Daily Diatribes

Yesterday was a very long day.  Wednesday is volunteer day for me so I had to take a shower and be dressed before noon.  This is something I try hard never to do, but I feel it’s my civic duty to help out at the school every so often and I have to look semi- presentable.  I like to embarrass the children, but not with bad hygiene.   I help at school because I can keep my eyes open for things like kids having sex in the halls or smoking joints in the bathrooms.   

Yesterday, it was hopping in the attendance office, where I answer phones while the secretary goes to lunch.  Everyone has to go through the attendance office to get where they’re going, so I see a lot of people.  One of the things I am enjoying most about public school is the diversity of culture to which my children are being exposed.  The last person I helped before I left was a very nice lady in a burka, who was checking out one of the seven children who lives in her home but is not hers.  I was trying to find her name in the computer and she said “Oh well, it’s probably under Hasmima, my Islamic name.”  I called Margie later, recounting the story under the heading of “things you never encounter in Catholic school.”

Lurking on the edges of my consciousness all day was the unpleasant knowledge that Teensy was celebrating the birth of her youngest child in a venue so heinous, so frightening, I could not even bear to think about it.  Yes, the party was at Chuck E Cheese.  Long time readers will remember my great theological undertaking, whereby I named all the circles of hell.  Chuck E. Cheese was number one.

When Anna got off the bus, we rushed through homework so we wouldn’t lose a single precious minute in hell.  Kiki dropped off Wylie and we were off to the happiest place on earth, that place where a “kid can be a kid”, Chuck E. Cheese.  Did I mention Chuck E. is a big rat?

Entering through the turnstile is like entering a drug induced nightmare, one filled with garish, flashing lights, screams and wails, bells ringing, and a cacophony of demons chortling with glee as they whacked a mole.  I made my way to the table where the birthday party was taking place and took my place by Gina, ready to stoic my way through the event.

After a moment, I noticed the lady across from me had a large beer.  A lightbulb flashed over my head, unnoticed in the clamor, and I decided to go and purchase a beer to ease the pain of the party.  I grabbed my checkcard, found Teensy and magnanimously offered to purchase one for her as well.  I walked up to the counter and placed my order.  The girl at the counter looked at me seriously and said “I need to see your ID.”

I wasn’t too flattered because I figured it was SOP, this being a place that catered to children, so I made my way back to the table and grabbed my wallet.  I went back up and showed her my ID and she said “I need to see one for both beers.”  I wanted to make some smart remark about me double fisting the beers because I was in Hell and needed the strength, but she didn’t seem especially gifted with a sense of humor so I went and dragged Teensy away from her other guests so she could show her ID.

By now, I was beginning to regret my generous offer, but I gamely paid for the beer as Teensy went back to her guests, anticipating the first cold sip and its healing powers.  But when I reached for them, she held one back and said “You’re only allowed to carry one.”  My eyes literally rolled back into my head.  What in the world is so evil about carrying two beers??  Was the management afraid I was going to stand on the air hockey table and funnel them as all the kids gathered around chanting “CHUG CHUG CHUG…”???  I consider this to be conclusive proof Chuck E. Cheese is hell, because withholding beer is a very Satanic thing to do.

The cashier did have the grace to look slightly apologetic, so I sighed, grabbed one beer, and made my way to the table, where I thrust it at Teensy.  “You better drink every damn drop,” I snarled at her.  “I worked hard for this beer.”  I went back up to the counter and got the other one, vowing to bring a hip flask to the next party.

The rest of the party was uneventful until it came time to leave.  Suddenly, Anna and Wylie were nowhere to be found.  I got up from the table with a sigh, girding my loins to enter the game room and find them, when what to my wondering eyes should appear…but the lady in the burka!!!!!! 

Now how random is that??  I meet her in the school office and four hours later, I encounter her again in Hell…uh, I mean Chuck E. Cheese.  Our eyes met, we both did this sort of gaping/pointing thing at each other and then it clicked and we said hello.  As if this whole episode was not random enough, her friend chimes in “Yes and I just ran into my daughter’s drama teacher.”  I looked at her and said “Miss Gianna?  She’s my best friend!!”  So six degrees of separation is not a myth and Allah is good!

