As god is my witness, I shall never peel another potato again. (Okay, that is totally a lie.)

My cunning plan to spend the time at my mother's writing has been foiled by, "and tomorrow you're staying with M. and baking coconut macaroons and shopping for her Christmas decorations, and the next day you're taking the train to Philly at an insanely early hour of the morning and spending all day with L., running from the Reading Terminal Market to Essence Market to the thrift shop and back again (carrying food in rolling suitcases, whee), making vegan Thanksgiving to carry home in a backpack* that night."

So yes. Busy busy me. Also sore. There was too much walking/chopping/lifting/carrying/walking/standing yesterday, and I can feel it. And more peeling/chopping/etc.-ing to go today. But, you know, it's only once a year. And the littles will be here later, and they will be bigger than they were last year. And tomorrow I go home. Maybe. If I can move.

But, yes, I am thankful for so many things this year. My job's pretty safe (knock on all the wood in the land), my family's doing well, I have the Red Sox and bandom and the Bruins and coffee and blankets and a new phone with an actual 617 phone number and music and words and pumpkin and people and public transportation and fresh vanilla beans and you. So yes. Thankful, thank you, thanks.

And now back to work. Those potatoes won't mash themselves.


*Which makes me want an AU where Frank Iero decides to carry a backpack full of vegan Thanksgiving home from his swank new pad (aka some guy's--Gerry? Ger? Gee? whatever, Frank hands him a slightly sweaty wad of cash when he pays rent, and the mailbox just says Way--closet in Brooklyn) to show his parent that, no, see, cauliflower and leek kugel is totally awesome. Also pumpkin "cheese"cake. And, of course, he left a total mess in the apartment "kitchen," including at least two attempts at mushroom gravy that look like a cross between vomit and cement just sitting there in the pots he borrowed from the guy down the hall who looks like he might be a bouncer or something.

yuletide! The most wonderfullest time of the year! Here is my letter!

Dear Yuletide Writer Person,

( Here is where I tell you what to do. )

This is your brain on-

election-election-yuletide-election-hockey-election-yuletide-election-election-election-election-hot stove-election-election-election-yuletide-election-election-election-fuck-

My sister called the other night, all, "Okay, I get why people like baseball. Philly's insane. No one's sleeping tonight!" So now we are taking bids: pay us to move to your city and win a World Series that very year!* We're just like Curt Schilling, only we don't pitch or do Dunkin Donuts commercials or vote for McCain.

I donated to the No on Prop 8 people. Again. Not enough to counteract Jeff Kent's douchey $15 grand to the Pro Prop 8 people, but as much as I could afford. I am not, alas, a multimillionaire professional athlete, so my funds are limited. (I have Issues, capital-I, with marriage in general, but as long as it's the most protected relationship standard, I want it for everyone. Even you. Hell, even me.)

Tomorrow morning, bright and early. I have an appointment with a line at a school. And then. (Waiting.)

(Work. Yes, work, and work, and rushing home on the T. Alcohol.)

My first presidential election was 2000. I remember the butterflies, the excitement, sitting down with my roommates in our living room. Food and drinks and, "c'mon, Gore." C'mon, Gore. And then-

Well, you know the rest of the story. We all know the rest of that particular tale. So, yes, alcohol. Some food. The sinking feeling that it will all go wrong (somehow, some way, it will all-). Hope, just below the surface, but mostly I'm a glass half-empty gal and I keep waiting for all the shoes to drop. All the pretty shoes. Maybe you or I or we won't be allowed to vote, and maybe you live in a swing state. Maybe your name's been purged. Maybe there's another Katherine Harris lying in wait (maybe it's the same one). I just. I want this, so much, and I keep picturing it in our hands--right there, sitting on our palms--and then slipping through our fingers like sand.

(Tomorrow.)

(Like the man said, the audacity of hope.)


*No, really, I moved up here in 2004, and she moved to Philly this summer. We are clearly good luck for teams who haven't won a WS in a while.

Note to self: pay back dude at corner store. This, of course, means hitting up the ATM.

Note to Major League Baseball: Next time, chillax, pop in your DVD of Pap & Manny Del's VMA-nominated* "Blame it on the Rain", and try to remember that this isn't football. The field's a swamp, the wind and rain are creating an environment in which the umpires can't call for the infield fly rule, and those pretty colors on the radar screen mean the weather's not about to get any better. And, hey, you've already decided to invoke the best-interests clause to avoid allowing a rain-shortened decision to determine the World Series. So, you know, don't start the sixth in a monsoon, and never get involved in a land war in Asia.

