I was zooming around the house yesterday trying to get a million things done. I had a 2-hour bookfair shift to get to, followed by reading with Spence's first grade class. I was trying to get the breakfast dishes put away and dinner in the crockpot. The phone rang. It was the dermatologist's office.
"This is Ali."
"Ali. This is Dr. P's office. We've got the results of your biopsy."
"Oh, great!"
"Well..."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
(I'm getting that call. I'm getting that call. I'm getting THAT CALL.)
She did a great job of making sure I knew it was not melanoma. It is a spitz nevus... often called Juvenile Melanoma (ok, you're going to have to stop using that word)... more worrisome in children (well, I act a lot like a child, should we take this into consideration?)... does mean cells are changing... need to go back and make sure they remove it all.. bigger incision... couple stitches... will call in prescription for antibiotics and pain medicine (wait! pain medicine? just how much cutting will we be doing here?!*)... have a 7:00am appointment this Friday...
To say my emotions are a little raw, my nerves a little exposed would probably be an understatement. I know I do not need to worry about this annoying little mole. But you know, now is really not a good time to get proof that my skin actually wants to kill me...
*Maybe the cutting won't be so bad. Maybe pain meds are just the party favor/consolation prize for having to get "that" call...
[Ok. So, I got a little bit of a scolding constructive criticism from my dad. Eeek. He caught me cussing! Quick, can I spend the night at your house?!
No, seriously, he said that I "make a good argument, but completely diminish it by being crude." So, for that, I apologize. Please read in between my very angry, hurt and defensive lines yesterday. Take my off-colored language as code for "You wanna go?! We'll go." Know that I just wasn't smart enough yesterday to express my overwhelming emotions without it. Not a good excuse, I know. But, it's all I got.
Summary: I support my sister. Please be kind to her.]
And now, for Part II (which my dad probably recognized was coming from the "Part I" of yesterday's title and was trying to preemptively stop any more f-bombs...)
My story is: I get a phone call from Brandy while I'm at Boy Scout sign-up night. She's sobbing so hard I can't understand her and I get so mad at what I'm told that I want to punch a wall. (in case you're wondering... not a wall-puncher.)
My story is: I get stopped in the middle of running errands by a phone call and end up in a parking lot on the "wrong side of town" yelling and debating into the phone for an hour. (in case you're wondering... not a yeller or debater.)
My story is: I get stopped in my tracks when I let my mind wander too far during exercise and start to cry. I start a conversation with Shawn and start to cry. I cry a lot. And I don't let myself cry a whole lot more than that.
My story is: There is probably a memo being circulated among my friends warning them not to ask me, "How's life?"
My story is: Four people I love are hurting and it leaves a hole in my chest.
My story is: This situation makes me realize, in my lifetime, I've been the judgmental *&%$ (insert cuss word I'm not using today). I’m sorry for all the times you, my friends and family, have made a decision that wouldn’t have fit into my life, into my situation, and I judged you. I love you. I pray for your peace. I pray for your happiness. I am disgusted with the cocky child I've been in the past. And, I humbly apologize to you.
My story is: I am devastated by the warning flares she sent up for years that, in hindsight, I now see. I, her best friend, the person who knows her better than anyone in this world, missed them. I never noticed them until those flares had become a wildfire.
My story is: I'm so filled up with a story that isn't mine to tell that I can't think of a single other thing to blog about. (Noticed a lot of pictures and recipes lately? And one thrilling post that was a list of my daily activities! Thank goodness my children are still hysterical; and Shawn still makes me laugh.)
My story is: I'm so blissfully happy with my own family and the joy we experience together on a daily basis that the boomerang effect of emotions leaves me exhausted.
[Warning: Anyone who chooses to believe I am sweet and innocent should NOT read the following post. Dearest In-laws, don't say I didn't warn you. And please don't scold me for my language at the next family holiday...]
I'm back from visiting my sister and nieces. She's getting divorced. That's not my story to tell.