I went into the gameroom to get Anna and her man and found them with tokens still to spend.  There is no hurrying a couple of six year olds with tokens.  I finally grabbed their tickets and dragged them over to the ticket counter so we could spend ten minutes arguing about why their tickets only qualified them to purchase an unidentifiable piece of orange plastic as opposed to the limited edition paddle ball set emblazoned with a likeness of the big rat. 

Unfortunately, a rather scummy looking lass of questionable ethics had gotten to the counter before us and she had 750 tickets for her two year old to spend.  We had already encountered her at the ticket muncher machine and had the privilege of staring down into her gaping butt crack, exposed by her lowriders, as we waited our turn for the machine.  So I was already annoyed with her for the upset stomach I was experiencing.  She made the token technician pull out every single prize for her darling to examine while the line behind me got longer and longer and Anna and Wylie got more and more restive, waiting impatiently to claim their plastic treasures. 

Finally, I leaned forward and yelled “we want a plastic helicopter, a tatoo and the stick on earrings!”  The ticket queen looked at me in disbelief, shocked at my rudeness in interrupting her debate with token man regarding the parachute guy versus the sunglasses.  I just glared at her, got my trinkets and swept away.  After all, my husband is a doctor and I could purchase the parachute guy, the sunglasses and the paddle ball set without even buying a token!

I grabbed my offspring, got out the door with them and threw them in the car and drove away as fast as possible.  Do you remember the scene in Poltergeist where they open the closet door and there’s this gaping esophagus trying to suck the family down the metaphysical throat???  I’m pretty sure Chuck E. Cheese has a similar phenomenon in place and I was not taking any chances. 

I am sad to say this was not even the end of my chaotic day, but I will have to continue this story in another blog. 

Monday is dance night.  I have to wrestle Anna into her dance clothes and drive over to Cahaba Heights, which is very near the snooty hamlet of Mountain Brook, but the roads make more sense.  Anna’s friend Mary Margaret is in her dance class, so while the girls are in class, Margie and I usually go and have coffee.  The Summit, a very upscale shopping mall, is just up the street and they have a freestanding Joe Muggs.

Margie is always very well turned out, since she has a real job and has to change out of her pajamas before noon.  I usually show up in my hausfrau uniform because I am unwilling to do the whole hair and makeup thing just to hang out for an hour.  Last night was no exception, and I showed up in paint-stained, navy blue sweatpants, my favorite forest green t-shirt emblazoned with the legend “It may be my attitude but it’s your problem”, and sky blue, knock-off crocs.   The color combo alone should send you screaming, but I felt I looked good enough to chauffeur children and then hang out at a coffee shop. 

Well I did until Margie told me she needed to go to Coldwater Creek instead of Joe Muggs.  Even with my boundless self confidence, I was a little uneasy about hitting an upscale clothing store.  But in the end, I figured “why not” and went along for the ride.  After all, I was wearing my nice leather jacket on top of the God awful ensemble, so I looked like a fairly prosperous homeless person.

We walked in the door and Margie gave a little gasp of delight and immediately began pulling clothes off the racks.  I hunched into my jacket, feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only my hair is worse and Tim does not look anything like Richard Gere, no matter how much I’ve had to drink.  As we moved to the back of the store, I saw a couple of nice leather armchairs and a couple of copies of USA Today.  Perfect!!  So I sat down and whiled away the hour, while Margie tried on clothes. 

When it came time to pay, I walked up to the register with her and I noticed a basket of rocks emblazoned with inspirational messages like “Faith” and “Believe”.  Well, I have “Faith” that Coldwater Creek is ripping people off by selling rocks and I can’t “Believe” people are stupid enough to buy them.  I picked one up and it had a nice heft, perfect for beaning a would be mugger in the head.  I turned it over and to my disbelief, it was stamped “made in China”. 

Now the state of the American economy is pretty darn bad when we have to outsource our rocks to China.  Coldwater Creek is sending a message that American rocks are too expensive and our highly trained work force would demand not only a high wage for picking up these rocks, they would also want health and dental, paid days off, and worker’s comp in case they injure themselves while picking up the rocks.  So instead of hiring American workers and using American rocks, we have sent the whole thing to China where, when it’s not rice season (and when exactly is rice season anyway???  I’m sure Don knows!) the Chinese peasants pick up rocks instead.  It’s a win-win situation for them.  They are guaranteed an income year round; picking rice or rocks, it’s all the same.  Plus they get to snigger about the stupid Americans who buy rocks whey everyone knows there are tons out of doors, yours for the taking, absolutely free.

