I Hate Baking

Greetings, Earthlings!
   I do not like baking. It takes up time and makes my feet hurt. If this becomes one of those "recipe fun" blogs, I'll eat my hat (marinated of course). However, today I do have a particularly interesting recipe for all you cannibals out there. Please enjoy!

Yield: One Annie Blue
Ingredients:
1 cup fresh brain tissue
⅓ cup cockiness
½ cup forgetfulness
1 cup motivation
⅓ cup obsessive love of words
⅓ cup obsessive love of art
⅓ cup obsessive love of music
1 bundle of nerves (separate and mix strands in individually if possible)
½ cup generosity
½ cup selfishness
2 tbsp insecurity
1 cup crazy
just a dash of creepy

Instructions:
In a small bowl, mix insecurity, selfishness, nerves, and cockiness together. Sift well, and set aside.
Combine brain tissue, generosity, and motivation. Add dry ingredients and stir well until an even consistency is achieved. Bake for fourteen years, letting cool periodically during summers. Now you are ready to frost!
In a separate bowl, mix all obsessive loves, creepy, forgetfulness, and crazy until the mixture resembles toothpaste consistency. Spread the mixture on top of the Annie Blue in a cute curly-cue pattern. Avoid eating the frosting plain, as the nerves, insecurity, and motivation in the cake are what cancel out the negative side effects of the frosting, which may include but are not limited to: writer’s brain, artist’s brain, loony brain, or no brain.

I Have a Poet's Feet!

Greetings, earthlings!

My grandmother is a wonderful lady. She used to come to visit when I was little, and she would always ask for hugs. She let me sit on her lap and stroke her cheek over and over again because I liked the peachy softness. There was this watch she had, that only had the numerals 3, 6, 9, and 12 on it. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, and asked if I could wear it for a little bit.

"Of course," said Grandma. "Just be careful with it."

I wasn't. I don't remember the details... did I lose it? Get it wet? Drop it? At any rate, I was nervous about telling Grandma I had failed her, but not that nervous, because of her kind and forgiving nature. Sure enough, she told me, "I never liked that watch anyway."

The only reason I bring this up is a poem she shared with me: "I'm a poet, and I know it, and my feet show it. They're long fellows." I thought of her talking about that as I got ready to post my latest poetic masterpiece, and thought I'd take the opportunity to tell you what an extraordinary lady my grandma is.
And now you might be getting bored, so here is my poem:

we must not run with matches

nor ever play with knives

the demons this net catches

will surely claim our lives

we must be still and hold our peace

we mustn’t fall in love

or the otherworldly beasts

will steal and carry us above

we must not speak with strangers

and seldom walk alone

if unaware of present dangers

they’ll find us in the morningtime;

hands as cold and gray as stone

we must refrain from thirsting

lest we succumb to sin

we are so very near to bursting

to take a drink would do us in

we must cling to the sanity

that’s never let us down

in this sea of calamity

if we lose our minds we’ll drown

O tragedy! O misery! O foolish, foolish heart

the bright young thing which dared to dream

must now awaken with a start

alas! alas! they’ve poisoned my glass

from which we should not have been drinking

O vile, crass, foolhardy lass!

you silly girl! what were you thinking?

we must not thrash about and scream

we must stay civilized and couth

we think it must be but a dream

the waking mind will see the truth

we must stand firm and choke our fears

and do not shout aloud

swallow our laughter, choke our tears

we’ve got to do our demons proud

we ought not stay awake at night

but rather sleep and steal away

shut the doors and lock them tight

oblivious to the light of day

O tragedy! O misery! O rotted, wicked heart!

the foolish thing which dared to dream

must now awaken with a start

alas! alas! they’ve burnt the grass

upon which we ought not be walking

O vile, crass, foolhardy lass!

shut up and let me do the talking


And now, ladies and gents, because I've already used up all the rhymey words by myself, and this post didn't really have much of a topic anyway, here's some lyric-free music for you to rock out to.

That's the Last Straw... I'm Moving to Neverland!

   I love my pediatrician. He's a smiley sort of fellow who probably should be retired by now, but keeps on pediatricianing because he loves children. The walls are painted with cute elephants and scenes from The Very Hungry Caterpillar, not cold and scary like other doctors offices (ahem! You know who you are). There are colorful rocking horses in all of the examining rooms.

   Last week I went to the grown-up doctor to do a strep test, and I realized how much I hated it. When the lady put the light in my ear, she didn't tell me I had mermaids and fairies in my head - and call me crazy, but I missed that. Like, a lot. If this is what growing up is like, I want no part of it. When I pass by a mirror, sometimes I do a double take, and then I feel like one of those enchanted people in books looking in the mirror and feeling their faces and exclaiming in surprise, "what've you done to me? I'm old!"

   It's not just not being able to see Dr. Whiting anymore that's driving me crazy. There are all sorts of things about growing up that I did not sign up for -- like having to sort my money. By the time I've given some to short-term savings, some to my church, some to college, etc., I don't have any left for myself! I can only imagine what it's going to be like when the government starts to want in on the action.

   And don't get me started on my body. All the girls at my school are counting calories, and I'm just over here like one of those cats that won't stop being annoying until you feed it (except I can feed myself). To look presentable, you're supposed to slather your face in makeup (unless you're a dude, of course).

   You know that one teacher who always accuses students of acting like five-year olds? I think we should all just go and do that. We'd get the best of both worlds, because we'd have the emotional maturity not to yell and push over toys, but we'd still get to play with them. Storytime would be a whole lot less complicated, because we could all read to ourselves (and I don't care what anybody says - you're never too old for a good picture book). And do you have any idea how many adults and high-schoolers would kill to have naptime every day?!

   There would be no boy-girl drama because cooties would re-emerge, and walking around with blankets would be socially acceptable. I don't know about you, but when I'm cold, the right kind of blanket is warmer and cuddlier than any hoodie I've ever worn. And we'd get to wash with tear-free shampoo that smells like berries. We'd get to watch those Baby Einstein shows - you know the ones I'm talking about, the ones with the puppets and pretty colors - shamelessly. And when we went to get our hair cut, we could all ride in those cute little ducks and trains. I've always wanted to get my hair cut inside of a duck.

Here's some music now for your inner child to enjoy. It's a lullaby I heard all the time as a kid - when I found it again just recently, I played it over and over and over again until my family went berserk. But I promise - it's really nice the first time.