Skinny Santa in Brown Shorts

I love my UPS guy. Which is convenient, because I also love shopping online. I think as kids we are programmed to love opening boxes because of Christmas. A box holds a mystery, and the mystery is probably the greatest toy in the universe!

Not much has changed since I was a kid. I still LOVE opening boxes. Of course, now I usually know what is in the box because I have ordered it from Amazon myself...and paid for it myself...and I have been tracking it online. Still, when I hear the UPS truck screech to a stop in front of my house, I'm all "PRESENTS!!!"

I usually rush out to meet my UPS guy, Charles, who is like a skinny Santa in brown shorts. He's always formal like, "Hello Ms. Harris. Can I get you to sign here?" And I'm like, "Ugh. Charles! Don't bother me with that. Hand me your pocket knife so I cut this baby open and get my goodiiiiies!" Sometimes when I order things online I decide to get wild and I don't use the tracking information. That way I am extra-excited when I hear the UPS truck stop. It really is like Santa! There I am, typing a work email or making a cup of coffee, and BAM! Presents!

Whatever is in the box is irrelevant. It doesn't even have to be exciting. Diabetic test strips, a box of envelopes for work, new shoes for Ottis, whatever. It is simply the fact that UPS Santa is delivering a box that I get to open. I loooove it.

So yesterday, I was expecting a package. I'd been hovering by my open front door waiting for Charles to arrive for ages. Earlier that day I had picked up my birthday cake (a REAL cake, not a soybean flour cake). It has been a LONG time since I have eaten something sugary and delicious like a birthday cake.

In my distracted "I can't wait to eat this!" state, I did not hear Charles' truck stop. Nor did I hear him walk up to my front door. So when he looked in what he saw was me, with my cake on the cabinet hovering over it like:

In case he didn't think I was a total weirdo before, now he definitely does. I was all, "Oh! Hi! Um, I'm not about to eat this whole thing myself. It is my birthday tomorrow. I have The Beetus and I don't eat cake often and I love cake and I am just really excited about getting to eat this tomorrow!" His response? "...Uh, huh. Sign here please Ms. Harris." Oh Charles.

Sugar Shuffle

"What happened in here?" It was the question my very confused father posed after waking from his Sunday nap to discover my mother and me in the kitchen.

It began innocently. Because I have The Beetus, birthday cake is not a good thing for me to eat. But with my 27th birthday looming, I have been on the lookout for a diabetes-friendly cake recipe. I found a recipe for a soybean flour cake and decided to make a test cake at my parents' house on Sunday. The cake itself was fine...nothing award winning, but definitely edible if it had a little real frosting on top. I found a container of vanilla frosting in the cabinet, only to open it and discover that SOMEONE had been eating it with a spoon. Sigh.

My mom and I sat there staring at the almost empty frosting container and my naked little soybean cake. Since I cook MAYBE twice a year, the fact that I had used a blender and the oven all in one day was kind of a big deal. We could not let my efforts end in frostingless tragedy! So a mad dash began. We opened every cabinet in the kitchen looking for something we could use to top the cake. In our enthusiasm, we completely forgot about the fact that this was supposed to be a "healthy" cake. Mom was yelling things like, "Ugh! No whip cream!" and "I know we've got some powdered sugar around here somewhere!"In the end, our cake topping options came down to a bag of dark chocolate chocolate chips, a package of white chocolate almond bark, and a bottle of Sugar Free Hershey's Syrup. Mom decided the the almond bark was the way to go and broke off several bars to put in a bowl in the microwave. The good news? The soybean cake was DELICIOUS covered in melted white chocolate! The bad news? I'm pretty sure cake stops being diabetic-friendly when you pour two pounds of almond bark over it. 

Between the two of us, one slice at a time, we ate the ENTIRE CAKE (It was small! It was small!). So when my dad wandered into the kitchen after his nap, the scene he saw was:

The kitchen in a complete mess from our icing search/baking the cake.

An empty cake pan covered in crumbs.

A cabinet covered in the remnants of melted white chocolate.

Mom and me, holding our stomachs and groaning. Clearly two people suffering from eater's remorse. Eater's remorse is like buyer's remorse, but with food. Pretty much we looked like this kid:

The awkward part is that when people ask me how my soybean cake turned out I say "Delicious!" But I'm not really sure if the cake was actually good, or if the almond bark is what made it good. I'm pretty sure you could pour melted almond bark over stale bread and it would still be delicious. 