“How much are these rocks?” I asked the cashier.  Margie rolled her eyes at me, knowing where I was going with my question.

“They’re $4.00 apiece,” came the reply.

Then I asked the nice cashier “So, how many rocks have you sold out of that basket?”

She said “Since I’ve been here?”

“Yeah, what do you figure your average rock transaction is per week?”

At first, she tried to put a good spin on it, quoting, I am sure, from the Coldwater Creek Training Manual:  “Oh, I probably sell 2 to 3 a week.  You’d be surprised, they make really nice…teacher….” she trailed off, then looked around, leaned forward and said conspiratorially “I’ve always thought I could go outside, pick up some rocks and get my kids to paint them and they would look better.” 

Ah, the truth comes out; even the employees realize the utter stupidity of selling rocks.  Rocks made in China at that.  These are Communist Rocks people!!!  Yes, they are not even a product of a democratic country, they have comrades picking these things up and YOU ARE BUYING THEM!!!  That’s what’s wrong with this country; it’s not George Bush at all, it’s COMMUNIST ROCKS WITH INSPIRATIONAL MESSAGES!!  Probably, there is some sort of subliminal message cunningly hidden in the lettering:  “BELIVE” that the party is the true way of the people; FAITH that the revolution will make us free; HOPE that america will fail and China will rule the universe.

So the next time you feel an urge to buy a rock, remember you are undermining democracy and subjecting people to the bonds of communism, comrade.

This morning did not go as expected.  It being Monday morning, I fully expected the blonde goddess to cling to her bed, (well, mine since she appeared in it sometime during the night) and start the “I’m not going to school” mantra.  Instead, she bounced out of bed, chipper and cheerful, got dressed, ate her breakfast, LET ME BRUSH HER HAIR, and skipped down to the bus stop.  If I live to be 137, I will never understand that child.

Abby was her usual delightful self, snarling viciously and snapping at anyone who came too near.  Only the turquoise undershirt would do this morning, and I had to throw it in the dryer for princess.  At 7:03 a.m., while waiting for the undershirt, she discovered she had somehow forgotten to do her homework over the weekend.  A frantic scribbling ensued as she raced the clock in an effort to get it done before the bus came or I beat her.  The shirt was not dry enough for her and she was growling as she left the house.  Buh bye Sunshine!!

But Josh was the one who left me scratching my head, because he was such a maniac this morning and usually, he is the easy one.  At 6:47, he hollered down the stairs that he had no clean jeans, so he would be wearing shorts today.  I believe the expected high today is 40, so I nixed that idea immediately.  I also reviewed with him the procedure of bringing dirty clothes down to be washed instead of stashing them behind his laundry basket in the bathroom. 

He skulked down the stairs five minutes later in yesterday’s dirty pants, with wet hair and a sneer on his face.  He has adopted a sneer lately, sort of a James Dean look, and it drives me crazy.  I am assuming the hormones are hitting and at any moment, like the incredible Hulk, he will shoot up, bursting out of his clothing and start lusting after girls(we hope!).  But for now, he sneers.

So he sat at the table, sneering at me and I asked him to find his coat because it is so cold today.  He looked at me like I was insane and said “Mom, puh-leeze….I don’t need a coat.”

“Fine,” I told him, “why don’t you go take the garbage out, He-Man, and let’s see how you feel afterward.”  He looked a little worried, but he went and got the garbage and headed outside.  Five minutes later, he came swaggering back in and said “I can’t believe you think it’s cold outside!”  I cannot adequately convey the-all knowing, you- are-so-stupid tone of voice he was using.

He sat back down at the table and was staring off into space and I remembered I wanted to take a picture of him.  He got his braces last Monday and I meant to take a picture then, but I got busy and it slipped past me.  So I got the camera and requested he smile for me.

You don’t need to have much imagination to guess how well he responded.  He refused to open his mouth, or he would open it, and then just as the camera clicked, he would close it again.  I finally threatened to beat him and I caught him with his mouth open in shock.  Then he got mad and huffed around the kitchen, so I sent him into the living room to play piano.  He gets ready so quickly in the morning and then he hangs around and irritates me.  I’m not sure which is better; Anna resisting right up until the last second, or Josh with too much time on his hands.

