An original recipe for a MacBlogger family Thanksgiving

1. Squeeze the longest possible travel route into the shortest amount of time, adding a layover or two for local flavor. For example, when traveling 5,390 miles round trip, I apparently prefer:

- 2 sets of 6 AM flights
- 2 layovers in Salt Lake City
- in 3 and 1/2 days

2. Sprinkle in an assortment of family, friends, and a former housekeeper you haven't seen in 20 years but is staying, once again, in your mother's spare bedroom. (Former housekeeper is optional but recommended for originality.) My highlights included:

- 2 sets of parents
- 1 set of grandparents
- 6 aunts and uncles
- 3 cousins
- 6 second cousins
- 2 bestest friends
- All seen within 48 hours

3. Serve with unlimited bottles of wine, a 28 pound turkey, homemade cookies, and a disc of never-before-seen family photos from the 1970's. Feel thankful for being born into such a good looking gene pool.

4. Bonus Tip! Enjoy all while snuggling under newly hand-sewn quilt comprised of sentimental sorority T-shirts made with love by an extremely talented and generous aunt.

Wait - what? You don't have a ridiculously talented aunt who can spin your stained, decade-old T-shirts into quilted gold? I'm so sorry. Because, look what mine did:

You may remember that I'd kept quite the collection of old college shirts around, even though they hadn't left my dresser in years. I'd heard about people turning sentimental shirts into quilts, but was never keen on the idea of sending mine off to a stranger. Shortly after I wrote that post, though, I learned that my aunt was part of a quilting club, and I asked if she would do me the honor. To my delight, she agreed, and the project has been under way ever since.

I gave her just an idea for the fabric. Burnt orange is one of my favorite colors, and is basically the foundation of my living room. I also thought it made sense with the Syracuse theme, so long as the orange erred on the side of "burnt" rather than "bright". When my aunt sent me swatches of the above, I was SO glad I had asked her - the fabric was better than anything I ever could have imagined. And I really started getting excited!

Last week she told me it was done, but I couldn't have prepared myself for seeing it person. It just blew me away. These t-shirts that had seemed stale and stained in my drawers now look perfectly in place. Logos and letters were carefully cropped so that the memories stand out - with no record of ragged edges. There are small, hand-sewn, personal details throughout, but the big picture is just... perfect. It really is one of the most absolute favorite things I own. And, oh! There may be a pillow or two, as well.

I hope all your Thanksgivings were sugar and spice and everything nice, and that we all appreciate how much we have to be thankful for.

Shouldering a setback

In my apparently overzealous attempts to find my waist, I somehow managed to pull something else, rendering the search temporarily and frustratingly on hold.

During dinner on Friday night, as my thighs silently but forcefully pleaded to be cut loose from the confines of what I had, at one point, thought was stretch denim, I started noticing an odd pain in my left shoulder. Though I had lifted the night before, it didn't feel like muscle soreness; it almost felt like a fever ache or the pain that results from a tetanus shot. So naturally, I drank some wine when I got home and went to bed.

I woke up Saturday morning and almost screamed out in agony. Whatever dull ache had been in my shoulder had migrated to my neck, and left me unable to move without pain. Because I am a big baby, I called my mother to cry about it. She first suggested the emergency room, an idea I immediately shot down, and then talked me through a number of other suggestions. Why I needed to call 3,000 miles away to be reminded that I had Aleve in the next room, I don't know, but what are mothers for if not to point out the obvious?

I took two Aleve and sat down on the couch, annoyed that I would be missing my favorite yoga class but secretly excited that I would finally be able to watch the morning marathon of old 90210 episodes on SoapNet. (Kelly gets shot, has amnesia, Noah and Hilary Swank's Carly are introduced, and David signs an anti-semetic band that overstays their welcome at the beach house. Not my favorite season but enjoyable nonetheless.)

By 11, the Aleve had pleasantly kicked in, and I set out about doing my errands that couldn't be left til Sunday (picking up shoes from the cobbler, brow appointment, and navigating through the craziness of Bed Bath and Beyond for a heating pad and a scale, which, after not owning one for 32 years, I have decided might actually be of use).

