concerning "quaint" towns / raw coconut water

Every time I visit a town referred to as "quaint" or "nestled" in any type of landscape whether sea or mountains or whatever, I become suspicious. These overused adjective's usually mean one thing only: fudge shops. Small town fudge shops draw fanny-packed Americans into their sugary arms like retired Floridians to egg salad sandwiches. And each of these lame towns always proclaim themselves as having "the best fudge in the country". Who the hell eats fudge anyway?
These types of towns scare me. They always have that "Truman Show" look about them. The sidewalks are cobblestone and pristine, the shop windows are framed in gingham-checked curtains, and you instantly get the feeling that you've entered a time capsule. My unicorn friend picks up a complimentary map from the trolley conductor, but since the town's only 3 inches long, I tell him we'll manage. There's a barber shop with the weird twirly striped thing outside the door, a "country" store that sells peanut brittle and salt water taffy, about a dozen or so antique shops (translation: stores filled with some old cat lady's weird junk), little benches with bronze statues of small children at play, horse-drawn carriages driven by bearded men in top hats who speak with an accent that suggests they're from the 19th century, and of course–the dreaded fudge shop. Salted fudge, fudge with nuts, fudge filled with coffee, fudge shaped into dogs, and fudge store novelty items: stuffed animals holding hearts and a small bag of fudge, magnets, teeshirts, and other useless crap that tourists scoop up with exuberance so they can show their friends back home. "We went to this quaint little town and they had the best fudge..."
These towns were probably great a long time ago, before they knew how marketable they could become by exploiting their charm to the point of nausea. All you have to do is clean up your town a bit (translation: add cobblestone, hanging flower baskets, street lamps, and an old cannon or some type of rusting weapon of yesteryear in the main square...there must be a main square). Then add a Life is Good franchise. Tourists love that spindly-legged do gooder. You should also have a "walking tour" of the town, described in a series of plaques every few hundred feet: "This is where Joe-I-did-the-american-dream-thing-Smith first landed" or "This is the oldest tree in America", etc. The important thing is to make sure that this walking tour isn't longer than about a 1/2 mile, not only because you'll end up in the next town but because Americans don't like to walk. Actually, if you really want to shake things up, open up a Segway rental shop and soon you'll have fanny-packs zooming around your town like nobody's business! And you can charge twice as much for everything. As long as it has the town's name plastered all over it, tourists will overlook the golden "Made in China" sticker.

Now that you're parched from stuffing your face with fudge and you've totaled your Segway, why not sit on one of those creepy benches with the bronze children and have some coconut water? Raw coconut water is the water found inside of fresh young coconuts. It is one of the most naturally hydrating liquids on earth. It's full of electrolytes and has the same nutrient balance as plasma. The brand I love most is called Harmless Harvest. Unlike most brands, Harmless Harvest's coconut water is unprocessed and raw, which allows for greater nutrient bioavailability and a superior taste. You can also purchase a young coconut from most natural foods stores and stick a straw in the top and suck the water out for yourself. Either way, it's insanely delicious. Try it out and give it to your unicorn friends!

