My favorite gift this season is one that really keeps on giving. Click here to go to Priscilla Woolworth’s site for the world’s finest fly swatter. Not only does it keep the little buggers at bay, it’s extremely cute, and you can also use it to swat badly behaving relatives at your upcoming holiday events.

I’m keeping mine handy to swat my husband’s hand when he reaches for his sixth piece of chocolate roll on Christmas night. I will also let loose on my daughter when she tries to make off with my new red sweater. It will morph into a dog swatter when Oliver opens his jaws to partake of the Christmas tenderloin, and Aunt Lucy will be sorry when she tries to pour her fourth glass of eggnog. If my sister-in-law indicates displeasure with my gift, whack. If anyone gives an Ab-O-Cizer for Christmas, smack.

See, this thing has infinite uses. Buy one and swat your way through December.

In a follow-up to my recent post about Killer Biscuits, I have some good news about Custard Crèmes.

You’ll recall that these innocent looking cookies were rated the most likely to cause bodily harm while you eat them, scoring a whopping 5.63 on the Biscuit Injury Evaluation Scale. (By comparison, the Ginger Nut Biscuit ranked a measly 3.78.) Being the devil-may-care, caution-to-the-wind kind of gal that I am, I decided to do a little evaluating of my own.

I found a British goods store in West L.A. that carries the hard-to-find Custard Cremes. I purchased three boxes, and, just to be on the safe side, I hired a PIAL (personal injury accident lawyer), before I opened the deceptively charming gold and red packages of pale yellow cookies.

I’m happy to report that a) they are delicious and b) although I ate a hefty number of them (I’m very thorough when conducting a study), I was unharmed by the little buggers, if you don’t count the weight gain.

My friend Dawn gave me a zucchini the size of a dachshund, which I love because it gives me an excuse to use my scale.

See, now that my second daughter has followed her sister to college on the east coast, the only female voice left in my house is that of my talking kitchen scale. I turn the thing on and a low-registered, warm voice says, “Hello,” which is rather pleasant in the profound silence of my recently emptied nest. Then she pauses for a second, presumably to make internal adjustments, and says, “I’m ready.”

This is an eerie echo of what Nora said last week, when she was itching to get to college.
Now she’s gone, we’re back from dropping her, and after all the packing, schlepping, shopping and shipping, her room looks and feels like Dorothy’s did, post-tornado: a mess, and dead still.

I hadn’t dared enter it for a couple of days; I knew it was an emotional minefield. Today, when I finally wandered in and picked my way through Nora’s detritus, I remained calm when handling her abandoned fairy wings. Nor was my composure rocked by the sight of the worn school books and the ancient teddy bear. It was the picture on the wall of young Nora, one that captures her spunky spirit–she’s leaping and laughing, just kind of glorious—that did me in.

After the weeping, I knew I needed task therapy. I thought I’d concoct a recipe for Dawn’s monster zucchini. I flipped the switch on the kitchen scale: “Hello.” Pause. “I’m ready.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said as I plunked the zucchini on the scale.

P.S. Dawn’s zucchini weighed in at 4 pounds, ten ounces.
P.S.S. If you would like to have a talking scale in your life, click here.
P.S.S If you want a recipe for ucchini chowder, click here.

Apparently, my kitchen is a day spa.

I’ve just learned that Cool Whip and mayonnaise can double as excellent hair conditioners, and for that final rinse, use Lipton tea or Budweiser beer for extra shine. And if you’re in the mood for a self-inflicted manicure, Pam cooking spray will dry those nails in seconds.

My source also tells me that Jello can be used to freshen up smelly feet (okay, I have a little trouble getting my mind around that one) and that if you go to your “everything” drawer and grab some Elmer’s glue, you’ve got the makings of a facial. You just schmear it on, let it dry, and peel it off. (I used to do that as a kid, making pretend I was hideously sunburned.)

These are all excellent ideas and much more wallet-friendly than similar services in the Hills (the Beverly ones). I’d be tempted to try this stuff, to spruce myself up before my daughter’s high school graduation next week, but I know what would happen. I’d be in mid-treatment and the doorbell would ring. I’d have to open the door; it’d be the UPS guy with Nora’s graduation gift.

I can see the thought bubble above his head: “W.T.F?” There I’d be with mayo in my hair, Elmer’s on my face, Jello in my shoes, Pam in one hand, Budweiser in the other. I’d put the Bud down to sign for the package. His thought bubble would change: “Obvious party animal.”

