Turkey Day Pics

The stinky puppies of Thanksgiving:

Stinky Puppy #1: Sushi


















Stinky Puppy #2: George













Stinky Suckling Puppy #3: Ruby













PJ Being attacked by the stinky puppy #1


















Stinky Puppy #1 snuggling with Michelle



















The Video Gaming of Turkey Day





























































































Cooking Time




































































The babies of Thanksgiving


























































Our tour around and around and around.... Portland


































































Yaaay Turkey Day!

Turkey Day

It is an urban myth that suicide rates spike at the holidays. Turns out, they actually go down. Experts think, it is because people are less inclined to off themselves when surrounded by family. Ironically, that same family togetherness is thought to be the reason that depression rates actually spike during the holidays.















This is the first Thanksgiving I have not spent at home, with my family. Instead, PJ and I drove up to Portland, Oregon through the rain and the snow to be with friends from Texas.

I do not know what it is, but having Thanksgiving away from home that makes me feel like an adult. Maybe it was the fact that I spent 3 days prior to the drive up sweating over a hot stove cooking anything that could be made with pumpkin. Maybe it was because everyone was in this together, we created our own family out of friends. Or, maybe it was because I was not the youngest one there. Whatever it was, I felt like an honest to goodness adult.

Of course once we got there, all we did was play video games...

Not a clue in the world

"But I still haven't found what I'm looking for...."

Literally, the world. I travel the world and, I have no clue. No clue what I want to do, who I want to be, I have no clue.

When I quit my job with Vector, I thought to myself, maybe this trip to Africa will help me realize what I want to do. Three months later, no still no clue.

Well, that is not entirely true. I know what I want to do. I want to be a photographer, I want to make money, I want to go back to the corporate world, I want to do something that will make a difference. I want to do it all. Surprise, surprise.

Ideally, I could make all those things work together and have the perfect job. I could be a photographer for some magazine or newspaper or an NGO. But of course, instead of fitting all these desires in to one job, I seem to be finding too many jobs that fit only some of the desires.

I have my job at a photo gallery. Fun as it is, it is also tiring. I stand on my feet seven hours out of the day and work with other people's photographs. I hang up and sell other people's photographs. I am working with art, but none of it is my own. Not only is that tiring, it is frustrating and draining.

Since I am making little more than minimum wage, I go in search of a second job. Where do I end up, but a local sales office of Vector Marketing.

I was really excited about this for a second. I know I could make good money doing it and it would be my own hours. So, I went in for an informal interview with the local District Manager. Forget that I have no motivation to actually sell knives right now, and do not know anyone in the area who I could sell knives to. But, I got some sort of sad thrill out of talking to the DM about the last conference and the fact that she is up against two DMs from the Eastern Region in one of the national competitions.

Homesick much? Breaking up really is hard to do... After much soul searching, and throwing out my back (again) this morning. I decided not to go through training again. It was a hard decision...















One job possibility down, millions to go.

A ballerina, I am not

"When you were a child your mother thought, as mothers sometimes do, that you were strong enough and sure enough to someday be a dancer. But, when you were five, or was it six, or was it nine, you didn't want to dance. You couldn't bear to dance, unless you were dancing in the grass and dancing in the mud, as children often do. And then, your father kicked you a ball. And the ball was the shape of the whole wide world. And now if you see green you can only think of one thing to do. And the world slips away from your feet. And the sky slips down into your arms. And you are free, absolutely free to be who you want. To go where you can. To be wild to be loud to fly in the mud and run in the rain. Strong Enough. And Sure Enough. Like A Dancer. "














Athletic, I am. A dancer, I am not. Graceful, I am not.

At the age of twelve, encouraged by my teachers, I quit ballet. Though I was one of the smallest girls in any class, I was always put in the back row. This would ensure that no one could see me screw up or fall. My teachers learned that lesson early on when at my first recital I fell while sasheing across the floor and near brought my partner down with me. True, I was only seven years old, but I never improved.

Never daunted, my mother kept enrolling me in dance classes. Ballet, jazz, whatever it took to ensure I would be a beautiful ballarina.

Poor mom, it never happend.

And yet, I felt compelled, twelve years after my brilliant decision to quit, to try and take a ballet class of sorts. And, again, though I was the smallest in the class, I was definately the least graceful, the least ballarina like in the group. Even the 6 ft 200 lbs woman next to me looked more graceful and natural each new move we learned.

Maybe in another 12 years I will try again.