Dear Neighbors

Dear Neighbors,

This is just a friendly little note to clarify a few things I'm sure you've been wondering.

Those lights hanging across the front of our house and over our garage look very similar to our Christmas lights, but they aren't. That would be ridiculous, right?  After all it is mid-February. What type of hillbilly would still have their Christmas lights up?  Not us.  Nope.

Those lights you see dangling brightly from our rooftop are now our Valentine Day lights. Yep.  That's what those lights are. For sure!

Yeah, Valentine's Day just passed.  I'm sure my husband has every intention of taking them down soon.  Not like us to leave decorations up year round.  No way. We aren't those types of unorganized, scattered, people.

My hunch is we will probably take our Valentine Day lights down right around the same time we put our St. Patrick Day lights up.  It's kind of weird because you may mistake those for our Christmas lights, too.  They aren't. Really.

We are just very lazy festive.  We love to celebrate lots of holidays with festive, green and red lights.  It's a new thing.  I'm sure HGTV will have a show about it soon. We are just sort of trend setters in the whole holiday light area. Yes, that's it. We are trend setters.

We are also trying to educate our children about property lines and privacy science.  Remember those Halloween pumpkins we let rot on our front porch right up until late December?  We did that on purpose. Yessiree!  We wanted our children to see what happens when four large pumpkins and a cartload of gourds rot over the course of several months. We value education. And what good times! We now have new appreciation for the vitality of fruit flies.

Festive, smart, inquisitive neighbors. That's what you have. Lucky you.

And lucky us! Not every neighbor would be so gracious as to marvel over our eccentric holiday decorations and say nothing.

Sincerely,

Your Eccentric Next Door Neighbors

PS.:  Our dog did poop in your yard, but we cleaned it up. We really did!!

February

It's February and we all know what that means.

Only five more months until the heir to England's throne is born!
Sound the alarms, organize a parade, mark your calendar...England is getting a new baby!

Not to be outdone, of course, the Kardashian's are also planning to produce a summer baby.

February is the month when we hate those lucky people who get to escape to the Caribbean, while secretly plotting ways we could visit a warm place.  Maybe if I sell all of the "treasures" in my basement on eBay I'll be able to save enough money to buy a poster of the beach.  That wouldn't help my mood in the slightest, but I've got so much junk in my basement.  So.  Much.  Junk. I guess the warmest place I'll see this February is the inside of my oven. That thing hasn't been cleaned since 2011.

Now is a good time to officially ditch those New Year's resolutions, if you even made it this long.  It's hard to hold fast to resolutions while simultaneously buying Girl Scout cookies in bulk.  Loose weight, exercise...wait! Is that a thin mint order form...?

February is also as good a month as any to take down those outside Christmas lights. (I REALLY hope my hubby is reading this.). No one is seriously going to believe those white icicle lights are actually Valentine's day lights, right?

Speaking of which, Valentine's Day is just around the corner.  Chocolate? Wine? Chocolate wine?  I'll take one of each, thank you.

Thanks to global warming it's likely balmy in parts of the country where it is normally cold, and it's likely frigid in places that are normally hot as hell.

If the groundhog sees his shadow this month, I'm moving to the Caribbean.  Or at least switching to a really cool Caribbean screen saver at work.

February is the only month that can make 28 days feel like all eternity.

Spring, I cannot wait to see you!

Look Out, Waistline, Here Comes My Mouth

My mouth has literally become the most impressive garbage disposal in North America.  

I can shove anything in there and it disappears instantly.

I know everyone thinks November and December are bad dieting months.  Everyone is busy making cookies and candies.  Large dinners are prepared and served.  Leftovers are consumed in record amounts.

Yeah, I get it.  It's a total bitch to diet in November and December.  I won't argue that.

Once the dust from the holiday settles, I can't just stop the beast.  She's been feeding since November and she won't go quietly into hibernation.  No way.  She needs fed.  Feed her!

Adding to the problem is the fact I know a bunch of generous people.  You know who you are.  Honestly, every person I saw between December 1st and January 1st gave me either candies, cookies, chocolate, or wine.  My friends know me so well!

How could I refuse them?  Did it ever even occur to me to re-gift these baggies of goodness?  Hello?  Of course not!

I just spent the last month shoveling all that goodness into me via my attached garbage disposal. Mmmmm, mmmmm, and mmmmm.

