Life Lesson: Cookies Are the Food of the Devil

Life Lesson 6,119: Nothing is ever as easy as the Internet says it is.

Alternate Title: I Had Writer’s Block All Weekend and So You’re Getting a Classic Life Lesson

I tried very hard to have an amusing weekend for your benefit, but when I sat down to write about my adventures, it turned out that I wanted to watch Love Actually Instead. So now I share with you a classic life lesson, and the true story behind it.

In my previous job, I had to find interesting things on the Internet to lure people to our social media page. Really, that translates to: People paid me to stumble around the Internet looking for appropriate entertainment.

What I found, on one particularly tragic day, was a recipe for Pinata cookies.*

*Because cookies are not enough sugar for people, these are cookies filled with an abundance of tiny candies to contribute to your long-term goal of diabetes.

Pinata cookies are the devil

My artistic skills honestly do not extend beyond stick figures. But this time, colored markers were involved.

I decided in that very second that I would make those cookies. I mean, I have baking skills**, and there was a work potluck coming up. What better way to impress my friends and coworkers with my sweet domestic-skills dominance than with a cookie surprise***? I took the time to show all my immediate coworkers the cookie brilliance, and declare that I would be bringing this genius creation to the potluck.

**I decided this at that very second, too.
***Diabetes

The potluck was a week away from that point.

I completely forgot about the cookies.

My clocks are the real key here

Shop Smart. Shop S*Mart.

But don’t worry. I was, in fact, literally on my way out the door when my benevolent coworkers**** reminded me about my cookie-related promise.

****with their completely selective memories.

But don’t worry. I totally remembered my baking skills, and didn’t panic at all. In fact, I didn’t even bother to read the recipe before I went to the store and bought whatever I felt like as ingredients. And I didn’t read the recipe before I decided what time to make the cookies.

My hat!

Did you know my dad made me study College Algebra for like, three summers in a row? In middle school? This is relevant here. Because fractions.

And then I doubled it*****.And then I divided in into thirds******. At this point, I was still feeling very confident in my skills.

*****Maybe? Really I just threw some ingredients in a bowl, and then decided I needed more. That’s how recipes work, right?
******Ish. Thirds-ish. 

See? I took real pictures too

This is what “thirds-ish” looks like, represented by this here pink dough.

Things hadn’t even begun to get tense yet. Why should I be tense? It’s just cookies. Everyone loves cookies.

Every moment is made better with Journey

When in doubt, dancing alone in the kitchen solves every problem. Or makes everything worse. One of those two things is true.

I really did take a dance break. Because I was feeling like a winner. It just happened to be during my dance break that I caught sight of the clock. It was 10 o’clock. At night.

And I hadn’t even begun baking the actual cookies yet. The dough was still chilling.

But I did bake the cookies.

Pinata cookies are the devil

Seriously. They were everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

And then I assembled the cookies.

Cookie mountains are not as fun as you think.

As it happens, I don’t have a “burro-shaped” cookie cutter. I don’t even have a donkey shaped one. What I have is a single, circle-shaped cookie cutter. It’s called “a cup”.

I didn’t get to bed until 4 in the morning. For something that ultimately tastes like a sugar cookie and a handful of M&Ms.

The recipe had said these were “simple” and “fun.”

The Internet: Giant Liar

IT LIES!! IT LIES!!!!!

And also, I do all my artwork on binder paper.

It’s also probably required that I share with you the final product:

Pinata Cookies. Still Evil

The Final Product

They tasted like sugar cookies and a handful of M&Ms.

And nearly made me hate cookies.

But they were super popular at the potluck.

I Really Miss the Impractical Wishing of Christmas Lists

Yesterday, a friend of mine shared this glorious, glorious piece of Internet with me through Facebook.

Click me!

This image is just basically a link to go to the article. Click it and giggle. Thanks, Deadspin!

Click here to read the amazing thing, right now, in another window so you can come back and read this RIGHT AFTER.

