Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Thursday, December 30, 2004 The Year in Review Have you given money for tsunami relief yet? Good. Give some more. * * * Can you believe this decade is half over and we still don’t have a decent name for it? What the hell is wrong with us? So, what happened to me this year? Not much, really. Let me see if I can hit the high points. I tried frozen White Castle hamburgers from the grocery store for the first time ever. I have to say I wasn’t too impressed. I finished a 300-ounce jug of laundry detergent this year. You pick up one of those beasts from Sam’s club and you can’t imagine ever using all that stuff. But eventually you do. It just takes longer. I spent a whole lot more time downtown, especially in the past couple of months. I wanted to go to a famous restaurant in another city to have one of my favorite meals in the world, but it was closed that day. I was sad. We ditched our Netflix subscription. Considering how long we held on to some of those movies before getting around to watching them, buying them would have been less than the monthly rate we paid to have them in our house. Did a lot of Christmas shopping online this year. No, actually, Trash did that. Never mind. I walked around the lake a bunch of times this summer. It was warm outside. While shopping at Crate & Barrel with Trash and Banana, I got bored until I found a bin full of kitchen timers. I pulled one out, set it for twenty minutes, and put it back in the bin. Then I set another one for nineteen minutes. Then I set another one for eighteen minutes. I was down to ten minutes before Trash caught me. Not only did I find it funny, I got us to leave the store in less than ten minutes. I went to buy gas at the cheapest place in town one time, and ended up waiting in line for, like, four minutes. I saw some movies in the theater, but not as many as I meant to. I finished Max Payne 2. I also got pretty good at a few Yahoo! Games. I didn’t go to New York once. I went to Erie, though. Let’s see, what else? Oh, yeah. I was also birthday-feted with poems by some of my favorite writers, wrote scripts that were heard by millions of radio listeners, cared for a cat with diabetes, became a TWoP recapper and then a full-time freelance writer, played a bunch of live paid gigs with the neighbors’ band, fixed our house up so it’s in better shape than it’s been in at any time since the arrival of Dr. Jellyfinger, came face-to-face with fatherhood and my mortality in one week, took a steady corporate writing gig, broke several traffic laws while a cat I’d had since kittenhood died right next to me, introduced two new cats into the home, got published in the dead-tree media for the first time, lost one of the new cats, found her again (that story in a few days) and finalized the adoption of my son. That last one is going to be good when we pay our taxes for the year, I’m thinking. I think I also gained and lost some weight, but I’m not really sure how much. Today’s best search phrase: “Parakeet babies i need to now how long they sp” Don’t we all? posted by M. Giant 5:39 PM 5 comments 5 Comments:Priorities, man. Nobody gave you a shiny trophy for any of that other stuff. (And Happy New Year!)
By Hey, and didn't you go on vacation to California? It seems that should deserve a mention.
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What you did at C&B made me chuckle out loud. Why can't I think of stuff like that ever?
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Ooohh! A game -- try and remember what happened this year in M. Giant's life. I'm game.
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Oh, thank you M. Giant for making me laugh out loud at your game to get out of Crate and Barrel. I, too, end up in places like that with my gf and I also look for ways to entertain myself and simultaneously embarrass her. Hey, it's the least I should get to do.
By Monday, December 27, 2004 Baby’s First Christmas M. Tiny’s got a new skill! No, it’s not "trying to step in the poopy diaper during changes." M. Tiny mastered "stepping in the poopy diaper during changes" pretty early, and Trash and I quickly learned what we need to do to put the "trying" into that particular game. He tries a little harder every day, of course. No, the skill he’s working on now is one that the book says he’s about ready for: using a rattle. I’m still reading the baby book. Specifically, the chapter about the Month Three (which is where he is now, in case you’re not keeping track) talks about rattles. So I figured we’d give it a try. While Trash had him on the changing table the other night, I dug in one of the bins given to us by my sisters DeBitch the Elder and DeBitch the Younger, and found a rattle (thank you to whomever gave that to us, by the way, because we certainly haven’t bought any). I stuck the rattle in his right hand and he took to it right away. He held onto it firmly, wielding it like a scepter of power and looking at us quite seriously. He would have been pretty intimidating if he hadn’t also been a) trying to step in his poopy diaper, and b) waving a scepter of power that was pink and glittery. "You go, girl," I told him, until Trash made me find a different one. So now the rattle (a starfish-shaped rattle, as opposed to his previous favorite toy, a pink foot with poo on it) is to him what Half-Life 2 would be to me if I had the time to install it on my computer. He holds it, he waves it, he looks at it. And I now see why they make those things so flimsy, because he also clubs himself in the face with it occasionally and if it weighed ten pounds he’d probably be a lot less cute after a couple of hours. As M. Tiny grows and learns, I sometimes think about his former neighbors in the NICU .There was the serious-looking boy across the hall, who was born earlier than M. Tiny and had fought off a smorgasbord of life-threatening infections in his brief existence. His mom talked to us in the break room about the ins and outs of the ward; which nurses were the best and how to switch to a room with a window when one becomes available. That woman was there all day, every day, keeping a positive attitude and a sense of humor in the face of futile feeding attempts and 72-hour crying jags (the baby’s). She was sort of our hero. When her son was released at 75 days of age (M. Tiny’s age as of yesterday, by the way), she had the look of someone who’s so thrilled to have been sprung from prison that she’s not entirely sure what she’ s going to do now that she’s out. I still don’t know why we didn’t snatch up her windowed room when she left. There was the little girl a couple of rooms away, who seemed as healthy as M. Tiny does now. And also bigger. We couldn’t see anything wrong with her. The nurses would frequently put her in her baby chair and set her in the doorway to her room, facing out into the hallway so she could observe all of the comings and goings. Everyone said hi to her by name when they went by. We never saw anyone in her room with her but nurses and volunteers who would hold her and read to her. Then one day Trash overheard part of a conversation between one of the nurses and someone who appeared to be this girl’s mother. A mother who didn’t seem ready to bring her daughter home just yet, for whatever reason. We didn’t know anything about the baby girl’s past, or what kind of trauma she and her mother had been through before we arrived, so we didn’t judge. We just knew that the baby spent part of every day peacefully watching over the hallway like a little, bald Buddha. Sometimes we’d speculate on her future; as other babies came and went, she’d stick around in the NICU indefinitely, learn to walk, talk, and eventually draw blood samples as the nurses home-schooled her right there in the ward. At age eight she’d be a fully-licensed RN, a nurse-practitioner by ten, and one of the world’s leading neonatalogists before her bat-mitzvah. And why shouldn’t she stick around? She had a room with a window, after all. When Trash called the ward last month to get some nurses’ last names so we could send them thank-you cards, I was disappointed that she didn’t ask if that little girl was still there, and whether she’d learned to read an EKG yet. We didn’t really know anything about any of the other patients. The NICU is really nice, with private rooms featuring sliding glass doors and opaque curtains. And most patients were in and out over a few days, which wasn’t enough time to make an impression on us as we walked by their rooms, other than the glow of an occasional bili-light. And of course I have no idea what might have been going on in the other corners of the ward. All I know is that as M. Tiny’s 75th day on Earth passed with him safe in our home, I realized how lucky we were to have him home for Christmas. We couldn’t have asked for anything better under the tree. Especially because he loves to stare up at the lights through the branches. He’s been there a while, though. Now that I think of it, I probably shouldn’t have included the rattle in the package I wrapped him up in. Less incentive to bust his way out, you know. Today’s best search phrase: "Good crazy giant with plenty of plot." If you want plot you came to the wrong place. posted by M. Giant 11:31 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:
No pictures???
