Saving Boo Radley

Save Boo Radley

Hi. My name be Boo Radley. I am a 15-week-old male kitten who was abandoned in Two Mile Creek Park (Forsyth County, GA). I may not be the youngest or the prettiest kitten looking for a home, but I am a bundle of pure, fuzzy LOVE. Please help me find a forever home!

On December 26, Mike & I set out for a romantic sunset walk in one of our favorite Forsyth County parks…and discovered a wee, tiny unwanted Christmas “gift” from the Universe.  Some {bleepity bleep, bleep} person abandoned a scrawny 15-week-old kitten to fend for himself among the local coyotes and hawks.  I know he was abandoned & not the offspring of some random stray/feral cat because he loves people.  I mean he loves, loves, LOVES people.  He was running up to every human creature who passed and meowing his little head off.

I used to work in Humane Societies so you know….couldn’t leave him out there shivering and starving and begging every passing stranger for love.  The first time I fed him, he would eat a few bites, then run over and hug me, then run back to eat a few bites, then run over to hug me again, etc. 

Yeah….so he is exceptionally sweet-natured.  Because I am an honest person, I will tell you he is not exactly pretty.  He will not be winning any kitten beauty contests.  He is pale, painfully skinny, loud and always a bit dirty.  I’ve named him Boo Radley.  Mike says that is an awful kitten name and I should go with Smudge (which was my first thought) or Two Mile (yuck!), but I feel my little rescue foster kitten needs a literary name because I am going to be a published author soon and nothing says “serious writer” like naming random pets after famous literary characters.  I tried to get a picture of him sitting on my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, but that did not go so well because I am NOT a good pet photographer & Boo is NOT a fan of sitting.  But he will do this:

Boo Radley Relaxing

Hi. Boo Radley again. I am not 100% all the time wiggle worm. I can chill for a few minutes. See?

In case you are wondering if, or even thinking of suggesting I should keep him.  The rest of my household (Michael the Beloved, Tessa the Dog & Zoey the Cat) got together and voted on Issue Kitten:

  1. NO!! (Mike)
  2. No thanks, but will you rub my belly? (Tessa)
  3. I HATE THAT SCRAWNY LITTLE BEAST, I HATE YOU FOR BRINGING HIM INTO MY DOMAIN AND I AM HIDING IN WEIRD PLACES UNTIL HE IS GONE. (Zoey)

So…..Boo Radley kitten needs a forever home.  Soon please!  Anyone out there want a kitten or know someone who wants a kitten? 

He’s been to see the LOVELY staff at Crestview Animal Hospital in Cumming and was given a clean bill of health.  He received his first round of feline vaccinations (2 more rounds will be needed over the next 2 months) and his rabies vaccine.  I’ve scheduled an intake evaluation with the Humane Society of Forsyth County for 1/6/12 and will post on Craig’s List.  But please spread the word.

SAVE BOO RADLEY!!!!!

NOTE:  I have invested over $150 in this little bundle’s future well-being and am willing to drive him almost anywhere in Georgia to get him into a good home.  That said, I am asking that anyone who adopts him make out a check for $50-$75 payable to “Humane Society of Forsyth County.”

Advertisements

Winter’s Garden (Not your typical Christmas story)

Fair warning my friends…this is a dark and twisted little Christmas story.  The first line popped into my head back in 2007 and rattled around my brain like Marley’s ghost until I was forced to sit myself down and write it out….

The Holly Bears the Crown by Jenny Downing

WINTER’S GARDEN

My mother grieved in flowers; that’s why I loved the snow.

I was only five years old when a rainbow of violas invaded the front yard the same day we watched Granny Shirley’s casket lowered into the ground.  After that, every pansy’s gaily-colored monkey face reminded me of the graveyard stench of open earth and sorrow.  Less than a year later, billows of white spider mums were blooming in place of Grandpa Ben.  Abercrombie, my lop-eared bunny, disappeared beneath a blue cloud of catmint outside my bedroom window the week before I started third grade.

On my ninth birthday, Mother shook me awake in the pearly predawn light to help her dig two identical holes for Angel Lace hydrangeas by the back porch steps.  This is how I learned Aunt Zoë’s newborn twins were never coming home from the hospital.  Is it any wonder that the sight of a freshly plowed flowerbed burned in my stomach like acid?

