Six Things I Have Learned This Year, Plus One Thing I Learned But Kinda Forgot

The year is drawing to a close and I'm in a reflective mood this morning. As I sit here, in my red kitchen with the many, many windows, I am recounting all the activities, vacations, arguments, funny things, and major life events that occurred this year. And, incidentally, there are a few things I've learned this year and that is what I'd like to share with you.

Six Things I've learned in 2012:

1. This might be the greatest lesson that I learned in 2012. It's importance is so great that I'm listing it first, so listen up: If you must go for a run outside (and really, you should get out once in a while), listen to Sweden's greatest export, the band ABBA. Listening to ABBA just might save your life. After a close encounter with a psychotic deer, I am forever indebted to the ditty "Take A Chance On Me".

2. A high dollar, name brand vacuum is a truly wonderful thing to own (Target exclusive Dyson I'm looking at you), but only if you don't have to assemble it yourself minutes before a house full of people are due to arrive. Attempting to assemble it myself only reinforced three of my core beliefs. One: I am not mechanically inclined. Two: I am not a visual person. Three: Marry someone whose strengths are opposite of yours because life is all about balance and imagine how filthy your carpets would be if neither one of you could figure out how to assemble the friggin' vacuum.

3. If you ever find yourself in a CVS pharmacy buying razor blades, do not UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES put your hand in the display case in an effort to dislodge the blades that have unavoidably gotten stuck. Trust me. My arm had bruises for days. Days, man. Days.

Follow up: I saw Glenda last Sunday and she's doing well. Any idea why she follows me around the store offering to help me gather the items on my list? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller?

4. While there are a multitude of things that I am not good at doing (math, watching Silence of the Lambs without a Snuggie over my head, and pinball immediately spring to mind) there is one thing at which I excel. I am simply amazing at playing Connect 4. If Connect 4 were an Olympic sport (and really, why not?) I would be your gold medal winner. For seven straight Olympiad. You all would be watching me on NBC and shouting U-S-A! U-S-A! as I stand on the podium accepting my medal and awaiting Old Glory's ascent into the rafters.

5. Sometimes you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. This is how I am choosing to sum up my epic fail at bringing the term "foxy" back into style. Still, I think foxy has potential. Just yesterday at Macy's I told a guy that I thought the multi-pack of black, grey, and white crew socks was way foxier than the pack of all-white. After giving me a questioning look, he clutched the all-white package closer to his chest and headed to the check out, but who knows? Maybe 2013 will be the Year of Foxy.

6. It's best if you move your festive holiday centerpiece made of fresh cranberries off of your sun-laden kitchen table lest you inadvertently cook your berries. Three hurricane globes from Pier One full of soupy cranberries just doesn't say "Merry Christmas and welcome to my classy home!" quite as well as non-soupy cranberry filled globes. And fresh cranberries smell nicer than ones that have been festering in the sun for days.

The One Thing I Learned But Kinda Forgot And Have To Spend 2013 Relearning:

1. For the love of Target, if someone is talking about a movie that you haven't seen, keep your word hole shut and don't announce to the room that you haven't seen it. Odds are that if you open your mouth, you will end up with a Must See Movie list for the upcoming year that is filled with slightly disturbing flicks and the occasional enjoyable movie.

And yes, I will be posting my 2013 Must See movie list tomorrow.

See you in 2013!

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Buckle Up. I'm About To Get Irritating.

I had an amazing holiday season this year, filled with lots of joy, family togetherness, and great food (mmm … fudge). I sincerely hope your holiday celebrations included only those items that were festive and fabulous.

Of the many top-notch gifts I received, (genuine silver Wonder Woman logo necklace I'm looking at you!), my favorite has to be a macro lens for my camera. A macro lens allows the photographer to get extremely close up to a subject and remain in sharp focus. Oh hons, it's marvelous.

What does this boss new lens mean for you, my dear blog readers? It means I'm about to get positively irritating in posting tons of extreme close up photos and I will most likely beg you to guess what the subject is.

Just a head's up on my impending obnoxious behavior.

So … who's up for a little game I call "Guess What This Is"? There are no prizes to be won here, mainly because I can't control myself and I always tell the answer. It's a character flaw that I've come to accept about myself.

Let's play. Guess what this is:

If you are stumped, here is a clue: it's an apple. A honey crisp apple to be specific. And I love her. I love her so much that I ate her for lunch yesterday. She was tasty.

Here's another one:

If you are stumped, here is a clue: it's a teeny, tiny, one inch wide ornament that rests comfortably on some sparkly glittered pine needles. And I love him, but I didn't eat him. That would be both weird and grody.

(But gosh, I'm good at giving clues.)

Going to stop with the extreme close ups now. It's my first attempt at knowing where the line between kinda interesting and completely vexing lies.

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My Thoughts On My Must See Movie List

Throughout the course of 2012, I've been watching movies off of my Must See list and writing my thoughts about each movie. Some of the movies turned out to be true gems and others … not as enjoyable.

(Silence of the Lambs, I'm looking at you.)

I'd like to take a few minutes and recap my movie watching experience this year. In going over my posts for each movie, it occurs to me that I should have developed some kind of ratings system, like Siskel and Ebert did years ago. Not wanting to copy their simplistic-yet-genius thumbs up/thumbs down method or give each movie a letter grade (too boring), I am kind of stuck for ideas. My most promising concept to date is an elaborate ranking sequence of one to five Molly Ringwalds (with five Mollys being the best, obviously).

(Why Miss Molly Ringwald? Because she's completely dipped in awesome sauce of course. She can do comedy. She can do drama. She can do both within the same film. Have you seen The Breakfast Club for cryin' out loud? How the woman has never been nominated for an Oscar is truly beyond me.)

The Molly idea needs some tweaking (plus, I can't go back in time to rank the twenty movies I watched in 2012 on a scale of one to five Mollies), so for right now I'm dividing the flicks into three distinct categories: Me Likey, Me No Likey, and A Solid Eh.

Let's tackle the fun category of Me Likey. Like the title implies, this is the list of films that I enjoyed and would so watch again if I stumbled upon them on TBS while channel surfing on a rainy Sunday afternoon. A surprising number of flicks made it into this category, and I say surprisingly because, frankly, I didn't think I'd like any of these movies. If I thought I'd enjoy a film, I would have watched long before being coerced into it whilst on an otherwise delightful vacation to St. Louis.

The list of Me Likey movies: they made me laugh, they made me cry, they made me want to revive men's fashion from the 1970s

Office Space
Animal House
Pulp Fiction
The Godfather
The Godfather Part II
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Raiders of the Lost Ark
It's A Wonderful Life
Taxi Driver
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Amelie
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Zombieland
Thelma and Louise

Seriously men. Take some fashion cues from Taxi Driver. Put some plaid oomph into your wardrobe.

(You won't be sorry.)

(Promise.)

The Me No Likey list: they disturbed me, confused me, and made me appreciate the impromptu but solid defense strategy of throwing a Snuggie over my head

Swingers (sorry Vince Vaughn … guess this means we're no longer homies)
Fight Club (mostly a Me No Likey, but the more I think about it, it becomes a little Me Likey … probably should watch it again just to be sure)
Silence of the Lambs (what?! no way! did NOT see this coming!)

