Lame-oween

To be honest, I’ve never been a huge fan of Halloween but last night is really going down as a bummer of a holiday. After a Friday evening in catching up on my laundry and scouring the stovetop with Cerma-Brite, I’d been looking forward to breaking my homebody routine and getting together with friends at a party. But I did have some reservations about how the Budster was going to do if there was a flurry of ding dong activity prior in the evening – I might have mentioned this, but he’s a bit of a nervous little dog.

And actually, Buddy has had a pretty good week with some progress. Since I no longer have the excuse of not being able to wander more than 1/10th of a mile from the nearest restroom, we’re back on our 3-times a day, short leash, no marking, Cesar-approved walks. I don’t know what it is about this walking routine, but it seems to chip away molecule by molecule of the nervous energy that floats around this dog. While I was sick, Buddy had regressed back to soiling in his crate, tearing his poor schnozz up on the lock mechanism on the crate, and barking so hard that the entire vessel practically ends up in another room by the time it’s all done. This week was a good week. Clean crate, nose is healing and, the hallelujah moment of the week, one day where I pulled in to the driveway and heard silence. I know our journey is going to be one of three steps forwards, one poop-filled crate step backwards… but this week? It was a good one.

So I digress, but that paragraph actually has some relevance to my evening. It’s 5:30 and I’m sitting on the couch, watching I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant (yes, I judge me too) when the first doorbell chime sounds.

An adorable Superman and Hannah Montana await with pillowcases open. TREEK OR TWEAT!!! they holler up at me. I graciously drop 2-3 kitkats into each open bag. Buddy pants hard at my side.

Each set of visitors escalates his energy. By the time the doorbell goes off for the fifth time, Buddy shoots up from his spot in front of the blue couch, barrels towards the door and runs smack into the table of the foyer instead. As the tricksters walk away, he is running circles around the house awaiting the next one.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDING. What on EARTH. I’m starting to wonder if our doorbell is made of play-doh, because these children seem to enjoy MASHING it with some serious fervor.

As the stream of visitors increase, I start scrutinizing costumes. Let the cynicism begin.

A flannel shirt and jeans? Don’t try to tell me you’re a farmer. The least you could have done was stuck a toothpick in your mouth. (Wait, is that a safety hazard?)

A pink hoody that says GIRL POWER on the back? Listen, I grew up with Spice Girls. You had 5 different directions to take this in…. wearing their SLOGAN does not count.

And the girl in the black leggings, black knee high boots and tunic dress? Unless you are going as Meghan’s Bad Decisions From Forever 21….. you do not deserve my candy.

I became more cynical about this holiday as the night wore on and the doorbell continued to ring AT LEAST THREE TIMES IN SUCCESSION, every time. Seriously, kids. Press. It. Once.

Those of us who stay home and pass out candy should always be allowed to have at least one beer.

And can I mention how many of these children did not even SAY Trick-or-Treat? OR THANK YOU????

I had intended to leave to go to Anne’s around 7:00, but the slew of doorbell mashers kept me hopping. Finally, around 8:00, I swiped on some mascara and ran the Chi over my hair. (Serious efforts, folks.) As I turned to grab my coat out the closet, I nearly tripped over my panting, agitated canine who had positioned himself squarely behind my kneecaps. Hoo boy.

I grabbed his collar and we headed over to his crate. Suddenly, I found myself dragging 26 lbs of dead weight. Panting, drooling dead weight. Crap.

Matt told me recently that Buddy had been doing this drop-butt move right before he gets to his crate. He said that he just waits it out, talking calmly to him and eventually, he’ll gingerly step into his crate.

Well, Cesar Cline, can you share with me some of the Quaaludes you must be slipping him too?

My calm talking did nothing to budge the furry bundle in my hand. Eventually, I did what anyone with the 103 pound advantage would do, and picked him up and pretty much pushed him in the crate. As I closed the latch on his nose, guilt washed over me.

