Funny things happen when you go to the movies here in Vegas.

Sometimes you meet interesting people.

Sometimes those interesting people offer you free shoes for your kid.

I love it when that happens, don’t you?

Hmmm. You mean that’s never happened to you before?

Well. It should.

Especially when they’re Pediped shoes.

Especially when you’ve been dealing with a stench from your three-year-old son’s shoes that could be bottled and used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Especially when money is tight and you’re looking at a hefty bill for back to school clothes for the three year old and his private school uniform-wearing big sister.

Especially when you can print out a cool sizing chart from their website and order with confidence knowing that the shoes may actually fit.

Especially when the shoes come with these nifty inserts that allow you to order shoes a little on the big size since you know your three year old’s foot grew a whole size in nine months.

Especially when the Pediped shoes are made like shoes should be made — so that kids grow out of the shoes before they wear out.

Especially when the shoes are really super-cute and come in cool color combinations that made your three-year-old happy.

Especially when the Velcro enclosures are strong enough to stay in place, but easy enough for the three-year-old to take them off himself before he tracks dirt on your couch. (We’re still working on the motor skills needed for him to put them on himself.)

Espcially when the shoes have awesome memory foam that keeps the three-year-old from whining that his feet hurt on long walks (Yes, he still whines, but not about his shoes. Some things Pediped can’t fix.)

Especially when the three-year-old wears the shoes on 110+ summer days in and out of the water and neither his feet nor the shoes smell – AT ALL.

Especially when your kid looks this cute wearing them.

Disclosure: The woman I met at the movies offered the shoes without requesting a review. She didn’t even know I was a blogger at the time. See? Cool things happen at Vegas movie theaters. I need to go to the movies more. Mama could use a new pair of winter boots.

Growing up, my nose was trained to believe that clean was a cocktail of clorox, windex, glass wax and any other chemical compound ending in “x.”)

I carried on my mother’s tradition, carting around my bucket o’solvents from room to room. Dusting and sanitizing, de-spotting and unsticking.

And then I had kids. And then I started to feel a little bit guilty about the chemicals I was exposing them to. However, they made my life even messier, so my chemical warfare was only matched by my consumption of roll upon roll of paper towels.

And then, I saw it.

I believe I was up nursing Boo more than six years ago and saw the informercial. A steam cleaning miracle that would sanitize and disinfect every surface of my home.No chemicals. Just hot water.

I lusted after an appliance named for a fish.

Yes. I wanted The Shark Steam Pocket Cleaner.

But I held back. I held fast to my bucket and brushes for more than six years and then…

I went to Costco.

And it was there.

I had to have it.

I sat on the hallway floor (standing guard to keep Doodle in bed) with all the parts strewn about me. I spent an hour (yes, he takes THAT long to pass out) pouring over the manuals, information sheets and accessory order forms. I didn’t care that it was now 10 p.m.

I wanted to clean.

Crap.

I needed distilled water. (Vegas water is too hard and clogs steam appliances faster than a cheeseburger through Rush Limbaugh’s arteries.)

So, finally, I got a jug on the way home tonight. I could hear the angels ready to part the clouds and sing. My house would be cleaner than it’s ever been! I wouldn’t have to use a single paper towel! I would be a green goddess of home cleaning!

Well, I tried it. And…

it sucked.

Here’s why:

1. It took at least four different attachments to clean the bathroom. Switching them out and then waiting for the larger pieces to gather enough steam to work took a lot of time. So much time, in fact that it took me three times longer than usual. And, since I usually clean all three bathrooms at the same time, plugging and unplugging and attaching and detaching became so annoying that I gave up after doing only two bathrooms.
2. The attachments were difficult to use. Maneuvering around all the bends and curves of a bathroom with the tools was nearly impossible. I kept thinking that I had way better dexterity with my hand and a paper towel.
3. It didn’t clean. The mirrors were streaked. The dust and hair on my bathroom counters just got steam cleaned and then glued back to the surface. I had to go back with a rag to pick up everything it left behind. If this appliance has a forte, it’s not that it picks up anything big enough to see. My guess is that I would need to clean the surfaces with my regular cleaner, Trader Joe’s Next To Godliness Multi-Purpose Cleaner, and then “sanitize” it with The Shark. I thought this thing was supposed to save me time? Why would I clean my bathroom twice?

