The Stupid Bowl

Another Super Bowl has ended. The final score is in the history books. Indianapolis Colts: some score. Chicago Bears: some score that was lower than whatever the Colts' score was.

Believe it or not, the Bears' loss upsets me greatly. Not because I care about football (which I don't), or because the Bears are my hometown team (which they are) or because I actually watched the entire game (which I did, believe it or not -- second time in history, folks). I didn't even have any money riding on this game.

But I was emotionally invested. Very greatly so. And that's all because of one thing: a cookie.

My fiance and I spent the evening at a Super Bowl party, as many folks do, and as I have already mentioned several times in blog entries, the only way I'm going to go somewhere to watch a sporting event is if I'll be fed, and fed well. I was lured to this party by the promise of homemade guacamole.

When we arrived at the party, there was no guacamole anywhere in sight. The host informed us that the avocadoes he had bought were not yet ready to use, so homemade guac wasn't possible.

I demanded that my fiance drive me straight home but was immediately assured that pizza would arrive shortly. Well, pizza sounded pretty good, and there was some homemade salsa on the table, so I was mollified for the moment.

And then I saw it. A big cookie. A big, beautiful chocolate chip cookie, decorated with orange and blue icing. It seemed to be calling out to me, begging to be eaten.

Suddenly a night watching the big game didn't sound so bad.

Eventually, the pizza arrived, and the game started, and everyone settled in to watch. I didn't understand what was going on, so I couldn't really yell at the TV like everyone else was doing. (I'm not really a yell-at-the-TV person anyway; I barely talk to people who are in the same room with me half the time). Generally speaking, though, it wasn't so bad.

But all the time, I was thinking of that cookie. That beautiful, delicious-looking cookie, just sitting on the table, waiting to be eaten. At halftime or so, someone asked when we'd be cutting the cookie, and the host broke the news to us.

"That's a celebration cookie," he said. "We don't cut into it till the Bears win."

I couldn't believe my ears. At this point, the Bears were trailing, and during the second half of the game, it only got worse. Could it be that that big, beautiful cookie would not fulfill its destiny of deliciousness on Super Bowl Sunday?

Well, we all know now that the Bears went home crying while the Colts celebrated their Super Bowl Victory. (Side note: In a football game between actual bears and actual colts, I wonder which team would win. I think bears would be pretty good at the tackling part, but colts might be better kickers).

After the game, someone else asked about the cookie again, and the host threw it disgustedly on the coffee table, telling everyone, "fine, eat it if you want." No one went for it; I'm not sure if this was in grief or out of respect for the distraught host or perhaps just because they were waiting for him to bring a knife, but I never got to taste the cookie. My fiance had an errand to run, and we left pretty quickly. I briefly considered taking just one big bite out of the cookie before we headed out the door, but I thought that might be bad manners.

So now, like everyone who rooted for the Bears yesterday, I am left with a yearning that yesterday could have turned out differently. Perhaps this was life's way of telling me, "you can't enjoy the perks of the game unless you learn to enjoy the game as well." If that is so, I'll be the first in line next year to cheer the Bears to victory, because as God is my witness, I'll never leave a Super Bowl party hungry again.

In The Midst of Sub-Zero Temps, The Promise of Deliverance

Each year on this day, the eyes of the nation -- and, indeed, the world -- turn to a small Pennsylvania town, as people seek to answer the burning question, how long will this cold winter last?

For the first time in eight years, the world's foremost weather authority, groundhog Punxsutawney Phil, gave us all an answer we can be happy about. He failed to see his shadow, thereby predicting an early spring. Had he seen it, that would have meant six more weeks of winter, according to German small-mammal folklore.

Since 1886, weather-predicting groundhogs have only failed to see a shadow 15 times, so this outcome is quite exciting, especially to those of us living in the thick of winter right now. Lately, I don't even turn on the weather forecast, because I know it will only be bad news. I don't mind the snow, because at least that's pretty, but I could certainly do without the single-digit temperatures, particularly when combined with wind chills that take us into the negatives. I haven't felt my feet in about four days.

But today, Phil gave me hope for the future. Hope that I may soon be able to stop wearing a hat inside the house, that I may someday be able to put non-sweater shirts back into my clothing rotation, that I may actually spend an entire day without shivering.

It's a nice thought.

Then again, the only thing Phil guaranteed with his prediction of an early spring was that we would have fewer than six more weeks of winter. He didn't give specifics, and based on the nearly-as-reliable predictions of my local weatherman, I think the next five weeks could be tough.

So just in case, I think I'll go out and buy a new sweater.

