The Chrismakwanzikuh Bounty. Or Booty, If You Will

*Things I have received since Monday, the official start of The Season:

3 candy canes
15 Hershey's kisses, assorted flavors
3 blocks of fudge
1 bag homemade chexmix
2 homemade Rice Krispy Treats
1 large santa head w/ gooey caramel center
1 plastic whistle straw with 3-dimensional santa heads on the stem
1 bag "Santa's Coal" gum
1 medium size milk chocolate santa

*Things I have given since Monday, the official start of The Season:

er. yes.

*Hours until my 13-day vacation begins:

1 hour, 55 minutes

*Number, on a scale of one-to-ten, indicating how stoked I am to get in a car with my family in which we will drive what SHOULD TAKE A NORMAL PERSON 2.2 hours but will really take 4.7 hours:

NEGATIVE FIFTY

*Number of things I will do on my vacation besides eating, sleeping and watching pointless television:

zero.

*How I feel about returning to work in 13 days:

apathetic

*How I plan to rectify this:

FIND A NEW JOB DUMBASS

*Number of friends and family members tired of listening to me bitch:

NONE BECAUSE THEY KNOW HOW FUCKING COOL I REALLY AM.

*And just in cased you missed the fact that my THIRTEEN DAY VACATION STARTS IN ONE HOUR AND FIFTY-FIVE MINUTES--- Number, on a scale of one-to-ten indicating how stoked I am to be GOING ON A FUCKING THIRTEEN DAY VACATION:

10+infinity

PEACE OUT.

Oh, and Happy Religious Season Celebrating!

I Almost Considered Performing A Nosectomy

At 12:47 am Sunday morning I was awakened by a scent most foul.

And just in case you're thinking, "Why, Robin, what scent could have been foul enough to wake you from the deepest and most pleasantest of slumbers?" LET ME TELL YOU WHAT THAT SCENT COULD BE.

Cat Shit.

And not just any Cat Shit. FOUL Cat Shit. Cat Shit SO FOUL it'll make you scramble for the gas mask before you even have a second to ponder where the Foul Cat Shit might be hiding.

So I turned on the bedside lamp whilst covering my nose with the top sheet. I glanced around the room. No outright evidence of the Cat Shit. Must make an under-the-bed inspection.

Under-the-bed inspection: COMPLETE. No sign of Foul Cat Shit.

I plod down the hallway, flicking the light switch as I go. Again, no physical evidence found to indicate WHERE OH WHERE the gag-inducing smell was emanating. So I walk into the kitchen. I check inside cabinets, on top of the refrigerator, under the table, in the sink. I open the door to the back porch, checking for dead animals covered in Cat Shit.

Back in the house, I wander through the living room, checking behind the couch, the chair, the bookcases. I open the doors to the armoire. I lift up corners of the rug.

NOTHING.

I head back to my room, lavender room spray in hand. I spray continuously through the hallway, giving a good squirt into the kitchen. I spray my bedcovers, my sheets, the floor, the closet, the dresser, the ceiling, ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE IT COULD BE HARBORING THE FOUL CAT SHIT SMELL.

Minutes go by. The smell is gone, I think. Perhaps it was just a weird paranormal phenomenon. One that floats through the world leaving the smell of viciously offensive poo in it's wake.

So I cuddle back under the covers, gagging a bit on the heavy lavender smell I've managed to spray on every available surface. My eyes start to close, the lamp is flicked off. Dreams of sugarplums dance in my head. Pretty pretty sugarplums. Sugarplums covered in crystallized sugar. Tasty. Oh so tasty. Oh, NOOOO. The abominable Brown Snowman is coming towards the sugarplums! He's covering them up! Covering them up with his smelly brown snow! OH GOD THE SMELL.

I sit straight up in bed and stare directly into the glowing green eyes of The Fat One. I grab for the cell phone- I've only been asleep for 30 minutes! And the smell OH MY GOD THE SMELL IS BACK. Again, I flick on the bedside lamp, illuminating my seemingly pristine bedroom. The Fat One continues sitting on the end of the bed. He is unnaturally still. He starts walking towards me. Only, only- he's not really walking, per se. His front paws are the only paws moving. The back paws are tucked firmly beneath his belly, his kitty booty planted snugly against my comforter.

This is weird, I think. Why is my cat walking like that? We make eye contact. He continues walking towards me with his half-gait.

It's then that I realize THE SMELL IS GETTING STRONGER OH MY GOD THE SMELL IS COMING FROM THE CAT, THE CAT IS HARBORING THE FOUL CAT SHIT SMELL WHAT AM I TO DO I'M THROWING UP IN MY MOUTH.

I immediately grab the cat by the scruff of his neck, lifting him up to expose his furry belly. A belly which is matted, YES, MATTED, with brown foul-ness. I lift him completely off the bed, where I notice that he's left a trail of brown substance on my comforter. I can feel myself starting to shake. The smell is unbelievable, my pretty comforter COVERED in Foul Cat Shit and my cat is somehow managed to get smearable, projectile-like diarrhea ALL OVER HIMSELF.