Before that very moment, I had never actively considered parental responses to Christmas Lists. I sort of let all those badly-written, pleading letters to Santa drift away in my brain. Surely they were not a source of entertainment for my parents*.

*In hindsight, I think maybe I’ve been sort of dense.

In honor of this revelation, I have decided to recreate some of my childhood Christmas lists, as I remember them, with my parents’ respective responses as I imagine them. Because I believe in sharing.

Letter to Santa, Age 6:

ALL THE GIJOES

Terrible handwriting recreated for effect and realism. And no, “GIJOs” does not mean I was asking for giggalos. 

Parental Reaction:
Mom:
Awww! She wrote a letter to Santa! Precious!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: And honey, she wants Star Trek!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.

Letter to Santa, Age 11:

Kiss kiss, Santa

I was not above buttering up Santa. Or dotting my i’s with hearts.

Parental Reaction:
Mom:
 Awww! She wrote a letter to Santa! Precious!

Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: And honey, she wants world peace!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten. 

Letter to Santa, Age 14:

KITTENS

I was really not going to give up on Santa. Or a kitten. Even though I already had a cat.

Parental Reaction:
Mom:
 Honey, I’m concerned. She wrote a letter to Santa!

Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: Does she still believe in Santa?
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten to help her feel better.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.** 

**Point of fact: I got a kitten for my 15th Birthday. PERSISTENCE, people. It pays.

Growing up and giving up Christmas Lists is something of a tragedy. You lose your hopeful, unreasonable gift optimism. Now, when crafting my Amazon Wish List (the closest thing to a “List for Santa” my adult life offers), I pause to think about the feasibility of someone actually getting me that gift.

OMG!!!

For example, I have not even once put this on my Amazon Wish List. And you know I want it.*** 

***In case you’re shopping for me, Stepney’s makes it. Click the image for a link!

Nowadays, there isn’t even one kitten on my Wish List. The magic is dead, people.

Also, You Should Know I Have Opinions About Santa

So, until I reached my full-and-independent-adult-life*, I didn’t really think the whole “Santa” thing was optional for Christian** families in America. My parents did it, and Santa is everywhere. There was clearly an undeniable math formula.

Is this not how magic works?

Is this not how magic works?

*Yesterday.

**Or agnostic. Or atheist. Or just capitalist-supportive.

But now that I’m older, I know different parents make different choices for various reasons. And all that’s just Jim Dandy and delightful. However, I*** am a huge fan of Santa. Even when I found out that Santa happened to be Mom and Dad staying up really late and eating all the cookies, it still floored me that there were two people who were willing and able to make the world a magical place for me.

***Totally childless, non-parent me.

So basically, by reading my blog, you’re running the risk of being exposed to lots of nostalgic, Santa-inclusive stories. You have been warned.

Also, Target has bananas again.

ALL THE BANANANANANANAS!

Just in case you were worried.
I know you were worried.

Today’s Favorite Thing: Rap with Respect

Like Oprah, I have favorite things. Lots of favorite things. More favorite things than anyone should ever be allowed to have. And because they are my favorite things, I feel that they should also be your favorite things.

And today I share with you my newest thing-that-brings-me-joy:

Respectful Rap.

PERSONALITY

This image and all the joy and happiness it brings me (and you), is courtesy of Respectful Rappers on Tumblr. Click to visit the original.

http://respectfulrappers.tumblr.com/

I feel that this is a moment to pay respect* to the eternal words of Aretha Franklin:

R. E. S. P. E. C. T.  Find out what it means to me.

*HA! See what I did there?

And what it means to me, my good gentlemen and gentlewomen, is “Tumblr has found a new way to suck up all my free time and replace it with giggles.”