Yet Another Sign I Am OK With The Fact That I'm Approaching 30

I think I am settling into responsible adulthood (not to be confused with on-my-own-but-living-in-a-dump-and-barely-surviving adulthood) a little too comfortably. Lately, I notice myself doing things my parents would do, and what's more, I don't even mind.

For example, I am blogging today about installing a new kitchen faucet. Oh yes, I find this interesting enough to write about.

A few weeks ago, my fiance decided he wanted a new kitchen faucet; the one we had sat kind of low, and it's a pain to wash big pots and things. He wanted one that sat a little higher, and I said while we're at it, we should also get one with a sprayer.

We spent an evening searching for that perfect faucet and finally found one we both liked. My fiance tried to install it the next day, and much to our mutual disappointment, the water filter we have -- which screws on the end of the faucet -- didn't fit.

We can't not use a water filter; our water tastes disgusting without it. So back out we went, with the filter in tow, to find one it would fit. We found one we both really liked and took it home, but when my fiance went to install it, he realized that it actually sits much lower than the old one did.

Determined not to end the evening without a new faucet, we immediately returned the one we'd bought and chose another, hoping the third time would be the charm. And it was. The new faucet looks lovely, fits perfectly and serves us fine, filtered water.

But it's things like this that make me realize just how much of a grownup I really am, because the only reason this feels like a sad way to spend an evening is because I didn't get to put on my sweatpants for an extra two hours.

Bear Down...Or Is It Hunker Down?

As anyone who has ever attempted to make "how 'bout them (insert sports team name here)" small talk with me knows, I don't really care about sports. At all. I have no interest in sports whatsoever and often find sports fans annoying.

Note: I don't discriminate there; I find most kinds of fans annoying. And while you may rightly say I am easily annoyed, don't even try to tell me that people are generally welcoming of fans of something they have no interest in. Old ladies screaming at an Elvis impersonator concert, those stupid teenagers on TRL (if that show is even on anymore), mulleted NASCAR-watching rednecks shouting "git r done!." All annoying. But I digress.

Despite my aversion to sports, I have to admit, I enjoyed living in Chicago when the White Sox won the World Series two years ago. I was also excited yesterday to watch the Bears beat the Saints to earn a trip to the Super Bowl. Alright, so I only watched the last two minutes of the game, but still. That's about as much as I watched of last year's Super Bowl. That's all I really need to see, honestly; I get to see the moment of victory, but I don't have to watch the actual game. (I watch a lot of TV like that -- I also tune into Trading Spaces in the last five minutes to see the before-and-after and the reactions, but I don't watch the actual work part of it).

But now I am most certainly going to have to watch the Super Bowl. It was appalling enough to people last year when I chose not to watch the Steelers, since I lived in Pittsburgh for the blink of an eye and should therefore be a huge fan, or something. But now it's the team in the town where I currently live, the team everyone I know is rooting for. And since Rex Grossman is the only NFL quarterback I can name, I guess that makes me more a fan of the Bears than any other team.

I like the idea of a Super Bowl party, for sure. There's always good food. But I found out the hard way that people get upset if you just come to eat and try to leave before the game starts. Some people like the commercials, but I don't really care about those. And since the average length of a Super Bowl game is approximately 400 hours, I get kinda bored.

So what am I going to do when Super Bowl Sunday rolls around? I imagine I'll be at some gathering or another; I've already been invited to one, but the invitation didn't say whether there would be chili dogs or cheese dip, so I'm not sure I want to chance it. Or maybe I'll just go shopping. The stores are bound to be empty during the game.

In any case, I'm rooting for the Bears. 'Cause I'm not even sure who the other team is.

Brown Has The Last Laugh

UPS did indeed send me a fruit basket.

They sent ME -- a person who never eats fruit unless it is part of a pie -- a basket of FRUIT!

I do appreciate the gesture, but I appreciate the irony even more.

What Brown Is Doing For Me Now

Apparently, the squeaky wheel does indeed get the grease.

Angry about the mess UPS made of my Christmas package from my mom, I wrote the company a letter detailing, and I quote, "the absolute worst customer service experience I have ever had with any company." The letter was as concise as I could make it, yet telling the story still took three pages. I even went so far as to enclose a copy of the tracking information, highlighted for their easy reference, and not very nicely demanded a refund for my mom, telling UPS to "please be sure to send it to the correct place this time."

I admit, I really laid into them. No mercy whatsoever. It had just been such a terrible experience that I thought the head honchos at UPS headquarters in Atlanta should know about it. Mostly I wanted to get it off my chest; I did not really expect a response, and I certainly didn't expect UPS to refund my mom's money, if for no other reason than the request had come from me and not her. (My mom was actually pretty forgiving about the whole thing: "You got the package eventually; what's the big deal?")

