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One of the clandestine pleasures of visiting New York City, Vegas or Orlando is the ability to make a quick visit to M&M’s World.

Don’t get me wrong — the store is full of ridiculous tchotchkes that no one over 9 should ever openly display, and I can’t think of an event that would call for me to wear M&M-themed clothing.

No. The draw is the wall of M&M’s that you can purchase by the pound. It’s like the huge crayon box of M&M’s, with candies on display in every hue you can possibly imagine.

I go for the special flavors at the end of the wall. I don’t know if they’re limited edition or available in stores — frankly, I don’t spend a lot of time in the candy aisle at the grocery store. (And on a side note, when I do pay attention to areas like the cookie aisle, I am utterly appalled. Have you SEEN the ridiculous number of Oreo varieties lately?)

Anyway, I was in Orlando for business last week, and the husband joined me for a day at Universal Studios and a weekend with a longtime friend. On the way to the airport, we serendipitously passed the mall holding the M&M’s store, meaning we practically HAD to stop. We emerged with coconut and raspberry M&M’s.

I honestly can’t pick a favorite. The raspberry candies pack an intense berry flavor, while the coconut variety was slightly reminiscent of a Mounds bar, with a pronounced coconut essence. Both varieties are almost the size of Peanut M&M’s, but without the peanut inside, meaning you’ve got a pretty big serving of creamy chocolate in each one.

I wish I had bought more.

Visits to M&M’s World don’t always turn out this well. We bought the Strawberried Peanut Butter variety a couple of years ago in New York, and they were completely meh, with neither the flavor of strawberry or peanut butter really standing out.

And yes, I’m completely ignoring the fact that I can buy limited edition M&M flavors on Amazon.com.

Nanny in her natural habitat: the kitchen.

I realized this weekend that I have successfully made a souffle, but can’t make a fried egg.

My grandmother made delectable fried eggs, and made it look easy. The everyday breakfast options at her house included bacon (turkey bacon after my grandfather’s heart problems were diagnosed), toast (or biscuits, on occasion) and eggs, either scrambled or fried (note: fried eggs, over easy, became known as Paw-Paw eggs, because they were his favorite, and to this day I can barely order them in a restaurant without calling them by this nickname).

I should have paid more attention, I guess. I should have offered to cook the eggs instead of going for the easy job of making toast or microwaving turkey bacon. (Or making the grits. I can’t believe I forgot about the grits option.)

I might not even have this ongoing fear of cast-iron skillets.

Christmas

Matching jumpsuits for Christmas: My family was multiple shades of awesome in 1976.

Actually, we’re still pretty awesome, even with fewer matching jumpsuits.

True story: I haven’t had a Christmas tree since 1995 because I adopted two cats in 1996. Two trouble-seeking cats who pursued destruction with an unimaginable ferocity.

It’s possible I could have put up a tree last year, when the cat count was down to one 15-year-old feline who didn’t seem quite as keen on mischief as he once was. Once you get out of the habit of NOT having a tree, however, it’s a lot of trouble to get back in the spirit.

When I saw this Christmas light canvas on Pinterest, I knew it was a project I could handle. Canvas. Holes. Lights. CHECK.

For weeks, I meant to buy a blank canvas, but honestly it’s hard to convince myself to drive around in Atlanta unless I’m LEAVING Atlanta. So if I can’t buy something at Publix, Trader Joe’s, Walgreens or Moes Southwest Grill, I usually find that I can get by without it.

Luckily, my apartment complex parks a big Dumpster in the parking garage on my floor for folks who just can’t manage to haul their cast-offs to the first floor as they’re moving in or out. I spotted two canvases leaning against a big pile of flattened boxes one morning when I darted in to put my trash in the chute.

I think it must be ex-boyfriend art. I mean, the canvases are in great shape, other than what’s painted on them. The one on the left is almost passable, except the longer you look at that big purple flower, the more uneasy and antsy it makes you. Or maybe it’s just me. Art. You know. It’s weird.

I suspect I was supposed to paint over the old paintings with gesso, but all I had was some leftover beige ceiling paint and some red latex from another project. Two nights, two coats of paint.

I kind of doubted my ability to complete a random shape like the writer of the original post did, so I looked for stencils to trace. I found a swoopy, modern-looking tree stencil at Altogether Christmas and ended up drawing it freehand on the back of the larger canvas with a pencil.

First, however, I attempted to estimate how many “levels” the tree should have, based on the number of lights I had (150) and a rough estimate of how far apart the lights would go. And then I gave up and just drew a big swoopy tree.

