I love tuna.

I realize tuna gets a bad rap, and truth be told: I never order tuna when I’m eating out. Who does? I don’t know a single person on earth who orders tuna when they eat out. But there must be people who DO because they haven’t taken it off the menu anywhere. Yet, anyway.

My husband hates tuna.

Because I want to please him and make him the hap-happiest man of them all, I just quit buying it. I once bought a few boxes of tuna helper and when I pulled them out of the grocery sack was met with distinct face from my husband… it’s his grossed-out face. I don’t think it’s changed much from 1982.
“Babe, really?”

Babe. Really.

He isn’t a helper-snob. In fact, he requests Hamburger Helper ALL of the time, and then I’m the one turning up my nose.
“Babe, really?”

Babe. Really.

I had Hamburger Helper SO much growing up that I’d just as soon eat, well, TUNA than ground beef! It’s true, dang it. But, again: I want to make him happy. So after 3 years, or so, when the boxes of Tuna Helper had finally been all used up… I quit tuna. And then I grew up a little, realized that if I loved tuna and wanted tuna, he could get over it.

Then I went bulk on that bizznass. I went to SAM’S CLUB (my favorite place in the shopping world, retail and pet stores included) and I bought 10 cans of tuna fish. And then I bought two boxes of club crackers. I didn’t have to worry about the Mayo or relish situation because (you guessed it) my husband hates sweet relish.

Sometimes I wonder how we even MAKE it together.  I won’t even get started on how much I love sour cream and how much he hates it.  Or how much he loves guacamole and how much I’d rather slit my own wrists than be compelled to eat anything avacadoish.

I digress:
For the past two weeks, I’ve been basking in a wonderful sort of Tunaissance. My husband has even stooped to eating tuna sandwiches on occasion and, since I omitted the sweet relish on his part, refrained from up-chucking.
Want to know how much tuna is left in my pantry? One. Stinking. Can.
In 14 days, I have eaten 9 cans of tuna.

In the smack-dab middle of one of these cans, I told my husband about my rule of not ordering tuna when I’m eating out. He told me he has the same rule.
“Why?” I asked, “What’s your reason?” I don’t know why I asked because I really already KNEW the answer. He hates tuna. I sometimes think I ask pointless questions for the sole sake of hearing (read: MAKING) him speak. I like to hear his innermost thoughts, even if they center around the all-revealing subject of tuna fish.
“It makes you dumb,” He shrugged while I nearly choked on my cracker.
“WHAT?!”
“You know, tuna makes you dumb.”
“I’ve never heard that.” I laughed.
“I thought everyone had heard that.”
“No,” I shook me head.
“Well why don’t you order it?” He asked.
“I just assume I’ll get food poisoning.”
“Why?”
Oh, please. Like I need to explain myself to the person who once heard sometime from someone, somewhere that eating tuna makes you stupid.

Anyway, I googled it. Tuna DOESN’T make you dumb. They researched it.

In happy news, I’m headed to Sam’s club in the near future for my bi-weekly shopping. Guess what’s on the tip top of the shopping list?

After publishing today’s post, I checked my email. My mother had just emailed me a quote that aligned perfectly with today’s post. I read it, wrote it out, and copied it onto my hacked up piano-turned-chalkboard.

“Another way to wake is to accept who we are, imperfect but unique. Once you realize that since the beginning of time there’s never been anyone like you, that the world will never again be touched by that very voice which is yours, by just these views, by this special tenderness, this particular insight, you will not want to spend your life following others. Look for the glimpse of your true self. Spend time alone: identity is found in silence and solitude. Risk fulfilling what you really are.”
~Reader’s Digest, Nov. 1977

Now. I’ve googled the crap out of this quote to find it’s original source -the full article it originally came from. I can not find it. My apologies.
Enjoy the quote anyway, won’t you?

