If you saw a blog post titled "Does Your Bra Make You Giggle?" you'd probably think the catchy albeit peculiar title was simply a lowbrow ploy to snag readers who'll then read on to find nothing but sheer, utter nonsense, right?
Shame on you!
Read the latest post on my “The Crazy Woman Inside Me” blog and be enlightened!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 04, 2010
My Pillsbury Bakeoff Grand Prize Winning Story
We live in a big house and want to downsize next year, making a move from the suburbs to the city. As a reforming packrat (six degrees shy of being a hoarder), that means I’ve got tons of purging work ahead of me. I’ve been rummaging through bags and boxes of all the precious junque I’ve been saving all these years and getting rid of it--donating what’s useable and tossing the rest. This is NOT easy. But I am having some good trips down memory lane going through things. Not to mention, plenty of laughs.
Recently I came across a portion of my Pillsbury Bakeoff contest entry from a few years after I was married. Unfortunately, the page with the recipe itself was missing. I’m certain it’s in another box because I would NEVER throw something like that away.
I didn’t actually win this contest. I wasn’t even a finalist. But before I entered the Bakeoff, I was so absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it certain that my recipe would win the Grand Prize that I had major angst about it for weeks. First, I’d have to lose weight really fast so I wouldn’t look fat on camera when I demonstrated my recipe on TV with the other finalists. Second, where in the hell was I going fit all the state-of-the-art Amana appliances in our tiny rented apartment’s kitchen when I won them?
There was the full-size refrigerator, double oven, Radar Range (that’s what Amana called their microwave ovens back then), and all the other fabulous kitchen stuff. In addition, there was also a hefty cash prize, which I wouldn’t have any trouble fitting into our dry-as-dust bank account.
I found all the sketches I’d made of possible appliance placement. Laughably non-technically executed floor plans scrawled in pencil on the backs of envelopes, napkins and scrap paper. I drove my poor husband crazy over dinner each night, convinced that the refrigerator was so big it would have to sit in the small bedroom off the kitchen, or smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. We didn’t have near enough money to buy a house yet, so a bigger kitchen to go along with the bounty I was about to win was out of the question.
I laughed as I looked over all this stuff and then remembered the recipe I’d submitted. I’m one hell of a good cook. If I taste something in a restaurant, I can duplicate it at home. I also create dynamite recipes from scratch.
However…way back then, at a time when we were really broke and the idea of a sparkling new gourmet kitchen was the stuff of dreams, something inside my tiny brain must have snapped. Because the recipe I came up with was so ridiculous, so eye-popping (not in a good way), so outlandish, that those judges must have laughed their asses off when they read it. And then they probably called over everyone else on the Pillsbury staff so they could have a good guffaw too.
But I believed in myself. I had pluck, dammit!
I knew I had to create something unique. Really different. Unusual, but still simple enough for any cook to easily duplicate. And it had to have a catchy title. So, I created Lemony Poppy-Noodle Doodles, dessert bars so irresistible that my recipe and I would be widely acclaimed from coast to coast. Maybe even internationally! Yes! Maybe then I’d get tons of offers to appear on morning talk shows (Oprah wasn’t on yet) and I’d earn enough to buy us a huge mansion where I could fit those Amana kitchen appliances!
Now, I can’t remember exactly what went into my million-dollar recipe, other than cooked noodles, eggs, sugar, cottage cheese, poppy seeds and lemon rind. At least one of the ingredients had to be a Pillsbury product, but I don’t remember what it was. Flour maybe.
I threw ingredients together, tasting the mixture until I was happy with it, then confidently chunked it all into a baking pan and, twenty-minutes later, voila! A pan of scrumptious-looking dessert bars!
Made with noodles.
My husband has loved most everything I’ve cooked, with very few exceptions, over the years. But when I set a pretty little plate of powdered sugar-dusted Lemony Poppy-Noodle Doodles before him when he got home from work, he gave me a strange look.
“What is this, macaroni and cheese?”
“Nope. This, this, Michael, is our ticket to wealth and fame. Financial security. Go ahead, taste it and tell me what you think.”
He bit into one of the firm squares. I could tell he was trying not to wince. “You made macaroni and cheese and put sugar in it?” He looked like he wanted to spit it out.
“No!” I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t taste anything like macaroni and cheese. It’s like a cross between rice pudding and lemon cheesecake bars.”
“It is?” He picked at it. “What’s all that black stuff?”
“Poppy seeds. For added texture and a more interesting appearance.”
“Is this what I’m having for dinner?” he asked with a puhleeze-say-no look on his face.
I removed the bars, walking away in a huff. “You have no palate,” I accused. “It would serve you right if I did make you some plain old mac and cheese tonight.”
He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Sounds good to me.”
“Michael, this is the recipe I made up for the Pillsbury Bakeoff contest.”
He laughed. A big, hearty belly laugh. When he saw my heated glare, his laughter died a quick death. “Oh, you mean you were serious. I thought you were kidding, honey. I mean this…” he motioned to the little plate of golden noodly goodness, “this is kind of…odd. Where did you get the idea?”
“From a Jewish recipe for sweet noodle kugel. That means noodle pudding. I found it at a garage sale.”
“I see.” He nodded. “And since you’re Irish and Greek you thought that Jewish noodle pudding would be a Pillsbury Bakeoff winner because…?” He offered a questioning shrug.
I tsked. “What does me being Greek and Irish have to do with anything? I cook Italian, Chinese and Mexican, don’t I? So why not Jewish? Seriously, Michael, look at those bars. Look at them! They’re like nothing anybody’s ever seen in any of the previous Bakeoffs.”
“Uh…maybe that should have been your first clue, Daisy.”
I narrowed my gaze. “You’ll see. This recipe is going to wow the judges, win the grand prize, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“About what?”
“The fact that all that new kitchen stuff will never fit in here!”