I continue holding him by the scruff and carry him into the bathroom. I strip the shower curtain aside, yank up the bath mat and slam the door shut. I turn on the faucet full-force, fill the tub with warm water and shove him ASS FIRST into the tub. I pour rose-scented soap all over his furry body and use my loofah to scrub the poo-covered areas. He scrambles to get away but I WILL BE DAMNED if I let him go before every last trace of skank is gone from his body.

I drain and refill the tub three more times, the water is that rank. I hold up The Fat One's tail and push his booty directly into the stream of water, hoping the running water will shake off any last residual pieces. I finally deem The Fat One to be poo-free and grab a towel from under the sink, wrapping his squirmy, furry, rat-looking body in the blue terrycloth.

I throw the loofah away.

After towel-drying The Fat One I lay down six or seven towels in the foyer so he can (hopefully) use them to dry off instead of utilizing my rug/chair/bed.

It's 2:30am.

I head back to my bed and am quickly reminded that my cat has left a trail of smeared presents on my comforter. I decide it's too late to do anything but wad it up and seal it in a garbage bag. I grab an extra blanket from the linen closet and spread it on the bed, my eyes drooping from tiredness and over-exhaustion of the olfactory glands. I climb in bed for the THIRD TIME that evening and hit the lamp switch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke up at 7:30 am Sunday morning (yes, that would be a total of five hours of sleep) to get ready for work, intent on beating my cat's ass into next week for smearing foul poo all over my comforter and for forcing me to soil my one good loofah on his crap-encrusted ass.

HERE'S WHERE I GOT REALLY PISSED OFF.

When I woke up I found Llama (The Fat One) curled by my hip, his furry head resting on his paws. Just as I opened my mouth to lay into his ass, informing him of JUST HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO DRY CLEAN COMFORTERS and HOW MUCH I HATE HAVING MY SLEEP DISTURBED BY CATS WHO ARE COVERED IN FOUL CAT SHIT he raised his sleepy kitten eyes and gave me a look of such profound pitifulness I stopped in mid-yell. He gingerly got up and crawled towards my face, where he gave me a little kitten-nose nudge, and then delicately lowered himself back down on the blanket. He looked so sad and sickly and sorry and cute and furry that I JUST COULD NOT BE MAD.

And that totally pissed me off.

I Still Stutter Around Boys

The phone only rang twice before his mother picked up. In my nervousness I launched myself across the floor to tackle the phone, punching the hang-up button as quickly as any gangly eleven-year-old could possibly move. There was no way I was going to let Lacy do this. NO WAY IN HELL. But then, almost immediately, I was overcome with the need to KNOW, know RIGHT THEN, what the answer was. Did he? Did he not? Like vultures they could sense my indecision.

So this time Lacy picked up the phone while Tiffany and Ella held my arms down on the floor. All in an effort to prevent a repeat of my earlier launching performance. The phone rang three times, his mother answered. I started to giggle. An inexplicable reaction, but I giggled nonetheless. Even at the time I knew how juvenile it was but I was POWERLESS to stop it. And so Lacy began the dance.

How are you?
How's your weekend?
Have you finished your science homework?
Are you going to church tomorrow?
Isn't school totally lame?
Are you going to the Tiffany concert in Jackson? My mom is taking me and my sister.
Did you see what Erica wore on Friday? It was so ugly.
Do you ever talk to my friend [redacted]? The one that sits behind you? She told me you guys go to the same country club. Really? Don't you think she's, like, really pretty and stuff? I heard from Sam that you might like her. Oh? Really? Well, yeah, she is. But she's still really pretty, in her own way. Yeah, I know Melanie. She lives two doors down from me. Yeah, I talk to her all the time. Oh. Sure, I'll tell her you said hi. Hey, I gotta go. My mom is here to pick me up. 'K. Bye.

Lacy hung up the phone and told it to me straight. Not in the interest of sparing my feelings- but because she was actually foaming at the mouth to tell us, and everyone within a 30 mile radius, what the Grudzien boy had said.

"He says you never talk and that you're really tall."

______________________

The Grudzien boy moved away that Christmas, much to my relief and sadness. I never admitted to a single person, even my friends, that I had ever liked the Grudzien boy. I maintained FOR YEARS that Lacy had been trying to fix me up and I'd been held against my will by Tiffany and Ella. The next year I developed a crush on another Unattainable, Thomas Hutto. THAT crush, through lack of other available candidates and total boredom, lasted from seventh grade until junior year in high school. It lasted through Thomas' chubby faze, his growth spurt and subsequent bony skeletor faze. I supported his ridiculous attempts at facial hair and baggy-pant-addiction. I adored his black Chevy truck with the sticker on the back window proclaiming "We Don't Give a Damn How You Did It Up North." I became ridiculously smitten when he developed a nickname for me our sophomore year, BTH. Neither he nor any of his Popular Smart Kid friends would tell me what BTH stood for until the day before I was set to move to Texas. That afternoon he finally caved and whispered in my ear-- Big Titty Holmes. And you know what? My mild feminist values flew right out the window and I was FLATTERED that he'd noticed something, ANYTHING, about me.

