toast.

In perhaps the greatest marital compromise of all time, I am allowing a single appliance to be kept on our kitchen counter.

I'm a big fan of a house that looks like people don't actually live there. A side effect of this is not wanting a single item on my kitchen counter. (Or any counter for that matter.)

Recently, unhappiness was expressed about the only toaster we have ever owned: my Hello Kitty toaster, which the Pastor purchased for me pre-marriage. The Pastor stated he did not like the HK toaster, because the outline of HK prevents the bread from actually being toasted in parts. And having your bread toasted by the toaster is something people prefer. Ummmmmm, so? With the HK toaster, you get really cute toast, and she is happy to be tucked away in a cabinet when her work is done. Apparently, with Miss Kitty, you have to toast and then flip the bread around and toast again to get it toasted on both sides. We are not the kind of people who are patient enough for one toasting cycle, much less two. Please understand all of these toast reports have come to me second-hand as toast is yet another thing that I have to deal with, but don't actually eat.

As an act of kindness and love, I went to Target loaded down with coupons. I saved $55 in coupons, almost enough to offset the price of the new toaster. By the way, have you priced toasters lately? When did there come into existence such a thing as toasters that costs more than a new oven? I was sure to narrow down the search for a new toaster to those that could toast more than two slices at a time. Not only do we like our toast, we like lots of it.

I'm sure this new appliance will make all the difference in bringing harmony to our house. If not, perhaps I would be willing to try moving it to another counter. Say the one in the bathroom, precariously close to the tub.

Laundry List

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Where has the time gone? I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted to this blog.

Here'a a quick catch up.

I wrote a book. I'm not sure what to do with it now, but I wrote it.

The Pastor wrote a book too. He knows what he's doing with it. I'll tell you about it as soon as I've read it. Don't tell the Pastor I haven't finished reading it yet.

We moved.

We went to Waco. And Houston. And Cancun. And Galveston. And New Orleans. And Dallas. And Broken Arrow. I'd post pictures, but once I got home I started doing laundry and I don't think I stopped since. It never stops.

Nate went on his first college tour. I began the first in what will no doubt be a series of extended panic attacks about my baby going off to college.

And since this is summer, I have a house full of teenagers and a husband at home, thanks to his college professor job. They seem to all be skilled at simultaneously keeping me from actually accomplishing anything, while at the same time not really spending any time with me. I'm not sure how it works exactly. It's like some mathematical equation I can't solve. I do know that everyone changes clothes a lot, and they want to eat all the time. All. The. Time. And no one sleeps. And you'd think I was a Rap Mogul the way these people ask me for cash. Yes, I'm ready for school to start.

I also discovered Pinterest. What did I do before Pinterst? I guess I blogged. Pinterest is like my private, magical, special world where everything is perfect. Now I spend my days baking tasty treats which are devoured by the teenagers and making my own laundry detergent, evidence of such craziness can be seen in the photo above. I think it's a stretch to say "I made my own laundry detergent" because I didn't harvest animal fat to make lye soap, or however done. I didn't mine baking soda. I don't even know where baking soda comes from. I took ingredients and I assembled them into laundry detergent. I'm not sure exactly what my parents think I'm doing, but my Dad's response? I guess you want your clothes to stink! My Mom's response? I hope you guys don't start getting rashes.

The Pastor is "Filling a Pulpit" at a church an hour and a half away. It's a great church. Every Sunday, someone is clamoring to take us to lunch after church. How could I be unhappy about that?

And today is special. Today marks day 11 of my latest bout with "seasonal allergies." When is it a season and when is it an actual lifestyle? Let's just say it is probably for the best that I haven't been posting under the influence of Benadryl. The Benadryl has helped to dull the pain of the "fun summer" I am having.

I've also been on a diet. I lost 6.6 pounds and how I've gained 1.2 back. I blame the teenagers, the pre-college experience, and most of all Pinterest.

There. You are caught up. I wish I was caught up on anything - especially the laundry.

you can't judge a book by its cover

But you can totally judge it by its dedication page. More on that in just a minute.

