Turkey for One

I have had the best Thanksgiving! School got out on Tuesday and the Fearsome Foursome headed out for some celebratory ritas and enchiladas. Nothing like starting an American tradition in the Tex-Mex way :-) I was so looking forward to five whole days of nothing to do! By nothing I mean I planned an entire list of "To-Do's" to get done.

Since this year, I was not going anywhere for Thanksgiving, I had planned to spend the five days powering through my list and relaxing. Now, I love spending time with my family and my family has always come first, but this year it was nice not to have to haul my rear around the country like a turkey with it's head cut off. I spent Thursday knitting, watching movies and cheering on my beloved (yet losing) Aggies as they once again lost to Texas. Judging by the fact that I never got out of my Pj's ~ it was awesome!

Now, there is that "To-Do" list I was talking about. Being the anal-retentive-control freak that my mother raised, I have a pretty long list of things.

The list looked something like this:
1. Clean out and organize personal files
1a. remove outdated files
1b. make new folders for old kept items
1c. make new folders for non-filed items

2. Balance and prep budget for upcoming holiday season
2a. checkbook update
2b. holiday spending list
2c. Estimate Birthday money wind-fall :-)

3. CLEAN (not clean, but scrub the ever loving daylights out of type CLEAN) the house
3a. clean & Detox cat box
3b. dust, vac, and mop all surfaces
3c. Clean in this order: Living room, bdrm, ktch, bath, then cat stuff

4. Laundry ~ including mending and ironing
4a. dryell
4b. bleached items

5. Update my knitting on Ravelry (knitting website)

Told you I was annal about it. I like to think that in a past life I would have been Martha Stewart or Leona Hemsley.

Here is what I have actually managed to accomplish:
1. Ate an entire package of Sultana Biscuits (my favorites that I get in Bonaire)
2. Knitted the bodice of two sweaters (waiting on yarn to finish one)
3. Finished reading "Shopaholic Ties the Knot"
4. Slept
5. Watched Cake Boss marathon ~ all 12 hours straight!
6. Made napping an Olympic sport.

Since I am now three days into my five day holiday break, I am thinking I am not going to make a dent in my actual "To-Do" list. Being one who hates to do anything half-arsed, I think I will chuck the list all together. (Save those things for another more productive time.) Bummer thing is that I can't blame my lazies on the Turkey-trypto-thingy.

Here's hoping you had a Wonderful and Happy Thanksgiving.

Will Read For Food

Once again this year I am teaching Language Arts. Ironic isn't it? Since I tend to be the Queen of the Comma Splice and the run-on sentence. Not to mention, that my writing style is so not exactly in line with the MLA style. But hey, you know what they say, "those who can do ~ those who can't teach". (Which is truer than you think.)

I also got tasked with being the "Reading" teacher. Now when I was a kid, by the 7th grade, most of us knew how to read, so I took that as an indication that my students would also know how to read. Yeah, I was wrong. I was thought that everyone valued an education...eventually. Yeah, I was wrong. Less than 60 years ago, we read pretty much as part of our daily lives. Until T.V. came into our world and started sucking our will to learn straight out of us. As kids we used to read from books! Not iPods, Kindles, or computer screens. And kids read things like Shakespeare, Keates, and Shelley; not Patterson, Rowling, and Meyers.

Today, I spend more time "dumbing down" my lessons than I do actually teaching. Remember learning to diagram sentences in order to learn about subordinate clauses, noun - verb agreement and dangling modifiers? Ah, we don't teach that any more. "It's too difficult" for students today to "grasp" that concept. Did IQ's drop suddenly since the 1980's? I have students who are reading "Curious George" because they can't comprehend a sentence structure that includes a noun, verb, adverb, and an adjunctive. They are still amazed when I tell them "She swam" is a complete sentence! I don't think any one of them today would be able to survive the educational process that was in place 100 years ago. Come to think of it, neither would I since I couldn't speak Latin if my life depended on it.

