Well, OK, you will either think it’s hilarious or you won’t understand at all why I think it is.  Be sure to keep scrolling through all the posts and click “next” at the bottom–gets funnier and funnier.  There are only 3 or 4 pages.

Catalog Living

I heart McDonald’s Frappes!

If you haven’t tried one yet, do yourself a favor.  My sweet friend, Olivia, met me one morning with one of the whipped topping-crowned indulgences, and I’ve been hooked ever since.

I probably wouldn’t have blogged about it, BUT, yesterday my husband treated me to one (as in, he romantically asked if I wanted to ride with him in his work truck to carry back a piece of rented machinery and since we live like a gazillion miles from civilization he instinctively stopped to get me my favorite frappe–I heart him too ) and they were on sale for $1.00 until the first of June!  (At least where we live, but I assume it may be across the chain.)  It’s a good thing we have to make a special trip to go to McDonalds.

Warning: they’ll give you the worst ice cream headache of your life.  Actually, I exhibit zero self-control while drinking them and drink so fast that my whole body hurts (have you ever had a “brain freeze” in your back??!!)  I slap my cup down and my husband, barely done with a quarter of his just gives me a bug-eyed, “How do you do that?” I truly can’t help  myself–they are soooo yummy.  And then he must spend the rest of the trip home fending off my attempts to steal another drink of his.  The whole scene is sad.

It doesn’t matter how you pronounce it, by the way…seems no one says it the same way, not even the drive-through attendant.

Maybe it’s just my personality, maybe it’s not.  But the lists–the many different lists–the gift list, the card list, the food list, the dates and traveling–the lost shoes which make me shudder at the thoughts of going anywhere with more than just ourselves (a family our size needs a full day just to get properly dressed)–it all crowds in on my brain and makes me feel like a crazy person, leaving me half in a daze and half in a panic for the last two weeks before Christmas.  I can’t recall words when I’m trying to talk, I forget important things and I keep a stomach ache.  Sometimes I pace the floor knowing I’m supposed to be doing something and unable to recall what it is.

Then I get upset with my condition because I know this is not what Christmas should be. I know it, yet I don’t know how to change it. I LOVE giving gifts, so don’t think me a Scrooge…I just can’t keep the stress at bay.

All that has only slightly to do with the following story…just so you know.

Anyway, I had been planning for weeks to make peanut brittle for the neighbors.  Simple enough.  I thought.  It took me half a day.  And at the end, everything was sticky, we all had sugar highs from trying each batch, and none of the brittle could be given.  It could only barely be eaten, and my children were grateful to try.

A lot went wrong Monday, and at the end of it, I was just plain sad.  I was pouting (I know, I better not pout), I was tired, I went to bed with the same to do list I got up with and I was frustrated.

But by morning, my optimism had returned and I was determined to make the best of the situation.  I decided for sure I would not try to scramble around and make something else or run out to buy gifts–that would add more stress and at all costs, I would avoid that.  I love my neighbors, and I did want to show them that, but none of them would hold the lack of a gift against me.

So shortly after I woke up the next day, I penned these words and copied them onto Christmas stationery to deliver…you may use them too if you ever have a similar experience

Christmas is Not About Peanut Brittle

By Kelly Crawford

‘Twas the month before Christmas and all through the stores, it had already started–the shopping sale wars.

While the rich and the poor were accruing more debt, my Thanksgiving turkey hadn’t digested yet!

But I soon joined the ranks of Christmas-rush shoppers, checking my list against all the best offers.

But for my dear neighbors, I had a good plan, I would cook up a treat–something sweet, something grand.

I waited til closer to Christmas to start,“It needs to be fresh”, I thought (’cause I’m smart).

So a few days before, I waltzed to the kitchen, donned my best apron, asked the children to pitch in.

I was giddy and gay, started cooking with glee, (I should have known better than a new recipe).

Measuring carefully–cook just a little, it can’t be that hard to make peanut brittle!

It poured out nicely on the big, shiny pan, so while one batch cooled, I started again.

Five batches later–peanut brittle galore, too excited to care about the mess on the floor.

I said to the children, “Are you ready to taste?” no time for a drum roll, we gobbled in haste!

At first it seemed perfect but then, “something’s wrong”…I realized I’d chewed this stuff far, far too long.

I looked at their faces, they were trying to smile, but the smiles started fading after chewing awhile.

Oh dear, it can’t be!  The brittle had flopped–the chewing had started but it just wouldn’t stop!