Now it's January and I can't just turn the switch off.  Noooo, I don't have that kind of willpower.

The monster needs fed and that monster is me.  Specifically my mouth, the largest most effective garbage disposal in all the land.

The other day I stood in front of the refrigerator.  I may have initially intended to clean out the refrigerator - as in throw items away.  Instead I decided to clean it out by eating as much as I possibly could while standing in front of it.  I didn't even bother fixing a plate of food.  I just snacked right from the fridge like a poorly trained man.

I would tell you what I ate, but I don't want you to lose all respect for me.  Oh, hell, who am I kidding?

I had a fistful of garlic stuffed olives, four spoonfuls of cheese spread, a bite (or two) of mashed potatoes, a slice of pumpkin roll, a chunk of pork, and a diet coke.  Don't point out the irony, I'm well aware of it.

I would have stopped myself after the olives, but I'm kind of scared to come between me and cheese.

Had I been thinking clearly in December, I would have asked Santa for a muzzle. Or, at the very least, a little self-control.

Most Fascinating Person of 2012

If Barbara Walters can name Honey BooBoo as one of the most fascinating people of 2012, then I also have the right to name one of the most fascinating people of 2012.

And I would name him.  I would. If I knew his name.

I only know what they call him, but let me tell you about him first.

This man is 80 years old. He doesn't look a single day over 79.  He was a smoker, but quit 35 years ago.  He didn't want to quit smoking, but his wife made him quit the same day she decided to quit. I have a soft spot for obedient husbands. He and his wife raised their children, and long ago those children all moved away from home.  His wife passed away, and now he spends some of his quality time watching football with my father.

On the day I met him, I was with my father and husband. We were in a local watering hole watching "The" football game of the year.  My dad introduced me to him.

He seemed like an absolutely normal, average, run-of-the-mill, non-fascinating person until I learned the following:

He had a large painful callus on his foot. It bothered him so much that he decided he needed to do something about it.

Proving he is a fascinating person, the man decided to get his electric sander and sand the callus off his foot.  Electric sander!

He summed it up by saying, "You know the callus went away, but you see the skin got really hot."

And by "really hot" he means he burned the bejeezes out of his foot.  The burn then led to an infection which resulted in him needing surgery on his foot.

He was given his nickname prior to the infamous callus incident.
Ironically enough, this man is called Hoppy.

Beat that, Barbara Walters!

Fudge Bisque

Have you ever tried fudge bisque?

Me neither.

I never even heard of it until the day I accidentally made it.

My intentions were good.
Give friends a bag of yummy goodies when they stop by during the holiday season.

So simple, right?
Very Martha Stewart-y of me, right?

W.R.O.N.G.

I swear on my favorite cookbook, I followed the instructions for the easy peanut butter and chocolate fudge.

I put 4 gazillion pounds of sugar, butter, marshmallow cream, and peanut butter in a large pot on the stove over medium heat.

The recipe is quite clear that under no circumstances should I stop stirring the sugary concoction.  I stir and stir and stir.  After the liquid sugar comes to a rolling boil, I am to continue stirring an additional five minutes.

Turns out, it takes the mountain of sugar quite a looooooong time to get to a boil.
So as I stir, while wearing layers of winter clothing, I begin to sweat.  It is winter, after all, so I'm dressed for the weather.  The outside weather.  I didn't realize I would be required to stir until nearly the new year. In addition to sweating, I realize how little upper arm strength I actually possess.  I mean, really, who knew stirring could be such a physically demanding experience?

Finally succumbing to the fact that it is no longer winter in my kitchen, I remove my first layer of clothing.  I drop the fleece by my feet so I won't need to stop stirring for even a moment.  Again, the directions are nearly threatening about the consequences of not stirring constantly.

The second layer of clothing comes off shortly thereafter.  I'm sure my refrigerator is enjoying this slow strip tease cooking experience.

When my husband comes home, he finds me by the stove in a T-shirt stirring 72 million calories of hot melted, sugar while standing near a pile of sweaters and fleeces.

He asks why I am standing on a pile of laundry, but I am too busy sweating and stirring to form an adequate response.  Quite frankly, we've been married so long I really think it is more of a rhetorical question.

Finally, the recipe instructs me to turn off the heat and stir in a bag of chocolate chips.  Obediently I do so.

The chocolate chips melt and I pour this gooey, sweet smelling concoction into a pan lined with foil and then I let it set.  I let it set overnight.

