The title was Shane Shane Shane Shane
This is mostly for Quentin; roll over the picture to see my identifying remarks.
There are not two headless wubba throwers – the gallery preview cut off the head in the second – but it’s there if you click on the picture.
Probably, I should have titled this Zooming on Shane; I could do that now – but that would involve backtracking.
Yes, I know yesterday was the first of November; I walked all around it and stared at it and could only muster a “Gosh, it’s November.” So now it’s the second and I have actually steadied myself enough to type about it. Except, I don’t think I have anything to say, really.
I mean, this isn’t my first November. People are laughing, I know. If I were to count out loud how many Novembers I have seen, it would take more than a few seconds – unless I counted by tens. I have Thanksgiving turkeys and harvest decor in the house. I even have a turkey hanging from the chandelier. I am determined to make this more than an “Okay, you bozos, come to the table for turkey” event.
That means note cards, people. On the refrigerator, doorways, cabinets. It will not be a Nazi Thanksgiving; it will be more of one identifying the potential respectful and aware ones from the bickering naboobs (intentional spelling) of drumstick gnawing.
Ha! But that’s not the half of it. There will be more note cards, all announcing, “Pick up after yourselves or no Christmas decorations, tree or . . . ”
Come to think of it, I may have been wrong; I may, indeed, be an Elf Nazi. Christmas cookies? Come, let us talk about it at GrandmaStrasse.