It starts with a chill in the air, and maybe a hint of illegally burning firewood. Then a tiny snowflake drifts down from the heavens and lands on your nose with a sickening cuteness. Before you know it, those Salvation Army do-gooders are swinging those bells outside your favorite stores, threatening to clock you in the dome if you should dare to enter Macy's without paying the toll of your pocket lint.

And that's how you know the holidays-- that ambiguous time span stretching from just before Thanksgiving till the fifth of My Pants Don't Fit-- have arrived.

It seems to me that everyone is writing their lists of what they have to be thankful for at this time of year. Perhaps it's the tryptophan in the Thanksgiving turkey that's to blame for this sudden burst of optimism and goodwill. (Or it's the dope in the "special" stuffing. Hey, don't judge my family... Jerk.)

Any old who. I figured this year I'd (pumpkin)spice(latte)(<--yum) things up by writing a list of all the things I'm NOT thankful for. Call me a Scrooge if you will; I say I'm just getting a jumpstart on the post-Christmas hangover. I like to think ahead.

So, without further ado, I give you:

The Top Five Things I'm Not Thankful For, In No Particular Order.

1. Low Rise Jeans. Now, you may have heard a rumor that within one week of delivering my baby, I was back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. Those rumors were circulated by me, so you know you heard right. I was strutting my stuff at a sexy, svelte weight in no time. In the spirit of the holidays, I'm going to let you in a secret that I wouldn't dare to utter if not for high volumes of caffeine, sleeplessness, and loyalty to you, dear readers. So, here goes: I admit, I look like a million bucks with my clothes on. A million flaming bucks, lit on fire by a group of hot cabaret dancers out of raging envy. Very few of you would guess from seeing me fully clothed that underneath my impeccably-worn layers you would find... gulp...

Mom bod.

That's right. I've got Mom bod. My body is a bizarre compilation of cellulite and stretch marks. Imagine a wedding between gummy worms and cottage cheese, and you've got a pretty good sense of what's going on beneath my sweater. If Shakira's hips don't lie, mine are just blurting out the awful truth in a manner inspired by Kate Gosselin-- or some other attention-starved celebrity. And so it is that #1 on this list of unthankfulness goes to the twisted minds behind tank tops, lingerie, and low-rise jeans. May I one day live to edit Dante's "Inferno," so as to create my own special circle of Hell for you.

2. In the spirit of #1, this space belongs to Victoria's Secret, the true Evil Empire. Your attempts at cracking open my marriage like the DaVinci Code are nothing short of deplorable, Vicky! You pretend to be so sweet with your pink feathers and trendy sweatpants. Well, I'm on to you, home wrecker! I will not be manipulated by promises of flawless-skin-grandeur into donning a glittery $35.00 thong, no matter how hard you try! Nor will my husband be duped into thinking that with an industrial-sized fan and a pair of angel wings that I'll be willing to engage in all manner of bedroom shennanigans. I married a Christian man, meaning his hopes for scintillating sexuality died in utero! Nothing goes on behind those closed doors that you couldn't see for yourself in a Fruit of the Loom commercial, so you and your airbrushed angels can flit off to destroy somebody else's marriage.

3. Decaffeinated coffee. Let's face it-- without copious amounts of cream and sugar, coffee is disgusting. Now, I'm willing to believe that the reason why I can't appreciate sushi or the taste of red wine is because my taste buds stopped evolving after third grade. But coffee is universally disgusting, which is why gigantic corporations go to such great lengths to disguise it with whipped cream, soy milk, and most likely, cocaine. What else could explain our nation's willingness to consume Folgers, which -- to a rational person -- tastes like cat pee?! The only way I can get past the taste of coffee is with the knowledge that after the sixth cup, I'll be wired enough to stay awake through the LOTR trilogy; Heck, throw in an extra shot of espresso and I'll watch the special features! So cut the crap, three-months-pregnant-lady. There's no way you liked coffee enough pre-pregnancy to justify ordering the stuff sans caffeine. That'd be like smoking a nicotine-free cigarette. At the end of the day, you get the bad breath without the buzz.

4. The Learning Channel. I can't remember the names of the seven dwarves, but thanks to you, I now know the names of all 18 Duggar kids. As if I had the space to spare on my mental hard drive...

