My goal was to have this last NaBloPoMo post not be about the fact that it was my last NaBloPoMo post. Alas.

This will be a post in bullet points.

• Thanksgiving with the family was nice. It’s so good to get to see family.
• ‘Tis the season for my skin to turn to scales. Yuck.
• The only Cyber Monday sale I was interested in was sold out when I woke up at 5am. Not worth it.
• Yet, I will make myself suffer later this week to have Sarah Palin sign my book. It will be interesting.
• I need to do a post about family. A few of them, really. Maybe a tell-all. I know that’s what you all want.
• Frasier is still one of my favorite shows.
• Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater is calling my name, as is my warm bed. I’m going to finish this book tonight, so, ta-ta!

Hope you all had a happy November (the best month). I am planning on blogging daily for as long as I can. This is something I really enjoy!

For reasons I cannot say, it seems appropriate for me to share with you all that today is a day set aside to raise awareness that violence against women (and let’s not forget, all people) is despicable and should be stopped. Do what you can to support those you know who are or have been victimized.

Quick! Links!

• This is so DOWNRIGHT HILARIOUS you must click on it now. The Office was featured in The Onion!
• My second cousin, Misti, a blogger, who I recently accidentally located online and did not even know existed, posted her Anne story.
• “It’s not every day you see a politician extend a rhetorical middle finger to his constituents, so enjoy this.”
• What a brilliant idea! This man is visiting all 77 counties in Oklahoma with his family and documenting it on his blog.
• Sigh. Melissa, your little dreamworld sounds like a place I’d like to go as well.
• Oprah. Off the air. 2011. Did you hear the “hallelujah” from my corner of the room?
• Who? Who? Whoooo? Elena paints owls. On toilet paper rolls.
• LouLou, I’ve regressed right along with you. Bring on New Moon! (Kevin and I have tickets to see it Wednesday, a matinee, in a 21+ balcony. Yay for no kids!)

I know, this is a sad excuse for a post. But I’m taaaaaahrd (that’s “tired”), y’all. Tomorrow is the last day of school before the break and tomorrow evening I am podcasting with Jolene over at GodlyGals, so…I’ll try to get that PEI post up. For now I’m going to leave you all with what may be my favorite photograph from the whole trip.

It makes me think of my mom. She’s a seamstress. I…am not. Maybe someday. I know it’s one of those things I’d have to put forth some effort to be decent at. And I’m not sure that I’ve got the patience. What a lovely image though.

Just got off the phone with my dad’s dad, “PawPaw” as we affectionately call him. I’m going to quote him directly.

“Guess what I’m eating right now? Brazil nuts and fried bananas. They go good together. Kinda like Fritos and V8 Juice.”

He went on to tell me that he’s come up with some interesting combinations in his years. I’d have to agree. And now I know where my dad got it. And maybe why I love spaghetti sandwiches with ranch dressing.

I wanted to preface my Green Gables post with a little history, so that you’ll understand a little better what the trip meant to me.

There is a clouded memory of sitting on the couch with my mother, the year must have been 1986 or ’87, and laughing at two girls on the television. They’d been chasing a cow and had fallen into the mud. I was two.

I’m sure the only reason I remember any of the film at all was because of that scene and because of how shockingly funny it is to a two-year-old to see people dressed in finery falling into a muddy field.

For as far back as I can remember my mother had this book up on her bookshelf. When I was still very small and my naps occurred on my parents’ bed in the middle of the afternoon, my mom and younger brother (I only had one at the time) would be asleep, but it would always take me quite a bit longer to get into my nap. I had too much running through my mind. Whatever was going on outside and across the street at my great-grandfather’s country store. Watching the birds landing on telephone wires outside the window. And running my fingers over the titles of books sitting on the shelf (their headboard was a long bookshelf).

