Temptation

I'm sure you've seen them too.
Those super-soft, abundantly frosted sugar cookies they sell at grocery stores and gas stations.

They are disgusting.
Entirely artificial.
Practically plastic.
Loaded with lard.

And I am powerless against them.

My grocery store (I just shop there; I don't actually own one.) puts them right inside the front door, where you have to pause for a moment and pick out your cart. That's when they get you. When it seriously crosses your mind to grab a carton of them and eat them all while walking the aisles.

I theorize that more than once someone has consumed the whole package and gone through the check-out with an empty plastic container, sheepishly explaining themselves to the cashier. In my imagination, the cashier replies, "Happens all the time, Honey. All the time."

Through the power of chemistry, these cookies morph with the seasons. They're red, white, and blue for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, orange and black for Halloween, and an assortment of unnatural pastels when Easter approaches. They've got more colors than Sherwin-Williams.

Right now they are electric green.
With sprinkles.

Normally, I forge ahead, pushing past them on my way to the produce department. But today I needed to buy a treat for school, so into my cart they went.

I couldn't take my eyes off them.

They beckoned to me from behind the broccoli, and I could feel their presence nestled somewhere over by the peanut butter.

What is it about them that bewitches me so?

Is it their softness?
Their sprinkles?
Their unabashed artificiality?

They're the cookie equivalent of a bad boy, and part of me just wants to cast off my nutritionally-sensible upbringing, hop on the back of their motorcycle, hold on tight to their black leather jacket, and ride, baby, ride.

Ever since I got home, my thoughts just keep turning to the fact that they're here.

I can't get them out of my mind.

They're downstairs right now.
In a bag.
On top of the bookcase.

Yes, as they say in the horror movies, the call is coming from inside the house.

I would go take a picture of them to post here, just in case you're having trouble picturing what I'm talking about, but, that would mean opening the box. And I think we both know what that would lead to.

So, for now, I have resigned myself to writing about them, hoping to exorcise a few sugar-laden demons so I can sleep well tonight.

Grant me strength in this my time of weakness.

Can't Stop the Music

     For me, the holiday season has always been about the music.
     I have fond memories of stomping along in the snow, going caroling with the other kids from the neighborhood - back when it was still deemed safe to knock on strangers' doors and sing in their foyers for some cookies (and a few coins they'd put in the coffee can we'd conveniently brought along).

     Every year I'd look forward to going to Christmas Eve services at my Grandma's church, just so we could all sing "Silent Night" together, accompanied by a slightly out-of-tune organ, holding candles with those paper drip shields to protect our hands from the wax that would start to melt with wild abandon around the middle of the second verse.
     But, for sheer awesomeness, nothing beats being in a school holiday concert.
     Sure, I did the elementary school thing.
     We all did.
     Then in middle school we were all forced to choose our life path: band or choir.
     Mine was choir.
     Three years of the ridiculously high-pitched desecration of texts both sacred and secular ensued.
     My middle school choir had one boy who could actually sing.
     And I mean he could sing.
     He had classical training, amazing posture, and the ability to hit the high notes with pristine clarity. After getting a load of him, our choir director did the only thing she could do: make the rest of us his back-up singers. 
     That year we ditched Frosty and did numbers from Ahmal and the Night Visitors instead. It was probably the most culturally-edifying holiday concert our middle school had ever seen. Of course, most of us spent the evening singing "Ahhh...." and "Ohhh...." in hushed voices, so that the tone-deafness that pervaded our ranks would not overshadow il divo. Still, the applause was hearty that year. Yes, it was.
     Our high school choir was headed up by a dictator who demanded absolute allegiance from his minions. We bought fabric from him and were instructed which pattern to buy so all the girls' skirts matched perfectly. There were shoe rules (pumps, black, one-inch heel, no embellishments) and hideous red poly-blend sweaters.
     He was a perfectionist of the first order, and the only reason I'm still alive to type this is that no one would rat me out when I blurted, "Oh, shit!" after coming in a measure too early during a noontime concert at a shopping mall.
     Our holiday program was entirely sacred, much of it in Latin. We'd start practicing for it in early-October. All that lead time was necessary for the non-Catholics in the room to learn a new language, as well as the notes to sing.
     One year he went all Benjamin Britten on us - not a pretty sight. Totally fucked up my ability to spell for half my junior year.
     And when a Norwegian exchange student with a glass-shattering soprano showed up, we all found ourselves singing in her native tongue too. Man, the crowd lapped that one up like dogs.
     Every year, we ended the program with the same song: "Beautiful Savior" (Finally, something in English!).
     The school I teach at has been holding their holiday concerts this week, and I've been thinking about those adults out there in the crowd. Sure, they're all proud of their whipper-snappers up there belting it out, but it does get to be a long night, doesn't it?
     I recently realized that my parents stopped coming to my holiday concerts when I learned how to drive. Yes, once I had a way to get my sensible-pump/fugly-sweatered self to the venue without them, they were outta there. Can't say I blame them, though. I really can't.
     Now I get my holiday groove on singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with my daughter. As I watch her stand in the middle of the living room, belting it out solo, smiling proudly, and hitting her marks on all the hand gestures that go along with it, two words enter my mind: show choir.
     And it's a fate I am more than willing to accept.
     Until she can drive.

