Who, Me?

These are for all of you old fogeys er, "more mature" readers. (I am not pointing fingers at anyone in particular, so don't assume I mean you, unless, of course, I really do mean you . . . .)

Ode to Riley Nelson's Hair

A little background, if you will: BYU's starting quarterback position has been a back and forth, tug-of-war type of thing since last season. Coach Mendenhall finally settled on Jake Heaps over Riley Nelson as BYU's starting QB. In my very humble opinion (but what do I know?), Jake Heaps is all hat and no cattle, if you get my drift. In fact, I've very often chanted out in despair, "Yank that Heaps dude! We want Riley! We want Riley! We want Riley!" Finally, and not a moment too soon, Coach Mendenhall sat up and took notice of my begging and groveling.

During last Saturday's electrocuting er, electrifying (oops) game against Utah State, Heaps had put too many bees in Coach Mendenhall's bonnet, what with all of his stinking less than stunning passing/non-passing, etc., etc., so in went Riley Nelson. YEEHAW! Riley to the rescue! And rescue he did, because BYU pulled out the win thanks to Mr. Gorgeous Hair. (Check it out for yourself in the video below.) Take note that Riley is #13 and Heaps is #9. With that in mind, pay special attention to what happens at the 1:36 mark.

I so love this. Be sure to watch to the very end:

Epilogue: I heard Riley (we're on a first-name basis dontcha know; I am his champion, after all) say today in a press conference that he has since cut his hair. He graciously apologized to any who may have been offended by his gorgeous, flowing, silky, delicious hair. Maybe he didn't use those exact words, but it was something along those lines . . . .

Dee & Dave's Monthly Dessert Doodah! (October Edition)

FAMILY!

FRIENDS!

SCONES!

BUTTER!

HONEY!

SUGAR!

CINNAMON SUGAR!

POWDERED SUGAR!

RASPBERRY JAM!

NUTELLA!

CANDY CORN CREAM CHEESE MOUSSE!

CANDY!

CANDY!

CANDY!

Oh, and, shhhhhhh . . . did I mention

*C*A*N*D*Y*?!!!

Let's Get It Started, Ha!

This particular post about Christian whooping it up at his high school's homecoming dance has been sitting in my draft file for like, um, forever. Er, one year to be exact. But, since this time of year brings that annual homecoming hoohah around once again for those young'uns in this neck of the woods (Christian excluded cuz, uh, well, he DID graduate after all), I decided to FINALLY unleash this post from last year's dance and raise your blood pressure just a touch with the video below. Besides, I poured a bunch of sweat and tears into the video, and I'm not about to let it linger in obscurity forever. (Ah, so the truth finally comes out.) I only pray that you sync up with my off-balanced sense of humor, otherwise you'll have even more concrete evidence that I truly am a couple of bricks shy of a full load. So, here we go . . .

Last fall, Christian and his pals went to a sweaty! crowded! stuffy! suffocating! smelly! loud! greasy! confining! jam-packed! blazingly hot! school dance.

Yes? Aaaaaaaand?!!!!!!

They loved it.

Huh.

Anywho! They decided to cool off afterward in our kitchen. I think they were instinctively drawn to the embarrassingly large amounts of ice cream we forever have on hand in our freezers. I took the liberty of playing paparazzi for a bit and pretended that I knew what I was doing while behind the camera as I shot a few pics. I didn't really know what I was doing behind the camera, as it turns out. But, lucky you guys! I put together a little video demonstrating that I didn't really know what I was doing behind the camera, and I'm going to share. See? Lucky you guys!

Now, regarding the video and, in Christian's defense, I do 'fess up and admit that I was the one directing that whole fawning thing (you'll see). Well, sorta it was me. Kinda it was me. Well, it wasn't really me at all. Actually, those girls kind of took things into their own hands after a while, and I just kept clicking away like a good little photog. Like I said, lucky you guys!