Anne of Green Gables. Bound in a deep, red-brown leather, the titles of the volume were printed in gold leaf—Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery—Anne of Green Gables—Anne of Avonlea—Anne’s House of Dreams. “Green Gables,” “Avonlea,” “house of dreams,” it all sounded so magical to me. Now, I wasn’t reading much at that point (3-4 years old), but I knew enough about how to sound things out that I managed the smaller words and had mom’s help on the bigger ones. Avonlea is a doozy for a kid who hasn’t started kindergarten. Tracing the letters etched in gold was as much as I did for the next six years.

My love for reading had been ignited when I was very small, but it was burning at full force around 3rd grade, thanks to Mrs. Bural and her “reading loft.” I don’t know about the rest of the kids, but that tall, tree house contraption she had in the corner of the classroom was just what I needed to inspire me to finish my work.

It was the fall of 1995 when Mom finally let me take “Anne” of the shelf and begin reading. What a whirlwind that year was. I swept through the first two books in no time and was soon asking around for copies of the others in the series. As luck would have it, one of my classmates had the whole thing and she started loaning them out to me. I was mesmerized by this world and that there was someone out there (like I’ve told people before), who, even if she was fictional, was like me. In Anne I did find a kindred spirit. Someone who liked books, telling stories, wandering the woods, bringing outside things in, and striving hard at the one thing she felt she was good at — school.

That was my life and to see it in print, to see that I wasn’t as odd as I’d once thought…it meant the world to me.

I have carried those stories with me ever since. Through high school and no boys liking me and then boys liking me and realizing that was a little worse maybe than when they didn’t. Onto college and doubts about love and what was really important. College made me jaded. I held little hope that things would turn out much like they do in novels. “Love,” to me, had become a series of decisions. In a way I still do believe that. Whoever you end up married to, it’s going to be work. You just have to decide to stick with it.

But it was when I met Kevin that my mind was changed. My ideas were turned upside down. The dreams and hopes of a little girl had come alive again. In him I had found someone who took an interest in the things I love, the things that make my heart sing. I had all but given up. When God brought him into my life I got a little embarrassed to mention the sweet things that he did for me, because I didn’t know anyone who had a boyfriend (or a husband, for that matter) who took the sort of care and interest that Kevin did.

It was after we were engaged that Kevin revealed to me where he’d planned the honeymoon — Prince Edward Island. He knew of my love for the books and my desire to see the island. It didn’t hurt that we’re both huge seafood fans. I couldn’t believe how blessed I was.

All this is to say that you don’t have to stop dreaming, ever. God knows the desires of your heart. Things that I had dreamed about as a child and forgotten or brushed aside as an adult, realizing the “impossibility” of my hopes, He brought back to me. No doubt to show me that He doesn’t forget, always provides, and cares about even the most minuscule things.

TOMORROW – I’ll tell you about our trip to Green Gables.

I went to Hastings this evening to buy my copy of Going Rogue (coworkers gave me a giftcard there for my birthday & did you know that the book sold 300,000 copies on its first day?) and first thing, just as soon as I walked through the door, a youngish employee walked up to me carrying a sign advertising happy hour at their cafe, kinda dancing around with it. That was weird enough. Then she said, “I think I’ll just let Sarah Palin’s book table (at the front of the store, where I was walking) prop up my sign. It’s not good for anything else, right? Haha.” I smiled politely, picked up my copy (one of the dozen or so left on the long table) and walked on.

What do you do in a situation like that? Say, “I’m going to overlook your ignorance and go ahead and make my purchase here, rather than at a more professional establishment.” What in the WORLD? It may not be the first rule, but somewhere near the top is, “Do not make disparaging comments about your product.”

Honey, you are working in a retail store. You sell books, DVDs, CDs, and the occasional cup of coffee. Keyword here? SELL. You SELL. You sell your personality as a retail salesclerk and every product in the establishment. If you have a problem with something you are selling or feel SO STRONGLY about it that you cannot keep your mouth shut around a customer who just walked in the door (I was literally 5 steps inside the store), you need to find yourself a different job.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate an employee being knowledgeable about a product. I love when I can ask a bookseller a question and get a good answer. It is so rare to find that anymore. So, yes, your opinion does matter…when your customer asks for it. Even then you should use some tact.