Even though I felt I'd die a thousand deaths while watching these three movies (be it from suspense or boredom), I'm glad I suffered through them. Mainly because it means I never have to see them again.

And finally, the list of A Solid Eh: for those flicks that weren't awesome and weren't horrible. Kinda like how I feel about cleaning the kitchen, baseball, and tubed meats.

West Side Story
The Jerk
Moulin Rouge

After much introspection, I'm glad I watched all twenty movies. Most I liked, some I most certainly did not, but that's what makes me (according to one commenter) a well rounded movie viewer and a more informed member of society.

I'm all about being well rounded, baby. Just look at my waist.

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My Thoughts On Thelma And Louise

Get ready to engrave my trophy and find a good writing pen to sign my Certificate of Completion because I finished my Must See list!

(I will now pause for a moment for all the raucous applause, whistles, confetti and Bravos! to die down.)

(Thank you for all your raucous applause, whistles, confetti and Bravos!. They are sincerely appreciated.)

Thelma and Louise. It premiered in 1991 and was an immediate hit. I don't know what I was doing in 1991 to have missed seeing it other than graduating from high school, complaining that the price of Sun-In went up again, and wearing high waisted jeans. Thankfully, twenty-one years later, it went on my Must See list. Going in, I only knew two things about ole Thelma and Louise: One, the two women shoot some dude and go on a crime spree and two, it starts a baby Brad Pitt.

Can I get an amen for a baby Brad Pitt?

For those of you who were with me griping about the cost of a bottle of Sun-In and missed it, Thelma and Louise is the story of two women with rather boring lives getting out of town for a weekend in a rural cabin, shooting a guy, and subsequently running from The Law.

And it's a great movie. Parts of it are extremely funny, some scenes are rather sad, others are dramatic. All of the parts are woven together to create a fantastic flick. Some scenes stay with you long after the movie has ended.

Specifically, the scene in which a gas station advertises $1.19 for a gallon of unleaded. Jeez Louise. A buck nineteen and gallon. I could so get on board with that price today.

To recap: Saw Thelma and Louise and loved it. It was funny, dramatic, heartwarming, and totally worth the ninety-seven cents it cost me to rent. Oh, and the ending? Did not see that coming. Well done.


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Gingerbread To The Rescue

One of my family's favorite holiday traditions is to gather approximately a million different kinds of candies together in order to properly decorate a gingerbread house. Sure it's a little insane, but then again, so are a lot of other holiday traditions.

Like gorging one's self on rum balls and belting out Mele Kalikimaka at top volume while standing on the fireplace hearth.

Or so I've heard. Heh heh. Not like I've ever done that or anything.

Ahem. Moving on.

You know what is more fun than decorating a gingerbread house? Letting your kids invite fifteen friends over so they all can decorate a gingerbread house.

Ta da! Instant party.

(Yes, I do believe I lost my mind when I quite clearly stated "Invite who ever you want" and then promptly forgot to set a limit on the guest list.)

(Despite the incredible noise level that fifteen girls between the ages of ten and thirteen can create, it was a lot of fun and I will totally do it again next year.)

Most interesting to me was the fact that all of the gingerbread houses had the same basic house shape and access to the same bowls of gum drops, Mike and Ike's, marshmallows, Fruit Stripe gum, Snowcaps, mints (both pepper and spear), candy canes, lollipops, and Tootsie Rolls, but how differently they were decorated.

Who knew you could create such impressive construction projects with candy and royal icing? Each one was so unique and so amazing that I had to share some examples with you.

I do love a gumdrop fence ...

… and marshmallow shrubbery.

This one had no fence, but I love the lollipops standing guard at the Fruit Stripe gum front door.

The girls started to get fancy with their candy canes ...

… which inspired other girls to get fancy with the Mike and Ike's. The "berries" on the wreath are actually little bits of Mike and Ike's rolled into small berry shapes.

Then things started to get silly.

One girl asked me if I had any bacon that she could use as a decoration. Sadly, I was fresh out of bacon, but I told her I was positive that she would come up with a creative solution to her problem.

She did.

Bacon (formerly known as red Fruit Stripe gum) adorned the roof and, in case that was too subtle, the word "BACON" written in royal icing.

And being my kids, there had to be a face and a mustache involved in the decorating process somewhere.

If you want an evening of high octane fun, invite fifteen giggly girls ages ten to thirteen (who are all hopped up on royal icing and candy) over to your house.

You'll be glad you did. Especially when you need an emergency replacement for your lovely cranberry centerpieces that you accidentally cooked.

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My Thoughts On Amelie

Sunday evening I knocked another movie off of my Must See list: the French film Amelie.

Ah … the French. They gave us Monet, the Eiffel Tower, the accordion, berets, and (most importantly) crepes. Vive la France!

The French also gave the movie world Amelie. In French. As in little English is spoken. Mon dieu! Now, I took five years of French in high school and college, so I consider myself somewhat familiar with the language. I drew on this vast reservoir of knowledge and it led me to understand a solid seventeen percent of the dialog. Thank goodness for subtitles.

Kinda.

Subtitles in a movie make me feel like I accomplished a little bit more than watching a movie in English. In my brain, I equate a movie with subtitles the same as having read an entire book. In about ninety minutes. Reading an entire book in ninety minutes makes me feel like a smarty-pants.

Sunday felt like a French day to me, even without watching reading a French film. I had a croissant for breakfast. Later, I had a variety of fruits and cheeses for lunch. Plus, I inexplicably kept singing the Chef from The Little Mermaids' song most of the day.

(He's French and a very talented singer.)

(My family was thrilled.)

(You probably guessed that already.)

Back to Amelie. Since I don't own a copy of it and neither did the rental place, I had to download it from iTunes. Downloading large files such as movies might be quick and snappy for folks with a quick and snappy Internet connection, but I live in the country.

AKA the land the Internet service providers forgot.

Most of the time my Internet connection (albeit slow) is fine for the amount of online stuff I do, like browsing Pinterest and blogging. But when it comes to downloading a movie? Puh-lease. It took eight and a half hours to download a two hour movie.

I've seen dead snail races end quicker than that.

Once it finished downloading, it was nine at night. It's a two hour movie that I wasn't sure I wanted to start watching reading at nine p.m. I was still tired from having wrestled the Dyson the previous day. But, because I'm a trooper, I watched the entire movie.

And I am glad I did.

The basic plot is about a sheltered and socially unsophisticated twenty-something (Amelie) who becomes a sweet vigilante, righting the wrongs she sees being done in her area of the world. And, because the French love love, she finds true love along the way.

To recap: Saw Amelie and liked it. It was totally worth waiting eight and a half hours for it to download. It's a sweet, sweet movie, mostly because it lacked any disturbing scenes. Amelie is the antitheses of some, ahem, other more disturbing movies on my List that shall remain nameless (but their initials are Silence of the Lambs and Fight Club).


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Jen VS The Dyson

Saturday was not my best day. It should have been a wonderful day (start to finish) filled with most of my side of the family invading my home for dinner, gifts, wine, and general merriment. I'm happy to report that it ended this way.