Eviction Notice

I love my porch. It has an old black rocking chair, a huge citronella candle for keeping bugs at bay, and a side table for holding my books, magazines, and iced tea. Everything I need to enjoy a lazy afternoon or spend an evening reading. Unfortunately, last fall my porch acquired something new, a family of birds. The birds built their nest on top of my porch late last fall. Before I knew it, my whole porch was covered in icky bird poo and I was banished indoors. I was going to destroy the nest, but it was quickly becoming winter and I hated the thought of leaving the birds homeless in the cold! After much internal debate, I made up my mind to let them stay for the winter and evict them as soon as spring came...

But when spring came, I worried that my porch inhabitants had babies in that nest. What if I knocked it down and killed their babies!? Or left them homeless with babies to feed!? No no, I could not live with myself if I was a baby bird murderer. So I decided to wait until I was certain there were no eggs or hungry little babies.

Now that time has come. My patience with the birds is OVER. The bird family is the most active family of birds EVER. Not only do they poop more than any bird family in history, they like to wake me up at 5am with incessant chirping EVERY MORNING.

So today was the day. Eviction Day. Wearing hot pink rubber kitchen gloves, rain boots, sunglasses, and a face mask (filched from our yard guys), I stepped onto the porch. Whilst humming the Ghost Busters theme song, I took a broom and knocked down the nest...which, blessedly, was empty. Then I used 2 entire bottles of Mr. Clean and scrubbed my porch top to bottom to get rid of any traces of poo.

Finally! My porch was mine again!

After all the deep cleaning, I made a glass of tea and sat in my rocker to enjoy a good book. A few pages in, I looked up and realized the bird family was sitting on the eve of my porch, watching my every move. As I reached for my tea, their angry eyes followed me. As I stood up they craned their necks down and continued to stare. Despite the fact that I think I should get some major props for not evicting them last fall, apparently the birds are very displeased with me and may possibly be plotting my death. Eventually I couldn't take their staring anymore and I started to feel really paranoid so I went inside. Since I came in they have all been sitting on my porch railing staring at the door...waiting.

Now I'm scared to use my porch because I keep having visions of myself being killed by birds a-la Alfred Hitchcock.

Pure Barre, Pure Hell

I consider myself to be "athletic." I did a decade of ballet, tap and jazz, followed by another decade and a half of gymnastics and cheerleading. So when it comes to trying new exercise classes, I usually feel very confident.

After a recent Groupon for Pure Barre classes, my BFF Hauren Luckabee* and I decided to try our first class tonight.

I showed up 20 minutes early and patted myself on the back for being so prepared, until I realized I had forgotten socks! Not to worry, they sell socks there...for SIXTEEN DOLLARS. Who has heard of a $16 pair of socks? Seriously. If I am paying that much for socks they'd better give me a foot massage or do my workout for me.

Ridiculously expensive new socks in hand, I made my way into the Barre room to prepare for class to start. After putting on my new socks, I realize that they don't just say "Pure Barre" on the bottom. Across the toe area of both socks in big bold letters they say "Bride To Be."

Is this my real life? Like at age 26 I don't already feel judged for not being married, but now even my SOCKS are judging me and pointing out the fact that I'm single. RUDE. Luckily, class began before anyone had a chance to ask me about my fiance or pending wedding plans.

Our teacher was very sweet, and very perky. She kept saying phrases like "You can do it!" and "Just ten more on this side, count with me!" and "Feel it getting tigher!" My arse muscles were on FIRE. I was shaking so badly it was embarrasing. I could not wait for this torture to be over. Then our teacher said, "Looking great guys! We are almost halfway through the warm up."

Is this some kind of horrible joke? Half way through the warm up? KILL ME NOW. Immediately I began plotting different ways to get out of class, but I didn't want to look like a total wimp. So obviously I did the only practical thing and started praying for an earthquake or a power outage.

Alas, there was no major electrical event. Class continued and the teacher kept coming over and correcting my form. To which I would simply roll my eyes. The music was too loud, or I would have just told her, "Look, I'm aware my form is incorrect. I'm just phoning this workout in okay? All I want to do is live through the next 60 minutes so I can crawl out of here with some tiny shred of dignity."

With each new exercise Hauren Luckabee and I would look at each other in despair. We were the only newbies in a class of women who do Pure Barre 5 times a week. To add insult to injury, one entire wall of the classroom is a giant mirror. So you can watch yourself struggle...and jiggle.

Needless to say, I was SO HAPPY when the teacher finally told us to give ourselves a round of applause. It was time to leave! I didn't clap, but I did crawl to the front door, remove my Bride to Be socks, and teeter out to my car on sore, wobbly legs.

I assure you that Pure Barre is all it is cracked up to be. Of course if you do it 5 times a week you will look like Gwyneth Paltrow. That said, I will never be going back. Ever. All I have to show for my first class is a $16 pair of socks I can't wear until I get engaged someday, a sore arse and a badly bruised ego. Workout fail.


*Name has been changed to protect privacy