Findings

I've hit the point in the summer where the overwhelming desire to organize things takes over. Today's mission: sort through the mountains of paperwork scattered about the basement.

Here are a few of the things I found as I went through the piles:

• My daughter's Chinese passport. (She was SO tiny!)

• Car insurance coverage information and service appointment details for two cars I no longer own.

• The instructions showing how to put together the crib I set out at the end of the driveway with a FREE sign on it - yesterday.

• The itemized vet bills from my dog's treatment, death, and cremation last fall. :-(

• Our 1040's from 1998. (How long are you supposed to keep those?)

• A recipe for potato salad, written in my grandma's handwriting.

• Pay stubs from 2002. (I so don't want to be a pack rat, but I fear sometimes that I am becoming one. Maybe it's more about my laziness than a need to horde, though. Like that's healthier, right?)

• The receipt from that denim skirt I ordered from Land's End last summer. The one that never fit me and that I still have in its plastic bag in my closet. Can I return it after a whole year? Is there a statute of limitations on such things?

• An unused iTunes gift card I got for Christmas.

Before and After

As I walked through the grocery store yesterday and noted that the sight of 95% of the foodstuffs available made me queasy, I realized that I had used the week of Christmas as an excuse to indulge in WAY too much fatty food. I believe I am not alone in this, America.

Not one to like to wait, I've decided to jump the gun on the whole New Year's I'm-Gonna-Eat-Better-This-Year-Really-This-Time-I-Mean-It plan that so many will embark upon later this week.

Since the before and after pictures of me won't be available for quite some time (like I'm gonna post THAT), please be sufficiently amused by the before and after pics of my food.

Main Course Before: Climbing Ham Mountain

Main Course After: Vegetable Matter

Side Dish Before: Yes, There Are Beans 

Lurking Under All That Cheese

Somewhere

Side Dish After: Imported Japanese Six-Grain Rice

Kinda Pricey

(Tastes Like Hot Birdseed)

Dessert Before: Butter Held Together w/ Almonds & Sugar

Made by my Husband

(The Reason I Married Him)

Dessert After: Mmmm, Aspartame...

It's So Over

I don't get as worked up about Christmas as other folks do. I don't spend hours/days/weeks setting up a snow village and Santa Claus collection in the living room. I don't spend a lot of money on gifts. And I don't wake up Christmas morning filled with boundless excitement. (I just wake up wanting a bowl of Cheerios.)

Still, every year when Christmas is over, I feel a bit as if I've just broken up with someone. There's been this presence in my life over the last few weeks; we had fun, shared some laughs, watched a few movies together, blah, blah, blah...

And now it's over. 

It was a month of seduction that led up to, essentially, a one-night stand.

I once read where someone described being in love as finding that person who made all the songs on the radio make sense. That's why true friends keep you FAR from the radio when you're in a post-break up torpor. 

In the spirit of break ups and music, I present to you my notes on the (brief iTunes samples of) various covers of the closest thing to a Christmas break-up song I can think of: Joni Mitchell's "River".

A sampling of the lyrics for those unfamiliar:

It's comin' on Christmas.

They're cuttin' down trees.

They're puttin' up reindeer

and singin' songs of joy and peace.

Oh, I wish I had a river

I could skate away on.

But it don't snow here.

It stays pretty green.

I'm gonna make a lot of money

then I'm gonna quit this crazy scene.

I wish I had a river

I could skate away on.

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly.

Oh, I wish I had a river

I could skate away on.

I made my baby cry.

Gorgeous, isn't it? Let's check in on who sings it ...

Joni Mitchell: Perfection. Just her sweet, simple voice, a piano, and those lyrics. It is the gold standard on this one.

Sarah McLachlan: She has a gorgeous voice but makes the mistake of just trying too hard. And is that a string section I hear? Say it ain't so!

James Taylor: He takes liberties with the tempo and melody. I love him when he's doing his own stuff but am troubled by how he gives other people's songs The James Taylor Treatment®. (Interesting, as he just did a whole CD of covers.)