We have been in the process of moving and when I say "we" I really mean "I" because it's my job alone to hide everything in the house in such a way that no one else can find anything. This is the reason for five moves in seven years. Whenever anyone gives off a hint that they actually know where anything is, it's time to move again.

As if I have nothing better to do but to hide everything from everyone! As if I enjoy being needed, that no one is able to function without me in this or whatever house we might be living in.

All this to say, I had what I consider as a wife, a mother, and a writer, to be a perfectly normal thought last week. I was holding a giant roll of bubble wrap and I thought this about my husband: I could kill him. I could kill him right now. Somehow, I could kill him with this bubble wrap.

Normally, I enjoy bubble wrap. I think bubble wrap is fun. I can say it's the first time I've ever held bubble wrap and thought evil thoughts.

In addition to moving, we did just have the perfect storm occurring within a three week period: our anniversary, my birthday and mother's day. I was out of town on our anniversary which automatically makes it null and void, there were tears on both the other days and I got the same Happy Birthday message he sends to everyone on Facebook.

The combination would have been too great for any man, but for a man with a few Master's Degrees and a doctorate, and it was just too much.

The Pastor crawled into bed last night at some ungodly time proclaiming he had just finished his second book. When I got up this morning I opened up what he had sent me.

I made it as far as the dedication page.

I saw his parent's names.

I saw pastor's names from when he was growing up.

I saw our kid's names.

Yep, you guessed it.

He couldn't have picked a worse week to not dedicate a book to me.

There's about a thousand things I could be writing right now, but I'm too distracted. I had to spend the morning mentally re-writing his dedication page for him.
I understand the logic of why he did what he did. His book is about the next generation of faith embodied in children. He chose to dedicate his book to the people who influenced him growing up, and to our children who he hopes to influence even though one of those children just told us about plans to get a tattoo from the Book of "Philippines."

But still. He couldn't do one of these numbers?

*****

And finally, to Robyn, the love of my life, without you none of this would be possible.

*****

or

*****

for Robyn

Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun--all your meaningless days. For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labor under the sun.

*****

Ironically, his book is entitled "The Greatest Commandment." I would have an even greater commandment for him.

And to think, I had just started speaking to him again yesterday.

I completely understand why he wouldn't dedicate the book to me. Right now, we're not on the same page. We're not in the same book located on the same shelf in the same bookstore on the same planet in the same universe.

It's perfectly fine.

Maybe this book is a throw-away.

Let him dedicate this one to the parents and kids.

Maybe he knows on some level the next book will be huge. That's the one! And he's saving that one to dedicate to me and to only me. It will be more special that way. Why should I have to share star billing with anyone? That book will be huge and he'll be able to make up to me the mother's days, the birthdays, and the anniversaries. Volkswagen Bug huge.

At that point I'll settle for a simple dedication,

to Robyn,
thanks for allowing me to live

Until then, I have some more things to hide.

if you want to read more about our move you can go to:
homesweetparsonage.blogspot.com

Erma made it ok

When I was a little girl, sure I wanted to grow up to be a ballerina or a princess. Deep down, I knew what I really wanted to be.

I wanted to be a mom.

Also, I was one of those kids who read everything I could get my hands on. At some point I must have finished all of my Nancy Drew books and I started reading my Mom's Erma Bombeck books.

I remember reading one of Erma's stories. I learned there are two kinds of moms in the world: the kind who washes a measuring cup out with soap after she'd only used it to measure water, and the kind who doesn't.

This was my takeaway: Erma was funny, and I wanted to be the kind of mom who washes the measuring cup out with soap.

As hard as I tried, I probably only had fleeting moments of being that kind of mom. Even if I managed to wash my measuring cup out with soap, I was the kind of mom who had a job. I was the mom who got divorced. I was a single mom. I was the mom who didn't have to wash her measuring cups, because it was easier to just go out to eat.

Then I got married to the Pastor and I was the kind of mom with a step in front of it, raising preacher's kids alongside my own.

While Erma never had to worry about being a pastor's wife or a step-mom, we had one thing in common - living with people who gave us plenty of writing material. I didn't just want to be a mom anymore; I wanted to be a writer.

A couple of years ago I went through the worst kind of writer's block a humor writer could have.

I was sad.