Whoa up, boys and girls! Before we get to the video (eventually we will actually get to the video, and you're going to love it, I promise), I want you to humor me and play a variation on that ol' popular parlor game, "Where's Waldo?" In this rootin' tootin' version we're going to be playing, "Where's Dave?" And let me tell you what--it won't be all that easy. Dave makes three cameo appearances, two of which will be super-duper obvious, one not so much. Oh, and you'll want to be sure you have the volume cranked up. Things get really bizarre interesting around the 1:48 mark and onward.

Lucky you guys.

Don't you envy this type of genuine fun and friendship? What an awesome, awesome gang of good pals!

Lucky them.

No, seriously. Lucky them.

Which sharp-eyed shooter out there found all three Daves on the first go-round? Yay for you! For those of you who have actual lives to lead and are far too busy doing important junk instead of having a go at my silly "Where's Dave?" nonsense, I'll keep your resentment of me to a minimum by helping you out just a touch: Dave pops into the party at the :48, :56, and the 2:13 marks. He's such a party animal, that guy.

Hey! Got a Minute?

First things first: Don't forget to look for Pete Best in the latest F.R.I.D.A.Y. photo! Just look over on the right sidebar for the photo. Scroll down, down, down. BINGO! Pete decided to be a bit more obvious in our photo this week because he relishes the spotlight that way; if you can't find him this time around, then I suppose it's time for glasses for you, Mr. Magoo. Just an FYI. Oooh, you'll also get to see if you were right about your guess from last week's pic. Fun, huh! We're all about fun over here at this little blog thing. (The fact that I have to tell you we're all about fun-ness probably isn't a good sign though . . . .)

Now! Check out this cool video--it will only take you a minute! Some sciencey guy pieced more than 600 satellite photos together tracking the earth's circumference or radius or cosine or vectors or velocity or some such ridiculousness, and this is what he came up with. Pretty spiffy. (Be sure to watch for me waving to you from my front lawn! Don't blink or you might miss me!)

To read more about this video, go here.

Chicheroo?

I think Ellen Degeneres totally ripped off this idea from Late Show with David Letterman and Dave's sidekick, Rupert of the Hello Deli in NYC, but whatever. This is still great for a laugh, and I, for one, need as much tom foolery in my life as I can get.

Tale of the Troll

Once upon a time we threw a big, hunkin' party. We had all sorts of fun at this party (and several other parties like it), including the always wild and crazy white elephant gift exchange game. One of our party-til-you-drop attendees received the sweetest little gift you would ever hope to see: a troll doll. Say it all together now, "Awwwwwwwww, soooooooo cute!" (with the "soooooooo" spoken with a bit of a lisp and the "cute" pronounced "keeeeeyuuuu-tah" {it's a Utah thing, trust me}). Maybe the troll isn't all that cute. Whatever. Anywho. Apparently Uncle Jim, the lucky recipient of the cute/ugly troll doll, decided he would ditch that little thing in our basement refrigerator and walk away without so much as a child support check or a proper, "See ya later alligator." Hmmppphh.

When we discovered that little fuzz top in the fridge, we decided to adopt him and make him our basement refrigerator mascot. You can only imagine the sideways looks we would get from guests of our kids who would help themselves to our basement fridge and all that was in it as they saw the troll starring back at them whenever they reached for a cold one. (Soda. It was soda. You guys!)

Our little troll dude has lived with us in his basement refrigerator home for nigh on four years now without so much as a whimper or a complaint. That probably says more about what a 40 degree environment will do for one's ability to move one's mouth than anything else. Ooh. That reminds me, would someone PLEASE speak to Bishop Flinders about the icebox he likes to refer to as our chapel??? I mean, seriously. Are they conducting cryogenics research tests in our church building these days? I'm telling you what, my toes don't thaw out until I've been home from Sunday services for approximately two hours. Never mind that I continue to wear open-toed shoes in the colder months; that shouldn't make one whit of difference, and you better not use that argument against me you, you, you wearer o' the sensible and thick wing-tip shoes! And, you wear socks too?! Sheesh.

Meanwhile, back at the fridge . . .