Most children looked forward to summer, yearning for sun-drenched days of freedom.  Not me.  At my house, warm weather brought an endless cycle of digging, weeding, watering and pruning.  Summer was crawling around the peony hedge, the swollen blooms oozing fat black ants into my hair.  Summer was fingers and forearms shredded by the thorns of heirloom roses.  Summer was angry hornets hemorrhaging from the filthy tangle of honeysuckle vine that climbed our brick chimney.  In the spring, we tilled and hoed to prepare for the flowers.  In the autumn we raked and hauled to put the flower beds down for their winter’s nap.  How I yearned for the dark, frozen months of winter!

My letters to Santa never asked for dolls or games.  My letters begged for the chance to live among the elves and the reindeer at the North Pole.  Eventually, I realized Santa wasn’t going to be rescue me, but I still clung to the magical promise of permafrost.  Somehow winter’s wonderland got twisted around in my mind so that I believed grief was impossible in winter.  Cold equaled safety.  The frozen earth’s inability to accept new plantings somehow seemed to prevent new tragedies until spring’s thaw.

“That danged ugly garden gnome,” Daddy muttered one sweltering Saturday afternoon as we dodged bumblebees to clip back an overzealous lilac bush.  “That’s where this whole mess started.”

I shrugged and kept clipping, feigning disinterest.  Daddy wouldn’t bad mouth Mother’s garden if he thought I was taking what he said to heart.

“It was a wedding gift, but we couldn’t find the card,” Daddy said, using the story as an excuse to stop and blot his neck with a limp handkerchief.  “Never did figure out who gave it to us.  Your Momma acted like that gnome was the best gift she ever received.  So I put the devil in the backyard next to a pretty little clump of wild iris.  Your momma said it was rude not to make a true garden.  Said it looked like we didn’t appreciate the gift.  She started planting a little of this and some of that…pretty soon we were surrounded by this crazy prison of white trellis, mulch and seed catalogs you see today.”

Laughing Gnome by Gareth1953Daddy tucked away the handkerchief and brandished his pruning shears. “Wish I could figure out who gave us that cursed statue.  I’d cut off their nose.”

“But I’ve never seen a garden gnome, Daddy.”

This brought out his most wicked smile.  “Hid the darned thing under a tangle of blackberry bramble when you were still in diapers,” he confessed.  “Didn’t do any good though.”

When Daddy was replaced with Bayou Red begonias bleeding along the west fence, I went looking for that mythical garden gnome.  He was a chipped and mossy mess when I dug him out of the bramble. I pounded the thing to bits and buried the powdery pieces under those horrible begonias, but the flowers of misfortune bloomed on.

It was the study of ecology and environmental sciences that finally paved my escape from Mother’s garden.  Graduate studies up in Maine led to a doctorate thesis exploring the effects of climate change in arctic ecosystems, which opened the door to my dream job—working for the United States Arctic Research Commission.  Through it all, my illogical, thoroughly unscientific belief in the evil influence of flowers and the safety of winter’s freeze remained, uncontested by fate, all the way into my thirty-seventh year.

Last year.

I arrived home for the holidays on a frozen winter’s evening to findStriped Amaryllis by Muffet Candy Cane amaryllis forcing their unnatural blooms on every single windowsill at Mother’s house and…well, I went a little crazy.  I ran around the house at least eight times cursing the red and white flowers that bloomed with smug indifference to my hysteria.

Poor Aunt Zoë had to brave the cold without a coat to wrestle me into Mother’s kitchen.  Over steaming cups of chamomile tea, she tried very hard to tell me about the star-shaped tumor deeply rooted in Mother’s brain and the importance of keeping everything calm and quiet.  But my own brain refused to listen, refused to let me sit still until every single flowerpot in the house was hidden in the basement. Then I started collecting the seed catalogs so I could throw them all into the fire.

It was the letters to Santa that stopped my manic rampage.  My letters.  I found them tied together with a green ribbon, sitting on the hearth.  Hugging these artifacts, I stumbled upstairs and curled up like a cat at the foot of my mother’s bed.  Her eyes opened long enough to focus on me and settle her hand on my head before drifting back to sleep.

“Hollyhocks,” she whispered her pet name for me.

“Just Holly,” I whispered back, more out of habit than any real defiance.

In the morning, I hunched over the kitchen table shuffling through the letters. Not one of my letters to Santa had been opened.  Each envelope was still sealed shut, each flap carefully decorated with fading-but-intact snowflakes.  When Mother sat across from me in her old brown velvet robe, I needed to ignore how small and frail she looked so I kept my eyes glued to the envelopes.

