…Trouble Ensued

I was a strange child.  I’m perfectly willing to admit that right off the bat.  So it should come as no surprise that Easter weekends always made me very nervous.

Yes, Easter is usually a joyful holiday, filled with the smiles and laughter of children.  But those are normal children.  I was pretty much a complete wreck starting on Good Friday.  Why?  Because it seemed to be widely accepted that at some point during the weekend, an unsupervised animal was going to be entering all of our homes while we slept.

My parents thought it was cute.  “The Easter Bunny is coming tonight!!!”

Oh yippee.  Seriously?  Was no one else bothered by the fact that rabbits generally left a plethora of pellets and saw dust in their wake, and spent much of their time chewing through electric cords?

I was just a kid.  It wasn’t my house, so I really couldn’t do much about it.  I wasn’t able to alert the authorities, because I wasn’t even tall enough to reach the big yellow phone hanging on the kitchen wall.  And yeah, let’s face it, there was always something in it for me (candy, stuffed animals, toys).  So I was slightly hesitant to go so far as to actively rat the Bunny out.  But I was really mystified by my parents’ lack of concern in the face of an impending home invasion.

Hey, my dad wouldn’t even let the dog in the house!  But a wild bunny?  Nooooo problem.

I think my folks always assumed I looked exhausted on Easter morning because I had been too excited to sleep.  No.  I had been awake all night with worry:

How did the Bunny get in?  Did we leave the door unlocked all night?  Did that also put us at risk from copy-cat criminals?  How much time did the Bunny spend in the house?  Did he go through our stuff?  Would he chew up the edges of the National Geographics that seemed to multiply in the living room like, well…like rabbits?  Did he ever bite people?  Did he have all of his shots?  WHAT WAS GOING ON, and why did everybody blindly accept this crazy annual Bunny B&E, except for me?

Oh yeah…because I was a strange child.

So by Easter morning I was an overwrought, sleepless mess who basically needed the massive infusion of sugar contained in the Bunny’s basket just to get going.  A quick check of the electric cords and the National Geographics eased my mind a bit.  Okay.  Breathe.  Everything’s okay.  We apparently dodged a bullet this time.  I can put my bunny worries to rest.

Until next year.

And don’t even get me started on Santa.

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As you probably know by now, the idea for Trouble Ensued began with our annual Christmas letters. So that you don’t feel left out, let me share this year’s stories with you, direct from “The Christmas Letter 2011″:

In the interest of “equal time”, I thought I’d give poor Dan a rest this Christmas, and tell a little tale on myself. Picture this: I walked in the house one night, carrying all the day’s Christmas packages to hide in my closet. It’s dark, but I don’t have a free hand to flip on a light. Suddenly, I see a flash of light out of the corner of my eye. I turned quickly to the right…but didn’t see anything. I stopped dead in my tracks and waited. A little scared. What the heck was it?

Again! I saw the flash of light again out of the corner of my eye! This time it seemed to be coming from inside Dan’s closet. “Is there a burglar in there? Crap!” I quickly turned to the right, stopped and stared. Waiting. Still holding all my packages in the dark. Nothing. Then suddenly, I saw the flash of light again out of the corner of my eye. I spun again to the right. It was in the bathroom, I thought. “Could a lightning bug be trapped in the house?” I waited. Nothing.

I gulped, and finally got up the nerve to step inside the bathroom to confront whatever this light-flashing monster was. And that’s where I saw my reflection in the mirror. Yep. In my right ear, was my cell phone’s Bluetooth earpiece, that apparently flashes a light once a minute or so. I had been turning to the right like a dang puppy chasing its tail, and the light was attached to the side of my head!

I thought for a moment how lucky I was that no one had seen that display of “blonde-ness”. But then it dawned on me that the best Christmas present I could give Dan this year was some self-admission in the Christmas letter.

I know you’re still curious about Dan though. He has been…shall we say…”predictable” this year. I tried to broaden his horizons. Hey, I even tried out a new recipe on him! It was zucchini sauteed with onion, dill, and a can of corn. Easy, peasy…sounds delish. As I served the dish, I explained that we were “trying new things,” and that if there was some element of it that he didn’t like, we could always “tweak” the recipe. (And yes, I used “air quotes” when explaining this to him).

So, he tried it, making that serious little tester-face he makes. And I could tell we were going downhill fast. I interjected (trying to save the situation), “Don’t forget…we can ‘tweak’ the recipe.”

