My husband is a gem.

I made dinner again tonight. Three consecutive dinners made by me hasn't happened in awhile. So, I'm a little rusty. Or a lot rusty.
Tonight I made macaroni and cheese with the left over cheese sauce I used for Sunday dinner. I was pretty excited about my ingenuity. I decided to top my macaroni with buttery bread crumbs (this isn't a health blog) and popped it into the oven on broil. I then left the kitchen to do, who-knows-what. Several minutes later a light bulb went off in my head. Broil + >30 seconds = a blackened mass. That is a really complicated equation, so for those of you not quite at my arithmetical level, my bread crumbs had disintegrated into sad little black ashes. They were delicious bread crumbs no more. Annoyed, I scrapped off the top layer of my macaroni. The damage wasn't too bad. It was still edible.

The Hubs got home a little late so the macaroni was cold. I decided to crumble some Ritz crackers on top this time and again placed it in my oven on broil. I wasn't going to forget this time. I wasn't!

"Mommy, I need you!" yelled Boo from his bedroom in which he was supposed to be sleeping. He began coughing so hard I thought unpleasant things were going to spew from his mouth so I decided he needed some medicine. No longer was I thinking about my dejected macaroni. After the medicine he talked me into laying by him. Fine, I thought. I was tired. I mean, I burned a meal today! So I lied down, closed my eyes and right before I was whisked away into a deep dreamless slumber I was greeted by my smoke alarm. The Hubs had opened the pipping hot oven only to find a crispy casserole amidst a giant cloud of smoke.

Another crumbly topping had failed. Broil was not my friend, nor do I see a budding friendship in the near future. We simply don't get along. I scrapped another inch of chard, black macaroni and Ritz crumbles off my now disappearing casserole and placed it in a plastic bowl to be thrown away. Sitting right next to the sad remains was the thin layer of mac'n'cheese still in the casserole dish. Sobeit, a thin layer, but a rather delicious layer considering. (I had a bowl of my own to make sure.) I romantically yelled to The Hubs, "Dinner!" and again was summoned to Boo's room. My patience was wearing thin.

Awhile later I re-entered the kitchen to see The Hubs eating the rather large bowl of blackened macaroni. He'd eaten more than half of it already. "Are you kidding me right now?" I asked thinking he was being funny. Confused, he answered, "Uh...no." "Why are you eating that?" I said. "I thought you dished this up for me. (As if I usually dish up his meals.) I wasn't going to say anything...but it's not very good." With wide, slightly disgusted eyes I slowly enunciated, "That's because it's burned. You're eating macaroni ashes." And then I started laughing. I couldn't decide if my husband was really nice or really stupid. I'm going with both.

The moral of this story is that I am not worried about how my cooking tastes from this day forth. I'm pretty sure The Hubs will eat anything that's "served" to him.

We have left-overs if anyone is interested!

Budgeting is for the birds

The Hubs and I decided to make a budget for the first time in our four-year marriage in order to pay off our horrendous student loans. Two weeks ago, I was gung-ho about cutting back. I mean really cutting back. Like spending money only on complete necessities. We're talking Suze Orman type stuff, like beans and rice for dinner until we're paid off. This means my clothing allotment was taken down to zero. But two weeks ago, I was ready. Two days ago... not so much. I am weak. WEAK! At my first temptation, I failed. And it went something like this....

Thursday, Boo and I tagged along with The Hubs to Provo while he spoke with BYU students for work. My plan was to kill a few hours window shopping with Boo during The Hubs' meeting and meet for dinner with McKensie, The Hubs' sister.

First we went to a Carl Bloch art exhibit at BYU. It was beautiful. Breathtaking, really. Boo, only tried to touch one or two of the 100-year-old, original paintings worth millions of dollars, and asked only once if he could take the life-sized portrait of Jesus home with him for his room. I was impressed. He actually asked some pretty good questions about the paintings. The majority of the time, however, he spent telling me this was taking too long and was boring and he just wanted to go see the toys at the "book place." I am a huge advocate of bribing children for good behavior. Sue me. I told him if he was good, we could go to the BYU bookstore and play with ALL their toys. I wasn't even sure if they had toys at that point, but luckily they did. And it worked. I was able to finish the exhibit with no significant melt-downs. And off to the toys we went.

Much to Boo's excitement there was much toy goodness with which to be played. And we played, and played and played. Until I was the one complaining that this was boring and taking too long and he was telling me, "two more minutes Mom," handing me more toys to play with to keep my attention.

Finally I talked him into going to look at the clothing section of the store. I knew this was dangerous, but we still had an hour to spare. What is a girl to do? Surprisingly, they have pretty cute clothes occasionally. I know what you're thinking. A bookstore? But it's true and I had to look. Much to my pleasure I saw nothing that caught my fancy. Nothing popped out at me, dangling it's cuteness, forcing me to buy it. I did like one sweater that was 50 percent off. I tried it on, liked it, but practiced some new-found self discipline and calmly hung it back up. I felt good about myself. The sweater was cute, looked good on me and was only $12, but I resisted. The Hubs would be so proud, I thought.

I took Boo's hand and began to walk away, feeling triumphant. Wait, something caught my eye. A little black dress? Oh, no. I must look. My size? Yes. Dang it! I'll just try it on for fun. We have a little more time to kill, what else are we going to do? I dragged Boo into the dressing room with me. As I looked at my little-black-dress-clad self in the mirror, I thought crap! I look awesome. And then, as my self-discipline was beginning to crumble, Boo said, "Spin for me, Mommy. That is a spinning dress!" And that was it. The dress was basically hanging in my closet.

Defeated by a dress, I guiltily walked out of the dressing room, laid it on the cashier's table, gave her my money which was supposed to pay for our ration of rice and beans that month, took the bag and left the store with my head held low. The Hubs was right. It can't be done. I can't stick to a budget. And then a thought: I'll hide the bag. I paid cash. Beautiful, unaccounted for cash! He won't even know!
I lifted my chin, smiled at Boo and realized we had killed just enough time.

We picked up The Hubs and sure enough, the first thing he said as he situated himself in his seat, "So what did you buy at the bookstore?" He sucks. How does he know me THAT well?
Before I could catch my bearings, Boo piped in from the peanut gallery in the back, "A dress," he said so nonchalantly as if he had every intention of ratting me out the whole time.

I looked back with wide, betrayed eyes. "My own son," I thought. "I underestimated you."

Sure enough, the look of pure, "I told you so," satisfaction lit up The Hubs' face.

It can't be done.