When Mr. Smarty Pants got into the shower I sat down and brought one of the bars to my lips, savoring the sweet smell. It was the first time I’d tasted them since they’d cooled. I couldn’t wait to sample the succulent flavor, the luscious texture. As my teeth sank into noodles, my eyes widened in horror. Dear God, it tasted like cold curdled macaroni and cheese with sugar! Blech! Yuck! Ptooey!
In my youthful exuberance (and don’t forget pluck), I’d already mailed in my contest entry that morning, right after I took my pan of stiff, strange, cottage-cheesy Jewish noodle pudding bars out of the oven. Yes, I was that confident about the stellar recipe I’d created.
The good news is that we didn’t have to rip out the kitchen to make way for anything new.
I can’t wait to see what other gems I come across as I go through more boxes of old junque and purge.
Recently I came across a portion of my Pillsbury Bakeoff contest entry from a few years after I was married. Unfortunately, the page with the recipe itself was missing. I’m certain it’s in another box because I would NEVER throw something like that away.
I didn’t actually win this contest. I wasn’t even a finalist. But before I entered the Bakeoff, I was so absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it certain that my recipe would win the Grand Prize that I had major angst about it for weeks. First, I’d have to lose weight really fast so I wouldn’t look fat on camera when I demonstrated my recipe on TV with the other finalists. Second, where in the hell was I going fit all the state-of-the-art Amana appliances in our tiny rented apartment’s kitchen when I won them?
There was the full-size refrigerator, double oven, Radar Range (that’s what Amana called their microwave ovens back then), and all the other fabulous kitchen stuff. In addition, there was also a hefty cash prize, which I wouldn’t have any trouble fitting into our dry-as-dust bank account.
I found all the sketches I’d made of possible appliance placement. Laughably non-technically executed floor plans scrawled in pencil on the backs of envelopes, napkins and scrap paper. I drove my poor husband crazy over dinner each night, convinced that the refrigerator was so big it would have to sit in the small bedroom off the kitchen, or smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. We didn’t have near enough money to buy a house yet, so a bigger kitchen to go along with the bounty I was about to win was out of the question.
I laughed as I looked over all this stuff and then remembered the recipe I’d submitted. I’m one hell of a good cook. If I taste something in a restaurant, I can duplicate it at home. I also create dynamite recipes from scratch.
However…way back then, at a time when we were really broke and the idea of a sparkling new gourmet kitchen was the stuff of dreams, something inside my tiny brain must have snapped. Because the recipe I came up with was so ridiculous, so eye-popping (not in a good way), so outlandish, that those judges must have laughed their asses off when they read it. And then they probably called over everyone else on the Pillsbury staff so they could have a good guffaw too.
But I believed in myself. I had pluck, dammit!
I knew I had to create something unique. Really different. Unusual, but still simple enough for any cook to easily duplicate. And it had to have a catchy title. So, I created Lemony Poppy-Noodle Doodles, dessert bars so irresistible that my recipe and I would be widely acclaimed from coast to coast. Maybe even internationally! Yes! Maybe then I’d get tons of offers to appear on morning talk shows (Oprah wasn’t on yet) and I’d earn enough to buy us a huge mansion where I could fit those Amana kitchen appliances!
Now, I can’t remember exactly what went into my million-dollar recipe, other than cooked noodles, eggs, sugar, cottage cheese, poppy seeds and lemon rind. At least one of the ingredients had to be a Pillsbury product, but I don’t remember what it was. Flour maybe.
I threw ingredients together, tasting the mixture until I was happy with it, then confidently chunked it all into a baking pan and, twenty-minutes later, voila! A pan of scrumptious-looking dessert bars!
Made with noodles.
My husband has loved most everything I’ve cooked, with very few exceptions, over the years. But when I set a pretty little plate of powdered sugar-dusted Lemony Poppy-Noodle Doodles before him when he got home from work, he gave me a strange look.
“What is this, macaroni and cheese?”
“Nope. This, this, Michael, is our ticket to wealth and fame. Financial security. Go ahead, taste it and tell me what you think.”
He bit into one of the firm squares. I could tell he was trying not to wince. “You made macaroni and cheese and put sugar in it?” He looked like he wanted to spit it out.
“No!” I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t taste anything like macaroni and cheese. It’s like a cross between rice pudding and lemon cheesecake bars.”
“It is?” He picked at it. “What’s all that black stuff?”
“Poppy seeds. For added texture and a more interesting appearance.”
“Is this what I’m having for dinner?” he asked with a puhleeze-say-no look on his face.
I removed the bars, walking away in a huff. “You have no palate,” I accused. “It would serve you right if I did make you some plain old mac and cheese tonight.”
He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Sounds good to me.”
“Michael, this is the recipe I made up for the Pillsbury Bakeoff contest.”
He laughed. A big, hearty belly laugh. When he saw my heated glare, his laughter died a quick death. “Oh, you mean you were serious. I thought you were kidding, honey. I mean this…” he motioned to the little plate of golden noodly goodness, “this is kind of…odd. Where did you get the idea?”
“From a Jewish recipe for sweet noodle kugel. That means noodle pudding. I found it at a garage sale.”
“I see.” He nodded. “And since you’re Irish and Greek you thought that Jewish noodle pudding would be a Pillsbury Bakeoff winner because…?” He offered a questioning shrug.
I tsked. “What does me being Greek and Irish have to do with anything? I cook Italian, Chinese and Mexican, don’t I? So why not Jewish? Seriously, Michael, look at those bars. Look at them! They’re like nothing anybody’s ever seen in any of the previous Bakeoffs.”
“Uh…maybe that should have been your first clue, Daisy.”
I narrowed my gaze. “You’ll see. This recipe is going to wow the judges, win the grand prize, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“About what?”
“The fact that all that new kitchen stuff will never fit in here!”
