A Christmas Miracle

Hot Guy had to work today. (That's not the miracle, you cynics) We had planned to relish our holiday at home, with just us, by baking cookies and having a decorating extravaganza. Hot Guy, in case you are one of the few people reading this who doesn't actually know me and/or hasn't been reading me for a long time, is the cook in the family. He is also the patient one in the family (unless it involves screaming children before 11am). So the children associate cooking with Daddy.

In fact, Ironflower may have teared up when she found out that Daddy would not be here for cookies.
But I actually can handle cookies, especially when I use ready made dough. So I assured her that all would be well.

Because if you can't lie to your children at Christmas time, when can you?

I tried not to be lyingI planned things strategically. I rehearsed what I would say when they flung frosting, or spilled things all over the clean floor or otherwise got on my nerves. I decided to not even attempt to take pictures, because often trying to capture the perfect image distracts me from the experience at hand. Plus I didn't want dough in the lens of my camera. I even mentally organized how I would set things up at the dining room table to minimize mess. I reviewed my cookie painting procedures (egg yolk, food coloring, paint brushes, raw cookies) and my cookie decorating procedures (pots of different colored frosting, blunt knives, sprinkles). I timed things so that Hugmonkey was napping through much of it. I took a preemptive Excedrin Migraine.

And it went beautifully. Seriously.

We had a great time. Hugmonkey even frosted a cookie, in between licks of the spoon. Nothing burned. Nothing was flung. The cookies are beautiful. The children are happy. I didn't even freaking burn myself.

It's a Christmas miracle. Or a sign that I should plan every day like a military commander.

Either way, we're having pizza for dinner. There's only so Christmas luck to go around.

Move Your Cookies

Dear Stop and Shop,

I don't have a lot of willpower. I cope with stress through vices and since  I don't find hangovers and smoker's cough compatible with motherhood, I've turned to chocolate. (Also french fries. But not from your store. Because frozen french fries don't do it for me. What was I talking about?)

Anyway, recently I've been trying to cut back on the chocolate. Because constantly having to buy new (larger) jeans for myself? Also not compatible with motherhood.

And speaking of compatibility, do you really have to put your bakery-made chocolate chip cookies on a special table right in front of the milk? Seriously? Let me tell you, those chocolate cookies you guys make are GOOD. Not quite as good as my mom's, but very, very yummy. They have an addictive quality, I think. I mean, I'd avoided the bakery area on the other side of the damn store so I wouldn't be tempted. But there they were. . . . . .right in front of the one place I can never avoid.

Are you evil, Stop and Shop?

I mean, I know you want to move as much product as possible. . .but you seriously cannot get to the milk  without being in cookie grabbing distance. That's not product placement, that's torture.

In conclusion, let me just stay this:

Move the damn  cookies or I'm sending you my clothing bills.

Thank you for your time,

Jerseygirl89

PS

Please do not send me a form letter about eating more vegetables or the benefits of meditation. If you would really like to prevent me from going on a cookie rampage, add a martini bar (and a daycare) to your facility.