Oatmeal Cranberry Walnut Cookies

Please stop licking your computer screen. I’m fairly certain it tastes like ass. And it can’t be at all sanitary…

But if it makes you feel better, the very quick and super easy three step recipe for those nomilicious cookies pictured above can be found at the bottom of this post once you’re done reading all of my fascinating and thought-provoking personal dialogue.

Unless, of course, you skip the rest of this post.

Which is totally cheating.

And nobody likes a cheater.

Not even Baby Jesus.

Just sayin’.

Now where were we…?

Ah, yes, I know… thought-provoking dialogue. Got it.

When I was kid, I was neighbors and friends with the daughter of our high school’s home economics teacher. Home economics not being my thing, I, of course, completely missed out on learning how to properly sew (something that I now regret) and all of the benefits of using a crying, pooping, needs-to-be-held robot baby as a sex education tool (something that I now regret even more). But I had a friend whose mom was the home ec teacher. Bygones.

One evening, while having dinner at said friend’s house, I sat in silent amazement at the beautiful weekday meal that her mom had made. I just couldn’t imagine how much this woman had her shit together in order to work all day, cater to the whims of two children, run about to and fro and do all of those other necessary things that mothers do, and still have time to come home and put together a homemade lasagna, a vegetable side with a fancy name, fresh bread and salad, iced teas in pretty glasses, and a cake to boot.

My mom was making macaroni and cheese.

And no cake.

Unless Little Debbie’s count.

(And, dude, they sooo do.)

After dinner, when I was helping my friend with the dishes (because, in my book of newfound appreciation for both Donna Reid and Clare Huxtable, her mom needed a moment to put up her feet and relax), I began waxing poetic on how awesome the meal was and how I just didn’t know how her mom had the time and perhaps I should take home ec to learn the trade… yada, yada, yada.  I think I was probably going into the tenth solid minute of discussing, most inappropriately for a teenager that had much better things to occupy her mind (read: boys), how time consuming  making a homemade lasagna must be, when she held up her hand and said in a most exasperated voice,

“Judith, it’s just Stoffer’s.”

I’ve lost my microwave.

How does one lose a microwave, you ask?

Frankly, my dears, I have absolutely no clue.

All I know is that I had a microwave and now I do not.

I had a microwave in Louisiana (the first tour). I happily nuked stuff in the Egypt that was McCrory, Arkansas.  I re-heated many a leftover slice of pizza in that aptly named town of Bald Knob, and Alabama dished out the bags of microwavable popcorn as only a pretty little box of cancer-causing waves of radiation can…

And, yet, here I find myself sitting   in our new house [insert huge sigh of relief],quietly tucked  away in a private little road smack dab in the middle of suburbia, tearfully reflecting on the big gaping hole in my heart (and countertop) that was once consoled and temporarily filled by the sweet smell of quickly heated baked goods and other various fattening things that taste like heaven once made gooey and nearly unrecognizable by the tiny waves of happy heat that could only come from the devil because they are just that awesome and obviously evil.

(Oh sweet saucer of microwaved Hershey’s sauce over ice cream/fudge/dinner, you complete me.)

I’ve lost my microwave.

And it totally sucks in a cold and unforgiving way.

And, combined with the fact that there is no dishwasher in my new (old) house, it may just cause me to lose my mind.

As soon as I unpack it, that is.

On the other hand…

My three-year-old  just told the noisy kids next door to “be quiet, dudes”.

So I take it back.

All is right with the world.

And the stove gets hot, right?

Thursday

Hours to New Orleans from Huntsville  via minivan equipped with 3 screaming children: 7

Friday

Hours necessary for errant husband to convince me to move back to Louisiana despite my SIGNIFICANT (Look! ALL CAPS for EMPHASIS) misgivings: 5

Saturday

Hours to Hunstville from New Orleans via minivan with no screaming children: 6

Sunday

Hours to reassure me that this was a good idea: 24

Monday

Hours to rent truck, pack shit, load it all up: 9

Hours spent convincing me that this was still a good idea: 24

Hours from Huntsville to Lake Charles, Louisiana via slow-ass moving truck: 10.5

Hours slept: 0

Tuesday

Hours spent reflecting on what exactly went wrong in your life in order to end up living with your mother-in-law after all: [censored]

Wednesday

We’re heading back to New Orleans tonight to pick up the Spawn of Shakespeare from my mother’s house. I am tired. I am grouchy. My face has broken out from the stress, and I’ve yet to surface from this cloud of complete disbelief and chaos.

I am in desperate need of a good book, a hot bath, and a significantly large dose of liquid demerol.

I am also in desperate need of a good long look at my life…

This spur of the moment shit is for the birds.

Perhaps it’s time to become boring.

I once gave one of my favorite pair of sunglasses to one of my favorite rockstars.