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One of the only things (other than the kitty) that held the 18 month old's interest during Christmas was the package that had a rattly thing as part of the bow.
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The day we got to bring our oldest son home from the NICU still rates as Best. Day. Ever. I swear my face hurt the next day from smiling so much. (Co-Best Day Ever goes to when we brought son #2 home, but he didn't have to stay in the NICU.)
By Tuesday, December 21, 2004 Humpblog (12/21/04) It occurs to me that now that I have three cats and a baby, two-thirds of the house produces bodily waste that I have to physically carry out of the house. By headcount, of course. Not by weight. That would probably be grounds for suicide. * * * I didn’t get my Christmas lights up on the outside of the house until the second week of December this year. Which is kind of sad. It means they’ll only be up for six months this year instead of the usual seven. Of course, I typically stop turning them on at the end of the holiday season (by which I mean MLK Day). By that time, a few strings are starting to straggle, and others are beginning to blink out entirely, so it wouldn’t look too nice anyway. Two days after I put up the lights, the wind came. I’ve never heard it blow so hard against the side of the house. It was the sound you hear when you’re driving a car down the highway on a day when gusts are coming at you all the way from the Rockies and trying to blow you into the next lane. And also, the highway is in freefall from an airplane. I knew the wind had never blown that hard against our house before, because our downspout has never blown down before. Until that day. It’s sad, because the lights that were wrapped around the downspout were plugged into the string of lights that ran along the front rain gutter, which also supplied power to the net lights that illuminate our living room window. So now the lights that I carefully strung to illuminate the south corner of our house are now illuminating the front of the foundation instead, the rain gutter lights droop from the porch light fixture to the bushes, and the net lights are completely dark. And speaking of the bushes, the lights I artfully arranged there (which are on older strings that don’t always work, so I had to not only get them strung right for aesthetic purposes, but also in a position in which they would stay on) got blown to the back of the bush, so that instead of a cloud of bulbs uniformly decorating it, it had several tightly-bunched loops of light string draped over the bundle of branches nearest the house. Which would look like hell if those lights still worked. Which they don’t. I leaned the downspout back up against the front of the house, putting off proper reattachment until the weather warms up enough that taking on an outdoor project more than five minutes in duration won’t require finger reattachment. The strings from the bush I desultorily redistributed among the lack of foliage, and called it a day. I called the next day something else, because it was another windy one. The downspout hit the ground again, as did most of the lights on the bush. Maybe I’ll take my Christmas lights down early this year. Like maybe tomorrow. * * * Then, of course, there was the outdoor nativity display we spotted this weekend near my sister-in-law Lisa’s house. It’s one of those actual-size numbers. The wind had blown Mary, Joseph, all of the livestock, and two wise men flat on their faces. It looked as if the last wise man standing had decided against gold, frankincense, or myrrh at the last minute and opted to instead bear the gift of hot lead. I bet it was Melchior. I never trusted that dude. * * * My favorite holiday display, however, is one I haven’t even seen; I’ve only heard about it. M. Tiny’s birth mom was telling us about an outdoor nativity set not far from her place where every figure standing over the manger was an alien. And inside the manger? A large egg. I’m always happy when I hear about somebody who’s going to Hell besides me. Today’s best search phrase: “U have funny car.” Hey, little man, I C that station wagons may not B as cool as they once were, but at least I don’t ride around in a purple limo 4 no reason. So screw U 2. posted by M. Giant 7:40 PM 4 comments 4 Comments:An alien nativity? That is so cool! Perhaps the extreme wind was caused by the landing of their spacecraft?
By We once had a set of neighbors with which we had "differences", and so during this season of love and giving, we switched from chucking the dead rats (left by cats) onto the top of their RV to chucking them onto and into their lifesized nativity scene.
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As we all now wait with bated breath for the Second Clucking.
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delurking to say: I remarked the other night how it's a lifelong dream of mine (inspired by a bunch of kids I know who spent a winter amusing themselves stealing lawn ornaments) to steal the Baby Jesus out of a nativity...so I could put him in my altar for all year 'round. Of course, I am going to hell, because I would replace him with a ham.
