Melting Snowmen Cookies

The most fun I've had so far this holiday season was making the melting snowmen cookies that I found on Pinterest. (Sorry family, that not a slam to any gathering we've had so far...)

I made up instructions based on Pinterest pics I'd seen of the finished product.  Since others have been looking for the "recipe", I figured I'd write out the instructions for you all here today:

What you'll need: 1.) Sugar cookie dough (or ingredients if you're showing off), 2.) White cookie icing, 3.) Colored decorating frosting. I used red and green for the scarves and black for the face, buttons and arms. Most important is that you choose a black frosting that comes with a fine tip; 4.) Large s'more-sized marshmellows.  That's it!

Step One: Make your favorite sugar cookies. From scratch, break-off, cut-off, doesn't matter. You're going to impress people with your hilarity here, not your baking skills. I used the Pillsbury break-off kind. If you go that route, please realize that the cookies, as they're packaged, will be too small to accomodate the giant marshmellow. My pack came with 24 cookies. I cut 8 in half and rolled together 1.5 precut cookies to form a new, larger, dough ball for each. (Rolling the dough in a ball will also make the finished product nice and round.) For those fractionally impared, that will give you 16 finished cookies.

Step Two: Heat up the cookie icing following the directions on the back.  I used Wilton's 10 oz white cookie icing tube, which was exactly enough for my 16 cookies. Once cookies have cooled, start squirting! I went haphazard style on my first few, but then realized that crossing back and forth in a flower-like or star pattern caused the glaze to melt as nicely as melting snow. You don't have to overdo it either. Don't try to cover every inch of the cookie. Once you've drawn your pattern, the blank spaces fill in quite nicely since this is more of a glaze medium we're working with. You'll see the spots you'll need to fill in within seconds. Don't waste your glaze! And, for heaven's sake, don't just frost the cookies all the way across like you normally do. These snowmen are dying and it has to be hilarious! If they don't carry the Wilton's (or a similar product) in your area, I'd recommend making your own glaze and using a pastry bag for application. If you use cake frosting from the can, you won't get the same effect. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Step Three: Add the marshmellow quickly, before the glaze sets. The glaze serves as the adhesive to keep your marshmellow on.  These snowmen may be dying, but let them die with the diginity of having their heads attached.  Don't place the marshmellow in the center, either. Put it more toward one edge so you can draw the body later on.

Step Four: Go to town!  Wait, put the car keys down. Stay in the kitchen. That was just an expression meaning "Start having fun!" Draw the scarves on first. I used Wilton's icing in red and green that comes in the aerosol cans. I used the leaf tip for a more scarfy effect. Next draw the face, buttons and arms. (Don't forget the expressiveness of eyebrows!) I used some sort of black sparkle gel frosting that came in a little tube for this. It was the only kind of black icing I could find this time of year. Think ahead at Halloween time if you'd like more black decorative frosting options and buy early.

Step Five:  Think of the children. I was having a grand ol' time make devastated-looking Frosties, but then I remember Frosty.  And, all the kids that will be at the party I'm bringing these to. And, how they might begin to cry when they see I've baked Frosty after he'd already escaped from that evil magician. So I added a few smiley faces. Some snowmen like the sun! (See the movie Frozen for reference.) They think melting is quite ticklish. Smiling cookies are for the children. (Except maybe the one above on on the right. He appears to have suffered a gunshot wound to the head, due to icing not being my best medium.)

Step Six: Have a jolly holiday!

Breakfast Dump Brinner

This isn't my usual blog M.O., but Pinterest will only let me enter 500 characters for my Breakfast Dump recipe, so I had to link it to somewhere.  But, if you're looking to see how a single working gal of my age eats in a rush, feel free to read on:

Breakfast Dump Brinner:

This has become one of my favorite quickie dinners when I don't feel like thawing/prepping/cooking. 

• Take a handful of refrigerated shredded hash brown and toss it into a buttered saucepan. 
• Saturate the top of them with those liquid eggs that come in the pourable carton. 
• Sprinkle the top of that with shredded cheese, any kind you please. (Today I was extra lazy and just tossed a slice of American on there.) 
• Salt while wet, if you'd like. 
• Sprinkle one more layer of hash browns on that. 
• Flip like an omelet once bottom is cooked.  Let the other side cook and voila! 
• Precooked bacon that microwaves in seconds is a nice side meat. Usually, I'll crumble it up and toss it in with the cheese layer. 

It is healthy?  Probably not.  Is it filling, fast and easy?  Oh yeah...

Prep time, 0.  Cook time, about 5.  Satisfaction time, hours!

Cellulite... That's Right!

If there's one thing that should bond us women together, it's our cellulite.

SAY WHAT?!  Yeah, I said it.  Since nobody one else will!

80-95% of us have it (depending on which study you choose believe is most accurate.) That's a higher instance of commonality than anything else we as ladies share. 

Marital status, skin color, education, tax bracket... the only thing we women have most in common is undeniably our cellulite.  So why don't we ever talk about it?

Because it's a gross part of life that we'd like to forget is there. 

So, no, don't worry... I won't be trying to work cellulite into everyday conversation. (Got that, readers who actually know me personally?  There's no need to dodge into the nearest doorway/elevator/house plant the next time you see me coming.)  We're going to keep this to a one-time thing between you, me and the internet.  As it should be.

How many of you pick up the annual Cellulite Issue of that tabloid that you normally despise? I admit, I've never actually purchased these issues (just can't bring myself to feed the beast), but I've definitely sneaked a peek in the checkout line or if I find a loose copy left lying around the lunchroom.

