Running out of toilet paper sucks more than running out of diapers.

It sucks more than running out of milk or bread or coffee or (dare I say it?) vodka.

You know what sucks more than running out of toilet paper though? Running out of toilet paper AND paper towels AND tissue paper AND coffee filters AND anything remotely soft enough to handle my business without leaving behind a nasty paper cut or twelve.

Death, despair, pestilence, chaos and destruction… Pshaw.

This, dear reader, is what we call a true tragedy.

And to make it all more Shakespearean-like, my healthy supply of  drive-thru supplied napkins are in the console of my truck – MY TRUCK which is with HIM because HE likes it more than HIS truck, which I incidentally cannot use due to my ability to properly drive a stick (much like my great ass and calculus skills) going out the window at the onset of ‘mommy brain’. His truck, of course, has no supply of drive-thru napkins because he has no ‘mommy brain’.

He has ‘daddy brain’.

Which means that I’d probably only find lots of empty Redbull cans and old porn. *

And wiping my hoohoo with either just seems uncomfortable and highly dirty.

So I guess it’s just me and this pack of anti-bacterial wipes that smell awfully like formaldehyde-flavored lemons.. Which I’m fairly certain will take that not-so-fresh-feeling to a whole new level of  goddamnmylifesucks.

Wish me luck…

*Yes, the statement about the daddy brain leading to Redbull and porn was totally sexist… but you totally deserved it after snickering about me and my inability to drive a stick, and you know it.

** Oh! And did ‘ya miss me?

I am not above pinching my children.

Hard.

Yes, I can see that you are on a date of some sort, and I, for one, am simply thrilled- thrilled- that your many hours of cyber-wooing paid off in the form of a real live girl willing to suffer through your 15 minute monologues on the joy of whatever it is that jerks your chain these days while partaking of the super-swanky “2 can eat for $20″ meal spread across the table before you…

And, yes, I understand that my child’s high pitched laughter, born of the joy of having a brother whose pre-appetizer performance consists of sticking a straw up his nose, isn’t always considered a delightful sound to someone without children such as yourself…

But if you send so much as one more dirty look in my direction…

I am not above pinching my children.

And moving their chairs closer in order for you to be upfront and center for a drama-filled toddler breakdown, complete with mountains of snot, rivers of tears, and the occasional stomp and/or kick or two.

Hell, I’m not even certain that I’m above having them fling said snot and tears at you and your nifty metr0-sexual pre-ripped jeans while your date and her cute shoes look on in sheer horror.

So how about we stop all this mess before it starts…

I’ll get back to the second act of the illustrious straw-up-the-nose performance now in progress…

My children can get back to being children as children ought…

And you?

You can walk away from this whole experience snot-free and (perhaps) wise enough to recognize the perils of dining in any restaurant that serves crayons with their menus.

M’kay?

Oatmeal Cranberry Walnut Cookies

Please stop licking your computer screen. I’m fairly certain it tastes like ass. And it can’t be at all sanitary…

But if it makes you feel better, the very quick and super easy three step recipe for those nomilicious cookies pictured above can be found at the bottom of this post once you’re done reading all of my fascinating and thought-provoking personal dialogue.

Unless, of course, you skip the rest of this post.

Which is totally cheating.

And nobody likes a cheater.

Not even Baby Jesus.

Just sayin’.

Now where were we…?

Ah, yes, I know… thought-provoking dialogue. Got it.

When I was kid, I was neighbors and friends with the daughter of our high school’s home economics teacher. Home economics not being my thing, I, of course, completely missed out on learning how to properly sew (something that I now regret) and all of the benefits of using a crying, pooping, needs-to-be-held robot baby as a sex education tool (something that I now regret even more). But I had a friend whose mom was the home ec teacher. Bygones.

One evening, while having dinner at said friend’s house, I sat in silent amazement at the beautiful weekday meal that her mom had made. I just couldn’t imagine how much this woman had her shit together in order to work all day, cater to the whims of two children, run about to and fro and do all of those other necessary things that mothers do, and still have time to come home and put together a homemade lasagna, a vegetable side with a fancy name, fresh bread and salad, iced teas in pretty glasses, and a cake to boot.

My mom was making macaroni and cheese.

And no cake.

Unless Little Debbie’s count.

(And, dude, they sooo do.)