concerning the dentist / roasted beet & chickpea salad

So I'm not a big fan of going to the dentist. It's nothing in particular, just the general atmosphere and post-cleaning stomach ache from swallowing the electric blue mouthwash in miniature paper cups and recovering from the embarrassment of not being able to figure out which button fills the cup and which button cleans the bowl. The waiting room isn't so bad except the magazines have that used quality about them that tempts my germophobia to come out in full form (translation: inability to open magazines followed by fixation on other frequently touched objects: doorknobs, pens, seats that have recently become available and are still warm, etc). As soon as they call my name and whisk me through the milk toast colored door, I can smell the mouthwash and latex gloves. The chairs are comfortable, but then they shine that unearthly looking spaceship lamp into your mouth while asking you how your family is. You have to time when you're going to answer because the tools keep going in and out of your mouth and you inevitably have one of those awkward moments when you speak just as their about to put the mirror back in. They wait for you to finish telling them about your dog's weight problem and you resume your vacant stare at the popcorn ceiling. Why don't they hang some artwork or a crossword puzzle or a flatscreen on the ceiling instead of forcing you to stare at the air vent while listening to soft rock? The chair comes down and it's time to rinse. I catch a view of the pastel print of a white chair in a garden and become sidetracked by my preoccupation with judging people who love crappy art. I manage to hit the wrong button and my blue mouthwash overflows into the ceramic bowl. I swish it around and spit, managing to dribble on my stiff paper bib. After the dentist polishes my teeth with bubblegum flavored grit (half of which I end up swallowing), Mr. Thirsty comes out. Mr. Thirsty is the miniature vacuum cleaner that slurps up all the liquid in your mouth before you choke on it. When I was little they used to try to pump me up with excitement by smiling and saying: "Here comes Mr. Thirsty!" I was more traumatized than excited, for by that point I had already discovered that when adults get overly excited about something in a hospital setting, it means you're not going to like it. I end my appointment with a visit from the big man himself, the head dentist. I've been going to the same dentist since I was little, so when he recently retired I didn't know what to do. A new dentist came in and they said I should go to him. I said fine. My old dentist was a hippie type with a vegan daughter and we got along great, so when the new guy walked in with a crew cut and hungry looking eyes, I became anxious. He's about six years old and shakes my hand so hard that my bib unhooks. His teeth are blazing white and he looks like he hasn't seen the sun in a decade. The mirror and the pick come out and he examines my teeth with exuberance. I've never had a cavity before and I've never had any work done. After he pokes around, he tells me that I have a cavity and need a filling. "Really?" I ask. I wonder what I've been doing wrong. He says it's no big deal. So I get the filling and a few hundred uninsured dollars later, I'm back at the office for another cleaning, and guess what? This time I need a few hundred dollars worth of x-rays and two more fillings. Now I'm getting suspicious. I ask to see the x-rays, but all he shows me is a bunch of light areas and dark areas around my teeth. When he points out the "bad" areas, I lightheartedly mention that he could be showing me a picture of space and I wouldn't know the difference. He laughs uncomfortably behind a set of magnifying spectacles that actually make him look like he's from space. I make the appointment for more fillings, then make the mistake of telling my dad (translation: my dad thinks everyone is always after your money and you can't trust anyone, especially young dentists and car dealers). He tells me what I want to hear. "Your teeth are fine...he's just trying to make more money off of you." Solution? I'm switching dentists, and may or may not be suffering from two life threatening cavities.

When you're worried about cavities, what should you make yourself to eat? A huge crunchy salad of course! This salad is a perfect Big Love style marriage of creamy, sweet, tangy, and salty.

Roasted Beet & Chickpea Salad

2 red beets, scrubbed & ends removed
1 cup cooked chickpeas
small handful of fresh dill, minced
1 avocado, pitted and chopped

for the dressing:
1 T dijon mustard
1 T balsamic vinegar
2 tsp apple cider vinegar
2 T olive oil + more for baking beets
sea salt & pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400. Place beets in baking dish, sprinkle with salt and pepper, drizzle with olive oil, and cover with foil. Bake for an hour, or until a knife easily pierces the beets. Allow to cool, then remove skins and chop. In a small bowl, whisk together dressing ingredients, then toss with salad and enjoy! Feeds two unicorns with post-traumatic dental stress.

billboard humor / buttermilk pecan waffles with blueberries

So I made the mistake of listening to an American history book on CD while driving to Florida and have come to two conclusions: firstly, that the Union and the Confederacy should have just gone their separate ways, and secondly, that America has a profoundly unhealthy obsession with making money. But as we crossed state border after state border, the only real opinions I could generate about each state were based on the billboards that stretch along the I-95. They started off with nuance and wordplay, hinting at what they were selling without insulting the driver's intelligence, perhaps even resulting in a dry chuckle or a whispered "touché". The chic Audi billboard "Your move, BMW" and the suave reply "Checkmate" got our trip off to a sophisticated start. I nearly had to roll down my window and light up a cuban while pretending that my Subaru was the 2012 Audi A4.
After driving past billboards for ipods, itunes, ipads and all things apple, and at least three billboards for Breaking Dawn: Part 1 that read "forever is just the beginning" followed by a not-so-brief desire for my husband to become a vampire (translation: Rob Pattinson), we reached North Carolina (we don't need to mention Delaware because I'm fairly certain that no one lives there). This is when we began to see signs like "When you die, you will meet God" interspersed with South of the Border's witty one-liner's: "You never sausage a place, you're always a winner at Pedro's" and "Pedro's weather report: chili today hot tamale!". I quickly found that the combination of the billboards and the increasing heat slowed my brain function, and as we continued south, confederate flags began to crop up on the backs of trucks and Darwin fish were replaced by Jesus fish. Religious billboards continued to multiply like pine trees with bold statements like "Where are you going? Heaven or Hell?" and "Anti-God is Anti-American" (ironically, when we stopped for gas in Georgia, I went into the store and, in addition to the usual items, were a string of occupied slot machines and a neon sign that read "Playboy" above a vast selection of colorful magazines (translation: the billboards aren't working).
Florida brought with it a slew of ads for community living with walled-in pink stucco houses, palm trees and neon grass. Everyone featured in these ads was 106 and had replaced their cadillac with an electric golf cart, and find bridge absolutely scintillating. There were a few ads for Ron Jon's surf shop featuring the nearly extinct sun-bleached surfer dude (who I suspect has been hunted and turned into egg-salad sandwiches and prune juice).