Note to Bruins: well played, sirs.

Note to all of you: ♥♥♥♥

The plan for November is to write a spec for the Self-Indulgent Bad TV Hockey Show; to just write it, and not fret about it being good, because it's not supposed to be anything more than stuff I like and completely wallowy. Well, that, and yuletide. That is the November plan. Kind of a pseudo-nano, if you will, and feel free to smack me if you catch me slacking.** Basically, the point is to just force myself to write, quality be damned, just to put those words on the screen and stop stressing over every single word omg I can never write again. We'll see how it plays out.

In the meantime, I shall endeavor to finish the two fic-shaped things (both of which are For Things, you know?) I will probably not finish before my November pseudo-hiatus, and I shall attempt to avoid the dreaded death from pre-election pre-electionyness (seriously, the Democrats are totally looking for a way to lose right now) (at least now I have World Series conspiracy theories and craziness to distract me) (no, really, how are the Democrats going to lose this one?). Oh, and I solemnly swear I will not kill any coworkers. Unfortunately, that last really did need to be written out. In words.

Oh where oh where is the gazillionaire love of my life?


*In my imagination. You know, where Jacoco lives.

**This is a lie.

So, you know, about a week ago I did that meme where I make a list of characters and you ask me questions and blah, blah, blah, I finally answered them. This took me way too long, but that is just the way I roll.

( My list, for those who wonder about such things. )

I'm linking to the comments where I wrote them because a) I am lazy and b) I am hella lazy.

tangleofthorns said, "Tell me what happens when three, six, and nine are awakened by a midnight fire alarm. (Individually, or...together! )"

janet_carter said, "Tell me about 1, 2, and 15 being stuck in traffic on the Pike for two hours." & "Also, what would happen if 12 and 13 had to pretend to be married?"

jennyagain said, "i want to know how seven and eight met for the first time."

leksa asked, "Can four and fourteen ever be truly happy?" & "Also, why did eight and ten have to go on the lam?"

So tonight tangleofthorns and I went to Fenway and Jason Varitek walked around the park and high-fived fans (read: us, okay, and the dudes next to me who were all, "yo, V-Tek, take a picture, dude, it's V-Tek!" and everyone pushing forward) and Youk's little is adorable and we all said hi to Manny Delcarmen's Manny and the bullpen tried to douse us with champagne and Pap delivered second base to a guy like it was pizza and, god, yes. Oh, and Wakefield smoked a stogie. Something else the dudes next to me were totally excited about.

( Here, have a crappy picture I took. The blurriness is totally a valid artistic choice. )

So, you know, that was okay. If you're into that sort of thing.

so today: started before dawn with a fire alarm and went downhill from there, the case from hell and my yankee-fan coworker winning the opportunity to buy (red sox) ALDS tickets when i didn't, and while i like playing with excel i hate printing from it.

1) make a list of fifteen characters first, and keep it to yourself for the moment. (that way you're not leading the questions asked to fit the characters.)

2) ask your flist to post questions in the comments.

for example: 'one, nine and fifteen are chosen by a prophecy to save the world from four. do they succeed?'
'under what circumstances might five and seven fall in love?'
'which character on the list would you most want on your side in a zombie invasion?'
'write a drabble in which three and five fight crime.' (...possibly not technically a question.)

3) after your flist has asked enough questions, round them up and answer them using the fifteen characters you selected beforehand, then post them.

um, that's it. distract me from stuff?

so yesterday i was all set to do that meme where you take a picture of yourself, don't fix your hair or whatever. i mean, i got as far as taking a picure of myself. but then it was 3 in the morning or something crazy and i fell asleep instead of posting it. ( so, you know, here. )

today i am crampy and tired. trying to write. watching some baseball (full disclosure: i will likely be watching the Last Game at (this) Yankee Stadium tonight, maybe flipping back in forth with the emmys so i can manufacture some sort of, "giambi flies out to--amy poehler" situation). dancing the dance of not-dancing, and doing some long-overdue laundry.

anyway, this weekend: we finally started watching the wire, i've watched a few (too many?) episodes of the man from u.n.c.l.e. online, i wrote a little bit, we made chicken sausage with peppers and onions, and i will likely bake some plums. the goal is to finish two (very short-ish) things this week, one of which is for baseball100 & one of which is not.

in conclusion, does anyone have any good recipes for callaloo greens they'd be willing to share?