Quite amused by Carlo Ancelotti's generations-old cure for the flu - which involves drinking hot milk and red wine.  Um....together.

How does that work, exactly?  Are you so busy vomiting that you hardly notice the coughing and congestion?

1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened
4 ounces cream cheese, softened
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 - 1.5 teaspoons fresh grated lemon peel (depending on how lemon-y you like it)
1 cup flour

1. In large mixing bowl, mix butter, cream cheese and sugar until creamy.  Then add vanilla and lemon peel.  Gradually add the flour.
2. Drop dough by the spoonful (approx. 2" apart) onto ungreased cookie sheets.
3. Bake in 350 degree oven for about 12 minutes (edges of cookies should be golden).
4. Scoff them all down in one go, then go sit on the couch and whine about how your skinny jeans don't fit like they used to.

I'm not a label whore.  I can appreciate a well-constructed and/or artistically-rendered garment, and there are certain designers whose handiwork I quite consistently admire, but......I am never soooooo overwhelmed by the prospect of a label that I will pay any price to attain it. 

However, I am a bargain whore. 

When I can attain a label for pennies on the dollar, that generates a pretty good buzz.  At the risk of sounding like a compensated spokes-shopper (I wish), thank god for the likes of Marshall's and Ross and T.J. Maxx.  They often even do me the courtesy of leaving the original retailer's labels on the garments, which allows me that special moment when my eyeballs roll back into their sockets as I shudder in ecstasy over the price I'm actually paying for said item.   This doesn't freak out the Russian grannies from a few aisles over as much as you might expect.  Discount shopping isn't for pansies.  They know this.

But I digress.

Part of the thrill of this sort of treasure hunt includes the after-gloat.  Here's an example of a recent haul from Marshall's.

 Item #1:  An olive/beige-y BCBG tunic tank which didn't look like much on the hanger, but turned out to be particularly flattering in the mirror.  Original price:  $78.00.  Marshall's sale price:  $5.00.

Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice. 

Item #2:  An orange Michael Kors tunic with freakin' groovy stud detail.  Original price:  $79.50.  Marshall's sale price:  $5.00, again.

Suh-weet.  (P.S.:  Suck it, retailers!)

At a time when I would otherwise feel guilty about indulging in any form of retail therapy, it's nice to still be able to get a buzz on for the price of a couple of cups of designer coffee.

Yeeeeeeehaw.

Many have laughed at my shark phobia.  Many have said to me, "It's ludicrous that you live in Southern California, and refuse to wade into that blue, sparkling, refreshing ocean water any further than thigh deep, which even then you can never fully enjoy because you are secretly replaying those Shark Week video footage snippets in your head..... the ones in which the baritone voice-over guy says, "Joe Smith was enjoying an idyllic day at the beach with his family, and was wading no more than thigh-deep when.............." as the foreboding music swells.................."

OK, no one has actually said that to me verbatim, but it covers the gist of their meaning.

And then a bunch of great whites show up this past Labor Day Weekend in Cape Cod, and they have to close the beaches.

Who's laughing now?  If I had a shrink, he or she probably would be.  But that doesn't mean I don't feel vindicated by such stories.

Out of all domestic-related duties, cooking is my favorite by a mile.  And lately, for whatever reason, I've been on a crock pot bender.  Actually, it's a bit stupid to write "for whatever reason."  It might have something to do with the fact that I found a cookbook tucked away on the shelves of Marshall's........one which contains over 500 crock pot recipes.  Frankly, I like the idea of getting all the hard cooking work over with during the part of the day when I actually still have a modicum of energy to expend.  Yeah.  Those are not-exactly-mysterious contributing factors to the sudden crock pot phase I seem to be going through.  Even though crock pot cooking seems a bit old-school and anti-gourmet.   

Funny enough, this culinary development falls on the heels of a failed raw food bender.  I bought some raw food recipe books a few weeks ago.  Alas, most of the recipes call for exotic ingredients that you have to (a) Google for identification purposes, and then (b) drive to five different specialty health food grocery stores to find (writes the broad who once did exactly that after purchasing the Gillian McKeith cookbook.......hope, or idiocy, springs eternal).  Plus spending an hour peeling zucchini into spiral spaghetti-like strips in order to create veggie "pasta" isn't my idea of a good time.  Still, it's ironic that I go from swearing to myself a few short weeks ago that from hereon out, I shall only eat raw, organic, un-cooked veggie goodness (I could practically envision the shiny golden aura of glowing good health that would subsequently follow me wherever I went), to a phase in which I'm letting stuff marinate in a pot for 7 or 8 hours at a stretch.  But I digress.

Yesterday it was split pea soup.  Today it's chicken with Italian sausage (and let me tell you, those sausages and onions are smelling bitchin' right now.....).  Tomorrow I'm going to attempt a really wrong, wrong, wrong sounding recipe entitled, "Company Slow Cooker Pork Chops."   I mean "wrong" in the decadent sense of the word.....given that some of the key ingredients include sour cream and cream cheese.  And I'm assuming THEY mean "Company" in the outdated 50's sense of the word - when you invited "company" over to your house instead of "guests." But hey, maybe they mean "Company" as in "The Company" as in "bad guys featured in an espionage/cyber-hacker or crime drama thriller" sense of the word (like on "Prison Break").  Maybe if I make this recipe, a small squadron of evil-mongering corporate stooges, or crime ring henchmen, or government shadow figures, will show up on our doorstep, and then force me to hack into a bank's computer system and siphon some money out for nefarious purposes.  They might even want me to assassinate someone.  That's a lot of pressure when you just want to make some pork chops.  (But secretly I would find it all more than a little bit rad.) 