I decided it was high time to let our little basement refrigerator mascot see the world! Experience life on the outside! Explore bigger and better freezers! As a result, ol' fuzz head has become the fifth member of an awesome group I recently formed which we call F.R.I.D.A.Y.* Never heard of it? The formation of F.R.I.D.A.Y. is really just a lame excuse for me to drive on down to Cougartown {go BYU! rah! rah! rah! siss! boom! bah!}, snag my mom, Sean, and Christian, drag them hither and yon, and basically wreack havoc at a local restaurant every Friday afternoon. POW! It's a winner, right?! Yep, indeed. Now that our little troll dude has joined the band as its fifth member, I decided that he needs the dignity of a real name, so I christened him, appropriately enough, Pete Best. Whoa! Ha! (Sorry, but sometimes I crack myself up.) Unfortunately, poor Pete missed last week's hoohah (and he's now sorry he did), but he did make the jaunt this time. And, jeepers, he had fuh-uhn! (Two syllables there on fuh-uhn. It's a Utah thing, trust me.)

Now! Your mission, if you choose to accept it (and, in so doing you consent to getting sucked into another one of my hare-brained ideas, I hope you know), is to find Pete Best in the weekly picture I'll be posting on my sidebar. Over there ----------------------------------------> Somewhere. Over there. Just look. Keep looking. It's gotta be there somewhere. Find it? Scroll down, down, down . . . uhhhhhhh, keeeeeep looking. Ah. Great! Now, search the photograph high and low for that little troll. See him? He's hidden pretty well, and the photograph is kind of small, so you might get frustrated and become tempted to punch out your computer screen. Please don't. You'll regret it. I'll try to have Pete be a little bit more in-your-face next week, because there's nothing worse than not being able to find a troll. Believe you me. Now, did you find him? Yay for you! I'd love it if you'd let me know when and if you spy our drummer Pete.

Synchronize your watches to check back to see where the fab four (and don't forget about Pete!) hang out next week. And, for the record, NO, I do not appreciate the comparisons between my hair and the troll doll's; you KNOW that my hair and humidity have issues. So just stop.

*F.R.I.D.A.Y.:

Friendly

Rallying

It wasn't me-ing*

Dining

And

Yapping

*Explanation soon to be coming down the pike. Keep a watch out for it; it's a lulu.

Mmmmmm, Ashy!

I hosted a little afternoon social for about a dozen girls ages 10 and 11 in my backyard. We went on a treasure hunt. We roasted marshmallows. We made s'mores. We played "Red Rover, Red Rover." We danced to "Rock Around the Clock." We laughed. We cried. (jk about the crying part. It's just that I was on a roll there and . . . .)

As their lovely parting gifts, I stuck with the whole s'mores theme and whipped up a sticky little concoction straight from my smokin' oven for each of those adorable and old-enough-to-be-respectful but too-young-to-be-snarky-and-have-a-sassy-attitude (in other words, just the perfect age) girls. I give you my very own, one and only, original:

RED VELVET S'MORES CUPCAKES!

Red Velvet S'mores Cupcakes

24 red velvet flavored cupcakes, baked and cooled

(I used a box mix; call me lazy if you want)

24 strawberry flavored marshmallows

24 graham cracker quarters

24 chocolate bar pieces

Cream cheese frosting

(I used a tub of Pillsbury; call me lazy if you want--I'm getting used to it)

Frost completely cooled cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. Place the marshmallows on a foiled lined cookie sheet and broil in oven about 8" from heating element until the tops of the marshmallows begin to poof (just like my hair does on a very humid day) and they turn a beautiful golden brown. DO NOT WALK AWAY FROM THE BROILER OR ELSE YOU'RE SURE TO BECOME VERY CHUMMY WITH THE LOCAL FIRE DEPARTMENT. Just FYI. When marshmallows have cooled, wedge one marshmallow, a piece of graham cracker, and a hunk o' chocolate into the frosting of each cupcake. Ta da! Yeah, it's a beautiful thing.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

If there's something strange

in your neighborhood,

who ya gonna call? . . .

GHOSTBUSTERS!

I ain't afraid of no ghosts . . .

And, speaking of ghosts,

Q: What do you call a ghost with a torn sheet?

