Destiny and the Blogspot Fairy

Yesterday, for no apparent reason, my blog's "Followers" box disappeared.  Having ignored my basic disability with overly technical operations, I tried to set up a link to my newly created Facebook fan page, but, instead, I wiped out, or altered or otherwise fucked up, an entirely different box, one I'd had no intention of even venturing near.  It all seemed so simple at the time.

When I saw that my "Followers" box was empty, I launched into an absurdly frantic flurry of non-activity in an effort to diagnose the problem.  In the middle of reading my blog's Edit HTML Page, comparing what I saw there to—to what, I must ask?--it occurred to me that I had not a clue what I was "reading."  This, of course, forced me to sit back and ponder my reaction.

Could this be one of those Signs from the Universe of which the I'm-Not-Religious-I'm-Spiritual speak?  And if it is a sign, what, exactly, is the sign?  Is it that, in the end, I'm not meant to be followed (which is, please note, in true keeping with the ItWasn'tMeantToBe sermon offered when life goes all twisted and scattered, stubbornly refusing to yield to The Plan).  Or is it the SetItFreeAndIfIt'sRealItWillReturn philosophy working its wonders, perhaps?  If you love me, dear readers, you'll return?

I have to laugh at the Church of Signs from the Universe congregants who spew their ItWasn'tMeantToBe wisdom.  Why is it so difficult for some people to accept that solutions aren't always found hiding in plain sight, and that rarely do they come with either signs or confetti?  Sometimes things in life are muddy and vague.  Sometimes they are have huge lumps and jagged edges, even though we want desperately for them to be smooth and easy to hold onto.  Sometimes things in life simply seem too painful to bear, and nothing is as we'd hoped it to be.  Sometimes there are no clean answers or easy solutions, and, sometimes, that is just the way it is.

The absence of ease doesn't mean that we have no part in any of it, or that we shouldn't give it a good try.  The failure of things to fall easily into place or work as we'd planned isn't proof that we are controlled by something grander out there.

Maybe it's that I feel better thinking that I have a certain amount of control over the things I do and choices I make, but I suspect that my brother, who meets it'll all work out with but what if it doesn't, is right.  We have to do our part to make things work out.  We have to pay attention to the plans we're cultivating, and do the things that get us to the point of either "I did it" or "I sure gave it my best shot."  Things aren't going to be okay just because we decide that the universe—or some other force—is taking care of the details.  Besides, why does so powerful a universe need us if it's doing all of the work?  And how much of a token gesture do we really want to be anyway?

Another thing I wonder about is if we really want to let ourselves off that easily.  If we decline acceptance of some aspect of control over our lives, we relinquish responsibility for the paths we take, and the byproducts of the decision to take those paths.  I like thinking...believing...that we impact our own existences and, to some extent, the existences of those connected to us. 

Let's face it, your souffle didn't fall as a sign that you were meant to serve tuna salad at your dinner party. It fell because you haven't yet perfected the art of souffle making, or because the creepy neighbor kid stuck his fingers in it when it came out of the oven.   How you handle serving tuna salad at your dinner party says something about you, not the universe.

I would rather have made my little programming maneuver with finesse.  Instead, I touched something I shouldn't have touched, or I saved something I should have discarded, and here I sit, utterly and completely without a follower to my made-up name, with no one to blame but myself. 

The only sign I see in this is a flashing blood red neon reminder not to touch things I know nothing about, like HTML.  I don't even know what HTML means, so why would I go around touching it?  And, not only did I touch it, I fondled it.  No, I molested it, and that is just wrong.

I knew that I was going in over my head, but I went in anyway.  I tried and I screwed it all up, but I will try again.  It's only Not Meant if I decline to even try. 

So, in this vein, I will read about how to identify the error in my blog's HTML, after finding out what HTML means, and I will, through diligence and determination, work toward reestablishing my "Followers" list.  I may even put in the link to my Facebook fan page. 

I will, however, do this tomorrow.  Right now, I'm thinking about what a bitch the Blogspot Fairy truly is.

Happy Birthday to Naomi....with Gingerbread Cookies

This year, Naomi's birthday came two days after Passover and four days before Easter, making it, to some, a mere blur on the calendar. In our house, however, March 31 was noted, as it is every year, in bright pink marker and fancy script befitting the day:  Naomi's Day!

