Little White Non-truths

Today at the store I bought some yogurt-covered pretzels, and I thought to myself: this is not yogurt on these pretzels. It's frosting. These are frosting-covered pretzels, and I know it. But I will continue to eat them as a healthy snack. Because I am a liar. The end.

Anyway, as long as I am on the topic of Lies We Tell Ourselves, I thought I'd make a quick list for your reference. Feel free to add to it in the comments, if you so desire.

Lies We Tell Ourselves:

1. Yogurt-covered pretzels are covered in yogurt

2. Graham crackers are crackers (not cookies)

3. If my friend were here, she would laugh at the way I am making fun of her right now

4. My friends never talk about me behind my back

5. I was funny in junior high (not annoying)

6. I was always nice to everyone in high school

7. My children are less annoying than other children

8. People like to hear about my dreams

9. My friends on Facebook care about how bad this traffic is

10. I will get up early tomorrow and [fill in the blank with anything]

11. I will not regret staying up to watch this episode of Full House tomorrow morning

12. Everyone watches reruns of Full House in their spare time, not just me

My Super-Serious Condition That I Have Now

Way back when I was an adolescent, I was sitting in the kitchen one day eating my breakfast before school. Next to me sat my sister, and across from us stood my mother, who never sits but instead cleans incessantly.

My sister and I were eating a typical breakfast of cereal. I don't know what kind. I'd say it was Life, or maybe Corn Pops. Not sure. Not the point.

Anyway, the reason this particular breakfast stands out to me over all the others is because of a little  incident that took place. You might call it an outburst. I don't know. Just shhh...

It was quiet in the kitchen that day, no one was really in the habit of friendly chit-chat in the morning. However, one sound did mange to cut through the silence: the sound of my sister eating.

I don't know if it was because I was overtired, or if I was having a bad week or something, but everything about the process of my sister's cereal-eating was so disgusting that day I couldn't take it. The click of the spoon against the teeth, the slightest slurp of the milk as it went in her mouth, the gross semi-soggy crunch of the Corn Pops (or Life?)  as she mashed them into mush. Ughhh. Even now, I can't stand to think of it.

Eventually I lost it. OH MY GOD STOP CLICKING YOUR SPOON IT IS SO DISGUSTING! Or something like that. Something mature and reasonable.

Both my mom and sister stopped dead in their tracks, shocked by my sudden rage, and then gave me the "you-are-the-rudest-teenager-and-we-are-ashamed-to-be-related-to-you" look -- something I was not unfamiliar with in those days.

At the time I just continued to be rude, indignant that they didn't hear how gross those noises were. But now I realize, thanks to  this article, that the way my sister was eating her cereal that day was not actually gross. She was probably eating in a very normal, polite way. In fact, most people whose disgusting mouth noises have driven me over the edge have probably not been doing anything gross or weird with their mouths. It's me. It's my ears. I have misophonia.

This is a shock to me, of course. Misophonia is a thing? Really? Well, probably not, but still. I might have a condition, y'all. A straight-up condition. And the condition is not me using the phrase "y'all," despite being by all accounts not-Southern. It's that my ears and brain are in a toxic relationship called misophonia.

Is it possible that all of those kissing scenes in movies are actually not horrifying to listen to?

Is it possible that my husband's gum chewing is not the worst sound that's ever crossed my ear holes?

Is it possible that my anger was not righteous, but unfounded?

My husband chewing gum.

Eh, not sure.

Give Me Pasta Or Give Me Death

Hello. I wanted to let you know that I have been spending time drawing a picture for a different blog today. That is, not this blog. That is, I've been cheating on you.

As I've mentioned before, I am a fan of the blog siriouslydelicious. Basically everything I've ever cooked with moderate success has been found there. You should check it out.

Well, you can imagine my absolute delight when Siriouslydelicious announced a contest to recreate her signature image of the sexy ladies eating spaghetti. [Details here.] Has anything ever been more up my alley? I had to do it.


So, without further ado, I give you the spaghetti girls as seen by The Lazy Stand-Up. I call this piece

"Salad Is For Losers."

Do you think I should submit it????? Do you think the cool blog will like it????? Am I going to get asked to prom??????

Halloween

I meant to post this yesterday, but in all of the craziness it slipped my mind.

It is my favorite tribute to Halloween ever.

Link HERE.

A couple random thoughts on Halloween:

1) Why are preschoolers so obsessed with being the one to ring the doorbell? Why????? If it weren't for doorbells, I would have had a better Halloween. Just saying.