I love Thursdays.  Thursdays are the days when I get to let loose -technically it’s shopping day every other week, but I have a great talent for procrastination, and I make my milk and bread sttttrrrrrech so I don’t have to shop until Friday at least.
Thursdays are the days I indulge my crafting fancy, my Make My House a Home fancy. But most of all? Thursdays are the days I work out for an hour in the morning and then drive myself CLEAN out into the middle of nowheres so I can pray.

There’s a deeply insightful quote by Brad Willcox that goes something like, “You don’t have to go to Italy to eat; you don’t have to go to India to pray, and you don’t have to go to wherever the heck else she went to love!”

I love that quote.
I think the world is full of searching people. They’re constantly searching outwardly for answers that can be found -more often than not – inwardly.
I won’t tell you all about how I can’t stand the woman who wrote “Eat, Pray, Love” but I WILL tell you that I love Thursday mornings.
I don’t go to India to pray.
I just go to my knees. And on Thursday morning, I go outta town. I drive my Jeep into the dust, breathe in the fresh morning air, take in every little ray of sunrise I can… and then I pray. I lay it all on Heavenly Father -my hopes, my worries, my dreams, my stresses, my laughters, my hates, my loves, my apologies, my gratitude, and my LOVE.

Then I open my eyes.

I read and I ponder.
I learn more about myself in the 20 minutes I spend in quiet solitude than I do in the 40+ hours it takes me to read a self-help book.
True story.

I wish I had a working camera so I might capture the beauty of the moment to share with you: the single black crow gliding across the new sky (my dad could go without that sight, I bet -blasted crop eaters), the endless miles and miles that make me want to belt Dixie Chick songs, the plateus, the barren trees in the distance, the cattle trails, the distant highway… it’s so perfectly renewing, all of it.
It makes my heart swell with wonder and pride, and all at once I love our country.
I find hope and I gain confidence.

I realize, in a peaceful moment, that I’m great at my job because I LOVE it. I was BUILT to stay at home. There may be a season when I’m called on to leave the home and work and I can learn to be good at that too, but for now… for NOW: I’m a fierce guardian of my home, and despite my overwhelming shortcoming and insecurities, I’m GOOD at what I do. Am I the best? Suckah, please. NO ONE is the BEST at being a stay-at-home mother. Really: if you TRY and accuse (for lack of a better verb) someone of being the best mother there ever was, she’d knock you blind.

That’s not really my point.
My point is just that on Thursday mornings, I’m reassured. I’m given a bounty of inspiration and a heavenly pat on the back.
It’s like a silent pep rally for Those Who Actually Really Hate Pep Rallies.

Thank you Thursday.
May the future bring a camera with it so that I might properly share you.
Love,
A Mother with Bird Poop and Sweat On Her Shoulder

Last night, as we were getting ready to have Family Home Evening, my husband took me off guard by saying, “Grab your lap top.  Let’s see what it would take to get you your bachelor degree.”

Um, what?  I was thinking more along the lines of “let’s all sit in a circle and sing” NOT “let’s get the lap top and start changing your life.”
It is time. I know it is. I’m starting to feel the twinge of having only one “baby” home with me, and it’s time for me to finally do what I’ve been saying I’ll do for a few years now. The only obstacle standing in my way is finances and, well, brain power. My brain has been out of student mode for over 5 years now. Just looking at the curricula made me a little dizzy. It looks like I’ll have to take a few more courses from a community college before transferring to a University.
And yeah, I DO have an associate degree. But it’s in music. I don’t want a higher degree in music. I want a higher degree in Englishy things. So it’s sort of like going back to the drawing board.
And taking two Spanish classes and three literature courses (one world, one English, and one American).

I’m scared.

Also: I have no direction. It’s high time to call a counselor and figure out how to proceed and find out if there’s any scholarships out there for returning students who happen to be stay-at-home mothers.

If any of my awesome readers have any insights or advice, I’d love to hear them. I’m like a lost kitten. A dumb, dumb lost kitten.
If I don’t enroll in the near future, I’ll most certainly end up no better than a LOL cat.

Bad grammar, fat, and all.

