Kinda like where everybody knows your name... unless you never go. (Which I don't.)

The Husband and his friend, Jon, were in a shuffleboard tournament yesterday. And I'm a supportive wife so, despite the fact that it was held in a bar I loathe detest hate oh, forget it I was there to, well, support. And then I thought man, I really need to blog this. (Yes, I know I just used the word "blog" incorrectly, but you get me, right?)

Of course, after one drink, I think I need to blog everything. So. Here.



I am not a fan of dirty. I like clean and pretty and shiny and... yeah. Reason number one I'm not a fan of this place: the sawdust. Dude, it got all over my pants. Ugh. When I brushed at my jeans for the eighth time, The Husband gave me a look and said, "You are not that girl."

To which I said, "DO YOU NOT KNOW ME AT ALL?!" Because I absolutely am that girl.



The Husband talks to everyone and makes instant friends. When I sit and watch him interact with strangers with such ease, I can't help but simultaneously admire him and think wow, opposites really do attract.



Actually, no, this is the number one reason I'm not a fan: the smokers. I get that there are a lot of people who like to smoke. And there are a lot of people who like to drink. And then there are people who really don't consider themselves "smokers" but they are drinkers and once they start drinking they turn into smokers. Well, this is the place for them.

One half of the bar is supposed to be non-smoking, except there's no divider between the two areas so the entire place is one big room of lung cancer.



The blond happened to be "with" this guy in the picture below.





He cracks every single knuckle in his hands. And feet. Before bed. Every night.



The bar was crowded by the time red shirt guy came around. I kept thinking, don't any of you people have to work tomorrow morning? If not, they were lucky. I had to and I was tired. And Starbucks had a continuous line all morning and, as an employee, I have to let guests go ahead of me, which means I didn't get Starbucks today. I went for a sugar-free RockStar instead and, for hours afterward, I felt like I had just snorted coke.

Not that I am at all familiar with the effects of snorting coke, but I imagine a RockStar energy drink would feel pretty similar.



Number three reason I'm not a fan of this place: these girls. Who dress up. I don't get it. Don't get me wrong. Women who get dressed up to go out don't bother me a bit. But there's something about a girl who gets all dolled up to hang out in a dirty, smoky, sawdust-on-the-floor bar that makes me feel like a total... goober. I can't explain it. It just throws me off. And makes me feel inadequate.







No. Actually? Seriously creepy. Weirdo.



I know what you're thinking. What the hell is shuffleboard etiquette? And you know what? I have no idea. But I know The Husband kept muttering those two words under his breath every time he waited for his turn. Then he'd make eye contact with me and roll his eyes. And then he did this thing where he loudly makes a sarcastic comment to no one in particular so no one is really certain if he's talking to them.

It's kind of embarrassing, and kind of funny, because suddenly three people are all looking up, around, at him, confused and maybe insulted but they're not really sure.



It wasn't all bad. In fact, I'd probably go again just to see that look on The Husband's face when he looks over, meets my eyes, smiles and says, "I'm so glad you're here" in that happy/surprised voice as if he still can't quite believe it. 'Cause I never go to Goat Hill Tavern. It's just not my kinda place.

But, damn it, I'm supportive.

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

I’ve made chocolate chip cookies before. Hundreds of times, in fact. Once here on this blog. And I absolutely love love love that recipe.

So, here’s the story. A couple of weeks ago, I wanted to make something rich and chocolatey. I found a recipe for these gorgeous looking Tri-layer Chocolate Oatmeal bars. They looked amazing. ("Looked” being the key word.)

They were a total disaster. They were seriously awful. I’m not usually a picky eater when it comes to chocolate and baked goods (Hello, hips? ‘Nuff said.), but after one piece, I never touched them again. And I cried. And the bars sat on my kitchen counter. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, but nor could I send them off to work with The Husband. That’d just be cruel. And, well, I have a reputation to think of.

So, there I was, feeling down. I knew what I needed. A sure thing. Chocolate chip cookies. I know chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate chip cookies and I? BFF’s.

Of course, I had to go and complicate matters. Ever since I saw the chocolate chip cookie episode of Good Eats (which I posted here) (you’re welcome), I’ve wanted to try all three different variations. I started with The Chewy. Why? Because of the three, I had everything on hand that I needed for this one. So there.

