I've Been Outed!

So, for 157 posts, I've lived in the lives of eight people who claim to like what I write SO MUCH that they actually have this drivel sent to their email accounts each and every day. To all of you: thanks for the love. I think you are hysterically crazy to tune in each and every day, but that must prove something about my life is wacky enough to like.

Commencing today, with post 158, it's going to get a bit more crowded around here, though, because I've been outed to the masses! To an entire Christmas list, nonetheless. I think I might just throw up.

I immediately began to wonder if the last two posts, which were lightly peppered with obscenities*, are going to offend someone.

Then I thought "Well, self. You really write this post for people who know you OR who need to say "GOD BLESS YOU"** to someone else."

So, if I offend with my occasional slip o' the fingers, please know I have a New Year's Resolution to contribute a quarter to a charity for each and every instance of cursing or "thought cursing" that issues forth from this mouth or brain.***

My next brain surge was "I've taken GREAT pains to avoid people reading my post." I don't share my blog address unless I KNOW they know me well enough to separate the poo from the shinola.****

Now, HOW RIDICULOUS IS THAT? Really, what is the point of writing if you aren't going to allow others to read it? It's like baking without sharing.*****

Deep down, I'm afraid of the criticism. That's the bottom line. And, it's a ridiculous habit that has kept me from making plenty of good decisions throughout my entire life. Sounds like the beginning of another resolution, doesn't it?

OH! And in case the person who "outed" me is worried even a bit about this: STOP. I love you more than you'll ever know and I really do think this is a great occurrence. God has been knocking on my heart to write for a long time now and if I am going to honor His request, I need to be prepared to share what I've written to help others. And, GULP, accept criticism. Thank you for thinking enough of this blog to want to spread the insanity.

Well, readers. Have a fantastic, wonderful, safe Friday.

And don't forget to tune in tomorrow for another adventure from life on planet Nowell.


*HEY NEWBIES TO THIS POST! Stop trying to figure out how to go backward to the last two days and focus on TODAY!!

**This is a very genteel, Southern way of saying "THANK GOODNESS I'M NOT YOU!!!"

***By the end of January, someone will be casting a bronze bust of me to put in the large wing of a hospital that will be paid for by my "cuss fund".

****Point for me! Didn't type the cuss word. Quarter for the jar: thought of the REAL quote.

*****Unless it's chocolate and then I don't share quite so well.

Christmas Goodie Goodness

There is only one time of the year that I care about The Dallas Morning News. It's when the food section publishes the annual winners of the Christmas goodies contest.

Last year, I snagged a recipe that looked so simple I figured it couldn't compete with the likes of the highly-esteemed bourbon ball. I assumed that I'd make these things once and we'd all go "OK. They're OK." Then, I'd purge the recipe from my memory and we'd move on to someone else's recipe.

I was wrong.

I had a grasp on a piece of newspaper history that would become contender for my second favorite Christmas cookie. Who knew?

Like the bourbon ball, which still is my BCFFL*, this thing isn't "technically" a cookie. It's more a cracker sandwich cleverly disguised as a cookie.

I think this treat probably has issues similar to guys who think they are girls but who have a penis so they are technically dudes. They're all topsy-turvy. So's my cookie-thingy.

The recipe is deceptively simple: smear a cracker with peanut butter, slap another cracker on top, chill for a bit, then completely cover with chocolate. If you can resist trying them, allow them to set for a bit before munching down.

Yeah. Don't doubt it. It's that simple. And, OH SO DELISH.

I don't even quite know what to call them. I've long since lost the actual piece of paper the recipe was on. And they are hard to describe.

"Chocolate-covered-peanut-butter-sandwiches" calls to mind those heinous pb crackers that can be found in vending machines from the Jersey shores to Vancouver. I think, along with Twinkies, they have a half-life of a cockroach. In fact, I think cockroaches have been around a shorter period of time than some of the vended PB crackers I've eaten.

"Peanut-butter-crackers-covered-in-choclate" is just too much to say.

"A-little-slice-of-Heaven" sounds too Paula Deen. She's a cutie. But, good gracious, everyone would think I incorporated a full stick of butter. Paula, honey? Please be a little less Southern. For just a cotton-pickin' minute. God Bless You.

So, for now, I'll continue describing them as "They taste like a good Peanut Butter Twix. Not the kind actually made by the Mars Corporation**."

And, if you have a brilliant idea, let me know.

I'll gladly put my thing-a-majiggy down, lick the chocolate off my fingers, and write down your suggestion.


