Squirrel, party of one.

Ah, November.

'Tis a truly moveable feast for backyard beasts.
A few years back I noticed a gathering of squirrels taking great interest in our Halloween pumpkin on the front porch.
"How cute," I thought. "They're having a party."
I left them to their pumpkin fest.
Next time I ventured out to the porch I realized the not-so-cute part about squirrel gatherings: 
They don't clean up after themselves.
Lesson learned. 
I still leave our Halloween pumpkin out for the critters to enjoy. I've just moved the party to our back yard.
No fuss, no muss. (Or at least no muss that I have to clean up.)
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Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May we all savor our momentary joys.

It helps when you can make yourself laugh:

I stayed up late last night after hosting my book group. This morning I met a dear friend for breakfast (just had to have those pumpkin pancakes again before the recipe gets filed away until next October).

We were talking about possible dates for a gathering of friends. My mind began to meander off, thinking about offering to host, wondering if we had enough chairs to go around. Then I heard these words fall out of my mouth:

“How many of them are us?”

There was a moment of silence before we both started to laugh, just a pause when it hit us how odd those words sounded strung together.

(And for those of you who do not speak slip-of-the-brain-ese, that translates to: “How many of us are there?”)

Oy. 

My friend looked at me kindly. She understood exactly what I was trying — and failing — to say. One more reason she’s a dear friend.

Perhaps the coffee just hadn’t kicked in yet.
Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

Frosted flakes

Mother Nature must love a good metaphor.
On my brief foray outside this morning, to pick up the paper and let our dog do his business, I came across a corner lawn still covered with vibrant leaves, and dusted with the first snow of the season.
Winter is creeping up on fall.
Hold onto your hats.

Pennsylvania proud

One of my pet peeves: Politicians who plant campaign signs on public property.

In my humble opinion, if you can't find supporters who will let you use their front yards, that just might be ... a sign.

Campaign workers for one candidate in my area showed a fondness for plastering his name on median strips and even those lovely garden-like traffic circles found in small towns.

I'll confess to a bit of civil disobedience in the run-up to Election Day. Coming across yet another of that candidate's signs on public space, I parked my car, plucked up the sign, and left it lying there amid the fall plantings. (You couldn't accuse me of stealing.)
Last night, I noticed that same candidate lost his election, in a big way.
I call it karma.
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After a long Election Day and night, I ventured out to our front lawn to pick up the paper and read more about the results.
Heading back in, I noticed that we had never brought in our mail from the day before. As I flipped through the envelopes, the return address of "Democrats.org" caught my eye.
Enclosed was a bumper sticker I'd been expecting for weeks: a simple blue "D" in a circle.
A little late, I thought, but still usable. There will be other elections.
For those of us in Pennsylvania, it was a proud day to be a Democrat. Just wish a few other states had gotten the memo.

I'll wear my pink beyond October.

Today, the world is a bit less pink, as Breast Cancer Awareness Month came to a close with the end of October.

  Let’s hope people still maintain their awareness of breast cancer, especially its warning signs and ways of early detection.

I’ve had yearly mammograms since the age of 40. Several female relatives have had, and survived, the disease, so my awareness began long before the official month was declared back in 1985.

Multiple mammograms ago the technician informed me that I have “dense breasts.” 

Though that was a serious piece of health information — it’s more difficult to detect signs of cancer in dense breast tissue — my brain at that moment decided to take a lighter route:

  “Of course they’re dense,” I thought. “Why do you think they call them boobs?”

Yes. It does help to make yourself laugh.