However, the beginning was a complete and utter crapfest.

It all began on Black Friday. You might remember my Black Friday experience, T and I did some shopping and, consequently, spoke on karma's behalf. We found ourselves stuck in traffic and in dire need of a restroom.

(number one, not number two)

(don't know why I felt compelled to include that information, but I like to paint a broad picture)

Target was the closest destination and the obvious choice (which confirms my belief that a solid ninety percent of the world's problems can be solved by a jaunt to Target).

Sure, it was fifteen minutes until Target opened and we had to stand outside in a line that literally wrapped around the building, but hey. Target has really nice potties and that is an important quality to both T and myself.

After using the facilities, we decided to browse around looking for Black Friday bargains. We stocked up on cheap movies, animal print jammies and Battleship (the game, not the movie). While in search of the end of the checkout line, we found what can only be described as the bargain o' the day: a Target exclusive (I so enjoy being exclusive!) Dyson vacuum for two hundred and fifty bucks.

SWEET BABY RAY!

I don't know if you fully understand the significance of a Dyson vacuum. They are the best of the best. The creme de la creme. The Iceman/Hollywood with Maverick as the wingman combo.

If a Dyson vacuum were a basketball player, it would be Michael Jordan.

If a Dyson vacuum were a baseball player, it would not be Michael Jordan.

Immediately upon spotting the last vacuum sitting on the floor underneath the sale sign, I staked my claim on it by placing my hand atop it's box.

For the Target Black Friday shopping crowd, this gesture was too subtle. Several individuals attempted to grab the Dyson out from under my hand. I quite loudly exclaimed "It's mine!" all the while giving what can only be described as my best "stink eye".

After the third time some fool attempted to steal the Dyson out from under me, I upped my claim. Meaning I sat on the box and T hissed at people until I could decided if I wanted to drop two hundred and fifty bucks on a vacuum.

Don't judge me. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that jazz.

I texted my husband to A) give me his opinion on making such a large purchase and B) make it perfectly clear that this was not my Christmas gift.

Homeboy wasn't exactly Johnny-on-the-spot with his reply to my text. This behavior warranted another text with a follow up phone call. Me sitting on a Dyson box while T hissed at people was a defense that couldn't withstand the full frontal assault that is Black Friday at Target for very long.

Finally, my husband responded with "I don't care. Do what you want."

Husbands everywhere listen up: this is precisely how you respond to repeated texts from your beloved (and slightly deranged) wife at 11:45 pm when she's hopped up on turkey and bargains. I made the purchase.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. I decided that this would be the day to take my new Target exclusive Dyson vacuum from it's slightly crushed box. Getting the thing out of the box was easy peasy, George and Wheezy. Putting it together made me want to poke out my own eyeball with a pickle fork.

The problem? There were no instructions.

Oh sure there were some papers that were inside of a tape-sealed plastic envelope, but they contained no words.

For forty-five minutes, with a houseful of people due to arrive shortly, I tried to assemble the three pieces of my Dyson. The first piece, the beater bar thing, clicked in lickety-split to the main body of the vacuum. Yes, this was amazing, but it only served to give me false hope that I was slightly mechanically inclined (I'm not) and I could, in fact, snap together the piece of the machine.

The remaining piece was the handle. Being no stranger to the handle of a vacuum, I slid the handle into the only logical place and awaited the "snap" that would signal to me that I had correctly installed it.

No snap.

I shoved down a little harder on the handle because I was confident that this was the only place the handle could go.

No snap.

It should be noted that, in times of stress, I tend to drop the phrase "asshat" into more sentences than otherwise necessary. I'm not proud of this fact, but it's either call whatever the source of my stress is an asshat or strangle it with my Wonder Woman snuggie.

And I just couldn't do that to Wondie, so asshat dropping it is.

It should also be noted that by this time in the Dyson assembly project that the term asshat had been uttered approximately fourteen times.

"What asshat decided that a vacuum should come 'some assembly required'?"

"Seriously. Those asshats at Target who tried to steal my Dyson got lucky because this things is a total asshat to assemble."

"Who is the main asshat at Dyson? I need his address because I'm gearing up to write him one heck of an email. Asshat."

I gave the handle one last shove.

No click.

Asshat.

Afraid to break a two hundred and fifty dollar machine with too much of my massive upper body strength, I sat back on my heels and surveyed the situation.

Translation: I pulled out the owner's manual in which to read the assembly instructions.

This was a bad idea because those asshats at Dyson didn't include actual words in their assembly instructions. They used pictures.

I am not a visual person. Using pictures in lieu of words renders me completely useless, so I had to call in the big gun. My husband. Who was outside washing the blood off of the garage floor before our company arrived.

(The cat caught a couple of mice and proceeded to eat them in the garage. Right in front of the door leading into the house. I think that house guests should arrive to a blood free home; however, what happens after they arrive is entirely up to them.)

My husband glances at the directions and promptly snap the handle into place. Then he gives me a questioning look that implies "Dude. What the Hell? Why did you call me off of blood duty to snap a handle into place?"

Still hopped up on rage from the asshats at Dyson for making a vacuum with some assembly required, I  yelled "I AM NOT A VISUAL PERSON! PICTURES MEAN NOTHING TO ME! THE WORLD IS FILLED WITH TOTAL ASSHATS AND I'VE ONLY GOT TWENTY-THREE MINUTES LEFT TO VACUUM AND MAKE A CHEESE TRAY BEFORE PEOPLE ARRIVE!"

Then I take a deep breath because it was either that or pass out.

My husband calmly explained how to use the pictures to determine how to assemble and use the vacuum and I quit using the term asshat as liberally as I had been.

Here's a tip for anyone influential in at Dyson: Make a catchy little ditty or jingle about how to assemble your products. Then make said catchy little jingle available for free download on iTunes so that non-visual, musical-rhythmic people such as myself can enjoy your products.

Asshats.

Jen      0
Dyson    1


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Think Martha Stewart Ever Accidentally Cooked Her Holiday Centerpiece?

When it comes to holiday decor, I (admittedly) do not know where the line between "tasteful" and "redonkulous" lies. To me, that wreath you made of semi-dead pine boughs, aluminum foil, and glitter should be on a magazine cover.

The fuzzy Santa toilet seat cover and coordinating bathroom rug? Simply amazing.

You've got candy canes that reach up to eighteen feet tall festooning your front door? Awesome. Oh wait … they light up and twinkle, too? Well, that's just dipped in awesome sauce right there.

Also gaga worthy are the elaborate nativity scenes that many of my friends have on their fireplace mantels. My favorites are the ones made of collectible figurines like the Fisher Price Little People or Legos. A nativity scene using both Little People and Legos? Well, plug me in and watch me twinkle.

There is a very thin, very blurry line between tasteful and redonkulous. I fear that gravitate more towards the Wow Wear section of Toddlers and Tiaras than the Pageant wear.

Of course, this could be because I always thought the most beautiful ornament on my childhood Christmas tree was the one I made in preschool out of a Dixie cup, aluminum foil, a tiny jingle bell and a pipe cleaner. A more stunning ornament could not be found throughout the land, including Montgomery Ward (the nicest store in my childhood).