*Best Cookie Friend For Life. You should get one, too.

**Which suck. Don't take my word for it. Pony up 75 cents and try a taste test. My funky Christmas recipe will eat that Twix for LUNCH, I tell you.

Christmas and Partridges Do Not Mix

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree."

SSSSSCCCCCRRRREEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHHHH. Those are the tires of love going from 150mph to zero in .75 seconds. HELLO? A partridge in a pear tree? REALLY?

Never, in all my years of dating and/or being married, have I thought "GEE, self. Wouldn't it be the most romantic of gestures to receive an inedible, completely worthless bird in a fruit tree?"

No.

How about this? "On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, a diamond in a black box."

Yes. That has a nice ring to it. Non-specific. Could be a bracelet, a necklace, or a belly button ring. It could be 10 carats or .5 carats. Yes. That's better.

I think I'll just rest a little bit better if we recreate the song so men all over the world don't get any ideas.

Because there is no way on God's green Earth that I want Twelve Drummers Drumming on the front lawn of anybody's house on this street.

With my luck, the boys would discover a new-found talent and feel the need to join a drum corps.

Sorry, boys. There is not enough chocolate and wine or a powerful enough hearing aid to overcome that prospect.

Drinking Separates the Women from THE Women

I recently took a trip with a bunch of women I don't know all that well. We stayed over the weekend at a B&B not too far from Dallas.

When we arrived, life had been hitting me from all sides and I was just TIRED. Tired to the point that I took a 1.5 hour nap and could have stayed there double that had I not thought someone would have put a suicide watch on my sleepy butt.

One thing I learned on this trip is that alcohol is the great divider. Up to this point in my life, I wasn't observant enough to realize this, but the weekend added a great deal of clarity. Here's what I now know about drinking women:

1. Drunk women who allowed themselves to almost fall in the fire pit have lives that I don't want to be part of. I will avoid pursuing these women's friendship at all costs.

These types are impolite because, if their "look-at-me-Mommy", two-year-old imitating, weebles-wobble-but-they-don't-fall-down routine had actually resulted in a fall, I would have had to put my s'more down to help. Separating me from chocolate at this time in my life is absolutely homicidal.

2. Tipsy women who were a little TOO comfortable drinking WAY TOO MUCH will not become part of my inner circle either.

Social drinkers (as society has so politely coined these folk) may be nice people, but they needn't apply for my hand in friendship, even if they are the "nice" kind who don't become obnoxious. I really don't need more drama in my life in the form of Al Anon meetings, late night phone calls from jail, or puke in my car.

3. Women who drink, who know how to drink and when to stop, are my kind of gals.

Though I wasn't drinking myself*, I could see myself totally hanging with them in the future. They were respectful of those around them and could have easily and safely driven women who almost tripped into the fire pit to the nearest hospital, thus saving me and my s'more from drama.

Now that I think about it, my next girl's weekend away is going to involve two major themes: napping and s'mores. I might even sneak a little drinky-poo.

But I'm leaving those drunk women in Dallas.



*Some of you don't believe me. If you fall into this category, I likely have a good story or two to tell about your drunken escapades, so keep it shut.

Women's Retreat?!

I must have somehow gone temporarily mad when I signed up for the women's retreat at my new church.

Actually, I was temporarily exhausted and at my wit's end with how we were going to go make fall happen in our house. At that point, I still couldn't wrap my mind around how our four adult arms and four adult legs were going to get everyone everywhere they needed to be. AND intact and sane, that is. I figured this would be my stretch goal: if I was still alive come November 13th, I owed it to myself to go on this retreat and relax.

I attempted, that ill-fated day, to convince one of the Moms I quasi-knew to join me. With hope in my heart that she'd be signing up the following, and last, weekend, I penned my name and handed over my credit card.

Turned out, my newish friend couldn't attend. I was completely on my own.

Now I know some people who would have taken this as a challenge and made up some game against themselves where they attempted to get to know five people they didn't know when they arrived on Friday.

Me? I'm kinda a one-trick pony. I generally like to go with a smallish group of people and stick kind of close. If I don't quickly find someone warming up to my warped personality, I engross myself in reading, writing, and napping. That's not all bad, but it certainly doesn't fit the concept behind the weekend.*

I'm going with the attitude "What the heck?" and, I'm sure, will get to know some of the other lovely ladies at the church. I'm not going to put myself full-out-there unless I've had at least one glass of liquid courage** OR so much chocolate I'm running on a pure sugar high.