On the other hand, that probably won't happen.  I'm guessing the more likely of sinister outcomes here is that I'll gain a few pounds thanks to the sour cream and cream cheese.

Whatever.  I'm up for anything.

That very first pony ride is one of those universally beloved rites of childhood.

Unless you're dealing with carnivorous ponies, it turns out.

Yesterday we took Z. to a petting zoo that offers pony rides.  Z. went on a pony ride.  Z. understandably reached the conclusion that pony rides are awesome.  She wanted to go AGAIN.  Immediately.  We postponed putting her right back on another pony because we wanted her to hang out with the pigs, sheep, goats, chickens, cow and so forth, and take in the full petting zoo experience. 

Besides, the pony rides cost extra. 

Ah, but Z. was still drawn to the cute ponies, and kept gravitating in their general direction.  She was petting the nose of one pony in particular when it suddenly grabbed her thumb and chomped down pretty hard.  It didn't seem to want to let go, either.

After it was extracted from the mouth of the carnivorous equine, Z.'s thumb was now cut and bleeding.  It was a surprising amount of blood for a pony-inflicted wound. 

In approaching the staff about this, we were just looking for a sink and some soap where we could wash the cut.  We know accidents happen, and animals bite sometimes.  We didn't approach the proprietor in an angry manner, an accusing manner or a highly litigious manner in which we threatened to take them for everything, including their last bale of hay and their very last flea on their very last chicken.  We weren't out for blood (unlike a certain pony).  We just asked if there was someplace where we could wash the bite. 

But the proprietor (after handing us a solitary wet wipe) says to us, in an incredulous manner, "What was her hand doing near the pony's mouth?"

She was so incredulous, I temporarily forgot about the sign out front that had lured us there in the first place.  The big ol' honkin' sign emblazoned with the words, "PETTING ZOO."  (Key word: petting.  Petting.  P-E-T-T-I-N-G).  We explained that the pony had taken a nip, and we know these things happen.  Now, I've seen the overzealous parents who want to behead anyone even indirectly responsible for a slight affront to their child.  We weren't being those parents.  We were being damn cool about the whole thing, I gotta say.  Whereas the proprietor was still relatively indignant.  We felt like we'd done something wrong.

We had another ticket for a pony ride, and frankly I wanted Z. to use it.  Because of all the childhood phobias she could possibly suffer from, I wasn't about to have her traumatized by ponies.  Clowns, sure.  Broccoli or creepy ice-cream-van-driving men, understandable.  But ponies?  Uh-uh.  No way.  Besides, there's that whole cliche about getting back on the horse that throws (or attempts to eat) you.  We were gonna nip this phobia in the bud.

With a little trepidation, she got back on another pony.  And she had a pretty good time.  Then the ride ended, and she got off the pony, and started crying some more about the other pony that tried to eat her.  I wanted to get her cut properly cleaned and put some ointment on it, anyway.  It seemed like a good time to leave.

On the drive home, I grew pretty indignant about how the proprietor was indignant about the incident.  And I had one of those "Hey, wait a minute...." dawning realizations.  Actually, several:

1. When we paid for admission to the place, they were eager to sell us those styrofoam cups filled with food for the animals.  And I guess we had this crazy notion that we ought to aim the food in the general direction of the animals' mouths.  Sure, we're city folk.  We don't deal with livestock on a daily basis.  Maybe farm animals operate differently than the domestic cat-and-dog kind we're familiar with.  Even so. Also, just a thought - if you don't want kids putting their hands near animals' mouths, maybe it's not such a good idea to sell food for the animals, and encourage the kids to, uh, feed them.
2. Z. wasn't poking, or prodding, or chasing, or shrieking at the pony.  We've raised her to be a good friend to animals.
3. For a place that caters to kids, it's a little strange that they didn't have a first aid kit on hand - or at least some band-aids and antibacterial ointment.  Or, you know.....a sink and some soap.
4. Would it have killed the proprietor to show a wee bit of sympathy?  Even if she felt we were in the wrong by letting Z. pet the pony at the (ahem) PETTING ZOO, it would have been nice for the lady to be....well....nicer.  "Say, is that bleeding wound OK now?  Poor thing," would have gone a long way toward mending fences.

The worst part is that Z. now seems slightly obsessed with the concept of man-eating ponies. She wanted to talk about them for the rest of the day yesterday - despite our attempts to make light of it.  When I put her to bed last night, she claimed she wasn't tired, and I tried to teach her about counting sheep. 

She wanted to know if the sheep were going to eat her. 

So - I now have on my hands a child who is fine with werewolves and vampires, but who is scared of ponies.

Go figure.

She was a bit of a loose cannon, sure.  Those extra thumbs generally led to extra trouble. Opening and closing the kitchen cupboards - one of which she commandeered and converted to her Top Secret Clubhouse Within Which All Sorts of Mysterious Cat Plans Were Hatched.  I'm pretty sure if I go digging around in the back of that cupboard, I will find blueprints with detailed instructions on how to infiltrate the kitty biscuit stash, and probably schematics that would have eventually somehow led to her dropping from the ceiling a la Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible and ambushing the dog while he slept on the living room rug.........they had a bit of a Spy vs. Spy, friendly rivalry going on.  (I can say "friendly" because he's now moping around the house, looking quite forlorn.)

Gigi also liked to channel Maria Callas.  Especially in the dead of night, when I was least likely to appreciate a spot of Verdi.

But damn it....I loved that fuzzy nutjob.

Today really, really sucks, y'all.