Leading entry: "None for me, thanks" 

I always get a kick out of the crazy bumper stickers I see on the back of cars. I, myself, would never put one on my car, unless it was a magnet or something equally removable. But it's fun to see what other people want me to know about them.

There's a car next to Jason's parents' house that hasn't moved since the people moved in. It has a bumper sticker that reads, "Do you follow Jesus this close?"

I find it kind of ironic, since the car hasn't moved in months. It's impossible to follow it. Did the owner know, when he or she attached that bumper sticker, that the car would end up sitting in the same spot for a period of six months for the same couple to read every time they pulled into their parents' parking strip? The answer is unlikely.

It has another bumper sticker, too, but I can't remember what it reads. The other one makes me laugh everytime I think about it, but the other bumper sticker doesn't even come to the tip of my fingertips. You'd think after repeatedly reading, "Are you following Jesus this close?" I'd find something else to read and focus on the other sticker.

Not me, though. I like routine. Let me read the same bumper sticker each time we visit J's parents. Let me get out of bed the same way each day. I'd even eat the same food everyday if I could get away with it. The most I get out of my routine, though, is reading, "Are you following Jesus this close?" whenever I visit my in-laws.
 

Leading entry: "Six characters in search of an author" 

I haven't written anything worth reading, fictionally, in a long time. There are no characters knocking around in my brain, begging to be written. I have no inspiration to do much of anything, these days. Fatigue has drained me of everything but my ability to be a Mom, or at least try my best in that respect.

Week one of my two weeks off has gone by uneventfully. I didn't leave the house much after Christmas, instead choosing to muck around the house and take it easy. I was tired of being on the go after all that running around for three days straight.

Christmas morning, Ethan was begging, "No buhbye. No buhbye."

After being cooped up in the house for three days straight, he was begging, "We go buhbye! We go buhbye!"

Today he asked to go to the park, but by the time we had the chance, after going to the grocery store and whatnot, it was time for his nap and by the time he woke up from his nap, we would've only had about 20 minutes to play before sunset and the park closed, so we're going to take him in the morning.

Who'd have thought that a weatherman could put the words fifty degrees and wind chill in the same sentence? That's what we had today. Low fifties with a wind chill that made it feel about fourty-ish. Generally, our wind chills take you into the negative digits when used in the context of temperature, and here it's a matter of fourty, instead of fifty, degrees.

We need snow. We're supposed to get some for the New Year, but it's going to be sloshy and mixed with rain, which is no fun. At least I don't have to work again until the eighth, so I won't have to drive in that mess.

What all of this has to do with keeping characters in my head, I don't know. There was no way for me to do MaryLou 's leading entry justice. I'm an author in search of characters, not the other way around, although I can't promise any characters that I would be able to get their stories told anytime soon.
 

Leading entry: "You do not do." 

There are some times when I wish my Dad wasn't s purposeful part of my life, that he'd disappeared into the horizon like he did to his daughter in Texas, only to be memories that my mother tells me and romanticized in belief that he was off somewhere, wishing he could have done better.

Jason asked me around Christmas time if he would ever be good enough for me. The answer was no. I don't honestly believe that he will ever do anything to meet my expectations because he's always disappointed them before. I should learn to love him unconditionally, he told me, he's my Dad and he'll always be my Dad.

Don't get me wrong. I do love my Dad, but not in a father-daughter sort of way. I feel about him sort of how I'd feel about a distant relative that I'd met a few times and shared a few happy memories with. It sounds horrible to say that, but that's how I feel.

I've never written him out of my life or told him he couldn't be a part of my life. In fact, I've done everything I can to invite him to be an active participant, though not always because I was the one who wanted him there.

His father, my Grandpa, spent a good lot of time in the last years of his life persuading me to not be so hard on my Dad. My Dad wasn't always very nice to him, either, but he was his son, and my Grandpa loved him as such and didn't want to see my Dad go through the same thing he was going through.

It always pained him. "What have I done to make him so angry with me," my Grandpa asked me on several occasions. I didn't know. My Grandpa was a wonderful man and I couldn't think of any reason why my Dad wouldn't want anything to do with him.