Driving down the I-95 and feeling bored? Whip out your waffle iron (which you obviously packed in your suitcase) and make a batch of yummy waffles! These waffles are hearty, crunchy and have just the right amount of sweetness to make you dream about breakfast every night. This recipe is adapted from the fabulously vegan Post Punk Kitchen. 


Buttermilk Pecan Waffles with Blueberries


2 cups nut milk (I use soymilk)
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
2 cups whole wheat pastry flour or all purpose flour 
1 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons ground flax seeds
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons maple syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup fresh blueberries
1 cup pecans, chopped

Pour nut milk in

to bowl and add vinegar to allow it to curdle. Then combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in another bowl.

Add the flax seeds to the milk and whisk until frothy, about 30 seconds. Add mixture to the flour along with water, olive oil, maple syrup and vanilla. Mix with a wooden spoon until mostly combined then fold in the blueberries and pecans.

Preheat waffle iron and let the batter rest. Cook according to waffle iron directions, making sure to oil the iron before making each waffle so it doesn't stick. Serve with maple syrup and Earth Balance butter, if desired. Makes about 8 waffles, perfect for a herd of 4-8 unicorns with road rage.

buying a new car / key lime & coconut tarts

My husband and I recently bought a subaru.
Go ahead. Tell me that I'm a liberal, a lesbian or a homeschooling mother of three because to you I will simply say Ha! I am destroying that stereotype, one granola bar at a time. But let's be honest, stereotypes develop for a reason...
Take my car buying experience. As soon as I walked through the door, I was royalty; the most beautiful and interesting person they had ever met (translation: ignorant car buyer going to slaughter). Everything I said warranted a light chuckle and a nod of the head. I could do no wrong in this fantasy world of shiny cars and shinier smiles; all they wanted to do was help me. Or so I thought. Now I'm not so ignorant as to be fooled by these kinds of sales tactics, and fake niceness is right at the top of my list of least favorite things. Believe me, I've been there, on the other side, handing out orchids to tourists and pretending to care about their Hawaiian vacation when I'll I really wanted to do was con them into buying timeshares. And I did. Again and again with the slyness of a used car salesman. All they wanted was directions to the Cheesecake Factory and now they are going to a free luau with orchids behind their ears after buying a timeshare they don't want = Job done (I quit that job to save myself from becoming the slime of the earth). But I digress...
So I'm buying a new car and I don't know about you, but in my estimation there can only be so much conning going on. I know the msrp is a joke and I can work with that. I just have to play their game, hem and haw over everything and scrunch up my face so that I appear to be in deep contemplation. Lie and tell them I'll come back later after I've thought about it some more (even though I already know I'm going to buy the car). I know what I'm doing...
The sales guy I'm working with keeps disappearing with a line like "I don't have those numbers in front of me, in fact I'm not privy to them, but I can check with my manager and see if he can work something out for you". Because I'm special, right? Wrong, they say the same bs to every poor slob who walks in, and you know what, most of them probably eat that crap right up.
I finally get the numbers in front of me after negotiating with the guy for an hour (translation: I ask for a deal, he theatrically sighs and carries on, then talks to the manager, then comes back, then sighs and tell me that they don't normally do this, but he wants me to be happy, etc...bs, bs, bs).
Then it gets interesting...I buy the stupid car so they should be happy, right? Well they are, but not until I've bought all of the extra crap that I don't need. The extended warranty I understand, but why doesn't it include everything? I have to buy tire and wheel coverage separately, dings and dents separately, and the worst of all? A little extra called glasscoat. This is a poly-based paint that bonds to the paint job on the car and apparently protects it (translation: covers it with an extra coat of paint that it doesn't need so the dealership can make more money off of you). As I write this, I'm embarrassed/pissed that I fell for it. The salesman that sold me the car hands me off to the king of slime balls, the dreaded "manager". He's a greasy, baldheaded guy stuffed into a wrinkled shirt, who's about to see how stupid I am. A few stories and two framed photos of his family later, we're