Just Another Joni Day

          By now you’ve all packed away your holiday decorations, and even adjusted to the new, barren appearance of your home minus the sparkle and merriment.  Right?  But why can’t I ever do this without a major mishap?

          This time it was when I washed the Christmas Rat off my kitchen window.  Every year we—okay, I—paint a wreath on there.  I chose it because I am not an artist and a circle seemed like an easy motif.  Then, one year, I decided to add a little mouse, and a tiny stocking hung on a sprig of pine, waiting for Santa to bring him a treat.

          Except one year I made the mouse a little too big and the kids squealed with delight, “It’s a Rat!  It’s a Christmas Rat!” and insisted on this tradition ever after.

          This year I chose the wrong day to paint my masterpiece—I mean my disasterpiece.  It was extremely cold, so I splashed on that paint as fast as Santa slips down those chimneys, and in five minutes headed back inside. But, in my haste, I forgot to add a bit of soap to the paint.  This meant that when January rolled around and it was time to wash the window, it wouldn’t budge.

          I sprayed a strong degreaser on it.  I scrubbed.  Nothing.  Finally I decided to use the nearby garden hose, and dialed the “jet” setting so it would be like a power washer.

          Except I forgot to back away.  Suddenly the surge of water ricocheted off the window and drenched me with green paint and degreaser. Head to toe.  I looked like the Hulk.  Only madder.

          My hair, my face, my clothes—all were covered with soapy green paint. Oh—and remember this is the dead of winter, so the hose water is almost freezing, but not quite.

          I screamed, of course, but then I discovered that my cell phone, which I had placed on a table outside, also got splashed and now it won’t work.

          Well, YouTubeMom to the rescue, right? I don’t make those videos for nothing, and I knew to bury the phone in dry rice.  But I also knew time was of the essence, so I drove across town to Sprint, where the guy blew a canister of air on it, and that did the trick.  (It did not ricochet onto him, or onto me, I might add.)

          And I’m pretty sure he went home that night and told everyone a green monster came into the store that day, with a phone she had probably dropped into a swampy lagoon.  Whatever. 

I also noticed that St. Bob had kindly removed the rest of the wreath from the window.  So I had been rescued twice.  Not bad for a day’s work.

You, too, can be a hero.  Just buy one of my books here, and I will be forever grateful.

          I

Kidnapped!

          Where do kidnappers get those black bags?  You know, the ones they put over victims’ heads?

          I cannot find these anywhere.  Not online, in drugstores, thrift stores, malls, not on Amazon, not even in Neiman Marcus.  Nowhere is such an item available.

          And yet we see them in the movies and on TV shows, ALL THE TIME. Every thug on the planet has access to these. Apparently they are even available in galaxies far, far away, because the new Rogue One Star Wars movie also uses them.

          Could it be that kidnappers always excelled in Home Economics, and they are sewing these up themselves?  Do they shop at JoAnn’s Fabrics for some sturdy black broadcloth, and then buy thick denim thread—and denim needles—then rush home and sew up a hood that can double as a pillowcase for a travel-sized pillow in the off-season?   Of course, I’m assuming kidnapping has an off-season, but I could be wrong.  This could be a year-round sort of thing.

          And what if the fabric isn’t thick enough and the victim can actually see through it?  Those bags are probably for sale in the clearance section of the Kidnapper Emporium, or wherever such products are sold.  I wonder if they also sell rope, duct-tape, and those little plastic zip ties.  I can imagine a bulk bin of magazine lettering for ransom notes.  After all, what kidnapper subscribes to magazines, and then has time to cut out all those letters? Those are probably sold by weight.

          Can you imagine the frustration of a kidnapper who gets home with his lettering, and then finds he’s short a couple of Es and an S?  Are you kidding me? I have to drive all the way back to K.E.??  (I’m guessing that’s what they call the Kidnapper Emporium.)

          And then, when the victim is shoved into an empty warehouse to make the video begging for help, wouldn’t it be more realistic if the first thing they said to their families was, “Just ignore my bag hair…” 

          Do you have any idea what it costs to rent a big, empty warehouse so you can make your ransom video? These spaces are not cheap. 

          And if they simply break in without asking, why don’t owners or policemen ever notice it and come to investigate?  Huge facilities like this are often guarded, protected by videocams, and equipped with alarms.  I’m just saying, a remote spot in the countryside might be a better choice.

          But I have no solution for the bag problem.

I have a fridge magnet that says, “Fat people are harder to kidnap.”  It’s gotta be true, right?  But if you are not fat enough, and you do get kidnapped, at least bring along one of my books to read while you sit there in captivity for hours on end.

Stick 'em up!

          I’m told one reason we see so many movies and TV shows which  include bank robberies, is that so many people fantasize about robbing a bank.

          I fantasize about how to prevent it. And I have a solution that will knock your socks off, but not your money out of your wallet.

I watched  my own local bank go from a face-to-face moment with the teller, to an interaction with plexiglass where you slide your ID under the barrier and speak through tiny holes.  Today they also have video cameras everywhere, and signs posted which forbid hats, sunglasses, and hoodies. My guess is they still have to worry.

Too bad no one ever called me for advice.  My solution is to put all banks on the second floor.  By the time a robber can get down the elevator or staircase, you’ve called the police, locked the lower level doors, and voila! No more bank robberies.