When Mr. Smarty Pants got into the shower I sat down and brought one of the bars to my lips, savoring the sweet smell. It was the first time I’d tasted them since they’d cooled. I couldn’t wait to sample the succulent flavor, the luscious texture. As my teeth sank into noodles, my eyes widened in horror. Dear God, it tasted like cold curdled macaroni and cheese with sugar! Blech! Yuck! Ptooey!
In my youthful exuberance (and don’t forget pluck), I’d already mailed in my contest entry that morning, right after I took my pan of stiff, strange, cottage-cheesy Jewish noodle pudding bars out of the oven. Yes, I was that confident about the stellar recipe I’d created.
The good news is that we didn’t have to rip out the kitchen to make way for anything new.
I can’t wait to see what other gems I come across as I go through more boxes of old junque and purge.
Monday, December 21, 2009
My “Crazy Woman” Blog
Just a quick note to let you all know that the URL address for my personal blog ”The Crazy Woman Inside Me” has been changed to http://TheCrazyWomanInsideMe.blogspot.com
The old link (http://www.TheCrazyWomanInsideMe.com) no longer works. Please update your blogroll, blog readers and news feeds.
If you have trouble getting the new feed for my blog to update properly, try entering my feed address (http://thecrazywomaninsideme.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default) instead of the blog address--it will default to http://TheCrazyWomanInsideMe.blogspot.com.
Thanks!
The old link (http://www.TheCrazyWomanInsideMe.com) no longer works. Please update your blogroll, blog readers and news feeds.
If you have trouble getting the new feed for my blog to update properly, try entering my feed address (http://thecrazywomaninsideme.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default) instead of the blog address--it will default to http://TheCrazyWomanInsideMe.blogspot.com.
Thanks!
Monday, December 14, 2009
Dripping with Diamonds, Furs and…Pillows?
“Buying gifts for women. This is an area where many men do not have a clue. Exhibit A was my father, who was a very thoughtful man, but who once gave my mother, on their anniversary, the following token of his love, his commitment, and, yes, his passion for her: an electric blanket.”
--Dave Barry
I love this festive time of year, the hustle-and-bustle, the wonderment in children’s eyes, the familiar sights, smells, and sounds, the overall sense of joy and merriment--all of it. I also love to reminisce about Christmases past. The other day I came across a blog post I wrote back in December of 2005. The memory tickled me and made me smile. I hope it does the same for you…
I’ve never been the type of woman who asked for or expected extravagant gifts like furs, jewels, precious metals, pairs of $800 shoes or cute purses that cost as much as a mortgage payment. And while I might fantasize about a thirty-room villa in the south of France complete with my own harem of hunky cabana boys, I’ve never pouted when the key for said villa didn’t appear under the Christmas tree.
All I ask from my husband is that the gifts be something personal--rather than absurdly utilitarian, reasonable or bare-bones logical. Give me something I want instead of something I need. Although my husband is brimming with positive qualities, he’s sorely lacking in the savvy-gift-giving-gene department. As his wife it is, of course, my responsibility to amend that unfortunate deficiency. It’s a full-time job because, as any woman knows, dealing with the male brain takes a great deal of finesse and fortitude, which can be quite time-consuming and taxing.
Over the years I’ve perfected the Oh-thank-you-honey-I-just-love-it! spiel and accompanying gleeful facial expressions because I care enough about my husband not to want to hurt his feelings when I tear the wrapping from a package, expecting a bottle of cologne and finding a space-age-metal indestructible two-headed pot scrubber instead. I don’t necessarily recommend this approach because, naturally, the man then believes that you adore what he has selected and you’ll keep getting more of the same. So, lately I’ve resorted to being a bit more blunt.
“Please don’t buy me any more pots and pans or nifty kitchen gadgets for Christmas again, Mike,” I say in a nice, calm, non-screechy tone.
“But, Daisy,” Mike retorts with the wounded hangdog look of a whipped puppy, “you said you loved that handy-dandy all-in-one can-opener/knife-sharpener/cork-screw/kitchen-scissors combo tool, and the molecular anodized infused frying pan with the guaranteed-for-life NASA approved impervious surface.”
After all these years of marriage you’d think I would have succeeded in training the man. I’ve given hints, written lists, explained the reasoning behind my wants, and basically did whatever I could to change his ingrained male thought patterns concerning gifting. It worked pretty well for a few years, but I suppose I must have become complacent and slacked off. I’d forgotten that men need to be fed a constant stream of instruction. A one-time lesson just doesn’t cut it. I even went through a few years when I just bought my own damn gifts and gave them to him to wrap. I got what I wanted, but it was no fun. The delicious element of surprise was absent. You see, I do want the element of surprise…just not the kind that comes with a sense of horror attached.
This year Mike started dropping hints early. I hate when he gives hints because he simply doesn’t have the capability of being secretive when it comes to gifts he’s purchased. By the time the occasion (birthday, Christmas, anniversary, etc.) rolls around, I know every damned detail about the practical, all-purpose gift I’m getting. The thing is, he’s convinced he’s slick and sly about the hints he’s given and still thinks I’ll be surprised, so I have to pretend to be. Tsk.
“Wait till you see what I’m getting you for Christmas this year,” he tells me a couple of weeks ago.
I resist rolling my eyes and repeat my mantra, “Please don’t buy me any more pots and pans or nifty kitchen gadgets for Christmas again, Mike.”
“Nope. It’s nothing like that,” he says proudly. “Want me to give you a hint?”
“No.”
“It’s something soft.”
“I said I don’t want any hints, Mike. Please don’t give me any hints. I want to be surprised.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be stealthy. You’ll never guess,” he says with a look of little boy glee. “It’s something comfortable. Something you need.”
Aw, crap. “I already gave you my Christmas list, Mike. It has some nice CDs, a few books, and some cologne. Those are things I want, please don’t give me things I need for Christmas. I want fun stuff.” I beamed my brightest non-bitchy smile.
