(Why didn’t I marry a doctor?)

(Oh right. Because while I was bleeding through $27 worth of Barbie bandaids, my non-doctor husband was downstairs with his hand up our 20-pound turkey’s keester and was filling it with aromatics made of pumpkin chai tea leaves.)

(He is kind of a genius. Also, he fixes all of my computers when I break them. Even the Macs, which he so adorably calls Macintoshs.)

I may have finally stopped bleeding, and now Miss Emily and I have matching holes in our knees from that time that she fell on the ice and probably needed a stitch because, well, of course she did but I was home alone and didn’t want to spend hours in an ER and wished that my father had been there then too.

So, I have a hole in my knee. And I probably need some leg-shaving lessons. And I didn’t have my dad around on Thanksgiving.

But I did get to spend it with people I love; people who have never experienced a real Thanksgiving meal that includes bread and turkey and challah stuffing and gravy and mashed potatoes and peas and sweet potato pie and pumpkin pie and apple crumble.

(Never. )

(I know.)

(It’s like they are pod people or something.)

But, I cooked and cooked and cooked. And then shoveled all that goodness into my gob and then went back for seconds and then, burp, thirds. I didn’t let this weird heatwave stop me, and I didn’t let the October Thanksgiving stop me, And I didn’t let my sickie stop me and I didn’t even let the fact that there was only Canadian football on my tv stop me.

(Three downs, people. Three. WHAT?)

Thanksgiving is Thanksgiving and even though Canadians do it differently, I was going to do it the same. And y’all, it’s so nice that I’m going to do it twice.

It’s not wrong to sit and be thankful more than once a year, right?

I mean, even though I will be spending non-Black Tuesday at work tomorrow instead of Black Friday running around the mall and Target, I am still thankful for so many things. I’m thankful for Barbie band-aids and the ability to clot. I’m thankful that my husband loves to cook…and even cleans up sometimes. I’m thankful for the ability to take e-books out from the library. I’m thankful that I no longer crave diet coke. I’m thankful for Instagram. I’m thankful for cardigans and skinny jeans and colored tights and mary janes. I’m thankful for the health of 1.5 of my children and am thankful for fever reducers and cough expectorants. I’m thankful for movies like Anchorman. I’m thankful for google, so we can settle arguments in a timely fashion. I’m thankful for quirkiness. I’m thankful that my children have three sets of grandparents. I’m thankful for skype. I’m thankful for sarcasm and orange tic tacs and mint-flavored gum and the smell of laundry. I’m thankful for The History Channel. I’m thankful for good coffee in the morning and good tea in the afternoon. I’m thankful that my husband is anti-cruise and anti-raisin. I’m thankful for good grammar. I’m thankful for ecommerce. I’m thankful for small Indie bands that no one has ever heard of. I’m thankful that my husband doesn’t mind my hipster ways. I’m thankful that my husband and I are employed. I’m thankful for Gap city flats. I’m thankful for donuts. I’m thankful for anti-bacterial hand gel. I’m thankful that my panty-eating puppy hasn’t eaten any panties this year. I’m thankful for dresses with pockets. I’m thankful the ability to discover new music. I’m thankful for the three little monsters who call ma Mama. I’m thankful for my family. I’m thankful for my friends who are family.

Yes, I think twice a year will do just fine.

And maybe I’ll even add a third one in the Spring, just for kicks.

(It’s called El Malaguena. It’s for Spanish Jews.)

(I’m also thankful for movie quotes. Hee.)

Isn’t Mila Kunis hot?

No.

Really? She should totally be on YOUR LIST.

Ali, I don’t think she’s hot.

What? You have horrible taste in women. She’s gorgeous. I’d totally make out with her.

You have horrible taste in television. This show is crappy.

We are officially in a fight. Enjoy sleeping in Indy’s crate tonight. 

_______________________

And then we went and saw Black Swan and wouldn’t you know it…

Why didn’t you tell me Mila Kunis was so hot?

*crickets*

She can totally be on MY LIST.

I guess all it takes is some Natalie Portman girl-on-girl action to change your tune, eh?

YEP.

_______________________

So, yes, it was established that Mila Kunis is officially hot and therefore, he was agreeing to go and see Friends With Benefits.

But alas, I was overcome by THE TIRED and I decided I wanted to skip the movie altogether, to go out for a coffee in the pouring rain, to come home, to take off my pants, and to watch two episodes of The Wire.

(Which holy oh my god, that is a good show.)

That’s how tired I was. And I didn’t even go to Blogher.