May I first start out by saying: we went out of town for the weekend, and I was mildly afraid we were going to die in a car accident and my last post would be about poop. People would go to my blog to read about my life and they would say, “And look, the last thing she wrote about is… poop…”

Thank goodness I didn’t die.

Because I have something to say about ice cream.

This weekend, we met up with my brother at a mall. While waiting for him, my husband bought me a small soft serve chocolate ice cream cone from Dairy Queen. I haven’t had a soft serve chocolate ice cream cone from Dairy Queen in ages, and oh man! They are SO good! I may have mentioned it eleven million or so times…

On the drive home, my husband stopped in town along the way to use the bathroom. He just so happened to stop at Dairy Queen. And he just so happened to come out with four cones and (what I HOPE were) clean hands. He had two small vanilla cones for the two small welfare critters in the backseat who depend on us for basically everything (and we love it), one dipped chocolate cone for him, and one gigantic chocolate cone for me.
I was touched.
It was basically soft-serve love in a cone.

I stared at it for all of three seconds before my brain went all female.
“I can’t eat this. I’m trying to lose weight. He knows I’m trying to lose weight. Why would he get me a giant cone if he knew I was trying to lose weight? He WANTS me to lose weight. I wish he would have gotten a smaller cone. Then again, if he HAD gotten a smaller cone THAT would have meant the he couldn’t stand the THOUGHT of his FAT WIFE eating a GIANT chocolate ice cream cone, but he could somehow stomach her eating a SMALL cone…”
And then I quit thinking and ate the bleeping cone.

Because sometimes having a female brain is just SO…
SO…

…

…

I want to type “ridiculous” but it seems miles of insufficient.

And the ice cream was amazing. This morning’s workout? Wellllll, let’s not talk about it.

As I’ve mentioned many times before, I have the greatest in-laws in the world… and I’m talking about ALL of them on both sides.  The people who have married my siblings: I love them.  The people attached to my husband?  I love them.

My husband has two brothers.

One of them is named David. I love David. Everyone loves David. David is behind Danee who is behind Lacy.

Awhile back, we were all sitting in my mother-in-law’s living room. David spoke up and said there was one word that no matter when you said it, the person you said it to would laugh.
What word? We asked, staring at David and waiting in anticipation…

POOP
he said.

And the entire room erupted in giggles. I still laugh when I think about that, and in very fact, we use the POOP trick to get my son to smile in pictures.
Like this one:
If you know my boy, you know what a tough nut he can be to crack when it comes to taking his picture. That smile you see? It’s HUGE. We can hardly EVER get him to smile for the camera, but thanks to poop, we prevailed.

I come from a teasing family. I think my mother came nigh unto insanity over hearing me whine over and over, “Mommmmm, the brothers are teeeeasing meeeeeee.”
Well, of course they teased me! My Dad is the king of teasing. It’s his way of expressing his love, I think. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t tease you.
I’ve heard him lovingly speak of the time when he was dating my mother and she brought him lunch at work. He thought she was so thoughtful and wonderful… until he drank the beverage she left for him.
“It was buttermilk,” my Dad almost shudders when he tells the story, “I spit it out all over the ground and before I could get after her, she was halfway down the road.”
Dad LOVES that story. I think he fell more in love as he watched my mother screeching away, dust flying behind her car. She knew full well that he hated buttermilk.