A: A holey terror!

Rimshot!

READER'S POLL

In the above photos, Kimball is channeling:

a. Bill Murry aka Dr. Peter Venkman

b. Dan Ackroyd aka Dr. Raymond Stantz

c. Little Ronnie Howard aka Opie Taylor

d. A very pushy and assertive door-to-door vacuum salesman who stops at absolutely nothing to be the top salesman (including sucking the brains out of his potential customers, thus leaving them powerless to say no to his oh-so-very-subtle sales pitch) enabling him to bump up to the next tier of the marketing food chain and snag that dangling carrot of either an all-expense-paid trip to exotic Plaster City or a complete set of vacuum accessories--including the much coveted Airsweep 6-piece VAC011 Nozzle and Wand Kit!!!

Same Difference

Have you ever noticed that local early morning television is a very different dog than the stoic 6:00 p.m. newscasts where the anchor's hair is either as white as a sheet or shellacked into a perfectly shaped sphere surrounding said anchor's head, and where the mere twitch of a smile would be grounds for immediate dismissal?

Yes, you could technically call the early morning broadcast a newscast, but it is a completely different monster than the gravely serious evening newscast--sorta like Kraft's boxed macaroni and cheese vs. homemade ooey, gooey macaroni and cheese. Not. even. in. the. same. food. group.

So, I'd like to see stuffy evening anchors Brian Williams or Scott Pelley or Diane Sawyer try to man-up at the anchor desk during this loopy early-morning broadcast that Fox News aired several months ago.

Oh, and, haha! Funny thing! You'll never believe this. Christian just happens to show up in the video. Not surprised? (That boy does get around.)

(You have to really focus on Big Budah's opening remarks to be in on the joke that he perpetuates throughout the whole segment. Pay close attention, boys and girls. I do offer my sincerest apologies in advance.)

You may recognize Big Budah from the film, "Forever Strong." Then again, you may not since the character he plays in the film is so much more copacetic than the Big Budah we see freaking us out each morning. He must have really sucked it up for the movie because, honestly, this guy's real personality is bigger than life. (And, his belly too. HEY-YO!) Big Budah would definitely give Brian Williams and/or Scott Pelley a run for their serious anchor money, don't ya think?!

FYI, Christian (wearing the green shirt) is NOT the offender Big Budah is calling out; let's just clear the air (groan . . . but funny, no?) on that front, shall we?

I Deny Everything, Your Honor

de-ni-al   [dih-nahy-uhl]

noun

1. Doctrine, theory, or the like. An assertion that something said, believed, alleged, etc., is false: Despite Dave's denials to the contrary, I just knew Kimball was merely hiding in a closet somewhere in our house and hadn't actually gone home to California after all. Hence my forcefully opening every door and yelling, "surprise!" Even now. More than 48 hours after his car drove away. I mean, that kid's gotta be getting hungry by now, right? Kimball? Oh, Kimball! You can come out now . . .

2. Refusal to recognize or acknowledge; a disowning or disavowal: I am in complete denial that our little California cowboy has returned to his own home so I continue to ask, "What does the cat say? What does the doggie say? What does the piggy say?" Dave usually gets it right on the very first try.

Mickey Dee(dee)'s!!!

Kimball and I had a lunch date.

Just the two of us.

We went to a really classy joint.

I treated this time around because, well, because I could. Kimball is a little strapped for cash at the moment, mostly due to the fact that his allowance hasn't actually kicked in yet. Kimball tried to contribute to the bill with the grimy little penny offered to him by the sweeping employee who had picked it out of the mess o' fries and tattered napkins on the floor after she heard Kimball exclaim, "money!" I quickly insinuated myself into that situation by thrusting my hand out for that nasty penny just as she was about to drop it into Kimball's waiting (and clean) hand, saving Kimball from who knows what flesh-eating germs I'm certain were hanging out on that linty penny. Ew. Thanks, but, uh, . . . .