I still had the camera in my hand, so I went and took a picture of Abby sitting on the floor, scribbling frantically as she tried to finish her homework.  Then I thought I would catch Josh at the piano.  I snapped the picture and he rose in a fury, chest heaving, eyes flashing.

“Why do you keep taking pictures of me??” he screamed.  He slammed the piano shut and stomped out of the room screaming “I hate it when you take pictures of me.  Why can’t you quit?”  What, is he afraid I’m going to capture his soul???  Afraid that I will post them on the internet with a caption like “SEE THE AMAZING BRACE FACED BOY PLAY PIANO!!!” 

I charged after him and read him the riot act for slamming and stomping, then, when he left the room, I snickered.  Because he is so funny.  If I am the worst thing in his life, he’s got it pretty good, don’t you think?  I’m not going to worry about him making the talk show rounds and telling Montel “And then, when I was 13, my mom kept taking pictures of me and it was so embarrassing and I can never forgive her!!!” 

Well, the last picture was the last straw, and he grabbed his backpack and huffed out the door and down the hill to the bus stop to enjoy the balmy, spring like weather.  He was wearing a coat though, which I consider to be proof I am not quite the idiot he likes to think I am!

I really like watching my birds at the feeder.  With this little cold spell, the traffic has increased dramatically and there are tons of birds.  I was standing there yesterday and I got to see a bird fly at the window, realize he was heading for disaster and pull himself out of it at the last possible second.  I could see little dialogue bubbles over his head screaming “danger, danger…abort!!”  Between the computer and the bird feeder, I waste a lot of time.   

The bird feeder is a lot like the steam tables at the Golden Corral.  The bird seed is plentiful, much like the fried okra and creamed corn.  But when I watch my little birdies, they flit to the feeder, grab a seed, maybe two, and then they fly away.  Even though the food is plentiful, the birds do not feel the need to sit there at the bird feeder and stuff themselves silly.  Honestly, have you ever seen a fat bird???  Have you ever seen a bird who couldn’t fly because he ate too much seed, so instead of flying, he lounges around in the nest, watching Dr. Phil and eating bon bons?

I conjecture it’s because birds stop eating when they’re full.  They are programmed to eat until they are satisfied unlike humans who, when faced with a buffet full of food swimming in butter, will eat until they have to be rolled away on a gurney as they try to stuff one last pork chop in their mouth. 

People lose all sense of perspective when faced with an all you can eat smorgasbord.  Their brains go haywire and they start eating rapidly and compulsively, afraid someone else will get to the last piece of fried chicken before they do.  I don’t generally overeat because I instinctively understand I am not personally liable for world hunger.  Children in Africa will continue to starve whether I gorge myself at the buffet line or not.  There’s no reason for me to try and finish all the food because me getting fatter is not going to solve anything. 

Squirrels, unlike birds, will jump on the bird feeder, hang upside down and shove their little rodent noses right up into the opening and gorge themselves until they fall off or I slam my hand against the window and scare the hell out of them.  Consequently, all the squirrels in my yard are fat as cows and are probably really good eatin’!  Squirrels certainly exhibit the Golden Corral syndrome, as I have dubbed compulsive over eating.

I know if squirrels lived like we do, they would circle the parking lot for fifteen minutes, burning up valuable fossil fuels and destroying the ozone layer as they look for the spot closest to the front door of Wal-Mart.  Once in the front door, the squirrel would find one of those motorized carts in an effort to avoid expending any precious energy by walking.  If forced to use a regular cart, the squirrel would leave it right next to his car after he unloads his Wal-Mart bounty, because God forbid he should walk an extra 25 feet to put it away in the cart holder thingy. 

Birds on the other hand, are stoic creatures.  Their tiny little brains contain just enough information to keep them flying.  There is simply not enough room in there for extras like “let’s see who can eat the most bird see and still perch!” 

So that is my theory regarding why birds will never be obese like squirrels and people.  They eat until they’re full!  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a snack!

I have been in my pajamas all day.  As I write this, it is 5:30 pm and I am still not dressed.  I have not brushed my teeth or my hair.  I have not changed my socks or my underwear.  The dogs are now avoiding me, their muzzles wrinkling when they walk past me.  I don’t care because I have been comfy all day!!  I didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything or see anybody, so why get dressed? 

