An Interview With My Bag

Do you ever wonder if objects have memories? Not actual cognitive thought memories obviously, but that they kind of soak up the feelings of their surroundings? I like to think that some do (you know that old saying about houses, if these walls could talk?), but I wonder about other objects. What would they say if we could interview them? What would you talk to?

I think I'd like to talk to my backpack.

Meet my dual compartment, navy blue, Jansport backpack, circa 1997. If you need an example of an object with personal history, this is it. And if it could talk, I'm sure it would have plenty of stories to tell.

I first bought this backpack my junior year of high school. I was midway through the semester, and had finally admitted that the "cool" way just carrying my books around in a stack in my arms was no longer working for me. For one, I had too many books. For another, I kept dropping the smaller yet necessary items like pencils and calculators and random papers. Like Hansel and Gretel, I was leaving a trail of school supply breadcrumbs wherever I went. So I gave in, bought a backpack, and dumped all my crap paraphernalia in it instead. And with that unassuming start, my backpack's story with me begins.

For instance, I'm sure it could tell you about the time that I made the poor choice of keeping a banana in the front compartment, and subsequently, how hard it is to clean mashed brown banana out of the buttons of your calculator. Good thing the bag itself is machine washable.

It could tell you about how in a fit of inspiration, I pinned metal buttons with witty sayings all over it my junior year of high school. I'd spent weeks making them with a button machine, and was very proud of them displayed all over my bag. (Right up until I removed them all again after a few months because it turns out that all those buttons are heavy!) It wouldn't, however, be the last time I decorated it.

It could tell you how I only carried it by one shoulder strap, usually over my right shoulder, because despite making you walk hunched over on one side, one strap was cool while two straps was just dorky. (This is something I still continue to do, not so much out of coolness, but because of sheer habit. I do trade off on the shoulders now in deference to my spine).

It could tell you how I used it as a ruck sack when we traveled for flag corp competitions, and did double-duty as a pillow when sleeping in the hallways of the host schools surrounded by hundreds of other high school girls, and drifting off to the snapping sounds of countless flags whipping through the air in unison as various groups practiced around us in the night.

It could attest to the sheer weight and size of the books needed for senior year, including the three needed AP English alone. (Could it even still recite the William Carlos Williams poem about the red wheelbarrow, glazed with rain water, beside the white chickens? Because I can. Even though it does absolutely nothing for me today besides take up much needed space in my brain).

It could point to the dab of white paint on the bottom from when I slung it too close to my workstation in the art room where I went to visit a sympathetic teacher under the guise of finishing my painting assignment instead of sitting through overloud basketball pep rallies. (Yes, I was a school spirit-challenged dork...what of it?)

It could recall being my carry on luggage for my senior trip through Europe, and how Mrs. Smith insisted that we all pin large artificial sunflowers on all of our luggage so that they would be easy to spot amongst the rest of England's luggage. And she was right, although I'm not sure the guys on our trip appreciated them, or being referred to as the "sunflower crew" everywhere we went.

Speaking of England, it was there when I dropped my passport on the floor of a bank where we had stopped to exchange traveler's checks. Did it stare from my back at the little blue book as I walked away, knowing that the passport was supposed to be stowed safely inside itself instead of blending seamlessly into the bank carpet that was the exact same shade? (If it did, I wished it would have spoken up then, instead of me spending the the time three days later traveling back to Bath from London to retrieve it and completely missing Stonehenge in the process).

It was there when I made the trip from home to college for the first time. It was there when I purchased outrageously expensive new textbooks for all my 101 classes, and when I walked the route for my classes in nervous anticipation.

It can also probably recall my disastrous attempt to smuggle potato soup out of the cafeteria in a wax paper cup during my soup eating phase. (You will be glad to know that potato soup washes easily out of a backpack...melted wax is slightly harder).

It got kicked around the floor several times in frustration as Nicole and I crammed for our Latin 101 final. (What possessed us to take Latin I'll never know. More useless than the Red Wheelbarrow poem). I will say that it was the last Latin class I took, and I'm sure the backpack sighed in relief with me when I switched to Portuguese shortly after.