What is my story is how appallingly people can behave in this traumatic situation. People who profess to be friends, people who profess to "love" us turn into the most judgmental assholes. They listen to one side of a story (without even requesting the other side); they pretend to even be able to know what went on behind closed doors; they believe themselves to be some kind of psychic who can know without question what someone feels/has felt in their heart; they give unsolicited advice; and they judge. Oh, how they judge.
Raise your hand if you have walked a mile in my sister's shoes. Oh? What? None of you?! Well, you're so busy judging her and telling her that she must not be in her right mind; that she must be "happy" and refuse to see it; that she just needs to choose to be happy because all that really matters is that her situation looks so perfect; that she is not doing what God wants her to do (by the way, this "holier than thou" attitude is my personal favorite) that I would have thought one of you knew every. single. detail of her situation - not just what you've been told of her situation; not just the "picture perfect" family that you saw spit-shined and smiling out in public. Hmmm. Weird. You would think to have come this far in life, you would have figured out that there are two sides to every story. But, no. You're probably right. Keep preachin' it, you judgmental pricks.
You know what, people. Fuck you. If you aren't here to be helpful, supportive, or, in the very least, loving, then leave. We do not want your opinion. We do not need your criticisms. The only person we will allow to judge our hearts is Almighty God Himself.
And, here's what I believe in my deepest heart: Would you ever, ever, ever, ever want your child to live in unhappiness? Don't we all want our children to live the lives of joy that we envisioned for them? Wouldn't we all be more angry with our children if they were too embarrassed to admit they made a mistake; too proud to break a promise than to live a life one iota less joyful than we have dreamed for them? Can you not imagine how much greater God's love is for us than our human love is for our own children?!
Nobody knows how to slog through this hell perfectly. Pretty much, everyone's just trying to survive.
So, get off your freakin' high horses, people. Know that there are two sides to every story, there is very private and personal pain for everyone involved. And, be loving even if you can't be supportive.
And, to those of you who have been loving - whether by a word, a hug, an email or even just smiling and keeping your mouth shut - please know that, for what it's worth, you have this sister's undying gratitude.
I'm going to see my sister and nieces this weekend. To say I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off would be an understatement. I'm trying to get myself together for a 7am flight in the morning, but I'm trying to leave the house and children in a state that won't cause Shawn's head to explode. Although he is being so sweet and supportive of this last minute trip, I want to make sure he's not so stressed out while I'm away that there's never a next time.
He'll be fine. He's a whiz at this Dad thing. It's just that we've never done this before. He's never been a single parent for more than an evening.
And, my early flight means he'll have to get the kids out the door to school on his own - and The Princess has hair that she insists isn't "done" unless it's in two french braids. :-/ I've already begun the propaganda that Daddy can just put it in one ponytail and that will be beautiful, too. I'm afraid that one ponytail will take Shawn roughly 30 minutes to an hour to complete.
And, yes. That is my biggest fear of leaving town. I would say that my kids have a pretty awesome dad.
But, anyway, if you're one of my friends in real life, could you please take a picture of Elizabeth at school tomorrow so I can see the results of his labor?! For that matter, take a picture of both of my children - let's see if they even have on pants. (I kid! Kinda. ;)
Shawn's Saturday looks like this, though:
10am group violin lesson with Spence (parent attendance required)
1pm basketball practice (this also happens to be team picture day - so he'll have to remember to turn in an order form and check). Oh, did I mention our coach is going to be out of town so he asked Shawn and a couple of other dads to substitute?! (Is it mean that I'm about to start laughing?)
Somewhere along the way, he needs to get the deposit for Spence's birthday party delivered.
And, his parents and aunt & uncle are coming to town (this will actually be his saving grace as I have no doubt he will turn over all childcare duties to his mom and aunt the moment they walk in the door...)
Don't feel too sorry for him and that Saturday from hell. He has the babysitter lined up to take my place while I'm away (ummm... one minute while I REPHRASE THAT). Priscilla is going to fetch my car from the airport, pick the kids up at school, watch them Friday night while Shawn goes to some parties, watch Lulu on Saturday during violin and basketball and watch both kids Sunday night while Shawn picks me up from the airport and we go to a friend's party... (come to think of it, when I write it all out, maybe he should replace me with Pricilla...)