Well, God bless him, Dan suggested that next time, I “tweak” the recipe by taking out the zucchini, onions, and dill. I said, “Uh…okaaaaay. So you basically just want me to open a can of corn, and serve that?”

“Exactly.”

Ahhhhh…there’s just something about his predictability that somehow makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. And we both hope you have a warm and fuzzy Christmas, and a very Happy New Year!

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Christmas is just around the corner, and this year I finally have the answer to that age old question: “What do you buy for the person who has everything?”

A Yonanas machine.

(Okay, I just saw your head tilt at an angle at your computer screen…you looked a little like the old RCA dog.)

Yes, I said a Yonanas machine. You know I only tell you about products that I’m personally in love with, right? So listen, dollars to donuts, your gift recipient doesn’t have one of these yet. And I can guarantee you that they’ll WANT one…once they find out it exists. And so will you. Let me explain.

We all wish we could eat ice cream any time we wanted to, right? But that wouldn’t be healthy. Well, what if you could eat frozen fruit that has been turned into the creamy consistency of soft serve ice cream?

Well, that’s what a Yonanas machine does. It creates soft serve goodness, healthy enough for anytime, because it’s just frozen fruit. No dairy. No added sugar. No chemicals. Just. Frozen. Fruit.

I know people who have tried this with their blenders and food processors for years. And the end product usually turns out like my first attempts at mashed potatoes: either a little lumpy and grainy, or it goes too in far the other direction and gets gluey.

A Yonanas machine is truly nothing like what you think you could make with another appliance. It makes your frozen bananas into the absolute perfect consistency of soft serve. And you will never run out of variations. Throw in a bunch of frozen strawberries, throw in some frozen mango, throw in some frozen pineapple. The other fruits will change it completely. Heck, one of my favorite recipes is to throw in some peanut butter! Yep…like a soft serve PB&J!

So you’re eating a completely healthy yet decadent treat. You can check off that serving of fruit that you know you should eat…and you can feel like you’re cheating while you do it.

PLUS (and I can’t hit this point hard enough), you can put an end to wasting fruit that you don’t get around to eating before it goes bad. Yonanas requires using very ripe fruit. So when my bananas get speckled beyond the point that they look appealing (pardon the pun), they are exactly PERFECT for me to freeze for a Yonanas treat. I cannot tell you how many bananas, peaches, cherries, and grapes that I used to throw away because we didn’t get to them. It was honestly shameful. Now they all have a second life in my freezer…waiting to become a Yonanas treat. Eliminating that waste alone will easily pay for a Yonanas machine.

So now that you’re drooling (and watch your keyboard…drool is bad for keyboards), let me remind you that we were talking about your buying this as a gift! Wouldn’t this make a clever, original, healthy, practical, fun gift for that person-who-has-everything? You know they’d love a Yonanas machine.

And, so will you. So why not buy two:

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I’ve had a few thoughts running through my mind lately because of “Weinergate”.

(And as an aside, with a name like that, didn’t Representative Weiner spend enough time getting shoved into his high school locker to have learned that his name was embarrassing enough, without him actively contributing to the theme?)

But my thoughts aren’t really about him, specifically.  I mainly have a general question for the rest of you guys.  Does texting pictures of your junk actually WORK?

I assume you’re thinking our first reaction will be along the lines of, “Wow!  Gotta get me some of that!”  Uh, yeah…well…I hate to disappoint (and I obviously don’t speak for all women), but I think our reactions more accurately fall somewhere in the range of:

• Dude. We’ve met.
• Don’t you work during the day?
• How drunk were you when you took that?
• How cold were you when you took that?
• Ewwww.

Listen guys, in my opinion, all you need to to know about what really turns us on is in the old fairy tales.  Read Cinderella or Snow White.  There were no dicey photos in either one.  The Prince kisses the girl and carries her off to his castle.  You want to turn me on?  Text me a picture of your castle.

So I’m just sayin’…guys, please think twice before joining the explicit photo craze.  Although…come to think of it, there is one occasion when a photo of you and your junk would be a complete turn on:

Yep…when you’re cleaning your junk out of the garage and hauling it out to the curb.  Come on, girls…you know that’s sexy!

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I’ve been procrastinating on writing a blog post. Obviously.

I started to write a couple weeks ago when I dropped an entire pot of cooked macaroni on the kitchen floor. (Five second rule, right? I mean, it was going into the oven in a mac-and-cheese casserole. And baking kills germs, right?)

