5 Things To Hate About Numbered Lists

This post is going to start out just like all the articles out there about stuff - you know the ones: 8 things you never knew about socks, and 5 things to stop eating right now, 6 secrets of annoying over-achievers, and 10 things your doctor won't tell you about your butt. It seems like numbered lists are the new web writing trend out there, and they are soooo tiresome. Of course anything that I find tiresome and yet still popular is good material to mock. As I had started to explain, my first paragraph serves as the backstory part, just like the articles start with - a couple paragraphs introducing the list...but if you're like me, you totally skimmed it to get to the numbers, because it's what brought you here...numbers full of promise. Aren't they? Here we go:

1. Empty Promises. The numbered lists promise concise and useful facts about something, but you probably knew at least half the info.

2. You won't retain any of it. Seriously, when that day comes you really need to know what your doctor isn't telling you about your butt, you won't look that article up again.

3. They're garbage and lazy. This is sort of related to number 1, as they're usually made up of recycled versions of other articles - just summarized and numbered because you are a busy person and you just need to know what's important about socks, pronto por favor. 

4. If CliffsNotes had CliffsNotes, these articles would be the CliffsNotes to those CliffsNotes.

5. They are heinous, repeat time suckers. Just ask your doctor  straight up what he or she is not telling you about your butt, and simply stop and ask the next over-achieving kid you see wtf their problem is.

A Low Point

You know I'm some  kind of kick-ass mom all the time, right? I have a stellar career, keep my house sparkling clean, and cook balanced, delicious meals every day. I work out, don't buy sugar, wear branded yoga pants and sip wine while laughing with my other beautiful and accomplished mom friends. We all have our teeth whitened by the same dentist. Isn't that so funny? My child is gifted and speaks four languages, and is going to calculus camp next summer. I volunteer in my ample spare time, read the latest best-sellers on my bi-monthly weekend spa retreats, and have a perfect marriage. I am not aging. Somehow my body is more nimble and responsive to exercise with each passing year. My laundry room has a chandelier in it.

Choose two of the above - at any given time, that's the reality of things most days. Some days it's just one.

Now you know that I have good intentions and big dreams. Who doesn't want custom lighting in their laundry room? Fabulous.
Despite my delusions, I think I'm doing ok overall. It feels like most days, I'm keeping it together and actually having fun. The mom thing hasn't grown old yet (I guess that's a good thing since he's only eight) and there have been situations when I was pretty pleased with my parenting and the outcome. A little bit of smug mommy-ness.

There are also times when I'm not so proud. Like last week. His Great-Grandpa gave him a $5 bill, and not two hours later, I let him spend it on this plastic turd. This turd who seems to be having a difficult bowel movement himself. Dammit, I was tired. He was elated to find this turd. I was weak...and tired.

The thing is, this gross little lump isn't the whole story. You might also be wondering what the sword and gear it's wearing are about. I'm sorry, but I don't know. He was so impatient and begged me to open the packaging on the floor of DSW, when all I really wanted to do was pretend to be child free for 2 seconds and try on some cute shoes. The shredded outer box, printed with what I'm sure is a fascinating back story - or name, or just an explanation of some sort - is in a trash bin at the DSW in Middletown.

Remember I said this thing isn't the whole story? Yea, there's a littler guy. Meet Son of Turd:

This was a two-piece set of plastic, angry turds. At $3.94, this is a bargain. The turd-baby is visibly upset. Really angry with fists shaking. Maybe it's because he doesn't have a sword and protective gear? Or maybe because he's just the little squirt? Ugh, sorry, that was a gross analogy. Napoleon complex is what I was getting at. Perhaps the anger is because he lives in the shadow of his turd-father.