big buddies and he's let me in on a little secret: this glasscoat stuff really works, and it's only $7.99 per month. With horror in his eyes he recalls to me the dangers of tree sap and road salt. How could my precious new baby subaru handle it? So I sign up, then realize three days later (thanks to my father's brilliant opinion: "that's *$%^!") that I don't want it anymore. Now upon signing, my "new best friend" had told me that I could easily alter anything if I changed my mind. Yea, right. I called them up and told them I didn't want it anymore. They were shocked! stunned! stupified! and told me I had to bring in my contract and that it was going to be very complicated. Great. So I went in and my same bff tried to sell me on it again with the premise: "I'm not going to try to change your mind, but...(enter sales pitch here)". After he ranted on for several minutes, I told him that I didn't understand why a brand new car needed another coat of paint. He brought up the tree sap again and I started getting antsy.
"I don't want it, period", I finally said. And that was the end. No more glittering smiles and fake chuckles; I had become the dreaded customer with an opinion. He grumbled and started punching keys on his computer, all the while telling me that no one had ever canceled glasscoat before, so he wasn't even sure if he could cancel it. Now I really hate this guy. Not only is he blatantly lying to me, he's making me feel like I'm the problem. I want to say "I'm on to you, you money grubbing snake!" but instead I say, "you expect me to believe that this is the first time a customer has ever canceled glasscoat?" He looks at me with beady eyes and lies to my face again. Then he says he can't change the contract because it's already "in" (in where? a secret vault of untouchable contracts?), so he'll have to write me a check for the amount.
"Does this mean that I'm going to be paying interest on it?" I ask. In a nutshell, yes. Then he asks me if I want the tax back. Um...duh, I think to myself. He says he might not be able to get it back. I am ready to scream at this point and my unicorn friend has decided to test drive the new outback while waiting for me. I whisper to him to park under a pine tree and wait for sap. Then I look back at my enemy, the stuffed turkey of a manager, and ask "if I return something to a store, do they give me my money back and keep the tax? No, because that would be illegal." He smiles and says he totally understands, but somehow this is different, more complicated (translation: he wants to keep the tax because he's a thieving bastard). He calls someone named Debra who must have all the answers, but alas she's unavailable. He's going to have to get back to me on that. Oh, but he'll take my credit card number and call me once he finds out. I look at him square in the face before I leave and say, "you're on my side, right?" His sweaty palm grabs my hand and I want to say so many horrible things to him, but my unicorn friend anxiously flags me down. I go outside and we get into my shiny new subaru, and my unicorn friend tells me that he accidentally stabbed his horn through the sunroof of the outback he was test driving. "Great", I say, "there goes my tax."

It's the middle of winter and you've just gotten screwed over by a car dealership. Solution? Indulge in some velvety smooth key lime tarts to lift your spirit! This recipe is raw, free of refined sugars, gluten free, soy free, and guilt free because it's made from healthy ingredients like avocado! Hooray!

Key Lime & Coconut Tarts

Crust:
1/2 cup almond flour (I use Bob's Red Mill)
1/2 cup dates, pitted
pinch of sea salt

Filling:
2 avocados, pitted and removed from skins
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup virgin coconut oil (I use Dr. Bronner's)
2 T coconut nectar (you can substitute agave nectar or honey)

Topping:
Handful of shredded, unsweetened coconut (I use Let's Do Organic)
Zest of one lime

Add crust ingredients to a food processor and blend until crumbly and moist. Press mixture into six ramekins or muffin tins or vessel of your choosing. Now blend the filling ingredients in a high-speed blender (like a Vita-Mix) until smooth and fluffy. Add a dollop of the filling to each ramekin and spread over crust. Top with a sprinkle of zest and coconut flakes. Chill in the frig for at least an hour before serving. Makes 6 ramekin-sized tarts, enough for 6 unicorns seeking revenge.

and now for something completely different / fettuccine with cashew alfredo

Sometimes I like to write poetry. And since I'm on a cleanse right now (translation: no life), I'm feeling less cynical and more contemplative. I know...boring, boring, boring. But what else am I supposed to do when it's 20 degrees outside and I can't drink? Exactly. Poetry is the answer. Here's one that I wrote about my mom and I...