I had no real crushes once I moved back to Texas. Though I did briefly date a guy named Adam who had possibly the least amount of game of any teenage male who has EVER LIVED. The first time he kissed me came after a three hour marathon viewing of South Park. He got up to turn off the VCR, sat back down on the couch and PROMPTLY launched himself, mouth open and tongue out, at my face. I actually had to ask him to take his tongue out for JUST A WEE SECOND so I could get a breath. I was too shell-shocked to give the boy any pointers, concentrating as I was on taking regular breaths and convincing him to take me home ASAP, so I hope some girl took pity on the guy later in life. Though I heard he became a huge pothead in college.

Let's hope that relaxed his tongue muscles a bit.

Damn it, More Glass Raising

School started that next Monday morning. I arrived wearing my best back-to-school outfit with my shiny new green backpack slung over my shoulder. I felt very old, very mature. I was a SIXTH GRADER. I knew all the teachers, the principals, the secretaries and the janitors. I knew which teachers would let a little hall-pass-free wandering go unnoticed and which would whisk you off to detention. And I knew that chili day in the cafeteria was a day that Mom most DEFINITELY had to fix my lunch. I was a total eleven-year-old badass.

That morning I found out I had been placed in the class with the COOL kids. Until that moment in the gym, waiting in unairconditioned heat for my room assignment, I was sure the cool kids were paying off the administration so they could sit in classes together, trading purple pens with cool feathers on the top and sneaking bubble gum between the aisles. In fact, I had already resigned myself to being in the totally UNcool and UNrad Smart Kid Class.

Oh, you didn't know there were cool Smart Kids? WELL YES THERE ARE. Smart Kids have just as much of a hierarchy as anybody else. In fact, sometimes the Smart Kids totally take over the Popular Kids group and form a new, totally BITCHING Cool Smart Kids group. For as long as I had been living in Mississippi (2.5 years) I had seen the distinct separation amongst the Smart Kids. I'm not sure if words were exchanged or if the better looking kids were just genetically predisposed to form a Smart Kids Group of their own but there were DEFINITE lines drawn. Lines you JUST DID NOT CROSS.

Guess which group I was in.

So much to my surprise I was placed in the classroom with the Cool Smart Kids, something that even my SUPER EXTRAORDINARILY smart self saw as a very strange and possibly VERY BAD twist of fate. You see, even though the Grudzien boy had been sporting the too-tight t-shirts and crooked teeth, he had somehow, SOMEHOW, infiltrated the Cool Smart Kid group. I often wondered how he did this as he was a transplant, much like myself. Though, of course, the Grudzien boy did not start his period in front of 27 other nine-year-olds. THIS PROBABLY HAD A LOT TO DO WITH IT.

After the assignments were given, the students dutifully marched in single file to their assigned classrooms. BUT OF COURSE I LIE. We ran helter skelter through the hallways, looking for room 102 or 204 or the nearest janitor closet to hide in. And so it came to pass that I met Mrs. Auqouin (pronounced oo-qwen, emphasis on second syllable), who would become my all-time favorite teacher. Though on that first day I cursed her with every vile curse word known to any sheltered eleven-year-old. Why?

She was seating us alphabetically.

This means nothing to you, obviously. So here's where I sidetrack a bit and explain why this is bad. His name was [redacted]. Mine? [redacted]. SEE HOW I JUST GAVE UP TOTAL ANONYMITY? DO YOU SEE? I figured it was going to happen sometime and really, who cares. Prospective employers, relatives, friends and small woodland creatures be damned. If you google me you'll find that I'm mentioned, briefly, in an article that was actually written about a friend of mine - [redacted]. I think it mentions that we were co-anchors at the University of Central Arkansas television station. Other than that I am a completely innocuous human being.

So back to the ACTUAL story. As we were seated alphabetically, the Grudzien boy was placed DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME. I almost passed out I was so nervous. What if it turned out the he was smarter than me? What if I PRETENDED that he was smarter than me and I could casually ask for his help on an algebraic equation, scrunching my face into an adorable mask of confusion until BING! with his calm and patient help I was able to break through the algebra barrier! And what if I tripped on the way to the pencil sharpener? He would think I was a total spaz. But what if I stumbled delicately, right by his desk? I could grab his arm for balance and he would take my hand, look deep into my eyes and ask with genuine concern if I was okay. I'd laugh gaily and make self deprecating jokes about my clumsiness. He'd be impressed with my self confidence and IMMEDIATELY ask me to go the football game with him on Friday.

Thankfully I never put any of my plans into action. I just sat in petrified silence for the first weeks of school, afraid I would commit some mortally embarrassing act of heinousness and be forever banned from his presence. But at the same time, I would have given my right arm to sit someplace else, a seat where the [redacted] boy couldn't see, hear or LOOK at me.

Now during this time of petrification due to boy exposure I was actually making some new friends of my own. Not BOY friends, naturally. I couldn't come within spitting distance of a boy without freezing into an immobile non-speech-having block of wood. But, and here was where I was truly floored, I had started to make friends with a popular girl! A real live popular girl! Her name was [redacted] and she was the epitome of eleven-year-old perfection. Her blonde hair was smooth and straight-- never frizzy or curly-- and her bangs HER BANGS were always perfectly curled into a delicate and beautiful poof.