Education used to be HARD. If you were privileged enough to get any education, let alone a "good" one. Most people who were able to go, went to a one room school. Where all grades were taught simultaneously and no one gave a rat's ass if you were a kinetic, auditory, or whatever learner. You got what you gave and you earned your grade. Today, I have to give "participation" grades in order to even out GPA's and I am not allowed to "give" below a 50% on anything! This includes assignments where a student does NOTHING!! I have to give this "grade" when a student doesn't even TURN IN THE WORK!! Tell me, what I am "teaching" my students by rewarding them with a grade for nothing! WOW! If I had known I could get half my paycheck for doing half or none of the work, I would have been surfing the net on company time years ago. Yeah, that's a real life lesson. And it still doesn't teach them to read.

The students tell me they don't need to read because they can watch everything on the TV or listen to books on audio! I am beginning to think that one day job applications will be completely verbal. No writing, just answering into a little microphone your response to things like name, age, education level... Who needs a high school diploma or a college degree?

Sixty years ago not everyone went to college or finished school, but just knowing how to read, cypher and do math were impressive things. If you were blessed with the means, your education was more robust and harder. Seriously, anyone out there (other than MJenks) know how to read Latin? Speak two or more nonnative languages fluently? Know how to fence and ballroom dance? Can you run a household with a staff similar to that of a small business while maintaining proper decorum and finding a suitable mate before you become a spinster at the rip-old age of 20? How about knowing the simple basics of being a gentleman or lady? Don't even think this stuff is taught these days. I went to cotillion classes when I was in 8th grade. My students have never even heard the word cotillion. Please and thank you won't come out of their mouths without a crowbar and a jack hammer.

No Child Left Behind has not left our children behind, it has lowered the bar to the point that a slug could pass over it and be considered a rocket scientist. I hope one day we will remember that not everyone gets to be a rocket scientist and start making education worth earning. Not just a baby sitting location for children ages 5-17. Society can't handle a 30% drop out rate. The jobs just aren't there anymore and the military isn't a holding ground for them. I am off to figure out how to inspire a new generation to read and write, so that one day their generation will be able to take care of themselves.

OH MY GAWD GIVE IT TO ME!!!

I am somewhere between nirvana and a toe curling scream right now.  I was watching t.v. and this vision appeared to me.  It was if the Ghost of Drinking Binges Past had come to visit me. There on my t.v. screen was the one thing that would make Ms. Tastrophie break down and beg for more.  If Elvis were alive and it was 1950-whatever, I would be screaming my throat out and tossin' some panties.  It's as if God knew my most secret-of-secret dreams and decided to grant them to me all at once.

Little Debbie, the makers of that little life saver known here as the Ho-Ho,* has created a contest just for me!!  They are giving away A MILLION HO-HO's!!!!!!  Just go to their website and enter.  OMG!! OMG!!! This is almost as good as sex!!  Except it has been so long since I have had sex that I am thinking this is as good as sex.  I maybe wrong.  Now if the makers of Xanax would just come out with a similar contest, Ms. Tastrophie's world would be perfect!!  

*Side note: Ho-ho's in Lisatastrophie's world are really Swiss Rolls (also made by Little Debbie), but have been called Ho-Ho's ever since a really crass girl's night several years ago. It's my blog/world and I will call it what I want.

Note on Nooners

The following is from my days in corporate life, when I worked for the nation's leading healthcare tech company.

Dear Co-worker:

Hi!  How are you?  I am going to assume that you are doing great considering the glow you have after returning from that extra-long lunch you took today.  In fact, I am going to go out on a limb and guess that you had a wham-bam good time at lunch.