Obviously, the tabloid magazines that make big bucks from their annual Cellulite Editions are doing it for the wrong reason.  They're officially in the business of knocking celebrities off of their pedestals and bent on ruining the lives of the privileged by whatever means ethical or not.  (Sidenote: That's why I've cropped all faces, captions and identifying features from the "backside" photos I've used here. It was done without their permission the first time around. I'm not about to be the repeat offender.)

But, let me tell you what I personally get out of peeking: The relief that we're all just as sexy as one another.  

If I would have captioned the accompanying pics, you may have been shocked to learn that these lumpy ladies being crucified in the tabloids are the same ones gracing the "Most Beautiful" covers of other publications. The same bombshell airbrushed in the swimsuit issue may be the next one featured on the cellulite edition's cover.

Go figure!  Even movie stars and divas are a part of the 95% of us.  We really do have something in common after all!  (And, those remaining 5% probably either lied during the survey process or are a part of the under-21 demographic.  They're not fooling us!)

My cellulite story started at a very young age. Probably early teens. That's when I started wearing swimsuits with skirty bottoms because I was one of the first of my peers to enter this passage of womanhood.  (Why couldn't the boobs have come first?!)

See, it does come on arms.
Even celebrity hottie ones!

It started on the butt and upper thighs, like it always does, and slowly crept it's way down past the knees over the following three decades.  As I get closer to 40, I'm finding it sneaks up in the most unexpected places like, Ack! My calves? What?! My arms!  I wouldn't be surprised if my ears were next. 

There's different kinds of cellulite, too. My personal brand is "skinny girl's cellulite". I've always been tall and small-boned, so unfortunately my cottage cheese has nowhere to blend within normal womanly curves. It just stands at attention, grasping to my skin as if it were in fear of falling off. (Little does it know, I'd be perfectly fine with it falling off!)

I've learned to dress to camouflage, but the "skinny girl" blend always gets the biggest reaction. People don't expect you to have it, because you look so "normal" when fully dressed. So, when that first trip to the beach, pool, spa, store dressing room with us catches them off guard, it is usually met with screams and stares. (Screams from the small children who don't know any better and stares from the shocked adults who are trying their darnedest to feign unfazed.)

In the winter, it's easy to forget about because we're covered up, shivering and forgetting to shave. (What? You're not from around here? You have to shave year-round? So sorry to hear...) But, the weather will eventually turn warmer and the cycle begins again. 

I'll buy a new pair of shorts that looked surprisingly great in the dressing room, but the truth is soon revealed in my obscenely well-lit bathroom. Swimsuit season jiggles in to greet us and I'm in a mad dash to find the last pair of swim-shorts in my size.  No more string bikinis here!

But, then the latest Celebs with Cellulite issue is released to save me just in time.  I can peek, feel at home with my famous fellow 95%-ers and be lifted back out of my shame spiral.  

What else are you gonna do? There is no cure. Yeah, there's expensive creams and treatments that really don't work. The latest trend being caffeinated lotions. I've considered trying a poor girl's version of rubbing Folgers Crystals around on my thighs, out of curiosity, but it just seemed too messy. Besides, if I did find a way to make it disappear then what would we all have to bond over?

So, why did I post this?  Some of you are probably saying this in your head, or aloud to one another as you snicker and judge me. If you haven't figured the answer to that question out yet, take a look at your own backside. I know I'm not the only one who takes a spin on the self-pity tilt-a-whirl this time of year. Misery loves company and so does cellulite. We're all in this together... at least 80% of of us. The rest of you can go eat a burrito while we join hands and ♫ We shall overcome...♫

If you take away nothing else, at least take away this: When you're people-watching at the beach this summer, don't gag and make jokes at others like the tabloid do. Remember that you're most likely sitting on a similar lump of Jello. When you catch your boyfriend or husband ogling the latest chick on the Maxim cover, don't get down, feel free to point out that if he flipped her over, odds are, she's as lumpy as you are.  

If you made it this far, and you're a daring soul... I'm not letting myself off the hook that easily. Since I've exploited the backs-of-thighs of the rich and famous, it's only fair that I exploit my own. Below, I give you:

My Cellulite.

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You're welcome!

 (And, yes, macaroni and cheese was consumed during the making of this post.  It was GOOD!)

Shopping While Hungry

If there's one thing I'll never learn my lesson about, it's going grocery shopping while hungry. 

I usually stick to the micro "grocery store" located in my local Target for weekly trips.  Once a month I'll drag my feet to an actual grocery chain to stock up on the remainders on my list that Target doesn't carry (Whole Grain Pringles, meat... fresh fruit if I'm feeling health-conscious.)  Every now and again I'll stumble into the super-mega-gigantico store located seconds from my office and get lost for days among the abundant selection of pasta, Pop-Tarts and frozen meals.  And, I usually tend to do this around dinner time when everything looks especially delicious and as absolute necessities to be added to my fridge.

I actually landed home in my kitchen with three different varieties of granola bars last night!  Sorry, make that six varieties, three different brands.  I don't even think Target carries six different granola types, so I have no choice but to experiment when given the fleeting chance.  Right?

Well, when finding yourself not quite lost but wandering though the fluorescent lit aisles of a super-mega-gigantico chain, you're all but forced to people-watch as well as make obscene purchases.  Like it or not, in order to get to the granola aisle you must first wade through a sea of super-mega-gigantico shoppers.

