Cheer, Goodwill, and Embarrassments: Ms. CrankyPants' Holiday Letter!

Happy holidays, everyone! It's been quite a year! There have been some highlights, and many, MANY embarrassing lowlights, most of which I've shared with you. If you need a refresher, just click here or here. Oh, hell, click on any post in my blog; it's nearly all embarrassing.

Everyone knows that the very BEST holiday letters are all about bragging highlights, so let's get started!

• I'll just get the biggie out of the way first: I now have 10 followers! It's taken close to a year, but 10 new people actually like me! Or at least, the Ms. CrankyPants version of me. For all you know, I could be a colossal ASS whom you'd hate in real life. (After all, I just used the word "whom.")

Thanks, 10 followers!

• I haven't had an MS relapse in...ages. Is it the Copaxone? The Swank Diet? Is it because I don't really have MS at all but some other horrible disease? Or, could it be that strange "agreement" I made with the mysterious silver-tongued chap with the red tail and horns who showed up that one night with a contract? Dunno. Whatever. I've been feeling good. (Note: I've just officially jinxed myself.)

He LOOKED friendly enough...

• Our fantastically wonderful family is growing! The cat-adoption stork brought us a little bundle of joy (LBOJ) named Pepper Anne! 

Pepper Anne, in one of her 4,872,810 adorable poses.

• Our existing cats hate aren't especially fond of are slowly getting used to our LBOJ!

Capt. Nap: "I can't even look at her. She's HIDEOUS!"

• In other exciting feline news, Squeaky the Cat just graduated Magna Cat Laude from Big Jerk Cat University and has received her Ph.D. in Cat-Assery. She is so skilled! She can now hiss/growl at Pepper Anne and Capt. Nap WHILE guarding her toys, food, and the communal water bowl. Oh, and also all four litter boxes. She's so talented! We are so, so proud. That tuition money was well spent indeed. 

"Who the hell are you calling a jerk? Cover my head at once, minion!"

• Capt. Nap is also doing really well! He hasn't had an explosive vomiting session since September. Plus, remember his adorable POO PAWS that so delighted me back in January? He's taught l'il sis Pepper Anne how to actually walk in her poo before burying it. What a good big brother! Now we have two cats with the occasional poo paw. We couldn't be happier! (By the way, who wants to come over and lie on our carpet? First come, first served, friends. There's only so much carpet to go around!)

I call this section of carpet. (Sorry, homeowners get first pick.)

• Husband is continuing to support me in my efforts to stave off disability via the Swank Diet! He's a wonderful cook! But, really, how can you go wrong with products like TOFURKEY sausage?

OOPS! Wrong picture.

You can see why I got confused.

• I may have big boobs! Yes, friends, according to a highly trained expert at a local bra shop, I have spent most of my adult life wearing a way-too-tiny bra size. This was some of the best news in all of 2013 for the fabulous CrankyPants family!  

• Back to our kitty cats! They have really impressed us this year by scorning every single product we've introduced in an attempt to toilet train them. Stubborn little kitties! I do love a cat with his or her own personality! Oh, and not to worry: they've promised to pay us back the $3,176 we spent on ridiculous devices designed to make scooping their litter boxes a task of the past. 

"Kwit the litter? NEVER!"

• It sure was a great Halloween this year! We managed to significantly reduce the number of trick-or-treaters harassing us! No, it wasn't the unwrapped hard candies or the miniature boxes of ancient raisins we'd been passing out. We suspect it was because our neighbors saw my husband mowing the yard in the snow! "Why, those cat-loving, kid-less people are NUTS!" we think they might have said on the neighborhood shared social media platform that we imagine exists and to which we've not been invited. "I wouldn't send MY kids there this Halloween." Mission accomplished! 

This isn't my husband. I've been forbidden to use that picture. This is the mayor of someplace in Iowa. But you get the idea. And in his defense, my husband was not wearing shorts. 

• Thanksgiving 2013 was a tremendous success! No four-legged attendees vomited or did a poo anywhere! Pepper Anne jumped on the dining room table and lurched toward the turkey only once! (Maybe twice.) (Okay, fine, thrice.) (And, yes, I just said "thrice.")

We look forward to the new year, new embarrassments, and, ideally, new carpet. May you and yours have a very happy holiday season! 

