home alone

Welp, we were supposed to be watching 24 tonight, but, instead, I am basically packing my husband's suitcase for tomorrow morning. What pants should I take? What shirts should I pack? Which suitcase should I use? I don't see how he made it this far in life...

Tomorrow, Top Gun is flying off into the wild blue yonder to Canada eh and leaving the two of us hens? no...tabby cats? nope...bitches? nuh uh...We'll stick to the human species...gals to fend for ourselves. We'll be holding down the fort while Top Gun is off gallivanting around another country for a whole entire week! Ok, so maybe it is for work, but what kind of lame excuse is that? I'm thinking road trip! (On a funnier side note, I just noticed he put his sweat pants on backwards! Harharhar!)

Where shall we go? A spa? I'm not so sure Baby Girl would go for a pedicure or full body massage just yet, and if we actually go anywhere I want to see something big. Grand Canyon? Yep, that's purty dadgum big, but I'm not sure how Baby Girl would feel about 8-9 hours in a carseat, either. Mexico? No, I don't think I like that idea...at least not without Top Gun...or just a gun, at least. Quick all-inclusive getaway to Hawaii? Oooh, Mommy likey...That's probably not in the budget. We'll figure something out.

what would you do...for a klondike bar?

My mind wanders sometimes. Okay, my mind wanders a lot. I've found it in the strangest places. Today it was wandering somewhere around Northern Thailand. I'm serious.

I was wondering what we would do if we were to come into a healthy chunk of money (is there such a thing?). Let's just say, hypothetically, we made $100,000. What would we do first? How much money would go towards what? Do we pay off all of our debt and put the rest towards savings? Do we take just a small portion to get something we've been needing for a few years (like a new car)? Do we take a teeny tiny bit to take a dream trip (to visit our Compassion kids, for example. One of whom lives in Northern Thailand. See, I told you I wasn't yankin' yer chain!)? Do we put some into a college mutual fund for Baby Girl and any more squirts we might have? Do I get to have a little itsy bitsy teenie weenie bit to get some stuff for the house that I have wanted to sell a kidney to buy since we couldn't afford it? Should we put a big fat down payment on a nice starter home somewhere? But then where the heck would that be? Never mind that for now...Maybe we could put a little bit towards all of the above. Yeah, I think I like that. It's okay to dream sometimes, right?

So, I'm just curious. I want to hear from you. What would you do with $100,000? How much would you put towards what?

easiest dessert ever

My friend Randi Beth (very Southern, no? But not nearly as Southern as my momma's name: Reba Lynn! Kinda makes you wanna holler, "Shoowee! Dadgummit git yor carcass in hyere right this instant, Reba Lynn!") introduced me to ThePioneerWoman.com when she blogged about her cookbook back in November. I have been hooked ever since. It is probably my most favorite website ever.

On her recipe pages, Ree Drummond gives step-by-step directions on how to prepare each dish. I found a scrumptious blackberry cobbler (among many other to-die-for dinners, desserts, and so on and so forth), and I love love love cobbler.

This particular cobbler is pretty hard to mess up, too. And you don't just have to use blackberries, either. I tried it with blueberries, which wasn't quite as delish, but still quite good. In case you don't feel like following all the links, I will kindly copy and paste the directions below. Enjoy!

Prep Time: 20 Minutes

Cook Time: 1 Hour

Difficulty: Easy

Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 stick Butter
• 1-¼ cup Sugar
• 1 cup Self-Rising Flour
• 1 cup Milk
• 2 cups Blackberries (frozen Or Fresh)

Preparation Instructions

Melt butter in a microwavable dish. Pour 1 cup of sugar and flour into a mixing bowl, whisking in milk. Mix well. Then, pour in melted butter and whisk it all well together. Butter a baking dish.

Now rinse and pat dry the blackberries. Pour the batter into the buttered baking dish. Sprinkle blackberries over the top of the batter; distributing evenly. Sprinkle ¼ cup sugar over the top.

Bake in the oven at 350 degrees for 1 hour, or until golden and bubbly. If you desire, sprinkle an additional teaspoon of sugar over the cobbler 10 minutes before it’s done.

c'est la vie - je suis fatiguée

I'm sorry I haven't posted a new blog for a few days. We've kept pretty busy lately. I had to ask the nice Mexican yard service guys to leave some of their hedge clippers so I could shave my legs around midnight last night. Yeah, it had been that long. I know for a fact a razor hasn't touched these legs since I was in Texas only, oh, say...more than 3 weeks ago! Fortunately, I have blondish hair on my legs, so I don't walk around here looking like a man. And fortunately, it's winter, so my legs are always covered. And fortunately...no, that's all I've got. On top of that, I even painted my toenails. You don't even want to know how long it's been since they got a fresh coat of paint. I think it was November. The polish had completely grown off most of my small toes, and was nearly halfway up my big toe. Do you know how long it's been since I've had a haircut? I'll spare you the details.

I've also been pretty tired lately. The kind of tired you feel when you're pregnant. Only I'm not pregnant. Really. Honest. I promise. Not yet. I'm in the process of weaning Baby Girl, however, and she woke up around 2am with the intention of eating. I tried to stop it. I tried with every bit of strength I had to tell her no, but the sad truth is I didn't have much strength. I just wanted to sleep. So she ate, and I slept. For awhile.

Besides the late nights and middle-of-the-night wakings, I wake up every morning to the sound of the rooster crowing. Not really. I only wish we lived on a cute little farm with a stupid annoying rooster yelling at us at the butt crack of dawn. It's actually Top Gun's alarm. At 6 am. Then I wake up again to the sound of Top Gun's alarm. At 6:05 am. And again. And again. Finally, I give him a good kick in frustration and fatigue somewhere around 6:30. He's up. Oh yeah, it's tons-o-fun. I hate the snooze button, but I love the snoozer despite it. Did I just say that? Eh.