My first memorable encounter cut me off in the dishware aisle.  (Hey, I needed a cup!)  It was a teenage daughter whining at breakneck speeds to her mother about her best goodest friend that had the nerve to not confide in her about some issue I couldn't catch before they rounded the next corner.  My wish was not granted as I crossed them again, "She couldn't tell me this, but she could tell the lunch lady?!?"  And, again, "The lunch lady is more important confidante than ME?!?"  And, again, "THE LUNCHLADY, Mom???!!!" for the next four aisles.

I began to share the same forward-glazed stare of her poor mother, quietly tolerate, but offering no insight to her daughter's woes as she pushed her cart solemnly up and down each aisle at a robotic death march pace.  The only difference was that, on my end, I could escape to the dairy aisle and poor mother could not.  In her shoes I might have piped in with the suggestion that maybe Best Goodest Friend was simply defining her right not to have her business broadcast across the local super-mega-gigantico store.  But, I think poor mother's only take on this was a deep-seated yen to trade places with the lunchlady, if only for the moment.

The dairy aisle alerted me to an egg thief on premises.  I had to open three cartons to find one with all egg slots full!  I only can hope the burgled eggs found their way to a hungry child's stomach and not to the windshield of my SUV parked out front.

It was around the breakfast aisle I came across the annoying sound of human whistling.  Bird whistling is fine in my book.  Even children's whistling I can live with.  But, the sound of a grown man forcing spittle through his lips and out into the inhaled oxygen of the general public is just a pet peeve I rank right up there with nails on a chalkboard.  Don't argue with me that it's a sound of jolliness.  Any jolly spirit-choosing-to-whistle's jolliness is negated by the robbery of the audience's jolly.  (Got that?!)

Even more annoying than the general whistling, was the chosen tune!  It was a repetitive loop of what started out to be the Jeopardy theme song and ended up segueing into the first two lines of "Deck the Halls."  He'd seemingly forget the next lines, pause for twenty seconds and then launch back into The Jeopardy theme... wait for it, wait for it... oops it's Deck the Halls again!

This went on through my insane granola purchase and then four subsequent aisles of frozen food.  By aisle three, the peeve-ranking got raised a notch when the small child in the seat of Whistler's cart started chanting "Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi!" into his face.  Whistler just kept on whistling as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had, at some point in his life, procreated.  'Tis the season to be jolly... "Hi. Hi. Hi! Hi!"  This may have been the only word the young one had learned so far in his short life. But, I'm pretty sure it could be interpreted as, "Hi Dad!  Remember me?  I'm that kid that loves you and I'm twenty-four inches from your face.  Do you see me down here?  Hi!  I think I've inhaled just about the right amount of your spittle for now.  Thanks for the jolly tune!  Hi."

By the time I exited the frozen section, I was pretty much done.  I had just the bread aisle to go as I gazed into the trappings of my cart.  Holy smokes!  This is just food for one?!  I had visions of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman taunting, "Big mistake!  HUGE!"  But, instead of holding Gucci bags up in the air, I had processed cheese, real cheese and cheese by-products (...if those exist.  Do they?  If they do, they were in my cart.  "HUGE!")  I even ended up with a frozen ham and cheese sandwich that comes with it own small vat of cheese dipping sauce.  Yes, I'd even selected cheese that you heat up and dip into more cheese!

This is the point where you're supposed to come to your senses and start dropping things in the candy and magazine racks that are conveniently located near the checkout for the purpose of discarding unnecessary items.  But, nope, I was still hungry, it all still looked delicious and every thing ended up on the conveyor belt.  Three brands of granola bars in six varieties, cheese sandwiches you dip in cheese and all!

I didn't let the cashier boy (who made very clear in body language and facial expression that I had ruined his day by choosing his register) ruin my food booty high.  I even helped him bag my purchase.  Then I drove right home, nuked a frozen mushroom burger (with Swiss!) and proceeded to have a slightly severe bout of indigestion for the next 24 hours.  That's where a trip to the super-mega-gigantico store will get you!

You'll find me at Target next week.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Here in Detroit, we are not watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this morning.  No, no.  Currently my television channel is set to the local NBC affiliate that is airing Detroit's own America's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Yes, as humble and decrepit as our city may seem to the rest of the country... back off!  Today is Thanksgiving and we have our own parade and our very own football game too.

Living in the metropolis surrounding a core city that's experienced such loss (money, leadership, neighborhoods, Boblo Island!) there's alot that economics can't take away from metro-Detroiters; our spirit, hometown loyalty and traditions.

The parade lives on and is my background commotion this morning as it has been every Thanksgiving in the past thirty-eight years.

In our childhood home the parade would be viewed in the living room.  A quartet of kids, cozy in pajamas, crunching on Cocoa Puffs and hearing the clank of preparations in the next room.  Mom would be rifling through pots and pans and going through her methodical preparations:  Crisco-ing the turkey, lining up the boxes and cans of sides, ironing the good tablecloth and waiting on the electric double oven to heat.  Meanwhile, we kids remained nearby but out of the way.  The Detroit parade, its marching bands and mega balloons being the perfect distraction.

One year, I distinctly recall a local reporter dropping an expletive during the live broadcast.  A giant balloon of an adorable puppy was being commandeered down the street by its bundled-up handlers.  The female reporter, who either was imbibing in holiday spirits a little too early in the day or simply didn't realize that her mic was still live, remarked to her co-host, "Could you imagine if that thing took a *bleep* on your carpet?!"  (only without the censoring bleep!) My eyes went large and my stomach went sour.  That was a word I knew we weren't allowed to use and I wasn't sure I was even supposed to know of its existence!  I peripherally checked my siblings and not a flicker, not a comment.  I don't know if the slip had missed them or if they too were sitting wide-eyed in disbelief.  The purity of my holiday was soured for a moment.  This was not a holiday memory I ever wanted to cherish... but, here I sit with that annual remembering creeping up as tradition.