In the past few years, since my Grandpa's passing, my Dad has told me stories about my Grandpa. I don't believe them, either, and they piss me off. Whether or not they really are true, they aren't any of my business and the only thing they serve to do is taint the wonderful memories I have of a man that I have the utmost respect and appreciation for having in my life. It hasn't done anything more than put my father further down a ladder of expectations he will be unable to climb.

I don't hate my Dad, but I don't like him, and I don't have to like him to love him.
 

Leading entry: "Saying Goodbye" 

Saying goodbye to pets is always a difficult thing, whether you're close to them or not. Some people like to think of their pets as their children, but I can't place either my dogs or my cats on the same level of affection as I hold Ethan. Jason often questions whether I'm attached to any of them, and I am, despite my occasional growlings about their behavior or the fact that two cats and two dogs can get pretty expensive to care for.

The first pet I can remember having is Rowdy. We got him when I was about 3 or 4 years old, and he followed us through all of our moves. He was like a little brother to me, though he wasn't the cute and cuddly kind of cat. He would rather watch all of us from afar than be pet, but he slept at my feet most nights, if I left my bedroom door open for him.

In the 4th grade, we moved into our final home, the home where my parents still live now. Rowdy, of course, came with us. We kept him indoors for a little while, but it became apparent after a short time that he wanted to be outside, roaming, again. My Mom, against her better judgement, let him go in and out as he pleased.

It wasn't long after that, maybe two or three years, that Rowdy started showing signs that he was sick. He'd been getting all of his shots on time, but there was a virus going through the cats in the neighborhood, and Rowdy got it. When my Mom took him to the vet, he told her that Rowdy had contracted a virus similar to feline leukemia, and that it could possibly contagious to children. He recommended that my Mom put him to sleep.

Being my Mom, she hasn't ever been able to put any animal to sleep. She told the vet that she needed to take the cat home, give all of us a chance to say goodbye (without getting too close), and that my Dad would bring him back the next day to do the dirty deed while all of us were in school.

I had to say goodbye to my cat through the door of a cat carrier. We weren't to take him out or touch him. We were only allowed to talk to him and tell him how we felt.

My sisters and I all cried up until bedtime, and before going to school in the morning. We all understood that Rowdy would not be there when we got home, nor would he ever be there again. It was a rough day at school and a long, long walk home that afternoon.

My dad couldn't even bring himself to take his daughters' beloved cat to the vet to meet his maker. He ended up calling my Aunt Lori and imploring her to do it, that the thought of taking Rowdy to be put to sleep was too difficult. My Aunt came and got him and took care of it.

Since Rowdy, I have lost other cats (and dogs). I lost a gerbil, Taylo, whose loss I cried harder for than any other. I don't know why. She was just one of the most entertaining and relaxing pets I'd ever owned. I had her all throughout college, and she lived a year longer than the average gerbil. I found her, cold and stiff, in one of her toilet paper rolls, in mid chew.

Even though I hadn't spoken to Anthony for two weeks, I didn't know who else to call. I was bawling my eyes out, almost incoherent, so he came down to find out what was wrong. When he saw that Taylo had passed, he comforted me, upset himself since Taylo had been his gerbil, too, and prepared her to be buried. Then he went out in the back yard, dug a hole, and buried her. He put a rock over her shoe box, painted a little heart on it with a Sharpie marker, and stayed with me for the rest of the night to make sure I was OK. I know it was "only a gerbil" and he did, too, but Taylo was more than that for me. I wouldn't say that she was like a child to me, but she was pretty close, and Anthony was pretty attached to her, too.

Storm has been sick a couple of times. He had a tumor on his back that they thought might be cancerous, but turned out not to be. He's injured himself a couple of times and been in some pretty tight binds, but he's always pulled through. When he's hurt, though, I worry and hope that he's OK.

Streak has a protruding disc in his spine. One wrong move or one tough play too many and he could be paralyzed. When he was having problems getting around because of it, I cried. He was in so much agony that it was unbearable for me.

I may not consider my pets my kids, but it doesn't mean that I don't have compassion for them, or for anyone who loses one. I hope Sophy 's Dugan is at peace and chasing mice up in kitty heaven. 17 1/2 years is a long time to have a pet, so that kind of loss unimaginable for me. I hope Maui has made it a little more tolerable.
 