The next day, I spotted the duo on the dining room table, where he'd been posing them and laughing-because what's funnier than action figure turds with faces? While I couldn't take back my disastrous lapse in uh...what? What would that be lapse be in? Vigilant toy purchase approval? Basic judgement? I don't know, but while I couldn't take back letting my child buy a plastic poop duo with money my sweet grandfather, his sweet Great-Grandpa, gave him, I could at least get these things off the damned dining room table! I posed them carefully on his bookshelf. Yes, I admit it, I did it carefully and with some thought. You gotta get the angles right and they are pretty funny. And gross.

I am the perfect houseguest and how to achieve this

I'll be traveling for work next week and staying with my lovely colleague (truly, she's got some sick model bone structure features which I envy) and her husband and their 2 kitties at their home. It's not that my employer couldn't spring for a hotel - nope - she just lives 10 minutes from the convention center and insisted that a hotel was just not good enough. Of course, she's right - and who am I to refuse hospitality from an urbane local with a car - and a red car at that. Plus, she's Italian. Really, the total package.

I'm preparing my rider for her. Yes, like a contract rider...like no brown M&Ms Van Halen style rider. Look, I'm easy to accommodate, but let's face it - even the most laid back houseguest can be ruffled by an unprepared host. Houseguest contracts are going to be the new IT thing. You'll be adding templates for them to your Pinterest board, next to the DIY towel monogramming tutorial. I'm keeping you on trend here.

It will be printed with organic, soy-based inks on my personal letterhead, which is made from fair-trade certified hemp fibers, woven by industrious and sustainably raised ants, and also scented. I know...the scent...it's an impressive detail. It's all about the details.

While I won't bore you with all the legalese parts, I will share with you some of my simple demands requests. Feel free to use them to guide your own houseguest rider. Your host will be really appreciative of your thoughtfulness and sincere expectation that everything goes according to plan...because a happy house guest makes everyone happy for the entire stay. And this is the host's job.

• Freshly cut and arranged flowers (NO carnations) are to adorn the entryway, and any room the guest may enter. 
• Furniture - anywhere the houseguest may sit, furniture must be arranged according to feng-shui principles, with consideration for natural and flattering lighting bathing the houseguest at all times. 
• Soft music is to be played in the bathrooms. Only the softest toilet paper on the market is acceptable.
• Towels (only organic unbleached cotton) must be rolled, not folded, and arranged a the foot of the houseguest's bed. Houseguest will require 12 fresh towels per day.
• Bedding and mattress should be brand new, with tags, and a minimum of 1200 thread count. 
• Kitchen should be stocked with champagne, for houseguest to drink 2 sips of and dump the rest, as well as local, cave-aged artisinal cheeses, and out of season, expensive fruits. Presentation is to be considered at all times.
• Host should insist that the houseguests feel free to break or throw any item which may unexpectedly be in the path of the houseguest.
• Host should set her alarm to rise every 90 minutes during the night to check on houseguest's quality of sleep, her ambient temperature, and, upon the pre-agreed time, wake her gently with the aroma of any one of these coffees brewing.   
• Careless spills, rips, shatters, and general destructive behaviors on the part of the houseguest should not only be looked over, but the host should be apologetic for her house being so conducive to said destruction.  The host shall laugh, and encourage the houseguest to continue to 'make herself at home' for the duration of the stay.

So, if you're hosting, don't let this example intimidate you - use it to be a better host...what goes around comes around, and you'll be the houseguest next time around! When you are, don't forget to mail out your scented rider about a day before your arrival, to give your host plenty of time to prepare...after all, a little courtesy goes a long way.

Bivalve mollusks are my jam!

Been a while since my last post...I haven't observed or obsessed about anything terrible or ridiculous enough to upset my perfectly balanced sensibilities and drive me to write a post during these past few weeks. That was a sentence! I need an editor.

Autumn, or Fall, or Herfst in Dutch (because the Dutch are awesome!), has arrived on the calendar, but not in the air - but who am I to complain? While I'm not a fan of the heat lingering too long, it will be negative eight thousand in a few weeks, so here's to the balmy days while they're still upon us.

See? Perfectly balanced outlook, even when the weather is annoyingly weird.

