All Hail Shonda

I have never jumped on the pop culture bandwagon very easily. I remember when commercials were just starting to advertise websites and when my dad asked me what 'that www thing at the bottom of the screen' was, I replied with the infinite wisdom of my 13 year old self, 'Oh it's some weird thing called the 'internet' - businesses have these pages that people can look at on their computers for more information. Just ignore it, it won't ever catch on.' Point you, Mr. Gore.

 

Still not one to rush into liking something, there have been countless other retractions in the last 17 years. I hated Taylor Swift at first, and now I am a 30 year old woman who begs her husband to take her to a concert with screaming 12 year olds so that I can sing 'Love Story' at the top of my lungs without being judged. Someone who turned out to be a dear friend was the same someone who I chose the furthest seat away from in class because he was so annoying and I just knew that I would never have a reason to speak to him. He married my best friend and I was in their wedding.

 

That same best friend and I used to watch 'Desperate Housewives' every Sunday night in college. Immediately after our favorite show was a new program titled 'Grey's Anatomy'. We made fun of that show for an entire year, dubbing it a 'B rate 'ER' at very best'. I now spend every Thursday night trying to watch the full episode before my husband, who hates everything medical, comes home and makes me turn it off - inevitably at the very best part.

 

Knowing that I am slow to warm up to basically everything, it should be no surprise to me that I continue to miss out on all sorts of amazing things. But, since I am apparently not the brightest crayon in the box, it still shocks me every single time.

 

A few Thursdays ago, my DVR list was at a dangerous low and I was about to be relegated to watching live tv. With commercials, like I am some animal who lives in the woods in 1997! Citing my love/hate relationship with Shonda Rhimes, I gave in and recorded 'Scandal'. It was a half hearted interest, as I am not a lover of politics, and I was also well aware that I am several seasons behind.

 

Holy. Crap.

 

WHY didn't any of you tell me 4 years ago that this show was so good?! I mean, 24 Emmy awards was a good hint, I guess, but for future reference I need to be on some sort of phone tree for these developments. 20 minutes into the first episode of season 5, I was frantically scanning Wikipedia to get the background story to help me decide which characters I love and which I hate. After 2 days of Ryan being painfully subjected to a recap of every second of the show, he opened Pandora's box; a crown jewel of our time...Netflix. He showed me how to run Netflix on the PS3 (refer to paragraphs 1 & 2 if you are wondering how I don't already know how to do this myself), where the first 4 seasons of my new favorite show live, just waiting to be watched.

 

That was 43 hours ago. In that time, I have showered once, forgot to cook dinner twice, and am currently on Season 2 Episode 5 of Olivia Pope and company being gladiators in suits. While we're on the subject, does anyone else find it more than a little bit mocking that after a mere 4 hours of continuous playing, Netflix asks 'are you still watching?' Uhhh, obviously I am, Netflix. That's why you're still on. Quit judging my life choices, and get to driving the Shonda train!

 

Anyway, I will be unavailable for the next few days; either packing up and moving to our nation's capitol to become a political crisis consultant, or continually hitting the 'x' on the PS3 controller to play the next episode. Either way, Ryan will be dining on whatever he makes or he can join me in making 3 meals a day out of the Halloween candy bowl.

Cinderella, Cinderella

My absolute most despised chore to do is laundry, which is unfortunate, because we go through a lot of clothes at our house. How? I am not sure. We are just two people, who change outfits a reasonable amount of times, yet somehow there is always a heaping pile of clothes waiting to be laundered.

 

The whole process is exhausting. First, I have to collect clothes from every room in our home, because my husband thinks that going on a scavenger hunt for dirty laundry is my very favorite game. Next, there is the sorting, which is quite the complicated system - Is blue a dark or a bright? Does the one white shirt Ryan owns go in with the greys or does it need bleach? Do my black and white pajama bottoms with the maroon drawstring go in with the darks, even though the matching maroon tank top obviously goes in with the brights? - it is an endless sea of confusion and grey area, and nothing about my personality does well with grey areas unless it happens to be a load of laundry consisting of solid grey pieces.

 

All of this madness has to take place before schlepping it downstairs (which requires moving the dog gate and herding said dog downstairs with me, because if left unattended for any amount of time, she will eat an entire loaf of bread - bag included. She comes by that one honestly, though I am civilized enough to not eat the plastic.) and actually starting the laundry. Once the clothes are loaded and the machine is going, it means that I have a solid 40 minutes to completely forget about starting a load of laundry. I have resorted to having to set an alarm on my phone to remind me that if I don't check on the state of the laundry, we will have nothing clean to wear. Otherwise, our clothes live in a 3 - 5 day cycle of being washed three times before being transferred and then dried multiple times over the remaining days until we literally run out of clean clothes. Downstairs is very far away, and I am incredibly lazy.

