In Which She Discusses Cookiegate

My Mom has never worn the "World's Greatest Baker" apron. A timer has never been her Best Friend Forever. Matter of fact, we, as kids didn't know that Toll House Cookies weren't these little dark brown nuggets that crunched like pretzels and came out of a tube. We didn't have a huge Christmas cookie tradition. Not a big deal.

That is, until I got wind of Mom's Big Cookie Swap.

Mom has been a Catholic School teacher for almost thirty years. (Not too shabby for someone who's a coupla years from 6o, huh?) Her grade partner decided to organize a cookie swap where she'd sign up to make a whole bunch of one type of cookie, and then swap them out with other teachers who'd do the same. Seems simple, right? Keep baking the same thing overandoverandover, then come away with a wondrous assortment of fabulous cookies.

This swap operates on the theory of human pride, and veiled competition: making your BEST stuff, and presenting it in such a way as to make other teachers' snickerdoodles look like meteors that fell to earth, burning up into little charred remains as they hit the atmosphere. Oh yeah. It's like that.

So. Knowing Mom's history, her tendency to multi task, her inability to stay off the phone or pass a Jerry Springer episode, I was a little, um, surprised when she explained how she had to make 16 dozen almond macaroons. That's right. 15 other people signed up for the swap.

Let's discuss, shall we? Not only has Mom jumped in with both feet, but she has also managed to decide on making the most unpredictable,temperamental, not to mention expensive cookie. ( 1 pound of pine nuts= $10. 1 can of almond paste= $5.89. The 12 cans needed to make 16 dozen cookies= Thai dinner with your favorite daughter.) They're the Mariah Carey of the cookie world.

I'm not even getting into the actual baking and decorating time. each cookie has to be in the oven until it's just the right color, then pulled out and topped with exactly three pine nuts, cooled and bagged for each person. Okay, I will tell you that it took her over eight hours in the course of three nights. She was real proud of her stuff, and went to school with 18 dozen beautifully made and bagged cookies.

When it was all over, I called to ask how the swap went. She told me she didn't want to discuss it right then. Uh-oh. That means something went wrong. I just didn't realize how wrong it could be.

When I finally found out what happened, I was completely gobsmacked. Like, totally at a loss for words. Mom didn't even get one cookie. Not a crumb. Not even the extra two dozen that she brought. She didn't even get the box in which she brought the cookies to school. What the Eff could've happened?

Now, this wasn't exactly a well-run operation. And there were extenuating circumstances in the form of a snow storm that shut down the school at 1 o'clock. But for real? Instead of everybody going to the same room at the same time and picking up one dozen of each cookie, it seems like it was a grab-fest with teachers trying to get out of school as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Mom was in the classroom watching their students, waiting for their buses to be called so the kids could be dismissed.

So when the students left, mom went down to the room, and it was completely empty. Like I told you before, not even the boxes were there. That's the worst part; somebody even grubbed the boxes. No return on Mom's investment. No fabulous assortment of wondrous cookies. Nothing.

Mom was pretty hurt, and she should be. But her main focus this whole time has been the butter creams that the Lunch Lady made. I'm saying, "Ma, you don't even like butter creams." But. They were put into half-pound confectioners' boxes, and tied up pretty with ribbons. There were 16 of them there. Which means that some teacher made off with two boxes. Her point is that while you might make the mistake of taking two of the same kind of cookie bag, you *know* when you have two boxes.

I don't know what to say here. In the Big Picture, there's a lot more important stuff going on, and it is just cookies. But what's that say about grown-ass women who are supposed to be professionals holding up the values of Catholic Schools? That there are always people who feel entitled to more, I guess.

So what happens now? The team player attitude has been broken, there are a lot of hard feelings on Mom's part, and I don't know what the best outcome to this would be.

I think today I will head over to 1-800-bakers and order up one of those big chocolate chip cookies the size of a pizza. You know, the kind that can be written on in icing. I'm having it delivered to Mom's classroom at school. I'm still debating what to have written on it. "Swap This" is my best option. But the classic "Bite Me" will always work.

Every Day Has the Potential to be a Party

I just posted this on a messageboard I frequent. Since I haven't been posting here, and I'm so effing eloquent there, I brought it to you.



This might come as a huge surprise to all y'all, but I'm super random. (I know. I hide it well...)The only thing that keeps me sane is complete organization. I have binders, folders, pie charts, you name it, I've documented it. I actually have a folder with Christmas lists chronologically dating back to 1996. I keep three calendars. I need a set schedule.Then I'll see that Auntie Mame is on Turner Classic Movies, sit down to watch, totally blow my routine, and lose all the lists that I had so carefully compiled. Or lock my keys in the car. Or drop a full three gallons of turkey fryer peanut oil in the Walmart aisle. (Yesterday's adventure.)So I guess I cope with a real good sense of humor. And lots of patience from friends and family. And then, when I'm in full-on meltdown, The Universe gives me a pretty good whack with The Perspective Stick. And I realize how much fun my life is. And I'm really lucky because everyday's an adventure. That's my trick, I guess. Like last Saturday, Barnacle and I were doing some errands, checking off my list, (He was the official Keeper of the List.) We were in Lansdale, and they were lining up for their Mardi Gras Parade. If there's anything better than a parade, it's a SURPRISE PARADE! We didn't know about it. We weren't dressed for it. Probably didn't have time for it. But we stayed. We stayed for the full TWO hours, freezing our giblets off. We stayed till The Big Guy Hisownself closed it down, pulled by 8 cardboard reindeers. Maybe that's it. Have your plans,your Must Do's, but at anytime be ready to drop them for a surprise or an adventure.

So Not the Fourth

For real? What a washout. By the time I got home, we all needed big baths. The dogs got one first. Then Barnacle, then me. (Oh, wait. I was too lazy to actually get into the shower. I sniffed myself, decided that I was okay, and just got into bed. )



The one highlight of the day? My across the cully neighbor, Scary Gulf War Guy, just got some settlement on some workmen's comp thing, so what's he do? Pay his bills? Paint his mailbox? Fix his hang-y door? Hell. No. He buys a brandnewscreaming red corvette.



So he's out dicking around with it in his driveway. Nothing neat, new or special about that. It has also happened with the Harley, the four-wheeler, and the big lawnmower that he refuses to use. He's always out, playing with something.



Here's the thing, though. He has the radio blasting. Eardrum-bleed-inducing decibel levels. Wanna know what he's playing? C'mon, guess. Okay. I'll tell you. He was desecrating one of my most favored CD's. The man was blaring Prince, dammit. "Little Red Corvette" won't ever be the same.



Wonder if he'd think he was so cool if he knew the song was about vagina?

Laurie Notaro, and Why I'm Scared

So for sure, I live for her books. Now, here I have, sitting in front of me, my copy of her first work of fiction.

I can't open it.

I'm reading everything else in the stack, including some real trashy-type periodicals, and even some Jane Austen retellings, but for the life of me, I don't know what I'm scared of.

Yes I do. I fear that this book won't be as fun, biting, witty as all her memoirs. I really cannot be disappointed like that. Ever read something, that afterwards, you want to get back your wasted time? It sucks.

I have a long week at the beach coming up. I deserve one after the school year that I've had. I'll have the time then. I'll let you know how it went.