Dear Trick or Treater

I have a confession to make. When shopping for Halloween candy to give out this year, I had you in mind. You wouldn’t receive the “bad” candy; tootsie rolls, pixie sticks, or smarties. That just wasn’t good enough. Not for you. Not for my trick or treater. Nope, for you, I would splurge on (gasp!) chocolate. Because? It’s Halloween. It’s a treat. You deserve it! You deserve it for all the times the wee will be scared out of you on this Hallowed frightfest night. And what could I get you that would be most deserving of your adorable costume? Your pumpkin bucket? Your painted green witch face? Your big smile and open mouth? A treat, I myself would love to receive. A treat that is chocolaty, and peanut buttery, so smooth in all it’s yummy goodness it should be renamed chocolate heaven.

Reese’s Peanut Butter cups

Scrumptious, most delicious treat of all Halloween time.

This is the good stuff.

This is what you deserve my little sweet faced friend. I bought bags with you in mind. With your well-being. With your coming home shrieking in pleasure, “Reese’s! Reese’s! I got a Reese’s from the house that gives out the good candy. Yeah!”

I felt like the Grinch who saved Halloween and grew a heart to stop handing out orange and black peanut butter chews for something with substance. Good candy. Chocolate candy. I am nothing but over generous.

Then, it happened.

I had one little bite. Just one Reese cup package. Just a little snack. Just a desert after dinner. It was my biggest mistake and a pitiful spiral of self-control defeat worthy of any horror flick.

One opened the sacred bag. One lead to another. I was taking “one” to eat after lunch, then “one” mid-breakfast, and then “one” as an after work snack; after stress treat, after dinner, before bed. And……and….and….and…..

I’m sorry.

I hang my head in shame. The Reese’s are gone. I am not allowed to buy anymore. There is no more “good” candy allowed in this house. Only the stuff I won’t touch. Maybe you should just skip our house?

I apologize dear trick or treater. It’s all my fault. Enjoy your dots….

…..again.

Next year. NEXT year, we will have the “good” stuff……..I (um) promise.

*images by Google

Love and Restriction

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of love and restriction is food. Yes, food.

Hey, it’s better than my second thought, which was the time I got grounded from my first car, a week after I got my driver license. Not for one week. Not for two. It was for SIX MONTHS of restriction. I have videos of the car set to the song, “Cry Little Sister” from the Lost Boys soundtrack. It was THAT bad. What kind of parents do that to a teenager after giving them a CAR for their 16th birthday? Apparently mine, because the LOVED me.

Longest six months of my entire life. Still painfully clear twenty-three years later. So you see? Forget the second thought, let’s go with the first one……contemplative cuisine; the snacking, shoveling, and wolfing of it.

I LOVE food. Any kind of food, in any way. An array of delicacy to have affairs with.

Pasta, seafood, sushi, steak, bread, chocolate, dairy, fruit, fast food, slow food, and any kind of mexican – any kind of bakery goods. Fried, baked, buttered, battered, or grilled – doesn’t matter. Like I said, any kind; any way.

I can’t even cook. I am a foodie at the mercy of the many fine chefs mastering in their nummy kitchen heaven in the comfort of their domains.

God love em’.

By the way, my sixteen-year old daughter wants to be a chef when she grows up. Coincidence?

I read somewhere that you only savor the first bite or two of jubilant noshing, and after that you are just eating on auto-pilot inhale. Not me. I savor every morsel. Every one. With pleasure. With rapture. With complete and utter devotion to the chew.

Love…

Restriction…

See, here is the scoop. Food lovin’ makes me gain weight. My tummy bloats. I get heartburn. It clogs my arteries and gives me muffin top. Well… bigger muffin top; like my muffin top eats your muffin top for breakfast, or my muffin top is pregnant with triplets kind of muffin top. So although, I’d like to eat a gazillion calories a day. If I did that, I’d be movable by Mack truck only. So, I restrict myself. Sadly. Tearfully. Does anyone feel my pain?

That’s my restriction – the love of nummy, yummy food.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I hear a Reese’s cup calling my name.

*Originally a guest post on The Scoop on Poop, re-post today, as I really need to drop some pounds before D-Day the BIG day – when I shouldn’t be too “big” eh?

*Images by Google.

Jeeper Creeper

Don’t let the pretty twin coppers fool you.

My dog Anna (half greyhound/half ??) isn’t just a pretty face. She is a creeper.

She likes to watch. And she watches………………………..everything.

The yard.

Me.

You.

The neighborhood.

I noticed her creepy behavior at the duplex. All she would do is stare out the window, so much so, the blinds fell apart where her pokey nose kept looking. And she couldn’t resist. She couldn’t not creep. It’s her thing.