So, I'm starting at the neighborhood Exxon. Where I intend to buy one of every kind of chocolate known to man.

I think that should probably do it. That and my bottle of Fetzer.....



*UNLESS, this happened to be a silent retreat. I checked. It isn't.

**The antithesis to my time in Baptist land? On our checklist of things to bring: a bottle of wine. Wine glass optional, but only to distinguish your fermented grapes from that of your neighbor. OH YEAH!

Vacation Updates? No.

I have a friend in a remote, beachy location right now. She sends sweet little updates to Facebook, updates like "Standing on Walahlah Beach, loving the sound of the ocean".

I love you. But I also want to rip your friggin' head off.

Somehow, this just gets under my skin. Isn't it rude to make people suffer through the joy of your trip while you are STILL ON IT? As if, upon your return to the world as the rest of us know it, you aren't going to send us 5,134 pictures off Shutterfly to clog up our inboxes?

We all want to be happy for you but, secretly*, we are just a little pissed.

Anyway, enjoy your fresh pineapple appetizers and hibiscus flower leis while they last. And I'll just ignore your hourly updates that make me throw-up a little in my mouth.

Because, someday, when I'm standing in Switzerland eating the best chocolate in the world, with snow-capped mountains and Swiss chalets in the background, I'll be sending bite-by-bite updates to you.

Paybacks, as they say, are Hell.


*I guess, if she reads this blog, it's not much of a secret anymore.....

The Planning of Dinner

I absolutely despise this time of day. In about fifteen minutes I am going to have to make the final decision on what to put on the dinner table.

Earlier today I thawed some pork. Have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but I can tell you that "How do the little piggies eat?"* won't be part of the conversation at the dinner table because I'm not serving mashed potatoes (there are no spuds in the house....)

I'm short in the rice department, too. Pasta. Nada. I do have a loaf of plain wheat bread, which could make a nice piece of garlic toast with parmesan for those who aren't cow-intolerant.

Fruit is never an issue around here. We are the fruitiest family on the block, in a non-gay kind of way, of course.

Veggies? Choice between asparagus, salad, or green beans. Problem is, there is no concencus across the boy population about which of these they will eat. I obviously didn't give the Babe enough strained lettuce when he was young. Ditto green beans.

I have to stop and give credit to my Mom here. She drilled into my head the concept that no meal was complete unless it had a starch, protein, vegetable, fruit, drink AND a dessert.

Yes, you read that correctly, a dessert. This is where I have to get off the family train to CRAZYVILLE because I would weigh at least 150 pounds MORE if I had dessert every day**.

Mom came by this in the most innocent of ways, when she first married Dad. Turns out my beloved Grandma made a dessert after most every dinner meal. So, naturally, he thought this was the gold standard in families.

Innocuously, after one of the first meals Mom made when they were beginning their lives together, Dad asked "Where's dessert?" Mom, being the doting newlywed wife of the 60's, figured she could bring peace and harmony to their lives with sugar. Hence, the curse of dessert began.

There have been very few days in my life without dessert. Pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, you name it, I've eaten it. There have been a mere handful that I've turned down. In fact, there have been scarce few I haven't attempted to make and serve myself.

Truth is, if Heaven is a place where we eat, I'll be eating nothing but dessert. Breakfast will be coffee with white or strawberry cake topped with buttercream frosting. Lunch will be cookies, with some form of chocolate and nuts, and whole milk. Dinner will include hot tea and key lime pie.

I understand we won't have the same "bodies" in Heaven as we do on Earth. I'm counting on that meaning that I will be able to eat as I please without consequence. Between my songs of praise for God, that is. On that front, God, I'm counting on a new singing voice, too. Please. For YOUR sake?!

But, for now, I'm going to try to turn over a new leaf and return to a legacy of pre-planned, nutritionally-balanced dinners. Without regular desserts.

Stay tuned for my nervous breakdown, which will occur as my body realizes I won't be feeding it processed sugar.


*A Christmas Story. Quite possibly the funniest, most sarcastic movie on the planet. Hence, one of my favs.

**If you don't believe me, check out my inability to resist cake in a previous post.

Let Them Eat WAY-TOO-MUCH Cake

I think I just experienced the ultimate, near-perfect, most wonderful day yesterday. It was book-ended by cake.

So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.

Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.

Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.

Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.

On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.

I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.

The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."

When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.

For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.

Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.

Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.

Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.

I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.

In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."

Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.

