Stone tiles are pretty, but they’re a real pain in the rear to keep properly clean. I just spent four hours scouring the kitchen floor. By hand. It was the only way to get the job done right. I think that deserves a cookie, don’t you?

Yes, folks, this is what I do during my end-of-year vacation. I clean with my 96 pounds of domestic fury. No, don’t bother, I’ll say it for you. Freak.

Silicone baking mats are the coolest. They make for perfect cookies and the easiest cleanup imaginable. Nothing burns and nothing sticks. At all. I just hope we don’t find out years later that cooking with silicone gives us cancer.

I decided to make my batch of Christmas press cookies when all the guys were over so they could help eat them. The recipe said to chill the dough for an hour, but I forgot that our refrigerator is really just a dimensional door to the north pole. It did give me the time I needed to figure out how to work the cookie press, however, while I waited for the dough to thaw. So armed with loaded press and sprinkles, I set about the task of making tiny wreaths, trees and strange square blobs (which Mym thinks are supposed to represent presents). The process was so easy that I felt like I was cheating. So, I made dinner to atone.

Well, -made- is perhaps too strong a word. I bought a deli roasted chicken, cooked up a package of seasoned pasta and threw some peas in the microwave. That’s a lot for me, though. When it comes to cooking, if I have to think about it, it’s not worth it. Don’t ask me why this rule doesn’t apply to baking. I’m sure I have no idea.

We got a couple of gag gifts from our friends last year, including a voice-recordable toilet paper roller which is buried in a box somewhere. The best one, though, was the Clapper. It was installed on our bedroom television without our knowledge and took us about a week to discover. Once found, we gleefully moved it to the floorlamp so we could climb into bed with the lights on, luxuriously clap-clap them off, roll over and be done with the day. We never would have bought one due to the inevitable teasing that would ensue but, trust me, it’s an awesome gift.

Imagine my confusion then when, after a year of wandering into the bedroom without flipping a switch, I found myself standing there, clap-clapping away like an arrhythmic idiot and trying to figure out what was wrong with my hands because the light wasn’t coming on.

Mym had moved the Clapper to the christmas tree so we wouldn’t have to crawl under it to get at the plug.