While watching “The Walking Dead” (holidays! guts! zombies!), I punched holes approximately 1 inch apart along the pencil lines with a sharp kitchen knife (the original writer used an awl, and I’m pretty sure I don’t own one). An awl would have probably made it easier to make standard-sized holes; instead, I had to use my own somewhat distracted judgment. Ideally, I think, the holes should be ever so slightly smaller than the light bulbs being punched through the back. Any bigger and the bulbs won’t stay in without tape (or, I guess, glue); too small and you may stand a change of breaking the bulb trying to force it through.

I had about 20 lights left over when I was done punching holes. Considering the big mess of wires draped along the back of the canvas, a few extra lights don’t really make much of a difference.

The original instructions advised me to secure each light with hot glue, but that seemed like a lot of trouble. It also seemed incredibly permanent, and I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to change any bulbs that burned out if they were glued in. Sure enough, after I unplugged the strand and moved the finished product across the room, none of the red bulbs worked when I plugged the lights back in.

While I don’t pretend to understand Christmas lights, I did remember that I had a small baggie of replacement bulbs. I guess I replaced the right bulb (first red one on the strand), because everything worked again afterwards.

It’s not much to look at in daylight, but it’s absolutely magical after dark. And, above all else, the holidays should be magical.

Onward, then, to the eggnog. Oh, and I guess I have another canvas to light up.

A life more portable

It’s been a slow crawl, this move to Atlanta.

I’ve realized that, despite all of my downsizing and decluttering, I’m still not very portable. And I’ve decided that portability is one of my main goals right now. If I decide to move to Manhattan in a few years, or Key West, or anywhere, really, I want to be able to stuff everything that has to go in the back of a box truck.

It’s doable, really, because I’ve discovered how many things that I really don’t want or need. I left a lot of things back in Huntsville — “temporarily,” if you will — and I haven’t missed most of it. (OK, I totally missed my cookie scoop, but I grabbed it on my last trip back.)

It’s been like losing a lot of weight that I didn’t even know I was carrying around. It’s freeing, being surrounded by only the things you actually use, the things you actually enjoy looking at.

It makes for way less noise in my head. I like it.

I didn’t know how desperately I valued my right to vote until someone told me I couldn’t have a ballot.

I didn’t realize how much work there is to be done to educate voters on their rights until I witnessed multiple people turn away with a shrug after being told that they weren’t on the voter registration list — even though they were quite certain that they were — and, therefore, couldn’t vote.

I had forgotten the warm, heady feeling of furious indignation until it surged forth when I realized just how ridiculously broken the voting process was in Fulton County, Georgia.

When the secretary of state says you’re registered to vote, it seems pretty official. It wasn’t official enough for Fulton County officials, however, and they turned away A LOT of voters on election day. The county official at my polling place acted like I was a fool for thinking that seeing my name on the secretary of state’s voter registration list meant that I was really registered to vote. In what I’m now convinced was an attempt to just get me to leave, she actually sent me out to the library computers to look my name up on the “official” Fulton County voter roll so I could see for myself that I wasn’t really registered. She wasn’t at all happy when I returned to inform her that the county website accessed its voter registration information from — wait for it — the secretary of state’s database.

The Fulton County elections department may well be mismanaged from the top down if, as at least one poll worker asserts, workers were still delivering voter registration lists hours after the polls opened.

My biggest problem with the whole debacle was the lack of give-a-damn on the part of election officials. The county worker at my polling place gave me a provisional ballot only after I proved unwilling to simply slink away without casting my vote. I heard her say, multiple times, “There’s nothing we can do.” She said this to people who were newly registered, who had changed their address, who voted in the last election and hadn’t moved or changed ANYTHING, who had made the deadline, damn it, and had SEEN their name on the registration list.

There’s nothing we can do.

Computers have made it easy for people like this to rule over their lazy little kingdoms. You’re not in the computer. There’s nothing we can do.

I’m not going to make it easy for her next time. If I have to stand outside my polling place (at a legal distance, of course) wearing a sandwich board exclaiming “ASK ME ABOUT PROVISIONAL BALLOTS IF YOU HAVE BEEN DENIED YOUR RIGHT TO VOTE,” I’m going to make it much more difficult to disenfranchise voters through incompetence.

Put that on your official list, bureaucrats.

Walkin’ in G.A.

So I’m FINALLY one of those women trekking to work in a pair of tennis shoes, with a drawerful of heels waiting at the office. And yes, I know that thousands of New York women can’t be wrong, but those cute little ballet flats just don’t give me the support I need to hike past a construction site and hoof it across a couple of very busy intersections.

I’m terribly unfashionable for approximately 20 minutes a day, meaning I’m likely only slightly more unfashionable than usual. Totally worth it to leave the car in the parking garage for the better part of the week.

P.S.: If the title of this post put a Missing Persons song in your head, my work here is done.

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