If, on the rare occasion, my spidey senses tell me that I've joined Team Redonkulous, I try (in vain) to see the line that I've not only crossed, but catapulted over. This line is terribly faint and incredibly blurry to me, ergo it is hardly worth my time.

Until this year.

In an elaborate effort to class up myself (and my holiday decor) this holiday season, I decided to make the centerpieces for my kitchen table.

All. By. Myself.

Calm down. This has the potential to end well.

It doesn't end well, but pfft. Whatever. Centerpieces as an art form are completely overrated.

Sometime back in October, I found myself in Pier 1 all alone. Alone. As in no supervision. This is not a good thing because I kinda, sorta lose my mind in Pier 1 and buy all kinds of decorative crap that I have no idea what to do with once I get home. Studies have shown that I should not ever, under any circumstances, be allowed in Pier 1 by myself.

On this particular trip, I purchased three large glass hurricane globes. I don't know what possessed me to purchase three large glass hurricane globes, but there they sit on my kitchen table.

Deciding that they were rather lacking in the wow factor, I purchased some Fall colored candles. I wanted to add some facorns (my officially trademarked term for fake acorns)(once I get around to starting the whole trademark paperwork, which I won't because it turns out to be a huge pain in the heinie), but even I thought coughing up fifteen bucks for a bag of facorns at Pottery Barn was a tad pricey.

Long story short (okay, not really), I now have plain white candles sitting in the hurricane globes on my kitchen table. A couple of weeks ago, I was in the produce section of my local grocery store when a bag of cranberries caught my eye.

Cranberries = festive.

Cranberries + white candles in hurricane globes from Pier 1 = festive centerpiece for kitchen table.

It is stunning, I must admit.

Well … they did look quite stunning. It's not like the cranberries went bad on me. Oh no. I accidentally cooked them.

While they were living the high life on my kitchen table in the lovely hurricane globes from Pier 1.

It's been an usually bright and sunny December here in my section of the Midwest. And there are four very large windows in my kitchen. Windows that face the southwest, thus allowing all that beautiful winter sunshine into my kitchen, directly on my centerpiece.

Guess what happens when the sun shines in on glass containers full of cranberries for ten hours everyday? The cranberries start to cook.

Well huh. Clearly I didn't see this scenario coming.

Think Martha Stewart has a quick solution to solve the problem of accidentally cooking my centerpiece? Probably not. She's never helpful when I need her the most. Want to make a garland with nothing but chestnuts, a drill, and some twine? Martha's your gal. Accidentally cook your Christmas centerpiece? She's no where to be found.

Now I've got to close the blinds in the kitchen on this beautiful sunny day and then I'm off to the grocery store to replace my cranberries. I'm going to spend the next several hours pretending like I didn't accidentally cook my centerpiece.

Let's just keep this incident between you and me, okay?

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And That's Why I'm Never Leaving My House Again

It's the holiday season and (to me) it's the time of giving.

(Sometimes it's the season of giving the finger.) (Fortunately, in my experience, this is rare.)

But as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished.

Take Monday night. My oldest child and I signed up to be Salvation Army bell ringers. My youngest (sensing there might be some hot chocolate in it for her) decided to join us. Our chosen location? Outside of a local craft store.

Side note: Ever looked at the sidewalk surrounding a craft store at Christmastime? It is incredibly sparkly from approximately eight tons of glitter that fell off of each ornament, wreath, garland, or nutcracker that ever left the store.

Being outside of a craft store was a strategic move on my part. Sure we were outside in the chilly December air, but the building totally blocked the wind.

And there is a Starbucks conveniently located in the same shopping complex.

Life was good.

Standing outside in the cold December air.

For two hours.

Brr.

It wasn't this cold when I signed us up. It was seventy degrees in Indiana then. Like a fool, I thought that weather pattern would stick around for a while. Not so. Monday night? A balmy thirty-two degrees. I was somewhat prepared though. I had my festive red, fur lined ear flap hat, my festive red scarf, and my long black coat for warmth. My kids were decked out in their winter finery as well.

But still.

Brr.

To keep warm, we danced little jigs while ringing our bells. We marched in place. We did a kick line that would have made any Rockette (past, present or future) proud. And we were still cold.

Once our shift was over, we robotically ran to the car. Robotically because all of our leg joints had stiffened in the cold, so it was more of a series of slow, jerky, can't-bend-my-knees movements. I'm sure it was hilarious to observe.

After a quick buzz through Starbucks for hot chocolate, we headed home with the heater blasting ninety degree air in the Honda.

Twenty-four hours later, I was still cold. I couldn't wait to get home from taking the oldest to piano lessons so I could put on the warmest jammies I have ever known. Coincidentally, they are also the most attractive jammies my eyes have ever seen.

So fantastic are these jammies that I texted this photo to T for the sole purpose of bragging about their awesomeness.

They're Animal print. Get it? Animal print?

Let's break down this photo, shall we? The jammie pants are made of extremely thick, fuzzy, soft material that is the very definition of both comfy and warm. Plus, I bought them a size too big, which adds to the comfort level. I'd love to tell you that I accidentally purchased a size too big, but it was totally done on purpose with the upcoming holiday season (and all of its tasty treats) in mind.

Sometimes I am a real visionary.

To the right of my feet is my stack of unfinished Christmas cards. And by unfinished I mean the cards are still in pieces and I need to finish gluing them together.

Sometimes I am a real slacker.

To the left of my feet is a white bag that looks like it says "non". Actually it reads "Canon" and it is holding my Christmas present. The salesman was trying to be ironic by putting my new Nikon lens in a competitors bag, but he couldn't quite pull it off. He just looked like the south end of a north going donkey.

But back to the jammies.

They are superb. They are magnificent. They are what I would wear to Wal-Mart if I A. Shopped at Wal-Mart and B. Went out in public wearing pajamas.

Neither of which I do.

I am currently comfy and warm. I might never leave my house again.

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My Thoughts On Monty Python And The Holy Grail

As I alluded to in Friday's post, I finally watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Ahh … British humor.

From the 70s.

Oh boy.

I happen to like a lot of British 70s stuff: Platform shoes. Genesis. Outrageously colored mohawks. Yes. Queen (both the band and the monarchy).

But, I was not prepared to like Monty Python at all. I can't really put my finger on why I felt this way. It's simply something I instinctively felt an aversion to … kinda like puppet shows and Jim Carrey movies.

I was wrong.

On two counts.

#1: Jim Carrey is simply amazing in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". I take back my natural aversion to dramatic Jim Carrey movies.

#2: Monty Python and the Holy Grail was pretty funny. I take back my natural aversion to Monty Python movies.

The basic premise of the movie is a search for the Holy Grail by King Arthur and his Knights.

Seriously. I had no idea that I would actually find this movie funny. I knew it was supposed to be funny, but still. I had my doubts. What is funny to one person is completely stupid and inane to another.

Funny is a relative thing.

I give you the Three Stooges as Exhibit A.

So color me shocked to find Monty Python funny.

The dudes riding up on "horseback"? Hilarious.

The French soldier: "I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries"? Hi. Larry. Us.