“Oh, you’ll want this as soon as you know what it is,” he assures me. “You could say it’s fluffy and feathery.” He wags his eyebrows and smiles with that look that tells me he thinks he’s being slick and secretive. “And it’s not something you’d use during the day…unless you took a nap.”
Shit. “Pillows? You’re giving me pillows for Christmas?”
His face falls. “How did you guess? You weren’t supposed to guess, Daisy. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Did you buy them yet?”
“No. I’m getting them today.”
“Please do not buy me pillows, Mike. Just buy the CDs. It’s easy, you can just order them from Amazon.com.”
“But if I get you things on your list then you won’t be surprised. I wanted to do something special.”
“And I truly appreciate the attempt, honey,” I tell him with a peck on the cheek. “But please don’t let me find a pillow under the tree on Christmas morning.”
“But you don’t understand. These aren’t cheap pillows, Daisy. These are just like the ones we liked when we went to that hotel at the coast. Part goose down and part duck feathers.”
And that’s when our daughter, Jen, came into the room. “What’s all the racket?”
“You father wants to buy me pillows for Christmas. For Christmas, Jen!”
“Expensive ones,” Mike chimed in. “Ones like that hotel Mom and I stayed at, with down and feathers.”
Jen turned to me and shrugged. “What’s wrong with that, Mom? It sounds like a very thoughtful gift.”
“Pillows?” This time my voice came out screechy. “There’s nothing fun about finding pillows under the tree.”
Jen tsked. “You’re picking on Dad again. You should be thankful you have such a nice husband. Do you know how many women in the world would be grateful to receive an expensive, comfortable set of pillows for Christmas?” Jen, the true humanitarian in the family, gave me a look that was clearly meant to shame me. “I think you’re really being unreasonable here, Mom. It sounds to me like Dad went to the trouble of choosing something very nice and thoughtful for your gift this year.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and pinned my daughter with a narrow-eyed glare. “Yeah, that’s because you’re not the one who’s getting pillows for Christmas.”
Clearly disappointed and ashamed of her ungrateful mother, Jen shook her head and tsked again. “That’s not true. If Dad gave me nice pillows I’d be thankful and appreciative.”
“That’s great!” Mike’s whole demeanor brightened. “Because for every two pillows you buy, you get a discount on another two. Now I know what to get you for Christmas, too.” He pulled Jen into a buddy hug.
After Jen picked her jaw up from the floor, the timbre of her voice surpassed her mother’s screechiness. “What? Me? No! Dad, I don’t want pillows for Christmas. I already gave you my Christmas list. Get me something from that.”
“Aha!” I shouted triumphantly, jabbing an accusatory finger at Jen before I collapsed in fits of laughter.
“Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa.”
--Bart Simpson
NOTE: We did get ourselves some nice pillows, but they weren’t Christmas gifts, we bought them a couple of months later during a white sale.
When I first posted this in 2005, a couple of women in the comments section said they wished their husbands bought them pillows and kitchen gadgets for Christmas instead of useless or boring stuff like the same old cologne they get every year. One of my male readers pointed out some of the ridiculous gifts he’s received from females, so I guess that means the lack of a savvy-gift-giving-gene is not necessarily gender-specific.
Tell me, what are some of the silliest, strangest, most ridiculous or just plain awful gifts you’ve received from your significant others over the years?
--Dave Barry
I love this festive time of year, the hustle-and-bustle, the wonderment in children’s eyes, the familiar sights, smells, and sounds, the overall sense of joy and merriment--all of it. I also love to reminisce about Christmases past. The other day I came across a blog post I wrote back in December of 2005. The memory tickled me and made me smile. I hope it does the same for you…
I’ve never been the type of woman who asked for or expected extravagant gifts like furs, jewels, precious metals, pairs of $800 shoes or cute purses that cost as much as a mortgage payment. And while I might fantasize about a thirty-room villa in the south of France complete with my own harem of hunky cabana boys, I’ve never pouted when the key for said villa didn’t appear under the Christmas tree.
All I ask from my husband is that the gifts be something personal--rather than absurdly utilitarian, reasonable or bare-bones logical. Give me something I want instead of something I need. Although my husband is brimming with positive qualities, he’s sorely lacking in the savvy-gift-giving-gene department. As his wife it is, of course, my responsibility to amend that unfortunate deficiency. It’s a full-time job because, as any woman knows, dealing with the male brain takes a great deal of finesse and fortitude, which can be quite time-consuming and taxing.
Over the years I’ve perfected the Oh-thank-you-honey-I-just-love-it! spiel and accompanying gleeful facial expressions because I care enough about my husband not to want to hurt his feelings when I tear the wrapping from a package, expecting a bottle of cologne and finding a space-age-metal indestructible two-headed pot scrubber instead. I don’t necessarily recommend this approach because, naturally, the man then believes that you adore what he has selected and you’ll keep getting more of the same. So, lately I’ve resorted to being a bit more blunt.
“Please don’t buy me any more pots and pans or nifty kitchen gadgets for Christmas again, Mike,” I say in a nice, calm, non-screechy tone.
“But, Daisy,” Mike retorts with the wounded hangdog look of a whipped puppy, “you said you loved that handy-dandy all-in-one can-opener/knife-sharpener/cork-screw/kitchen-scissors combo tool, and the molecular anodized infused frying pan with the guaranteed-for-life NASA approved impervious surface.”
After all these years of marriage you’d think I would have succeeded in training the man. I’ve given hints, written lists, explained the reasoning behind my wants, and basically did whatever I could to change his ingrained male thought patterns concerning gifting. It worked pretty well for a few years, but I suppose I must have become complacent and slacked off. I’d forgotten that men need to be fed a constant stream of instruction. A one-time lesson just doesn’t cut it. I even went through a few years when I just bought my own damn gifts and gave them to him to wrap. I got what I wanted, but it was no fun. The delicious element of surprise was absent. You see, I do want the element of surprise…just not the kind that comes with a sense of horror attached.