 

After they are sufficiently washed and dried, I have gathered approximately 12 guitar picks from the dryer (every. single. time!), and I have collected the clothes before they are ice cold and wrinkled, the worst part begins. Placing a soft, warm pile of clean clothes on my lap instantly makes me want to take a nap, until my skin is scorched by a 900* jean button. The only aspect of the actual folding that I loathe is the pairing up of socks...it may be the figurative straw that one day breaks this OCD patient's back. Seriously - where do they go?? It's like a living math problem that has no answer - 10 pairs of socks go into the washer and dryer, but only 7.5 pairs come out - solve for 'x'. I keep thinking that one of these days, a rapture will take place in the dryer and I will be the savior of the missing socks that spill out and plead to me to return them to their unmatched friend who has sat in a pile on top of our dresser for three months. No such day has transpired as of yet, so the tower of lonely socks atop our bedroom furniture remains.

 

I get them folded and laid out to hang just fine, but my will to live is destroyed at the very thought of having to actually put them away. What happens more often than not is that we fish clean items out of the basket each day until it is time to start another load of laundry and I need the basket, so I finally break down and put the remaining clothes away.

 

It's pathetic, I know, but believe it or not, people aren't lining up at my door begging to do my laundry for me. As I recently saw someone post on social media, 'I don't care that Disney lied to me about Prince Charming*. I'm more upset about forest creatures and their unwillingness to clean my house.'

*I love my husband dearly, and given a thousand lifetimes to do it over again, I would pick him every time. I'm just saying, it would be nice if the gig came with a crown and a staff of servants, or at least a couple chipmunks who vacuum.

Just Call Me Ivy

We like watching t.v. at our house. Judge if you must, but we are not above mindless entertainment. Admittedly, I am a much worse offender than Ryan. He keeps his t.v. watching to sports and one or two shows that we can watch together. I have so many shows recorded every week, that I have to watch a few in secret before he sees them on our DVR list because I am embarrassed that I have stooped so low as to watch things like "Marriage Bootcamp: Reality Stars". Listen, there's enough serious things happening in the real world (does MTV still show that series? Because I will totally watch it!), so I choose to unwind by watching things that don't require me to think too hard.

 

As a loyal and devoted television fan, I have tried my fair share of cable companies. In Vegas, I cursed Cox Communications for having a monopoly on the area and being my only option. I bought and watched their product, but I did it begrudgingly. Then I moved to Iowa and signed on with Dish. My sister once had a now famous in our family run-in with Dish where, after a 45 minute call to resolve her initial problem, she eloquently told them where they could shove their satellite dish. Literally. The well trained Dish representative calmly told my sister that she had actually purchased the dish, so she could do whatever she wished with it, as it was technically her property. Spoiler alert: that conversation only got worse from there. So I probably should have learned from my sister's experience that they aren't the best company to do business with, but I am dumb, and signed on anyway.

 

Fast forward 6 weeks - I had paid for 2 months of service, yet had no actual television programming because after 3 service calls yielded different excuses why they couldn't install the dish, they stuck with "There's snow on the roof, and we can't install the dish until there is no snow." Well that's awfully convenient, because you can take my money when there's snow. Many calls later, I vowed that they would never get another dime of my money, and switched to their competitor. Seeing as how we are still with said competitor, and we are quickly running out of options of who to get service through since I could make holding a grudge an Olympic level event, I will be careful with my words. But they rhyme with "DIRECTV".

 

Overall, they are the least of the evils, but make no mistake about it, we have made a deal with the devil. Like any relationship, things were good in the beginning. Then after a few years, their initial promises of loyalty, fidelity, and discounts began to change to legally binding contracts, incorrect billing, and sorcery. They lured us into their den of trickery with free NFL Sunday ticket. Every game, every week, plus RedZone. It was the perfect concoction to get us lovedrunk on them. Basically, they roofied us. And it worked hook, line, and sinker. The next year, we handed over ungodly amounts of money in order to keep us in the football lifestyle to which we had become accustomed, and even added a St. Louis baseball package.

 

When Ryan and I first got married, I joined his existing bank and cell phone accounts, and somehow along the way, that made me the primary account holder. At our specific bank and cell phone provider, that means that he cannot access the accounts without my expressed, written permission, the blood of a virgin, and our first born. I, for one, thought it was all kind of hilarious, especially when we realized that my daily debit limit is over 10x higher than his. I joined his accounts, and somehow ended up as sole dictator of them. If that's not an accurate glimpse into marriage, nothing is. 

 

As we established earlier, television is far more important to me than it is to Ryan, so the tables were turned when I realized that his name is on the cable account. Since I am the one who pays most of the bills, he has no tangible benefit of being the sole proprietor of this account. Unlike our cell phone and banking companies, I as the secondary member of the household, can access our account. It just takes a million questions to verify that I am who I say I am. The irony of all of this to me is that 90% of the time when I call, I am doing so to make a payment, because they double debited our account one month when on auto-pay and they made me mad, so now I torture myself by having to pay by phone...really showed them on that one, didn't I? While we're on the subject, why do I have to be 'verified' to make a payment to the account I am calling about? Are there that many people calling and trying to pay our bill? And if there are, LET THEM!

