IT ALL STARTS WITH JUST ONE MINI MOUNDS BAR

Halloween frightens me.  It’s not the soul-sucking, bloodthirsty, pastyfaced ghouls with fangs  and ratty clothes lurking around every dark corner that scares the beejeezus out of me.  Throw in three different kinds of potato salad and a little crying and you’ve got my family reunion.  Its not the Hallmark Channel’s  two frigging months of 24/7  sappy crappy Christmas movies with lost loves, new romances, street-wise orphans, too many rip-offs of Dickens’ Christmas Carol and happy freaking endings that starts right after Halloween.  Okay, maybe it’s little of that.   What really fills my soul with dread is that Halloween heralds a dizzying downward spiral of my already fragile grasp on nutritional wellbeing and potential weight loss from which I will not regain control until it’s too late to fit into a bathing suit.

This annual decline actually starts round about mid-August when the pesky Back to School merchandise is relegated to a couple small sale bins near the exit to make room for Halloween candy—piles and piles of tiny morsels.  Sure, the official story is that the stores are trying to be helpful by making the Halloween treats available early, but let’s be honest.  What consumer’s schedule is so jam packed that she has to make her Trick or Treat purchases 2 ½ months in advance?  And for that matter, what little trick-or-treater wants candy that has been crammed is someone’s cupboard for 10 weeks (although back in the day, my young lads had been known to make a Christmas Eve snack of pastel jelly beans scrounged out of the couch cushions)   We all know the target shopper here is the same one who buys 36 boxes of Girl Scout cookies to freeze for ‘later’.  Check my freezer. Later came before my check to Troop 12 cleared. 

Every year I swear will be different, and every year I fall into the same pattern. The first time I see the display, I mutter something about rushing the holiday season, roll my eyes in disgust and walk right by.  The next time I stroll by a little more slowly.  I still roll my eyes but it's more in the direction of the shelves so I can discreetly check the inventory.  The third time, I casually toss a bag of the mini-Mounds bars in my cart. Coconuts grow on trees, much like fruit, and the coating is dark chocolate which studies done by people I could not pick out of a police lineup say is very healthy, so they can be considered a nutritionally smart purchase. I’ll just store them in the freezer, I say to no one in particular.  There’s plenty of room since the Girl Scout cookies are long gone.

Almost before I realize what I am doing, I am buying 3 or 4 bags at a time. They are so cute and tiny, how much damage can they cause?   As an added bonus, I can fill my 'novelty' giant martini glass with them -- it's a great way to  add a little holiday cheer to the fabulously appointed bungalow.

Gotta get ready for the little visitors. 
 

For all my justification and self-bargaining, by the time Halloween rolls around, I have spent approximately $694 on candy and have exactly Zero candy to hand to the little holiday beggars. If they figure out I’m the one shoving Party Mix wrapped in cocktail napkins (with hilariously inappropriate captions that are completely lost on 8 year olds) in their plastic pumpkins, I can expect a whole lot more than shaving cream and toilet paper on my porch tomorrow morning.

Halloween is just the beginning. Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and that is one big feeding frenzy, with a goal to rouse from the post-dinner food coma in time to build a architectural triumph of a sandwich from the leftovers before bedtime. The Christmas magic starts the next day – with rounds of shopping lunches, cookie swaps, gourmet gifts, office parties, cocktail galas, Christmas brunch, lunch and dinner. This is dampened only slightly by the size 4 ‘friend’ who considers body-hugging exercise gear to be an acceptable Christmas gift.  Then we have the New Year’s Eve party with tables of hors d’oeuvre, and the glittering dinner buffet.  Maybe I can pull it together after Superbowl Sunday. Or not.  I am not a fan of football, but golly I am a fan of  the spicy, beefy, chippy dippy spread and chili and wings and cupcakes with team-colored frostings.  The chances of receiving Valentine’s Day chocolates are slim, but they are ½ price on February 15^th, and you know what a sucker I am for a bargain.  These discount chocolates usually tide me over til the  marshmallow peeps and chocolate bunnies start calling my name.