Hubris Will Bite You in the Ass

First, let me address the title of this piece. I was trying to show off and use a Big Word, but I confess that I had to look it up first. You know, to be sure I was using it correctly. So that's a little embarrassing. But here's what Wikipedia says:

Hubris /ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις, means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities, especially when the person exhibiting it is in a position of power. Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

I'd like to call your attention to this section of the definition: Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality

Ummm, so, yes, I WAS using it correctly. If anyone's in doubt, there's also THIS:

Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

Now that we've got that straight, on with my post! I secured my pants with a giant paper clip today. You know, one of these:

I know it's not a paper clip, but I'm too lazy to look up the proper word.

Why did I use this not-a-paperclip to fasten my pants, you ask? It wasn't because my zipper broke or the button fell off my pants. It's because the pants were so damn tight that I couldn't stand it anymore. So I hunched in my cubicle at work, unbuttoned the top button (OKAY, FINE, AND LOOSENED THE ZIPPER A BIT TOO), and used the clip to adjust them to a more, errrr, accommodating size. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my old wardrobe staples -- a baggy, forgiving shirt -- so I was fairly sure the freakish-looking shape that was now jutting out of my abdomen like the darling baby alien from "Alien" wasn't obvious.

It's a boy!

I didn't feel spectacular about wearing these particular pants today but I was in a rush, so I figured they would do. The pants are made of some bizarre linenish-but-not-remotely-natural material. They're gray and crinkley (bonus! No ironing required; they're SUPPOSED to look like that!). They're also kind of a "slim" fit. I'd jettisoned them from my wardrobe around the same time as my muffin top reared its grotesque head.

In case you needed a refresher...

Without doing anything resembling exercise, I've shed a few pounds. Maybe it's the Swank Diet? A raging case of terminal cancer, more likely. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall the moment I triumphantly welcomed the gray pants back into my wardrobe. I was tired of the same three pairs I'd been wearing. So, just last weekend, I eased open the closet door and gingerly took out the gray ones. I slipped them on, trotted over to the mirror, and -- no ghastly bulges. I turned around. No giant wedge!

"Welcome back to the rotation!" I said out loud, addressing my pants. No, really, I did. I said that to my pants in the mirror.

Clearly, I was feeling mighty pleased with myself. Clearly, I'd forgotten every single horror movie I'd ever seen (except for "Alien.") You know -- there's always a scene when a stupid character bellows: "Things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse!"  or sighs, "Thank God...it's over!" after tossing the gun/knife/hammer aside, and you just shake your head because the person saying it is so stupid. Of course things will get worse (duh), and no way are they over.

So, yeah. That was me. Tempting fate and displaying a helluva lot of hubris with my smug little comment. It didn't matter that no one except Squeaky and Capt. Nap (and the pants) heard me; Fate heard me. And my comment came back to bite me in the ass.

I know what you're hoping. You're hoping I have a picture of myself crammed into these pants with the unsightly alien-like protrusion that you will secretly enjoy noting is TOTALLY obvious, baggy shirt or no baggy shirt. Nope! Sorry, friends. I do have a shred of dignity left. You'll have to be content with this:

In case you forgot, the pants are supposed to look that wrinkled.

I've left the clip right there on the hanger as a reminder for the next time I start feeling a bit too pleased with myself. It's also there for the next time I want to wear the pants!

Delicious Tofu Sloppy Joes (J/K, LOL)

A lot of you* have been wondering (a) where I've been; (b) why the hell you're still following a blog that is, like, NEVER updated; and (c) if I'm still doing the Swank Diet. Folks, I have answers to all of those excellent questions.

(a) Right here on my ass thinking I really, really need to post something.
(b) Okay, actually I don't have an answer for this one.
(c) YES! Yes, I am.

* Okay, just my sister.

To address (c), just the other night, my dear husband decided to make Sloppy Joes for dinner. Fortunately, I had purchased a ground-beef substitute (GBS) called Smart Ground VEGGIE PROTEIN CRUMBLES (VPC). You read that right, CRUMBLES. Sounds kind of fun, right? Wait, I think I have a picture:

You know when Wee Squeaky makes an appearance that things are bound to go badly. 

