Thanksgiving dinner has come and gone. The mashed potatoes were fantastic, and I even got some chocolate pie at the end. After a full day of crossword puzzles, Scrabble, and Iron Chef with Grandma and Grandpa, my family is back at our cabin on the lake (a five-minute hike from my grandparents' home in the woods). My brother and I are in the middle of watching Blood Simple, which might be the creepiest movie I've watched in 2010 if only because it involves too many Texans with too many guns.

Two of the most frequently asked questions I receive are: "How many stuffed animals do you own?" and "What is your favorite Thanksgiving food?" Seeing those two questions side-by-side makes me think of stuffing, which is probably my least favorite food (food product? food mishap? food crime?) that one commonly finds on Thanksgiving tables. To be perfectly honest, I've never actually eaten stuffing, but I hate it passionately nonetheless. (Logic!)

So to answer the latter question, my favorite Thanksgiving staples are rolls (mmm, butter) and mashed potatoes (mmm, more butter). When I suggested to a friend that I could live on mashed potatoes, he replied, "I tried that for dinner once." He likened the experience to ingesting wet cement. I won't be trying that anytime soon, but it won't stop me from filling half my plate with starchy goodness.

(Making little sandwiches from the leftover rolls and leftover turkey on the day after Thanksgiving? Oooh, that is the best. Why can't turkey sandwiches taste that amazing every day of the year?)

As far as stuffed animals (the toys) are concerned: I own way too many. I only keep three in my bedroom: my teddy bear from Build-a-Bear, my sock zombie, and of course, Juan Pedro the sock monkey. I also actually keep a giant stuffed white tiger in my closet, since I didn't want to risk putting it in the basement with the others, in case the basement should flood or become home to a swarm of toy-eating locusts. (YOU NEVER KNOW.) White tigers are my favorite animals in the world, and until I can own a real, growly, scary one as a pet, the quiet, fluffy version in my closet is going to have to survive.

It's been ages since I looked at the others, but I'm selfishly refusing to donate them. What snot-nosed brat born in 2005 is going to keep a bedside log of which ones got to sleep on the bed last night in order to prevent favoritism? Huh? When they build an orphanage exclusively for obsessive-compulsive genius children, THEN I'll consider parting ways with Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Andy, Bunny, White Teddy Bear, Black Teddy Bear, Big Bird, and all the other unnamed fuzzballs I own. (For some reason, I never felt compelled to attach names to my stuffed animals. I just referred to them by what animal they were, and we dreamt up little quiet places in nature where we could all read books together.)

Anyway, I am quickly running out of curse words to mutter at the slow-moving traffic in the rain-soaked state of Indiana, so I think I'm going to use what precious battery remains on my phone to look up the phrase "down the stairs with you!" in every language Google Translate offers.

Much of my childhood was spent watching Disney movies and falling asleep with my imaginary Prince Charming, who would come to rescue me from my life as a peasant and promise to return me to my royal glory in the morning. It was a dizzying fantasy but one that I've had a hard time shaking as a young adult.

When I got an invitation in the mail to become a member of the Art Institute, my initial reaction was, "You stupid ASPCA people! I donate once, and suddenly I'm on the mailing list of every charity, non-profit, or otherwise money-starved organization in the country! Bollocks!" (My Netflix queue is stuck on All Things British, which is having an interesting effect on my inner monologues.) But as I read on, I noticed something about an exclusive, members-only party in December, and I immediately started shopping for ugly stepsisters and verbally advanced mice on Craigslist. Cinderella was going to the ball.

Since then, I've acquired one gorgeous blue dress, one lovely pair of stockings, one stylish pair of black pumps, one beautiful golden clutch, and one fabulous black wool coat for the evening. I've tripped over thin air as I walk down the halls of my house and office, daydreaming constantly about the fabulous people I'll meet there and the wonderful jokes and insights we'll share over cocktails as we stand in front of timeless art and pretend to be able to in any way comprehend its complexities.

This is absolutely maddening for the logical part of my brain, which knows about the realities of social anxiety and my lifelong tendency to spill on my favorite clothing. However, the fuzzy, frilly, illogical side of my brain is in charge of this ship until the sunny weather returns — a safety mechanism which keeps me from flinging myself from a bridge in the middle of the doom and gloom of winter.

All of this started as a [long-winded] way of saying that I really appreciate the dreamers out there, the people with creative souls who think outside their reality and who use logic as a stepping stone to innovation instead of an anchor to weigh down free thoughts. So while I'm off frolicking in a dreamy, cookie-filled heaven in Tennessee this week, check out these fabulous writers who have inspired me to climb every mountain and all that jazz.

That Cup of Tea: Favorite entries include 33 Moments of Happiness, Setdressing, Chicago in Eight Meals, and Make Room. I've been aware of Zan's existence in the world for years via Sarah Brown, but I only started "quietly haunting" her blog a few weeks ago. I love it to pieces.

Distorte: Again, I've known of Pierce's blog for ages, and I've followed him on Tumblr for maybe the better part of two years or so. However, I just now started to read through the archives of the longer pieces he posts to distorte.com, and they make me feel simultaneously unworthy and honored to share internet space with him. Two entries to start you off: Pot and Untimely. (Note: a lot of these stories/essays are mostly fictional, or at least that's my understanding.)

Sadly, Zan lives in New York and Pierce in Ireland, so the odds of being able to hug or spill something festive on either of them at the Art Institute's holiday party are slim to none.