But this year will be different.  I swear on a stack of size 8 jeans that were destined for Goodwill, that November first I will regain control of my own calorie intake.  Tomorrow’s breakfast shall be a healthy fruit and yogurt smoothie (who knew my blender could also whip up non-boozy concoctions?).   I am already looking forward to wearing smaller sweat pants Christmas morning. 

In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you this post is a rehash of a guest column I put in the MDIslander about a decade ago.  Yep, it has some original content, but is basically a rehash of the theme.  Total rehash.   Mmm, hash – crispy, greasy corned beef hash  with a cheese omelet and grilled buttermilk biscuit.  Okay, maybe the breakfast smoothie is out, but I will most definitely more than likely probably  have a salad for lunch.  Right after I get back from Goodwill.  

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

I love to cook.  I also love to eat, but for now lets focus on my love of cooking.  The eating thing will just lead to feeling sad that none of my spring collection fits which leads to seeing what’s in the fridge that will fit in my face which leads right back to cooking.  That’s the quick trip to today’s topic. 

Since I love to cook, I read a lot of those cooking magazines, and watch the cooking shows and such.   I have noticed a trend over the years, because I pay attention.  The trend is that we have changed the way we name foods.  Food names used to be cool. Although I will be the first to admit I don’t understand the logic behind Strawberry slump or apple brown Betty although (I am surprised some PC group hasn’t lobbied Congress to devote far too much time discussing getting that name changed), I fully get Devil’s food cake – it’s chocolately and bad for you and oh so tempting.  Makes perfect sense.    What about  fish sticks?  They were not made from real sticks, hell, they probably weren’t even made from real fish, but I loved ‘em.  Dinners featuring main courses like Shepard’s Pie and Sloppy Joes nourished my childhood.  Although I never met an actual herder of sheep, or knew just how sloppy Joe was,  I ate their namesake dishes and asked for seconds.  

Now whenever I  am in a restaurant that doesn’t have a drive through window, nothing  makes me cramp up more than the phrase  ‘Let me tell you about our specials’ .  OK, I lie a little.  The phrase ‘Oh Kitten, I forgot my wallet can you cover the tab.? And could you add another shot of Jaeger to that tab?’   puts me right  into the fetal position.  But that’s a topic for another  time. 

While the server launches into a hand-clasping dinner special soliloquy worthy of a Tony nomination I frantically try to grasp a few of the key words.  While the server is saying something like   “Tonight we are offering Basil infused citrus marinated Pacific Shrimp impaled on organically spawned rosemary skewers furtively  kifed  from the chef’s maternal grandmother’s neighbor’s  backyard herbal topiary,  and  Xanadu Lava-seared tenderloin of bovine who died in his sleep in a field of daisies, slathered in an reduction of butterfly harvested raspberries  and a thrice gossamer filtered clover honey balsamic vinegar accompanied with  a dollop of garlic scented potato eyes and arugula sprout embryos served on a microscope slide’  what I am processing goes something like this:   Basil – Basil Fawlty – Fawlty Towers.  Towering Inferno.  Shelly Winters was in that.  Winter seems to be hanging around. Little icy this morning.  Microscope slide… I slid off the porch this morning .  Think I twisted my ankle.   So when the server asked what I would be having, all I can say is ‘Yeah, Tony, I’ll have a Stoli martini up with a twist. ‘ 

I should probably not be so critical of this new foodie fad.  To be honest,  I may very well be the inspiration for it (just like Jeggings and ombre hair coloring).   Please savor my explanation,  much as you would a subterranean legume emulsification coupled with an overwhelming amalgamation of the chicken output albumen, syrup of golden kernel  farm-fresh maize and sparkling crystals of highly processed sweetness, cradled between twin slices of pain blanc.  Tthat would be fancy talk for your basic fluffernutter on white bread.