OMG I will not post about the weather. Sorry. Let's get back to me, and more specifically, my dinner, that's currently breaking down in my belly. Mmm..digestion.

I bought frozen scallops a few weeks ago, put them in the freezer when I got home, and forgot about them - until this afternoon. I was excited to discover the bag, jammed up next to a mysterious looking foil pouch. You should always ignore any unfamiliar foil pouches in your freezer - no good can come of them.

After a quick defrost in cold water, I noticed the tendons had already been trimmed. I guess I got fancy at the store, and I don't even remember. Excellent.

I steamed up some fine green beans - and by fine, I mean the thin stringy ones, not those other sexy beans - and set them aside. Just before I'm ready to serve them, I throw them in a skillet with hot olive oil, garlic, and salt. Sometimes I toss in some soy sauce for a little extra umami, but not tonight, because I forgot.

In my most favorite skillet of all, I heated a tablespoon each of butter and olive oil (by the way, it's for another post, but California olive oil is my new favorite - yea you heard me, Italy). I patted the little bivalvey guys dry, salt and peppered them a bit, and gently (gently) slid them into the sizzling pan. Three minutes, flip, then 2 minutes. Nicely browned. I deglazed the pan with a shot of white wine, and positioned the scallops pretty next to the green beans on mine and kiddo's plates. Between the two of us, we polished off almost a pound of scallops.

Also, again fuck you Rachel Ray, this dinner took me less than15 minutes and it was better than any half baked bullshit you ever made in your fug-ass tv kitchen. Fucking idiot. 

Every time I have scallops, I remember how much I love them, and remind myself to buy them more often. And then I don't - or I do, and forget that I have. The madness ends here. Scallops all the days!

Scribbles and bricks

Today a Facebook friend posted about giving herself a timeout to avoid saying something harsh to her kiddo. I applaud this effort in self monitoring.  It got me thinking about my childhood and my parents, and their impact my own parenting.

In my case, the methods might differ, but the dramatic underpinning is well ingrained.

I famously didn't eat much as a child, and my intake was a constant worry for them. They pleaded, bargained, and threatened at nearly every meal. One night, my dad was at the end of his rope. He said, "If you don't eat what's in your dish, I'm going to pour it down your pants." This made me laugh out loud. Wrong move. Next thing I know, I'm slung over his arm, the back of my dungarees (cause that's what they called 'em then) were pulled back and a full bowl of warm rice, or possibly a savory risotto, slid slowly down my behind.

Of course, this ticked my mom off, because guess who's in the bathroom with me shaking rice out of my Wonder Woman Underoos? I remember diced carrots in there, too. Yep, risotto.

I haven't poured food down my kid's pants, but it could just be because he's a good eater. I'm not sure what I'd do if he didn't eat well. It would probably stress me out a lot. My husband can be picky, and I've had to hold back the temptation to tip his plate over his head when he doesn't finish it clean. Realistically, I couldn't manage to pour it down the back of his pants, so throwing the plate at him and promptly running away would be my best strategy. Then I would cry...sobs....about all my cooking effort, about his stupid stunted palate, and he'd feel bad for not eating. He would admit he had it coming. I win. That's how drama works!

See mom and pop? You did good! Lesson learned: feeble, non-enthusastic eaters suck and should be punished both physically and emotionally.

One afternoon, not too long after he painted the living room, my dad discovered fresh scribbles on the  wall. It wasn't me - I was well past wall-scribbling age at that point. One of my little brothers committed this heinous act. I remember some yelling, but what really sticks out is our assigned task that day: we were directed to locate every pen, pencil, marker and crayon in the house. Every room was checked. Every drawer, every shelf. When we'd collected about half a shoebox worth, he was satisfied and he threw the colorful treasure in the garbage - not the wastebasket - oh no - they went straight into the outside trash bin, ready for collection. No one would write anything, anywhere, anymore, dammit!

