My Secret American Idol Addiction

I do it behind closed doors.
Sometimes I do it on weekends, but usually it's on a weeknight.
Late at night when children are sleeping.
I'm completely addicted and completely ashamed of my addiction.
I want to stop. I want to stop, but I can't.

I am a 39-ish year old mother who is hopelessly addicted to watching American Idol.

There I said it. A weight has been lifted.

Are you addicted, too?
Please, please tell me you are. Please....

I wasn't always addicted. I didn't even watch American Idol for the first several seasons because I was a better mom and was busy mothering my children. 

I am a late American Idol bloomer, so to speak.

If you don't watch American Idol, then save yourself several moments of confusion and just stop reading.  None of the following will make any sense.

If you do watch American Idol, then I hope at least some of this will make sense.  If you disagree with me, please keep it to yourself.  Otherwise, let me know how brilliant we both are!

Five things I need to get off my chest about American Idol:

5.  Nicki Minaj. Really? Nicki, please just stop talking.

4.  Keith Urban, could you maybe judge with your shirt off?  I think it would add to the quality of the show.

3.  During auditions in one town, the judges kept a handsome, one-legged, young man from going to Hollywood.  They said he wasn't ready.  Whuck?  He had Hollywood written all over him.  Of course, I cannot remember his name or what town. None-the-less, he was totally robbed. I blame Nicki.  Keith, I forgive you.

2.  Despite robbing one person in #3 his dream of becoming the next American Idol, let's just skip ahead and award the American Idol crown to Burnell Taylor? That kid can sing-hing!

1.   I am absolutely fickle, and next week I'll be asking "Burnell who?" I'm demented, too (see #3, for example)

Having said all of the above, I need to add one more thing.

Sigh.

I miss Simon.

Crack in a Crock

I am not a crackhead, but I think I now understand crackhead addictions.

I know I don't typically blog about recipes, but I've got to share this recipe with you.
You MUST make it, eat it, and then continue reading.

I admit I am taking liberty with the name, but the recipe is totally legitimate.

Crack in a Crock Dip

In a crockpot place the following items:

A bunch of cooked, shredded chicken
1 cup of ranch dressing
2 containers of cream cheese
1.5 -2 cups of shredded cheddar cheese
Hot sauce (I don't know how much.  It probably depends on how hot you want it to be.)

Turn crockpot on and cook for several hours until the delicious smell draws you to it like a fly to a big pile of horse dung.

You are now, no doubt, wondering why I don't write a food blog.  Clearly, I'm talented at this.

Once the crack in a crock is ready, get a a bag of chips or crackers.

If you're health conscious, grab some celery sticks.  Actually, if you're health conscious just stop reading and go away.  You are already judging me for the obscene amount of cheese in this recipe.  Haven't you realized life is too short not to eat cheese?  Cheese is good!

Ok, unhealthy conscious folks who I totally relate to, commence eating.

Start by putting one appropriately sized spoonful of crack in a crock on your plate.
Eat it with a chip in a civilized manner.

If you are like me, the feeling starts rather quickly.
The crack in the crock makes you start thinking like this:

It's sooooooooo very good that when others approach, tell them it tastes like total crap.  You don't want to share this goodness with anyone.  No sharing!

Add another spoonful to your plate, only this time make the spoonful at least three times the size of your first serving.  Eat the dip as quickly as possible so you can put more crack on your plate.
In fact, who really needs a plate?

Ditch the plate, grab a chip and use it as a spoon while standing over the crockpot. Remind yourself you are burning more calories by hovering over the crockpot than you would be if you were sitting down.

Now you will notice your eyes are darting around.

Is someone trying to eat your dip?
Hunch over the crockpot. Nobody's getting your crack in a crock.

Slowly reach over, unplug the crockpot and carry it to a private place. Might I suggest a bathroom or closet?  You need privacy.

While walking there you may get crack in a crock dip on your new shirt.  Don't worry.  You can lick and suck it off your shirt once you are in the privacy of your closet.

Eat all of the crack in the crock.

You WILL feel your arteries start to clog immediately, and you will actually feel the cells on your butt begin to multiply.

Despite all logic, you will absolutely want more crack in a crock.

Being an addict is tough!

Is a Standing Ovation Too Much to Ask?

Apparently so.

A standing ovation is addicting.

I once spoke at an event where miraculously I received a standing ovation.  Whether it was caused by my brilliant, impassioned speech or by the need for everyone to simultaneously stretch their legs, I may never know.