I was considerate enough to schedule the kids flu vaccinations for next weekend instead of 8am this Saturday morning, as was my original intention. I give and give.
My sister's wireless at her house hates me, so I probably won't check in tomorrow. We'll catch up on Monday (hopefully, with pictures of Lulu's hair)!
I drew the short stick when God was doling out skin. I'm under no delusions. I am pale. And, I am not gloriously, china-doll pale like Nicole Kidman or Gwyneth Paltrow. I am pale in a red splotchy, covered-in-moles, see-my-veins, crypt-keeper kind of way. I am pale in a think-about-going-out-in-the-sun-without-sunscreen-and-get-a-sunburn kind of way. I am pale in a work-out-and-turn-purple, get-a-blemish-and-it-might-as-well-have-its-own-spotlight, bump-yourself-and-see-the-mark-instantaneously kind of way.
My complexion combined with the kind of moles I have, combined with blah, blah, blah puts me at an alarmingly high risk for melanoma. Yay, me! But, it's actually not that big of a deal if you're proactive about it. If you catch melanoma early, it's usually easily treated. So, I go to the dermatologist every six to eight months to have my existing moles examined and my entire (yes, I mean entire) body checked for new moles.
Ewwww. Moles. Ewwww. My body observed in detail under florescent lighting (the horror of bathing suit shopping times 100, anybody?)
Anyway, the doctor always asks if I've noticed any new or changing moles. I always point out "this", "that" or "the other". But, since it's common to grow moles as you age, they always turn out to be nothing.
Today I casually answered his question with, "Yeah. I think this one on my knee is new."
He looked and said, "Oooooh!"
Excuse me. Did you just say, "Oooooh!"?!
Then he told me we have two options. We can wait and watch it or we can remove it.
What I said silently in my head: "Yeah, um, since you just responded with 'Ooooooh!' I don't think 'watching' it for six months is gonna be an option. Because what I can promise is that there will be elaborate charts and measurement techniques and mole-watching-parties at the hands of my obsessive nature. There may even be time-lapse photography involved.* For the sake of my sanity, my family and my friends, this mole is going to have to go."
What I said aloud: "I don't mind if we go ahead and remove it."
So the cutting began and the doctor tried to reassure me with, "Moles this small can be melanoma. But, when they are, they are almost never fatal."
Ummm. Great? Never mind that someone checking your butt for moles is enough to make you break a sweat; you'll sweat in places you never even knew had sweat glands when they tell you that (while simultaneously cutting chunks off of your person).
I'll get the pathology report back in a week. But, don't worry. I'm probably not gonna die. Yay! In the meantime, I already have my appointment for six months from now.
*It would be similar to this. Less the fetus.
(I almost couldn't bring myself to post this video for the word "stretchening" on the first screen. "Stretchening?" Well, if their aptitudes don't lean toward literacy, at least they're good with mechanical things, like cameras. And, they know how to post stuff to YouTube. So, there's that.)
I set the alarm for 6:45 this morning. I needed to get up at 6:15.
If only all of my blunders were so benign. Let me tell you of my greatest humiliation in the past 72 hours. And, let's call this story "Pride Cometh Before the Fall."
I was so proud of myself. I bought four, count 'em, four presents at one time. I had them gift wrapped; I had them labeled (an important part of the story that you should remember for later); I had them lined up on the counter ready for their individual disbursements.
We went to a birthday party on Friday evening. I didn't realize until the birthday girl opened our gift that I had given her the wrong one. The sweet birthday girl, whose initials are S.R., was really confused by the "T" pendant she found herself holding.
Everything ran in slow motion in my mind as the following things happened simultaneously: her eyes squinted in confusion; I did a dive over the back of the couch to snatch it from her and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, all the while yelling, "Oh-my-gosh-I-gave-you-the-wrong-gift!"