I have whiled away the day in my bedroom, but not in bed.  No, today was the day I confronted the scope of the disaster that is the master suite.  No hurricane in recorded history could have left more debris in its wake than Tim and I.  I never nag at my kids to clean their rooms, because I would be a………I cannot think of the word!!  What is the word???  Is this the early onset of Alzheimer’s?  I need an intervention!!!!!  It would be wrong for me to tell them to clean their rooms since I don’t keep mine clean, so what’s that word that means it would be wrong???  Wait, let me make a phone call….THANK YOU LAYTON BAUER….I WOULD BE A HYPOCRITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, I decided it was time to deal with the dust sculptures and the mounds of bank statements in the corner and the piles of clothes that never seem to get put away.  My bedroom is always the last room in the house to get cleaned.  Whenever someone comes over, I lock the dogs in there so I have a legitimate excuse to close the door.  Even though my dogs are harmless, together they sound like a trio of slavering pit bulls, ready to tear out an innocent throat at a moment’s notice!  So they are a good deterrent to the thrill seekers looking to investigate the contents of my medicine cabinet. 

I started my cleaning binge by going through the cheap, yet classy, plastic rubbermaid three drawer unit where I keep lots of important papers, like the owner’s manual for the washing machine we got rid of ten years ago and tax returns from the 1980’s.  Mostly, I needed to clear the dust off the top.  My house seems to be significantly dustier than everyone else’s house and I don’t know why.  The dust fairies seem to give our house extra attention, making sure to sprinkle it good and thick.  So I started to clean, grimly determined to clear a path by evening, so I can make it back and forth to the bathroom at night without risking life and limb.

Cleaning like that is cathartic, and pretty soon I was throwing things into a garbage bag with reckless abandon.  Goodbye newsletter from Abby’s third grade teacher; I need you no more!  Farewell bank statements from 1996 and goodbye receipts from Christmas gifts purchased two years ago.  I felt like Marley, casting off the chains binding me to this earthly life. 

But pretty soon I had a pile of those things that you can’t throw away but cannot be easily categorized either.  In my house, this is usually Legos, cords (extension and otherwise), screwdrivers, and various plastic pieces I am sure belong to something, although I am not quite sure what.  I hate it when you find a piece of rectangular plastic and you know it’s important but you can’t remember why and after you finally throw it away, you realize it was the key component to some expensive electronic thingy that no longer works because you threw away the most important piece.  So you hoard it forever, positive if you hang on to it long enough, you can stage a loving reunion between electronic thingy and its long lost important piece.  

So I made a pile out of that stuff and I started bulldozing it toward my bedroom door, operating under the premise that as I continued to move it through the room, more and more stuff would get put away.  Not necessarily sound science, but you also have to move all the crap out of the way so you can vacuum.  I vacuumed under the bed and behind my bedside table and even behind my fabulous file cabinet.  I was on fire!

As the day wore on, my garbage bag got fuller and the dust swirling around in the room lessened somewhat.  I even put my clothes in the drawers!  I have a tendency to pile the clothing on the floor next to my dresser because I hate trying to cram clothes in drawers.  Besides, if they’re all right there in a pile it’s easier to get dressed in the morning.  I am telling you, I would have no problem living in a frat house; I like the way those guys operate!  

I also decided to tackle the three laundry baskets of the apocalypse that are always lurking around in my bedroom, filled with clothing to be folded.  WE NEED A BIGGER LAUNDRY ROOM!!  I turned on the TV so I would have something to do while I was folding and I caught “Titanic” at the very beginning!!  

I realize this is going to cause me to lose some serious face, but I LOVE that movie!  I love a good, sappy love story, even if Leo does turn into a human popsicle at the end.  There are a couple of scenes I could do without, though.  I hate the spitting scene.  It’s so disgusting listening to Jack instruct Rose on the proper techniques for hocking (hawking, harking????) a loogie.  I hate mucous, as you all know, and that little scene does not further the story line in my opinion.  “Oh Jack, you’re so romantic…spit some snot again darling!!”

And then there’s the sex scene in the ship’s hold.  You know, they’re in the car, doing the dirty, but all you see is the steamed up window and the handprint.  Well, I want to know who in the world sweats that much???  I’m sure the sex was good and all, but honestly, I doubt they worked that hard at it!  Leo’s character is pretty young, so I have a hard time belieiving he was up for a prolonged session, if you know what I mean!  But when they show them after the fact, they are both drenched with sweat and heaving like they’ve just run the Boston Marathon.  I find that scene to be a bit excessive, but then again, maybe Jack and Rose both had undiagnosed glandular disorders and it was relevant to the story line. 

