I'm not sure which is more annoying...

...the continued Britney coverage, the nude photos of Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn Monroe, or the fact that Mike Huckabee won't take the hint.

Chuck Norris needs to talk to him.

No such thing as a small favor.

A couple of months ago, we got new neighbors. They are also American and they have a little boy about a year older than Munchkin. The Mom, C., and I don't have much in common but get together once a week or so to let the kids wear themselves out.

They didn't take block leave during the holidays because C.'s sister was getting married a few weeks after. So C. asked if I would mind watching their cat while they were gone. It wasn't a big deal, she said. "Just come in every 1-2 days, scoop out her litter and make sure she has fresh water and food."

Of course I said yes. It was perfect timing, actually. They were heading back to the states from January 6th until January 17th. We got back from the states ourselves on January 4th and I would be in town until the 18th, when I had to travel to London for an interview and then on to Spain for the long weekend. All of which I told her when I agreed to look after the cat. In fact, we laughed over how serendipitous it all was.

I should have known it was going to be an issue when she couldn't even get organized before she left. We set up four different times for her to give me the key and show me where are the kitty stuff was. And three of those four times she "forgot" and wasn't at home when I stopped by. But I was heartened by the fact that after I got the key, she sent me an email giving me the name and number of her landlord in case I noticed something amiss with the house and the name and email of close friend of hers who also has a key. Kitty and I got along famously for the 10 days C. and family were gone.

So all is well that ends well, right?

Well, not so much. On the 18th, as I am stuck in Heathrow at 11pm, wondering if I am ever going to get out of that bleeping airport, I decide to check my email. I find this in my inbox:

We are having so much fun we decided to extend our trip. We will be back on the 23th.

And that was it. No, "Would you mind checking in on the cat for a few more days?" No, "I'm sorry to change plans on you but..." And no, "Thank you" either.

So I wrote back to say that, sorry to say, but as I told her before, I was in London and on my way to Spain and wouldn't be back until she was. Did she want me to call her landlord or email her friend to look in on the cat? Her reply:

I really don't want to bother either of them with this. I really wish that you could have let me know that you wouldn't be able to take care of Chelsea. Isn't there any way that you can get back once or twice before Wednesday?

Now I was confused. Did C. think I hadn't looked in on the cat at all? I just couldn't accomodate her changing her plans at the last minute. I replied that Chelsea was just fine and that I had seen her earlier that morning. And then, being a total goober, I apologized AGAIN that I wouldn't be able to look in on the cat again since I'd been planning for weeks to be away. I again reiterated my offer to call her landlord or friend. I waited for a while but got no reply. I figured she decided to take care of it herself.

I ran into C. today while I was out for a run. She was sitting outside with a friend and waved me over. I politely asked her about her trip and she talked about it for a moment and then stopped, realizing that she had not introduced her friend. "I'm sorry. Nee, this is A. A., this is Nee, she's the one who couldn't look after Chelsea."

And you know, I might have been able to let it go if she hadn't said it in such a snarky voice. I quickly said I had to get on with my run and then fumed about it for the next four miles.

*sigh*

People go on and on about how as a society we're isolated, that we don't help each other out anymore. The age of the barn raising is over and all that. But honestly, sometimes, I really can't blame most folks for wanting to keep to themselves. Doing favors for people, especially certain kinds of women, can take a lot out of you.

Stunning.

Have you checked out The Full Body Project? Leonard Nimoy -- yes, Mr. Spock for you Trekkies -- is now dabbling in photography. And doing pretty well.

One of his most recent projects, now a book, is of full figured models. The photos, in black and white, are absolutely stunning. Visually arresting, beautifully composed. Just gorgeous.

And yet, as much as I go on and on about how unfair the world is to women and their bodies, I find that I must admit that these pictures make me somewhat uncomfortable. I can't quite figure out why.

Definitely worth a ponder.

Christmas cookies.

So if I only have to bring three dozen to the coffee and the recipe makes six dozen, how much dough and how many cookies can I eat and still be in the safe zone?

What I want for Christmas.

Now if only they would make an adult-sized Sit-n-Spin.

On hormones after having kids.

How do I know that my hormones were permanently altered after the birth of my son? When I saw that Ginger, Baby, Mel C. and Victoria Beckham -- all of the other Spice Girls -- came to the "Dancing with the Stars" finale to cheer on their mate, Mel B., I started to tear up. I'm serious. And then when I realized that I was tearing up over the Spice Girls, I started actually crying wondering if maybe something has gone totally haywire in my brain.