I know why I got stuck. I had spent two years of my life trying to get pregnant, having a baby that died, trying some more, failing and letting go. Nothing had worked out the way I thought it would; nothing was funny. I had all the time in the world to wash measuring cups out with soap, but no baby.

I had this need with my writing to make everything funny. There wasn't anything funny about miscarriage or infertility. Was there? Granted I was 40. I was living with three teenagers. I was not that many years away from having an empty nest. Wanting another baby? I must have had some kind of mental condition. There had to be something funny about all of it.

About the only thing I could come up with was that my body and baby did not get along because my baby didn’t like Mexican food and we just couldn’t come to an agreement. Or the baby was just as ungrateful as our other kids: I carried that baby all over Europe and then he just took off after the vacation.

I had the hardest time writing but I kept reading. Once again I found myself out of books and at Goodwill searching for more. That's when I stumbled across a collection of just about every single one of Erma's books.

I read Erma's A Marriage Made in Heaven...or Too Tired for an Affair. I realized Erma didn’t just write about the funny stuff. Erma wrote about everything, good and bad. This book? It was exactly what I needed.

I learned something about Erma I never knew. Erma had struggled with infertility. Erma had been 40 and pregnant too. I started the chapter about Erma's pregnancy at age 40 with renewed hope. Erma was a huge success! Maybe this was a good omen. Here I was struggling to write and struggling to get pregnant. Maybe Erma had all the answers.

Turns out, Erma and I had something else in common. Erma's baby died too.

Erma wrote about it.

Erma wrote about not wanting to deal with the inevitable. Wanting to wait just a little bit longer. Not wanting to let go. Maybe it would turn out ok. About having to give a child back.

And you know what? It wasn't funny.

But it was ok.

My whole life I had admired Erma for her successes.

But now I also admire Erma for her failures.

Sure, there was the successful Erma Bombeck. But, there was another Erma I could and should relate to. The Erma who had her share of failures.

Erma had survived, and she went on to write about it. I knew I could too, whether it was funny or not. The material is still out there, whether you can see it or not. Whether you can process it or not. But you never will if you don't write it. You have to write. You have to make your way through it, and at some point you will be on the other side and things will be funny again.

Eventually I was ok. Eventually I picked up keyboard again. Eventually I got un-stuck.

And I no longer care if the measuring cups get washed out with soap. I have more important things to do, and to write about.

Thanks, Erma.

Special K

I have just returned from attending the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop in Dayton, OH.

While I was gone, the Pastor and I "celebrated" our seventh anniversary. Because I was out of town, the Pastor thought there was some sort of loophole in which an anniversary no longer happened.

He asked me the night before our anniversary if I needed him to do anything. I was having a wonderful time at my conference. We had spent money on that. I was happy. I was content. I told him the truth: I don't need anything. Plus I had the memory/pain of the previous week when we had to give Uncle Sam so. much. money.

But now I know what I should have asked for.

I got up the morning of our anniversary and sent the Pastor a text:

Why couldn't he just have responded with an "I love you." Or an "ILY2." Even "ok" would have preferable.

But K? That just set me off.

This is a man who sends me hundreds of emails, all with the subject line "here" that he expects me to have total recall about at a moment's notice. This is the man who fills up my voice mail with voluminous messages about stuff I don't care about. This is a man who has written a dissertation.

But after seven years? I get a single letter.

I flew home today. I had in the corner of my mind, maybe, just maybe the Pastor knew how much he had screwed up, not by not doing something, but by doing the wrong something. Maybe he would try to redeem himself. I envisioned him greeting me at the airport with flowers in hand. The good kind of flowers, you know, the ones he never buys because they are not on the brink of death. Or cookies. Or a mini bundt cake. Not because we had an anniversary, but because he was glad I was home.

Nope, it was just him, empty-handed. Well... not completely empty-handed. He did have his cell phone with him, you know,in case he wanted to send any more texts. Wouldn't want anyone to miss out on those!

I kept the thoughts in the back of my mind. Maybe there are cookies waiting for me in the fridge! Maybe there is a house full of flowers!

He stopped at 7-Eleven on the way home. He came back out to the car with a present for me. A cupcake from 7-Eleven.