BUT I can say with absolute certainty that a standing ovation is like crack-cocaine for your ego.

When I returned home I made a simple request.  When I am finished speaking, I only ask that my family rise to their feet and applaud.  Is that asking too much?

Apparently so.  My family has yet to rise off their bottoms and break into spontaneous applause.  What's wrong with them??

The other day I made lasagna for my family.  Not one round of applause.  Not one.

I washed sheets later that week.  Not a single clap.  Ungracious ingrates.

Perfect strangers thought I was worthy of spontaneous applause. What's wrong with my family?  Ohhhhhhh....wait....they know me.

Well, there you go.  It must be a scientific fact that it is easier to support strangers who sound good for a few moments in time than a family member who fulfills everyone of your endless needs.

So with that, I am rising to my feet and giving myself a standing ovation.  No, it's not the same, but it's better than nothing!

Plus, my ego needs a quick fix.

Camp Grandma

School's out, school's out, teacher let the fools out!

Now the fools' parents need to find some way to entertain the fools during the long summer months. In our house that means signing both fools children up for one summer camp after another.

Our kids attend a variety of summer camps, but all of them pale in comparison to the annual week-long overnight camp at grandma's house. Yes, Camp Grandma is the highlight of the summer for everyone except, perhaps, grandma.

A week before camp, the questions start.
"Are you leaving us at Grandma's? "
"You're not staying with us, right?"
"We get to stay at grandma's all week!?"

Clearly, we are a total buzz kill. Our kids want us out of their hair for a week.

Of course, secretly, hubby and I are ticking off the days until Camp Grandma like prisoners counting days until release. As we pull our minivan out of grandma's driveway, we try to keep our hooting, yelping, and cries of joy from reaching our children's precious ears.

"Ohhhh, sweet freedom!" we yell as we drive away like bats out of hell.
We are eager to flee before Grandma comes to her senses and decides this whole "Camp Grandma" gig is overrated.

Camp Grandma is a week filled with parenting indiscretions.
Frankly, I'm amazed Camp Grandma is run by the same lady who raised me.

At Camp Grandma there is actually a cookie jar filled with...get this...cookies!
Kids can eat from the cookie jar without...believe it or not...being scolded!
Kids don't have to eat everything on their plates because....are you ready for this? ...maybe they aren't hungry!
Kids can play more video games because...I can't believe this one...they want to!

Children eat pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Days are filled with trips to the zoo, toy store, drive-in theatre, waterpark, and random festivals. Root beer floats are served nightly and the television is on non-stop. Or so our children say.

Grandma is adamant her grandchildren are lying, little heathens who do not get everything they want during their 7 days at Camp I can't believe this is my mother! Grandma.

I'm really not sure who is lying about the shenanigans that go on at Camp Grandma.
All I know is when I pick up my precious, sugar-filled angles at the end of the week, and ask them to do something, anything, their glazed over eyes look at me like I've lost my mind.

"Grandma doesn't make us do that," they say in unison.

Well, kids, welcome back to reality.

Cupid, Bring Me More Chocolate Wine

A small boy in diapers is going to shoot me in the ass with an arrow and I'm going to fall in love?

Was some pervert drinking when he thought this up?

If he was drinking, I hope he was sipping a lovely glass of chocolate wine.
Yes, chocolate wine.

Just when you think life has beaten you down and there is nothing pleasurable in your life, your Facebook friend casually mentions that she's drinking chocolate wine.

Yeah, I assumed she was drunk. Perhaps she was. That's when I do some of my best Facebooking.

I thought she meant she was drinking wine and eating chocolate. Turns out she is my new heroine for introducing me to chocolate wine. What's next, cupcake vodka?

I was a chocolate wine virgin, but that ended Monday night. Well, Monday late afternoon, but don't judge me.

Chocolate wine takes two perfect items and blends them into perfection. Remember those fabulous Reece Peanut Butter Cup commercials where a girl is walking with an open jar of peanut butter and a silly boy with a chocolate bar runs into her? Two great tastes that taste great together!

Well, I'm no advertiser, but I think I know the perfect commercial for chocolate wine.

A woman sits alone at a bar drinking a glass of wine. George Clooney comes in with chocolate syrup and squirts some into her glass. The camera zooms in and the woman sips the wine and smiles demurely. Cupid steps out from behind the bar and shoots George Clooney in the ass with an arrow. Camera zooms in closer to reveal that I am the woman at the bar.
The end.

Geez, this is good wine.