5. Evolution. It might seem impossible to you to be ungrateful for (or even resentful of) an entire historical process, but allow me to enlighten you. If it weren't for evolution, I wouldn't be burdened by such hindrances as maternal instincts, love, or altruism. (Or opposable thumbs, for that matter.) But apparently Mother Nature saw fit to curse me with these afflictions to ensure the survival of the species. What. Stinking. Ever.

And thus, if not for evolution, I wouldn't be so dam*ed thankful this year for my daughter, the lethally cuddle-able Fable Elaine. And I wouldn't be overwhelmed with love for my perfect husband, Douglas Edward. And I wouldn't be awestruck by the generosity of all of our friends, who have made the last month so wonderful. No, if it weren't for evolution, I'd be picking lice off my scalp while watching this rerun of Saved By the Bell. I wouldn't feel compelled to write this stupid blog in stupid thanks of my stupid life. Instead of zoning out in my precious few minutes of free time, I've spent the last hour trying to keep Fable quiet while typing this dumb thing. So, thanks a lot, Charles Darwin. You have once again ruined a national holiday for me...

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. And just so I don't find myself doing this again on December 25, a Merry Christmas to you, too.

:)

We all know them. They walk like normal people. They talk like normal people. They generally smell like normal people. But a half hour into conversation with them, you discover the mortifying truth.

They don't. Have. Cable.

Not normal. Not normal at all.

Halfway into reminiscing about that episode of Friends when Phoebe changes her name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock or the time on Grey's Anatomy when those two people were impaled together in a freak train accident, you're interrupted by a, "Wait-- what? I'm sorry. I don't watch T.V..."

It takes you a minute to process this piece of information. "Wait-- whaaa?" You stammer in reply. Surely you can't have heard that right.

"We don't have a T.V. We don't believe in it," this self-satisfied acquaintance says, full of smugness and... smugness.

And that's when it hits you like a sucker punch to the brain: These people

ACTUALLY

do not watch T.V.

Your jaw drops a little bit as you suddenly see them cast in true light. These strangers don't spend Tuesday nights bundled up on the couch eating cold pizza and waiting for So You Think You Can Dance to start. They don't watch T.V. They don't "believe" in it. Instead they probably play Boggle and drink box wine. How anti-American can you get?!

When moments earlier you were daydreaming about raising your children next door to theirs, you're now floundering in this sea of freakishness, searching frantically for the next talking point. The weather! That's a safe topic! Crap, they don't have T.V., so they can't possibly know a thing about WEATHER!

And so, a possible kinship has died. You part ways with these foreigners, both glad and a bit sad that your blossoming friendship must end.

And you cannot help but wonder, How is this possible? When did it become acceptable to not watch television? The older I get the more people I meet who do not have cable. Heck, tons of people don't even have a television at all! Period! No television! What do people think this is, the Stone Age? Shoot, I wouldn't even know about the Stone Age if it weren't for I Love The Stone Age on MTV! What is this country coming to? What would America be if not for TGIF? If not for HGTV, I would not know the endless napkin holder possibilities at my fingertips. I cringe just thinking about where I might be if not for Oprah's inspiring insights or the piercing exchange of thought proffered by the women of The View.

Not only do these non-T.V. goers miss out on huge peaks in entertainment, but in monumental historical events. The Superbowl. The inauguration of the president. The Dwight/Angela/Andy debacle. All part of the flavor of this country.

To miss out on those events hurts me at the core of my being. I cannot imagine a pallet so bleak.

And suddenly, disgust is replaced with enormous pity. Think of all the epic pop culture events that have transpired unbeknownst to those unfortunate souls without television. If you think about it, they're missing out on the spirit of America. The more television I watch, the more I have in common with my fellow patriots. One might say that the more television I watch, the more American I become... In a sense, to associate with these haters of freedom would be to insult my country. It would seem positively unAmerican of me to do so. It surely brings a tear to the eye of Lady Liberty herself to think of those who, for reasons deliberate or otherwise, do not partake in this American pastime.

And yet, is not compassion a uniquely American quality? Instead of the knee-jerk judgment I'm sure we're all tempted to pass on those who hate our country, I write this blog to spread awareness-- to encourage tolerance. Next time you're staring into the dead eyes of someone who doesn't understand the Ross/Rachel saga, instead of mentally writing them off, invite them over. Open your home; after all, this great country was founded upon the building blocks of understanding, tolerance, and ultimately, conversion. Ah, and TiVo.