My oldest memory of chocolate chip cookies goes back to… hm… I think I was nine. (I’d ask my mom to correct me, but her memory? Nonexistent.) We were living in San Juan Capistrano and my mom had promised to make cookies with me.

Something happened (who the hell knows now) and she changed her mind… or was too tired… or something. I asked if I could just make them myself. “No,” she said, “you’re too young, you’ll burn yourself.”

“Then can I just make the dough?” I asked. She sighed and, in defeat, agreed. So, I made chocolate chip cookie dough. And we ate it. It was just the four of us at the time. My mom, my little brother, my older sister and myself. And then we all died of salmonella poisoning. The end.

No, not really. While I certainly wouldn’t recommend eating raw cookie dough, I will say it’s one of the best things ever. And don’t sit there and try to tell me you never sample the dough. I won’t believe you.

But, back to these cookies. They were ugly. All wrinkled like raisins and dark brown. The devastation I felt upon pulling these out of the oven to find them looking totally defunct was painful. How could I go wrong with chocolate chip cookies?! I wanted to fall to my knees and curse the baking Gods. Why were they punishing me?!

Then I ate one.

And my taste buds sang a chorus of hallelujahs. These were quite possibly the best tasting chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had. No freaking joke, peeps. The major player in this here recipe was the brown sugar and that set the stage to make these rich, chewy, unbelievable, God-is-smiling-down-upon-me cookies. Which is how they shall now be known.

It’s quite possible I effed up somewhere along the way, but I don’t think I did. At least, I hope I didn’t, ‘cause if I can’t recreate these little round discs of deliciousness, I will have to give up baking forever.

Amen.

(I know what you’re thinking. They don’t look so ugly in this photo. Peeps, I couldn’t bring myself to share the pictures that showed just how ugly they were. You’ll just have to take my word on this one.)


Ingredients
1 cup butter, melted over low heat
¼ cup sugar
1 ¼ cup brown sugar
1 egg + 1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons milk
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
2 ¼ cups bread flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups chocolate chips

Directions
1. Sift together flour, salt, and baking soda.
2. Mix together the butter and sugars.
3. Add eggs, then milk, then vanilla, mixing after each addition.
4. Slowly add dry ingredients.
5. Stir in chips and taste dough. I insist. Wait, I don’t insist. (I see a lawsuit in my future.)
6. Chill for a couple of hours.
7. Bake for, oh, 8 – 10 minutes. (I’d say “until golden brown” but they get pretty brown all over. Just don’t burn ‘em, okay?)
8. Eat.
9. Die happy.

(Click for printer-friendly version.)

A letter.

I'm doing this for her... and I need your help.

So, you know my sister, J?

She's in Oregon this weekend for a soccer tournament. She's a soccer player. Have I mentioned that before?

The team flew up yesterday... and they don't get home 'til Monday. (Sob.)

I got a few homesick text messages from her just a little bit ago and an order to keep updating my blog since it gives her something to do during downtime.

And, even though I have plans to see a movie with The Husband tonight, I immediately wanted to cancel so I could stay home and write... just to entertain her.

But The Husband, who's been giving me the stink-eye and tapping his watch for the last half hour, won't let me do that. He will now be known as The Grump.

So, peeps? I need you. I need you bad.

I need you to comment your ever-loving hearts out and help me keep her thoughts occupied.

Stories, jokes... whatever you got, whatever's on your mind. We want to hear it. Have you ever played soccer? Ever been to Oregon? Even been a homesick teenager? Give us the deets.

I tried to turn each of these things into it’s own post, but.

I asked The Husband for something to write about, as I’m currently drawing blanks, and he suggested writing about how cranky I am when I wake up each morning. But by “cranky,” he really means sweet with a sunny disposition, so that’s out.

I thought briefly of telling you about a certain individual who works in our human resources department and how I walk away feeling like a reprimanded five-year-old every time I’m forced to talk to her. But then I’d have to get into details about my job and, well, my job is uber boring and no one wants to hear the deets. I’d lose you in ten-seconds flat. Probably five. So, I’ll just say there’s a woman in HR who causes me a lot of angst and I very much dislike her.

