Lisa H is always giving, giving, giving – especially to For Refreshment Only Sunday!

Her latest gifts were especially tasty. Check ‘em out:

You guys know I have a weakness for a man in blue . . . and out of blue, now that Lisa’s sent such a tasty post-turkey-day treat!

Happy FROS, m’dears! And Lisa H, THANK YOU!

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When Pocket asked me and Julia to do novellas for our new anthology, they first said that they wanted the theme to be unusual Christmas traditions, which is why Julia mentions Hogmanay and sword dancing, Jane Feather covered the Lord of Misrule, and I incorporated Snapdragon into my story. Then they decided not to do it. Oops! So there we were, with all our weird customs worked into the stories. C’est la vie.

But in the course of researching my story, I discovered there really were a lot of strange Christmas customs out there, especially in Great Britain. Take Wales, for example. They have one involving a dead horse’s head. I kid you not (the Mafia would have loved this one). It’s called the Mari Lwyd, and it involves carrying around a horse’s head on a stick dressed in a sheet. Sort of like caroling. Only with a horse’s head.

My family had a less bizarre Christmas tradition, though it WAS weird. My dad always made pretzels on Christmas Eve. You know, the kind they sell in the mall–the bread-y kind. I don’t even remember why or how it started. Then there was the year he made chocolate ones, and they looked, um, exactly like turds. Rather unappetizing. He never did that again. But that tradition has stayed in our family for years.

So what about you? Any weird Christmas traditions in your area? Any odd ones practiced by your family? Or are you all just traditional folks at Christmas?

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I don’t know about you all, but I am in a food coma. I promised myself that I wouldn’t over eat, but as I sit here and write, I can actually feel my butt getting bigger from all the pie with extra whipped cream. I thought about maybe exercising, but then I ran across the following articles and am rethinking the pros and cons of shedding a few.

A 38-year-old woman described as “very large,” using the “abductor” thigh-tightening machine at the New York Sports Club in Harlem in July, failed to dismount properly, according to a witness, and was “sling-shot” off, across the room, startling other gym users. Paramedics had to use a “Stokes basket” instead of a regular stretcher to carry her out, according to the New York Post.

Clair Robinson, 23, told an interviewer in September that she believes the only reason she survived the deadly flesh-eating infection recently was because she had too much weight for the bacteria to consume. “Being big saved my life,” she told Australia’s “Medical Emergency” TV show.

Though Mayra Rosales, 27, stands charged with capital murder in Hidalgo County, Texas, she was not ordered to jail pending trial but was allowed home detention because of her obesity. At about 1,000 pounds, Rosales requires special transportation and facilities and was ruled by a judge in August certainly to be no “flight risk.”

How about all of you? Did you over indulge? Are you hitting the treadmill today or are you out risking life and limb on Black Friday?

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 Thanksgiving Day has always been one of my favorite holidays because I get to celebrate the three F’s… Family, Friends, and Food. Especially the Food. It’s one of the few times I stuff myself guilt-free!

 And maybe I appreciate it more since, in one of my former lives as a project engineer, I always missed Thanksgiving because I had to work. (Holidays were the only time the plant shut down in order to do big installations and repairs.)

Unless you’re a turkey, Thanksgiving can be a special day. So in the spirit of the season, I thought I would leave you with some rather irreverent words of wisdom about T-day that were printed in my local newspaper yesterday:

“What we’re really talking about is a wonderful day set aside on the fourth Thursday of November when no one diets. I mean, why else would they call it Thanksgiving?” – Erma Bombeck

“My mother is such a lousy cook that Thanksgiving at her house is a time of sorrow.” – Rita Rudner

“An optimist is a person who starts a new diet on Thanksgiving Day.” – Irv Kupcinet

“I love Thanksgiving turkey… it’s the only time in Los Angeles that you see natural breasts.” – Arnold Schwarzenegger

“Thanksgiving, man! Not a good day to be my pants.” – Kevin James

And lastly, one not so irreverent quote:

“Forever on Thanksgiving Day; The heart will find the pathway home.” – Wilbur D. Nesbit

Here’s wishing you and your loved ones at home and abroad a safe, happy Thanksgiving Day!!

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My nephew has recently discovered superheroes (yay!), and I’ve noticed that with very few exceptions they all have alter egos, secret identities and the like. Superman is Clark Kent. The Hulk is Bruce Banner. Wolverine is Logan (or actually, James Howlett).

A secret identity allows you to have fantastic adventures and save the universe and then still come home to do the laundry and take out the garbage. Your real name is what grounds you. The alias lets you fly – in some cases literally. Even the President gets a Secret Service name: our current President is Trailblazer, and our next President will be Renegade, though telling everybody your secret identity names seems a bit counterproductive to me.

I want one of those cool names. Not an author pseudonym, but a secret identity/superhero name. Do you remember the game to see what your Bond-girl (or call-girl) name would be: You take the name of your first pet (or girl pet, if that fits better), and the name of the street you grew up on. My Bond-girl name is Sassy Alamos. Or there’s this one: your favorite candy, and your nearest major cross street. That one makes my Bond-girl name Toffee Rose.

If I were a superhero, I would want a cool name like Storm, or Rogue, or Ms. Marvel. Unfortunately, you’re supposed to figure that under Freudian law, you’ve named your most recent pet after the person you would like to be. Which makes me either Atticus Finch or Sig (after my blue lobster). I am going to pretend that I named one of my finches Raptor. That’s a good hero name.