Sara Bareilles: Respects the simplicity of the song. Lets the lyrics take center stage. If you can't get your mitts on the Joni Mitchell version, this would be a palatable substitute. Still, why buy Hydrox when the Oreos are right there?

Vonda Shepard: She is feeling great emotion and wants you to know all about it!!! It's a duet too, which doesn't make a lick of sense if you actually think about the lyrics for, um, ten seconds or so. (Man, we were all so whipped up in such an Ally McBeal frenzy back then, we'd listen to just about anything, wouldn't we? That skinny lawyer girl show had some serious voodoo power stuff behind it.)

Sister Hazel: Thanks for keeping it simple with the piano, guys, but this song demands a voice that sounds like it hasn't been hittin' the Marbs quite so hard.

Boney James: A smooth jazz rendition with no vocals. It sucks, and his name is Boney. Seriously, I only included this one so you could giggle at his name. And I know that you did.

Barry Manilow: So ill-suited for him, but it's an odd bit of joy to hear him sing with such emotion about this "crAAAzy scene". And he brings new dimensions to the "he loved me so naughty made me weak in the knees" part. Fun for camp value, so it does serve a purpose, I guess.

Linda Ronstadt: God, I love her voice, but those strings make me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork.

My fantasy crooner to do a cover of "River": Mr. Willie Nelson. His voice is weathered but maintains a soulful simplicity that suits this song to a tee. (Ever heard his cover of Patsy Cline's "Crazy"? Sublime.)

Hospitality. Industry.

Christmas Day has passed, but, due to an odd bit of scheduling, the festivities ain't quite done at our house. 

We have relatives coming to visit tomorrow for a belated Christmas. There will be brunch. There will be gifts. There will be an inspection of the premises. You see, our guests are the sort who can and will comment on our homekeeping shortcomings: "It looks like you didn't rake up any of your leaves this fall.",  "Wow, you still haven't finished the floor in the entry?", "Doesn't it bug you to have all those pine needles on the floor?" 

Their visits are generally pleasant, but it's those little negative comments that tend to stick with me. It has gotten to the point where I can no longer separate their actual words from those of my own inner-critic. I have made a bit of a twisted parlor game of anticipating their negative comments and imagining their barbs in advance.

This morning, as I was vacuuming between the sofa cushions in preparation for their visit, I kept thinking: we love them, and they love us, so why is it such pain in the ass to have them come over? 

They are the guests we kinda dread. The ones we have to put on a bit of a show for. The ones we couldn't bear to have know that sometimes, on occasion, there are dirty dishes that sit by our sink for a day or two before we clean them. The ones we would rather die than have see the current state of our bathtub. You get the picture.

I just finished reading an amazing book called Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You by Dr. Sam Gosling. In it he talks about how our personalities are reflected, unwittingly and on purpose, in the spaces we inhabit. For tomorrow's guests, I'm striving to make our home say, "We are responsible, tidy, and conscientious people. Bask in our cleanliness. We are, in all ways, good enough." Yes, our homes do say something about who we are, but why do I care so much more about what is says with some guests rather than others?

All this makes me think about what kind of a guest I aspire to be when I visit someone else's home. 

I want to be the one who could show up with little notice and not detect the slightest hint of Oh, crap! I need to scrub down the fridge! crossing your face as you open the front door. 

I want the to be the one who gets to see your folded piles of laundry stacked on a chair by the bed 'cause you're just too busy/lazy to put it in that dresser that's only about five feet away. 

I want to be the one who gets to know that you do, in fact, read People magazine. And not just in your dentist's waiting room. You unashamedly subscribe, and, baby, I totally dig that about you.

I want to be the guest you can be your true, human self in front of. That's what it means, in my book, to be truly close to someone - to let them know the real you, not just the person you think they want you to be. 

Who are the people in your life you are brave enough to be yourself in front of? 

So, This Is Christmas.

I only needed to read the horoscopes in this morning's paper to know that times are tough. The banks and big three automakers have tapped out most of Santa's funds, so there's bound to be some belt-tightening from the big guy this year. Set expectations for low as you approach your stocking this AM, kiddos.

Horoscopic Gleanings:

A five-star day is in store for all you Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Libra, Sagittarius, and Aquarius folks out there. Even with all those stars, though, you'll need to ".. be willing to help others who simply don't handle stress as well as you" and "... recognize what is happening with a friend, and help ease this person's day". It's not going to be an easy ride for any of us. Better bring an extra box of tissues to the buffet, Compadre.