Imagine my surprise when I attempt to cut it in the morning only to discover it remains in a somewhat liquid form.

I have sweet friends who love sweet things so they seem utterly thrilled to watch me spoon their fudge bisque into holiday goodie bags.  Sadly, they'll need to supply their own straws to enjoy it.

Undaunted, I spoon the fudge into bowls for my children.  They, of course, each have a sweet tooth the size of Santa's sleigh.  As they slurp up the fudge, I am quickly crowned "best mom ever."

Now excuse me while I go drink some fudge.

Ho Ho Ho!

Kudos, Music Teacher

Dear Music Teacher,

I was going to call you on the phone, but I assume you are deaf.

I deeply regret we cannot afford to buy you diamonds this holiday season. As you are attempting to teach musical instruments to both of my children, I know you deserve at least diamonds.

Instead, all I can offer you is this very poorly written poem...

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I am so sorry for you.

Hot Cross Buns and Ode to Joy;
You gave a recorder to my boy?

He plays it madly,
Albeit badly.
He loves it, sadly.

The trumpet was not my idea.
For that you can blame my daughter, Lia.

They love duets and are quite a pair.
That sound makes me want to pull my hair!

I want the noise to dampen down.
I'm getting fine lines from my frown.

You, however, handle it well.
Amazing, 'cause it sounds like hell.

Years of doing this, and you look sane.
I think scientists should study your brain.

I can't stand another honk or tweet.
I am just not that sweet.

Happy Holidays,
  A Mom who hopes Santa brings her earplugs

Cheers to all the teachers who manage to teach our children how to read, write, add, subtract, and most amazingly of all...teach our children how to play musical instruments.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Let's cut to the chase.  I have been naughty this past year with flashes of niceness.  Those flashes should count for something, right?

I mean, come on!  You are one to judge. You don't let your elves unionize and you work them to the bone this time of year. I know.  I've read plenty of Christmas books and viewed countless a holiday films.  You're not the only one who can find out who's been naughty or nice!

PETA is no doubt watching you in terms of your treatment of those reindeer. You cannot tell me that lugging your large ass as well as presents for all the good boys and girls all over the world is easy on reindeer. At our house we leave your team of reindeer one lousy carrot which you don't always remember to take.   You NEVER forget to eat the cookies and milk do you? You really are a piece of work.

Yeah, I've not been the nicest this past year, but neither have you.  You can stop all the Santa judgment and cut me some slack!

So I want to be clear with you about what I DO NOT want to find under the Christmas tree this year.  Here's your opportunity to be nice vs naughty:

1.  Toys wrapped in hard plastic.  I do not want to spend my holiday in the emergency room, and I swear nothing short of a chainsaw can get through some types of plastic packaging.  Did NASA invent that plastic?  Is our military aware of its super human, indestructible strength?  Seems like there could be better use for that type of plastic than for securing one tiny Littlest Pet Shop toy.  I mean really, that plastic defies logic.

2.  Toys with batteries.  Yes, this might be hard to pull off, but you should try.  I inevitably will have some batteries in the house on Christmas morning, but they will likely be the wrong size for whatever loud, overpriced toy you decide to leave for my children.  Odds are, even if I have the correct batteries, I may be forced to deny it depending on how obnoxious the toy appears to be. Do all of us a favor and avoid battery operated toys.

3.  Toys that need assembled.  I want to be clear that I cannot follow directions on Christmas morning.  This is because I am often up at 4 AM telling my sleep deprived, overly excited, obnoxious delightful children that it is too early to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior by opening an obscene amount of presents. They need to go back to bed or the Grinch will come and steal the presents from under the tree and give them to neighborhood children who are still sleeping! My Christmas spirit doesn't kick in until after sunrise and 1 cup of strong coffee.

4.  Unlabeled presents.  Please don't forget to label the presents.  It's really annoying to find a present under the tree that is clearly from you because it is wrapped in your special Santa paper, but there is no name tag on it.  Which sleep deprived little monster angel should open the gift?  Nothing good can come from unmarked presents.

5.  I know it's simple and easy for your over-worked elves to stock my children's stocking with socks, underwear, gum, and candy, but can you go easy on the candy this year?  Last year after yelling at encouraging my children to go back to bed, I told them they could open their stockings if they did so in bed and stayed in said bed until at least 6 AM.  It's amazing how much chocolate and gum my children can consume before sunrise.   That candy is like crack cocaine to my children. Maybe you could replace the candy with math facts?  Yeah, I'm a good time!