What’s your Bond-girl name? What’s your superhero name? If you could just pick a superhero name for yourself out of the blue, what would it be?

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I’m planning to drink my way through this holiday. I really don’t have a choice. You see, two weeks ago, I had gastric bypass surgery. 

Yep, I took the plunge. I saw the writing on the wall and applied for the program nearly a year ago. Even up until the time of the surgery, I wasn’t sure I would go through with it. I’d lost 42 pounds on my own by then. But although it had taken me eight months to lose the first 38, the last 4 had taken three and a half months, and I was hungry the whole time. Plus, I’d lost large amounts of weight in the past–50 pounds once, 60 another time. That wasn’t even counting the 20 pounds here, thirty pounds there. I had always put them back on eventually. I decided I was tired of fighting with it. So two weeks ago, I entered a hospital and went under the knife.

I’m still recuperating. The first week and a half were hard, I’ll admit. I had a lot more pain than I expected. I was exhausted all the time and slept 12 hours a day at least. But since last Thursday, I haven’t needed a single pain killer. I can get some things done, fetch my own liquids for my liquid diet phase, take showers, and do a good bit of work (between naps). I feel pretty good. The liquid diet sucks (2 oz. of liquid protein drink an hour, 2 oz. of water, coffee, broth or other liquid every 15 minutes for at least 12 hours a day), but I expected that. It only lasts 3 weeks. I figure I can stand anything for 3 weeks. Then I graduate to soft foods and can stop dividing my day into 15-minute increments (which is actually the hardest part). 

But I’ve already lost 14 pounds. Fourteen pounds! And I’m excited. Really excited. For the first time in years, I’m looking forward to buying new clothes. So wish me luck! For me, it’s a brand new beginning. I can’t wait to see how it all turns out!

So, have you ever taken a drastic step in your life? Surgery? Big move? Leave a job for unknown territory? Did it turn out as you’d planned? Did you regret it or did the risk pay off? 

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I am not.

Let me set the scene for you. One day in high school, I got asked out on a date. He offered to take me snow skiing. See, on Wednesday nights the local ski place had special rates, especially for students. It was a real hangout for kids who loved to ski.

I didn’t ski. You may remember that I water-ski? Totally different. For one thing, it’s nice and hot for water-skiing. For another, there’s a lot of water involved. I love water. Cold and snow? Not so much.

A first date. The guy screwed up his courage to ask someone out he barely knew. I’ve always been sensitive to the rigors of being male and there was no way I was going to shoot him down. So we went skiing on Wednesday night. I had an English quiz the next day; it was going to be an early night.

We arrive. He does the gentlemanly thing, which is pretty impressive for a 17 year old boy to manage, and teaches me to ski on the bunny slope. I am not good, not even on the bunny slope. He is encouraging. He is impatient to get to the big slope. Even I, a 16 year old girl can see this. I’m trying to be a good sport. He’s trying to be patient.

I go down the bunny slope, doing my less than trusty snow-plow, tips pointed together, lose my grip on the snow-plow and go careening into a rope fence. I now have a rope burn/cut across my face from my nose to my ear.

The boy, let’s call him Jeff (hi, Jeff!), races down to help me, and as he’s picking me up from the snow, staring at my red rope burn, declares I am ready for the big hill.

All Jeff’s gentlemanly tendencies were clearly used up. He wanted to SKI.

Still being a good sport, I agree. I’m terrified, but I agree. Up we go on the ski lift. There are signs for trails of various difficulties. Apparently Jeff had a lot of confidence in my abilities (or he just really wanted to ski at his level–you decide) because he insisted we get off at the most difficult trail. I can’t remember the name of it, but it might have been something like This Way to Die. The snow machines are going, the ski patrol guy  is looking grim, watching me scramble off the lift. There had been sleet just the day before and the mountain was very slick under that inch of powder. He asks me if I’m a competent skier. I stare at him. I stare at Jeff. Jeff pronounces me competent. Jeff was very desperate by this point.

Jeff reviews the snow-plow technique with me one more time (after the ski patrol guy had moved off). He even encourages me to go first, so he can watch me and help from behind. Ooookay.

I take off. My snow-plow quickly degrades into a straight run down the mountain. Straight. Did I mention straight? I can hear Jeff behind me, but I am going so much faster than he is in my plunge down the mountain that he’s quickly out-distanced. The one good thing? The icy wind feels good on my rope burn.

Then my tips go under, my body goes forward, and my forehead hits a big chunk of ice. I am now going face down the mountain, unconscious. Eventually I stop. The ski patrol arrives, turns me over, and I regain consciousness. Jeff shows up, looking embarrassed. The ski patrol guy chews him out for letting me go on the Death Trail when I’m clearly not ready for it. I am ferried down the mountain by the ski patrol, which is the best part of my date with Jeff, and we drive home in near silence.

The next day at school I have a ragged rope burn mark across half my face and a purple knot on my forehead the size of an egg. Jeff’s friends are impressed, by what I’m not sure. Apparently taking a girl out on a date and bringing her home roughed up is…impressive?  I am the talk of the school. I think Jeff felt some pressure from his friends to ask me out again.

He asked. We went to a dance. I didn’t get hurt.

After that, the excitement went out of our tepid relationship and we never dated again. I never skied again either. Can you blame me?

So what about you? Any first date stories you want to share? You can even name names. Let Jeff get his own blog.

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