There were some things I didn't get, like the sudden switch from being a comedy to a musical to a cartoon, but I'm sure it makes sense in a deeper realm of thinking than I'm currently residing. On the surface, it's just odd.

To recap: Saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail and I liked it. I found parts of it hilarious and other parts odd, which is kinda how I find most people. Kudos to the Monty Python people for creating a movie that is still funny almost forty years later. I now have a new appreciation for 70s British humor.


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I Blame The Pancakes

My mind is a jumble of incomplete and totally unrelated thoughts this morning. Not entirely sure what my problem is, but I'm going to blame last night's dinner of Elvis pancakes. They were delicious and I can't stop thinking about them.

My thoughts, in jumbled up order:

1. Today I must make a time honored family recipe: Oreo Balls. Or, if you are feeling fancy, Oreo Truffles. Today I am not feeling fancy, so Balls it is.

2. Well, that came out wrong. Perhaps today should be a Truffle day. Truffles it is.

3. The Oreo Truffles are ridiculously easy to make, but I'm stressing because I bought a bag of Double Stuffed Oreos instead of regular Oreos. What if the Truffles can't handle being Double Stuffed? What will become of my Balls? Will they be wrecked?

Wrecked Balls? Wrecking Balls?

Get it? Hilarious. Jeez, I crack myself up.

I need to calm down.

Deep cleansing breath followed by thoughts of last night's Elvis pancakes.

4. Ok. I've calmed down. Somewhat. Elvis pancakes will do that to a person.

5. Elvis pancakes are chocolate chip pancakes covered with melty peanut butter and banana slices with bacon on the side. They are truly fabulous. If you like that sort of thing. And I do.

6. My Christmas cactus still hasn't bloomed. I should have tried making moonshine instead. Pretty sure I could be more successful making hootch than getting this dang cactus to bloom.

7. My husband and I are having a date tonight. With each other. That is key. He wants to go see the new James Bond movie. I agreed and then wondered out loud if I could keep up with plot having never seen a James Bond movie. My husband looked horrified (an all too common expression) and then accepted the fact that I haven't ever seen a 007 flick.

8. A couple of hours after my James Bond revelation, my husband and I were watching The Office and the movie Die Hard was mentioned, specifically that one of The Office characters had never seen the movie. I could relate because guess who has two thumbs and hasn't seen Die Hard? This girl.

9. Sigh. I fear a Must See movie list for 2013 is looming. All eight Harry Potter movies, Die Hard, several James Bond flicks, and The Usual Suspects are going to be on it. Probably the Princess Bride, too. At some point, I hope I learn to keep my lack of movie knowledge to myself. Perhaps that will be my 2013 Resolution.

10. It would be a great use of my time to multi-task today: make Oreo Truffles while watching one of the remaining three movies on this year's Must See list. Hmm … what pairs nicely with Oreo Truffles?

11. Monty Python. I think Oreo Truffles would pair up nicely with 70s British humor.

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My Thoughts On Pulp Fiction

Cross another one off of my Must See movie list. After several intense whining sessions, three arguments and one broken DVD, I finally saw Pulp Fiction.

It wasn't awful.

That's right. I said it.

Pulp Fiction wasn't as terrible as I thought it would be. In fact, I think I kinda, sorta liked it and I'm officially apologizing to anyone who had to listen to me whine about having to watch it.

For those of you who have been living under the same rock as I have, here is a summary of the plot: the lives of four sets of characters mesh together on each's violent journey towards redemption.

Going in, I didn't realize that Pulp Fiction was a comedy. A dark comedy, really. Sure there's brain matter splattered all over the inside of a car and some interesting uses of profanity, but the dialogue is quite witty.

And I was totally digging the groovy tunes. May have to download the soundtrack later ($11.99 on iTunes).

That being said, there were a couple of things about the movie that disturbed me.

At first, I was excited to see both John Travolta and Sam Jackson on screen. Woo hoo! Danny Zuko and Frozone from The Incredibles? Awesome. Love those guys. Then I saw their hair.

What. The. Hell.

I am feeling a long haired John Travolta about as much as a jerry curled Sam Jackson, which is to say not at all.

Oddly enough, I did enjoy Uma Thurman as a brunette.

To recap: Saw Pulp Fiction and I think I liked it. The dialogue was genius and funny. The violent aspect of the movie didn't really bother me … maybe my threshold for violence has been raised. Of course, I don't look for McDonald's to start carrying Pulp Fiction toys in their Happy Meals any time soon.

(That would be kinda cool though. I could totally see Vince and Jules action figures in my Room O' Funk.)

The was one drawback to watching Pulp Fiction. My universe is forever changed and I no longer see Danny Zuko in quite the same way.

(My chills are no longer multiplyin'. They're no longer losin' control.)

This may be a good thing.

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Settling In To Watch Pulp Fiction … And Then God Stepped In

There are only four movies left on my Must See list.

That's right. I'm awesome.

A twenty movie title list has been whittled down to four: Pulp Fiction, Amelie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and Thelma and Louise.

For a few weeks I believed that I may have gotten myself out of watching Pulp Fiction. I'd share the story with you, but it's a long story and I come off looking bad. And excessively whiny … mainly because I was excessively whiny about not wanting to watch Pulp Fiction.

Excessively whining has been my go to method of getting out of something recently.

And by recently, I mean since 1982.

Then my husband stepped in and told me to man up and watch Pulp Fiction. He pointed out that I had freely and willingly agreed to watch every movie on my list.

Every. Movie.

Including Pulp Fiction.

Poo.

I reluctantly agreed to watch it if he'd let me watch it my way, Silence of the Lambs style.

Which is to say with a Snuggie thrown over my head while humming Kumbaya and wishing I was watching an Adam Sandler movie.

After rolling his eyes (yes he does that and yes he denies it), my husband put the disc in the DVD player and nothing happened. The borrowed disc wouldn't play. Nothing we tried would make the movie play.

I like to refer to it was when God stepped in and saved me from watching a Quentin Tarantino flick.

God knows all about my natural aversion to Quentin. He knows that I've never lasted more than seven minutes watching Reservoir Dogs or Kill Bill (both volumes).

And I think when God steps in to mess with your Movie List you'd best listen and not watch Pulp Fiction. My husband thinks you just borrow a different copy.

We'll see who wins this one.


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Hmm … Either Make Moonshine Or Force A Cactus To Bloom

As I may have alluded earlier this week, I've been feeling under the weather. My point here is not to elicit sympathy, but to explain the circumstances that led me to spend several hours trying to force my Christmas cactus to bloom.

For the past several days, I've been feeling terrible but maintained a "suck it up, Nancy" mindset. Which was fine until Wednesday morning when my eyeballs felt hot. It was at this point that I decided to cancel everything and dedicate the entire day to getting over being sick.

Eyeballs afire will do that to a person.

I settled onto the couch, remote in one hand and a jumbo box of Kleenex in the other. I stayed in this position long enough to develop an intense adoration for the boys on Moonshiners (caught a marathon on Discovery Channel).

Deciding that watching more Moonshiners would only lead me to believe that I could build my own still and make a hundred grand selling jugs of white lightening in a single season, I shut off the TV and went in search of a more productive use of my time that would still, technically, not be illegal or strenuous enough to make my illness linger any longer.