So from one naughty, over weight adult to another, please grant me my Christmas wishes.

Ho Ho Ho,
A Naughty Mom

The Day Santa Died

Don't panic.  There will be Christmas this year, but Christmas won't be the same.

My children understand Santa has a HUGE job to do every year.
Managing the elves, keeping the "Naughty & Nice" list up to date, and delivering all those presents is a full-time job.

Add to it the obscene number of public appearances Santa needs to make this time of year, and it's a wonder he can be available to do much else.  This is why there are some who volunteer this time of year to be his assistants.

One year, many years ago, my daughter pointed out the obvious while getting her picture taken at the mall with Santa.

"Mom, that is not the REAL Santa!"

I'm sure my response was along the lines of, "Nope, he's not.  The Real Santa is in Albuquerque  today.  There is no way he can be everywhere.  That's why he has helpers. His helpers are his eyes and ears. They'll get your wish list to the real Santa."

What parent hasn't had a very similar conversation with their child?

The real thrill for my kids wasn't seeing Santa in the mall.  No, the real thrill was when he would arrive at my mom's annual Christmas party.  Halfway through the festivities, Santa always arrived with a few presents and candy canes for all the little ones.

Ohhhh, the squeals of joy!
Ohhhh, the shrieks of horror! (Yeah, some of those little ones are totally chicken shit when it comes to big men in red suits.)

My children would size up Santa and later report they didn't think he was the REAL one.  But..... they were never quite sure, and they always made sure they told Santa exactly which outrageously priced toy they wanted him to deliver on Christmas.

The truth is that Santa wasn't the real Santa, but he was the best!

Of course, he was jolly, and friendly.  Of course, he was dressed in a dazzling red suit.

He also had a heart of gold.  He understood the true meaning of Christmas, and he delighted in the joy of children.  He always had a joke to tell, and he always laughed the hardest after telling it.  His laugh was contagious!  When I close my eyes I can still here it.

Santa won't be joining our family celebration this year.

God bless his soul.

7 Words Not Typically Said During Thanksgiving Dinner

I love my family.
They truly put "fun" in "dysFUNctional."

This Thanksgiving was spent gathered around a table with my husband, my parents, sister, brother-in-law, aunt, cousin, cousin-in-law, and a gaggle of children sequestered at the infamous children's table.

Arguably, the children's table was more civilized than the adult table. This is saying something because the children's table was total mayhem.

You may find this difficult to believe, but the following words were uttered AT THE ADULT TABLE during Thanksgiving:

Clot
Fescue
Mucinex
Table saw
Tourniquet
Vaginia
Vaginal disease

Somewhere there is a pilgrim rolling over in his grave.

I double-dog dare you to try to use the above words during your next dinner party without having at least one person groan in apparent pain.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends and family!  Whether you are fun, dysfunctional, or a little of both, I hope you have a turkey-filled holiday surrounded by those for which you are most thankful.

Adventures in Abercrombie & F#@%!

'Tis the season to grab your holiday shopping list and venture into huge, enormous shopping centers luring you with large, red signs promising "Sales, Sales, Sales!"

My tween wants a hoodie for Christmas.  A very specific hoodie.  I could describe this hoodie for you but why bother?  Just trust me when I say this particular hoodie is seemingly extinct.  Exactly one exists in this entire world, and it happens to belong to my tween.  Since she wears it day and night it is starting to look...well...like an ugly, filthy hoodie.  Now she wants another.

Hours of shopping, and I cannot find a hoodie matching my tween's specific requirements.  Where could such a hoodie exist?

I venture into Abercrombie & Fitch despite the little voice in my head telling me to run away.  Have you been in Abercrombie & Fitch recently?

Even before crossing the threshold of the store, Abercrombie & Fitch immediately assaults my nostrils with the potent smell of cologne. I don't actually have words to describe this smell.  It's as if Abercrombie & Fitch took a nice smell, multiplied it so many times it then miraculously turns toxic. Although I think the intent is for the smell to travel from nostril to groin, instead I feel it go from my nostril to my head immediately.  I am morphed from professional, organized shopper to dizzy, snotty, out-of-place fool.