“Shake it off, Megs.” I consoled myself. “He’s a dog. He stays in his crate all the time. He’ll be fine.”

DINGIDINGDING… PRESS IT ONCE YOU LITTLE PUNKS!!!

I’m pretty sure the Lake Michigan of Urine I had to wipe out of the crate later was released at this exact moment. By Buddy or me, I cannot say.

I passed out my last handful of candy and tried to figure out how to turn off my porch light. (I was not successful, and I hope that when I re-read this later it will remind me to ask my husband how on earth we turn off our porch light? There are eight different switches by the front door, why do none of them control the porch light?)

In to the car I went, consoling myself that he’s just a dog and he’ll be okay. And by consoling myself, I mean eating at least 3 of the Heath bars I smuggled from the candy bowl before I left.

I drove through my neighborhood and was surprised to see many more goblins, ghouls, and one Octomom (8 baby dolls glued to her, YOU GET HEATH BARS FOR CREATIVITY, GIRL) headed towards my house. I thought of my welcoming porch light. “I guess they’ll figure it out when I don’t answer,” I thought.

A mile from my house is a round-about to get on the highway. I found my car going around the circle, my finger on the cell phone calling Anne. I couldn’t do it. Visions of my doggy locked in his crate with multiple DINGDONGDINGDONG ditch going on tugged at my heart. I thought of the great week the Budster had had. I thought of how much I wanted to see my friends. I felt torn, and it felt silly and stupid to be turning around on seeing my friends for the sake of a possibly agitated dog that needs therapy anyways. But round the circle my car went, and soon enough I was back in my garage.

I wipe out the crate and I shook my head at my little furry guy running circles around the house in confused delirium and gulping water like a drowned man would oxygen. Seriously, I think I was gone for 3 minutes. Oh, good gracious, this sweet dog brings me so much joy but in the same swipe, he brings frustration, guilt, and even occasionally resentment. (And then guilt for that resentment, eh?) There are the good days when silence settles in the crate, and then there are days when you drive away listening to the barking wondering if you are doing the right thing. And then there are Saturday nights when you’re parked on the couch watching Suze Orman (because at least that feels slightly less brain degrading than the mess on TLC), with your flat-ironed-effort hair going to waste, wondering if you’re being silly or mature by coddling a dog’s neuroses over your own selfish pleasure. Trick or treat? That is for sure.

So, it was a disappointing Halloween but what can I say? I’m sure, in the big picture, that one night of doorbell ringing would not make or break my separation anxiety bootcamp. I probably should have sucked up the guilt, and gone to see my friends. I missed them, and to be honest, I really didn’t learn anything useful from Suze anyways. But it is what it is, and this holiday is going down in history as being one pretty big bummer.

And I’m going to tell you right now, Children of Long Creek, next year I’m buying one bag of The Good Stuff (the $8.50 bag of Snickers and Milky Ways, yall) and one bag full of dum-dum suckers and those awful banana Now and Laters that ruin your teeth. If you don’t wear an easily identifiable costume or learn to press the doorbell just ONCE…. you’re totally getting the cavity-makers and that’s all I have to say about that. That’s right, we’ll be the house with bad candy. Whatever.

I’ll tell Matt to be prepared to wash our smashed pumpkin off the house next year. At least he’ll be able to see it okay with the porch light on.

Be Our Valentines?

Valentine’s Day Table Setting

Dinner was delicious, the conversation lively, and the evening relaxed and enjoyed by all. Matt and I are both thankful that not only do we genuinely enjoy time spent with both of our respective parents, but they seem to enjoy each other’s company as well. If Valentine’s Day is meant to be shared with your loved one, it was even better shared with five of my loved ones. Especially because that means ten extra hands to wash and dry dishes. (What, they’re family. I can put them to work after a dinner party, right?) Matt’s family headed home after dessert, and my parents left this morning for Charlotte to spend the day with my sister, capping off our short but lovely holiday weekend.