To complete my horror, after I retrieved the gift, I realized it was marked with the name of the correct recipient.
[But, one bonus did arise from my faux pas: We discovered S.R.'s alter ego, "Teresa" (who seems to have quite a few stories to tell...).]
As the weekend progressed, things didn't get any better. I was getting out of the car to walk into church on Sunday and felt something dripping on my foot. I realized much too late that the dripping was the coffee out of the mug I was holding that was pouring down the front of my dress.
Today I left my attorney's office feeling smug that I had just signed my will - I'm such a responsible adult now! While patting myself on the back for being so mature, I was moved to do a little Mary Tyler Moore jump off the curb as I started to cross the street... and twisted my ankle... and lurched and lumbered across the intersection in my best Godzilla-stomping-Tokyo impression.
And, finally, I've lost a pot. And, not one of your everyday, inconsequential, sauce pots that are too small with which to really do anything anyway. No. I've lost a stock pot. A big one. The kind with two handles on the sides. There are only so many cabinets in my kitchen in which it would even fit - and it's not in any of them. It's not like I take my stock pot out to party with me, either, so I know I didn't leave it at a club or anything. (That just made me laugh. I clearly channel Ke$ha while I write blog posts now because I can't remember the last time I was in a club.)
Pretty soon I'm just going to be the crazy lady walking down the street with my underwear on the outside of my clothes yelling at the wind.
Maybe a little more sleep would do me good - and I mean more than the accidental 30 minutes I treated myself to this morning.
Today I helped drive for the Pre-K field trip to the Apple Orchard. It was what it was. No more, no less. The kids were excited about the Apple Orchard for a whole thirty minutes before they got hungry/bored/needed to go potty.
I think someone forgot to tell the Apple Orchard man that the children were 4- and 5-year-olds. I felt certain of my assessment when he stopped the hayride to tell them about grafting different varieties of trees, and the organic measures they take to keep Codling Moths from damaging the fruit. First of all, TMI, but, more than that, Dude! Never stop the hayride. 1) The rumbling of the motor and gentle bouncing of the ride soothes the restless beasts. 2) They try to escape!
Did you know that ladybugs eat many of the pests that harm orchards? They do! But, note to self: Never stand close to the man with the paper plates piled high with live lady bugs. He hands those suckers off to the closest people to hold while the kids put their fingers down in them and let the ladybugs crawl on their hands. Slight drawback: the ladybugs start crawling up your own hands and arms. And, FYI, it is really hard to maintain your I'm-a-cool-tough-mommy-who-isn't-scared-of-nothin' persona when bugs are crawling up your sleeves. As I told Lulu's teacher, at least I know what my nightmare will look like tonight. And, I think those other moms thought I was joking when I told them I was going to need to rip my shirt off and have them check me for ladybugs.
I did get to get a closer look at this "L" kid. Ummm. Hello, precious little (well, big) smidgen who held a ladybug so Lulu could get a better look! Do your parents believe in arranged marriages? (Again. Not really! I AM KIDDING. Four is much too young to be making life changing decisions. I insist she waits til she's at least seven.)
But, bonus! I bought some local honey made by the honey bees at the orchard. I felt so "farmers' market-y". Double bonus, the lady pointed out I was about to buy a jar with a dead bee in it before I actually bought it. I tried to play it off that that would never fly (Ba-dum-cha! No pun intended...) with my children. But, I think she was suspicious that it was really me who wanted to jump up and down like a little girl and squeal, "EWWWWW!"
It's a good thing. You know, she is four. She had better snag herself a man before she gets too old. (OH MY GOODNESS - if you don't know that I could not be kidding MORE with that comment, then stop reading this blog IMMEDIATELY. Girl Power!)
I was spying through the windows of her classroom after drop-off yesterday. I saw her with her hands on L's waist, gazing adoringly up into his face while she told him something. I kept walking (I didn't want to be seen through the window - not that she would care that I was leaving... who am I kidding?). But, as I walked out of view I thought, "Was she just going in for the Good Morning hug/kiss?!"