I only say this because, we (your fellow co-workers) have noticed a few changes in you since you came back from that small 2 hour lunch you and the hot new guy from resource management took.  Like how bouncy and fluffy your hair is now.  It's a complete 180 from the semi-plastered look you were sporting this morning.  And speaking of sporting...  Do you remember in the 6th grade when they taught us about the birds & the bees?  Did you by any chance happen to pay attention to that part where they talk about hormones and pheromones?  You should have.  While, I am not one to knock knocking boots; I am one to advocate good hygiene and a quick little shower or some perfume after the quickie would be a good idea for next time.  

While we here at work are all so delighted in your happy-go-lately attitude that has suddenly developed ~ it is a welcome depart from the uptight b*tch you usually are; we did want to let you in on a little secret.  Yours is out!  No amount of sitting on a dead phone line while pretending to talk in an overly developed stage whisper to your best gal-pal "Cynthia" about how you just couldn't find the shoes you were looking for during your lunch hour and how the sales lady made you late getting back because she kept bringing you the wrong size, is going to make us think you did anything but get jiggy with it while you were gone.  

Oh, and in case you haven't noticed, we work in a glass building ...On the fourth floor.  One floor above the parking garage.  The garage that you and hot-guy from resource management both use while managing to park right next to each other...On the top level.  So, that little last minute grope session you two had right before you came back to work was a nice peep-show for those of us blessed with window cubicles (and anyone else we could manage to get the attention of during the fifteen minutes of fame the two of you were having).  Seriously, park on the second floor.  No one parks there and therefore would not have seen that you are not wearing panties or hose anymore.  Which, by the way, was another thing that tipped us off.  You had pantyhose on this morning.  Might I suggest having a back up pair just in case these little afternoon delights get a little rough on the original pair.  Just a suggestion.

Sincerely yours,

Ms. Tastrophies & 

The ENTIRE PathNet Team*

*cause you KNOW I told everyone and their uncle about this.

  

The Curious Case of the Missing Underwear

Well, now that I have MJenks attention, I am going to sadly reveal that this story is not about any new found love of going commando.  Sorry guys, but the epic question of "Does She or Doesn't She" will not be answered here today.  

Two weeks ago I made my way to the local animal shelter to adopt another kitten.  After two months of mourning the passing of my beloved B-Phat, I had decided to bring another kitten into my home.  Elsa wasn't really happy about my decision, but since I buy the Fancy Feast and have the hook-up for the catnip, she gave her reluctant meow of approval.  I, on the other hand, am now asking WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!?!

OMG people, I have completely lost my freaking' mind and had the world's biggest brain-fart.  It's been three years since I last had a kitten in my house and apparently time erases the memory of all the crazy batsh*t things kittens like to do.

Like:

1. Get a cold one week after you bring them home from the local Typhoid Mary Infirmary, so that you can spend every last dime you have until the next payday on x-rays, shots, IV saline re-hydration, oxygen tank confinement (seriously?!), antibiotics, and your vet's new Lexus XL complete with GPS and side door airbags.

2. Keeping you up until 5 a.m. the night before a full day when you have to get up at 7 a.m with their sneezing and hacking up a lung onto your carpet, bedspread, and new cashmere sweater you bought on sale for 50% off of the 50% off sale price from the original price.

3. Running full balls-to-the-wall speed down the hall, across the coffee table, over the love seat, and straight into a full set of closed window blinds in the middle of the night; thereby causing you to have a small, but significant heart attack that is only calmed by half a bag of Ho-Ho miniatures and two xanaxes with a triple vodka chaser.

4. Chase after a rather rotund three year old feline who is seriously pissed at her owner for getting her de-clawed because she would really like to smack the sh*t out of the new kitten at this point in time.  Why she doesn't just sit on him is beyond me.  She may not have claws, but she is up about three weight classes on him and could take him out with one good sumo squat.

Basically, I now know why God and I have decided that kids would not be a good thing for me.  Cause right now, I am one good midnight race-and-chase away from re-inventing the catapult.  But, love conquers all and Sneezes (no, I am not really going to call him that permanently, just until I can think of something more befitting) will curl up on my lap to "make biscuits" while purring the "Battle Hymn of the Republic"* then all is forgiven.  * Ok, he doesn't really purr the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but I think he was humming the theme from Jaws last night.

