Seven Signs You’re Addicted to Christmas Treats

Seven Signs You’re Addicted to Christmas Treats

That bad elbow has been officially diagnosed as Sugar Cookie tendonitis but you don’t care, you’re never giving up your sport.

Yeah but, Doc, I can't stop eating Christmas cookies n now, the Olympics are coming up.
“Yeah but, Doc, I can’t stop eating Christmas cookies now, the Olympics are coming up!”

If your house caught on fire you would be torn between either rescuing your spouse or his fudge rum balls.

"Sorry Ma'am. The only ting we were able to save of your husband were his fudge rum balls." "Yay! Oh, I mean darn the luck."
“Sorry Ma’am. The only thing we were able to save of your husband was his fudge rum balls.”
“Yahoooo!  No wait . . . I mean darn the luck.”

While you love the puppy you got for Christmas you’re convinced you’d love him even better if he was covered in chocolate and had a chewy nugget center.

Oh! Him so potentially dewishious!
“Oh! Him so potentially dewishious!”

You’re faking a limp just so you can justify carrying around that humongous  candy cane.

No! I'll be okay! Just get me my humongous candycane!"
“No! I’ll be okay! Just get me my humongous candy cane!”

You’ve started referring to your troubles as your truffles.

"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen . . ."
“Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen . . .”

You lied and told your children all their gingerbread men had been abducted by aliens so that they could conduct eating experiments even though it was really you conducting the eating experiments.

"I can't believe you ate all your children's Gingerbreadmen."
“You mean to tell me, Earth Lady, you actually ate all your children’s gingerbread men?”
” Please!  Stop! Can’t you see I hate myself enough already?”

And the final way to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas treats?

You resorted to eating some old-fashioned Christmas Candy that you found painted to the  bathroom shelf of your grandmother’s house and were so ashamed you checked yourself into Christmas Treat rehab.

Question: Does Christmas Treat Addiction get any uglier than this? Answer: No.
Question: Does Christmas Treat Addiction get any uglier than this?
Answer: No.

And there you have it, Dear Readers, how to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas Treats.

Until next time . . . I love you

Ten Ways to Tell if You’re Overdoing Thanksgiving

Hello Dear Readers!  I love Thanksgiving!  It’s one of my favorite holidays.  Every year I cook for my family and every year I look forward to it with great pleasure.  Maybe a little too much pleasure.  That’s why I’ve come up with this list of warning signs on how to tell if you are going to overdo Thanksgiving.

How to Tell if You’re Going to Overdo Thanksgiving
Woman looking pensive with leaves on her head

You’ve replaced the phrase “I love you” with the phrase “Olive you”.

You just got back from Potato Mashing Immersion Camp.

You’ve instructed your surgeon to break ground on that new stomach addition.

Architect looking at plans
“So the way I see it, we can knock out a wall between the belly and the button, and we should have room for an entire bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy.

In preparation for the big feast, you’ve managed to diet down to a size bite.

Even if you were to carry out pi to a million decimals, all forms of pi will be polished off by Friday.

“Of course I didn’t eat all the pumpkin pie! I ‘m an apple guy.”

You’ve taken to sleeping on a pillow of mini marshmallows.

Thanks to you and your voluminous Yam Stockpile the earth will be taking 6 days longer to orbit the sun.

Earth orbiting sun
“Gosh this week is really dragging by. What day is it?”
“Yamsday.”
“Still?”

You made an appointment with your dentist to get your teeth sharpened.

Your new gravy boat sleeps six.

“Move over!”
“No you!”

Your husband, Tom, is slightly worried about you because his name is Bill.

You’ve been preheating your oven since the 4th of July.

You refuse to read, watch or listen to  anything that isn’t about Jello.

“Honey! Come quick! Look!  There’s Bigfoot!”
“Is he in the form of a Jello mold?”
“No.”
“Is he carrying Jello?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going to look.”

And the most obvious way to tell if you’re going to overdo Thanksgiving:

Your appendix has been officially called back into active duty for the stomach reserves.

