God Bless Us, Every One...especially those of us who
wrestle with Christmas dinner plans...


Ok, just got off the phone with Mom about Christmas Eve food. I love my parents, but here's a little sample of our conversation:

Mom: I just wondered what I should bring for Christmas Eve.

Bunkie: Ok, Sis is bringing meatballs, stuffed mushrooms and spanikopita.

Mom: WHAT? What's that? The boys won't eat that fancy stuff.

Bunkie: Mom, it's Greek. You've had spanikopita before.

Mom: No, I've never had that.

Bunkie: We ate it last year. Greek pastries stuffed with spinach. Sis's making them.

Mom: Huh! I think I'd better bring onion dip or the boys won't have anything to eat.

Bunkie: But we're also having shrimp, and summer sausage. And you're bringing sausage balls. Onion dip's not exactly what you think of, when you think Christmas food.

Mom: It's not enough, you don't know how those boys can eat! I'd better bring ham roll-ups too, and pickles and olives and celery stuffed with peanut butter. And some devilled eggs.

Bunkie: MOM! We don't need all that food! There will only be 9 of us. It's not even dinner, it's supposed to be appetizers.

Mom: It's dinner if it's served at dinner time, and I'm telling you, it won't be enough! And I'm bringing Blue Bell ice cream, because remember, we're doing you're sister's birthday and she wants Mississippi Mud cake. You can't eat Mississippi Mud cake without Blue Bell ice cream. And cookies...I'm baking cookies this week.

Bunkie: MOM! I have Blue Bell in the freezer, not that we need to add 8,000 more calories to a 2" slice of chocolate cake with fudge icing...trust me, we don't need any cookies.

Mom: But I have 2 Blue Bells in my freezer I bought just for this. Oh, and I'm bringing you 2 beef sticks from the freezer. We won't eat them.

Bunkie: Um, how old are they?

Mom: I just bought them. Actually I bought one, then I forgot I bought it, so I bought another.

Bunkie: Well, if you just bought them, why'd you put them in the freezer?

Mom: So they would keep. But the boys like them, so I'll give them to you.

Bunkie: Ok, fine.

Mom: I'll bring plastic cups and plates too.

Bunkie: Mom, what about my Waechtersbach, you know, the red Christmas china I use every year? You don't need to bring any cups or plates. I'm 48, I think I can be trusted to serve dinner on real plates.

Mom: Ok, but it would be easier! Just throw everything away after we eat...

Bunkie: Mom, please no paper stuff, ok? We're fine. We'll have plenty of food. Mom...mom...are you there? What are you doing?

Mom: I'm writing this down. How do you spell that thing your sister's making? Never mind, no point writing it down anyway, the boys won't eat it. What about cheese and crackers? There has to be cheese and crackers. I know the boys will eat that.

Bunkie: Yeah, they can put onion dip on it. Remember I told you I have a new marble cheese tray? I'll take care of the cheese.

Mom: And the crackers? I have crackers here. What kind of cheese are you getting?

DAD IN BACKGROUND, YELLING INTO AIR: ONE BIG MAC, CUT THE CHEESE!

Bunkie: Mom, thanks, I've really gotta run. It will be great. Love you, bye!

Mom: Love you too. Oh...I'm bringing egg nog!


Thank God for my parents. And dear Lord, please send the Wise Men to my house on Christmas Eve bearing Pepcid AC. Amen.

On Pilgrims, Fuzzy Vacuums & Raw Birds

Just today I threw out the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers, some of which spawned a sickening green-blue mold that would have made Louis Pasteur proud. As I jammed the contents of said refrigerated Petri dishes down my Dispoz-All, I had time for a few post-Thanksgiving reflections. Lucky you.

1) Revisionists revealed to us the week before Thanksgiving that Hernando de Soto celebrated this country's real first meal of thanks, and served nothing but bean soup. I like bean soup as much as the next person--which means that if that's all there is in the pantry, I'll eat it. Thank God the Pilgrims sailed over here and met Squanto, so he could teach us how to really put on the dog, er...turkey & all the trimmings. Thanksgiving--to me--requires strawberry jello salad, cornbread dressing and the required cold turkey sandwich on Friday, as my beloved Texas Longhorns beat the Aggies on TV. OOPS, that didn't happen this year. But my sandwich tasted delicious anyway!