And I’m not just saying this because it’s Palin. I understand that there are a lot of people who don’t like her. This is “I Work in Retail 101″ and a notice to the Hastings in Norman, Oklahoma that you have a rogue employee you might want to get under control. You have a right to your political opinion and a right to share it. But not to customers in your place of business.

In the beginning there was rain…but now there was fog. And we were crossing a 4 mile bridge in what ended up being almost zero visibility. Over the ocean. I am not sure there is enough caps or bold or italics in the world to emphasize what that’s like so I’m not even going to try.

What I will tell you is that once we reached shore we were exhausted from the long drive. Kevin was all tense in his back from driving all day in the rain. I was irritable because SURPRISE! that’s how I get when my behind goes numb from riding in a car too long.

It took 45 minutes from the time we reached the shore until we made it to the Cavendish Gateway Resort in Mayfield. The roads were winding and there were lots of hills, making a trip that looked short much, much longer. The scenery was beautiful though. We still hadn’t seen the sun and that made the dreary day turn into a dark night by the time we reached the hotel.

We were one of about 3 cars at the huge resort and we were about to find out why. No, it wasn’t the condition of the room or the service. All of that was top notch.

After we settled into our room a bit we grabbed our laptops to find the closest place to get a quick meal. Only…there was nothing within an HOUR drive that was open. It was 8 o’clock in the evening and there wasn’t anything. Not only that, but we were running low on gas and there were no gas stations near that were open so that we could get gas and drive to one of the bigger cities even if we wanted to. And that was our night.

We knew going to PEI that we were arriving a few weeks before their high season started. What we didn’t know was exactly what that meant. Later in the weekend we went into town and found restaurants closing at 6 PM. This is unheard of in the town we live in. I only wish I’d known how it was before going. I think it may be the fact that most of the island is really, REALLY rural.

Having eaten nothing since noon we now dined on the airplane peanuts I had, thankfully, saved, a few crackers, and water.

Then we went to sleep. The next day was better.

We had a long drive ahead of us that Friday and I can’t think of a better way to start the day than with a yummy breakfast. As we had wandered about the town in the few days we’d been there I had seen a number of signs with a hand pointing one way or another that read “Cafe This Way.” Turns out that was the name of the cafe.

It was already raining steadily outside as we parked downtown and walked into the restaurant. Thus far, every day of our trip that we spent traveling from one place to another we had been met with rain. This day was no different.

First of all, I have to tell you that the food was out of this world. I ordered an omelet, “The Smokey,” but made a few substitutions. Have you ever had lox and bagel? Bagel and lox? No? You haven’t lived, my friend. I challenge you to present me with a combination more perfect, more palate satisfying than a bagel, a generous helping of cream cheese, smoked salmon (lox), and (depending on where you get it) sliced tomato, onion, and capers. Oi. Anyways, I made my omelet a little like that. The Smokey already came with the smoked trout (no salmon, but this was just as great…and fresh and local!), tomatoes, onions, basil, etc., but I removed the parmesan and added cream cheese and capers. Win win win win win.

Does my husband always look like he’s up to something? Yes. And was our table decorated in a Superwoman motif? You’d better believe it.

It looked like the cast of friends was running this place.

Only they were younger and hipstery.

Once we’d finished our yummy breakfast back out the door we went, now out into the pouring rain. Serious rain. I enjoy the rain more than the next person. A lot more. When I hear people complain about rain it hurts me down to my core, but I won’t talk about that now. It was raining and we were in it, heading out of Maine, into New Brunswick, with our final destination in front of us — Prince Edward Island.

Only here’s the deal. Maine? Bigger than you think. It takes a while to get out especially when there is a ridiculous amount of road construction going on. And that rain? Still with us. One. Two. FIVE hours down the road.

You see that sign? NEW BRUNSWICK CANADA. It is in caps and they are serious, folks. For the first time in my life (and not the first time in my mission tripping husband’s) I was crossing an international border. You heard me right, I’ve never even been to Mexico. This trip was my first time through customs and my first time to show someone my passport.

And that’s where it got interesting.

