Warning: Decorating for Christmas Can be Hazardous to your Health

It’s over. Now all that’s left is for me to continue applying Icy Hot to my back and taking a regimen of ibuprofen so I can soon walk, perhaps even bend over, without uttering a profanity.

If you’re worried I was in some sort of accident – fear not. I’m just recovering from decorating for Christmas. For me holiday decor is my Olympics. A decathlon of sorts where for three solid days I lug bin after bin out of my basement and begin the transformation from holiday drab to fab.

For years I have divided my decorating into three separate phases. Phase one begins with getting the Christmas tree and decorating it.

I usually like to get the tree bright and early the day after Thanksgiving. This year due to a University of Texas football game, that please note was on TV and could have been recorded, we had to delay our family outing to select a tree until 3 p.m. Thus setting my decorating schedule back h-o-u-r-s.

That though wasn’t the worst of it. U.T. lost or according to my husband “gave the game away” to Iowa State and he was in a mood that wasn’t the least bit festive.

I, totally full of the Christmas spirit, suggested that he might want to pick a new Big 12 team to root for. Perhaps even Iowa State because they haven’t been to a conference championship since 1912. So, that would be fun, historic even, to see them win some more.

This suggestion was met with a glare that still haunts me. It also made the ride to select a tree so lacking in holiday joy not even the Cheetah Girls Christmas CD from 2005 featuring the classic “Marshmallow World” could serve as a mood booster.

Luckily it didn’t impact our quest for the perfect Noble pine. We found one quickly and then I moved on to perusing wreaths. Shortly after that I discovered my husband had gone MIA. I sent my son to look for him and he reported back while laughing “that dad was walking off the game.”

Seriously, I wanted to throw a 20-inch Frasier fir wreath at my husband. Who allows football to usurp their holiday joy?

The next day I was barely ambulatory and a tad queasy after staying up till 2 a.m. to finish decorating the tree while subsisting on Pepperidge Farm peppermint cookies and Diet Coke. But I rallied and began phase two – exterior illumination.

This is where I almost lost my Christmas mojo. None, and I mean none, of the lights in my yards and yards of outdoor holiday garland worked. Granted they were more than a decade old but still I felt like my holly jolly had been kicked to the curb.

It didn’t help that I also had a slight memory of these lights going out last year right before I was going to take them down. But instead of removing the lights from the garland I just shoved them back in a bin.

As I was forced to cut hundreds of lights off with scissors so I could clear the way for new lights I wanted to travel back in time and punch myself in the face.

It was so bad I had to break open a fresh bag of peppermint cookies to make it through that perilous journey.

Fortunately phase three – assorted interior decor not of a Christmas tree nature was less eventful but not without peril. I couldn’t find one of my holiday bins and was at Defcon 1 for a nervous collapse.

Days later all is well – sort of.  I’m still sore from lugging bins and falling off a ladder ( to be clear it was a step stool but still – ouch.) My hope is I’ll be able to climb stairs without cursing very soon.

 

Reach Snarky  at snarkyinthesuburbs@ gmail.com, on Facebook at Snarky in the Suburbs, on Twitter at @snarkynsuburbs on Instagram @snarky.in.the.suburbs.

Death By Holiday Decor

sub-buzz-20356-1481152741-1Christmas is trying to kill me.

You know when you buy life insurance and you’re asked if you engage in high-risk behavior like skydiving or mountain climbing? Well, I think another question to determine your life expectancy should be do you have a fetish for outdoor Christmas decor?

If you reply with a “Oh my gosh yes, it wouldn’t be the holidays without the contents of at least four storage tubs the size of Mini Coopers being festooned across my yard” then you should be classified right up there with fools who voluntary swim with sharks while double fisting two large raw filet mignons.

It’s not like I’m pulling a Chevy Chase from Christmas Vacation and scaling my roofline like a blottoed billy-goat to string lights. Thanks to the laser illumination power of the Star Shower, the Star Splash and the Star Meteor my whole house is covered in swirling red and green dots and all I had to do was shove four separate itsy bitsy light stakes in the ground.

I do though love garland and other assorted greenery to grace the front of my home and that’s what almost killed me. Back in November I thought I hit the jackpot when a fabulous, posh friend of mine was moving and asked if I wanted her Frontgate Christmas garland.