Virgos, Scorpios, and Capricorns only get three stars today. Our advice (I'm a Scorpio.) is to "... walk away from the concept of spending and presents", "... stay close to home", and "... be willing to not be ecstatic, but simply mellow". (Not really a bad approach to most days, don't you think?) At least we know our five-star friends will be there to give us a shoulder to cry on, if the need arises.

According to our horoscopes, this is how Christmas will shake down for my family: Mom, my daughter, and I will fall apart completely. We'll feel stressed and disappointed. Maybe Santa will bring Hostess fruitcakes and itchy wool sweaters for us. Or someone will bogart all the pecan pie before we even get to the dessert tray. We're going to need to make do with mellowness instead of ecstasy this year.

Meanwhile, my father, brother, and husband will all be standing strong with five stars. Their gifts will rock. Their pie will still be warm. Through the power of planetary alignment, they will be able to console the females in the family through this day.

The dog's a Pisces. Four stars. Could go either way for him. We'll see.

To Market. To Market

My husband went and did the grocery shopping for Christmas dinner yesterday. This morning, as I looked in the fridge, I realized that he had forgotten we'd need to eat some meals in the thirty-six hours or so before that meal, so I ended up braving the grocery store today. Not too bad for Christmas Eve. It'll probably reach a state of crisis there sometime after noon, I expect. 

Guess what went missing at the market?

Yes, the Hostess Fruitcake display is gone. There is no way on Earth that those things sold in the last few days, so I'm working on some conspiracy theories as to their whereabouts. My most plausible explanations are that the store manager is giving them to the employees as holiday gifts or that they've crumbled them up and put them in whipped cream and are selling them in the deli as a perverse "salad" of sorts. (I did have a coworker a few years back who brought a "salad" to the office potluck. Its ingredients: Snicker bars, pretzels, granny smith apples, and Cool Whip. So, my theory is not without precedent.) 

Aside from my chagrin at missing out on one last opportunity to take a picture of the fruitcakes on the sly, my trip to the store was rewarding, mostly due to the efforts of the bag boy in the checkout aisle next to mine. If he actually was sixteen, it was just barely, and he had that wonderfully-awkward quality about him. His clothes were a little too big, his hair was hanging in his eyes, and, if he has been shaving, it's just been practice - going through the motions until the actual whiskers arrive. Part of his job, along with remembering not to put the canned corn on top of the bread, was to tell people to have a nice day and wish them a happy holiday. 

From my vantage point in line, I could see him building up the courage to speak to each customer after packing their groceries. He'd wind up before each pitch by pursing his lips together and blinking a few times. Then he'd say it: "Have a nice day. Merry Christmas!" A look of relief and accomplishment would spread across his face. I did it! Big grin. Subtle twitch in the right hand signifying Yes! 

I loved watching this young man's confidence build each time he managed to talk to total strangers and not die from embarrassment. I had gone to the store thinking, Oh, crap. I don't want to stand in line on Christmas Eve. If I hadn't gone, though, I would have missed this little show entirely. And the sale on meatballs, of course.

No! No! No!

You thought I was judgmental about Bratz dollz and neckties? Well, brace yourself, 'cause I'm about to go on a bit of a Santa rant.

Back Story: Sometimes I click the "next blog" button at the top of the screen just to see the random assortment of things that are out there in the blogosphere. My favorites are the ones in foreign languages, where I have to figure out who it's by and what's going on without benefit of understanding the words. My least favorites are usually the ones by American women, moms specifically, as they tend to get more cutesy than I can handle. (Yes, I do have a blog about my daughter, and, yes, I appreciate the irony of that last statement.) I stumbled on to one of those blogs that makes me cringe today, and since it pushed a holiday hot button for me, I'm gonna tell you all about it.

Let me walk you through it...

The blog was by a mom of two little girls. Most of the blog was about the mom's rabid pursuit of the perfect scrapbook page and included pictures of her pages in progress and links to the sites of her other crafty-type mom friends.  

Today's entry, though, was a picture of her two daughters, who looked like they were about three and five years old, sitting on the lap of a mall Santa. 

They were both screaming. Full-on, eyes wide in terror, get-me-out-of-here screaming. The mom's comment below the picture was How adorable. No winking emoticon to convey sarcasm in her message. No story of how long they'd waited in line, which one started crying first or explanation as to why. In short, no context. Just a picture of two very unhappy-looking girls sitting on a weirdly-calm mall Santa's lap and the words How adorable.

A couple of her crafty-type mom friends had chimed in with comments, all of which included the words cute and hilarious.

Why do people do this?

I don't even know these girls, but my heart went out to them immediately. Going to meet Santa is supposed to be fun. 

Yes, fun. 

For the kids. 