“I had a thought today,” said my mother to me,

“and it didn’t make me sad or glad. It was just there in front of me

like a wide-eyed creature.”

A sparrow landed on the slate patio and picked up a piece of millet.

I asked her what it was.

“That we are insignificant. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, 

we don’t matter.” 

The sky was ocean blue with white-capped clouds.

“We are dust gathering in a corner, we are blades of grass

hanging onto the earth;

we are the small things that no one ever sees, we are seeds blowing on a wayward sojourn;

we are the raindrops that never reach the ground,

splattered on a bough, a fence, a rooftop—we are nothing.”

The phone was ringing. Mom always answers, but she didn’t get up. 

I guess she didn’t hear it. 

I smiled. She knew that I knew exactly what she meant because I always did. 

I agreed, of course, and asked her how this insignificance made her feel. 

“Like a wet blanket lifting from my shoulders,” she said, “like the first burst of radiant sunlight over a sleeping field—shouting—go on and do it Kim! 

Go on and wear the clothes you want, go on and tell the world how you feel about it, 

because in the end, none of it will matter!”

We shared a maniacal laugh. 

The laundry announced that it was clean. 

Yes, I thought to myself, this is one of those pure moments. 

This is what really matters.   

Now that you're feeling nostalgic and want to call your mom and tell her you love her, why not indulge in a sinfully rich dish with your unicorn friends and watch Steel Magnolias? This fettuccine alfredo will blow you away with its creaminess without the added nastiness of dairy. In fact, this dish is soy and gluten free too so I can't think of one person who won't be able to eat this (unless you're allergic to cashews in which case, I feel sorry for you because they are the greatest nut on the planet). 

Fettuccine with Cashew Alfredo

for the pasta:

1 box of fettuccine noodles (use whole wheat noodles or brown rice noodles to make it gluten free)

1 large yellow onion, sliced

1 box of button mushrooms, sliced

1 red pepper, sliced

*optional* a few handfuls of spinach or kale or chard (everything I make has greens in it because I am a dirty hippie...and unicorns love their greens)

sea salt & black pepper to taste

for the sauce:

2 cups raw cashews

1/2 cup stock or water

3 T fresh lemon juice

4 cloves garlic (sliced and sauteed in a little olive oil for 1 minute)

1 cup almond milk (I use unsweetened, but if you want to use "original" then omit the coconut nectar)

1 tsp dried thyme

1 tsp coconut nectar (I love this minimally processed sweetener, but you can easily substitute agave nectar or brown rice syrup)

2 T nutritional yeast (buy it in the bulk section of a natural foods store)

1 T tamari (naturally brewed, gluten free soy sauce. You can sub with regular shoyu too.)

pinch of sea salt

Get out a big pot and fill it up with lots of water and a generous pinch of sea salt. Cover, and bring to a boil, then add noodles and cook according to package directions. Meanwhile, saute your onion in some olive oil until soft, then add mushrooms, stir once or twice, then add the rest of your veggies. Season with salt and pepper. 

In a high speed blender (buy a Vita-Mix! They're amazing!!!) add all sauce ingredients and blend on variable speed until combined, then pump it up to highest speed until creamy and smooth. If you're using a Vita-Mix, leave motor running until sauce is heated up. If you're using a conventional blender, remove once creamy and smooth, then gently heat in a saucepan until warm (if your blender is a little weak, soak the cashews for an hour first, then add to blender with everything else). Toss noodles with sauce and a bit of the starchy water from the pot to thin out the sauce, if desired. Add veggies and serve to four nostalgic unicorns who want to feed their emotions. 