It served as food and drink transporter (not potato soup) the night that we camped out for tickets to the UT-Florida football game our freshman year. Nicole and I were stupid with sleep deprivation from the all night partying of our fellow line mates, but we were not hungry thanks to the contents of my bag. (And incidentally, there were plenty of tickets to be had the next day, so camping out in line proved totally unnecessary except as a rite of collegial passage).

It went through the entire four years of college with me, with the exception of one semester when I cast it aside for a fancy laptop bag. I thought the computer bag looked more professional for my business classes, and I suppose it did for the one semester it lasted before the strap frayed and the velcro closures started pulling away. After that I went back to the trusty Jansport and just tossed my laptop into my backpack with everything else. Turns out it can survive without fancy computer padding just fine.

After graduation, it moved fragile items and important documents from my dorm room to my first apartment in Atlanta, and then to my first place with Tony in Virginia a few years later, and then to our first house back here a few years after that.

Then for a while, the only ones getting use of out of it were the cats, who enjoy sleeping on it in the floor of the closet. I'm not sure if it's the feel of the fabric, or the whisper of scents from the places its gone, or maybe it just smells like me, but they all seem to gravitate to it. (And consequently, so does the cat hair. I never leave home without it).

Then I went back to school for my masters, and the books and papers and calculators made a resurgence. This time, the Early American Poetry and Latin 101 gave way to Consumer Buyer Behavior and Advanced Statistics. Either way, the books were still heavy and still expensive. And the backpack still carried them.

It was infested with ants when I left chocolate in it and forgot it out on the back porch one night.

It carried my graduate thesis on the day I gave the presentation that I'd been working on for 8 months. Could it feel my nerves when I walked into that room? Does that kind of energy soak into its fibers? Did it silently rejoice when I made it through, or is the role of a backpack more ambivalent in nature? (I'm sure that it is glad that its back-up use as vomit-catcher wasn't necessary after all).

After that graduation, it went backpacking with me on day hikes through the mountains, carrying water and my camera and dry socks and snacks.

Now, I pull it out for trips, what with it being the perfect carry-on size. It's been through hundreds of airport security machines. It's been pulled aside for random searches, checked by drug-sniffing dogs, and shoved under numerous seats on countless airplanes. It's gone to Europe, Jamaica, Mexico, on a couple of cruises, and all over the continental US. It smells like sunscreen from my recent trip to Tampa and has a leftover bright red carry-on tag from American Airlines looped around one strap.

I've certainly put it through its paces for the past 13 years, and despite all the abuse, it's held up remarkably well for its age. Probably better than I have myself. Like me, it has scuffs and scars and maybe a tiny hole or two, but that just gives it character. And I like to imagine that like all objects, it waits patiently in the dark of my closet, reliving old adventures and waiting for the new ones.

Slip Sliding Away

Have you missed me? I know it's been a while, but I honestly haven't been doing anything all that exciting, hence the radio silence. But since I've started receiving the "are you still breathing" emails, I thought I'd better pop on and say something.


I bought new sheets yesterday. (Feeling sorry that you asked if I was alive now, aren't you?) Actually, I had been meaning to buy new sheets for a while now since the washing machine eats ours and they were a little worse for wear. (Our washing machine eats everything. It's very abusive. Perhaps I should be buying a new washing machine instead of new sheets, but that's another day, and significantly more dinero).


The old sheets were looking kinda ratty, and the local humane society just took in about 40 dogs from a dog hoarder, so I decided to buy new sheets. (I know, I know, you're reading the dog thing and being all, bless her heart...she's lost her ever lovin' mind. Which is true, but before you write it off as a complete non-sequitur, let me explain). The Young Williams Animal Shelter busted a dog hoarder with 70 something dogs the other day. (Poor dogs. If you must hoard, hoard china figurines or hubcaps or even empty coke cans, but leave the poor animals out of it. The neglect was unbelievable). The animal shelter is overrun with all these dogs, and a call went out asking for supplies, one of which was old sheets and towels. And I was like, "I have sheets and towels!" So the old ones went to Young Williams for the dogs and I went shopping for new ones.

