Holiday Egglessness

Chicken eggs are an allergen unto The Precious and the ducks don't wanna lay in the winter, so I thought I'd get all creative with the holiday baking.  I have learned that a half cup of applesauce can take the place of an egg in some recipes.
Turns out, applesauce can also substitute for sugar and shortening/butter/oil.  Luckily for me, I still have two hundred and ninety-eight quart jars of home canned applesauce from a couple years ago when our two little apple trees declared their Best Year Ever and I dehydrated apples and froze sliced peeled apples in cinnamon sauce and canned apple juice and apple sauce and apple pie filling and cinnamon apples until I cried and hated apples.
Thus did I come up with evil plan number one: Fill all my holiday platters and bowls with applesauce and call it good.  My scheme was vetoed by The Precious because he's just not an applesauce fan.  (Hater.)
Evil plan number two: Bake all the holiday goodies with applesauce in place of the eggs, and NOT substitute for sugars and fats.  So far it's successful, and I even finally learned how to use that lonely second-hand cookie press from the back of the bottom of the least-used drawer in the house.
The Precious approves of the baking, but has expressed some limitations regarding the substitution of applesauce for eggs.
No bacon and applesauce for breakfast.
No applesauce and hashbrowns.
No over-easy applesauce.
No scrambled applesauce.
No applesauce McMuffins.
No deviled applesauce.
The Precious has declared that even Jeremy Renner would call these sugar cookies and gingerbread cutouts applesaucellent.

A Real Live Nativity Story

Once upon a long time ago, though I had a happy hoard of holiday decor, my Christmas collection lacked a Nativity scene.  You know, the little barn housing a donkey, an ox, and a holy swaddled infant, all topped with a glittery nova.
"You find the Nativity that you want," Nanny told me, "and I'll buy it for you."
For years after that, I searched for the perfect Baby Jesus scene.  There were wooden Josephs, carved camels, glass Marys, china angels, tin sheep, and copper Magi.  There were yard Nativity scenes large enough to include my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout.  There were stuffed fabric Baby Jesuses designed for little children to not be suffered to come unto Him.
Nanny went to heaven before I chose a Nativity set.  And then I inherited hers.  And it's just the right one.

Bag Licker Vs. Corn Stalker

Once upon a too late evening following a too early morning sandwiching a too long day, I trudged on the verge of dropping dead next to Hunneypunkin while he steered an overloaded grocery cart through a noisy jumbo store, and I said, "This checkout lane is the shortest," and because Hunneypunkin always only takes my advice without question when I choose poorly, we promptly turned in there.
I discovered too late that perhaps the reason there were so few customers in that lane, was because the very nice elder gent working at the register had a horrifying habit of licking his fingers and thumbs to open the plastic bags into which our groceries would go.  Wait, did I just see that?  Oh, no way, he did it again.  And again.  Over and over.  I was so.  Grossed.  Out.  Did he not understand he was getting his spit all over the food I was buying and the bags in which I would carry it home, when he was licking his mitts and then grabbing the goods?  I was too shocked and exhausted to suggest that he stop slobbering on my stuff, but all the way home I could absolutely feel the germs climbing off the shopping bags and up my arm hairs.  The second I got into my house, I just crawled into the washing machine with my groceries and some bleach and gave us all a good spin.
So one fine day when an opportunity arose to visit a cornfield where pickers were welcome, I jumped at the chance to bring my family home some healthy, saliva-free sustenance.  I found myself a lovely row of stalks far from where other harvesters were picking and began to pull the ears off the stalks and then knock the empty stalks to the ground as was customary in this field.  From out of nowhere a random dude appeared to pick immediately beside me.  He was yammering quite happily as he harvested his corn, which was lovely except for the fact that he was all alone.  He wasn't talking to me, and he wasn't sporting a Bluetooth, he was just...talking.  Perhaps he was speaking to the ears of corn?  I found a new row in which to pick where I would be out of his way, but he reappeared to continue his harvest immediately beside me.  When he knocked me in the head with a cornstalk, I again relocated to an unoccupied row.  And he again materialized beside me.  At that point I stalked out of the corn before the corn-stalker could bean me with another stalk of corn.  Now I know how Jeremy Renner feels.  http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/entertainment/news/jeremy-renner-stalker-stole-cat-28767511.html
I don't know what's more horrifying, slaver on my comestibles or a stalker in the corn.  My Treasure suggested a poll, so cast your vote in the comments.  Which is worse: a bag licker, or a corn stalker?