Sorry Shark, you’re going back to the store (thanks to Costco’s great return policy). The 80 bucks I’ll get back will be going toward more paper towels and Joe’s spray.

I'll take the spray over The Shark any day.

(Note: This was an unsolicited and unpaid review. I just tell it like it is, ‘yo.)

Ever since I had kids, reading for fun has become nearly impossible. By the time my head hits the pillow, I can maybe make it through a few pages before my lids start to flutter and I pass out from sheer exhaustion. (Something tells me all of my screen time at work and after bedtime isn’t helping the situation, either).

So, when I packed for my latest business trip, I didn’t even bother to pack any reading material. After all, my Google Reader is backed up with 500+ posts I should be reading.

Well, that was the plan until I realized I needed to eat breakfast at the airport and I didn’t want to have my laptop crammed on the tabletop with my scrambled eggs and diet coke (breakfast of champions, no?), so I popped back to the newsstand and grabbed a copy of Chelsea Handler’s Are You There God? It’s me. Chelsea. I’ve been a fan of her show for years and figured that I’d better have a copy of her book on hand in case I ever actually get to see her show. Having her autograph it may be my best shot at capturing her DNA and creating a clone to carry out my plot to take over the world…

But I digress.

I should have known what I was in for when the sales lady offered me a free tube of Robitussin with my purchase (which has to go down as the oddest gift with purchase in the history of retail sales).

Breakfast took forever, but I didn’t care. I had tons of time before my flight and from the first page, I was totally engrossed. I am Chelsea’s long-lost little sister that she never knew she had. Yes, she’s blonde (but I used to be!) and has a way better rack (we obviously had different moms), and she’s Jewish (I like latkes, you know). We both love vodka (she drinks way more of it than I do), takes prescription drugs (mine are actually legally obtained), and were forced to drive crappy hand-me-down vehicles that were “gifted” by our dads (at least mine had a decent paint job thanks to my big brother). See? We’re practically twins! I’m totally sending her an invite to Doodle’s third birthday party. They need to meet their Auntie Chelsea and she’s gotta bring the vodka (’cause after two hours at Chuck E Cheese, I’m gonna need it).

Anyway…back to the book.

She opens with an epic tale about how she, at age nine, caught herself up in a web of lies to impress her schoolmates. The deceit goes so far as to require an autographed picture of Goldie Hawn and an “out” of her offer to play Hawn’s daughter in a sequel to Private Benjamin.

The book goes from there through a collection of 12 stories where we meet her family, friends, lovers, and random strangers. Chelsea’s ability to make some of the most reprehensible people and behaviors (often her own) into hilarious and charming characters is fabulous and true gift.

My favorite recurring “character” has to be her dad. You can feel her constant abject humiliation dripping from every pore as she reveals how he fancies himself a used car dealer, when in reality he just collects crap-mobiles and attempts to scheister unsuspecting saps into buying them, even when they need a jump start before a test drive. The vein of politically incorrect humor runs directly from him to her, even though he has the amazing ability to not only cross the line, but moon-jump over it into an entire realm of “ohdeargoddidhejustsaywhatIthoughthejustsaid”-ness.

My favorite chapter, by far, was her tale of her mini-me. A rabid fan, who happened to be a complete dwarf-sized replica of Chelsea, manages to con her way into Chelsea’s heart and her show, Girls Behaving Badly. Chelsea is admittedly helpless to the charms of little people:

Next to fat babies, midgets are my favorite things to hold. I love them so much, and I want to help them to do adult things like drive cars, Jet-Ski, and lip synch. I am in awe of their little limbs, large craniums, and their medicine-ball asses. I love the litle baby steps they take while shifting their weight from side to side, and the fact that when you knock one over accidentally, he flails like a turtle on its back that can’t get up right away.