Naomi is the wife of Evan's brother and, though not one of my oldest friends, she is, without a doubt, one of my closest. I hate that her day went by without the calls and accolades she so diligently ensures the rest of us receive on our significant days. Naomi is the person who remembers every birthday and anniversary, without fail, and makes each event into something grand and memorable. When she is in charge of the party, the Naomi-droppings are wonderfully special little treats carefully selected for each individual. The food is an array of our favorites, with Coke in chilled glass bottles for the Coke drinkers, and a selection of expensive wines for the would-be connoisseurs. She always has meat for the carivores and vegetables for me, and manages to make each guest feel like her favorite.  I love that she remembers that Evan favors blue cheese dressing, but not blue cheese, and I feel compelled to deliver a hug to her when I hear her lean over to one of her guests and say quietly, "I thought of you when I saw this recipe." There is no way to feel anything less than truly valued and loved when Naomi is at the helm.

And so why, I must wonder, is it that Naomi's birthday would pass without a parade? Ever? Why would she say, in response to my query about how her birthday was going, that she was a little surprised that she didn't get calls from some of the people she considers family? Of course, she is Naomi and, so, dug up various excuses and reasons, and applied them all to the assorted delinquents. She's too generous of heart, in my estimation, especially since, to this day, they've still not called to say boo.

Fully aware of the WhatAboutMe universe in which we linger, and wanting the celebration of the day of Naomi's entrance into this world to be totally Naomi-centered, Evan and I planned our course of action many months ago. Knowing that Naomi prefers her won birthday parties to be devoid of guests, we invited her for a quiet dinner at our house.

Two years ago, we tried to have an intimate surprise dinner party for Naomi's birthday, with only Naomi, her husband, Evan and me in attendance.  We moved along nicely, planning and plotting until, through some course of events that, to this day, remain mirky in our haunted memories, all hell broke loose. Our intimate dinner for four evolved, in one uncontrollable afternoon, into a dinner party for the masses. We found ourselves "inviting" people who called for invitations, who, in turn, felt compelled to invite their own guests, not one of whom was Naomi's friend. The usual late arrivals arrived predictably and dreadfully late, and the tag-along invites brought dates, but not gifts. The group had a single conversation centered entirely and solely around the most irksome of topics and characters, and never once turned to the guest of honor, who sat there smiling and nodding and, I've no doubt, calculating exactly how long she had to stay before fleeing the scene without being rude. Having had dinner and cake, opened her presents and lingered a while, Naomi put on her coat as she thanked Evan and me profusely. Holding both of us in a giant, warm hug, she begged us to slaughter, on sight, any urge to throw her a party again, ever, in all of her remaining years.

This year, as it turned out, Passover was two days before her birthday. In true Naomi-ness, she and her husband did the bulk of the Seder cooking, transporting the food into the city from their house more than two and a half hours away. The day after her birthday, her husband left for a week, so her birthday was spent readying him for his trip. Finally, on Easter, Naomi was all ours.

It was perfect, too, because Naomi, our nice Jewish girl, loves Easter. (Frankly, Naomi refuses to turn down an opportunity to fuss and fix and prepare for family and friends, so all holidays are equally precious to her.)

Evan, who adores a good play on words fashioned especially for the recipient, had, long ago, come up with the perfect gift. At every family event, Naomi and I do kitchen duty, and the outfit of the day always includes an apron and yellow rubber gloves. No, this isn't a housewife's sexual fantasy, it's Naomi's idea of preparedness. While I've been known to don an apron on the rare occasion, I will not, under any circumstances, do anything at all ever while wearing yellow rubber gloves. Ever. But I digress.

Evan's idea was to paint something witty and purely Naomi-esque on an apron. I would make the apron and then paint his literary genius on the pocket. Here's the foundation for his thinking:  Naomi was raised in a traditional Jewish family. She attended Hebrew school for five years in preparation for her Bat Mitzvah and is, in many ways, the embodiment of a good Jewish girl. She feeds us and hugs us, and tells us we are the best and the brightest, before noting that we're too skinny and probably could use more rest (or sex, depending on who she's counseling).

"You're wasting away," she laughingly scolds in her exaggerated New York Jewish mama accent as I wedge my fat ass into the chair directly in front of the pile of chocolate she's laid out especially for me.

I believe that most of her husbands have been Jewish, and, of course, I know that Evan's brother, her current husband, is. All of this notwithstanding, she does not cling to a strong religious belief system. It's the very best of the Jewish heritage, culture and tradition all rolled up in one beautiful Naomi.

