Wht 2 do? Wht 2 do?

This business of writing a blog is so new to yours truly that I am totally at a loss. At least for the time being, anyway.

You see, I just got used to texting.

That took some doing, you can be sure. Let's back up to when a friend (who's in the business of cell phones?) set me up with my account and told me he would be putting in an allowance of time for texting.

"Texting?! I'm not texting!" I remember affirming.

He looked at me and grinned, shaking his head at my stupidity, "You have granddaughters, Joy. You will text. As a matter of fact, I'm going to put you down for the unlimited texting plan; you'd be surprised how these minutes add up and that way you won't have to worry."

I thought he'd lost his marbles when, in fact, he was right as rain.

I never learned total texting ettiquette. I've been told, time and again, I don't "text right" but that's okay. All someone has to do when they read my texts is just read every letter . . . and they'll be able to figure me out.

N e time (anytime) u (you) have 2 (to) xpress (express) urself (yourself), itz (I use a z when it should be apostrophe s), quite e z (easy) 2 do so quickly.

Texting is polite: "Do u hve time 2 talk rite now?"

It's quick: "K" (Okay).

It's fun: LOL! (Laugh out loud!)

And you can do it anywhere quietly, as in a room full of bored listeners: "If he sez 1 mor thing abt the natnl debt i m going 2 hurl! Lol!"

So now I'm moving from texting to blogging. This is not to say I'm giving up texting; after all, I still have those granddaughters.

And won't we have fun learning a whole new way 2 communic 8?

(Note to self: Don't use texting shortcuts on your blog!)

I adore Turkey Day evening (as opposed to eve)

Okay, it's that part of Thanksgiving Day that is my absolute favorite-est. The big meal is over. The dishes all done. The food put away in the fridge . . . except for what has been sent home for the guests to enjoy as leftovers.

And now everyone has started that exodus back to the kitchen, picking up little bowls to fill with their choice of leftovers for nuking . . . and bringing them back down to eat in front of the ballgame on TV.

Exhaustion dictates what my next steps will be.
Fill a bowl for myself or just crash on the couch and look famished until someone feels sorry for me and fixes me something to eat.

Son No. 2, reading this over my shoulder, has picked up the ball and asked me what I want.

"Ohhhh, nothing. I'm fine. Really. Thanks." (Sigh!)

He's a good boy. He's in the kitchen fixing me a little plate with my top picks from the feast.

See?

My favorite-est part of the entire day.

What's yours?