My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's in the kitchen trying to channel her Greek and Italian heritage with enough gusto to make some freakin' Christmas cookies. I swear, if I hear one more damn thing about these freakin' Christmas cookies, I'm going to start watering the dining room chairs again.
Apparently, Grandma Sig was Greek, and every year she made about a ga-zillion Jewish coffee cakes (don't even TRY to figure that one out) and these Greek cookies that are really nice for dunking. And since Grandpa Bob was Italian, his favorite treat was some pastry thing that was sent to him by a lady named Minnie Vicario, and they were filled cookies with figs and chocolate and whatnot and he hid them in a tin on top of the refrigerator because my mo-ther was rotund, even as a child.
Just explaining it makes me want to go take a nap.
Anywhoose...for a normal person, baking up all of this crap would be a festive and lovely tradition that would fill the house with nice smells and the freezer with the promise of future rewards for doing the laundry (or some other homekeeping skill that she apparently decided to just give the hell up on already). But this is my mo-ther we're talking about.
When I bake or cook or clean, I make sure that I am properly attired. That means that I wear an apron or a chef's coat or a handkerchief tied around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes. Then, when I commence doing whatever it is that I am supposed to be doing, I'm not picking at or re-adjusting anything when I should be concentrating on not burning the house down or asphixitating the neighborhood with bleach and ammonia fumes.
My stupid mo-ther, on the other hand, is so darn distracted by life that she decided to head to the kitchen dressed in THIS ridiculous ensemble... hair tied in a pony tail on the exact top center of her pointy head (so that she looks like one of the characters in a Dr. Seuss book), a white tee-shirt that I am pretty sure she fished out of the clearance bin in the men's section of the Sam's Club when she was all of nine years old, and capri yoga pants that have absolutely NOTHING to do with yoga, other than the fact that she seems to THINK alot about doing yoga when she wears them (this despite the sad fact that we would have to call in the paramedics and a forklift if she ever decided to actually get down onto the floor).
Did I mention that we've also entered the "winter legs" portion of the program and that she insists on wearing a pair of old fuzzy leopard print slippers that suffered a blow out on the sides of them circa 1994 so that her pinky toes stick out like some kind of stabilizing mechanism to prevent the whole big crock pot full of hot mess from tumbling down upon itself?
She's been in that kitchen for five hours now and I have yet to hear the oven door open. I've heard the mixer mixing and the water watering and the dishwasher washing, but not one cookie or cake or pastry or piece of anything has been placed in the Ziploc plastic storage containers with little snowmen on them.
As for me, I've planted myself in her Happy Chair with the remote and a few movies that make me want to move to Ireland. The first is the previously adored and ever-mentioned on this here blog, P.S. I LOVE YOU, and the second is a cutey cute flick that I saw for the first time last night...LEAP YEAR. Neither of these are exactly Oscar material, I know, but at least the scenery is gorgeous, the people are lovely, and there's not one damn Greek cookie or Italian biscuit to be found.
If only we were so lucky here in Hoosierville.
Mom is making good progress on her Funky Santa, which she has re-named Frank. She futzed and futzed and futzed with the pattern on the coat last night, but I think she might have found something that will work. I'll share pics as soon as the coast is clear and I can make it into the office without the old lady catching me and dragooning me to help roll dough or mix nuts or do whatever the heck it is she's doing in there.
In the meantime, I'll just sit here with my iPad and watch the movies and finish my Christmas shopping. I've finished purchasing things for my Aunt Chrissy, so now it's on to finding something for that pesky little cousin of mine. Do you suppose I could just tell him to go play in traffic this year, or would that land me on the naughty list? Aw, crap. I'll opt for a sweater.
****OK, Mommie Dearest here. I've just talked to Aunt Chrissy and she tells me that little Bosco was very hurt by the ridiculously hateful comment that was here previously regarding putting a plastic bag over his head. When she pointed this out to me, I immediately felt ashamed that I could even imagine that something like that would have been funny. It wasn't, and I'm sorry that it was posted at all. So please allow me to sincerely apologize to Bosco, his Mommie, and any of you who were offended. And as for me thinking that a little nine-pound dog talking about hurting another little dog could be funny....I suppose that this is when I tell you that if I had any brains at all I'd be dangerous. I am sorry and it won't happen again. Stewey will still bitch and moan and complain about me, the state of affairs around here, and his pesky little cousin, but we're going to leave the stupid at home for now. Thanks.****
Here's hoping that your kitchens are filled with everything you need them to be filled with and not filled with anything you don't.
With love from your pal,