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "If Deedee is so blasted uptight about Kimball touching a penny that had been plucked from the floor out of a pile of others' half-eaten, disgusting, slobbery food and crumpled napkins wet from wiping noses and mouths, why in tarnation would she let Kimball go play in the little adjoining romper room aka The Marriott Hotel for Germs (motto: All Germs Welcome!)?"

I can't really say why I'm okay with this except that I believe in moderation in most things (not all), and I also believe that kids need to be kids. And I also believe in eating first, playing second. I also believe in a good, thorough hand scrubbing when playtime in The Marriott Hotel for Germs (motto: All Germs Welcome!) is over. I also believe that I have THE. CUTEST. GRANDSON. ON. THIS. PLANET. Behold:

I'm definitely up for another date, Kimball. Text me.

*Sniff*

Please take notice of the lovely cinderblock backdrop.

I'm really trying to hold it together here, folks.

Christian is off to college.

(Big breaths. I'm taking big, deep breaths while also avoiding going into his bedroom. Man. This is way too hard for me . . . .)

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you certainly know my feelings about this incredible young man of mine. If you need a reminder of my absolute adoration, go here. And here. And here. Or here. Or, you could just basically cruise my blog history and find about a gazillion posts where I gush and quite inadequately express my love for Mr. Christian.

In the meantime, I'm trying to add a little levity to this emotional roller coaster by pointing out that the on-campus student housing apartment I lived in as a freshman is only two units away from Christian's--the carpeting appears to be the same (um, yuck), the closet doors and built-ins are most definitely the same, and the cinderblock painted walls will forever be exactly! the! same! as my lovely cinderblock walls. Man, talk about deja vu. All over again.

I miss my boy, and it hasn't even been 24 hours since he's been gone. Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Oh. Good thing he'll be back tonight for dinner :D

Wanna Hear a Good Joke?

Okay. So a goat, a sheep, a horse, a cow, and a pig walk into a bar, see, and . . .

Yikes. Do you think the joke might be on us?

Why, Ah Do Declare!

We've come to know the Clabber Girl from her baking powder fame . . .

. . . and Aunt Jemima has sweetened our lives for years and years . . .

. . . Betty Crocker has charmed us with her plastic surgery refreshed looks over the decades . . .

. . . and Little Miss Morton Salt completely outclasses the Coppertone girl.

Now, I'd like to introduce you to our very own . . .

SOUTHERN BELLE!

(Southern, as in, Southern California)

Move it, Little Debbie, there's a fresh new face in town! I think our Southern Belle would be the perfect model to be featured on the packaging of a baking product like sugar, or flour, or cornstarch, or tapioca (ew, yuck, tapioca!), don't you? Why, just look at her!

Pretty as a picture with her homemade berry pie with a crust made from scratch!

This pie took the honorable mention award at our neighborhood BBQ. Not a speck of it was left for us to bring home!

Ashley's Very Berry Pie

Filling:

8 cups frozen mixed berries (I used a bag of blueberries, raspberries, and marion berries from Costco)

1 1/2 cup sugar

1/4 cup instant tapioca

Squirt of lemon juice

Thaw the berries, then mix all ingredients in a bowl. Let the mixture sit while you make the crust.

For the crust, use your favorite recipe, search for one online, or just use this one from the Crisco packaging!

2 cups all purpose flour

1 tsp salt

3/4 cup Crisco shortening

4-8 TBS ice cold water

*You only need one crust, and this is a two crust recipe, but I found that I needed more dough than a one crust recipe provided. Use the extra to make a mini-pie or pie crust cookies!*

Blend flour and salt in mixing bowl. Cut cubed chilled shortening into flour mixture using a pastry blender or a food processor (that's my favorite way!) until mixture resembles pea-sized coarse crumbs. Sprinkle 4 TBS ice water over flour mixture and stir with a fork or pulse the food processor. Add more water by the TBS until the dough holds together. Flatten dough into a 1/2 inch disk, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. On lightly floured surface, roll dough outward from the center so that it is 2 inches wider than the pie plate. Ease the crust in the plate (tip: roll the crust around the rolling pin, and unroll it into the pie plate). Trim the edges, fold them under, and flute.