I let it slip from my mind until I got a phone call from my friend - V's mom. It seems it was her day to read to our kids' class in the library and she wondered if I knew that Elizabeth was involved in an intense love affair. I laughed and told her what I had seen that morning. She said when they got to the library, Lulu and L tried to sit so close to each other that they were pretty much sharing the same carpet square. Before she even began reading, L had put his arm around Lulu. And she was distracted from her reading multiple times when L leaned over and kissed Lulu on the cheek.
So, come to find out after close note comparison with the other moms in our class: Lulu & L love each other. J loves V so much he wants her to come over and spend the night! B wants a girlfriend, too, but he can't be E's boyfriend because K wants E to be her BFF and no one else's.
Do you think we can sell the rights to this soap opera?
*****************************************
When I picked up Elizabeth from school yesterday I said, "Hey, Lulu. Do you have a new friend?"
She said, "Yeah. L's my friend. We play together. He's the knight-prince and I'm the princess. I have a pet named Rosie and he has a pet named Handsome."
Atta girl. You make those boys play prince to your princess for the rest of your life, sweet thing!
wake, dress & breakfast, spill entire cup of coffee on counter that runs into drawers and cabinets underneath*, school drop off, buy Cub Scout uniform when Boy Scout office opens at 8:30a.m., take uniform to school so Spence could wear it because he told me, "You said you would get me a uniform in time to wear it to school."**, grocery shopping, put dinner in crock pot, get cleaned up, pick up stuff from Shawn's office, pick up stuff from church, lunch with old friends, read with 1st graders, school pick-up, homework and violin practice, dinner, Cub Scout meeting, bath and bed, dishes, make snacks and lunch, set COFFEE; wake, dress & breakfast, school drop off, exercise, meet with attorney***, get cleaned up, pick up Elizabeth for dance class, dance class, buy four birthday presents, pick up from dance class (late) and return to school, read with 1st graders, school pick-up, tennis lessons, deliver birthday present, homework, dinner, church meeting, type meeting minutes, make snacks, set COFFEE; wake, dress & breakfast, school drop off, pick up birthday cake, start laundry, make bread for birthday lunch, get cleaned up, birthday lunch, buy thank-you cards, deliver thank-you cards to church, school pick-up, meet garage door repairman, violin practice, church dinner, children's choir practice, bath and bed, make snacks, set COFFEE, keep doing laundry...
I need to take a knee, Coach.
*Who knew this would set the tone for the whole week?! Hectic and chaotic.
**A classic example of Mommy Guilt.
***If you have kids, YOU NEED A WILL. If you have assets of any kind, YOU NEED A WILL. If you have a will, you need to re-evaluate it every five years because, trust me, things change! As my friend said, when we made our last will we were so poor we were deciding who would get the food stamps. We need to update it now so we can decide who gets the iPod (that and go ahead and add Elizabeth as one of our children - her probation period is over and we've decided to keep her!)
Because I never want any of you to have to admit that you are inept at cooking, I'll do it for all of us! I am on a mission to find fool-proof (emphasis on the "fool") recipes. If I can dump the ingredients in a slow cooker in the morning and forget about it til supper - all the better.
Well, here's one that fits the bill - and it has beer in it... Yay!
1 (16 ounce) can chili beans (I used Ranch Style beans - I'm not sure if that's what they mean by "chili beans" or not. This confusion almost lost this recipe its "fool-proof" rating. But, Ranch Style beans turned out just fine, so peace was restored.)
1 (15 ounce) can black beans
1 (15 ounce) can whole kernel corn, drained
1 (8 ounce) can tomato sauce
1 (12 fluid ounce) can or bottle beer (I used Shiner Bock)
2 (10 ounce) cans diced tomatoes with green chilies, undrained (we call this Ro*Tel where I'm from...)