By Sunday, December 19, 2004 Parental Guidance Already? I knew there was some twisted children's literature out there, even before I had a kid. Obviously everyone knows about Grimm's Fairy Tales, which even in their modern, watered-down version feature tons of cannibalism, infanticide, and child abuse. Even a current board book telling the story of Noah's Ark opens with, quote, "God decid[ing] to punish the wicked people." So you have to be on the lookout for stuff. I wasn't expecting that to be the case with Baby Einstein. Baby Einstein, of course, is the wildly popular series of books and videos that helps kids learn stuff. They didn't have them when I was a kid, which is why I'm not solving the mysteries of quantum mechanics right now. My niece Deniece has a bunch of them, and at not quite three years old I think she's already smarter than I am. So obviously we wanted to get started on these right away with M. Tiny. The sooner he can get out there and get a job, the better for us. So the other day I sat down with him and a copy of See How I Feel. I'm still getting used to the menagerie of colorful cartoon characters that populate this series. The protagonist of this particular one is a bright blue goat named Vincent. At first I thought that the story of Vincent was meant to be a cautionary tale about the dangers of oxygen deprivation or hypothermia, but apparently he's supposed to be that color. So on the first page, Vincent is happy because he's playing with his best friend Paul. On the second page, he's proud of a picture he's painted. Then he's sad because his favorite straw hat blew away. Then he feels silly as he makes faces with his brother Theo. Wait a minute. A painter named Vincent? With a brother named Theo? And a best friend named Paul, as in Gaugin? This blue goat is none other than Vincent Van Gogh. Which explains the BANDAGE ON HIS EAR. I didn't notice the bandage at first. Even though Vincent is using it to accessorize a paint-splattered artist's smock on the cover. It's tied around the base of the ear, which thankfully is still present. I don't think M. Tiny is ready for the sight of a bloody stump yet. And when the book begins, it's not even there. It doesn't appear until page three, when Vincent becomes sad over the loss of his jaunty lid. Because even though M. Tiny is 9½ weeks old, it's never too early to introduce children to the efficacy of self-mutilation as therapy for depression. Vincent goes on to be inspired by a sunflower field and a starry night, but the damage, literally, has been done. The bandage remains until the penultimate page. Or board, since it's a board book. So, great. Now I have to rent Lust for Life to give M. Tiny some kind of context. For now, though. I was satisfied with giving this explanation: "See, Vincent Van Gogh was a great artist who cut off his own ear." "Eck?" "Because he went crazy." "Ack?" "Syphilis, I think." "Rrrrgh." "Don't worry, you're not in any danger of it for a while." "Guh?" "You get it from running around with bad girls. Do you understand? Bad girls give you syphilis." "Eeeeng." "Don't worry. Mom and Dad will tell you which girls are bad, so you don't have to worry." "Zzzz." "I love you too." Now that I think about it, I don't think Van Gogh had syphilis. But I know for damn sure he wasn't a blue cartoon goat, either. Today's best search phrase: "'Paper mill' poop." Because one of those things alone isn't stinky enough. posted by M. Giant 3:24 PM 7 comments 7 Comments:
That book is awesome in the twisted way that is so fun to read, write and talk about.
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I think things like that are just a nod to the parents to see if we're awake and paying attention. Sort of like those jokes on the first few seasons of the Simpsons, before the writers gave up on the subtlety.
By I saw that book in the bookstore while looking for Mr. Men books for my nephew. The first thing I saw was the goats ear, and laughed for a good 10 minutes, by myself, looking like a crazy person. I may have to actually buy it next time I see it. Don't worry, kids don't get the crazy stuff in books like adults do. M. Tiny should be alright for about another 9 years!
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The loss of the jaunty straw hat is a pretty heavy metaphor, dude. I think Paul hooked up with this prostitute that Vincent van Goat thought was his girlfriend, and he sent her his ear in a box as a token of his love, so she would like him better than Paul. Tell M.Tiny that generally the severed body parts do not go over so big with the ladies. Better to say it with flowers. Bad girls also accept cash.
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I recall writing a paper in college called "If Van Gogh Had Prozac." A lot of stuff about serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Anyway, the point of my stupid paper was that pharmacology can be bad for art. How profound.
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My mom, whom I don't often quote, told me that Van Gogh went crazy because he had a tic of licking his paintbrushes, and was slowly poisoned by the chemicals in the paint (lead, arsenic, etc.)
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I also heard the paintbrush sucking anecdote (not entirely improbable given how many of the brighter--and his favorite--pigments contain/ed heavy metals), though I know there was definitely a prostitute and delusional love as well. Oh, those wacky artists! The world may never know!
By Wednesday, December 15, 2004 Humpblog (12/15/04) All of the winning Sugar Cookie Recipes are posted in the results entry. Go check them out. * * * I'm covering the most recent episode of The Amazing Race for TWoP, since Linda has six hours of reality season finales to recap this week. Gosh! I am sooo busy! * * * The inter-feline dynamic is still in flux at our house. Turtle, the four-month-old spaz, thinks she's the alpha cat, despite all the thumpings she's regularly getting from both Strat and Phantom. Strat prefers Phantom to Turtle, but not by much. They'll at least lie on the bed together occasionally, although he's careful to stay as far away from her as possible. Phantom has grown somewhat weary of Turtle's constant high spirits and playful attacks on her head. And Strat? She luuuurves him. She keeps staring at him adoringly, wishing and hoping that someday he'll let her come up and snuggle up against his furry white bulk. So far, though, all he does is glare at her a little less threateningly. We keep telling her to hang in there. Be patient. It'll happen one day. Meanwhile, Turtle is off somewhere fighting with air or something, so we're not worried about her as long as she can avoid pulling something heavy down on her head. I'm pretty sure there's a human baby around here somewhere too. * * * Yes! I knew it. In fact, want to see some pictures?  "Soon, my son. Soon we will have our revenge upon the Jedi."  M. Tiny immediately after his bath? Or Hugh Hefner after falling through a timewarp?  "Pimpin' ain't easy. Especially from this height. You ever try to smack up a ho from down here? Alls you get is a fistful of stacked heel." * * * M. Tiny has only spit up about five times in his entire life, and most of those were when he was still in the hospital. When we feed him, we make sure there's a large spit cloth under his chin, but it's there to catch drool rather than the other thing. He's a great burper, though. He lets out these thunderous, Homer Simpson roars that shake the pictures on the walls. Last night, before Trash got home, I was feeding him and he was coming up on six fluid ounces in one sitting, which is a near-record. He called for a break and I sat him upright, patting him on the back encouragingly. This time I could actually feel the gas bubble working its way up. This is going to be a big one, I thought. I made sure the cloth was positioned just under his upper lip, to absorb the few drops of formula that would accompany the belch. I kept patting. I can't wait to hear this one, I thought. And then I thought, That's not a-- I realized what was really happening and moved to raise the spitrag a half-second before a gallon of hot baby milk firehosed out of him and all over both of us. Unfortunately, I would have needed an entire second. It's amazing how your priorities change after you become a dad. And how much you can calmly accomplish while warm spit-up is cooling on your dress pants. Today's best search phrase: "Giant fuck sticks." Please see my Amazing Race recap after it's up. posted by M. Giant 8:44 PM 10 comments 10 Comments:
Yay! An M.Giant recap!