I enthusiastically squealed, “Oh hell yeah!” and was most excited about experiencing the wonder of Frontgate up close and personal. Before that day I had to be content to peruse the mail order catalog, usually as light bathroom reading, and wonder what it would be like to actually buy something like a $750 Seville Towel Valet (translation: a towel holder that resembles a book-case). I was pretty sure it might be life changing.

When I got my hands on the garland I was in awe. It was like Santa himself harvested it from his secret stash of evergreens at the North Pole. It was lush and robust with berries, baby pinecones and a sprinkling of pristine snow.

The garland spoke to me and said, “Hey baby, why don’t you say we class up this joint?”

I was all in. I told my husband he could take his Walmart three-foot beagle with the belly that lights up and the reindeer that no longer had ears and put them back in the basement because we  were going to Fancy Town. I was excited to the point of tingling when I attempted to swathe the outside of my house with the garland.

Attempted is the key word here because the lushness of the garland presented a degree of difficulty in getting it to stay in place. It wasn’t the garland’s fault. It was mine. I was a novice in interacting with luxury. Heretofore my garland experience was of the craft store with coupon variety and that stuff is on the skimpy side.

The Frontgate garland due to its heft required more than Command Hooks. But I was not to be thwarted. I was going to use nails and heavy gauge floral wire to lasso it in place.

All was going splendidly with this plan. I was on a six-foot ladder banging in nails and wrapping the sumptuous faux evergreen when all of sudden the garland literally sprung off the nails and bitch slapped me right off the ladder. As I’m tumbling all I could think about was this was Frontgate’s way of telling me I’m not worthy.

Luckily the earless reindeer and beagle that I had dragged out of the yard and put on the porch to carry into the basement broke my fall. Yes, bad taste saved me which is why if you drive by my house you’ll see both reindeer and beagle in my yard. I figured it’s the least I could do.

 

 

Premature Christmas

Screen Shot 2015-11-19 at 8.14.13 AMIt’s taken a lot of discipline and dedication to make it to this day without giving in or being weak. Oh, how I’ve wanted to not just succumb but to throw myself in with the herd and celebrate being one of “those people.”

But, I can’t. I. Must. Stay. Strong. I’m almost to the finish line. All I need to do is gut it out for 24 more hours and I’ve done it. I’ve achieved my goal, no forget that, it’s not a goal. A goal is something you’re aiming to accomplish. What I’m talking about is so much more important than any goal. It’s about obeying your mother which you don’t approach with a half-hearted, namby pamby “I’ll try.” No, maternal obedience from an adult daughter demands, a “must do” attitude.

This steadfast compliance in the face of overwhelming temptation is why it took everything I had while buying leaf bags at Lowes to not lovingly gaze at a fresh evergreen garland with a sassy overlay of candy canes and a sprinkling of faux snow that screams Santa + Jack Frost = Best Friends Forever. You see, I was raised from a very young age to embrace one of my mother’s most fundamental edicts – thou shalt not decorate for Christmas before Thanksgiving.

This used to be one of my mom’s easier rules to obey. Back in the day most folks didn’t even put a tree up until December Uno. It was downright weird to see anyone going full holly jolly before you could actually start opening a flap on your Advent calendar. This was primarily because everyone had “real” Christmas trees. Time travel back to the 1970’s and the fake Frasier Fir was so flammable some counties had outlawed it. Never mind that it looked almost as artificial as the facelift my great Aunt Ethel got in Guadalajara, Mexico circa 1972.

Once faux Christmas trees reached an authenticity level so acute that it could fool even the most discerning of squirrels the last remaining barrier to premature Christmas decor was breached. Now, it’s almost impossible to not I spy at least one neighbor with Christmas lights up in October. The neighbor might not have the lights on but they’re up and if I follow my mother’s rule to the letter that’s still a no, no.

I always admired my mother’s keen passion for keeping Thanksgiving as a separate event and not smooshing it together with the Christmas season so it becomes like a piece of chocolate in a s’more. You know how when you eat a s’more you get a taste of the chocolate, but it’s totally overwhelmed by the gooey, bulky show off that is a charred marshmallow. That’s exactly what she thought happened to Thanksgiving when you’re carving the turkey next to a fully flocked Christmas tree.

Growing up, especially as teenagers, my sister and I would delight in aggravating my mother by pointing out people in town who had Christmas decorations up early and to be truthful early to my mom was anytime before the first weekend in December. When a salacious marital cheating scandal happened to a prominent citizen my mom’s very pious response was, “Well, what did anyone except from that woman. She had Christmas up before you could even buy a Butterball in the grocery store. I’m telling you it speaks to character.”