But surprise, surprise, last week, I got a voice message from a woman named Connie at the UPS distribution center in my area. I was almost afraid to return the call. My letter had been really nasty; I mean, I used the words "abhorrent" and "deplorable." When I did return the call, I felt the need to try to sound as sweet as I possibly could so that Connie wouldn't think I was a total bitch.

Anyway, she apologized profusely and promised that my mother would get her refund, and she told me that UPS is sending me "a little something special" for my trouble. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm hoping it's a little miniature truck or something. That would be cool.

So there you have it. You really can get results by putting your complaints in writing. I have to say, I'm impressed with how quickly and easily UPS owned up to causing a huge mess and took steps to appease me, particularly because the person complaining was not the person who actually paid for their service. I wonder if perhaps they have been losing a lot of business lately. Everyone I told about this incident immediately chimed in with, "oh yeah, UPS is terrible; I only use FedEx now."

In any case, I am satisfied with the outcome, unless, of course, my "special something" turns out to be a box of poisonous snakes, or a fruit basket. I'm not sure when I'll find out, though; according to Connie, it should have been delivered on Friday, and it has yet to show up.

I guess some things never change.

Thrifty Zoe

Some people will do anything to save a penny on gas.

Fuel is expensive these days; anyone who is even a little bit aware of current events can tell you that. Old folks tell stories of the days when a five dollar bill could fill your gas tank and buy you dinner, and even I can remember the days of 98 cents per gallon.

I'm sure that even back then, people shopped around for the best gas prices; why pay more than you have to for the same product? Nowadays, however, it's a necessity. Fueling our cars has become so expensive that companies like Shell and Citgo offer us credit cards to use to buy our gas. We shop for the lowest gas prices as a survival tactic now; what good is a full tank if you can't afford to go anywhere?

I'll admit, I got caught up in it for awhile. The first time gas prices went over $3 per gallon, I never stopped anywhere but the one place that had it for $2.99. Sometimes, I went out of my way to get there. Somehow, I felt the ten cents I saved was worth the dollar's worth I spent driving to the place.

Lately, though, I don't pay much attention to gas prices. Sure, I'll stop at the least expensive places in my area; that just makes good sense, but I don't drive out of my way to get there, and if the price goes down two cents per gallon a day after I fill up, I don't let it bother me. Sometimes you get a good price, sometimes you don't.

My car, however, apparently disagrees with this practice.

Zoe Zoom-Zoom, my 2002 Mazda Protege (yes, I named her, and she loves it), is a fantastic little automobile who has been with me since May 2003, about 75,000 miles ago. She's never let me down, but today, she made it known that she wants me to spend as little on gas as I can.

I was down to about a quarter tank, so I stopped at the gas station on the way to work. It was priced at $2.29 per gallon, which is about the lowest one can find in my regularly traveled area these days. I pulled the lever that opens the gas door, and it didn't pop open. Sometimes it sticks a little, but it's usually open enough to get my fingers in to open it completely. Not today.

I pulled the lever again, and...nothing. It was stuck, completely closed, and no amount of lever-pulling or prying could get the thing open. I stood there for 10 minutes, wind whipping my hair all around, alternately prying and pulling, all to no avail.

Defeated, I got back into my car and headed to work with plans to call the service department at the dealership where I bought Zoe, hoping they'd have some words of wisdom, or at least an open time slot when I could bring her in, hopefully soon, since a quarter tank doesn't last all that long.

When I got to the work parking lot, I tried again. This time, after a couple of pulls and no prying at all, the door opened completely. Even though I was already 15 minutes late, I made a quick trip to the gas station across the street, and I ended up paying a penny less per gallon than I would have at the first place.

Could it be that Zoe didn't want the gas at the first place? Did she purposely hold the gas door shut, knowing I would try to open it again when I got to work and end up getting a better price? Is it possible that, while I don't care much about the price of gas, Zoe does? It's as plausible an explanation as any, I think.

I don't know if I consider the annoying events of the morning worth the few nickels I saved. But Zoe seems happy with herself for helping me save money, so I guess in the future I should go out of my way to buy the cheapest gas to appease her.

My Grown-Up Kitchen

I like coffee. In fact, I love it.

Alright, I'm an addict, I'll admit it. I need a heavy dose of caffeine to get me going every morning, and I'm not ashamed to say it.

My fiance, however, is not a coffee drinker, and except for the weekends, I never drink my coffee at home; I always make it and take it to work with me. So I have a coffee maker that brews right into thermal travel mugs. I love it; it's so convenient, and there is less to clean at the end of the day.