“Oh, ha ha,” I’d protest, “it’s not what you think, ha ha! I’m just going to pour that on my head!”

Then I would have to miss Nora’s graduation, due to the straightjacket, so I think I’ll skip the kitchen spa and just, you know, head for the Hills.

Maybe it’s because my husband works for the company that’s releasing the movie, or because I’m given to flights of cuckoo fantasy when performing tedious culinary tasks. Or maybe I’m just, you know, losing it. You be the judge.

But when the Salad Hands I ordered from Sur La Table arrived last week, I became Wolverine. (If you have never seen an X-Men movie, you will not know who this is. Shame on you. Google him.)

These Salad Hands look awful cute online; white plastic with handles that come in a variety of cheerful colors. But when they arrive and you hold them, you can’t help but feel like that iconic mutant superhero, whose distinguishing feature, on display now in posters everywhere, is the scary, metallic version of my adorable kitchen tool.

If only I could, along with the Hands, aquire some of Wolverine’s special skills. 1) When wounded, he heals instantly. This would have come in handy the other day when, with my usual kitchen impatience. I sliced my finger instead of the carrot. 2) He never ages. Rushing around for centuries, growling and stabbing people and he still looks like, well, Hugh Jackman.

It’s not such a bad way, by the way, to get through the dinner hour. Grab those Salad Hands and flip your imagination switch: tossing a salad becomes much more interesting. I just have to try not to growl at people, which is a stretch for me even when I’m empty-handed.

(Click here for the recipe for Wolverine Salad.)

I was in New York last week and went to my favorite quirky gift shop: E.A.T, on Madison Avenue. (Those of you who’ve been reading this blog since ’08 may remember that the last wacky thing I bought there was a Yodeling Pickle.)

I was picking up some Easter gifts for my daughters (shower caps with yellow ducks on them, boxer shorts with monkeys on them). However, after making my choices (excellent, n’est-ce pas?), I found something that, even for a store with eccentric inventory, was breathtakingly strange.

Squirrel Underpants.

They are 100% percent cotton and clearly designed with a male squirrel in mind. I had to buy them, even though I have no intention of attempting to dress a squirrel (or a frog or gerbil, or anybody with a three-inch waist). I just had to become an owner of such a remarkably stupid thing.

Here are some reasons to consider investing in a pair of Squirrel Underpants: 1. You are looking for an economical and thoughtful gift for your hamster. 2.You have ten bucks that you just can’t stand the sight of anymore. 3.You need a conversation starter to keep handy in your purse. 4.You are a raving wingnut.

If any of those reasons ring your bell, but you don’t live near E.A.T., click here for product details and to purchase.

Not to go overboard, but I’m thinking S.U.s just might be this year’s Yodeling Pickle.

The photo in this post features my dog, Oliver, reclining before the Christmas tree. The reason he looks so content, full of yuletide glory, is because he just ate most of the ornaments that were so carefully hung on the tree the day before.

I caught him just in time to save a hand-creweled mini-stocking, which he spat out in response to my curse words. I re-hung it, much higher up, along with any other ornaments in pooch range, so the bare bottom half of the tree now looks slightly ridiculous, like it forgot its pants.

Luckily, Oliver did not choose to chew the Christmas lights, because they are very special this year. They are LED lights, and I’ve been bragging about them all over town.

LED stands for, uh, I forget what, except the D is for diode, but the point is, they are energy-efficient, reducing your Christmas carbon footprint (or in Oliver’s case, pawprint) by a whole lot. They last FOREVER; they will still be twinkiling after the apocalypse. And cute? You can see in the photo, behind the silhouette of Mr. Destructo.

You can get these lights, if you haven’t already committed to the other kind (SO last century) at www.priscillawoolworth.com for about $16 a strand. Priscilla Woolworth is the proprietor of this online store that sells lots of fabulous green stuff, like reusable water bottles, photo albums made of recycled plastic, and solar task lights. If you haven’t already bought your boyfriend a yodeling pickle, go buy him a head scratcher at Priscilla’s for $4 and he will love you forever.

I was going to buy Oliver a head scratcher but after the episode with the tree, that dog is getting coal.

If you are appalled by the price or just the fact of Christmas trees, poinsettias, wreaths, mistletoe  and other décor ripped from nature, you might need to check out the realm of the “forever” varieties.

