Friday, April 24, 2009

Nope, the title does not refer to my unborn (but not for long!) child.

You know the phrase "on a kick"? Such as, "I'm on a cereal kick", or a rollerblading kick, or a purple nail polish kick, or a peanut butter kick, etc. It usually refers to a kind of temporary passion or fetish a person may have, for no particular reason other than a random heightened interest in one thing for an extended period of time.

Some kicks are good. Actually, it's nice when these turn into permanent kicks, or "habits" as we like to call them at that point. In this category you would find kicks such as journal writing, exercise, eating certain healthy foods, service or volunteer work, and countless hobby kicks that turn into real talents.

When it comes to kicks in the food category, pregnant women can get away with murder because it's referred to as a "craving". So, if an expectant mother wanted to eat a Snickers bar with every meal, you wouldn't call it an unhealthy kick, it's a silly craving that will pass....(if you are wise, you wouldn't say anything at all about it).

Well, folks, I am on a kick. A bad, evil kick. The title of my kick is: Scones.

Now, other than things like illegal substance abuse, I can't think of a more unhealthy kick. Why must my current fetish be deep fried in oil and then smothered in butter or honey or jam or powdered sugar? The grease alone is going to kill me. What's worse, this kick takes serious effort, since I use frozen rolls dough that has to defrost for about four hours. This is no instant gratification kick. But am I willing to put in the time? Oh, yes. Mine is also a dangerous kick. I won't post a picture of the hot oil blister I have on my finger, but this kick has wounded me. You would think that would slow it down a little, but I haven't noticed that effect yet.

So, who do I blame for this current kick? Oh, pick one:

1. My mother. Every once in a while when we were kids (and sometimes even now as adults when we get together) my mom would get up early to start the dough defrosting so when we were all up and ready to eat she could make these scones for us. So, I obviously associate scones with a loving act by my mom. Also, she's the one who taught me how to make them. It's her fault! (Besides, isn't it customary to blame the mother)?

2. My husband. He really likes them, too. So technically I'm just being a selfless wife making my husband happy. I will not go into further detail about how he eats one or two and I eat.....more. And about all those times I make them while he's not even Let's move on.

3. The kid. He can't defend himself, so let's blame the little guy. It's a craving! I have no control over it! I'm pregnant!! He's the one who likes the greasy, buttery goodness!

Phew. I feel much better. This blogging thing is pretty therapeutic.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Worth Sharing

If you have seven minutes, watch this. It might make you happy.

(You actually only need four minutes...seriously, watch it.)

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Security Codes and Malfunctioning Neurons

Surely I'm not the only one that has noticed the change google made for typing in the "code" to leave a comment on a blog. Nobody else has mentioned it to me, but a few weeks ago I swear they started making those security codes much easier to type, by making them have the same structure as an actual word, albeit a made-up one. Am I imagining this?

You used to have to type things like jprylki......svziuyc......mqrstuyp.......To be honest it took me forever and I usually did it old school style with my one pointer finger. And now it's always something pronounceable like strogey..............harxle..........prazner........which is far easier to type in the more sophisticated way. Somebody please tell me I am not making this up.

I need some reassurance about my brain function. The other day at dinner there was an emtpy bowl and an empty cup on the table, one for milk to drink and the other for salsa. As you can see, when I picked up the milk carton my mind deceived me and I poured the milk in the wrong dish.

Maybe my subconscious wants a pet cat? Not likely.