It does present a problem, however, in the rare instances that I have company. My coffee maker only brews two travel mugs' worth at a time, and one travel mug doesn't even hold two standard mugs' worth. When my parents -- who, like me, want more than just one small mug of coffee in the morning -- came to visit in November, we had to run the thing two or three times every morning.

It was then that I decided I needed a regular coffee pot for those times when two travel mugs just won't do it. I am an adult now, and I want to pour my guests a cup of coffee from a pot, like an adult. Gone are the days when I'd just toss them a Pop Tart and one of those nasty bags that are like tea bags but with coffee in them. I want to be able to offer them homemade waffles and pour them a nice, hot cup of freshly brewed java from a real, grown up coffee pot.

I didn't want to spend a lot -- this is an appliance I'll use maybe once or twice a year, and there are so many other things that I need for everyday use. So when my friend Marla called me yesterday to tell me there was a certain brand of kitchen appliance on sale at Target for five dollars each, I knew I had to stop there on my way home to pick up a coffee pot, and possibly a waffle maker, because I don't actually have one of those either.

Well, they were out of the waffle maker, but I did get my coffee pot. As you can see from the photo below, my kitchen has finally grown up.

A Lesson In Parenting

Today at work, we were talking about parents and children out in public places (in addition to the whistler at Target yesterday, I encountered a kid at Ikea whining for 20 minutes straight, "I wanna go to Oberweis...I wanna go to Oberweis...I wanna go to Oberweis." And let me tell you, "Oberweis" sounds kind of whiny even just when spoken normally, so from a whiny kid, it's even worse).

My boss mentioned an incident in the grocery store years ago with her daughter that I mention here so I'll remember it when I have children. She always does her grocery shopping with a list and rarely ventures away from that list, and on this trip, they were cruising past the dairy case when her daughter piped up and asked, "do you think maybe sometime you can put chocolate milk on your list?"

She could have explained to her daughter that you are in fact allowed to pick up whatever you want at the store and don't have to write it down before going to be able to buy it. And she might have been tempted to, because it was probably pretty cute. But instead she just nodded and said, "yes, I suppose I could" and kept going.

Smart move. I'll bet that kid never made a scene in the middle of Ikea.

A Brief Note

I really don't want to turn this blog into "Erika's Ranting Place" but feel I must comment after an experience I had while out shopping today.

There's not much of a story, but the bottom line is, some people at Target just want to look at microwaves. I can't imagine many of them want to listen to another customer whistling while they look. I know I don't.

I Can Take My Hands Off My Ears...But Now I Have To Put Them Over My Eyes

Ding Dong. She's really gone.

The Shrieking Machine has left the gym. I wanted to make sure before celebrating, but after seven blissful shriek-free weeks, I think it's safe. I can't express how wonderful it is to go to the gym to relieve some stress and actually accomplish that rather than getting more edgy by the minute with shouts of "knee! knee! knee!"

There is, however, one character I wouldn't mind going the same way The Shrieking Machine did. I feel bad for even mentioning her, because while The Shrieking Machine did something that was a real disturbance, this lady annoys me for no real reason except my own cattiness.

But if I could post a photo of her, I don't think anyone would disagree with me.

I call her Didn't-Bother-To-Brush-Her-Hair-
But-Did-Take-The-Time-To-Put-On-Tights-Yes, Tights-Lady. The title is pretty self-explanatory. Why in the world would anyone wear tights to the gym? They're not any sort of athletic tights; they're just regular black tights that she wears under shorts. If she's afraid her legs will get cold, why not just wear pants? Seeing her makes my legs feel hot and itchy. And yeah, her hair always looks awful, and I have the feeling that she never actually does anything with it. I mean, I never look all that put-together at the gym -- why bother when you're just going to sweat and get gross -- but if the gym isn't the first place I've been that day, I at least have my hair brushed. Not so much with this woman.

I know it's mean of me to say, but I can't help it. She's there every time I go to the gym -- every time -- and inevitably she ends up on a machine directly in front of whatever machine I'm on, so I have no choice but to look at her. I still feel bad for getting annoyed with her, though, so I'm kind of hoping she joins a kickboxing class and starts shrieking so I have a good reason to dislike her.

What Brown Did For Me, Part II

Surprisingly, I received my UPS package today, and although I haven't opened it yet, it actually looks like the right package.

I've written UPS a belated Christmas card to thank them for the impeccable treatment I was given. The only thing I can't decide is whether to send it by U.S. Postal Service or FedEx.

Jackpot!

It seems as if all of the hours we spent scanning stuff at Macy's, Williams-Sonoma and Bed Bath & Beyond has paid off. Two of the gifts for which my fiance and I registered have been purchased for us, according to the latter two stores' Web sites.

