So, I don't want to get all in-depth and emotional with this post, as I have a tendency to do at times, but I just wanted to say that part of the reason why I love Thanksgiving is because people say "thanks," when they normally don't, or wouldn't, or don't have time to, or whatever the reason may be.
That being said, I just want to mention how thankful I am to have the friends I have.
They are numerous, and they are awesome.
I am so lucky, and so thankful for old friends, new friends, same-age friends, older friends, younger friends, boy friends, girl friends, musically-inclined friends, local friends, faraway friends, married friends, mom & dad friends, business-y friends, school friends, fun friends, crazy friends, sober friends, drunk friends, work friends, family friends... the list goes on and on and on.
And on.
I'm going to give myself some serious credit for picking the coolest people ever to hang around with.
So, be thankful for something this week. Or, be thankful for more than just one thing, be thankful every day. If you're not, well, then, you suck.
And, put a couple bucks in the Salvation Army bucket; then when the person ringing the bell says "Thank you, have a happy holiday," I promise you'll get that warm feeling in your chest that makes your step lighter, and your stresses a little fainter, if only for a moment.
Happy Turkey Day.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I love you, Elvis.
Costello, that is.
I love you, Elvis Costello.
He might just be the coolest fucking person, ever, in the whole world.
Right now, he's on The Colbert Report and he's wearing a purple polka dotted tie. And, a purple shirt. And, a purple hat. Like, a fedora-type hat.
And, those glasses. Oh man.
Could he be more awesome?
I just noticed that Stephen Colbert is also wearing a polka dotted tie.
God, I love polka dots.
Now Stephen Colbert is singing. And Elvis Costello is playing the guitar.
If I wrote poetry, I think this all mumbling could be compiled into a really hip poem. I'd call it "Elvis Costello Wears A Purple Hat." Or, "Elvis Costello Wears Purple Polka Dotted Ties." Or something more clever.
I've been writing so much html code over the past couple days during which I have worked on very little besides the creation of my website, that I'm beginning to talk like code; I speak in short, choppy sentences.
I love you, Elvis Costello.
He might just be the coolest fucking person, ever, in the whole world.
Right now, he's on The Colbert Report and he's wearing a purple polka dotted tie. And, a purple shirt. And, a purple hat. Like, a fedora-type hat.
And, those glasses. Oh man.
Could he be more awesome?
I just noticed that Stephen Colbert is also wearing a polka dotted tie.
God, I love polka dots.
Now Stephen Colbert is singing. And Elvis Costello is playing the guitar.
If I wrote poetry, I think this all mumbling could be compiled into a really hip poem. I'd call it "Elvis Costello Wears A Purple Hat." Or, "Elvis Costello Wears Purple Polka Dotted Ties." Or something more clever.
I've been writing so much html code over the past couple days during which I have worked on very little besides the creation of my website, that I'm beginning to talk like code; I speak in short, choppy sentences.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sister Theresa
I recently discovered, by taking a Myers Briggs test, that I am an ENFP. The many extraneous details of ENFP don't really matter in this particular situation, except for one. I learned that, as part of my personality, I look for connections in random occurrences, find commonalities and search for meaning in local, or even global, situations that seem connected in some way.
The staggering thing is, I do that. A lot. Even if I don't know what the connections mean, I still recognize them, ponder over them, and wonder about a day when their meaning will become clear to me. The story that I'm about to share is one of those situations.
.
.
.
My step-dad has twelve brothers and sisters; they were born in the 1930s/1940s and their parents were old-school Portuguese.
Their boys were encouraged to quit school, ceasing their educational careers, immediately after high school - or, maybe even sooner, I'm not sure - so that they could work, help out the family, pay for things. The girls were encouraged to get married so that they could leave the house, be dependent upon someone else for food on the table. It was all in the name of providing, of surviving.
They used to have a large family Christmas party every year, Uncle Joe would dress up as Santa, take pictures with the kids and hand out presents. They had to rent a hall there were so many people; brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I could never remember everyone.
Everyone's name, if you were one of the thirteen children referring to a sibling, was Brother (Insert Brother's Name Here) or Sister (Insert Sister's Name Here) as if they were nuns and... well, and, whatever the male equivalent is for "nun," I have no idea.
So, four years ago Sister Theresa came to Thanksgiving at my house. She doesn't have a husband, she doesn't have children, so, she chooses one of the thirteen to be thankful with every November. That particular year, it was our family.
When she arrived, she handed me a gift: a Christmas cactus. I love Christmas cacti. It could not have been a more perfectly chosen present.
Over the years, I came to realize that the Christmas cactus was actually two individual plants potted together and because of this, they would bloom at separate times. Which, is kind of nice because then I always got two blooms, at two different times, and they were two different colors. Red and pink.
