Pretty good Thanksgiving weekend. Chris and I had the privilege of sitting at the "adult table" at his aunt's house, which was nice, considering we're both adults. It's so strange how you can be an adult in every aspect of your life- with your mortgage, your job, the day to day trials and tribulations, menstruation, etc- but when it comes to family, you're not an "adult" until well after all of these other milestones have come and gone. Nonetheless, it was a nice meal, a good time, and then when it was over, we went back home where I promptly picked up where I had left off with Mario 64 on the Wii.

Friday night was a blast. Meg and I went to her friend's wedding, and then I finally got to see Dan's band, The Walk-Ins, at a Tinley bar. It was a great time. Drinking with Dan's little brother is quite the novelty, for in my mind he is forever in the eighth grade, but I suppose it's a lot like the adult table at the family Thanksgiving table. It takes a while for the mind to readjust and for the memories to catch up to the reality. I'll sum up the night in one word. Hysterical. Two words? Hysterical. Lion. Had to be there- when I explained the lion to Chris the next morning, he didn't quite get it. But the lion- the lion was tops.

Saturday night, we went to Ocean and Cassie's where I dominated on Rock Band. Dominated, folks. Apparently, Rock Band rates my singing as awesome. Which is strange, because my singing is not awesome. The exact opposite, really. But it's loud, and I guess I know how to work the system. I've had "Eye of The Tiger" in my mind for the past 24 hours, and I don't think there's any shaking it.

Today was lazy and snowy. A trip to Target, more Mario 64, two episodes of "Dexter," two noodle-based meals, three glasses of wine, and the finishing of a chick-lit novel in which I found more to like than I did to dislike. Not a first, but a rarity. It was called "Remember Me?" by Sophie Kinsella, and while it was completely unlike Christopher Pike's "Remember Me," it was good nonetheless. Stories about amnesiacs tend to write themselves. I heart amnesia.

I thought Chris was out of his mind for waking up at 3:30 AM to go to Best Buy, and I was totally against it. I was pissed when the sound of his shower kept me awake in the wee hours of the morning, and then pissed again when he came into the bedroom around 8:00 AM to ask if I was awake yet. "I'M SLEEPING, YOU JACKASS!" I barked at him, covering my face with a pillow. "GO AWAY!" I didn't know he wanted to ask if he should go back for the Blu-Ray player that he had a ticket for; I didn't know that he'd been waiting three hours for a reasonable time to ask me. We lost out on the Blu-Ray player, but when I finally rolled out of bed at 9:00, it was like Christmas had come a month early. My darling husband had purchased a new digital camera for me and a GPS for us to share. These were the top two items on my Wish List this year, and he procured them at doorbuster prices. And, just like that, I loved him again.

Woo-hoo! Time to take some pictures and plan a road trip to somewhere with a confusing route. Like one of the Portlands. I love gadgets.

Today, I saw this on MSN.com:

Liquid cheeseburger?! They had me interested at "eggnog" and then totally smitten by "liquid cheeseburger." Yummy in my tummy!! Of course, the accompanying article wasn't nearly as tantalizing as the tease of a mystically delicious mug of liquid cheeseburger- it was the boring, heard-it-all-before, yearly round-up of things I love to eat but some asshole thinks I shouldn't. Mashed potatoes and gravy. White dinner rolls and butter. Pie and ice cream. And then the one holiday dish that I really don't get or care about anyway: stuffing. Apparently, people really like stuffing. Apparently, it's a holiday staple, something that people actually look forward to. Apparently, people love stuffing so much that they actually buy it in convenient, microwaveable, individual serving cups.

What is up with THAT??? This is, by far, the most depressing product I have ever come across in the grocery store aisles. Who sits around, by themselves, eating 45 second stuffing??? Mac and cheese, yes. French bread pizza, cup of soup, Smart Ones ziti, bottle of wine, yes, yes, yes, YES. But stuffing? By itself? Are you supposed to heat up a thing of gravy and a few slices of turkey to go along with this pathetic cup of nasty, soggy croutons? Who are these people craving- and having- the Quick Cups for dinner?