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M. Tiny is adorable. But then, you don't need random strangers to tell you that. ('Course, I guess it doesn't hurt.)
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Your baby is cute as a button, but you know that already.
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By You've probably worked this one out now, but dude... don't go for the record. Burp frequently. (And burping the baby doesn't hurt either.) Offer too much nutritional liquid without burping, and if you're lucky you get spit-up (in quantity), and if you're unlucky you get screaming unhappy baby with a stomach-ache.
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I am supposed to be writing a paper for finals. Instead I made some crack cookies. They are aptly named, the crack cookies. I think I'm going to have another one now.
By Amusing and adorable pictures (and captions)! And my wife and I laughed hysterically at your Amazing Race racap. Especially the parts about Kris, with all her rage and ennui.
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By Monday, December 13, 2004 Under Siege I know it’s very popular among online writers these days to say, “Hey, my book’s out! Buy my book! Click here!” Except I don’t have a book. I have a play. And it’s out. You heard me. My play’s out! Buy my play! Click here! For now you can only get it from the publisher’s website. I am listed on Amazon, but not stocked there. Yet. Trash is working on that part. Reason number 6,843,138,463,480 why it’s advantageous to be married to a hot librarian. I’ll keep you posted. On the Amazon thing, I mean. Not on reasons 8 through 754. Those reasons are private. * * * The second- and thrid-place sugar cookie recipes are now posted in the previous entry, if you want to scroll. Down. I’m still waiting to hear from the winner. For all I know, she’s going to be the J.D. Salinger of sugar cookies and we’ll never hear from her again. As I mentioned, the annual Christmas Cookie Baking Blowout was at our house this year. That may have been an error. Not because M. Tiny was here, because he wasn’t. My parents were good enough to take him yesterday and look after him overnight. So he got his first overnight (out of state, no less! A hundred yards out of state, but still), Trash got to concentrate on baking on Friday, and we actually slept that night. I’d forgotten what it was like to not walk into walls several times a day. No, the problem with our house as a baking venue is a more external one. Literally. It’s standard operating procedure to put certain items out on the front stoop to cool. It only makes sense. It’s faster that way, and there’s only so much room in the house. And it’s not like a squirrel is going to make off with an entire tray of candy molds. While I was at work Friday, I was on the phone with Trash. In the background, I heard Blaine give a yelp of offended surprise. A squirrel had, in fact, made off with an entire tray of candy molds. Thusly burdened, it had only made it to about the middle of the yard, and when Blaine burst through the front door after it, it abandoned its prize like the guy in a police video ditching the pickup he’s been driving on its rims for three miles. The chocolates from that particular tray will, naturally, be going to people we don’t like much. After that, the chocolates that were left to solidify outside were first placed in a cooler. Saturday morning, as we were gearing up for Day Two, the squirrel came back. There wasn’t anything on the front stoop for it to get into, so it paced along the windowbox outside the kitchen. I got my first look at him. He’s a big fellow. He’s bigger than Phantom and Turtle. Combined. If you ever go to Greece, check out the stray cats. Greek strays are bad-ass. They’re tough and muscular and if one of them decides he wants your gyro, you hand it over. This squirrel was the rodent equivalent of a Greek stray. It looked like he was trying to figure out how to lift the windowpane, and I found myself glad that it was locked. After I finished making the fudge, I was extra careful to get the cellophane wrap tightly over it so that no whiff of the deliciousness inside could escape. Normally that isn’t necessary, but with a marauding squirrel on the loose we thought no precaution was too much. When we put the Rice Krispy bars outside an hour later, the cellophane over the fudge had a huge gash in it and the fudge itself looked like a child’s fist had gouged through it. And somewhere out there was a twenty-five-pound squirrel on a sugar high. People we don’t like are also getting fudge. When it came time to put the chocolate reindeer antlers outside to freeze, we set them on the back deck. It was now dark, so we lit candles all around them. We also put leashes on two cats and tied them to the deck railings. And gave them shotguns. The squirrel didn’t come after the chocolate reindeer antlers. We figure it was because by that time he was in a diabetic coma. Almost all trays will have chocolate reindeer antlers. We may need to look into fertilizing the lawn with crack again. Today's best search phrase: "Hissyfit my shoulder pads." Hissyfit your own shoulder pads, Alexis. posted by M. Giant 8:27 PM 9 comments 9 Comments:
Dude! Finally! You mentioned your play in February and March and then never again (if I didn't miss anything on my trip through your archives). Promote harder! Link back to those entries! Use more exclamation points! Demand that loyal readers link to the book! Offer a prize to the first person who puts the play on in their backyard like the Bradys did with Snow White.
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Oh my word. Squirrel in a coma; I know, I know it's serious.
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"ya bug stud"? Is this really what you meant to say?
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It's only for special occasions, but sometimes I talk to MG as though he were Anthony Edwards and I were Meg Ryan, from their scene together in "Top Gun."
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Everyone should buy this play. It kicks ass. Specifically, it kicks the long dead asses of Tourneur, Middleton, Webster, and those guys all over the damn place.
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Well, I just ordered it -- it's cheap, too! -- and they sent me an e-mail stating that they were sorry for the delay, but that they would try to get it to me by Christmas. So, yay! Merry Christmas to me!
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I second what Lawre said, and not just because we were in the first staged version of the play. It seriously rules -- and who else do you know that would write a feminist Jacobean revenge tragedy -- in VERSE! -- during this decade?
By Sorry -- that last comment was from Trash. I should really jsut sign up already.
By Am I the only one who saw the entry title "Under Siege" and had visions of Gary Busey dancing in drag?