It was like he had purchased fuel for the fire. The cupcake was awful. I ate the top of it. I only ate what I did because I was angry, and I took my anger out on the cupcake because that's what I do.

Clearly I did not stay gone long enough.

Now I know. Now I know that I don't only have to hold his hand, make a list, put things on his calendar that he won't look at. I don't just have to tell him what to do, I also have to specify what not to do: don't be an idiot.

I thought at least if he didn't want to celebrate our anniversary, that maybe he had missed me.

No.

Exhibit A: No flowers. No cookies in the fridge. In fact, nothing in the fridge. You wouldn't want me to miss out on getting to go to the grocery store right away, would you?

Exhibit B: He removed ALL of the pillows off our bed except for his. He shoved them into my closet, reminding me that in his ideal world (bachelor pad), a pillow-free existence is preferable.

Exhibit C: He removed our bedspread and replaced it with what I refer to as a "horse blanket" because it has the look and feel of something you would put on a horse.

I get it. Men don't understand the need to have a lot of pillows. Some day they will figure out we need plenty around in case we decide to smother them, like when they do something stupid. Men shouldn't just appreciate the pillows, they should fear them.

The only thing I can figure is that maybe he really wanted to give me some new writing material.

My birthday is in 13 days and Mother's Day is soon after. Perhaps I should keep holding on and trick myself into believing this is all a big ruse to distract me from the magnificent diamond and/or automobile combo gift he's waiting to give me. I can pass the time between now and then by going to the bakery, rearranging the throw pillows on our bed and contacting our cell phone provider to remove text messaging from our plan.

Where's the syrup?

I've left the Pastor and children at home to fend for themselves while I attend the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop in Dayton, Ohio.

As I drove through downtown Cincinnati in rush hour traffic this morning to get here, my phone rang. The Pastor was calling to ask me where he could find the syrup. That was it. No "how are you" or "where are you," just syrup.

Now we know I'm easily replaced with Aunt Jemima. In fact, the only difference between us is that Aunt Jemima (wisely) doesn't have a cell phone. Well, she's probably sweeter than me too.

Later the Pastor texted me a photo of his dinner. It was an Indian Taco. He captioned the picture, wanting to make sure I knew that he has not gotten to eat an Indian Taco since we got married.

Yes, somehow our union has prevented him from going to the Indian Taco stand less than a mile from our home for the past seven years. What was I thinking all those nights I cooked dinner? I have clearly been holding him back.

If you happen to be in the neighborhood, feel free to drop off a casserole.

welcome to the jungle

I just welcomed the Pastor home from a stint teaching in the jungle.

He entered the house with a resounding "this place smells funny."

Of course it does. We have our own version of the jungle here - the climate is unpredictable and it includes three teenagers, one who had made garlic omelets that morning.

More under the category of "unpredictable." It seems as though every time the Pastor and I have any sort of discussion, he seems to like to use the word "emotional." As in "you are being emotional." I don't know about you, and I'm not a trained professional, but something about his use of that word/phrase is becoming a trigger for me, and makes me want to karate chop him in the throat. Of course that may just be the emotions talking.

What is wrong with being emotional? Let's face it. What he's really saying is you're being a woman. Or hormonal. What I'm really saying is that he's being an idiot.

There are many wonderful emotions - appreciation, amusement, excitement, joy, sexiness - I could go on and on. Why doesn't he say I'm being "emotional" when I'm showing any of these emotions?

That's ok. Every once in a while, when they are not making the house stink of b.o. and garlic eggs, having these teenagers around does come in handy. If there was ever anyone who could show the Pastor what it's really like to demonstrate (emphasis on the "demon" part of the word demonstrate) being emotional, it's the species known as the teenage girl.

Bottom line - I didn't know if we needed to get her Midol or an exorcism. She made me look as undemonstrative and inexpressive as a man.

I'll express some appreciation for that. Now maybe the Pastor will think twice the next time he tries to throw down the emo card. If not, you'll be able to tell by any conspicuous bruising around his neck area.

natural peanut butter and sprouted bread

It's been 7 years today since the Pastor got down on his knees (on a pillow of course) and popped the question in a very Prince Charming way presenting me with a big diamond ring and proposing we spend the rest of our lives together. A proposal that included me giving up my cute condo and even cuter dog to take on him and his two kids.