I recently discovered GM Floral Supplies, whose name is way too modest considering its inventory. At this huge shop upstairs above LA’s downtown flower market, you’ll find any kind of Christmas décor and other paraphernalia you can imagine, especially if your taste leans towards the garish.

There are poinsettias trimmed in glitter, made to last about a millenium, along with similarly non-biodegradable wreaths and stuff, and the Christmas trees are spectacular.

They come in all colors, but the pink one is a standout. At $229 it’s pricey, but I saw a real tree at a lot in the valley for $210, and that’ll be dead by Tuesday. You could leave this pink number in your daughter’s room until she goes to college. (Then make her take it with her.)

They also have massive fake icicles suspended from the ceiling, for those desperate to simulate winter in toasty LA, as well as an appealing plastic polar bear, all glittery, dignified, two feet high, for forty bucks. Cheaper and less species-endangering than harvesting one in the wild, by a long shot. (Why am I suddenly thinking of Sarah Palin?)

You can also find Christmas ornaments the size of basketballs, candles, boxes, wrapping paper, and the world’s most astonishing collection of ribbon (I went ribbon rampant.)

If you don’t live in L.A., I’m sure you have a similar venue. If you DO live here, follow my directions to get to this fascinating place. Drive east on the 10 to the 110 North, get off at 9th St., and stay on it, heading south, for a couple miles til you hit Wall Street. (I know, scary, right? Another frickin; Wall Street?) Go left, and down a couple blocks and you’re there. You’ll see people coming out schlepping pink trees.You will be at the flower markeet, just take the escalator up to GM. (I know, scary, right? Another GM.)

Okay, the economy sucks so it’s a challenging year to buy holiday gifts. I’ll tell you about a few things I found that are cheap and fab.

Since he can’t read English, it won’t ruin it for him if I reveal here that I am giving my dog Oliver a neat set of red and green tennis balls. This is a gift that will keep on giving, although it may also keep on giving carpel tunnel syndrome to me, as he will demand that I throw the balls for him a billion times. ($12)

For people who live in relentlessly sunny places, like Los (Endless Summer) Angeles, seasonal sunglasses are a great bet. They come in a bewildering array of garish styles, perfect cover for that Boxing Day hangover. I will not tell you who I’m giving them to here, just in case the lucky recipients actually read this blog, which is unlikely, so why am I giving the losers a gift anyway but whatever. ($12.50.)

I found a nail kit that’s disguised as a nesting doll and it’s as cute as can be.  It’s a great gift for those on your list who have taken up biting their nails in recent months, while they watch their 401K disappear. So, you know, like, everyone. ($12.)

Okay, so here’s one item that’s a little more pricey, but may be worth it for the right person. It’s a plastic, yodeling pickle. I know, breathtaking, right? Hard to imagine the brainpower that went into the invention of this thing, but it is awesome (hence the steep price) so only the most privileged person on my list will receive it. I have not decided who that will be yet, but I do know someone I’m fond of who shall remain nameless but is Totally Swiss and, not to be a Swissist or anything, but I figure he’s no stranger to the yodel, and he’s also rumored to enjoy the occasional pickle, so if he plays his cards right he will be a contender.

All the above items are available at E.A.T., 1062 Madison Ave., N.Y., or call 212-861-2544.

I love Jott, a free  application you can download to your phone. Here’s how it works. When you think of something you know you are in danger of forgetting within seconds (this happens to me a hundred times a day as I am brain-challenged),  you speed dial Jott and at the prompt, leave yourself a spoken message, which is transcribed and sent to you as an email for later reading or storing in your to-do list. For a mere $3.95, you can upgrade to send similar messages to other people.

It’s miraculous: no more texting, just more talking.

There can be glitches however.

While we were at “Quantum Solace” the other night, I stepped out in the lobby to Jott my kids the following message: “This movie sucks.”  (Practicing Jotting was an infinitely better use of my time than watching that big, fat, boring movie.) However, the phone service in the lobby was dicey, with interesting results.

When we got home, I was greeted by my daughter with, “MOM! Do you KNOW what you JOTTED ME???” I had not seen her look so grossed out since our dog ate a lizard. (Actually, being a discriminating creature, he only ate half a lizard, leaving the tail.)
“Why yes,” I said as calm as Obama. “I Jotted you, ‘This movie sucks.’ Why?”

Nora dragged me to her computer to look. My message had been transcribed as follows: “I love sex.”

So, if you Jott, make sure you’re in a full service area, or you might send out a little TMI and then you’ll have to pay for your teenager to go to a therapist.