Where Did Halloween Go?

When I lived in Brooklyn, I didn't expect many trick-or-treaters. I lived in an apartment building in an urban area - I can see why parents didn't bring their kids to my door. But now that I live in a house in Texas, I figured we'd get TONS of Halloweenies last night. Right? I mean, we're practically in the 'burbs!

Mark and I sat at home last night and waited. My parents came over (they're visiting from Maine) and we made burgers on the grill (Mark makes great burgers) and watched Scrubs on DVD (the musical episode, specifically) and waited some more. Not one child rang our doorbell. I was so excited to see the costumes. I figured that even though we're in a cul-du-sac off a main road, there are enough kids around here (our neighbor even runs a daycare!) that we would need two huge bags of candy to fill their bags.

And now I have those bags of candy - open, even - in my house. Where they will be eaten. By me and Mark. Even we don't need this much candy in our lives! I mean, come on. I bought us a bag of fun-size Almond Joys to not give out at all, to hoard for when all the delicious yummies had been doled out to costumed children. But they never came.

What is up with that? I know it's not like it used to be even ten years ago - we don't know our neighbors like we did then, and lots of parents in my home town were driving their kids around rather than walking by the time I was in high school. But do people not do it at all anymore? My mom tells me that when she was a kid, people gave out homemade treats like popcorn balls and caramel apples. Now we have candy x-rays set up at the police station to make sure sealed candy bars aren't filled with needles. In just two generations, has America gone that sour?

There is cheer on November 1st, though. While I have way too much candy, I did get to go to Texas Book Festival and meet the very cool authors Melissa de la Cruz, Lauren Myracle, Paula Yoo (who loves New London as much as me, yay!) and Jennifer Ziegler (who is from Austin and with whom I've totally talked to at work without knowing it). These ladies have super cool books, and their panel discussion rocked. Paula even gave us a violin performance - some classical favorites followed by some Led Zeppelin! My books are signed and happy now, and I am going to go read them and eat Swedish Fish...if Mark left any for me.

This is Your Blog on Drugs

That's what I was going to call this blog, anyway. It turns out the prescription painkillers I was prescribed did almost nothing for me. Oh, well.

I was brushing my teeth last week when suddenly a piece of my molar fell off. Well, it more or less peeled off. That's what you get for ignoring your cavities, kiddies. I officially feel like a southwestern hillbilly. Luckily I had two days left of insurance from my previous job in which to have a dental adventure.

I'm petrified of the dentist. Honestly, as far as I'm concerned, anyone who wants to spend their lives inside other people's mouths is either a nut job or a sadist or both. Of course, I have to make the exception for my boyfriend's mum, a dental hygienist, who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. We called her that night at around 1am to find out what we should do, and she didn't even complain about the hour. In any case, I just don't understand the profession, and most of the tools I see in the office resemble torture devices from spy movies. (Remember that tooth-pulling torture guy from Alias? Seriously. Imagine that guy giving you a root canal and that's what I picture every time someone says "dentist.")

I've sort of known for months that I needed a root canal, actually. The molar in question has been in pain for years, following what I think was a botched filling. The dental industry has had so many opportunities to redeem itself, but is constantly failing. This particular incident was in November 2004 - I had three fillings done and, not only did 8 shots of Novocaine not numb me while drilling, the fillings hurt constantly for several months. And it wasn't just a little ache, or a sensation when eating hot or cold. It was a constant throbbing, blinding pain in my teeth.

I called the dentist and she prescribed a painkiller (it was acetaminophen-based, but I don't remember what the naughty stuff in it was. Not codeine, though, since I was too busy in college to be taking anything that would render me useless), which, as per usual, did nothing. I put myself on a regimen of Excedrin, taking two or three pills every four hours, including a dose at bedtime to avoid waking up in excruciating pain (this almost always failed). By January or February I was no longer in constant pain, but still had regular toothaches. Even years later that one molar always bothered me, but I just thought that, with my history of panic and anxiety, it could be psychosomatic.

When a brown spot appeared on the tooth — followed by a crack — I knew I was wrong. So last week when the tooth just finally broke, I wasn't so much shocked but angry that I'd let my fear of dentists get the better of me.

Seriously, though. The dentist guy from Alias. So scary.