2) How can this candy be so good on the first bite and then make me want to vomit so much? And why do I keep eating it despite it making me want to barf? What is in there?

Okay bye I'm going to go eat more of that now.

Tummy Tyrant

A long time ago, when we began the potty-training process, I made the critical mistake of referring to my son's tummy as its own entity. I consulted "Tummy" when it came to digestive issues in an attempt to make my child listen to his bodily urges. For example "Are you sure you don't have to go potty? [Yes, Mommy.] Check with your tummy. Does your tummy need to go potty?" etc.

Later, we added to the "Tummy" situation when we consulted it, rather than my son directly, regarding issues of hunger:

"Is your tummy hungry? Oh man, I can hear your tummy growling!" Etc.

Through this, we have inadvertently convinced my son that "Tummy" is a separate person inside him who calls the shots. Now when he orders me to make him lunch, or weasels out of using the bathroom, it's not him doing it, it's Tummy.

P.S. Tummy is a total dick.

Now I find myself getting in arguments with Tummy while my son mediates. He's just an innocent bystander, caught in the middle, while Tummy makes demands. (Incidentally, Tummy has the voice of a scary monster.)

     Son: Mommy, my Tummy says (scary monster voice): I'm hungry for a treat!

     Me: You just had breakfast. Tell Tummy it's not time for eating right now.

     Son: Tummy, it's not time for eating now. (Scary monster voice) But I'm still hungry; I want juice! (Normal voice) Mommy, Tummy says he still wants juice.
  
     Me: Please tell Tummy to shut the hell up and let me use the bathroom in peace.

That last line is actually just in my head, but you get the idea. It's like I live in a mental institution. We need a Tummy exorcist.

Also, if this ends up being my son's imaginary friend, that's disappointing. I mean, an internal organ? Really? Why not a superhero or a unicorn or something? I don't know. I want to support him in his creativity, but this Tummy guy has got to GO.

Oh my god; Tummy is coming. I need to find some crackers. Talk to you guys later.

Just not lest ye be judged on a stranger's blog.

We've all had moments where we've behaved in a way that would embarrass us later on in life. All of us. Don't act like you haven't. Stop it. You have.

For many of us, the majority of this unflattering behavior occurs during a time called "pre-teenager/teenager." It's expected and even somewhat tolerated during this time. However, the further a person gets from teenager time, the less accepted the ridiculous behavior becomes.

Case in point: This weekend at a baseball game I saw a grown man tear up his cash in front of a hot dog vendor to show his dissatisfaction with the vendor's slow service. To be clear: he tore up his own money.

The man was probably in his late-fifties/early-sixties, and the number one thing I felt was embarrassed for him. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I remember thinking: I can probably use this on my blog.

Of course, who knows the kind of night that guy was having. His team was down two runs, I will give him that. Maybe that vendor was actually an old arch-nemesis and he was just trying to return some money and bury the hatchet after the mining accident in Bulgaria, but when the guy blew him off, he was just like "Forget this!" and tore up the money.

You never know. 

I can say without question that I would not enjoy random strangers analyzing my stupid behavior on their blogs, or in their homes, or anywhere. But I'm sure it's happened. Especially because once I fell off a treadmill at the gym.

It's safe to say that, at one time or another, perfect strangers have sat around and told stories about something you did or said in public. Hopefully it was just a short little anecdote and not a story they tell every year at Thanksgiving.


A friend once told me a story about something that happened to her in high school (during the teenager time). She was getting ready for school one day, listening to radio, when the deejay started telling a story about a girl he'd seen in the mall the day before.

Apparently this girl was a real brat, yelling at her mother for not buying her a particular shirt. The deejay mentioned the store name, and the time of day, and described the atrocious behavior of the girl in hilarious detail.

It was my friend. The one in the story. She was listening to a stranger make fun of her on the radio. She knew it was her: the store, the time of day, the shirt . . . it was unquestionably her. She turned off the radio and never told anyone for a long, long time.

And then I told all of you. Because it's a good story.

So what do you think? Is someone out there telling a story about you right now? I bet that hot dog guy is telling a story about me . . . the nerve. 

Love Sandwich

No one makes fun of ladies better than ladies. A friend posted this on Facebook yesterday and I found it pretty amusing. A nice little how-to-keep-your-man video by an obsessive, mentally-unbalanced girlfriend. Good stuff.

Mobile users click HERE.

Betty Crocker

--> My son is turning three next week, which is a big deal. He is very excited about his party and that means the pressure is ON. How many of you remember your third birthday party and the many details your mother included to make it perfect? All of you? That’s what I thought.