We had nothing to declare going in (though I have NO DOUBT that we could have made it back out of Canada with any number of weapons — they barely glanced at us), so when we parked the car and went inside to get stamped we figured that we’d be back outside and on the road in no time. Wrong. The man in front of us in line “forgot” to declare a large bottle of alcohol and that had to be dealt with. Then it was our turn. My passport was fine. I haven’t had so much as a speeding ticket in my life. Next, Kevin handed his passport over. The agent at the desk paused, went back to the computer, tinkered around for a bit, came back and asked for Kevin’s social security number, went back and tinkered around more (this actually took quite a bit of time), and finally joined us with a worried look on his face.

Then I found out I’d married a felon.

Seriously, folks, this was the way to do it. Keep up the facade all during the dating relationship, snag the girl, get her married and then take off across the Canadian border with her while she and everyone else remains under the assumption that you’re “honeymooning.”

And I’m kidding. But brilliant plan, right? What the agent revealed to us was that someone who was wanted for a number of crimes in Utah and Oklahoma (umm…we live here! what’s going on folks?!) has been using my husband’s name (they may not know him personally or even know that someone with the name exists) as an alias. Grrreat. And here we are trying to cross the border. Into Canada. Probably to get Canadian papers. Because you can do anything with Canadian papers, right? That’s what I’ve heard.

The social security number cleared us for entry (thankfully this person hasn’t stolen my husband’s identity, just using the name) and we were back on the road.

It. was. still. raining.

Here, in pictures…the next 7 and 1/2 hours of our lives:

Mmhmm. Yup. Rain.

Now, here are a few things that occurred on our trip into Canada and a few observations that I made. (I’m trying not to make a lot of sweeping generalizations here.)

1. The rest stops off the Canadian highway in New Brunswick are a little off the beaten path. Instead of finding a gas station right on the side of the highway like you would in the US, you have to get into a town a little. Or something. The one we found was hard to find. And it took a while driving down the highway before we even reached it. Someone please explain so we know for next time.
2. Who am I kidding. We will NEVER drive to PEI again. It’s a ferry or a boat for this girl.
3. Once you put more than one language on a sign, I stop reading it. Ask Kevin. We were getting deep into New Brunswick, almost to the coast whenever he asked me about a sign we’d just passed. “I didn’t read it,” I said. “What?” he replied. “Nope, I haven’t read a sign in about 100 miles. I stopped once the French started.” This isn’t political or nationalist or whatever, I just can’t deal with the clutter. This proved a little bit troublesome. What with the rain and the pouring and the needing to read the signs and drive and miss the potholes in the New Brunswick highway that were BIGGER THAN A HUMAN HEAD.

And then, finally, the vision we’d been waiting for (and at this point, praying for) all day:

The bridge that would bring us into the loving arms of dear, old PEI.

Part 2 of our arrival on PEI will be posted tomorrow. And remember, once we crossed that bridge it was only 7pm. There are still hours to go before we get to sleep. But at this point in the trip our only concern was sustenance. It only gets better. And if you ever plan on traveling to PEI you do NOT want to miss tomorrow’s continuation.

Because, well, I’m tired and don’t feel like giving you all a poor attempt at my next installment of honeymoon photos and witty commentary, I’m going to talk about something else tonight.

Seasonal hair loss. Tell me I’m not the only one who experiences this. It was one thing when my hair was shoulder length, but now that my tresses reach halfway down my back, I’ve got a serious issue here. I was raised in a house where animals were not allowed to be inside. Mostly because of the stink, partially because of the hair. And I don’t know about you, but I haven’t ever seen an animal with hair over 24 inches in length.

Me? I am that animal. The other day I confessed to my dad that having me in a house was probably worse than a cat. It was at that moment I could see the relief on his face–She doesn’t live in my house anymore.

That may be true. I still rent from him though.

I’m in your house cloggin’ up your drainzzz.

P.S. New look in the works for the blog. Very different. And I like it. I have some of my own tweaking and “artwork” to finish before I can start using it, but it should be soon!