So I've got a temporary filling in place and will be getting a crown on Tuesday. I'm not happy about it, but seeing as the only real pain I've had so far from the root canal is from chewing up my own cheek (and let me tell you, that is some serious pain), I'm feeling better about it. But, you know, if I'm going to be doing this whole dental thing on a regular basis, I'd better at least get some fun drugs out of it.

'Tis the Season

I have a problem. As my readers know, I'm a bakeaholic. I spend a lot of time concocting in my kitchen. You would think I knew how to use a potholder.

The sad truth is, a few times a month I get a little buzzed from all the culinary excitement, and, woops, grab a hot plate/pie tin/baking sheet from the oven, promptly giving myself second-degree burns. Tonight marks the worst yet:


That is, thankfully, my left hand, after using my right hand to pull a batch of cookies out of the oven with a dish towel and, upon the cookie sheet being too hot, and coming in for the save with a whole lot o' nothing protecting Leftie. Poor Leftie.

Since then (about an hour ago) I've taken 3 Excedrin (no sleep for me tonight, hence this blog) and been running my hand under freezing cold water. I've also been alternately clutching a paper towel filled with ice and splaying my hand so that the skin stretches a bit (the internets says that if you don't stretch the burned skin it could heal too tightly, thus making your life extra miserable forever). Most of this post was typed with one hand.

Incidentally, the cookies I pulled out of the oven were burned, too. First time testing a new recipe. I put them in a tupperware for my room mate with the following note:

CARRIE - THESE BURNED COOKIES TRIED TO TAKE MY HAND. PLEASE EAT THEM. THANKS. -EMILY. (DETAILS IN MY BLOG)

Hi, Carrie.

Don't worry, folks. I give Carrie plenty of non-burned cookies, too. She ate half the sugar cookies I made in November, and was shocked and disgusted to learn tonight that they have Crisco in them. Oh yes, I do love my Crisco. All my old family recipes have them. Holiday treats shouldn't be healthy anyway.

In any case, I'm calling my new recipe "Burn Unit Special Xmas PB Cookies." They're basically peanut butter cookies, with a little candy twist: Hershey's candy cane kisses. Yes, friends, peanut butter and peppermint work shockingly well together. I would normally use my mum's recipe, but her's calls for, well, Crisco. I had to invent this one. Get out your sprinkles:

1 1/2 C flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 C unsalted butter (softened)
2/3 C creamy peanut butter
1/2 C granulated sugar
1/2 C light brown sugar (packed)
1 large egg
1 1/4 tsp vanilla
colored sugar sprinkles
1 bag of Hershey's candy cane kisses

Preheat oven to 375 F

Mix together flour, baking powder, soda, and salt. Set aside. Using an electric mixer or a quick hand, blend butter and peanut butter, then add the sugars. Beat in egg and vanilla. When the mixture is smooth, slowly add flour. Pinch off teaspoon-sized sections of dough and roll into balls (dough will be soft, don't over-handle). Dip into colored sugars and place on cookie sheet about an inch to two inches apart. Squish a kiss into each ball of dough and place in the oven. Bake 9-12 minutes, until edges begin to brown. Transfer to rack to cool.


And, folks, please remember kitchen safety. Pot holders can save your hands from a shit load of pain. I promise.

I'm Almost Proud of Him

This is my cat, Telemachus. He is a 15lb Maine Coon, and about two years old. He loves mischief.

When I woke up this morning, he had caused a bit of a massacre in my bathroom. As long as I've known him, Tele has had a fascination with toilet paper. As long as I've known him, he's loved to unravel it to play, generally creating a mess for me. However, I've never seen anything quite like this:


As you can see, he's quite proud of himself. This is a cat masterpiece. I think this is the feline version of TPing your teacher's yard. There's nearly a whole roll there, including some that is in the bathtub and behind the toilet. My other cat, a wee Siamese — who is, incidentally, dumb as a stick — was rolling around in it, as if trying to take credit for Tele's hard work. Sadly, yes, it's an incredible waste of paper. My grandfather used to roll it back up onto the tube, but I can't bring myself to do that. This is why my room mate shouldn't feel bad about the fact that I buy most of the toilet paper. When so much goes to entertaining the animals, I just wouldn't feel right asking her for TP money.