So, what the hell does any of the above have to do with underwear?  Well, I'll tell ya.  Tonight, I was trying to get some housework done.  Including laundry.  Which I hate to do and will put off until I have worn every last pair of clean socks, underpants, and tee-shirts I own.  Which is enough to last me about two weeks.  As in... I got Sneezes about two weeks ago.  Anyone getting a little light switch flick right about now????

I go about sorting my clothes.  Turning thing right side out (like my Mama taught me), when I start to notice a decided lack of something in my hamper.  I kept sorting.  And thinking, "I know I have worn underwear lately".  Followed by, "Where the hell are all my panties?"  For a minute I panic and think that I have left two weeks worth of undies at the gym and the people at Lifetime are going to ask me to go through some sort of sensitivity training before I can return.  I think I must have done a load of laundry earlier and left it in the dryer.  Nope, I checked.  Not there.  Then, from out of nowhere comes this small orange streak, racing full speed ahead with a flash of zebra print sailing behind it like the Black Pearl at full mast.

HOLY VICTORIA'S SECRET, BATMAN!!!  That was yesterday's panties streaking by me at 30 knots.  I gave chase to the little thief and discovered that he has absconded with every pair of underwear I have put in the hamper since I released him from his new-kitten quarantine.  He has been stashing them in the back of my closet behind a suitcase doing all sorts of who-know-what-kitten-things to or with them.  UGH!  

Now I have a big decision to make: Do I wash them (about 50 times in really hot water) or do I toss them out and run to the local Wally-world for a clean 5-pack of the Fruit of the Looms?  Then I have to decide what a kitten therapist is going to cost me because I'll bet you good money this little kitten has got some sort of full blown pantie issues going on and I can just see him growing up to become an internet-kitty-porn addict if I don't get this nipped in the bud right now.  Does anyone know a good therapist who is also fluent in Feline?  Or if Tide works on cat fur?

Sophie's Choice

Sunday, I went to the local animal shelter.  Bud E Phat has been gone for two months and while I morn the emptiness that he has left in my house, I also yearn for the pitter-patter of four more paws.  That is not to say that Elsa is not the love of my life.  I fought hard with the decision to bring another kitty into my home.  In all honesty, I am still not sure I am doing the right thing for her.  There are times I wish she could speak to me.  Even if it is just so she could tell me what the h*ll "Meeow, mow, moooww, meow" means.  Especially at four a.m. when she thinks this is a life ending all important thing to tell me at the top of her lungs.

The shelter was overflowing with kittens.  They were everywhere.  I was on fluffy overload.  As I went between the two cat houses, I couldn't believe that I wasn't finding the soul of my beloved B-Phat in any of the cats I held.  That soul that has come to me each time I have needed it and it never fails to give me unconditional love, affection and gratitude.

Then a volunteer came in with a pet carrier.  Inside it was the most beautiful Snowshoe-Siamese mix I have ever seen.  Eyes as deep blue as the waters I love to dive and a chocolate brown coat that begged to be petted.  The volunteer appeared to be so blase in his duties that he banged the carrier around a few times when he sat it down to prepare a cage for this gorgeous animal.  A new home for what will be the last days of his life.

The minute I looked into those eyes I saw that soul.  The soul of my Turbo.  My Baby Kitty.  My Bud E Phat.  That soul that seams to find me every time I have an empty spot at the food dish.  That soul that I have loved so deeply that I would give my last breath to save.  And on Sunday, I broke my heart and walked away from all he promised yet again. For on this animal were four words that will condemn this wonderful creature to a death that even I can not delay: Owner Surrender ~ Behavioral/Urination.  

Before I even laid eyes on the surrender form, I knew I wanted this cat.  A cat that had been someone's faithful companion for 7 years and was now looking so lost at the drastic change in his life.  The soul I have been blessed with three times before, shone brightly behind those blue eyes, pleading with me to take him home again.  I had found him once more and my heart cried in joy.  But this time was not meant to be.  This time logic won instead of my heart and I chose another.  