Luckily, their collective booing when the judges said they expected more from Mel B.'s routine helped bring me back 'round to reality.

What's your Travel IQ?

We are a well-traveled bunch. What's your Travel IQ?

I got to Part 10. Traveler IQ = 110.

Serendipitous.

Someone posted Mary Oliver's The Summer Day on an online forum I frequent. I've been experiencing a bit of family drama recently so it fit my mood perfectly. And as I read it, I took it for what it should be, even if in reality it is just coincidence -- one of those weird karmic gifts. Thank you.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Another one for the crappy idea file.

So, like, if you are ever blowing bubbles with your kid in the kitchen because the weather is totally rainy and nasty, and while blowing those bubbles, a bunch of the bubble liquid gets on the floor, so when you are done, you think, "You know, it's just soap. I'll just wipe it up and then mop with some water. It'll be just like wet Swiffering!"

If you do ever do this, smack yourself. Or call me, and I'll smack you. Trust me, it will hurt less than when you slip and eat it after "mopping" while running in to get your kid a cup of juice.

I never need sex again.

I got together with a friend the other night at her house. When I got up to leave, she insisted that I take a box -- No! Two boxes! Heck, here have four! -- of Dove Beyond Chocolate Chunk cookies.

"Please take some! I bought a case at the case lot sale," she said. "And I can't stop eating them!"

With much pushing on her part, I took a single box. I'd never had a Dove cookie before but I imagined them as little bite sized cookies. Probably pretty good but nothing on Famous Amos.

Oh. My. God. They are not bite sized. But boy are they, mmmm, mmmm, good. I grabbed one to have with my tea today and lost myself in the chocolate-y explosion of flavor. It was a taste bud orgasm. So rich, I figured that one would be more than enough to satisfy. "How could she keep eating these?" I asked myself. This is definitely a one-at-a-time kind of cookie.

And it was. I had one when I refilled my tea. And then another when I got Munchkin some juice. And then just one when I made him his lunch. And then one more after we came in from drawing with chalk on the driveway.

There are only 10 cookies per box so it wasn't long before I came to the end of the better-than-sex-chocolatiness.

Just a few minutes ago, I called my friend and I said, "You know those cookies? I ate the whole damn box in just under four hours."

She replied, "Told you."

I could have gotten mad at that point and accused her of trying to sabotage my diet. But instead, I did the only thing I could. I told her to save me a few boxes to take home after my next visit.

I don't trust myself to go out and buy my own.

Practically perfect in every way.

There's a girl in my son's class at school whose mother is perfect. Absolutely perfect.

She's the one that brings fabulous, delicious dishes to each potluck that look magazine cover ready even after driving 20 minutes to get there. Her daughter is always impeccably clean and dressed, not to mention well-behaved. She is always willing to volunteer. She is funny and kind and makes people feel better when she's around.

Perfect.

So there are times where her inherent goodness reflects on me and makes me feel like being a better person. And sadly, yes, there are those other times when her perfection makes me feel woefully inadequate. But it's a tribute to her perfection that it's usually more the former than the latter. It's only after she leaves that I realize just how goofy and unorganized I must seem to her.

Last weekend, we had back-to-back activities with the kids. We had a gymnastics thing in the morning followed by an FRG event in the afternoon. The afternoon event was by my house so I offered to make lunch for her and her daughter.

Because of the craziness of the day, and the finicky natures of most toddlers, I made an old standby that is usually eaten by even the pickiest of eaters -- macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. I know, I know -- total gourmet. As I got it started, I thought about just how ridiculous it was that I was serving Mrs. Perfect and her daughter such a mess. What the hell was I thinking?

This was only compounded when they showed up for lunch, with a perfect homemade vanilla bundt cake for dessert and a bottle of wine as a gift for me. I felt like such a hoser.

So later, after the day was finished, Munchkin was put to bed and I was dwelling a bit on my total inability to channel Martha Stewart, like, ever, I opened that bottle of wine. Of course, it was wrapped up with perfectly coiled ribbon in a velvet bag.

Once I got the bottle out, I noticed something. There were three empty Halloween candy wrappers in the bottom of the bag. She hadn't noticed.

