I used to pride myself on being a low-maintenance woman. Aaaaand then I turned into putty in my husband’s hands when he had 12 roses delivered to me.
It turns out I LOVE having flowers delivered. Pricey wife, I am.

I do still take some pride in the fact that I’m not a full-fledged high-maintenance woman. For example, I don’t buy things for myself, um, ever. UNLESS my husband gifts me with a gift card and ORDERS me to use it.

This week, I hit a point where I just wished for roughly $1,000 to spend frivolously on myself.
The last time I bought jeans, I bought them at Savers. They don’t fit quite right, and let’s face it: they were half way to their grave when I bought them.
My legs are not easy to shop for. They are SO LONG, and jean shopping was the cross my father hereditarily (not a word) handed to me.
“Here, daughter, these are for you,” he said and then somewhere between 4th and 6th grade?
*BAM*
My legs started growing, and growing and growing and growing. I love my legs, really. But shopping for them? I’d sooner wear skirts every dang day of my life than go jean shopping.
Long jeans are so pricey! Cute long jeans? Sheesh. But if I had $1,000?
I’d buy a few pair in a heart beat.

These are $57 from DownEast Basics. I need to branch my fashion out a little. About 1/2 of my entire wardrobe is DownEast clothes I bought on sale or clearance.  But when you’ve got a good thing, why stray?
The other half is used stuff I’ve picked up from Goodwill, yard sales, and the free clothing swap the church does every year.
But back to these:

36″ inseam? come to Mama!

I’d also get my hairs done again. Remember back in August when I went to a retreat for women? Remember how I saved for an entire year to go with my mom? I absolutely loved that retreat, and I love what they did to my hair! I have a card that has the formula the girl used to do my hair, and I have an Aveda salon just over an hour away! It’s just… I don’t have $200 to cover the cost of it all. BUT if I had $1,000, I’d get my hair done again. I’d also buy all of the products to go with it. Haven’t you ever wanted to do that? I’d also get a massage while I was there. Because I could.

As it stands, I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t even trimmed my hair since August. Ouchies.

The last thing I would do with that money? Buy a fancy-pants printer -an HP printer that doesn’t eat my ink, that prints without jamming up every time and one that treats me like a lady.
Whatever cash was left would be spent on my house. Which isn’t actually MY house but my DAD’S house that we rent from him.
There’s so many improvements I’d love to make, but they’re not necessary. They’re just the kind that haunt you when you’re a stay-at-home mom who spends  entire days in the same house.
I get itchy to improve! improve! improve!
I think it’s a woman thing.
Just ask any husband out there.

Speaking of husbands.
I just asked mine what he would do with $1,000. He grinned like a little boy.
“Save it. Then when I had enough, I’d buy me a big fat TV.” He then made a sound effect and pretended to plaster a giant TV on the wall of our modular home (that, remember, is a rental).

Obviously if either of us had $1,000 we’d hoard it and save it for a house.
*sigh*
Making mature decisions can be SUCH a downer. On second thought: thank goodness we don’t have $1,000.

Anyway.
What would you do with $1,000? Don’t give me a mature decision answer, either. Give me your frivolous answer.

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