Stocking Stuffers

I'm here! I'm here! My life has just been a whirlwind of random activities that all seem determined to bring me to my knees.

Case in point? My beloved pooch somehow got his paws on some chicken piccata. Chicken piccata and black labs don't mix. At all. He basically imploded, and I spent the greater part of one night scouring carpets, inadvertently walking through poop and cursing like a sailor. The rest of the week was dedicated to steam cleaners, a God send of a product called "Nature's Miracle" and a test in patience when he imploded on my living room carpet when it was still wet from being cleaned. Sigh.

My husband then invited his whole department over to our house for dinner. On a Friday. He works late every Friday, and even though this was supposed to be his chance to cook for his work friends, can you guess who did the work? I really love doing stuff like this, but I'm not good at winging it at the last minute. Combine that with an insanely busy week, and I was a big ball of stress. For 20 people, I decided to do a "cozy after work dinner" and did the following:

huge cheese board (dill havarti, triple cream brie, smoked gouda & stilton w/ cranberries)
Cheddar corn chowder
Butternut squash & apple soup
mango glazed ham
green salad (w/ pears and blue cheese)
dinner rolls
apple crisp w/ vanilla ice cream

I figured with a couple of different pots of soup on the stove, the fireplace going and a few open bottles of wine, it might distract them from the heavy scent of Febreeze and a mopey dog that was only eating rice and boiled chicken. My house was a complete nuclear bomb site two hours before the party, and despite three guests showing up half an hour early (that 30 minutes is when all the magic happens, folks) we had a really good time.

So good in fact, that a couple of nurses that work with my husband asked me if I'd host a holiday party. Here's a little background. 90% of the nurses that I've met are lovely, lovely people. Truly dedicated to what they do, real nurturers, and have a calling to do what they do. 10% of them (and I've met most of these in Southern Cal, go figure) are products of breast implant operations, hair extensions and "travel" to exotic locations to try stints at different hospitals. I learned a long time ago to make these girls my friends--- it's always better to admire their plastic surgery up close, than to gossip from afar.

One very attractive nurse, we'll call her Nurse A, asks me if I'll host a holiday party- a party just for girls.

"I love it!" I exclaim. "How about a cookie exchange!"
They all look at me with blank faces.
"You know, where everybody brings a different kind of cookie, and we all trade- so you go home with a platter of different kinds of cookies?" I explain, slowly realizing these girls haven't ever eaten a cookie, or a carb for that matter.

"Ummmm.... ok, " Nurse A says. Then her face lights up. "I can bring my toys!" The other girls immediately dissolve into giggles. Now it's my turn to look confused.

Apparently Nurse A has a side business of naughty toys. Her clear footwear should have been a dead give away.
Ho ho ho. No. No way.