Monkey Bread and Mr. Peanut

I've never made monkey bread. Ever. I have never even tasted it, although CPM claims to have devoured some at Jaime's house at a party. I must have been parked near the chips and dip or the M&M bowl that she always puts out (another of her ideas that I have stolen for all time, because M&Ms in a big bowl are just awesome).

For some reason, monkey bread popped into my head as the perfect treat to have on hand for a visit from some dear friends on Easter Sunday. I used Smitten Kitchen's recipe. I did not make the cream cheese glaze. I also veganized the recipe by using almond milk and vegan butter. That means that this was healthy monkey bread, because, as all the world knows, being vegan means that everything you eat is good for you :)

Thus, on Sunday, I woke myself up at 7:30: the dough requires two separate rises, and our visitors were arriving at 11. CPM was a little annoyed that the stand mixer was chugging away at 7:45 a.m., but that's what happens when your bedroom is right next to your kitchen. It's one of those things you get used to in a rancher. The mixer kneaded, the dough rose, I rolled balls of dough in butter and sugar, the dough rose again, then I baked. And dear gods, why didn't I ever do this before? I made Brian and Joselle take the few leftovers with them, to save me from myself...I could easily have spent the day popping little balls of sugary dough into my mouth.



***

CPM has been referring to me as Mrs. Peanut for the past two weeks. It's his new nickname for me, he says because my head is shaped like a peanut, and I should be wearing a monocle. Let's hope this nickname doesn't stick, because I am not starting a new blogging career as Mrs. Peanut. But Mrs. Peanut has gotten the perfect thing for her upcoming vacation, a peanut sized folding bike from Citizen Bikes. Our dream has always been to take our bikes with us on vacation. While I've read a lot about other people doing this, this will be a first for us. (CPM is taking his Xootr Swift.) Let's hope it all works out, because I'd love to be cruising around Waikiki on my teeny tiny bike.

Why am I afraid of something so small?

When I sat in my chair at my desk this morning, it squeaked. Hmmm, I thought, this chair needs a little WD40. I proceeded to spin around in my chair, to bounce up and down, roll it back and forth, to see how bad the squeaking problem was. Oddly, the squeaking was not corresponding to any of my movements. That's when I realized I was actually hearing the sound of a mouse on a glue trap.

I know that sound well, from my time living in the basement unit of an apartment building downtown. CPM and I had a private entrance that was in a narrow alley, across from a few dumpsters (said dumpsters were also a convenient public toilet for various homeless fellows...ah, college living). There were holes in the baseboard everywhere. We stuffed them with steel wool. Once, I swear something was trying to chew through that steel to get me, as I huddled in fear on the living room futon. Another time, CPM left for work in the morning, and I woke up thinking that the battery in the smoke detector must have died, due to the frequency of the squeaking. Once it registered that I was listening to a mouse, I got the hell out of dodge and left the guy stuck on the trap for CPM to deal with upon his return to the apartment. (Said apartment also featured cockroaches that were roughly the size of 747s. Yeah, I do not miss that place.)

I have a deadly irrational fear of mice. I don't know why. They freak me out. Rats are even worse. I can safely look at the pet mice and rats in Petsmart, but the real thing, in the wild, skeeves me completely.

So, this morning, I began to thoroughly investigate my workstation. Where had maintenance staff put the trap? I moved my waste bin aside, and almost fainted when I saw a stray paper towel behind it. I was lightheaded at this point. Finally, standing up, surveying the open office area, I saw the trap, fifteen feet from me. The little guy had drug his trap away from the wall, out into the open area. He was a real fighter. He was also gigantic. Unfortunately for him, the building maintenance has a clear mouse disposal policy. And I'm wishing we had a department cat.

Is this for real? and other shit.

Seriously. If you need to catch up with me: husband frequents a local pizza joint, chick at local pizza joint crafts a Missed Connection for him, friends notify husband, husband cutely confronts pizza slinger, we all laugh, all is well. And now, here she is, terminated from the pizza joint (probably for stalking old guys), and asking to KIT with my husband. Oh no she din't. Now the psycho in me is seriously contemplating a response. I won't though. My (male) co-workers have advised me to let the husband have the joy of an admirer, because there is so little happiness in life as it is. Okay, okay. Fine. But if she does it again, she's toast.

***

20 days and counting.


What? I got a frantic text message one day notifying me of "insanely low" airfares to Oahu from Newark. Indeed, I got tickets for a little over 400 per person, round trip. That is unheard of--it's about fifty percent less than the current average cost to fly round trip to Oahu from the east coast. It was a sign. A sign that it was time once again to return to vacationing. Yes, we have thousands of dollars of work left to do on the new house (landscaping, roofing, driveway repaving, etc). And yes, my husband is self employed, thus not really earning much in the way of actual money. But you know what? Who gives a shit! I could die next month. I haven't had a break from work (except the move week) in over a year. This winter has been beyond awful. I need warmth. I need a beach. I need Mai Tai's.

So, the disappointing thing about the trip is that I've grown too fat for all of my shorts from last summer. There. I put it in writing. While my brain fantasizes about losing a few pounds in the next few weeks, I know this is not going to happen (okay, it might, if I stick to my current self imposed pre vacation diet exercise torment schedule). I will embrace my new almost pre-muffin top. Old lady bathing suits, here I come.