Have You Ever Felt You Had to Kill Someone?

I have.

Not a real person, but an imaginary one that was a stand in for someone until I actually met the real person.

I have a very dear friend by the name of Anne, who lives in Maine. One of her sons was one of my sons roommate in college. I knew what she looked like, because her son brought over a video one day, and he pointed out a woman and said 'That's my mom!'. His dad was the photographer, so I had to make him up.

Having never met a real live "Mainer" before meeting their son, I had to work from scratch. I made my imaginary Bart, who is Anne's husband, a tall thin man who wore overalls, a buffalo plaid wool shirt and a coonskin cap.

Then Anne and Bart came to visit.

Bart didn't look anything like what I imagined him to.

That left me with what felt like no other choice.

I had to kill the Bart I made up.

The real Bart was actually much better than the one I made up. The real Bart used to have his shirts laundered by Stephen King. How cool is that? The real Bart can sing and play the piano. Of course, the real one was made by God, who of course would do a better job of it than me. That goes without saying.

But, what to do with the one dancing around in my head as Anne's 'first' husband? Oh, dear. How DO I get myself into this sort of conundrum?

I have a whole group of women in my head that were 'the women THGGM worked with at store A'. Then, he would move to 'store B, C, D and E' and I would be forced to recycle them. Sort of do a switch-a-roo with their hair and clothes. I never felt that I had to kill any of them, because, like drones they sort of all looked the same to me anyway. Their buzz was like a low hum of 'must make honey for the queen bee so i can take honey home for the family'.

Well. About a month or so ago I was discussing this with Oldest Son. We came up with the idea that First Bart did not have to be killed after all. He could go to live with all of the TV sitcom children who suddenly just dropped off the face of television with nary a mention as to why.

Remember how Richie Cunningham used to have an older brother? And Family Matters had a younger daughter named Judy? Think about it.

So, instead of killing off First Bart, I have sent him to live with those poor souls who became so insignificant that their families forgot about them. This will be a much nicer end to First Bart than death. At least, I would hope so.

In the works is a plan to develop a NEW sitcom, recycling those poor souls into a world of their own. First Bart will love it.

If you have had any imaginary people you have created and now have no use for, drop a line in my comments, and we will add them to our little make-believe world, where no one has to die because they have been replaced by reality, or left in snippets on the cutting room floor.

Ah, yes...there dawns a day when no Bart's will die!

Steenstra's Almond Santa Claus Cookie

The post below this one is a rerun. I've bumped it up because I have gotten some comments from actual Steenstra family members! Be sure to read them! Such high honors, as truly this is the best store bought cookie, ever.

Anyway...a woman in my town, whose family distributes the Steenstra's Almond Santa Claus Cookies, ran for public office this week and won.

Her opponent, who I hear is a lawyer, is planning to sue her based on the simple fact that she brought a box of Steenstra's Almond Santa Claus Cookies to a poling precinct and left them there for the workers.

These cookies do not have her or her family's name on them anywhere. She claims she always brings cookies along with her.

I never knew that this family (a simple google search of the name 'joanne voorhees' should bring you to several news links on this subject) distributed these cookies, but, thirty years ago I worked for a company that did accounts for businesses both small and large. Her family's company was, at the time, one of the small businesses whose accounts we processed.

When the door alarm sounded between 4:30 and 5:30 at my former place of employment a race was on to answer it, because when they brought the accounts they ALWAYS brought cookies. ALWAYS.

Good ones, too.

(and i wonder why i am fat and diabetic. good grief.)

Anyway. Subpoena me to court if you have to. I will tell you that this family has been sharing cookies for at least the last thirty years.

Now. I must go get a Steenstra's cookie. My favorite will always be Santa Claus on his horse. I will break Santa off so I can have the horse all to myself (this might be why santa doesn't bring me good stuff anymore) and even though I am an old beppe of 49, I will run the horse around a bit before I eat him.

It's tradition. I have to.

My Favorite Cookie

Can you buy Steenstra's Almond St. Claus Cookies where you live?

If not, I feel sad for you.

These happen to be the very best store bought cookie in the entire known world, in my humble opinion.

No. Really.

