The Gift That Keeps on Giving...and Giving and...

As the holidays bear down upon us, my thoughts turn, as they so often do, to things I never, ever want to receive again.

This list is, as you can imagine, quite long by now. I've been on the planet a few decades and I've gotten a lot of crap I never need to see again. A bouffant-sized shower cap (I have fine hair and wash it every day, and I've never in my life worn it up in a bouffant), a sea otter ashtray (I do not now, nor as an asthmatic have I ever or will I ever, smoke), overpowering-smelling shower gel (I'm also scent allergic and I also don't like to smell like an old-fashioned whorehouse), and so on. But the worst gift ever was the so-called gift of Amish Friendship Bread.

For those few who have somehow managed to avoid this exercise in bacteria, the Amish Friendship Bread has supposedly been around for centuries. The way it works is that a "friend" gives you a plastic cup half filled with some semi-viscous substance that through the magic of yeast and some Amish black magic (trust me on this one) doubles in size overnight.

The idea is that you divide the "half cup" you get and give your "extra" off to a friend. And the thing that makes this a quaint and special gift is that, supposedly, you still have some molecules of the original Friendship Bread from however many centuries ago, when the first Amish housewife decided to get back at everyone she knew in a really nasty and yet totally Christian way.

This is a great plan in theory. The bread is, despite or perhaps because of the centuries of bacteria and God alone knows what else in it, quite delicious. It makes a hefty loaf, too.

Which is awesome for Octomom and those horrible Gosselin people (who, let's be honest, might not actually have friends to obtain Friendship Bread from...but I digress...) and anyone else who has an army to feed on a nightly basis. But for those of us with smaller families, baking a huge loaf of bread a day gets a little ridiculous.

Yes, you have to bake a loaf a day. Or you end up with far more than just one "extra" bread-ick-in-a-cup to hand out. You end up with tons. Because that stuff really does double in size overnight. Each portion doubles overnight. Every night.

Oh sure, at first it sounds great. Home-baked bread, a gift out of nowhere for your friends, what's not to like? But it never ends. First you take it into work, but by the 3rd day, everyone at work has some and is trying to pass it back to everyone else. Then you start getting to know your neighbors. Then your entire zip code. Then your entire state. No matter who you are, no one, not even Oprah, can get rid of all the Friendship Bread one single half-cup can create in less than two weeks. It takes on a life of its own. You spend all your time trying to give the Friendship Bread away. The homeless are too smart to take it, and after two or three weeks, everyone else in the world shuns you. It's evil, pure and simple.

My BBFF got some Friendship Bread a couple of weeks ago. She loves to cook (I know, what am I doing with a BBFF like that?) and was all excited about it. I merely laughed, probably the same low, evil laugh that original Amish housewife gave when she handed off the first set of this stuff. Because I knew what was going to happen, despite my BBFF's protests that she would keep it going forever.

Needless to say, when she was talking me today about her Christmas baking, the Amish bread didn't come up. When I asked about it, she said, "Oh, I said screw it and threw that crap away. It's a pain in the ass." I was the bigger person and only said, "I told you so," a few times.

Of course, the issue with something that keeps on doubling is that you can toss it into the garbage, but it's STILL going to double. So, when the Christmas Blob comes down the chimney, you'll know who to thank.

Not me, of course. But if you're looking for a bouffant-sized shower cap, drop me a line and you could find it under the tree. Nestled there right next to your Amish Friendship Bread Starter Set that you got from "Santa".

"Enjoy."

TGC

How I Met My Mother

My first introduction to the woman who would become my de facto mother was at tax time. I don’t deal well with forms -- which is a story for another time, another blog, and, potentially, another writer -- this is a humor column, after all, not Oprah’s couch.

We’d bought a house and had no idea of what to do to ensure Uncle Sam didn’t just take it right back from us, so we called our realtor, who is also a good friend, and said, “Helen, what do we do?”

Helen, God love her, always knows what to do.

She sent us to Mary, who is a C.P.A. and who also conveniently lived not 5 minutes from us. We’re on one side of the mall, she’s on the other.

So, we made our appointment and trundled over. The hubs was calm and normal, the chicklet was busy doing her homework. And I was in the fetal position. Quite the impressive first meeting.

A couple of weeks later, hubs and Mary were talking and he discovered she and I shared mutual interests in a couple of TV shows and the Old West. So, she and I started chatting about it on email, and all of a sudden, she realizes I’m a normal person. So, we started hanging out, since we lived close and both like to eat, drink and be merry, yet have husbands that go to bed at 9pm.

A few months after this, it was business trip time. The hubs was on his own trip, the chicklet was taken care of, but I needed a ride to the airport. This was before 9-11, so you could still go to the gate with your departing party. Since Mary was driving me there, I suggested she come in, I’d buy us Starbucks, and we could continue talking (something we both excel at) while waiting for my plane to board.

We were in the security line when it happened. The very nice, elderly black lady doing my security was listening to us riff and yuck it up as I opened my Thinkpad and turned it on to prove it wasn’t a bomb. In fact, back in these simpler days, we were riffing that maybe it WAS a bomb and maybe I WAS a terrorist. Good times…good times. Try that now and see what happens to you.

Anyway, as we got off a particularly funny set of ripostes, the lady said, “Oh, it’s so nice to see a mother and daughter so close.” I guess Mary insinuating I was a terrorist fit this lady’s definition of ‘close’.

Mary is older than me, but not THAT much older. I laughed and shared that Mary wasn’t my mother. Which upset the security lady. A lot. “I don’t think you should be embarrassed by it! I think it’s wonderful!”

Mary explained that, no, we were just good friends. Which continued to upset the security lady. A lot. “In this day and age, it’s such a beautiful thing, a mother and daughter so close and such good friends! You shouldn’t be denying it, you should be embracing it!” I thought she was going to cry. Literally. And if she cried, would that not mean other security personnel might take a more personal interest?

So, to keep the peace, I said, “Yes, you’re right, she’s my mom.” Instant relief from the security lady, no special bag searches for me, and we trundled off. As we got out of security earshot, Mary said, “Yes. You’re the illegitimate daughter gave up for adoption because I was only thirteen.”

Her mistake.

Because I latched onto that one, and we riffed on it the entire time we waited for the plane. By the time I boarded, she WAS my mom. I call her Mumsy, at least as often as I call her Mary. The chicklet calls her GrandMumsy at least as often. She and my “Daddy” are great parents -- there when you need them, never digging in your business otherwise, fun to hang out with.

But Mumsy got the better deal. She adopted a full grown adult with a good job and marriage, complete with pre-housebroken grandchild. She reaps the benefits of a son-in-law who is happy to come over and help do things, tech support from both of us, and the joys of a grandchild, without ever having gone through the icky parts of parenting.

And, she scores Mother’s Day gifts, too.

This year, I'm giving her a blog.

TGC