I cannot wait to receive my dish towels and snack box shaped like a goldfish cracker.

The Taste Of Christmas

So I broke down. Between the UPS debacle and not being home for the first time and not having any time off and having a long week at work, I wasn't feeling very Christmasy. So I baked cookies to get myself in the mood.

I just made a few.

Alright, so I made 12 dozen. But I plan to take half of them to my fiance's family's house and gave a few dozen to neighbors.

But I sure am in the holiday spirit now!

What Brown Did For Me

I'll admit it. One of the things I love most about Christmas is the presents.

It's not so much getting new stuff -- when you're past the age of 12 or so and not getting toys but books and sweaters, the contents of the packages are usually not that exciting -- but the fact that someone thought to buy something special for me, and it's always so exciting to see the tree piled high with gifts on Christmas morning. This year, I will be spending the holiday away from my family for the first time, instead going to my fiance's parents' house to celebrate with them. So my mom sent my Christmas gifts to me via UPS.

This is where the warm, fuzzy story turns sour.

On Thursday, my mom tracked my package and reported that the address had been changed and UPS needed a suite number. I had, the day before, re-routed another UPS package from my home address to my work address, so I assumed UPS had applied the change to all packages going to me. I called to give them the suite number of my office, and I was surprised to learn that the address my package was sent to was neither my home address nor my work address but a place in a town somewhere between the two. I don't even know anyone who lives or works in that town.

I corrected UPS and asked them to route it to my work address on Friday, and I asked if they could give me a range of hours that their driver would be out with my package. My office closed early yesterday, so I wanted to know whether I could expect it before then or whether I would have to stick around or re-route it back to my home if it would be going out late. The lady said she had no idea what time packages go out in the morning and that if my mom had wanted delivery on a guaranteed date, she should have upgraded from ground delivery to air delivery -- at a handsome extra charge, of course. I told the woman I would just wait around at work, and if the package didn't show up in time, I'd go from there.

Imagine my surprise when the UPS delivery guy showed up at my office yesterday with no package for me. I called UPS again to ask what address my package was going to, and they gave me my home address. I told them no, this was a mistake; the address was not supposed to be changed again. The woman I spoke to this time offered to re-route the package back to my work address, but I explained that I was on my way home at this point and would simply hope the driver hadn't stopped there yet.

Yes, I said it angrily. Yes, I hung up on her. I know it wasn't this lady's fault, but considering the fact that UPS had now changed the address on me twice without my requesting or authorizing it, I think I had a right to be perturbed. I had done everything I could to make sure they brought the package to where I would be, and UPS took great pains to make sure the package came nowhere near me.

Holding on to the hope that perhaps it would show up on my doorstep, I sat at home all afternoon, waiting. I had errands to run, so as soon as my fiance walked in the door, I ran out, rushing around so I would be back before he had to leave again and someone would be home to sign for the package.

At 6:45, when nothing had shown up, I tracked the package online again, guessing that UPS had changed the address on me a third time. Bingo! They had. They had re-routed the package yet again, back to my work address.

At this point, I was beyond fuming. It was getting increasingly more difficult to refrain from screaming at the people who picked up the phone at the 800 number. These people refused to do anything to help. Because the package had been sent by ground and not air, it was not important to UPS to get it to me at any specific time.

I understand that they can't guarantee a time, but you'd think they'd guarantee that the package gets to where it should go. And when they had changed the delivery address three times now without my ever asking them to do so, they should have made special accommodations to get me this package the day it should have been delivered. My mom paid what was probably a good chunk of money to get me this package, and she sent it off in plenty of time for it to get to me by Christmas. It was not her fault, and it was not my fault, that the package had not reached me. It was UPS' fault, and UPS was refusing to make amends.

The last guy at the 800 number finally sent a note to the distribution center, and a woman from there called me to explain that my package was not to her distribution center yet but at another distribution center 10 miles away and would not arrive there until Tuesday morning, at which point it was to be delivered to my work address. I called the distribution center where the package allegedly was, and a woman there told me it had already left for the other one. But it would not be there until Tuesday; apparently, sending something UPS ground means that it takes three days to go 10 miles. I didn't figure those trucks went very fast, but I had no idea.

UPS' mission was accomplished. My Christmas gifts will be late, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. UPS is the Grinch, and I am Cindy Lou Who, except my attitude is not quite as forgiving as hers.

The worst part is, if my mom had simply sent the gifts late, I wouldn't have cared. I get gifts late all the time, and goodness knows I hardly ever send gifts out on time. (So perhaps UPS was sending some of my late-gift-sending karma back my way).