Humor was the pinnacle of our home. Okay, okay. CHRIST was the pinnacle of our home, but humor? Right up there. Even when we were reading scriptures in the morning, we found some way to laugh. And prayer time? Well, with six kids all down on the their knees at the same time, someone is BOUND to fart. And then we were lucky to eek out any kind of prayer at all. There was early morning jokes, butchering jokes, brothers imitating old people to a perfect T and making us all laugh so hard our cheeks hurt. There was Dad jokes and Mom jokes and younger siblings that made jokes without even trying.
We weren’t a perfect family, but we laughed our way out of the home, and that was enough. Laughter has sustained us all through the hard times, the painful times, the good times, and the dark times. It keeps us afloat.
Since I’ve been married, I find myself cracking jokes when I should be crying.
Years ago, I was in the hospital with a painful infection. I had had my blood drawn so many times I wanted to cry. I HATE needles, and I had been pricked almost every. dang. hour. on account of my just coming out of gestational diabetes. I had an IV put in my hand because my arms were all poked out. I had just gotten an IV out a few days before. I felt like a human pincushion, ready to be used any time of the day or night.
One morning, a man came in to draw my blood. Like I had so many times before, I grit my teeth, clamped my eyes closed and curled my toes up tight.
“You hate needles?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I said without opening my eyes.
“Me too,” he said, “I find it easier to just look away right before I put the needle in the patient.”
And I laughed.
And laughed and laughed and laughed. And suddenly I didn’t mind having my blood drawn again.
“I can only use that joke with certain patients,” he chuckled, “You can always tell which ones have the sense of humor to take it.”
Oh, how I needed that joke.

Naturally, I annoy my children to DEATH.
“Mommy, can we look down that hole?”
“I can just throw you in. That would be fun!”
“NOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Mommy, can I play with my puzzle?”
“Oh, shoot. I thought you hated it so I threw it away yesterday. It’s at the dump now.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!”

And that was just yesterday…

A few days ago, I was in the kitchen making something. I don’t remember WHAT exactly. I remember it was something sweet… but that’s all I got. The girl wandered in the kitchen and asked me what I was making.
“Poop,” I said, not cracking even the slightest grin as I stuck my finger in the bowl and licked a chunk of food off.
“Can I have some?” She wasn’t even a little bit fazed!
I was disappointed. I was expecting her to be grossed out, confused… something! And I got nothing.
“Fine,” I stuck my finger back in the bowl and stuck it in her mouth, “Here ya go.”
“Mmmm,” she cooed, “I like poop.”

And here’s my problem: she keeps asking for poop. I have NO IDEA what it was I made. Our conversations go like this.
“Can I have some of that poop you made yesterday?” She’ll ask (yesterday is all encompassing. It means “in the past.”)
“I don’t remember what it is.” I’ll shrug.
“Yes you do! It was just good…” she tilt her head and raise her eyebrow as if she’s just given me a dead-on clue as to what poop is.
“I don’t know.”
“Make it again! You can!” She pipes up enthusiastically.
“If you want poop, you can get it in the potty.” I say because I don’t know what else to say.
“Mom. Not THAT poop.”
“Arg.”

My son is more than confused. I was in the bathroom yesterday and he perched himself outside, shouting out instructions.
“Don’t eat your poop!!!” He called out.
“I’m not going to.” I say back.
“It’s not for eating!!!!!!!!” He yells.
“I’m not going to eat my poop!” I say, hardly believing I have to speak the words out loud and knowing full well it’s my own bloody fault.
“And the toilet paper is not for eating wecause it’s not!” He keeps yelling.
“I’m not going to eat the toilet paper!” I yell back.
“You’re done now, Mom! I need to pee standing up!” He yells back.

And yes, he was pushing his little hands under the crack in the bathroom during the entire conversation.

I’m still at a loss. What was the poop I made? It wasn’t brownies. My best guess is oatmeal raisin cookie dough. I’m going to make it today and see if it passes the test. The POOP test.
Geez, I hope I’m not messing my kids up too badly.

If I do, I’ll pass the blame onto my teasing parents. It’s the acceptable thing to do now, right?

Yesterday I cleaned up the BOMB that went off in my laundry room. And by “cleaned up” I mean I separated it into neat little bomb piles, lovingly washed it and then set it all on my living room couch while I bounded around the house fielding phone calls and feeding my children.

Last night, my husband helped me clean the BOMB that went off in my laundry room and was carefully moved to the living room couch.

After dinner, we sat on either side of the couch with a pile of clothes betwixt us and we folded clothes while we watched a movie. What movie? Mark of Love.

Now.

We’re funny about watching movies together. It’s something we LOVE to do, but it takes about half a century to agree on one. When we were first married, we were better on finding something we both liked. Maybe it was because we were nicer to each other then. Maybe it was because we were SO in love that all we wanted to watch was romantic comedies. Maybe it was because we were both young and were into youngish things.