When I pressed my mother for details about how exactly putting Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving was a moral defect. She looked at me like I had just asked if writing thank you notes was ever optional and responded, “You don’t skip over Thanksgiving just because something better in the form of Christmas is lurking all bright and shiny around the corner and you don’t skip out of a marriage for exactly that same reason. It would behoove you to remember that young lady.”

Remember it I did. And as much as I have always wanted to get started on putting up Christmas decorations early (because what woman with a holiday To Do list a mile long doesn’t want to start getting stuff done) I lived in fear my mother would find out and have a very dignified, and somewhat reserved, hissy fit. (Think of it as a long, drawn out, sigh of devastating disappointment.)

This year is the first Thanksgiving I’ll celebrate without my mother. She passed away in March. My sister called me and asked if I was going to start decorating early. I told her no way because I believe with all my heart my mom is still with us and she would somehow manage to express her disapproval from the great beyond.

“I feel the same way,” my sister shared. Then we both started laughing. My mother maybe gone but her Thanksgiving spirit or “Holiday Decoration Timeline” is still living large.

Hey, while we’re talking about Christmas do you know what you make a great gift? My Snarky book series. If you haven’t experienced a Snarky book yet may cover_1-3-21I gently suggest you give it a try like right now. Yes, my friend just click on one of the links and presto you can get yourself some Snarky for only, wait for it, wait for it, 99 cents!  You can buy it for your Kindle or in paperback on Amazon.  It’s also available for the Nook or you can get it for your Kobo reader. Click on a link and give it a test read. 🙂

 

Are You Telling Me You’re “More Christian” Than Me Because You Keep Your Christmas Tree Up Longer?

17-sarcastic-Christmas-tree-humorDid you know the date when you decide to take your holiday decorations down says a lot about you? I sure didn’t. I just assumed that folks eventually got around to it. Of course, I’ve been known to make snide comments about people who still have a Christmas tree in their living room and outdoor inflatables littering their yard on Valentine’s Day. But I had no idea there is what amounts to a de-Christmasing personality profile.

Last week, right before New Year’s Eve, I was talking to a group of women and I mentioned that I couldn’t wait to take down all my decorations and was counting the minutes until I could put my Christmas tree out of it’s misery. (At this point it was jettisoning needles with a vengeance.)

Our family tradition is to keep the tree up until January first and then it’s a full-scale purge of Christmas. It can’t just be me who thinks that your house looks twice as big after the Santas, the Snow Villages, the stockings, the extensive collection of vintage pinecones (don’t ask, just feel sorry for me) and North Pole Snow Globe city is returned to the basement?

Well, as I was expressing my soon to be joy of de-Christmasing, I got a stern look from one of the woman. Correction on that look. It was stern with a mix of superiority and a wee bit of pious. Yes, her chin was most definitely doing the pious thing. You know, kind of cocked to the side with a tilt. She asked me if I was a Christian. I give her a look that said, “Hey, there idiot” and replied, “Umm, yes, of course since I’m talking about taking down C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s decorations.”

She snorted back, “Well, I always have to ask because you know a lot of people do the Santa thing, but really aren’t what I would call Christians.”

I rolled my eyes and waited. I knew there was more and indeed there was. I got a lecture about how Christmas lasts until January 6 with the Feast of Epiphany and how all her decorations stay up until then. I joked that at my house the Feast of Epiphany is when my kids go back to school. No one laughed. (“Come on that’s funny? Right?)  Instead “Pious Chin” gave me a look that one would usually reserve for heretics or people who write checks at the grocery store.

Before I had to chance to defend myself another woman, with some hipster glasses, butted in with her tale of how she keeps her decorations up until at least the third Sunday after Christmas because of the “historical vagaries” of the birth of Christ.”

Oh my, was that a religious throwdown I just heard? On the off-chance it was I was staying put and settling in. This could be getting good. The first couple of seconds it seemed like nothing was going to happen. I felt duty bound, in the name of theological study, to help the discussion along so I directed a question towards Pious Chin and half laughing asked, “Does that mean she’s more devout because she keeps her tree up longer?”

Ladies and gentlemen we have lift off. Pious Chin informed Hipster Glasses that she didn’t know what she was talking about with the whole “vagaries” comment. Hipster began to give the Chin a discourse about December 25. She had me through the Winter Solstice, but lost me at Gregorian calendar. It was good for a while, the whole tit for tat thing. It was like watching a version of Bible Jeopardy. “I’ll take Luke 2:8 for 100 Alex.”