“Ten Hut!”

 

Until next time . . . Olive you

Lunch at the Movie Cliche Cafe

Welcome, Dear Readers ,to this blog’s contribution to Whatnot Wednesday over at Biff Sock Pow’s Place.  Anybody can join in with whatever ‘whatnot’s’ happen to strike your Wednesday Whatnot writing fancy.  Today I thought it would be fun to write a little story about a great place to go to lunch on Whatnot Wednesday.

Lunch at the Movie Cliché Cafe

“Stella!”

“Yes!  I’m here!  You had me at hello!”

“I’ll have liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

“Outta Chianti, sorry.”

“Pishaw!  Love means never having to say you’re sorry.  Just give me a martini, shaken not stirred.”

“Yes sir.”

“Bond.  James Bond.”

“Yes, Mr. Bond.”

“Well, actually, they call me Mr. Tibbs.”

“Okay, Mr. Tibbs, have you decided?”

“I’ll take a box of chocolates.”

“I wouldn’t recommend the chocolates.”

“Why?”

“You never know what you’re gonna get.”

“Oh.  Then give me the Soylent Green.”

“It’s people.”

“What is?”

“Soylent Green is made out of people!”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Lunch at Cafe Cliche
Lunch at Cafe Cliche

 

 

How To Play Whatnot Wednesday
  1. Write a blog post entitled “Whatnot Wednesday” (it can be about anything)
  2. Add these guidelines to the bottom of your post
  3. Add a link to a Biff Sock Pow “Whatnot Wednesday” post (such as this one) in your post
  4. Add the tag #WhatnotWednesday to your post
  5. Post your post
  6. In the comments below in my post, leave a link to your Whatnot Wednesday blog post
  7. See how many bullet points you can end with the word “post”
  8. Most of all …. HAVE FUN!  (post)

Whatnot Wednesday: Baby Eating

Biff Sock Pow over at his blog Biff Sock Pow has added a new challenge for us.  Go to his blog and check him out (but only if you like to laugh).  It’s called Whatnot Wednesday.  The rules are simple (ish).  Here they are:

How To Play Whatnot Wednesday

  1. Write a blog post entitled “Whatnot Wednesday” (it can be about anything)
  2. Add these guidelines to the bottom of your post
  3. Add a link to this post in your post
  4. Add the tag #WhatnotWednesday to your post
  5. Post your post
  6. In the comments below in my post, leave a link to your Whatnot Wednesday blog post
  7. See how many bullet points you an end with the word “post”
  8. Most of all …. HAVE FUN!

Today’s Theme:  Baby Eating and Whatnot

Welcome Dear Readers! Well it seems the time has finally come to talk about baby eating, a topic that some of you may find a tad offensive. However, for those of you brave enough to continue reading past this point, let’s dig in and talk about baby eating, shall we?

Cue the first slide:

Disaster-Being-eaten-Lion-eating-baby
NO! WAIT! Don’t eat my baby!  At least let me run home and get the ketchup first!

Is it just me, or does this woman look like she’s not really trying very hard to save her baby?  I mean, she could just reach over and pry the baby out of the lion’s mouth.  Maybe she could even get the lion to open his mouth on his own with a few “here kitty kitty’s.” But no.  Instead she looks like she’s about to say, “Wait here while I run home and get the rest of my children. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lambs tail and I’ll even bring the lamb for dessert.”

Cue the next slide:

Medieval-Mythology-Saturn-eating-babies
Excuse me honey, sorry to bother you while you’re . . . uh . . .  whatnot–ing, but can I have some money? The traveling baby-spice salesman is here.

Okay, here’s a mother who will clearly never make mother of the year.  She seems far more concerned with the fact that the window washer is squeegeeing the underside of her husband’s calf than with the fact that one of her babies is playing with a fire-breathing dragon while another one is being eaten whole by a farmer on his lunch break.

And don’t you get the feeling that the man at the gate just sold her a case of Big Daddy Magellan’s Medieval Mesquite Baby Seasoning Salt?