Fast forward 7 years and whaddyagot? Two happily married people with two VERY different tastes. It isn’t as if we both have wills of IRON and refuse to bend. That’s not it at all. I’ll watch his shows now and then, and he’ll watch mine now and then. Lately, it has sort of bothered me that my husband doesn’t “get” my stuff. There have been many-a-poem read by me to him where he just sort of nods along. I get giddy over single sentences written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and when I audibly SQUEAL with delight and my husband asks why… I read the sentence to him, my voice fairly rife with anticipation, and when I’m done and my eyes are beaming expectantly up at him, he looks back and smiles in a way only a loving husband who doesn’t completely not care could. He cares in the way that he’s glad it makes me happy, but it just isn’t his thing. The movie situation is another thing entirely.

I love old movies. I LOVE them. The sense of humor, the wit, the plots, the characters… talkies are superior to freshies in every way except graphics. And even then, I sometimes prefer the giant mutant ants from “Them” to a modern day blue Avatar.

Old movies really DO something for me. I love the way people used to talk -it is, well, it was like people actually CARED what they said. Again, it’s just not my husband’s thing. He begs, “No more old movies. Pleeeease.” And I wonder WHY he doesn’t GET it. They’re amazing! They’re great! My Netflix queue reflects my love, as does most every “suggestion” list I have. My disgruntled husband once slipped from his ivory tower and condemned my habit of exclusively watching old movies. He was surfing through our Netflix Instant Streaming and nearly every suggested movie was an old one.
My Netflix GETS me.

“Arg!” He said, “You’ve got to watch something else!”
I was unduly hurt, and I let him know in what turned out to be one fiery spat of a sentence about how I wasn’t going to change something I love about myself just so Netflix will suggest movies that may or may not be more fun.
Hmph!
Also: I don’t usually fire back at my husband, but he really hurt me. I think we all have silly things that touch nerves, and we know they shouldn’t, but they do.
I can’t stand it when anyone down plays the hard work of stay-at-home mothering. It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t feel like my job was sacred. But I do. Don’t make it less than it is, and if you EVER joke about it being easy or posh… I’ll leave the room because I hate confrontation. BUT AFTER I LEAVE, I’ll come up with something awesome in my head that I’ll never, ever say out loud. And that will suffice.

I also firmly believe that individual personalities are sacred which is why when my husband gets irritated with mine and SAYS something, it hurts.
It took me a few weeks to get over it.

ANYWAY, there’s a scene in Mark of Love where Mark (who is an idiot on every count) is watching an old movie with a girlfriend, Claire. Claire and Mark plays word games together and they have so much in common that they can’t get enough of each other. Later in the movie, Mark is dating Jess. He puts on an old movie and she just complains.
“When does it switch to color?”
“It doesn’t…”
“The Wizard of Oz switched to color. Did you know I played Glinda in High School? I had the coolest red shoes and they actually used them for Dorothy’s part…” And she rambled on and on while Mark stared blankly at her face and longed for Claire. Claire GOT him.
During that scene I looked over at my husband who was voicing his support for Jess and her loathing of black and white movies.

And I was struck with a yearning… a dangerous yearning that rears it’s ugly head every time I read a line Dickens out loud to my husband.

I wish he understood.

I went to bed wishing, and I woke up to run. As I ran around and around and around, I listened to a talk by Sterling W. Sill that I’ve listened to only eleventy billion times, and while I listened and mouth the words to the poems and quotes he read, I realized something. It wasn’t anything Sterling W. Sill said.
I rather like to think it was a combination of a good night’s rest and the crisp early morning air.

If my husband got my crap, I wouldn’t be attracted to him.

I’ve met many-a-man who really did get the humor in old movies. They get the beauty of classic literature and they hmmmm in deep respect after a philosophical quote HITS them where it counts.
And (here’s the ringer) I am NOT remotely attracted to a single one of those men.

