as a sign of my love and fidelity, I will have the beef brisket dinner

One of the local newspapers runs a weekly coupon for a bar-b-q restaurant for buy one dinner, get one free. I don't like bar-b-q, uhhhh, because I'm a vegetarian, but it's Pastor Carnivore's favorite place to eat.

So tonight, coupon in hand, we go to enjoy our kid-free evening at the slaugtered cow restaurant. The Pastor is in front of me in line, sliding his tray down the counter (it's a classy place) paying. I tell the Pastor I am going to get an extra side item - cobbler.

Now let's take a minute to review.

My plate:
brisket which the Pastor is going to eat in addition to his own brisket
a piece of toast
two side items - vegetables

The Pastor's plate:
brisket, which he is going to eat before he eats my brisket
TWO pieces of toast because in addition to killing cows he wants to be responsible for killing whatever it is they make toast out of
and his two side items

So right now my entire meal consists of my two sad little vegetables and a piece of toast and WATER and the cobbler I wish to get.

Back to our story. The Pastor yells at me from the cash register, to inform me NOT to get an EXTRA side of cobbler, but to use one of my side items to obtain cobbler.

I am getting brisket. This is not the time to go all cheap on me.

In the end, it didn't really matter because the Pastor ate the cobbler too.

accidental overdose

When the Pastor comes home and finds me in a heap on the floor of the new Parsonage, will someone please let him know it was probably from a combination of:
1. an overdose of caramel corn with nuts (AKA Boy Scout popcorn which is really $12 Cracker Jacks)
2. having the thermostat set to high
3. breathing fingernail polish fumes
4. crying my eyes out because I miss him
5. exhaustion brought on by shopping for dining room furniture

On a happier note, I beat you again. My tree is up, and it has been for a week, and there are presents under it!
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.

One of the best things about moving is since I am the one putting everything away, I am the one who knows where everything is. Information is power.

One of the worst things about moving is every single one of my fingernails is gone. Also, I can’t find my coat. The very worst thing about moving is since we changed our address my Us Magazine hasn’t arrived, and this is a crucial week with the whole Britney/Kevin break-up.

I’m thinking of cutting my hair. I’m thinking it’s time for a change. No sooner did I type that then I started thinking Robyn, do you really mean you desire yet another change in addition to the new marriage new step kids new non-job new parsonage new everything that now you want to cut your hair too? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.

Welcome to about the 5th year of my existential crisis.

bed, bath & beyond

me, getting ready for bed:
-take second shower of the day
-shave legs AGAIN
-spend a few moments pondering what cute "pj's" to wear to bed
-dress in cute "pj's"
-brush teeth
-put on perfume
-go through nightly skin care ritual of cleansing face (not with Dawn soap), applying eye cream and applying anti-old lady neck and chest cream
-apply lotion to feet and hands

the Pastor, getting ready for bed:
-removes shirt
-sniffs armpits
-removes pants
-gets into bed

home is not sweet, but cheesy

greetings from the new parsonage

I have an internet signal! Woo hoo!

We are about 75% moved. I am exhausted. My hips hurt. Isn't that an odd thing to hurt from excessive moving and unpacking?

Moving has made me delirious. I ate Easy Mac at 11 p.m. last night. I was starving. Right now, one of my friends is reading this and will subsequently delete my e-mail address and all my contact info because 1. I actually purchased Easy Mac 2. I ate it. Please forgive me for resorting to carbs, processed food and fake orange cheese during this stressful time.

I gotta unpack some more.

talk liturgical to me

We are moving three blocks. Anyone who has ever moved a short distance knows it would be easier to move to India than to move three blocks.

The Pastor came home at 1 a.m. last night. He had been teaching a class out of town. I waited up for him. I had french-tipped my nails, showered, and I had on my very pretty long crimson satin nightgown. We go to bed and the Pastor started talking about something liturgical. He actually used the word “liturgical” and a bunch of other big words I didn’t pick up on, because it was 1 a.m.

I had to then explain to him that when your wife waits up til 1 a.m. you don’t talk about liturgical things. I don’t even know what liturgical means, but I’m pretty sure it’s not sexy.

The Pastor bet me a month’s worth of coffee at Starbucks – he says Britney and Kevin got married in October 2004. I say September 2004. I don’t know why he would make a bet involving pop culture with me. He would have been better off betting me something involving the definition of the word liturgical.

stop here on red

Moving. In 7 days. To the new and improved parsonage.

The Pastor thinks all ails can be cured with Dawn foaming hand soap. He doesn't understand why I use $13 Clinique face wash when I could just use the fabulous $3 Dawn soap. Help me to help him to understand.