 

Karma has settled the score, though, because I interact with our cable company far more often than any other place where we hold an account. After reciting my name, phone number, primary address, social security number, Ryan's name, phone number, social security number, email address, his mother's maiden name, and my relation to him, I was transferred to a manager and asked the exact same set of questions. Once I was asked for my name 3 more times, he asked if he could call me by my first name. I always say yes, but one of these days I am seriously going to demand that I be called Her Royal Highness, Princess of The Real Housewives. Anyway, this whole song and dance is pointless, because he called me 'Ivy'. You'd think they could make a little note of what my name is seeing as how I call every 30 days, but I choose my battles, people. 

 

Since I know that our account is flagged after the whole 'We have pulled ABC from our lineup and therefore Heidi has to wait 2 weeks to watch Grey's Anatomy online...WITH commercials' debacle, they also throw random discounts our way every time I call in. I am not proud to say that during that dark time in my life, I yelled at more than 1 customer service rep, cried to a supervisor, and used my mom's infamous "I am looking forward to hearing how you plan to make this right" line. That resulted in $10/month off for the inconvenience, $10/month off for being loyal customers, and $10/month off to stop crying. It doesn't take away the trauma of having to watch Grey's with commercials, but it helps. 

 

They have obviously figured out my soft spot, because every call goes in this exact order: automated voice, call center in India, annoyed lady named Denise, and sweet older lady with a Southern drawl. That drawl gets me every time. How can you be irritated when she's speaking slower than molasses while reciting to you how her 3 year old grandson explains the game of golf - "If the ball goes in the hole, they win, Gamma!"? I also learned that said 3 year old is an Auburn fan and is going to his first football game on Saturday with his dad and Grandpa. His mom was supposed to go, but she just had premature twins who were due October 16th, and they are still in the hospital so she has to be there to feed them because their hospital has something called 'care time' where moms of preemies can feed them if they want. Okay, so I didn't sell it all that well, but trust me, she was adorable, she gave me more discounts (Today's random win was $10/month off for having 3 receivers in the house), and she made me care significantly less that I had just spent 38 minutes of my day on the phone with the cable company answering to 'Ivy'.

 

 

Death of the Bobby Pin: The Lilla Rose Story

Unlike my dear friend Whitney, I have never been terribly creative with my hair. Whit is the woman who once literally pulled branches of flowers off one of her house plants and expertly weaved them in and out of the up-do she had just assembled on my head in less than 5 minutes. I am more of the person who will watch an hour of YouTube videos with the search tag "easy hair style for medium hair", then spend another hour trying to copy the strategy I saw on the video, only to give up and go for my usual look. Unless I have my 15 year old niece here to spruce up my hair for me, straight or curly are about as big as the variations get for me.

I did recently learn how to make fabulous curls in my hair using my flat iron, which was a result of pure necessity after the springs came flying off of my curling iron with half of my head already curled and plastered in place with hair spray. I have used either a curling iron or a flat iron (or both) every single day of my life for the last 18 years. Somehow, I manage to scorch my hand every single day. Like it's some surprise to me that the 400* metal iron molding my hair might be a tad warm to the touch.

 

So when my friend Brandi reached out to me recently and asked me if I would try a Lilla Rose Flexi Clip, I warned her that I am not the most talented hair designer in the world, but she assured me that they are easy to use. After browsing her website and selecting the size and design I liked best (no easy feat - there were lots and lots of pretty ones!), the clip of my choice arrived at my door 3 days later! I have medium-long, very thick hair, so I was a little overwhelmed by having to choose a size, but there were many helpful videos showing different kinds of hair and styles, and the corresponding size of the clip.

 

They seemed pretty cost effective, too. The medium (apparently my hair is not as remarkably thick as I once thought) that I selected was $11, and it looks like the priciest Flexi Clip is $17. They are made from beaded piano wire, which I honestly had no clue that pianos had wire - I'm not a music nerd, I just married one (and I am sure he knew that pianos had wires), and come in all sorts of colors and designs. Lilla Rose has a lot of other really cute products, too, but I haven't tried any of those out quite yet.

 

Since most of my wardrobe is black and white and all of my jewelry and accessories are silver, I opted for the clip called "Elegant Ornate". Pretty, but not plain and not too flashy. Just like me :).

 

 

The first thing I noticed and loved about this clip is that it is all one piece, significantly reducing my risk of losing a vital part. I am a huge bobby pin fan, but our house (and my purse, and the laundry room, and our cars, and everywhere else I may have ever set foot) becomes one giant bobby pin graveyard. Our welcome sign should say: Welcome to the Sloan Household: The Final Resting Place of Guitar Picks and Hair Accessories.

 

Secondly, I realized that the package my Flexi Clip arrived in also included a little brochure with some information about the company and the product, and several photos of step-by-step instructions to achieve five different looks.