And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?

VIVA LA CAKE!



*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".

The Essence of Poo

Here's the latest little ditty going around the house:

"Whatcha doing?"
"Eating chocolate."
"Where'd you get it?"
"The doggy dropped it."

SSSSSCCCCCRRRREEEECCCCCHHHH. That's the sound of Mommy TRYING to put a stop to this little bit of nonsense. Since the little rhyming, gross, sing-song joke started sometime mid-summer, I hear it about once every week. And you know that means it is being passed around a lot more than that.

Thankfully, nobody has said it in front of Bishop Sutton, any great-Grandparent, or the headmaster at the Christian school. Let's just say "I'm waiting....."

Doug, on the other hand, has taken this song to heart. Apparently he heard the kids singing this tune and thought "Gee. I could bring LOTS of pure joy to the little people! I know how to drop chocolate. HMMMM. Where best to put it?"

So far, his favorite place has been the new dining room rug that we bought about three weeks ago.

Literally, I turn the corner to the front door and PRAY that the bouquet of poo doesn't hit my nostrils. There's nothing like answering the front door HOPING your neighbors won't inhale the inappropriate efforts of your little banty rooster of a dog.

Now, I do find a little bit of irony in the name of the store from which the new rug was purchased. Maybe I'm just a little sick, enjoy turning a phrase and looking at it from different angles, or just have way too much time on my hands, but I think Doug is Mensa-brilliant to think that he should use the bathroom on the rug that came from...I kid you not...

THE DUMP.

"Whatcha doing?"

Nectar of the Gods

"Hi. My name is Jill. And I'm an addict."
"Hi, Jill."
"It's been (looking at my watch) two hours and two minutes since I had sugar."

The audience gasps. One man hangs his head ashamed for me. I look around the room wondering if I can get ahold of sugar before I hit the two hour and thirty minute mark.

YUP, readers. You're hearing it first. I'm a sugar addict.

I think of sugar the way Bubba thought of shrimp in Forrest Gump. Brown sugar, white sugar, cane sugar, honey sugar, maple sugar...the list is long and it is YUMMY.

In fact, as I was thinking about sugar*, I COMPLETELY understand why I'm altogether addicted to it. Check out the short list of things made with sugar I don't like:

1. Licorice. When a candy is so heinous that giant board game maker, Milton Bradley, names a bad guy after it, that must mean I join A LOT of people hatin' on licorice.**

2. Tiramisu. Never got this one, taste or texture wise. Considering it combines both sugar AND liquor, you'd think I'd be a raving fan.

3. Tapioca pudding. It's the tapioca, not the pudding, that kills it for me.

4. Root beer. My cousin once shot this stuff out of his nose at a holiday gathering because he was laughing so hard. Never been the same since.

THAT'S IT. Everything else is fair game! Sadly, that's why I have a telling paunch in my mid-section that disapproves of the little tango of love I do with the Nectar of the Gods.

You'd think, by now, I'd have given up sugar for good, since I've done it SO MANY TIMES. Truth be told, I've tried to do without it almost every Lent since my mid-20's***. I've always started giving up the sweet stuff in Lent because 40 days is enough time to cleanse my body of all the built-up sugar goo. It also has a hard deadline: Easter. The bad thing about Lent is that the deadline IS Easter, one of the three biggest candy holidays known to civilization. After doing without it's syrupy goodness for so long, it never seems like it will "hurt" to have a little piece of the traditional "Bunny cake" I make every year. Or a Cadbury egg. Or a couple of Peeps*.

Problem is, I fall off the wagon easily. It only takes a little, itty bit of sugar to cascade me back into a position of my life being dominated by sucrose.

Looking at the calendar, if I start now, I could leave my sweet lover for awhile and try to move forward without him for a Lent-length of time. Let's see, that would be quitting until early October. Then I'd have to make it through the State Fair (funnel cakes), Halloween (candy and candy apples), Thanksgiving (pie), Christmas (Mrs. Johnson's toffee), and Valentine's Day (truffles), before getting to Lent again.

WOW! That's one heck of a hurdle.....

I'll get started, right after I finish my cane-sweetened, high-fructose injected Coca-Cola.

"Hi. I'm Jill."





*And consuming it, as well.

**Lord Licorice, from Candy Land.

***There was that one, miserable year, after my divorce, that I gave up sugar, caffeine, AND chocolate. There are still people licking wounds from that stroke of genius.