Actually, I totally lucked out on the new sheets, because I just so happened to come across some on clearance, taking them from $35.99 to $12.99 for a queen set. And I was like, 13 bucks for sheets? Oh yes ma'am! So I grabbed two sets and happy-danced my way to the register. The only thing is that they were satin sheets, and normally we (me and Tony and the cat menagerie) enjoy sleeping on Egyptian cotton. But what they hey, for $12.99, we'll switch to satin.

(Not to mention, it's shiny and pretty! Which has absolutely nothing to do with comfort at all, I know, but still...shiny is better, right?)

Well. Last night was the maiden voyage of the new sheets, and come to find out that there is one other way that satin sheets differ from cotton (besides being shiny, I mean). Turns out that they are also slippery. In fact, the phrase "slicker than goose poop" comes to mind, because we were slipping and sliding all over the place last night. (And not in a fun way, either). Satin sheets reduce bed friction to zero! I went to lay my head down on the pillow, and darned if the thing (in its nice new matching satin pillow case) didn't go squirting right out from under me and off the bed. Several times. The duvet also slid off (on Tony's side, leaving me uncovered and shivering all night). The remote to the tv went over the side. Even the cats were accidentally de-bedded when I moved my foot and sent a sleeping Mason skidding over the edge. (Boy was he surprised!) Honestly, it's like trying to sleep on a slip 'n slide.

So I'm not sure what to do about the sheets. Is there a learning curve to sleeping on satin? They are very nice sheets, and we've used them already, so it's not like I can take them back to the store. And I already took the old ones to the animal shelter. And these are so very shiny and pretty and soft. But short of lashing ourselves and everything else to the bed at night, I'm not sure how to keep everything where it should be. Does anybody else sleep on satin? Is there a trick to it? Do they eventually de-slide as they wear? Or should my next investment be velcro pajamas?

On the plus side, we've invented a fabulous new game called cat shuffleboard. Tonight's game will be starting at approximately 2am.

A Letter to L’Oréal

Dear people at L’Oréal,

For some time now, I have been using your compressed powder foundation in buff beige, and I really like it. (Well, mostly I like that it sticks around for several hours. Maybe not the 13 hours that you claim, but still, longer than your competitors' powders, so kudos on that. People with make-up eating faces like mine thank you). However, I must tell you that recently, upon running out of the powder, I went to the store and accidentally picked up the buff beige in the cream foundation as opposed to the powder foundation and even though you have deemed to call them both buff beige, THEY ARE TOTALLY NOT THE SAME COLOR.

Speaking of color, perhaps you could think of another name for the color in question other than buff beige? While I admit to striving towards a certain degree of muscle tone in my regular gym workouts, buff tends to lend itself more to a masculine persona. Women are not buff, my dear L’Oréal, they are toned. I would suggest calling it toned beige instead. Thank you.

Actually, while we're on the subject of the name, I must admit that "beige" isn't really doing it for me either. While you may consider me beige-colored on your official epidermal color wheel, I would think that a marketing department as smart as yours would know better than to call it that. No one wants to be beige! It's boring! Do like what you did with porcelain. People like porcelain. "What color is your face? Rose porcelain? How lovely!" See? That's good marketing. You don't call them pasty white albino chicks, so why label beige people boring old beige? (Color names are everything! Have you learned nothing from the nail polish people?) Now personally, I would go with something like golden sun-kissed goddess, but that's just me.

Not only is the cream foundation much much darker, but you have to be super extra careful about blending it, otherwise it leaves dark patches. I glanced in the mirror the other day and one side of my jaw looked like I had a 5:00 shadow. Buff or not, this is not a look I want to continue. And to call them both buff bronze when they are two radically different colors? For shame, L’Oréal, for shame.

The problem, as I mentioned above, is that you put the cream foundation in a package that looks annoyingly similar to the powder foundation. The words powder and cream are minuscule and very easy to miss. You can really only tell them apart by direct side by side comparison, and I don't have to tell you how impossible that is when your husband is standing over your shoulder going, "C'mon c'mon, just pick one already!"