If you’re looking for political correctness, you probably aren’t watching Chelsea’s show and, therefore, I’d suggest you pass on the book. However, if you have no problem with inappropriate laughter in public places that may result in you spraying your beverage all over complete strangers, have at it.

____________________________________________

P.S. I finished the book on my trip and picked up her first book, My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands while I was in San Diego. It was done before my plane landed back in Vegas. That’s two books in four days people – an indoor record for me post-kids. If that’s not an endorsement, I don’t know what is.

P.P.S. Her next book, CHELSEA CHELSEA BANG BANG is due out next month. I can’t wait and neither should you! So, win a copy! Just leave a comment with your favorite vodka beverage (Chelsea prefers Ketel One in her first two books, but I suspect her preference has changed to Belvedere since they’re now sponsoring her tour — funny how that works, eh?) Get your entries in by midnight, Friday, February 19 and a winner will be chosen by a random drawing. I will actually make and review the winning cocktail, so make it good, y’all.

And the winner is…..Kristel of Last Girl Standing! The book will be on the way once it’s released. Given the state of the Canadian postal service, she should get it by Christmas.

I have the great fortune and pain of traveling rather frequently on business. I see my share of Marriotts, Hiltons, and Holiday Inns. My skin has been inadvertently exfoliated by overbleached towels. The sound of blackout drapes scraping across curtain rods is all too familiar. I can find ice machines in my sleep.

Every once in awhile, though, I get to stay in cool places. It used to be that my September trip to Anaheim was the tops on my list. Oh, you need me to stay in a Disney resort where I get discounted tickets to see “The Mouse”? Darn. Twist my rubber arm.

Sorry Mickey, after last year’s rather lackluster performance, you’ve been bumped from the top of my list…by a president, no less. Well, actually, the son of a president who built a hotel and named it after his dad, who happens to share the same name.

Image courtesy of hotel website.

I’m talking about the US Grant Hotel adjacent San Diego’s Gaslamp District. In short, fan-freaking-tastic. The property was recently renovated and restored to all of its original glory. The smell of wallpaper paste is still fresh in the hallways. Each lobby, foyer, and corridor is adorned with amazing paintings and sculptures. Hell, even my padded headboard was art. My room walls were covered with picture frame mouldings and the floors were covered with amazing carpets. Even the shower floor was festooned with a basketweave tile. Aesthetically speaking, this has to be one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever stayed in.

Image courtesy of hotel website

The service was as amazing as the decor. Short of the great housekeeping incident of Tuesday night, the staff took amazing care to ensure my every desire was met. Their valets, front desk staff and bellhops were courteous and attentive. The bellhop even took a subtle second to check my name on my luggage tag and thank me by name for my tip (and trust me, my last name is no walk in the park).

When I was having issues with my TV remote, guest services sent engineering up within 10 minutes. It tuned out I was attempting to use the Bose sound system remote for the TV, so they brought up the correct remote (which was missing). I asked the engineer for the location of the ice machine, which was unfortunately three floors down. He graciously offered to retrieve ice for me. Five minutes later, guest services called to make sure the TV was working and informed me that room service was on their way with the ice.

Knock Knock. Here comes my ice. Holy heck. I’ve seen smaller buckets overturned on football coaches’ heads. I had noticed a note on the weight-sensitive minibar fridge (it’s one of those that charged you $20 if you looked at the microscopic vodka bottle for more than 30 seconds) that said they had regular mini-fridges upon request. So, when guest services called to ensure that the iceman cameth, I asked about the legend of the minifridge so I could safely stow my healthy snacks for the duration of my stay. Not only did they say “yes,” but there was no charge. Apparently they’re free on a first-come, first served basis. I was happy. My yogurt was thrilled. My carrots were ecstatic. I think I heard my grapes singing with glee. (Well, maybe that last part was a stretch. The last time I heard grapes sing was a Fruit of the Loom commercial, and I don’t think that situation ended well for anyone involved.)

Since I am on a campaign to shed the double chin off my ass, I trouped down to the hotel gym for a short workout to justify the dinner I was planning to consume later in the evening. I slid my room key into the door. The green light flashed and the lock clicked, but I couldn’t get the door to pull open. Hmmm. Let’s try that again. And again. And again. No dice.