The heating pad I purchased was a microwaveable Bed Buddy. I've seen versions of this at our Spa in New York, and those ones are filled with lavender. Yum! This one, however, seemed to have been filled with yeast, or flour, as the minute I microwaved it, I got a whiff of biscuits. If you like biscuits, I suppose that might be a selling point, but I prefer lavender over leven, especially when weight is at issue.

Fortunately, the doughy fragrance disappeared after microwaving it a few times, and by the time I went to bed last night, I felt almost as good as new. Sure enough, I woke up this morning, and the pain is completely gone! I'm not going to push it, and am making myself take it easy for one more day, even though that means instead of focusing on my shoulder, I'll mostly likely be obsessing about my thighs. A Saturday afternoon/evening of sitting on the couch was not, in fact, on my great get-in-shape-in-2008 agenda.

At least I can't obsess about my weight. The scale I bought yesterday is broken.

Waist not

MISSING!

Bikini-friendly WAIST:



Age: 32

Width: Unknown, but until recently, inoffensive

Last Seen: Bikini Season, often lounging poolside or beachside, well-proportioned between T & A.

Before disappearing entirely, was known to hang out over low-rise jeans, roll over elastic waistbands, and project itself at a 90 degree angle from the pubic bone.

Help! If you can shed any insight as to the disappearance of my waist, or know how I can get it back, please contact me ASAP! I'll be answering all calls alternately from atop a treadmill or in the midst of the sweatpants aisle at Target.

Fire in the sky

As much as I complain about Facebook, it really has brought a lot of good memories and acquaintances back into my life.

Just today, my favorite former boss found and friended me. And a few months ago, my very first boss and I reconnected. He was one of the two Creative Directors I assisted at the ad agency where I worked right after college; as the younger and hipper of the two, he naturally was the one I bonded with first. (It didn't hurt that he was also from Boston).

Now that he heads his own agency here in LA, he's quite involved in a lot of online media/social networking sites - he typically updates on Twitter/Facebook at least 10 times per day. In the weeks leading up to the election, he'd sometimes post 10 times per hour, linking to relevant news stories and adding commentary of his own. It is no exaggeration to say that much of the media I consumed in those weeks was through him; at the very least, he fed the hunger for information I was already craving.

I logged onto Facebook this morning and saw he had posted a steady stream of status updates since last night: he lost his home in the Sylmar fire. Watched as it grew closer, tried to save it with the firefighters, was humbled as it went up in flames, evacuated with his wife and dog, slept at Best Western for the night, and so on. I didn't see his updates until this morning, when he was already posting new ones, post-devastation, but it's incredibly jarring reading this in real time.

I emailed him immediately, offered my support, asking if there was anything I could do. What can I do? The loss of a house in a wildfire is incomprehensible to me. I assume they have their car, and little, if much else. I remember his office ten years ago was filled with prized prints, artwork and memorabilia - I can only imagine what other mementos he's accumulated by now.

Since this morning, he's added an album of photos he took - apparently from the scene - that literally look like they came off the set of Backdraft. Only scarier, because they are real. I don't know if I'm more amazed that he took so many photos so entrenched in the embers, or that, among everything else, he's found the time and resources to post them to Facebook. I do know that many of them are also posted on the AP wire.

It's weird. In a pre-Internet - pre-Facebook time, even - I never would have known about him being affected like this. Wouldn't have been back in touch. Certainly wouldn't have been able to follow along. But now that I do, I feel some obligation to do react, help however I can. Though I haven't seen him in person in ten years, the last six months of status updates and dog photos have given me a brief window into his life, and fostered a familiarity that makes me kind of feel like a part of it.

Thanks for the memories even though they weren't so great

I'm not a happy camper.

The weekend started out well enough. I woke up early, went to yoga, ran, and then, because it was 82 degrees out, went to the beach. In November. Hi, Life? Love you.

Shortly after I got home from the beach, however, I got a frantic message from my high school friend Rebecca: "Lori, you you have to see the photos posted on Facebook!" My stomach sank.

I've been waiting for this day. The day the hideous grade school photos would surface. I know we've all had awkward years. But I don't need mine posted on Facebook as a reminder.

Maybe I'm vain, or shallow, or just incredibly insecure, but I prefer not to post unflattering photos of myself online. I can laugh at them with friends and family, and even my fellow blog readers. But I have Facebook friends that are professional connections, former paramours, and frankly, people I would just prefer to look pretty for. I don't care if the bad photos were taken when I was 10. They still strike a nerve that's surprisingly sensitive.