This was 1991. Give us a break.

I was terribly jealous of Lacy's wardrobe (she always wore Guess or Gibaud jeans, normally with a matching shirt to coordinate) her hair and her ability to speak freely, AND IN WHOLE SENTENCES, with the boys in our class. We had come to be friends ofasort through a semi-dork friend of my own, who happened to be friends with a girl who rode the popular fence who was definitely friends with Lacy, who was so far in the popular field most of us had to squint our eyes to see her. But in the way of eleven-year-olds, sleep overs were always more fun when extra girls were present. So when Tiffany (the fence rider) invited Ella (my friend) who invited me (the true dork) to join her and Lacy (the popular queen) for an evening of fun at her house (with a pool! and a cute older brother!) I would drop anything I was doing to beg my poor mother to drive 30 minutes to Tiffany's house and leave me with her chain-smoking hack of a mother. (My mother was unaware Tiffany's mom was a chain-smoking hack and remained so until well into my late teens and after we had moved two states over.)

After six or seven sleepovers I felt confident enough to share with my friends my ridiculous crush on the Grudzien boy. It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-November and we were sitting in the floor of Tiffany's bedroom. Now this girl's room was decorated in every conceivable item deemed marketable by the handlers of New Kids on the Block. This was WAY before they became NKOTB and tried to pretend like they couldn't remember the time when eleven-year-old girls put posters on their walls, bought Jordan sleeping bags and cuddled up to their super fuzzy blankets adorned with their floating heads. But back in the day, Tiffany's room was the SHIT. My mom would NEVER have let me decorate with boy band crap, much less put their posters on my wall. I had a white bedspread with primary colored hearts on it. And I had four heart shaped pillows in red, green, purple and orange that I arranged across the back of my white metal daybed on those times when my mother convinced (forced) me to make my bed. Buy Tiffany's room... I remember it fondly to this day. Though not 10 months later she was begging her mother to let her redecorate it (ah, the fickle pre-teenage mind). Denied, we spent one of our sleep-over nights attempting to turn her New Kids on the Block bedspread into something socially acceptable by coloring it in with red markers. Obviously this was a bad idea. But again, I digress.

When I told my friends of my secret crush they were supportive and excited in that way that only pre-pubescent girls can be. Don't let them fool you. THEY KNOW you have no chance. But they'll do everything in their power to help your crush along. And then bad-mouth you behind your back, of course. But Lacy was the first one to step up that afternoon, telling me that we should CALL the Grudzien boy and find out if he liked me back.

So we stole the phone book from under Tiffany's mom's bed (a strange place for a phone book) and looked up the Grudziens. Only one listing. And Lacy, in her pert, blonde and perfect way, picked up the phone and began to dial.

More Glass Raising. My Arm is Tired.

Those times I saw [redacted] at the pool I made every effort possible to pretend I was completely and utterly unaware of his existence. I told heinous, horrible stories to my younger brother, intimating that the new boy at the pool was infected with lice, had boils on his ass and had a booger collection under his desk that could reach out and touch someone.

But it wasn't long until my brother caved, anxious as I'm sure he was for someone, ANYONE to play with besides his cootie-filled sister. And while my brother frolicked in the shallow end with his newfound friend, I spent my days at the pool floating in the deep end, sure that my cool aloofness was enough to pull that [redacted] boy inexorably towards my side of the pool where after hours, nay, DAYS of trying to win my favor I would gradually thaw my icy exterior so he could see the delicate, intelligent feminine creature I most surely was. A delicate feminine creature that wasn't shaving her legs yet, but who cares about a little leg hair, right?

And so the muggy summer weeks passed by. I no longer participated in vicious tothedeath struggles regarding the best floaty or the front seat of my mother's van. Such a display would have shown the [redacted] boy that my cool, icy exterior was just a ruse. That I was just a mere CHILD, one who would actually CARE who got to ride in the front seat or spend six hours on the lone leak-proof floaty. I was more than content to float languorously in the deep end with the occasional hour spent under a moldy blue and white umbrella, sipping my Coke and reading my very mature Nancy Drew books.

Two weeks before school started I decided that he was SO obviously in love with me. Why else would he have asked my brother why I was always so quiet? He was CONCERNED about me. Afraid that my quietness was a sign of my soon-to-come terminal illness where he would naturally visit me every day in my private hospital room. I would languish in silence, my terminal-illness pain bottled inside until he came rushing to my bedside. My aloof demeanor would crack, just for an instant, and a lonely tear would trail down my perfectly tan cheek as I stared out of the window. He would instantly realize the significance of my tear, knowing it was a declaration of love I would never be able to voice aloud. And so he would hold my hand, content that our love would last through the centuries.

All this, and he had made NO advances toward me. Perhaps I was TOO aloof, I decided.