We eventually owned writing utensils once more, but no one ever marked the walls again.
Something about that day imprinted in my genetic code. My kid has never written on the walls...I don't think it has even crossed his mind. For a kid, he's taken pretty good care of his pens, pencils and crayons.

It sounds like I have a perfect child. Of course we know I don't. He leaves his underwear on the sofa. When this happens, I point it out and make the saddest, most hurt face I can muster. Underwear? On the sofa? How could you? This sad mommy face elicits swift action.

I've stepped barefoot on a Lego so fricken painfully, I've threatened to throw out every single brick he owns. I won't do that of course. Those little suckers are expensive! Their E-bay resale value is crazy. But that one-time threat, screaming and hopping on one foot, prompted a hurried clean up, and now he just needs a gentle reminder. I still step on them regularly though.

If my dad had the dramatic over-reaction down, my mom was the master of guilt (it's all in the tone).

When I accidentally vacuumed up a Lego, he was distraught. He figured out (with my help) that it's his responsibility to not leave Legos on the floor. Tired mom can't vacuum and be expected to pre-screen the rug for Legos. We're a team here - mommy needs your help, mmkay?
Now, just firing up the vacuum sends him down to the floor in search of runaway bricks.

With a masterful combination of guilt and drama, dispensed in careful doses, I think I might be winning at this marriage and parenting thing!

No?

Hmm. We'll chat more.

The Key to Saturday: the Sequel

During the Summer of 2008, I locked myself and my then 2-year old out of the house for the afternoon....aaaand I did it again today.

Different house and different circumstances, but still - a lovely Saturday in August then, and six years later, a lovely Saturday in August, almost to the day. Just add my mom.

She drove up for an afternoon visit. T-Spot didn't have to leave for work until 2, so the three of us were able to go out to lunch together. Because he grabbed his house keys, I must have made some semi-aware decision to ignore mine. After we ate, we dropped T back at home so he could get his stuff and take off for work, and we drove around running some errands...of course you see where this is going: I'm blissfully unaware, running errands like a boss, that I don't have my house keys.

By the time we get back, T is gone and the door is locked. Having learned my lesson about the hidden spare in 2008, I wasn't concerned.

The spare, however, was not in its spot.

I'm skipping over the part where I call my husband and freak the fuck out at him. Use your imagination.

Of course, it's not completely his fault the spare had been moved. We gave it to our neighbor to check on the dog last week, and when she returned it, one of us (ahem) didn't put it back. But whatever: I'm the one locked out and someone has got to hear my wrath.

My mom is laughing. She suggests we simply drive to him, about a 20 mile drive, and get his key.
"I guess that's better than smashing a window." I said.

S over heard this. He went to the garage and got a hammer.

"I can smash a window!"

"We are not smashing a window! Get in the car!"

The dog, who this entire time has been inside, barking herself to the brink of death, is starting to claw the door, desperate to join us outside.
S is walking around swinging the hammer in the air jabbering about smashing things.
My mom is still giggling. I am not sure how she's finding this all so cute. Must be some sort of menopausal grandma zen.

Just as we are getting into the car, T calls back to tell me his coworker heading back our way can deliver his key to us, and he'd get there in about half an hour.

This sounds better than a 40-mile roundtrip, so I'm down.

We retired to the rocking chairs on the porch to wait. S announced he's going to smash rocks with his hammer.

The breeze was soft, and everything was calm (well, except the rock smashing). I miss my mom a lot sometimes. I complained about the grass clippings on the sidewalk and she got up and swept them. I told her when she missed spots.

"Are you enjoying this?" she was still laughing.

"Yep. Can you start at the top and work your way down the steps now? That would be more efficient"

"Nope."

"Ok."

Like the first one six years ago, this lockout turned out to be a gift.

Angels and Demons and Sailors

I like makeup. You could call it one of my serious concerns. I wrote a passionate entry on eyeliner a few years ago -  over five years ago, actually (!). I'm happy to report that I can spend more money on make up now than I could then...but that doesn't mean that I do.