Now, I confess: I’m not a fan of rap. I never have been. The closest I get to rap music is singing “My Baby is a Blood”** (by Bobby Joe Ebola and the Chicken MacNuggits) with my best friend, off key and with great enthusiasm. And that’s not even really a rap song. It’s more of a ballad about relationship challenges, incorporating gang colors.***

**Which is apparently called “She Ain’t No Crip”. I’ve been living a lie for like 12 years, people.

***Honestly, I nominate it for a Grammy. And a People’s Choice Award. I’m people. And I’m choosing. Make it happen, TV.

So really, I have very little expertise when it comes to critiquing rap music. R&B is even a bit of a stretch. (Let’s face it. We’ve already discussed my musical preferences.) But somehow, the brilliant people over at Respectful Rappers have managed to take an inaccessible facet of the music industry and turned it into something that brings me joy and happiness.

And that’s why it’s worth being a favorite thing. It has taught me both respect AND rap music. I tip my imaginary hat to you, Respectful Rappers. Tip tip.

I hope it brings you all great joy and happiness too.

In other news, my grocery store (which happens to be Target, because I like to support capitalism) was completely out of bananas on Monday.

Monkeys around the world weep in fear.

Seriously, y’all. This whole thing is supposed to be bananas.

Apparently bananas are a really popular early December food. Or my whole neighborhood is super low on potassium. Or 57 cents is just an insanely good price for bananas.

Anyway, not getting any bananas is my least favorite thing of the week. So there’s that, too.

A Type A Personality in Recovery

Alternate Title: The Blog Post Where I Might Offend People Related to Me

Is there a Type A Personalities Anonymous?

Because there should be. We’ll call it TAPA. There can be TAPA meetings held in bars, because AA claimed all the church basements and community centers*.

*Like bars for alcoholics, these places can be temptations for TAPA members. These locations host too many potential gatherings we can aggressively take over.

Type A Personalities Anonymous

Everyone who attends assumes they’re running the meeting. It’s remarkably like The Hunger Games.

Hi. My name is Cait, and I am a Type A Personality.

…This is the part where you all say “Hi, Cait.”**

**Crap. That’s being bossy, isn’t it? Do I have to give back one of my chips? I brought chips, you know. Just in case we needed them. I know other people said they were going to bring chips, but I just wanted to make sure we had them.

I’ve been this way since I was a child. I was probably born this way, but since all babies are pushy and demanding, it’s a little hard to tell.*** Also, babies are rapidly forgiven due to abounding adorableness that doesn’t carry over into the teen years and adulthood. Also, the fact that they were just born kind of factors in there, too.

***I feel I should clarify here: I do not hate babies. I think they’re dandy.

This is totally admissible evidence.

Here is a picture of me holding a baby. In drawing form. To prove that I totally don’t hate babies.
Drawing me apparently has pigtails.

I come from a long line of Type A Personalities. We’re generally unapologetic about it. We’re a line of driven over-achievers and problem solvers. We’re advisers and do-ers. We could organize armies, and tend to think in the long-term.

We also stress, yell, scream, are prone to fits of unreasonable anger, and sulk excessively when people don’t listen to us. We are aggressive. We can’t delegate or trust others to complete tasks without facing the impulse to check and recheck their work. We work too much; we burn out; we are almost physically incapable of muting our opinions when someone is so obviously doing it wrong.

So, basically what I’m saying here is, there are some upsides to being Type A, but there are also a lot of drawbacks. Drawbacks that make you want to tear your hair out.**** And also apparently contribute to heart disease and other stress-related conditions that are total bummers. Thanks, personality.

****And make me want to tear my hair out. Type A’s are not exempt from being frustrated with themselves. And others. We are super good at being frustrated with others And inanimate objects. Also inanimate objects.

For years, I never saw a problem with my alpha-girl tendencies. Clearly it demonstrated that I had confidence! And was smart! Right?

Not even close.

Pig tails make me serious

Illustrated me apparently wears pig tails even when sulking.

I’ve come to recognize my need for hands-on control to be a major flaw. For most of my life, I couldn’t let things go. The smallest thing not working would drive me into a frustrated rage. Coincidentally, this fury fixed nothing, and only left me feeling angry and the people around me feeling awkward. Any problem-solving skills my brain could generally draw on were blocked by anger and rage, totally negating the perks of being Type A.

