As a kid, one of my very favorite snacks was a Devil Dog. A Drake’s Devil Dog.
Google-lishous
Folks who live in Maine, or whose moms baked know them as Whoopie Pies. But every day after school, I’d come home and open that plastic package, inhale the chocolate-y goodness, smush the two cake pieces together, and lick the cream inside. Kind of like a giant Oreo.
Devil Dogs were wonderful, although I’m pretty sure my memory is selective. I hardly remember the taste of plastic from the package at all, although I know it was there.
Some time in my 20s though, I realized I had to stop eating them. Because, when I DID eat them, I couldn’t stop eating them. So I stopped eating them. (Life begins to get complicated in your 20s, doesn’t it?)
Giving them up was a smart decision. Because about 5 years ago I had a cupcake that tasted just like a modern non-plastic-y Devil Dog. I still dream about it. And I am afraid to ever have another because, well, I can’t stop.
Still, even with out the chocolate-cream goodness, I still have a Devil Dog every day.
My Current Devil Dog Can you see his horns? (Picture taken by Jacob)
Duncan is now nearly 9 months old. He is mostly sweet, but sometimes his horns show.
Don’t worry, though. I love him differently than I loved Drake’s Devil Dogs And I never lick the cream out of him because I am not a perv.
Today I reached a milestone that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
The day didn’t start out quite so warm. In fact, just the opposite:
My picture. Taken with MY iPhone. Take THAT Google images! The Potomac River, expressing my feeling that with the GOP in charge of both houses, Hell IS Freezing Over.
But now I have a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Coffee and oatmeal helped, but really it was the number that did it.
“I have 3,999 blog followers!” I told John last night, excitedly.
As in all things blog-related, he just looked back at me and politely held back the “so what” he was thinking. (Can I see a show of hands of folks whose significant other has zero, zip, nada interest in all the wonders of blogging?)
For a non-stats watcher, well, I was watching this one. It was kind of like New Year’s Eve, when I just have to watch the countdown. And I have to do it aloud.
So this morning, while I was reading blogs I got my 4,000th follower!
PROOF!
There I was, commenting on Felix the Cat and I saw the orange star light up! And heeeeeerrrrreeee he is — my 4,00th follower:
Stolen directly from his blog. Yes, I am that kind of woman.
He blogs about retirement, technology and his new life in Florida. He’s a new blogger — I am his 33rd follower! And that’s a nice number, too. Go check him out.
Thank you all for reading my stupidly named blog, for commenting, for “liking” and even for arguing. Thank you for writing the crazy, varied, dramatic, thoughtful, sarcastic, mind-blowing pieces you guys post. Blogging is a blast, and I really treasure the very real relationships we have developed here in the tubes.
It’s been years since I did a big, bang up New Year’s Eve. In fact, not since the time that John, Jacob and I not only broke a Guinness Book of World Records but did not die a fiery death have I done anything terribly exciting for New Years. Times Square in diapers holds no attraction for me.
But still, it is a time to celebrate. And so I will let you in on a wonderful, yet dirt-cheap way to ring out the old and ring in the new. Or is that “Bring”?
Damn, I haven’t even opened the champagne yet.
OK, here’s what you do:
On the stroke of midnight,
Open the back door –
to force out all the BAD luck.
Open the front door —
to let in the GOOD luck.
The rest is optional, but we always:
Drink a toast to the New Year.
Kiss anyone and everyone who happens to be nearby
Hope for all the best for all we care about in the New Year.
This year I will of course add to family and flesh friends a wish the happiest, healthiest of new years to all my blogging buddies.
Happy New Year – may your good luck always be stronger than your bad.
***
Yup, this is a re-tread. I will probably post it next year, too.
She told the story every year with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes her eyes got a little bit misty.
“It was 1943, and the War was on, and your father was in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific. We never knew where he was. Like all the other boys I knew, he was in danger every day. We lived for the mail, we were terrified of unfamiliar visitors in uniform. A telegram sent us into a panic. And ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas’ had just been recorded by Bing Crosby. It was Number One on the Hit Parade.”
That’s how Mom started the story every time.
Of course I’ll Be Home For Christmas was Number One that year. Everyone, or just about, was hoping that someone they loved would, in fact, be home for Christmas. That all the boys would be home for good. But all too many people were disappointed. I doubt there were many dry eyes when that song came on the radio that year or for the next few.
Mom and Dad got engaged right around Pearl Harbor Day, but the War lengthened their courtship significantly because Dad enlisted shortly after the attack. It was to be a long war, and a long engagement. But Mom was in love with her handsome man. Dad was even more so.
Mom, Circa 1943
My Dad was drop-dead gorgeous, and I’ve heard that in his single days, he was a bit of a ladies’ man. Every girl in town, it seemed, had a crush on him.
Dad, Circa 1943
In fact, my Aunt Sally once told me that she had been manning a booth at a church bizarre one Saturday in about 1995, when an elderly woman came up to talk to her.
“Are you Freddie E’s sister?” the woman asked Aunt Sal.
“Yes I am. Do you know my brother?” Aunt Sal responded.
“I did,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1935. Sixty years ago. He was,” she stopped to think of just the right word, “… He was dream-my.”
“I hope you told her I still am!” Dad quipped when he heard the story.
One day not long after Mom had passed, Dad and I were looking at some pictures I hadn’t seen before.
“Dad,” I told him with wonder looking at a particularly good shot, “You should have gone to Hollywood. You’d have been a star.”
“Nah,” Dad said. “Mom would never have gone with me. And once the war was over, well, I wasn’t going anywhere else without her.”
Dad circa 1935
Dad never quite got over feeling lucky that he had Mom. And he never stopped loving her.
But back to Mom’s story.
“It was Christmas morning, 1943, and I went over to visit Dad’s mom and dad. Grammy E’d had symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease for seven or eight years at that point. She could still move around (she was later, when I knew her, almost completely paralyzed), but she could barely talk.”
Mom continued. “But your Dad’s mom was singing ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ Well, she was trying to sing it, any how. She kept repeating that one line, over and over again. ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ I thought she was crazy.”
“You see,” Mom would say, “Your father had somehow managed to get Christmas leave – he was coming home! He wanted to surprise me and wouldn’t let anyone tell me he was coming. He was expected any minute, and there I was, trying to leave. But I couldn’t stay. That song made me cry; Freddie was so far away, and in so much danger. I couldn’t bear hearing it.”
So Mom left after a while, she had other people and her own family to see. Later Dad caught up with her and they spent most of Christmas together. Both of them always smiled at the memory. Dad was home for Christmas that year, just like in the song. It was a magical year for them both.
Mom was always touched by Dad’s surprise and by his mother’s loving gesture in fighting back the paralysis that was taking over her body to try to get her son’s girl to stay. To sing when she could barely speak.
“I’ve always wished I’d stayed.”
We lost Mom on Easter of 1997, and Dad really never got over her passing.
The song and Mom’s story took on an even more poignant meaning in 2000. Because on Christmas of that year, Dad joined Mom again for the holiday. He went “home” to Mom for Christmas again, joining her in the afterlife.
Even through the sadness of losing Dad on Christmas, I always have to smile when I hear that song. Because I can just see the warmth in Mom’s eyes now as she welcomed Dad home. This time, I’m sure she was waiting for him, with open arms.
FiftyFourandAHalf 