2) Pilgrims putting on the dog makes me thankful for my 2 Fuzzy Vacuums, Sophie & Cricket. When our 9 guests had departed, when dishes were washed and put away and as we languished on the couch, Sophie & Cricket kindly licked our kitchen floor clean. For two hours. No more spilled gravy or green beans, and all the pie crumbs vanished from sight. Good dogs! Bet Priscilla Alden would have traded ol' Miles Standish for a coupla four-legged clean-up pals any day. Note to self: name next dog Hoover.

3) My 10 year old son wanted to "learn to cook" our feast this year. This, in itself, is hilarious, because I am famous for not cooking. I excel at staying out of the kitchen. So I'm thankful that my sister, a chef de cuisine in her own right, came over to teach the poor child how to whip sweet potatoes and roll a perfect pie crust. Alas, they both dropped back and punted when it was time to stick a hand inside the 26-pound turkey and remove those oh-so-gross bags of "stuff." No amount of coaxing, or comparisons to the Iron Chef would do. And let me tell ya, the amount of "stuff" you get with a 26-pound turkey could feed a family of 4 for days. At our house, we refrain from disguising those turkey body parts as ingredients in our side dishes. This means there's no giblet in the gravy (Note: in the South, gravy is a side dish), and in certain parts of the country, this can be considered a criminal act. Go ahead, arrest me. What we pull out in the bag, stays in the bag, and goes straight into the trash, OK?

I hope everyone enjoyed a peaceful, relaxing Thanksgiving, especially since this holiday is in danger of being skipped over altogether. I mean, seriously, when the retailers replace the Halloween candy with candy canes, it's pretty bad. But it's never too late to be thankful, and I challenge each of you to take your gratitude a step further: send a card to a soldier, or a soldier's family. Say a prayer for those in the military and the ones they love. Visit a shut-in or an elderly person, or read a book to a young child. These are the daily miracles that make our lives special, and thank God for that! Gotta run...the bean soup is burning...

Ode to the Commode...Because You CAN Take it With You!

There I was, sitting quietly at home on a Friday night, basking in a little pre-birthday calm, when imagine my surprise to hear the doorbell ring...at 10:30pm. People my age don't routinely enjoy visitors after the respectable hour of say, 8:00pm, so to call me surprised is the understatement of the Western world.

Further imagine my surprise to find this beautiful specimen of a portable potty chair, full of UT (Texas, please) orange mums, sitting on my porch, complete with toilet paper. Step into my shoes for a moment, as you scan the horizon, looking for "friends" who you know are lurking behind the bushes, to no avail. But your eyes focus on something in the yard...what is that?

Of course! A giant "48" spelled out in brand, spanking new Depends, right there in the dew-coated grass! The sudden POP POP POP of flashbulbs suddenly blinds you, and then voila, here are three women in ski masks, giggling uncontrollably as they try to speak.

I am going to kill them, but you can't quite figure out who deserves this death sentence, because of those danged ski masks! Finally your son, up way past his bedtime, recognizes his school librarian, which is another topic for another day, and all hell breaks loose.

My husband invited these perpetrators, these violators who have revealed my age to the neighborhood, into the house for lemonade! My son found not only his digital camera, but the video camera as well, and began to record this moment for posterity, no pun intended.

Then these "friends" of mine relay, in great and hysterically funny detail, how they just happened to run into 27 mutual acquaintances of mine at Wal-Mart, as they were rounding up the Depends, and the pink thong undies they strapped to my mailbox (which we didn't find until 11am the next morning, don't you know the mailman is my new best friend!).

And then they "got lost" looking for the house where the real owner of the potty chair resided, which of all places, is only 4 doors up from my house...so of course they had to stop for directions 18 times...so not only do my neighbors think I have bathroom issues, they also know I have friends who go around in ski masks late at night when they should be home sleeping!!!

But I'm nothing if not a good sport, and I do love a good practical joke. In fact, this is probably a mere fraction of a payback for all the pranks I've pulled on friends over the years...but the ultimate insult in this case is that the next day, I had to roll the potty chair up the street to return it to its rightful owner. Naturally I waited until dark...

