But it’s not always about deserving, is it?  I think, maybe, it’s about having faith that it will come, and staying until it does.

I don’t want to miss it.

*Editor’s note:  While this advice is from my mom and based on a true story, I’m sure she would like me to note that it is not (usually) her lovely face that is sprouting unsightly hairs.  But if it were, she has three daughters who would tell her, STAT.

Marshmallow Brulee Rice Krispies

1 bag marsmallows

1 stick of butter

1 cup peanut butter (I like crunchy)

6 cup Rice Crispies

In a large (preferably non-stick) saucepan combine half (or so) of the marshmallows, 3/4 of the stick of butter and the peanut butter.  Melt over medium heat, stirring constently.  Fold in the Rice Krispys and then spread the mixture in to a greased 9×13 pan.  In a smallish bowl combine the rest of the marsmallows and the buter, microwave for 45 seconds and then (move fast, this is time sensitive) mix them together and spread evenly over your rice crispy treats.  Put under the broiler for 2-3 minutes, until the top gets brown and crispy.  You’ll probably want to crack the oven door a little an watch them because they will go from golden brown and delightful to totally burt in no time.  Trust me, if there is one thing I know how to do it is burn something under the broiler.

Anyway, I’m reading another book about a marriage ending badly, Heartburn by Nora Ephron.

I starting reading it because, hello, it’s written by Nora Ephron, and she is fabulous, and lo and behold it’s about a divorce, but this time it’s a funny divorce, so it’s not that bad.  Actually, it’s really quite delightful and I wholeheartedly recommend to one and all.

Plus, it saved me several years and several thousand dollars of therapy in this one paragraph.

“I loved to cook so I cooked. And then the cooking became a way of saying I love you. And then the cooking became the easy way of saying I love you. And then the cooking became the only way of saying I love you. Every so often I would look at my friends who were happily married and didn’t cook and I would always find myself wondering how they did it.  Would anyone love me if I couldn’t cook?  I always thought cooking was part of the package: Step right up, it’s Rachel Samstat, she’s bright, she’s funny, and she can cook!”

That about sums up 75% of my emotional problems.  Okay, 50%.  25%?  Fine, 7.5%.  I have a lot of emotions, whatever.  But it does explains why it upsets me so much when my husband comes home from work and has already eaten, or when my Dad picks up his running commentary on how much time and money I waste on this cooking hobby.  Seriously people, I’m not good at much, let me be good at this!  At least at the end of the day you can eat my hobby, which is not the case with most people.

I mean when was the last time you had a nice, juicy custom built server for dinner?

Exactly.

Let’s be honest, I’m way funnier by text than I am in real life.  Examples:

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Husband:  Sorry I missed your phone call, I was up a tree with a chainsaw.

Me:  Either that is true, and you have a whole life as a logger that I know nothing about, or that’s an excuse so clever I have to forgive you.  Win-win.

Later that day…

Husband:  I’m going to be a little late tonight.

Me:  More logging to do?  Or perhaps you need to bring in your lobster traps?  Forest fire to put out?

—————————————————————————————————-

My mom and I were texting about our uncomfortable office chairs today.  It went something like this:

Do you ever have days when your butt feels uncomfortably boney.  Like suddenly there’s not enough padding down there to keep you comfortable.  But then you stand up and there’s magically enough to make it look like you swallowed J-LO?

For more words of wisdom from my fabulous mother, visit her new blog.

A few months ago Dave and I took Grandma Toronto home after Sunday dinner. When we arrived at her tiny apartment she started to show me the pictures hanging on her wall; family photos, weddings, graduations. And then she pointed to the large picture in the middle. “That one there is my dear husband,” she said with tears in her eyes. “He was the kindest, sweetest, greatest man I’ve ever known.”

I think about that all the time, about how lucky she is. I suspect that not everyone is lucky enough to be married to the person they think is best in all the world.

I guess I’m a lucky one.

Happy birthday, Burrito! You are the kindest, the sweetest, the best, and I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be spending my life with you. I love you madly.

Always, M

I didn’t mean to go away for so long, at first it was just a brief, self-imposed sabbatical because I was having a quilting emergency, so I couldn’t do anything but sew and cry for several days. And then I got a wicked headache (from the sewing and the crying), and I couldn’t look at a computer screen without throwing up for several days. Unfortunately, I am now in the middle of a new, darker quilting emergency (darker because I quit drinking caffeine), and can’t let myself blog until I’m ready for quilt retreat.

But I will be back soon with some really great stuff about light bulbs and bangs and an expose on who makes us late more often, me or Dave.

I know, I can’t wait either.

Pint-Sized Recession

“Um, are you going to be ready in the next, like, minute? Because we’re supposed to pray in Sacrament Meeting.”

Oh, great. There’s nothing like one minute’s warning to make sure I’m on time for church.

“What do you mean we’re supposed to pray?” I replied in my sweetest tones.

“Well, actually I think they just want me to pray, they didn’t ask for you…specifically. So I’m going to go and you can just come when you’re done with…whatever that is.”

It’s called a curling iron. And I’m sorry it takes me a whole twenty minutes to get ready but we can’t all just throw in some gel and run out the door like you do, then we would both look homeless and the children would be afraid.

Ten minutes later I arrive at church and while I’m waiting for the opportune moment to walk in late, (Is there such thing? Or are they all bad moments?) I pick up a program for a little light reading.

Opening Prayer – Melissa Toronto

Super.

And the best part is Dave was kind enough to assure me that it wasn’t “entirely my fault” and that he “covered” for me.

When it’s our turn to speak I really hope they call and ask me. Then he’ll be sorry.