And the next slide please:

Mythology-Demon-Demon-eating-people1
These aren’t really babies he’s eating, but in keeping with our baby-eating theme, let’s just pretend they are, shall we?

Okay, here’s a baby eater that can’t even keep up!  He’s got babies coming out of his ears!  Clearly this baby eater has it all, wings, a full head (and body) of hair and a bellybutton that looks like Mickey Mouse. And even though he’s feasting on a baby, he still has rather kind eyes, don’t you think?

In fact, I have a feeling he’d make a better mother than the other mothers pictured above.  Maybe that why people babies  are lining up to be eaten by him — probably figuring that since they’re going to be eaten anyway — they might as well be eaten by a kind sort of monster — at least one who has a belly button shaped like Mickey Mouse.

Linda Vernon Humor Baby Eating
“Hey! Getting my leg bitten off isn’t even making me cry. Well that’s refreshingly unexpected!”

Whoa!  Here’s a baby eater that can clearly pack it away (and probably never gain a pound!).  He’s got no qualms about chowing down on a baby two-thirds his size. I just hope his eyes don’t prove to be bigger than his stomach and I just hope his stomach is able to handle an entire baby in one bite.

Nobody would eat a baby like this today.  The potential for choking is far to great! We can only assume that this man is competing in some sort of Medieval  baby-eating contest for which the prize is an all you can eat baby buffet.  Let’s just hope he’s got a big supply of Big Daddy Magellan’s Medieval Mesquite Baby Seasoning Salt on hand cause he’s gonna need it!

And that concludes this week’s Wednesday Whatnot post.  

 

 

R.I.P. Taffy May

When I was a little girl, the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow was a horse.

I really only voiced the question of my getting a horse to my parents a couple of times, knowing full well that the answer would be no, and, as a matter of pride,  I’d ultimately have to run away from home or, at the very least, stage a run away as in the following true scenario:

“Look at this Janey,” my father remarked to my mother, “I found Linda’s pajamas in this little 45-record case in the bushes just outside her window when I was mowing the lawn.”

Oh I was going to run away alright . . . eventually.

Ok, fine . . . if I wasn’t going to get a horse, at least I could try for a kitten.  This is how I went about it.  Step 1:  Convince my parents that I was head over heals in love with cats.  So I colored umpteen pictures of kittens and scotch taped them to my circa 1959 pink wall.  Step 2 wasn’t even needed because Step 1 worked like a charm.  Next thing I knew I was picking out my very own gray, long-haired kitten from a batch of 5 or 6.

In my excitement, I failed to notice that this particular kitten had issues.  It suffered from the world’s lowest kitty IQ.   Maybe that’s why the name I chose, Taffy May, seemed to fit her so well.

Taffy May was the perfect cat for a little girl to bond with.  Being nearly brain-dead, she allowed me to pick her up and carry her around without protest.  She slept with me all night under the covers which I thought was because she loved me so —  but more likely she just couldn’t figure a way out.

I loved stupid little Taffy May with all the passion of my nine-year-old heart and soul.  She failed to grow to full size due to the fact that while she was checking to see if there were any predators around to eat her cat food, the dog would wolf  it down.

She had one batch of kittens – if three can be considered a batch.  But being the little dummy that she was, she managed to lie on all three of them during the night and  in the morning the only one left breathing was my beloved, Taffy May.

Perhaps it was Karma (I know there was a car involved) the day Taffy May shuffled (or rolled) off this mortal world.  I was on my way home from school without a care in the world.  When I rounded the corner, there stood our across-the-street neighbor, Mr. Huey, holding a lifeless Taffy May up by the tail.

I don’t know how many times Taffy May had been run over, but judging from the fact that she was literally as flat as a pancake, it would be safe to assume more than once.  I screamed and ran into the house where I was inconsolable well into the night.  I never got another cat of my very own, out of respect for Taffy May, who will always have a place in my heart . . . about two feet wide and one and one-half inches deep.