And so the last day of pool season came the Friday before the start of sixth grade. After my mother's van had crunched away on the gravel drive I sauntered my way through the pull gate, my towel casually thrown over my shoulders and my beach bag swinging from my hand. I was going to have FUN today, I decided. I would play with my brother and the [redacted] boy ALL DAY. I would be SO FUN that the Grudzien boy would SURELY realize how infinitely awesome I was and he would want to play with ME, only ME forever and ever. He would have SO MUCH FUN that he would call me that evening and ask me to a movie. We would laugh and laugh and laugh and talk about everything from dinosaur bones to cheesy little brothers (where he would sheepishly admit that he had only befriended my brother to gain my attention, and I would giggle and shyly tell him that I had always thought he was cute, even before the retainer had begun to straighten his tangled mass of teeth).

But alas, the [redacted] boy was not at the pool that morning. I spent all day being carefree and flipping my wet hair over my shoulder while smiling endearingly at my brother, hoping he would walk in just as I was saying something ridiculously funny where he would become so immediately enamored of me that he would cannonball into the pool and spend the rest of the day flirting atrociously with me.

But four o'clock came and I could hear my mother's van meandering down the long gravel driveway. I had spent all day being cute and funny and witty and he'd NEVER SHOWN UP.

How rude.

I Raise My Glass At Thee, But Definitely Not TO Thee

I was eleven when I first recognized that fluttery, stomach dropping sensation as an actually crush on a boy. Though I'm sure I'd felt it previously, in a weird kid kind of way, I'd never actually put my foot on PRECISELY what it was. Whenever my dad asked me about boys, I stuck diligently to my rehearsed line of "No thanks, Daddy. Boys are gro-TESQUE." Wherein he would ask me to spell 'grotesque,' and I would, correctly of course, and I'd get to take a sip out of my dad's glass of Coke. Now, don't ask me why my dad's glass of Coke always tasted so much better than mine. Probably because he put oodles of ice in the glass. And even more likely because it was spiked with just a wee bit of Crown.

But I digress.

My first real crush on an actual real boy that I knew in real life was a boy named [redacted]. (As opposed to the GINORMOUS crush I had on Joey from New Kids on the Block, a boy whom I would never meet and knew nothing more about than what my girlfriends could recite, almost verbatim, from their collection of TeenThisorThat magazines which TOTALLY EXPLOIT THE MINDS OF DEVELOPING CHILDREN. I, of course, was not allowed to read that "trash.")

Matthew had moved to Natchez, Mississippi in the middle of fifth grade. Naturally, I wanted nothing to do with him. He was scrawny and wore too-tight t-shirts and his TEETH... let's just say Condeleeza Rice has NOTHING on this kid. And so school let out for the year and I spent the summer before sixth grade doing exactly what I had done the summer before fifth grade and the summer before fourth grade. It went something like this:

7am: Arise and greet the new day! With much child-like cynicism! Look, cartoons are on, even though I pretend I only watch them because my brother is in the room!

9am: Chores, grudgingly completed, CHECK.

10am: Brother and I pile into van after vicious, tothedeath struggle over who gets the front seat.

10:30am: Arrive at country club swimming pool, pile out of van after vicious tothedeath struggle over who gets to use the good floaty for the day

12pm: Charge various snack items to my parents bill, usually consisting of twix, cheetos, funyuns (oh the FUNYUNS! how we LOVED the FUNYUNS!) and a hamburger or two.

2pm: Plot our escape from the evil lifeguards and practice holding our breath underwater for minutes at a time. Our plan was to swim out of the drain hole at the bottom of the pool- but we'd have to be able to hold our breath for AT LEAST seven minutes. Which would totally give us enough time to burrow through the water drainage system -- which does NOT mix with the sewage system, of course -- where we would dig our way up from the depths of the underground water sanitizer area and scare the ever loving shit out of the golfers on the 9th green.

4pm: Mother arrives in van to pick us up. Camredie forgotten, vicious tothedeath struggle over the front seat.

But that summer my normal routine was forever broken. You see, the country club swimming pool was not a happening place. In all honesty, my brother and I were normally the only other humans within shouting distance- save the VERY BORED lifeguards who spent most of their time figuring out how to blow each other without the two of us noticing. And so it happened that one morning, after another vicious tothedeath struggle over something very important, I'm sure, my brother and I loped into what we had come to think of as "our pool" only to find, gasp!, another kid there. And lo and behold, it was Matthew [redacted].

It was then that my fascination began.

Peppermint Patty Wasn't Ugly, She Was Just A Tranny. Though Later In Life She Became Friends With RuPaul And Turned Into A Hot Babe.

Interesting tid-bits (is this a hyphenated word? so confused) from this week which are actually not interesting at all but which I do DISTINCTLY feel the need to share with you, the internet, the reader extraordinaire and you too Mr. Dandanthecancanman. And no, I am not actually acquainted with a Mr. Dandanthecancanman but WOULDN'T IT BE COOL IF I WAS.

#5 I got shanghaied into participating in the office bake-off, a scary event in which the office women go home the night before and whip up something truly tantalizing in their super-sanitized kitchens so that we may pay two dollars the next day to sample their foodalicious delights and hopefully, CROSS YOUR FINGERS NOW, MADGE, actually get the yearly trophy for the best darn tootin baked goods ever made in these here parts. There are two categories: Appetizer and Dessert. Because everyone always wants to show what they can do with the sugar and the flour, I got shoved in the appetizer group. Which is fine with me as I'd prefer to eat the appetizer foods anyway. One can only sample so many pieces of cake before keeling over in a sugar coma. But appetizers? Well shit Billy Bob, you can eat them there 'tizers till yer gut done poked over your elastic waist khakis. NO SUGAR COMA NEEDED.