You know how men are. If they don't have to bother with it themselves, they just can't see the importance. My husband has actually gone as far as to insinuate that all makeup is essentially the same, if you can believe it. He totally doesn't understand the difference between anti-aging and anti-shine and blendable coverage and light-reflecting hydroxy technology. He thinks I could just pick anything and be fine! And with my combination skin too! I know! And he's normally such an intelligent guy. It baffles the mind, I tell you.

And another thing. It is bad enough that you have tricked me into shelling out $13 for a foundation that I do not want, but to do it in this weather? Who wants to wear heavy cream foundation when it is this hot? It's like a winter coat for your face. I'm surprised you even sell it now. Makeup this heavy should be seasonal at the very least. Imagine trying not sweat this stuff off with it being 80 degrees outside. My pores are clogging just thinking about it.

Although to be fair, have you ever seen weather like this? We went from 30 degrees to 80 in one weekend. What happened to spring? That's Tennessee weather, you know. Like they say, if you don't like it, just wait 15 minutes and it'll change. Of course, I think we're safely into the warm season now. You should see my cats. Cat hair everywhere! I brush and I brush and I brush, but I don't think they'll ever be finished with their winter coats. And if the cats were surprised by the sudden temperature change, then I suspect that you could be also. But now you know, so I expect that you'll be pulling the cream stuff off the shelves as we speak, yes?

So to sum up. Tricky, identical packaging for two very different foundations? Bad. Calling what is obviously two radically different colors by the same name? Bad. Heavy cream foundation once the thermometer had surpassed 80 degrees? Bad. These are amateur mistakes, L’Oréal. You should really know better than this. I am a very loyal customer, but I expect reparation as atonement for your marketing sins.

I'm thinking a lifetime supply of my new signature color, Golden Toned Sun-kissed Goddess in the 13 hour extended stay compressed powder should do the trick.

Beige-ly yours,
A loyal customer

Random Dozen and Hand Me Another Tissue

I have a cold. And allergies. At the same time. And while I know that neither colds nor allergies has ever actually killed anyone, I think the combination may just do me in.

(Insert heartfelt sympathy and gifts of soup here).

Anyway, suffice it to say that the stupid cold has thrown off my entire schedule. No blogging, no yard projects, no cleaning the house, and no gym. (That's right, April Challenge is officially derailed since exercise requires breathing and that isn't currently possible. I know. I'm very disappointed. I haven't even been able to try out my new snorkel. I may unofficially change it to May challenge instead).

And while today is slightly better than the 6, no, 7 days before it, just crawling out of bed and over to the computer has exhausted me. Which is why I'm doing the Random Dozen over at 2nd Cup of Coffee instead of today's regularly scheduled post. Because she's already done the thinking part for me with the questions, and I'm just high enough on cold medicine that there's no telling what I'd put on here if left to my own devices. Trust me, it's better this way.

1. How do you feel about "Gladiator" sandals, also called "Roman" or "Jesus" sandals? A fashion yea or nay?

I'm not really a shoe fashionista (I know, you're shocked), so I don't really have an opinion on them one way or the other. If they protect your feet and are comfortable enough to walk in, then they're considered a success in my book. Personally I do not own a pair, (mostly because I haven't gone shoe shopping since they became popular) but I will not disparage you for wearing them.

2. What is your favorite pizza?

I'm a carnivore. I like the meat. Pile on the pepperoni and bacon and ham and hamburger and sausage and I'm a happy (albeit artery-clogged) camper. But I am not a total meataholic. I also enjoy the occasional spinach alfredo pizza too.

3. There are plans in the works to sell roughly 1,000 items from Star Trek: The Experience in Las Vegas. This means you could buy Picard's chair for your family room. If not a Star Trek item, what prop, background, set, etc. from what TV or movie would you buy if you could?