That is not to say I do not adore the cute little orange and white tabby that is to come home with me next Saturday.  I have known this kitten soul before.  He is the soul of Thomas O' Malley.  He lives with my Dad for now, but time is winning that age old battle with him.  (Thomas lived with me after Turbo had gone but stayed by my Dad's side after I had gone.)  I know that his playful demeanor and little "chirping" noises are what drew me to him.  Soon he will have covered my house and heart with cat-fur and I will love him as much as my Elsa.  Maybe one day, my old soul will come to see me again through him.  But for now my soul is back there in a 3'x5' cage waiting for a rescue that this time can not come.  He is waiting for a heart that is fractured by reality, logic and reason instead of being ruled by instinct, faith and love.  For this I hope he can forgive me and once again come to find me when the time comes.

We Need A Meeting

I know, I know, I haven't written.  I'm going to claim utter desolation at the pain inflicted by the two Ex's.  In reality, I have been caught up in the back to school madness that is Jr. High. But have no fear, I found something to Yip about.  See?  I knew it wouldn't take long since I am fairly certain that there are elements out there specifically designed just to piss me off.  One of them is "The Meeting".  Low and behold, my employer decided that we need more meetings. (Which is funny because we have been having weekly meeting since last year and no one remembers why we were meeting in the first place.) Usually a meeting can be a small but painful thing.  Like a paper cut.  They tend to be self contained and last a mercifully short (1-2 hours) amount of time.  That is if course unless someone higher up in the food chain decides he/she "has a great idea" and wants to re-invent the wheel or beat a dead horse into dust.  This decision usually morphs into "The Seminar".  Which is slightly less painful than a root canal done by a chain saw.

"The Seminar" is the modern version of the Grand Inquisition.  It has probably taken more lives the Inquisition at this point.  "The Seminar" last just a little shorter than the Six Day War.  Any longer and it would be a "Convention".  "Conventions" are not as immediately painful as "The Meeting" or "The Seminar" as participants are able to slip out undetected for longer than scheduled in order to partake in the team building exercise known as the liquid lunch or the extra-early-happy hour.  "The Seminar" and "The Convention" are also mercifully held at a location other than your office, so they have a nice min-break appeal to them.  Something to do with the cat being away and mice playing.  

"The Seminar" occurs when someone in management (who has access to major budget funds) decides that life as we know it has been going a little too well, and he/she has to muck it up some how.  While "The Meeting" is typically used to get workers to drink the kool-aid or a major management-to-employee flogging; "The Seminar" is used to completely F-up life as you know it. Nothing gets a CIO/CEO/CFO hotter than thinking that worker bees really give a sh*t about rewriting the company mission statement or redesigning the process-flow/task analysis of the water cooler bottle replacement system.  This leads to hours upon hours of discussing the merits of totally trivial sh*t; like the toilet paper being hung with the flap forward vs. the flap facing backwards.  Especially when worker-bees know it's all going to be chucked in the bin by an over-riding management brain-fart two months from now when management gets another "bright idea" to create more work than humanly possible in addition to the 80 hour work week that we now endure without complaining for fear of losing our jobs in an economy that sucks hard than the prom queen.

Management will schedule a 2-3 day confinement in a banquet room or conference hall, where a perky, overly-caffeinated, ex-prom queen consultant will tell you how you are now going to beat a dead horse to death with a new and improved beating stick.  The entire stick will be used in a more timely and efficient manner.  (Cause GAWD forbid, that the way you have been beating it for years isn't the right way.  No matter how well it got the job done.)  In the meantime, work will be piling up on your desk and you will be expected to be "on top of it" even though you are locked away for 9 hours a day, learning how beating the dead horse with the old stick is no longer efficient.  And isn't the new stick all nice and shiny?  The new stick will turn out to be the old stick with bows, bells and whistles added to make you think it's a new stick.  Then they will ask for your input on how the company can better beat the dead horse.  This little piece of input typically manifests itself in the shape of an "anonymous feedback" survey where the first question is "Name"?  Usually this is when management takes note of the nay-sayers and has them taken out by the secret Gestapo when no one is looking.  