Enter the Christmas cactus.

I've had this cactus for several years and I love her.

(Yes, it's most definitely a her. She clearly gives off a feminine vibe, which means she's either a girl or Richard Simmons in cactus form.)

My cactus is still very green and healthy looking, but I've realized that it has been a few years since she's bloomed. To be fair, the last time she bloomed was at Easter, not at Christmas. I think homegirl has some issues. But. This is going to be her year. I decreed 2012 as the Year of the Blooming Cactus.

Except that I don't know how to make a cactus bloom. Good thing Google knows.

As it turns out, it doesn't take much to make a cactus bloom. It mostly involves indirect sunlight and several hours of darkness every day. I think I can handle that. Of course, I might not be the best judge of what I can handle considering I spent several hours watching a grown man named Tickle make and run hootch all over southwestern Virginia.

Pretty sure at some point in his life, Tickle has felt like his eyeballs were on fire too.

The good news is that today I feel better and I'm ninety percent sure that (after just one day) my Christmas cactus has buds on it.

Not gonna lie, I kinda want to celebrate this occasion with a dirty mason jar of moonshine.

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And That's Why I Love Klondike Bars

Yesterday, one of the worst possible things that could happen to me occurred: I lost my voice.

Gasp! Shock! Outrage! No!

Tis true, my homies. Tis true. I had no voice.

In fact, the only audio I could utter sounded suspiciously like an amorous bullfrog.

(Yes, I really do know what an amorous bullfrog sounds like. I live an interesting and colorful life filled with weird country noises. Visit me sometime.)

My family was less than sympathetic with my despair over being voiceless. They weren't devastated. They didn't offer words of support or encouragement. Instead, they rejoiced.

That's right. My family was thrilled that I couldn't speak.

They may have even danced a happy jig in the living room. Then, they decided to mess with me a bit.

Dinner in our house is usually a lively affair with stories of everyone's day and casual conversation sprinkled with lots of laughter. I love it.

Last night was different. Very, very different. My family decided to be silent. As in they didn't speak.

At all.

Not even bullfrog noises.

Last night you could have heard a mouse fart half a mile away.

(I'm pretty sure one did.)

The silence was painful. It made me crazy because I like a noisy chatter during mealtime.

At one point I started whacking my fork against my plate just to have the utter stillness go away.

After twenty frustrating and silent minutes, I managed to croak out "There are Klondike bars in the freezer for dessert". An involuntary "woo hoo!" escaped from my oldest's mouth. It simultaneously broke the silence and restored my faith in my family.

God love those good folks at the Klondike bar factory.


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Black Friday Ain't For The Weak

Generally speaking, I am a person of peace. A proud member of the "Can't we all just get along?" club. I like life safely here in the neutral zone, located on the other end of town from the openly hostile and aggressive zone.

Occasionally situations arise in which the peaceful people have to abandon sitting around the campfire, holding hands and singing Kumbaya, to get our aggression on. You know, take a stand. Aside from attacks on my family members (which is a given), this aggressive stand occurs about once a year.

For me, it usually involves some type of sale.

On Black Friday.

Ah … Black Friday. The day in which the sales are on and there are bargains to be found. I love hunting bargains with my friends in the wee hours of the morning. I kinda dig the long lines waiting for the sales to start and the camaraderie of fellow shoppers in those lines with me. We forge strong bonds while we wait just by chatting about our shopping lists, the bargains we are after, and comparing how much we overate at Thanksgiving.

These bonds (and a little something called karma) are what helped me earn my Total Bad Ass badge this Black Friday.

(Pretty sure the Girl Scouts don't really have a Total Bad Ass badge. The Girl Scouts probably don't offer any badges with the word "ass" in them. I'm sure it goes against Girl Scout policy.)

The scene was an extremely crowded big box store. There were cardboard shelves throughout the main aisles of the store, each unit housing a special "door buster" priced item. Each cardboard unit was wrapped in clear plastic so you could see the items, but you couldn't purchase them until the sale officially started and the store employees cut through the plastic wrap.

The shelves containing the item that I desired had a small group of people standing beside it. I was the fourth person in the group. For forty minutes the group and I chatted.

We laughed.

We cried.

We bonded.

We're practically besties.

Then, with fifteen minutes left to go before the sale began, a twenty-something girl arrived. Within five seconds she had shoved a totally unsuspecting and peace loving me out of the way.

This punk had stolen my place in line.

Oh no she didn't.

But she did. And she was muscling her way up to the front of the line.

With two minutes to go before the sale started, the Punk was moving in for the kill. She had her eye on being the first in line and claiming every copy of the game we were all in line to score. She started crowding in on the two women in front of her. She used her shopping cart in a way that I'm sure shopping carts weren't meant to be used.

One minute left.

The line leaders realized what the Punk was doing and they devised a plan: use the Punk's shopping cart against her.

It was brilliant in its simplicity.

Five seconds to go time.

Line leader suddenly whipped around and pushed the Punk's cart into her stomach while the second person in line grabbed two copies of the hotly desired game: one for her and one for the line leader/cart weapon wielder.

After that, the line disintegrated and a massive wall of people surged forward. I was momentarily caught off guard by the onslaught of sweaty human bodies.

(Most reeked of turkey and booze. It wasn't pretty, but then again, war is never pretty.)

I made a split second decision. While all the shoppers were leaping over people to get to the games, I would go under the people. I'm short. I'm used to being close to the floor.

I threw myself to my knees like a volleyball player digging a ball and slid, honest-to-God slid, under the crowd of stinky people to arrive at the cardboard shelving unit. With the Punk right behind me.

She started to leap on top of me to reach the remaining games first. I raised my elbow up to protect my face and someway, somehow, my elbow connected with the Punk.

Specifically, her left boob.

Exploiting her momentary shock, I grabbed the remaining four copies of the highly sought after game, kept one for myself and doled out the others to my new homies who had stood in line for an hour with me.

The Punk actually sneered at me as I smugly waltzed past her. Before I could stop myself, I yelled "Karma's a bitch!" to the Punk.

It was a defining moment in my Black Friday shopping career.

I was reliving my moment later that morning with T and Banana over cheeseburgers and fries at Steak N Shake when it hit me.

I'm a total bad ass. Even T, the self-appointed Commissioner of Bad Ass-ness (Indiana division) had to agree.

I think I need to embroider myself a badge.


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Just Some Of The Things I Am Thankful For

Just some of the things I am thankful for on Thanksgiving … well, every day for that matter (emphasis on some 'cause I'm thankful for a whole lotta other stuff, too):

My husband

Okay. My husband AND my kids

Breyer's all natural vanilla ice cream

My caped Wonder Woman socks

My Grandmother … and her rather large, stolen zucchini

My homies

And John Hughes. Because he's awesome.

Amen.

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I Gots Mad Skillz

My skills set is pretty limited. Shocking, but true.

I'm okay at lots of different things and I survive day-to-day living just fine, but I'm not outstanding at any one thing. I'm not known for being/making/doing anything impressive.