Ya see, back when I was still making an attempt to be a good mom,  one day the principal called me at work.  Well, she called me at work more than one day—a lot more -- but this particular call  fits this particular subject.  Seems my first born was having a hard time concentrating and staying awake in class.  Before I could offer my theory that the teacher was probably droning on about something that he would never use in the real world like poetry or diagramming sentences or  good grammar, she expressed her concern that his predicament was directly related to the breakfast he had eaten.  Did he really have cold Spaghetti-Os  and a Coca cola both right out of the can? “Oh that scamp,’ I  I scoffed nervously.  As the beads of sweat formed on my brow, I started creating.  ‘As I recall, he feasted on pillow soft pasta halos bathed in a mild tomahto  (I actually said To-MaH-To) and aged parmesan  sauce served en tin.  This was paired with an effervescent elixir brewed from the finest Peruvian coca leaves, presented in a chilled ruby cylinder.’  Oh my, you must have been up early to prepare that.  You are the  best mom ever.  She did not say, but I am sure she was thinking it.

While I ponder whether I should embrace this pretentious food movement, that I may or may not be responsible for,  I’l l nourish my brain and my belly with golden buttery-enhanced orbs of flaky salt-crusted crostini, embellished with fluorescent aerated  fromage---ah, to hell with it.  It’s squirty cheese on a Ritz cracker, and it’s darned tasty. 

Potential Hoarder or Proactive Hostess?

My Sunday started off in  usual ADD fashion.  I went to the gym, came home, took a shower and while in the bathroom noticed I was low on toilet paper.  This happens on a regular basis now that my firstborn is home visiting (by the way, visiting turned into squatting about a week ago, but I still love  him like I get a deduction for him).  Well the need for toilet paper was good news.  Since I had no social plans for Sunday (it was a theme I started Saturday and just kinda ran with) that would be great excuse to make a trip to the big city and maybe indulge in a bigass Double Quarter Pounder with cheese, thereby offsetting any benefit of the aforementioned visit to the gym.  While I am a career Attention Deficit gal, I try to be a functional one, so I figured I should take stock of my kitchen cupboards and the fridge to see what else I should pick up at the market.  Which triggered cleaning the fridge.   I have a couple of rules - if I can't remember when I brought it home, or if it's all fuzzy and/or smelly, it has to go. You'd be amazed at how often and in how many different situations I can apply these rules.  Cleaning the fridge led to rooting through the cupboards, which developed into rummaging through drawers and making a sweep of the fabulously appointed bungalow to see what could go to Goodwill.

About 2:30, I proudly surveyed the 2 solidly full (as in Test-the-Flex-limits full) Febreeze-scented trash bags, the big green bag of retirement fund ready for the CLYNX bin, a box of things to drop at Goodwill and then screech off before they see what crap it really is, and a stack of stuff for which  I had not yet decided on a new home.   I  realized that lunchtime grocery  trip to Ellsworth was not gonna happen. I also realized I am about 2 molecules away from being a hoarder.

Once I cleaned out cupboards, shelves and drawers and started reloading them  with some semblance of order, I had amassed 27 boxes of Jell-O (in assorted shot-worthy flavors), about 500 regulation-sized Jell-o shot cups, 8 packs of birthday candles,  a dozen or so packages of cocktail napkins with hilarious cartoons mostly involving elderly women, hotflashes and wine,  a bag of feathers (??) a Ziplock bags full of cocktail umbrellas and frilly toothpicks, mounds of colored bead necklaces, a couple hundred Solo (mostly red, some blue) cups,and a three-pack of condoms that was inexplicably tucked into the gift-wrap drawer.   

As I surveyed the rather festive pile of stuff that I really didn't have a designated home for  my thoughts turned away from me (just for a second) to the news coverage of the recent storm damage down the seaboard, and then my thoughts turned  right back to me. 

What if a big storm slams into the island, and renders the fabulously appointed bungalow not so fabulous?  And what if the damage is extensive enough to warrant news coverage? What are people going to think when they see this pile of stuff  on the nightly news?  Are they going to think I'm some sort of Jell-o addicted, plastic cup jonesing, boob-flashing, cartoon napkin wielding, yet still fertile, freak with a tickle fetish? 