Those wrappers meant that, one, she regifted the bag (and hey, not that there's anything wrong with it -- I'm all about regifting those bags but she's so perfect I could see her going out to buy a new gift bag for each and every token gift) and, two, they were hidden in that bag for a reason. Either she, her husband or her daughter were sneaking candy.

I know it's total schadenfreude but I felt instantly better. I guess we're all faking it to make it here and there.

(And you know, her daughter did eat every single bite of her serving of that macaroni and cheese. It's the hot dogs. They make it irresistible).

Moth watch.

Still not a one. I keep looking behind the bar and in nooks and crannies but I seem to have vanquished the beasts.

But I'll be the first to tell you that if they are hiding only to appear randomly one day and scare the shit out of me, they'll probably end up winning.

I'm probably jinxing myself...

...but I have not seen a pantry moth in 5 days. For the longest time, it seemed that I had them beat but then, sure enough, as soon as I felt really confident in victory, I'd find one waiting on pantry door in the morning or maniacally flying around when I turned on the kitchen light at night. I'd kill the onesies and twosies I'd see, regularly replace the pheromone traps and wonder if I was ever going to have a (mostly) insect-free house.

And then, for the past few days, not a single sighting.

I've been unsure whether I actually managed to kill them all off, new ones are in a larval stage waiting to break free to torture me or if they've simply decided to regroup in another part of the house to organize a new plan of attack. But I wasn't going to mention it because, you know, I figured by doing so, I'd just karmically invite them to come on out and say hello.

But after a few days, I'm starting to get a little freaked out. If they are still here, I want to know. I have new pheromone traps and my rolled up magazine handy. I can't let my guard down and be ambushed. It would be too much of a blow to be bested by a creature that has no more than a few ganglia to speak of.

So, do you hear me, little mothies? I'm calling you suckers out. As far as I'm concerned, I have won our little battle. So come on out if you are still here. We can play this game for a little longer. But just be forewarned -- I'll be ready and I ain't taking prisoners.

I'm hot. Sort of.

Have you made your celebrity look-a-like collage on MyHeritage.com?

I resisted. Mainly because I've gotten only about a bajillion emails about it in the past few weeks. But after a while, instead of being annoyed, I became fascinated. Watching some of your most attractive friends morph from themselves to Newt Gingrich and back again can do that to you. Some of the matches are absolutely hilarious. (Except for the Roseanne one for you, M. It's obviously a heinous, horrible codding mistake. Really. Your noses look nothing even remotely similar).

So I did it. I had to know who I looked like.

First I uploaded what I consider to be the most attractive recent photo of me. But wouldn't you know, every time I uploaded it, the stupid software told me that it couldn't find a face. Conspiracy? Perhaps. Obviously, when I'm looking my best, I can't be matched with Lance Armstrong or Snuffalapagus. So then I put in a second photo that included both myself and CPT Dick. I didn't realize that it could match two faces at one time. And, as you'll see below, this ended up being a serious added bonus.

So without further ado, our celebrity matches:


So like, according to MyHeritage, I'm kinda hot in that geeky, weird looking girl kind of way. But my husband? My husband is a bombshell! Brigitte Bardot? Eliza Dushku? Hot, hot, hot!

This opens up a whole new world of fantasy possibilities for when he finally comes home.

For a seriously hilarious trip in the way back machine.

Check out 15 Minute Lunch's "Strap in, shut up and hold on. We're going back."

'Cause, like, seriously? Can there ever be enough terry cloth?

Gift ideas for your runner.

For a magazine review, I tried out the Nike+ iPod Nano sensor this week. I'm more of what you'd call a casual runner -- I usually hit somewhere around 10-15 miles per week -- and so often the running gadgets that CPT Dick likes (he who runs 25+ miles a week and likes to rub it in my face) are a little too much of a pain in the butt for me to find helpful. After all, I'm not trying to run a marathon. And you know? If I walk for a few minutes during a 8 mile run? IT'S NOT THE END OF THE WORLD AND DOES NOT MEAN THAT I AM A WUSS.

So this baby? It is AWESOME. And really, it would work for any level runner. You can use it for walking or running. And if you don't have the specific Nike+ shoe, no biggie. You can get a sensor pocket for a couple of bucks on Amazon to attach it to your shoelaces. So you can have the gadget without having to pay an extra $50 for shoes with a little foam insert.

