For those who care, my cold was mostly under control by Thanksgiving Day so thank goodness I have nothing to report about gravy popsicles or turkey ice cream.
Actually it wouldn’t have mattered that much because, being a person driven largely by anxiety, I spend most of November eating all the foods that will be served at Thanksgiving so that come the big day, I don’t need to worry about how to fit as much food as my brain the size of two fists wants to eat into a stomach that is the size of my fist. Cornbread stuffing instead of white bread? No worries; I already had my fill of white bread stuffing the week before. No room for yams on the plate? I’m still digesting the yams I ate yesterday. Rocco melts down before dessert? No problem—I ate an entire pumpkin pie myself earlier this month.
Doing all the eating prep should have given me a lot of time to think about what I was going to wear to Thanksgiving but apparently I dropped the ball on that one. I wore this dress, which from now on I will be referring to as “shirt.”:
Anyway, as I learned on Thanksgiving, the shirt should have come with these arrows:
I was boobalicious there in front of my parents, my siblings, my kids (but not my husband, who called in sick to Thanksgiving). Just to clarify, my boobs are a size B—a small size B—and only because I’m still nursing. (After nursing ends I get to go down to an “almost A,” and did you know you can still be saggy when you’re an “almost A?”) In my family, however, a size B is big enough to warrant a breast reduction. It’d be like if Dolly Parton was sisters with Kate Moss.
Fortunately we had made these owl placecards:
And Vincenzo for some reason insisted I wear an owl right in the V part of the neckline. Kids are so intuitive. I wore my Thanksgiving Owl of Modesty.
Back home that evening I sealed up the last of my Christmas cards because I like to spread the Christmas stress out slowly over two months instead of saving it for just one. Now I will sit on the addressed, stamped, sealed envelopes until the first week of December because I hate to stress other people out by sending my Christmas cards out before they’ve even bought theirs.
You’re welcome, from my anxiety to yours.
WHAT’S COOKIN’ 2NITE:
Breaded cod or halibut—I can’t remember which one I got
Rigatoni in brown butter sauce