My husband is proficient in slang, and it’s something I absolutely adore about him. A few weeks ago, I posted a facebook status update that demonstrates this:
“Wait, which one’s Claudio? Is he the dude that shafted that chick?” ~Danny Deets on Shakespeare

I wrote that one night where he sat patiently through one of “my” movies, “Much Ado About Nothing.” Much Ado is one of my all-time favorites, and I can’t watch it without emitting at least 25 of the aforementioned squeals. So much wit it should like to kill me.

But I will tell you this: after my husband says stuff like that, I’m all a-mush. If anyone ELSE said something like that, I’d cringe. But the magic of my husband is that when HE says and does stuff like that, I can’t get enough of him.

And as I realized this and continued my trot (because, who are we kidding? I can’t actually RUN run) around and around around under that stars, I felt FREE. I was finally free from my dangerous yearning that had plagued me for -dare I say it? -YEARS.

If my husband GOT my stuff, he wouldn’t be my husband. And all the jewels in heaven couldn’t make me give that man up.
Not for all the talkies, all of Dickens’ archives, and every Bonanza episode ever made… including that one Easter episode where Hoss dressed up like a bunny that I can not find ANYWHERE no matter how hard I look.  And anyway, his individual personality is as sacred to me as my own is.

These little revelations probably seem absolutely ridiculous to most everyone else. I think I’m on the caboose end on the Common Sense train.

As it is, I’m grateful for the morning run that gave me clarity, and I will say this: my husband’s patience with me knows no bounds. Bless that man and his crime shows.

My kids are in a sort of honeymoon phase when it comes to helping mom. Because we took Monday off and went to the city, I cleaned all day yesterday. I said something in the middle of cleaning day that made me laugh out loud.

What?
I know I’m not the ONLY one who laughs at themselves around here…

“You can’t peel the potatoes until you vacuum!” You should have seen them scramble, fighting over the vacuum, begging to peel potatoes.

It was so cute that I had to snap a picture of them peeling potatoes. I told them to look at me and smile which ALWAYS merits my son looking away and my daughter making some cock-eyed facial expression.

I love my job.

Life has been blazing by me lately. My days are so blessedly packed full that I’ve hardly had time to sit and write. I finally MADE some time this morning by waking up at 4:45 in the AM.
Yeah, I thought I was crazy too.

A group of friends invited me to train with them for a 5K coming up in March. They warned me I’d have to get up early. I told them I would. On Tuesdays.
I’m hardcore like that.
“Sure, I’ll be there for you. ONE day out of five, I’ll be THERE!”
True to my word, I was there. I was 15 minutes late, but I was there.

Before charging forward, I must say (and it pains me to; watch me as I choke on my own words), “Thank you, Jillian Michaels for being SUCH a FRIGGIN’ Nazi.” Did you know I jogged 1.5 miles today? Never mind about how fast I jogged it because, honestly, I haven’t the faintest. But did you hear me? I jogged one mile! And then a little more!  I haven’t done that since that one time I took freshman PE as a sophmore! I did have to break after jogging the full mile because my jacket came unzipped, my shoe came untied and my music stopped playing all at once, BUT once I fixed everything I picked myself back up and jogged the rest out. When I got up this morning, I told myself I was an idjjit.
Oh, and by the way, while I haven’t been blogging I HAVE been watching a couple of movies that involve Irish accents. Ever since, I’ve been pronouncing “idiot” as if there’s j’s involved.
I started my car and hated it.
I slovenly dressed myself in approximately 22 layers and hated it.
I drove to the secret meeting place and hated it.
And then I warm-up walked.
And then I jogged, fully aware that I was going to make it MAYBE, if I was terribly lucky, one lap. I did make it one lap. And I kept going. and going. and going.
My pace was something of a solid mix between a train (steady on, chug, chug, chug) and a snail.
But I DID it. What’s more? I’m 100% convinced that I’m not an idjjit! Getting up to run under the stars was heavenly. So Jillian, while I hate you and take nothing but absolute GLEE in muting your voice while I do your unrelenting, heinous workouts… thank you. I jogged a mile and a half this morning, and the thanks goes to you.
Now please excuse me while I warsh my mouth out with soap. I can’t believe I just DID that. I’ve sworn on the grave of my first parakeet to loathe that woman throughout all eternity.