My Dad was a big Trekkie when we were growing up, so I know just enough about Star Trek: Next Generation to make a fool of myself, but nowhere near enough to consider myself a fan. (Or to purchase show memorabilia). However, I do recall that the pre-teen me had a mad crush on the young ensign Wesley Crusher, so if they're auctioning off Wil Wheaton, I'll take him.

4. Name a local food or restaurant that your area is famous for.

I'm not sure we're really famous for anything. Maybe Jack Daniels, but that's about 2 hours away from here.

5. What is your current favorite snack?

Chili's chips and con queso. Although is it still considered a snack if you make an entire meal out of it?

6. Hypothetical: You are required to be a reality show contestant. Which show would you choose based on your probability of success? (You cannot choose "none.")

A. Dancing with the Stars

B. Biggest Loser

C. Survivor

I suppose A out of these three, although I'd really like to do the Amazing Race. I also wouldn't mind trying the Wipeout obstacle course (if you can count that as a reality show and not just a really long episode of adult Double Dare).

7. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being uninhabitable and 10 being cleanliness that meets the standards of OCD, how clean is your vehicle's interior?

Maybe a 6? There isn't any trash or random flotsam roaming around in it, but it could probably stand to be wiped down and vacuumed out. I run around with the top down this time of year, and a lot of dust and pollen tend to sneak in.

8. It doesn't feel like Spring until _________.

The Hyacinths bloom.

9. Something that made you laugh really hard recently is ____.

BigMama. That woman is a hoot.

10. Tell me about a goal you're working toward

at the moment? Breathing through my nose again.

11. Share a thought-provoking or inspiring quote this week.

I saw this one on another blog today, and enjoyed it so much I'm going to steal it too:
"In the Spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt."

12. Name one thing that you do as a parent that you absolutely know will make your kids happy. If you're not a parent, feel free to substitute "friend" or nomenclature that works for you.

Well, not being a parent, I guess I only do things for Tony. And Tony is happy when I buy ice cream. I recently came home with a carton of cookies and cream and he ate the entire thing in two sittings. Which I guess means that I need to go back to the store for more ice cream.

Rodeo Clown Swims Again!

Greetings Internets! I trust you are all having a fabulous day doing meaningful and world-changing things? Good. Good.

Me? I'm trying to buy snorkel gear online.

Which surprisingly, isn't as easy as you'd think.

I told you about how I had decided to learn to swim, right? And that my sister-in-law taught me? And how I foolishly thought that once I got the technique down, everything would be all hunky dorey because how hard can it be since EVEN BABIES AND DOGS AND SINGLE-CELLED ORGANISMS CAN SWIM?

And did I mention how I tried it, and then immediately broke myself by throwing my neck out, and how it took weeks and weeks to even be able to support the weight of my own head without having to hold myself up by my ears? Or how after I finally healed enough to turn my head without resorting to using my hands to pose myself like an action figure, I immediately jumped back in the pool and broke myself again?

What about how I went to the doctor, who sent me to a chiropractor, who set me up with the massage therapist, who pummeled me thoroughly and gave me a lot of technical sounding explanations about repetitive neck stains at unusual head angles and blah blah blah she knew exactly why I kept throwing my neck out. And if I didn't want to spend my life doing a 24 hour a day interpretation of the robot dance, I'd best quit turning my head to the side when I swam.

And I, face mushed into one of those massage table doughnuts, thought about that for a second before going, "But...if I don't turn my head, how am I going to breathe?"

And she said, "Honey, your neck is a mess. You've got the neck of an 85 year old man...who has suffered several car crashes...and was possibly a rodeo clown in his youth. If you want to keep swimming, you better get a snorkel".

So a snorkel it was, because when someone tells you that you're a bad driving, rodeo clown octogenarian, you listen.

Except all of that happened a few months ago in the winter, when absolutely NO ONE stocks snorkel gear, so I had to wait until it got warm enough for stores to carry the required mask and snorkel. (Fins are not necessary for head stability, and may I just say THANK THE LORD, because I will look like a big enough dork as it is, snorkeling along in an indoor pool).