Because I started this chitchat/feud I to wanted to end it before it got any more heated. I figured the best way to do this was to call a truce by complimenting both women on their outstanding biblical knowledge. This did nothing to deter the “conversation.” I was going to have to pull out the heavy artillery.

I went big. I asked about their kids. Specifically, if their children were going to take part in the Duke Talent Identification program for gifted elementary school students. I didn’t even have a chance to fully enunciate the word gifted before these two were off the Bible and on to test scores. It was a like a WWF cage match. You know if the wrestlers wore J. Crew and carried iPhones in Lilly Pulitzer floral cases.

I slowly backed away and thanked Jesus (birthday undetermined) that I’m a little bit of an idiot. Okay, maybe not an idiot, but let’s just say not much of a deep thinker. That for me it’s just holiday decorations, not a treatise on my faith, and this girl can only look at a creepy pine cone collection for so long before it’s got to be boxed up and banished to the basement.

Hey, Snarky friends please re-like my page on Facebook. I got hacked and had to start my page from scratch. Thanks! Click on the FB icon located at the top right hand of blog and let your friends know that Snarky is back.

 **For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 

 

 

Holiday Decorating = Marital Counseling

I donfunny-pictures-lights-house-christmas-harder-than-you’t admit to being a genius, but I’m telling you I’ve had some pretty good ideas. One of my best is that Waterparks should have on site dermatologists to scan for potentially cancerous moles. Why isn’t this being done? It’s a flesh rich, almost naked environment that is prime mole diagnosis territory. Think of the lives that could be saved! I can’t be the only person that has been behind someone in line for the Colon Irrigation tube slide and not thought, “Wow, that guy’s mole looks suspicious.” Of course, there’s always the off chance that it’s a tattoo designed to look like emerging melanoma, but still it’s not like Mr. Tattoo wouldn’t benefit from the keen eye of a dermatologist.

I came up with my newest awesome idea while at Target this past weekend. Yes, Target. I find the store very inspirational and intellectually stimulating. I was also eating Pepperidge Farm Gingerbread cookies and I think that helped sharpen my thought process. Ginger has been proven to boost the knowledge noggin. Okay, scratch that. I just checked the ingredients absolutely no ginger in the cookie. Let’s just go with the sugar invigorated my sensory stimuli. Any who, as I was munching away on cookies I made my way over to the Christmas lights. I was in need of only a single, 100 count, LED, ice white package of bulbs.

When I reached the holiday decor area I had a little trouble getting to the lights. It was jammed packed with people studying and debating their choices. Seriously, it was the Algonquin roundtable of exterior illumination. There were guys debating the superior lighting power of the C7 compared to the C9, the sphere versus the ball and if the rope light is an adequate substitution for the icicle as it relates to decorating tree trunks.

I was enthralled and was about to ask this collection of bulb brainiacs a question when the bickering started. Not, as you might think, between the glow gurus, but between the husbands and wives. There were spousal disagreements over lighting schemes. For the men, it seems bigger is better (of course). For the women, it was more of a taste issue. Why go for the C9 bulb when twinkle lights will “just look classier.”

This is when I had the stellar idea that retail stores that sell Christmas lights should offer free marital counseling the two days after Thanksgiving. Call it a humanitarian public service. A therapist could be on hand to not only act as a referee, but to impart knowledge on problem solving and maybe even do relationship building exercises using the holiday inflatable or blow up as a “yardstick of feelings.”

I have a theory about inflatables. I think they’re making up for some sort of emotional deficiency in a marriage. The more blow-ups in someone’s yard the less affection they may be getting at home. Is there anything sadder looking than an inflatable suffering from erectile dysfunction? It’s pitiful, those heaps of crumpled nylon littering a yard in fabric tombstones that might as well read “R.I.P. Good Taste.” Then when the blowups are getting jets of air shot up their infrastructure they bob and weave like they’ve got their swagger back and yet we all know it’s only a matter of time before their spirits are deflated again and again. If that’s not a metaphor for a marriage in trouble I don’t know what is.