And then there’s this:

I was going to talk in lengthy detail about the fact that we’re exactly six months away from the premier of New Moon, but I really have nothing to say except WE’RE EXACTLY SIX MONTHS AWAY FROM THE PREMIER OF NEW MOON. The caps should successfully convey my excitement. Amen.

I’d love to share the two recipes I tried over the weekend, but all the images are still stored on my memory card where they’ll most likely remain until I can freaking shake this reading frenzy. I’m still Nora Roberts-obsessed and just started the second book of one of her many trilogies. Actually, it’s gotten so bad that I’ve started purchasing books from (gasp) a book store.

This makes me cringe as I am morally opposed to paying full price for books (at eight bucks a pop, they ain’t cheap), but have depleted my stock of unread Nora Roberts books. Normally, I’d spend hours happily browsing the used book stores at the libraries where I can walk away without having paid more than fifty cents, but I just happened to finish my last book at nine p.m. on Saturday. (Yes, I was at home reading on Saturday night. Leave me alone.)

In my impatience to get my hands on some new reading material, Borders was my only option. And what did I buy? A book one. Which means if I wanted to continue the trilogy, I had to go back and purchase book two. And sometime in the next day or two, I’ll have to purchase book three. Sigh. If it makes you feel any better, I have coupons.

(Don’t worry, this too shall pass.)

I'll leave you with this:

My sister, J.

You be the judge. Does it look like she's floating or like she's a giant?

Earthquakes and munchkins and doodie, oh my.

I was home alone Sunday night when the earthquake hit. I was bundled up on the sofa, computer on my lap, in the middle of You've Got Mail for what had to be the thirty-eighth time, when there was a loud thud above me as if our upstairs neighbors had just dropped a Dodge on their living room floor.

Stupidly, I looked around and waited as my heart kicked up it's rhythm in my chest. After what felt like a full sixty seconds, but was really just a fraction of one, the shaking started. I stood up, laptop in hand, looking around while Luke bolted from the room. The brief thought that the little bastard should have warned me crossed my mind as I tried to figure out where to stand, what to do.

Are you supposed to get under the desk or just next to it? And if it's under, then I'm shit out of luck as it'd take more time clearing the junk out from underneath as it would to just stand there like an idiot and ride it out. WHICH IS WHAT I DID.

After the shaking stopped, I could hear my neighbors, those above and those to the left, laughing and asking if each other was okay. I stood there for a moment thinking I am so unprepared for this, then slowly walked back through our apartment to make sure everything was as it should be.

Earthquakes scare me. The unpredictability of them terrifies me. I hate not knowing how strong they'll be, how long they'll last, how much damage they'll cause. The Husband hates earthquakes, too, but will dance naked in the streets during a tornado. Go figure.

You get no warning with earthquakes. At least you know when a tornado is coming. At least you have time to prepare yourself. You know a tornado isn't going to randomly land on your head and suddenly take you for a windy ride Dorothy-style. Except worse 'cause there'd be no munchkins or ruby slippers. And, you know, you'd die.

I'll tell you this, though. I was really disappointed to realize that my cats will be absolutely no help in this situation if and, unfortunately, when it happens again. I'm not really sure what I expected. I mean, I sort of hoped they'd, I don't know, stand up and say something along the lines of, "Excuse me, Steph, but we're sensing a 4.7 earthquake to hit in the next three minutes. Everything will be fine, so just go ahead and continue your movie. Oh, here, let me get you some more chocolate as I see you're running low."

To which I'd reply, "Why, thank you, Luke. More chocolate would be lovely."

'Cause, you know, more chocolate would be lovely.

So, what natural force of nature scares the doodie out of you?

The possibilities were endless.

But then naps took up most of my free time.

(I love our kids.)

It's amazing how one 4-day weekend can mean traveling, seeing the world, experiencing new things... and another can mean naptime. I've spent the last three days doing just that: napping.

Oh, I've made an appearance here and there. Lunch at the beach on Friday and, later that night, drinks with friends. Yesterday, I caught up with my mom and my sister. And today we went out to watch the Lakers game.