The sensor tracks miles run, time and other variables. You can upload your data to a Nike+ website to track your progress. But I think my favorite part is the power song. You know that song? That song that is guaranteed to help you up that big hill? Instead of slowing down as you hit the hill to search through your thousands of songs to find it, you can set the song earlier and just press the middle button on the iPod to get it going. It rocks. And it isn't that expensive -- under $30. (Of course, you do have to have an iPod Nano, but most guys I know who run already do).

Anyway, if you were having trouble thinking of what to get the runner in your life. Check this out.

So like...

If you made a cake for a bake sale and you had to slice the cake to put it into individually wrapped portions to sell, having a piece -- just to taste and make sure it came out all right -- is totally fine, right? And like, if not all of it fit into your Tupperware container to take to the bake sale, eating another piece is really just common sense. Right?!

As requested, the brown sugar maple pound cake recipe:

Ingredients:
3 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1 cup solid vegetable shortening
1 stick butter, room temperature
1 pound brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
5 eggs
1 tsp maple flavoring
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup milk

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 325. Grease and flour a 10 inch tube pan. Set aside.
2. Sift the flour, salt and baking powder into a large mixing bowl and set aside.
3. Using another very large mixing bowl, cream vegetable shortening, butter and sugars together.
4. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Continue to beat until mixture is fluffy and pale in color.
5. Add maple and vanilla.
6. With the mixer on low speed, add 1/3 of the dry ingredients and half of the milk to creamed ingredients. Mix just to combine. Turn mixer off and scrape sides. Add another 1/3 and the rest of the milk. Again mix just to combine. Add remaining dry ingredients, mixing just to combine. Do not overmix.
7. Pour into prepared pan and bake at 325 for one hour twenty minutes or until center of cake tests done.
8. Cool the cake for 30 minutes in pan and then remove from pan and place on rack to cool completely.

Serve with fresh strawberries and whipped cream or, alternatively, with a rich vanilla or chocolate sauce. Prepare to eat at least three pieces.

The countdown...

My friend, Proper Prophet, is just a scant two days away from her dissertation deadline. She's managed to survive revisions, gray skies and her Macbook wanting to join the big Apple in the sky. She is getting it done and is still managing to be thoughtful, fun and a great e-friend.

Go visit her blog and cheer her on! It's not every day someone gets up enough gumption to finish up a whole dissertation.

NEE 37, Moths ?

Thanks to CaliValleyGirl, I learned that when my English-challenged exterminator said "flying insect," he meant kitchen or pantry moth and that I can find pheromone traps at the local drug store to help me rid myself of them.

Since our unfortunate bedbug infestation (always, always check your husband's battle rattle after field training!), I don't do bugs. Not even non-bloodsucking moths. As far as I'm concerned, even though they aren't eating on me, they are still mooching and therefore subject to punishment. So I am on a mission. I will eradicate these fuckers if it's the last thing I do.

I cleaned out the pantry, tossing any food that could have possibly been contaminated and then cleaned it out with Lysol disinfectant. I found larvae in my stack of dish towels and washed them in super-hot water. I found a few more in the tiny crevices that are in a wheeled plastic storage container that sits next to the pantry and killed and cleaned some more.

And then I set up the traps.

Holy crap! These things work. I mean, I set out two to start and by the next morning both of them had several moths on it. I figure where two are good, six will be even better. So I bought more.

It wasn't until evening that I got a chance to set them up. But I turned on the light, went into the kitchen, and ripped off the backing of the trap to release the pheromones. All of a sudden, 8 months appeared just in my general vicinity. More appeared as I put them up in moth-frequented areas.

I thought they might eat me. Pantry moths don't fly particularly well and, as they looped and lurched towards me and the trap, I couldn't help but think of kamikaze pilots. I'm pretty sure these guys are totally out to get me in hopes of living happily on my foodstuffs forever.

Over the past few days, I've killed 37 moths by hand and at least 15 have been stuck to the traps. I've seen no more evidence of larvae but the moths keep coming. Unfortunately, I don't know if this means that (a) I am killing them faster than they can reproduce and I'll be moth-free in a few weeks time or (b) they are coming in from outside somehow and I am only enticing more into the kitchen by putting out those irresistible pheromones.

Only time will tell. But man, am I getting adept at moth killing. I'm considering a second career.

Just one of those weeks.

Thank goodness it's Friday. I plan to take advantage. I don't know what kind of crazy has been going around here but it's apparently catching.

I need a drink. A stiff one. And I will have it.

Anyone care to join me?