Northern Bound

We are taking a Thanksgiving trip - we are loadin' up and headin' north. Specifically to the Northeast. The brood will be visiting my sister and Big Daddy's sister and families.

We will be on the 5-day schedule-o-fun as we traverse planes, trains and automobiles in our quest for The Perfect Thanksgiving Meal, The Best Duck Hunt, The Outrageous After-Thanksgiving Bargain, The Loving Family Reunion, and The Fabulous New York Christmas- Season-Opening Rockettes Show.

Whew!

Are you tired already? I am and I haven't even finished packing.

Of course, I wouldn't trade this trip for anything. I look forward to the early morning coffee conversations and the late night chats that won't end because no one wants them to end. No matter how many yawns and how many times "Okay, I really need to go to bed" is repeated, we sit and chat, moving easily from topic to topic. Catching up. Re-telling stories that have been told a thousand times and laughing like it's the first time we've heard them. That is what family is all about.

Let it be known that I am the oldest of all the sisters and sister-in-laws (not by much, but I am still the oldest). My sister, Delaweird, is 16 months younger than me and got the swimsuit model body to go with her gorgeous looks. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Cutillowitz, is fabulous in every way - glamorous job, perfect skin, untouchable wardrobe, and impeccable taste.

Before each trip up north, I put this crazy pressure on myself to make sure that I look as fabulous as possible. And in some way, I consider myself a personal ambassador from the South. Like I am representing all Southern Genteel-ness, and I must not mar the reputation of the Southern Belles lest I be shunned and stripped of my Bellehood (okay, that's not a word, but just go with me on this one.....) I'm not trying to compete with these ladies....just trying to keep up.

I get my nails done. I get my hair done. I do a few more sit-ups. I try to pick a fabulous travel outfit. But there always seems to be a fly in the ointment.... something that keeps me from my self-inflicted-mental-picture-of-my-perfect-self.

One time it was a bad perm. No, I mean it - a REALLY bad perm. Hair burned, stubble growing bad perm. I was younger back then, so I was really delusional. I just knew that perm would keep me from being discovered on the street by a fashion modeling agency. The model scout would walk by, notice me and think to himself Pretty face. Bad Perm. What a shame.

I told you I was delusional.

For this trip, my skin has decided to mutiny. I woke up yesterday with a huge pimple right in the middle of my forehead. It looks like a big bulls eye up there. Or, like Rudolph's glowing red nose has been relocated to the center of my forehead.

I have tried all my anti-pimple tricks. I have put rubbing alcohol on it. I have dabbed it with anti-blemish sticks. I am at my last resort - covering it with makeup. Yes, I know that can make it worse. Someone told me to put mouthwash on it. I've never heard that one, but if it doesn't look better in the morning, I may try it.

The good news is that I no longer think that a modeling agency will pick me up on the street. My only goal is to look good in the photos, so that in future years while we are gathered together, having coffee and re-telling the same stories (and a few new ones), that we can laugh at my bad perm and the big Zit that conquered the North.