That much.

I am still a practical-minded kinda lady from day to day - but when I decide I finally like something, I try to get the best version possible and do it right. With the exception of mascara, the higher end make up products perform better and last longer, so the few extra beans are worth it to me.

My latest quest is Hello Sailor by Lipstick Queen. I read about it somewhere on the 'nets...Pinterest maybe? I can't remember. Anyway, I filed it away and recently remembered that I wanted to try it. The gimmick unique property about Hello Sailor is that the product is blue, but it doesn't go on that way. Instead, it's supposed to give you a customized berry finish that suits your individual complexion (uh...hence customized - I was just being clear). I like berry finishes. Lipsticks with bluish undertones also make your teeth appear whiter. Let's do this, right?

It continues to be a quest, as I can't get my hands on it very easily - because per usual, I'm just very on trend. That's gotta be it, right?
I also have to test it before buying...if you've ever spent more than a few bucks on a lipstick, only to be disappointed, you know how important this is. And did I mention I live pretty deep in the Catskills? Like eleventy billion miles from everything? This means that I have to seize the opportunities when they present.

I was in Albany recently - Sephora does not carry it. Well poop. I should have checked ahead. I didn't have time to make further stops that day. A few days ago, I was in Binghamton. I'd researched ahead this time and saw that Ulta carries it - well hooray! I walked in and asked the associate right at the door about it (no need to wander the sparkling aisles of tiny, colorful bottles and pots and potions and wonder if glitter is work appropriate now that it's 2014).

She gave me the blankest, most confused and at the same time defeated look and repeated my question, "Hello...hello...Suh...Sailor?"

Did I fucking stutter?

"Yes. Hello Sailor, by Lipstick Queen? Do you have it?"

"Um. No."

OMG I am so sad now. I'm crushed. I almost whined, "But it says you have it online!?" You are useless to me.

"Um. Well. Some of our top stores carry things before we do...maybe it's a newer item?"

Remember I said how on trend I am? Evidence, folks. Right there.^

Someone overheard our chat. "Oh, Hello Sailor, yes... I know it..." said a voice from behind the counter. I turned around and it was Alicia Keyes. It wasn't Alicia Keyes. But she really looked like her and I wanted to be her BFF right there, or maybe make out with her. This is the level of pretty we are talking. She wore golden glitter on her perfect eyelids and perfect lashes. Possibly she was an angel. Oh, come through for me Angel Alicia...

But Angel Alicia had nothing but sad news for me. They just don't have it right now. Nodding and holding my arm, she walked me over to a gloss with a sheer blue sparkly tint, hoping it could appease me, but when our eyes met, she knew the deal. She looked inside my cosmetic soul, and understood that nothing but Hello Sailor would do.

She told me I could order it from their online store, but appreciated that I wanted to test it first. And, while I didn't bore Angel Alicia with this concern, I don't like ordering make up in the summer months because I worry about it melting in a hot delivery truck.

As I walked out, I remembered that Sally Beauty Supply (I hate that place) was just a little bit further down the street...another shot! I practically ran in and jumped on the counter.

"No. I never heard of it."

Ugh! She was mean, too.  Like if she hadn't heard of it, it must not exist. She was most definitely not an angel. She was a demon. A demon in teal shadow and matching push up bra busting out of her T-shirt. I needed Alicia back.

My last try that evening was at Boscov's. I figured they wouldn't have it, and I was right.

Here we are now, a week into my quest. I can order it online and take a chance without testing, but it really bugs me to do that. What do you think? I'm calling on all my makeup fans out there. Have you tried it or tested it? Where? I really want to say Hello to this Sailor! Help me get him!

39,000 Square Feet of Duh

Last night T and I scooted down to the city for a dinner with some friends who were in town for the weekend.