He wore them on stage for all of three bars and then dropped them promptly to the floor.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It’s midnight here in Deliverance. I’m leaving at four to make my way down to New Orleans- me, three Spawn of Shakespeare, and my new GPS Gertrude (RIP Betty). I’ve pin-marked all of the Starbucks on the way and have loaded my iPod with all of the best traveling songs…

All the makings of a great roadtrip.

If I could get to sleep, that is.

P.S. My cell number is on my Facebook, feel free to call and revel in my “must talk in order to not fall asleep” conversation. We’ll talk about rockstars and cherry chapstick and the price of tea in China.

Or monkeys.

Whatever.

...as if she mean it.

The funny thing about being Gypsy-born is that constant desire for the mundane.

For the standard fare.

For the prince charming, the picket fence, the Sunday dinners,  and shiny kitchen sink.

The funniest thing about being Gypsy-born is the inherent knowledge that princes tend to be assholes, picket fences never stay white for long, you can’t cook worth a shit…

And who the hell looks at kitchen sinks anyhow?

Kittens, my dear friend, are very curious creatures.

They care not a whit for your sensibilities nor your culture and are quite happy to become that thing inside your household around which the entire world revolves. This, of course, may cause quite a bit of concern amongst the small people previously in the position of that thing and, in such cases,  a bit of cattiness is to be expected (do pardon the pun).

One must thoroughly check the clothes dryer before shutting its door.

This process should be repeated with the refrigerator, bathroom cabinets, and toilets as well.

Proper grooming is vital for all manner of man or beast. Your kitten is no exception. He should be groomed regularly and thoroughly, with no bramble left untangled and no eye un-gunked. It is very important that you not forget to file the nails as they tend to be overly sharp and will easily tear through all manner of fabric, furniture,  skin, and Prada. Various contraptions, such as clippers and specially made scissors, are available to aid  in the endeavor. This author strongly cautions against the use of the popular electric rotating-files as seen on your television screen, however, as the kittens used to test these files are obviously robot kittens and immune to the roll and thunder of the device.

Your kitten is most likely not a robot kitten and will not be pleased.

Neither will your arms.

The male gene in any species is known to cause particular peculiarities amongst its kind. Much as your male counterpart will fall asleep with his hand lovingly cupped over his unmentionables, your kitten will seek warm and safe places in which to keep his nethers fairly toasty. One such place is your nightstand, wrapped around your alarm clock. Or, perhaps, on your kitchen cabinet near your ever-running coffee pot.  If you are of the geek persuasion, for instance, your kitten may be at his most happiest with his scrotum pressed tightly up against the back of your laptop.

In such cases, this author recommends the frequent saving of your work as overheating is more than likely to occur.

A laptop stand with a fan is a great help. Your favorite local electronics store should have several models from which to choose.  A knowledgeable employee should be able to help you determine which models and brands best suit your needs based on the type of  machine, hours of use, and the size of your kitten’s balls.

Weekly measurements should be written down and handily placed in your reticule for just such purposes.

Current pet foods are formulated specifically with all of your kitten’s nutritional needs in mind. It is neither recommended nor encouraged that you supplement his diet with foodstuffs meant for only human ingestion. Promptly cover and put away any leftovers or take-out.  This, despite a sense of some logic, includes that plate of California Rolls from lunch. While the roll itself may be perfectly acceptable for digestion, that wasabi, in all likelihood, will be a terrible reminder of the reasons why this author insists that one should never allow a kitten to share one’s pillow.

In the next installment of this guide, one can expect to find project charts on the many uses of shredded toilet paper, step-by-step instructions for removing dried ramen noodle from your kitten’s ear, as well as several paragraphs on the mending of blinds.

Please stay tuned.

Fact:

There are parents in this world who honest-to-goodness think that their teenagers really do need that new car that looks just like the one from that movie.

Fact:

There are children in this world who really believe that the pretty yellow car that just sped by is actually a robot in disguise.

Fact:

There are mothers in this world who will grin and gladly heed a toddler’s call of, “Mama! Follow that Bumblebee!!!”

Fact:

There are teenagers in this world who drive shiny new sports cars and think that the crazy laughing woman in the minivan is having a grand ol’ time and wants them to go faster.

Fact:

There are crazy women in mini-vans in this world who really will be having a grand ol’ time.

Fact:

There are cops in this world who will pull you over for doing a measly seven miles over the speed limit.

Fiction:

There are cops in this world who, when faced with the decision to pull over either teenager in shiny car or woman in minivan, will always choose teenager in shiny car.

Fact:

There are women in this world who have been pulled over thirty-eight times and have never once received a ticket.

Fiction:

There are women in this world who have been pulled over thirty-eight times and have never once received a ticket… without ever flashing an indecent amount of cleavage.

Fact:

There are children in this world who are so disappointed to have lost the chase that they suddenly find themselves with the capabilities to make the worst stink-eyes EVER.

Fiction:

There are stink-eyes in this world bad enough to get you out of a speeding ticket.

Fact:

There are flashes of cleavage in this world that still will.

Thank God.

Brought to you by Little Man's alien thumbs.

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