All I have to say is that I'm blessed to have such fun, inventive pals, who have their very own birthdays to look forward to. If you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly. And now, with portable potty chairs, well, let's just say that bears don't necessarily have to do their business in the woods anymore, do they?

POTTY PERPETRATORS, BEWARE!

My German Blood is Boiling in this HEAT!

Ok, last time I checked, I was living happily in Middle Tennessee...a land of four distinct seasons, none of them too extreme, or too lengthy. I am of German heritage, and it is a known fact Germans follow the rules, we don't deal well with extremes. My German genes built me for cooler climates...extra fat layers, and all that. While summers where I live can be humid and hot, for the most part they're bearable. Especially with a cold German beer or two.

Not this summer. To say it's hot is to say Elvis sold a few records. Where I live, we haven't seen a raindrop since early June, and for the last ten days, the mercury in the thermometer has red-lined the 100 mark or higher. I fled Texas, and Arizona simply because I'd seen more than my share of eggs frying on the street. (Ok, maybe not, but haven't you always wanted to?). But in this stifling, steaming situation in which I find myself, all I want to do is sit around in a t-shirt, hold the cold beer can to my head, and scream at The Weather Channel when they announce, with a smile, that this ungodly high pressure phenomenon will extend at least another week. My German blood is boiling, and I simply can't function when temperatures soar above 90.

"It's summer, it's supposed to be hot," people lament, as I shove my face under the ice dispenser at various fast-food establishments around town. I hate hot. My friends know how much I hate it, because they've heard me whine every August. "It's SO HOT! My thighs melted to the car upholstery! Do you know that the Heat Index is 200? Feel that hot wind? It just seared off my face! It's SO HOT, I can't breathe. I'm going to die, right here in this parking lot, thighs stuck to my front seat."

Last night I was so hot, I called my girlfriend to commiserate. (co-mmiserate: to be miserable with another person, such that the misery escalates to unrealistic proportions). My girlfriend resides in Greensboro, NC, which is also painted red on this week's newspaper weather map. She is a fellow Heat-hater, and soon we engaged in a friendly game of I'm Hotter Than You, and I don't mean Lohan vs. Spears. Our conversation went something like this:

BL: It's SO HOT! The heat index was 110 today!

BL's FRIEND: Oh, please, where are you, Seattle? Our heat index was 125, and tomorrow it'll be 140!

BL: (pausing, pondering the plausibility of friend's exorbitant claim). But it's SO HOT here, we have Ozone Alerts!

BLF: At least you still have an Ozone. Ours vaporized last Thursday. I saw it fly away with my own eyes, right before my retinas began to smoke.

BL: Those were your false eyelashes melting, you tramp! What kind of idiot glues extra body parts to herself during a heat wave, anyway?

BLF: This coming from the woman who wore a sweater when it was 108.

BL: Who?

BLF: You, you moron! In 1984 we toured the Jack Daniel's distillery, and the digital thermometer over those vats of mush read 108. You were wearing an orange sweater. Not a good look, major perspiration stains, as I recall.

BL: Hello, that would be vats of "sour mash," not mush, and it was cooking, which explains the 108 degrees, and it was winter! And those 'perspiration stains' were from me hanging onto that vat for dear life, after you tried to push me in, so you could have the cute tour guide for yourself!

BLF: (muffled, garbled noises) Oh, sorry, bad connection, must be the heat. Weatherman just said tomorrow's gonna be 150 here, gotta go freeze my pantyhose. Bye!

BL: THIS IS SO NOT OVER!

I have another friend, a man, and therefore not so competitive when it comes to tour guides and temperatures, and I recall every August he would step outside our place of work and exhale with a loud sigh. "I want it to be hotter," he would broadcast. This usually happened when the mercury approached the century mark, so he was, in fact, being ironic. But we always laughed at the people who took him seriously, and occasionally would comment, "Oh, you'll get your wish! Tomorrow's supposed to be 105."

For now, I'm going to crawl inside my freezer with a Hershey bar and hope that when someone comes to thaw me out, it will be October. I wonder how a beer popsicle tastes?

Where, Oh Where, Did My Relaxing Summer Go?

So it's nearly three months since my last post, and you're no doubt publicly dissing me for being a Total Slacker. Au contraire, mes amis. Total Slackers sleep until noon, loll about in their pjs, watch loads of bad TV, and surf the Net for untold hours.