This year Mike started dropping hints early. I hate when he gives hints because he simply doesn’t have the capability of being secretive when it comes to gifts he’s purchased. By the time the occasion (birthday, Christmas, anniversary, etc.) rolls around, I know every damned detail about the practical, all-purpose gift I’m getting. The thing is, he’s convinced he’s slick and sly about the hints he’s given and still thinks I’ll be surprised, so I have to pretend to be. Tsk.
“Wait till you see what I’m getting you for Christmas this year,” he tells me a couple of weeks ago.
I resist rolling my eyes and repeat my mantra, “Please don’t buy me any more pots and pans or nifty kitchen gadgets for Christmas again, Mike.”
“Nope. It’s nothing like that,” he says proudly. “Want me to give you a hint?”
“No.”
“It’s something soft.”
“I said I don’t want any hints, Mike. Please don’t give me any hints. I want to be surprised.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be stealthy. You’ll never guess,” he says with a look of little boy glee. “It’s something comfortable. Something you need.”
Aw, crap. “I already gave you my Christmas list, Mike. It has some nice CDs, a few books, and some cologne. Those are things I want, please don’t give me things I need for Christmas. I want fun stuff.” I beamed my brightest non-bitchy smile.
“Oh, you’ll want this as soon as you know what it is,” he assures me. “You could say it’s fluffy and feathery.” He wags his eyebrows and smiles with that look that tells me he thinks he’s being slick and secretive. “And it’s not something you’d use during the day…unless you took a nap.”
Shit. “Pillows? You’re giving me pillows for Christmas?”
His face falls. “How did you guess? You weren’t supposed to guess, Daisy. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Did you buy them yet?”
“No. I’m getting them today.”
“Please do not buy me pillows, Mike. Just buy the CDs. It’s easy, you can just order them from Amazon.com.”
“But if I get you things on your list then you won’t be surprised. I wanted to do something special.”
“And I truly appreciate the attempt, honey,” I tell him with a peck on the cheek. “But please don’t let me find a pillow under the tree on Christmas morning.”
“But you don’t understand. These aren’t cheap pillows, Daisy. These are just like the ones we liked when we went to that hotel at the coast. Part goose down and part duck feathers.”
And that’s when our daughter, Jen, came into the room. “What’s all the racket?”
“You father wants to buy me pillows for Christmas. For Christmas, Jen!”
“Expensive ones,” Mike chimed in. “Ones like that hotel Mom and I stayed at, with down and feathers.”
Jen turned to me and shrugged. “What’s wrong with that, Mom? It sounds like a very thoughtful gift.”
“Pillows?” This time my voice came out screechy. “There’s nothing fun about finding pillows under the tree.”
Jen tsked. “You’re picking on Dad again. You should be thankful you have such a nice husband. Do you know how many women in the world would be grateful to receive an expensive, comfortable set of pillows for Christmas?” Jen, the true humanitarian in the family, gave me a look that was clearly meant to shame me. “I think you’re really being unreasonable here, Mom. It sounds to me like Dad went to the trouble of choosing something very nice and thoughtful for your gift this year.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and pinned my daughter with a narrow-eyed glare. “Yeah, that’s because you’re not the one who’s getting pillows for Christmas.”
Clearly disappointed and ashamed of her ungrateful mother, Jen shook her head and tsked again. “That’s not true. If Dad gave me nice pillows I’d be thankful and appreciative.”
“That’s great!” Mike’s whole demeanor brightened. “Because for every two pillows you buy, you get a discount on another two. Now I know what to get you for Christmas, too.” He pulled Jen into a buddy hug.
After Jen picked her jaw up from the floor, the timbre of her voice surpassed her mother’s screechiness. “What? Me? No! Dad, I don’t want pillows for Christmas. I already gave you my Christmas list. Get me something from that.”
“Aha!” I shouted triumphantly, jabbing an accusatory finger at Jen before I collapsed in fits of laughter.
“Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa.”
--Bart Simpson
NOTE: We did get ourselves some nice pillows, but they weren’t Christmas gifts, we bought them a couple of months later during a white sale.
When I first posted this in 2005, a couple of women in the comments section said they wished their husbands bought them pillows and kitchen gadgets for Christmas instead of useless or boring stuff like the same old cologne they get every year. One of my male readers pointed out some of the ridiculous gifts he’s received from females, so I guess that means the lack of a savvy-gift-giving-gene is not necessarily gender-specific.
Tell me, what are some of the silliest, strangest, most ridiculous or just plain awful gifts you’ve received from your significant others over the years?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Gratitude. I’m Truly Thankful For…
My gratitude list goes on and on. In fact, it’s so big it makes my tiny brain throb trying to zero in on everything. In the interest of brevity, I decided to narrow the list down to a dozen truly meaningful and significant blessings in my life.
I’ll start the countdown at 12 and work my way down to number 1.
Number 12: Chocolate. Honestly, need I say more? Frankly, I was going to put this at the number 1 spot on my list but I thought it might be perceived as being just a tad shallow. You’ll notice that by reversing the order of my list, counting from 12 to 1, chocolate has managed to snag the first spot anyway.
Number 11: Laughter. It’s such a huge, important part of my life. I’ve blogged about the wonderful, healing effects of laughter in the past because it’s a subject very near and dear to my heart.
Number 10: My Crocs shoes. They’re so exceedingly comfortable. Why, they’re practically sacred! All you have to do is read my Pardon my Clown Feet and Drag Queen Shoes post on my other blog to understand the significance of this item.
Number 9: Jeans with stretch. If you’ve ever suffered from ample-butt-issues, then there really isn’t any need for further explanation.