Eventually Santa would end the local parade and we'd take turns cranking through the six local channels to find more Thanksgiving fun.  Usually another of the major networks would be airing a medley of parades from across the country. They would swap coverage from New York to Hawaii to L.A. to even brief footage from our own humble parade.  It was always odd to see sun and palm trees mixed with turkey celebrations.  We locals associate the November holiday with cold, sometimes wet, sometimes crisp and sometimes snow!  Coconut-shelled hula dancers were always an odd mix in the variety of footage seen that day, but it became tradition too.

At some point we'd be urged out of our flannels and into our clothing.  And, about the time the scent of turkey would start to waft it would be time for the kids in the living room to turn the channel to Charlie Brown. 

Now, for some reason in the mid-eighties, they didn't air the Peanuts Thanksgiving special on Thanksgiving Day.  In the era before 24-hour holiday viewing on cable networks, you could only catch these specials once a year.  Charlie's holiday of popcorn, lawn chairs and toast would be aired an evening or two before the holiday itself.  On Thanksgiving Day, for some reason, the chosen mid-afternoon programming became Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown!  Yep, the special where Charlie, Linus, Peppermint Patty and crew somehow got involved in a water rapids race while away at summer camp.  The Peanuts had to battle the typical camp trials including the navigation of confusing military time, missed buses, nature's elements, Charlie Brown's ineptness and a gaggle of bullies which, of course, included an evil brown cat.  It was never my favorite Peanuts special, but with only six channels to contend with and most other p.m. coverage designated to the NFL, Race for Your Life became a part of our tradition as well.

Around the time the scent of turkey was joined by the additional aromas of rolls and pie, was the time we started crayoning out place settings and watching out the family room picture window for the arrival of grandparents and cousins.  Most major holidays were celebrated with my mom's side of the family.  Thanksgiving would include Lion's football on the tube for the men, a (weather-permitting) half-hazard round of touch football in the yard for the kids and who-knows-what for the ladies because we ran off and left them trickling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room.

Dinner always (and pretty much still) consisted of turkey (which my older cousin would always try to convince me was chicken, so I'd stop making gag-faces and try it), gravy, Stove Top stuffing, Hungry Jack's mashed potatoes, corn, canned cranberry sauce ("the red stuff"), some kind of pistachio dish my grandma would always make ("the green stuff"), sweet potatoes ("the stuff with the marshmallows in it") and heaping piles of split-top rolls.  Dessert was always an assortment of pies, pumpkin always present, and us kids trying to swipe mouthfuls of whipped cream, sans pie.  There is also a birthday cake for my grandmother who's birthday falls on the 25th.

After the carb-load someone would always fall asleep (one or two of the men), the women would sit chattering at the table and us kids would run off and play and/or try to spy on what the women were talking about (and maybe still be trying to swipe the whipped cream.)

Thanksgiving now rotates between venues with basically the same crowd; only now with the addition of spouses and new cousins/great-grandchildren/nieces and nephews (titles dependant on which branch of the family tree you reside.)  We thankfully still celebrate Grandma's special day along with the holiday (Her 93rd, this year!)  The company of my last-living grandparent I still cherish along with the fact that the rest of the family still shares love and company with one another after all these years.  God and is as good to us and he was decades ago, despite lifes ups and downs.  And, the comfort of the parade currently broadcasting in the background is one more way that I'm assured that home is home.

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

Holiday Munchies

Oh man, I've been so worried about Christmas shopping, making desserts for Thanksgiving and all other forms holiday distractions that I totally forgot that I was bound to be eating like a Stage 4 stoner by the end of the week.

It always starts with Thanksgiving.  Even though I hate turkey, (and really hate turkey leftovers), somehow my stomach still begins is unauthorized regimen of expanding and contracting around mid-to-late November.  By the last week of the month its new routine becomes strictly expanding and will remain so until the new year's threshold has been crossed.

Adding a ham to the Thanksgiving mix this year has only worsened my piggyness.  Thankfully we finished off the leftover swine by this evening, but the damage has already been done.  The starter gun has sounded and I've been eating all day.  (In fact, I just literally devoured an entire granola bar in order to summon the strength to type that first paragraph and upload the brownie pic.  Phew!  I'm hungry again.)  I've especially been enjoying the barrel of leftover mash potatoes and the last dozen of the soft wheat rolls.  Oh yeah, and the white chocolate-drizzled brownies which have been perfectly cut to hypoglycemic-friendly sized squares.  Mmmmmm...

I'm not opposed to eating, over-eating or even going up a pants size once a year.  (That's what the storage container in the basement stuffed with two different size options of pants is for.  Wink wink.)  In any given non-holiday month, I still usually eat six times a day.  But, man, there's something about post-Thanksgiving that's turns me into Cookie Monster, Jughead from Archie's gang and one of those disgusting hot dog-eating contestants all rolled into one.

I had intentions of taking a hike today to get some fresh air and to have a reason to have worked up such an appetite.  But, the most athletic exertion of energy I managed to muster up today has been 1) standing upright long enough in the shower to wash my hair and 2) continuously hitting the refresh button on my keyboard until the Black Friday internet crashes lulled and then post-victoriously checking four more names off of my Christmas list.  All while in my slippers and without tasting one breath of fresh air.

