Do you know why the Thanksgiving holiday is celebrated in two different months in Canada and the U.S.?
Yup. You guessed it. The harvest. The harvest comes earlier in Canada. Almost a month earlier. Kinda weird when you think about the fact that Michigan and Minnesota and Wisconsin are much more frigid temperature-wise than say, British Columbia or Alberta even. Leave it to the pilgrims to figure it out. But they weren’t eating turkey or cornbread stuffing or sweet potato pie. They screwed over the natives for their own selfish whims. Oh white men, what saints. Nevertheless, I’m still thankful. Thanks to the planet and all her bountiful gifts. Thanks to you humans who stopped screwing over the natives for your own selfish whims.
I’m eatin’ turkey again this year. It was almost our national icon, you know. Our “bird.”
Thanks to Benjamin’s pals who axed THAT motion.
I prefer the bald eagle. At least it can fly and get the Hell outta here…

Yeah, kinda like Oreos, but better.
Got my annual shave today. Nope, not at the dog groomers as some might suggest. It was at my friendly neighborhood hair salon. Yuk. The words “hair salon” make me cringe and think of high heels and red lipstick. NOT that there’s anything wrong with that…just…not me. I walk in, and am instantly enamored by the estrogen compounds. Dizzy, even. (‘Cept for that one girl with the kitty tattoo maybe. Ha.)
Anyway, I digress. Back to the hair. Delilah stole my mojo today. I get home and finally look in the mirror. Holy shit! I’m friggin’ bald! Ok, not bald, but definitely lighter on the top. I’m certain that if just two more blondes had approached the spinny-chair, they could’ve talked me into a mohawk. Girls are like that. They’re fascinating, tantilizing, soft and yummy. I love girls. Wouldn’t wanna be here without ’em. And to you, the girls whom are sweeping this and shampooing that, I say thanks.
Especially to that one. You know, Jessica, who needs to stand up more. You’re still a cutie, despite your persuasions to the xy side of the petrie dish. You gals make my day. If only once in 365.
See y’all next year, when the knots in my hair get the best of me.

There was a book, when I was a child, that was my favorite. Its title, I’ve kept in my mental rolodex for decades.
It was always there, like a white, puffy cloud, waiting for my conscious acknowledgement.
I haven’t been reading much. In the past year or so, I’ve not set my eyes upon a mixture of words beyond magazines and local news rags. That’s not me. I love to read. I love to be swept up in a story. Curled up with a binding and font. I have a friend who recommended a book to me awhile ago. Another friend picked it up for me and thus set in motion my gears of reading again. To be sure, the book is a good one. She didn’t exaggerate its lyrical charm. I’m loving it. But it called to mind the book from my childhood. That jarring of memory that set me on a quest. A quest to find the book from long ago.

It’s called: “The Golden Goblet.” Written by a woman named Eloise McGraw. It’s about a boy in ancient Egypt who suffers unspeakable human abuse and the ending is a happy one. My favorite kind.
It’s been out of print for who knows how long. I went to trusty Amazon and searched. I didn’t want a paperback version. I wanted the hardcover that I’d held in my 13 year old hands. It took awhile, but I found it. A woman in New Jersey just happened to have the hardback in almost pristine condition. I snapped it up.
This morning, amidst the bills and ads of grown-up mail, it was there. In brown paper. Like a Julie Andrews sap-fest. I was elated. I walked to the dumpster with my adult face on to toss the unnecessary pizza discounts. But when I rounded the steps for home, I squealed. How delightful! I savored it a bit before ripping off the brown wrap. But there, underneath, was my reunion with youth. I studied it and turned it over in my hands. Flipped the pages near my face and smelled that wonderful old book smell. It looks smaller than I remembered. I remembered it to be colossal. A mammoth book. Everything, it seems, looks bigger to a child. It’s only 248 pages. But I can’t wait to savor each one. I remember the story. I remember most of the characters. But most of all, I remember the hope it gave to a kid, who was even then, lost. Perhaps I shall gain some new hope. Hope for the still occasionally lost kid. I hope so. I will let you know. Still, I love those brown paper packages.