No, the fact that the gifts will be late doesn't bother me half as much as the fact that I have spent the past two days waiting for them and on the phone with UPS, trying to correct the errors they had made. They're just gifts; I'm sure my mom got me some very nice stuff, but let's face it. I'm way past the age where Christmas gifts are exciting toys, and there's not much I can do with a sweater or a pair of gloves that simply cannot wait an extra day. My Christmas has not been ruined by not having my gifts right away, but the past two days have been ruined while I've dealt with this mess.

So today, even though I had not planned to, I will bake some Christmas cookies to get myself back into the holiday spirit. If I can't be near my family, and I can't get their gifts on time, at least I can eat the cookies made from their recipes.

So what has "brown" done for me? Besides eaten up an hour's worth of minutes on my cell phone and made my blood pressure shoot sky high, not a whole hell of a lot. I am somewhat skeptical about the possibility of the package actually coming to me on Tuesday like it's now supposed to. But maybe I'll get the gifts in time for next Christmas.

Stuffed

Anyone who reads this blog even casually knows that I love food, and I especially love sweets. So what I am about to say is going to seem completely out of character, and, to be honest, even I am surprised to be typing these words. But the fact of the matter is...

I just can't eat any more Christmas treats.

It started very innocently, the day I decided to get a jump start on my holiday baking by making Oreo Balls (smashed up Oreo cookies mixed with cream cheese and covered in chocolate) and chocolate covered peanut butter crackers (two saltines with peanut butter in between, covered in chocolate) and Chex Party Mix (just the regular kind, although I do make a chocolate-covered version of that too). For a few days, I sampled the treats modestly, taking care not to pig out too much.

But then it snowballed.

A visitor to my office brought with him a huge package of Godiva chocolates and a great big tin of chocolate covered cookies, which was put in the kitchen right next to the half-full box of candy a client had sent awhile back. Then our cleaning ladies brought us some cookies, cupcakes and fudge. Today, I went in there and saw a gift basket full of all kinds of holiday treats. Did I mention there are only eight of us in the office?

And at home it was just as bad. Once the chocolate covered stuff and the Chex Mix had been either eaten or pawned off onto someone, I thought it safe to buy a bag of Hershey's Kisses for a candy dish on my coffee table. But then my sister sent me some beef and cheese logs and some petit fours, and I received a stocking full of candy bars and a box of the most delicious shortbread cookies in the history of mankind in a gift exchange. Throw in a couple of get-togethers, and December has made for some snug pants, let me tell you.

It's not like I've been pigging out nonstop, but it has been tough to resist all this wonderful food, especially when it just arrives on your doorstep. I'll admit, the Oreo Balls, peanut butter things and Chex Mix were my fault, but even after I decided to put a moratorium on Christmas cookie baking, my kitchen is still full of delicious, wonderful, tasty food.

I think it's wonderful that people share food at Christmas. I enjoy cooking and baking for people, and I certainly enjoy eating. But I just don't think I can do any more of it this year.

I'm starting to go into a sugar coma.

It Is Less Time Consuming To Give Than To Receive

Today, my fiance and I set up our wedding gift registries. We knew it would be time consuming, but we had no idea just how tiring it would be. Here's a rundown of the afternoon's activities.

1 p.m. -- Arrive at the mall. We go straight to Macy's so that my relatives in Pennsylvania have somewhere to shop for us, because they don't have too many good stores there and some folks are not internet savvy.

1:15 p.m. -- Lady who helps us sent us out into the store with a gun thing to scan what we wanted. I make the mistake of letting my fiance use the gun, and he makes a funny noise every time he scans something and repeatedly tries to scan my butt because he thinks it's funny. We don't find much that we really really want but did find a few fun items. We almost register for a gigantic serving dish that looks like a turkey, but in the fear that someone might buy it for us, we decide not to.

1:40 p.m. -- Finish scanning stuff at Macy's, return to the desk to find the lady who helped us engaged with a customer.

1:45 p.m. -- Apparently the customer's credit card is not going through, so we continue to wait.

1:50 p.m. -- The lady finally pawns off rejected credit card lady on someone else and helps us wrap up. She gives us a free canvas tote bag, which is worth the trip.

1:55 p.m. -- Leave Macy's for Williams-Sonoma.

2:00 p.m. -- Fill out a form for Williams-Sonoma gift registry.

2:02 p.m. -- Give the form back to the lady behind the counter and wait for her to type our information into the computer. Politely turned down offer of free sample of espresso from lady who thought we were standing by the espresso machine because we wanted one.

2:05 - 2:10 p.m. -- Go through the form with lady behind the counter, line by line, at her request, so that she will spell everything right.