By now, my husband and I are old pros at the protein substitutes. Tofurkey sausage? To-FASTIC sausage! Fake bacon? Fake Bac-OLICIOUS! You get the idea; I'll stop now. Anyway, back to the Sloppy Joes. I was fully prepared to, yes, enjoy this meal. Once you get used to the no-meat business, it's really not so bad. I never was a big meat eater anyway, and I still can eat fish and chicken breast, so for the rare meal when only a GBS will do, I'm okay with the tofu-ish stuff. BUT, I wasn't so foolish to think this might not turn out as spectacularly as I was hoping. So I grabbed Wee Squeaky and my camera to document the meal prep.

"Ha ha! This is going to SUCK!"

The makers of the VPC are very clever. You don't get to see the, er, crumbles until you open the box. Then you notice what looks like a brain vacuum sealed into plastic. My first misgivings about this meal happened during this photo. 

Unsealing the brain crumbles.

My husband was undeterred. 

"Come on!" he urged cheerfully. "I'm sure it'll taste better than it looks!" 

Okay, seriously, something about that stray crumble grossed me out.

The hunk of brain/fake meat proved to be a bit...TOUGH. Husband worked valiantly to smash it into submission. While my husband was stabbing the VPC, I was alternately laughing and trying to avoid looking at what was now sizzling away in the pan. My eyes fell upon the box the VPC came in. I noticed THIS:

"Hungry for more?" Ummmm, no. 

The picture is a bit blurry, because at this point I was laughing pretty hard. Hungry for more, my ass! I'm not even hungry for THIS! 

"Now, Ms. CrankyPants," you might be thinking. "Aren't you jumping the gun here? Didn't you just get through trumpeting about all the fake protein you are eating with relish?" 

Yes, yes, I did. And I admit, when we added the tomato sauce, things did look better. See for yourselves:

"Ha ha! This is TOTALLY GOING TO SUCK!"

Well, in spite of Wee Squeaky there next to the pan, I thought it looked edible. We loaded the...stuff onto our nicely toasted bread and added a delightful ear of corn. Just like ma used to make! Tell me this doesn't make your mouth water: 

Oops! Sorry, that's a piece of CAT POO on the carpet.

Deploying the TOFU SLOPPY JOES!

So. The burning question that you already know the answer to: how'd they taste? See the CAT POO picture, above. Okay, not that bad. But...not so great, either. However, much like the fake sausage and fake bacon, it's just a matter of preparing it in such a way that it's surrounded by other, better-tasting stuff. Before you know it, I'll be extolling the virtues of VPC! But that night, I kind of felt like Capt. Nap, when he is hoping there's more to his dinner than the can of cat food he's just been given.

"Surely you jest?"

Ha ha! Can't really blame old Capt. Nap. At least we had corn. 

p.s. YES, I know the font is a huge mess in this post. Something's funky with Blogger. 

Top 5 Things I Learned on My Trip to Italy

I'm back from a lovely trip to Italy. It was more than I could have hoped for, and I'm very displeased to be home (please don't tell Squeaky the Cat or Capt. Nap).

"Oh, you're back? Whatever. Feed us at once!"

In spite of my efforts to make this an "I don't actually want to learn anything" trip (i.e., avoid museums, churches, and other Places of Cultural Significance), I did manage to glean five important tidbits, which I will now share with you:

1. Plane Food Sucks. Wait, you knew this already? Well, I hadn't traveled internationally in some time, so I was used to having a minuscule bag of desiccated pretzels and a thimble-sized cup of soda being grudgingly tossed at me. Not so when you fly overseas. You get entire meals. Like this one!

Time for my favorite game! Can you guess what THIS is?

"Now wait just a darn minute, Ms. CrankyPants!" you may be exclaiming to yourself. "Those look like delicious pancakes."

And I'd reply to you: "Yes, they do...IF THEY WERE PANCAKES!"

Nay, readers, nay. Those are not pancakes. This was the "chicken" dinner I'd asked for. Naturally, the entire dinner was masked by foil; had I seen it in advance, I would have gone with the beef stroganoff. (Okay, not really: I once had a Very Bad Experience with beef stroganoff). Here is a picture of the full dinner, for your enjoyment:

YUMM-O!