At this writing, the Titanic has sunk, Rose has tossed the necklace (daffy old broad!)my kids are in bed and my bedroom is almost clean.  All in all, it was a nice Sunday.  Now I guess I have to go put on some clean pajamas so I can go to bed!       

I love community cookbooks because by and large, the recipes in them are submitted by people who cook for a family every day.  So the ingredients are usually simple and easily obtained at the Winn Dixie.  Over the years, I have accumulated quite a collection of cookbooks and one of my favorite things to do is page through them.

It becomes readily apparent that there are only five recipes in the world, but each person who cooks one of them alters one ingredient slightly and then claims ownership.  Chicken and rice, for example, has more personalities than Sybill.  The basic ingredients, chicken and rice, are the same.  But from there, the variations are endless.  Do you use cream of mushroom, cream of chicken, cream of mushroom and chicken, cream of celery, golden mushroom, cream of broccoli or cream of tartar?  Do you use one can or two?  Water chestnuts or celery?  Milk or water?  Paprika on top or cornflakes?  I’m telling you, google it and you will be amazed at how many different variations there are.

So I opened up the Ladies of Harley cookbook today, looking for a recipe for Santa Fe soup.  I have not made Santa Fe soup since Anna was 11 months old and had a huge bowl for dinner one night.  Then a terrible stomach virus struck our family and it’s amazing how the soup came back out in her diaper, virtually unchanged by its brief trip through her intestines.  This is really no surprise since the primary ingredients are beans and corn.  I could have put it in a bowl, garnished it with some cheese, and no one would have been any the wiser.  But it’s a good soup, and easy to make and so we will try it again tonight, five years later, and hope for the best.

In the cookbook I opened, it’s called Milwaukee Soup with a Roar, but it has the same ingredients.  I started paging through the book to see what else sounded good.  How about SpaghettiO Surprise?  Yep, someone submitted this gourmet delight, sure to please the three year old in all of us.  Here’s the recipe:  1 Big can of spaghettiO’s and 1 pack Ritz crackers.  Open can, microwave and crush Ritz crackers and sprinkle on top.  Enjoy!  Wait, I had to buy a cookbook for this??  I think Anna could have created this recipe on her own! 

How about Twin Cam Tuna?  Mix tuna, mushroom soup, milk and potato chips and bake together until done.  Mmmmmmm….I’ll have second helpings please, with some extra pork jowl on the side!  I know that’s an old and respectable recipe, but puh-leeze….tuna and milk and mushroom soup???  Throw in some green peas to up the vomit factor!!  I would rather eat Spam!

Next, we will move to the Heritage Recipes From the Heartland which I picked up in Wisconsin several years ago.  How about this tasty treat from Evelyn Schnell….Liver sausage??!!  Take one hogs head, tongue, heart and liver.  She wants to make SURE you don’t forget the liver, hence the italics.  Now the fun part:  have the head cut up and cook it in a large container with tongue and heart.  May also add a kidney if you wish….hey I’m all in…everything tastes better with a kidney!  Cook the liver in another pot, then chop it all, mix it up and bake at 350.  Bleccchhhh!!!!!!!!  I am definitely a city girl, and I prefer to pretend my pork chops never had a head or a liver or any other organ and certainly not a kidney.  This recipe definitely makes me think twice about eating sausage or anything else made in Wisconsin.

Midwesterners are big on tortes and this cookbook has a recipe for Twinkie Torte, submitted by Carol Meiselwitz.  You slice the twinkies in half and line the bottom of a dish with twinkies, cream side up…duh, cream side ALWAYS goes up!  Then sprinkle with heath bars, top with pudding and whipped cream and then repeat layers.  Cover and refrigerate.  The twinkie was enough for me; I don’t need the pudding, candy and whipped cream. I am reminded of Gina’s comment, when she came to visit me up in the Heartland: ”I’ve never felt so skinny in my life.”  There is a similar recipe with Ho Ho’s and chocolate pudding.  I’ll have to make them both and see which one causes the diabetic coma first.

