The first step is admitting you have a problem...

Supposedly in AA, the first step is admitting you have a problem. After that, you will be truly open to treatment. Well.. My name is ___. (Hi! ___!) And I am a cereal junkie. Wow. That feels better. Right now on top of my fridge are FIVE boxes of cereal: Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, Honeycombs, Apple Jacks and Froot Loops. My husband doesn't even LIKE cereal unless it's Reese Puffs or Cap'n Crunch. We have no children. All 5 boxes are for ME! This is either seriously sad or....... Okay, so it's seriously sad. I remember growing up and not being able to get brand name cereal because it was too expensive, or trying to trick my mama into buying a certain cereal JUST for the prize. That NEVER worked. She was on to my evil cereal ways. Nowadays, they hardly ever put a prize in the box. What can I say? I love me some whole-wheat, sugar-doused goodness. It's good for breakfast. It's good for a snack. It's good for dinner when you're too lazy to make a "real" meal (Guilty). To me cereal is like waking up and deciding what you want to wear to work: The night before you might have been feelin' some Apple Jacks/a dress. But when you woke up, Froot Loops/a powersuit might have been more tastier/suitable. And if you only buy ONE box, you never get an option. Breakfast IS the most important meal of the day, yo.

Don't forget to duck!!

Flashback: When I was living at home way back when, I remember when my parents would argue. I vowed that when I got married I would try my hardest not to argue with my spouse. My parents could be eating supper and an argument would break out and Padre would just get so disgusted that he would dump his plate, food and all, in the trash can. Then he would go to the living room and settle in his recliner and watch tv. I remember Ma Dukes cringing and willing herself not to cry while making sure that she and I finished our food as quietly as possible. Hopefully, after a while one or the other would apologize and all would be right with the world once again. I hated those dinners. The shouting, the snarling expressions on their faces, the heated discussion and the "who knows what's gonna happen next." Years later, I read an article that suggested that people shouldn't talk about argument-provoking items at the dinner table because it hendered the digestion process and had the ability to cause heartburn.

Flashforward: I guess this is why I take 2 Nexiums a day, heh. Last night Hubbs and I had a "heated discussion" (read:fight) at the dinner table. I admit that I was a little irritated before we sat down to eat. I like to cook. I like to cook uninterrupted. I like to cook alone. I wanted to make Hubbs a nice meal and was doing a damn fine job when he walked in the door and tried to "help." I don't know what happened. I just, like, didn't want him to help me. I got supper into the oven and cleaned up the mess and distributed the mail. Then when it was done, I was more than curt to him as we fixed our plates. Then we sat down. He made a snide comment about my attitude.. "pissy" and I like, lost it. We fired back and forth at each other and he got up and put his empty plate in the sink and stalked off to the living room. Me, trying to finish eating, just let my short fuse blow. I picked up my plate and hurled it into the sink, food and all, on top of all the other dishes, grabbed my Marlboro lights and slammed the garage door on my way out of the kitchen. What is wrong with me?? I was beyond irate. How dare he insult my attitude!? Of course there is more to it than my attitude. There are other underlying issues that played a hand in this dish-hurling frenzy, but I'm not going to air my dirty laundry here. After chain smoking 2 cigarettes and deciding it really wasn't worth the headache I was about to incur, I went back inside. I cleaned up the dishes. I made a plate for the next days lunch. I finished the laundry. I gave Pookie a bath. Then, I took time for me. I took a nice looonnngg shower. Read some of my current book, The Friday Night Knitting Club, and took my fabulously refreshed self to bed. Last night I was angry and like my mom, I willed myself not to cry. This morning I shared the events with my Padre cause we're close like that. He offered some suggestions. He was a bit shocked when I told him, "I pulled a Padre last night at dinner." I guess he thought his actions wouldn't have rubbed off on me. (Y'all, I swear I was so mad last night I could have broke every.dish.in.the.house. and it wouldn't have fazed me.) After he left my office (we work at the same company) the tears just started rollin'. Why do the small things irritate me so? Why couldn't I just be happy that he wanted to help me make a meal? Why do I let my anger build up so much and then unleash my wrath all at one time?

I went to Target on my lunch break because, you know, retail therapy cures EVERYTHING. And I bought a fabulous bathing suit and pair of shorts. On my way over, I called Hubbs. (Can I just say that sometimes, I get tired of apologizing. I just want to call a truce sometimes.) He was home so the garage door guy could fix the garage doors. I just called to tell him I loved him. Non-pissy. Non-apologetic. Purely genuine. Because I do. Love him. He makes me madder than a wet sitting hen, but I wouldn't trade him for nothin'. I know what life is like without him, and being with him (fighting and throwing plates, and all) is soo much better.





**Thanks to all who wished me a happy birthday!

I'm no Rachel Ray, but..

In lieu of a Furry Friday post (well, crapola, I guess this does count as a Furry Friday. see what happens when you bleed for a week straight??), I have a WTF? Friday post.

I was making brownies last night because I'm thriving on chocolate right now, and I noticed that the ingredients on the box looked a little off. You were supposed to add 3 Tablespoons of water, 2 Eggs, and 1/2 a cup of Vegetable Oil. I know. I thought the same thing. I checked the box like three times to make sure that it didn't say 1/3 cup of oil or something. But it didn't. It said 1/2 cup. And then the batter wasn't it's usual consistency. It was all doughy. Nonetheless, I poured it in my handy dandy baking dish and popped it in the oven. Yum-O. It took over an hour for my beloved chocolatey goodness to bake. So I ask you.. WTF? Has Betty Crocker finally flipped her lid? Was it a possible typo? Am I going to die after devouring the WHOLE pan of brownies?? I hope not. 'Cause I have some Breyer's ice cream at the Casa that is waiting to paired with some brownie awesomeness.