Temptations

Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is not going to be a tribute to that one of a kind Motown singing group. No, my friends, this blog is more about that pesky snake we first met in the Garden of Eden. This will be somewhat of a confessional. Here we go. I am weak. I am powerless against my enemy. I have tried repeatedly to vanquish my tormentor; to show it who is boss. But I have failed. I have read article upon article on how to get the best of my lifelong nemesis. But I remain defeated. Last night was just the latest incident. Damn you Magic Cookie Bars.

Want to bring me to my knees? Put out a platter of cupcakes. Want to watch me lose all semblance of rational thinking? Bring out a tray of Snickerdoodles. I'm not proud. There is something that happens to me when I'm in a room populated with baked goods. It is physiological. It cannot be explained or controlled. It's like the Incredible Hulk when he gets angry.

Now I'm not talking about store bought sweets. Chips Ahoys and Oreos can reside in my pantry for weeks. Ditto for Little Debbie and Hostess. They are unwelcome party crashers in my sugar celebration. I'm also not talking about candy. For some reason, known only to my persnickety calorie-craving inner demon, I can usually take it or leave it. If I haven't baked anything for awhile, it will do in a pinch but it's not unusual for any heart-shaped boxes of chocolate lovingly bestowed upon me in February to be gathering dust in a corner in June.

But homemade baked goods? They are truly my Kryptonite. And so you might ask, as any sane person would, if I only like homemade goodies, why don't I just stop baking? You would be so wise and yet so foolish to ask such a question. Baking is cheap therapy. When I'm down, I bake. When I'm frustrated, I bake. When I'm anxious, I bake. When I'm . . . well, you get the idea. If I didn't get out my Kitchen Aid on a regular basis, who knows what I might do.

So, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and accept, for better or worse, that I'm hooked. I'm unlikely to hang up my whisk anytime soon, despite Dr. Oz's dire warnings about the dangers of belly fat. I'll bet he hasn't even tasted a Magic Cookie Bar. If he had, he would understand their power. And he would only have to be in possession of two eyes to accept that they are truly magical. How else to explain how quickly they disappear out of the pan and reappear almost instantaneously on my butt and midsection?

I wonder if the great and powerful Oz has an answer for that? Hey, maybe I should dig out those old Temptations records. Dancing around the kitchen while I bake couldn't hurt.

A Sure Thing

The last page of O magazine, that paragon of journalistic virtue, is entitled 'What I Know For Sure'. There's usually a candid photo of Oprah looking all wise and relaxed as she hits us with some more of her hard-earned life lessons. The fact that she also sneaks in a plug or two for one of her shows on her failing OWN network is beside the point. The woman still has things to teach us, damn it, and she's going to use whatever outlets (bearing her name and/or logo) available to her to ensure that we all start living that better life that she wants for each and every one of us. I've read a few of these two-minute therapy sessions (in the check-out line or doctor's office, of course) and it got me thinking. What do I know for sure?

Well, I know that I will never, ever get another perm, even when all the other gray-haired ladies in the nursing home are wrapping their wiry locks around those plastic rods. I also know that I would rather visit my gynecologist than get stuck in an elevator with any of the Kardashians. And I know, without a shadow of any doubt, that the two people whose wedding I witnessed over the weekend are going to be spending the rest of their earthly lives (and probably their eternal lives as well, even though some people don't believe in that kind of thing) enjoying each others' company.

It strikes me as somewhat ironic that the same week People magazine blasted the news that Brad and Angie were finally getting hitched, I had the privilege of being a part of a real union; a wedding of two, honest-to-goodness soul-mates. They met on Match.com and, if this company had any sense, they would snap these two up for every commercial in their foreseeable future. Just watching them interact with one another for thirty seconds would send singles all over America rushing to their computers to sign up.

From the minute they announced their engagement, everyone who knew them well knew this would be no ordinary wedding. And they did not disappoint. From beginning to end (five days of partying, cooking, talking, and laughing) the event was filled with personal touches reflecting the bride and groom's love and respect for one another. Humor was everywhere from the vows to the toasts to the re-enactment of Beyonce's Put a Ring on It. Since the couple and most of their friends are struggling actors, writers, and musicians trying to make it in L.A., guests were treated to the most entertaining wedding of their lives but never did it feel staged or theatrical. It was truly a serious commitment surrounded by joyous, heartfelt creative expression. And it was a blast.

But this isn't really about loving each other on one perfect day. It's about finding someone you can stand to be with for the next 18,250 of them. I won't be around to collect, but I'd be willing to set down a sizable bet that that's what I just witnessed.

Todd and Erin, you did it. Now sit back and enjoy the next fifty years. It’s going to be one hell of a ride.

Lucky Loser

There's been a lot of talk over the last week or so about the lottery. I guess a jackpot of 656 million will do that. It was amusing to watch people fantasize about what they would do with their piece of the pie but it was depressing to see the mile-long lines of hopeful gamblers waiting to cross state lines to plunk their money down on a ticket that would inevitably be thrown in the trash. If you're wondering, I did throw five of my hard-earned dollars on a quick pick. True to form, my ticket of thirty numbers boasted only one of the winning digits. They ought to give out some kind of consolation prize for people with that kind of luck.

While everyone else was obsessing about the Mega-Millions, I was busy playing another game; something where skill trumps luck - mini-golf. Now there's a game I can relate to. Take a little, hot pink ball, try to go under the lion's mouth, around the tiger's tail, past the strategically placed boulder, and put it into a six-inch hole. We used to make a habit of frequenting the "links" when the kids were little but now, here I was, smacking those silly balls around with a six-foot tall twenty-three year-old man and a beautiful twenty-five year-old woman. We supposedly put this outing together to entertain my twelve year-old nephew but that was just a ruse. I rarely get the chance to corral both of my busy kids in the same place at the same time so I'll use every excuse I can get my hands on.

So we printed out the Groupon for an arcade/golf extravaganza and headed to Oswego. I watched as my nephew got a hole in one, I sighed as my engineer husband got two. When my daughter read the scores over the requisite celebratory pizza, I was surprised to learn that my golfing skills had let me down - last place. It was that 5 on that darn octopus hole that did me in. My competitive nature, not to mention my pride, almost got the best of me until I took a good look around the table.

There was no doubt about it. Losing had never felt this good.