There's a scent upon the air today...a vibration in my bones...some piece of intuition that tells me that it is going to be a White Thanksgiving.

I was doing what I always did. After one bathes, they should apply lotion—particularly if they live in Wisconsin, the temperatures have cooled to be visible-breath-worthy, or the air is dry. I get to raise my hand to all three qualifiers...but let's face it, I've been a lotion freak all of my life. I blame it on Aunt Brenda completely.

Thanks, 'Nen ;-)

So it went last night as I bared my flesh and probably flashed Mom more than she cares to admit, all in effort to coat my skin with the luxuriously softening salve. I forgot to take the bottle of lotion with me to the bathroom, and I can hardly be modest around the woman who gave me life, who changed my diapers, and who has witnessed me picking popcorn from my bra, now can I?

I sat upon the living room floor in a brief nightie with my knees bent and my feet coming to the floor at my heels. I practice both Yoga and Pilates in some way every day...even if it is just a few poses just before I go to bed or right when I get up in the morning. I find myself doing them during random tasks—liiike, let's say (for example's sake), when I want to moisturise the back of my thighs. Plow seems to be the winning pose. Come to think of it, I always do plow pose when I am lotioning the back of my legs.

I strove to do so last night...but I met with disaster instead. I had my very first car accident as I crashed into my brother's small-scale Dale Earnhardt car. Yes, Charlie is 22...and no, I don't get it either. Nevertheless, it wasn't a pleasant surprise, and I don't care to relive it.

So, my wardrobe is largely untailored at the moment. My body shape changed dramatically at times over the past almost-four-years, only stabilizing during the last one. My winter-wear hasn't received the appropriate face lift, which shouldn't be surprising when one takes into consideration the warmer climate of my previous residence in North Carolina.

I dressed yesterday without thought. I donned one of my most favorite v-neck sweaters and headed out to the theatre. (ref.) You see, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire came out on Friday. I saw movies two and three opening night with Miles, and while I did not have the moxie to hit an opening night solo, my Harry Potter addiction could not be ignored for long.

The pre-movie festivities passed in a blur, and I did not remember my trauma until well after I returned home, when I prepared for my shower last night. I acquired popcorn, I know that much...and I know that much simply because I had undeniable evidence cascade to the bathroom floor as I disrobed. Now, I know that I'm very ladylike and genteel and couldn't have possibly eaten popcorn so impolitely to ensure the collection of stray kernels in a too-loose low-cut sweater. After I admitted as much to myself, the rest of my experience locked into place. I realize now that I sealed myself from the memories at first in order to protect myself...it would have been too traumatic. Four hours later, I was prepared.

I entered the lobby and entered queue at the concession counter. There was a frenzy there, a certain, "There's twenty people waiting and only one person serving them" atmosphere. I sang songs from old musicals and practiced a little tap dancing as I waited for my turn...and I was relatively serene in my own little world, quite unaware of the rumbles of impending revolt. Imagine my surprise during my fourth round of "Spoonful of Sugar" when four two-year-olds hurdled the counter and knocked both the worker and the cash register to the ground!

One of them held the employee's hands above his head while another sprayed him with what looked to be blue, syrupy ice. Meanwhile, the other two constructed an industrial-strength fan from the shattered cash register bits and aimed it toward the popcorn bin as other toddlers looked on, horror struck, and the adults giggled in glee and clapped their hands.

I now remember falling to the ground and hiccuping neurotically, "the medicine go down, the medicine go dow-ow-n, the medicine go down," as I rolled to my hands and knees and scrambled toward my showing. There, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, and left with good feelings about the whole of the Harry Potter franchise. Yes, my chest itched rather irritatingly, and I felt not a little gritty...but I simply did not possess the wherewithal to face my experience yet.

This is a retelling complete it its accuracy. I am not cookie-monster-like with my popcorn consumption. I'm not. I'm just not. The end.

She scrunched her nose and twisted her lips into a mask of disgust. My feathers ruffled almost instantly, seeing as how she was staring at a Laura-original at the time, and a photograph that I liked well enough to set as my laptop's desktop image. Here is a smaller version of the "offensive" material.

I bit my lip and let it ride. I tried to ignore my discomposed plumage, I really did try...but it haunted me, and I could not let it go. Almost an hour later, we were in the car and I roared emotionally out of the stillness, "What's wrong with my picture anyway!?"