In the theater of my mind, the Stove Top Quick Cup is part of the following scenario. You're alone in a dark house contemplating some form of "cide:" suicide, homicide, patricide. Everyone who has ever loved you, liked you, or tolerated you has long since stopped returning your calls. You haven't bathed in weeks, and when you waved to the mailman this morning, he got so flustered by your crazed and disheveled appearance that he dropped your mail on the street, where it was promptly shat upon by a stray dog. You're having the strangest visions at night, and you can't sleep. You've become obsessed with finding hidden messages in commercials, and you're convinced that the Pepsi people stole your likeness for their latest ad. The smell of hot dogs (not regular hot dogs but turkey hot dogs) linger in the air, and the humming of your refrigerator is making your ears bleed. Luckily, you procured a handgun and ample ammo many years ago, back before all those pesky background checks, and you polish the black barrel lovingly while glancing at the clock above the stereo. Do you have time? Do you have forty-five seconds to make a Quick Cup, and maybe two, three minutes to wolf it down? You do. The Quick Cup reminds you of a Thanksgiving that you once had with your family, back before they disowned you. Only, for that meal, it was REAL stuffing, and there were cranberries and yams and meat and dessert and little stuffed mushrooms. And there was laughter at the meal, and somebody gave you a hug. Somebody wanted to TOUCH you once. Not anymore, you think bitterly, crumpling the cardboard Quick Cup in your sweaty, mangled hand. And then you pick up the gun and decide to get to it.

Or, I don't know, maybe the Quick Cups are quite normal, delicious, and satisfying?? Whatever- I wouldn't eat one.

The "Twilight" movie verdict? Laugh-out-loud cheesy, but I would still leave my husband for Edward if given half a chance. I'm fanning myself right now just thinking about it. Dreamy!

My sister tried to give me a big box of my old shoes. "These are the ones that didn't sell at the garage sale," she said, handing me what could one day be an exhibit for the Museum of Jackie entitled "Footwear: The WTF Years." "Can you please take these home with you? We can't stand to look at them anymore."

I was excited at first, thinking that the box might contain my FAVORITE shoes of all time, the shoes that somehow got lost in the depths of my closet never to be found again after 2001. No such luck, though: my old orange, yellow, and silver DKNY sneakers (practically glow in the dark, those shoes) were of course not included in the shoe archives. In fact, nothing beloved was included in the box- just ugly slip-ons and sandals and tennis shoes worn once or twice each sometime around '99 during the Disposable Income period of my young, unstylish life. I knew that the DKNY's wouldn't have been included in the garage sale, either- anybody that loved me even a little bit would know much better than to slap a price tag on the one pair of shoes I considered priceless.

"I don't want most of these," I announced to my sister, shoving the box back at her after grabbing one or two of the lesser ugly shoes (for grocery shopping and petting zoos, I figured). And then I tried to ask her. I begged, "Do you know what happened to my DKNY's? To my yellow and orange sneakers with the orange laces and the silver DKNY logo emblazoned on the sides like fashionable beacons in the nighttime of my foot?"

"Don't know," she replied, but she kind of looked away guiltily and, for a moment, I thought about ransacking her room and breaking some of her shit just to let her know that I was serious. My DKNY's. My favorite shoes, ever. Where the heck where they? I started to go upstairs to her room, but then something caught the corner of my eye. Big Boggle! I hadn't played Big Boggle in years! And just like that, I forgot about the shoes.

But I was thinking about them today, after thinking about Big Boggle. Somehow, those shoes gave me confidence. They were magic. And, even though I'm sure my pragmatic 28 year old self wouldn't be caught dead wearing those today (aside from maybe at a petting zoo), they were hot shoes. As hot as sneakers can be, relatively speaking. I remember that I wore them to Pearl Jam at Alpine Valley. I went up there with three guys- one guy that I worked with, and two of his friends. I think I was about 19, and these guys were OLDER MEN- 23, 24 at least. Men of the world, really. And I was a little nervous about hanging out with these older guys (two of which I found cute), but then when we were all standing around waiting for things to get going (me casually sipping a beer that one of them had bought for my underage self), one of the guys said, "Whoa. Awesome shoes!" And I lifted up my jean leg just a little to show the DKNY's off to the rest of the guys, and for what felt like hours, we all stood around and talked about how badass my sneakers were.

And I was nervous no more. No other shoe has ever done that for me.

So many great memories with those shoes. They were a part of my life during the time when I was finally figuring out what my life was supposed to be. And like all of the other inanimate objects that I have loved more than humans (my Cavalier, my green backpack, that bottle of Witch Hazel that comes in handy at the strangest times), I believe the shoes somehow shaped me. Or at least were an extension of the shape I wanted to be.

