Thanksgiving break

We ate these...

And did lots of this...
Some might have felt like this...

But most of us felt like this...

And one couple did this...

I'm so excited to go home

That is all.

Please return my stuff

This post is dedicated to you, the lowlife who stole the care package sent from my mom. The mailman remembers climbing the stairs and placing it in front of my door at precisely 2:05 p.m. on Monday. Yet just three hours later, it was no where to be seen. I hope you're enjoying that spice rack, a late housewarming gift. And the serving tray decorated with photos taken during my trip to Europe, enjoy that, too. If I knew you were actually using these things, I might feel a little better. But I'm pretty sure that once you opened the package and found these worthless items (worthless to you, at least), you probably tossed them in the nearest dumpster along with the 80s T-shirt you took a couple weeks ago.

Neighborhood watch

I'm walking from my slightly scary parking lot to my apartment after work today, talking to Abbey on the phone, when I pass a car with a Nevada license plate idling in the driveway. A scratchy, cigarette-damaged voice yells "Hey Sweetie, did you hear what happened today?" I look into the car window and there's one of my neighbors from the next-door building, an older woman who moved in not long ago. "No," I say, a bit confused. Apparently, an armed woman robbed a bank on a nearby street and is still on the run. "Sweetie," the woman says in that cheap waitress voice. "Lock your doors and your windows and scream as loud as you can if you see anything. I have three sons and they'll be over in a second if anything's wrong. Do you have anything to put in front of your door?" OK, it's nice to know that someone's looking out for me, but I'm a big girl, and honestly, I'm not that concerned about the robber at large. But here's where things get more strange: "Sweetie, when you get into your place, flash your lights three times, or else I'm calling 911. Seriously. I want to bake for you." What? Do those sentences actually belong in the same breath? "Do you like chocolate?" Yeah. "Brownies or cake?" Um, either. "Do you like lava cake?" Yes. "Mint, raspberry, or chocolate." I'm so confused. Any of those are good. "OK. Here, take down my number. Don't hesitate to call. That woman is desperate." Who are we talking about now? I manage to end the conversation a good ten minutes later. At least until I walk about five feet away from the car and then she's talking, or rather yelling, again about the robber and how the school was closed and to be careful. I say thanks and goodnight, walk upstairs, flash my bedroom lights three times and hope she sees them.

Two years left

I always feel good after I vote. It's easy to feel insignificant in this country, like you're just one of millions. But after punching in my votes for the people I think should lead this country, I still feel like somehow my voice will be heard. I hope we wake up to a new Congress tomorrow morning. One that can drag this country out of the mess it's in, or at least keep it from sinking even deeper before 2008. Halfway there.

Wanting more than a phone

I was talking to a friend from Illinois the other day who moved out here not long ago for a job. I asked him about his family and I found out that besides having Midwest roots in common, we also both dealt with moving in the same way. "You're going to think I'm crazy," he said. "For a long time after I came out here, I hated talking to my family. I wouldn't pick up the phone." He hated talking to them because he loves them, and misses them, and a ten-minute phone conversation just isn't enough. I felt, and still sometimes feel, exactly the same. It's painful. Because as much as you love to hear their voices, all you really want is to be sitting in the same room as them. And no matter how hard you try not to, they'll tell certain jokes that make you cry instead of laugh.