Well, to you I say in no uncertain hyperbolic terms, what is life without a turkey craft?!? And a LIZ LEMON turkey craft at that!

This year, my turkey is singing the theme song for Cheezy Blasters into her wine glass while working on her Night Cheese and shuffling along on a treadmill at 2 mph. Meat Cat and some teamster subs were good enough to make cameos! Thanks Meat Cat! (If you don’t know what any of this is referring to, then I don’t know if we can be friends anymore. Oh, just go watch 30 Rock!)

You're my hero, Liz Lemon!

Pinch crafting for Fancy this year was the tag-team crafting duo of my mom and grandma. From where I sit, both created equally disturbing and cracked out turkeys…

My mother: for her sudden can’t-miss-it interest in football and references to “The Game” and some Packer football player she called “Trusty.”

Football is stupid. The end.

And my grandmother: for her…um…well…just take a look and tell me if that shit isn’t cracked out. Is this what happens to us when we get old?

I have no words. No words.

I hope you enjoy our “craftiness” and that you had a fantastic Turkey Day!

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A day from which I am still recovering and seeing a chiropractor. A day when I intended to *happily* squire my visiting brother and his girlfriend around Chicago and later see Fitz and the Tantrums at Schubas for their Lolla aftershow.

Instead, I slipped in the apartment Saturday morning on the residual oil slick from the dude’s otherwise innocuous pre-Lolla sunscreen spraying in the bathroom. I fell backward at what I am guessing was a 60 degree angle into the bookcase, then promptly onto the floor. As I lay there, I thought I’d sprained my left ankle from the slip, elevating it on the edge of the couch’s arm. Luckily, I did not. Unluckily, however, I managed to seriously FUCK UP my neck and left shoulder, which became apparent the minute I tried to raise my head off the hardwood floor.

In the meantime, Wendy scurried over to sniff me and take up her perch on the couch from which she could fully take in Mommy’s silliness. Really need to get cracking on teaching her how to go get help/ dial 911 given how klutzy I am in general! In this particular case though- I could have been a damn Triwizard Tournament Champion (that one’s just for you Brandy, as well as the balloon hat reference below!) and still would have taken a nasty fall. I’m just glad I fell out of the tiled bathroom and not back into it and the bathtub, which could have been truly disastrous.

So that was the epic start to the day, followed by my apologetic air hugs to my brother and his lady friend (“Don’t touch me, I’m old and broken!”), and my attempts to self-medicate with two margaritas at the newly opened Margaritaville at Navy Pier during lunch (no balloon hats at this location, I’m sad to say). I managed to get a decent buzz going, but nothing that drowned out the neck spasms completely. Perhaps some retail therapy?

Despite the pain, I soldiered on via cab to Michigan Avenue where I took them to the North Face Store (hello, that place is READY for winter and almost sold me on these badass $40 (strangely $60 online) gloves except what the hell it’s August and humid as a skank whore outside- because skank whores are apparently humid), to the new AllSaints (am in love with this place and promptly picked up this waistcoat which will look amazing with a black pencil skirt or with these gummy black skinny jeans), to the new Chick-fil-A for lemonades (sadly no room for my favoritest sandwich ever despite its status as Jesus chicken- no joke, I even referenced my love for the Fil-A in my About page), to the top of the Hancock, and finally to Ghirardelli for ice cream (strawberry cheesecake FTW).

We took our ice cream cones across the street and sat on the edge of the fountain by the Water Tower, people watching and chatting. It was one of those beautiful, albeit tourist-laden, moments in the city. We finished our ice creams and walked over to the line of horse carriages, where my brother expressed his fear of horses in general. I promptly proceeded to scoff at him and intended to demonstrate how perfectly tame they are. And then it happened.

I got bit by a horse.

There on the banal sidewalk of the Magnificent Mile, surrounded by shoppers and street performers and children (one of whom the same rabid horse would later try to bite), on an otherwise uneventful and sunny Saturday afternoon, in the middle of the fucking city; I reached my hand out to pet the horse’s head and he curled his mouth around and chomped down on my right forearm, leaving behind horse slobber and bits of grass and teeth marks. What. The. Fuck.

