Martini Cartwheels

Eating. Yup, that's how I am spending my week off. Yesterday it was lunch at the Salem Cross Inn in West Brookfield, MA. According to their website: The Salem Cross Inn is named for the witch-mark found on the front door-latch of the Inn. In the town of Salem and throughout the Bay Colony this mark was used to protect their inhabitants against "ye evills of witchcraft and diverse other manifestations of deviltry." You can see the hexmark in the picture above. It obviously doesn't protect the inhabitants against gluttony, as I cleaned every morsel off my plate. I then got on my broom and flew home, whereupon I stretched out on the floor and fell asleep in front of the fireplace. When I awoke, it was time for a snack. Peanut brittle - from the box to my mouth with not one conscious thought as to my caloric intake for the day. And guess what? It's time for breakfast and I could really go for some pancakes. Wonder what my New Year's resolution should be. Oh yeah,

This has not been a productive year for me with blog posting at all. One of my resolutions is to try to be better. Promise, promise, promise. The other thing I promise is to not pretend I am Stiffy when she forgets to log out of her Facebook account on my iPad. Sure, I thought it was important to let the world know that Stiffy loves to sing and crochet, that she felt like tap dancing, and that she was looking to buy a used horse to ride to work. But still, it wasn't nice of me. Sorry Stiffy. And tell your aunt she can stop looking for that horse for you. On a totally different topic, I received a very cool Christmas gift from Blondie. It's called a fitbit and it is the neatest gadget. I clip it to my pants and it tracks my steps, calories, and flights of stairs. There is an application to use in conjunction with the fitbit in which you can enter your weight, food, and water intake. Now here is the ultra cool thing it does - it tracks my sleep when I wear it at night. All the

Models in poses and gin from Great Britain, tight summer t-shirts that show of your tittens, white takeout styrofoam full of hot wings, these are a few of my favorite things. Gold colored Yorkies but not dancing Poodles, hair gels and sport gels and notepads with doodles. Blue pouches that carry a Tiffany ring, these are a few of my favorite things. Dykes on big Harley's with loud pipes that do scream, cute Femmes that ride on the back of those machines, silver white hair that the years often bring, these are a few of my favorite things. When the wine spills, when your kid steals, when you're drunk a tad, Just simply remember Martini Cartwheels, and then you won't feel so bad. Apologies to Julie Andrews and the Von Trapps for mangling this otherwise beautiful song.

Every year around this time, our neighbor McCheesy and her husband McMeaty host a cookie swap. It's a really great event, something Blondie and I always look forward to. There's fun people, amazing food, and cookies galore. The premise of the event is simple. Everyone brings 5 dozen cookies to share with the group. In return, each person gets to go home with a ton of various types of delicious cookies. One of the highlights of the afternoon is when all the ladies gather round the living room to discuss what type of confection they made and what inspired them to do so. It usually goes something like this: "I made a petite double layer chocolate cookie with crème fraîche and toasted almonds." "This year I tried my hand at making cookies with white ganache and fresh organic strawberries." "I went with my all time favorite recipe, peanut butter melt-a-ways with marshmallow fondant." Then comes our turn: "This year Blondie and I went all

Blondie and I went to a bitching 40th surprise party last night for our gal pal Nicki (who is looking absolutely fabulous I might add). Since the actual birthday isn't until this weekend, I thought I would help her out by letting her know what to expect when she wakes up on Sunday morning, her first day on a new decade of life. You won't be able to read. Put another way, YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO READ. Every calorie you eat, be it from an apple or a potato chip, will take approximately 237 hours of running on the treadmill to burn off. Remember the Bain Du Soleil lady? Well, she remembers you. And she apologizes for lying about Orange Gelee Number 4. At best, there is only another 7 years or so before your body's thermostat raises your inner core to a temperature somewhere between that of molten lava and the bowels of hell. Mind you, this will only happen when you are trying to fall asleep at night or in a meeting at work. You will change your mind about pajama jeans. You f