The best of the vanished marvels have gathered inside your door.

11/13/07

November is happening. Apparently, autumn occurred in a span of about eight-or-so hours, approximately two weeks ago. In that duration all leaves technicolored, their stems were seized with a brittle porosis, and they began to blanket the parks and yards where Scottie dogs now wear sweaters. Unfortunately, I was not awake for most this marvelous time-elapse, for it was still dwindling summer about two weeks ago, and it is now autumn in its terminal stages. I wish I could have had a little more time to prepare because this sort of landscape makes me disgustingly whimsical and extra-enchanted by things like Scottie dogs in sweaters—and it only widens the crevasse between autumn wonder and other, less golden seasonal affectivities.

November 29, 1960. Nice, France. And I, Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.

November has been shaped to a surprising degree by animals. Along with the continually joyous and occasionally aggravating Dane the Sheltie, we have recently acquired a cat named [delightfully] Bratwurst. Bratwurst was generously donated by future-housemate Steve, in efforts to address less-welcome animals: the robo-mice that have managed to conquer every high-or-low inch of our kitchen and whoknowswhereelse. Unbeknownst to me in the original cat acquisition, however, was the added critical issue of squirrel. In the house. The squirrel in my bedroom fiasco was covered with adequate depth in the house blog, but suffice it to say that I never until now realized that I could be so completely irrationally terrified. I was TERRIFIED of the squirrel when I came upon it in the first floor sink, I was TERRIFIED when it was re-discovered in my bedroom, and I continue to be PARALYZED any time I think I hear squirrely scratchings in the walls or closets. I hope Bratwurst [who has recently, unofficially, been re-christened “Princess Bratwurst Leia Cleopatra,” to help us remember that she is a girl] is ready to eff some squirrel up. [Another thing pertaining to animals is the fairly recent decision to describe any pluralization of animals in the singular. As in, “I hope there are no more squirrel in our crawlspace” or “There sure are a lot of dog in this neighborhood.” I just think it lends a nice tone of authority.] We also have a weird selection of fish, in which I am probably the only to have even a mild interest. Dane is still my favorite house animal because the fish are largely boring, I hate all uninvited rodents, and I am allergic to Bratwurst.

“November Rain” never ceases to invoke some of my most impassioned car singing. I don’t care what anyone says; it is a triumph. I cannot foresee a time in my life when the melodramatic lyrics and indulgent guitar solos WON’T make me feel at least 15% better about everything.

November has seen a lot of soup consumption. I decided a few weeks ago that I really like soup, and there’s no reason why, really, I shouldn’t just eat it as much as I want. It’s fiscally responsible, relatively healthy, and it makes me happier than anything else I could assemble or purchase, given my mealtime time and location constraints. So I have been eating soup for as many meals as I can, for as many days in a row as possible, for about 23 straight days. Clearly it started with the Phở obsession, but I started to realize that even the Campbell’s Condensed was just so awesome. My primary soups of choice are Campbell’s Condensed Healthy Choice Tomato, Chicken Noodle, and [occasionally] Cream of Chicken, which I keep stocked for almost every lunch and dinner during the week. It is indeed a very limited selection, but I have yet to tire of it—especially since everything [everything!] tastes at least 80% better once I employ my standard doctoring technique, which always involves red pepper flakes, ground pepper, garlic powder, and some Frank’s Red Hot. Seriously. Some condensed tomato with Red Hot and a dash of the other accoutrements, a layer of melty mozzarella on top—it is a perfect delight. My only worry is that my digestive system has adapted to a soup-and-cereal-centric diet and will soon not to be able to process solid foods. But that can’t really happen, right?

November will conclude with what I choosing to call my personal manifest destiny, as in “Westward the course of empire takes its way,” or, “I am going to Oregon for Thanksgiving.” I’ve felt the invisible threads of wanderlust tightening around my heart for awhile now, and I am really excited to 1. see the Pacific Northwest, 2. see Amber and Dan and Car, and 3. hopefully raze some buffalo along the way [which is strictly a manifest destiny allusion. I don’t want to raze any buffalo, although I will be pissed if any of my oxen die when I’m fording the river.]

Try taking a journey by covered wagon across 2000 miles of plains, rivers, and mountains. Try! On the plains, will you slosh your oxen through mud and water-filled ruts or will you plod through dust six inches deep?

If for some reason you don't survive -- your wagon burns, or thieves steal your oxen, or you run out of provisions, or you die of cholera -- don't give up! Try again... and again... until your name is up with the others on The Oregon Trail Top Ten.