I would write more, but I have to go to another meeting.  Really.  It's been my fifth one this week and it is only Wednesday.  At this rate, I am going to have to add another meeting to my schedule because all the drinking I will be doing in order to recover from the last five meetings is going to send me straight to AA!

Tale of Two Ex's

Oh, we all have them.  Ex's.  Ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, ex-what-was-your-name-again?  If life was fare, we would break up with up them and never hear anything about them again, except that they spent the rest of their lives pining away for us.  We would not have to hear that they happened to find the love of their life with the very next girl they decided to date right after you...

Or that they are getting married.  Ever.  Which they informed you after having had some sort of massive brain fart then getting the fabulous idea that they needed to call/e-mail/facebook/twitter/IM you with that little glorious tidbit of information.  Just so you would know. Cause the fact that you weren't THE ONE, but the one before THE ONE isn't enough to make that bitter taste in the back of your throat every time some one brings up Ex's name (or in this case apparently ~ names) go away.

Here I was enjoying the last bit of my summer break.  Not having a care in the world since the school district can't get their sh*t together and actually post the curriculum so I wouldn't have to bust my hump making lesson plans that have more amendments to them than the Constitution on the day school actually started, when I get an e-mail from Ex#1.  What?!  I haven't heard from him in ages and while, yes, I was technically the one to dump him, it was still a little *Yeah Me* on the ego scale to see that he had been thinking of little ol' moi.  It was full of the usual catch-ups: How are you? What have you been up to? How's teaching? And, Oh by the way, I am getting married.  

I think I spent five minutes reading and rereading that little dagger through the heart. Strangely the announcement never changed no matter how many times I read it thinking I had mistaken something in the Times New Roman font.  Ok, time to woman-up, Ms. Tastrophie,

and send Ex#1 a begrudging congratulations.  I mean, I was the one to break up.  And I knew I wasn't THE ONE for him, but single-at-40 is still a bitter pill to swallow, no matter how many Ho-Ho's and Xanax you use to cover it.  I sent a slightly over-the-top-cheerful note expressing my hopes for a long and fruitful union.  Then went and downed a couple of Ho-Ho's to sooth my bruised ego.  (Make that several Ho-Ho's: you know how big Lisatastrophie's ego is.)

About an hour or so later I am talking to Ex#2 via IM.  Strangely, through our love of a similar sport, EX#2 and I have kept in brief/random contact.  So having a random IM conversation with him was not too far fetched.  Plus, he was the one who said we could still be "friends" when he broke up with me and I took his word on it.  (Note to guys:  Don't even bother with this bullsh*t line.  We know you don't mean it and we will only use it as an excuse to drive you batsh*t nuts.  It's our little way of getting even for your breaking our hearts.)  Anyway, I was telling him about Ex#1's little announcement when he decides to disclose to me that he has an announcement of his own:  He's engaged as well.  Then he proceeds to give me every detail of how the nuptial asking went down.  Being that Ms. Tastrophie is a true Southern woman, I gave my second cheerful congratulations of the day and quickly ended the IM session before I went all Fatal Attraction on my pillow with the butter knife.

The whole time I am making mince-meat out of my favorite feather down king sized pillow, I am thinking "OMG! Are you kidding me?  This can not be happening twice in one day.  Hell, lightening doesn't even strike twice and I just got a double love-karma b*tch slap from two Ex's on the same day!!!" I didn't get this kind of love-karma-hell when I got divorced.   Oh Sweet Mary someone get me the double sized box of Ho-Ho's STAT cause this is not going to be pretty.  Who cares if I was the dumpee or the dumper?  I don't want to know that my Ex's are living happily-ever-after when the closest thing I have had to a relationship in the last year has been telling my batsh*t crazy co-worker to go screw off.  Now that I think about it, he is now my EX-co-worker and with my luck will probably call me to tell me HE has gotten engaged as well.  