I am the very antithesis of a Total Slacker: I am a Mom with a School-Age Child on Summer Break, and I defy you to glance at my PDA's Daily Calendar and still accuse me of sloth! I've cooked for VBS, driven a team of Boys Emitting Non-stop Fart Noises to their first overnight camp experience, arisen daily at 7am to feed the Next Olympic Champion breakfast before his swim practice, and chauffered Tiger Woods Wannabes to their golf lessons at the ungodly hour of 7:30am.

Somehow, in my spare time, I was rooked into certifying as a Stroke & Turn Judge...not as wildly orgasmic as it sounds, ladies, and according to my best calculation, for every hour spent standing on concrete in 100 degree heat waiting for a six-year old child to complete the third minute of what should normally be a thirty-second event, I was rewarded with approximately 1.3 taut male lifeguard chest sightings. You gotta ogle your hotties where you can at my age, OK?

I've survived never-ending sleepovers and the Tired Crying Fits that accompany them; I've washed more beach towels and swim trunks than I can fathom, I've scouted the sale racks for new tennis racquets and golf tees and swim goggles, while ordering new school uniforms, a duffel bag suitable for camp abuse, a rolling bookbag, and a ping pong table to keep everyone occupied in their "down time." I'm not kidding.

I've packed and shopped and laundered and cooked on trips to the beach, to the mountains, and on one occasion, to Vacation Hell and back, as I watched my dreams of sleeping late, sipping coffee, and writing that next best-seller flee from my grasp. To top it off, I've managed to work out with my trainer, naturally at an hour of the morning when most people are engaging in a fun new hobby called "sleep."

Don't get me wrong...I'm fortunate and blessed and all that mushy stuff, to have the time and the family and the resources to enjojy all of these memory-making moments. But I was vastly unprepared for the social life of a 10 year old child, and I recommend that Human Taxi Service Training be a requisite for college graduation, because you're gonna need it, trust me on this.

Truth be told, I've enjoyed my summer, and amidst the bedlam, I introduced my son to classic movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ernest Goes to Camp, and Beerfest (ok, that last one was a joke. Seriously. Total waste of film. OF COURSE I didn't show that to my son!).

We "found gems" at a gem mine, we discovered that Mom can still play Fur Elise if she wears her bifocals and stands very far back from the piano keyboard, and we played rousing rounds of Spoons (my sister cheats like a sonofabitch). We've read the new Harry Potter (excellent!) and we've basked in the glow of swim team ribbons covering our refrigerator.

Man, what am I gonna do with myself when school starts?

Moon Your Moms!

Happy May, out there in electric internet land. I'm busier than a one-armed paper hanger these days. Is it me, or is May a more hectic time of year than the Christmas season? At least with Christmas, everything boils down to the 24th & 25th. But in May, everyone scrambles to compete for "end of the year" bashes and banquets, as we pat ourselves, our scholars, teachers and athletes on the back for jobs done, well or otherwise. Graduations, receptions, parties, plus all the Mother's Day hoopla, and my family also has 2 critical birthdays to celebrate, followed closely by a wedding anniversary. No wonder I'm stressed!

While all these little balls hover in the air, striking my head (ouch!), I'm also cooking for vacation Bible school, planning my son's summer (golf, tennis, swim team and summer camp), and scheduling a time t0 celebrate Father's Day that can accommodate everyone's travel plans. Throw in a family vacation and requisite kennel reservations for the Queens of the Mud, book haircuts on the 2 days a month the stylist works since her kids are also out of school, and then before I can breathe, it'll be time to start buying school supplies!!! SOMEBODY STOP THE MADNESS!

I am a college-educated grownup, fully cognizant of the fact that I have the Power to slow down my life, take control of my time. But when, exactly, will I learn to do that? All my friends laugh at me when I say I'm the Human Taxi. "Enjoy it now," they quip. "Soon they won't want to be seen with you." Good grief, in just a couple of years, my son won't want to ride in the same vehicle with me? So how do I force myself to "enjoy" these short-lived moments of intense over-scheduling and constant frenzy?