Sometimes I stand back in amazement that we've made it this far. Had I known then what I know now, that diamond should have been even bigger. Much, much bigger.

That engagement day started with the Pastor coming to pick us up to make the four hour drive to Medieval Times, and I was running late. That did not make for a good start to the day.

I had packed a picnic lunch of natural peanut butter on sprouted whole-grain bread and carrot sticks.

I now know I would have had a more favorable reaction from the Pastor and his kids had I packed donuts covered in powdered sugar and arsenic.

You would have thought I was trying to poison people with healthy food.

The Pastor stopped along the way and bought nachos for everyone. The whole reason I had packed a picnic was to avoid stopping and spending money on junk food. I felt unappreciated.

Nate felt like the Pastor stole his thunder of getting to go to Medieval Times by proposing to me.

Everything about this experience tells you everything you could possibly want to know about us. We are the same people now we were 7 years ago, just older and more used to each other's annoyances.

I'm still tardy and I still buy the natural peanut butter and the sprouted bread. I still don't buy Jif and Wonder Bread.

The kids still complain. And act like I'm trying to poison them with healthy things.

And the Pastor still acts as the peacekeeper with Mexican food.

Maybe we'll have nachos for dinner tonight. Melted cheese - the bond that made our family stick together.

We've come a long way.

We've come a long way since the first Valentine's Day the Pastor and I had together. That year, 2005, the Pastor's Valentine to me was an email.

He emailed me a picture of a Hello Kitty toaster he had given me a few weeks earlier. The subject line of the message said "here." There was no text in the body of the email, just the attached picture.

I'm still not sure why I didn't break up with him then. In my defense, I was a very busy woman working a kajillion hours a week. Too busy to kill him or dump him, so he got lucky.

The Pastor took me out this past weekend for our belated Valentine's Day celebration.

We stayed in our city but went downtown. Isn't everything better downtown?

The day started off with the Pastor taking me for coffee and a pedicure.

I hadn't had a pedicure in two months. I've been a DIY gal lately. Getting pampered was heaven. The Pastor sat in a massage chair next to me and did his own version of pampering - he read Hebrew. To each his own.

I wore a sexy blue dress - not a Goodwill find but a bargain. I picked up the $128 dress for $19.00. Somehow, I managed to not get a picture of me wearing the thing. I can only assume the Pastor didn't want too many people to see how good I looked for fear that a picture like that could only go viral on the internet.

Here's our lovely hotel room:

My only complaint about the whole weekend would be that I don't like King beds. They are too big, allowing the Pastor to escape from my schooching.

I gave the Pastor his Valentine:

What can I say? When he's not sewing, he loves his silicone kitchen gadgets. This one was purchased in the post-Valentine clearance at Target. That's the bonus of celebrating holidays late - half off!

We watched movies on the laptop:

His picks, rented from the library, included one about monks who all get killed and a silent movie. I thought my Redbox movies would prove to be superior, but they really weren't.

We went out to dinner at our favorite restaurant:

In the pic it looks like we were super classy people who didn't eat the last bite of ice cream, but I can assure you after the picture was taken we did.

The fun continued the next morning. My Prince Charming took me to see an exhibit at the art museum:

And of course there was more coffee:

It was a lovely weekend. The Pastor said he hoped I enjoyed it, he probably wouldn't be free again until June.

I'll take what I can get - as long as it's not another picture of a toaster. He knows better now. If he tries a stunt like that again, he'll be toast for sure.

Sew In Love

The Pastor has many spiritual gifts. One would be that he is the worst gift giver, ever. Along those lines, when purchasing flowers, he gets the flowers so close to death I'm surprised the store is still selling them. Either that, or he has a secret flower dumpster. These flowers end up having the opposite affect on me. Instead of being happy he bought me flowers, it makes me seethe with rage. Is this what he wants? Are these flowers a secret metaphor for our relationship? Then I have to keep the dying flowers around for days to continue to rot. And I never feel like I can say it's sweet that you buy me flowers but please please please buy me some that are still alive and smell like flowers and not decay.