No. I didn’t. On Friday I fought the stomach flu as hard as I could and took about 6 Gravol pills, which, ps, is about double the recommended daily dosage. But, I managed to stay barf-free and awake because I suffer from that .01% of the population that the little tiny disclaimer at the bottom of the package is meant for “may cause excitability and wakefulness” which I am pleased to say I have passed down to my children. I was up on Friday night until 3am, playing Settlers of Catan with her and her. Somehow, through the powers that be, I was able to keep my food down and be an active participant in the newly dubbed #BBQHER.

Let’s pretend they are not intoxicated, shall we?

It’s always ridiculous fun when Kristin comes to visit, even though I swear to god, I come down with some sort of ailment every time she comes to visit. There was that one time that I had strep and some sort of lung infection (pleurisy, I think) and we stayed inside all weekend while I blew my nose into eleven million tissues and ate grilled cheese and soup and watched a Zac Efron movie marathon. See? I’m telling you. Ridiculous fun.

No really. This time it WAS actually fun. We went to The Toronto Beer Festival where I felt really, really old even though I got hit on (TWICE!)(by really really really intoxicated men)(but still! Hit on!) and didn’t really drink any beer. And I tried my first burrito and it was one of the most delicious things I have ever stuff into my gob. And we played more Settlers of Catan. And we hung out. And we slept in. And we watched a Toddlers & Tiaras marathon.

And well, the real kicker of the weekend was this.

We are driving home and suddenly Kristin is singing.

Everybody’s talking all this stuff about me
Now now why don’t they just let me live

And before I know it, I’m all

Oh oh oh I don’t need permission
Make my own decisions oh
That’s my prerogative

And before we even know what is happening, the entire car is filled with the sounds of Bobby Brown and I’m all

THIS IS JUST LIKE THE BUS SCENE IN ALMOST FAMOUS!!!

….and just like that, I get to cross something off of my bucket list.

I have heard many writers say that when they blog, they are actually only sharing about 5% of their lives with their readers. Now, I would bet that for some people, including me, that percentage is a wee bit higher, closer to, say, 15%. You know my name and what I look like and where I live and where I work and I am fairly easily googleable. For good or bad, there are less than a handful of Ali Martells out there.

There are things that I share with you online. You get a mostly accurate portrait of what my life is like. You get the funny stories and the sometimes-not-as-funny stories. You get the trips down memory lane and the trips on the Toronto subway. You get, essentially, the baby books I never got around to actually filling out for my kids. You get my rage when I discuss the difference between Special K in Canada and Special K in the states.

There are things that I don’t share with you online. And there are different reasons. There are things that are mine, just mine, that I share with no one. There are things that are unwritten; I don’t talk much about religion and our family finances and our sex life. Sure, you get glimpses into these facets of my every day. You know that I am Jewish, you know that sometimes I struggle with things like paying tuition and you know that my first time was on my wedding night. It would be impossible to write freely without at least touching on some of those unwritten rules; sometimes invisible lines are meant to be crossed. There are things that have been requested “PLEASE DON’T EVER MENTION ME ON YOUR BLAWG” and for the most part, I am conscious of this fact and try to not write the stories of those who don’t want to be involved. Occasionally, I slip, when the story is particularly absurd and ridiculous and funny and I feel that it needs to be shared. Some of you may recall a certain toilet-paper post (it remains a favorite among many of my friends, both online and in real life) that was taken down after a series of unfortunate events and phone calls that involved people telling me that it needed to come down. And down it came, as I truly am not big into feather-ruffling. There are things I don’t tell you because they are not my stories to tell. The marriage of my friends crumbling before my eyes, while it affects me both personally and peripherally, just isn’t meant to be publicized, not in this way.

Some days I sit in front of my computer and inhale and exhale deeply and have to force myself to sit on my fingers and NOT write about some things. There are things I so desperately want to share with the world, there are things I so desperately need people to read, and there are things I need to get out there, if nothing more than as a wee cry for help when I am lost in a sea of “well what’s wrong with me that this is happening“s. And trust me, there are moments like this. They don’t happen often, but they happen.

I am so fortunate to have a really supportive husband and sister and network of friends, both in my real life and online. And they are fortunate because they get to hear all the stories. They get to laugh at the crazy and commiserate at the even more crazy. And they have done a good job convincing me of one thing.

There will be a book written.

And it will be 95%.

And it will be a bestseller, because, you guys, you couldn’t possibly make this shit up.

LOVE = people watching on the subway

HATE = people watching on the subway, when people bring THE CRAZY. There’s a fine line between me wondering where you got your jeans and between me wondering when you are going to stop farting in my face. There’s a fine line between wearing a smurf costume and between wearing an Albert Einstein/clown getup and flossing your teeth. There’s a fine line between carrying an instrument with you and between playing the bongos and singing God Bless America at the top of your lungs.