My body hasn't been in a total state of recline today.  I've been checking up with my kingdom on Castleville with such regularity that I think I may have convinced myself that my peasants and all of their livestock may starve to death once I return to work on Monday.  I've finished reading half a book, two magazines and rediscovered the PS2 console that I sometimes forget I own if there are not children visiting to remind me.

So, now that I remember my body is going to be convinced it's infected with a tapeworm for the next month or so, I will allow myself to overeat a little, as long as I can also convince my legs to journey further than the mailbox (to check for more magazines.)  I predict three more pounds of mashed potatoes consumed by this weekend's end with hopefully at least one hike squeezed in between servings.

Then again, it is supposed to rain, so maybe I'll just walk from the parking lot to the movie theater and call it even.  Popcorn, no butter?

Thankful

It's the day for giving thanks!  I was completely prepared to do that, but then my stomach became too hungry to function.

Let's try it anyways.  A little dip in blood sugar can't do that much damage.

I'm thankful for my family.  Large on both sides.  (In number not proportion, come on now!)  For cousins who are like siblings and for siblings who are like friends.  For my mom whose hip is healing right on schedule.  And, for my dad (even though he is currently in a "people are coming over!" tizzy.)

I'm thankful for my last living grandparent "Grandma Great" who is turning 92 tomorrow.  And, I'm even more thankful that the strange dream I had the other night of her and my grandpa (who passed away nearly 20 years ago) wasn't an omen.  In my dream she had brown hair and was giggling, so happy to be with him. I thought it was a sign of their heavenly reuniting.  What a relief that we didn't get that call that morning.  And, I'm super thankful I have no powers of premonition.  (The tip off should have been that, in my dream, they were also on the lam from the law.  Bonnie and Clyde style.  They fled to my house and I fed them pudding.)

I'm thankful for my job, even though I may complain about it to some extent the other 364 days of the year. Having a job in Michigan is truly something to be thankful for.

I'm thankful for the invention of Ebay, which through its wonders I obtained the shirt I'm currently wearing for about five bucks.  And, also the sweater I wore the other day with the $60 price tag on it, for $7.99.

I'm thankful for the invention of Facebook, for giving me a way to catch up with long lost friends and family,  minus the cost of airfare, hotel fees and long-distance phone bills.  Sometimes you don't realize how much you've missed people, until you find yourself clamoring for a status update.

I'm thankful for Blogger and all of you readers for allowing me the creative outlet that my brain has been starving for.  I'm especially thankful when you click "funny", "cool" and "interesting".  (But, a little less thankful when you click "weird".)

I'm thankful that after thirty-seven years of wishing, I'm finally getting to enjoy a Thanksgiving ham today.  Which makes me a little extra thankful for my younger sister who is preparing it for us and that she isn't absent, sick, lazy or otherwise unable to cook it.

I'm thankful for my Lord and Savior, without whom my stubborn heart wouldn't even have the ability to be thankful.

And, I'm thankful for those eight little rugrats who rule my heart.  I'd have less gray hair and a lot more money in my bank account without them, but I wouldn't make that trade for anything in the world!  For they're the ones who have given me my "Aunt's Life". ♥

Halloween Hangover

Halloween is over and I have nothing to show for it.  All those kids, all those bags of candy and all I ended up with was a bunch of rocks...

Oops!  What I meant was, "All those kids, all those bags of candy and all I have to show for it was one fun-size Snicker that my sister gave me as a pity offering after I pitched a whining fit."  Oh yeah, and those few Gobstobbers my five-year-old nephew shoved into my mouth without permission.  After he spilled them all over the floor.  Twice.

Oh well.  I learned my lesson about sugar long ago.  I thought I might at least be able to nab a leftover bag of Fritos or Cheetos that we were passing out at our house, but by the time we returned from the streets only two bags of plain ol' Lays remained.  Hard to eat just one?  Even easier to eat zero!  Blech.  Then I whined some more and my sister-in-law ponied up some Doritos out of one of her kids' sacks.  Since I've become too old to pull off the "Trick or Treat", I'm learning that whining is the next best alternative to getting my hands on some Halloween loot.

 At least I got a decent walk in.  I'd tell you what the kids were dressed up as, but it's hard to remember.  Costumes don't stay put these days.  There's always a mask missing, a prop ending up in the stroller and the requisite winter coat covering up everything else.

We started out, though, with two Star Wars guys.  (Which is which and what is what is beyond me.)  One Star Wars mask got replaced by a winter hat and one light saber burnt out by the time we actually needed it to signal our presence when walking home down my pitch dark street (all parties dressed in dark colors as our luck would have it.  Oops!)

We had one purple-haired purple-broomed witch whose broom never left the house and whose wig ended up in the back of the stroller before the end of the first street.  Although, the wig was too much for her to bear, she did confide in me that she would like purple hair in real life, and I may have promised her she could have that at the age of sixteen.  (Was that something I should have gotten parental consent on first?)  So, in the end, her gig was just playing a cute kid dressed in black, earning candy with her winning smile and polite "Trick or Treat"s.  When you're that adorable, people tend not to notice that your costume has all but evaporated.

We had one Foofa, which you'll be clueless about if you have no one of Yo Gabba Gabba-viewing age living under your roof.  The senior citizens may have been clueless but, to the ten-and-under crowd, this Foofa was a rock star!  She got stopped so many times, which didn't much impress her, since this was just slowing down our door-raiding process.  One lady insisted on taking her picture, and what could she do?  Her padded Foofa hips were too trapped in the stroller to make a quick getaway!