After dinner, when I was helping my friend with the dishes (because, in my book of newfound appreciation for both Donna Reid and Clare Huxtable, her mom needed a moment to put up her feet and relax), I began waxing poetic on how awesome the meal was and how I just didn’t know how her mom had the time and perhaps I should take home ec to learn the trade… yada, yada, yada.  I think I was probably going into the tenth solid minute of discussing, most inappropriately for a teenager that had much better things to occupy her mind (read: boys), how time consuming  making a homemade lasagna must be, when she held up her hand and said in a most exasperated voice,

“Judith, it’s just Stoffer’s.”

How does one lose a microwave, you ask?

Frankly, my dears, I have absolutely no clue.

All I know is that I had a microwave and now I do not.

I had a microwave in Louisiana (the first tour). I happily nuked stuff in the Egypt that was McCrory, Arkansas.  I re-heated many a leftover slice of pizza in that aptly named town of Bald Knob, and Alabama dished out the bags of microwavable popcorn as only a pretty little box of cancer-causing waves of radiation can…

And, yet, here I find myself sitting   in our new house [insert huge sigh of relief],quietly tucked  away in a private little road smack dab in the middle of suburbia, tearfully reflecting on the big gaping hole in my heart (and countertop) that was once consoled and temporarily filled by the sweet smell of quickly heated baked goods and other various fattening things that taste like heaven once made gooey and nearly unrecognizable by the tiny waves of happy heat that could only come from the devil because they are just that awesome and obviously evil.

(Oh sweet saucer of microwaved Hershey’s sauce over ice cream/fudge/dinner, you complete me.)

I’ve lost my microwave.

And it totally sucks in a cold and unforgiving way.

And, combined with the fact that there is no dishwasher in my new (old) house, it may just cause me to lose my mind.

As soon as I unpack it, that is.

On the other hand…

My three-year-old  just told the noisy kids next door to “be quiet, dudes”.

So I take it back.

All is right with the world.

And the stove gets hot, right?

They care not a whit for your sensibilities nor your culture and are quite happy to become that thing inside your household around which the entire world revolves. This, of course, may cause quite a bit of concern amongst the small people previously in the position of that thing and, in such cases,  a bit of cattiness is to be expected (do pardon the pun).

One must thoroughly check the clothes dryer before shutting its door.

This process should be repeated with the refrigerator, bathroom cabinets, and toilets as well.

Proper grooming is vital for all manner of man or beast. Your kitten is no exception. He should be groomed regularly and thoroughly, with no bramble left untangled and no eye un-gunked. It is very important that you not forget to file the nails as they tend to be overly sharp and will easily tear through all manner of fabric, furniture,  skin, and Prada. Various contraptions, such as clippers and specially made scissors, are available to aid  in the endeavor. This author strongly cautions against the use of the popular electric rotating-files as seen on your television screen, however, as the kittens used to test these files are obviously robot kittens and immune to the roll and thunder of the device.

Your kitten is most likely not a robot kitten and will not be pleased.

Neither will your arms.

The male gene in any species is known to cause particular peculiarities amongst its kind. Much as your male counterpart will fall asleep with his hand lovingly cupped over his unmentionables, your kitten will seek warm and safe places in which to keep his nethers fairly toasty. One such place is your nightstand, wrapped around your alarm clock. Or, perhaps, on your kitchen cabinet near your ever-running coffee pot.  If you are of the geek persuasion, for instance, your kitten may be at his most happiest with his scrotum pressed tightly up against the back of your laptop.

In such cases, this author recommends the frequent saving of your work as overheating is more than likely to occur.

A laptop stand with a fan is a great help. Your favorite local electronics store should have several models from which to choose.  A knowledgeable employee should be able to help you determine which models and brands best suit your needs based on the type of  machine, hours of use, and the size of your kitten’s balls.

Weekly measurements should be written down and handily placed in your reticule for just such purposes.

Current pet foods are formulated specifically with all of your kitten’s nutritional needs in mind. It is neither recommended nor encouraged that you supplement his diet with foodstuffs meant for only human ingestion. Promptly cover and put away any leftovers or take-out.  This, despite a sense of some logic, includes that plate of California Rolls from lunch. While the roll itself may be perfectly acceptable for digestion, that wasabi, in all likelihood, will be a terrible reminder of the reasons why this author insists that one should never allow a kitten to share one’s pillow.

In the next installment of this guide, one can expect to find project charts on the many uses of shredded toilet paper, step-by-step instructions for removing dried ramen noodle from your kitten’s ear, as well as several paragraphs on the mending of blinds.

Please stay tuned.