So I went straight to the grocery from work and spent $45 on cream cheese, spinach, artichokes, dill, green onions, tomatoes and crescent rolls. I BOUGHT 80 CRESCENT ROLLS. 10 packages x 8 in each package = 80 FUCKING CRESCENT ROLLS THAT I THEN HAD TO *STUFF* YES, *STUFF* WITH THE CHEESY SPINACH ARTICHOKE GOOP.

I jest, of course. I totally enjoyed most of every minute it. Why, you ask? Because while every other woman is quite pleased to tell you how you can't tell the difference between the normal kind of cake and the kind of cake SHE made, the one with the fat-free cholesterol-free eggsinacarton, reduced fat Crisco, low sugar icing and dried fruit- I, without shame, bought the full-fat cream cheese, mozzarella cheese (I even had to scour the cheese aisle for the WHOLE MILK version of the mozzarella cheese) and the non-reduced-fat crescent rolls. The kind that taste like flaky butter. So I'm pleased to say that while you WON'T go into a sugar coma after eating my tasty appetizer YOU WILL die of an immediate heart attack. Because I had a brief but VERY influential convo with my ingredients wherein I explained the battle plan: ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK! Go for the arteries! Find new warm homes in corner valves! Clog them I say, CLOG THEM!

#4 My Christmas tree is now a broken stem of a tree. The Demon Spawn have successfully completed their mission to destroy my first-ever attempt at Decorating for the Holidays -not to be confused with DRESSING for the Holidays. As previously discussed, it is not appropriate to celebrate the seasons with one's CLOTHING. Merely decorative objects in the home, i.e. Christmas trees, wreaths with bows, jingle bells, etc. This decorating is not to extend to the front grilles of vehicles as it only draws attention to your dumb ass. And I work very, very hard at ignoring you fuckwads out there so I respectfully request that you NOT DELIBERATELY DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF. But back to the Christmas tree. There is a nagging feeling at the back of my skull that indicates I should be slightly concerned that my Demon Spawn Cats ate, yes ATE, approximately 30 glass Christmas balls. But as they are Demon Spawn I'm sure they have regenerative stomachs.

#3 I used my power of positive thinking to wish for two days off work due to inclement weather. It did not work out for me. But we did get off work an hour early because it was "sleeting."

#2 I finally dragged my winter coat out of the closet after staunchly refusing to wear it for a month straight. When the overnight temperature hit 15 degrees, my poor defenseless body went on revolt and DEMANDED that I bring out the coat. So I acquiesced and pulled the wool heaviness from between the velvet pants, the polar fleece sweater and the collection of really ugly winter hats where it had been wedged for over 10 months-- only to find last year's lighter. I had a moment of reverie when I did, I admit, think quite fondly of The Smoking Days. And then I knocked on my neighbor's door and bequeathed her my favorite lighter. With much pomp and circumstance, naturally.

#1 While driving home from my SECOND trip to Wal-Mart in a 4 hour period (at 12:30 am, nonetheless- I'd run out of crescent rolls for today's bake-off and GOD FORBID I waste my spinach goop) there was a very special song that came on the radio. You see, it really spoke to me. Tugged on my heart strings, if you will. And so I leave you today with the lyrics to this deep and moving musical masterpiece:

I'm In Love With A Stripper, as sung by T-Pain:

[Intro]
Goddamn Lil Mama
U know u thick as hell u know what im sayin
Matter fact
After the club u know what im talkin bout
Me and my niggas gone be together u know what im sayin
I aint gon worry bout them really though
Im just lookin at u
Yea u know
U got them big ass hips god damn!

[Verse 1]
Got the body of a goddess
Got eyes with a peak of brown eyes see you girl
Droppin Low
She Comin Down from the ceiling
To tha floo
Yea She Know what she doin
Yea yea yea
She doin that right thang
Yea yea yea yea ea
I Need to get her over to my crib and do that night thang
Cause I'm in love with a stripper

[Chorus x2]
She poppin she rollin she rollin
She climbin that pole and
I'm in love with a stripper
She trippin she playin she playin
Im not goin nowhere girl im stayin
I'm in love with a stripper

[Verse 2]
Out of all the girls she be the hottest
Like n the way she break it down i see u girl
Spinnin wide
And She lookin at me
Right in my eyes
Yea She got my attention
yea yea yea
Enough to get me to mention
I Need to get her over to my crib and do that night thang
Cause I'm in love with a stripper

[Chorus x2]

[Verse 3]
She can pop it she can lock it
Take the pinderas down im bout to see this sexy girl
In My bed
She don't know what she is doin
To my head
Yea She turnin tricks on me
Yea Yea Yea
She dont even know me
Yea yea yea ea
I'd have got her over to my crib to do that night thing
Cause I'm in love with a stripper

[Chorus x4]