1 (1.25 ounce) package taco seasoning
3 whole skinless, boneless chicken breasts (I used four because, duh, that's what came in the package.)
shredded Cheddar cheese (optional)
sour cream (optional)
crushed tortilla chips (optional)
Directions
Place the onion, chili beans, black beans, corn, tomato sauce, beer, and diced tomatoes in a slow cooker. Add taco seasoning, and stir to blend. Lay chicken breasts on top of the mixture, pressing down slightly until just covered by the other ingredients. Set slow cooker for low heat, cover, and cook for 5 hours.
Remove chicken breasts from the soup, and allow to cool long enough to be handled. Shred chicken. Stir the shredded chicken back into the soup, and continue cooking for 2 hours. Serve topped with shredded Cheddar cheese, a dollop of sour cream, and crushed tortilla chips, if desired.
I'm SO going to make this a crafty/recipe blog now because I've become so darn domestic. Up next: I might IRON something.
I did NOT let my mind wander to what seemed to be a dungeon scene being depicted in one of the windows.
Instead, I said, "Wow. You worked hard on this!"
I was just about to comment on the colorful flag when he said, "Yeah! And, that guy [points to the guy in the window], is a guy that they killed and hung in the window for decoration!"
This weekend my sciatic nerve hurt. I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that: It HURT. It hurt like a lightening bolt of pain was shooting up and down my rump and leg. (And, yeah, yeah. I suffer from old lady ailments now. Leave me alone. It still HURT.)
Saturday night, as we turned off the t.v. and got up from the couch to go to bed, I gasped and cried out in pain.
Shawn laughed. (Let me give you moment to take that in...)
I told him (as I was doubled over catching my breath) that he was rude.
He said he was sorry but it's been a while since he's heard me cuss in pain. (Somehow cussing while gasping doesn't prove how much more it hurts - it just means it's funny.)
I tried to storm off indignantly, but I gasped in pain again.
This time he laughed hysterically. He had enough sense, though, to realize that I had hobbled within striking distance. He attempted to protect his upper body from my fists.
I walked away dragging my leg.
He somehow found the ability to laugh. even. harder. He said the lightening bolt of pain must have left a corncob behind in its wake. Everyone's a comedian. (Everyone's not a good comedian, though.)
I walked into the kitchen. He followed. I gasped. He SNORTED.
On Monday, I found more of those "fine lines and wrinkles" around my eyes that the Oil of Olay commercials have been warning me about for years. Just as I did, Shawn walked in the bathroom. I showed him my wrinkles and asked, "Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm ninety-four?"
He shrugged and said, "Ehhh... Yeah."
Gee. Thanks.
Later, I tried to google the song so I could remember who sang it. (Okay! Okay! Stop yelling all at once! I know now it was The Beatles.) When I found it, I said to Shawn, "Oh wait. I was wrong. It's SIXTY-four."
His response? "Oh, sixty-four? Yeah! I can DEFINITELY do sixty-four. Ninety-four's a LONG time."
Rude.
(I think Shawn and I will probably look a LOT like the couple at 0:50.
I mean it's kinda eerie - like they did an age progression of us or something.)
*I told him I was going to blog about this so the world would know of his treachery and heartlessness. He started laughing and said, "It was funny. I would pay money to see it again!"
I want more than anything to write a silly post today. Something to make you smile. Something to make me smile. But, the reality upon which I stand is shaking. Marriages crumble, children get lost*, people let you down. I feel like I'm standing with my feet spread and hands out, waiting to catch myself, waiting for the roaring in my ears to calm and the motion in my stomach to stop.
Instead of counting my blessings (my many, many, many blessings) and smiling about my charmed life, I have a serious case of survivor's guilt. I'm no different. I'm no better. Why am I so happy?
Sorry to be so vague - I mean none of us read blogs to not get all the juicy details, right? I'm sureI will be giving you details in the future. Just hold on. Until then, know that The Johnsons are fine. Those we love desperately could use your prayers, though.
*Our university had their first game of the season this weekend. One of our friends' seven-year-olds got separated from her family and was lost for about twenty minutes. She made her way all the way out of the stadium before a woman saw her, asked her if she was lost, and brought her to a policeman.