Sigh. At least he tries.

One year for our anniversary, the Pastor gave me a ring. A yellow gold ring (ick) featuring a belt buckle (ick). The accompanying note read "thanks for buckling up and joining our lives."

Ick. Ick. Ick. Ick. Ick. Ick. Ick.

Nothing says "romance" quite like a belt buckle and tolerance.

This past Christmas I didn't get a present. Not even a sketchy bouquet. I realized he had been swamped, so I cut him some slack (my gift to him). Typically, we've not done Christmas on Christmas. He has given me gifts in January when the Wise Men came to visit the baby Jesus, and coincidentally when everything is on sale and our property taxes have been paid.

This year Christmas came and went. Then the Magis came and went and I still didn't get squat. I was beginning to feel like he was going to try to pull a fast one on me and do the dreaded combo Christmas/Valentine gift.

I wasn't going to let that happen so I told him flat out what I wanted. I wanted MAC makeup brushes. In my mind (which was formed watching Disney Princess movies) they would be carried in by cartoon birds and be presented to me arranged like a bouquet tied with ribbon, but at this point I'd take whatever I could get.

Deep in my heart I knew it would be too much for him to handle, after all he has a Ph.D. Also I'm fairly certain he's never seen a Disney Princess movie. So I decided to cut him some slack and made a very specific list, complete with instructions, turn-by-turn directions, how many steps from the entrance of the store to the makeup counter, salesperson names, brush names and numbers, and alternately a website where they could be purchased with free shipping. It was the most effort I could make to get my present without actually buying it myself.

Fast forward to my husband becoming completely obsessed with the idea of us (ME) needing a sewing machine. Having lost our dear sweet lady who did mending for us, we were left with a hole in our lives that couldn't be darned.

Much like a bouquet of dead flowers, it seemed to disappoint the Pastor greatly that I couldn't and had no desire whatsoever to sew. I let this make me feel bad for about two seconds until I remembered the Pastor doesn't like sports, so if he can be a guy who doesn't like sports I can be a girl who doesn't want a sewing machine. Besides, in my Universe, things are sewed by talking cartoon animals and fairy godmothers.

Imagine my surprise when he brought home a sewing machine and told me Merry Christmas.

I thought I might lose it. I reminded him yet again that I DIDN'T. WANT. A. SEWING. MACHINE. I briefly toyed with the idea of maybe keeping the sewing machine, and exactly WHAT I COULD SEW TOGETHER ON IT.

Finally, he opened the sewing machine box. Turns out he had bought the sewing machine, taken it out of the box, and wisely replaced the contents with this:

I'm pretty sure I saw a couple of cartoon birds fly out of that box too.

In the end, the Pastor taught himself to sew, and he's quite the little Seamster. As for me, while he's sewing, I'm painting my face.

It's February 20, and I still haven't gotten my Valentine, but he's promised it is coming this weekend. I can't wait to see what he's whipped up for me on his sewing machine.

I'm on to you, Pastor!

The Mystery of the Missing Socks? The Clue on the Dryer? The Case of the Foiled Footwear?

I'm playing around with what my Nancy Drew book titles for this one would be.

Seems like the Pastor has a dirty little secret. Technically I guess it would be a clean little secret, but I've got him all figured out, and I didn't need my bobby pins or flashlight to solve this one.

The Pastor went out of town this week and while he was gone, I went a sleuthin' and found this, dun dun dun:

He could have done a better job of hiding it from me. I suppose he thought if he left the bag in a safe place, a place he thought I'd never look with him out of town (on top of the dryer), it would be safe.

You see, the Pastor thinks he has finally figured out some way, some sort of system while doing laundry, to isolate the mismatched socks. He thinks if he separated out this batch of lonely socks from the last bout of laundry-doing, he'd be able to make it make sense. That his little system of putting them in a bag will somehow make us be able to find the sock-mates.

When I found the bag of lonely socks? I couldn't have laughed harder. It was almost as though he had given me a Valentine. Almost.

I don't have a Ph.D. Or a few Master's Degrees. But this I know for sure, you will never figure it out.

It is un-understandable.

The socks will never make sense.

