Check out the carrots. . . .

December 1, 2010



Happy December!

In our house, December 1st means hauling out the advent calendar and counting down the days until Christmas.

The advent calendar which is visited in the late evening by the elves, who leave peice of candy for the three children who came forth from my womb.

Children. . .21, 19 and *almost* 17.

Who remind me every November that they expect the elves to come.

And if I mention that the elves have contacted me on numerous occasions, via email, phone calls, text messages, etc., to inquire about the necessity of their services for such "children" I am shut down.

Hard and fast.

Because apparently there is no statute of limitations when it comes to garnering the services of the elves.

This morning, they left peanut butter cups.

Oh happy Emily.






At least Em was happy this morning.

Frankie, well, that's a whole other issue.

Last evening, after supper, Frankie took full and complete advantage of my exhaustion.

Honestly, I was ready to go to bed at 6.30.

I made it to 9.00 pm, only because of Em's finely honed maternal manipulation skills.

That child can make feel guiltier than any other person on the planet.

Enough that I actually sat through two episodes of Man v. Food, in spite of my obviously less than steel resolve to never watch it again.

More like tin foil resolve.

When I arrived home last evening, I deposited my work bag on the floor in the kitchen by my chair, as I always do.

Unless Stephen moves it.

But last night he didn't.

While sitting on the couch almost comatose, Stephen comes into the living room holding an empty and partially shredded bag.

A bag that had been unopened and until Frankie's intervention, was home to baby carrots.

He asks me, "What was in this bag? Frankie was eating it."

Frankie, who is sitting beside me on the couch, gives me a look that says, "I have no idea what that crazy man is talking about!" 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

What could I do?

Go in after the now completely chewed and on their way to be digested carrots?

I think not.

But to keep the peace, I said,

"They won't hurt him. And everything will over and done with tomorrow morning."

Called that in one.

This morning, in pjs and slippers, I am standing outside while Frankie takes 20 minutes to rid himself of his carrots.

As it is, it takes him at least 10 minutes to select where he wants to go.

Tikka is easy and lazy: she always goes just on the other side of the line between where she is allowed to go, and where she isn't allowed to go because it causes Stephen a small heart attack if she does.

Although, on occassion, if it is really cold out, she will walk down the three steps from the front door and pee on the walkway.

Freezing occurs instantly.

Stephen's apoplectic event occurs much faster, especially if he happens to be watching.

But Frankie is a shy guy. . .he doesn't care if anyone else watches him, just so long as I don't.

He sniffs and spins in circles, walks back and forth, paws the snow, until he finds the perfect spot.

This morning was no different.

But he was in need of several spots.

Cause those carrots worked really fast.

Will this unfortunate incident of fecal proportions cause Frankie Doodle to stop and pause before consuming unknown substances hidden in people's bags?

No.

Because all the kitty crunchy incidents have had no lasting impact on him whatsoever.

If he is in the basement, alone, he is up to absolutely no good.

And if he emerges from the basement with cat litter dotting his nose, you know exactly what kind of no good he's been up to.






I managed last evening to resist the clarion call of mac and cheese.

But just barely.

Maybe that's why I was ready to go to bed after supper.

My energy stores were depleted from all my efforts to resist the creamy temptress gracing my table.

And my carrot curry soup was good.

No doubt.

But there is something about eating forbidden food that makes it oh so much tastier than what you're allowed to eat.

Stephen offered to eat carrot soup in solidarity, and while I appreciated the gesture, I knew better than to accept.

Only because as soon as I was in bed, asleep, he'd grab the leftovers and feast until he was rendered incapacitated.

Therefore, it seemed more prudent to have him eat it at supper, than gorge on it later.

Not that he didn't help himself to extras after I ventured off to the Land of Nod, but the extras were significantly less in size than had he been initally denied.

In a perfect world, I'd never be confronted, tested, tempted.

Ever.

In a semi-perfect world, such temptation tests would occur sporadically.

In *my* world they occur daily.

This evening's challenge: Book Club.

Christmas Book Club no less.

Book Club food is always the most tempting of tempting.

And Christmas is the epitome of tempting.

Leaving me wondering if I have the intestinal fortitude, the backbone, endurance, stoutheartedness, moxy, mettle, perserverance to withstand the delicate delectables, the sumptuous savories, the divine danties. . . 

I may have to take a tray of raw veggies to sustain myself. 

Or duct tape myself to a chair to prevent lunging at the table.

I contemplated not going . . .saving myself the stress and anxiety.

But avoidance is never an appropriate strategy.

Plus I'd miss the Yankee Swap.

And my book club knows how to Yankee Swap.

Ruthless.

Competitive.

Feirce.

I've seen more tricks and chicanery during these Yankee Swaps than you could conceive.

Let the games begin!


Title Lyric:   Carrots by Mista Mac