Mostly what concerns me about his birthday party is the cake. I have decided, against all logic, that I am going to be a mom who bakes her children’s birthday cakes from scratch each year. I just decided that, and I’m not sure why. I think Pinterest may have something to do with it.

I have this vision of me in a cute apron, mixing the batter, humming a calm, happy tune. This is how I want my son to remember me: the cute, perfect mom.

 Picture from HERE.

However it usually ends up with me alone in the kitchen at 11PM swearing like a sailor. 

Maybe to you, making a cake is no big deal, but baking in general stresses me out. I never have the right ingredients, I don’t remember to soften the butter, and inevitably I spill too much of something into the batter and wonder forever what it would have tasted like had I not done that.

I blame this culinary handicap on my mother. She is a self-proclaimed terrible cook, and raised me to believe that cooking is both difficult and unnatural. She is famous for bizarre kitchen mishaps, like cooking frozen pizzas upside-down in the oven, or forgetting to put sugar in chocolate-chip cookies. When these things happen, she always laughs and says “See? This is why I don’t cook!”

But despite this anti-cooking background, I really want to be a person who cooks. I visit this blog every day and make big plans. It’s my own little rebellion. I’m like the republican Alex P. Keaton to his hippie parents, Elyse and Steven Keaton. What would we do, Baby, without us? Sha-na-na-naaaaaaa. 

What prevents me from going Betty-Crocker all over this joint (my house) is a deeply-embedded lack of confidence. I am always certain that whatever I am making will not turn out, and this doubt causes me to make silly mistakes, and while I am lamenting those mistakes I make more mistakes, and then the swearing begins. 

When I am bake-swearing, it is often about these topics:

1) Sifting. Why? Can’t I just stir the stuff together with a fork? Do I really need to go buy and wash a sifter every time flour and salt need to mix together?

2) Room-temperature butter. I see why room-temperature butter is ideal, but I never remember to take the butter out of my freezer in time. To do that, I would have to know about the baking hours in advance. That is just not a practical expectation. So I end up trying to “soften it” in the microwave, or on the windowsill, or on the stove while the oven preheats. Spoiler alert: that doesn’t work and sometimes you end up with butter all over your leather couch.

3) Time expectations. Recipes like to predict how long it will take you to make the food. They divide the time into “prep time” and “cooking time.” These estimates are grossly inaccurate. Who makes these predictions? Whatever the predicted time commitment, I end up doubling it, and my oven just sits there preheating for hours wasting valuable energy-bill money.

4) Paddle attachment. My kitchen is small. Counter and cupboard space are at a premium and are usually being used by things like sippy cups and almost (but not completely) empty boxes of cereal. So excuuuuuuuuse me for not owning a standing mixer, EVERY BAKING RECIPE EVER. I don’t have a paddle attachment to gently mix your precious ingredients and you can stop making me feel inadequate about it.

Sometimes I think the food can sense my incompetence. It knows I don't know what I’m doing, so it acts up. It's just like students in a class with a substitute teacher. "She has no idea what ‘julienning’ is, you guys! Quick, while she looks it up on Google let's all burn to the bottom of the pan! Hahahahaha!” 

It’s just a theory.

Clearly I've had several kitchen disasters, but occasionally I am successful and make something delicious. When this happens, I am so amazed with myself that I drive my loved ones crazy saying things like, "This is pretty good, huh?" and  "I made this. From scratch.” and “Did you know you could make salad dressing? I didn't." and "Wow. I can't believe I made this. Like, it was just a bunch of random ingredients and now it's THIS!"

By the time the meal is done, no one will make eye contact with me.

But guys, I am NOT going to give up on my dreams. This birthday cake is going to HAPPEN. It’s going to be GOOD. I am confident and that is why I am using a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS. One day my children will tell their friends "My mom is a good cook. She always makes us delicious birthday cakes from scratch that never have hard chunks of brown sugar in them.”

Mark my words.

Snack-Attack

 In my mind, “snack” is a very Minnesotan word. That’s because I say it like this: snayack. As in: “Oh, hieeye doah youah weahnt ah snayack?” (That was my Minnesota accent. My one regret of online stand-up is no opportunity for funny voices. I am considering attaching a .wmv file to each post.)

What I’m writing about today is called a snayack-attayack. That’s when your stomach decides it needs snacks: like cookies, or chocolate candy, or cake. You know, nutritious stuff.

I know what you’re saying: Molly, those aren’t snacks! They are desserts!

Or, if you are Elmo, you’re saying “Cookies are ‘sometimes food,’ Molly.”