It's been four years since I've seen Sister Theresa, the last time was at that Thanksgiving dinner. This month, I received word that this year Sister Theresa is going to come to my Thanksgiving. I can't help but think it's odd - and, I do mean odd in a good way - that both times I have had Thanksgiving dinner at my house, Sister Theresa has joined us.
Perhaps even more strikingly odd is that, as Thanksgiving nears, the buds on the Christmas cactus that Sister Theresa gave me are all plump and ripe with color, about to blossom, for the first time, simultaneously. For the first time, ever, the flowers on both plants will bloom at the same time, during my second Thanksgiving with Sister Theresa.
Is it just my ENFP-ness, or isn't that kind of cool?
The staggering thing is, I do that. A lot. Even if I don't know what the connections mean, I still recognize them, ponder over them, and wonder about a day when their meaning will become clear to me. The story that I'm about to share is one of those situations.
.
.
.
My step-dad has twelve brothers and sisters; they were born in the 1930s/1940s and their parents were old-school Portuguese.
Their boys were encouraged to quit school, ceasing their educational careers, immediately after high school - or, maybe even sooner, I'm not sure - so that they could work, help out the family, pay for things. The girls were encouraged to get married so that they could leave the house, be dependent upon someone else for food on the table. It was all in the name of providing, of surviving.
They used to have a large family Christmas party every year, Uncle Joe would dress up as Santa, take pictures with the kids and hand out presents. They had to rent a hall there were so many people; brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I could never remember everyone.
Everyone's name, if you were one of the thirteen children referring to a sibling, was Brother (Insert Brother's Name Here) or Sister (Insert Sister's Name Here) as if they were nuns and... well, and, whatever the male equivalent is for "nun," I have no idea.
So, four years ago Sister Theresa came to Thanksgiving at my house. She doesn't have a husband, she doesn't have children, so, she chooses one of the thirteen to be thankful with every November. That particular year, it was our family.
When she arrived, she handed me a gift: a Christmas cactus. I love Christmas cacti. It could not have been a more perfectly chosen present.
Over the years, I came to realize that the Christmas cactus was actually two individual plants potted together and because of this, they would bloom at separate times. Which, is kind of nice because then I always got two blooms, at two different times, and they were two different colors. Red and pink.
It's been four years since I've seen Sister Theresa, the last time was at that Thanksgiving dinner. This month, I received word that this year Sister Theresa is going to come to my Thanksgiving. I can't help but think it's odd - and, I do mean odd in a good way - that both times I have had Thanksgiving dinner at my house, Sister Theresa has joined us.
Perhaps even more strikingly odd is that, as Thanksgiving nears, the buds on the Christmas cactus that Sister Theresa gave me are all plump and ripe with color, about to blossom, for the first time, simultaneously. For the first time, ever, the flowers on both plants will bloom at the same time, during my second Thanksgiving with Sister Theresa.
Is it just my ENFP-ness, or isn't that kind of cool?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Eleven AM
After my playlist ended on iTunes this morning, it was quiet for a long time. I didn't restart the music, because I was kind of enjoying the sound of my house just... settling. Breathing.
The thermostat ticks like a clock. It's odd, I can't figure out why it does it, but it's a slow, almost imperceptible tick-tock, coming from the old thermostat with a timer I can't figure out. I guess that's what's doing all the ticking. The timer that can't tell time.
The bells at St. Lawrence church toll. It's eleven. There's something about right this moment that makes me feel empty. Maybe sad, too. The sky is gray, my nose is cold, the tick of the thermostat times my breath, and I'm sitting on my eggplant colored couch listening to the church bells ring out. It's the only sound that means anything right now. Except maybe the clickity clack of the keyboard.
Now there are sirens in the distance. Fire and police, I think. Isn't it weird how they sound different? Or, is that just me?
There's a chill in the air today. I think it's put a chill in me, too.
The thermostat ticks like a clock. It's odd, I can't figure out why it does it, but it's a slow, almost imperceptible tick-tock, coming from the old thermostat with a timer I can't figure out. I guess that's what's doing all the ticking. The timer that can't tell time.
The bells at St. Lawrence church toll. It's eleven. There's something about right this moment that makes me feel empty. Maybe sad, too. The sky is gray, my nose is cold, the tick of the thermostat times my breath, and I'm sitting on my eggplant colored couch listening to the church bells ring out. It's the only sound that means anything right now. Except maybe the clickity clack of the keyboard.
Now there are sirens in the distance. Fire and police, I think. Isn't it weird how they sound different? Or, is that just me?
There's a chill in the air today. I think it's put a chill in me, too.
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