“If you didn’t want to read them, you could have just let the post office take them,” I said.

“I couldn’t risk it,” she answered.

“Why on Earth not?”

“Pride.”

I stared at her, struggling not to jump up and scream.

“You see,” she continued, looking down at the brightly colored envelopes between us, “I couldn’t run the risk he would read them.”

“Who?  The mailman?” I practically growled at her.

“No, Santa,” she replied as if the answer was obvious.  “Is there any peppermint tea?”

Aunt Zoë arrived minutes later and hushed my questions with a warm bear hug.  “Tried to warn you last night,” she murmured the words in my ear. “When she talks pure nonsense, remember it’s a brain tumor, Holly.”

That evening, Mother asked, “Have you written a letter to Santa this year?”

I told myself, it’s a brain tumor.

“Holly, where is the advent calendar?  What will Santa think if there’s no advent calendar?”

Brain tumor.

“I have to be sure I’m packed and ready when Santa gets here.”

Brain tumor.

Thankfully, our jabber-talky episodes were few and far between.  Most of the time, Mother slept.  One minute she would be listing off the classification groups for dahlias, the next minute she would be deep asleep sitting straight up.  Sometimes, she would be still and silent for so long, I had to tip toe over to her and listen for the sound of her breath.  But after a few days, as the words coming out of her mouth became more and more bizarre, I learned to love the hours when she slept.  Relief would wash over me and I would allow myself to relax.  So careless!  I should have remembered…brain tumor.

When Mother fell asleep in front of the fire around noon on Christmas Eve, I let myself totally unwind into the blissful absence of her chatter.  All my tension, stress and disbelief over the discovery of Mother’s illness must have been lurking under the surface.  There was a book in my hands, but overwhelming weariness claimed me as the day turned bitter cold and faded into the heavy gray color of snow-burdened clouds.

Christmas Lights by Jenny DowningI slept through the twilight and the first drops of freezing rain, and continued to sleep as three inches of ice encased everything around my childhood home before the winter storm ended with a final flourish of snowflakes. As I enjoyed a deep dreamless sleep, our world was transformed into the sort of glittering, gorgeous winter wonderland I used to desire with such a ferocious intensity.

I finally jolted awake just before dawn.  The air in our living room was so frigid, I could see my breath.  The fire had turned to useless ash.  The TV was black, the lights were dark and greenish glow of the electric clock was missing.  The house was entirely silent.

My first coherent thought was, too cold for Mother.

Disoriented, I stood up and stared at the front door.

Open? Impossible.  Wrong.

The strange, unearthly glow of white snow and lingering moonlight turned the house into a foreign place.

Too cold for Mother.

Mother wasn’t in her chair.  Her bed was empty.  She wasn’t in the bathroom.  From the kitchen window I caught sight of an empty black rectangle where the garage door should have been.

The garden.  In times of trouble she always headed for the garden.Enrobed by Jenny Downing  An image of my sickly mother standing in the snow wearing her thin flannel nightgown and yellow rubber clogs hit me with such force; I thought that had to be the answer.  Flashlight in hand, I rushed outside wearing my slippers and found her footprints in the fresh snow.  They led toward the back gate, but abruptly stopped just outside our fence.  From there, unbroken snow stretched as far as I could see.  It didn’t make any sense.

I called for her over and over until my throat was raw with abuse.  Still I screamed for her, desperation turning my voice into a stranger’s.  A neighbor must have heard my screaming and called 911. When the snow around me started pulsing with blue and red light, something deep inside shattered and I collapsed into a heap.

I was still in a heap when the police found me.

The rest of that Christmas day is nothing but a series of nightmare flashes.  Lights.  Faces.  Endless questions.  Neighbors wearing winter coats and boots over their nightclothes; a pajama army armed only with cell phones and shovels slip-sliding through the neighborhood.  An ambulance with no patient, the back door hanging open.  A copper furred police dog with velvet ears and a desperate braying bark.  A freckled firefighter who cried while my eyes stayed dry.

We never found Mother.  No one ever found her.

Drones with social service duties came and asked questions…always the same questions.  I knew I should be insulted, even horrified by what their questions implied, but I was empty.  When they asked if anything else was missing, I never told them the truth.  I’d found mother’s clogs in the hall closet.  Her gardening gloves and hat were hanging in their place in the garage.  But my letters to Santa were gone.