How about minted beet pickles, which I am going to serve at my next party?  Two tastes I never want to experience together would be beets and mint.  The ingredients are enough to send me screaming for a nice, bland, chicken and rice recipe:  1 can beets; 1/4 c vinegar; 1/2 c brown sugar; mint extract; salt; and horseradish.  You had me at the beets….

Here’s one I just don’t get.  It’s called “Mehl Beutle (Rolly Polly)”.  You take eggs, sugar, salt, milk, baking powder, flour and lard.  Apparently you mix it together, pour it on a wet towel and tie it into a bag.  Then steam it for a couple of hours.  Then you cut it into wedges and serve it.  But it doesn’t answer the basic burning question of WHAT IS IT????  Animal, mineral, or vegetable? 

French Fry Casserole sounds like a tasty treat.  You put french fries on the bottom of a casserole dish, then top them with ground beef, cream corn, cream of chicken soup and cream of mushroom soup.  I don’t like cream corn because I think it looks exactly like vomit.  Add a couple of cream soups to it, and you have vomit deluxe.  And wouldn’t the french fries be a soggy, nasty mess on the bottom of the casserole?  I like my hamburger and fries separately, not mashed together with cream of mushroom soup!  But that’s just me.

I would be remiss if I didn’t touch on one final recipe in the Heartland cookbook:  Camel Droppings.  This is a cookie made with 1 cup of pureed squash and whole dates.  Yummy!  Why would anyone want to eat a cookie made with squash and dates?  When I eat cookies, I am shooting for as much sugar and as many trans fatty acids as I can; I don’t want health food masquerading as junk food!!  

So next time you make the Veg-All casserole, just remember cooks everywhere claim that one as their own.  You’ll have to change it up a little more than just using Keebler crackers for the crumb topping instead of Ritz to really make it yours.  Why not add some liver sausage and a couple of french fries?  Cooks everywhere will worship you! 

Note to male readers:  this will make you cringe.

One of my friends, Andrea L., sent me an email this morning because she felt it was her duty to report to me that an iguana with an erection is facing a penis amputation.  Here is the link:  http://www.24.com/news/?p=tsa&i=399560.  I find it interesting that after telling me about Mozart and his monster boner, she went on to relate her son was on his first date.  Hmmmm, hope there’s no connection there….

It has been an interesting week in the reptile world.  First there was the komodo dragon who reproduced asexually and has been hailed as the savior of the lizard world.  Now we have an iguana who has had an erection for over a week and the zookeepers are planning on chopping it off to put an end to it!  Talk about adding insult to injury!!

Most men, upon hearing the news of a week long erection, are high fiving each other and going “dude….way to go!!”   The article does not mention whether the iguana eats a special diet or whether he did anything in particular to achieve the permanent erection.  It simply states the boner must go.  Apparently, however, a week-long boner is not desirable in reptiles. However, the article does go on to reassure readers that iguanas have, not one, but two penis’s, so Mozart has a back up boner with which to please the ladies!!  Well, thank goodness!

So it’s good to be an iguana.  You can get a stiffy without the aid of Viagra and it lasts for days on end.  Then, if you start having problems with that one, you can just flip a switch, and presto, you have a backup engine!!  But woe betide if you should fail to ejaculate in a timely manner because the zookeepers have no patience with a woody that lingers too long, leading to the expression “no drain, much pain”.  The zookeepers reassure the public that it won’t interfere with Mozart’s sex life at all to only have one penis.  I wonder what Mozart has to say on the subject. 

So the moral of the story is a boner a day keeps the doctor away, but a boner that won’t go away means the doctor is going to CUT IT OFF!!!  So guys, be careful what you wish for!! 

Today I was on the phone with Kiki, commiserating on a number of different subjects, but mostly about girl scout cookies and how we loathe cookie selling.  As we talked, I noticed a “rumbly in my tumbly” as Pooh would say and our conversation turned to food, or more specifically, donuts.  I’m not sure how we segued from girl scout cookies to donuts; I guess it was sort of a natural progression from one sugar laden, trans fatty acid, artery clogging, heart attack causing treat to another.

The more we talked, the hungrier I got, and finally I told her “I am going to get some Krispy Kremes and come over right now.”  This was not a statement made lightly.  The Krispy Kreme store is over on Hwy 31 and Kiki lives off of Hwy 280 and I am situated almost equally between the two.  So you see the depth of my craving and what lengths I was willing to go to for relief.  By now, the siren song of warm glazed donuts was too much to resist, so I ran downstairs, flung myself into the car and I was off like a shot, in search of the holy grail of donuts.