Now.
Onto something radically different.
CAKE.

For those of you who are rendered uncomfy by overshare, please navigate away from storyladyblog.com. For everyone else: I get the worst PMS ever. I mean, as if the crankiness and crying isn’t enough… I get sick. I get SICK! I lie on the couch with a heating pad (for added comfort), tissues nearby, peppermint water nearby, chick flicks nearby… and I sit there on the tip top of mount couchette, hating the blues.
While perched thus, I perused Pinterest (ahhhhh, alliteration!) and someone I follow (Lizzie, dahhhling) pinned a cake.
I’m not huge on cake.
Cookies? Brownies? Sign me up. Cake? Eh. I’ll eat it.

But THIS cake?

Any woman with a hormonally induced bloated abdomen who had this picture PLOPPED in front of her would be brought to her water-retaining KNEES. As I was. It was a recipe from Better Homes and Gardens. It is titled “Chocolate Sour Cream Cake.”
I read through the ingredients, and while there was a nagging sort of voice telling me that I probably didn’t have enough sour cream to make it… I forged my way to the kitchen in spite of it. I began tearing at my fridge, and you know what I found? Well, you might call it 24 ounces of sealed sour cream but I call it PROVIDENCE.

And so: despite my good sense telling me that I had JUST been to the doctor the month before and had my weight taken and came to the knowledge that if I were but one teeny tiny inch shorter I would be, in very fact, overweight. And despite the fact that I’ve been busting meeee britches! to remedy that situation, and despite the fact that I knew my PMS would radically improve if I would drop the sugar business all together… my hands moved methodically.
They tied my apron on.
They stirred, they melted, they molded…
As the scent of made-from-scratch chocolate cake wafted through my house that was rapidly falling apart around my swollen knees, I stared at my computer screen and wondered if I was so ridiculous as to even CONSIDER making the frosting it called for:

Do you see that there is 555 PER SERVING?
I did. I even stared at it for about 10 full minutes, willing it to decrease. I began a destructive cycle, common among premenstrual females.
I told myself I could have the frosting.
I should have the frosting.
Just a few slices of cake spread out over a few days…
And I’d work out.
But think where’d I’d be if I went with a less fattening frosting and STILL worked out.
I deserve NOT to make that frosting!
I deserve to be healthy!
But I WANT the frosting.
You shouldn’t want the frosting.
Then I’m a horrible person.
You ARE a horrible person.
I FEEL like a horrible person.
I should have the frosting…

And so it went until I finally made an executive decision.

And oh sweet poison, if it wasn’t the BEST mistake I’ve ever made. The frosting tasted like softened fudge, and I absolutely slathered the cake in it. My children, enticed by the aroma, wandered into the kitchen and found me hovered over my double-layer cake, Quasi-style.
“Is that for me?” my daughter asked.
“No…” I said.
“Is for ME?” My son asked.
“This one is for Mom,” I said, “It’s my PMS cake.”
“Oh,” they pretended to understand.
“Can I have some of that PMS?” My daughter asked.
“Yes, and someday when you REALLY have some PMS I will make you your own big, fat chocolate cake.”
“Okay!” She cried out, ecstatic at the notion of growing up and having cake.

Word to the wise: this cake can not HAVE any other frosting. The cake itself is not overly sweet. The sweetness factor between the frosting and cake is absolute perfection. There can not be one without the other.

I stuck a fork in that slice, planted myself back on the tip top of mount couchette, streamed The Seven Year Itch and laughed by brains out. I realize not everyone gets up in hysterical goo over old movies like I do, but if you DO please watch that movie! I busted a gut just TELLING my husband about it who, when I was done, said something amazing like “Steve Sarver has totally ruined the Suns.”
Ours is a love like no other.