Definitely TiVo.

They say that new parents should sleep when the baby sleeps, and I promise that after this I will get right on that.
But writing has always been my way of processing, and I have a feeling I will be writing on this for a very long time. As a matter of fact, I may never stop writing about this. It seems I will forever be grappling with the colorful details and momentous truths brought forth in the last few days.

Unfortunately, it is true that I want for energy and I know that this momentary burst will pass. So, I suppose justice will have to be put on the back burner for a little while.

Here is the very, very short of it.

Our beautiful daughter, Fable Elaine Mauss, issued her first, tiny, wail, on October 20, 2009, at 12:11 in the afternoon. She has since been swaddled and kissed by family and friends for the entire duration of her short existence. I cannot imagine a baby more loved.

For those of you who like these sorts of details, here's the trivia: There is a dispute pending regarding how much she actually weighed. The pink name plate alerting the world to her birth announces that she weighed in at 6 pounds, 10 ounces. Her papa informs me (in the way that only someone who was not at the time being stitched in odd places) that in actuality, she weighed 6.9. I don't know where he's getting his figures. Also, I believe she measured 19 inches, although I'm not sure on that either. I'm sure you're all thinking, "Fine mother she'll make! She doesn't even know the details of her daughter's birth!" But cut me a little slack, people. I was mesmerized by this golden, precious infant who somehow managed to smile immediately upon arrival. What I do know is that she was rosy and warm on my chest and even then smelled like summertime.

She is the gentlest baby and has only whimpered every now and again. She's eating like a viking and sleeping like a bear. She has my lips, for sure, and the longest eyelashes in the world second only to her father. Neither of us knows the origins of the single freckle on her nose, but we love it just the same.

And lastly, I will write more on the topic later, but it should be said that at the end of a 36 hour labor, Fable was not born at home as we had hoped. We ultimately transported to Memorial Hospital North at 5:00 AM on Sunday morning. We were greeted by the kindest nurses and most efficient, handsome, intelligent, perfect anesthesiologist in the state of Colorado. I kid, I kid. He was actually pretty grumpy, but I digress.

We had such high hopes for a smooth labor and delivery at home, but at the end of the day we-- Doug, myself, midwives and doctors -- are confident that transporting to the hospital was critical to bringing Fable here safely. Doug and I are still avid proponents of the safety and efficacy of home birthing for 90% of families. Ours just wasn't to be among those births this time. Anyway, I will surely expound on what it was like to see both sides of the coin in a later blog. It will be interesting to unpack it another time.

Presently Fable is dozing right next to me, occasionally making the most adorable squeaking sounds in her sleep. Her starry-eyed (and sleepy-eyed) father is nearly comatose on the couch to my left. His arm dangles off to the side; his wrist proudly dons a collection of bracelets announcing him to be a new father. He is adamant he will wear them all week. I think I will soon join the both of them, but not before issuing the most sincere thank-you that I have ever given, or likely will ever give.

Thank you, Dotti and Emily, my midwives extraordinaire, for believing in the power of my body and ushering my baby safely into this world. Your kindness, knowledge, and support made my laboring positive despite its length. Also, it was pretty boss of you to encourage me to push through to delivery instead of waiting for the doctor. (THAT will make for a fun story, just you wait!)

Thank you, Susanne and Brianna, for joining the ranks of aforementioned in helping us through this arduous though ultimately fulfilling process. It certainly would have been less the latter if it weren't for you both. Susanne, you are a warrior of the faith. My daughter is blessed that you were there to pray over her. Brianna, words cannot express how your physical and emotional support, in the throws of the deepest pain I've ever experienced, buoyed me.

And more thanks to Jane and Whitney, my long-distance cheerleaders. Jane, your enthusiasm made my pregnancy so golden and positive. I so desperately needed your joy over the last few weeks. It sustained me through to the end. And Whitney, you know that my mouth does not translate well the contents of my heart. All I can do is spend the rest of our friendship thanking you for, well, everything. I hope that won't be old by the time you're 70 (and I'm 72, sucker!) It is now 7:00 AM and I anxiously await getting to see your face again. The idea brings tears to my already puffy eyes.

And lastly, it needs to be said that the staff at Memorial North have been angelic. I have not enough words to thank them for handling us with such care.


Thank you for reading, friends.

With love from room A06,

Melanie, Doug, and Fable.