Until next time . . . I love you

Nine California Earthquake Survival Tips

Welcome Dear Readers!  As you may have heard, California has been undergoing a series of strong earthquakes in California’s on-going journey to become the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

Whether you live in California or are just planning a vacation here, it is this  blog’s civic duty to provide some tips on what to do should you find yourself in the middle of a California earthquake.

 California Earthquake Survival Tips

Scream!  If that doesn’t stop the earthquake, place your hands over your eyes and scream louder.

Don’t batt an eye.  (Recommenced for native Californians only)

If you are inside run outside (unless of course it looks like  rain).

If you are at Starbucks, scream — then run around in circles taking care not to spill your latte on any celebrities.

Drop to the floor and roll around — especially if you happen to be on fire. (Don’t forget to scream)

Hyperventilate but as attractively as you can.

Quickly snap selfie of “You Doing Earthquake” 

Grab your California Earthquake survival pack and scram.  

Your California Earthquake survival pack should contain the following essentials:

  • Teeth whitener
  • Your own bags
  • Map to nearest In-N-Out
  • Your guide to recycling
  • Surfboard
  • Whole Foods rewards card
  • Sunscreen
  • The phone number of your acupuncturist, your life coach and your cat channeler
  • Essential Oils
  • Salad

 

Well, there you have it, Dear Readers!  Hope this helps.  Stay safe!

Until next time, I love you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

British Empire Atrocities or Happy Fourth of July!

Hello Dear Readers.  It seems the cold, cruel calendar will be ushering in the  Fourth of July tomorrow and before I’ll even have time to get out of bed!  The calendar is such a tyrant.

Which  brings us to another kind of tyranny (albeit in an ineptly worded segue). One that we Americans had foisted upon us on the Fourth of July  200- odd years ago by the British Empire — resulting in the Declaration of Independence!

I’d look up exactly how many years ago it was,  but I think google’s closed today. . . okay, okay I’ll try . . .

Hmm. . . As it turns out google is open but judging from the answers it’s given me, everybody went home early to light firecrackers.  They must have the temps working because I asked google the following question:

Hi Google, Happy 4th! Which reminds me, what were the atrocities the British Empire inflicted on the American Colonists that resulted in the Declaration of Independence?

And here’s the answers it gave me (as far as you know anyway).

1.  The British Empire kept messing with the price of crumpets causing the colonists all kinds of unpleasant menu-planning issues.

Linda Vernon Humor Thanksgiving Pic on the Fourth of July
“You no likee potatoes?”
“No we likee them, they’re a wonderful tuber. It’s just that we are going to have to hold off on the potato trading until we can ascertain what the crumpet situation going to be. Sorry.”

2.  The Colonists did not want to be bullied into memorizing a list of all of England’s past kings and queens in American public schools.

3.  If the Colonists hadn’t declared their independence, they would have had to wake up from their siestas early (see Spanish-American War) for tea time (see Atrocities of the British Empire)

4.  The Colonists had a premonition they weren’t going to appreciate the humor of Monty Python.

5.  The Colonists picked up on the fact that the British Empire thought they wore lame clothes and were borderline dirty.

6.  The British Empire imposed a tax on Nursery Rhymes which infuriated the colonists due to the fact that none of them even rhymed very well.

7.  American Colonists were vehemently opposed to using the word “row” instead of the word “fight” like the British Empire kept nagging them to do.

Fourth of July Essay Linda Vernon Humor
“Who never did him any harm but killed the mice in father’s barn?  I hate to break it to you, Redcoat, but harm and barn do not rhyme!”
“Oh yeah, you want to row about it?”
“You mean do I want to fight about it.”
“Uh . . it’s called row, not fight.”
“Oh yeah? Well I hate you.”
“Well I hate you too.”
‘Let’s row about it.”
“You mean fight about it?”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up!”

 

Well, Dear Readers, that about does it for the Fourth of July post.  I don’t know about you, but I’m already 4th-ed out!

Until next time . . . I love you