But then I realized that I’d already written about dropping the mustard greens. And I’d hate for you to think that kind of thing happens all the time. It does. But I’d hate for you to think it.

So I procrastinated instead of writing.

But this morning in the shower (where most of my brilliant thoughts come to me), I realized something about procrastination that I needed to share:

Procrastination is all about perfectionism.

I’m not putting things off because I don’t care or because I’m lazy. No. I’m putting things off because I’m waiting until I have enough time to attempt to do them perfectly!

Yep. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I’d imagine it’s easier to get away with this attitude as a housewife. I mean, could you imagine me as an emergency room doctor? “Uh….yeah, wow…that gash needs stitches, like REAL bad. But I have this cool new needle on order that will make the scar look soooo much better. Just keep this towel on it until the needle gets here on Thursday. Or maybe Friday…you know UPS.”

Now, I didn’t go to medical school, but I’m thinking that isn’t going to fly.

And that’s when the analogy hit me…I just need to relax into living my life as a form of triage. Whatever is bleeding the most, gets the most immediate attention. It doesn’t have to be done perfectly…it just has to be done. And I bet once I stop stressing about the big things, I’ll eventually get around to the little things.

Wait.

That kind of sounded like I’m still procrastinating on the little things. Argh…this made so much more sense in the shower! Lemme put some more thought into it, and I’ll get back to you later.

(Aw, crap. I just did it again, didn’t I?)

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Most people guard their yards against raccoons by securing trash can lids and not leaving pet food out, right?  Well, that wouldn’t work with my raccoons.  Noooooo!  At my house, we apparently also have to hide the good china and lock the liquor cabinet.  Yes, these are the dreaded upscale Los Angeles raccoons.

See, I awoke one morning to find little raccoon footprints all around the pool, so I assumed we had been the site of the latest late-night raccoon rave.  Yep, my neighbor had warned me that there was a band of high-class raccoons who have been caught having parties in local hot tubs.  Literally sitting, soaking, pressing the jets on and off.  Having a good ol’ time.

But apparently they decided to have their party at my house catered!  I noticed in my herb garden that they had dug up my garlic bulbs, and taken little bites out of them.  And faster than I could get really tweaked (and we all know I’m pretty quick on the trigger), I found a scattered collection of snail shells nearby…cracked open, occupants eaten.

Are you kidding me?  Only I would have “foodie” raccoons with discerning enough palates to be creating escargot out on my patio.

But frankly, I pretty much had to forgive them at that point, right?  I mean, at least they made it a high-class party.  And after a nice evening in the hot tub…who can resist some freshly prepared escargot?

So for now I’ll let the whole thing slide. However, next time, if I spot even one valet parking attendant…their party’s over.

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With apologies to learned doctors and physical therapists, sometimes the correct way to carry heavy objects is not the correct way at all.

The other day I purchased something at Costco.  Now, we all know that the bulky items at Costco are generally not intended to be lifted by those of us with prior back problems.  But I felt strong, confident.  And I had been taught the correct way to carry things!

I’m sure you can visualize it:  I was very careful to bend my knees as I picked it up.  And carefully, I pulled it close to my chest, supporting it underneath with both hands, rather than carry it at my side.  And I was having no problems at all.

I felt really proud of myself.  And  I was obviously giving off an air of athletic accomplishment, because I noticed several people smile at me on the way to my car.  Hey, a couple of guys even gave me a thumbs up!

“Wow,” I thought.  “They must really be able to sense that I am strong, athletic, and able to easily carry items like this in the correct way.  I rock, and people are showing their appreciation.”

Uh.  Nope.

I was wrong.  Big time.  And I didn’t even realize it until I got all the way home, and set my purchase down on the dining room table.

So to help you avoid a similar mistake, I’m issuing an addendum to the advice my doctors and physical therapists gave me:   Certain items are just not intended to be carried at chest level.  Certain items are much better carried at your side.  Even if it tweaks your back.  Trust me…I can never show my face in that Costco again.

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News flash:

I’ve apparently been dating myself with punctuation spacing.

First it was the Kleenex tucked in my sleeve.  Then it was the bifocals.  Now I find out that double spacing after a period is considered archaic behavior?

I ran across an article at Alltop (read it here) that kindly explained that the double space was originally inserted after a period to help make monospaced fonts more readable.  Then the article takes a nasty turn and judgmentally states, “But that was a long time ago.”