*I hate Peeps, as a rule, because they have a shelf-life equivalent to a Twinkie (which IS NOT a compliment.) HOWEVER, if nothing else with sugar is available, I'll stoop to Peep level.

The restaurant with the MOSTEST

While I was in Houston a couple of weeks ago, I passed by a restaurant named "The Brick House". Of course, being a child of the 70's and 80's, I wanted to break into the old Commodores song of the same title. However, hearkening back to my Helen Reddy fiasco just days before, and wanting to spare the ears of those in the car with me, I refrained.

That didn't stop my brain from moving forward, though. ADD in full-steam-ahead, my brain went "WAIT JUST ONE COTTON-PICKIN' MINUTE! Is that "Shake it down shake it down Shake it down shake it down now" and "thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six"*? Must that mean that this state has another "men only" restaurant to join Hooters and Twin Peaks?"

I consulted someone I trust implicitly, and she admitted that, years ago, she and her sister had accidentally ended up in one of these charming establishments in another state. Basically, these two gals walked in blind, were STARVING, and weren't in the mood to get back in the car. So they sucked it up and forged forward.

Their first clue that something was amiss? The sign above the door at the entrance said "Welcome to the Man Cave".

It got a little better when they were seated in Barcaloungers with flip up TV trays to complement the flat screen that was attached to EACH recliner. Yes, friends, even a GIRL can appreciate that.

Bottom line?** If you love the idea of Double D Cup cakes*** and Submissive Baked Potato Soup, you have found the dive for VOUS!

So, I started thinking.**** If restaurant designers were to come up with a "ladies only" restaurant, what would it be like? Here's my list, forward-looking entrepreneurs with some extra coin to spend:

1. When you enter, a man, fully clothed in a Versace suit, and straight off the cover of a romance novel, greets you with a cocktail; your choice of cocktail was prearranged when you made the reservation. You sit in a quiet waiting area with a water feature, soothing music, and as much Godiva chocolate as you can down. If you so desire, comfy, soft slippers and bathrobes are available. For the ultimate relaxation, throw your feet up on a just-the-right-height-for-a-woman's-legs ottoman. Scrap that: ottoWOman.

2. When you've finished your cocktail, Mr. Novel returns with a slightly worried look, gets down on his knees to face you, eye-to-eye, and says "You look like you've had a rough day. Why don't you lie down for a short nap?" He ushers you to a room with a King size bed, complete with silk sheets, a blankie as soft as a baby's butt, and chocolates on the pillow. The sound machine is preset before you arrive and the overhead lights are lowered to the perfect not-too-bright, not-too-dim level. You sleep as long as you want.

3. Upon waking, you press a button beside the bed to alert your cabana boy***** that you are ready for dinner. Within seconds, a sophisticated hospital tray like contraption arrives, complete with the first course of your pre-ordered meal. Every time you finish a course, a new, modelesquely beautiful man enters the room and says "I'll do the dishes, honey. You just relax." Then, he drops a piece of chocolate in your palm and leaves with the dishes! In the event you feel like conversing at dinner, a table big enough for your all your girlfriends is available. When your BFF's join you, their personal chocolate-dropping cabana boys****** are in tow, so as not to take away from YOUR personal service.

4. After you've consumed just short of your yearly intake of calories and taken the needed potty break in your private restroom*******, a new sweetie-pie comes to tuck you in. He is tastefully dressed in Ralph Lauren; just the right mix of casual and cute. You are handed warm, liquid chocolate to drink before you fall asleep AGAIN.

5. One hour later, you are awoken by yet another lovely, who compliments you on how gorgeous you look after your "beauty sleep" and offers you a pound of chocolates as your parting gift.

You feel satisfied, beautiful, and pampered. And, you never see a bill. This whole adventure is charged to your husband's credit card as "groceries", so you never hear the griping that comes along with doing something for yourself.

Investors: Hurry! Call now! This proposal won't last! I'm taking offers to start this business, pronto.

Just remember, since I came up with the concept, I'm in charge of hiring, testing the chocolate, and sleeping.





*A figure which can only be achieved by copious amounts of caffeine, cigarettes and vomiting. How'd you like to kiss that at night? EW.

**If you thought I was making a pun, you outed yourself. I now know you've been to some men-only hideaway. And don't give me the sorry line "But, the wings are SOOOO good." Your Mother would be ashamed.

