Just a few friendly reminders from the staff at the Cranky Pumpkin:
1) Candy is calorie-free on Halloween. This is a scientific fact.
2) It's okay to eat candy corn like it's the end of the world. There is no shame in a candy corn coma.
3) But if you eat too much candy, there will be repercussions. Serious repercussions.
p.s. If you came to this blog for the photography, you were seriously misled.
I love magazines. I hate to criticize something I love, but ... I'm going to.
Magazines offer advice about how I should live my life: eat these foods, use this face wash, travel here, do these stomach crunches, buy this coffee table, etc., etc. The magazines seem to offer good advice. Eat more salmon? Take deep calming breaths? Buy some ankle boots for the fall? Sounds good to me!
But, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a cynic. A cheerful cynic, but a cynic nonetheless. And so I have my doubts.
If the magazines give me good advice, and I follow that advice, then I will, presumably, reach my full potential as a 21st century woman.
And if I reach my full potential as a 21st century woman, then I won't need to read magazines anymore. I'll spend my evenings reading Dante and drinking peppermint tea, instead of reading magazines and eating a large bowl of ice cream.
So, is it really in the magazine's interest to offer me the best advice possible? Shouldn't they only give me enough advice to keep me coming back for more?
Or, I know I'm being paranoid, but: shouldn't a magazine give me bad advice? For example, let's say a fashion magazine extols the virtue of capri pants - you'll look like Audrey Hepburn! I buy a pair of capri pants, but alas, I have short legs and capri pants make me look like an asshole. Now, instead of feeling like Audrey Hepburn, I feel insecure and miserable. I descend into a shame spiral, eat too many donuts, and buy ... more magazines.
I probably should have named this blog "The Cynical Pumpkin."
Theory: society uses the word "super" too liberally.
Case in point: these are called "The Super Nachos."
There is nothing "super" about these nachos. They are sold at a stadium, and I realize that stadiums are not the pinnacle of fine dining. But on the menu, the Super Nachos are pictured with salsa and guacamole. Can anyone tell me what happened to the salsa and guacamole? Were they absorbed by the nuclear nacho cheese?
If the stadium wants to serve garbage, the stadium can serve garbage. But please, have some respect for your customers. No one is going to be tricked into thinking these nachos are super just because they are called "super". They look like they were found in a dumpster behind a sports bar with really bad appetizers. So let's rename them something appropriate, like "The Nachos that Look Nasty But Actually Taste Okay" or "The Mediocre Nachos."
If we all band together, we can put an end to the flagrant abuse of the word "super."
During an August heat wave, I sought sanctuary at Pasadena's Central Library. The library has a powerful air conditioning system and a little coffee stand. And, bonus points, you can sit and drink your iced coffee in the main reading room of the library. Which makes me feel a little bit like an outlaw (but not really).
After enjoying my iced coffee, I decided to wander the stacks. I had recently traveled to Maui for my honeymoon, which had me interested in the oceans. Maybe I would borrow one book about the oceans so I could indulge my inner armchair scientist.
Twenty minutes later, I left the library with four heavy volumes about the ocean, earth sciences and the weather.
I've now renewed the books TWICE. In two months, I've flipped through about twenty pages in the Ocean book, and that's it. Now the books are mocking me. Would you just look at them?
I had good intentions. I fully intended to read all four science books, from cover to cover. Instead, they have sat on a shelf, with their silent accusations. Every time I watch a reality t.v. show or curl up with Game of Thrones, they tsk tsk tsk and shake their smug heads.
This is just one example of an ongoing problem. Whenever I go to the library, I tell myself that I'm only going to borrow one or two books. And then, oops, I stagger out of the library with thousands of pages that will never be read.
Maybe I enjoy binging at the library because it's like a free shopping spree. Except it's only free if you remember to return the books on time. Believe me, I know. The amount of late fines I have paid since childhood is breathtaking. I'm not talking about a dime here, a quarter there. I'm talking about $60 here, $45 there... It's probably on my credit report. The library should list me as a major donor.