Ready to eat!

Joyeux Noel!

All is calm, All is bright. Merry Christmas!

Sticky Buns

The loaves had been rising for 2 hours and threatened to spill over the top of their greased pans, looking for all purposes like mushrooms ready to topple over on teeny tiny stems. We kept joking about how we were going to walk in the house and have to push our way through a ginormous cloud of dough, as one could imagine seeing on a cartoon. Finally, after rising all day, I declared them poofy enough to convert to sticky buns.

I sprinkled the bottom of the pan with walnuts and raisins and Matt happily set to work tearing into the dough and covering the pan with golf ball size pieces. I got to work creating the goop that pores over the dough and settles into the crevices, turning the entire pan into a sticky delightful mess. I melted the butter, stirred in the pudding mix, and dashed in some cinnamon. I peered into my mother-in-law’s cabinets, looking for brown sugar. I had brought some of the less obvious ingredients – the vanilla pudding, the walnuts pre-chopped and ready to go, but had naively assumed there would be brown sugar in just about stocked pantry. I should have known: this is the kitchen famous for scotch kissies, the delectable dessert treat that requires an entire box of brown sugar.

She was out. The dough torn, the butter melted, I started to panic. Here I had built up the anticipation of my mom’s famous sticky buns ALL day long, hoping to share this tradition with my new family, and in the moment of truth, I had failed to provide an essential ingredient.

I started racking my brain for substitutions. Matt’s Nanta, supervising the process, started peering into cupboards. She pulled out a box of granulated sugar and a bottle of Eggo syrup and placed them in front of me. “Here. Mix these.” Nanta, who is famous for making her own ketchup once in a pitch, is always to be trusted when it comes to substitutions.

Into the melted butter mixture went this concoction. The color was off and the smell distinctly maple, but the texture was right. I crossed my fingers and drenched the sticky buns with the goop, and put it back in the fridge to rise overnight. In the morning, the aroma of pancakes filled the kitchen while the buns baked. When the timer went off, I pulled them out with hopeful anticipation. The first bite secured my success – despite the slight hint of maple, which turned out to be not a bad addition, they were every bit as delicious as the sticky buns I had consumed every Christmas morning for the last 25 years. My family-in-law’s praise was abundant, and the tradition from one family was successfully incorporated into another family.

Dirty Santa, Deflated Santa

Last night we went to Matt’s Aunt Paige’s house for the beginning of our Christmas festivities. The feast was amazing as usual – Paige cooks like she is an understudy of Paula, Giada and Ina. After stuffing ourselves silly (apparently just continuing the trend), we retreated to the living room for a round of Dirty Santa. Each “participant” in the game brings a gift-wrapped package of something from their home that they no longer desire. Perhaps it’s the one thing that’s been sitting your “regift” basket for years, or the smelly lotion set that just isn’t your flavor (could it be the glitter?) or maybe even that Spin Shade you were just given the day before and had no idea what to do with it. (I’m just sayin’….) Everyone draws numbers, and the lowest number picks a gift. Up the number count you go, selecting gifts that draw reactions from uproarious laughter (leopard print hat) to genuine delight (Santa Claus wine coozie?) to curiousity (Spin Shade, again.) After the last person picks, back down the numbers you go – you have the option to keep your gift or steal another person’s gift. This was a relatively tame group, as far as the pilfering goes. A pair of snowflake dish towels went through 3 grabs, and I caused a little family tift by stealing a set of word puzzle and sodoku books from my SIL, but most of the grabs were fairly benign. That is to say, no one dared claim the grape-smelling teddy bear from the six year old!