Now you know the rest of the story. That doesn't really make sense, but I felt like saying it anyways. I use to listen to Paul Harvey on the way to school in the mornings with my daddy. He always said that at the end of his stories, and I thought it would work. It doesn't really. But now you know why I haven't posted for a few days. Yesterday I said that if sleep weren't a factor then I would be ready for another baby. I guess I should get used to not sleeping for at least the next 18 years.

By the end of this week I plan to post a description of what goes on around here with our eBay business. Come check it out if you're curious.

what is love?

BEING ABLE TO GIVE CARDS LIKE THIS FOR VALENTINE'S DAY.

I just wasn't in a mushy gushy mood this year. I picked up this card and went for it. We don't really do the "Valentine's Day" thing anyways.

Have I ever told you...?

I have never liked my hands. There. I said it.

I remember when I saw the story on TV about the first man to receive a hand transplant after he lost his in an accident. From what I recall, there was limited mobility and fear of rejection. I prayed that medical technology would improve enough for me to be able to have a double hand transplant before I was an adult. It's silly the things we pray for sometimes, especially as kids.

Those cheesy Chicken Soup for the Soul books started getting big not too long after I started hating my hands, and one of the stories I read made me change my mind. I found a similar story here. It's about a mother's hands that are old and wrinkled, but her daughter finds beauty in them because of all of the beautiful, caring, and loving things they had been used for. That story convinced me that even if my hands weren't delicate and pretty, then at least they were strong and beautiful.

Not too long after that, I was with a group of friends comparing scars. It was middle school. Anyways, somehow hands were brought up, and I stated very matter-of-factly that I had beautiful hands. A boy named Michael rebutted, "No you don't. You have man hands!" Ouch.

Middle school kids are mean. I know I was. Don't worry. I have long since gotten past the scars of my childhood, but I have never forgotten those words. They're really not all that ugly, but they're really not all that pretty either. My hands have done some pretty incredible things. I hope my children think my hands are beautiful when I'm old and withered.

My hand with one-month-old Baby Girl's hand.

The Three P's

Poopoo. Poo. Poop. Caca. Turds. Crap. Dung. Feces. Stool. BM. Shite. Whatever you call it...I have to deal with it daily. And it's usually not my own. No. And if it's not poop, then it's pee. And if it's not pee, then it's puke. The three p's.

I could almost consider the in-and-outs of diaper changes with my daughter as a form of torture. She kicks and rolls and screams and does just about anything she can to get her grubby little hands on whatever it is that has caught her eye. Sometimes I'm able to avoid a struggle by giving her a pretty toy to play with, which usually ends up being something I don't want her to have (my cell phone, a really sharp knife, an electrical cord, a tube of toothpaste, scissors, the cat's tail...). Just kidding. But seriously...those are the things she wants and turns into a mean little monkey to get!

Yesterday I was attempting to quickly change her Fuzzibunz diaper since she had just woken up. She is always hungry when she wakes up, so I knew she would want to eat right away. Sleeping is hard work, you know. So I'm wiping, and she's fighting. I grab the clean diaper. She rolls. Her feet go into the poo. I grab her heels to wipe it off. She kicks. My hand lands in the poo. Another piece goes flying. There is now a tiny turdlette stuck to my wrist. It is on her feet and on the carpet. I know that some moms probably have much worse horror poop stories, but this story isn't so much about the poop. It's about the diaper change.

I'm also burdened with cat poop. I love cats. I begged my husband for a cat. We even purchased a cat illegally from the animal shelter when we lived in our first apartment. It's really not that big of a deal. We weren't allowed to have pets, but I figured if we were busted we could just leave them at my parents' house. Little did I know, the animal shelter actually calls the landlord to check to see if we have their permission to adopt. Well, I gave them Top Gun's number who told them it would be just fine with him. The "landlord" was actually our neighbor and friend, but we lived on campus so, technically, he wasn't the authority. See? It's not that big of a deal, right? All of this was only after we attempted to capture and "rescue" the feral dumpster cats that resided around our apartment complex. Disgusting. I'm not sure what we were thinking exactly...free cat? Maybe. But still disgusting.

Our obedient illegal cat, Ace.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I love cats, but I hate this stupid cat. We have to keep the litter box immaculate and the bathroom door closed at night (he thinks the bathtub is his giant toilet). Heaven forbid his highness's litter box isn't spotless. If it doesn't meet his standards, we will find a lovely surprise on the tile floor by our front door in the morning or after a trip to the grocery store. And if it's not poop, then it's pee. And if it's not pee, then it's puke.

One morning last fall, he began urinating on the tile. Let me tell you the disgusting story of how I discovered this fun new game. It's time to nurse Baby Girl. I pick her up and go to the bedroom where it is nice and quiet and relaxing. She was at that stage where she liked to play with my face while she ate. Oh...my...gosh...what is that smell?! YUCK! What...is...tha---SICK!

Baby Girl had crawled through the cat pee while playing, apparently. I stripped us both down and we took a nice hot shower together. I thought I was going to kill a cat. If you don't know what cat pee smells like, consider yourself lucky. It is pungent and putrid. Luckily, we received a carpet cleaner for Christmas. I want to throw the cat out, but guess what? He is allergic to fleas. True story. What kind of sick joke is this? Seriously. He pulls out his fur and bites nonstop if he gets fleas. It would just be cruel to kick him out. I can already see PETA on my doorstep. So for now, I just deal with his messes and my daily litter-box duty (which becomes Top Gun's litter-box duty when I'm pregnant). Don't even get me started on his puke. Does anyone want a cat?

Our stupid unruly cat, Duke.

Don't let that sweet face fool you, he is pure evil.