Tea party etiquette: What you really need to know

Yesterday, I had the privilege of attending a very fancy, very special tea party, hosted by this yummy girl:

She gave me quite the schooling on tea party etiquette and I thought I would share with you what I learned, in case you ever find yourself the recipient of a hand scrawled invitation for afternoon tea. These are just some of the things that you will need to know.

First, the drink of choice will always be lemon water. You will not be allowed to help slice the lemons, however, so spend this time praying and cringing as the stubborn strong willed hostess does the cutting.

[Note: Miraculously, no fingers were harmed in the making of this lemon water.]

Lemon water/tea is best consumed with the fancy umbrellas in the cups. Should you attempt to remove the fancy umbrella before consumption, you will be severely reprimanded.

Even if it is poking you in the face.

Best jewels are not only encouraged, but highly recommended. Most preferable are multi-colored, homemade necklaces. The gaudier the better at this type of social event.

Be prepared also for a delicious concoction of melted crushed chocolate popsicles covered in caramel sauce and whipped cream.

A delicacy rarely seen in western society, but tasty nonetheless.

Nilla wafers are the tea cookie of choice. You will only be allowed to eat one or two of these, however, as little fingers are much faster than yours.

Be sure to open your heart and be willing to make new friends. Welcome and converse with the short blond girl next to you in spite of her seemingly stoic silence.

Complimenting her fine ballet attire will also bring great joy to your hostess.

Under no circumstances, however, will your hostess allow big brothers of any sort to attend. Doing so would violate the strict, time-honored rule of No Boys Allowed.

They will not be welcomed even if they just so happen to be hanging out in the next room.

Much to their chagrin.

Last, but not least, when you think no one is looking, go ahead and give that plate a little lick.

And smile sheepishly if you happen to get caught.

Any questions?

And that, my friends, is exactly why I will continue to exercise every day

Internets, my heart, it is all a flutter.

Quite literally.

Fluttering and palpitating.

I have been noticing some palpitations and flutters for about a week now, and since we are of the highly insured variety, I popped myself into the cardiologist's office this week.

I liked going. I was the youngest in the waiting room by like 30 years at least. Made me feel pretty and attractive, sitting there next to the little old people and their spotted hands. As they called my name, I felt proud standing up without a walker. Almost turned around and gave the old peeps a wave -- and would have, too -- had I not tripped over my own feet like an idiot.

Stupid youth and hubris.

So my palpitations and flutters are probably nothing, but the cardiologist decided to send my highly insured self for an echocardiogram. Just to be safe. (Oma, are you dying reading this? Sorry.)

Getting an echo meant another day of sitting in yet another waiting room full of the lovely old people. And their walkers. And their canes. With me and my bad self. Strutting my youth and vitality. Nimbly bending and reaching without so much as a crack or a creak. Reminding them of the former glory they once had. My beauty, frozen in time...

Oh, all right. I'll stop now.

So finally my name is called by a technician who just so happens to look and sound exactly like Saddam Hussein. He takes me down a series of hallways and we end up at the doorway of a very dark room. Which was outfitted with a bed.

Saddam smiles, tells me to take my shirt off, put on a paper gown, and lie down on the bed in the dark room.

I mean, it usually takes at least dinner before I'll go to first base with a dead foreign dictator. Geez.

So I take my shirt off, put on the hideously loud paper gown, and lie in the dark room on the bed. After several noisy, paper-crunching minutes, Saddam comes back. He starts looking at my heart with the ultrasound/echo thingie (yes, that is the technical term) and makes a "Hmmpph" sound.

When one is lying there topless in a dark room with a Saddam Hussein lookalike, "Hmmpph" is not exactly the word you want to hear. He then asks me what I do for a living. I reply, a little too boldly, that I am a self-employed photographer. (Code for stay-at-home mom who likes to dabble in photography on the side). Saddam whistles through his moustache and says,

"Wow. By de looks of your heart, I would say you were a pro-fessional ath-a-lete. You have a veddy good heart. Do you, uh, work out?"

But see, he says this with a mixture of surprise and disdain as he is appraising my very, shall we say, un-athletic-like physique.

I reply that, yes, I work out every day.

Saddam turns back to the monitor with another of his Hmmphs. Which was code for, "Wow. Chubby over here is healthier than she looks. Go figure."

Well, at least I now know one thing: My heart can totally beat up his heart.

Help me, please

I have lost something of critical value and I have no idea where it went.

What did I lose, you ask?

I have lost my Motivation.

And I can't seem to find it, no matter how hard I look. I know it's around here somewhere. The last I saw of it was right around the 1st of January, but it definitely hasn't been seen much since. I've looked in all the usual places -- in my ever-tightening pants, in my bulging muffin top, and even in my backside in the full-length mirror.

And still, that wily Motivation is nowhere to be found.

Some days I do pretty well without it. I almost always start the day off on the right foot. I have a bowl of healthy cereal, and follow that up by a sweaty run on the treadmill. But then at about ten-thirty (or eleven-thirty, or two-thirty, or really any-thirty...), all sense of strength leaves me as I remember the leftover cake in the freezer. Or when I see the pan of brownies on the counter. Or when I have a party made up entirely of desserts, come to think of it.