By Saturday, December 11, 2004 We Have A Winner UPDATE: The winning recipes are now posted below. This was the weekend of Trash and Blaine’s annual Christmas Cookie Baking Blowout, about which I’ll say more on Monday. But first, I need to announce the winners of the Sugar Cookie Contest so that they can stop sitting by their computers waiting to learn their fate and start sitting by the mailbox waiting for their prizes. Of course, like an idiot, I forgot to ask permission to post the winning recipes, so I’m not going to do that just yet. I’ll ask the winners to tell me whether it’s okay with them, and maybe they’ll be posted later. Third prize goes to Average Jane, whom I assure you did not receive preferential treatment because she links to me. Average Jane's Sugar Cookies 2 3/4 cups flour 1 tsp. baking powder 1/2 tsp. salt 1/2 cup creamed butter 1 cup sugar 2 eggs 1 tsp. vanilla extract Cream butter and sugar together, then add eggs and vanilla, followed by the dry ingredients. Blend well and roll out on floured board. Cut with cookie cutters. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 8 to 10 minutes. In fact, all of these were the result of blind tastings, and each cookie was judged on its own merits. Which in this case are, in Jane’s own words: Okay, here's my family sugar cookie recipe dating back several generations. Why has it stood the test of time? Well, it's simple, buttery-tasting and versatile. Roll the dough thin and you can make a good, crisp cookie with lightly-browned edges. Roll the dough thicker and they stay a little soft in the middle. They taste good with or without icing. All of which is true, and all of which has earned Jane an assortment of Velcrometer refrigerator magnets, suitable for mounting on your refrigerator. But in terms of tastiness and ease of baking they were just barely edged out by the second place winner from Kathleen: 2 cups sugar 2 eggs 2 cups butter butter butter 2 tsp vanilla 5 cups flour 2 tsp baking soda 2 tsp cream of tartar 1/2 tsp salt 1/2 tsp nutmeg some extra granulated sugar Cream sugar with softened butter. Add eggs and beat well. In a seperate bowl, sift together dry ingredients. Stir everything together, but do not overmix. Form batter into balls and dip in sugar. (If desired, chill batter, and dip the batter-balls in cold water prior to coating in sugar. Your call.) Flatten balls on buttered cookie sheet. Dude, that sounds dirty. Bake at 350 for 10 minutes. Kathleen also had this to say: I hope this recipe is at least incrementally different from the current and prior recipes. Good luck to Trash in finding the perfect one! Congratulations, Kathleen! Your recipe was in fact incrementally better than Jane’s, including the points you earned with the line about flattening balls. It was indeed dirty enough to score you a beautiful, one-of-a-kind, hand-crocheted scarf created by Trash herself. I’ll make sure she washes the flour off her hands before she gets started. But even though Kathleen’s recipe wasn’t a first-place winner, her good-luck wish to Trash did come true in the form of a recipe from Katie: I think we have a winner for the contest. I make them using a cookie scoop for greater ease, and if you make them tiny, they puff up like little brown sugar meringue cookies and if you make them normal size they’re like puffy, wonderful, melt in your mouth sugar cookies. I used to make all kinds of cookies, but now everybody just wants these. The recipe doubles well. The first one you taste is really cream of tartar-y tasting. Then you want more. We call them crack cookies. Yum! Sugar Puffs 1 cup sugar 2 cups flour 1/2 cup brown sugar, firmly packed 2 tsp. soda 1 cup shortening 1/2 tsp. salt 1 egg, beaten 2 tsp. cream of tartar 1 tsp. vanilla Cream sugars and shortening well. Add beaten egg and mix thoroughly. Stir flour, soda, salt and cream of tartar together. Add to creamed mixture. Stir in vanilla. Roll into small balls, dip top in sugar and place on lightly greased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 degrees approximately 10 minutes. Yield: 7 dozen cookies. Yum is right, Katie. For sharing your recipe, you’ll get a collection of Christmas Cookies straight from our kitchen. Sadly, it will include no crack cookies, because I am keeping them all. Ow! Stop pinching! Okay, Trash says we’re including crack cookies in your package. I’m not happy about it, though. Let us know if we got it right. Of course, if we got it wrong, we'll have to take your prize back, so maybe you should keep that to yourself. Winners, please e-mail me with your snail-mail addresses so we can get your fabulous prizes shipped out to you in time for Christmas. And thanks to everyone who entered. Today’s best search phrase: “Is Marylynn in Duluth?” Yes. Yes, she is. Wait—no she isn’t. She just left. Whoops, she’s back. No, hang on, that’s not her. Is it? posted by M. Giant 4:20 PM 6 comments 6 Comments:Oh yeah, we gotta get those recipes posted. No fair srringing us along like this - so winners get your permission to post to MG, like now!
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Posting the winners of a cookie recipe contest with NO COOKIE RECIPES? Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put down the crack cookie, right now.
By In searching the blogworld for cookie recipes, it's great to find your site. I've snagged these recipes to try soon. My sugar cookie recipe is from an old recipe book and is made with shortening so I wanted to try something new.
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I made the crack cookies this weekend. I'm lucky I made it to work today, man. They are AWESOME. Also, because I can't leave well enough alone, I added about three tablespoons of cocoa to the last third of the dough and made some chocolate crack cookies. With them, I think I can rule the world.
By I too made crack cookies. Easy and delicious. I don't even have a mixer at school here, so I had to cream butter and sugar by hand. And I am going to eat until I pop.
By Oh dear lord those crack cookies are good! I alreay made three batches because everyone loves them. And next time I'll add cocoa too!