Because I Can't Stop Running My Mouth Today

In reference to Janestarr's question-
hmmm festive places in NY? Well, the best advice I could ever give you is to hop on the 1,9 line at the Staten Island ferry terminal (after riding the ferry round trip, of course-- it's free and it's the best way to see the statue of liberty rather than PAY the circle line) and ride the line up to Houston (pronounced how-stun) st. Exit the station and head towards 6th ave (also called avenue of the americas) and just start walking uptown. You'll pass all kinds of piercing parlors and festive restaurants and fun apartment buildings. It's less touristy around that area, so you'll be able to see more fun things. Anyway, head towards Washington Square Park (you should be able to see it on any subway map you pick up- available at your friendly subway station ticket booth) and check out the giant chess board and the homeless people and all the super classy (seriously) drug dealers. I totally recommend going on all the side streets and checking out the neighborhood- it's super pretty. Very Sex and the City-esque. So once you're done with Washington Square Park, look on your subway map and head towards the bottom left corner of Central park-- I think it's like 56th St? Can't remember. Anyway, wonder about the edge of the park, check out the Shakespeare Castle (very nice views of the park from the top) and continue to wonder up the island towards the Museum of Natural History. I LOVE THIS PLACE. You can check out the minerals section and the egyptian section and the dinosaur section and IT JUST KEEPS GETTING COOLER. I used to go there every weekend to get away from my roommates. So once you're done with the musuem, head straight across the park to The Metropolitan Museum of Art- I never liked this as much as seeing all the dinosaurs and gemstones and rock formations (OHMIGOD I totally forgot- you have to check out the space center exhibit- it's UNREAL- it's kind of off to the side of the natural history museum and it was BY FAR my favorite). So anyway, The Met. I like it a lot but not as much as most people. What can I say, I'm a nerd.

I also have to recommend going to the botanical gardens in brooklyn- I don't know when you'll be there but I know they have a winter exhibit, though they do sometimes close during particular times of the year. Check them out at bbg.org. :)

Oh, and if you get a chance to see something by the NYC Ballet-- TAKE IT. It's worth EVERY PENNY. You can get pretty cheap tickets if you show up when the show starts, though you take a chance on actually getting a seat.

OOOOOOH and I almost forgot- head downtown to the Financial center area-- Ask the cabbie to take you to South End Ave- get out of the cab and head straight towards the river (can't miss it). The cab will have to cross traffic on the Westside Hwy and will pull into this random short street. There will be a bank area with an indoor ATM, a parking garage and a Gristedes (common grocery store) directly in front of you. Once you hit the river, look to your right and you'll see the GINORMOUS financial buildings/snazzy apartments that face the river and if you look to the left you'll see gateway plaza WHERE I USED TO LIVE!! You can take a nice breezy stroll up the river walk and see New Jersey right across the way. Also, if you go in the main entrance to the Financial building that's at the dead end of South End Ave, you'll see escalators directly in front of you. Take the escalators up and follow the signs to THE GODIVA STORE. YES, A STORE THAT SELLS NOTHING BUT DELICIOUS GODIVA. It's heaven.

And don't forget to stop by Pearl River on Broadway in Chinatown- it is HANDS DOWN the best place to buy ANYTHING you could ever want. And it's super cheap. I couldn't even begin to tell you what's in there, just trust me and go. And don't feel bad if you stop at one of those shady vendors and buy a knock-off Coach bag. :) Everyone does it.

Ok, all this reminicing is making me hungry.
*kisses

They Pay Me to Work But Instead I Do This:

As faux-tagged by Meghan, this ridiculously addictive list that I naturally could not resist:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let's see. 10 years ago would be December 1995, so I was still living in Natchez, Mississippi and I was a very typical cynical fifteen-year-old. I had just found out that my dad was being transferred back to Texarkana, TX and I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I probably threw up every day for 2 months I was so nervous. AND PEOPLE WONDER WHY I HAVE ULCERS. School was winding down for the semester and I was finishing last minute papers and studying for finals. Actually, I lie. Any papers that needed writing and tests that needed studying were done exactly 24 hours before they were due. What I CAN remember is taking the yearbook camera everywhere I went, snapping pictures of everyone I knew, every hallway, every classroom and every teacher. I was determined to remember every detail and make my parents feel as guilty as possible in the process (which I'm sure they already did, I just magnified it to the highest possible level). I was also sulking mightily in dance class, the one place that I'd previously felt it was inappropriate to sulk. My friends had started training for the yearly pageant ball, which contrary to it's name is NOT an actual pageant full of skimpily clad chickas promoting their feminine wiles but a production of sorts that tour buses from around the nation (full of elderly retired folk and people with too much time on their hands. WHO TRAVELS AROUND THE COUNTRY ON A TOUR BUS, ANYWAY?) careened into the auditorium parking lot to see, intent on witnessing the WASP'ish displays of yore. Basically, we dressed up in era-appropriate costumes and pretended to have a "ball" in honor of something or other that was historically important. My particular group dressed in hoop skirts with faux ringletted hair and danced a 13 minute intricate waltz full of partner-changing and twirling and really, really pretty music. It sounds cheesy but it was actually quite lovely. The highlight was actually the training for the pageant; boys from the cotilion school in town traipsed over to my dance school on Tuesday and Thursday nights to practice with us doe-eyed and fluttery girls. This afforded us many an opportunity to flirt attrociously with the cute boys whilst being twirled about the floor. But because I was moving, there was no point in me starting the training classes for the spring ball. And so every Tuesday and Thursday night after my normal ballet class, instead of changing into my cutest warm-up outfit like all the other girls, I got in my car and headed home. Where I stood in my closet and gazed at my beautiful dress with all it's ruffles and silk, the dress I wasn't going to get to wear again that spring.