Evan has a wonderfully warped sense of humor and Naomi possesses a delightfully quick and equally warped wit. When EvanHumor enters the conversaton, recongnition flickers in her eyes immediately and her appreciation for his cleverness is demonstrated with rolling rounds of hearty belly laughs. Now, bearing in mind these senses of humor, in conjunction with the apron/yellow rubber glove fetish, Evan's creative juices spewed out this:

She loved it. With only the slightest trepidation remaining on her part, I do believe that Evan has convinced her to wear the apron at Passover dinner next year. That should make an interesting story...

Now, the cake. For some reason I've yet to understand, Naomi is called The Duck. In honor of her birthday last year, and her Grand Duckness every year, Evan and I made the Duck Diving Cake.

 The Bird Brothel Birdhouse Evan made for Naomi's birthday last year.  She won't let birds go in it--they'll make it dirty, she says.

This year, we made an Easter scene with, of course, a duck in residence. We made it out of sugar cookies and, Naomi's favorite, gingerbread, and decorated it all with Royal Frosting.

I say "we" made these lovelies because, while I'm the baker, Evan is my technical advisor and cheerleader and, when needed, carpenter and master finagler. I've yet to take on one of these bizarre projects without his counsel and, frankly, the bizarreness is borne, as a rule, largely out of his oddly brilliant and frighteningly creative mind. Naomi, our comrade in the absurd, was thilled with her "cake" and felt loved, making ours a successful endeavor.

So, dear Naomi, Happy Birthday one more time. We love you more than you know. You're a true and consistent friend to both of us, and you bring tremendous joy into our lives. And, my dear, you have the best That-was-the-time-I-had-sex-in-the-Louvre genre of stories of anyone on earth!

GINGERBREAD COOKIES  (adapted from Betty Crocker's Cookbook)

INGREDIENTS
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup butter
1 ½ cups dark molasses
2/3 cup cold water
7 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

PREPARATION
Mix brown sugar, butter, molasses and water.  Stir in remaining ingredients.  Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Prepeat oven to 350 degrees (F).  Roll dough out on floured surface to about ¼ inch thickness.  Cut with floured cookie cutters and place about 2 inches apart on lightly greased chookie sheet.

Bake for about 10 to 12 minutes, or until no indentation remains when the center of the cookie is touched.  Be careful to not to over bake.

Allow to cool slightly before removing from cookie sheet.  Cool completely on wire rack before decorating with Royal Frosting.

FROSTING AND ASSEMBLY
I still don't quite have the piping as clean as I'd like, but it was easier, and more fun, after reading Brown Eyed Baker's How To on decorating with Royal Frosting.

For this project, I made 3 batches of Royal Icing.

(The base is a sugar cookie. I was concerned that the gingerbread would puff too much to make a decent foundation.  Roll out about 1/2 inch of dough and use a dinner plate as a template, placing the plate on the dough and then cutting around the outer edge of the plate.  Drape the cut dough around your rolling pin, and carefully transfer it to an ungreased cookie sheet.  I baked it at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes.  After the first 15 minutes, check it frequently until it's a very light golden color along the edge.)

When the base was completely cooled, I iced it with thinned, green tinted Royal Icing and placed it in the refrigerator overnight to harden.

I don't yet have a duck cookie cutter (if you can imagine such a thing!), so I cut the tail off of the turkey shape, reshaping her feet into smoother, longer shapes, and elongating her beak into a bill.  I also pulled her head down a bit and fluffed up her tail.

I decorated each cookie and placed those, too, in the refrigerator to allow the icing to harden completely.

The black flower is actually purple

Once hardened, the cookies were applied to the base using piping consistency icing.

The sheep and house were thick enough to allow me to put a toothpick through them, with the other end of the toothpick going through the sugar cookie and icing on the bottom of the cookie for added glue.  Everything was brought to room temperature before the toothpicks were inserted. 
I made the cookies one day, and frosted and assembled them the next.  Unfortunately, the pictures are blurry, but the "cake" was cute, the cookies were delicious and we had a very happy Duck in our house.


** The apron and its decoration were made with love and respect, and were no way meant to be a display of anything derogatory toward Jews, Christians or Cheese Lovers.  If you're easily offended, frankly, this probably isn't the blog for you.

Poop and fleas, and other nice things

Recently, a woman told me that she named “all poop” after me.  She actually wrote that in an e-mail message.

“I name all poop after you.” 

I shit you not (excuse the pun).  It wasn’t even in the body of the message, it was the post script.  She wrote it in response to a note I sent to her thanking her for the I-Love-You-Still card she sent to the man I live with.  I thought her comment about poop was uncalled for, given how gracious my message was, my motivation so clearly borne out of generosity of heart. 