Traffic was light, so we were ahead of schedule and too early for our reservation. T suggested we fill the extra time with a quick stop in REI to check out a kayak we were eyeing online - because after one afternoon in a rented canoe, we are now all about the paddle sports - isn't that how everyone operates?

One of REI's flagship stores is in a gorgeous SoHo building. I'd stumbled across it a couple of years earlier, so I knew it was a big and fun space, and I just love REI. So this sounded like a good plan, even though I was in heels. And pearls. I'm just that multi-faceted, I thought.
If you can try out a kayak in a pencil skirt and platforms heels, and not face plant, you are badass. This is not foreshadowing.

After a brief parking drama, which cut into our time cushion, we scurried down Lafayette Street and into the store. Quick scan for signage and it looks like boats should be over with the camping equipment. We looked up, down, and across but saw none. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I interrupted an associate with another customer - look, if I'm REI 10 minutes before closing, and dressed for cocktails, I'm clearly in much more of a hurry than the slack-jaw in the Life is Good shirt, so I absolutely reserve the right to cut him off.

"Oh, I don't have any kayaks or canoes here," she apologized. I didn't believe her. "Really?? This place is enormous, we figured you did..." I said.

"I know," she nodded in agreement, "I really should, but I just don't have the retail space." With all this "I" talk, I wondered for a second if this was Ms. REI herself.

"You don't have the space?!" I asked, as I slowly turned my gaze up to the expanse of ceiling, ornamented with suspended bicycles and tents of all shapes and sizes.

Online they entice you to the SoHo store with 39,000 square feet and three levels, offering "top brand outdoor gear and clothing for camping, climbing, cycling, fitness, hiking, PADDLING, skiing, snowboarding and more." Paddling. Did you see that?

Thirty-nine thousand square feet. You can shove a kayak in there. Maybe even 20 kayaks. If we bought a kayak, we'd be storing it in a one car garage, with room to spare for 3 bicycles and a chest freezer. I'm just saying, REI...take some measurements, jeez. Please don't make me go to Paramus. Please.

Formal Flip Flops

These do not exist.

Stop wearing flip flops with formal wear because your wimpy baby feet hurt in the heels you're supposed to be wearing. The ones you chose to wear. That's right, you big baby. Woman up and walk in them like you own it, the whole time, or start buying more sensible dress shoes - 'cause flip flops and cocktail numbers do not mix.

I will dance my butt off in bleeding, blistered feet before I take off my chosen heels. With a poker face. With laughing. And cabbage patching. I might cry a little bit in the bathroom, but I'll walk back out in control, with my heels firmly on (possibly stuck due to blood).

Look, wearing heels is a statement about style and fashion, about gender and femininity, about history, about sex, and about how you want to express any or all of this, so make the statement - or don't - but don't make it and then retract it. That's what they call flip-flopping. See what I did there? Ha-ha-ha! Speaking of gender, why don't men regularly slip out of their dress shoes (they can hurt too) and into sandals mid-event? Because it's not manly? Not stylish? Because it's tacky? Yea, all those things. So why are the ladies doing it?

Taking your pretty heels off because you can't take the pain makes any one of the following statements, none of which you'd want to make:

"My feet are actually those of a hobbit and I tried to squeeze them into these wee human shoes! Silly me!"

"I tried to be a big girl. I'm not ready yet."

"But everyone is doing it...look at all these women with their gnarly dogs out - well ME TOO! Let's dance it out with our toes out, girls!"

"I am sixteen, going on seventeen... ♫ "

"At midnight, I turn back into a troll. My feet start earlier, however."

Certainly there are some situations in which exceptions may be made:

1. Beach or country field weddings - I get it. Stupid to navigate these locations in heels (and also curse the people hosting them). I also expect the attire to be casual (sun dresses and such) making sandals a natural part of the whole thing. I have no beef here.

2. You have to suddenly run for your life. In this situation, take those heels off and go - why are you pausing to put on flip flops?