Well, you and Elmo are dead wrong, because these are definitely “all the time snacks” in the employee lounge of my work. It doesn’t matter what time of day you might be passing through – you will encounter one of the above-mentioned items. (Or pizza. You might also encounter pizza.)

So let’s say you just got to work and it’s 7:50 AM. [Contractually you’re supposed to be there by 7:30, but hey, that Facebook newsfeed wasn’t going to read itself!] So you walk into work, feeling good because you had a nutritious breakfast of a hardboiled egg and whole-wheat toast.  You pass through the employee lounge on your way to drop off some copies, and then you see it, a full sheet cake. Someone’s having a baby/retiring/celebrating her baking addiction! How nice!

You decide that a little piece of cake before 8 AM is normal – after all it’s basically the same thing as eating a donut. And look! There are donut holes, too. Sweet.

Later in the day, you're on your way to the bathroom when you spot some leftover cookies from some other meeting or celebration of some kind. Don’t. Mind. If. You. Do. And then on your way back from said meeting the cookies are gone, but you notice Janet the office administrator refilled her candy bowl with miniature Twix bars, and hey, why not?

By the end of the day, that nutritious breakfast is a distant memory. You are now running purely on processed sugar and net carbs (not totally sure what “net carbs” means, but it sounds right).

This is what it is like to work where I work.

At least it was.

Lately, there has been a noticeable downturn in sugar available in the employee lounge. Like, almost none. Maybe everyone has just stopped having babies and retiring. Maybe that lady finally got help for her baking addiction. And apparently everyone’s eating all the cookies during the meetings now because there are no leftovers.

Also, that b**ch Janet hasn’t filled her candy jar in a month. 

I’m not saying I need this stuff. I am fully aware that I do not. But if you get people used to a certain . . . standard of living, it seems a little rude to abruptly take it away. Like, pretty rude. Like, I have a raging headache right now because it’s so rude. And my hands are shaking from the rudeness. And I am going to go knock over a bakery on my way home due to this rude behavior of my colleagues.

All I’m saying is that maybe when I get to work tomorrow there should be a tray of chocolate chip muffins on my desk. And a pizza on my chair. And a cookie in my mailbox. And a … okay I see the problem here. I will seek help.

Confession:

You know how sometimes you find out you're a freak? You live your life thinking "the things I do are normal" and then one day the illusion comes crashing down around you when you realize that adults don't get milk-mustaches. 

I'm not talking about cool "Got Milk?" mustaches. I'm talking about regular milk (or Kool-Aid, or CranApple Juice, or Purple Stuff) mustaches, the kind small children get because they don't know how to properly drink from a cup. I get those. Me. And I'm not five.

I was sitting there with my friends, drinking a refreshing drink, when someone goes "Um, you have a drink mustache." I'm like, yeah, I always get those! And everyone else was like "How?" and I was like, I don't know. And they were like "That's weird." And I was like oh.

And that is how I found out that I am a weirdo who drinks in a weird way. Allow me to explain:

 

I prefer drinking this way because it allows me to use powerful suction to draw the drink into my mouth, like a straw:

 

I think maybe I do this because when I was in 8th grade I had jaw surgery and my jaw was wired shut for six weeks. But I'm not sure. All I know is that I prefer to drink this way, even if it has some negative side effects:

 

I needed to get that off my chest. If you're completely thrown-off and prefer not to follow the blog anymore, I understand. But you should know that makes you a jerk.

Also, does anyone else drink this way? Please. Someone has to. 

Bunny Etiquette

What is the etiquette on eating chocolate bunnies? Is it gross to sit down and eat an entire chocolate bunny by yourself?

I need to know for a friend.

The Flavor of Freshness

Back when I really did stand-up, like, not at my computer, I did all right. Most of the time some of the people laughed and I felt not-very-suicidal afterward. But there was this one time when I truly bombed.

I know bombing is all part of the stand-up comedy experience, and that you're supposed to grow from failure, and that even the best comics have had bad sets ... but I would rather have diarrhea forever than bomb at stand-up. (Mild diarrhea.)

One of the reasons the set went so poorly was that I hadn't actually finished writing the joke. It was not my usual kind of bit; it was more of a Seinfeldian life-observation thing, which should have been a red-flag because I am not as funny as Jerry Seinfeld.

Unfortunately a friend of mine was there to see the disaster, and he used to always bring it up: Where were you going with that joke, Molly? Why didn't you finish it? Can I hear it again? Why were you sweating so much? Did you mean to cry like that?