By Wednesday, December 08, 2004 Humpblog (12/8/04) On the one hand, I’m curious about Holiday Spice Pepsi, but on the other, there’s no damn way I’m buying a whole twelve-pack of the stuff. Or even a whole can, frankly. I’ve had spicy ginger beer, and I don’t care for it; I’ve always been of the opinion that in order to be properly refreshing, a soda should make you less thirsty when you drink it. I suspect HSP is guilty of this. And yet I’m oddly tempted to try it, even though I’m not prepared to commit to investing in a purchasable unit. If someone wants to mail me an eyedropperful, let me know. * * * There’s this ad I’ve seen for a hair clinic, and the “model” is a particularly unimpressive specimen, even in his smug “after” photo. The message I’m getting (which I’m sure is not what they intend) is this: “Get a hair transplant, and you can still be fat and ugly.” And also poorer, and most likely not all that bright. I might be reading that part into it, though. * * * M. Tiny eats as many as eight times a day, the same thing every time. I don’t know how he does it. He also insists on using the same kind of nipple. Specifically, the Ross Pediatrics Similac Infant Nipple & Ring. As far as he’s concerned, all the other nipples suck. And if we try to give him one, he won’t. The problem is that this is the kind of nipple they gave us when he was still in the hospital. They sent us home with a bunch, but they’re not going to last forever. And it’s the only nipple, as far as I can tell, that doesn’t seem to be available in stores. And it’s not like I don’t know where to look; I can find plenty of other nipples, and have spent many a fruitless hour browsing vainly along a veritable rubber buffet. But all those other kinds are the kind that make him spit it out, scream, and call Child Protective Services. So help a new dad out, won’t you? We need nipples! And before anyone suggests it, doing something that gets him readmitted to the hospital is not an option. * * * I’m putting up the Christmas lights on the house tomorrow. There’s a lot that could go wrong. There could be freezing rain. I could be short on light strings. I could have enough light strings, but not enough of them work. I could run out of staples, or nails, or duct tape, or those little plastic brackets that clip on to the rain gutter. Of course, freezing rain, if it comes early enough, will render all of the above moot. * * * There’s one thing I do like about working downtown. No, it’s not shelling out five bucks a day for parking. No, it’s not walking fifteen minutes from my parking space to my office. No, it’s not that fact that you can’t get a decent lunch for less than six dollars. It’s that you’re near everything. Last week I called Trash and said, “I went to the post office and Target, and I was only away from my desk for twenty minutes. Can you do that?” Being married to me for thirteen years has allowed Trash to develop the ability to roll her eyes in a way that’s audible over the phone. At some point I’d like to spend a lunch hour exploring the skyways, just to see what’s new since the last time I worked downtown. Aside from the cellphone stores in every building, of course. I really don’t know what’s up with that, except that they might explain why I can’t walk ten yards downtown without losing a call. There’s even a Saturn dealer in the skyway. I don’t know how I’m going to drive my car up to the second-floor level next time I need a wheel alignment, but I’ll worry about that when the time comes. Today’s best search phrase: “‘Cardboard tube’ + repair.” Dude, with what cardboard tube repairmen are charging in labor these days, you’re better off just getting a new one. posted by M. Giant 8:37 PM 16 comments 16 Comments:
Call the hospital. Ask them where you can get more of that kind of nipple. Either they'll tell you they can get them to you, or they'll tell you who can.
By http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=37629&item=4341674971&rd=1&ssPageName=WDVW
By HSP tastes a lot like Coke... a lot more like Coke with a little bit of spiced rum in it...
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Holiday Spice Pepsi isn't worth the effort. Even my die-hard pop drinking 11 yo refused to have more than one sip.
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I've got your nipples right here......
By Dirty!
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Okay so the plan is this...we head back to Children's Hospital...you and Trash keep the guy at the front desk busy and Trash's sister and I will run in and "borrow" a large bag full of the "Nipples". It's a good plan man!
By You can also get the bottle nipples directly from Similac at http://www.welcomeaddition.com/. Just click on the link to order online now, then click on the infant and toddler nutrition link, then specialty products. They have 3 sizes.
By eBay has at least six auctions for lots of brand new Similac Nipples and Rings. (Don't use "Ross" in your search.)
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Do you mean the ones the hospital gave you that screw on the little formula bottles? Because I have SO MANY * of those and you, sir, and your lovely wife can have them. I can put them in the mail or UPS tomorrow if you like. They're all still sealed in their pretty sterile shrinkwrap.
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Is this what you are looking for?
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The spice pepsi is odd. Not horrible but not something I will buy again (my sister-in-law talked me into it the first time). It smells like cloves and has reddish-orange foam. Plus it tasts like the rootbeer flavor of the bottlecap candy I remember eating as a kid. I had one of those moments when I drank it and knew I knew the flavor and then it took me five minutes to remember the candy. How completely bizarre is it that I can recall the flavor of something I haven't eaten in at least 20 years? That kind of freaks me out. Of all the things I want to remember and can't, but I can remember that taste?
By The link between smell/taste and memory is really strong. As to the question of why: only the nose, or maybe the vomeronasal organ, knows.
By The Pepsi Spice is kinda gross on its own, but like so many things it improves greatly with a dash of whisky. :)
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Alright, as someone who is ADDICTED to Diet Coke, I feel as though I am highly qualified to say that Holiday Spice Pepsi is good stuff. That, and they sell it in single 20 oz bottles at the Lunds on Lake and Humboldt (and I'm sure in other places in the Cities, but there for sure =P). Give it a try. And, um, good luck on the nipples.
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Not horribly timely for you, but I feel your pain! And of course you don't need this anymore but maybe somebody who comes across this page like I did will need it.