I'll tell you what they are going to think.   They are going to think this is a freaking awesome party place to while away the hours while they sing 'Like A Good Neighbor' and wait for the claims adjusters to appear.  And they will flock here in droves, or whatever vehicle they drive.

I just  hope they bring their own toilet paper.

Random sampling
 

Oh wait, condoms in the gift wrap drawer.  Now it makes sense. 

Living La Vida Loner

The Bungalow Great Room

During my Wonder Bread years I shared a bedroom with my baby sister.  Don’t get me wrong, I adored her (she’s the baby, the princess, the golden child, I was contractually obligated to adore her) and I still do, but sharing a room with a kid 10 years younger cramps your style.  How the heck was I supposed to develop the skills necessary to someday become leader of the Closet Vodka Mother Society with an eight year old rooting through my stuff?  We had no mutual subjects to talk about while nodding off to sleep.  We couldn’t talk about boyfriends.  I mean really, how much advice can a sweet innocent 18 year old give to an 8 year old tart?  After leaving the family nest, I had college roommates, apartment roommates, a live-in boyfriend (my social life did ‘improve’), a live in husband (not at the same time as the live-in boyfriend;  that would be wrong and way too much laundry) and then live-in children.  Point being, I never had a place of my own until I decided in my forties to move out of the marital house and into my own apartment. Although sad the marriage didn’t work out, I would finally  have a space I could claim as my own.  I would have privacy.  I would be able to stroll around my fabulously appointed penthouse (with all appointments I appointed) in my jammies until it’s time to go out in public without someone asking if I’m sick or PMS-ing.  I could crank the heat up to a temperature I like.  I could eat what I want, when I want and WHERE I want.    

Yessirree, living solo has its definite advantages. But during my years of solo living, I have found some downsides.   First and foremost – it costs money.  Every bit of space in the fabulously appointed bungalow (I’ve moved on up from the penthouse) is all mine, but so is the monthly rent payment, and the electric bill.  And then there’s the heat.  I have learned that the temperature I like, and the one I can afford are very many degrees apart.  I have also learned that apparently every mess in the big house was not the boys’ fault.  I am a freaking slob.  Coats not hung up?  They would be mine.  Shoes in the middle of the floor, also mine.  Dirty dishes in the sink?  Again, mine.

But that’s not the worst of it.    There’s a fear I never felt before.  Oh, I’ve learned to deal with the gripping panic that every ax murderer and rapist on the loose is headed for my door.  I just stopped watching the news, and only read the Lifestyle section, horoscope and the comics in the newspaper.  Other than the occasional panic that Mark Trail’s wife’s hairdresser is lurking on my deck waiting to vacu-form my coiffure into a water-retardant helmet, what I worry about now is, ironically, what I used to laugh about.  What if I fall and I can’t get up?  Or what if, while savoring whatever I want to eat, wherever I want to eat it, it gets lodged in my throat?  It happened to Mama Cass.  When I lived at the big house, I was comforted by the knowledge that the kids would eventually get hungy and trip over me on their way to the fridge. But how long before someone misses me when I’m the only one here?  It can be a little lonely living alone. 

Well, here’s how I solved that dilemma.  I surround myself with friends, lots of them.  And with those friends, I make social plans – oodles of them.  Movies, happy hours, dinners, happy hours, shopping excursions, happy…well you get it. 

I have also discovered the wonders of volunteering, because I am a giver, I love the warm feeling I get from helping, and maybe because I am not cheap to maintain.  You see, except for those occasions when I have a date to pick up the check, those movies, happy hours, dinners, happy hours, shopping excursions and happy hours can be  pricey.   I discovered that most functions needing volunteers involve food, so free dinner for me, and good grocery shopping if I remember to bring the Ziplocks and act quickly.  

My thought is that by making lots of plans and commitments, not many nights will go by without someone missing me, in the unlikely event I fall and can’t get up after choking on a ham sandwich while reading a cookbook on the toilet.

So in summary, the trick to being able to enjoy living alone, is to never, ever be alone.