The chicken tasted like a poultry-flavored sponge. The roll: an ice-cold bullet. The best thing about the meal was that pathetic salad. Don't get me started on the dessert. RHUBARB? Who serves dessert with rhubarb in it? (Apologies to any rhubarb lovers.) How about a more mainstream fruit; you know, apples or strawberries? Blueberries? Come on, Lufthansa. You disappointed me. Greatly.

2. You Can Always Spot the Americans Abroad. I did not take any pictures, as I didn't want to get my ass kicked, so you'll have to trust me on this. Here in America, of course, one doesn't think twice about men in baggy cargo shorts, logo t-shirts, and baseball caps, and women in capri jeans and sneakers. I own more than one pair of capri jeans, and my husband is overly fond of his baggy cargo shorts. However, we left those at home in favor of clothing that we hoped would allow us to blend in a bit with the stylish Italians. (You can read about my efforts to become stylish here: Buon Giorno, Big Butt!) It was probably a wasted effort on our part. I don't think anyone was fooled by our H&M wardrobe. As soon as we opened our mouths, the jig was up. I could usually get across the subject well enough (e.g., bagno, gelato, pizza), but those pesky connecting words left me fumbling, pointing, and blushing a lot.

3. It's Impossible to Stay on the Swank Diet in Italy. That sadist Dr. Swank says of dieting on vacation:  "Although eating the low-fat way abroad is more difficult than at home, our experience indicates that it can be done." To which I say: "HAHAHA!" followed by something rude and unprintable. So it was with great glee that I left behind Tofurkey, cheeseless pizza, and fat-free ice cream.

Would you rather eat this...

...or this? Yeah, me too. 

4. Cute Animals Are Surefire Ways to Separate Tourists from Their Money. You know when you're strolling around a piazza and there are all sorts of artist types painting watercolors of landscapes or doing those godawful caricatures of people? Yeah, I always rolled my eyes at the people having their "portrait" done until I saw this:

"Look at how cute I am! Don't you want to buy something?"

I was immediately taken in by this little charmer. I approached and he wagged his tail winningly. They don't warn you about this insidious trick in any of the guidebooks I read in advance of my trip. As I crouched down to pet my new friend, the owner lurched out from behind his paintings and said he'd LOVE to do a sketch of me. Well...Ms. CrankyPants is immune to flattery, really, but the combination of the charming dog and the Italian-accented artist was too much for me to resist. Seconds later, I was sitting in a chair, having my "portrait" done while passersby looked on condescendingly. HEY! They hadn't been subjected to the dual charms of the dog and the artist. I was powerless! 20 minutes and 20 euros later, I was the embarrassed owner of a picture that looks nothing like me and that currently (and quite likely in perpetuity) is rolled up in a tube in my closet.

5. Italy Is Molto Bella. There really isn't much to say here. Below are pictures of my very favorite place in the world, Positano, which is on the Amalfi Coast. Ahhh...

Before I go, I must tell you that my brother in law, Clay, is once again doing the National MS Society's Bike Ride. He's been a great advocate for this cause, which really means a lot to me and many of you, I know. If you have, possibly, some extra cash lying around that you've been wondering, "HOW on earth will I spend this?" please consider donating to his ride at the following link: My brother in law's fundraising page

Want to Feel Like a Buffoon? I'll Tell You How!

I can think of dozens of illustrations from my life that will guide you if you are on a quest to look like a buffoon. Off the top of my head I can think of the following awesome events: "Dancing Queen: The Time I Had a Lemon Thrown at My Head While Trying to Dance at a Disco"; "Creating a Scene: Falling into a Decorative Pond at the American Embassy in Brasilia While Demonstrating a Scene from Superman in Front of Admiring Friends"; and "Flooring It: How to Speed Over a Grassy Median in the Target Parking Lot Instead of Backing Out of a Parking Space as Intended."

Ah, fun times, and what a lovely stroll down Memory Lane that was! I still laugh delightedly when I think about gathering the courage to dance at the disco, only to have some oaf hurl a lemon at my head. Ha ha! But, I've gotten sidetracked by these amazing memories, and really there's no need: I felt like a buffoon mere hours ago, so please allow me to share it with you while it's fresh.