LOVE = getting off the subway at Dundas Square.

HATE = getting off the subway at Dundas Square and having a homeless man mutter something at you under his breath and then cough up a lung in your general direction, probably giving you tuberculosis or some such malady. I’m not 100% sure, but it may have been Charlie Sheen. He was probably taking his drug of choice, it’s called Charlie Sheen. I fully expect for my face to melt off sometime this afternoon.

LOVE = The Eaton Centre

HATE = Getting lost in the Eaton Centre trying to find one of the (at least) three Starbucks so you can partake in the free wi-fi.

LOVE = Finally finding a Starbucks.

HATE = Finally finding a Starbucks only to realize you are sitting beside three people involved in a very heated discussion about their sexy cats and which breeds of cats are the sexiest. Also, paying $5 for a latte. Free wi-fi my ass.

LOVE = Getting to see Billy Elliot on opening night in Toronto. Getting to see Elton John and hang out with the Furnish parents while we waited for the show to start. Getting to be blown away by a fabulous production. Getting to watch all four Billys perform at the end….and getting to see Sir Elton get on stage sporting a tutu.

HATE = Getting to do all of this but forgetting that March 1st in Toronto is FLIPPING FREEZING and instead of wearing a nice peacoat and heels, I had to wear my giant parka and my winter boots.

But just a moment. Because. SuperBowl XLV Champs, baby!!!!!!!!!!

I will be spending my morning perusing the internet for some championship t-shirts working. We went to our friends for a wings n’ chili party. It was a ridiculous good time. I spent most of the game with my stomach up in my throat because, seriously, could that have been any more of a game? I suppose it’s better than a complete blowout, but I’m guessing that my football-season-long ulcer would disagree. And then I spent the rest of the time teaching Ilana how football works. (I will probably get her to become a football fan before I get her on Facebook.) The cookies I made that morning and thought were a disaster got rave reviews. There was a delicious baby there. ALSO, I totally won $40.

Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?

Except, of course, for two things.

A) the lack of American commercials – NO, I do not know what you are talking about when you say GROUPON or Adrien Brody singing or Bieber.

and

B) the worst Superbowl Halftime Show in the history of Superbowl Halftime Shows. I am not a fan of the Black Eyed Peas on a good day, but good granny they were horrific last night. Also, I am genuinely scared of Fergie and her puffy face and adam’s apple.

Look at that! I don’t think I have ever been retweeted. EVER. And then last night it happened TWICE! And they were both Fergie-related, which leads me to believe that instead of tweeting about all the important things I normally tweet about, like how I eat too much cookie dough and how my kids really do say the most ridiculous things (Like, over breakfast yesterday when Josh said, “WHAT’S A STRIP CLUB?”), I really should only tweet about Fergie.

You know, then.

I have travel anxiety. BAD. So, last night, I did what every normal super anxious person would do the night before a trip. I overdosed on xanax. I tore apart the entire house packing up five people as if we were traveling to a third world country…you know, we HAVE to pack every single pair of underpants that we own since it’s not like there are any washing machines in the ATL or anything. I argues over how to pronounce the word “ANNEXED.” (Obviously, I’m right.) I cried while watching the Packers almost almost almost win a game that they should have never even come close to winning. I cried while watching The Survivor finale.

And I went to a fondue party.

You know, normal pre-vacation things; that old chestnut.

Well, when your pregnant friend tells you that she has a hankering for fondue and ice cream and to play a killer game of Settlers of Catan, you don’t say no. You can’t say no. You stop trying to decide if she is a friend who you deem fondue-worthy, and you suck it up.

Because, CHEESE.

Also, this wasn’t, like, made-for-TV shit either. No, this was the real deal. Like vintage potsticker things (only, I’m almost certain that potsticker thing is not their technical name, but alas, cheese coma).

FINE. You guys, it was good. Very good. Mostly because sticking homemade bread in hot melty cheese sauce can’t really be bad, right? And now Robin has this lovely little badge to show her how much I care.

(made by the lovely Metalia)

I’m sure it made her pregnant dreams come true. Also, she kicked my ass at Catan AND got me to try chocolate ice cream for the very first time last night. CHOCK FULL OF WIN. And cheese. And she didn’t force me to cook my own meat in hot oil or to dip things like fruit into chocolate…because hear my now, THE INTERNET, you will never catch me doing that.

Onward, to Target.

More Xanax please. I think I need it.