Number 8: Makeup. I’m so pale my features are all but invisible to the human eye without the aid of eye makeup and lipstick. Therefore I never let anyone, including my husband, see me without makeup. That includes when I go to the grocery store or leave the house to get the mail. Yes, I’m serious. My Irish grandma used to tell me she had to put on her face before she went anywhere. I fully understand that now. I always sort of identified with The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby in that respect (“…wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door…”).
Number 7: Hand cream. In case you don’t already know this, when you put lotion on your hands it immediately takes 18-years off their appearance. Unfortunately the wondrous effects only last for about ten minutes. That means you have to take a tiny bottle of lotion with you when you go out and reapply at nine-minute intervals--no matter what. Otherwise the people you’re with will suddenly glare at your hands with a horror-stricken expression because you’re developing mummy hands right before their very eyes.
Number 6: My longtime close friends Clairol and L’Oreal. When my roots are gray it makes me stressed and depressed and I can’t focus on much of anything else. This is one of those times. As soon as I finish this post I’ve got a clandestine rendezvous planned with one of those friends so I can eradicate the gray and look 30-years younger instantly. Between that and the effects of the hand cream, I’ll be looking like a babe.
Number 5: Readers of my Daisy Dexter Dobbs books. I so tickled that you enjoy them. If you only knew how much pleasure I get from writing them! The positive feedback I get is like pure gold to me and very much appreciated.
Number 4: Readers of my blogs (and Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, etc.). I’ve had the pleasure to meet so many different people through various online sources. You’ve all enriched my life more than I can say. I cherish your comments and emails.
Number 3: My inner craziness. I’m learning to embrace it, enjoy it, to sing and dance and laugh with it. After all, the crazy woman inside me is responsible for me being who I am today. And I’ve reached a point in my life where I really like myself. That inner craziness also contributes to my creativity and imagination. The craziness is a good thing, as long as I can keep it controlled (see number 12).
Number 2: I have extreme-mega-gratitude for discovering that a plant-based diet helps to keep the crippling effects of my ankylosing spondylitis in check, helps me lose weight, and even arrests my plethora of food addictions. Who would have known? It was a radical change for me (eliminating dairy was the hardest) but the healthiest one I’ve ever made.
Number 1: My wonderful, loving, supportive and encouraging husband and daughter. They’re my best friends and I don’t know what I’d do without them. Best of all is the joy and laughter we share together.
And that completes the short list. So tell me--what are you particularly thankful for at this time in your life? Yes, I know it will be hard to come up with a list as intense, profound and poignant as mine, but go ahead and give it a try.
I’ll start the countdown at 12 and work my way down to number 1.
Number 12: Chocolate. Honestly, need I say more? Frankly, I was going to put this at the number 1 spot on my list but I thought it might be perceived as being just a tad shallow. You’ll notice that by reversing the order of my list, counting from 12 to 1, chocolate has managed to snag the first spot anyway.
Number 11: Laughter. It’s such a huge, important part of my life. I’ve blogged about the wonderful, healing effects of laughter in the past because it’s a subject very near and dear to my heart.
Number 10: My Crocs shoes. They’re so exceedingly comfortable. Why, they’re practically sacred! All you have to do is read my Pardon my Clown Feet and Drag Queen Shoes post on my other blog to understand the significance of this item.
Number 9: Jeans with stretch. If you’ve ever suffered from ample-butt-issues, then there really isn’t any need for further explanation.
Number 8: Makeup. I’m so pale my features are all but invisible to the human eye without the aid of eye makeup and lipstick. Therefore I never let anyone, including my husband, see me without makeup. That includes when I go to the grocery store or leave the house to get the mail. Yes, I’m serious. My Irish grandma used to tell me she had to put on her face before she went anywhere. I fully understand that now. I always sort of identified with The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby in that respect (“…wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door…”).
Number 7: Hand cream. In case you don’t already know this, when you put lotion on your hands it immediately takes 18-years off their appearance. Unfortunately the wondrous effects only last for about ten minutes. That means you have to take a tiny bottle of lotion with you when you go out and reapply at nine-minute intervals--no matter what. Otherwise the people you’re with will suddenly glare at your hands with a horror-stricken expression because you’re developing mummy hands right before their very eyes.
Number 6: My longtime close friends Clairol and L’Oreal. When my roots are gray it makes me stressed and depressed and I can’t focus on much of anything else. This is one of those times. As soon as I finish this post I’ve got a clandestine rendezvous planned with one of those friends so I can eradicate the gray and look 30-years younger instantly. Between that and the effects of the hand cream, I’ll be looking like a babe.
Number 5: Readers of my Daisy Dexter Dobbs books. I so tickled that you enjoy them. If you only knew how much pleasure I get from writing them! The positive feedback I get is like pure gold to me and very much appreciated.
Number 4: Readers of my blogs (and Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, etc.). I’ve had the pleasure to meet so many different people through various online sources. You’ve all enriched my life more than I can say. I cherish your comments and emails.
Number 3: My inner craziness. I’m learning to embrace it, enjoy it, to sing and dance and laugh with it. After all, the crazy woman inside me is responsible for me being who I am today. And I’ve reached a point in my life where I really like myself. That inner craziness also contributes to my creativity and imagination. The craziness is a good thing, as long as I can keep it controlled (see number 12).
Number 2: I have extreme-mega-gratitude for discovering that a plant-based diet helps to keep the crippling effects of my ankylosing spondylitis in check, helps me lose weight, and even arrests my plethora of food addictions. Who would have known? It was a radical change for me (eliminating dairy was the hardest) but the healthiest one I’ve ever made.
Number 1: My wonderful, loving, supportive and encouraging husband and daughter. They’re my best friends and I don’t know what I’d do without them. Best of all is the joy and laughter we share together.
And that completes the short list. So tell me--what are you particularly thankful for at this time in your life? Yes, I know it will be hard to come up with a list as intense, profound and poignant as mine, but go ahead and give it a try.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Are You in Danger of Sabotaging Your Diet?