And, lord help me, but I know those girl scout cookies I ordered are going to be in my pantry any day now.

So if you see my Motivation anywhere, please let me know. I really need to find her soon. I know she'll want to be here to help when her step-cousin, Regret, shows up to visit this summer at the pool.

And it goes without saying that Regret is the worst house guest of them all.

**What do you do to keep your Motivation from sneaking off for a six-month holiday?

Contentment

I was watching my kids play in the snow last week. I watched their red cheeks, stretched tight with cold and laughter. The snow balls flew through the air, and their bodies pressed angel-shaped into the snow-covered grass. Confetti clouds of white were tossed against the bright, blue sky. Shrieks of bubbly laughter surrounded them like a thick blanket.

And then the question creeped into my mind, ever so softly.

When exactly did I grow up?

I don't remember it happening. I just know that it has.

No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to pinpoint the moment that dipping my face into the snow sounded less like an adventure and more like torture. When did I decide that a snowball in the face is not the least bit funny? When did it grow so cold out that I chose to watch instead of play?

I think it happened so gradually that I hardly noticed it.

There was a time that I was the one with frostbitten fingers, tossing snowballs at my brothers' knitted caps. I was the one who donned moon boots and a striped coat, and stayed outside for hours -- returning to the house only for lunch or a quick cup of cocoa. I was once the one who made snow angels and tossed confetti clouds of white against the sky.

My days now are filled with schedules, carpools, laundry, and dishes. I have bills that I pay. I have a car that I maintain, and a house that I own. I have worries, stored up in a tired mind, that always seem to unleash themselves the minute my head hits the pillow.

I am the one who locks up the house at night, and climbs into bed in the dark. Nobody checks my closet for monsters or tucks me in with a kiss.

I am now the grown up.

Every once in a while, I miss the little girl who liked to have that kind of fun. But mostly, I sit content with myself now. Watching over my little snow babies from the warmth and security of a soft chair by the window. Looking up from my book now and then to laugh with them. Hurrying to ready a warm cup of cocoa when I hear their boots stomping in the garage.

Because the little girl I once was? She never knew what it felt like to warm the hands of her babies, listen to their laughter, and find that she loves them so much it hurts.

If she had, I'm afraid she might have been in a much bigger hurry to grow up.

Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister

Internet, meet the adorable Miss H:

Now meet her beautiful sister, Miss A.

Are you in love yet? Because pretty much all it took for me was one look and I was sunk.

I had a session for some headshots with these adorable girls last week, and I just had to share some of my favs. I could not get over their expressive faces, their spunky personalities, and their radiant beauty. Loved meeting them.

By the time we were done, I wanted to stuff them both in my pocket and take them home.

But I didn't. Figured their mama would really miss their dancing (of which I was treated to a performance myself, and it's definitely most fantastic).

Thank you so much, darlings, for the best winter session yet. You two are going to be rock stars, I just know it.

Hershey's peanut butter chip cheesecake

All right, all right. I'll help you people out. Because I love you.

And because it is my life's work to fatten the rest of you up so that maybe eventually I'll look thin.

[Insert maniacal, evil laugh and diabolical hand wringing]

Okay. Got that out of my system. Let's make a cheesecake.

Take 1 1/4 cup graham cracker crumbs
1/3 cup butter, melted
1/3 cup cocoa
1/3 cup sugar

Combine and press into the bottom of a greased springform pan. Set aside.

Take 3 packages of softened cream cheese (the 8 ounce size) and combine with 1 1/2 cups sugar.

Do not, under any circumstances, notice how many calories are in the cream cheese or make mental calculations as to the calorie content of this dessert. It will cause depression and self-loathing, which require the making and eating of MORE cheesecake. Which will in turn cause more depression and self-loathing. Let's just avoid that vicious cycle all together, shall we?

Beat sugar and cream cheese well. Add 4 eggs and 2 tsp vanilla. Beat just until combined.

Add 1 2/3 cup Reese's peanut butter chips. This is the small 10-ounce bag found in the baking aisle of your grocery store. Or measured out of the extra large billion-ounce bag they sell at Sam's Club. You know, the one you can grab handfulls from anytime you happen to be in the kitchen?

Yes. Get that one. My bum will thank you.

Fold in peanut butter chips gently.

Pour over prepared crust and pop into a 350 degree oven for 50 to 55 minutes.

Bake until slightly puffed and center is set except for a 4-inch circle in the center. I have found that with my oven, I end up cooking the cheesecake probably 60 to 63 minutes total.

Remove from oven and cool for 30 minutes. With a knife, loosen cheesecake from the side of the pan. Cool completely.

When completely cool, remove side of pan, and get ready to make the chocolate drizzle.

For the chocolate drizzle: Melt 3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1 Tbsp shortening in microwave on high for 30 to 45 seconds or until smooth when stirred.

I like to fill a pastry bag with the melted chocolate because I'm uber fancy, but you can easily drizzle it from a spoon if that's how you roll.

Drizzle chocolate until you're satisfied or it's completely covered- whichever comes first. Pop into the fridge to set for several hours.

Invite people over to partake and find that you have won friends and influenced people.

Yeah. You're welcome.