After the first (of many) 30 minute crying jag, I managed to find my recipe for Lemon Drop Martini's (*see below) and make myself a few (I lost count at 5) that would have made James Bond beg me for more.  I am not sure what happened after martini #3 but I do know that the hang-over I had the next morning would have given both of the Ex's sweet satisfaction knowing that once again Ms. Tastrophie was given a taste of the little karmic-kick-back she is so richly getting from the universe these days.

Life's Little Helper Lemon Drop Martini's

1 1/2 ounce Vodka

3/4 ounce Triple Sec

2 tsp Sugar

3/4 ounce Lemon Juice

Mix over ice.  Shake 40+ times.  Strain and pour in sugar rimmed glass.  

Drink responsibly please. :-)

Yulekaka ~ Or How to Offend an Entire Country in Just 9 Hours

My mother's side of the family has Nordic ties. In fact, if I had inherited any of her side of the family genes I would be 5'9" with awesome cheekbones, fare skin and hair. My Dad's side of the family hails from Germany and Scotland. Three guesses which end of the gene pool I went swimming in? Yeah, this sucks. Although I can pound the sauerkraut and brat wurst with the best of them.

Anyway, in a yearly attempt to get in touch with my Nordic roots I embark upon making the traditional Christmas/Holiday fruit bread called Yulekaka. No, it's not fruit cake. Trust me, when made correctly, it is a small piece of heaven toasted and topped with butter. Made incorrectly it is just this side of the third circle of Dante's hell.

Now, Norway is known for several things: gorgeous men, The Three Billy Goats Gruff , and one of my favorites ~ trolls. These creatures guard bridges, wreak havoc, and basically make life hell for any man who crosses their path. (See why I like them so much ~ we have similar goals.) You really do not want to offend the trolls. Or any Nordic gods, for that matter, as they have a few anger management issues when it comes to mere mortals stepping on their terrain. Making Yulekaka incorrectly appears to fall on their terrain.

Last Christmas, I set out on my yearly quest to make this small sampling of Valhalla. I get out all the ingredients. I measure precisely the amounts and set everything aside in cute little Williams Sonoma ramekins a la Ms. Martha. We are talking about moi after all and you know I am high maintenance, so why wouldn't my kitchen accoutrements be. I get out the needed pots, pans, mixers, oven mitts and my little troll dolls. I make sure to place the trolls in a position of significance as not to offend their delicate sense of authority. The trolls are a very important part of making Yulekaka. They have to watch over this process in order to insure the proper making of this Valhallic delicacy. But they will also wreak havoc if you happen to do anything that could slightly offend Thor and his might buddies.

Which apparently I was destined to do... yet again. Yulekaka takes about 9 hours to make ~ if you make it right and don't cheat by using the quick bread method. Which by the way is for wimps and cowards. I'm not joking ~ nine hours. It has to rise twice and the mixing has to be done just right... with details like the beaters need to be all the way in the batter and the mixer NOT set on high when you turn it on. Ugh, details, seriously people you know I just don't do details. So I measured, poured, mixed and kneaded. At some point in this process one of the trolls got knocked off his perch. How? I don't know. What I do know is that he was pissed and hell bent on wreaking a little havoc into my Yule time baking. I ended up with batter on the ceiling, the walls, across the room, in my hair and on the cats. Note: Bread batter + Cat = antiseptic, band-aids, and possibly a trip to the emergency room for a few stitches. I killed the yeast. The dough (what was left of it) didn't rise all the way. The candied fruit had gone bad ~ even though I could have sworn I checked the expiration date five times!! Candied fruit has the shelf life of a Twinke. It will last longer then cock roaches after the nuclear holocaust, but these had gone rancidly bad.