 

 

 

The third thing I saw was that each clip has three notches that the wire locks into, depending on how much hair you are securing and how tightly you want the hair to be held. I will admit that the first two three several attempts didn't work because I was holding the pin with the notches facing up instead of down. Once I realized that I am an idiot and flipped the clip over to the correct position, I could hook the beaded part into the appropriate notch, and it comfortably and securely fit right into place.

 

Here I am modeling the half-up look that I love so much - a little fancier than all down, but casual enough that I am not flipping my hair from one side to the other all day long, fixing it in every reflection I see.

  

What I think I love the most about the Flexi Clip is that 1.) unlike bobby pins, it only takes one to hold my hair in place all day, and 2.) It is painless! With the bobby pins that I have been using for so many years, I sacrifice about 7 of them and several chunks of my scalp to the hair gods every morning. Plus this is a really easy way to add a little spunk to my look. Every girl needs a little sparkle!

 

I am someone who loves up-dos on other people, but I just don't feel like I can personally pull them off, so the below photo is stolen from Brandi herself. This is the French Twist style, that I think looks so cute on her, and I know that as a busy mom of three small kids, it is important to her that she can fix her hair in this style quickly and easily.

 

 

 

If you want some more information about the Flexi Clip, or any of Lilla Rose's other great products, visit Brandi's website by clicking here. If you want to learn how to accessorize your hair with common household plants, call Whitney.

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning

Today has not been awesome so far.

At 3:30am, I was wide awake. I tossed and turned for a while in vain, but that just woke Ryan and the dog up along with me. So at 4am, I cut my losses and moved to the couch for 4 hours of trying to be quiet while also being the only one awake. At 5:30am, I couldn't wait anymore and needed cereal. Have you ever tried to pour cereal quietly? Not possible. I thought pouring the milk first was brilliant and would cushion the sound of Frosted Flakes hitting hard plastic. My plan may have worked, had I hit the bowl with the cereal instead of the kitchen floor. Our house is tiny, and turning on the kitchen light would have definitely woken the rest of the crew, so I was trying to pour said cereal in the dark, and completely missed the bowl and the counter.

Mia heard the music to her ears of spilled food, and came running out to help me clean up. I let her eat every single piece, and she promptly went into the living room, let out an over exaggerated yawn, and collapsed onto a pile of blankets. My intended breakfast was just an early morning snack to her. Deciding to just wait until everyone else was up, I occupied myself by playing games on my phone, reading every online news story I saw, and texting my favorite insomnia buddy.

Minutes before Ryan's alarm went off, my body decided it would be a perfect time to go back to sleep, because insomnia is a jerk. I snoozed until it was time for him to head out, and then it was my turn to get up, take care of Mia, and get ready for the day.

At 10pm last night, I decided that I needed to buy microwave popcorn and m&m's, and after my cereal fiasco, this salty and sweet combo sounded like the perfect breakfast. M&M's swimming in a bowl of buttery and perfectly popped corn, I poured myself a large glass of Caffeine Free (read: broken) Diet Mountain Dew, and settled in to try to peel my eyes open. Yes, I know that chocolate has caffeine in it. No, I do not care.

 

About two minutes into my long awaited meal, Mia came running in from her breakfast, and immediately got sick...ON ME. Which led to me getting sick, though I was nice and ran for the bathroom instead of poetically repaying the favor. Fabulous start.

 

Once we were both feeling better, we returned to the couch and I plopped down. The girth of my rear end knocked over my very cold glass of soda, drenching me, the couch, and the dog. In a move that left me both confused and amazed, I realized that somehow, 3 of the 4 ice cubes had lodged themselves in my underwear!!! That's one way to wake up without caffeine, I guess. Unpleasant, but effective.

 

Changed, cold, and still starving, I returned and dug into my popcorn. Watching those sad, sick puppy dog eyes watch each bite I took tugged at my heart strings, and against my better judgment, I shared a couple of pieces with Mia. Have you ever seen those videos of dogs who are terrible at catching things? Our dog should have her own YouTube channel of nothing but missing things thrown at her. On literally the third piece of popcorn I shared with her, I watched it fly through the air, touch her tongue, and bounce back into my bowl.

 

And that, my friends, is how I ended up eating half of a bag of m&m's for breakfast.

Here We Go! Again.

I wrote the following post approximately 12 weeks ago, but due to the red tape at my place of employment, I could not share it. Why would this matter, you ask? Does she work for the CIA? Is she an undercover officer? A double agent? You'll never know. But here is a spoiler alert: a lovely couple did buy our unlisted house, we did find a place to live in our new city, we LOVE our new church and community, the dog has not eaten anyone's face off, and our belongings made it, too. They can be found in various boxes strewn about the house, as I am boycotting unpacking. But that's for another post...

We're moving. Again. In the last 10 years, Ryan and I have each moved 8 times. Sixteen moves in 10 years. You'd think that we would be a lot better at it by now.

Ryan recently accepted a job at a new church about 75 miles away, and while we are SO excited, if I'm totally honest, I'm completely overwhelmed. The church we're leaving holds a very special place in our hearts (we met there, we said our vows there, and we started our life together there), and the people have been wonderful to us, so it is very bittersweet.