Today, despite their being 4 days left until Christmas, Matt and I took down our holiday decor. Last year the lights twinkled on our tree from October until almost February. It is quite sad and anticlimatic to see the bare mantel and empty front porch now. My Christmas spirit feels as deflated as our blow-up Santa, stuffed in his tupperware bin back up in the attic! We are going to be in and out over our Christmas vacation, and I was dreading taking down the decor and tree without his help in January (when interview season kicks in again.) But, in a few days, we’ll be home with family and my mom’s collection of snowmen (in the hundreds, I daresay) will more than make up for the fact that Santa won’t find our stockings hung by the chimney with care. In the meantime, maybe I can convince Matt to mute the Panthers game and put the Holly station on the XM, instead. Or… not.

Tis the season to be eating… fa la lala …oooof.

I feel like I have been eating non-stop for 4 days. (A stunning declaration when you consider I’ve been teaching “Holiday Eating” for the last 2 weeks to 180 frantic, panicked, weight loss participants.) It kicked off with the chowder followed by Christmas Cookies on Saturday – I’ve never been much for moderation when it comes to iced sugar cookies. Sunday followed it up with the sampling of low-calorie buckeyes I was making, and a late dinner at Putter’s.

Monday was our departmental Christmas party at Riverburch. Due to the lay out of the party – food due North, wine and beer at East & West, and my hesitancy to navigate north and risk enforced mingling with medical campus staff I didn’t know (“oh! have you met so & so?”) I held camp near the wine bar with the rest of the research staff. Staff and faculty mix like oil and water at these events, so my antisocial behavior, while not entirely appropriate, is not unusual for our department. One brave staffer parted the seas and grabbed me a plate of shrimp cocktail, fortunately preventing the wine + empty stomach = no driving home.

Tuesday was our staff luncheon at Village Tavern, capped off by a monthly dinner date with my friend Suzanne at Hutch & Harris. This was my first visit to H&H, but I could no more fit an entree into my belly than could one person squeeze onto a 5 pm metrocar headed to Ballston. So I had a soup and salad, and lovingly packed up an bowl of She-Crab Soup to take home to the hubby. (I failed to look at the serving however, until I arrived home and we noted that a “to go” bowl serving is approximately 2 tablespoons. Thanks, H&H.) PS, Tuesday night is free taco night if you ordered a $5 margarita. What what! I already had my wine order in before I found that out, but note to you, savvy Winston-Salem diner, for future reference.

Wednesday reached an all-time high in the calorie consumption with our participant potluck party. I love watching the different dishes stroll through the door. My “weight loss” participants show up for the first hour, laden with fruit salads, shrimp cocktail and veggie trays. The next hour brings “weight loss + exercise” participants who tend to be a little more liberal, with baked chicken entrees, some low calorie desserts, chips + salsa, soups, roasted veggie dishes and other delectable but healthy treats. The final hour is dedicated to “exercise only” – a group to whom no nutritional information has been given – and this is when the fried chicken, ham biscuits, green bean casserole and coconut cake that covered dish parties in the South are known for all make their appearance. As they arrived, my “combo” folks were packing up and I watched the panic cross their face as they saw many of their former temptations arrive on the buffet.

One of my participants pulled me aside, her voice dripping with concern. “Who brought the Krispy Kremes?” she practically hissed. “An exercise only person,” I told her as I patted her arm consolingly. “You should probably go – it’s only going to get worse from here,” I recommended, as I spied the unmistakable yellow and red of a Bojangles box approaching from the parking lot.

All of our participants loved playing Monica’s new toy – the wii Fit. However, it was a little awkward when the wii Fit age proclaimed many of them to be 12-15 years older than their actual age or loudly pronounced “You are OBESE” as the little Mii man blew up to twice his size. Errrm…. well….. *shrugs*

One of our greatest success stories, a woman has maintained a 40 pound lost stepped on the wii to test her fit age. A combination of BMI, posture, balance and agility determines your fitness age. Her elation when the wii declared her THIRTY years younger than her actual age? Unmeasurable. Her celebration was just another reminder of why I love my job.