Alas, I am terrified of Texan drivers…

But I’m determined to get over that.

Someday.

Until then, I’m just plum giddy that Rachel uses AT&T, and our marathon phone sessions are priceless. Literally.

So, in lieu of  cohabitation bliss in Texas, I thought I’d play along with her Mouthwatering Monday today…

I made this soup last week, and the boys just loved it. Like most of my one pot recipes (I’m from Louisiana… generally, everything can be cooked in one giant gumbo pot and served over rice, duh.), feel free to throw in the kitchen sink at some point!

This recipe feeds… well… a lot.

My “What to Do with All of the Leftover Chips and Salsa after that Superbowl Party” Soup:

* 4 naked chicken breasts
* salt
* clove of garlic
* olive oil
* 1 or 2 teaspoons minced garlic
* 1 teaspoon ground cumin
* 2 of those big boxes of chicken broth
* 1 or 2 cans black beans (drained)
* 2 cans kernel corn
* 2 cups chopped onion
* 1 or 2 teaspoons chili powder
* 2 tablespoon lemon juice
* 1 lb jar of chunky salsa (the tall one)
* tortilla chips (I like the scooped kind.)
* shredded Monterey Jack cheese
* sour cream

Directions:

Boil chicken with a little salt and the clove of garlic, allow to cool, and then shred by hand. Over medium heat, brown the onions in the olive oil, add chicken, spices, lemon juice and vegetables. Stir about until everything is prettily coated and smelling awesome. Pour in chicken broth and salsa.

Reduce heat and simmer for about half an hour.

Serve over chips and top with cheese and sour cream.

For more mouthwatering recipes, be sure to check out MWMs over at Rachel’s!

The one that made me believe that maybe I wasn’t such an evil bitch after all?

Well it turns out that I really am a bitch.

But I can live with that.

But now that you’re already thinking less of me…

I secretly hate being “green”.

No, not like with envy (I think it’s rather healthy to want to do violent things to Clive Owen’s wife)… As in crunchy, environmentally, non-destructive, supper-happy-go-hippie green .

I hate being “green”.

There I said it.

I hate being “green”.

There I said it again.

Look, in all honesty, I’m perfectly content turning off the water while I’m brushing my teeth, carrying organic cotton shopping bags, using steam to clean the house rather than harsh chemicals, buying organic, cutting back on the pollution/waste…

Hell, I’m perfectly content only bathing the kids every other day.

I recycle.

I conserve.

I think.

I even really listen to Peter as he goes on and on about global warming rather than just pretending to do so (like I do when he talks about football)…

But, demmit, these freaking lightbulbs are driving me insane.

You know the ones… the little halogens that supposedly last for years, shave hundreds of dollars off of your energy bill, and no doubt will make this world a “better” place?

The ones that, up until a few months ago, were like $8 a piece and well beyond the budget constrictions of a family of five living on one income?

The ones that suddenly got “generic” and are now just pennies more expensive than the regular “earth-hating” bulbs?

The ones that were suddenly sitting on my kitchen table in large quantities because I asked my husband to stop and pick up some lightbulbs for the guest bathroom?

The ones that took my lovely southern-contemporary home and made it look like a hospital?

Yeah, those.

They’re driving me insane.

And, no, not like “coo coo for cocoa puffs” slightly crazy insane…

Like I’m about two inches away from sweetening his tea with rat poison insane.

They’re just soooooo ugly.

And mama don’t do ugly. Well, at least this one doesn’t. Yes, that officially makes me an environment-hating, dog-giver-upping, evil rotten bitchy snob.

They’ve simply got to go… but I can’t reach them.

And now that I’m about to bribe my husband with sexual favors in exchange for him giving up his dream of saving the world and taking the god-awful ugly bulbs down, you can add manipulative slut to that sentence as well.

But I can live with that too.

(Notice that I didn’t even bother to mention my refusal to give-up my dishwasher or my non-desire to start line-drying my unmentionables… But, hey, you can only think so much less of a person in one blog post, eh?)

I wanted to let you all know that the we’ve just re-launched the brand-new MommyMatter.com, which is one of my other sites.

We’ve actually got a giveaway going on right now sponsored by this fabulously darling company called TEAlicious for a custom gift basket with all sorts of great goodies. All it takes is a comment to be entered.

Plus, I’ll be putting together a blog directory from which I’ll feature a new blogger each week, so if you’ve got a moment, please stop by and add your name and info to the database! (Hey, it’s free advertising!)