The culinary arts elude me. The mechanical arts befuddle me. The creative arts escape me. The athletic arts … well, I tripped over them.

But. This weekend I discovered that there is an art form in which I excel. Oh yes. I am amazing at … Connect 4.

You know, the kid's game.

People, I am a Connect 4 savant.

I don't know what came over me this weekend, but I was channeling some serious Connect 4 juju. It was amazing. Not only was I winning every game, but I was trapping my opponent. It didn't matter where she plunked her black coin in an effort to block me, I had different options of places to go for a win.

Different. Options. For. The. Win.

Of the twenty or so games I played, I only lost two. My two losses had less to do with the skill level of my opponent and more to do with the distracting background music playing on the stereo (dang you, Kenny Rogers. I cannot resist your voice of velvet or your storytelling song writing style).

When my husband arrived home later Sunday afternoon, I was still riding high on the wave of multiple Connect 4 victories and the new found knowledge that this was my calling. Excitedly I began to regale him with details from all of my wins.

He looked impressed at first, then kinda puzzled. Finally, he started to laugh.

Laughter wasn't the response I thought I would receive. Kudos and accolades? Yes. Perhaps even a small, tasteful trophy. But laughter? No.

I asked him what the crap was so funny. His response? "Before you go joining a competitive Connect 4 league, you do realize that you played and won against a ten year old, right?"

What a buzzkill.

In my defense, my opponent was a ten and a half year old who displayed surprising amounts of skill.

When she wasn't distracted by me flipping pieces of homemade Chex Mix at her.

More importantly, there is a Connect 4 league? I have got to look into this. Connect 4 is my calling.

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Today Is Going To Be Spectacular

Today is going to be spectacular. Yes, I know it's Monday, but still. Today is going to be spectacular.

I know today is going to be great because this was the view out my backdoor.

It's simply not possible to have a terrible day after viewing this sunrise.

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A Sure Sign That Summer Is Dead

This morning there was a heavy frost outside. The sun was up and it made the frost look very sparkly. I like sparkly stuff, so I grabbed my camera and dashed outside to snap a few photos.

No. Not really. I don't really dash anywhere in the morning … especially cold mornings.

Even though it was cold outside, the frost was pretty snazzy and my mood lifted. In fact, I was almost enjoying myself.

Almost.

I turned around in the yard and spotted something awful. Something dreadful. Something that made my good mood evaporate.

There, in the yard, was a sure sign that summer is dead: frost on a dandelion.

This is just dang depressing.

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And That's Why I Shouldn't Wander Around Looking For A Restroom

While in search of a restroom on the Chocolate Walk, I wandered down a side street and into an interesting niche shop. Not exactly my niche, but kinda cool nonetheless.

The name of the shop is what sucked me inside.

House. Of. Jerky.

To be honest, I've never been a fan of dried foods, be them meats, fruits, or veggies. I blame two separate reasons.

Reason 1: The fact that I worked at McDonald's while in high school.

With the exception of the Quarter Pounder, McDonald's burgers used reconstituted onions. Reconstituted onions were formerly dried onions, but rehyrdrated with water. Totally turned me off of dried foods. I don't even like raisins. I much prefer them in their undried state as grapes.

Reason 2: For at least a dozen years, my husband and I (along with several friends) attended the Jimmy Buffett concert every summer. Upon one occasion, I imbibed one too many margaritas and wasn't feeling well in the car on the ride home. In his infinite wisdom, my husband pulled into a convenience store to buy himself some teriyaki beef jerky as a snack. Teriyaki beef jerky has it's own particular odor, one that I don't find to be pleasing. My stomach threatened to revolt all over the interior of the car if he didn't immediately throw the jerky out the window.

Long story short, instead of throwing the offending teriyaki beef jerky out of the speeding car, my husband ate the entire bag as quickly as possible, making himself positively reek of the stuff the entire way home. I wasn't amused and didn't forgive him for days.

Thus my aversion to any and all dried foods.

But a store named House of Jerky demands an investigation, especially when they sold turkey jerky. I don't want to eat it, but turkey jerky is dang fun to say. Plus, the House of Jerky advertised kangaroo jerky. Kangaroo jerky isn't something one finds every day in Indiana and I just had to lay eyes upon it.

Sadly, the House of Jerky was sold out of kangaroo jerky. Apparently several Chocolate Walkers needed a salty snack to offset all the sweet treats they had enjoyed and the stash of kangaroo jerky was raided. It was the first of many jerky casualties of the day: the gator, goose, and wild boar were also sold out.

However, there was a surprising amount of teriyaki beef jerky left.

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The Chocolate Walk: Kinda Like Mardi Gras But With Less Boobs and Beads

This being November (the month of thankfulness and all) I'd like to say a massive thank you to a couple of folks. I have to give a big shout out to the Aztec people (my new homies) for giving us the deliciousness called "xocoatl" and to Hernado Cortes and crew for adding sweeteners to it, thus giving the world chocolate.

(Mmm … chocolate)

And many, many thanks to the Brown County Humane Society for hosting a Chocolate Walk.

(Mmm … chocolate walk)

Let me explain the concept of the Chocolate Walk. For a nominal donation to the Humane Society, my friend Gayle and I were given classy hot pink buttons that we were to safety pin onto our person somewhere. Mine originally went on my jacket, then my shirt, then my jacket again, and back to my shirt before I finally ripped a page out of the Gayle Chocolate Walk handbook and pinned the dang thing to my purse strap.

That Gayle. She's a genius.

We stopped along a trail of thirty-two shops, flashed our buttons and each shop gave us a tasty chocolate treat. Kinda like Mardi Gras with less boobs and beads.

Treats ranged from hot chocolate and brownies to fudge and toffee. All of it delicious.

All. Of. It.

Not that I ate all thirty-two pieces of chocolate while on the walk. Seriously. Thirty-two chocolatey treats is a lot, even for a seasoned veteran chocolate eater such as myself.

About seven treats in, I threatened to hurt someone if I didn't get some french fries or other salty snack to offset all the sweets. Fortunately I had Gayle to wrangle me and she found a sandwich shop serving salty fries.

That Gayle. She's a genius.

Not many of the stops on the Chocolate Walk were candy or sweet shops. Most were shops in which artisans sold their goods. I was constantly amazed by the incredible furniture, pottery, glass, jewelry, and other arts that were for sale.

All of it beautiful. Some of it quirky. I, of course, was drawn to the quirky. And I might have made a purchase.

Why hello there

Okay. I did make a purchase.

How can a person be expected to pass on purchasing a basset hound made of a spark plug? I mean seriously. Basset hound. Spark plug. They go together like macaroni and cheese.

The artist that made this basset hound called him a "bark plug". I think that is a ridiculously cheesy name and I'm not calling him "bark plug". Corny humor is like, so beneath me.

I've chosen a much more sophisticated name: Sparky.

Sparky is a Christmas gift to myself and after December 25, he will join my Darth Vader bobble head, red Swingline stapler from Office Space, and Wonder Woman mini lego figurine as a permanent resident in my Room O' Funk.

Sparky is looking forward to it.