It was interesting to be in the middle of this huge crowd and all of us cheering for the same team. The Husband was born and raised in Minnesota which means he is a die-hard Vikings/Twins/Timberwolves fan. Usually it's him against the sports bar. And me? I'm a whichever-team-Tom-Brady-plays-for fan.

In southern California, this means we're the minority.

My feelings for the Lakers are a bit tricky to explain. I remember when Kobe joined the league. I was sixteen and thought he was so cute. And I fancied myself in love with a boy who passionately hated the Lakers, so, naturally, I had to watch so I could trash-talk discuss intelligently.

Then there was the "rape scandal." Peeps, I don't think he raped her. Yes, I think he had sex with her and yes, I think that's disgusting. Needless to say, some of my former fan worship faded after that, but there's definitely an interest to see how he continues to perform. I've followed the team for years and I'm a local. I can't help it.

The only reason The Husband was cheering for the Lakers is because he wants to see them play the Celtics, and lose, in the finals. He's twisted.

The truth is, if I hadn't married a man who loved, first and foremost, sports, I'd never have a clue what games were taking place or who was playing. Oh, I'll sit and watch games with him and listen patiently as he rattles off stats in my ear... but I'll have my nose buried in a book and I probably can't tell you the final score.

Your turn. How do you feel about sports? Do you have a passing interest? A favorite team? Do you get crazy and paint your face and wear costumes? What about your spouse? I need to know.

The WTF post.

I'm a procrastinator. I might even go so far as to say I'm the world's very best procrastinator. But who wants to hold that title?

There's this THING that's needed my attention for a long time. I'm talking years, peeps. YEARS. (I told you I was the best.) I finally made an appointment to take care of said THING which means that, as I type this, wheels are in motion. And you don't know what a relief that is.

Oddly enough, I feel wretched. In fact, after receiving The Husband's incredibly supportive e-mail (in response to mine which briefly explained the details and "I know this is going to cost a bit of money, but please be supportive."), I cried. No, I'm not sitting here flooding the office, but there was definite leakage of the eyes.

I don't know why this makes me so emotional. Wait. Yes, I do. Because this THING has caused a lot of embarrassment and anxiety since I was a teenager. And because I'm going to be thirty soon (soon enough) and dealing with this as an adult is somehow even worse. And because The Husband's e-mail, while, again, totally supportive, just made me realize that I've been a complete fool for thinking I was doing even a remotely sufficient job of controlling the situation.

It makes me sad to know I've treated myself this way.

I'm not ready to share all the deets with the WWW, but I will say this: as soon as it's done (which will most likely be an entire year from now), I'm totally going camping. IN A TENT.

I give up.

I'm not typically a "meme" kinda girl, but I'll give in this time due to a complete lack of creativity and, well, in an abrupt and unusual effort to stop nickel and diming myself and maybe, oh, I don't know, SAVE SOME MONEY, I refrained from purchasing my usual Sobe this morning. Which means I'm LAGGING. And it's all for naught because I later bought Starbucks and then Subway and please don't tell my husband. (Money saved: -$10.25)

What are your current obsessions?

Aside from the usual? Reading. Specifically Nora Roberts. I've always loved to read. Well, I've always loved to read romance novels. You should know this about me. I am a sucker. For romance. There, I said it. Don't know why that's so hard to admit. In the last few days I've plowed through Birthright, Tribute, Vision in White, and am currently knee-deep in Midnight Bayou. Not sure why the obsession is Nora Roberts-specific, but there it is.

What’s for dinner?

Leftover roast beef on wheat with lettuce, tomato, pickles, cucumbers, and mustard- courtesy of Subway. I don't cook. You may now feel sorry for The Husband. Actually... scratch that (for reasons aforementioned).

What is your greatest fear at the moment?

My greatest fear will always be one of insects. Don't judge.

What is your guilty pleasure?

Family Guy. I can't help it. I've succumbed.

What is your favorite Spring thing to do?

Spring? What's that? We don't really experience a spring. It kind of just jumps from winter to summer. So, one minute we're freezing cold and the next we're bombarding the beaches and aiming for that perfect shade of skin cancer.

When was the last time you were tipsy?