But finding snorkel gear in a landlocked state is not as easy as you'd think. Oh sure, Walmart had a cheap kids' snorkel with Sponge Bob all over it, and the one dive shop in town had a very professional one that they'd be happy to sell me for $350, but other than that, the pickins were slim.

So despite the fact that all the snorkel buying guides insist that the number one thing you must remember when buying gear is that FIT IS EVERYTHING, I turned to buying a snorkel online.

(Have you ever looked at snorkel gear? It's worse than buying a car. I figured that they were basically just breathing tubes, but nononononno! Those suckers have more bells and whistles and dohickies than the International space station. There are purge valves and submersion flaps and slash guards and space-age polymers. You need several advanced engineering degrees and a plumbers license just to figure it out).

But nonetheless, I think I found one. It's a nice mid-range dry snorkel (an obvious sounding contradiction in terms, I know, but that just means that it seals itself off when submerged, thus allowing me to dive under for my turns), and it's winging its way to me through the post office as we speak. Plus it's clear, so that may drop the indoor snorkeling dork factor from a 10 to a 9.5.


Either way, this old rodeo clown is back in the pool, just in time for summer.

If Music be the Food of Love, Then Add it to my Playlist

I was going through my song collection on the computer last night for the express purpose of getting rid of all of those 2 second bings and bongs and whatnot that Windows uses as alerts but that WMP continually collects because it thinks they are songs and therefore clutters up all my playlists with random bell sounds and honking, and I found all these great songs that I've completely forgotten about.

(Yes, I know. WHOPPER of a run on sentence. English teachers everywhere shudder).

But back to the songs. I found all these fabulous songs that I loved a few years ago but for whatever reason quit listening to as new songs were added. It wasn't a conscious action...they just kinda slipped quietly into my media player background and, like the one hit wonders they mostly represent, I had completely forgotten about them. It turns out that songs are classic for a reason though, and after a quick listen though memory lane, I still like them. (Well, most of them anyway...there were a few that I was like, eh, jumped the shark.)

(Do people still say jumped the shark? I think jumped the shark has jumped the shark).

But back to the songs. They're like good song retro weekend on the radio, only in this case "retro" is roughly 1998 since it was mostly my "I can't believe they let me loose on campus" playlist. For instance, right this moment I have FNT from Semisonic playing, which, as it turns out, is still a fairly catchy song. What's that? You need a listen for old times sake?

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

Plus, if I'm not mistaken, (and I may be since I'm too lazy to look it up), I think this song is also in that movie 10 Things I Hate About You, which still holds a special place in my heart due to Heath Ledger dancing down the bleachers singing "You're Just To Good To Be True" while the marching band plays.

Cinematic gold, my friends, cinematic gold.

But just in case your tastes run a little more modern, I've also just recently discovered Bye Bye Bye by Plants and Animals. Yes, I'm a little late because it came out last year and all, but still...a catchy song in and of itself, yes? It was playing in the background during the most recent episode of Chuck, and I missed all of the dialogue (twice!) because I was busy listening to the song. (You know how songs just jump out at you some times?) So here's this one too. It almost has a classic rock feel to it, doesn't it?

I had to run (well not run, more like click) over to Amazon and purchase it immediately because it is catchy like the swine flu, my friends. I CANNOT get it out of my head. Plus somehow, it seems to go nicely with FNT from earlier. So I have them both nestled together in my latest playlist, (which I have entitled Found Awesomeness), and will most certainly NOT be lost to annals of Windows Media Player like its 1998 predecessor.

Even though it doesn't quite have the sticking power of windows 1 second doorbell noise.

Playing With My Food: The Easter Edition

You know what I love about Easter? I mean, besides celebrating our risen Lord and all?

The excuse to draw on desserts with gel icing.

Gel icing is one of those things that you can only use on special occasions, you know? Like a holiday or someone's birthday, but never just because it's a Monday. (Which is probably a good thing after all seeing how Monday happens 52 times a year and would greatly increase my dessert intake, thus making the April Challenge much more difficult).

But I digress.

