Snickerfodder

Archive for December 2009

 

Nothing

spreads Christmas cheer

like my Very FaVorite holiday video: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A very Merry Christmas to you!

 

 

 

 

 

Hope Santa brought your every

heart’s desire.

 

 

 

 

God bless us, every one!

 

 

 

 

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It’s that time of year.

 

  

Time to fire up the oven and burn the hell out of everything I put inside.

 

  

Call it a yuletide tradition.

 

 

  

(I burn hard-boiled EGGS, for cryin’ out loud.)

 

  

  

I LOVE to bake, I really do.  

 

 

I just really suck at it.

 

 

 

The problem is that I LOVE to do a million other little things while I  have sumpin’ in the oven.

Without fail, my scatterbrain gets distracted by…oh, I dunno…straightening out the fringies on the front door rug, or maybe Lysoling every doorknob, lightswitch, hand-held device, vacuum-handle and pencil and pen in the house.  It’s a big job.  (I DO draw the line on paperclips, though). 

  

Timer, schmimer!

 

  

   

I can tune that out almost as easily as I can the M & Ms’ cryin’ & whinin’  (especially since they sometimes hit decibels only our canine & orca friends can enjoy).

Before I know it,  my lovely banana bread becomes my signature ‘Banana BRICK’.

Now, I must give myself just a little credit; my fruit pies are beautiful — and oh!-so-yummy!   Keep in mind: The Viv’s got a 1/2 ” of ceramic and a crust guard  — even SHE can’t fuck that up).

Last night, (after 8 pm!) I decided it was time to start a’bakin’.  I’d promised the M & Ms’ we’d make cookies, and by Jehosephat, we were goin’ duit.

Back when I was a newlywed, I dutifully, happily, ATTEMPTED to make everything ‘from scratch’.

Now that I’m middle-aged and jaded — I just make a nice slice through Betty’s pretty face (that brain-washin’ bitch) as I open up a bag of pre-mixed dough. 

I can’t wait ’til they come up with a mix that requires me to add only air.

We decided to make those Peanut Butter Blossoms (with the Hershey kiss atop).  They are the M & Ms’ favorite (as long as someone other than SassyMama makes them).

After they scrubbed their little hands raw and donned their kiddie-aprons, I set the girls to work on peeling the wrappers from the kisses.

  

  

Every third one unwrapped actually made it into the bowl.

 

 

Then we all took turns adding egg, water and oil and stirring the batter  (God Forbid one M get a longer stirring session than the other).

SassyMama made the dough balls (NO WAY would she let them in M2’s hands — no telling WHAT may end up mixed in — Jesus!  Then The Viv would have to Lysol the damn cookies).

SassyMama plopped the balls into a bowl of sugar, and the girls rolled them around (USING SPOONS, NO FINGERS!),  argued about who’s ball was whose, and finally spooned them onto the cookie sheet lined with parchment paper.

(Yep, The Viv uses parchment, and she STILL burns ’em!)

Then the girls plunked some kisses on the dough balls.  We all ‘ooohed‘  and ‘aaahhhed‘ over how pretty the cookies were.  The girls were SO proud of those first two trays! 

The Viv deftly slid the trays into the oven, set the timer-schmimer for 10 minutes and set about making the next batch of beauties.

After about five minutes, little M2 wanted to take a peek at the baking cookies.  The three of us huddled around the oven.

To our horror, there were no Peanut Butter Blossoms in there.

 

 

 

There were, however, Peanut Butter BLOBS.

 

 

 

***Note to SassyMama self

Chocolate MELTS,  DUMBASS. 

Add Hershey Kisses AFTER baking cookies.

 

 

 

 

After that initial meltdown, we got into the groove.

We ladies had quite the cookie factory goin’ on; the M & Ms did a great job!  And, Toby got in on the action, too, as he ‘rescued’ a coupl’a casualties off the floor.

We had finished about 5 dozen when M2 said,

 

 

 

“Mama, is the oven supposed to GLOW like that?”

 

 

 

To our collective horror, the floor of my oven was afire.

 

 

 

Not a bonfire, mind you; more like the start-up flame of a gas grill.  The flame actually seemed to be concentrated in one particular spot, but still, it was a bit unsettling.