They are made in Hudsonville, MI. Where, by the way, my very favorite ice cream is made. I will have to extol the virtues of that on an entirely separate post.

I am happy to report that not one of my living family members drew breath on a day when these cookies did not exists.

That thought comforts me.

Now, I must tell you that there are five different shapes of cookie in each box.

I prefer to eat only these two shapes.

The "St. Claus on a horse" and "Boy and Girl" who, it says on the box, love to receive presents.





Ever since I was a very small child, this is precisely what 'cookie' meant to me.

My mom likes to tell me that at a very young age I informed her when she gave me 'a' cookie that I had 'two hands!'

I also removed St. Claus from the horse, as I always wanted a horse for myself. I still do that.

The horse is actually quite fun to play with.

Baby Boy likes it too.

I cannot eat the boy and girl without first separating them.

Never could. Never would.

Now, I eat the girl and allow Baby Boy to nibble at the boy.

If you are thinking - 'oh! we have those! they are called windmill cookies!' you are WRONG. These are most assuredly NOT windmill cookies, although there IS a windmill in the package (because St. Claus lives in a windmill). These are St. Claus Cookies!!

There exists much debate about whether or not these cookies are best eaten dry, or dunked. My advice is, IF you choose to dunk, dunk fast. Unless you like slimy sludge at the bottom of your cup.

My grandma used to let me have coffee just so I could dunk them.

And, if by some chance you do not eat them all, they do photograph nicely!

No. This Did NOT Happen (but it did!)

Last night in an attempt to appease THGGM who thinks I am tired because I do not sleep enough, I gingerly (ha!) climbed into bed last night at 11:30.

I walked to my side of the bed, knocking over the wooden trees I will knock over every night until I finally get them put away in the attic.

I turned on the light and settled down with my Stampin Up catalog. Ahhh. I have my eye on a stamp set that has a 'library card' stamp, but I've been waiting to order it until 'Sellabration' because I'm all for getting free stuff.

Anyway...

As soon as I settled in deeply under the covers I noticed what seemed to be a funny noise coming from THGGM's fan. Sort of a high pitched squeaky buzz. Oh, no. I thought. Could there be a mouse in the bedroom?

I went happily back to my little catalog world - the world where I rescue civilization by stamping cute stuff.

But that strange noise didn't subside.

I laid there very still. Sometimes my nose squeaks. Embarrassing yet true, I have on occasion ran out of a room due to having heard a weird sound, only to discover that it is my very own nose, whistling.

It wasn't me.

In my strange little mind, I decided that I would assume that the sound was not a mouse, but that THGGM's fan needed a good oiling. I've never oiled it, and it has been running every night since the end of summer when we no longer used the window air conditioner. Now why I would think that is odd. I'm 48 and I have never oiled a fan in my life. But, it was a comforting thought to think. I'm all about thinking comforting thoughts.

Soon after that thought, I screamed VERY loud and met THGGM under the covers.

I screamed because I saw something swooping around the bedroom.

We engaged in some intense pillow talk.

I must back up here and explain that I was the girl the teachers talked about in the break room at my high school. The one who saw things fly by - out of the corner of her eye. I once dove under my desk in an English class, because I saw something fly in the window. Nothing was ever found, and nobody else saw it. There was one particular teacher who would snicker every time I walked passed him in the hallway.

I think THGGM just wanted to be assured that it wasn't an 'eye floaty' that I had seen, although he was too kind (or tired) to bring up the whole school thing.

He was still for what seemed to me to be a very long time. He had been sound asleep for over an hour and was awakened by a loud scream. Goodness. I'd let him take all the time he needed, as long as I didn't have to do anything about it.

THGGM managed an escape from the room while I held perfectly still under the covers. From time to time I would peak out. Not because I actually wanted to KNOW what was going on, but because I needed fresh air.

To make a very long and exciting story short(er), there is a broom and a nightstick-like flashlight in our bedroom this morning. In the middle of my back yard lies my favorite pan and it's matching lid.

Under the snow lies what I am sure is an angel mouse that returned to torment me.

Yes. That's it. It HAD to have been an angel mouse. It could not possibly have been a bat.