Welcome to my culinary nightmare...

After dinner tonight the hubs turns to me and says: "We need to get you some stuff to make cookies. Like Christmas cookies or peanut butter cookies or something." I knew right away that what he wasn't saying was, "Gee, I'm hungry for dessert. Would you pass me those leftover Sour Patch Kids we bought when we went to a movie three months ago?" The man's sweet tooth kicked in tonight, and in an effort to redeem the fact that I sat around in my pajamas all day, I decided to whip out the cookbook.

My aunt and my grandmother put together a fantastic collection of family recipes for me when I got married, so I began flipping through it, passing over any recipe that was over half a page long.

Because I just didn't have a full page of recipe in me tonight.

I landed on my aunt Penny's "Rich Cookies" and read through the ingredients. #1 on the list: 1 1/2 cups Crisco. I knew right away this was the winner, because I am reading The Help and just read through Minny's ode to Crisco last night:

"Who in this world doesn't know what Crisco is? Ain't just for frying. You ever get a sticky something in your hair, like gum? That's right, Crisco. Spread this on a baby's bottom, you won't even know what diaper rash is. Shoot, I seen ladies rub it under they eyes and on they husband's scaly feet. Clean the goo from a price tag, take the squeak out a door hinge. Lights get cut off, stick a wick in it and burn it like a candle."



I set the recipe on the counter, and got to work. It wasn't until half way through the recipe that I realized I was out of baking soda. And cream of tartar. And sugar. And the flour expired a month ago. I weighed my options...get dressed and go to the store to buy the missing pieces, or...stay in my pajamas, toss in some baking powder instead of soda, some allspice instead of cream of tartar, some brown sugar instead of regular sugar, and take my chances with the expired flour. I went for plan B. That's just how I roll at 6:32 on a Wednesday night. Actually, that's how I roll all the time. I come from a family of highly gifted cooks- Mom even considered going to culinary school in France- and in the kitchen, I am their worst nightmare. Just ask my sister, whose consistent reaction when I say I made dinner is "Did it come out of a bag or a box?"

The truth is, I enjoy cooking. I just don't enjoy making extensive grocery lists or planning ahead or changing out of my pajamas when I have successfully planted myself in them all day... which often lands me with a Dijorno pizza for dinner or a batch of cookies made up of random ingredients that look or smell kinda like the real ingredients.

The cookies just came out of the oven, and I'm not going to say they taste "good". I am going to say they taste "mediocre", which is a step above the "crappy" I had prepared myself for. That being said, I think it's about time I hit the couch with a cup of milk and my book. I'm dying to look further into the practical uses of Crisco.

It's good to be back

After dinner at Qdoba and a whirlwind trip to the grocery store tonight, the hubs and I found ourselves together in the living room listening to the pleasant squeak of Opie's football chew toy...

Hubby: "Do you ever wonder what we're going to do with Opie when he dies?"

Me: "[Wow. That was out of left field.] Um, not really...I guess it'll be really hard. We got him when we were newlyweds."

Hubby: "I wanna stuff him like Rowdy!"


(Rowdy)

Oh, it's good to have my man back.

Leggo my Eggo

Exhibit A:
5 month pregnant lady and her dog eating frozen waffles for dinner waiting for the hubby to return from a weekend hunting trip.


I'm not sure there's anything more pathetic than a pregnant lady eating Eggos for dinner because she is too lazy to fix a decent meal when the husband isn't home to commend her advanced and domesticated cooking skills. Maybe blogging about it is more pathetic. I guess there's no where to go but up from here...

It all started in the showroom

My sister and I left for IKEA yesterday in the early morning hours of a sunny and warm fall day. I had decided I was going to be good while the hubby was at Deer Camp and stick to the budget. You know, Dave Ramsey it. I had a modest list of things to get, and it would be a quick, guiltless trip. As soon as we walked through the doors, the plan was doomed.

It all started in the showroom.

We rode up the escalator, and tucked into the corner of one of the model living rooms was a delicious little Christmas tree, and I was gone. I spent the next two hours filling my IKEA bag and dragging that little yellow cart around like a mad woman. I couldn't resist snatching up various things thinking about how cute they would look in a house decorated up for Christmas just like that little showroom. Good grief. The sister was there; I don't know why she didn't stop me.

Safe to say I spent the better part of my Christmas shopping budget on things like slipcovers and candles, so gifts for family and friends this year will be slim pickins. Sorry folks. There's only so much a baby momma can do when she spies an 8 pack of assorted rainbow kiddie bowls and matching cups.

It all started in the showroom and now the hubs and Opie are getting newspaper clippings for Christmas because the baby momma spent their Christmas money on the Best of Amy Grant's Christmas collection and a particle board desk for the computer. Ah, well. I guess that's what happens when the hubby takes off for Deer Camp and leaves me with a wad of cash.

Lack of male supervision and Christmas displays in the front window of every store in the vicinity is just bound to be a bad combination. Should have seen it coming.

Behold with me the beauty of such a disaster, won't you?

Relish in the convenience of a coat rack.


Swoon at the coordination of perfectly selected pillow slip covers.




Sigh at the inevitable adorableness that is a candle lantern.


Ooh and aah at the wonder that is the $25.00 particle board desk.


Totally worth it.

Although, I have to say, I was not prepared for the intensity that was being pregnant without a handy man in the house to assemble my IKEA desk. I didn't account for the frustration that comes with trying to bend over and hammer things into place over the obstacle that is the large baby belly. It took me and Opie a lot of improvising, yelling, and kefir to make our way through the construction of that sucker. In fact, the event was so trying, I may have slipped into Christmas decorating therapy in order to recover. More on that later.