As I try to clear my head, I realize this is a futile endeavor given the "music."  The music is blaring.  BLARING.  I don't know who is "singing," but it isn't my beloved Rick Springfield or U2. No, this is a very angry singer who is yelling at me.  He is screaming at me while the drum beat goes like this, "BAM, BAM, BAM, BA, BA, BAM, BAM BAM."  I have no idea why he is so angry nor do I actually know what he is saying, but he is not a happy guy.

Although the smell and sounds are distracting, I try to focus. After all, I am a mother.  I've perfected blocking out loud, obnoxious sounds. Any mom knows it's the quiet that is scary.

I try to continue shopping, but Abercrombie & Fitch thinks I should shop in the dark. I cannot see a gosh darn thing.  It's so dark that when I run into a table, suck in a large amount of poisoned air, and cry out in pain, no one in the store takes notice.  How can they?  It's pitch black and too loud to hear anything above the sound of that angry, screaming "singer."

By now I am too far into the store to easily escape.  I've completely forgotten why I have ventured into this funhouse, and I start to think I'll never find my way out.  I look around frantically for an exit sign.  All around me I see young, skinny people.  Although my pupils are undoubtably dilated to the size of golf balls, these young people look calm and unaffected by the sensory overload. I'm reminded of Children of the Corn.

Why is Abercrombie & Fitch torturing me?

Perhaps I'm drunk on the smell of overpowering cologne or perhaps my brain is bleeding.  I don't really know.  However, once I finally escape the store, I realize Abercrombie & Fitch's master plan...

Abercrombie & Fitch wants me dizzy, deaf, and blind so I won't care or notice that they sell ugly t-shirts for $40.  If only they had hoodies!


Tony Hawk Painted Plaid Hoodie (Google Affiliate Ad)

Save the Chocolate Bunnies!

When my daughter was six years old, she sat down at dinner one night and proclaimed she was a vegetarian. One day she could very well be a vegetarian, but at six??
I tried not to panic since meat is a staple on our dinner table.

"A vegetarian? What's it mean to be a vegetarian?" I asked innocently.

"I don't eat whale."

"Well, you're in luck," I say. "This happens to be chicken, and I promise to never serve you whale."

"I don't eat any extinct animals, mom."

This is when I assured her that chickens are not going extinct, and I promised never to serve her whales, Bengal tigers, or African cheetahs.

With that, my daughter shrugged, picked up her fork, and gobbled up her chicken. So much for her brief foray into vegetarianism.

I am not a vegetarian. I can eat foods that have faces. Cow, chicken, fish. Mmmmmm. All good!

So someone please tell me why I whimper at the thought of eating a chocolate bunny?
I cannot do it.
I cannot even buy chocolate bunnies for my children.
I cannot do it.
I cannot and will not eat a chocolate bunny.

I'm not even sure I would know how. Do you bite off the ears first?
What sort of barbaric person can buy a darling, sweet chocolate Easter bunny and then bite off its ears?

I prefer to eat chocolate bars or chocolate in any shape that does not resemble that of a small bunny. I'm really not a chocolate snob. Just don't make me bite the head off a chocolate bunny. I cannot do it.

Let's consider the plight of chocolate bunnies this time of year.
They line the shelves in their cute little cardboard boxes. They wait innocently to be purchased. Easter morning arrives and the plastic is greedily removed, momentarily freeing them from their boxed captivity. Just when they think they might have an opportunity to bunny hop with their fellow chocolate bunnies, they are lifted into the air.

The the last thing they hear is someone biting off their ears. Then, in all likelihood, they remain earless until they are tossed into the trash because, let's be honest, chocolate bunnies are not the best tasting goodies in one's Easter basket.* Everyone knows the peanut butter eggs are the crown jewel of the Easter basket. As an aside, I have no moral qualms whatsoever ingesting my weight in chocolate peanut butter eggs. They are faceless chocolate ovals filled with goodness.

*Note: My husband claims chocolate bunnies are delicious and I don't know what I'm talking about.

To him and others I have only one thing to say.

Save the chocolate bunnies (and the whales, too)!

Super Super Bowl Stomach

Ahhh...Super Bowl Sunday.

This is the only day other than Thanksgiving when I can eat all the food imaginable without it counting towards a single Weight Watcher point.

Glorious, glorious Super Bowl Sunday!

For that reason alone it's a holiday, and I resent that we don't have the following Monday off. I need time to digest all of the high-caloric carbohydrates I will consume. My stomach literally becomes its own super bowl filled with an assortment of high caloric dips and chips.