Okay, I admit it. I had a lemon drop or six while we were bowling on Saturday night. You remember Saturday, right? It was the same day I wrote a post in which I mentioned refraining from alcohol because of my current emotional state and how the two DON'T MIX? Luckily, no breakdown this time. Phew.

What is your favorite ever film?

I can't name one. I could name nine, but most are all, um, romantically inclined and, well... oh, what the hell.

Under the Tuscan Sun
All About Eve
Love Actually
Chocolat
The English Patient
In Her Shoes
The Holiday
Somethings Gotta Give
It Happened One Night

What is your favorite color?

Pink.

cog's addition: Can the people outside your car hear the music playing inside your car?

Yes. And I will soon be deaf.


I know there are rules behind this sort of thing- such as linking back to the person who tagged you and then tagging more people to follow- and I'd like to say that the reason I'm not following the rules (other than to link back to cog, which I already did, but I'll do so again 'cause he's fairly awesome) is because I'm a rebel, but we all know that'd be a lie.

The honest-to-God truth is that I don't want to unintentionally hurt anyone's feelings by leaving them out and clearly I have issues so please just participate if you want to and I hope you all do and then let me know so I can come by and check out your answers.

By the way, I cheated and picked and choosed my questions. Get the complete list here if you're interested.

Key Lime Fudge

I freaking love fudge. I love the taste and the texture when you get it just right. A good piece of fudge is life-altering. (You think I'm kidding.) And I love the versatility. You can make fudge in any flavor imaginable. It's awesome.

When I finally got out of bed yesterday at the crack of ten a.m. and had fudge on the brain, I started thinking in terms of flavor. Pumpkin and blueberry caught my attention for a moment, but when lime popped into my head, it was all over for me.

See, a while back, I chronicled my love affair with this amazing chocolate bar. (Why? Because I wanted to be the next Candy Blog. And, let's face it, I still do.) This chocolate single-handedly changed my life forever. Since then, I've had a serious addiction with all things lime. Add white chocolate to the mix and, well, goodbye forever.

I dug around for a recipe and found one that was very easy. Actually, I like a challenge, so I was a little disappointed that I couldn't find a recipe that provided one, but beggars and choosers blah blah blah.

Key Lime Fudge
Ingredients
3 cups white chocolate chips
14 ounces sweetened condensed milk
2 teaspoons finely grated lime peel
2 tablespoons key lime juice
Macadamia nuts, if desired

Directions
Mix together the chocolate and condensed milk over low heat until melted. Remove from heat and mix in the remaining ingredients. Pour into a prepared 8" by 8" pan (prepared = foiled and greased). Cover and chill for at least two hours.

Now, technically, this isn't fudge. It's amazing and I felt like I had recreated my favorite chocolate, but it's not fudge.

"Fudge is a crystalline candy, which means that, unlike lollipops, caramels, and taffy, crystal formation is desirable in this recipe. Tiny micro-crystals in fudge are what give it its firm but smooth texture. The secret to successful fudge is getting these crystals to form at just the right time."

I basically just melted some chocolate and added flavor. Delicious and I'd totally make it again, but it's not fudge.

Got that? Not. Fudge. But amazing. And totally worth the effort. Promise.

I'll try to break the lime addiction soon. (I make no guarantees.)

(Printer-friendly version of the recipe.)

A little rant and ramble for your Saturday. You're welcome.

It's Saturday, Internet. Again. I'm sure many bloggers see the same trend, but I get the least amount of traffic on weekends. I like to imagine you're all out doing exciting things, enjoying the weather, spending time with friends, maybe traveling, hopefully sipping a cool beverage (I'd say cocktail, but some of us are refraining these days).

Me? Well, let's just say I'm not enjoying a day off. No, I had to wake up much too early and go to work. And working on Saturday is rough. I spend my time sitting in an office, staring at a computer, thinking of everyone (you) having a grand ole time without me. Totally not fair.

So, remember Ben? His son's baptism is next month. The Husband will be his Godfather. We received our invitation yesterday and in the corner was a photo of Drake. My face lit up. Not only did I recognize the photo, but it was one I had taken during the Super Bowl party and, since then, it's become one of my absolute favorite photos.