She looked toward me, startled. She gulped and replied meekly, "I just don't like those cookies."

"The Banana Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies!?" She nodded. "But MY version are really good. Really moist." I sniffed at the air and pointed my nose toward the Heavens as my chin took a more prominent position in my profile.

"Yes, I know that you have the best version there is to have...extra bananas, right?" I nodded with jerky spirit. "If only there weren't chocolate chips. I don't like chocolate—"

"But yet you eat Peanut M&M's like nobody's business," I interjected rudely.

"Oh," she snorted. "I'm mainly after the peanut."

Half of my genes came from this woman. Half. That's almost a whole fifty percent. The other half came from a man who, during the winter months, runs through the snow in nothing but a pair of bedroom slippers and his tightie whities to get the morning paper from the mailbox across the front lawn which borders that busy morning highway.

At first, the missing objects were negligible. "I must have misplaced it..." There were the barrettes that eluded my search shortly after the acne spot treatment tube went missing, which might have piqued awareness of serial thievery had I not had suspicions that Miles had pilfered them for his own cascading locks. Not wanting to embarrass, I banished their mere existence from my mind.

Then, my lip balms began missing. I have what might be considered a multitude of lip balms. Sometimes when I'm bored and overtired, I dress the tubes in cute little Hawaiian shirts (and such) and we have a pretend luau. Erm, anyway, I have a lot of them...which, besides being ideal for a hula lesson, makes it easy to overlook the disappearance of one, maybe two...but six?

I emerged fresh from a shower one morning to find all of my combs gone...just...gone. I had last secured sight of them hours before, as they rested in an intimate gathering of three upon my dresser-top. Feeling distinctly violated, I sat naked upon the bed, my arms locked around the knees held to my chest, and rocked pitiably. These were my early days as a Wisconsinite (v.2), and I mourned the loss of my well groomed North Carolinian self.

Then came the inspired day, wherein I discovered that missing tube of acne spot treatment in the groove of the patio door...it was covered in tooth indentations. "Debbie...it was Debbie," I decided at once. Then, I read the tube ingredients and saw that it contained aloe, one of my aunt's many allergies, and I knew at once she wouldn't have risked puncturing that tube with her pointy little teeth for all the gold in Fort Knox.

"But who else likes gnawing and carrying things around between their teeth?" It was a quandary, and an insatiable one at that. I spent days staring up at the clouds, waiting for them to gather in a concise picture of my villain. And then it came, that inkling of exactly 'whodunit' that I had wanted so profoundly so that I could stop thinking nasty things about my aunt (who, although vindicated, remained the only one shady enough to take the blame).

I watched from around the corner as he put his grubby little paws all over my things. He nosed around in my cosmetic case, knocked over my mirror, and sniffed the nozzle of my perfume. I was disgusted, absolutely disgusted—first at the unapologetic desecration of my space, and second at the source. He, I knew all too well, was perhaps the most well loved of the house. A few four-letter words offered up in his name earned me the title of "blasphemer" and I was forced to sit in the corner and watch while everybody ELSE got to eat homemade apple pie. So, I seethed and simmered and stewed and sputtered and kept the ill thoughts to myself as I regarded the orange one they call Clem.



Then: retribution. Another began suffering the loss of personal property, another whose seeming measured patience really shouldn't be tested. My ally from so many times of utmost irritation had begun to emerge glorious and steadfast, and I rejoiced in my Aunt Brenda's misfortune. Quickly, I averted her gaze from Debbie, the obvious caper, and directed her to the orange monster. It was difficult to accept, naturally...that Clem should be a criminal while Debbie remained altruistic...so against the grain of past experience.

We began combing the house for his "stash" as we call it...but I am now prone to believe that he has several of them piled throughout the house. I've found neat piles of mouth-sized property beneath the bed, but haven't yet found the ambition to comb through the myriad nooks and crannies to be searched in rest of my living space.

The other night, we found the chewed-off tag from Brenda's missing finger brace resting prostrate in the center of the upstairs living room. I found bits of a soggy Burt's Bees label scattered upon the rocks of the downstairs fireplace. You know, the theft was hurtful enough on its own, but this systematic vandalism and savagery is too much...nearly too much to bear. Somewhere, there is a semi naked tube of lip balm who is missing her grass skirt. :(