Like I said, last Saturday was A DAY.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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“I miss him,” I admitted. “Grandpa had a singular ability to always make me feel special- like every day was my birthday.”

As the words slipped from my mouth, I suddenly realized why my birthday often ends in tears or sadness. Because it’s over. Because my special day and the specialness I’m allowed to bask in is at an end. Because I tend to question whether I’ve made the most of it. Because until next year, that’s it.

Having that one day a year when I’m The Birthday Girl, savoring the attention, can place a lot of pressure on the day itself and the people with whom I spend it. In prior years, I’ve taken some exciting  trips, made exceptional purchases, and shared fancy dinners which have certainly proven memorable and hard to top! One year, I was even shit on!

For this birthday, however, I chose a quiet weekend at home. I went for an after work drink with Fancy, and saw the jellies exhibit at the Shedd and shared dinner with my parents. On the day itself, I took Wendy with me to get gelato with a thoughtful friend, went bike shopping with my boyfriend, took an epic and mimosa-induced nap, then had dinner at the Signature Room at sunset. And I felt happy.

At 31, there were no tears when the sun set and the frenetic lights began to twinkle on the streets 95 floors below. At 31, there finally came acceptance and recognition instead. Acceptance that the “specialness” I miss so much and grasp at during my birthday each year is as fleeting as the people who have come and gone in my life. And recognition that the people who are still here, the people I appreciate and love dearly, made time in their busy schedules just for me on the occasion of my birthday.

Being able to share that time and create those memories with them couldn’t have been more special to me.

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She began her behest innocuously enough with a whisper into the phone: “Shhhh…don’t tell your father,” she said as I heard her hastily scamper into another room in the background and shut the door. “I have money I want you to take to your brothers when you see them and I don’t want him knowing because it’s just for you kids.“

“Seriously?” I asked her. “You realize they’re grown ups now, right?”

“Oh, I have money for you too.”

“Mom, I’m not joking. You need to stop- we’ve talked about this before,” I tried for what had to be the bazillionth time, knowing full well it was useless.

“Shut up, you’re taking the money and that’s all there is to it. I have Girl Scout cookies for you too.”

“Well fuck, when you put it that way….”

Hate me if you must; I couldn’t say no. There were peanut butter patties. And thin mints. And, yes, even samoas.

So, just like that, I became my mother’s mule. I carried $50 and three boxes of Girl Scout cookies for each brother from my parent’s home in WI to my own, then to Midway, and finally to South Carolina. Was I proud of it? No, not really. I hate taking money from my mom, but she’s the type who refuses to allow you to say no. She will shove it in your pocket and do so in the most embarrassing way in public until you take it just to get her to stop. Or, she’ll be sneaky about it and hide her stash in a purse pocket you didn’t even know you had only to find it two weeks later and resort to shaking your fist at the sky and shouting “Curses! Foiled again!”

The thing is, even though my brothers and I are grown up, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her kids and she wants to give us money so we can “go get a coffee with a friend” or “go see a movie” or “treat ourselves to something nice for Easter.” It’s thoughtful of her and everything, but it also isn’t necessary and is often really uncomfortable because my parents aren’t in a position to be concerned about giving us $20 here or $50 there. Plus, it’s awkward because she always sneaks it to us without my dad knowing. At this point in my life though, I’ve realized that my mom is sure to ferret money away until the day she dies because she wants her kids to have a little something from her if she can give it. True story.

After my conversation and after she’d made the exchange, I sat contemplating my plight while absently watching the TSA German Shepherd at the airport. I’d have loved to have made friends with him but remembered I was carrying SIX BOXES of cookies and wouldn’t it be a little odd if he smelled them and security was all like “Dude, what’s up with all the cookies, yo?” After considering the consequences, I opted to reach into my bag and surreptitiously eat  a peanut butter patti instead. Less evidence.

As I nibbled one, then inhaled another and another until a whole row of cookies disappeared, I let myself off the hook. So what if my mother tricked me into doing her bidding? So what if I’m a 30 year old GROWN ASS woman who just accepted $65 and three boxes of cookies from my mom? So what if I’m enabling her ridiculousness in giving money to my brothers as well? So. What.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and bite the proverbial cookie. You have to listen to your mom, do what she says, be a good daughter. Even if it means you become her secret allowance mule. Even if it involves payment in Girl Scout cookies.