Let me take a moment to share my Super Bowl menu. We will serve the following: wings, nachos, stuffed potato skins, artichoke dip, Doritos, cheesy fries, mozzarella sticks and....hmmm...I'm forgetting something. I'm sure it contains cheese.

No, we are not having a party. Our children are not invited to join us either.
My husband and I sequester ourselves in a room where he will watch football, and I will eat like I've not eaten since last year's Super Bowl.

Super Bowl Sunday is the one glorious day of the year when the world seemingly tilts on its axis. I eat every appetizer known to man, and I look forward to the commercials.

I eat with a fury that is actually frightening. Sadly, I'm usually bloated and stuffed 47 seconds after kickoff.

I fight to stay awake as the carb coma slowly tries to drag me into unconsciousness. My Super Bowl resolution today is to hold off on the quesadillas (that's what I forgot!) until the start of the second quarter. Not sure I can do it.

As for which team I want to see win? Who's playing?
I'm cheering for the commercials!

I'm a big supporter of commercials featuring athletic horses, singing dogs, or darling children doing darling things. Any commercial featuring Betty White will also work. If a commercial comes on that isn't funny or thought provoking, I risk slipping back into a food coma.

Really, any commercial other than the Big Daddy commercials are acceptable.
What's up with those soft porn commercials? I want the women to keep their shirts on and I don't want the commercial to include any references to farts or other bodily functions. I hear enough about that in my daily life.

Those belching and farting commercials have the potential to upset my very delicate stomach.
And I will have none of that!

Go Patriots!
(My hubby made me write that.)

The Problem with New Year's Resolutions

If you are looking for a way to ensure your failure at something, I suggest you make it a New Year's resolution.

I can usually make it 15 hours into the new year before realizing that I've already failed. I spend more time thinking of new resolutions than it takes me to break every single one. It's taken me years to make this connection, but this year I plan to make my resolutions accordingly.

Since I am now convinced that I cannot keep a resolution for more than 24 hours, I'm shaking things up in 2012.

I have no plans to exercise more and eat right. Screw those green things called vegetables! This year I vow to eat as much trans fats as possible so by year's end someone will need a crane to remove me from my home. The only serious exercise I plan to do will be to run from the freezer section of my local grocery story to the checkout line in order to get my Haagen Dazs ice cream home before it melts.

As for financial planning? Ha! Last year's resolution to save more and spend less still led to my eventual hemorrhaging of money. This year I may just wallpaper the playroom in crisp twenty dollar bills. If I have any money left over after that remodel, I'll send the extra to members of the United States Congress. They are obviously under compensated for their efforts!

Which leads me to the act of giving generously to those less fortunate. Charity is an important addition to any list of New Year's resolutions. This year I'm donating to Wall Street. The last few years have been hard on bankers and big business. They need our help. After all, businesses are people too, right?

As for the earth and my previous years' plans to recycle more and go green, isn't healthy air and clean water overrated? Plus, is there really such a thing as global warming? And while we are talking about propaganda, let me just say that it's time for whales to learn to save themselves. We cannot be expected to do it all!

Just the thought of limiting the use of foul language, causes Tourette's-like symptoms. @!$"#%^£!!

Good luck making and keeping your New Year's resolutions!  I, for one, am already committed to the failure of mine.

Happy New Year!

Turtleneck Christmas

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Now they, and all of their contents, are strewn around the living room as if they were unwrapped by sleep deprived children who had nothing but a Christmas cookie, a cinnamon roll, and a donut hole for breakfast. Wait, that is exactly what happened!

As my children's pores actually seep sugar, I am reminded of Christmas past. After celebrating 39-ish Christmases, one comes to realize that some are simply more fruitful than others. Of course we all know the true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with the items carefully wrapped under the tree, but the gifts are delightful nonetheless less!

I remember one Christmas when I went downstairs and discovered the Barbie Dream House. Santa outdid himself that year. My 5 year old brain nearly exploded with excitement when I saw it had a working elevator. Ken and Barbie were finally homeowners! The three of us were so happy!