Pour the berry mixture into the pie crust, and cover the edges of the crust in tin foil, shiny side out. Bake the pie on a baking sheet at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 375 and bake until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbling, about 45 minutes more. Remove the foil for the last 10-15 minutes of baking. Let the pie cool completely on a rack, and then garnish with a layer of sugared berries.

Why, ah do declare--I just love that girl!

Who Are You Calling Old?

No old geezers around here. Just one Papa who accidentally took the NON-non-drowsy (in other words, the sleepy kind) of cold medicine which basically sent him off to nap time right on this very slide soon after our foray down that contraption. He just laid there at the bottom of the slide, as easy as you please, and conked out. Kimball didn't know what to make of it.

Once we were able to rouse Papa and get him on his feet again, his incoherent sentences clued us in that it was time to drag the old boy home, prop him up on the couch so he could watch a little I Love Lucy, and then ship him off to bed to sleep it off before he caused himself or his loved ones any sort of serious bodily harm with the tv remote control.

(Thank goodness we had a designated driver in Ashley to get us home--otherwise, Papa may have driven us somewhere even further away than Nebraska {see this post} in his loopy state of delirium.)

P.S. We should have known we were in for it when Papa was taking an extra long time coming out to the car as we were waiting to drive to the park. Turns out he had fallen asleep in the washroom. Oh, the wacky world of the Sagers fam . . . .

Mr. Blue Sky

Changes are a-comin'. In a very few short weeks one of my very best friends is moving on and moving out.

Christian will be leaving to live on campus as he attends a semester at BYU prior to serving an LDS mission for two years. Oh my, oh my. I'm a bundle of mixed emotions and conflicting desires. I wish he could stay. I want him to go. I wish I could be with him every single day. I want him to grow and become independent. I wish I could forever hang on to his coattails. I want him to break free and achieve his enormous potential. It's a complete mash-up, if you want to know the plain truth of it all.

The title of Christian's high school senior video, "Mr. Blue Sky," perfectly captures his nature--so positive, so cheerful, so full of hope that things will always work out, so happy, so forward thinking, so trusting in the goodness of others, so solid in his knowledge that God is in charge of all. Mr. Blue Skies--in living color. Can you see why I cherish this boy?! Oh, how I love him!!!

Christian really is one of my very, very best friends. And, I'm quite certain that I'm one of his. (He even told me so. That's how I know.)

He Can Multitask!

Click on image to get a grander look at Santa's delicious beard.

In this series of photos, note how deftly Kimball: 1) speaks on the phone with his daddy; 2) eats his cookies and "kweem"; and, 3) manages to effectively impersonate Santa Claus. I'm telling you what--that kid has conquered what most men just can't seem to master: The art of multitasking!

What? I didn't even mention your name, Dave, so stop assuming anything. Although, now that you mention the whole multitasking thing . . . um, well . . . . jk! You're a good multitasker, Dave. With the exception of that sticky little problem of driving and carrying on a conversation at the same time resulting in ending up near Nebraska instead of at the Piggly Wiggly just down the road. Other than that, you're a good multitasker, Dave. Super good.

Psst. Is he gone? FYI, I'd advise against talking to Dave while he's behind the wheel if you're hoping to end up anywhere close to your desired destination within the decade. Just sayin'.

Oh, hi, Dave! Thought you were gone to the Piggly Wiggly.

Or Nebraska.

Oopsy.

Adventures in Babysitting

I babysat.

And, it was pretty stressful. Very stressful, if you want to know the bald truth. Heart-poundingly stressful.

I had the un-privilege of looking after a jumpy little whippersnapper who, as luck would have it, has eight (count 'em!) legs, while I was also pitiably trapped on a torture device also known as my much-despised stationery bike.*

See, the deal was that nobody asked me to babysit, nor did I offer, but it seems that I had the luck of the draw this time around. I usually don't take my responsibilities lightly; however, I was more than willing to ditch this arach-kid. There. I said it, and I'm not taking it back.