If you’re interested in becoming contributor/editor for the site as well, please drop me a line and let me know! We’ve got a “Daily Scoop” column which covers just about everything under the sun as well as “GimmeGimme” for product reviews and recommendations and “Celebebe” for celebrity baby news.

Our forums currently have over 600 members with an average of three to four hundred thousand page views per month, so it’s a great venue to show off your writing and promote your blog. (Every page contains an author bio, so your site’s address always appears with your contribution.)

So… whatcha waiting for? www.MommyMatter.com

So it’s been two days since I’ve cleaned up a pile of puke… Two whole days! I’m actually rather excited about that, kind of feels like Christmas in an odd sort of disgusting way. Of course, as my luck would have it, I’ve probably totally just jinxed myself in a major way- much like that time that I laughed at that friend for getting knocked-up so quickly after having her last baby… Only to find myself pissing on plastic stick myself a week later.

And yes, I know the meaning of the word ‘karma’. Just as I know the meaning of the word ‘bitch’. I also can write-up an extensive list of applications for both.

Anyhow, instead of regaling you all with a vomit-fueled post detailing all of the most memorable moments of the past couple of weeks spent waist-deep in the trenches of HELL; I’d thought I’d simply share with you a few of the impressively random odd thoughts that have flitted through my mind.

We’ll call it the “Butterflies on Crack” list… Because I’m pretty sure that they flit as well.

Always keep foods that tastes equally good coming up as well as going down in stock. If one must vomit, one should always vomit chocolate ice cream. Orange sherbet isn’t so bad either (although it does burn the nose a bit).

When I finally have enough and run over my husband with my car, I’m pleading insanity due to the unavoidable stress brought on by his never-ending insistence on buying grape juice for toddlers. GRAPE JUICE FOR TODDLERS. What parent in their right mind buys GRAPE JUICE FOR TODDLERS?

Starbucks is trying to kill me. And I’m okay with that.

Starbucks is trying to kill me. Yes, I just said that… but I thought it several times during the week. Matter of fact, I’m thinking it right now as I type with one hand and pop a chocolate espresso truffle in my mouth.

One day I shall write a novel about a forgotten load of laundry in the washer that suddenly comes to life to walk the Earth in search of sacrificial children. It will be auto-biographical.

One day I follow-up the above novel with a story about how,a couple of years ago, pouring half a bottle of detergent into the washer would have been enough to vanquish the beast ; but now, thanks to the nifty “fifty times more concentrated” theme flowing through the household cleaning industry, it only serves to make for a very messy floor… and soapy children.

I just used both ‘nify’ and ‘fifty’ in that last sentence. And that makes me happy.

Okay… which one of you sadists painted the bulls-eye on my chest? Because I’m seriously tired of little people yakking down my shirt.

Bribery = Happy Mom. I’ll give you $100 to puke on your dad this time. Okay, fine, I’ll give you $10 and a new Power Ranger. Here, have some spaghetti.

Dust will not kill you. But it’ll drive you INSANE.

No, I do not want to have sex. Although I can see how that green tinge about my face is appealing…

“I’d rather be shopping.” is officially the understatement of the year.

Rapacious is a great word, I’ll give you that. But I really think that using it five times per page is a bit excessive even in a romance novel, don’t you?

Watching Super Nanny makes me appreciate my children more. Watching Wife Swap makes them appreciate me more. Watching Extreme Makeover: The Home Edition makes me want to cut off Peter’s leg then make him cry for the camera.

It’s definitely possible to sleep with five people in a full-sized bed. Although I wouldn’t recommend it.

It’s definitely possible to walk around with three children and a husband all up your ass. Although I wouldn’t recommend that either.

Oh! And Starbucks is trying to kill me. And, yep, I’m still okay with that.

***Now… if the above list wasn’t quite “enlightening” enough for you, feel free to ask me a question- ANY QUESTION- in the little “Ask Judith” box in my FAQ section. You just may learn things about me that you could have gone your whole life without. I’m too broke to blackmail, but it may be interesting nonetheless.

So… you know how a pregnant woman will crave dirt or paint or an insanely large amount of raw fish wrapped in rice and seaweed because she needs a little extra something or another in her system?

Does this mean that I’m not giving the toddler enough Spaghetti Os whenever he WON’T STOP CHEWING ON THE FREAKING DRYER SHEETS?

Because his breath is starting to smell better than my laundry… And I’m kind of resenting that.

I think it was episode #678.

Kidding.