It was one of the worst twenty minutes of my life - and I'm not her mother. It was such a wake-up call that this is a big, big world and our babies are very little, little people. None of us who were involved in the search (and by the end there were probably twelve people and the police force involved) could look at each other today or talk about it without getting worked up and/or crying. A wake-up call indeed.
Thank you, Lord, for the angels that watch over our children. And, our "Village" that loves them almost as much as we do.
Feel like kicking cancer in the crotch today? Go give a donation to support me when I walk in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on October 2nd. Click here. Seriously. Wanna give a dollar? That's AWESOME. When we put it all together, we WILL find a cure for breast cancer. Then no one else has to lose their mommy, or their wife, or their daughter, or their aunt, or their sister, or their friend...
Now. More about me. I need a new book to read, please. And, before you start flinging suggestions based solely on Oprah's Book Club, know this: Oprah's Book Club books make me want to open a vein. The real world has plenty of misery, and overcoming adversity, and spilling sympathetic tears to satisfy me, thanks.
What I just finished reading and loved (mock me if you must) was Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. This is exactly the kind of book I like, mysteries that make you think - but, are fiction. Fictional fiction-y fiction! At no time while reading the book did I lament the plight of ten strangers on an island who were being systematically murdered by one of their own. There was no call to action. There was no questioning God about the misery in the world. There was no desire to jump up and go protect the weakest among us.
My very favorite book of all time is The Thirteenth Tale. It's a little bit literary (which makes me feel all scholarly and smart), but it's still a really good make-you-think-mystery. It's the only book I have ever read that, after having read the last page, I immediately turned back to the first page and began reading again. If you haven't read this book - YOU SHOULD. That's my book suggestion for you. You're welcome. (But, now that I think about it, I might need something a little more mindless right now...)
So, knowing all of this, are you totally confused or do you have any good suggestion for me?
Would you like to hazard a guess as to what my pot full of goo is?
That's right. It's German Chocolate Cake frosting. (Oh. That's not what you guessed? Well, let's move on.)
For almost as long as I've known Shawn, I've known Aunt Reda. (Hi, Aunt Reda!) And, for almost as long as I've known Aunt Reda, I've heard the entire family give her a hard time about her "portion control" on her homemade, from-scratch, German Chocolate Cake. I believe someone actually said you could read through the slices they were so thin. Aunt Reda has always insisted that a) it is NOT as bad as all that; and b) homemade German Chocolate Cake is very labor intensive and she does not want any to go to waste.
Well, I'm here to tell you, Reda, with God as my witness: I'VE. GOT. YOUR. BACK. I will never let another person make fun of the way you serve German Chocolate Cake again. And, as a matter of fact, I will make them prove their appreciation before they are approved for subsequent pieces.
I have come to this cake epiphany today because it's my step-dad's birthday. (Happy Birthday, Bill!) He likes German Chocolate Cake. Well, no ordinary German Chocolate Cake would do (in my mind). Not when I could make one!
How hard could it be?
Does anyone have a sling I could borrow? My stirring arm may never be the same.
You'll have to check back later, but I'm pretty sure, just like Reda's cake, it's going to be worth the pain. I may or may not have licked the pot before I rinsed it - literally. licked it. tongue to pot. licked.
These were my disgusting kitchen counter chairs "before". This was after I attempted to wipe them down so mold and other living organisms wouldn't live under them once recovered - and, no, I was not going to remove the old fabric before I applied the new - don't talk crazy.
Honestly, I should have just let my children eat directly off the chairs instead of dirtying those tiresome "plates". I'm not sure if you can see it, but there is actual FOOD on the ground in this picture. Truly. Livestock. My children eat like livestock.
And, now, may I present to you 100% VINYL covered chairs. Yes, I said, "vinyl." I don't care what you think. I can wipe it off.
Thank you. Thank you. No applause, please (especially because there is still food on the floor in this picture, too).
Now. What other projects can I do for my "crafty" blog that only require scissors, an automatic screwdriver and a staple gun?