3. A broken heel. First, ask if anyone in the crowd is a cobbler and can repair it on the spot. Cobblers are rare these days, but you should still try. If not, find out if there's an open shoe store nearby (NOT a drug store that stocks flip flops) - dash out quickly and replace your shoes. Failing this, you may remove your shoes for the remainder of the event. You might even be a able to borrow flip flops from one of those women who packs them in her purse like tampons*.  Consider staying put at your table the rest of the event, you nasty ragamuffin.

*Yea, about this. There exist flip flops made specifically to be tucked into your formal clutch, to be whipped out when you are ready to give up as a woman for the night.

4. You have to do it because you're in the bridal party and that's what they're doing. Ugh, I'm really sorry. You can try to approach the bride about it, but this is a sensitive situation. You're probably not getting much of a say in your dress or your hair either, so the whole thing is likely beyond saving anyway. Probably just go with it - at least all of you will look terrible from the knees down. It's just one day, so try to put it behind you.

Now that I've convinced you, decide what statement you want to make. If it's a badass heels statement, like I'm hoping, but you're worried about keeping yourself together for the whole event, I've got few tips that can help. The assumption here is that your shoes fit properly and you can walk well in them (walking well in heels is another show). If those criteria aren't met, then back to the shoe store you go.

These tips are helpful, but they are not magical - there is always the potential for pain, but enduring will make you proud and you'll be so amazingly badass in your heels:

1. Start hydrating well a couple days before. If you're prone to a little bloating, your feet will suffer first. Drink enough water so that you're peeing all the damn time.

2. Pre-emptive ibuprofen. Take a couple before you go. These will take the edge off when the balls of your feet start screaming and your skin starts separating.

3. Your date/spouse/friend is an excellent secret physical support. Use him or her sort of like a human cane - but don't limp or you'll give it away!

4. A couple of drinks will help numb your tootsies.

5. A couple more will help you not care that they're turning purple. Keep dancing!

There's always time for flip flops tomorrow. Heels are special - wear our best ones for special days...so treat them that way and don't give in to the flip flopped foolishness!

The Puffin Identity

Puffins are adorable birds that became endangered because of fierce and cruel hunting by assholes during the 1800s. One of the most endangered groups were the Atlantic Puffins, who nest in the rocks and coastal islands off Maine. This is where my history and ornithological lesson ends, but you can read more here if you're so inclined. Spoiler alert - the puffins are coming back thanks to conservation efforts by Audobon and other wildlife preservation programs.

Ever have Barbara's brand cereal, Puffins? Delicious. I was reading the back of the box this morning and they have a puffin adoption program. I'm not here to promote this - truly - read on.

If you save up and send in 15 upc/box tops, you can adopt and name your very own puffin for a year, and Barbara's makes a donation to the preservation project. You can adopt up to 5 puffins a year this way. That's a lot of pricey cereal if you ask me, but, no one really asks me. I know what you're thinking: well, they should! I know, right?! Thanks!

Not unlike sponsoring a child from a third world country, you get a picture of your puffin along with its history, likes and dislikes, dating rituals (choice of mates, they call it - little black book, I call it), a certificate, and so on. So I'm thinking this is very cute. Then, I re-read it. Name it for a year. A year.

So many questions. Why just a year? What happens to your adopted puffin at the end of the year? Do they take its name tag away? Is that little puffin now an unsponsored, nameless beaky thing once more? Do they get new names from new sponsors? Isn't that confusing for the puffins and everyone involved? Are you notified when your year is up, so you can renew? This is just getting weird and complicated! Do they make actual name tags? Is there a ceremony? I cannot consider adopting a Puffin without knowing the name I give it will stick for good. I had to find out more.

I called the company today and talked with someone from marketing. I'm not kidding. To sound more stable, I told her I was calling for my eight year old son who demanded these answers...I'm just calling on his behalf, of course. He's very curious about the fate of the adopted puffins, you can understand, right? He's eight, I mean, hah hah, yes, oh these kids. The things we do for them, amirite?! 
She totally bought it. While she was very pleasant, she didn't know why there's a year expiration on the name. Maybe, she speculated, there are just not enough Puffins to go around for each to have a one-time name. But then she said that was probably not it. Up the food chain I go.