So, I am not totally awake enough to write the Las Vegas recap that I’d like to…or that you deserve, but I can tell you a few of the things I learned in Vegas…

1. There are no tigers in bathrooms. BUT, that joke…it seriously doesn’t get old. None of the Hangover jokes get old, for that matter. They are all good. Always. And there may not be any tigers, but there WERE lions in our hotel. So, there’s that.

2. A hairy-chested Elvis always makes for a hunka-hunka-burning good time. Also, he makes you look good.

3. There is no shame in wearing flats in Vegas. There is an ungodly amount of walking involved and blisters and sore feet are totally not worth it. Unless you are a stripper. Which, I learned through my Stripper 101 class, I am not. While I *was* able to get my body around the pole fireman-style, I could not doing it with any sort of class. And we all know, real stripper are REALLY classy. Also, I had sore upper arms and thighs the next day.

4. There is nothing better than people-watching in Vegas.

5. I lie. There is nothing better than people-watching in Vegas. WHEN THE RODEO IS IN TOWN.

6. There is no better reason to go to Vegas than to watch one of your best friends say that she (still) does in front of so many of your good friends, both new and old.

7. Sometimes you just have to eat fast food in Vegas, no matter how much this lady makes fun of you. And that lady, the one who makes fun of you for eating fast food? She is AMAZING. I don’t ever want to go to Las Vegas without her and her husband again.

8. Two words: Sports. Book. Now THAT is my kind of gambling. Thanks, Eli Manning, for handing me my Vegas winnings. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the Giants destroy the Vikings while sitting in a comfy lazy-boy chair while someone brought me drinks. Also, making money while doing it. (But really I could think about was how much better betting on football would have been with jenbshaw and metalia by my side…)

9. One word: Roulette. I seriously made $20 last for two hours. I am magic.

10. Getting your hair and make-up professionally done by the most amazing woman so you could have your very own photo shoot (pictures to come!) was the very best thing to ever happen to me. The Amy Winehouse look I rocked the next day – since I was afraid to take-out my pompadour-y beehive – however, was not the best. But, I owned the look and tried my best not to scare the fake French people working at the brunch at Paris.

If you haven’t had enough of me, you can head over here…where I’m talking about the FIVE CELEBRITIES I’D LIKE IN MY STOCKING PLEASE AND THANKS.

I assume that Las Vegas smells like sex and money and desperation and there are lots of Rain Men running about counting cars and all of the cars have naked Senor Chang’s in their trunks and, obviously, there are tigers in all of the bathrooms. Also, there must be some fear and loathing there, right? And maybe a heist of some sort. And the Griswolds are there watching Jessie Spano do naughty (and unintentionally hilarious) things and Nic Cage is jumping out of planes full of Elvis impersonators.

I’m right…right?

I mean, that’s totally what Vegas is like, right?

Since I have never been, I really have zero clue what to expect. I was in Reno once, and spent three hours in a casino at the Roulette table slowly working my way through the $50 limit I allowed myself. And I once got kicked out of the casino in Lake Tahoe, because, I was, um, in high school. And I once went to a casino party in my sister-in-law’s basement. So, obviously, I am a super huge expert on casinos. I don’t know how to play blackjack and I don’t know how to play craps and I don’t even know how to play poker. BUT, I hear that you can play WAR in casinos and, you know, THAT is a game for me. I can kick Emily’s butt at war, so obviously, I’m going to get totally rich at the war tables in Vegas and I will pay off the minivan and be able to buy something that doesn’t scream MOM when I pull out of my driveway.

Oh wait. It’s Spit that I always win.

I am doomed.

(Note to self: Self, spend three hours in a casino at the Roulette table and slowly work your way through the $50 limit you allow yourself.)

The truth, though, is that my virgin voyage to Sin City is about so much more than losing money and stuffing my gob and giant-ass buffets. Nope.

I’m there to watch one of my most favorite people in the entire world say I (STILL) DO.

I’m there to spend time with people that I don’t see enough.

I’m there to hug some people I love.

I’m there to attend Stripper 101.

I’m there to introduce my chef dad to some very important people.

I’m there to spend some time in above zero weather.

I’m there to play the Are-You-A-Hooker-Or-Are-You-Just-A-Wannabe game with ShaunaGlenn.

Apparently, I’m there to see some cowboy hats…word is that the rodeo is in town. (rawr.)

I’m there to spend a couple days without having to drive carpool.

I’m there to have an excuse to wear this.

I can’t wait.

“Ali! I feel like I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in your life?”

Wait. WHAT? Really?