I DO have a small extinguisher, although, my humble abode would burn to the ground before I could dig it out from behind myriad cleaning supplies under the sink.

 

 

 

Amid the screams and shrieks and

Mama, are we going to DIE?!”

from the M & Ms, 

 

 

 

I prepared to battle the fire monster.

 

 

 

 

A rundown of my quick-thinkin’:

“What’ll I DO?  Water or flour?  Do I have enough flour?  If I throw water on it, will my cookies be ruined?   If I open the oven door, will there be one of those ‘backdrafts’ like in the movie?   Oh, I just love that cutie Kurt Russell, but that photo I saw of Goldie without makeup was HEINOUS!  Water…definitely water.  Where the FUCK is The Dingus?  Will we blow up?  Will tomorrow’s papers post Kisses Kill ?”

 

 

 

What DID I do?

 

I grabbed my trusty kitchen tongs, held my breath, opened the oven, reached in and got ahold of the fiery beast that was terrorizing my cookies…and, oh, my children, too, yeah…and I ran to the sink with the flaming offender firmly in the jaws of my tongs. 

I doused that bugger under cold water, and when I had extinguished it, I held the tongs high in the air.

 

 

 

 

MamaBeowulf had conquered the beast

 

 

 

 

I am WOMAN

 

 

 

 

 

 I have saved the day! 

 (and my damn cookies)

 

 

 

 

That scary beast turned out to be a charred

WalMart Great Value tater tot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

The week or so before a holiday is a hectic and dangerous time.

  

  

  

There are a lot of IDIOTS on the road.  

 

 

 

 

I don’t know what happens to folks as the holidays approach, but they all seem to kick into panic mode, as if there will be a frozen Butterball or themed tablecloth shortage or something.  This panic affects their driving skills. 

 

In just the last few weeks alone, I have had several ‘near-misses’ with other drivers pulling incredibly STUPID stunts. 

 

It really burns me when others take MY life into THEIR incompetent hands.  IDIOTS.

 

Fine; you wanna fishtail out’a the high-school parking lot in your piece o’ primer truck, you go right on ahead; just don’t slam into me on your way, pal.  

 

What, Grandma?  You don’t have time to wait for me to cross the slushy crosswalk, escorting my beautiful little girls, all gussied-up in their Christmas duds for a visit with Santa, — which just MAY be the LAST year they BELIEVE?  Where the hell ya gotta go?   Senior discounts are on TUESDAY!  Chillax, ya old bat!

 

Our entire family almost became so much roadkill the other night when some MORON pulled out right in front of us.  El Guapo swerved a hard left and we missed a collision by mere millimeters.  The idiot tore away without a care.  Thank God I’d emptied my bladder before we left the house.

 

My folks are always making fun of me, asking me about how many ‘IDIOTS‘ I’d encountered on the road that day.  But it’s TRUE!  (Just ask Fluffy/Bowzer!) 

 

 

 

One of my biggest pet peeves is people who run red lights. 

 

 

 

Po-Po should have the authority to shoot those sumbitches on sight.

 

 

 

 

Look, I know I don’t have ONE, SINGLE OUNCE of common sense, but at least I am extra careful when it comes to getting behind the wheel.   I save up every smidge of sense I possess for when I’m driving. 

 

And I AM a good, careful driver.  I obey all traffic laws and signals.  I refuse to go more than 5 m.p.h. over the speed limit (unless I am late for church).

 

I actually SLOW DOWN for the yellow.  I come to COMPLETE stops.  If the sign says I may not turn right from 2:30 – 4 pm, and it’s 2:31; I don’t freakin’ turn right.   You can honk and flip me off all ya want, honey, but I promise ya:  I ain’ goin’.

 

I ALWAYS give the road my full attention and care – even when I am suckin’ down a ciggie while belting out Paradise by the Dashboard Light or chair-dancin’ to I Wanna Be SedatedTHIS girl can multitask.

 

 

 

 

But you throw one

 35-lb. Cocker Spaniel

 into the mix, and

it’s all over, folks.

 

 

 

 

Toby is a sweetheart of a dog.  He’s smart and loving and playful.  At 1½ years old, he’s still a pup.  He is never without his ball or his ‘squeaky’.  He learned to fetch the morning paper!  He’s such a good boy!

  

 

 

But as a traveler,

he’s an absolute

 NIGHTMARE.

 

 

 

Toby gets car-sick.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter how many Dramamine I disguise inside treats, he’ll puke’em up.   He starts retchin’ and chuffin’ an’ chukkin’ before we make it to the end of our street.

 

 

Last year, we decided to take him on a 3 ½ hr. drive for a visit with the grandfolk.

 

 

 

 

BIG MISTAKE.

 

 

 

 

 

We hadn’t even gone 50 miles and he’d already yakked 7 times and taken a healthy, steamin’ liquid crap all over the M & Ms in the backseat.  We had to pull over because we couldn’t breathe and our eyes were burning.  We couldn’t turn around and take the mutt back; who would care for him on such short notice?

 

Poor little M2; she slept through the dog shittin’ all over her.  She woke up as were were wiping her off, gagging and retching ourselves.  She got a good whiff of the stench, and then SHE puked.

 

I used every single precious paper towel I brought in the clean-up and had to buy more.  We also bought some Hefty bags, ripped’em open and layer-lined the entire car.   That way, we could just peel off a layer of plastic with each subsequent puke.   

 

  

 

 

Good Times.

  

 

 

  

 

That was the LAST time Toby was in the car for longer than 10 minutes.

 

My vet, Dr. Bruce, keeps encouraging me to take Toby out for short jaunts, and increase the length of the ride in small increments to strengthen his intestinal fortitude. 

 

 

 

I gotta say, it’s not a task that’s high on my to-do list.

 

  

   To Do:

  

  • Sleep
  • Smoke
  • Write
  • Smoke
  • Curse
  • Smoke
  • Eat Smoke
  • Take Toby for ride in ‘car-car’ (11 minutes)
  • Scrape contents of Toby’s stomach (partially digested IAMS Minichunks, rubber ball remnants, assorted hair ribbons, coffee grounds and cucumber peelings) from car’s interior and windshield (1 hour)
  • Smoke
  • Use commercial-grade carpet extractor to cleanse and sanitize  (Smoke) car interior  (2 hours)
  • Kick fuckin’ dog
  • Smoke

 

 

On the way to Toby’s last visit to see Dr. B., he did a great job of keepin’ the chuck down***.

 

 

*** El Guapo told me the secret was to keep Toby in the front passenger seat so that he can see out the window (apparently, this is key in avoiding car-sickness).   The only thing is:  ya gotta hold on to his collar to keep him from climbing all over you.

 

 

When we saw Dr. B., he asked how Toby had done on the ride to the clinic.

 

 

I told him it was super, and he reminded me to keep increasing car-car-time, little by little.

 

 

Just to be on the safe side, though, after Toby got his shots, Dr. B. gave me treats to hold onto — until we got back home.

 

 

When we left the vet’s office it was raining cats and dogs (sorry; couldn’t resist).   Truly, the floodgates had opened up on us.   I was glad we didn’t have far to go in the downpour.   I prayed that my pooch-puke-luck could hold out just a little longer.

 

 

I helped my soggy doggy into front seat of the Suzie.  Toby was was actually enjoying looking out the window, and he wasn’t even attempting to move from the seat.  I had a firm grip on his collar, though.

 

 

I kept reminding him of what a ‘good boy’ he was being, and how ‘priddy’ he was.   He was lookin’ so proud, lappin’ up all the praise.

 

 

I was feeling so positive about Toby’s puke-progress that I decided to give him just a wee-bit more ride time on the way home. 

 

 

 

 

He was being SUCH a good boy!  

 

 

 

 

 

Instead of turning into the main entrance of our subdivision, I decided to add a mere .2 of a mile to the ride and use the side entrance which leads through the adjoining subdivision.

 

I made a nice, slow, easy right; my right hand still gripping Toby’s collar.   I  made sure to stabilize the dog with my right elbow so he wouldn’t lose his balance. 

 

 

 

Good Boy!

 

 

  

 

Before I could straighten out the Trooper’s wheels, Toby stood to all fours, and started doing that full-body-lurching and retching.

 

 

Before I could blink, he leapt at me.

 

 

 

 

I saw nothing

but honey-colored fur –

 and a mass of warm, wet, brown

dog-chow upchuck –

 

 

 

which hit me about mid-chest and slid down to rest and fester on my thighs.

 

 

 

 

Toby morphed

 into a 35-lb. friggin’

Lipizzaner  stallion

prancin’ an’ dancin’

on the 2 goddam pounds

 of puke on my lap –

and spewin’ more by the millisecond.

 

 

 

  

  

I couldn’t SEE.

  

 

 

I didn’t THINK.

 

 

  

Instinct took over.

 

 

  

  

My right hand still wrapped around the mutt’s collar, I jerked/shoved him back over to ‘his’ seat.

  

  

Did you know that at a certain point in every infant’s development, there is a period of time when, while lying on his back, if you stretch his little right arm out to the right, his little LEFT arm will follow, crossing over his chest? 

It works the same in the opposite direction.  It’s funny, it’s cute, but it’s a stage that doesn’t last long.

  

 

Except for The Viv – a virtual Darwinian mystery – unfortunately, she still possesses this infantile reflex. 

 

 

 

UNFORTUNATELY, my LEFT hand, firmly gripping the Trooper’s steering wheel,  INSTINCTIVELY followed my right hand in throwing off my chow-chukkin’ chum.

 

 

(***the only thing her left hand is capable of doing of its own volition: 

 flippin’ off the aforementioned IDIOT DRIVERS)

 

 

 

 

As Toby heaved the chow,

I hopped the curb and  

PLOWED

right into some poor schlep’s

green, plastic MAILBOX.

 

Now, granted, being the careful driver I claim to be, I was doing 10 mph – at most.

 

So, truly, I was going about as fast as a PLOW; instead of some corn crop,

 

 

 

I mowed down a MAILBOX.

 

 

 

 

Though it happened in an instant, it played in SLOW-MO.

 

I felt the impact – a dull THUD – accompanied by the grating crunch of plastic being bulldozed down sidewalk cement.

 

I slammed on my brakes, launching the damn dog from the catbird seat down into the footwell. 

 

At least I had the sense to flick on my hazards and open the windows a crack  — God Forbid the dog suffocate – while I got out into the pouring rain to survey the damage.

 

 

 

 

What a mess.

 

 

(Have I mentioned I have a propensity for getting myself into messes?)

  

 

 

 

The Trooper’s right tires were up on the sidewalk, the poor homeowners’ letters were littered all over their front lawn, getting soaked in the torrential downpour.

 

At least 10 feet of sopping sod separated the mail box itself from its plastic-encased 4×4 wooden post.

 

 

 

 

Confession Session:

 

 

 

I squelched a nearly overwhelming urge to jump up and down

like I’d just won on Jeopardy, screaming,

 

 

 

 

Yea, BABY

I mowed that muthafucka DOWN

Boo-ya!”

 

 

 

 

 

With shaky hands, I dragged the splintered post back to its general original position, and I gathered up the soggy envelopes, stuffed’em back into the box, and trudged up to the house’s front door.

 

 

 

 

What the hell do ya say?

 

 

 

 

Hi, I’m totally sober,

but my DOG made me hit your mailbox. 

I’m really sorry.

 

 

  

 

  

Lucky me, nobody answered the door.

 

 

 

 

I wrote a brief apology (minus the doggy defense) and my contact information on the back of the paper that claimed my mutt had just received his rabies vaccination.  

 

I stuffed the sopping paper into their decapitated mailbox which I’d positioned next to the door as a nice greeting for its owners when they got home.

 

I called El Guapo and told him what I’d done, and for ONCE, he was in town when I really needed him. 

 

He drove over directly and helped me with damage control.

 

I was able to leave my info. with the next-door neighbor.  She looked at me like maybe I was gonna drive my truck into HER house, to boot. 

 

In the end, El Guapo went back to talk to the folks.  He humbly apologized for his dipshit wife takin’ out their mailbox and offered to buy and install a brand new one.  (God Bless El Guapo; he remained my hero for several more hours after that — a record.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turns out, this is the 7th mailbox

those poor folks have lost to

 

 IDIOT DRIVERS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Viv is now the

BIGGEST IDIOT DRIVER

on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has been court-ordered

to flip herself off

before driving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Christmas fast approaching,

she’s not to be trusted behind the wheel of a car,

dog or no dog.

 

 

 

 

 

If you see her plowin’ down your street,

PLEASE move away from your mailbox.

 

 

 

 

 

I am in Zhu Zhu Hell.

 

  

 

The M & Ms have asked Santa for 

‘Zhu Zhu Pets’ for Christmas. 

 

  

 

They’re basically just fuzzy little robot hamsters.

 

  

 

Of course, there is the plethora of Zhu Zhu Pets accessories and accoutrements that we suckered moms & dads can purchase for exorbitant prices:

  

 

* exercise ball

* habitrail knock-off

* freakin’ fake-hamster SLEEPING BAGS

* fake-hamster car and garage 

* fake-hamster CLOTHES, for chrissake

 

  

 

They ARE cute little toys, but the thing is: 

 

 

 You CANNOT get your hands on them!

 

 

 

  

Plus, why the hell would

the M & Ms want FAKE HAMSTERS?

 

 

 

One has a dwarf hamster,  and the other has a black and white fancy mouse — 

(living and breathing, eating and shitting and STINKING!)

  right in their own bedrooms! 

 

  

  

They have THE REAL THINGS,

 but

they want the costly FAKE ones! 

 

(I guess this is the attraction of implants, eh?)

 

  

 

They plop the REAL critters into their REAL exercise balls, and the little fellas roll all over the house. 

It’s especially funny when they bounce in the balls down stairs

or fly off their wheels and slam into the glass walls of the cage. 

  

  

 

The REAL rodents are great! 

 

  

But, no, that’s not good enough for the M & Ms.

  

 

 

  

Someone, somewhere, got wind that these furry little ZHU ZHU robot rodents were gonna be THE BIG THING for Christmas this festive, fuckin’ Yuletide, and they went out to the stores and freakin’ HOOVERED ’em all up. 

 

 

  

  

Then the greedy bastards

started hockin’ em

on ebay for

HUNDREDS

 more than they cost! 

 

 

 

  

HELLO?   

 

  

 

 

Even SANTA has to be frugal

 in a freakin’ recession,

you green-eyed pricks!

 

 

 

 

 

I’m currently CONSUMED by ebay. 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been engaged in full-on bidding warfare with other desperate moms —  some serious nail-biting-hair-pulling-nerve-wracking-my-bladder-is-so-full-it’s-gonna-freakin’-blow-but-I-will-piss-myself-before-I-walk-away-from-this-bitch-who-keeps-out-bidding-me-so-Backoff, Barbie! kind of warfare.

 

 

 

Though I pity anyone up against The Viv in verbal warfare,

she is woefully inept in cyber sabotage.  

 

 

 

 

 

The only ebay items I have ‘won’ are those

I flippin’ purchased outright with a ‘Buy It Now‘ click.

 

 

 

 

  

I don’t know whether to be proud or committed

for buying ‘Chunk‘ (the white Zhu Zhu fake-hamster) for

  

 

  

$40!

 

  

 

 

The damn things retail for $7.99 !!!

 

 

 

 

  

I got off easy, so far as I can tell. 

 

 

 

 

  

Some poor schleps are forkin’ over

 

ENTIRE PAYCHECKS 

 

for the self-same Chunk I snagged.

 

 

 

  

Screw Santa

and the M & Ms;

 

 

 

 

when that furry little Chunk-fucker gets here,

 I may just chuck’im up on ebay

and see if I can extract

a cool $500 bucks

from some other poor,

desperate mother

on December 23rd.

 

 

 

If the M & Ms want SPECTACULAR on Christmas morn,

I’ll just cram a coupla fire crackers

up the REAL rodents’ asses,

light’em up

and watch’em GO !

 

   

 

Let’s see’em dicker over THAT on ebay.