I also remember a Christmas when I was 12 or 13 years old. I was becoming less interested in toys and more interested in clothes. Among other things, I asked Santa for a turtleneck. Well, Santa outdid himself that year, too. I opened a white turtleneck, a cream turtleneck, a mother of pearl turtleneck, a red turtleneck, a crimson turtleneck, a scarlet turtleneck, a green turtleneck, an olive turtleneck, a forest green turtleneck, a black turtleneck, a black mock turtleneck, a grey turtleneck, and an orange turtleneck. I'm forgetting a few because I am nearly certain I received 15 turtlenecks that Christmas.

I watched as my younger sister opened a present. She received a cool new board game. I unwrapped a turtleneck. She opened a box with costume jewelry, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. She opened a box of art supplies, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. She unwrapped a a box of Christmas chocolates, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. You get the picture.

I was old enough to know that no one should cry on Christmas. Tears on Christmas really anger Santa! Truth is that I felt like bursting into tears around turtleneck number 6. By turtleneck number 11, however, I gave into the humor of it all.

I've never seen my father so angry at Santa! I started to feel bad for Santa. Poor old Santa! He had been delivering items to good little boys and girls for years. He was bound to make a mistake like this at some point. Santa felt horrible (I have it on good authority), but you can't possibly expect Santa to get it right all of the time.

To this day, my family still laughs about the Turtleneck Christmas.

I was reminded of Turtleneck Christmas this morning when my son unwrapped two identical Mario Brothers toys within 10 minutes of each other. He was thrilled the first time he opened one of the gifts, but he was puzzled and confused when he opened the second identical one. All I could tell him was, "At least it's not a turtleneck!"

May you have a lovely Christmas filled with all of your favorite things even a turtleneck or two!

Please Pass the Potatoes

What better time than the overindulgent holidays to pay tribute to my favorite food...the spud.

There is a delightful scene in "Forest Gump" when Forest's friend Bubba is listing all the various ways to prepare shrimp. This scene speaks to me because I have the same love affair with the potato. The potato is one of the most versatile foods. Imagine all the ways to enjoy a potato: baked, twice baked, scalloped, roasted, mashed, fried. Is your mouth watering yet?

The list could go on, but let's stop at the fried potato, specifically french fries.
Recently I was at a fast food establishment when the teenager behind the counter asked me, "Do you want fries with that?" I resisted the urge to ask him if anyone ever answers, "No."

Of course, I want fries with that!

To be more precise, I want a cheeseburger with my fries. In fact I'm only standing here in this fast food establishment for two reasons:

1. I am addicted to your greasy, calorie laden fries
2. My son is a huge fan of the chicken-like products you serve (exactly what part of a chicken is in the chicken nugget? Never mind, I digress).

The point is, who doesn't love french fries?

Well, blessedly, I do happen to know one person who doesn't love fries. He's my nugget addicted 8 year old son. I know this may sound horrible, and there is a part of me ashamed to admit it, but his aversion to fries is just one more reason why I love him. More fries for me!

There are so many different types of french fries. Prepare it skinny, curly, or Cajun. They are all good. The potato is one of those unique foods that actually makes other foods better. Today I actually encountered cheesy bread with fries baked on top! Never tasted cheesy bread so good! Cover a potato with butter, onion, cheese, chili, you name it, and suddenly you have a spud delicacy.

Want to know what else is good? Any food stuffed with potatoes. A perfect example is the perogi. If you've never had a perogi you need to immediately stop reading this and go eat one. Seriously, stop reading. GO EAT A PEROGI. I'll wait.

Wasn't it just about the best thing your mouth has ever experienced? A dumpling filled with potatoes and sautéed in butter and onions. Mmmmmmmmm. Let me just have a moment....... Delicious!

Holidays are a time to reflect on the blessings around us and to appreciate those we love. Clearly, you know what I'm thankful for this holiday season.

Now please pass the potatoes.

Happy Holidays, Amtrak!

Thanksgiving is the kick-off to the frantic, stress-filled holiday season. With family spread from Cleveland to Boston, Thanksgiving is also the start of our own personal traveling frenzy. We've made the trip from Ohio to Boston countless times in several different ways. We've traveled by car and minivan. We've flown direct flights and circuitous indirect flights. As we planned the journey this year, my husband pondered, "Wonder what it would be like to travel by train?" We purchased 4 round-trip Amtrak tickets. We were ready for an adventure!

I suppose there are longer and more uncomfortable ways to travel to Boston. For example, next year we might travel by mule.