Additionally, on our 16th collective move, we took the plunge and bought a house. Well, technically, the bank bought it and allows us to live here so long as we continue to pay them. So unlike our previous moves, we can't just tell the landlord what day we're leaving. Being that we have only "owned" our house for 22 months, we would owe a licensed real estate professional more than twice the amount of equity we have built.

So, we're selling it ourselves. How hard could it be? I mean, realtors just go to a specialized school, know all of the laws, and have years of experience....pssshhht, easy peasy! Is there a pro bono program for realtors? If so, we'd like to apply. We're young and poor and desperate and exceptionally nice!

After explaining all of the above to people when they give us the look of dismay after finding out that we think we can sell a house by ourselves, the next question is always, "Do you have a place to live in your new city?" Ummm, no. No, we do not. Buying is not all that it is cracked up to be, so we would like to rent a house with a 60 pound dog. Landlords aren't exactly forming a line outside of our door hoping that we'll choose them.

Also, stop asking me if our dog is coming with us. Yes, she is coming with us. I know this analogy irritates people with kids, so I apologize in advance, but she is our child. I get that humans and animals are not the same. And I also get that once we have tiny humans, our dog will move to second place. But for now, she is our child, and for always, she will be a part of our family. Short of actually eating someone's face off, the dog stays. And to any future landlords who may be reading this, she is also young and exceptionally nice, so she wouldn't eat the face of any nice human being. A murderer, though? She would totally eat a murderer for lunch. Think of the money you will save on security systems!

I am a planner, and like to have all my little duckies in a row. In addition to being in the busiest 3 months of my full time job, Ryan is currently commuting 75 miles each way every day, and we are spending most of our free time gathering up those figurative ducklings and putting them back in place. I have an excel sheet detailing the contents of every box, the room it will be moved from, the room it will be moved to, and its respective number. I have moving expenses (house updates, listing fee, closing fee, movers, etc.) budgeted for each coming month. We are ready to go.

Except that we haven't listed our house yet (budgeted for the next round of paychecks/winning lottery ticket - whichever comes first), nobody has bought our unlisted house yet, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to pack when we don't know how long we will or will not be living in this house the bank is renting to us.

You don't realize how much stuff you use on a weekly basis until your choices are to pack it up, keep it out and accessible for an undetermined amount of time, or donate it. We've been subscribing to the latter two options lately...Goodwill sees us every day. To date, I have exactly one box packed - comprised of a punch bowl, two muffin tins, and a cheese tray. Everything else we own will come standard with the purchase of our home.

The Great Gravy Cook Off

Without trying to toot our own horns, we're pretty decent cooks at our house. We eat very different things; Ryan is a carnivore, and I am a vegetarian carbivore , unified only by our love of potatoes and our disdain for onions. While we pretty much have who cooks what down to a science, there has been one sticking point: biscuits & gravy. Technically, it's just the gravy, as we enlist the help of Grands for the biscuits.

We have very different backgrounds - I am a liberal youngest of 5 children from the west coast, and he is a conservative only child from the south. We actually do have a lot in common, except our accents, some of our politics, and the hardest of all beliefs to merge: gravy. I firmly believe that breakfast gravy should be of the creamy, white, peppered variety. Ryan objects that a breakfast gravy should be a greasy, yellow, salty treat. Two and a half years into our marriage, we have learned that this is one topic that neither of us will totally budge on. When with his family, we have yellow gravy, and when with my family, we have white gravy.

 

A few days ago, we both had a craving for some biscuits & gravy, and decided that we would both attempt to make our respective mothers' recipe. As with anything in our house, we made it into a competition. The winner would receive bragging rights and be named the 'Sloan Gravy Maker' from here on forward.

We gathered our utensils (We only own 1 wisk, so I was given the immediate disadvantage of making scratch gravy with the beater from a hand mixer) and mentally prepared for the task ahead:

 

One of us equipped with a traditional tool and one of us having to make due with a beater, and our moms' recipes in mind, we set out to duplicate their famous gravy. Then we stirred, and stirred, and stirred, and stirred some more. Next came more stirring. And then a little more stirring for good measure. Meanwhile, our biscuits were golden brown and ready to be covered in our gravy creations. Biscuits are a lesser fought battle at the Sloan household - I am a fan of a flaky biscuit, while Ryan prefers a solid biscuit. Because I am a good wife, I conceded to a hearty solid biscuit.

 

 

Back to the star of the show, we were still stirring the gravy, neither of us 100% happy with our pans when we decided to call time and let the judging begin. Pan #1 was mine, and while I feel that I nailed the color and consistency, it was mostly because I added waaaaay too much flour, and that's all it tasted like. Pan #2 was Ryan's, and his also closely matched his mom's color of gravy, though it was due to the gravy being overdone.

 

 

 

 

All in all, we tied...in the 'we both lost and made bad gravy' way. Again, we're decent cooks, so we did the only logical thing and mixed the two batches together - it was better that way, but well short of the moms' legacies.