2:15 p.m. -- Look around while waiting for lady behind counter to finish. Espresso lady asks if we are sure we don't want to try an espresso; we politely decline.

2:17 p.m. -- Lady behind the counter hands us a paper that has our registry information and find my name is spelled wrong. Gave it back and asked her to fix it and waited some more.

2:25 p.m. -- Make small talk with espresso lady, who ends up being the most helpful person in that store.

2:30 p.m. -- Finally cave and let espresso lady get us an espresso.

2:35 p.m. -- Lady behind the counter gives us the little gun thingy and we go out into the store. Espresso lady follows us because it's just so exciting. We ask her for help with an item that won't scan, however, and she's not sure what to do, but she does help us find someone who knows.

2:45 p.m. -- None of the items at Williams-Sonoma seem to still have the stickers with the bar codes on them. We have to ask bald guy behind the counter for help, and he finds someone who can figure out what to scan. I kind of miss the espresso lady.

2:50 p.m. -- Having scanned a bunch of stuff, we can't find anyone to help us except the first lady, who couldn't read or type, who attempts to upload our information into the computer.

2:55 p.m. -- Lady returns with a printed out sheet that has none of the items we had scanned and one we had not and goes back to try to upload again.

2:58 p.m. -- Lady apologetically explains that our entire registry is lost. Rather than do it all again, we leave, quietly cursing the stupid lady who screwed up the whole thing.

3:05 p.m. -- Swing by the Auntie Anne's to grab a pretzel, but the line is too long and we are cranky.

3:20 p.m. -- Enter Bed Bath & Beyond. I get in line at the customer service desk while my fiance sits in the demo massage chair to rest his flat feet.

3:22 p.m. -- Listen to girl behind customer service desk try to figure out how to figure out tax by multiplying by a percentage. Guy standing at counter wrongly explains that she should multiply the amount by .8 or something. I consider stepping in but am afraid that in my semi-crankiness and tiredness I might end up either explaining it wrong or being mean, and, thankfully, a nice foreign lady steps in first.

3:24 p.m. -- Once foreign lady is done being taken care of and I ask where the registry is and am directed to the rear of the store.

3:25 p.m. -- My fiance tells me to try the massage chair, and it really does pep me up a bit.

3:28 p.m. -- Find registry area and fill out some more paperwork. Explain to Pam the registry lady that we don't need fine china or crystal; we just want everyday stuff. Pam is nice but kind of balks at the idea that we would have guests over and not have anything nice to serve them on, despite the fact that we tell her that right now we kind of need other things a lot more than fine china.

3:29 p.m. -- We choose a fine china pattern.

3:35 p.m. -- Pam helps us choose crystal and flatware to go with the china. It actually looks quite nice. I make my fiance pledge to have a fancy party soon after we get married so that we have a reason to use fine china and crystal.

3:50 p.m. -- Pam takes us over to the cookware section of the store to meet Josh, who she says will help us there, despite the fact that we have already chosen cookware at Macy's. Josh, who has laryngitis, explains that Pete will be helping us because he does not have laryngitis. Pete is not happy when we tell him we want copper bottom pots and steers us toward stainless steel. We tell him we have already registered at Macy's for copper bottom pots, and he pulls up the brand and tells us it is not as good as the brand we'd been looking at in his store. He's actually right, but we kind of want a chance to register for other stuff that we haven't looked at yet, so we run away from Pete and register for other stuff.

4:15 p.m. -- I make my fiance scan a plastic take-along snack container that looks like a goldfish cracker. This is one of my favorite items on the list so far.

6 p.m. -- After we've been through the entire store, Pam brings us snacks and tells us that we deserve a break. We tell her we're done.

6:15 p.m. -- Pam goes over some other registry stuff with us and tells us congratulations about 12 times. She's actually pretty nice, and I wonder if we should invite her to the wedding so that she can buy us that china with her employee discount.

6:20 p.m. -- We revisit our fine china setting, and I still like it, but I am kind of hoping that we get more of the every day dishes, because I really like them and don't have to have anyone over to use them, plus they are dishwasher safe.

6:30 p.m.-9 p.m. -- We finally leave Bed Bath & Beyond and, having given up any hope of making it to the grocery store and cooking dinner like we'd planned, we come home and order pizza and watch Mean Girls on TV.

9 p.m. - 10 p.m. -- Looking online, I learn that the dumb lady at Williams-Sonoma actually did upload our thing, and we do have a registry. In fact, we have two. One is empty and the other has the stuff we chose today.

10:27 p.m. -- My head hurts. I am going to bed.

An Open Letter To My Fiance, Regarding Mice

Dear Fiance,

I don't pull the girl card very often, but I'm going to have to do it now.