I didn’t tell anyone that tidbit, not even Aunt Zoë.  Why?  Because of the footprints.  They just stopped.  Impossible as it sounds, I saw the evidence with my own eyes.

It’s been a year since Mother vanished and another Christmas Eve is here.  I’m still in Mother’s house, waiting, unable to leave.  So I baked massive amounts of cookies and placed a heaping plate next to the fire.  There’s even a mass of fresh carrots hanging from the garden gate.

Maybe I look ridiculous.  Everybody knows there’s no such thing as flying reindeer.  Everybody probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.  But then, nobody knows every secret wish I used to write to Santa…and nobody understands how it feels to be left behind.

veronica by Monarchcreative

photos by:  (1, 4 & 5) Jenny Downing, (2) gareth1953, (3) Muffet, (6) Monarchcreative

70’s Flashback – The Star Wars Holiday Special (1978)

Welcome to the darkest moment in the history of Star Wars fandom…the outrageously hideous 1978 Star Wars Holiday Special.

I was going to simply post a segment of the original special, but then I found this video from a guy who calls himself Nostalgia Critic:

(Fair warning…there’s quite a few f-bombs in this)

This guy is HILARIOUS!  I am peeing my pants.  Want more? Good news!  There’s a PART TWO:

….and yes, you guessed it, there’s a PART THREE (but do yourself a favor & stop it at 5:38, IMO it stops being funny after that):

If you want to see more of Nostalgia Critic & other hilarity, check out That Guy with the Glasses.

Merry Solstice & Happy Hanukkah from Georgia

Merry Solstice & Happy Hanukkah to all...and to all a Blessed Light!

Rambling Comments on a Warm December Evening…

Lake Lanier on a warm December evening...pure magic.

First of all, let me say that my life is glorious!  No, I’m not one of the 1%.  But seriously, my life is really quite fabulous in the greater scheme of the universe.  Look above.  How many humans on this planet get to witness a sunset like that?…Over a gorgeous lake?…Less than 2 minutes from their house?

And yet, I’m not blissful or content.  Right now, I am hatching a plan for 2012.  They say “stunt” blogs are dead. Maybe not.

What about Creative Wellness Project 2012? Creative ways to enjoy life and feed your soul while eating delicious gourmet foods and losing weight?  Would you “click in” to receive a daily tip/inspiration on ways to truly enjoy living healthy?  More on that soon…but feel free to comment.

This week, there are two news stories that are causing my brain to boil in very uncomfortable ways:

  1. Amazon has pissed off the book-loving public yet again.  To explain the situation, I’ll defer to this New York Times OpEd piece:  NYT OpEd – Amazon 
  2. My friend Jerry sent me this article – Self-Published Authors Find e-Success

Now here’s what I have to say about those two articles:

  1. Good grief!  I love book stores!  Large, small, used, online…doesn’t matter.  I love any outlet where I might possibly find books to read and people who love reading.  Living in Northern California, I was spoiled rotten.  Sometimes if seemed like there was an independent bookstore on every corner.  Back in those days, I used to search for descriptions and reviews online, especially on Amazon, then head over to my favorite independent bookseller to find my book(s).  If they had the book I wanted in the store, great!  If not, I could order it with no shipping fees and pick it up as soon as I received an email that it was waiting for me in the store…all around fabulous!  Thing is, I really wish independent bookstores would stop reacting to Amazon in such inflammatory ways.  Don’t support Amazon because they are hurting my business?  That’s like telling me not to fuel up at the QT station because it hurts the locally owned Shell station across the street.  Pthththththt!  I feel like the bruhaha over this is just adding more fuel to the Amazon fire.  What’s the old saying?  All press is good press.  Amazon and its nasty “grind our competition into the dust” mentality is here to stay.  Stop trying to tell me it’s my civic duty to shop at an independent bookseller!!!  It doesn’t work on voters, it won’t save your business.  Tell me what you have to offer that Amazon doesn’t.  For the record, you MOST DEFINITELY DO have much more to offer.  Now sell it!!  Most of the time, your independent book browsing software sucks…while your in store browsing RULES!  Okay.  Don’t hire an expensive IT consultant. Set up Internet kiosks where shoppers can browse Amazon for titles and reviews in your store, BUT disable ordering.  I’ll walk up to your Information/Customer Service desk to order the titles I really want to purchase. Oh, and offer a small discount when I bring my Internet-browsing pocketbook up to your counter. Make me order $25 in books to get my discount…it works for the website-that-shall-remain-nameless.  If you get less pissed off and more creative, it will work for you.
  2. I appreciate the optimism in this self-publishing news story.  Really I do!  It’s great to hear about entrepreneurial authors out there making big bucks outside the traditional publishing paradigm.  But seriously, let’s look at the facts.  The tremendous, overwhelming slush pile that used to languish and die on every agent & editor’s desk is now getting published…Isn’t that what I said in this post?  I mean, seriously!  Do you have any clue how truly awful, how poorly written some of those slush pile manuscripts are?  So now there is a HUGE supply of raw, unpolished talent out there available for $.99.  OK.  And the author, no matter how incredibly talented, gets $.35 per sale?  Right…If I am doing the math correctly, I would have to sell 14,286 ebooks @ $.99 to make $5,000.00, the “basic” writer’s advance for a traditionally published book….and that is assuming that I did not invest a single cent in marketing to sell those ebooks.  Is it possible that a traditional publisher or agent will take notice of my ebook and decide to offer a more traditional contract?  Yes, BUT…just because readers are willing to approve a $.99 purchase for my ebook does not mean they are willing to pay the traditional publishing price point of $6-$20.  So, I am not shunning ebook self-publishing forever.  However, I still think a traditional publishing contract is the goal I seek. The article’s assertion that “…in the new world of indie publishing, with its opportunity for self-published authors to sell hundreds of thousands of e-books, the stigma is disappearing” is a bit premature.  Most traditionally published authors are highly motivated to keep that stigma alive.  They ran the terrible publishing “gauntlet” to get published, why should they respect someone who bypassed the whole process?  To them, you may have paid to get your work in print, but you are most definitely NOT published.  Also, consider this…during the Dahlonega Literary Festival, I spoke with Jackie K. Cooper who writes book, movie & music reviews.  Make no mistake.  He might love and adore a self-published book, but he absolutely cannot sell a review of a self-published book to any of his established markets.  So….

It all boils down to this:

  • Cooking up a new healthy & creative plan/challenge for 2012…looking for input/interest.
  • Amazon is a wicked beast, but independent bookstores need to get more creative and less reactionary.
  • Despite some success stories, still looking for validation and acceptance along the traditional publishing path.

David Maybury’s Picture Book Christmas Tree


Still on a personal quest to drum up some excitement for the winter holiday season…I found this. Love it! Makes me want to go out, buy a stack picture books and make my own version.  Then I could give them away to kids I’ve never met.

Hmmmmm….

That reminds me. I think I picked up a brochure for Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library as a potential Christmas giving option months ago.  Wonder where I put that darned thing?

I Eat Too Much, I Drink Too Much, I Want Too Much… Thanksgiving Redux

A glorious Thanksgiving first for us...the outdoor feast.

When did Thanksgiving surpass Christmas as my favorite holiday? I guess it happened sometime after the success of Food Network and before I stopped decorating a Christmas tree (too much work to take down.  Bah humbug.)  I suppose it says something, something rather disturbing if I do say so myself, about my “food issues.”  I mean, how sad is it that I prefer a stuffed belly over a stuffed stocking hung by the chimney with care?

Even though I only have 2-3 people eating at my Thanksgiving table (which was outside on our lovely sunny deck this year, see picture at left), I’ve become obsessed with the harvest feast.  I cook enough food to ensure plenty of leftovers for at least a week.  For myself.  (We don’t send my leftovers away in butter bowls, baby!)  When other people are whining about not wanting to look at their Thanksgiving leftovers after a few days, I am nearly in tears when I polish off the last of my signature Triple Mushroom and Wild Rice Whole Grain Dressing a week after the big day.

Being a Weight Watcher at heart (despite the fact that I’ve only been watching my weight go up and up for the past year), I still “healthy up” my dishes in creative ways.  My garlic mashed potatoes are half baby red-skinned potatoes (skins on) and half steamed cauliflower mashed with fat-free sour cream and green onions instead of standard butter and warm milk.  My shredded Brussels sprouts with leeks are sautéed in a little EVOO (and a whole lot white wine).

Ah….and my bird!  Normally, my diet is mainly vegetarian (with some eco-friendly seafood dishes thrown in) and I have created a few hearty vegetarian harvest feasts in year’s past (free of both fowl and tofu, thank you very much, because tofu is even more foul than undercooked fowl if you ask anyone in my mainly carnivorous family).  But, for the past few years, I’ve made a special exception for the Thanksgiving feast.