Of course, I could untag myself. (And I did, from the worst of the three). But then I'd appear to be taking things much too seriously, and probably calling more attention to the issue than if I just left it alone. Or, than if I just sucked it up and made my own funny comment under the caption. Laughed at myself before they could laugh at me. But it's really hard to laugh at what I've spent the last 20 years trying to forget.

One nice thing to come out of this was a friend request from my fifth grade teacher - the one who taught us to sing in sign language. We spent time catching up, and she gave me an email address for my fourth grade teacher. I've mentioned him before - the one who directed the play, the one who came up in my psychic reading... Anyway, I emailed him tonight. Let's hope the address is current.

Other than that drama, my weekend was pretty tame. I visited Nicole in the hospital today, and she looked splendid. During my two and a half hour stay, there were never less than four different visitors in the room - a steady stream of friends and family kept coming and going; the phone did not stop ringing; and the room had long run out of vases for the many bouquets that came through. Keep sending her good thoughts, though. It may have seemed like a party, but her recovery is just getting started.

Last night, I was supposed to go to this magazine issue launch party. My friend is the advertising director, so I've attended a few of them before. They're nothing crazy, but offer up free food and bevvies, and some C-list celebs - good enough for me. Unfortunately, this particular party was being held in a hotel penthouse, and there was only one elevator to take guests up. And that elevator seemed to hold only four people. We stood in line for 45 minutes, only to move a few feet. Finally, at 9 PM, we started asking about the hold-up. Apparently, Paris Hilton was upstairs with the cast of My New BFF, and they were either shooting or just not granting access to anyone else.

With that news, Tracy and I turned to each other and agreed to head out. I don't know when it happened that having Paris Hilton at a party turned into a reason to leave rather than a reason to stay, but there you have it. Say what you will about my Facebook photos, I guess I'm not really that shallow.

Fear and loathing in Los Angeles

When I was in second grade, my peers often presented some decisive questions:

Michael Jackson or Boy George?
Madonna or Cyndi Lauper?
Gremlins or Ghostbusters?

There were no wrong answers in these mostly-meaningless polls; however you could not answer "both" or "neither" or qualify your claim. You had to choose one and align yourself with that camp for the rest of your life, or at least as long as our seven year old brains could remember.

That was also the year a more pointed question was posed: "Are you gay?"

It wasn't directed at me, per se. It was another poll posed by one of the more boisterous boys, who probably heard the word from an older brother and took great pleasure in testing its effect. The question was almost as arbitrary as the others, but this time, I knew there was a wrong answer.

At seven years old, though, I wasn't quite sure what it was. I didn't know what "gay" meant, however I immediately sensed the definition to be bad. I answered "no" with baited breath and a bit of disdain, and was rewarded with instant acceptance. A friend of mine was not so lucky. She answered yes, just as a guess, and spent that lunchtime getting teased and taunted.

So, now there is a large group of people who voted Yes on Prop 8 out of a supposed fear that kids would be taught about gay marriage in the classroom. Forget, for a second, the facts: that gay marriage - or any marriage - is not now and is not ever going to be on any curriculum. That was simply a scare tactic employed - very successfully - by Prop 8's supporters. But kids are already learning what "gay" is at school - not from the teachers, but from their friends, who may not understand everything they say, but can easily comprehend the power behind their words.

Imagine, if you will, that gay marriage was legal. "Gay" wouldn't be taught, but it also wouldn't be a taunt. Kids could grow up understanding it as something normal and accepted, just like any heterosexual relationship. And that, apparently, is the problem. Prop 8 supporters don't believe that gay relationships are normal or should be accepted. But instead of admitting their fears, they're blanketing their bigotry under the more comfortable guise of, "Well, we're just protecting the children!"

The fact is, as far as we have come, there are still a number of ignorant, fearful people. Even, so it seems, in California. I know that deep down, many of these supporters truly believe that they're fighting for what's right, and, in the end, protecting their children. I just wish they'd realize that children are ultimately better protected when armed with the truth.

No on 8 rally at the Mormon temple, in my neighborhood.