an alien named Santa part two

Santa the alien is still fascinated by my slippers when I suggest he come inside.
"Is your spaceship on wheels?" I ask.
"No, it's a hover craft," he replies.
"So...no wheels?" I just want him to move it out of the front yard so no one sees it.
He looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "It hovers," he emphasizes, "Get it? Why would I need something as archaic as wheels?"
I shake my head and show him where the garage is. After he moves his ship into the bay, he joins me at the door to my apartment. "You're not one of those weird ass scientists that wants to give me a lobotomy and sell my body parts on the black market, right?" he asks.
My raised eyebrows and bulging eyes seem to answer correctly. He steps inside.
"Whoa! What is that?" Santa yells.
My cat, Dragon, seems to be thinking the same thing. She arches her back and tries to make herself as large as possible. Fur standing on end, sideways scuttle, never breaking her gaze with Santa. Frodo is somewhere near Mordor no doubt because I don't see him anywhere. Toast is already licking one of Santa's green legs. I swear, dogs are the most accepting creatures on earth.
"Don't worry, that's just my cat and dog. They won't hurt you."
"What are they doing here?"
"They're my pets."
"What are pets?"
"Companion animals that live with you."
Santa shakes his head, but doesn't reply. Obviously they don't have pets on his planet.
"Nice tree," he says, gesturing towards our Christmas tree.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Where's the menorah?"
"The what?"
"You know, the candle holder thingy that you light. Isn't that for Jesus's birthday? Or it that just Santa taking over again?"
I take a moment to process the question, then ask, "How do you know about Hanukkah?"
"Do I really need to explain it again?" he asks. "The letters, of course."
"But they're written to Santa and..."
"And...?"
"And that's a different religion and holiday all together!"
"Well, don't look at me. You humans are the ones with the strange holidays that make no sense."
Instead of arguing otherwise, I offer Santa some tea, and we sit on the couch.
"So...what's Hanukkah?"
I sigh so loudly that Santa cracks a smile. He doesn't have lips, or teeth for that matter, but I guess you just know a smile when you see one, alien or not.
"It's a holiday that Jewish people celebrate for eight days in December."
"Where are the Jewish people from?"
"All over, but they believe in God and the ten commandments and all that."
"Like the Christians?"
"Yea, but they don't believe in the whole Jesus-born-on-Christmas-day thing."
"What does Jesus think about it?"
"I don't know. I mean, he might not think about it at all, if they're right."
"You mean, the whole thing about Christmas that you told me hasn't been proven?"
"No."
"Then how come everyone celebrates Christmas?"
"It's called a belief for a reason," I smirk.
"Something tells me that you don't agree with it."
"Not at all. Who doesn't love presents and eggnog?"
"Oh, I get it. You're on Santa's side."
I laugh. This alien is funnier than I thought.
"So what do the Jewish people think?"
"That a guy like Jesus is going to come."
"When?"
"I don't know."
Santa and I sip our tea for a few moments in silence.
"You still haven't answered my question about Hanukkah," Santa points out.
"Oh, right. So on a particular day, you light one candle on the menorah, and the following seven days, you continue to light a candle until all eight of the candles are burning."
"Why?"
"To signify the importance of oil."
"What, for fuel? Isn't that what you still use?"
I find myself becoming sidetracked, but resist the urge to ask Santa what his spaceship runs on.
"No, for purifying the Jewish temple."
"Wouldn't oil burn it down? Why not use an antibacterial cleanser?"
"They didn't have cleanser back then. It was a long time ago."
"I don't understand."
My head is spinning at this point, and I barely understand what I'm saying either.
"So a bunch of Greeks took over the Jews and told them to worship their Gods. The Jews didn't want to and they eventually killed all of the Greeks..."
"Gods? I thought there was only one?"
"Some think there are more than one, some don't," I reply. "Anyway, afterwards, they thought their temple was defiled by the Greeks and wanted to purify it, so they lit a menorah, then realized they were almost out."
"Of what, oil?"
"Yup."
"Bummer."
"But it didn't matter because their one day's worth of oil lasted eight nights anyway. Hence celebrating the oil."
"Oh, I guess I get it. I still would've used cleanser, but whatever. So that's it?"
"Well, no," I sigh, "there's more..."
Images of menorahs and bald headed men wearing very small hats float through my head; children eating latkes and chocolate coins while singing "dreidel, dreidel", mothers wrapping presents in blue and silver paper with the star of david all over it, pickled herring and other gross looking foods labeled with the symbol K, Adam Sandler's "chanukah song", and a lot of strange sounding expressions that require a throaty delivery that leave everyone covered in little globules of spit.
Santa senses my hesitation.
"What I don't understand is, where does Santa fit into this whole oil cleansing thing?"
"He doesn't. He has nothing to do with it," I say.
"And yet, it's right there. In my letters. Santa this, Santa that..."
"So Jewish kids are sending you letters?"
"Yup. Always asking for eight presents. Freaking Santa..." he grumbles.
"Well, Hanukkah has become a lot more Christmas-y lately."
"I thought they weren't related?"
"They aren't, but it's the same month and all of the Jewish kids were jealous of the Christian kids because they get all these gifts on Christmas. So now the Jewish kids get eight gifts, one for each night of lighting the menorah."
"Which proves my point again. Santa taking over a holiday that isn't his..."
"You just don't like him because you get all of his mail," I remind him.
Santa grunts something unintelligible and shoots a menacing glare at Frodo, who has just realized that there is an alien in our apartment. He puts the ring on his paw and disappears...