I am sorry that you think it is unacceptable for me to refuse to clean mouse traps, but that's just the way it has to be. I just cannot bring myself to look at or even come close to touching a dead mouse.

I offered to buy the poison stuff that makes them go outside to die, but you were afraid they would die in the walls. So I offered to buy the circular traps that close and kill them so you can just throw the whole thing away and never look at a mouse, but you said they were too expensive for something that was not reuseable.

When you insisted instead on buying the kind that snaps the mouse in half in front of your eyes, you promised that you wouldn't give me crap about not checking or touching the traps, so I hope you will stick to that.

Sorry, but mice are icky, and you need to be the manly man and take care of them all and protect me from the nasty vermin.

Hugs and kisses,
Erika

Fa La La La La La La La La

Christmas is a season of excess, when everything we like to do, we do to the umpteenth degree. We pig out, we spend too much money and we decorate our homes in ways that we would never do any other time of year, with glittery, ostentatious things that light up and make noise.

And it's wonderful! I hope to someday have a house that I can decorate the way that Clark Griswold decorated his, with 25,000 twinkle lights. I think it's grand when people go to Target on December 26th and buy lights, signs and inflatable snow globes for 50 percent off, then pile it all into their yards the following year. Even the tacky stuff is great. The more, the better I say.

I do have a problem with the people who half-ass it with the lights though. You know who I mean. The ones who buy one of those light net things that you can put right over a tree, and then only put one on a big tree, leaving half of the tree covered and half uncovered. The ones who put a string of lights on one tiny hedge in front of their house and leave everything else bare.

If you're not going to go whole hog with the lights, I say, don't do the lights. You can still decorate with inflatable snowmen and wreaths, and your home will look very festive. But unless you're willing to put in some time and effort, don't bother with the lights. No one will fault you if you don't put any lights out, but it looks pretty stupid when you throw up one string and call it a day.

I'm not saying that everyone needs to put out 25,000 twinkle lights, but driving around town would be a lot more entertaining if they did.

Fine

When I was in high school, I took two years of German. My teacher was actually from Germany; she had grown up near Hamburg, so our lessons always contained tidbits about German culture as she had experienced it growing up.

Early on, we learned the phrase, "wie gehts," which means, "how are you?" We also learned various responses, like, "es geht mir gut"(good) or "es geht mir schlecht," (bad), etc. And my teacher made the comment that Germans are more honest than Americans when asked that simple question. If you ask a German person "wie gehts," you won't hear "es geht mir gut" unless it's really true; here, however, you'll almost always hear the same response.

"Fine."

It's as if we feel we will be a burden if we're honest. Not everyone wants to hear, "I'm wonderful; I just won a million dollars in the lottery;" it sounds like bragging. And "my wife left me and took all the toothpaste" sounds whiny.

But now, after years of pondering, I wonder, why would people ask if they don't really want to know?

In my job, I deal with many different people, so I'm on the phone pretty often. My clients are located all over the United States, so I never actually see them face to face. I don't chat with them about personal stuff too much, so I don't really know any of them that well except in the business sense. But every time I call one of them, or one of them calls me, the first question is always, "how are you."

And my response is always "fine" or "pretty good," and then, "how are you?" (They're always "fine" or "pretty good" too).

Why do I say that? I don't care how these people are. I don't care how their days are going. Sure, I hope their lives are in basic balance and they're healthy and comfortable, because they're people, and most of them are pretty nice, but unless it is affecting the business we are doing, I don't care much what is going on in their personal lives. That may sound a little heartless, but they don't really care about my personal life either. They're paying for a service I provide, so they don't want to waste time on chit chat, and I've got other clients to worry about, so I don't want to waste time either.

And it's not just the "how are you." We always say these polite words that we obviously don't mean, just because we think we're supposed to say them. Last night, I went to Target, and as I left, the girl at the register told me, "have a great night." She said it in a completely robotic voice, though, as if whoever trained her told her to say that, and now it just comes automatically. I don't care if she wants me to have a great night, so I kind of wish she wouldn't tell me to have one unless she really meant it.

It just seems sort of counterproductive to say these things. Why ask how someone is if you really don't care? And why say "have a great night" unless you really wish them well? I think the words lose their meaning when they're thrown around like that, and the polite almost becomes impolite.

So I am going to try to always mean what I say. If I don't think a person really gives a crap if I tell them to have a nice day, I won't tell them to have a nice day. Why bother? I doubt too many folks would be offended if I hung up the phone with a simple "goodbye" or "talk to you later." And when I'm asked how I am, I'll tell the truth. I'm not going to go on a whole diatribe about my life up to that point, but the answer will be honest and not automatic.

I think that solution is fine.