I realize that I’m a nerd and half and am filled with all sorts of inane information that is only useful for random insertion into blog entries and Trivial Pursuit (The Pop Culture Edition), but I seriously don’t remember episode numbers.

Stop looking at me like that- I don’t, I swear.

However, she did have shorter hair and a natural facial structure; so I’d wager that it’s an episode from that brief period in nineties before all of the real people were permanently replaced with the robots.

Damn you, Hollywood.

Anyhow, back to my point; and, yes, I really do have one.

Stop looking at me like that- I do, I swear.

For those of you who do remember the episode, congratulations, you’re old enough to drink. May I suggest Vodka?

After all, Vodka is to happiness as creepy anal retentive Monica is to Judith. That’s me. (And that’s my point in case you weren’t paying attention.)

In an effort to cut down down on our use of harmful household chemicals, we bought a nifty steam cleaner last week; and I have subsequently steamed every single item in my household.  You know that grate at the bottom of the fridge? Steamed it. The little logo on the washing machine that has that bit of lint/dust/general dirty crap that refuses to come off for even the handiest of Peter’s toothbrushes? Steamed it. All of my floors? The couch? The bathtub? The mirrors? The windows? That spot  around the gear shift in my car?

I steam cleaned the freezer, folks.

Oh, yeah… And the vacuum is pretty sparkly too.

So for today (and maybe Friday too because I’m planning on re-organizing my closet), you may refer to me as "Creepy Anal Retentive Before She Was a Robot Monica".

And I won’t mind in the slightest.

(Have you worn the mad hat yet? You really should… It’ll bring out the [insert color] in your eyes.)

And I couldn’t, so that was okay.

The ambiance had a "home"y feel to it. The decor was rather lovely and,
if the various toys strewn across the floor were any indication, very
kid-friendly. It was a packed house to be sure, not an empty chair in
sight. While perusing the menu, I could overhear the shouts for
"Tonights Special!" from the busy table next to me. So I followed suit.

When my meal arrived a few moments later, I must admit, I was shocked.
French Toast for dinner? A bold move for a restaurant such as this,
indeed. Just next door, the Famous Smith Bistro was serving its
scrumptious meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and I had it on good
authority that the Jones Cafe around the block would be serving their highly-applauded Tuna Casserole. Both solid staples on the popular dinner menu.
I just couldn’t imagine what the chef here was thinking. Breakfast for
dinner? Would it be a brave triumph or a gigantic flop? We would see.

The presentation was superb albeit a bit messy. The toast was fluffy
with a great color and lightly sprinkled with powdered sugar and
then drowned in syrup. And despite the tacky plastic character serving set, over
all it looked very very promisiing.

Immediately, I tasted… bread. Followed by a delightful mixture of real vanilla and cinnamon.  Neither too dry nor too moist, the French Toast was perfect.

In conclusion,  I would highly recommend  that every person with the last name Shakespeare pay a visit to Chez Mama  for one of their inventive "breakfast for dinner  "  items  (the chef assured me that  they make monthly "I really need to go to the grocery store" appearances); and I gladly award Chez Mama an illustrious and noisy  Three and a Half Burps for culinary delight.*

Be sure to join me next time as I go deep into the country for Deer Sausage Jambalaya at Grandpa’s Dirt Road Diner. Until then, this burp’s for you!

*Unfortunately, I was forced to deduct half a star after having a rather nasty and unnecessary argument with a pretty little waitress over whether or not I was allowed to use a real fork.

It’s just that my recipes never make a lick of sense straight out of the gate¹. You see, I have this really terrible anarchist streak² that rears its head at the oddest moments- like when I’m attempting to re-create Satan’s tamales or some fabulous recipe that Rachel has posted³.

Inevitably, that [Chicken Casserole Supreme]⁴ turns into my [Super Chicken on a Stick]⁵. And even though my [Super Chicken on a Stick] is all that is fabulous and divine, (after all, one mustn’t need be an actual genius to know everything, right?) it still isn’t [Chicken Casserole Supreme].

And demmit to all hell, it never looks like the freaking picture. But to get to the point already:

This cheesecake has made a liar out of me.

A big fat liar with an orange stain on her shirt.

I vaguely recall something being said about food and drink and merriness. So smile, for Barbie’s sake, thank God for your leftover Christmas pantry goods, overcome that silly fear of raw eggs, and get fat with me:

You’ll need: 3 pkg cream cheese, bag of gingersnap cookies, 2 sticks REAL butter, 3 eggs, lots of sugar, some nuts of some sort, canned pumpkin, 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour, and some caramel syrup.