By Monday, December 06, 2004 Brain Scan Ever since a couple of months ago when I had that migraine that temporarily turned the speech center of my brain into tapioca, I’ve been wondering what was going on up there. Especially with the increased incidence of nascent headaches. Of course they never get past the nascent stage because I pop a brace of acetaminophen the moment the muscles behind my eyes remind me of their existence, but even that never used to happen. So I’ve been curious about the cause, and looking forward to the MRI I had last week and learning the results thereof. So the good news is that my aneurysm is a reeeeally teeny one. An aneurysm, for those of you who quit watching ER George Clooney left, is a bulge in a blood vessel. It’s not supposed to happen, particularly in your brain. If you’re lucky, a brain aneurysm will hit you while you’re playing drums with your band somewhere in Europe, and you end up leaving the band before it’s albums get really sucky and the lead singer starts painting a blue stripe across his face for some weird reason. If you’re less fortunate, you wind up stone dead flat on your back on the sofa for your vampire-slayer daughter to come home and find you, and then the aftermath episode doesn’t even win an Emmy. Actually, what I have is probably not an aneurysm at all. It’s a “possible” aneurysm, measuring 1.5 millimeters, which isn’t even enough to crowd out trivia like the length of a year on Mercury (88 days) or the B7 guitar chord. It’s probably not an aneurysm at all, but merely a perfectly normal and minor abnormality pounced upon by some bored radiologist, like a New York Times copy editor mistaking a dash for a hyphen in Safire’s latest column. Which is kind of too bad. I was sort of hoping that I had some kind of brain thing that would make me telekinetic, or remove my need for sleep, like John Travolta in Phenomenon. At the very least I thought I might get to become a savant in a few areas in which I’m not already a savant, but no such luck. Sure, I can make fun of Brent Spiner, but I could do that before. On the other hand, it sure would have sucked being given only months to live before my brain leaped out of my skull like a sports car engine being downshifted from fourth to reverse. I could have had the rare opportunity to write a Diarist Award shoo-in entry beginning with the sentence, “By the time you read this, I will be dead,” but once I was done with that there wouldn’t be a whole lot to look forward to. So I think I’m coming out ahead. If you’ll pardon the expression. Lots of people dread MRIs. You have to go to the hospital, get undressed in some cases, or at the very least divest yourself of all metal as if you’re going through airport security on 9/12/01. Then you lie down on a slab and they slide you into a claustrophobic cylinder, as if they’re toasting you like a Quizno’s sandwich. But what they’re doing instead is bombarding you with rays that might come in useful in the course of interplanetary conflict, while you have to hold absolutely still. One of them even tipped over on a dude around here a few years ago, so the procedure doesn’t even have a 100% survival rate. Obviously it’s not everybody’s cup of eggnog. Me? I’ve got a newborn at home. I was looking forward to the chance to nap. This was my first MRI. I’m fortunate enough not to be claustrophobic, even when they clamped my head in position and put a plastic cage over my face. I just closed my eyes and pretended it wasn’t there. Then I slid into the tube, where I was grateful for the earplugs I’d been given, because MRIs are loud, dude. It’s like listening to really aggressive, disjointed club music. But it was easier to sleep through than a baby crying, because I was out of there before you know it. When the neurologist called me back today with the results, I asked her which part of the brain the non-eurysm was in. I was hoping she’d tell me it was in the part that makes me eat too many sweets, or the area that gets shut down after the first beer. But no, all she told me was that it was in the right anterior cerebral artery. So I had to look it up for myself. Turns out that if this thing goes kablooey I could lose anything from my Orkut password to my immortal soul. Great. I’m not going to worry about it, though. Something this size, the odds of anything happening are about equal to those of an MRI machine tipping over on a dude. The neurologist said the migraine and headaches are likely just a function of stress and sleep deprivation, which means they should go away when M. Tiny graduates from medical school. The bummer is that since this vanishingly tiny thing is up there (maybe), Trash is insisting that I not exert myself too intensely at anything. Not that that cuts into my barely-existent exercise regimen, but there are times when you’re on the throne and a hundred per cent just isn’t enough. Today's best search phrase: "Giant girls and their tiny friends." Now I'm curious. posted by M. Giant 9:06 PM 4 comments 4 Comments:
Wow, you sure have a lot going on.
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Seriously dude, STOP BEING INTERESTING. Jeez. If you wanted "Scanners" on DVD for Xmas, all you had to do was ask. I already know how this is gonna be: "Sorry, honey. I'd love to clean the garage, but the thing is, well, my HEAD might EXPLODE."
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My dad had an ICH in March. He was in a coma for about a week (and comas, contrary to what you see on soap operas, can feature lots of moaning and thrashing and general unpleasantness). Now he's fully functional again, except he's had the proverbial 'personality changes' and he only thinks he can read maps and he insists that 10016 is the written form of 'one thousand sixteen'. So do whatever is required to keep your blood pressure low, eh? ("There was an election? I had no idea. Look, a monkey!" "I'm sorry, Trash, but I can't get up with the baby. I have to get my sleep or my brain will melt and then we'll end up in North Dakota all the time because I can't tell the difference between exit 15 and exit 105.")
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So now you're not only one of the Damn Hell Ass Kings, you're also King of Life Evolution on a cosmic scale. Sorry about unpleasant hospital -fu and even less pleasant (or certain) results. A last straw, anyone? Jeez.
By Saturday, December 04, 2004 Hello Kitt(ies) Okay, so here’s what happened. When Trash and I picked the new colors for our bedroom, we chose the same ones independently of one another, so we knew they were the right choices. When M. Tiny’s birth parents browsed through the files of potential adoptive parents, they chose us separately from one another, so they were confident in their decision. So when the Vet-Friend sent us some pictures of kittens for us to choose from, it was obvious that Trash and I should choose separately as well. That way we’d know the cat we both chose would be the one who was meant to join our family. We should have had a procedure in place for when we chose different cats. A procedure did come into existence gradually, but it was one we sort of made up as we went along: 1. Mope. 2. Decide to wait until there are more kitties to choose from. 3. Go through a couple of bedtimes dealing with the memory of how Orca used to curl herself into Trash’s arm when she got into bed, because that was fun. 4. Re-read the entry about when Orca died, because hey, even more fun. 5. Look at the pictures of the potential new kitties again. 6. Decide we want them both. Once the emotional surge passed, we realized that it did make a sort of sense. These are two cats who have been together for a while, and taking one of them would spilt them up. And then the fact the Strat is, let’s face it, fourteen and diabetic, meant that there would be another separation not all that many years down the road. Which would require us to pick yet another cat then, and we figured, well, this is easier. Because what could be easier than raising a human, two kittens, and taking care of a diabetic cat at the same time? Technically, Trash got to name Phantom. I suggested the name, and she liked it, so that counts. I asked her, “What are you going to name the other one?” “You get to name her,” she said, “But I named Phantom,” I said. “No, I named Phantom. You suggested the name, and I accepted.” “So I can name my new cat whatever I want?” “Yes.” “I’m naming her Dog.” “No.” When the Vet-Friend brought them over in one medium sized carrier, I was surprised at how small they were in person. Turtle, especially, at four months old, looks like a dust bunny with a face. But then you pick her up and you realize you’re cupping a belly that’s already quite substantial. Also, dust bunnies are smarter. Turtle’s name was inspired by her coat. It features the colors of a turtle sundae: vanilla ice cream, chocolate, and caramel. Plus she’s nuts. It’s amazing how quickly cats pick up affectionate nicknames. Turtle has already been addressed in our house as “Turtledove,” “Turtlicious,” “Turdling,” and “Terlet.” I’ve told Trash she needs to come up with more nicknames for Phantom (Like “Phantom Menace, “Phantom Planet,” or “Phartnom,” because, damn), because calling Turtle “Dipshit” doesn’t count. How is Strat adjusting? Well let’s just say he spent a while being sad and lonely. Now he’s spending a lot of time being annoyed. We think that’s an improvement. Today’s best search phrase: “And then and then and then trash.” What, do I normally tell stories like a four-year-old on meth or something? posted by M. Giant 4:22 PM 5 comments 5 Comments:
Awwww, I'm glad to be reading a new entry from you, M. Giant, but now I have to scroll down the page to see that cute little Turtle kitty mouth when I click over here. I've been doing that bunches the last few days since it brings a smile to my face and warmth in my heart.