Huh?  Define “long”, you single-spacing whippersnappers!  You’re making me sound like I was in typing class with Little Billy Shakespeare or something.

Kids, it wasn’t THAT long ago.  It’s not like we were double spacing after periods on our stone tablets.  I mean, I grew up in the Modern Age, just like you.  We had microwaves.  We had rocket ships.  We had rock and roll.  Heck, we had Steven Tyler!

(Although, maybe Steven Tyler isn’t a good example, since watching him take his reading glasses on and off between American Idol contestants makes me want to weep with sadness.  And sometimes joy.  I vacillate.)

Anyway, all I’m saying is aging is hard enough.  Please leave me what little dignity I had by allowing me to think my punctuation spacing was still in vogue.

Besides, I’ve discovered that I actually can’t stop my right thumb from automatically double spacing.  But to hear you kids tell the tale, that’s probably only the first in a long line of bodily functions I’m about to lose control of. <space><space> So there!  At least I’ll go down defiantly.

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It’s that Christmastime of year, when we write our Christmas letters summarizing the year’s events.  Normally, I just find an instance or two in which, well, “Trouble Ensued.”  This year?  It was “The Raft.”   For those of you who received the letter…here is a picture of the dang thing.  For the rest of you?  So that you don’t feel left out, let me share the story with you here direct from “The Christmas Letter”:

You know, normally at this time of year, I’m staring at a blank computer screen with a massive case of Christmas letter writer’s block.  But I got lucky this year.

We had such a cold summer here at home, there weren’t a lot of “summer days” available to create stories about party hijinks by the pool. But I do have one.  And all it takes is one, right?

It’s September.  We finally have a nice warm day, and invite a few friends over to splash around.  Dan is so excited, he digs out all the pool toys we haven’t seen in ages…including a crazy raft I had bought that features an attached cabana-type sunshade.  So he’s out in the backyard…blowing up the raft.  I’m in the house.  I mean, how much trouble can he get in?

But after too much time had passed, I finally went out to see what was taking so long, only to discover him fretting over the raft.  seriously fretting.  Furrowed-brow-and-scratching-head fretting.  “What’s the problem?”, I asked innocently enough (but secretly looking forward to the answer).

“This thing is defective!  There’s no way to attach the cabana-shade.  Go look on the box, and see if there is an 800-number I can call for technical support.”

For a $10 raft?  Personally, I’m thinking that nobody at raft corporate thought this was going to be a necessity.  But I wisely used my inside-voice on that thought, And like a good wife…I looked on the box.  “Nope, hon…no 800-number”, I yelled back to him, still feigning that innocent voice that I learned at USC acting school.

Taking my life in my hands, I decided to get a closer look at the raft situation myself.  And I’m sorry.  Seriously.  I truly do ask forgiveness…But I started laughing so hard, I honestly thought I was going to have an aneurism.  Somehow…and don’t ask me how…Dan had blown up the raft inside-out.

When confronted with reality, even Dan started laughing.  We couldn’t stop.  When we finally came up for air, I just looked at him with the most compassionate look on my face that I could possibly muster, and said, “some years, the Christmas letter just writes itself, huh?”

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This could only happen to me.

So I’m preparing my lunch, and am carrying a container of mustard greens over to the counter…and Trouble Ensued.

As Murphy and his Law would have it, the container slipped out of my hands.  In a split second, I decided to just let them fall, rather than quickly wrenching over to try to save them (risking my back in the process).  I mean, what’s more important…mustard greens or my back?

So they fell.

And they bounced.

And they flew.

And they stuck…

Allllllllll over the floors, counters, chairs, cabinets, and shelves.

Honestly, there was really nothing to do but laugh.  So in a rare well-adjusted moment, I just threw my head back and laughed.

And that’s when I saw mustard greens on the ceiling.  (Did I mention they bounced?)

I stood there considering just selling the house.

Yep, that would be definitely be easier than figuring out where to even begin the clean up.  But it seemed like an inefficient option, and probably difficult to explain to my husband.

So I did what anyone else would do.  I ran to get the camera to take pictures…’cause ain’t NOBODY going to believe this!

Eventually, I cleaned it all up (in hindsight my back would have been better off trying to catch them mid-air, I must admit).  And I ate the remaining greens for lunch…as my revenge against the wrongdoings of the entire “green” community.

But I learned two things I wanted to share:

1. A kitchen clean up should never involve a ladder.

2.  All things considered, leafy green vegetables are not really all that good for you.

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