The next person introduces herself as the Director of Marketing. Wow. I'm impressed with how quickly this has escalated in my favor.  She's lovely and really gets my questions (which are my son's questions, of course but she also isn't sure why there's a year expiration. No one has ever asked, she told me. Really? That's surprising!

Not at all surprising, I often get that response. Then again, how many people are calling cereal headquarters demanding answers about puffin adoption limits?

She took my information and is going to contact the Doctor who runs the preservation program and find out the deal on this year limit thing. Ha! I am very excited to hear back, and I'll report back once I do. In the meantime, I'm thinking I'll have to pony up and donate after hassling them, so long as that Puffin's name goes down in the books, forever. 

It's a Crock

One day I will kill someone with their own crockpot. Mark my words. Or probably don't. I'd hate to be incriminated in some freak Rival incident in the midwest.The heavy insert part could split a skull though. Think about that next time you handle one. Maybe keep it by your bedside at night. Your unassuming ceramic peace maker.

Some days, my Facebook feed is overrun with slow cooker recipe shares, most of which sound terrible. Like stoner with crazy munchies terrible. Yes, even with the pretty picture of the seared and caramelized food - you all know that nothing that ever came out of a crock pot looks like that, right? NOTHING. It's a lie and it makes me crazy. Are you one of the offenders? Are you? You are contributing to my descent into madness.

Sure, crockpots have their place in home cookery, but that's my point - they have their place. That place is pretty specific, with not a lot of room for expansion, and particularly expansion into my social media life. Yeah, I own a crockpot. I use it a few times a year for specific purposes (long, slow, moist heat required stuff - admittedly convenient for that sort of thing). But if you took my crockpot away, I'd be all, "Sweet. More cabinet space." Zero craps given.

If crockpots were the the magical savior of all home cooks, from the stressed stay at homes to the stressed workers, with seemingly endless possibilities, then why do we still use ovens and pans and skillets? To my knowledge, no one has replaced their appliances with one giant slow cooker. Do restaurants offer crockpot meals? I don't know of any...do you? If they do, it's either a moving target hot thing in the city - you'll never get a table and by the time you do it's so over - or, it's on the menu at that diner on True Blood.

Oh, the recipes...precious. There's the usual offenders - easy cheesy this (always cheese), and super easy that. More recent ones include 'paleo' and 'clean' versions for the healthy crockpotter's repertoire.

So check this one: Crockpot Lasagna - I just...well...are you fucking kidding me? No. Just no. And let's all think for a second: the 'labor intensive' part of lasagna, assuming you don't make the noodles and the sauce, is assembly - which you'll need to do in a crockpot too. The difference here is letting it cook-mush to death all day long in a small, steamy vessel, versus baking it for about an hour in the oven. You can even do the assembly ahead of time, just like a crockpot! For real! And the clean up? About the same. There is no need to destroy a simple dish like this, in a crockpot because the work is the same (it usually is for most of the recipes) and the outcome is better when you make it conventionally. Actually, nothing Italian is to be made in a crockpot...at least if you have any dignity. Challenge me on this, I dare you.

Notice also that so many of these recipes contain the word "Easy"...'cause nothing gets people excited like magical, non-engaged cooking. I'm not saying you need to be doing anything complex, ever. Really, you can make stupid-easy and delicious things, quickly - barely paying any attention whatsoever - without a crockpot. You can also make complex all-day stuff that isn't very actively involved at all without a crockpot. We all know this. Right?

I don't understand the Crockpotting of America™ movement. I blame the internets of course. Is it because you can leave the thing on all day and not worry about a fire? Is it the Easy Cheesy Chicken Fiesta? The Beer Chicken Explosion?  Help me not assault anyone with a crockpot, America.