Not everyone is susceptible to donuts, and I don’t understand why not.  How can anyone resist the warm, melting, sugary goodness of an original Krispy Kreme?  Here is the ingredient info; try not to drool on the screen:

INGREDIENT INFORMATION
The only animal byproducts used in our doughnut are eggs (whites and yolks) and dairy products (including milk, butter, yogurt, whey, nonfat milk and nonfat whey). Our doughnuts are cooked in 100% vegetable oil shortening (partially hydrogenated soybean and/or cottonseed oil). All monoglycerides, diglycerides and enzymes are vegetable based. The lecithin we use is soy based. We also use wheat in our doughnuts, including bran, germ, gluten, starch and flour. Our products may contain allergens. To get further information about our products call us at 1800 4KRISPY.

ARE KRISPY KREME DOUGHNUTS KOSHER?

All of our doughnuts are ingredient Kosher. Our mix plants in Winston-Salem, North Carolina and Effingham Illinois, where the mix is made have been certified Kosher. In addition, some of our stores, but not all, have been certified Kosher. To get a complete listing of our stores that have been Kosher certified please call us at 1800 4KRISPY.

And they’re kosher….what more do you want??  Notice they contain bran, germ, and lecithin, so they are a good source of fiber and vitamin B.  Really, eating Krispy Kreme donuts is like eating health food.  I’m surprised GNC doesn’t sell them.  This is a high quality food!

Well, I sped toward the Krispy Kreme store with a song in my heart and a growling in my belly.  I pulled up to the window and to my delight, they had a Krispy Kreme special:  one dozen original glazed and one dozen assorted flavors.  Woo hoo!!  Let the sugar high begin!

After a few minutes of deliberation, I chose the chocolate iced custard filled, chocolate iced cream filled, chocolate iced and the cinnamon buns.  I figured there was a wide enough range I would make someone happy!!  And according to Kiki’s husband, cinnamon has potent health properties, rendering the donuts even more healthful. Then, to add to my joy, I bought a double chocolate frozen Krispy kreme drink.  If you have never had one, you are missing out!! 

According to Ken Hoffman, the drive through gourmet, who is my most favorite columnist (you see how shallow I am???), it took the brainiacs at KK over two years to perfect the liquid donut.  It was two years well spent in my humble opinion, because a frozen double chocolate tastes exactly like a liquid, frozen chocolate Krispy Kreme.  An orgasm in a cup!!

I sped back across town with my haul, sipping my frozen drink and generally feeling in synch with God and man.  But by the time I got to Kiki’s, I was feeling a bit sick from too much sugar.  This, before I even touched a donut!  Still, I managed to pull out a warm, soft, sugary glazed original from it’s nest of glaze and prepared myself to eat it.

First, I closed one nostril and huffed the scent.  You can actually get high from sniffing a Krispy Kreme donut.  The sugar races up right into your brain and kicks it up a notch!  After huffing the sugary goodness, I took the first bite and closed my eyes as the warm donut melted in my mouth.  I let the donut trickle down my throat and I savored every sugary particle.  

After the donut was gone, I opened my eyes.  Kiki was in the throes of her own donut induced ecstasy and wasn’t paying attention, so I snitched another one.  The second one was a chocolate, cream filled donut and it was better than the first.  Kiki opened her eyes and looked at it and said “is that whipped cream in there?”  

I looked at her, offended.  “Hell no, this is filled with 100% lard, sweetened with sugar!”  Whipped cream, my butt!!  She agonized for a moment, and then, purist that she is, went for the classic chocolate glazed.  

By now, I was feeling quite ill and regretting my donut indiscretion.  Why is always that way?  It seems like such a good idea when you start out to eat two dozen donuts, but you quickly come to realize God did not give us four chambered stomachs, so we cannot eat like cows, even though it is our heart’s desire.  I picked up a cinnamon bun, took two bites, then put it down and admitted defeat.  I was licked.  I couldn’t even finish my frozen donut drink.

So ends the tale of my day with donuts.  There really isn’t a moral, or even a point, other than Krispy Kreme donuts are Damn Good!!  And I bet half of you are ready to rush out right now and buy a dozen for yourself!