At this point, I figured there was an idiot in the room. I admitted defeat and trouped up the steps to the front desk where a staffer practically skipped back down to assist me in my folly. He slid his master key in and pushed the door to let me in. Then he wished me a happy workout and went on his way, never even hinting at the “what a dumbass” kind of sarcasm that I so richly deserved.

Yep. This is a classy joint. AND that’s classy with a “C”, not with a “K”.

Such class comes with a pricetag, though. I was fortunate to stay on a special rate, so I didn’t have to pay the $369+taxes and fees the King room retailed for (at full price). In this case, though, if you’re a high-end traveler, or you’re looking to have a special getaway with historic grandeur in San Diego, I think you’ll be hard pressed to beat the US Grant. Keep an eye out for deals, though, especially for weeknight or off season travel. I found some surprising deals online.

One thing I know for sure. As long as I have breath in my body, my children will never so much as step foot in the lobby of this place. They’d break something within five minutes and college plans would be replaced with dishpan hands for life.

While I’m fortunate to have a great job and some fun side projects that pay for a few extras, money is tight. I’m not alone. I have more than a dozen friends and colleagues who have been looking for work for months. We’re all cutting back with summer staycations, homemade Halloween garb, and Netflix subscriptions replacing movie nights.

So getting by has been a challenge, to be sure.

I remember a economics class in grad school that, when it comes to household budgets in crisis, cable television is the last thing to go.

For me, it’s my hair. It’s my vanity. I’ve paid good money to great people over the years to keep it in the red. When I accidentally went from blond to green, I swore on bottle of peroxide that I would never color my hair myself again.

Me and my professionally-colored hair with Blackberry Diaries author Kathy Buckworth

Well, that day has come. After dishing out nearly $175 every four to six weeks on cuts, colors, and highlights, I had to let it go. No longer could I look at my checking account and reconcile that expense.

It was time to tighten the belt and open the box.

I tried a temporary color which was…uh…temporary. My gray roots came screaming out like James Brown on his first day out of jail.

A few weeks later, I tried a permanent shade from Feria by L’Oreal Paris. It was quite the science experiment with three fluids to combine and heaven forbid if you shake it with the wrong lid. It went on easily with a few drips, but I didn’t leave the process with zombie-like red dye marks streaming down my face (Let’s just ignore the stains on the door where I tried to squeeze out the last few bits. Sorry Madame Landlord!)

Here are the results.

Great hair. Crappy picture, but you can't tell the difference, can you?

Not bad, eh? It got the grey and gave me a fairly consistent color throughout. Processing time was only 25 minutes, so with my amateur application methods and a thorough post-color rinse and condition, it was a total hour of my time. For $10 and a trip to the grocery store. Not a bad deal for downsizing if you ask me.

The parent/teacher conference was over. The Weight Watchers meal back in the office fridge had lost the appeal it held at 7 a.m. when it was packed. I wanted something fresh and somewhat healthy, but a little bad.

I swear my iPhone winked at me. Ahh yes. I downloaded the Chipotle app awhile back and hadn’t had a chance to try it out yet.

Why not try it out today?

First off, let’s find the right store. Ahh yes. The one closest to the office.

Next, my order. A steak salad with roasted corn salsa. Chips with guac on the side. (I did say somewhat healthy, right)  A large soda. Ahh heaven.

The ordering system gives you the option of prepaying for your order online through the phone or paying when you get there. I really didn’t need my credit card info in another company’s database, so I opted to pay cash on site.

The whole ordering process took all of five minutes, even with the initial account setup. The application flowed incredibly smoothly, allowing me to order my salad just the way I wanted it. It was as seamless as walking through the assembly line at one of their restaurants.

When I was done with my selections, I was given the option to choose the pickup time. I was starving and didn’t want to wait any longer than I had to, but it was the end of the lunch hour and I wanted to be fair. So, from two blocks away (at a stoplight, mind you) I gave then 15 minutes to get my mission accomplished.