I refused to even speak of it. Just thinking of the joke brought back the panic and nausea I experienced on stage that night. As far as I was concerned, I would never attempt the joke again.

But it has haunted me long enough.

You guys, I am going to try to finish the bit. Once and for all. Here we go. Don't laugh (but do).

Ahem.

Why is mint the flavor of freshness?

I only ask because I have never liked the flavor of mint. I don't know why; I just don't. When I was little, I used to lie about brushing my teeth because I didn't like the taste of the toothpaste. I just brushed my teeth with water. Then I would get in trouble, because I was disgusting.

Why does it have to be mint? What if cilantro was the flavor of freshness? What if it was basil? I like those flavors. Sure, it would be weird to walk around with the taste of basil in your mouth at first, but don't you think we would all just get used to it?

Before you completely write me off as a freak show with bad breath (I brush now) you should know that this aversion to mint has had a real impact on my life. For one thing, while everyone else enjoys the red-and-white mint after a meal at a classy restaurant, I sit there with the taste of tacos in my mouth. It's unpleasant. Furthermore, it has cost me countless potential friendships. Just think of all of the little conversations people have while sharing Altoids. For example:

Mandy: Hey, can I have an Altoid?

Amy: Sure.

Mandy: Thanks, I love Altoids.

Amy: Me too, let's be friends and tell secrets.

Mandy: Great!

Me: Hey guys, what's going on?

Amy: Nothing.

Mandy: You kind of missed it.

Me: NOOOOOO! NOT AGAIN!

You see? My social development has been stunted. (Clearly.) So perhaps it's time we re-examine freshness. Maybe it's time for a new flavor to step up to the plate. What do you think? Should it be vanilla? Raspberry? Rosemary? What would be your choice?

[And at that point people in the audience would be yelling out stuff like "Beer! Chocolate! Lucky Charms!" and I would be all "you guys are crazy, I love it" and we would laugh and have a good back-and-forth and then I would say "That's my time, you've been a great audience!" and walk off the stage to uproarious applause.]

Redemption.

Dove Chocolate

Recently I bought a bag of Dove chocolates. It was part of a “if I just have three pieces of dark chocolate throughout the day, I won’t eat as much junk food!” theory. The theory remains unproven, but I did eat a lot of chocolate.

From what I can tell, the Dove company specializes in three areas: soap, chocolate, and female self-esteem. Naturally the fine people at Dove believe these things to be interrelated. For example, if you eat chocolate you will gain weight/have low self-esteem and need a shower. Simple logic, really.

One great thing about eating a bunch of Dove chocolate is reading all of the self-affirming messages they print inside the wrapper. I wonder whose idea this was. I am guessing the creative meeting went something like this:

Boss: All right, we know our target audience is overweight women, right?

Employee: Yes.

Boss: How can we get these overweight women to eat more of our delicious product?

Employee: We could start a rumor that if you eat three pieces a day it will curb your cravings for junk food and you'll lose weight!

Boss: Wonderful. That covers the stupid-overweight women market. What about the sad-overweight women market?

Employee: What if we trick them into feeling like the chocolate is their friend?

Boss: Go on …

Employee: We’ll put little messages in each wrapper, like someone is saying nice things to them. Then they will feel less alone while they gorge on chocolate.

Boss: Brilliant! And will the messages also encourage them to eat more chocolate?

Employee: Of course.

Boss: Genius!

Cut to me, eating chocolate by myself. I open up the red wrapper, thinking “I probably shouldn’t be eating this” and there it is. My little friend with a thoughtful message:

It’s okay to be fabulous AND flawed.

Oh! Well, thank you Dove Chocolate! You know, it’s true that I’m pretty fabulous. I don’t snack on candy all of the time, just most of the time! So I’m a little flawed! Big whoop. Am I right, Dove Chocolate? Ha ha, yeah. I know. Man, you are great. I probably shouldn’t eat another piece, but hey. Fabulous and flawed, that’s me! Oh look, another message:

Happiness looks great on you.

Aw, so nice of you to notice, Dove Chocolate. I have been feeling good, lately. I think this eating-chocolate-curbs-cravings diet is really starting to work! And you’re right; I’m so happy! Something about this surge of sugar to my blood stream makes me feel great. Why stop a good thing? I’ll have one more.

Don’t settle for a little spark; light the fire instead.

Dammit, you’re right. Why settle for a little chocolate when I could go make a cake and eat it myself? That’s a normal thing to do, right? Right, Dove Chocolate? Oh, thank you. You’re so smart. We’re best friends. I love you.

And scene.

(By the way, those are actual messages from actual chocolates that I actually ate.)