 

Not ones to give up easily, the next day presented us with another craving for biscuits & gravy (pretty much an every day occurrence), and another opportunity to perfect the recipe. We whole heartedly believe that one of the keys to a happy marriage is compromise, so we popped the flaky biscuits in the oven, started a pan of scrambled eggs, and combined our cooking expertise to try to make one good pan of gravy instead of two sub-par pans.

 

Since Ryan was the head chef on this endeavor, we aimed for a yellowish gravy, and figured if all else failed, eggs and biscuits weren't a terrible plan b. The two of us, the help of both moms, half the originally used flour, medium-high heat, and a few prayers later, we had more than edible biscuits and gravy, ladies and gentlemen!!

 

We have a new recipe in our repertoire, full bellies, and a whole new appreciation for our moms' cooking talents!



 







Things I Never Thought I Would Say: Dog Edition

Though we do not have any human babies yet, our lives have definitely been taken over by one sweet, adorable, stubborn baby of the four legged variety. If you have somehow managed to miss our barrage of social media posts over the last year pertaining to our dog, you have obviously been living under a rock and/or in a coma.

 

Mia Jane is our beautiful 3 year old boxer, who tips the scales at a whopping 60 pounds. The first 2 questions that everyone asks about her are 1.) Is she part great dane?, and when we tell them she is purebred boxer the next question/comment is always, 2.) Is she big for a boxer? She seems big for a boxer. As Ryan lovingly says, "She's a big, fine girl!"

 

While Mia is many things, the brightest crayon in the box she is not. I once remember my sister Tammy saying to her then 4 year old, "Jeremy, please don't put the dog's tail in your mouth.", and then immediately saying to me, "I have a whole list of things I never thought I'd say before I became a parent." While having nieces and nephews has partially prepared me for the list of things I will one day utter to my children, I was not prepared to verbalize any of the following commands to my aforementioned (sweet, but not particularly sharp) dog:

 

* It's just a leaf, Mia, not a murderer.

 

* No, no - we don't lick mom's eyeball.

 

* Mia, please don't eat the dirt I just piled with the broom.

 

* It's just a reflection, Mia, not a murderer.

 

* You have 3 water bowls - please stop drinking out of my glass.

 

* If I see that bone in my plant/clean laundry/shoe one more time, it's mine!

 

* You have 2 beds and 6 blankets - please stop pulling my blanket off of me at 3am.

 

* (As she is literally choking on her food): Take a breath!

 

* It's just a balloon, Mia, not a murderer.

 

* And my personal favorite: Ladies don't lick their own butts, Mia Girl.

 

It's a good thing she's pretty!!

        



A Cashier, A Theologian, And A Nutritionist

Iowa is currently under a foot of snow, so more specifically, our driveway and sidewalks are under a foot of snow. While we did make a rookie mistake buying a corner lot, we did pretty well in the 'neighbors across the street' lottery. The gentleman across the street has cleared our driveway and sidewalks for us at least once every single winter. Because of the way my mother raised me, I make cookies for him every year as a thank you. Because I am not my mother, I don't always have the staple ingredients on hand, so I had to venture to the store to pick up several things necessary for cookie baking.

After trekking all over the entire store to get the ingredients and cute bags to deliver the finished product in, I searched each of the 22 checkout lanes in the hopes of finding an open one besides the express lane.

Of the four open lanes, ONE of them had less than seven people in line. Willing my blood pressure numbers to stay below that of the gross national debt, I forced a smile onto my face and began a 15 minute wait behind five other patrons.

When I finally reached the conveyor belt and began placing my items upon it, I was greeted by the cashier. Something that I feel is important to the ensuing event is that I have an unbelievable knack for being held conversationally hostage by employees of the businesses that I frequent. Like the waiter at Red Robin who told me, in detail, all about his online dating show (true story), or the host at Buffalo Wild Wings who insists on telling me about his girlfriend and his cat every single time that he seats us (also a true story). Ryan has perfected the head down/no eye contact move so that these people leave him alone, but I must look too inviting, because I was roped into another uncomfortable and uncomfortably long conversation today (another true story):

As Judgmental Janet (like a Chatty Cathy, except a jerk) (and name has been changed so I don't get sued) greeted me, she didn't opt for the traditional small talk 'hello' that most cashiers go for. Her first words to me were 'Did you see how much wine that couple in front of you just bought?!' I uttered out a 'No' as I was tensely hoping this was the beginning of a math problem (literally the ONLY time you will ever hear me hope for this). Without missing a beat, Judgmental Janet went on with 'They SAID they were using them for cooking, but I bet they are drinking some of them, too!'

At this point, I'm trying to direct one eye to the couple who had just left with the reported plethora of wine (without trying to be rude, they looked plenty old enough to legally purchase whatever kind of alcohol they desire), and one eye to the conveyor belt, praying that my items were close to bagged so that I could flee. Then I remembered that I wasn't in the express lane - I was in the take my time and gossip about the customers who just left line.