Okay, I made it through a five minute wait in the parking lot before my stomach got the best of me. I passed by this sign on the way and smiled….

Sure enough, they had my order in the system. It wasn’t waiting for me, but they rang me up swiftly and by the time I had my cup filled to the brim with diet coke and a slice of lemon it was bagged and ready to go. No waiting in line. I was out the door in three minutes. That rocked.

Did they get it right?

Yes they did. The ingredients I ordered were all where they should be. I could have used more dressing and the beans were a bit watery, but it was pretty good. The chips weren’t as warm as I like them, but it didn’t stop me from making a guacamole mess all over my dry-clean only blouse. Overall, it was good, fast eats.

The Chipotle iPhone app makes getting what you want, when you want it, where you want it incredibly easy. I’ll be curious to see how well it works as more folks start using it, especially at peak luncthimes. From a marketing standpoint, the app is pure genius and should help increase their sales substantially.

Staying at the top of the heap of the heap takes more effort than getting there in the first place.

Such seems to be the case of Disney’s Grand Californian Resort. I had the second opportunity to stay at the beautiful hotel this past week and I have to say I was a little disappointed this time around.

Granted, the hotel is still glorious in its pristine Frank Lloyd Wright design, amazing foyer complete with fireside storyteller, pint-sized rocking chair and a pianist tickling the ivories with famous Disney tunes, and impeccably kept grounds. The conference and catering services were reminiscent of Cinderella’s mouse friends – busily scurrying about to ensure that every detail was perfect and in its right place at the proper time.

Last year, I stayed in one of the original towers and had a lovely view of the pools where families scurried about in the sun and splashed away the day. In the background, I watched as crews constructed a new tower to house Disney’s expanding timeshare venture.

This year, I was assigned to a room in the first floor of that new tower. I was actually the first paying guest to rest my head on that bed. Given its newness, I assumed the space was ghost-free, but I should have checked their plans to see if Native American burial plans were beneath my feet. You see, things were not as they should have been, at least not by Disney’s impeccable standards.

First of all, the location of the room was a little too close for my comfort and all. I know that the Disney folks are trying to make the most out of every square foot of their valuable chunk of real estate and all, but I was so close to the Mulholland Madness roller coaster, I could nearly “high-five” the riders as they whizzed by.

I settled into the space and decided to make use of my in-room facilities only to discover the joys, uh, I mean challenges of peeing in the dark. After the hotel’s engineering crew showed up (almost 45 minutes after my call) and discovered the brand-new and energy-saving LED fixture was bad, they managed to procure the only replacement back at the shop. All was well, but I was surprised that the faulty fixture wasn’t discovered in their inspection process.

Later that evening, I opted to call room service for a late supper rather than brave Downtown Disney for a late-night, overpriced meal. After 15 minutes on hold, I finally was able to place my order for a bowl of their corn chowder soup and peach cobbler. Both arrived a half hour later lukewarm and bland. I suspect something else wasn’t right about the meal, as I spent the early hours of the morning thankful that I had discovered the faulty bathroom light upon my arrival and not then. Let’s just say that would have been insult to injury.

The following day, I headed back to my room at the noon hour to catch a quick catnap. The room had not yet been visited by the housekeeping fairies. Hmmmm. Well, they did just open this building and they’re probably working out some of the scheduling bugs for the cast members. I was willing to cut them a little slack. After all, I was sure it was an anomaly. Until I came back after 5 and the room was still unmade. When I called the housekeeping head elf desk, their quizzical response had me wondering if I was out of line for expecting daily maid service for my nearly $200/night stay. Eventually the room was made up, towels were replaced and a lovely chocolate was left on my pillow (one of my favorite Disney special touches, I might add.)

Overall, my stay at the Grand Californian was a pleasant one. I love the new pools and the customer service in general was outstanding. Unfortunately, when you set yourself to be the Prince Charming of the hospitality industry, every fingerprint on that shiny armor stands out.

Last week, I caught a showing of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs in Downtown Disney. Yes, I saw it without my kids. In my defense, my five-year-old daughter  had no interest in seeing it and there’s no way my two-year-old son was going to sit still long enough for anyone to enjoy the show. So, it was date night and dinner was on the screen.