It's for them, not so that Mom and Dad can get a picture to put in the scrapbook. 

So why do people keep their kids in line or go ahead with the picture if the kid's obviously not having any fun?

Last year, my parents took my then one year-old daughter to the mall, and my dad got in line with her to meet Santa. Another child in front of them started crying and saying, "No!" My daughter looked at Grandpa and shook her head to say, "I don't think I like this." Grandpa listened and said they'd try it again another time. Yes, my dad listened to my daughter and respected her wishes. And that's just the sort of thing I love him for. 

Sure, sometimes kids say, "No!" to stuff (like holding your hand when you're crossing the street) that you just have to insist they follow through with for their own safety. Sometimes I go a few rounds with my daughter about her needing to put on her pj's, wear shoes outside, or wash her hands before dinner. I don't back down because those are instances where she's testing the boundaries of her authority to self-govern, as it were. 

Going to visit Santa is a whole 'nother ball game, though.

You can't force a kid to have fun. 

And it's neither cute nor hilarious when people try to.

Yes, Virginia, That is a Santa Claus!

We're all familiar with the sparkly sweaters of the season - how some find them adorable, others atrocious. Rather than dwell on that dark side of holiday-themed garb, I choose to discuss how it can, on occasion, be done well.

A key term in this discussion is gonna be the word subtle. Consider it your own personal mantra as you find yourself poised at the checkout counter with a hunk of calender couture in one hand and your Visa card in the other.

There is a gent I know who has definitely not been been chanting subtle, subtle, subtle to himself as he picks out his ties in the AM. His sins against haberdashery run the gamut from Eisenhower-era holly jolly atrocities to an oversized, disembodied head of the Grinch sneering out at you. I include him here as a cautionary tale. The holidays don't mean that one can just simply flout the rules of quality neckwear. Those rules are exceedingly rigid and remain in effect 365 days a year. They are, you realize, there to protect us all.

On to accentuating the positive ...

Here is a counter-example, a how-it's-done going out to those for whom questions remain. 

Note the small scale of the pattern. You need to be within at least five feet of the wearer before you even realize Santa's on that tie. If you can identify the mammal on any tie from beyond the five-foot "safe zone", that sucker's just too big. Ditch it immediately.

The colors are not obnoxious in their Christmasy-ness. Its color is more akin to strings of cranberries on the tree than to Rudolph's glowing schnoz. You could practically wear it on a televised debate, yes? 

And did you notice that it is confident enough to forgo green completely? Yes! By going with blue instead of green, it's an easy match to a blue dress shirt - something every man looks good in and already has in the bullpen. If that tie were red and green, it would wind up paired with the dreaded white dress shirt - the one that makes even the most-distinguished of men look as if they're about to ask if you'd like some freshly-ground pepper on your salad. Not a pretty picture now, is it?

The last feature I'd like to touch on here is its sheen. It's the eggshell finish, not the high-gloss. Shiny is not subtle. Shiny is cheap. Save the tinsel for the tree, gentlemen. That's where it goes.

Sometimes Nothin' is a Real Cool Hand

I work in an "industry" in which it is customary for the powers that be to bestow upon the little people (that'd be me) a little something to wish us a happy (non-denominational and not necessarily religious) holiday. In past years these trinkets have included pens, nail clippers, keychains, lapel pins, Currier & Ives-esque calendars, etc.

Before I continue, let this be known: I do appreciate the thought and understand the barriers to getting something really good when making an egalitarian, non-gender specific gift purchase for over one-hundred people. I've seen the catalog these items are selected from and, believe you me, past gifts could have been much worse than they were. Monogrammed lemon zester, anyone?

This year's gift from above was ... nothing!
And I can't begin to tell you how pleased I am about this.
Thank you. Thank you, head honchos.
It is exactly what I wanted.

Risky Business

Here it is, ladies. The aisle of I-am-far-enough-into-this-relationship-with-you-that I-have-to-get-you-a-gift-but-have-no-idea-what-to-buy-for-you gifts for men. These specially-packaged goodies range from stress balls with smiley faces to an automatic card shuffler. I don't believe that men really want these things. Honestly, I don't know what men, in general, want for gifts. (Based on some of the gifts I've gotten from men over the years, I'd wager there's bit of a struggle on their part as well.) Shopping for a guy is hard, especially in those early stages of a relationship, when you don't know his shirt size, and a pair of boxer shorts emblazoned with the words "Jingle Balls" feels a bit too intimate. 