Of course, being hyper aware of the whole nasty factory farm element of mainstream food production, my turkeys come from Whole Foods.  I buy the fresh, free-range, organic, vegetarian-fed, heirloom turkeys.  At the price I pay, my Thanksgiving turkey’s kids could go to college.  And it is worth every penny.  I swear.  That said, when you spend that much on an animal destined for your oven, it becomes seriously important business to cook the naked little creature correctly.

So, this year I watched and obsessively re-watched Alton Brown’s Romancing the Bird episode of Good Eats at least 10 times. (BTW – YouTube is every amateur chef’s BFF and Alton Brown is a freaking genius.)

As far as I am capable of following someone else’s recipe (which I am pretty much incapable of doing most of the time), I followed Mr. Brown’s suggestions exactly.  Well, okay, I cooked up my own special brine (a peppercorn mustard brine) because I just do not believe some of the crap he used in his brine has any place in my turkey…cinnamon and allspice?  Ewww!  Really?  But I DID buy the fancy remote thermometer that can be set to sound the alarm when the meat hits a certain temperature (thus preventing the evil opening and closing of the oven door).  We brined that fancy bird overnight, started out at 500 degrees F for 30 minutes, set off some fire alarms (perfectly normal and acceptable according to Alton), slapped a foil breastplate on the beast, and finished roasting it to perfection at 350 F within 3 hours.

Excuse me for saying so, but my bird kicked ass!

The pets in my household NEVER get to experience a roasting beast in their very own domicile.  Zoey, my rescued calico kitty who thoroughly accepts and even enjoys her own fat jiggle belly, just about lost her bloody mind over the bird!! If I’d have had some pet tranquilizers in the house, I would have used them on her.  As an act of kindness.  Tessa, the rescued spaniel mix, just skittered around our feet doing the “me so happy” doggie dance (which is pretty dangerous for the amateur chef who cooks with wine…and sometimes adds a little to the food.)

But Kitty, oh my goodness!

Zoey developed an alarming case of Feline Rain Man Syndrome (heretofore known as FRMS).  I could practically hear her little kitty brain sputtering a constant dialog of Oh, look, there’s a turkey. Time for turkey. I like turkey. Of course, there’s a turkey.  Right there.  There’s a big fat turkey. Where’s MY turkey? Maybe they won’t notice if I jump on that turkey. Of course, it’s time for turkey.…etc.  Her obsession went on for, like, 2 hours straight!  And her eyes never left the turkey platter.  Even though she would try to pretend she wasn’t looking at it, she couldn’t take her eyes off that juicy mound of meat on the kitchen counter…then the table.

It was messed up.  But hysterical.  I may roast another, much smaller, bird before next Thanksgiving just for the sheer entertainment value of watching my cat lose her freaking mind.  Here is a picture of her hovering over the side table looking for some stray bits of turkey (NOT that we were stupid enough to set any turkey that close to her treacherous little paws):

Heeeere's Zoey.....Lookin' for turkey in all the wrong places.

Now we are in December.  I want to be excited.  I do.  But seriously, how can poor Santa compete with all that?

My guy wants to go to Florida for the Christmas weekend.  Hm.  Or maybe Charleston.  Hm.  No.  Can’t get excited.  I’m finding it very hard to muster any Holiday or Christmas spirit.  Which is especially tragic because I’m one of those twinkle fairy adults who still believes in magic and Santa Claus.

I’m working on it.  Any suggestions?   I’ve scheduled a volunteer shift at the Ronald McDonald House.  Watched at least 5 happy, magical holiday movies.  Found some new latke recipes.  Bought a couple of holiday books. (When in doubt, buy books right?)

Still…..nothing, not feeling it.  Someone should send Marley and the three ghosts over to my house to get me straight.

How about you?  Anyone else having trouble feeling festive?  Or does anyone out there have any low-stress, low-cost, low-fat, high-happiness, getting-into-the-magical-holiday-spirit suggestions?

PS – Don’t worry.  Neither Zoey Kitty not Tessa Doggie were deprived of their ultimate turkey dreams…as evidenced by post-turkey coma shots below:

Oooooffffff....life is good.I love turkey. I love my people. I love my full belly. I love this rug.

Zoey passed out in Tessa's bed, which is directly below the spot on the kitchen counter where the roast beast first appeared. Coincidence? I think not.