Leading entry: "Light It Up" 

We don't decorate the outside of our house for Christmas. Mostly, it's been because in previous years it was too dangerous to attempt. Michigan winters can be very unforgiving and nasty. Ladders are quick to ice up and its easy to fall off a roof and break a bone or two.

This winter has been relatively mild. So mild, in fact, that the spirit of Christmas seemed to evade me much of the month of December, up to and including Christmas day. Usually, I want to leave the tree up through the New Year, but this year I was desperate to take the tree down the day after Christmas.

We did decorate a little, this year, though, since the weather was mild and all. I hung two little window decorations up. One was a Christmas tree, and the other was Santa Claus. When you plug them in, Santa lights up in red and white, and the Christmas tree lights up in green and yellow. Nothing fancy, but certainly not in the tacky realm.

I'm one of those people who don't like colored lights, really, though. My tree is always all white. One year, I did blue and didn't really care for it.

Generally, I try to buy new lights and ornaments every three years. I bought a new tree last year, prestrung, so until we buy another tree, I won't have to purchase more lights. I decorated in blue and silver last year. This year was red and gold with popcorn garland.

Popcorn garland is bad when you have cats that like popcorn, dogs that like popcorn, and toddlers that like popcorn. Half of it was eaten by Christmas. Damn fatass cat. One of these days she's not going to be limber enough to jump that baby gate.

Anyway, I wasn't going to write about all of that. I was going to talk about childhood memories of Christmas Eve. Every year on Christmas Eve, my Grandpa on my Mom's side get together for a Christmas soiree, complete with one of my cousins playing a bona fied Santa for us to sit on and be embarassed by photos taken by my Great Aunts and Uncles. (I put the correct spelling there just for you, Jessiebelle™ . I wanted a burrito so badly that I forgot how to spell.)

Afterwards, my Mom and Dad (if he went) would take us to various places around town to look at lights. The first destination was always Christmas Card Lane. People would decorate their houses by creating an oversized Christmas card and putting it in their front yard. It's a cul-de-sac, so you'd drive up one side, turn around at the end, and drive down the other side, stopping at each house to "oooh and ahhh" over the cards and Christmas lights. It has always been tastefully done and an attraction for families all over Kalamazoo. When Ethan's old enough, we'll probably make a tradition out of driving down Christmas Card Lane.

After Christmas Card Lane, we'd drive to this neighborhood in Parchment where it seemed like everyone within a three-block radius competed to see who could put up the most Christmas lights each year. You'd see all kinds of decorations, most blinding and probably causing confusion to pilots flying overhead who mistook the neighborhood for a runway. I wouldn't have wanted to see these peoples' electricity bills. They were probably high enough to feed small countries for years.

There's a few homes in my neighborhood that get ridiculous with the lights and decorations, but for the most part everyone either puts up a single string of lights with some pine garland, or a big wreath, but not much else. There is one house that has the big snow bubble. The bubble is taller than his house.

See, when the lawn decorations start to get taller than my house is where I'd draw the line. My son might think it's cool, but it really doesn't look good, especially if it takes up your entire front lawn in the process. Since we have a very small front lawn, I'll save the bubbles for the mansions on Bronson Blvd. But those people have taste, living in mansions and all, so we won't see any bubbles in their front yards, either.
 

Leading entry: "Safety Dance" 

Is it horrible that I remember a good lot of those toys? One of my favorites was the Sky Dancer, but I was too old to actually admit to wanting one by the time they were the "thing." Same for the Cabbage Patch doll that ate fingers and ponytails and the hanging hammock of death. The only thing that I remember playing with out of the list of toys ( http://www.radarmagazine.com/features/2006/12/toys.php ) was the lawn darts.

Yes, they were Jarts, and they were the coolest thing ever. Unfortunately, I never got to experience impaling my "friends" or anything cool like that. In all other avenues, my parents may have been lacking, but when it came to sharp, pointy objects, they somehow managed to keep an eye on us and make sure we were playing appropriately.

We weren't allowed to stand in line with where the dart was to be thrown. We weren't allowed to throw a dart at anyone. We weren't allowed to do anything inappropriate like throw the dart over the house, where some unsuspecting stranger, walking by, could get their head stabbed.

My parents were such killjoys.