Blessedly our 8 and 10 year old kiddos were quite content for the entire 20 hour trip to Boston. Yes, 20 hours. It wasn't advertised as a 20 hour trip, but trains can be delayed just like planes. The trains are equipped with electrical outlets so our children's treasured electronic devices never ran out of juice. As I watched my children's eyes dilate to twice their normal size, I did wonder about the long term effects of nearly 20 hours of uninterrupted electronic bliss. Sure they risked thumb cramps from the constant pushing of tiny buttons, but I treasured their silent contentment.

Their quiet contentment gave me ample opportunity to reflect on the environment around me.

Public bathrooms are often unfortunate places. Train bathrooms are in a league of their own. Imagine a small, moving, coed, public restroom. Let me help you get a better mental picture of this traveling urine-rich space. Picture a small walk-in closet. Shrink it by 3 feet and add a metal toilet and sink. It's basically 2 times the size of an airplane bathroom.

Keep in mind the following facts (yes, facts):
1. Men are not known for having great aim when sober and standing perfectly still.
2. The train has a popular "lounge car" that sells mediocre, over-priced alcohol.
3. Men's ability to aim while intoxicated and while moving along bumpy train tracks is almost laughable.
4. Women do not like to have their bare cheeks touch public toilet seats.
5. A woman's ability to hover over a seat is greatly decreased thanks to the lounge car and the moving toilet seat.

Multiply the 5 facts above by 20 hours and see how long you can "hold it."

The door slides open, and the first step into the pee-zone warns you of the coming scene. Your shoes stick to the floor and you pray to the bathroom gods that there is a rational explanation for this other than the fact that you are standing on the semi-dried pee of your fellow travelers. The smell reminds you of toilets you encountered as a youth in college bars. You pause a moment and realize how much fun you had in college compared to how little fun you are having at this very moment. Perhaps it's the memory, or the stench around you, but tears come to your eyes. The tears are a blessing. They keep you from clearly seeing the droplets of urine on the toilet seat. For the first time, you truly understand penis envy. You contemplate trying to pee like a man. That's clearly what the lady prior to you must have done. Instead you make vain attempts to sanitize the area before allowing your own precious butt cheeks to make contact with anything in that space. When your bladder is empty you whisper a prayer that it will remain empty for the remainder of the trip. Despite the urge to drown yourself in the lounge car, you resolve to not drink anything for the remainder of the trip. Dehydration has its advantages!

You return to your seat to find your children hovered over their electronic devices. You say something to them, but their precious brains have begun to ooze out of their ears as a result of electronic nirvana. They turn their glassy eyes towards you briefly, but you know they hear nothing but the beeping of their electronic games.

You turn to your husband and find him making vain attempts to sleep. The train chairs are wider than airplane seats and they recline more, too. However, the seats are ill designed. Imagine a slide on a playground. Now imagine a tall adult trying to sleep at the bottom of the slide. If there is a way to sleep comfortably on a slide I don't know how one does so. The chair reclines and gravity slowly pulls you towards the floor. You recall the floor in the bathroom and you know with absolute certainty that your own shoes have brought dried urine back to your seat. You dare not touch the floor, and you fight with your seat to keep from slipping to it. You pull out numerous neck pillows only to realize you've forgotten an eye mask. You try not to beat yourself up about this, after all you're a novice train rider. How did you know that Amtrak would keep the lights on for the entire trip? You rig up some strange contraption that involves a napkin, sunglasses, and a headband. You are suddenly desperate to cover your eyes and sleep. Just as you start to drift off, the evilness of the reclining chair slips you closer to the floor. You jolt awake and sadly the napkin on your eye mask contraption slips and falls gracefully to the floor. You want to cry because there is no hope for that napkin. It has been contaminated. You realize you may never sleep again. You look at your watch to discover you only have a mere 6 more hours to go.

After 36 hours (amount of time for the roundtrip journey)of trying to sleep on the train, I declare it impossible. I believe I've invested enough hours into trying to accomplish this impossible task that I can be considered an expert on such matters.

On the plus side, the Amtrak staff are delightful people. Nearly every single worker we spoke to was friendly and helpful. I imagine the workers at the stations are just grateful they don't actually work on the trains. As for the staff on the train? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps cheerfulness is a side effect of dehydration or perhaps there is a clean staff restroom hidden on the train.

All of that to say... Happy Holidays, Amtrak!
I hope the New Year brings you shorter trips, fewer delays, and pee-free environments!