I've always turned to humor to get me through difficulty, and this is no exception. In the midst of your May Madness, I go to Dollar General Store and buy a carton of Moon Pies. You know 'em, you love 'em, you munched 'em with an ice-cold RC Cola in the summer time as you hung with your homeys on your back porch, sort of.

Because I'm so adept at problem-solving, here are 2 fail-safe options for ya: a) crack open those bad boys and shove them in your mouth as fast as you can, savoring the gooey delicious combination of chocolate, marshmallow and cookie; or b) wrap up that box and give it to your Mom for Mother's Day.

I'm serious! I'd swoon if my family gave me a box of Moon Pies for Mother's Day! Flowers fade, I don't wear jewelry, and I love chocolate! Moon Pies represent what Mom really wants from you: the chance to slow down the ride, get off the train, and remember the past you shared together. What better way to do that than by sharing a Moon Pie?

Of course, if I really did give my Mom a box of Moon Pies, she'd send them home with me, in the care package she always shoves in my car. But it's the thought that counts, right?

So go on and Moon your Mom...get out those old photos, betcha can find one with you eating a Moon Pie in it...I double-dog dare ya...and if you can't, then goldurnit, get out the digital camera and take one! Start a new tradition!

Here's to all the Moms in the world, may they forever be Mooned!

My War with the Weather

I recently returned from a nice spring vacation with my family. It was nice, only because I was with my family. The weather was awful. Let's review, when you go on "spring break," you expect a modicum of spring, as in, warmth, sunshine, occasional light showers to bring May flowers. You do not expect a thirty-degree drop in temperature in a two hour period, nor do you expect rain to become snow during your nature hike, five miles from the ranger station, when all you're wearing is a pair of shorts, a tee shirt and Birkenstock sandals. This is exactly what happened to me and my family, during our trek to Newfound Gap in the Great Smoky Mountains. If you factor in the temperature drop, plus the 25 mph winds, we're talking single-digit cold, here. We're talking frostbitten fingers, numb noses, and "I ain't gettin' outta the car to hike to the bathroom" cold. Not the spring break I was looking for, to paraphrase Obi Wan Kenobi. I'm a Bad Weather Magnet, my whole life. You want a sunny day for your picnic? Leave me off the invitation list or you'll get driving rains and flash floods. I've done the golfball-size hail in June in New Mexico, the tornado in February where tornadoes never happen, blazing heat in the Swiss Alps, and snow in the Sonoran desert. Once my friend Bryan and I rode the chairlift to the top of Aspen Mountain in July on a gorgeous summer day, ditto the shorts, tee shirts and sandals. The very second our butts left the chairlift, the wind gusted, the temp dropped to sub-freezing and a viscous fog made visibility akin to what you see when you're taking Mepergam post-surgery. Let's review, we were standing on a cliff, as in, Certain Death Drop-off, and it's foggy and cold. Was that enough? No, of course not. The Weather Gods weren't yet appeased, because it began to snow. Bryan and I sat on the ground and inched our way down the mountain to warmer weather, where a woman resembling my mother hollered, "Where's your coat?" Bryan immediately broke off all correspondence, and can you blame him? As a result of my climatic trials, I'm a Weather Channel freak, trying in vain to fend off storms before I accept any social invitations. My colleagues, friends and family call me "Wendy Weather Girl" but what they'd really like to call me is "Bad Weather Hex Priestess." Next year for spring break, I'm going to Iceland, and maybe I'll at least get a good tan.

Mardi Gras is French for "melted plastic baby"...

As usual, I'm several days late and several thousand dollars short, but hey, you're here, so get over it.

Many of you out there in BlogLand may have participated in a little wanton celebrating on Fat Tuesday. Suddenly, perhaps out of respect to those in Katrina's wake, everyone wants to celebrate Mardi Gras, whether they understand it, or not. You do what you've gotta do, but it's my purpose in life to educate those poor unfortunate souls who don't have a clue what Fat Tuesday's all about. They're in the same boat with the Cinco de Mayo gringos, but that's another story for another time; May 5th, to be exact.

In my neck of the woods, there are 2 kinds of people: those who think Mardi Gras is a type of goose liver, and those who think it's somebody famous, as in, "You know, that Marty Graw who made the Louisiana purchase?" Trust me, I heard an actual person say this out loud.