There were other things that I remember doing in my childhood that totally takes this diligence in matters of safety and shoots it in the ass.

I spent much of the first five years of my live living in a trailor park. We moved in when I was about 18 months old, if I remember my mom's story correctly. We moved out the summer after I finished Kindergarten. So when I say I grew up in a trailor park, I only mean for the first five years. After that, we bounced around from house to apartment because our family got too big to live in our 2-bedroom trailor.

The trailor park had all kinds of dangerous things to play in and with. There was a creek, complete with a bridge and boards with rusty nails. There was a dumpster with wasps nests. There were various roads with pot holes for me to ride my bike on. It was quite the little adventurer's paradise.

There were various things I can remember surviving in the time we spent living in the trailor park:

- Playing lawn darts with the other kids in the neighborhood, who were not quite as well behaved as my parents liked, though were managed to be kept under control so as not to impale anyone.

- Playing around the dumpster. (You never knew what kind of treasures you can find in and around those things - people threw away all kinds of junk that would appeal to a 5-year-old.) One of those dumpster playing episodes included the stinging in my right palm by 1,000 wasps. It may not have actually been 1,000, but it felt like it for weeks afterward.

- Playing at the creek, even though my parents specifically forbade us to do so. I loved wearing my duck shoes and splashing around. We also liked to hunt for crayfish to catch and then smash with rocks. (We were sadistic fucks, so it seems, but we liked the cracking noise.) Not only did we open ourselves up for having our skulls crushed by a stray rock, but we also could have been pinched by a crayfish. That never happened, though. The only thing that ever happened was I was crossing the bridge, in my duck shoes, and having a rusty nale impale my heel. Hello, tetanus shot!

- Riding my bike, and like a five-year old, being dumb about it. I twisted my handlebars back and forth, making my bike travel in a fun, serpentine motion. My goal was to see how close to the ground I could lean without falling. Unfortunately, I found the limit, fell, and crashed head-first into the concrete. I still have the scar from where I scraped the skin on my forehead down to the bone.

There were other times in my life where I did stupid and dangerous things. When I was 6, after we'd moved into the house on Edison Street, I was playing in Lindsey's apartment building with her. We were running up and down the hall, and I ran head-first into a door-jam. That put me in the emergency room to get a few stitches in my left eyebrow.

I wasn't very graceful as a child, if you couldn't already tell. My parents eventually enrolled me in dance classes, which helped, but I was still a danger to myself in later years. It just never got as bad as having to go to the emergency room for a tetanus shot or stitches.
 

Leading entry: "Invalid Entry" 

I wouldn't call W a charming average guy. I would call him a rich moron. Money can buy you a lot more than you'd think. Your service record closed, your drug history forgotten, your inclusion into Skull and Bones. I mean, he did make it into Yale, so he can't be incredibly stupid, unless money got him there, as well.

I wouldn't call his father smart, either. Maybe even slightly dumber than his son, since the man couldn't get himself re-elected as alpha male and left another alpha male to rid us of the demons of war he had brought upon the troops.

Somehow, some way, W got himself re-elected. I think mostly, this is because of a lack of suitable alternative alpha males, though you can make anyone seem unsuitable by attacking his war record and questioning his awarded medals that were received in combat. Take a war hero and perceive him as a snivelling, lying, bastard, and a lot of people may believe it.

There's many things about the electoral process that have changed since the Constitution was originally written. The original process was intended to make it so that there were certain degrees of separation between the public and the elected president. With the lack of separation these days, that is why "charming morons" are able to become alpha male.

The population, as a whole, is driven by emotion, even though they may not think so. They may not be uneducated, but usually are uneducated where the "issues" are concerned. They allow themselves to be driven by the media's portrayal of everything without question, and that is why the media has as much influence as they do these days.

Alright. I'm done with this soap box stuff. We all know how I feel about alpha males named W. I voted, and not for him, so I can complain all I want. I just generally do not because it's pointless, and I'm worried that complaining about him will put me on the suspected terrorist list. Then big brother really will be following me around.
 

I want a bean burrito so bad it's making me pissy. And nachos.

I can't go anywhere because Jason has my keys. Even if he didn't have my keys, Ethan is napping so I can't exactly leave him here to sleep while I go get a burrito. I wish there was some Mexican place that delivered around here. I would so be dialing the numbers right this very moment. I'd probably end up ordering out the store, though, because I'm craving one so bad I wish I could taste it.