Trying to find a way out of this conversation, I casually mention that a lot of great cooks use wine when preparing sauces and other tasty dishes. Instead of finding an exit from this lovely little chat, Janet took my comment as an invitation to a sermon. I'll spare you the details, but from my lips to God's ears, the CASHIER at a store then said to me, 'The Bible says that Jesus turned water into wine, so if you're not Jesus, you shouldn't be allowed to drink wine.' The smart aleck in me wanted so badly to ask her where she went to seminary, but instead, I just looked at her completely dumbfounded. "Oh you're not a Christian?' she asked. Again, my sarcastic side was dying to come out, but my completely mortified side won out and I sharply said, 'No, I am a Christian. I just don't believe drinking is a sin'.

 

I kid you not, this woman then IMMEDIATELY picked up the bag of m&ms I bought for the cookies and said 'Are you preparing early for Valentine's day? There sure is a lot of sugar in your cart.' So she's a cashier, a theologian, and a nutritionist - my lucky day! I mumbled something about thanking a neighbor, but she was just glaring at me with those judgey eyes. The irony of this whole incident is that plan A was to buy our neighbor wine as a thank you, but we don't know him well enough to know if he prefers red or white, so we went with cookies. I can only imagine what ol' Janet would have to say about wine AND cookies!

 

Sunday Funday?

Life as a pastor's wife has some unique challenges all year long, but I find it to be particularly challenging during the winter. There's the added pressure to not fall on ice and accidentally flash members of the congregation as they walk into the building (I so wish I was making this up!), there's setting an extra alarm to make sure that neither of us sleep in too late even though it is SO hard to get out from under the covers before the sun comes up, and perhaps worst of all, there's the magnetic force field that attracts snow to our area on Saturday night.

 

It doesn't snow every Saturday night in winter, but rest assured that if Eastern Iowa is going to get a heaping dose of snow, it will be on a Saturday night. In my previous life, this wouldn't have been a problem for two reasons; 1.) I rented, so I had a landlord to do the shoveling, and 2.) If it was too nasty outside, skipping church was always an option. Before you write me a scathing comment, I'm going to politely remind you that I grew up in Arizona and after four winters in Iowa, I can barely drive in inclement weather - me staying off the road from November - April is a public service gesture. And also, you're not the boss of me.

 

Now that I am a first lady (I heard once that some churches refer to pastors' wives as 'First Lady', and now I refuse to let my fantasy of being Michelle Obama go until someone, anyone, starts addressing me as such), my Sundays have gone from a peaceful morning off to a mad dash to get everyone showered, fed, dressed, and out the door/in the kennel. In the winter, there's an added desire to help my husband shovel a driveway, walkway, and two sidewalks before anything else can happen. And it's currently just two adults and a dog in our house! I'm certain that once we have tiny humans living here, we'll either constantly be late, be forced to forego breakfast, or put the wrong wild animal/child in the kennel. Sidenote: I'm sure you are brilliant and have already thought of this, but just in case, let me take this opportunity to urge you to NEVER buy a corner lot (two sidewalks) in a place that it snows. Also, don't buy a property with a fire hydrant on it - the firefighters of the world get a little pissy if they are trying to save your neighbor's house from burning down, but they are delayed because they have to dig out the hydrant first. The solution to this problem? Make the homeowners whose property the hydrant resides on dig it out, and if they don't within the allotted time, fine them. The city of Cedar Rapids has that tied up in a nice little bow! 

 

Just when I thought that I finally have this chaotic Sunday morning scene down to a manageable science, we turned on one of our favorite shows, and my #1 Pastor's Wife blue ribbon was torn to shreds. We love watching 'Pioneer Woman' at our house - it's a cooking show hosted by Ree Drummond; married mother of four who homeschools her kids, helps her husband run a cattle ranch, and has her own tv show. This specific episode was titled 'Sunday Brunch', and she effortlessly made a ham, eggs inside of homemade hashbrown cups (like, she took the time to boil and shred potatoes into hashbrowns and then formed them into the shape of a cup), scratch biscuits and gravy, and a fruit salad. Ree managed to make said feast, set the table, make centerpieces from hand picked flowers, get four kids out the door, attend church, and serve brunch. She made a freaking ham, people. And decorative cups made out of freshly shredded potatoes to hold each person's eggs. It's a pretty big deal in our house if I make time to brown some hamburger and throw a bunch of canned ingredients into the crockpot before I leave for church. Most Sundays, Ryan gets a drive through meal.

 

I didn't use to be this way. I once had time to color code my Tupperware drawer. And I used to make biscuits and gravy for myself every Sunday morning. And I used to eat them slowly, enjoying every bite, before I leisurely started to get ready for church. Once ready to leave, I would stroll through my apartment making sure everything was turned off and that every hair on my head was perfectly as it should be.

 

These days, I'm typically shoving vitamins and a banana in my mouth as I run out the door an hour before the service I attend even starts, dragging a purse stuffed with extra batteries for Ryan's guitar, and stealing a quick glance back at the crockpot to make sure that I actually plugged it in.

