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...