By "Turdling!" I can't stop laughing about that one. It sounds like a problem my cats have, except we call those "butt nuggets."
By I think an annoyed Strat is definitely an improvement. Your family is getting SO big!! Pretty soon you'll have three more kids, two more cats and a monkey. And that is when we'll know you have gone too far.
By
I love both your new kitties.
By DeAnn and Linda - that monkey's on the way because as the mother of an almost-three-year-old I can tell you this: toddlers and monkeys? almost the same. - Trish
By Wednesday, December 01, 2004 Hello Kitty After Orca died, the house felt a lot emptier, even with a new human living in it. Strat especially was acting depressed and lonely. He occasionally freaked out when the front door opened, as if now that Orca was gone, somebody was coming for him next. And more than once he spotted the black stuffed dog about Orca’s size sitting on a bookshelf, and he’d run up excitedly to greet it, and then be disappointed that it wasn’t her. He hasn’t been an only cat for thirteen years, and he’s just not used to it. So I’d like you to meet Phantom. 
Phantom is an eight-month-old surplus barn cat that our Vet-Friend took in. VF is involved with animal rescue, and her house is something of a revolving door for at-risk animals. She knew we’d be wanting a new kitty soon, and she sent us some camera-phone pictures to choose from, including the one above. VF had Phantom stay in her house for over a week, letting her get over her cold and putting her through a course of de-worming medication. VF assured Trash that while she understood that Orca was irreplaceable, Phantom had similar qualities: namely, shyness around new people, willingness to bond with familiar people, and a certain attitude. Phantom moved in last week. We locked Strat out of the basement while Phantom stayed downstairs. Her name proved fitting, as she possesses the ability to vanish at will. We’ve got lots of stuff we’re keeping down there, and if she disappears into one of the storage spaces we’re not going to find her until she wants to be found. Phantom, like Orca, has turned out to be pretty much Trash’s cat. She was purring on Trash’s lap the first night, whereas if I enter the room she takes it as her cue to flee in panic. Not that I can blame her. On the rare (and by “rare,” I mean “not quite daily”) occasions where I can either corner her in the open or capitalize on her frantic stumbling, I have to take advantage of the opportunity to give her a dose of her medicine. The pills are gone, which is good, but I still have to squirt three milliliters of liquid down her hissing throat every day. The days when I can find her, I mean. I don’t think the two of us are going to be friends for a while. To be fair, she purrs when I catch her and hold her in my lap for snuggles, but it’s hard to say how much of that is due to the aftereffects of the tranq gun. When she and Strat first came face to face, there was plenty of freezing and glaring and hissing, but no outright fighting. Now I think they’re starting to hang out a little. Phantom emerges from the basement late at night, when I would be asleep if I weren’t helping to feed and diaper M. Tiny. Early one morning, Strat and Phantom were both on the back of the love seat, trying to look out the front window together. Since the shade was drawn that didn’t go too well. And Phantom bolted the second she saw me, so I can’t be sure if they were sharing the lack of view or fighting over it. As for M. Tiny, Phantom sees him the way the other cats do: as a immobile, bald, occasionally loud cat. We’re glad Phantom’s with us. We’re trying not to put pressure on her or expect too much of her in terms of replacing Orca. Orca’s irreplaceable, obviously. It’s impossible to expect any one cat to fill her fuzzy white socks. That’s why in a few days, you’ll also meet Turtle. 
Today’s best search phrase: “Slides of the Geritol solution.” Sounds a little sinister, doesn’t it? Logan’s Run as imagined by the Third Reich. posted by M. Giant 4:49 PM 15 comments 15 Comments:
I'm a first-time commenter here (and quite the newbie to your blog). Just wanted to say that I think Phantom and Turtle just might be the cutest kitties I've ever seen. Orca can never be replaced, but I'm glad both you and Trash are willing to give your love to more cats. :)
By Curses! The pictures aren't showing up for me. But congratulations nonetheless!
By
Damn, you aren't afraid of a challenge, are you? A new baby, 2 new kittens, and a diabetic cat? I am in awe of your, well, awesomeness.
By I already love them both so much it makes me want to cry!!
By I thought phantom looked sweet. but turtle is beautiful.
By
Oh, my God.
By Wow. Your new additions are beautiful, and I really look forward to updates on how they all get along with each other and you guys. Especially, as Pamie pointed out, when M. Tiny is a toddler. Hee.
By It warms my heart when people take in shelter kitties. Especially the slighty older ones. You guys are the best!
By
Phantom & Turtle are beautiful! I know Orca is as happy for you and the new kitties as we all are.
By
While you're at it, you should get a parrot or a cockatoo!
By
Oh. My. Word. Cutest kittens in a while!
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That is so, so, so very awesome. I want an active household! Don't be frightened - because I don't actually know where you live - but I want nothing more right now than to come over and hang with y'all when we're back in MN for the holidays. What a wonderful home.
By
That little kitty mouth of Turtle is w a y cute! I'm so glad that you have some new kitties to share your life. Orca wouldn't want you to be sad
By Hmmm, am I trendy? I picked up a barn cat from a farm outside Lincoln, Nebraska back in 1998. Then my brother gets a barn cat, now you have a barn cat. Barn cats of the world unite! Demand tuna! --Sayer
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Wait -- you got 2!!! cats? Are you insane? You must live in a madhouse.
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