Not a Real Thing

You wanna know what bugs me?  Why, thank you for asking.  You KNOW I hate artificialness.  http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/real-thing.html  So you'll understand how phrases such as "too much cheese" send me into a paroxysm.
Too much cheese is not a real thing.  There's never enough cheese.  Cheese cures what ails ya.  The king of all foods is cheese.  If you can't eat all your cheese, gimme.  I'll do it.
Guy and girl best friends is not a real thing.  No matter what either of you say, if you're over age twelve and your best friend is an opposite, we all know where your heart went whether your mind meant to or not.
Sharing-size candy packages are not a real thing.  I'm going to eat it all.  You can't have any.  There will be no sharing.  Pixie will back me up on this; she knows.  Buy your own.
Giving a hundred and ten percent is not a real thing.  I'm going to puke on the next person I hear say that.  Mathematics, people.  You only have one hundred percent.  If you're giving one hundred and ten, you just stole from somebody else and now they only have ninety.  (Remember that I said this, so that next time I tell you I gave a hundred and ten percent, you can call me out, because I say it all the time.)
The Precious recently coerced me into watching the movie Divergent.  I'm looking forward to seeing the sequel, Insurgent.  The Precious says they're making a third show, which I'm convinced will be titled "Detergent".  But The Precious tells me that's not a real thing.  Lefty, however, says if it were, he wouldn't mind having his pants washed in that film.
No, Jeremy Renner was not in Divergent.

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You

Unless you're Jeremy Renner, in which case this blog is, in fact, about you.

Older and Meaner

I was totally rude to a customer service guy on the phone just now and I don't even feel bad.  The older I get, the meaner I become, and the happier I am about it.  What is happening to me?  Back in the late 1900's, I was so nice.
Maybe it's because I've done my time BEING the customer service guy to whom customers are totally rude, so now it's my turn to be wicked.
Perhaps it's a rite of passage of being in my forties.  Is forties considered "middle-aged"?  I never really understood what "middle-aged" meant.  How do you know what middle age is when you don't know how old you'll be when you die?
I spent my twenties feeling as though I needed to prove myself to the world, but the world never seemed interested in my provement.  In my thirties I felt the only person to whom I needed to prove myself was myself.  Fortunately, it turns out I'm pretty easily impressed, so once I had reached my forties I liked me so much I quit needing to prove anything and my life got so rad.
Being a girl version of Jeremy Renner, however, is no reason to be poopy to customer service guys.  I should be ashamed.  I'm sorry, Customer Service Guy.

How We Rock Apple Blossom

Hunneypunkin was in pain and wanted me to fix it, but I suspected there was a gallbladder or appendix problem which is beyond my scope of practice, as is diagnosis, so I did the only thing I could do at a million o'clock: I went to sleep.  But when a billion o'clock rolled around, Hunneypunkin developed chills and tremors that shook me awake.  (Rude!  Also frightening.)  So I Googled his symptoms because THAT will alleviate your fears when it's dark outside.  I took a shower and told Hunneypunkin I was going to pack him a nice overnight bag and we were going to take a little ride to have some of his internal organs removed.  So he stayed in bed till his alarm clock started singing, and then he went to work.
Hunneypunkin came home not long past noon, napped around the house until the walk-in clinic was closed, and decided he should see a doctor after all because it's more fun to pay an emergency room bill.  Plus, this is Apple Blossom weekend, so driving into Wenatchee at thirteen yards-per-hour on Friday night is awesome.
The ER peeps were friendly.  Hunneypunkin got intravenous fluids and some pink smiley-face tape on his arm.  I got some apple juice and a heated blanket because I cease to produce my own blood sugar and body heat when I run on no sleep.  Doctor Niceness said Hunneypunkin had an infection of some sort but they would need to run some tests to know anything more.
Next a tiny Nazi woman with a tight little bun (in her hair I mean) entered the room to administer the WASL, MSP, SAT, and ACT.
This is admittedly the first time Hunneypunkin has ever been in public in his jammie pants, which was a little embarrassing at first but I was glad later because those hospital gowns don't want to stay closed in the back.  I had to beat several nurses off Hunneypunkin with a stick because in a hospital gown he looks like Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye the Avenger.
Ultimately we were sent home with the assurance that Hunneypunkin is likely to die from something not related to what he is currently experiencing, and probably a long time from now.  He's feeling a little slow today, but he's sort of up and around.  Which is good, because Saturday is Caramel Mocha Day, and if Hunneypunkin couldn't take me out for coffee, I'd have to go out with Fernando the Pool Guy, and I don't understand Spanish very well.
Next year I'm going to come up with a better idea for Apple Blossom weekend.