My most-hearty laughter is reserved for a product on the top shelf - the personal trimmer. This is a gift that manages to be exceedingly personal - it's right there in the name - and oddly impersonal at the same time. It says, "I don't know what kind of books you read or have any sense of your musical tastes. What I do know about you is that you have a bit too much nose hair, and I'd really like if you did something about it." How's a guy supposed to react to a gift like that? Is he pleased that she wants to take care of him? Frightened that she'll be expecting him to start waxing delicate parts of himself by Valentine's?

I would argue that the whole notion of giving personal care appliances as gifts is flawed. And I just happen to have a story to illustrate my point:

I'm certain that my mother's intention was to give me a Christmas gift that would bring me joy in the upcoming year - something that would improve my life and make me think of her fondly every time I used it. So, when I was about eleven, she wrapped and ribboned a battery-powered Clearasil face-cleaning scrubby brush thing. I still remember seeing the picture of a teen model with flawless skin on the box and having the stomach-turning realization that I'd just unwrapped a gift designed to buff away my zits. 

Of course, the opening of gifts in my family was of the one-at-a-time and admire-what-everyone-got variety, so I got to open this embarrassing appliance with all my relatives looking on. I had kinda been hoping that no one would even notice that I was entering that awkward stage and that my skin had started to break out, but now my mother had pretty much announced it to the entire room. 

Though the tag on the present had my name written on it, the true gift really went to my older brother that year. You see, he found this to be the single-most hilarious thing he'd ever seen in all his fifteen years here on Earth. For several days he tormented me with questions about my "zit brush" and how it was workin' out for me. 

In my mind I picture some hapless tweenager out there today, anticipating an Xbox or a date with Zac Ephron from Santa this year. Poor kid's gonna get the full-on set of Proactiv products from a well-meaning relative. And I feel for that kid. I really do.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, "Step away from the personal care appliances!" If you are truly that flummoxed as to what to give someone this year, I've got two words for you: gift card.

Guilty

I am by no means immune to the lure of the occasional holiday-themed product. 

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I present to you my purchases, semi-artfully arranged on my kitchen table with a cheesy Christmas backdrop ...

Item #1:  Target brand facial tissue in the jolly snowman box

My rationale: 

• It will sit on the counter and, therefore, be seen.

• The graphics have a somewhat slick, retro-charming vibe that I enjoy.

• Hello, it's sniffle season! These bad boys will be used up WAY before "Auld Lang Syne" rears its ugly, incomprehensible head. 

• My daughter said, "Frosty!" when she saw them. (*head tilt* and, "Aww...")

Item #2: super-fancy Dial liquid soap, Winter Pomegranate flavor

Further rationalizing on my part:

• I was looking for an antibacterial with moisturizer, and this stuff fit the bill.

• I've never been completely sure what pomegranate smells like; though, it sounds pleasant enough. I figured this was a way to find out without buying some strange piece of fruit that I probably wouldn't like. (Apparently, a pomegranate smells a LOT like liquid soap. Who knew?!)

• The color of the soap goes with my kitchen's decor, and I can peel off the label if I start to find it obnoxious by Boxing Day.

Item #3: Tangerines

These need no rationalization as they are both tasty and packed with vitamin C. (Note aforementioned "sniffle season".) I merely included them in the picture for aesthetic and comedic balance; the rule of three applies in both milieux, as I'm sure you are aware.

Inspired

I am not often inspired to whip out my cell phone at the store to photograph the merchandise, but some of the Christmatized products I've come across have compelled me to do so, mostly so people don't think I'm making this stuff up.

Exhibit A:

 Clorox disinfecting wipes in festive holiday packaging.

In a three-pack.

The holidays are simply teeming with bacteria, you know.

Need to wipe up the salmonella from that goose you butchered on the countertop before you set out the canapes? No worries! Now you can get rid of those pesky micro-organisms without diminishing your guests' sense of the unrelenting holiday cheer that has laid siege upon your home and all who enter it.

Snotty-nosed nephews touching your remote control with wild abandon? Swoop in with a pack of these candy-striped wipes in hand, and no one will even know you're on a germ-killing mission.

Exhibit B:

It's Electrosol Powerball Tabs in playful penguin packaging! 

Seriously, doesn't everyone stash this sort of thing in a cabinet somewhere?

It's not a brand we've ever had in our home, and I honestly had to read the box to even know what this stuff was. (Okay, I knew it had something to do with dishes and cleanliness, but I wasn't sure if it was a detergent, a supplementary product, or what you use to clean the inside of your dishwasher.) But doesn't the fact that I had to work at figuring out what it is speak to the "hidden" nature of this product? It's like how I don't know what brand of shoe polish or light bulbs my friends use. There are certain products you keep out of sight, so why bother gussying them up for the holidays?

An Open Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I've tried my best to be good this year.

I've been working on the patience thing.