an alien named Santa part one

8:31 am. A man with a hammer begins to hit nails into the side of my apartment. Naturally, I remain calm and go outside to see why the $%&*#^@ he's doing that at 8:31 in the morning. Yes, I know it's monday and most people are already at their junior investment banker jobs, but some people (namely, the unemployed and chefs) have mondays off.
8:35 am. I am standing in the driveway with my slippers on (moose rowing in canoes, stolen from my brother-in-law), trying to generate the most disgruntled expression I possibly can, when something amazing happens...
A spaceship lands in the grass below my porch. Yup, right in the area where Toast likes to take her morning dumps. I turn to the hammer man, but he's already run away. I consider doing the same, but the spaceship isn't very big and besides, three of my unicorn friends spent the night and I know they will fight to the death. No big deal.
Moments later, a door opens with that star wars-ish breaking of a seal sound, smoke billows out of the capsule, and a small alien walks out. He's green, of course, and has those tube-like antenna jutting out of the top of his head (it's amazing how right we've been about describing what aliens look like). He has a bit of a gut (too much freeze-dried ice cream? I wonder with a chuckle), and he's holding a pile of what looks like mail, wrapped in twine. He looks down at my slippers curiously.
"They're not mine, I swear."
"Reindeer?"
"What? Oh, the slippers- no those are moose."
"What's moose?"
"Similar to a reindeer, but..." What the hell is the difference? I ask myself. Nothing comes to mind except an obvious cliche. "Reindeer pull Santa's sleigh and moose don't." (I can't believe I just said that to an alien).
"Santa has a sleigh?"
"Er- yea," I reply, bewildered that he understands me, "how do you know who Santa is?"
"I keep getting all of his mail."
I make a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression. He understands that, too.
"The problem is, my name is Santa too, so I get a lot of his mail every year- always during December, which is kind of bizarre, you know? And I'm not going to lie, I have read a few of the letters."
"And?"
"And they're also totally bizarre...A bunch of poorly scribbled notes asking for strange things for something called christmas."
A pause.
"What the hell is christmas?" the alien asked.
 A flurry of images runs through my head: a fat, bearded white guy in a red suit, women wearing ornament bauble earrings, pine trees on rooftops of cars, miniature nativity scenes with hay, wise men, and baby J, eggnog, presents, and really really bad music.
"Um, it's kind of hard to explain," I reply nervously.
"It can't be as hard as me trying to explain this to my family." He gestures to the pack of letters.
"Ok, well, it's a holiday that we celebrate on the 25th of December."
"What are you celebrating?"
"Technically, the birth of Jesus Christ."
"Who's Jesus? Is that Santa?"
"No, Santa is the guy who delivers all the presents in his sleigh with reindeer who can fly."
Another pause.
"So Santa works for Jesus?"
"No, not really."
"Does he give presents to everyone?"
"Only those who have been nice."
"As opposed to what?"
"Naughty." (I can't believe I just said that).
Santa the alien looks at my moose slippers again. "Who's Jesus?"
"You know what reindeer are, but you've never heard of Jesus?"
"All of my information on your planet comes from those weird letters addressed to Santa."
"Some people believe that he is the savior of the world, the son of God, the Christ in CHRISTmas, and they worship him."
"Where does he live?"
"We killed him a long time ago, but he's not really human, so many believe that he's just living somewhere else, waiting for the right time to return as our savior."
"Does he live with Santa? Are they close friends?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What's with all of the pine trees getting chopped down and decorated?"
"That's where Santa puts all of the presents."
"Oh. Does Jesus have a tree with presents under it?"
"No, he's not into that."
"But the holiday is named after him, right?"
"Yea, but Santa has kind of taken over."
"What an asshole."
"No, he's a pretty good guy."
"He's a fat slob and he's taken over Jesus's birthday party. Not to mention I have to deal with his mail."
"Yea, sorry about that."
"You earthlings are strange."
He's staring at my slippers again.