I wanted to cry, but that wouldn’t have helped, the kids tried to cheer me–they knew how I felt.

“Well, Mom, you could call it ‘Peanut Taffy’ instead’. I just looked at the mess and kept shaking my head.

And then, like a voice whispered low in my ear, “Christmas is not about brittle, my dear….

It’s about taking time to reflect on the birth of the greatest of all the gifts on the earth.

It’s about giving love to all those around, the miraculous love that can only be found

In a heart where He reigns–a life that’s set free, this is the gift He gave to you and to me.”

So while I have come with no gift in my hands, (I’ll try not to fret about unfulfilled plans)

But ask that our friendship suffice for this year, and the love of Christ Jesus draw us ever more near.

Like cafe mochas.  Only those aren’t so little in my world.  A Starbucks cafe mocha is like a really big thing in life. Especially with chocolate.

I sighed and said (kind of at the same time) to my husband last night, “I wish we lived near a Starbucks.”

Because we don’t.  We don’t even live near a telephone pole.

And while I washed dishes I could hear him secretly scrambling around with the coffee  maker.  (Yesssss!)

He made me the best Cafe Mocha ever, Starbucks, decaf, of course, complete with a squirt of chocolate and a dollop of whip creme!

THEN, I begged him suggested he build a fire in the big dining room (adjacent to our living room–long complicated story) and line up a row of chairs covered with pillows and blankets to simulate a couch.  I had already told the kids we’d do that, so there was no turning back convincing the hubby.  (And since we’re patriarchal and all you know, I was in real trouble for not asking him first.)

I’m kidding.

So we watched the fire, the brave ones rode around the dining hall on the rip stick (don’t know what that is?  Wish I didn’t either-oh, but the husband bought it on clearance, you know, “for the kids” *wink*), and it was just a nice little change from normal.  (The flash hides it, but it was dark.)

That’s all it takes for me the kids, every now and then, to build sweet memories.  And those not-so-little memories are the stuff of life.  I’d encourage you to build deliberate memories every now and then.  Ties the heart strings.

Recipe for homemade Cafe Mocha:

Brew really strong coffee.

Fill coffee cup half full with milk.  Preferably rich, creamy, just-milked cow’s milk.  But if not, regular milk will do

Microwave for 30 sec. or so.

Pour coffee in, stir in some chocolate syrup (or you could add some cocoa to the coffee grounds before brewing.)

Top with whip creme and enjoy!

“There is a strong drift toward the hard theological left. some emergent types want to recast Jesus as a limp-wrist hippie in a dress with a lot of product in His hair, who drank decaf and made pithy zen statements about life while shopping for the perfect pair of shoes.  In Revelations, Jesus is a prize fighter with a tattoo down His leg, a sword in His hand and the commitment to make someone bleed.  That is a guy I can worship.  I cannot worship the hippie, diaper, halo Christ because I cannot worship a guy I can beat up.  I fear some are becoming more cultural than christian, and without a big Jesus who has authority and hates sin as revealed in the bible, we will have less and less Christians, and more and more confused, spiritually self-righteous blogger critics of Christianity.”

“Our God is a little offensive! Most of the people who REALLY liked Him got killed!”

“You have been told that God is a loving, gracious, merciful, kind, compassionate, wonderful, and good sky fairy who runs a day care in the sky and has a bucket of suckers for everyone because we’re all good people. That is a lie… God looks down and says ‘I hate you, you are my enemy, and I will crush you,’ and we say that is deserved, right and just, and then God says ‘Because of Jesus I will love you and forgive you.’ This is a miracle.”

“Here’s the deal: You are a freak! Just be cool with that.”

“You wanna be counter-culture? You wanna be a total rebel? Get a job! You wanna be counter-culture, totally alternative, radical? Be a virgin until you get married…to a person of the opposite gender. And then stay married and pump out some kids and pay your taxes and read the Bible, you freak. You’ll be just totally a rebel.”

“God picked a junior high girl [to be Jesus' mother]. Jesus was raised by a woman who today, we wouldn’t even let her lead a bible study at a high school. But she could raise God.”

From the Fed-Up Homeschooler’s List:

#18 …

If you can remember anything from chemistry or calculus class, you’re allowed to ask how we’ll teach these subjects to our kids.  If you can’t, thanks for the reassurance that we couldn’t possibly do a worse job than your teachers did, and might even do a better one!

There are a bunch more I found, that while true,  most are too snarky to post

I mentioned he had a delivery job in the summer.  It requires him to drive up north and make a loop back home.  With his trusty GPS, traveling has been easier.  Just punch in the destination and PRESTO–you’re there with little thought.