Because we spend all week making homemade meals and eating snacks that adhere to the Swank Diet, we like to go out for a change of pace on the weekends. HAHAHA, okay, I can't type that with a straight face. We always went out to eat on the weekends, it has nothing to do with Swank. Somehow, it just sounds better to say it's in response to slaving away in the kitchen all week than to say it's because we like to eat out. But there. I said it: we like to eat out. It's been only slightly challenging to find Swank-friendly options at local restaurants. Typically, I order fish and ask that it not be sauteed in butter or order pasta with tomato sauce and vegetables.

Today, we decided to try a place we've never been: Vapiano's  -- my mistake, a quick look at their website reveals it's VAPIANO, no apostrophe or "s." My bad. Okay, so VAPIANO is an Italian place at our nearby mall. It looked pleasant enough; rather upscale-ish (lots of black-and-white photographs of super-attractive people on the walls, and an herb garden enclosed in a teeny greenhouse in the middle of the restaurant).

I guess if I'd stood on the table in a sassy, hip-thrusting pose while my husband pointedly ignored me, we'd have fit in better? 

One rather jarring note at the entrance was a bowl of loose gummy bears by the hostess stand. I guess they're the upscale Italian equivalent of the bowl of pastel mints at old-timey restaurants that you should never, ever eat because of the trace amounts of fecal matter that have been transferred from the hands of people pawing around in the bowl. I saw this on Oprah. (Also from that poo-themed Oprah show: always choose the first bathroom stall at the movies; it's the least contaminated.)

So we entered VAPIANO and promptly encountered the Mumbling Host. It's possible we couldn't hear him over the rather pretentious 80s music (you know, the kind the cool, artsy, troubled kids who wore lots of black listened to). He mumbled something about the pasta being cooked fresh and gestured over his shoulder to where, yes, there was some poor fellow trapped in a glass box making pasta and hanging it over metal arms to dry. He then would jam a serving size into a small brown paper bag and hustle it over to where the cooks were stationed. The environmental impact of this performance wasn't lost on me (couldn't they take the pasta over in reusable bowls?), but now our host was mumbling something and thrusting a credit card-like thingee into our hands as he vaguely pointed to a cluster of sullen-looking people standing behind a counter. Gripping our weird credit cards, we were cast adrift into the restaurant.

We stood aimlessly next to the host's station, hoping he'd see our burgeoning panic and step in with further guidance. Alas, he had other fish to fry. We edged closer to the sullen-looking people behind the counter. Over one of their heads was a sign that said "Pasta." Okay...this seemed a likely place to start the ordering process. I looked hopefully at the young man. He looked back at me impassively. Couldn't he tell we didn't know what the hell we were doing? I pleaded with him with my eyes. No dice.

Feeling more like a horse's ass with each passing second, I marshaled my courage and purposefully strode the two remaining steps to the counter, where the cook still regarded me with those soulless shark eyes.

"Hi!" I squeaked. "So, do we, like, order here?" I gave him my most winning smile.

"Yep," he said, thoroughly underwhelmed by my winning smile. (Must practice that.)

"Okay, it's our first time [DUH] and we're not, hahaha, totally sure how this works. Do we give you this?" I asked, propelling the credit card thingee (CCT) toward him.

"I'll take that when I'm done. What do you want?"

"Oh, boy, okay..." I said, frantically scouring the menu. "Um, pasta with tomato sauce and spinach," I concluded. He looked at me, the very picture of boredom. "Type of pasta?"

"Oh, right! Ummmm [more frantic menu-scouring], papardelle!"

I was exhausted from the stress. My husband ordered and we went off in search of drinks. There was a swanky bar off to one side, but I thought I had heard the Mumbling Host mention a soda fountain somewhere. We edged over to the bar, the CCT still gripped in our hands. There were several patrons hovering around the bar, so we lurked off to the side, looking around in ever-increasing dismay. It was a Day to Feel Like a Buffon, for sure.

Finally, a manager-sort hustled over, seeing we were clearly in distress, and asked if he could get us drinks. Hallelujah! We ordered drinks without too much trouble, except my husband had to scan his CCT over some infrared light at a precise angle or it wouldn't work. Oh, boy. This was quite a production. I began to feel the first inklings of irritation, where before I had felt merely bewildered and intimidated.

Drinks in hand, we set off to find a seat. No ordinary booths or tables at this restaurant, no, sir! There were stools and benches framing long wooden tables, at the center of which was a fresh plant -- basil or rosemary, from what I could tell. Okay, that was pretty cute.