Art wasn't the only thing that I bought on the Chocolate Walk. Oh no. I may have sampled some chocolate peanut butter fudge at Stop #32 (the Nashville Candy Store) and immediately gone inside to buy a quarter of a pound.

I may or may not have shoved Gayle out of my way.

And it might have been half a pound of fudge. Geesh. Get off my case. If I want to buy half a pound of fudge, it's my business.

Okay, okay. It was three quarters of a pound of fudge, but not all of it was chocolate peanut butter fudge. Just half a pound was. The other quarter of a pound was a delicious dark chocolate caramel fudge with sea salt sprinkled on top.

A more sound purchase could not have been made.

Sadly, not all of my purchases were as lovely as the fudge. At one point during the day, we passed by a candy store selling a piece of bubble gum that measured three feet long.

Sign. Me. Up.

I didn't just buy a yard of gum. Oh no. I bought two yards of gum, one for each of my children. Few things say "Mom loves you, but she ate all the fudge" quite like a yard of gum.

You know what the downside to buying two yards of bubble gum? Carrying two yards of bubble gum for five hours on an incredibly narrow, incredibly busy sidewalk.

It turns out that two yards of bubble gum isn't as easy to control as one might think. I found myself apologizing profusely for accidentally whacking people with my gum on more than one occasion.

And it turns out that repeated accidental whackings will distort the shape of a yard of gum. What started off as a nice, straight piece of bubble gum had become a curved piece of gum with a couple of smashed kinks in it.

How depressing. Good thing I had a pound of fudge to cheer me up.

That's right. It was a pound. I had no self control in the fudge shop. Don't judge me. It was too dang tasty.

About twenty-four hours after the walk was over, I texted Gayle (who also purchased a pound of fudge) and asked her if she'd ripped into her fudge yet.

Her response? About five minutes after she got home.

That is exactly why we are friends.

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Too Much Testosterone For One Room. That's Why I Didn't Purchase The Mr. T Bobble Head

I have an affinity for crap. It's true. Well, you know. You've seen my Room O' Funk.

There are few things in life I love more than poking around consignments shops, second hand stores, or  a Goodwill store. It's not necessarily the purchasing of items that makes my skirt fly up. It's the thrill of the hunt and the fact that you just never know what treasures await you.

Exhibit A: A Bobby Sherman cereal box album

For those of you not in the know, music used to be played via a record on a record player.

(It's true. Look it up.)

Also for those of you not in the know, apparently Bobby Sherman was some kind of singer.

And my aunt's first crush, which I totally get. Those eyes coupled with the dimples? Please. The snazzy unbuttoned denim shirt/striped trouser combo? Winning.

She used to probably still thinks he's a total fox.

(Note the use of the term "fox")

For $2.50 plus the cost of framing, I think I have a killer Christmas gift on my hands. A bargain at twice the price, no?

Exhibit B: Kitchen art in the form of a troll trivet

This spoke to me. I don't know if it's the blue troll hair or the fact that it's a glass kitchen trivet (aka functional art), but this almost ended up in my cart.

Almost.

I'm not much of a baseball fan. Had this been a gymnast troll or a troll doing the luge, I'd have immediately placed him in my cart right next to Bobby Sherman, but he's a ball player. It's better to place him back on the shelf until just the right troll loving baseball fan walks through the door.

Exhibit C: A kickin' Mission style rocking chair

I truly love this style of furniture, but (more importantly) I enjoy parking myself on a comfy chair while I read great literature. Written works of art. Sitting in this rocker will allow me to contemplate the deeper meaning behind the greatest stories ever written.

No. Not really.

I read books that scare me silly and require me to have a fireplace poker next to me for protection. I need to be able to defend myself if one of the evil people I read about in my scary books ever springs to life right in front of me.

A girl has got to be prepared.

I bought the rocking chair and it is currently sitting right next to the fireplace. The poker is within easy reach. So is the puffer thing that fans the fire, but frankly I don't think that will be much help defensively.

Exhibit D: A Mr. T bobble head

It's been twenty-four hours and I still can't believe that I found a Mr. T bobble head. And that I didn't buy it. Mr. T was kinda pricey, which was to be expected since he is one of the finest actors of our generation, but it wasn't cost that prohibited me from purchasing Mr. T.

Nope, I was worried about Darth Vader's reaction.

A few months ago, I purchased a Darth Vader bobble head on clearance for a mere five bucks. He currently resides on the desk in my Room O' Funk, right between my stoplight lens bowl and my red swing line stapler from Office Space.

The problem? I think having Mr. T and Darth in the same room is just asking for trouble. They are both way too testosterony to have any semblance of peace in my Room. Think about it. Mr. T will be all "I pity the fool" and Darth will whip out his light saber and that will (sadly) be the end of Mr. T.

How tragic.

Nope. Tis better to leave Mr. T on the shelf.

It's better this way.

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The Donger Need Food

Over the weekend I did something that I haven't done in a long time. Haven't done this thing since … 1984? '85 maybe? I don't know. My memory is fuzzy.

I don't have a good excuse as to why I haven't done this thing in years. Seriously. No excuse. It's more fun than putting a monkey in a wetsuit, but still. It's been at least twenty-five years since I've hosted a slumber party with both Tata and Banana.

That's right. I had my homettes over for a slumber party.

And it was awesome.

Of course, it would be hard to not have an awesome time when your day began by adding cheap Halloween candy and booze to your slumber party shopping cart at 9 a.m.

Oh, and a bag of avocados. 'Cause we're all about being healthy around here.

No. Not really. T and I just love guacamole. We're kinda fanatics about it.

Food (and booze) aside, the slumber party went almost exactly like the sleepovers of my youth. Which is to say that we watched John Hughes movies and Banana fell asleep somewhere around 9:15.

In Banana's defense, she'd been up since 4:30 that morning and had suffered through her second grade class' Fall party for an hour and a half. Homegirl was tired. She begged us to quit bugging her so she could take a twenty minute power nap.

We obliged.

After twenty minutes had passed, we woke up our beloved Banana by squirting her with icy cold water from a spray bottle.

T and I thought it was hilarious, but Banana was (shockingly) quite annoyed. She stayed annoyed for approximately thirty minutes before she fell asleep again.

That girl is a party animal.

We had a great time reliving the slumber parties of our youth, one party in particular: the first time all of us watched the John Hughes classic Sixteen Candles at Banana's house.

Her dad rented the VHS tape and settled into his recliner to watch it with us. The girls and I found the movie both educational (hmm … this is what high school will be like) and hysterical, but Banana's Dad wasn't what I would call a super fan.

The most memorable part about watching that movie (and the part we recreate at every opportunity) are the uncomfortable grunting noises that Banana's Dad made during the Caroline Mumford in the shower scene. He followed his uncomfortable noise fest by demanding "What's this rated?" in a completely outraged voice.

Us 6th Graders found this hilarious. Us thirty-nine and forty year olds still find this hilarious.

'Cause we're mature that way.

Our maturity followed us to the breakfast table the next morning where we greeted my husband with a Long Duk Dong inspired "What's happenin' hot stuff?". And we may have smacked our hands on the table and yelled out "The Donger needs food!" until breakfast was served.

In other words, we were the very definition of maturity.

Just like we were in school.

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