***A real dessert on the menu. Double EW.

****Always a dangerous proposition.

*****He arrives, fully clothed, in a Tommy Bahama outfit, barefoot.

******Though each man is wearing the same designer's clothes, none of the outfits "match", ruling out being served by anything but missionary-position loving men--though your reason for being at such a place has NOTHING to do with that line of thought. You're here for the lack of whiney children, dirty dishes and the abundance of chocolate. OH, the chocolate.

*******Which is devoid of boy urine.

The joys of chocolate

I have a friend who, a few weeks before her birthday, requests a chocolate cake. This may sound like a big deal to those of you who don't bake, but her taste in cake and frosting is simple: she wants nothing more than a box cake topped with a tub of frosting. I, being the baker in the group, and a chocoholic myself, always volunteer to make her cake. I do it out of love for her, but it also guarantees I get a piece of cake* AND, most importantly, that I get to see her near her birthday.

I understand my friend's desire for chocolate because I could eat my weight in the stuff then go back for more. Not only do I enjoy eating all versions of the cocoa bean, I also crave the divine scent. I'm so crazy about it that I once paid a fortune to have a "chocolate facial"**/***. Sadly, the whole wonderful event almost ended in me tackling the esthetician and pouring the contents of her bowl down my gullet just before the police arrived to arrest me****. Thankfully, I found some restraint before this whole, ugly scenario played out.

Armed with this information, you'll understand that I can empathize with an acquaintance who had a similar chocolate addiction. Her problem was that she couldn't keep any of her FIVE***** children out of her chocolate.

You see, she was a single Mom whose job required her to work shifts that caused her to arrive home well after her children had been dropped off by the bus. This left them, like bloodhounds at a fox hunt, to single-handedly dismantle the house to find whatever chocolate goodies Mom had purchased. And, dismantle they did!

You will then understand the desperation this woman felt. Her personal stash of M&M's was being devoured before she could even see if they really would melt in her hand. This was a tragedy of Greek proportions. So, she took matters into her own hands. Momma-style.

She gathered her progeny together in the kitchen and lined them up in front of her. Without saying a word, she carefully clipped open a new two pound-bag of the crunchy, melty discs and took one out. Then, she stuck it up her nose.

Yes, chocolate lovers. She desecrated the chocolate by sticking it up her sniffer.

What happened next was sheer Mom genius, deserving of a Noble prize and a standing ovation: she held the top of the bag wide open, aimed her nose at it, and SHOT THE M&M straight back into the bag. Then, she held the bag shut and SHOOK IT.

Mustering restraint only Mothers can conjure up when they are about to go homicidal, she explained that she didn't want ANYBODY, ever again, touching her M&M's. Then she walked away. Victorious.

Oh, yes, readers, the story really should end there. But it doesn't.

Do you know what those hellions did? They put their bony heads together and, working every collective brain cell she had birthed, figured out what COLOR that M&M was! And, then, the very next day, they found that bag and ate every M&M that couldn't have been shot out of their Mother's nose*******.

Oh, there just isn't a big enough paddle in this world for that kind of behavior.

I guess the consolation prize is that there are lessons to be learned from this story. Several take-aways, maybe:

1. if you ever become a contestant on a game show where you have to eat something totally random and gross, all you need do is mentally return to the snotty M&M's incident and you'll have the ammunition to beat the pants off your opponents.

2. five heads are better than one because someone is always paying attention to the details so you can figure out how to pull one over on your Mom.

3. and, most importantly, there is no such thing as bad chocolate. Even if it has been exposed to boogers.

Me? I've never quite looked at M&M's the same. Which explains why people look at me like I'm insane when I laugh absurdly upon opening a bag of them.

Though, I've never stopped to explain the laughing to the puzzled onlookers. I'm too busy inhaling the ambrosial scent and getting all manic on the little morsels of wonderfulness.

Chocolate, oh, chocolate. How I love thee!




*I NEVER miss an opportunity to gain weight!

**Under no circumstances should you have a chocolate facial if you are on a diet, between meals, or premenstrual. It is a recipe for disaster.

***Small nations have Gross Domestic Products equal to or lesser than the price of this facial. Oh, to have TRUE disposable income again....

****I'm sure the chemicals in the concoction would have killed me well before my attorney could have arrived (see Note below).

Note: I don't actually have an attorney. It just sounded good.

******Those of you who pity me for having three, take note. I'm not the most frazzled Mom in the universe.

*******Truly, there is a statistics problem here: "What is the probability, IF your Mother put a red M&M up her nose, and you randomly drew a candy out of the bag, that you would end up with an M&M that you couldn't eat?"