Our personal basil plant. Are you supposed to use it? Has it been washed? What would Oprah do? I avoided it. 

We picked our table and clambered onto the stools, only to realize our food was ready at the Counter of Sullen People. We slid off our stools and made our way, with some trepidation, toward the food. It looked quite good. I asked the gent behind the counter for a glass so I could get some water. He handed me a glass. It had detritus of an organic nature on it. I asked for another. This one, too, had detritus on it. I meekly took it back to my stool and slumped there until my husband offered to get a THIRD glass (from a different Sullen Counter Person). This one had something stuck on it too, but it did not smear into a booger-like glob when I tried to remove it, so I decided this was the best it was going to get. I flaked off the bit of dried-on tomato and ate my lunch.

The food looked better before I attacked it like a starving animal.

As I said, both entrees looked good and tasted good. It was just the elaborate and confusing set up combined with the cook's 'tude (as the kids say) that left me feeling a bit like a buffoon. Oh, and the decor. See for yourself:

Mysterious objets d'art in the ladies' room. I examined that red thing at some length. I still have no idea what it is. A gourd? Corn cob?

Yep, that's a tree. In the middle of a table. Enough said. 

So there you have it. The latest in a (likely never-ending) series of Episodes During Which I Feel Like a Buffoon. Next time, though, I'll be well-versed in the ways of this highfalutin establishment and will sail in there in my all-black ensemble (featuring sensible shoes; heels are no longer an option for me, sadly), stand imperiously on a table, and order my pasta with authority.

p.s. Remember those gummy bears? I spotted a casualty of the restaurant languishing outside the front door. In the absence of Wee Squeaky, this is my fun picture of the day.

"Don't make me go back in there!" 

Third Time's a Charm? Welllll...

We had our neighbors over for dinner last night. (Yes, the same neighbors who forced me to stray from Dr. Swank, detailed here: I Cheated on Dr. Swank.) In the pre-diet days, we'd been to each others' houses a few times, usually for pizza. Since starting on the Swank Diet, which forbids dairy products unless they're fat free, I have struggled mightily to find a Swank-friendly pizza. I've recorded my dismal experiences in this blog, but if you are a new reader or just want a refresher (hamster droppings, anyone?), please see the following: What the (&$^ Did I Just Eat? and No-Cheese Pizza: A Public Service Announcement.

I wanted to dazzle our neighbors with some gourmet food, but I was pretty limited by my pal Dr. S., so I had to be content with merely ensuring they didn't vomit or run away screaming. I'll spoil the end for you right now: they did neither. That's not to say there weren't some, er, exciting culinary moments. I'll start with the menu:

• Pizza (incredibly, yes, I was trying this AGAIN)
• Salad
• Cratercakes  Cupcakes (incredibly, yes, I was trying this AGAIN) (you can read about the first time I made these here: Something Looks Very, Very Wrong)

Fortunately, our neighbors are adventurous eaters, and very forgiving people. Plus, I had an ace up my sleeve! My savvy husband said if we drizzled a little oil on the fat-free cheese, it might melt. (One is allowed limited portions of certain oils on this diet.) Did I mention I planned to top one of the pizzas with my old friend, Tofurkey "sausage"? No? Well, yes, I was. (See: "adventurous" and "forgiving" neighbors, above.) The other pizza was going to feature plain old vegetables, in case the Tofurkey-topped pie proved too alarming for our guests. I also made a gigantic salad, figuring we could always eat lots of that if it came down to it. Oh, yeah, and cupcakes. We'd have those tasty gems to finish off the meal. Incidentally, I informed the neighbors of my dinner plans and suggested they either do some serious drinking beforehand and/or bring alcohol with them.

I embarked with a feeling of great dread enthusiasm. I started with the dessert. A fellow blogger suggested a few tips after reading about my two previous battles with the cupcakes (lost in the most recent battle was a lovely food processor). The batter did not turn into a rock-like ball as it had the last time I made the cupcakes, but it still had an odd spongy consistency:

It just hung on the spoon, like a wad of brown Marshmallow Fluff. Ominous. 

Okay, so things weren't entirely promising at this stage. Undeterred, I crammed spoonfuls into the awaiting pan, under the watchful eye of Wee Squeaky.