Both camps, of course, are incorrect. But Mardi Gras is difficult to define, if you've never experienced it, and especially if you think that Lent is something to pick off clothing.

I've enjoyed my share of Mardi Gras parades and beads and coins over the years, and the alcoholic beverages and trashy behavior that accompanies them, thankyouverymuch! But when you have a 9 year old in the house, not only is it a major letdown to parade around baring your hooters just to get a Juicy Juice, it's also unacceptable behavior. This is why God invented the King Cake. King cakes are the 'safe' way to party at Mardi Gras, and since I've never met a baked good I didn't love, I am a king cake expert.

King Cakes aren't really cakes at all, they're a sweet bread, formed into a ring, covered in white gooey icing and decorated in purple, gold and green. In the Middle Ages, king cakes were invented to empty the pantry of all the yeast, sugar, flour, eggs and lard, before a pious household embarked on a strict Lenten diet of gruel and water, i.e. the Medieval version of Sugar Busters.

The "king" in king cake refers to the religious festival of Epiphany, when the Three Wise Guys showed up in Bethlehem with a grocery bagful of green, purple and gold colored sugar in little plastic jars, along with lots of tacky plastic beads and coins that they threw to the stinky shepherds, because, frankly, the Wise Guys hoped those shepherds would scamper downwind.

A king cake baker has a secret: she gets to plop a plastic baby doll into the dough as it bakes. Some lucky Mardi Gras king cake eater will be served the magic slice and stab that plastic baby with a fork, becoming "king," which means next year they bake the king cake. Or call a reliable bakery.

Being the respectable mom that I am, I figured cake was a pretty fair trade for adult beverages and trashy behavior. I found no shortage of king cake recipes in the 47 cookbooks displayed proudly in my kitchen, untouched for the world to admire. The problem, however, was the procurement of the plastic baby.

I guess this has been a universal dilemma through the ages...no doubt Mary had great difficulty finding a plastic baby for the world's first king cake. And husbands being what they are, no doubt poor Joseph was useless. But there's no king cake without a plastic baby, so I ventured to a craft store, and it was downhill from there.

"Um, yes, do you have any plastic babies?" I asked the clerk.

Cold stare, hands on hips, pointed finger. "We got all sortsa doll heads an' doll bodies an' doll parts, Aisle 3."

"Thanks, but, well, I need a small baby...to bake in a cake."

"DO WHAT? Did you say bake in a CAKE? What kind of baby shower are you throwin', hon? We ain't got no babies that'd fit in no cake pan, it'd be hell to slice. You outta be ashamed, the poor expectin' mama, how'd you feel if you bit inta your baby shower cake and got nothin' but a forkful of baby arm?"

"Oh, well, see, it's for a King Cake. For Mardi Gras. You put a tiny plastic baby in the cake, like a surprise. You know, for Mardi Gras. For celebrating Fat Tuesday."

"FAT TUESDAY? From the looks of you, you celebrate Fat Wednesday to Monday, too, don't ya? Naw, ain't none of my plastic babies is goin' in no cake for a buncha overeatin' devil worshipers!"

For a split second, I considered baring my hooters at this vile woman, but knowing that the subsequent arrest would interfere with my ability to drive carpool, I maintained my composure.

"Oh dear," I said. "You've found me out! Laissez les bon temps rouler."

"HEY! YOU COME BACK HERE! WHAD' YOU SAY?"

"Don't worry! Your plastic babies will only spontaneously combust after you ring them up. How festive for your customers!"

Exercise Your Rights...to the Remote & the Recliner!

I have invested in my health and wellbeing, so they tell me. 'They' are friends who invited me into their home under the ruse of eating homemade poundcake, but instead introduced me to my new Personal Athletic Trainer. Lo and behold, 'they' even paid for a couple of sessions for me!

"This will help your knees, your flexibility! You'll feel better!" 'they' said, as I glared at them while the Personal Trainer smiled his perky, Zero Body Fat smile. "Oh yes," said the Personal Trainer. "I promise, you'll see results after the first session!"

Results meaning I could no longer raise my arms above my waist. For 3 days. I'm not kidding!