There was this place, when I was in high school, that was right down the street from Old Central. I always loved it when we practiced there for the drama team, because I would save my allowance in order to get a bean burrito or two during the weeks we were rehearsing. They made the best burritos, with steak, sour cream, refried beans, and this sauce that I swear tasted better than any other burrito place has ever made.

I miss that place. I work at Old Central now, but the deli is gone. It has been almost 10 years (next year will, in fact, be my 10 year reunion) since high school. Places come and go.

We have a 50 dollar gift certificate to North Eleven, and if I remember correctly they have a really good wet burrito, so maybe I can talk Jason into going out to dinner tonight.

I. want. a. burrito.

That doesn't look right.

I. want. a. burrito. right. fucking. now.

That's close enough. I really want a burrito. Or some nachos. I can deal with nachos if I'm mistaken and North Eleven doesn't have a burrito. I don't want any of that Taco Bell fake shit. I want a bonified burrito.
 

Christmas went OK. I'm still recovering from all of it. I had a hard time getting into the spirit this year because a) I spent most of the time nauseated and/or tired, and b) there was no snow, which seems weird when living off of Lake Michigan.

I'm taking Zofran in the mornings because I cannot get over the nausea. I tried to go without today, but I spent most of the day gagging on my own spit. It makes it impossible for me to do anything but lay around, unless I take a pill. I can't not take care of my son, and I can't take care of him if I'm sitting in front of the toilet half of the day, gagging.

Jason's being kind of assinine about it and said that I'm the one who wanted to be pregnant so he has no sympathy for me. I told him lack of sympathy gets him no sex. He's been about half sympathetic ever since, so he's only going to get half the sex he otherwise would if he took care of me.

I also threatened him with no sex for two weeks if he ate the apple pie Carrie sent home with me yesterday. It's still on the plate where I've left it. He acts like everything needs to be eaten right away, regardless of whether or not he's actually hungry.

I'm 8 weeks pregnant tomorrow. Only 6 more weeks to go until the first trimester is over. Then I can stop holding my breath and waiting for something bad to happen.
 

So Christmas meal # 1 commenced and went off without a hitch... sort of. Given the fact that this is my first turkey, ever, I think I did pretty good. Since I supplied the turkey, I also had to make stuffing, and then I made some pies, too. By making pies, I mean Jason took them out of the box and put two in the oven, and left the third to thaw on the counter for a little bit before moving it to the fridge.

The turkey was almost as easy, though I do have a few turkey tips for any other first-timers:

It's best to take the turkey out of the fridge on the last day to thaw for 6 - 8 hours, which makes it possible to pull all of its guts out without having to rinse the inside with scalding hot water several times in order to loosen it up.

Make sure that your roasting pan is big enough ahead of time, thus making one less necessary trip to the store to buy a disposable pan, since you'll have already determined ahead of time that you needed one and gotten it on the previous trip two days prior.

Always go by the meat thermometer, even if your turkey has a little red dimple on it that's supposed to tell you when it's done. 171 degrees, farenheit is the optimal temperature for flavor, moisture, all without illness. Sometimes the dimple doesn't go off until 180+ degrees, when you'll end up with a turkey that's dried out, a little burnt, and incredibly tasteless.

If you use a Reynold's oven bag, you don't have to worry too much about the above tip, although you still want to avoid overcooking your turkey. Ignore that damned red dimple, bag or none.

Try to take a nap while the turkey's cooking. You're going to need the extra rest in order to fight the triptophan overdose.

Turkey is easier to get rid of than your other leftovers. Tell people they can't take the turkey home unless they take some pie, too. Otherwise, you'll end up with a small sandwich bag of turkey and 2 1/2 pies in your fridge.

Only volunteer to host one Christmas event at your home, that way you only have to do it once that year. Otherwise, you'll be overstressed about your house being clean when you should be enjoying your holiday.

Try not to work on the same day you're hosting an event. Something will always happens that will pull you into the office longer than you expect to be there. I'll only be there an hour, generally means you'll be there for at least two.

Follow these tips, and you'll be sure to have a fun holiday event!