By now I was about four and a half hours into this Yulekaka operation and the only Kaka I was getting was coming from a mean little troll laying face down in the flour bin laughing his bum off at my feeble attempts and sending me every ounce of troll turmoil. The small loaf that I did manage to somehow cajole into rising the second time turned into an Acme Brick in the oven. Thor had turned his back on me and had given the troll permission to make this mission impossible. And I was so pissed that I tossed the terrible trolls into the oven with the brick burnt offering and let them melt into one giant lump of coal. Which set off the fire alarm and brought about a dozen very pissed off firemen to my house. BTW, none of those firemen where hot, so it was a lose-lose situation all around.

Needless to say, I went without my Yulekaka that year - until my mother rescued me and made me a few loafs. Thor & the trolls always did like my mother best. I waved the whited flag and have given up any future attempts at getting in touch with my Norwegian ways... Unless his name happens to be Sven and he looks like this:

TMI Tuesdays ~ Sweet Mammories

Introducing TMI Tuesdays.  Inspired by Mjenks ~ This One's For You Oh Mighty Crown of Thistles.

One thing that I have no problem admitting is that I've had a little after-market work done.  I don't mind admitting it, trust me people know and it's not like I'm trying to pass anything off as home grown or original ownership.  Plus, I just don't give a crap if anyone knows ~ I'm not showing them off or letting people get a free feel of them, but I don't care if they know. 

In fact the year that the twins first arrived, I was in a master's program.  The twins were "delivered" over Christmas break ~ Merry Christmas to me.  The kicker was that I would have

 to tell my instructors that I had "had a little work done" and would not be fully recouperated until at least two weeks into the new school year.  Nothing like telling a couple of pudgy, not-gettin-any collage professors that you just got a new pair of turbo twins to cause a few "awkward"  moments.  In theory, the professors can't touch them, look at them, or even think about them because they are professors and aren't supposed look at student's chest.  In reality, it causes more than a few sneaky glances south of the collar bone and some really interesting faculty meetings.

At first I wasn't going to tell anyone at all.  Then I found out the recovery would take a whileand I was going to need help with things, not to mention still be on-boarding the 

nice little muscle relaxers that come with the new equipment.  It wasn't like I was going to back to school and someone would look at me and say "Oh, did you get your hair cut?  You look different."  No sh*t Sherlock, I now have knockers where once the cupboard was bare.  Cause guys may not notice a new hair cut for weeks, but bring in the boobs and they spot them right away every time.  So being up front about it cut down on the amount of class gossip and whispered questions.

Well, I was not about to have the twins delivered by  just any man. So I asked around for some referrals.  I got a few names and a few invites by girls to "feel" their work.  Yeah, it gets a little creepy when women you barely know start flashing you their tatas and invite you 

to grope on them like a freshman in high school.  Maybe not for you guys, but for me ~ yeah, creepy.  However one name kept cropping up: Dr. M.

Now before their was Dr. McDreamy, there was Dr. M ~ the original McDreamy.  Not only was he highly recommended for his surgical skills, he was recommended for is, ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh, scenic offices. Yeah, that's the ticket. 

 A few consultations later and wham! I'm in post-op. Where I was begrudgingly dragging my drug induced comatose ass back into reality.  Dr. M walks in to check on me and give me the post surgical update.  After a few minutes of his cajoling me to wake up and talk to him, I finally mustered the strength to lift my head and look at my chest.  OH-SWEET-MARY-MOTHER-OF-GAWD!! look at these babies!!  They are HUGE! 

 They were especially large from the angle I was looking down at them.  They were BIG.  Mount Everest Huge.  If I could have lifted my hands, I would have felt myself up right then and there.  Instead I put my head down, look Dr. M straight in the eyes, and with a smirk whispered "sweet!"   Then passed out. 

P.s. Blogger has crappy formatting!!