Another holiday light themed till death do us part red flag is the wife who urges, coaxes, maybe even sweet talks her husband into climbing on a ladder, that has seen much better days, and venturing up and up and away to the tippy top of their three-story house. As the hubs is clutching a spool of commercial grade C9 lights, that act as an unbalanced load causing him to sway to and fro, he hoists himself onto the roof as the wife cheers, “go just a little bit higher” which is code for “I just paid your life insurance policy and this will be so much better and quicker than a divorce.”

And don’t even me started on the husband who asks his wife to “plug in” the lights while assuring her that the puddle she is standing in won’t matter because the “the electricity is grounded.”

You see there’s a lot of marriage angst and in extreme circumstances death scenarios involved in this whole outside holiday light thing. Imagine the number of marriages that could be rescued and second-degree murder charges averted if a counselor, therapist, or registered smile maker (they have those in California) lurked around the holiday aisles.

Target are you listening?

 

 **For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 

My Christmas Tree Makes Me Cry

You knoScreen Shot 2014-12-04 at 10.15.23 AMw you may have scarred your children when they refer to decorating the Christmas tree as a pejorative. For example, if something unpleasant has happened they might describe it as “being bad, but not decorating the Christmas tree bad.” It’s all because I have an illness. Really, more of a yuletide related disorder. And this disorder, as most disorders do, relates back to my childhood.

My mother was a florist and decorated people’s homes for the holidays. Her pièce de résistance was the Christmas tree. She was renowned for her ability to turn a simple evergreen into a work of art. One of the ways she showcased her talent was to throw a huge Christmas Eve party where the star of the show was the tree. Some years we had trees so large that my father had to install guide wires and drill metal hooks into the wall to hold the evergreen beast in place. This excessive dedication and devotion (i.e. mental illness; subcategory – addiction and OCD) to finding and decorating the perfect tree leached into my very soul. Every year I’m possessed with what my husband describes as a case of the “Christmas tree crazies.”

The addiction flares up when the fresh trees start getting delivered. I’m on a mission to find the tree that still has its saw scars. Last week, I hit the tannenbaum trifecta when I spied a truck at Whole Foods unloading trees that all passed my rigorous three-part sniff and needle test. For the uninitiated the sniff test requires that the tree have a robust bouquet of pungent pine aroma, with some subtle undertones of sweet sap and a slight, but rich loamy soil finish. I immediately called my husband and told him it was “go time!” He knew exactly what I meant. It’s not like we haven’t trained for this. As soon as mid November rolls around he keeps supplies in his car and is ready at a moment’s notice for “the call.”

Back in the day we would do the whole family thing and make it an outing to find a Christmas tree. But, we had to abandon that Hallmark moment when I would make the kids cry. Seriously, I couldn’t help myself. They have the worst taste in trees. You would have thought they were Charlie Brown. They always gravitated towards the evergreen underachiever. I blame my husband for their lackluster judgment regarding the Abies fraseri (Frasier Fir) because they obviously got some substandard tree gene from his family.

It gets worse when it comes to decorating the tree. They’re all tree slackers. One does not haphazardly place lights and ornaments on a tree in an effort to “just get it done.” Oh, no, there must be a tree story. You’re creating a visual imprint for the holidays. It all starts with the lights. You must exceed 1,000 lights and you start this journey by first wrapping the deep interior of the tree with luminescence using the gentlest of hands or as my mother would say, “you approach the tree as if fairies lived there,” then and only then do you work your way out towards the branches. As for hanging decorations no metal ornament hooks are allowed. What are we animals without opposable thumbs? Each ornament is tied on a tree branch with a satin ribbon.

This tree process is so labor intensive that it makes me cry almost every year. In fact, my family is still recovering from the tree trauma of 2005. I had spent h-o-u-r-s decorating the tree. My kids were still little so I let them “help” and by that I mean having them put ornaments on the tree and then moving them later. Just as I was ready to share the wonder and glory of my creation every single, freaking, light went out. My husband was called in for illumination life support, but nothing we did could get the lights to come back on. My only solution was to take all the decorations and lights off the tree and start over!

It was then that my children learned what the ugly cry is. I wailed! I’m sure a woman having a water birth in a pedicure tub at a nail salon located inside a Walmart would have made less noise. My husband, no doubt, fearing for his and the children’s safety quickly left the house under the guise of getting me new lights. I was left alone with my holiday spirit broken, weeping on my living room floor with the unlit Christmas tree casting a shadow of gloomy mockery on my pain.

It took until 2 o’clock in the morning for me to “redo” that tree. But I did it. I persevered because you can’t quit crazy especially not Christmas crazy.