"Ha ha! No way these are coming out properly!"

Damn that mocking Wee Squeaky for being right. They started out in the oven looking like cupcakes. But, midway through the bake time, I saw the craters beginning to form. And, when I took them out, here's what I had:

Okay, yes, this is the same picture I used the first time this happened. I was too dispirited to take a picture of the third cupcake failure. Plus, Wee Squeaky was laughing at me, which angered me greatly.

Once I finished weeping, I decided that I'd tell the neighbors the cupcakes were SUPPOSED to look like that, and that the craters were in place to hold a heap of fat-free frozen yogurt. If everyone was sufficiently drunk, this excuse might fly.

Moving on to the pizza. I drizzled oil onto the shredded cheese and mixed until the little shreds were lightly coated. I had purchased pizza crusts that did not contain anything Swanky would frown upon (e.g., no tropical oils). While assembling everything, I felt a little better about the dessert; things were looking pretty good! After baking the pizzas, I felt much better about the dessert. My husband was right! The cheese melted!

The round, brownish bits are Tofurkey and there are some sauteed onions on there too, plus a sprinkling of sweet basil. 

The pizza triumph even shut up Wee Squeaky, who was duly impressed.

"I'm sorry for laughing at your dessert."

The neighbors arrived and one of the first things I did, after ensuring that they had drinks, was to blurt out that the cupcakes were NOT supposed to have holes in them. So much for trying to trick them. Oh well. They were fantastic sports, and their young son even said it was the most delicious pizza in the world, bless him.

So, to answer the question at the top of this post: will the third time be a charm? Yes and no. Dessert remains a challenge (STOP LAUGHING, WEE SQUEAKY), but the pizza, I am beyond thrilled to report, is a big, massive, huge, happy success!

Something Looks Very, Very Wrong

Let's play a game. Games are fun! Games that allow you to laugh at other people (in this case, me) are even more fun than games where you do poorly and stalk off in a huff, or overturn the board, or shout at other players. I am not thinking of anyone specific.

Back to the game at hand. It's called "Can You Guess What THIS Is Supposed to Be?" Please see the picture below:

Take your time; this is hard. 

Okay, it was such a marvel, I took numerous pictures. Here's one with a wee Squeaky lookalike popped in. I don't know if it will help you identify the Mystery Object, but it amused me:

"Don't eat me!" (As IF.)

This next shot may give it away:

Got it yet? If you guessed, with some bewilderment, "Cupcakes? Good God, are those supposed to be CUPCAKES?" then you are absolutely right! And that is exactly what *I* said when I opened the oven door last night to reveal what I have since named "Crater Cupcakes." This recipe is from the Swank Diet book. That comment is not meant to malign the Swank Diet book. With one exception, all of the Swank recipes have been good. Rather, it's meant to illustrate that on this diet, you can eat yummy sweets; you just have to know how to follow a recipe. I've retraced my steps and am nearly positive I added all of the necessary ingredients, including baking powder. If anyone has a clue why the above would happen, I'm all ears!

The burning question is: did I toss them straight into the trash? Certainly not! I haven't had anything resembling chocolate since December. I gobbled one in straightaway (as did my husband), and they tasted mighty fine, crater or no crater. (Yes, I removed Wee Squeaky before I commenced shoveling them in my mouth.) In fact, on my shopping list: fat-free frozen yogurt to pop right into those craters, which I will warm in the microwave first.

Here they sit in their container, ready to be attacked after dinner. (Note attention-seeking Wee Squeaky lurking in the background.)

To prove that I can follow recipes and make edible-looking things, below are two other items that I made last night (both also from the Swank Diet book). Behold the Skillet Scallops!

I wish you could have heard me trumpeting, "Behold the Skillet Scallops!" FOUR separate times as I attempted to rotate this picture. Finally, I got sick of hearing myself trumpet and gave up. So, there, above, are the sideways Skillet Scallops. They still look pretty good, don't they? And, another triumph (fingers crossed for proper photo alignment): CORNBREAD!

"Hey! Where's the crater?"

Ah ha! Success! (Both the recipe and the photo.) We ate very well last night, the appearance of the Crater Cupcakes notwithstanding.

For those of you wondering -- and I know you're out there -- yes, I did wash Wee Squeaky, both pre- and post-food posing.