Overall, it was a really cute movie. From what I’ve heard, the story is a departure from the literary version, but the general concept remains: Boy inventor creates machine that makes food fall from the sky. Wackyness ensues. Hero wins the day. Very much the stuff that’s made Disney millions over the years. And in this case, deservedly so.

I wish my daughter had been with me to see this. She gets a little freaked out by scary villains, and the only true antagonist here was bad behavior – greed, gluttony and pride, along with some well-intentioned parental pushing/child-trying-to-make-dad-proud motivations. Oh, and there’s some very cute “impress the girl” moments.

The movie does get a little preachy in some parts, but the lessons are not lost on me. Here are some of the few I noted during the film. Yes, these will make more sense if/when you see the film, so if you haven’t feel free to print out the list and take it with you. It’ll be like I’m sitting next to you and filling your ears with my whispery snarks. Trust me, it’ll enhance the experience.

Lessons learned from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs:

• An economy dependent on sardines is doomed to fail.
• Sardines need better PR.
• Tesla rocks.
• Mr. T is hilarious, especially when he’s drawn in tiny shorts and a reverse Mohawk.
• Men with unibrows are inherently oppressive and monkeys named Steve are inherently funny.
• Smart girls are hot.
• I can spend an entire animated movie guessing voices.
• There is never an inappropriate time for bacon.
• Food puns are always bad.
• Those aren’t chocolate snowballs.
• First dates with jello are romantic.
• People who tease nerds should have their asses kicked.
• Boys DO make passes at girls who wear glasses.
• There is no graceful exit from a jello castle.
• Kids want to make their parents proud.
• Parents want their kids to learn from their wisdom.
• Bigger isn’t always better.
• Genetic mutation = bad
• Tux t-shirts are an awesome fashion statement only when complimented by a lab coat.
• Fat men in diapers are always disturbing.
• I hate tornadoes. Even spaghetti tornadoes.
• Cute furry animals can always be a dangerous distraction.
• Vegas buffets are deadly.
• Parents will kiss their kids after they puke. That’s love, I tell you.
• Make sure your parents know how to use the Internet in case you need to save the world.
• Mama’s gotta be a good wide receiver.
• Putting the word “Chicken” before you name makes you a pseudo hero.
• Never fake a nut allergy.
• Gummi bears are evil.
• Pee before you see this movie.
• Sad monkeys make me cry.
• Invent species that can save you later.
• Get that monkey’s translator thing. I totally need that in a few years for the “sex talk” with the kids.
• Blowfish kisses are hawt.

So, go see the movie and enjoy. We passed on the 3-D version, but I’d love to hear of anyone who experienced the true theatrical food fight.

Last night was another blast in my rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. This time it was The Killers at Mandalay.

The show started at 8, and with the Mayweather fight the same eve, the prospects of a post-show meal were daunting. So, my date and I opted to use my gift card for Sushi Roku at the Caesar’s Forum Shops for an early nosh.

After winding our way up a spiral escalator to the third floor, we were greeted by elegantly dressed hosts and boisterous sushi chefs and led to a strip-view table with an amazing southbound perspective of Las Vegas in all her glory. The sun began to set during our meal, making the vista that much more spectacular.

Our server recommended the Secret Crush martini and the Tuna Carpaccio appetizer. Both were delightful. The refreshing fruitness of the cocktail balanced the salty smokiness of the sauce lapping on the piscine shores with crispy fried garlic chips and finely diced chives.

My date enjoyed a lovely sashimi sampler plate with tuna, shrimp, yellowtail, salmon, whitefish and eel along with six pieces of spicy tuna roll. While not a fan of eel in general, he enjoyed the well-prepared platter, but warns others not to add too much wasabi to their bites, as the chef liked to nestle a piece between the fish and rice. The overzealous adorers of the green glob could very well burn his or her palate off.