And today, the final day before our 2 week Christmas vacation, is another reason I love my job. Remember how the day before vacation in school was always a waste of a day? You might watch a video, maybe do a worksheet, and then trade presents with friends and dutifully turn in your present (that your mom picked out – a candle, a bar of soap, a gift card to barnes & nobles) to teacher. That is what my last day of work before a holiday tends to be like.

I had 2 phone call coaching sessions this morning, and in about fifteen minutes I’ll head over to our center to mingle with exercising participants. I’ll work maybe a half day, I won’t teach anything, and I’ll give out lots of hugs and reminders to eat healthy and weigh thyself over the holiday. Then around 1:15, as the last of my participants head out the door, I’ll briefly consider going into the office to do some data entry before convicning myself that “nah. I’ll do some over the break.”

Then I’ll come home, to my already-vacationing hubby, and our 2-week, much-awaited, it’s finally here Christmas Vacation will begin. Merry Christmas!

The 2nd Annual Catchphrase Showdown

The best traditions are the ones that start accidentally. Last year, we found out by pure coincidence that friends of ours from college, TJ and Fred, were traveling up to Blowing Rock for a weekend with their wives the same weekend we were planning on traveling down to Boone with Matt’s college roommate Jason. We were staying at Matt’s grandparent’s house in Boone, and intended to pack the weekend full of Guitar Hero, Street Fighter and some seriously long bouts of Doing Nothing. We met up with TJ, Fred and wives Kelli (TJ) and Michelle (Fred) the Saturday of our weekend and had one of those laugh til your stomach hurts kind of nights together playing Catchphrase, drinking wine, and taking ego pot shots the way that only college friends can do.

Calories, Car Trips & Cousins: It’s Thanksgiving!

I find myself with 2 hours to kill before my LAST class of the day and bedarned if I’m actually going to do work when there is not a single living breath molecular organism left in this office building. All I can say is attendance better be terrific, since I tried to cancel this class in the first place and there was an uprising.

A popular topic of conversation the last few days has been T-giving plans, so I’ll pick up there. Tomorrow we head to High Point for a feasting with Matt’s mom’s side of the fam. I was delegated with the task of bringing an appetizer. Of course, being a nutritionist I am making a dip with 4 super healthy ingredients:
1. Mayo
2. Cheese
3. More Cheese
4. Artichokes

Yes I know, know. I teach this stuff. But honestly this is the best appetizer I have ever made and tears of joy have been shed over this dish. And I can’t make it when it’s just the two of us or we’ll consume about 800 calories a piece and stop only when we explode. So it’s best made when there’s 17 other people present. Sharing enforces portion control.

Friday I’ll head down to Charlotte to see my cousin and her clan of three, including a new little one – 7 weeks old – who I will be meeting for the first time. The idea of seeing those 3 little goobers make me insanely excited. As does the idea that I get to give them back when I’m tired of them. Saturday is a baby shower for a cousin on Matt’s side and dinner with that clan (Dad-in-law’s fam.) I’m looking forward to the 2 extra days off of work, but somehow I can already guess they are going to fly by in a whirl.

This morning, speaking of things being a little hectic, we were very short on helpers at work with all our student workers enjoying an early Thanksgiving (enjoy it now, youngsters!). I mentioned this to Matt and my gracious, wonderful husband showed up here this morning with a skinny vanilla for me and a stethoscope to work. The best? You betcha. No, you can’t have him, HE’S MINE.

I have a lot to be thankful for all year round, and I love little moments when a wave of gratitude just washes over me. I’ve never been big into Thanksgiving. For starters, I don’t really like yams. Or pie. Or cranberry sauce. But the idea of one day to sit around and acknowledging the act of being grateful seems kind of silly to me. I’d rather have 364 mini moments of gratitude, like the one I had today when that tall southerner walked into my classroom with my piping hot latte, than think that there’s just one day where we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. On the other hand, it does seem to be one of the few times of the year when almsot everyone I know drops the usual excuses and finds the time to be with their family. So for that, for all of us to continue to do that, I am thankful.

Please pass the artichoke dip now.