Thanks to my vooonderful PMS, I missed two days of work out (and took Sunday off as I normally do), and in addition to it all, I gobbled three slices of that cake over the course of three days. If you’re acquainted at all with my sweet tooth, you know that three slices in three days is the very picture of restraint for me. What’s more: I shoved the cake at anyone who happened to pass by. Coming by for piano lesson? Better eat cake.
And finally, to add glisten to my medal of honor, I phoned in a favor to a friend and had them come and TAKE the remainder of the cake.
Then, and ONLY then, did I finally “repin” the cake recipe.
I changed the title though. What was once Chocolate Sour Cream Cake is now PMS cake. How blissful was I when I saw a friend repin in (and not from me) as the PMS cake. I pray the name continues to stick as it is fully deserving.

In other news of “What in the World have I been doing while not blogging,” my husband got a hankering for whimsy and set up our gigantic camping tent in the living room so we could all have a slumber party. As he was setting up the tent, I was helping the girl with her nightgown.
“Are we going to sleep in the tent?” She asked.
“Yep.”
“The FOUR of us? Me and you and Daddy and Trent?” She asked.
“Yep.”
“Why don’t we have another baby?” She asked, all curiousness.
“Maybe we do,” I shrugged, “There’s always a chance there’s one in my belly! Do you think there’s one in there right now?” I asked, thinking fondly of friends who have told me that their older children have known about their pregnancies before they did. She gasped in glee, clutched my shirt, lifted it clean up, and examined me.
“Maybe!” She looked up at me, her eyes shining, “It’s kinda fat!”

Ohhhhh, deflate. At that moment, I regretted ever parting with the cake. But, remembering the 555 calories, I quickly recovered.

In other other news, the children broke the camera. It’s miracle it survived the 5 years that it did with my two children. I bear no ill will toward Sony, but I DO feel a sort of something that tells me my printer is about to die. And something else expensive.
Probably two expensive things.

And now that I’ve been up for just over three hours and gotten positively nothing done but 1.5 miles and a chapter of scripture read, I’m getting with it because I’ve got a house to clean today. I spent all of yesterday (cleaning day) in the city, and ended it by cooking up a ready made chicken alfredo dinner, courtesy of Sam’s Club. As I pulled it out of the oven and dished some up for my kiddies I dabbed a small bit of blood from the corner of my son’s nose where I had accidentally scratched him while trying to corral him into the house for dinner.
“Well, you’re dying,” I sighed.
“NO!” The girl cried, “He can’t DIE! That would be so sad and TRENT!” She turned to him, “That would be so sad and we would have to BURY you.”
“Not really,” I explained gently to her, “We just bury his body, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she nodded, “What do we do with his head?”

I was laughing so hard I couldn’t finish up what SHOULD have been a touching teaching moment. Maybe, just maybe, we watch a few too many crime television shows around here…

The day we’ve been waiting for has arrived! I’m so grateful my aunt invited me to sell some goodies at her boutique. Today I set up camp on her day bed and enjoyed the atmosphere of her home. I snapped some pictures before people started filing in the door -and file they did -so you can get a feel of what I’m talking about. ALSO, I MIGHT have snapped some pictures for the sole sake of pinning of them.
Okay I did.
You would too.

There’s a sheer apron on a dress form and a display of some of the greatest necklaces you’ve ever seen. Seriously, they’re amazing.
And to answer questions: use the sheer aprons to cook at your own risk. Remember: bacon splatters.

There’s my once-was Halloween costume. It was a dress, now it’s a vintage-style apron. It’s amazing what a little rick-rack can do! And take a look at that pearl necklace: it’s one popular item!
Printables, one free with every jewelry purchase.

Atmosphere:

Atmosphere:

Atmosphere:

Hanging on an old coat rack:

Bracelets, earrings, and so on and so forth…

Couldn’t you just DIE over those mini dress forms? Love, love them!

Hot pads, hearts and a cozy fire burning:

And of course, no boutique is complete without a little indulgence:

Tomorrow is the LAST day of the boutique, so make sure you stop by!