Cupid? Hey, little naked winged boy, bring me more chocolate wine, please.

Happy Valentine's Day!

My Son is Sort of Bilingual

I don't like to brag.

Well, actually, maybe I do. I just never have bragging rights to anything.
However, my son is sort of bilingual so I feel I've earned the right to sort of brag.

He is fluent in English and something I refer to as Gamingspeak.
He is entirely self-taught. He has had no formal training, but he has devoted an exorbitant amount of time towards learning this new and strange language.
He is a natural!

He has friends who are also fluent in Gamingspeak. This gives him an avenue to practice this mysterious language since clearly I have no idea what he is saying.

Gamingspeak is similar to English but it includes a mix of words that are totally foreign.

The other day he very animatedly said, "I must get to the eight worlds in mushroom kingdom without seeing cheep-cheeps blooper by air or I power up to avoid lakitu. I usually use yoshi. The last time I lost levels because of goomba koopa troopas and koopa paratroopa. Gotta avoid giant ice bros and giant goombas. Wet dry world and shallows and skies world has a giant bomb. Phew!"

Or something like that.  I was confused as soon as he mentioned a mushroom kingdom.
I think somebody was enjoying entirely too much mushroom kingdom when he developed these games.  Of course, that man is no doubt loaded since these games are so darn expensive!

The fact that we are somehow supporting a rich person's mushroom kingdom habit does not seem to weigh heavily on my son. Just let him play as looooooooooooooooooong as possible.  I believe blood pouring from his corneas would not deter his determination to fight goomba koopa troopas. (My spell check is lighting up this page!)

I'm trying to convince my son that when he is older he could design and develop these games. Of course this would require turning the game off and doing something in its place like...hmm...what's the word I'm thinking of? Oh, right...studying (gasp)!

When our country is taken over by the fierce, cartoonish goomba koopa troopas, I will be confident that at least one member of our family will be able to communicate with those evil creatures.

When this invasion occurs, I just hope my son is not 35, living in my basement, growing his own mushroom kingdom.

Those Cookie-Pushing Girl Scouts!

They look so sweet dressed in their brown uniforms covered in badges. Doe-eyed with sugary sweet voices, they ask if you want to buy any Girl Scout cookies.

Do you want any Girl Scout cookies?    Ha!

There must be crack cocaine in those cookies and no reasonable, addicted adult can refuse the crispy goodness of a Thin Mint. The question isn't whether or not you want a box of Girl Scout cookies. The real question is how many cases of cookies can you order before you reveal your need for GSC Rehab (that's Girl Scout Cookie Rehabilitation for those of you who are clean).

You know you have a problem (and I'm just being hypothetical here) when you purchase the crack-cocaine cookies from various dealers...err...girl scouts in an effort to look less addicted. If you only buy 3 boxes from any one cookie-pusher, you look less addicted than if you buy...oh...I don't know...maybe three boxes from 9 different dealers...errrr...there I go again...girl scouts. You end up with 27 boxes of crack-cocaine cookies and nobody is the wiser.

Another sign that you may need intervention is when you bring home your 27 boxes, but you don't admit it to anyone. Sure you may share a couple boxes with your family because you are a generous person, but your addiction forces you to hide the remaining 25 boxes in various places like the freezer, laundry room, underwear drawer, and the linen closet. Again, this is purely conjecture on my part. Please don't ask to look in my underwear drawer.

I could pontificate on which cookies are the most addicting but let's just all agree that Thin Mints and Tagalongs have the highest crack concentration. I've researched this thoroughly.

However, the boxes cost a small fortune per serving. A box of Tagalongs really only contains one serving of cookies. Thin Mints may have 2-3 servings per box unless, of course, one is in the throws of PMS. Then we all know that one box isn't even a full serving of cookies.

My daughter is not a Girl Scout because the best dealers do not use themselves. I could not withstand the pressure of having to store and distribute cookies out of my home. I imagine most people would not be happy to have me deliver a half eaten box of cookies. You expect better from your dealer, right?

The irony is that we are less than 2 weeks into our New Year's resolutions to eat better, and we are being forced to anticipate how many cookies we will need to make it through the year. Those crack-cocaine cookies aren't delivered until March. They have to last until at least the holiday season when Christmas Cookies are plentiful.

How many boxes of crack-cocaine....errrr...cookies does one mother need? I figure 27 boxes could potentially last in my house from mid March through maybe the first week of April.

I suppose it goes without saying...If you know any cookie-pushing girl scouts, please send them my way!