I mean, come on. I am public. I mean, you can google my name and all sorts of fun stuff comes up. If you want to know what I ate for lunch today, what was said in my office today, what color sweater I am wearing today and what time I showed up for carpool, that information is at your fingertips. It’s almost harder to NOT know what’s going on in my life than to know. I am an open blog book.

“Oh, daughter of mine? Can you do me a favor? When you cut your son’s hair ALL OFF, can you please make sure that you send me a picture of it so I don’t have to find out from my friends who found out from Facebook?”

Wait. WHAT? Really?

I mean, come on. I am at the salon. I take a picture with my iphone. I quickly twitpic and send to Facebook. In seconds, everyone near and dear to me is all, “Oh my god! Where did his hair go? He looks like a different person! I love it! I hate it! Just when I thought he couldn’t get any cuter!” Facebook and Twitter are just a fantastic way to share important information with a lot of people at one time. It was the easiest way to tell people that my father was in the hospital and that I was rushing off to Atlanta.

140 characters or less tells you exactly what you need to know.

Obviously, it’s also a good way to share completely useless information too, such as the fact that I want to own a pair of cowboy boots and that someone at my son’s birthday party thinks that Indianapolis is a country in Asia and that I can’t stop watching shows about little and that I really want to see that Burlesque movie or that I used a black sharpie on the heels of my black boots and that cows cannot vomit and that I cannot handle people who wear their Blackberries in holsters.

It’s a good way to share all the pictures I take. It’s a good way to share all the places I go, and all the places I am planning to go. It’s a good way to share the super cool things I am doing at work.

My mother doesn’t know any of this information.

My best friends don’t know any of this information.

And that’s not cool. Not at all.

Yes. We are here for 4 fun-filled days at a resort that has at least 800 water slides. And this afternoon I had to spend 3 hours on the lazy river in an inner-tube built for two with my son and my desperately-in-need-of-being-shaven legs. I am horrified that those three teenage boys who were lazing beside us had to see them. I have bought two things since I have gotten here – a bag of salt-water taffy the size of my head and a razor. Tomorrow I will go back to being horrified that the teenage boys need to look at my belly pooch. As it should be.

It’s 8:54pm and I should be sitting and getting ready to drool over Don Draper and yet I am sitting in the Glacier Canyon Lodge celebrating my Pirate’s Cove mini-golf victory over my parents and my kids and checking out Chicago real estate. I’m mostly kidding about the Chicago real estate (I’m not at all kidding about the victory. I totally beat my kids at mini-golf. Take that, kids) but I did spend a somewhat surreal weekend in Chicago this past week. I left Chicago in 1996 after graduating high school and have not really been back since. I did once take Emily as an infant to our (kidless at the time) friends and she managed to pee all over their entire apartment and I was probably so mortified that I fled back over the border. They now have five kids, so Emily could probably pee all over their house and they wouldn’t be as horrified. Only, she’s, um 9, so, there’s that. But, cards finally fell into place and I was able to spend a short time in West Rogers Park.

I won’t lie. I walked with Becca for about, um, 8 blocks, at the most, and we ran into at least ten people I went to high school with. Maybe more. Like 87. It was so nice to see people and do the short, short, short what are you up and smoosh some of the their cute babies. It was also slightly embarrassing because had I known I would be having a mini-high school reunion, I probably would have put on some lip gloss. Or at least brushed my hair. So, on one hand I’m all jealous that everyone moved back to Chicago…and their kids are all going to school and camp and the park with each other. How nice would it be to watch a second generation Ali’s high school friends all grow up together? But, then again, I kind of like the fact that in Toronto I can run into Tim Horton’s in flannel pj pants and a wifebeater and not bump into anyone I know. But visiting? WAS SO NICE. And my hosts were very understanding of the fact that my son occasionally comes to the Shabbat table dressed like a giant plush dinosaur and that my children are endless eating machines.

Also, there was lovely smelling lotion in the bathroom, and we even got our own hand towels to dry our hands with. They were even monogrammed. Wrong. But monogrammed, nonetheless. Oh, and they sent us home with three cucumbers and a tomato from their garden. Parting gifts. Also, we got the full Chicago experience complete with power outtages and a/c breakages and live open wires and Chicago Police (no Sergeant Petersons, though) and car accidents and 501s on giant ladies who require more than one set of handcuffs to fit around her chubby, drunken wrists.

So, yes, Chicago was lovely.

But not as lovely as Wisconsin Dells.

Because they didn’t have any of THESE in Illinois…

Why yes, that IS a Moose straddling a pizza delivery car.

(It does also, slightly resemble that statue of Britney Spears giving birth)

There really are no words, people. NONE.