We will always and forever have a pile of mismatched socks.

This is just how the Universe works. Socks just disappear.

And on top of the Universe's natural order of things for socks, we have kids that go back-and-forth between different houses. They do not come to our house with matched socks on. Just like everything else in our house, even our socks are divorced and remarried to other socks. Then when the kids leave again, they leave with one of those pairs of preciously matched socks, and they disappear into another kind of black hole entirely.

It'll be fun though. To watch the Pastor after the next go-round of laundry, dumping out all the socks and enlisting the help of the kids to match them - you know, those kids who are not wearing matched socks in the first place. You will be able to see his blood pressure rise with each stray sock.

Maybe I'd care more about this if I even wore socks, but I don't and I never will. I won't wear anything that means I'll just have that much more laundry to do. I've got plenty of other cases to solve without spending any more time on socks again, ever.

And that, my little sleuths, is no mystery.

Comme on fait son lit, on le trouve!

I got so much done today.

I cleaned out the fridge. I sorted through all my nail polishes. I gathered up 16 dressy dresses and donated them to charity. I went through my shoes and my jewelry. I purchased supplies for someone's art project. I gave myself a manicure and a pedicure. I ran errands. I did dishes. I microdermed. I researched. I cooked. I facebooked. I took a bubble bath. I worked. I read. I had time for an arty crafty project. I wrote. I hunted down bargains. I drank all the water I'm supposed to drink in a day. I translated things.

How did I accomplish all this in a day? It might have something to do with rising at 4:30 and having 7 shots of espresso. But I'm going to go with what's behind door number two. The reason I got up at 4:30 a.m.? To take the Pastor to the airport.

I worked really hard, but without my wifely chores, I'm practically on a vacation with loads of spare time.

And without him being around to supervise the bed getting made, I'm saving even more valuable minutes.

But I miss him. : (

Slayed by the Sunday Supper

Happy Sabbath?

After a mere 5 hours in the kitchen, I'm finally able to sit down.

This is what my manicure looked like before I started cooking and cleaning:



This one is my own fault:



The cake, made-from-scratch, is the result of my watching the Food Network and Miss Paula Deen. I'm going to cancel cable television.

I also made my family roast beast, carrots and mashed potatoes. To say that I used every dish in the kitchen is not an exaggeration:



The good news? I don't have to cook the rest of the week:



The bad news? After all those dishes, now my nails look like this:

free association with 2011

Idaho. Idaho State Capitol. Cabin in the woods. Road trip with Dad. Mourned the loss of Borders Bookstore. Arizona. Pastor's Mom's 70th and Grandma's 90th birthdays. Rubio's and In-N-Out Burger. Princess Diana exhibit. Six year anniversary. Royal Wedding. Fortieth birthday party with cupcakes, candy necklaces and cotton candy. Colorado. Another cabin in the woods. The Pastor left for a three-month fellowship. Parent's 45th anniversary. Working on the rent houses. Thailand via Japan to see the Pastor. Rat in the bathroom. Date with the Pastor on the rooftop where Hangover 2 was filmed. Rode in a Tuk Tuk. Stayed in a hotel room that was worse than camping. Floating city. James Bond Island. Canoe Ride. Phuket. Cleaned and organized the garage. Graffiti vigilante. Nate: permit, driver's license, braces off, #1 in his class of 415. Idaho again. Cabin in the woods - again. Painted pottery. Four wheelers. Made Thanksgiving all by myself. San Francisco. Walked across the Golden Gate Bridge and back. Monterrey-by-the-Sea and Carmel. Sea otters and sea horses. Pebble Beach. Alcatraz. Haight Asbury. Redwood trees. Sierra National Forrest. More In-N-Out Burger. Ikea. Yosemite. Camping, bear-free. Goodbye red Honda and flat-iron. Goodwill obsessed - especially vintage clothes and especially especially vintage nightgowns. Stopped buying ziploc bags and renewing my magazine subscriptions. Couldn't get pregnant. Juice fasted and liver cleansed but also ate lots of donuts, mexican food and cookies. Five pieces published. Discovered false eyelashes. Did a whole bunch of different stuff to my hair and wore a lot of shoes.

Goodbye 2011.