So for years, I’ve been working on recovery.

If you’re not a total Type A, this might sound silly. If you’re a Type A with no regrets, it sounds even sillier. I’m sure some Type A’s never seem to have these problems, and I’m positive even more don’t realize it. But I’d really rather not fly off the handle at everything, or let stress sabotage my health******, or make people feel like they need to walk on eggshells around me.

******I do that just fine on my own. Me and my marshmallows.

Recovery is hard. I use my dad as my example. He taught me to laugh at myself, and he also taught me that getting super mad at little things is pretty much in our genetic code.******* And he taught me how to take a deep breath, and that sometimes the only fix for things not going your way is to take a little alone time.

*******This may sound like a weird lesson, but when I was little I thought it was just me, and I was completely looney tunes. Turns out, I’m possibly completely bananas, but only about Shark Week and the impending giant squid takeover.

And my mom taught me to laugh at absolutely everything else, so that helps too.

But I still think we should all have meetings. And chips. Definitely chips.

Who wants to bring chips? Don’t worry about forgetting to bring them. I’ve undoubtedly already overplanned and brought extra.

P.S. – In other news, someone totally found my blog yesterday by Googling “Spider eggs on a Christmas tree.” I think that means I win Google.

Evidence.

Evidence.

Some Things on the Internet Really Make Me Uncomfortable

And I’m not just talking about things you can find on those sites*.

*We all know what I’m talking about here. Don’t pretend you don’t also spend a lot of time on recipe websites. No one believes you.

I hate to delve into Regretsy** territory here. This is really their corner of the Internet. But I was shopping for a unique gift and boy howdy did I ever find one.

**Did you know Regretsy is no more?! I didn’t until this exact moment. Now the Internet has made me uncomfortable AND sad.

I’d like to introduce you to something I am never going to be able to forget:

Included: Feminine Pink Slash

I almost browsed right past this.
I wish I’d browsed right past this.

If you’re thinking “Oh what a cute sign,” you are missing several essential observations. Don’t worry. I’ll help.

  1. OB/GYNs use their hands for things you don’t want to think about. I’m starting with the most obvious thing here. But gentlemen, if you’re snickering here, this is sort of like a prostate exam doctor having a sign made out of snapping gloves and pointer fingers.
  2. The “o” and the “b” are both sort of ominously threatening in this context. I’m not joking. Look at in the context of “what if this isn’t a sign but instead a how-to hand demonstration.”
  3. The pink slash is an awkward use of both shape and color here. I’m not explaining why.
  4. The “g” is pointing at the pink slash. Which kind of highlights the awkwardness here.

In short, if an OB/GYN had this sign on her desk, I’d think she (or he. I’m not sexist, y’all) was providing a demonstration of (hopefully) exam-related hand movements. And that would make me run screaming. I’m not exaggerating.***

***I’m actually under-exaggerating here. The factual description would be “flee at top speed, shrieking like an anxious banshee.” 

I support increased awareness of the fact that people all have different needs. I also support accommodations for the hearing impaired or visually impaired (like me!) among us. I do. But please consider this point of fact: Hearing impaired people can read.

And I’m pretty sure deaf women feel just as threatened by this sign.

Way to go, Internet. I haven’t been this horrified in weeks.

As an aside, I totally salute this Etsy seller’s sweet hand-crafting-hand skills. She/He’s got some great names spelled out, and does custom work. I applaud all that and I hope she/he makes a billion dollars.

I know this was a pretty uncomfortable moment we just shared. So, to make you feel better, here is a picture of festive balls.

These things run rampant in NC.

CHRISTMAS balls. Jeeze. You guys are pervs.

(These things are everywhere in North Carolina. And now you can buy them for $50 a pop from Brookstone. I’m telling you. Their holiday catalog is a wealth of joy and gift-giving ideas. Gift giving ideas that can charge you $50 for a ball of Christmas lights wrapped around chicken wire.)

I hope that puts you right back in the holiday spirit. You’re welcome.