Cookies and Cupcakes are an important part of the C-Food Group and an essential ingredient in my beauty regimen.

The Secret’s Out

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

Because I’m not. 

If beautiful is the bullseye at the throwing hall, my axe is stuck in the wall somewhere near the bathroom door. I'm good with that. The last time I tried to create a smoky eye, I looked like I was on the wrong side in the Zombie Apocalypse.

When it comes to beauty secrets, I’m the one everybody kept the secret from.

Oh sure, the potential’s there.

It’s like when Michaelangelo, faced with that big block of marble said, “Maybe if I hit it with a hammer, something will show up.”

I’ve heard that we’re all beautiful, but I think mine is tucked away where you can’t see it, and I’m too lazy to do upkeep on the outside.

I’ve tried every beauty tip in women’s magazines. I’ve been Walking Myself Thin for half a century. I gained 50 pounds. What I lost in years, I gained in cupcake weight.

I bought stylish outfits in the new fashion color, butter yellow. I found that I do better in colors not named after food, since I usually have the real thing spilled down the front of my shirt.

I tried to give my face a pop of color. Remember the old saying “Red Sky at morning, sailors take warning?” The whole fleet was afraid to leave the harbor.

I gave eyeliner a try and almost shish-kabobbed my eyeballs.

So I joined a Facebook group that had 70,000 members, all women.

They talked about their beauty secrets.

Some said they wore nice clothes whenever they left the house.

For me, nice means the dog hasn’t drooled on my pants leg during dinner.

They did things to their eyebrows that I don’t do anywhere on my body. It sounded like what foreign countries do to you when you won’t spill state secrets. One woman had an injury to her eyebrow that she assured us would heal soon. I’m not interested in any beauty procedure that results in a visit from Emergency Responders.

I don’t wax, peel, or laser.

I don’t botox because I may need my facial muscles at any second to give my husband The Look if he tries to tell the gorilla joke.

When I go to my knee doctor, I shave my legs up to the problem site with my son’s head shaver. 

DO NOT TELL HIM!

Beauty sounds too risky to me.

I’ll just sit in my chair, read, and eat cupcakes.

You can hate me for that, but I’d rather you join me.

There’s no dress code.

And there’s enough cupcakes to go around.

 

The Princess and the Papa

In honor of Grandparents Day, September 12, Mind over Mullis is hooking our circus wagon to the About.com Parenting and Family Channel blog train. For me, this one's in honor of my Dad. These days he answers to the name Papa.

My Dad is a tough guy. He wears Black and Decker underwear and buys pallets of toilet paper from the Army-Navy store. He watches sports on television every Sunday afternoon, even if it’s only putt-putt season, and turns the sound all the way down so that the sportscasting guys don’t ruin a beautiful play with color drivel.

He can estimate distance to an eighteenth of an inch and can tell whether a picture is half a bubble off plumb just by squeezing one eye shut and looking through his thumb. He survived the Depression on beans and biscuits; World War II on courage and luck; and 48 years of marriage on Divine Providence and guesswork. He taught four children to drive without suffering permanent neurological damage, made us wear more clothes when we were cold, and refused to let us hang on the refrigerator with the door open until we air conditioned the whole neighborhood.

So how can a five-year-old bundle of brown eyes and rosy cheeks crawl up in his lap at fourth down and goal to go and persuade him to read The Cat In The Hat for the four thousandth time, without suffering severe blood loss?

This man, who refused to allow scented soap in the shower during my childhood years, now has a cupboard stocked with curly noodle soup, sports animal stickers on his back door, and a maintains a gaggle of Barbies who loiter in his favorite recliner.

When I dropped by Dad’s house last Sunday to comfort the old man in his lonesome existence and retrieve his great-grandaughter, I tripped over three teddy bears and a stuffed cat having a tea party, stumbled on a pair of pink plastic high heeled shoes and a glittery feather boa tossed carelessly in front of a full length mirror, and turned my ankle sliding across a nest of scattered crayons and coloring books piled in the hallway.