And I totally own that I haven't stopped the gossiping like we talked about last year, but I do feel great pangs of guilt sometimes when I do it, and that counts for something, right? 

Anyhow, I know you're a busy guy, so I'll just cut to the chase. 

Two liters of it, Santa.

That's all I want.

Just two liters.

That you didn't get any for me last year doesn't deter me, Santa.

I so believe in you.

Thanks!

Did you, dear reader, know that there's a big surge in ginger ale sales around the holidays? It has something to do with all the punch being served at soirees around town. Because of this heightened interest in ginger ale, the soda companies pull out their most-fancified flavors for the festivities. 

A few Decembers ago I stumbled upon Schweppes Diet Raspberry Ginger Ale at my local market. 

And I knew that I had found two little liters of heaven right here on Earth. 

The next time I bought two bottles and lovingly drank them down over the course of a couple days.

Then the unimaginable happened. It was gone. My sweet elixir of sparkling diet raspberry goodness was no longer on grocery store shelves. I hadn't figured out the seasonal nature of flavored ginger ales yet, so I continued to check every time I shopped. It was never there again. I finally gave up hope around St. Patrick's Day.

Fast-forward to this year. 

My grocer is mocking me.

There are bottles aplenty of Schweppes Raspberry Ginger Ale.

But what of the Diet variety?

Alas, there are none to be found. 

(There is Diet Cranberry Sierra Mist, which I find tolerable, but it just ain't the same.)

I've gone hunting for this elusive beverage all over the interweb and am now considering moving to the East Coast where, apparently, it flows like water.

My attempts to find it at Coborn's Delivers were met with more mockery. Check this list of "similar products":

1. Yoplait white chocolate raspberry yogurt

Not exactly a beverage. And white chocolate kinda sucks.

2.  JELL-O raspberry-flavored gelatin

Sure, that it jiggles is cool and all, but ... still not a beverage.

3. Aquafina Flavor Splash bottled water

Yes! A beverage! Um, where are the bubbles, though?

4. Smucker's raspberry jam

A little thick to get down the gullet, don't you think?

5. Nilla Wafers

Okay, now you're just being mean.

So, since none of my efforts to find Schweppes Diet Raspberry Ginger Ale have panned out, I have no choice but to turn to Old St. Nick as my last hope. Maybe he can pick up a bottle for me at a convenience store when he's making deliveries in New Jersey. That's not an out-of-line request, right?

Liquid Candy

I write this blog as a public service for all you undecided voters out there.

The decision as to which mass-produced, made-to-order holiday coffee to purchase is not one to be entered into lightly or without first getting to know the candidates. 

Our first candidate, representing Starbucks...

The Peppermint Mocha Twist

My diligent research has revealed that this coffee combines... "Starbucks espresso with bittersweet chocolate, bright peppermint flavor, and creamy steamed milk. It is finished with freshly made peppermint whipped cream and dark chocolate curls on top." 

A grande Peppermint Mocha Twist has 15 grams of fat and 50 grams of sugar. It also contains 175 mg. of caffeine, just about enough to get you through Target on the Saturday before Christmas, I guess. 

I'm not completely sure what grande means. The Starbucks sizing nomenclature has always thrown me. I think it's supposed to make you think you're in Europe or something. I've found that if you order a Starbucks using a gauche term, such as medium, their baristas will gladly correct you in an exceedingly-polite manner. Ditto if you make the gaffe of asking for skim milk; at Starbucks it's called nonfat.

The dark chocolate curls are a nice touch, and I like that their steamed milk is "creamy". Some folks go nonfat with the milk on this; it's a personal choice, but realize that it will diminish the creamy factor in your beverage by doing so. You've been warned. 

And representing Caribou ...

The Ho Ho Mint Mocha

(Yes, they actually expect you to say that when you order one.)

A medium Ho Ho Mint Mocha has 12 grams of fat and 75 grams of sugar. The Caribou website assures one that this beverage is, indeed, "a minty way to prepare for walking 'neath the mistletoe." The more typical way to prepare is, I believe, to scan the room and make sure no one creepy is lurking around, which is smart, but lacks mintiness. 

The crushed candy cane topping is a jolly twist, but the name is, for me, a barrier to ordering one. You could just ask for "one of those mint holiday lattes, please" and hope for the best, but they're going to be totally on to you. If your luck is bad and you get a smart-aleck barista, she might shame you into saying it anyway. That's a risk you'll have to take, I guess. 

The battle of the holiday-themed lattes comes down to the classic Clash of the Christmas Titans: fanciness vs. holly-jollity.