What were you doing 1 year ago ?
One year ago I was 24-years-old. On December 2nd I was sitting in my apartment that I shared with my brother, avoiding getting dressed and especially avoiding doing the dishes. I was periodically checking my email, random blogs and various internet-worth thingamabogs. Why do I know this? Because I checked my email inbox for December 2nd, 2004. This was, of course, back when my mother was paying for my brother's internet. Because he's a student and needs it, of course.
I had been working at Dillards since September but had failed to return since the day before Thanksgiving. After sitting in the parking lot for days on end, head against steering wheel, convincing myself that I HAD to go to work, I HAD to have a paycheck and then ultimately clocking in thirty minutes late-- I finally just stopped going. The thought of having to smell the inside of that store made my stomach physically turn sour. The only thing that had kept me moderately sane were three work-friendships- J., Li., and La. But La. had quit the week before, J. had found a better job and Li. had gone mysteriously MIA from work, though we still met once a week for Mehican food. I had received a job offer that would (THANK GOD) put me on my ass in front of a computer for 9 hours a day and I was blissfully without care that I had not shown up for work after giving my boss the customary 2 weeks notice. So I was sitting at home and enjoying my unpaid vacation while waiting for my start date of December 6th.
This makes me sound very blase' about the whole thing- you know, failing to show up for work and all. This is SO not like me, you should know. The Dillards job was just a hold-over until I found something that would pay me to NOT stand on my feet for hours on end each day, waiting on people and their smelly ass feet.
5 snacks you enjoy :
1) pretzels
2) flour tortillas with pepperjack cheese and pecans, rolled up and nuked
3) apples (I am currently addicted to the weird phenomenon of Grapples, dear god they taste delicious)
4) Cheetos
5) Rice Krispy Treats

5 songs to which you know all the lyrics :

1) Sweet Home Alabama- Lynard Skynard
2) Sweet Dreams- The Eurythmics
3) Take it Off- The Donnas
4) Ain't Goin Down Till The Sun Comes Up- Garth Brooks
5) Pussy Control- Prince
5 things you would do if you were a millionaire :
1) Pay off my parents house and buy them a new one or fix up the one they've got (their choice), buy my mother an art studio wherever she wanted, let my dad retire and play golf wherever he wanted and make sure they never want for anything, including super duper life-long vacations.
2) After paying for whatever schooling my brother wants, set up a trust fund that doles out a set amount of money each month until he learns not to blow it on liqour and then help him start his business.
3) Pay off all my friends student loans, car loans, house notes, etc and set them up financially to do whatever it is that will help them be happy.
4) Set up a giant fund to a) build animal shelters all over the world, b) give yearly donations to fund Heifer Profect c) fund research that gives us a viable and cheap solution to using nasty ass fossil fuels d) a yearly donation to whatever charity I decide to give to
5) a house for ME! ME! ME! where I can be close to my friends and family, where my cats can have their very own special room that I pay someone to clean up- I will even give them an endless supply of Christmas trees to demolish-, where I have a helicopter pad on the roof so my pilot can whisk me to the airport so I can take my private (and newly fuel efficient) jet anywhere I want to go and buy pretty shoes and where I have a live-in personal trainer, chef and housekeeper and I can live comfortably and without financial worry with the person who makes me happiest in all the world and who also happens to be quite the virile man. IN BED.
5 bad habits :
1) Not answering my phone
2) Not drinking enough water, exercising enough, eating enough good things
3) Tuning things out I don't want to hear
4) Not thinking before speaking
5) Biting my nails and chipping off the nail polish

5 things you like doing :
1) reading in bed
2) kissing boys
3) making up stories in my head
4) making lists and then completing the things on the lists
5) dancing
5 things you would never wear again :
1) acid washed denin
2) hyper-color t-shirts
3) scrunchies
4) banana clips
5) poofy marshmallow jackets

5 favorite toys :
1) staplers- I like the noise they make. And I like making the papers perfectly aligned and then permanently stapling them together
2) online word translators- I like seeing what certain sentences would look like in French, Spanish and German
3) cell-phone tetris- it's addictive
4) wine corkscrews- dur
5) post-its- apparently office supplies do it for me. what can I say? Though it's probably more that all of my lists that I so like to complete always end up on lined post-its.

Notice:

An important reminder:

Sweaters or other articles of clothing (excluding festive socks worn under slacks or while in the privacy of your own home) that celebrate the seasons with their gaudy glitter, embroidery, puff paint or aplique' are NOT TO BE WORN under ANY CIRCUMSTANCE. This rule applies especially to YOU, Miss Coworker, who has for two straight days worn a holiday sweater with a white turtleneck underneath.

Thank you for heading this public service announcement.