So, there I sat, peddling away like a woman possessed, illogically thinking that the faster I peddled, the further away I would get from this little persona non grata:

The fact that little Jumpy Jimmy here was merely ten inches away from my face only heightened my hatred for being stuck on that doggone stationery bike. Watching him closely (as any good babysitter would), I became all itchy and scratchy and wobbly as I sent silent messages to him to please go across the room to visit the treadmill! No need to stay so close to me! Go! Go off to explore the world, young one! Expand your horizons, and LEAVE ME ALONE! Alas, no.

Not only did Jumpy Jimmy not have the courtesy to give me my privacy during my time of sweat, but he never even extended a friendly silk string hand of greeting. That, in and of itself wasn't a bad thing, but it meant that there was the very real possibility that since he rudely eschewed the basic common courtesy of saying "howdy-do" with a silvery strand, he might just very well cut straight to the chase and jump right from his place on the wall and directly into my mouth.Which was wide open. Because I was panting like a dog. Because I was sucking air for all that it's worth. Because I was on that horrible, horrible stationery bike.

Only minutes to go before my torture session was to be over, Jumpy Jimmy made a break for it and went AWOL on me! I thought, "Oh, no you don't! I do and do and do for you, and this is what I get? Nuh-uh. I'll track you down! I'll send out the bloodhounds! I'll find you! I'll give you what you've got coming!" And I did.

(WARNING: DISTURBING IMAGES MAY FOLLOW; PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.)

The end.

* I was aboard my much-hated stationery bike and not out doing my run due to an annoying condition called a stress fracture. Or a stress reaction. Whatever. In other words, my leg is basically broken, apparently because I happen to put my heel down incorrectly when I run, or because my gait is off (whatever that means), or because my hips don't line up just right, or because I like the color pink. I don't know, and neither does the sports medicine doctor, but he's just itching to put me on a treadmill so he can point and laugh and tell me that for all of these years, I've been doing that whole "walking upright on two legs" thing ALL WRONG. But, he won't be doing that until my bones knit and purl and crochet back together again, because, YEOW, having a fracture in one's bone is not a walk in the park, even if that walk is with perfect form and correct posture.

I so hate that bike.

This One's For You, Harry!

Yesterday, July 31, was Harry Potter's birthday! I know that every single one of you celebrated, right?!!! It also happens to be Harry's brilliant creator's birthday too. Wow! How'd that happy coincidence happen, I wonder?

We are huge Potter fans at this house, and in honor of Harry's birthday, we whipped up some delicious butterbeer and settled in to watch the first movie in the Harry Potter series. (Whoooo boy, Daniel, Rupert and Emma have obviously been taking some very intense acting lessons from somebody like Lee Strasberg or Uta Hagen or some such old geezers since that debut movie; bless their hearts, those kids did think they were hot stuff back in the day, didn't they.)

This particular butterbeer recipe is a simplified version of others I have come across, but I'd wager a guess that even those snarky Slytherins would get their robes all in knots over this concoction. I do realize that the real butterbeer, the butterbeer that Harry, Hermione and Ron drink in Diagon Alley, has a touch of, er, shall we say, intoxicant (to put it delicately), but we choose to leave that particular element out of our batch of butterbeer. It was Sunday, after all. Sheesh, you guys.

BUTTERBEER!

Makes 1 serving

One 12 oz. can cream soda

1 teaspoon butter

2 tablespoons butterscotch topping

1/2 cup quality vanilla ice cream

Pour soda into microwavable bowl or large measuring cup. Add butter. Microwave on high for approximately 2-3 minutes, depending on your microwave. Stir. In the bottom of a mug add the butterscotch topping. Pour soda mixture over butterscotch. Drop a scoop of ice cream on top. Stir mixture to blend. Knock it back with a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean, and go nuts!

Guess what, boys and girls? You're in luck! As an additional treat to celebrate Harry's birthday, I tip my hat to him and his ability to speak parseltongue (thank you, Voldemort) by giving you this video to creep you out for the rest of your day. Yes, yes. I know. You can thank me when you see me. And, I just know you will. Thank me, that is. Ssssssssssseeeeeeeeeee here: