Tag Archives: Christmas

Halloween Costume Idea #1

1 Aug

blog image prince

With Halloween just 93 days away, the time to start your costume is now.  Once September rolls around and the kids are back in school five glorious, albeit too short, days a week, you’ll be so busy with organizing and cleaning and vodka and such that before you know it, Sugar Day will be here and those 3-5 pounds aren’t just going to gain themselves.  They require a costume.

For the moment, I am considering the following:

1.  Dress in all purple.

2.  When someone asks if you’re an eggplant, first, congratulate them for not assuming that you are a grape or raisin or Prince circa 1982; so cliché.

3.  Next, inform them that, technically, if you were to go trick or treating as an eggplant, you would, instead, dress as an aubergine as you are still feeling the effects of your summer vacation in Paris.  (Basically the difference between an eggplant costume and an aubergine costume is a scarf.  And you thought I was going to say ” beret” right?  Americans; so cliché.)

4.  If people on the street believe that you are an eggplant, there’s no reason to let them know that your original intent was to dress as a varicose vein in an attempt to connect your Halloween costume to your life or that the migraine costume you had envisioned ended up looking like a sausage that was beaten with a hammer then hot-glued to a baseball cap.  (Which is kind of what a migraine makes your head feel like.  Now just add The Boy’s drum practice.)

5.  And while the varicose vein costume would help explain my weird body shape, scant muscle tone and surly attitude, the eggplant costume conjures up essences of silky, fragrant Ratatouille and mysterious and spicy Bangan ka Bhurta from exotic lands.

Besides, isn’t the best part of Halloween pretending to be someone you’re not?  A silky, exotic dish for you, and for me it’s dressing as a gainfully employed individual, a halfway decent cook, or someone-who-can-just-be-on-time-once-in-a-while-and-not-make-everyone-else-wait-for-her-damn-it because, according to Spouse and Boy, I am none of these.

Notice that in the above list I did not include coupon warrior, grammar czar, cliché police or Banshee because, on any given day, I can be ALL of these.  At once.  (I’m talking to you Food King cashier who recently told me that my coupons were valid “only on this coming past Tuesday” and that she “could care less” if I screamed like a, well, you know.)

So be the eggplant, the vein, the dried plum even.  Purple is still trending for fall and its slimming effects are noteworthy.  Plus, when paired with navy, it seems fresh and sophisticated.

(Side note: the artist formerly known, then reknown, and now just sort of unknown as Prince, and captain of all things purple (and rainy), is now 55 years old and will become eligible for Social Security in just 7 years.)

Now get out there and get working on your costume before the opportunity to be someone else, someone wonderful, is gone.

Until December.  When we get to overspend, overeat and undersleep while baking cookies, wrapping presents, donning gay apparel and drinking vodka and such for a bunch of ingrates who want, more than anything, for us to go back to being the Reese’s-scarfing, licorice-stealing, vodka-drinking varicose veins who we set out to be.

I hate Christmas.

PS: Only 148 days until then too.

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Three NEW Little Words

27 Dec

blog image brad pitt

Thanks to loyal readers, like you, a tree has been planted in Ljubljana.

Not really.  A tree would be stupid.  A tree has nothing to do with this post.  Nor does Oprah Winfrey, vitamin D or breast implants other than I have discovered that if you put celebrity tags, food trends or questionably spelled countries in your posts, the number of visitors from Facebook jumps way up.  Here’s to you Brad Pitt, Dora the Explorer and Ljubljana.

Still, thanks to all our FA&S readers, there is a new three word expression that we can proudly claim as our own: three seasonal words that take plain old sentences and turn them into holiday dramas fit for a king.  Or a king of kings!  And more!  Oy, Ave Maria.  (And those aren’t even the three words.)

Remember November 14 when FA&S readers around the globe were improving their story-telling abilities by adding “with an ax!” to sentences in an effort to jazz up ordinary lives and turn them into something awesome?

Well, apparently, FA&S-inspired word peppering WORKS because there’s a new linguistic sprinkle in town just in time for the holidays- “and it’s Christmas.”  (Contractions count as one word.)

For example, yesterday Spouse angrily arrived home from the Food King still smarting because a guy with a very full cart ahead of him neglected to inform Spouse that his wife was following with cart #2 and the assumption that she could jump the line- and it’s Christmas.

Who jumps the line during the most wonderful time of the year?

Then there’s the cat who ate too fast and threw up all his dinner, some tinsel and a hairball- and it’s Christmas.

Poor Jesus.  Couldn’t even get a hotel room on his birthday- and it’s Christmas.

What is it about the season (which used to be a day, then became an Eve + a day, then an Eve+ a day + Boxing Day (UK) then 12 days of which we sing plus an Eve + a day + Boxing Day (UK) + a return/exchange line) that makes us believe that people should behave differently?

If people could behave better don’t you think they would?

Am I really not supposed to give the stink eye to the Subaru driver doing 20 in a 55 because it’s a random day in December that Christians and elves have co-opted?

Last time I checked, jerks (and slow pokes) were everywhere.  (But not elves.  Lawn gnomes?  Sadly, yes.)

I’m just saying…  (also three words but three silly words often used to inject one’s opinion into situations where said opinion is neither solicited nor appreciated.)

How about, this holiday season, I’ll be a bit nicer to you and you’ll be a bit nicer to me and on or about January 1, we’ll both join a gym as we promise ourselves that this will be the year that we get in shape?

‘Tis the season.  (And contractions still count as one word.)

Judging? I’m there!

26 Jul

I just spent the entire day baking so it must be Christmas.

Three pounds of butter in five hours.  6 cups of packed light brown sugar and so much time spent creaming some things and lightly pressing others that I just want to lock myself in the pantry and spend the rest of the day sniffing vanilla extract.  With gusto.

Also, the holidays must be approaching because why else would so many parents at the village pool yell “Jesus Christ goddamn it will you stop splashing?!”  And so frequently.  (Those are the Baptists.  They hog the shallow end.)

Impending Christmas also helps explain why I find myself, hand on face, sighing “do you see what I see?” (a lot) again, while at the public pool.

And my hair is as brittle and dry as a month old Christmas tree so there’s that.

I’m certain that the anxiety I’m feeling is in no way related to the boy and I entering our favorite holiday treats into the baking category at the Sunshine Fair (opens tomorrow).  And then we actually had to follow through and bake them all (today).

What I’m feeling is more of the what-kind-of-guy-sees-you-when-you’re-sleeping-and-knows-when-you’re-awake-but-is-not-married-to-you kind of stress and certainly not blue ribbon lust.  Right?

We’re talking Black Friday-doors open at 4AM-praying to Bing Crosby’s of White Christmas-Past (pre-David Bowie)-level stress.

These are not just the worries of a mom who wants her kid, just this one time, to win Best of Show for SOMETHING.  (I would hate to think that I called upon the spirit of style-maker David Bowie for that.)

And so, in keeping with Christmas and all things hyperbole, judgement day is upon us.  The cookies have been dusted and plated with care.  (Pfeffernusse.  Our strategy was to shake the judges out of their chocolate chip/oatmeal raisin coma and bring home the blue with a coffee-based spice cookie.  Plus, the “Pf” sound is really trendy right now like: Phish, Phrog, Phat and Philadelphia, only cooler.  Like 1970’s actress Joann Pflug; she’s retired from acting and now works as a motivational speaker.)

And so, this holiday/fair season, I wish you a merry Garth Brooks impersonator and a happy bucket of french fries.

Who wouldn’t be happy with a bucket of fries?

Dear Santa:

14 Dec

Is it too much to ask for a husband who will eat the brown food I cook without psyching himself up at the table as if he were a Polish dead lifter at the 1976 Olympic Games?  (Host city: Montreal.)

For a teenager who will sit in a car next to me without crunching himself up against the passenger door to get as far away from me as physically possible whilst being transported to his next big thing?

For one Christmas cookie with the satiating power to stave off a butter binge/self-loathing/bad skin/New Year’s resolution-diet-exercise-screw it, this is the new me/bathing suit shopping/cycle?

A day without crazy?  I know, even I haven’t been that good.  For goodness’ sake.

Sincerely~

I still believe*,

Me.

* Believe, that is, that while in Middle School had I gotten real Calvin Klein jeans instead of flea market knockoff Kevin Clem brand, I could have done more with my life.  Nevertheless, bygones.   And a Happy New Year.

Socks=Death

30 Oct

October 30, 2011: I have begun wearing socks regularly.  While that may seem hardly worth mentioning, I assure you that the donning of socks is huge.  Going barefoot is how I defy winter.  Going barefoot is my feet saying “hell no” to dampness and cold and a mild case of frostbite- just one and it involved Teva sandals, Jack Daniels and poor judgement.

I have also readied the house for winter ice cream consumption: Redi-Whip whipped cream, sprinkles, maraschino cherries and stretchy pants.

During the months of December, January and February, I eat more ice cream than my entire family does in June, July and August; eating ice cream in the dead of winter is my gustatory machismo saying “hell yeah” to my stomach.

To me, having a hot fudge sundae when it’s really cold out says: “I’m one badass, winter-loving mother.”  (With lots of body fat.)  That, and “I’m too scared to get a tattoo.”

To my husband, eating ice cream when it’s cold out says that I am emotionally eating (again) and that the approaching holidays are fraught with way too much extended family time and expenses and that, maybe, he should not listen when, come December, I will tell him that the only things I want for Christmas are some high quality chocolate-sea salt-caramels.

Instead, his brain will lead him to think that if he gets the caramels, he will inevitably face a Spring filled with radical dieting and “I can’t wear a bathing suit” lamentations and so, he will consider that what I truly need this Christmas are some high quality chocolate-colored wool socks.  He should not think.

Men can be so practical.  (Really?)  And wool socks are certainly great.  But my husband knows.

He knows that no matter how frequently I wore the socks, or how lavishly I praised the chill-repelling qualities of the socks, he knows that from the moment he gave me the socks on, I would, on occasion, contemplate using the socks to suffocate him while he slept because he failed to get the chocolate-sea salt-caramels.

He knows that given the right circumstances- full moon, hormonal imbalance, because it’s Tuesday (or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday, etc.), he knows that I would kill him and then motor into town for a scoop or two.

And so I am expecting some fabulous candy this holiday season.

October 30, 2011: it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

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