Finely crunch the cookies (you’ll need about a cup and a half), throw them in a bowl with just enough melted butter to make them moist. Press the mixture into the bottom of a springform pan and bake them in the oven for about ten minutes or so to set.

Beat together (one ingredient at a time) softened cream cheese, 1/2 cup butter, granulated sugar at least a cup or so (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), 1 cup or so of canned pumpkin (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), flour, 1/2 cup or so of caramel syrup (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), and three eggs.

Pour mixture over crust, and place pan inside a roasting pan with a little water on the bottom. Bake at 325 for about an hour and twenty minutes.Let cool and then refrigerate overnight before serving.

Grab your nuts *snort* and cook them in a skillet on medium heat until warm, add a handful or two of sugar, stirring constantly until nuts are completely covered and sugar is melted. Spread them out on wax paper or sheet of foil to dry.

Now I’m not sure what this is supposed to look like exactly as my mom
called and left me the recipe on my voicemail… But I’ll be damned if that doesn’t look like a cheesecake.

I am awesome.

Footnotes: 1. Pun intended. Duh. 2. When I say "anarchist", I really mean docile housewife who enjoys blogging and posting various recipes online. When I say "I" "me" or "my", I am actually referring to "my friend". Under no circumstances, am I or this blog affiliated with anarchy. I swear it, Mr. Eavesdropping Government Official Man. 3. Or when I conspire to overthrow the reigning dick in office. 4. in order to protect the innocent, actual recipe names are withheld. 5. This work is a piece of fiction. All people, places, things, events described herein are works of the author’s imagination. Any relation to actual  persons, places, things, or events  is purely coincidental.

As parents, we know this. Straightforward or found hidden within the depths of the Fruit Loops box, these rules are what keep us safe. What keep us sane. (And with three heathens running afoot, sanity is definitely among my top concerns here.) They are what shape our sophisticated little modern lives. They are the necessary evil- the hamartia in our hedonistic hero.

Yep.

Life must have rules.

These rules, they are our reminders of the lessons, both big and small, that we’ve already learned. They are the "been there done that and probably won’t survive if I try it again" stories. They are the stuffs of fairy tales- of Pinocchios and Little Pigs. They are unique and personal and common and universal all at once.

Yep.

Life must have rules. Especially ones such as:

Never ever just tell your husband to pick you up some "pads". Always be specific. Always tell him the name brand, the color of the bag, the approximate location in the store, the average price, and perhaps even the way the bag will sound if dropped on the WalMart floor. Never ever just tell your husband to pick you up some "pads". Even if he’s been picking you up pads for nigh on a decade now.

Else you may find yourself holding a bag of Poise Bladder Control Protection items  when you’d gladly give over your firstborn in exchange for a super-thin Always maxi-pad with wings.

You see, that, that, is a good rule.

However, another equally good rule is:

Always remember to apologize sweetly to said husband after throwing rather large (yet soft) bag of Poise Bladder Control Protection Items at his head out of frustration… Especially if, three or four days later on New Year’s  in the wee hours of the morning when there is frost on the ground and not a nearby pharmacy or grocer open; you, while cleaning up the results of The Baby’s newly found love for candied yams,  suddenly find yourself without diapers. NOT A SINGLE SOLITARY DIAPER ANYWHERE. NOT IN THE CAR, NOT IN THE DIAPER BAG, NOT UNDER THE CUSHION OF THE COUCH…

And even better:

Be sure to pat yourself on the back- maybe even go so far as go out and buy yourself a little prize- for your amazing ability to think creatively in tough situations. Especially if, on New Year’s  in the
wee hours of the morning when there is frost on the ground and not a
nearby pharmacy or grocer open; you, while cleaning up the results of
The Baby’s newly found love for candied yams,  suddenly find yourself
without diapers. And you, the MacGyver in heels that you are, think to fasten a Poise Bladder Control Protection Item onto a pair of toddler underwear and manage to save the day (and the sheets).

Yep.

Life must have rules.

But I’m cool with that.

The Angel on Top of Our Tree

Mr. Snow (Our tree is silver and blue w/ snowmen & snowflakes)

Cupcake. Good.

Not Necessarily a Favorite Picture… but I made homemade bread pudding with a Creole Praline sauce that kicked ass, so, yeah, definitely a weekly winner.

Hope you all are having a beautiful Sunday!