“Thank you for the card you sent to Evan,” was what I wrote. 

Okay, maybe “gracious” is a slight exaggeration, and I guess my motivation was borne more out of wanting her to feel irked that I knew about the card, and, perhaps, pissed, even, that he showed me something she thought would be private between them.  Frankly, I'm still feeling rather justified and somewhat cleansed.  After all, I could have opted for full-on bitchy rather than wading through with polite passive aggression.  I think my approach shows reserve and ingenuity, all rolled up in one.  She did, after all, send the man I live with an I-Love-You-Still card, and that's just not polite.

Upon receipt of my “thank you,” she immediately wrote her adorable little response.  In only one or two lines of amusingly bad spelling and creatively mixed metaphors, she noted, in essence, my proclivity for certain oral activity, the practice of which is completely illegal in most Southern states and an unmentionable abomination in all religions.  In keeping with her eloquent writing style, she added this witty post script: “P.S. I name all poop after you.” 

Honestly, I don't think she meant for it to be amusing.  She doesn’t like me much. 

Admittedly, I understand the effect she was going for.  She meant for me to curl up, thumb in mouth, whimpering and ashamed of the low I had so clearly hit by, you know, existing and all, thereby causing so decent and lovely a human to feel no options but to name shit after me.  She was, after all, thoughtful enough to send Evan a card.  That was nice of her. 

But no.  Wretched One that I am.  I couldn't even give her credit for being so swell.  Instead, I read her note and post script, and paused, mouth bobbing open ever so slightly, before bursting out in a hearty belly laugh. 

Obviously, the first thing that hit me was that she actually names shit.  And admits to it.  In writing.   To me.

As I sat there, reading this e-mail message, tears streaming from my eyes, laughter rippling uncontrollably through me, I envisioned her putting little doggie boots and a little doggie beret on her poor little doggie before trotting out into the world with him cringing on the end of his lavender glitter-studded leash, and I could hear her Julia Childesque baby voice tittering, “Does my widdle boy need to take a Wosawe?”  (Oh, come on. Tell me you really think a woman who names poop doesn't prance around the dog park with her poor little dog looking utterly douche-like.)

And it isn't that she simply names shit.  She names all shit after me. 

I've been accused, of late, of  being mean for no particular reason, so I want to be careful here.  This naming of shit might, after all, be a kind and generous gesture, rather than the “fuck you” I have attached to it.  I mean, one's name being affixed to a mound of sizzling, smoldering waste might actually be an honor in some countries, among various cultures.  Of course, it's possible, too, that “poop” is a gentler, kinder substance than is shit, hence the compliment in the reference to poop in relation to me.  While shit is smelly and gloppy and gag-inducing, poop may be, in her glitter-glued universe, a sort of preferred substance, something sweet and silky, sparkling and clean, something reserved solely for the special and much loved.  And she did say, you'll recall,  “poop.”  It was only I who likened it to shit.

This brings me to the second thing that made me laugh heartily:  She calls shit “poop.”  At 50-something, this woman actually calls shit “poop.”  It's not that she's calling shit “poop” because children are within hearing or, in this case, reading, range.  (Of course, that logic pretty much falls apart where it sits anyway, given her commentary, in the same note, on blow jobs.) 

I'll admit that there may have been a time that it could have been cute that she called shit poop, but such time passed, oh, like 45 years ago.  A grown woman who can write a note in which she addresses the administration of blow jobs can, most certainly, bring herself to say the word “shit.”  (And, since we're on the topic, the fact that she finds an insult in saying a man might get enough oral sex to satisfy him just could be one reason she's the old girlfriend.  Could be.)

Alas, this little ditty wasn't the last she would pen.  Since then she has offered words of wisdom worth embroidering on a little pillow.  In response to a mass mailing that a virus may have gone out through my e-mail address, via hacking, she sent this bit of literary brilliance:  May a flea bited, sexually deranged, dung covered camel take up residence in your kitchen and infest your bed.

It's not a typographical error; she actually wrote flea bited. 

And, although I wasn't aware that one could have an infestation of camels, let alone an infestation of a lone camel, I'm assuming my uber articulate friend would know about such things.  I'm not even going to start on the concept of the camel needing to be in both the kitchen and the bedroom.  Seems inconsistent, but, hey, who am I to question the curse of a shit-namer? 

I thought the embroidered pillow would be lovely on the bed in which the infestation of camel resides.  I'm picturing a cream background with delicate stitches, perhaps in rich and vibrant shades of poop.  Nice?