There was this one time I was in L.A. in November and the roses were blooming and I was flitting about in flipflops and sunglasses and oh, how magical is the eleventh month in . . Los Angeles.

In this part of the world November has a paralyzing effect on even the hardiest, most savage of our ilk; just the memory of a day in early November can make grown men weep. Or at least that's the story we're going to be telling the young'uns. Once upon a time, I walked outside and the sharp point of a ten foot icicle drove itself right into my heart and the marrow of my bones was turned to ice. . .

Because? Day 24 of the 11th month and it is STILL warm. WARM with sunshine. I would say WTF but who am I to question the great wisdom of the powers that be?

Alas, I know-- I know. I am most remiss in my posting of Daisy photos. Mea culpa. I been done busy getting ready for my favorite holiday of the year.

She is 3.6 pounds of spunk-- rather, she was 3.6 pounds at her first vet visit when we handed over the bit of fur and bones that she was then. Now, much like Clara in Heidi, the mountain life has seen her blossom into a butterball. Yesterday I brought her with me on the morning walk with the big dogs--- we had houseguests sleeping and I wanted the dogs outside so as not to disturb holiday slumber.

It was 6:30 am and my intention was to carry her in the pouch of my hoodie-- but she wanted to run with the Brombie mob-- and all told, she must have done 1.5 miles on those itsy legs. Damn Houston, we've got a winner here.

Thanksgiving is all fun and games until someone has to overindulge and run outside to puke (I'm looking at you Henry).

Fortunately, it turns out that it's okay if you don't have a chandelier provided you have balls.

Of course, there's nothing quite so misery-inducing as being a teenager on Thanksgiving. God, the adults are so annoying with their stupid music and their endless drinking (god, the drinking) and the lame questions like they could ever understand anything. God.

Today everyone is gone. Everywhere I look I see empty bottles of red wine, dessert plates with a bite of pumpkin pie left on it, dregs of a most successful apple crisp, the greasy black tub that roasted our lovely turkey, used wine glasses, crocks and bowls, dirty dishes, and, LOOK AWAY.

Ah, yes. I'm going to take my turkey-stuffed belly over to the window seat and stretch out in the sunshine. (Mais oui, I realize it looks like I'm four months pregnant in this photo, but I assure you it's much worse in real life-- closer to six months). Wake me when it's Christmas.

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