Starbucks wins hands-down on fanciness with their chocolate shavings and peppermint whipped cream; it's the more upscale, sophisticated option. You could order this drink in front of your boss or judgmental mother-in-law and not look like a big loser goofball. 

Caribou, on the other hand, is all about the jolly. Its peppermint topping and silly name have the same appeal to me an adult that a trip to the department store candy counter did when I was a kid. Everything about it says, "This is a treat."

The choice is yours, America.

Cast your vote(s).

Fruitcake Status Update

I went to the grocery store again. 

(We were out of cheese, but that's another story.) 

Anyhow, I took a gander at the Hostess Fruitcake display and, lo and behold, about half a dozen of them have been sold. At $3.99 each, no less.

It's a Christmas miracle.

Holy Crap!

So, I was out surfing the internet, trying to find a picture of the High School Musical 3 Hot Cocoa Gift Set I'd seen in the Walgreen's ad from Thursday's paper. It was going to be my latest blog fodder, but then I stumbled upon this ...

What is THAT, you say?

Why, it's a musical nativity mug, of course.

I don't want to give the folks selling this, um, thing, any more attention, so I'm not even saying where I found it. According to the website, should you buy one, you could enjoy hearing a "beloved carol herald His birth every time you pick up the mug". 

And it's only $14.99 + shipping.

Salut.

L'Cheim.

Amen.

Xmas: You're Soaking In It

Here's a Christmatized product I don't get.

Palmolive.

Things I Notice About This Product Upon Further Inspection:

1. It's a Limited Holiday Edition. 

That moniker carries such a sense of urgency and exclusivity, which is completely at odds with the everyday, borderline-humdrum nature of the product.

Will someone out there hang on to these precious bottles as keepsakes of Christmas '08? 

Have they been collecting these for years? 

(It would not surprise me in the least to learn that that is, in fact, the case.)

2.  They're too cheap to make up a formula with a special holiday scent.

That stuff's green apple. 

What's green apple got to do with Christmas? 

If you're gonna go all Holiday Limited Edition on us, at least make it smell like gingerbread and snowflakes. C'mon.

3. People actually do buy this to make their home feel more Christmasy. 

Dish soap as decor? 

Have we really sunk this far? 

If you want your home to feel more Christmasy, spend some time with your family. Build a snowman. Go look at the lights. Sing carols around the Wurlitzer. That kinda stuff. 

When I first saw this product, along with shelves filled with others very much like it, I couldn't help but think how annoying this all must be for people who don't celebrate Christmas. Sure, the manufacturers are all savvy about using the word holiday instead of Christmas, but we all know what red + green + snowmen equals. To be inundated by someone else's holiday every time you read the paper, watch TV, or even just go to the store to buy dish soap must really bite. Hard.

I love Christmas. 

I look forward to it. 

I celebrate it with gusto. 

But holiday dish soap?

No sale.

In Contrast

This morning I stood for a while at the grocery store, awestruck by three freezer cases fully-stocked with Frosty Trees (... and Snowmen. Eh.) Had they heard the message of love I sent out to them yesterday? When I regained the ability to move, I turned and saw the saddest of all holiday consumer good point-of-purchase displays: the Hostess Fruit Cakes.

In stark contrast to the reverent, brightly-lit, glass-encased display of Frosty Trees, there sat those fruit cakes in their flimsy cardboard display. It was almost devoid of decoration and had been placed all alone in front of a wall filled with jars of peanut butter and jelly. There was a definite Well, we have to put it somewhere quality to the whole thing. 

I couldn't help but feel a little sad for them. There they were, a once-a-year holiday treat, just as the Frosty Trees are, but there was no love for them. No one squealed with delight upon seeing them. If anything, people took an extra step or two to avoid any contact with them. Eyes were averted. Was there even a sign advertising their price? No, there was not. No one was buying these sad little cakes, and we all knew it.

They were like the Frosty Trees' dumpy kid sister, forced to sit and watch as her minty-sweet sibling stole the spotlight. Geez, could the employees at least have had the decency to put the fruit cakes over by those weird wafer cookies that no one buys? 

My research at Hostess.com is even more chilling. They don't even acknowledge that these fruit cakes exist. They do have a fascinating page about the history of the company, however. I now know the story of the Twinkie®; apparently, the company "... hit the sponge cake gold mine in 1930 when Jimmy Dewar invented Twinkies®." Mmm, sponge cake gold mine...

The best evidence I can find of the effect of the Hostess Fruit Cake on our culture is a mocking photo essay from some folks in Chicago who took the time to do a taste test - and had the presence of mind to document it. I don't know who they are or where they work, but I sense I'd like working in that office. Just maybe not on fruit cake day, though.