For now, I am going to plop myself down on my new pillows and wait for my handsome hunter to return triumphant. At least I hope that is the case. If he has to go out again next weekend, I'm going to have to start pawning off my possessions in order to acquire the kind of funds I'd need to conquer another warehouse full of cheap home decor.

Tis the season of the Snapfish photo album

This year I have been determined to get all of my Christmas shopping done by the end of Thanksgiving weekend so I can enjoy December and all the cheer it has to offer without stumbling in and out of the mall each and every weekend.

The plan sounded great until I realized it was already the middle of November and not only have I not purchased any Christmas gifts, but I also I have no idea what to get a SINGLE person on my list. No idea.

Then, it hit me- Like an Opie greeting when you walk in the door after having been gone all day and he hits you in the upper thighs with more force than a 30 pound puggle should be capable of: a Snapfish photo album. EUREKA!

Not only is it an entirely affordable gift, but it also includes two things I think are invaluable in a Christmas gift: time and the preservation of memories.

Sweet goodness.

I have been working on them all day. I started at 11:00 and looked up to see that it was 3:00 before I even thought to get up from the computer for some leftovers to eat. I am a photo album making machine, and I am loving the thrill of creating something with pictures that does not involve a lot of stickers and staples and embellishments. Just click, drag, and write. My kinda scrap booking.

So if you're on my Christmas list this year, pretend like you didn't read this and you have no idea you might be getting a photo album for Christmas.

Time to get back to Snapfish and all of its Christmas wonders...over and out!

Oh, that little Keebler Elf

Is it wrong to eat these:



While watching this?



My hubby came back with an entire package of Keebler cookies from a 7-Eleven preggers craving run. All I asked for was a 16 oz. Verner's, and he comes back with a little bit of chocolate heaven. My hero. Mmm mmm.

If eating Keeblers while watching the remaining contestants plug away through their "last chance workout" is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

Deer Camp on the Horizon...

Five years ago I couldn't have told you what "opening day" was. The only thing I could tell you was that on said "opening day" 79% of the male teachers at my highschool took off and didn't come back until the following Friday. Now, having dated and been married to a camoflague enthusiast for over 5 years, I can say with confidence that I know what "Opening Day" is, and with even more confidence, that as a woman, I will never understand the excitment this day brings for my husband. He is more excited for opening day this weekend than I was when Santa brought me my first American Girl doll. And that is saying a lot, folks.

First of all, for those of you who don't know, "Opening Day" is when the menfolk don every last bit of camo attire they have, including, but not limited to, gloves, hats, pants, coats, boots, and underwear, and hit the woods for an indefinite amount of time in an effort to kill off Bambi and all of his close friends and relatives.



Four years ago, this was not a big deal. He would leave for a day, I would shop for a day, and we'd all come back happy.

However, last year everything changed. Suddenly, what had been only one day of camo attire and bacon and peanut butter sandwiches at 5 in the morning turned into an all out multitude of weekend getaway extravaganzas, including the debut of "Deer Camp". Deer Camp involves a bunch of men wearing long flannel underwear and watching "Escanaba in da Moonlight" in celebration the night before they wake up before the sun to sit high in the trees looking for deer to blow to smithereens.


(Yes, I have seen this movie. And no, I do not want to talk about it.)

I'm not sure what to do with myself.

Deer Camp Take 2 is rapidly approaching, and the amount of glee and happiness radiating from the testosterone in this house is comparable to the amount of excitement I had the week I blazed through all 1,800 pages of the Twilight series...only the excitement is not because the hubby is reading page after endless page of the thrilling adventures of the Cullens...it's because this weekend he gets to shack up with the guys and get him a buck. Mercy. Alex, I will take what the ??!? for five hundred, please.

This morning, I got a call from my dearest L (she of course, is enduring the Deer Camp hysteria as well this week, seeing as her hubby is one of the many participating in the camo-saturated endeavor) detailing a FIVE page email my hubby sent out to his cronies regarding "Deer Camp" this weekend. FIVE pages. The hysteria and anticipation of said "Deer Camp" can only be justified if it ranks as the equivalent of a weekend of shopping complete with Target, IKEA, and GAP outlet stores complimented by breakfasts at Starbucks, lunches at Panera, and dinners at Chili's. Following said shopping, a double feature showing Twilight and New Moon in theatres. All expenses paid, and an evening in a posh hotel complete with complimentary spa treatments. Now that is the kind of event warranting five pages of unabashed gushing and anticipation. But five pages full of phrases like "don't forget to get your tags," "I suggest one antler and 2 non-antlers," "I'll have my Xbox there, feel free to bring your controllers and games" and "beer"?!? ...it blows my mind. Oh, the complex infrastructures of the male mind.

All of that to say, Deer Camp is on the horizon, and my washing machine has been working over time for the first time in years, washing every wool sock and camo pair of boxers known to man in anticipation of my hubby's weekend away with his bromances. I don't get it. But I'll tell you what I do get: a trip to IKEA with my sister to celebrate her birthday on Saturday while the menfolk are out doing their thing, and the promise of no griping when I blow 40 bucks at the theatre buying the drink, popcorn, and candy combo and tickets for an evening showing of New Moon next weekend. That in and of itself may prove this week of deer and camo overdose to be well worth it. I'll let you know how it goes.