The point is that Easter IS a special holiday, and special holidays call for gel icing on dessert. And since gel icing on cake is so last year, I threw off the yoke of Easter traditions past and decided to go in a radical new direction.

Mainly, rice krispie treats.

But not just ANY rice krispie treats, mind you! I give you special Easter Egg Rice Krispie treats! If you've ever made rice krispie treats the regular way, you'll recognize this first part. (And if you haven't, then you have my sympathies, you poor krispie-less fool. Crawl out from under your rock immediately and make these right now because IT IS HIGH TIME YOU EXPERIENCED LIFE THROUGH CRUNCHY GOOEY DESSERT MY FRIEND).

Ready? Good.

Multi-hued Easter Egg Rice Krispie Treat Recipe- now with Gel Icing piping!
(AND bad photography AND possibly dangerous step-by-step instructions!)

Note before we get started: I made mine using three different colored "eggs". Each color gets its own marshmallow batch, so that's why we're using such small quantities here. If you want to be all boring and just do one color, then feel free to dump the entire 10 oz of marshmallows, 3 tbsp butter and 6 cups of krispies in at once. (Just know that the rest of us are talking about you behind your back).
1. Put 1 tbsp butter and 3.33 oz (roughly 12-15 regular sized marshmallows) in a bowl. Microwave on high 1 minute. (There's also a way that you can do this in a pot on the stove, but why would you since nuking it only takes one minute? Quit being difficult). After 60 seconds, stir in food coloring color of your choice.
2. Add 2 cups of krispies to freaky colored goo and stir.
3. Let that bad boy cool for a few minutes, but not so long that it completely sets up. (If you're doing multiple color batches, I find that letting this one cool while repeating the first two steps in another bowl is a nice way to pass the time).
4. Cover hands in butter. No, this isn't leading to anything kinky. This keeps the marshmallow/krispie goo from sticking to your hands. I mean, they'll still stick somewhat, but not as bad. Trust me, this step is vital.
5. Grab a hunk of krispie goodness and shape it into an egg-like orb. Basically, make a ball, lengthen it to an oval shape, the make one end slightly larger than the other. It doesn't have to be perfect. (Be warned however, if you didn't let it cool enough in step 3, you'll be sticking your hands into molten hot marshmallow which will not only burn like a mother, but also refuse to unstick from your seared flesh as you run screaming from the kitchen. Don't say I didn't warn you).
6. Line your little egg creations up on wax paper, or foil, or on a non-stick cookie sheet and stick them in the fridge to set. 5 or 10 minutes will do.
7. Now comes the fun part! Grab your tube of frosting/gel icing/chocolate/whatever floats your boat and go to town! The idea is that they aren't just eggs, they're EASTER eggs, so decorate to your heart's content. Want sprinkles too? Go for it. These babies are like the Faberge eggs of the dessert world, so there's no such thing as too gaudy. In fact, I just happened to have gel icing with sparkles (!!!) so not only are my eggs all decorated, but they sparkle too! (I know, I know. You're looking at the picture going, "What the heck is that?" It's just a lousy photo. Trust me, they look cuter in person.)

8. Now that they're all decorated, arrange your krispie creations in a clean basket. You can even put them on a bed of green coconut shaving "grass" if you want. Presentation is part of the fun.
9. Arrive to your family gathering/Easter party/whatever with beautiful basket full of beautiful rice krispie treat goodness. Accept compliments for being culinary genius. And remember to hide one for yourself for later, because everyone loves Rice Krispie treats and these babies are not going to last long.

Here's hoping your Easter (or non-denominational spring festival equivalent) is full of joy and laughter. And food. And possibly green food-colored hands. But mostly joy and laughter.

It All Started When Dad Said I Wasn't A Single Lady...

I've seen this video featured on two different blogs today, so it's probably already a victim of overexposure, but I've laughed about it all day and I figured that if you don't follow the same blogs I do, you might not have seen it yet.

And you should, because it is TOO FUNNY.

And really, who DOESN'T want to be a single lady?

Don't you know this kid is going to relish relating this story to his therapist one day?