          I seriously believe this could prevent 99% of all bank robberies.  And, with elevators, the bank is still completely accessible to any member of the public.

          Building a two-story bank is more costly, but who says you have to build it?  Why not just rent the upper floor of an already-existing business?  Or build it and rent the bottom part out.  Bank-and-bagels, anyone?

          I know, you love the idea. You’re welcome. You can thank me by purchasing one of my books here.  Then I’ll get to deposit the royalties and maybe blog about witnessing a bank robbery!

Breakfast of Geniuses!

Be still my heart.  I just read a study that claims having ice cream for breakfast makes you smarter.  Folks, I have been doing this quite often for my entire life, thus I must be a genius.

           (And no, you do not need to write in with a comment about how this really will still my heart.)

          Here’s the scoop (you knew that pun was coming).  Scientists claim that eating ice cream first thing in the morning improves your alertness and mental performance. Yoshihiko Koga, a professor at Tokyo's Kyorin University, had test subjects try it out, and they had faster reaction times and better info-processing abilities on the computer. Their brains also revealed an increase in high-frequency alpha waves.

          I know what you’re thinking (since you did not have ice cream this morning, and I did): You are thinking it’s the cold—that would jolt anybody, right?  But they tried it with cold water and couldn’t duplicate the results. Some say our brains simply need glucose to function best, while many people skip breakfast entirely and miss this advantage. And others speculate that a big part of this could be the positive emotions triggered by having a treat— you’re activating the pleasure spots of your brain the same as if you won money or listened to a favorite song.

          I don’t care.  I just know I am finally vindicated, not a terrible mother after all, and now I’m wondering if cake or pie could produce the same results. I am happy to volunteer for the cause of science.  It’s the least I can do.

And you can also perform a wonderful service—buy my books.  They make wonderful Christmas gifts and will not melt under the tree the way ice cream will.

Thank you, Thank you!

          Today I’m feeling purely grateful.  Yes, I know this is a humor blog, but it’s also a blog for readers of my books, to give them a peek into my often hilarious life. So I have to press pause on the humor button this week, just to express my gratitude for the frequent sources of that very humor—my husband and kids.  We have so many laughs together, and tons of love.

Here are three photos from their Christmas visit this week.  Yes, we welcomed Brandon’s Great Dane, Odin, into the house as well.  Here are Richie, Brandon, Cassidy and his wife, our adored daughter-in-law Tiffany, and Nicole. These pictures show us at church on Christmas Day, at Top Golf, 

and at Beat the Room here in Rocklin.

I love you guys, and I miss you already!  

Start the New Year off right, and order my books for those chilly winter days when you just want to stay in with a cup of hot chocolate, a blanket, and a great story!

House of Mirth

          I think we can agree that Christmas traditions vary from family to family.  But in our house, they vary a tad more off the beaten track.  In the Hilton house comedy seems to reign supreme, and from the required Christmas Rat window painting (which was supposed to be a cute little mouse, sleeping in a wreath), 

to one son always arranging the letters, “NOEL” to spell “LEON,” we have a way of twisting traditions.

          Possibly our worst tradition is the Annual Collapsing Gingerbread House.  Begun by accident, this so entertained our boys when they were younger, that it has become a required part of our holiday festivities.  Luckily, this is easy to duplicate year after year.  All it takes is a lack of patience, precision, know-how, and talent. 

          So, while the annual Rocklin Gingerbread House Contest fills our Event Center with beauties like these:

          the Hiltons continue to produce results like this one:

          But we have a grand time, nobody swears in frustration, and we feel no guilt whatsoever in gobbling up the results.  So I guess it’s a winning house after all.

          You need something to do after all the Christmas hoopla dies down.  I recommend a cup of hot chocolate and a good book-- perhaps one of mine?  Order ‘em here.

Cane and Unable

Do not try this at home.  Do not try this anywhere.  Not with a fox, not in a box.  Especially not in a box.

Folks, you know I’m famous—okay, within my own family—for taking on RIDICULOUS craft projects that always bomb out.  Somehow my brain is magnetically drawn to the impossible and you’ve read about many of my disasters right here in this blog.

So for Christmas this year, I got the idea to make homemade candy canes. How tough can it be when you see boxes and boxes of them at the store, for mere pennies?

All I can assume is that there is one amazing factory, undoubtedly in China, where they have figured out how to do this quickly and cheaply.  You cannot duplicate this in your kitchen.

You decide to look up some recipes online.  Your eye scans the ingredients. You see things like “Heat-retardant gloves,” 

and “a bench scraper,” along with corn syrup, sugar, and other sticky items. You also notice you have to make two separate colors that you will then wrap around each other.

Then you check the instructions and you see phrases like, “Working quickly…” and “pulling hard candy can be tricky,” and “don’t let children work with scalding liquids.”

You read a caution about glass candy thermometers being breakable. When it talks about pulling, doubling, and twisting the hot candy it says, “Enjoy the upper body workout.”

And here is where, in an unprecedented holiday miracle, Joni stops reading, closes the link, and decides candy cane making is not for her.  You see?  She can be taught.

And if you want a truly memorable Christmas gift—one that won’t blister your hands, strain your muscles, or leave a sticky film on your kitchen counters that you have to chisel off—just check out my 24 books on my website.  So much easier, right?