Thanksgiving was relatively calm for our family this year. Nothing caught on fire; nobody stuck the pilgrim candles full of 
sword-style appetizer skewers; nobody stabbed a mouse with a fork (these are all true stories in the annals of our family holiday memories. And no, I didn’t do any of them. But I did find the pilgrim with the plastic swords sticking out of his ears hilarious.) All in all, everything went well, and I gained seventeen pounds in one sitting, which I regret now as my 20th high school reunion is tonight. Thank goodness for Spanx!

The day after Thanksgiving, my mother, sister, and I loaded up in the car to elbow our way through the Black Friday crowds, another family tradition. We were all dressed in appropriate gear—soccer cleats, elbow pads, and giant purses with cross-swinging action—and armed with the sales ads. We were three women on a mission, and we weren't messing around.

We were able to hit the trifecta of doorbuster sales before they ended at 1 PM: Macy’s, Penney’s, and Sears. My sister was able to clear the Isotoner display by swinging her lead-lined purse like Thor’s hammer while Mom snatched up the remaining fleece-lined blue women’s gloves. I was on a fast jog to Penney’s, where Barbies and Fisher Price toys were flying off the shelves. It took some maneuvering—including sending a woman in a wheelchair flying on a fast roll down the escalator—but I was able to grab the last two Fisher Price Doodle Bears, which is really what the spirit of the holiday is all about, right? (Not the spirit of Christmas, you sap—the spirit of Black Friday, the holiest of holiest days for bargain hunters.) I used a billy club that I like to keep tucked in my waistband to take out three elderly ladies who were in line in front of me and were insisting on paying with exact change, which took forever, and voila! I was at the register before the sales ended.

One of the hardest things about Black Friday is keeping well hydrated. You don’t want to drink too much water, because you could lose out on the last iPod due to excessive potty breaks. We like to wait until one of us is ready to pass out, and then pop out a portable IV of Gatorade when one of us is showing signs of dehydration. Mom almost went down when we were in line at the Christmas Tree Shop, but Kim spotted Mom’s eyes rolling up into the back of her head, and popped open a bottle of Riptide Rush with moments to spare. Honestly, it warms my heart to see the three of us working so well together in tandem. Forget that Hoosiers crap—this is the kind of teamwork they should be making a movie about!

At the end of the day, I’d made three babies cry, given 
twelve shoppers black eyes with my elbow pads, and yelled at one woman who I’m hoping was just wearing the scarf on her bald head as a fashion statement. That’s right, I’m probably going to Hell—but at least my friends and family are going to receive fabulous gifts at unbelievable prices before I go!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

I don't generally like traveling, mostly because I don't enjoy being out among the general population. I'm writing this on the train ride home from D.C., where I attended a conference with my boss. It was she who suggested the train, and it seemed awkward for me to suggest that she take the train, while I drive my own car and meet her there. Not that my boss is a problem—we’ve traveled together many times, and she's a fine companion. It's everyone else I can't stand.

The woman in front of us is painting her nails, the smell of which has given me an instant migraine. The conductor has asked her twice to stop, both times to which she smiled and said "of course," only to pull out the bottle again as soon as he left. How many coats of polish could she possibly need?
Fifteen and counting, so far.

There is a family of three two seats up, with a two-year old who was quite adorable at first. The cute tyke was listening to her mother read (as were we all) until the little girl started fussing. Then her father got the bright idea to tickle her, making her giggle wildly until she threw up in the aisle. The sour vomit smell, sadly, still doesn't mask the reek of nail polish.

Nail Polish Lady has put away the bottle of Aphrodite's Pink Nightie (available from OPI, she tells the nun sitting next to her) and is now listening to what sounds like hip-hop on her iPod. I know this because she is apparently hard of hearing, and has the volume cranked in her headphones for all of us to enjoy. Hip-hop, you realize, makes my fillings ache.

I will admit to making some poor decisions leading up to this trip. Tuesday, for instance, I was griping to Jason that there were no cheesy snack products in the house. Then Wednesday, I asked him to pick up something for me to nibble on during the trip. Today, I had Cheetos™ for breakfast and am now debating eating an entire family-size bag of Doritos™ for lunch, even though what I'm really craving is a nice apple. There's a little café on the train three cars up, but I would have to step over the vomit to get there, which would kill my appetite. Then I'd have to step over the barf puddle to return to my seat, which doesn't seem worth the effort.

I can't stand it any more - I'm starving. I crack open the Doritos and start shoveling. My fingers quickly turn orange with cheese dust.

"Oh, gross," Nail Polish Lady complains loudly. "The smell of Doritos makes me positively sick."

Dorothy was right. There's no place like home, and I never want to leave it again.

Apologies for the delay in posting today. I woke up with a migraine that found me on my knees before God, asking for forgiveness for whatever heinous sin I had committed to deserve such painful punishment.)

I had the opportunity to go to the opening of a photography exhibit last night. My friend Linda had eight photos in the show, so Jason and I went to show our support and to hobnob among the artistically inclined.
As soon as we got there, I realized my mistake. The people there were all dressed in fancy clothes from Chico’s and Coldwater Creek, while I was in my St. John’s Bay cords (on sale at Penney’s!) I own one dress from Chico’s, which I found at a consignment shop. I suppose if I’d worn it I’d be worried 
all night that someone would recognize it and say “Hey! I used to own the same dress, until I donated it to the poor.”
 
One of the wonderful qualities that Linda possesses is that she is not at all pretentious. When I apologized for wearing Penney’s, she waved me off and admitted that she too had forgotten her ascot at home (though she was dressed much nicer than I was.) She pointed out her photography, which included crisp, clear photos of lighthouses, monuments, and a beautiful shot of sunrise over the Atlantic, the wake of a boat glistening on the water. 
These photos made sense to me. I could recognize what they were of and could appreciate their beauty. She has a great shot of the gate at Fort Griswold, which looked like a cemetery.  
Personally, I love a good cemetery, and this particular photograph evoked a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

Some of the other photography displayed had me stumped.  One guy had a whole series of close-ups of what appeared to be rust. I squinted. I turned my head sideways. Finally, I had to admit my ignorance and ask Linda what, exactly, the pictures were meant to convey.

“Rust,” Linda confirmed.

Color me silly, but when I see an old water heater on the side of the road, I don’t stop to take pictures.  I knock on the owner’s door and give them directions to the town dump. Clearly, I don’t have an artist’s eye.

One artist had won honorable mention at an art show in Greenwich. His photograph still displayed the ribbon he'd earned, even though this exhibit was taking place in New London, which is about as opposite from Greenwich as you can get. Maybe the thing to do among photographers is to collect ribbons at different galleries and display them at every subsequent show, like people who collect pins at Disney World (a hobby I also don’t understand.) "Is that normal?" I asked Linda. She shook her head. 
I have to assume this guy was trying to brag about being recognized at a show that took place in the richest town in the country, but really, what he was telling everyone was that nobody in Greenwich bought his photograph. Artists are funny that way, I guess.

The ascots were getting thick in the room.  It was time for Jason and I to go.  We congratulated Linda on her gallery opening and headed for the door.

“Love those pants,” one woman said, stopping me.
“Thanks,” I said nervously. She was dressed in Vera Wang.
“My housekeeper owns the same pair,” she smiled.

Yup. This crowd was definitely outside of my comfort zone.