PAST:

The scene: yesterday afternoon. I'm on the couch, reading. Neal enters.

Neal (perfectly casual): "Hey, Jamie. Where's your jock itch spray?"

I just stare up at him for what feels like an eternity. When I can't take it any longer, I burst and start giggling wildly.

Me: "Oh, honey! I'd always dreamed of that romantic day when my love would ask me that question!"

Alright, alright. Here's the background: Somewhere along the way, it appears I've picked up a mild case of athlete's foot. Because I always pay attention so well, instead of picking up athlete's foot spray, I grabbed... jock itch spray. That alone is pretty funny. But Neal's question, sheesh. I almost peed.

He was asking so he could take it back and exchange it, by the way. Well, last evening, he comes home and informs me it's all the same stuff. He seems to think I should spray jock itch stuff on my toes. We're still arguing about that one. Anyone?

THE PRESENT:

My right eyebrow is quite swollen, and I almost gave myself a shiner last night.

Neal and I are in bed, almost alseep, when we realize the back light is on. Since he's closer to Slumberland than I am, I offer to get up and turn it off. So I do, but on the way back, I smack my eye right into the edge of the French door. I reel back, certain I've split my eye and am about to be covered in blood. By some miracle, I didn't break the skin, but it quickly started swelling... and hurting. A lot.

Poor Neal had to rip himself out of Slumberland anyway when he heard the noise of my skull cracking against solid oak. We put ice on it, but I don't think for long enough, because it's still pretty puffy today. Athlete's foot and a black eye. I am so damn sexy.

THE FUTURE:

Neither of us can make it home to our families. But somehow, Neal and I scored invites to 2 Thanksgivings. We accepted the first one we got. It's pretty much for the station orphans... those who don't have family nearby. And that's cool with me... kind of like the real Thanksgiving - bring what you have.

So tonight, I have a hot date with a hot stove, because I promised I'd make broccoli ccassarole. Oh, my God. I'm 52.

No, it's my mommy's recipe, and it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it. That's also the reason why Neal is being forced to make smashed potatoes.

I'm mostly excited about whipped cream, though. Mmmm...