It’s here. This is it. You’ve arrived. The question is, will you survive? Will you make it out with a smile on your face or will you find yourself gripped by agony and despair?
I’m talking about the holiday season. It’s upon us in case you hadn’t noticed. We’ll be bombarded with tempting in-your-face sights and smells of holiday treats for at least two full months.
That’s hard. Damn hard.
If you’re on a journey to a lean, fit, healthy body and don’t want to ring in the New Year fatter than you are right now, then, boy, have I got a blog post for you! :-D
It’s all here on my personal health and weight-loss blog: “Navigating the Holidays: Sabotaging Your Diet and Your Goals”
I’m talking about the holiday season. It’s upon us in case you hadn’t noticed. We’ll be bombarded with tempting in-your-face sights and smells of holiday treats for at least two full months.
That’s hard. Damn hard.
If you’re on a journey to a lean, fit, healthy body and don’t want to ring in the New Year fatter than you are right now, then, boy, have I got a blog post for you! :-D
It’s all here on my personal health and weight-loss blog: “Navigating the Holidays: Sabotaging Your Diet and Your Goals”
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The Wonderful Healing Effects of Laughter
With Halloween finished, the holiday season is upon us. That means lip-licking, fat-soaked, sugar-drenched, calorific temptation galore for the next couple of months. It also means some of you will have a hell of a time keeping your eating and drinking sane and balanced during that time. Holidays can be wonderful and magical, but they can also be stressful, especially for dieters. They can also be extremely taxing for people who’ll be getting together with negative or toxic friends and family members.
All that stress makes temptation much more difficult to resist. But resist we must! Lord knows the last thing we want is to begin the new year with a depressing weight gain.
Of all the things to indulge in this holiday season, I highly recommend one delicious goodie that won’t make you gain weight and will actually help to lessen the stressful effects of being bombarded by delectable edibles.
That wonderful, positive, calorie-free goodie is laughter. It colors your perception, so that while others see gloomy gray skies, you’ll be seeing blue skies and clouds with silver linings. Laughter helps give you the power to take yourself, holiday stress, and life in general less seriously. It unties the knots in your gut when some well-meaning friend or family member decides to criticize your diet--or to watch you like a hawk each time you put something in your mouth. Laughter gives you the ability to remain strong and face each challenge with a confident smile on your face. You’ll feel good about yourself--and nothing (and no one) can defeat that powerful, positive, happy feeling!
Think about it. When’s the last time you indulged in a rollicking bout of laughter? I don’t mean a few snickers, a couple of chuckles or a bit of polite laughter. I’m talking about the kind of laughter that rolls up from deep within the belly. The kind that makes you snort and has tears running down your face and makes you hurt real good inside.
Recently I came across a favorite old book (first published in the 1970s and still available today) that started me on a path of research years ago about the healing effects of laughter. It’s called Anatomy of an Illness as Perceived by the Patient, written by Norman Cousins. In it he describes how, after receiving a dire “incurable” diagnosis for a crippling illness, he took his health into his own hands.
To make a long story short, ignoring the gloom and doom prognosis, he checked himself out of the hospital and into in a motel where he did nothing but watch the funniest movies and read the funniest books, completely immersing himself in laughter. After a few months of intensive laughter therapy, he’d cured himself. He did the same years later after he suffered a massive heart attack. There’s quite a bit more to Cousins’ story, but that’s the gist of it. I have AS (ankylosing spondylitis), the same illness Cousins had, so you can see where I’d be especially interested in researching laughter therapy. I’ve been happily amazed at my findings--and I’d like to share them with you.
Over the decades numerous scientific studies have been done regarding the remarkable and often surprising power of laughter. It’s been discovered that laughter is a form of aerobic exercise that stimulates heart and blood circulation. Findings show that one minute of laughter is equivalent to ten minutes on the rowing machine. That’s significant! (Are you listening, dieters?)
Thinking about Botox or a facelift to get rid of those wrinkles? Before you go that route, you may want to know that laughter is anti-ageing. Facial muscles are toned by laughing contractions. Blood supply to the face is increased, causing a youthful flush effect. In addition, the increased blood supply nourishes the skin and makes it glow.
Are you single and looking for ways to attract the opposite sex? Keep in mind that people look younger, more attractive and more approachable when they laugh. Think about it. Aren’t you more naturally attracted to someone who’s laughing than someone who’s frowning or looks gloomy?
When you’re around laughter, you can’t help but be infected. Hearing or seeing others laugh makes you laugh and that makes them laugh even more and… Well, you get the idea. It’s the best kind of infection you can possibly get.
Feeling down or depressed? Stiff and achy? You need to build up your endorphins. Endorphins are substances formed in the body that naturally relieve pain. In fact, they have a similar chemical structure to morphine. They’re involved in controlling the body's response to stress, regulating contractions of the intestinal wall and determining mood. In other words, endorphins fight and reduce physical pain as well as depression.
And do you want to take a guess as to what increases endorphins? Yup. Laughter! It’s a bona fide stress buster. Vigorous exercise (you’ve heard of a “runner’s high”) can also do increase endorphins, as can orgasms, but that’s a whole different blog. :-)
My husband and I love watching humorous TV shows like AFV (America’s Funniest Home Videos), or reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway (an innovative and hilarious improv show), etc., because they always make us laugh and we always feel better afterwards. I love watching funny movies and reading comedic books too. As a fulltime writer, the primary reason I write mostly romantic comedy and humorous women’s fiction is that it keeps me feeling good as I work. It actually helps to reduce the pain and inflammation from my AS, which is pretty awesome.
When you find life getting in the way of feeling good--you know, things like bad news on TV and in the newspaper; bills piling up; arthritis acting up; kids driving you crazy; work making you bonkers; diet going to hell; etc., take a break for laughter. It’ll help. I promise.
