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.