my family was.
Now, home is my own house, with my husband and children. We're going to my mom's for Thanksgiving this year, but that's not going home for me.
And someday, my house will be "Grandma's house," too. As my children find love and marriage and have children of their own, my house won't be their "home" any longer.
And that's the way it should be.
I do think, however, that "home" will always be the place where we gather with our family.
Home is not a place.
It's the people we love.

Coupons Shmoopons

This poverty post is brought to you by the ubiquitous Entertainment Book.

I generally avoid purchasing entertainment books or other coupon-type deals. The last time I purchased an entertainment book was at least 10 years ago when it was being used as a fundraiser at my son's school. The book and all its coupons were put in the kitchen drawer, where they sat, untouched, until we moved several years later.

Since then, I've managed to avoid buying them, therefore saving at least $20 a year x 10.

Wow.

Unfortunately, this year I fell prey to was approached by a sweet young teen fundraising for the school chorus at fall conferences. Poor girl, her sales sheet was nearly empty, save for a purchase by a relative or two.

Who was I to deny her dreams of choral glory?

Besides, it was either the coupon book or frozen strudel.

I nearly bought the frozen strudel when I came to my senses and realized the coupon book, at $20, was less expensive and did not need cold storage.

Yesterday I spent a good half hour perusing the book, taking note of various deals and offers we might be able to use. DH has already gotten a $17.01 pizza for free, thanks to the book.

I still think I would have been better off without the coupon book, but I'm bound and determined to get my money's worth this time.

Next year, I'll better plan my route through the school during conferences to avoid the fundraising tables.

Hey, at least I didn't come home with one of the art club's painted pumpkins...

Gender Bender

Remember Brunhilde?

From the day the chicks arrived in early September, Brunhilde was the most assertive: the first to eat, the first to drink, the first to come for attention.

When all the other chicks were scared, Brunhilde would always venture forth.

She is a take-charge kind of girl.

Or rather, I should say, "was."

No, Brunhilde didn't die.

She crowed.

Yep, in the last couple of weeks, we'd noticed that Brunhilde continued to outpace her sisters in size. Gosh, even her comb was much larger than the other ladies'.

Some of us became a little suspicious of her, shall we say, persuasion, while others of us lived in denial.

It simply couldn't be true.

Then it happened. Early one morning as Sarah let the chickens out of the coop, Brunhilde ruffled herself up and let out a strangled, slightly mangled, "Cock-a-doodle-doo."

The revelation was met by shock, a few tears, and several "I-told-you-so's."

We finally had to acknowledge the truth.

Our little girl was actually... (gulp)... a guy.

What we had mistaken for femine assertiveness and henish sass turned out merely to be the result of testerone surging through her his hollow little bones.

If we lived in the country, having a rooster would be great.

Unfortunately, within the city limits, roosters are verboten.

Apparently city folks don't like to hear 'em crow.

Now, I love the sound of roosters crowing. It takes me back to the summers of my childhood spent on my grandma's farm. Bright and early every morning, the roosters would start in crowing. I find it a funny and comforting sound.

Alas, while de-crowing is possible, it certainly isn't humane.

Our days with Brunhilde Bruno are numbered.

Fortunately, our veterinarian has agreed to find him a good home; one that won't end in the soup pot.

We'll miss you Bruno.

And so will all your ladies...

From a Friend...

I couldn't agree more...