I’ve included two short videos below of babies laughing. They’ve been around for a while so perhaps you’ve seen them before, but I challenge you not to smile while watching them anyway. Maybe they’ll even make you laugh. Watching these is a reminder of how naturally laughter comes to little children. What a shame we lose some of that marvelous spontaneity and sheer joy of life along life’s path. It’s not hopeless. With a little work we can recapture that magical youthful feeling, through frequent bouts of laughter.
As we embark upon the bustling, food-filled holiday season, why not take some time out for yourself and give yourself the very best holiday gift possible--the gift of rich, bubbly, exuberant, healing and downright magical laughter. And while you’re at it, how about giving the same gift to those you love? I promise it will make the next few months easier and more enjoyable for you and yours. :-D
In need of diet inspiration as well as a generous dose of humor? Be sure to visit my other blog, The Crazy Woman Inside Me.
All that stress makes temptation much more difficult to resist. But resist we must! Lord knows the last thing we want is to begin the new year with a depressing weight gain.
Of all the things to indulge in this holiday season, I highly recommend one delicious goodie that won’t make you gain weight and will actually help to lessen the stressful effects of being bombarded by delectable edibles.
That wonderful, positive, calorie-free goodie is laughter. It colors your perception, so that while others see gloomy gray skies, you’ll be seeing blue skies and clouds with silver linings. Laughter helps give you the power to take yourself, holiday stress, and life in general less seriously. It unties the knots in your gut when some well-meaning friend or family member decides to criticize your diet--or to watch you like a hawk each time you put something in your mouth. Laughter gives you the ability to remain strong and face each challenge with a confident smile on your face. You’ll feel good about yourself--and nothing (and no one) can defeat that powerful, positive, happy feeling!
Think about it. When’s the last time you indulged in a rollicking bout of laughter? I don’t mean a few snickers, a couple of chuckles or a bit of polite laughter. I’m talking about the kind of laughter that rolls up from deep within the belly. The kind that makes you snort and has tears running down your face and makes you hurt real good inside.
Recently I came across a favorite old book (first published in the 1970s and still available today) that started me on a path of research years ago about the healing effects of laughter. It’s called Anatomy of an Illness as Perceived by the Patient, written by Norman Cousins. In it he describes how, after receiving a dire “incurable” diagnosis for a crippling illness, he took his health into his own hands.
To make a long story short, ignoring the gloom and doom prognosis, he checked himself out of the hospital and into in a motel where he did nothing but watch the funniest movies and read the funniest books, completely immersing himself in laughter. After a few months of intensive laughter therapy, he’d cured himself. He did the same years later after he suffered a massive heart attack. There’s quite a bit more to Cousins’ story, but that’s the gist of it. I have AS (ankylosing spondylitis), the same illness Cousins had, so you can see where I’d be especially interested in researching laughter therapy. I’ve been happily amazed at my findings--and I’d like to share them with you.
Over the decades numerous scientific studies have been done regarding the remarkable and often surprising power of laughter. It’s been discovered that laughter is a form of aerobic exercise that stimulates heart and blood circulation. Findings show that one minute of laughter is equivalent to ten minutes on the rowing machine. That’s significant! (Are you listening, dieters?)
Thinking about Botox or a facelift to get rid of those wrinkles? Before you go that route, you may want to know that laughter is anti-ageing. Facial muscles are toned by laughing contractions. Blood supply to the face is increased, causing a youthful flush effect. In addition, the increased blood supply nourishes the skin and makes it glow.
Are you single and looking for ways to attract the opposite sex? Keep in mind that people look younger, more attractive and more approachable when they laugh. Think about it. Aren’t you more naturally attracted to someone who’s laughing than someone who’s frowning or looks gloomy?
When you’re around laughter, you can’t help but be infected. Hearing or seeing others laugh makes you laugh and that makes them laugh even more and… Well, you get the idea. It’s the best kind of infection you can possibly get.
Feeling down or depressed? Stiff and achy? You need to build up your endorphins. Endorphins are substances formed in the body that naturally relieve pain. In fact, they have a similar chemical structure to morphine. They’re involved in controlling the body's response to stress, regulating contractions of the intestinal wall and determining mood. In other words, endorphins fight and reduce physical pain as well as depression.
And do you want to take a guess as to what increases endorphins? Yup. Laughter! It’s a bona fide stress buster. Vigorous exercise (you’ve heard of a “runner’s high”) can also do increase endorphins, as can orgasms, but that’s a whole different blog. :-)
My husband and I love watching humorous TV shows like AFV (America’s Funniest Home Videos), or reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway (an innovative and hilarious improv show), etc., because they always make us laugh and we always feel better afterwards. I love watching funny movies and reading comedic books too. As a fulltime writer, the primary reason I write mostly romantic comedy and humorous women’s fiction is that it keeps me feeling good as I work. It actually helps to reduce the pain and inflammation from my AS, which is pretty awesome.
When you find life getting in the way of feeling good--you know, things like bad news on TV and in the newspaper; bills piling up; arthritis acting up; kids driving you crazy; work making you bonkers; diet going to hell; etc., take a break for laughter. It’ll help. I promise.
I’ve included two short videos below of babies laughing. They’ve been around for a while so perhaps you’ve seen them before, but I challenge you not to smile while watching them anyway. Maybe they’ll even make you laugh. Watching these is a reminder of how naturally laughter comes to little children. What a shame we lose some of that marvelous spontaneity and sheer joy of life along life’s path. It’s not hopeless. With a little work we can recapture that magical youthful feeling, through frequent bouts of laughter.
As we embark upon the bustling, food-filled holiday season, why not take some time out for yourself and give yourself the very best holiday gift possible--the gift of rich, bubbly, exuberant, healing and downright magical laughter. And while you’re at it, how about giving the same gift to those you love? I promise it will make the next few months easier and more enjoyable for you and yours. :-D
In need of diet inspiration as well as a generous dose of humor? Be sure to visit my other blog, The Crazy Woman Inside Me.
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