I opted for a non-raw option: “Grilled Salmon and Hokkaido Scallops; XO Sauce with Potatoes and Asparagus.” It was a beautifully presented plate with two nicely prepared pieces of salmon atop two breaded scallops next to two roasted red-skinned potatoes, which were balanced atop two criss-crossed grilled asparagus? (Are you catching a theme here?) It was a nice dish with a lovely variation of textures that oscillated between salty and sweet. For those who may be intimidated by a meal at a sushi place, although it was a little salty, it was quite pleasant and un-fishy.

The service was very attentive, not surprising since we were there so early in the evening. I was little sad that my Miso Soup add-on didn’t make it to the table before my entree, as I love the stuff. The staff was very apologetic for the error, but by then the manager, Johnny, had already made us VIPs, which pretty much was a business card entitling us to 20% off every subsequent trip across the threshold of Sushi Roku, or it’s neighboring eatery, Boa Steakhouse.

If you’re looking for cheap eats, there are other sushi establishments around town I can recommend. Our total for the evening, even with our 20 percent off and $25 off (thanks to my KNPR membership) nearly topped $100. While the meal was great, what you’re really paying for is craftsmanship, service, ambiance, and did I mention the view?

Let it be known that I don’t think there’s a carbohydrate that I don’t like. Chips. Cookies. Pita. Crackers. Sweet. Savory. Chewy. Crunchy. Crusty. I love it all.

But one of my favorite doughy, batter-y treats has to be cake. I have waited in lines and around blocks for the famed paper-wrapped sugar bombs at NYC’s Magnolia Bakery. I have spent hours perfecting my own recipes.

And now, I must have died.

Because I am in cake heaven.

We celebrated my mom’s birthday tonight. I happily surrendered cooking duty to my brother so I’d have an excuse to try the Twitterriffic RetroBakery.

I knew we were in for it when after what felt like an epic drive (I think I passed Moses along the way, but maybe that was a hitchhiker on the freeway on-ramp) and the guy who opened the door admitted that he and his friends were on their second run for the day.

The glass case of cupcakes sang their siren song to me. There were but a precious few left at that hour of the day, but there were enough for me. Kari is a great salesperson, but I was an easy mark. My plan for a purchase of eight quickly became ten and ten became an even dozen.

Let me tell you, I have yet to find a “you’d better eat your dinner if you want your dessert” motivational tool for my daughter than the vanilla on vanilla cupcake, complete with rainbow sprinkles, of course.

The kaleidescope of flavors was amazing. I had the pink lemonade first (yes, I ate more than one, duh!). As I peeled the wrapper, my nose was alive with the smell of fresh lemons. The pink buttercream frosting was a perfect balance of sweetness without being too rich or grainy. The cake itself was awesome. All too often cupcakes have become these dense mini-bricks used as frosting conveyances.

My mother, the birthday girl, picked out the chocolate fountain cupcake a “chocolate cake topped with chocolate buttercream and dipped in chocolate ganache.” She’s a little 5’2″ dynamo of healthy eating. But she sucked down that cupcake like a Dyson on dirt. Seriously, I turned my back for a second and then she was this:

The kids loved their vanilla on vanilla and chocolate on vanilla concoctions, although after the frosting was devoured, there was little appreciation for the cake. But, they’re kids. So, I fully expected that.

After the sugar-fueled tantrums spun the kids into a deep slumber, I gently nibbled pretty much inhaled a Red Carpet. No, I’m not talking about a lesbian encounter with a fellow ginger-haired beauty. I’m talking about their version of a red velvet cupcake.

Red Velvet is a tough recipe to master. It’s an odd combo of vinegar, cocoa powder, food coloring, and more that’s more science experiment than cakery. For me, it’s the litmus test of a great baker.

Oh. My. F’ing God. I have never had anything like this before. Perfect density, beautifully balanced, a hint of cherry that totally blew me out of the water. I snagged a bite of the Peanut Butter Cup.

Dear Lord. You can take me now.

Oh wait. I still have two more in the kitchen. And there are so many flavors yet to try. I’m gonna be all over that Maple Bacon. I AM half-Canadian, eh.

*Cake images are borrowed from the Retrobakery website. The cupcakes didn’t last long enough to be captured in frame.