**For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 

To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.

 

 

A Very Snarky Christmas

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One of my favorite things about the holidays is baking. It gives me an excuse to feast on cookie dough. Yeah, I know you’re not supposed to because of the whole “raw egg can kill you” thing, but God bless Betty Crocker if that’s what sends me to the great beyond so be it. I’m one of those people who thinks that sometimes the dough if better than the finished product. I have a theory, well more of an ongoing research project, that the prettier the cookie the worse it tastes.

Take the elaborately decorated sugar cookie – not so yummy. The first clue the cookie is going to be all for show is that you can actually tell what it is. Of course, you know it’s a cookie, but I mean you can tell it’s Rudolph or Santa’s sleigh because the frosting doesn’t overwhelm the shape. This is a warning. It means the frosting is not buttercream. It’s the demon spawn of buttercream . . . royal icing.

Royal icing in the cookie world is like a beauty contestant  – all style no substance. And by substance I mean no rich, buttery, melt in your mouth, goodness. Do you know what’s in royal icing? Things like water and meringue powder. Does that say delicious to you? Of course it doesn’t, but people use it because it does nifty things like “harden”, maintains a “high gloss” and works like “cement.” Based on those descriptions you might as well spray your cookies with Extra Hold Aqua Net. I’m sure the taste would be about the same.

This is why I’m pro the less attractive sugar cookie or the cookie that would win Miss Congeniality (robust personality, but not that cute) in the baked goods beauty pageant. Because a cookie that has you wondering if it’s supposed to be shaped like a Christmas stocking or a vacuum cleaner usually means it’s got a delicious, overlay and overload of  buttercream frosting. That said, do not make the mistake, like I did, of taking Miss Congeniality cookies to a cookie exchange. Your feelings could get hurt.

What’s up with these cookie exchanges? I swear it’s like sorority rush or the NFL draft (which having been in a sorority and having watched the NFL draft I’m here to tell you both of these institutions have way more in common than you would think). You go into the party with your platters of cookies and then people select, maybe bid, on the ones they want to take home. Well, my Miss Congeniality cookie was the lonely girl sitting solo in the middle school cafeteria. There wasn’t one taker.

The real taste bud taser was that a woman who brought multi colored “cookie presents” was acting like she had just won Top Chef and guests were oohing and ahhing over her treats. How many Mistletoe Mojitos had these women consumed? Couldn’t they tell these squares were made out of Fruity Pebbles cereal and melted marshmallows? It was just a jacked up Rice Krispy Treat. Sure, Mrs. Top Chef had decorated each square to look like a present with a fondant bow, but that still didn’t excuse her hubris. She kept talking about the “flavor profile” of her cookies. Really? Fruity Pebbles cereal has a flavor profile? What is it red dye and palm oil?

This is when I kind of panicked. I felt sorry for my cookies and I wanted them to find a good home. So, I thought WWPDD (What Would the Pillsbury Doughboy Do)? I tell you what he would do. It would be not let a mighty fine sugar cookie made with the finest of ingredients get bested by freaking Fruity Pebbles. So, I went for the soft spot of any cookie exchange – caloric content.

The cookie exchange is quite the dichotomy. You have a bunch of women wearing Spanx, who work out twice a day and have either just finished a juice cleanse or are about to start one surrounded by their mortal enemies – carbohydrates and sucrose. So, I shared that my cookies were more energy bars than desserts. (People will eat an energy bar that has as many calories as a Snicker as long as they think it’s full of “good carbs.”) Then I backed up that claim with more fabrications. I might have casually mentioned that protein powder was mixed in with the flour and that a flax and sesame seed oil reduction replaced most of the butter.

Before you could say Merry Christmas women were putting down those Fruity Pebbles squares and going for my Miss Congenialities. Was it wrong of me to lie? Of course, but it’s the holidays and my gift to everyone was guilt free eating. Sorry, but I can’t feel bad about that – ever.

There’s more Snarky coming your way in book form!  (Two books to be exact.) Come on, admit it, your holidays would be so much better with a heaping helping of Snarky. And because I adore you so very much all you need to do is just click on one of the links and presto you can get yourself some Snarky for only, wait for it, wait for it, 99 cents!  You can buy it for your Kindle or in paperback on Amazon.  It’s also available for the Nook or you can get it for your Kobo reader. Click on a link and give it a test read. 🙂

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