Maybe it's silly to get so excited over seeing a picture I took on an invitation that is being sent to some friends and family, but I can't help myself. It was just so unexpected and... flattering.

This is Drake's sister.

She loves popcorn.

Speaking of photography (I know, we weren't)... Peeps, I'm discouraged. I realize it's foolish to feel this way. It's not as if I've spent the past twenty years of my life pursuing something for which I've finally realized I posses no talent, but there's a nagging fear in the back of my head that keeps trying to convince me I'm not good enough, that if I had any talent, it wouldn't be such a struggle to learn and improve.

I need to stop feeling this way. I realize a big part of the problem is that I compare myself too often to real, live, professional photographers and that's not fair to myself. I know it will only serve to make me crazy, but I can't seem to stop. Doesn't a part of the learning process include studying other photographs? The composition, the light, the technique? Well, how does one do this without also seeing how one's own photographs suck compare?

I want to feel confident when I look at one of my own photographs and think "damn, that is a good shot" instead of "if so-and-so had taken that picture, it'd be amazing."

Sigh.

This is all a bit too heavy for a Saturday morning, isn't it?

The more I try to understand men, the more I realize I'm better off trying to put my head through a wall.

That's Ben. Yesterday, he turned another year older. How old that makes him, I'm not sure. I just know it was his birthday and, to celebrate, he and his four best friends (The Husband included) took the train to San Diego to watch a Padres game and drink. A lot.

I'm friends with these fools. Sigh.

The Husband came home, fairly intoxicated, with bruises all over his right arm and shoulder. I'm still not sure why. Whenever I'd ask, he'd just stand there and grunt and say I took it like a man! Then he'd flex, grinning like a fool, his eyes bloodshot and droopy. I made him a grilled cheese sandwich and put him to bed.

I'm not sure about you, but I don't know many women who stand around punching each other to have a good time. Which leads me to believe that men are just plain psychotic. (And they call us complicated. Insert eye-roll here.)

On the train, on their way home, The Husband sent me pictures of the sunset taken with his cell phone. I find this sweet. He knows how I feel about photography; how much I love it, how frustrated I get when I miss an opportunity, how discouraged I've recently become (but that's a another post for another time). He didn't want me to miss it, even though I wasn't there to take pictures myself.

I think...

I think there's a sunset in there somewhere.

He said it was gorgeous.

I'll take his word for it.

A few things I can tell you about this bundt cake.

I really like saying "bundt." Every time I do, I remember that scene from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I've never made a bundt before. I think it's harder than it looks.

This one did not taste great. In fact, it tasted like french toast. And french toast is delicious, don't get me wrong, but that's not the flavor I aim for in a cake.

The black tar chocolate was supposed to be layered throughout and, I don't know what happened, but it looks as if the cake was trying to perform an exorcism.

The Husband said it looked good, pestered me for a bite, then silently walked away, never to return.

Later, unwilling to write it off, I had a slice and topped it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It was really good with ice cream. (But what can't be improved with ice cream?)

I went back to look at the original recipe to see if I could pinpoint where I went wrong. I can't, but I really want to try again.

So. Any recent kitchen disasters you want to share?

If you still want to comment after reading, you have to share your favorite knock-knock joke.

So, it turns out that my take on the whole "fear" aspect has been wrong. Or, at least, misdirected.

Among the hurt and anger, I understood the fear. Fear of the unknown. If I leave, where do I go? What do I do?

Rational Stephanie would say relax. Breathe. You have family that will take you in and, even though it's not the most desirable arrangement, things could be a lot worse. You'll save money, you'll get your own place eventually. Or maybe you won't. Maybe you'll just wrap yourself in the security that only a parent's unconditional love can provide.

This made me feel better until the vision took a horribly wrong turn and suddenly I'd see myself as a 45-year-old woman still living with my mom. Which wouldn't be so bad, except you don't know my mother.

This past weekend, after my emotional meltdown on the Newport Beach pier, I realized that I was reacting to the fear, but it wasn't quite like I thought.

The real fear is what if it happens again. What if he leaves me. Because, the truth is, he almost did and he could again. I can't help but think he will (there's a pattern and blah blah blah) and I see that affecting everything I do.