And let's not forget about Big Boggle. How crazy awesome was THAT game? Actually, I tried to play it a little this week. Somehow, not as crazy awesome as I remembered.

If I thought y'all were as interested in reading about poop and vomit as I am about writing about poop and vomit, then I would recount the last few days around here in graphic, hilarious detail. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but, within an hour of each other, Chris and I were... let's just say extremely, physically, disgustingly ill. It's been a lingering illness that culminated after so many long days IN THE WORST POSSIBLE WAY. And the last thing that I ate before I got sick? Ranch dressing. And so ranch dressing shall go the way of the Hot Pocket, circa 1994. I haven't had a Hot Pocket since the stomach flu in early high school. And I used to love Hot Pockets, for some reason. Haven't touched one since, and now I know that I can never touch ranch dressing again. Which is a shame, because I used to love ranch dressing (last week). I had the ranch dressing atop some lettuce, tomato, and a hard boiled egg. I think the hard boiled egg will also be added to the Hot Pocket and ranch dressing list, but I haven't yet decided. What I have decided is that the lettuce and tomato are each safe from the list. Why? Because in that particular lunch, they were so dang overpowered by ALL OF THAT GRATUITOUS RANCH DRESSING. Oh, ranch. Sorry about this.

Anyway, I think I'm finally done being sick. I haven't really eaten all week, but the last two days of avoiding food have been mostly out of fear rather than any real illness. On an awesome note, I think I lost eight pounds, which was nice, because I think I was exactly eight pounds overweight. Go me- back to being svelte.

As a follow up to my insurance quandary of last week, though, I would like to say that I'm just going to stick with my "gold plan." Not that I've actually visited the doctor despite being on my deathbed. Oh no. First of all, there's not a toilet in my car, so that wouldn't work. Second of all, I hate going to the doctor. (That's supposed to be read in a whiny voice.) But here's the thing. Let's say I was dying, and this whole thing was due to a stomach tumor or a butt tumor or a throat tumor. Do I really want to be dealing with the Bargain HMO? Getting a REFERRAL from some asshole while I make a mess all over my clothes and the floor? Nope. Not really my thing. So, fuck it. Until Obama fixes the health care industry, I'll just pay for the super mega gold plan and be thankful that one is even available to me. Just to avoid having to visit a primary care doctor for a referral while I stand in a waiting room, simultaneously vomiting and pooping. Yup. Lots of pooping and vomiting.

It's Open Enrollment time of year at work, and we now have that once in a year opportunity to review our medical plans and decide if we want to switch. Since choosing my plan over four years ago, I have reviewed it not once and have only been to the doctor twice, tops. This year, though, I decided to take a look at all of the info and compare it to the plan I currently have. You never know what kind of life changes may occur within the next year, life changes that may possibly require a special kind of medical care. Or may not, who knows.

And, upon reviewing my plan, I realized that I somehow signed up for the most expensive health care plan available. The Gold plan, if you will. That I am easily paying three times as much as most of my co-workers. This is enough to make me ill, to make me actually need a doctor.

Why I chose the Cadillac of health care plans mystified me for all of an hour while I tried to recall my thought process behind originally signing up for this uber-expensive plan. While thinking about this, I started filling out the paperwork to switch over to a plain old HMO. And then, after finding myself near tears trying to understand the form (PCP? IPA? WPHCP? HIC????), I remembered why I signed up for the fancy pants plan in the first place. The form for the less expensive plan was too damn complicated. The form for the expensive plan? Super easy to fill out, yo!

Those health care companies. Geniuses, they are.

Anyway, I'm switching to the HMO, even if it kills me. I just don't like the prospect of having to choose a lifelong doctor at random from a list. There should be an interview process or something. Thankfully, some of the doctors on the list have pictures posted next to their name. And, let me tell you, that helps. Huge deciding factor, you know? Especially in a gyno.

Quite accidentally, I have found myself reading a lot of novels this year that deal with the same theme. The books that I have read, from Sebold's "The Almost Moon" to Picoult's "Harvesting The Heart," share the same, basic characters. A selfish, unloving mother whose life plans never involved having a child, and the adult daughter that finds herself with a subsequent hole in her soul that aches and spreads and begs to be filled. This weekend, I found myself with another such novel in my hands- and it may be one of the best novels I've read this whole year.

"Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name" by Vendela Vida is about a woman in her 20s who travels to the Norwegian Lapland in order to find her father. Her mother had abandoned her family when the main character was 14, and 14 years later, after her dad dies, she discovers that this dad of hers wasn't really her biological father after all. Her birth certificate leads her to the Lapland, and the sense of setting couldn't be more metaphoric and perfect. The landscape is harsh and barren, the air is cold, and the sky is a dozen different shades of dark. In searching for her father, she finds herself retracing her mother's steps from over 28 years ago, and this, coupled with flashbacks from her childhood and adult life, is the framework upon which the main character's story unfolds.

It's interesting, this breed of woman that has emerged maybe not only in recent literature, but mainly more in my own personal reading selections. This woman is the mother who is little more than a ghost during the story, a figure that haunts the protagonist and whose absence is the true character in the story. And this mother who, if present at all during the story, is largely a disappointment. She will not welcome her daughter with open arms; she will fold her arms across her chest and barely admit that they were ever once more than strangers. It's a fascinating character study of something that I haven't necessarily seen acknowledged before.

Anyway, another great book that I strongly recommend.

Under My Thumb Presents:
"Hilarious Typos, Volume 19"

From a local restaurant's list of specials.

Hotmail doesn't work on my computer anymore. This is a real kick in the teeth, considering that email is my preferred method of communication and, on most days, I'd rather shoot myself in the face than have to deal with a telephone conversation or the ever-cumbersome text. MSN did something to upgrade their site that made it totally incompatible with my Linux operating system, and now I am no longer able to compose emails. I can read emails, sure, and I can hit the reply button, and I can even edit the subject line, but writing the actual email itself- that, I cannot do. That area where the words and ideas and funny jokes and slightly exaggerated anecdotes are supposed to go- it just won't let me IN.

I wanted to send somebody a photograph that I snapped. I wanted to write, "Hey, see attached for a great picture of you and that dude you're dating. I think you both look lovely, due, mainly, to my professional handling of my camera machine. No thanks are necessary, just make sure you print and display this photo somewhere prominently, being certain to mention my name whenever anybody even glances at it. I'm thinking silver frame, maybe above the fire place? Anyway, peace out, cub scout!" But I couldn't. Hotmail wouldn't let me. So I stared at my screen for a long time, brow furrowed, before finally just typing one word in the subject line and hitting send. "Picture," I wrote, dusting off my hands and calling it a day. And, just like that, my email became a text message, only somehow ruder.

I worried that maybe Blogger wouldn't work either on my computer, but, as you can see, I'm typing away like a mad woman. I thought it would be funny if Blogger was just as broken, though, and all of my future blog entries had to be summarized simply as titles, such as:

Something Funny About Blankets.

Would Like A Cocktail.

Sarah Palin, Back To Alaska, Phew.

This Week, I Like My Job.

That Chris, He Drives Me Bonkers.

Gas Prices.

Actually Slipped On A Banana Peel, Ha HA!

In Which I Say Something Mean About Myself.

In Which I Pat Myself On The Back, Psycho-Style.

I Heart Carbs.

But, oh, all five of you who read this blog. But, oh, future generations who will stop by good old Under My Thumb and wonder what would possess an otherwise normal woman to blather on for YEARS about virtually nothing.... But, oh, those that are basically bound by an unspoken rule to continue reading even though you clearly lost interest back in 2004- you only wish you were so lucky. Because Blogger still works, and now that I can't write emails anymore- this is all I've got. Muahahahaha! Suck it, losers.

All right, I can stop holding my breath and maybe start getting some sleep at night. What a day to be an American.

We even celebrated with champagne last night, the Cheese and I. Now that's elite!

Today is Chris' 30th birthday! When we woke up this morning, I looked at Chris and said, "I don't know about this growing-old-together shit." Thirty, man, is freaking nuts! He was a baby when I met him, and now, look at him. I mean, really look at him.



Are you seeing what I see? That, in honor of his 30th birthday, Chris has decided to turn into... my father, circa 1988. YIKES!

Actually, the mustache is all part of an elaborate plan pertaining to his Halloween costume. Yeah, I know we're a day late for Halloween, but we're right on time for Chris' 30th birthday and that, dear readers, is a truly scary day. Am I right?