I won’t sugar coat it, she has issues. Maybe she thinks someone is watching her? Maybe she is just the best watchdog on the planet? Maybe she is just so scared she watches her own back? Constantly. And she is not just a creeper, but a barker. She barks at everything she sees that creeps her out. A plastic bag floating by. A walker. A runner. A car. A leaf. Jason. The lawnmower. You name it and she goes ballistic, then she runs and hides. Why? I don’t know, because she is a creeper and that’s what creepers do?

At her backyard post, she spots squirrels and she doesn’t even go completely barking ballistic, but more or less, shakes and whimpers at them. It makes me wonder…..what is SHE going to do? If I let her out and they run away, who is she going to creep? It’s not like she would catch a squirrel. I mean, she is fast, but not that fast.

I let her creep up on an Armadillo one day. I saw it while walking her on the leash. She starts to get close, and then what happens? She gets the creeps and darts away. WHAT? This thing just sniffed her way and goes on digging through our yard. I’m telling you this dog likes to creep, but no action. It goes against her delicate introverted nature. Now Hoss Salem comes up on the same armadillo, scares it so bad it jumps ten feet in the air. Which was GREAT! Salem doesn’t creep, she terrifies. Awesome.

But back to Anna.

The watcher.

Creeping in action.

I wonder if she knows I’m watching HER. The creeper getting creeped.

And just so you know, the creeping isn’t so bad, it’s the barking at – whatever the creep it is?!? – that does me in.

She’s staring through your windows. She’s watching your people go.


She gon find you. She gon find you.

Hey Antoine Dodson, run and tell that. Run and tell that.

This post brought to you by:
Mama's Losin' It
I chose prompt 4.) Your pets least likable character trait.

No Date of Birth, No Travel for you!

Says, the Travel Nazi.

That’s right. Your birthday. Woo-hoo and happy birthday to you. I promise it’s not so I can steal your identity, or note a calendar reminder to send you an e-card. It’s not just that you were born, grew and could travel either – although that works fairly well.

The truth is, it’s a new TSA rule mandating a date of birth in all airline reservations. A requirement for travel agents, and airlines to obtain, before a passenger gets to the airport. To speed up the security process, avoid strip search, and identify more of the watched list persons, and not just the innocent folks who have the bad luck of sharing the same name as the watched list person – which is what happens now. It’s been coming down the pipe a long time, but now, it’s getting serious. My work requires we have the date of birth before we can even issue an airline ticket. No date of birth. No travel for you! NEXT!

I know I don’t talk about my job a lot. I have been a business travel agent for twenty years. Most of the time when I say that, people respond, “I didn’t know travel agents were still around?” And yes, yes we are. Sure the internet changed things. Now travelers can book flights all-by-themselves by the click of a mouse or tap of an app.

It’s a fancy thing. It’s a cool thing. It’s technology brilliance. I had no idea so many people were as talented as me, or travel agent wanna-bes. I have to admit, I don’t blame them, it’s a lot of fun. I book tickets online myself (or by app), when I have personal travel. It’s simple. But not everyone travels a simple round trip. Not every company trusts their employees to book the lowest fare and adhere to the policy guidelines. And lastly, not everyone CAN book themselves online, because they have (um) challenges. You know who you are, or maybe you don’t (ahem).

Our business took a dip 9/11, but not for long. It took another dip when the economy bellied up a few years ago, but also recovered. Flights are more booked than ever. It’s like spring break travel every week. Hotels are sold out again. Every car company in a city is booked. International travel is off the charts, despite the Iceland volcano ash cloud scare that disrupted flights for a month over Europe. Business is business, it has to go on. With all the telecommunication equipment, video conferencing, and virtual training, one would think travel would not be as demanding. It doesn’t have to be done “in-person” anymore.

Not true either, most customers, clients, and businesses understand, there is nothing like face-to-face. Many training and physical labor has to be done by hand. Sensitive information has to be transported in person. Conferences and people networking with handshakes and golf, not Facebook. Business travel is big business and even bigger if the company can save and track funds as much as possible, which is where I come in. I suggest lower fares. I advise company policy. I search. I shop. I track, and I book flights – keeping in mind the demands and limits, my dear business person has.

It’s a crazy travel life, but it’s my crazy travel life.

So, when I ask for your birth date and you get all “suspicious” of my motive. When your feathers ruffle at my request because that information is PRIVATE – Puh-leeze. I no more need to know your age than your favorite color. I am just doing my job and trying to make your travel experience more pleasant and care-free in the security line, like the good ol’ days. So before I bust out in song, “You say it’s your birthday! Dun, nun, nun, nun – It’s my birthday too – yeah!” I need your date of birth for your airline ticket, or no travel for you!

And by the way…..does your government issued ID have your middle name or initial on it? It has to match. Why do I need to know (sigh)…because the government told me to. Yes, I’ll wait while you look.

Happy Trails!