I must admit, it's not my Trainer's fault. I am a UCBG: Ultra-Competitive Big Girl. You show me a room full of free weights, I'm gonna heave until I snap. You put me in the same room as a SG (Skinny Greyhound) in pink spandex, who's bench-pressing 200 pounds without breaking a sweat, and I'm game, sistah!

The worst thing for me was the Fitness Ball, reminiscent of those giant red rubber balls with handles that we used in preschool to hop blithely around the playground. Who knew they'd grow up to become Expensive High-Precision Fitness Instruments.

Let's review, Big Girls and large rubber balls don't mix, ever. Talk about a self-esteem buster, "Here, sit on this ball, roll on your back, and lift 75 pounds over your head non-stop for ten minutes." Sure! Hey, this is so easy, why don't you just toss me a couple of small children and I'll juggle 'em while I'm at it!"

For the first workout, I held my own, and no one saw me throw up in the parking lot. But despite my endurance and fortitude, I couldn't get out of bed for the next 7 days. Did that concern my Trainer? Of course not! He called my house. "Um, Miss Bunkie, where are you? We have a session."

(me, coughing up lungs) "Oh, sorry I'm late. But my left arm fell off last night, and I don't think I'll be able to make it today."

(dead silence) "I see. What I see is that you're not very committed to your Exercise program, or your fitness goals. Is that an accurate statement?"

(me, brain cells firing rapidly as I think up great excuses) "Um, well, I don't see how I can possibly attain my fitness goals with only one arm. My doctor concurs. I'll bring a note. I promise."

Yeah, I promise all right. I promise to stay home and do finger exercises as I channel surf between Desperate Housewives and the Weather Channel! I still have one good arm...

The Edible Yule Log...it seemed like a good idea at the time...

Yeah, I realize four major holidays have come and gone since I last blogged, deal with it. I celebrated too much on all of them--snuck too many mini almond Snickers from my son's goody bag on Halloween, scarfed too much pecan pie on Turkey Day, drank too much wine on New Year's Eve. You know the drill.

No, I didn't forget about Christmas. For Christmas I decided, against my better judgment, to bake a Buche de Noel, or for you non-French types, a Yule Log cake. Normally, this is a delectably sinful sponge cake, jellyroll style, filled with buttercream, topped with chocolate ganache, and decorated to resemble a log. Don't ask me, it's tradition.

I'm not known for my baking. No, that's wrong...I'm known in 3 states as the girl who forgot to core the apples for a pie...but I had this recipe from The Food Network from several years back, and I figured, how hard can it be? Pretty danged, I soon learned. There's an art to rolling up a thin sponge cake without breaking it into large hunks that fall wistfully to the kitchen floor, where hungry dogs lie in wait. I didn't want to go there. It was time to haul out the Betty Crocker cookbook from 1954, back when women had plenty of spare time to roll cake in the comfort of their own homes.

Proper Yule Log technique involves lots of cotton kitchen towels sprinkled with confectioner's sugar, nimble fingers (no licking, please), and the ability to keep one's composure and remember to remove the cotton towel from the cooled cake, prior to frosting it (don't ask).

But as luck would have it, and when it comes to luck, I can bake a Yule Log cake but never win at PowerBall, my cake was delicious. My baker-par-excellence friend Carol provided tiny little marzipan mushrooms, because everybody knows all the best Yule Logs have mold spores growing on them. I bogged down when it was time to "decorate the log with a pastry bag filled with buttercream frosting tinted green." Pastry bag operation isn't on my hard drive, and my vain attempt to create realistic-looking "ivy tendrils" around the mold spores resulted in a big green mess (see photo).

My family was more amused than delighted at Christmas Eve dinner, when I proudly displayed my creation. I guess they thought I had dropped a chocolate layer cake and then scooped the remainder onto a Christmas platter as a last resort. My Buche de Noel wasn't pretty, but oh-my-gawd, when I bit into that light sponge cake, when that buttercream and ganache hit my tongue, well, it was nothing less than orgasmic. I admit, I was a little sad when my son said, "Mom, this is just like a Little Debbie!" but at least he was honest.

I hope you all enjoy a happy, healthy 2007. This is gonna be one heckuva year, I've decided. And I'm on a baking roll...tomorrow I'm searching the pantry for that Valentine chocolate mold I've owned for 10 years and never used...by gosh, we're gonna be festive if it kills us!