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And then, you try a pill. An anti-depressant. In clichéd marketing terms, you and your doctor “throw spaghetti at the wall” in hopes that something will stick. In hopes that one of the medications will work, the prescribing of which is still very much a guessing game, a gamble, a bit of “How do you like your odds?” You’re already taking Lamictal and Wellbutrin; have already tried Celexa, Lexapro, and Effexor…  why not Zoloft too?

You, who’ve been Depression, now morph into The Experiment. You’re willing to do whatever it takes, try whatever is recommended; you need help. In spite of this acknowledgment, you undergo hope and disbelief just as the sun slips in and out of the clouds. Light and shadow. Warmth and chill.

Is it working? How do I know? Is this really me? Who am I without depression? Who am I without a pill? When will I know? What happens if it doesn’t work?

The side effects begin. Insomnia. You attempt to function on 4 hours of sleep pieced together night after night. Loss of appetite. You don’t want to eat and yet you’re nauseous from taking the medication on an empty stomach. Muscle pain, headaches, and fatigue. Somehow, even your teeth hurt. For good measure, you also plow through dizzy spells, shaky hands, and a curious loss of your short term memory.

But, the daily crying has stopped. The panicking has stopped. You’re not cured, no. You’ve merely and quite unconsciously shelved “it” for now. But, you’re calm again. Calm. You begin to wonder if you stick with it another day, will the side effects abate? If you stick with it another day, will it be worth it?

On day 8, you finally sleep. You dream. And when you wake up, you take a shower and arrive at work early. You eat a healthy breakfast. You respond to emails, call your mother, make plans with friends. You come alive again.

Later that night, you think of your boyfriend and how good he has been these past four months. All at once you feel gratitude and love. It washes over you, fills you, radiates outward. It is the first time in more months than you can name. You realize you didn’t know just how empty and impaired you were until then, until you felt goodness again. You breathe deeply.

The Experiment continues. There’s cautious optimism- the medications have worked before, only to fail miserably- but the cloud is lifting. There’s more sunlight than shadow, more hope than disbelief.

And then…I write again.

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All around me my friends and family and coworkers are busy getting engaged, planning weddings, buying houses, redecorating, adopting children or getting pregnant, bringing home new pets, starting new jobs, celebrating births, anniversaries, their children’s birthdays. The people in my life are moving on and I’m watching from the sidelines.

How ridiculous! How pathetic! Don’t worry, I think it too. Why shouldn’t all of these things happen to those I love and care about? Why shouldn’t all of these things happen to anyone really? What could be more normal? And, what does any of it have to do with me?

I ask myself these pointed questions when I begin to compare my life to theirs. I search myself for envy, jealousy even, but I come away with nothing but this astonishing feeling of loss. It’s strange to admit, but it feels like I’m losing my relationships with those I love because I cannot and do not foresee an ability to relate.

I don’t know what it’s like to be engaged or to plan a wedding or to be married. I don’t know what it’s like to buy a house or redecorate. I don’t know what it’s like to have a baby or adopt. I can be there and listen and support, but I can’t actually know.  They announce a pregnancy and I announce that I tried falafel for the first time. Awesome.

I’m in a middling place. I’ve reached a certain level of comfort in my life; have everything I need. But, now that I’ve gotten to where I was headed, where do I go next?

Admittedly, for myself, I don’t have much interest in the path my friends, family, and coworkers have taken/ are taking. At one time I may have felt differently, but in questioning what I want now, I couldn’t care less about having a wedding, I’m petrified of having babies, and I see no point in owning a home.

And yet, I don’t know what I want instead. What does adulthood look like without those social norms? Like college? Like my early twenties? Like those years before we’re all supposed to “settle down”? And what happens if I don’t ever “settle” down?  Am I simply settling for more of the same? More book-reading and TV-watching and Gap-shopping and rootless trip-planning? Is this all there is for me?

Why isn’t there a guide for someone like me? Why isn’t there an Alternative Map to Life for Those Who Have No Interest in Social Norms?

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