As much as I long to be the well put together, never frazzled, picture perfect pastor's wife (ahem, First Lady), I'm more often the lady running through the hall with a hole in her leggings because she fell face first into the door of the church, holding a completely bent bible that I just dug out from underneath the pile of junk in my backseat, searching frantically for my husband to tell him I will be late for duties 6 through 9 because I am up to my eyeballs running my own subsect of ministry that I signed up for during all of my free time. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, I wouldn't complain about having it with cute little hashbrown cups holding my eggs.

 

Victory, and Ice Cream, Will Be Mine

Blogging is a lot like raising kids - I only have experience in the former, but I hear a lot of parents of tiny humans remark that 'time flies', or 'I blinked and it was 6 months later'. Every year, I resolve to blog more, and every year, I do. Until about May. Something happens in May that either makes the year go by at lightning speed, or I just get lazy. Could go either way. And every December, I look back at my posts and think to myself that I should have taken more time to write. Not only are my fans (and by 'fans', I mean 'fan'. Actually, I mean 'mom'. You say to-ma-to, I say to-mah-to) left wandering what happened to my witty, charming tales from my exciting life, but I'm also cranky. Not writing turns me into a sad shell of a blogger. Nobody wants to read the blog of a sad shell.

So this year is going to be different. No - not like when I said the last three years were going to be different - different different. My biggest downfall to not posting those lively stories is not that they don't happen, trust me, they happen. The same amount of hilarious, embarrassing, self-sacrificing things happen to me every year. The difference, for me, comes down to one measly excuse: a journal.

 

If I have a journal and I commit to writing entries into it, I have a tangible record of my many life mishaps that make for such great blogging material. If I don't have that hard copy look into my past days and weeks, they all kind of run together and things I thought I'd never forget somehow manage to file themselves in that tiny back corner of my brain that I can't seem to access except in fleeting moments. So in this way, you see, blogging is exactly like raising a tiny human. Still not an announcement, for the record.

Ryan, being the encourager to my life that he is, took me out a few days ago to pick a brand new journal and a set of asininely priced fine tip multi-color gel pens (Few things in life make me happier than high quality office supplies. It's a problem.) to use for just this occasion. Part of me thinks him buying me a journal and fancy pens is just part of his romantic nature, and the other part of me thinks he may have done so in an attempt to keep the sad shell of a wife he ends up having from turning him into an equally sad shell of a husband. Encourager or afraid of being a sad shell, either way, I have a journal and pretty pens so I'm pretty happy about the situation.

 

One day into a brand new year, I realized that I already have a harrowing tale to share with you. This, too, almost turned me into a sad shell of a person. This is why I almost had to boycott 2015:

It was a quiet evening on a cold winter day. Our niece Morgan was spending the night - partly to help usher in the new year, and partly to help keep me awake to usher in the new year. Something in my being refuses to allow myself to go to bed first when we have company, even if it is family, but I sadly have no problem leaving Ryan behind for the open arms of our bed. Anyway, it was 8:30pm on New Year's Eve, and Morgan and I had a hankering for some ice cream.

We first ventured to Culver's (technically it's frozen custard, not ice cream, but I honestly like it better. Please don't tell Ryan - the 'd' word has only been said twice in our marriage; once when I admitted my affection for frozen custard over ice cream, and once when I thought Kareem Abdul Jabbar was a swimming coach.), only to be greeted by a dark building. My faith in the integrity of this holiday wavering, but intact, we headed to the FIRST Dairy Queen.

Once again, we were met with the disappointment of a dark building with no blizzards to be had. Not one to give up easily, I thought we'd try a different DQ - after all, they couldn't both be closed, could they?? After making the 10 minute trek, we approached a small incline in the hill, our anticipation growing with every inch our car moved. Closer, closer, closer, hoping, hoping, hoping. And then, there it was - a beacon in the dark...the fully lit Dairy Queen sign. I don't often partake in religious signs, but I swear to baby Jesus, I heard angels sing.

We continued closer to the figurative lifeboat in a desolate world without ice cream, only to see that they had forgot to turn the sign off. The wind was out of our sails quicker than the time it would have taken to TURN THE SIGN OFF WHEN THE EMPLOYEES WERE LEAVING! I mean, really, I don't mean to blow this out of proportion, but do you think we can all agree that if our business will be closed for the evening, we can make it a general rule to turn the sign off? This was nearly as deflating as the time I called Pizza Hut to order dinner the night before Thanksgiving, and they told me that they were out of pizza. Let that sink in. Pizza Hut was out of pizza on the busiest pizza night of the year.

This sad story does have a somewhat happy ending, though. Like the best friend you can call at 3am  1am, Wendy's had their light on and had employees there to serve us! That Dave Thomas obviously knew basic business principals - if you have your light on advertising ice cream, you should be there to serve the ice cream that your sign is promising!

So journal in hand, fancy pens locked up tighter than Fort Knox, and a delicious Frosty in my belly, I have two words for you, 2015: bring it.