Admit that the waters around you have grown

Four years ago, I woke up to a rainy morning and dutifully headed down into the dank basement of a New York City public school. I pulled the handle that voted Kerry for President, and left all other categories blank.

Eight years ago, I did not vote at all. New to, and still overwhelmed by all the changes I'd had to face in moving to Manhattan, I had never bothered to register as a New York voter. I didn't particularly care for either candidate, anyway. But I sat up til after midnight that night with my roommate Kristin, a staunch Republican, watching the news until it was clear there WAS no news. Neither of us went to bed particularly happy.

Twelve years ago, I sent in an absentee ballot from my sorority house in Syracuse; the only category checked off was for Clinton. I didn't know, and didn't care, about anything else. At 20 years old, the only measure I could possible see affecting my life was a woman's right to choose, and therefore, I voted blue. That's pretty much been my mantra ever since.

This year has been completely different. For one thing, as someone whose adult (over 18) life has spanned two Presidents, one terrorist attack, and the rise and fall of an economy, this is the first time I can really objectively look back and recognize how leaders have affected our country. It's also the first time I've been educated enough about my own finances and economics-at-large to comprehend how political policy may affect my future. And it is also the first time that I've had friends who need the government to guarantee their equal rights - no longer just the basis for a series of annoying ads, at some point, these propositions have become quite personal.

But there's something else.

Much has been said about the way we consume news these days. No longer are we all reading the morning paper, watching the nightly news, and pussy-footing around political talk at the water cooler. Me and my friends are reading news all day, refreshing for hourly updates; seeing dozens of Facebook statuses announcing their allegiance; getting lost in the hundreds of links that are posted online - sharing and swapping news so quickly, the election has become more gossip-worthy than anything on Page Six. It's virtually impossible to NOT get caught up in it, no matter who you like or what you believe.

I arrived at my polling station just before it opened at 7:30 this morning. I darted into Starbucks first, and was thrilled to get free coffee - I figured that was only good AFTER voting! Then I waited in line for just over two hours in the hot morning sun, basking in the glow of the day.

Behind me stood a very chatty woman. Chatty McChatterson would talk to anyone who was listening. Talk talk talk talk, and let's talk some more. She was very friendly, and perhaps just had too many free coffees, but it was too early for me to start engaging with strangers.

Instead, I focused on the line ahead of me. And, there, standing two people away, was the homeless guy I've seen almost every day since moving into the neighborhood three years ago. I've always assumed he was homeless, anyway. He hangs out by the Starbucks, walks around the block, and never begs, only asks, politely, for change. And here he was, dressed in his usual dirty jeans and jacket, sample ballot in hand. Perplexed, I spent my time wondering where it possibly could have been mailed to.

I also couldn't help but marvel that this homeless (or homeless looking) man seemingly has enough faith in our collective futures to spend his morning making a difference.

Not that, this morning, he was any different from us. There we all were, standing outside of Starbucks, asking for change.

Do you ever just want to be someone else?

Joan Holloway and Blair Waldorf

I actually found a yellow headband at Forever 21, but the cheap plastic hurt my head just looking at it. The only other accessories I had to buy were the knee socks and choker (which you can't see in the photo); for some reason, I already seemed to own the rest of the Naughty School Girl outfit. It was, of course, a major detriment that Chuck Bass was not available for purchase.

Perhaps the scariest thing about this Halloween was the nightmare I had last night, in which I had gained 15 pounds. The reason this was so scary was because it came from a grain of truth. Over the last month or two, I have gained a good five, all around my midsection, and has made wearing much of my wardrobe, at best, uncomfortable. Five pounds is not a lot to anyone but the carrier, and to me, it is unacceptable. It is also very frustrating, because, save for the week I was away, I have also been exercising more than I have been in months. I've been running more - and faster - doing yoga, upping my weights, and being really, really careful with what I eat. I feel like I've noticed a small difference in the last day or two, but the month and a half prior have been disappointing and, quite honestly, depressing. I'm too young - and too single - to start looking middle-aged.

Fortunately, it is a new month, and I've committed to running thirty miles in November. This breaks down to about 8 miles per week, which is mostly do-able, save for the four days I'm going home for Thanksgiving. But as long as I run the two days after I get back, it should be within reach.

And if not, I may have to resign myself to looking more like a late-season Blair Warner than babe Blair Waldorf.