Some people cut up or hide their credit cards if they need to save money. I just need to shred my library card.
As I've mentioned before, my husband is a rabid Cardinals fan and we have been watching a lot of baseball this month. Nathan notices things like the pitcher's stance or how the batter swings the bat. He scrutinizes the Rangers for weaknesses that the Cardinals can exploit. Then, he references some game that was played in 1967 and rattles off a bunch of stats.
I pay attention to the fashion on the field.
Usually, I like to talk about the players' socks. Ideally, a player should be wearing bright socks that are pulled up to the knees. It looks so bad ass! If I could walk around in public wearing white spandex pants and red socks pulled up to my knees, believe me, I would.
But this month, I've been noticing the jewelry more than the socks. Yes, the players are wearing jewelry: specifically, thick colorful braided necklaces. You can see a sample for sale here.
After some exhaustive research (okay, I checked Google), I determined the players are wearing ionic braided titanium necklaces. Apparently, it's a Miracle Necklace. Folks, this necklace does not just look cool. It also improves your balance, reduces fatigue, and aids in recovery if you get a bad boo boo.
I need one of these necklaces for the gym. Not because some ionic titanium is going to improve my form on the rowing machine. (Knowing my luck, I'm probably allergic to ionized titanium in its braided form and will get a horrible rash). But at the gym, I need some credibility. I'm the weakling who uses the five pound weights for her biceps curls (and that's only because I can't find any four pound weights). On the cardio machines, I slog along at the slowest pace. And on the stretching mats, I'm the fool who can't touch her toes.
But once I have an ionic braided titanium necklace, everyone will take me seriously. My gym colleagues will flock to me for advice. Personal trainers will start to read my blog for tips. The gym will give me my own locker room. It will be glorious. I just need to wear an ionic braided titanium necklace like all the cool baseball players.
For the past two years, we have been living next door to a dead lady. She keeps to herself and is deathly quiet. (Get it? Oh, I kill myself. Sorry, I'll stop now).
Our neighbor was very nice when she was alive, but after she died? She became the perfect neighbor. No loud parties, no barking dog, and no cats that pee on my potted plants. After she died, her children apologized the house would stay empty for awhile. And that, I believe, was the most unnecessary apology in the history of Western civilization.
Unfortunately, Nice Dead Lady is finally vacating the premises. First, a For Rent sign appeared on the front lawn. Then, a young couple with two children arrived and Nice Dead Lady's children walked them around the property. Now, the For Rent sign is suspiciously gone.
Yay, new neighbors. Who are alive. And make noise. I'm so excited. (In case you cannot tell, I am being sarcastic. I am convinced that the new neighbors' son is the sort of child who is obsessed with explosions and enjoys torturing small animals. Or, even better: I bet the kids are being home schooled and they'll spend their free time spying on the telecommuter next door.)
Stay tuned...
In this post, I bragged about our Halloween candy and hinted that I'll be distributing "bad candy" to any surly adolescents who knock on my door. But my husband observed that we only have elite candy. I only bought chocolate! Is a teenager going to be devastated by a Milky Way or miniature Hershey's bar?
So I supplemented our candy supplies:
This sad-ass, non-chocolate, second-tier candy is for the older trick-or-treaters who make no effort in the costume department. The trick-or-treaters who say "trick-or-treat," but the subtext is "F*** you." This candy is reserved for them.
To be clear: I am not withholding candy from all of the adolescents/teens who knock on my door. If the trick-or-treater makes even the slightest nod to wearing a costume, then I'll let them dig through the good candy bowl. I'm not asking for a full pirate costume with hat, sword, beard, striped shirt, hook hand, peg leg and a novelty parrot on the shoulder. I'm just asking for an eye patch.
But jeans and a hoodie sweathshirt? That's not a costume. Sorry kid, enjoy your lollipop.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll leave this candy outside until Halloween. Maybe a wild animal will rough it up. Let's see how those surly teenagers like finding raccoon bite marks in their candy.