We had one skeleton and one princess with their own plan of action.  They covered entire blocks in the time it would take us to maneuver our Foofa and wig-filled stroller up one driveway and back down again.  To teenagers, candy seems to be a certain kind of currency.  And,  these girls are apparently saving up for college.  So, we may have been a little bit slower with Foofa's mitten unable to catch the candy being handed to her.  Especially, seeing that the Foofa controlling that mitten was falling fast asleep.  At least these teens had moxy.  Way to efficiently use that time girls!  Hope your homework sees this kind of care and planning!

We also had an adorable chain of mini-cousins in tow, which we tend to lose track of earlier and earlier each Halloween night.  Our family parade is getting so long that we seem to no longer have the ability to make it around bends in the road in completion.  That's becoming our new family tradition. 

By, the time it gets dark, we almost start collecting other people's kids who are dressed in similar costumes to our own gang's.  Both my sister and I almost yelled at the same masked Star Wars character who was sitting with a bowl passing out candy down the street.  We thought our own nephew commandeered the bowl!  Close call.  Good thing the words never came out, because we certainly wanted to laugh about it later!

We circled a good route, found a hidden street handing out full-sized candy bars and only had to avoid one haunted house.  We ended up heading back in just the proper amount of time because, even though I plead with all the usual suspects about using the potty before leaving the house, someone still had to go!  Me.

I tried telling one of the boys about how these are the same streets his daddy and aunts and uncle used to trick or treat down when we were kids.  He stood stunned in his mask.  I repeated, "These very same houses.  Isn't that cool?"  His mask no longer seeming stunned, but unreadable.  I think from behind the mask he may have been projecting the thought of, "Quit yapping, you're blocking the next driveway!  Candy candy candy candy..."  If this was the case, his mask remained politely silent.  So, as a reward for showing such restraint, I stepped out of his way and let him carry on with the begging. 

One day they'll get it.  And, maybe that will be the same day they start sharing the good candy with me.

Trick or Treat!

Picking out a Halloween costume was so important back in the day.  Now and then, I'll still dress up for Halloween, but I certainly don't buy my costumes anymore.  I didn't even venture down that aisle at Target this year, because I know that full-sized costumes' prices start at a whopping twenty bones.  And, that's for some flimsy trampy French Maid getup which is neither work-appropriate nor will it completely cover my hide.  If you're looking to have your rump covered, we're talking an investment of thirty bucks and up.

Halloween has become so expensive.  Trick-or-treating in the 70's and 80's only cost us $5.00 or less.  And, that was for costuming all four kids total!  We'd either make our own outfits or get those boxed ones that were purchased from the grocery store.  A boxed costume would consist of a plastic character mask that kind of itched your face while simultaneously smelling strange, and a plastic smock-like "shirt" and "pants" that tied in the back like your art apron from kindergarten.  The genius of these boxed costumed is that they could be layered over even the thickest down Michigan jacket.  (See me, above, as the Road Runner.)

If they made a Road Runner costume these days, the designer would try to physically turn you into a bird.  Today's costume would have a long feathery tail, skin-tight yellow legs and a big purply-blue plume on top of the head (and absolutely no allowance for a winter coat.)  We didn't need all that realistic-ness back then.  If someone was confused by my mask and thought it may be Woody Woodpecker I was depicting, they could simply look down at my smock and see a cartoon image of the Road Runner right there on my chest.  I also "Meep-Meep!"ed alot from behind my mask so, if there was still any confusion, that would surely clear things up!

The years we didn't use a boxed costume, we'd raid our toy chests or parents' closet.  On any given year, there would be at least one in our clan dressed as a hobo.  A hobo costume usually consisted of a parent's flannel shirt, my mom's floppy green and yellow gardening hat (which I'm still unsure of how she obtained it. I certainly remember her gardening, but never while in a floppy hat) and Mom's eyebrow pencil smudged across our cheeks and noses.  My sister won the jackpot one year by talking my mom into purchasing a plastic cigar to compliment her hobo garb.  I was so jealous of that thing!  She'd chomp on it around the house talking in a Grouch Marx-ish voice all the while having no idea who Groucho Marx was.  She was the hit of the church costume party with her cigar chomping bit, making middle-aged women giggle by saying cigar-ish lines. (Which, now that I think about it, may have just been, "I have a cigar!  Like my cigar?"  Still using Groucho's voice though.)  I wanted that thing still, even though it was most likely covered with saliva by now.  My hobos never had shtick.

You can see the white tip of the plastic cigar peeking out of my sister's pocket.

Each year we had a trick-or-treating tradition.  We'd horse down dinner, in anticipation, while wondering if our cousin had horsed down his dinner yet.  (My cousin, who was really like a bonus sibling, came along with us every year.)  The neighbor kids from across the street, who either ate dinner super early or all together weren't fed on Halloween, would always be the first at our door, "Trick or Treat!!!"  And, always while we were still eating.  This would cause my father to grumble in same way that telephone calls at this hour would merit.  Which cued us to grumble along, "Don't they feed those kids?", "Who trick-or-treats while it's still light out?"  It was always a smart thing to agree with Dad. 

Once my cousin would arrive, we'd hit our neighborhood's streets first.  We lived on an old dirt country road that was hidden smack dab between the suburbs and the city.  Not many kids lived on our street, which meant one glorious thing every October 31st: Full-sized candy bars!  Never having more than 5-10 treaters coming to your door, meant the neighbors would splurge on--not only full-sized candy bars--but cans of pop, bowls of coins you could grab by the handful, you name it! 