He left on a trip last week.  It’s a taxing drive; he and one other person must drive continuously with only intermittent sleep.  But he’s great at it.

Well, this time the “Global Positioning System” led him into the “Gun Possession Search”.

He was making his route from New York to Ohio when he suddenly came upon the Canadian border without realizing it.  (Yes, Canada dips down between the states, so they weren’t really out of the way  much.)

Thinking a simple explanation of the mistake would allow him to just turn around, they informed him otherwise.  Searching his car, they found his pistol–a legal, registered hand weapon he carries on these trips due to a number of factors, including riding through some rough parts of the country.

As soon as they found the weapon, they yanked him out of the van and hand-cuffed him.  (And drew a gun.)  Then they put him in a cell where he was interrogated for 3 hours.

Canada is apparently very serious about gun-control, so they informed him he would probably serve 3-10 years for “trying to cross the border with a concealed weapon”, which he repeatedly explained was not the case.

Finally, upon realizing all his information matched up, they agreed to release him.  They kept his gun (he loved that gun) and charged him $1000 to get his van out of impounding.

To say he was shaken to the core is an understatement!  He was actually thrilled to get off so easily after thinking half the night that he wouldn’t see his family for several years.  Thankfully, this all took place in the middle of the night and I was not aware of it until it was all cleared up.

Socialism…gotta love it

To their credit though, I understand the need for precautions so I’m not badgering procedure.  I do think, though, it’s pretty unfair that he still got penalized for a mistake.  But my opinion probably doesn’t hold much water with the Canadian border patrol.

Moral…hide your gun if you get near the border

If you’ll excuse a little transparent/humor relief on my end…

Do you ever just feel sorry for your husband? For weeks you’re the chipper little thing he married (maybe   And then one day…

He walks in from work and you’re irritated.  It takes him a little while to notice because when he asked, “What’s wrong?“  You said, “Nothing.“  But he does eventually realize you lied.

You know why you’re upset, but he doesn’t know why.  (I may embarrass myself here revealing I’m the only female disposed to this ailment.)

Because the thing is, you were fine when he left work.  So you watch his face while his brain searches frantically for the “what did I do?” (Everything would be fine if he would only learn to read my mind.)

(It’s usually something like, you’re having a really bad day and when he calls home at lunch and asks “You having a good day?”  you reply with all the pity you can muster, “Yeah…*heavy sigh* “  And he says, “Great.  Love you honey–talk to you later.” By the time he gets home you’ve mentally checked off all the different ways he’s not “in tune” to your feelings, and this just tops it off.  He probably doesn’t love you anymore.)

At the moment, it’s big.  You feel justified.  You pull the “hurt” card.  And by the time you finish explaining his lack of sensitivity, you sound pretty convincing.

He’s shocked that you actually convinced him that he has done something he had no idea he did.  And now it seems real to him, though he’s puzzled about how it all happened so quickly, right under his nose and he missed it.

So he apologizes, because really, he just loves you and wants you to be happy.

Later, when you’ve come to yourself again, you shake you head in disbelief that this man loves you day in and day out.  And actually seems to forget these escapades!  And then you apologize, though it requires you to tear down that beautiful sob story that became so real.

I don’t know.  Let’s see…we struggle through PMS, we waddle through pregnancy (I am pathetic right now), pain through childbirth, we suffer through menopause–yeah, it must be God’s way of balancing it all out.

Bless them, those dear husbands of ours.

No, I don’t understand them, but that’s not my point…

Whatever happened to customer service companies actually establishing a dress/behavior code that employees were required to follow?  I’m guessing we are such a lawsuit-crazed society that everyone is afraid of telling someone else they can or can’t do something?  Even if they’re paying them?

Because I was just trying to order lunch for my family…in a hurry, etc.  Maybe it was a new barbell–I don’t really care.  I could not understand my cashier. 

“Wouth you lith the wegulath or larth?”

(Confused look)…”I beg your pardon?”

Then I realized it was not a natural speech impediment, but a tongue-barbell-induced one.

And before you beat me up for being so narrow-minded…I’m not suggesting the young man can’t have a tongue ring.  If he wants to burden his friends with the translation of his healing tongue–be my guest (he’s probably text-messaging them anyway).

But for the love of all that is chocolate, can he assemble the sandwiches?  Is there not an employer worth his salt enough to say “no tongue rings for the cashiers”?

Sorry.  It’s a blog.  It’s where I unload.