“Dad!” I called, afraid to endanger myself by advancing further. A trip to my father’s house should not involve my health insurance. “Have you been finding new ways to entertain yourself or is there a little girl hiding in there?”

Giggles erupted from around the corner. “We’re in the kitchen,” a small, freckled voice said. I followed a line of Winnie-the-Pooh stickers posted along the wall at five-year-old eye level and entered the kitchen. Over a teetering mountain of mall-type bags, a pair of large brown eyes twinkled in my direction.

“Can you tell we’ve been shopping?” the bag-mountain asked.

Does the queen wear matching accessories?

“Papa bought me a sticker book, two kinds of bubble gum, and a Shirley Temple video.”

“Shirley Temple?”

“Yeah, she’s a new kid that can dance.”

“If Shirley Temple’s a new kid, Britney's not even in hip huggers yet.”

“Papa made me a new kind of cheese sandwich. You cook it right in the oven.”

“Sweetie, it’s time to go. Gather up your 50 most prized possessions and I’ll take you home.”

She hopped down and ran to me, clutching a battered baby doll that looked like it would be at home in Little Orphan Annie’s boarding house. “I’m ready.”

“What about all your treasures?”

“Oh, Papa bought that stuff for me to play with here. He already took my other stuff home for me.”

I glanced over at my dad, who was nestled in his recliner recovering from the shopping expedition by snoring loudly through the ballgame. He cracked one eye open and peered up at me. “Don’t forget her food. She has Little Debbie brownies, Beauty and the Beast cookies, and Barbie cupcakes. With sprinkles.”

Sure, the queen may have matching hat and shoes and the wealth of an entire nation, but the princess has designer snacks and a Papa who can’t say no.

Naughty is Nice

I’ve found a flaw in this whole Santa thing. Not Santa himself, mind you. He’s all right, living it up at the top of the world, drinking hot chocolate and refereeing reindeer games. It’s the whole being good theory. Quite by accident I found an inconsistency. Kind of like the state of Illinois found in the Governor's office recently, but on a much grander scale. I didn’t want to say anything until I performed conclusive scientific testing in an environment where the integrity of my research could not be skewed by scientists or other cult members, but after several years of receiving actual gifts from Santa, I could hold my silence no longer. See conclusive test results below:

Year One (2006)

I forgot to pay the pastor’s water bill resulting in an untimely discontinuance of water service at the parsonage (although flushing privileges did resume shortly thereafter), I wore dirty socks several days in a row, and I faked a serious bout of semi-consciousness so that Bill would bring Lo Mein for supper.

I should have been sentenced to at least six months of intensive labor as Class Mom in Charge of Cupcakes, but I evaded charges and never even preheated the oven. This course of events could be due to the fact that the teacher was previously acquainted with my cupcake making skills and had a preparedness plan already in place, but for Christmas I received a generous amount of musical CD’s, clothes, and assorted goodies. This incident smacks of loopholes in Santa’s operating procceses.

Year Two (2007)

I bought tickets to the circus with the grocery money, forced my son, “Undeclared Major” to take a job, and ate all the candy that well-wishers brought for the office staff to share. Santa rewarded this display with a foot spa and an attendant elf to refill the water when it got chilled. (Bill Dear still refuses to wear the green elf-support tights, but you can’t beat him as a water bearer. I’m convinced he was born under the wrong sign.) Looks like Santa has a bug in his software, or he’s slipping. What is the mandatory retirement age at the North Pole?

Year 3 (2008)

It was a banner year for naughty at my house. I sideswiped hubby’s car and laid the blame on his lack of parking skills, I tried to pass fried liver off as sirloin on at least one occasion, and I took in another stray dog, thereby breaking the “one more animal in this house and we have to give up a child” dictate.

Santa outdid himself. Such piles of chocolates and treasures surrounded me on Christmas morning, I thought the Jolly Old Man had gone completely off his sleigh bells. He even brought me new pajamas dotted all over with clever pictures of smiling puppies with pink collars. Clearly something has to be done.

I suggest we give Santa a raise.