Then there was the house on the corner with the chickens.  I don't remember for the life of me what kind of goods they passed out.  I just remember we always stopped there out of some sort of family obligation.  We'd hold our sacks above our heads as the chickens would swarm us and cluck around our feet.  We'd let the family friend toss whatever it was into our bags while we'd silently wish my mom and aunt would wrap up the small talk.  The longer we stood there, the greater our chances of being pecked, bitten or pooped on!  One year as we made our speedy getaway from the chicken house, my cousin slammed his finger in our sliding van door.  I'd never seen a blood blister form so quickly and become so large!  It was a winner for sure.  Just looking at it made your eyes ache!  It was the saddest moment of my young life thus far, but I also certainly wished I could be there when that sucker got popped!

From our neighborhood we'd move on to my cousin's (which is also the neighborhood where I currently reside.)  His street was connected to an actual subdivision!  What my hood had in quality goods, his made up for in quantity.  Houses just steps from one another!  Crappier candy, but in mass quantities!  (Although, some of them turned their homes into haunted houses for the night, which I thought was rude.  We skipped those ones.)  Once our legs got tired, we'd go pick up our grandma and she'd tag along as we'd visit one of her friends who lived midway between our house and hers. (We all lived within a half-mile of each other.)  There, we'd collect our homemade popcorn balls that I would never eat.  As my grandma chatted, for what seemed like days, we'd stand by the wall staring at the bearskin rug that hung there, daring each other to touch it. 

Eventually Grandma would run out of things to say and we'd finally return to their house, dump all our goods on the floor and let the swapping begin!  Bubblegum of any sort was the highest in value.  Even if it was just Double Bubble that would lose its flavor in ten seconds flat.  The unwanted candy (those round things wrapped in black and orange wrappers that we never did open to find out what they were, anything with nuts, my popcorn ball...) would be dumped into a large bowl for the grown-ups to pick through.  In my teens I'd start trick-or-treating with friends.  But, one year after high school, I escorted my younger siblings as they were still keeping the family tradition alive.  It was during one of these candy-swapping events on my grandma's living floor that the television announced that River Phoenix had died on the sidewalk in front of the Viper Room.  Totally ruining my Halloween!

We still keep the tradition alive.  Since my parents and I now live next door my grandma's house, my siblings and the cousins still like to gather here on Halloween.  We take the new little ones to all the houses we visited when we were their age.  The neighbors are mostly all different now, but there's always those few scary houses that the kids might ask us if we can skip. 

The costumes may cost more for this new generation, but hopefully the memories are still equal in value.

Candy Me!

I've had a life-long love affair with all things sugary.  Cookies, ice cream, cereals, cake and, of course, good ol' candy, candy, candy!

I was very particular in rationing my trick-or-treat bags and Easter baskets as a kid.  I knew candy only came in troves twice a year and I could make one holiday's worth of candy last for months!  Mainly by rotating my stash between several secret hiding places.  Protecting your cache from sibling invasions was the number one strategy in homeland candy security. 

I'd like to say I was pretty cautious in controlling my inner sugar fiend, but I could no longer admit that after I was old enough to realize that Kool-Aid didn't count as a serving of fruit juice and Pop-Tarts were hardly a healthy start to my mornings.  (Especially when considering the fact that I would only eat the ones that were filled with vanilla frosting and topped with cocoa sprinkles.)

Looking back, I'll now timidly confess that I had been know to fill my morning bowl of Cocoa-Puffs with grape Kool-Aid instead of milk.  And, it's with even more shame that I mention that, on quite a few Saturday mornings, when my cereal/Pop-Tart morning fix wasn't quite enough... I'd sometimes simply fill a Dixie cup full of pure white sugar and sit in front of my cartoons.  Dixie cup in one hand, spoon in the other.  (Don't tell my parents!)  Probably the reason I became hypoglycemic in adulthood. 

Yes, my ailment has certainly forced upon me the lesson of self-control.  I know exactly how many grams of sugar my saccharine-shocked body can now stand.  (Not many.)  I can quickly break this mathematically down into how many rectangles of a Hershey's Cookies n' Cream bar falls into this category (four).  Or, how many pieces of candy corn I can safely consume (8.3 ie. 8 whole ones plus one yellow stripe!)  Or, how large of a bowl of Trix I can pour myself, from time to time, when the moment calls for it (1/4 cup.)  And, which things are forever crossed off of my edibles list (Krispy Kremes) until I once again meet up with them in Heaven.  (PLEASE tell me there are Krispy Kremes in Heaven!)

So, in honor of the candies that I still savor in nibbles and to the ones the ones that got away, I give you:

• Candy Corn - If you eat them whole, you have no idea what you're doing.  I don't care if you start yellow end heading white, or white end heading yellow... They must be eaten in thirds.  (A special treat is saving all the white pointy ends for last.  They're extra crunchy!)
• Twix - Putting a cookie in a candy bar?  In the eighties this was genius!  Adding a peanut butter option later on?  Nobel Prize worthy!
• Hershey's Cookies n' Cream - White chocolate is my favorite.  I was the kid in the house that preferred the white chocolate bunny every Easter to the hollow milk chocolate kind.  I could easily swap any number of jelly beans and Peeps to end up with four white bunnies every year.
• Kit-Kat - In high school I had a special way of eating my Kit-Kats once the Michigan weather would turn warm.  I'd buy one out of the cafeteria vending machine (using my milk money. Sorry Mom!) and go outside to eat in the sun with my friends.  As I ate away at my sandwich and other lunch contents, my Kit-Kat would bask on opened wrapper in the the sunlight.  By the time I was ready for it, it would become four naked cookie sticks swimming in a warm puddle of liquid milk chocolate.  Drag the cookies through the chocolate melt like dip and consume.  Now, you can break me off a piece of that any day!
• Snickers - I never appreciated Snickers until adulthood.  Children have that deeply-planted peanut fear, you know?  Before my days of limited sugar, back when I worked in retail, I'd be known to make a meal of a Snickers during busy hours when taking a full lunch break was impossible.  Winning it the most filling (tastes great!) candy award.  (And, those new Snickers commercials are frickin' hilar!)
• Candy dots - I don't even know what these are called.  Probably because they didn't come wrapped with a label or anything.  You bought them unprotected and unsanitary, on a long strip of paper with rows of dyed sugar dropped on in perfectly measured lines.  I got my nine-year-old nephew to try these last summer.  He looked at them confused.  I instructed him, "Just scrape them off with your teeth. You might eat a little paper... that's normal."
• Fun Dip - In my day it was called Lick'm Aid and we gagged our way through the unmixed Kool-Aid portion just to eat the white sugar dipping stick in the end.  Rich kids would just throw away the Kool-Aid part and only eat the sticks.  I couldn't afford to be so frivolous!
• Bubble Gum - Any flavor, any shape, any time!  Gum balls, Bazooka, Hubba Bubba, Big League Chew???
• Runts - Don't know what they really are, how they were invented, or if they were just some happy kitchen accident in the Wonka factory... But, give me a half-grape/half-strawberry pack, stat!
• Skittles - They begged us to taste the rainbow. And, apparently rainbows stick to your teeth.

For the record: If you see me out this Halloween night, any and all of the above will be accepted in any of my nieces or nephews sacks. 

Siblings: I'm officially volunteering to do the candy checks this year.

Foods I HATE!

I always knew Anderson Cooper and I were soul mates. But, now he's officially confirmed it by admitting on his new talk show that he doesn't like to eat greens or drink hot beverages. 

I thought I was the only person who managed to reach middle-age without slurping down a cup of coffee every morning and choking down those salads that restaurants try to convince us are a required course of every meal.

In fact, I'll do Anderson one better and raise the ante by one pork chop, meatloaf and strawberry.

These are the foods that I despise:

• Pork chops - The grossest of all meats.  I prefer my pork by way of bacon, ham or hot dog.  I don't know which part of the pig is the chop, and from the tastes of it... I don't wanna!
• Meatloaf - Who ever thought to smush so much hamburger meat together and pretend that ketchup is its gravy?  Who requires meat by the loaf, when a patty topped with cheese and placed between two buns tastes so much better? (Or between toast with Parmesan grilled to the outside. Yum!)
• Strawberries - Their color is disturbingly radioactive.  But, it's their texture that remains totally unnecessary!  No food should feel like a cross between corduroy, Velcro and tree moss dragging across your taste buds.  If a strawberry sits on my plate, I can feel hives form just by looking at it.
• Hot beverages of any kind - I drink to quench my thirst.  Novel idea, I know.  I never understood what good could come from pouring hot, dirty, burnt-tasting water down your gullet and I probably never will.  (And, tea tastes just as unsanitary.) When I was a kid, I would resign to accepting the hot chocolate my mom would make for us when we'd come in from playing in the snow.  But, the secret is, I'd just scoop out the warm marshmellows while they were still somewhat crunchy.  Where'd the hot chocolate go?  Only the sewer system knows... and it ain't talking!
• Wet things on meat - Chicken tastes best when it's a plump, juicy, skinless breast baked at 400 degrees and maybe lightly salted.  Or, when battered and fried and clogging my arteries.  (I should go ahead and mention that I'll also accept my chicken in McNugget form.)  I do not like wet stuff on my chicken.  Don't try to gravy it, sauce it, or glop it up in any other such way and then charge me extra while I'm left with the inconvenience of having to wipe it all back off.  Chicken is good and delicious on its own.  Why try to mask that beautiful flavor?  Don't ketchup my hamburger or mustard my hot dog while we're at it either.  P.S. Hold the barbecue sauce as well.
• Any solid food mixed in mashed potatoes - If you mix your peas in your mashed potatoes you were probably dropped on your head as an infant.  This goes as well for the mastermind at KFC that decided we might also like our corn and meat mixed in them.  You are a grown-up.  You have moved past Gerber Graduates.
• Pickles - There's something pickle-lovers just don't understand.  When a non-pickle-lover finds that a pickle has been accidentally (or evilly and with full intention) placed in their sandwich they cannot "just pick it off!"  Once a pickle has touched bread or bun, it has tainted it.  Permanently.  There is no going back.  Tomato, this goes for you too.

So, I didn't see the full Anderson episode, but from what I previewed it seemed to be some sort of intervention looking for psychological reasons that Anderson is a picky eater. 

Awww, lay off him!  From one picky eater to another, we were forced to eat enough disgusting stuff as kids. We buy our own groceries, we make our own meals... now is the time to eat what we want.  If something is offensive to your palate, there's no reason to pretend.  Teasing your gag reflex is a habit you can leave behind at your childhood dinner table. 

Take a multi-vitamin and repeat after me:

"I will not eat peas, you can't make me eat peas, I will never be forced to eat peas again!"

Why?