It's a strange feeling of not wanting to make yourself vulnerable to YOUR HUSBAND.

What triggered this downward spiral back in February was realizing that he had lied about going to work one day. He got up, showered, shaved, got dressed, left for work... without every intending to go. The kicker? I had made cake bites the day before and was cheerfully, nauseatingly domestic about wrapping them up for his office and making sure he took them with him when he left.

Rational or not, it's looking back on moments like this that make me feel painfully foolish.

I don't ever want to be that unsuspecting wife, cooking, cleaning, happy... all while he contemplates leaving for another woman.

I want to be with my husband. I want to work through this "rough patch" in our marriage. I know we can, but I can't figure out how to let go of the fear in order to make any progress. Living in fear is not living, I know. But, for God's sake, how?


My favorite knock-knock joke:

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Rude, interrupting cow.
Rude, inter-
MOO!

Makes me laugh just typing it.

Coconut mini-muffins with lime glaze.

On Friday, I spent a large portion of my day browsing through some good ol' baker's pornography. I found myself craving lime. Lime anything.

On Saturday night, I tried to quench the craving by having a mojito. When that didn't work, I had another. Then I switched to margaritas. And then I proceeded to verbally vomit all over my husband outside a crowded bar which leads me to believe that unresolved anger + mass quantities of fear + alcohol = do not mix.

But I digress. Today, having the whole day off and to myself, I've been able to fulfill that unexplainable craving for lime by making three different recipes.

Except my spurt of ambition didn't last too long. Oh, I finished the recipes, of course, but towards the end, my motivation was waning and my desire to take even somewhat decent pictures gone. (You'll notice this more over the next couple of days as I share the others.)

The muffins were pretty good. The lime glaze? Amazing. This is what I should have been drinking in lieu of the alcohol. Things would have turned out much differently that evening. If only we knew then what we know now, eh? We could have saved ourselves a lot of embarrassment. (No, I'm not still drinking, thank you very much. This... this is sugar-induced.)

Although, had I drank the glaze, I'm not sure things would have turned out better... just different.

Where was I? Muffins. Right. Try these. They're good. Or, at least try the glaze. The recipe can be found here.

So, how did your weekend go?

UPDATED: Peanut Butter Chip Brownie Cups. Maybe they'll make the rest of it tolerable.

I have officially turned into a monster. It seems that as soon as The Husband leaves my sight, my overactive imagination and newfound anxiety-ridden suspicions go into overdrive. Where is he? What’s he doing? Who’s he talking to, texting, thinking about? (Insert maniacal screaming and hair-pulling here.)

The inevitable snooping ensues and, I swear to Godiva, I don’t enjoy this anymore than… well, anyone else. (No one enjoys an insecure female.) I hate that this whole thing has changed me into who I am now. Because I want to fucking punch myself in the face. (And, no, that wouldn’t count.)

But, for the love of chocolate, I honestly believe that if I didn’t keep finding things, if he’d just lay it all out on the line once and for all and come clean about everything, I’d eventually stop looking and would be able to start trusting him again. Or, at least, more and more over time. Why doesn’t anyone understand that what I need is TIME?

On Monday, I found an e-mail he had written to that woman and it seemed abundantly clear he would have left me for her had she made herself even slightly available. This was a double slap in the face because it wasn’t too long ago that I sat in our counselor’s office and listened WITH DOUBT as she told me that, to her, it sounded as if he had left in order to see if that woman was an option. And I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her. Even though it made perfect sense, I wanted to continue believing that what he had told me was truth: there was nothing going on between them. They were just friends. (Scoff.)

And when I confronted him with it, asked him if he had really been planning on leaving me for her, he said no. I couldn’t believe him. His reasons for the e-mail were so asinine I couldn’t even come up with anything coherent to say or even think except YOU’RE LYING.

He was frustrated with me for bringing it up at all. The e-mail was sent in March, it was in “the past” and he wants to look forward to our future together… but I had to talk about it. I have to obsess and dig into every single detail before I can finally move on. He wanted to argue. I told him to just shut up and talk to me! Answer my questions! I deserve that much and if it makes him uncomfortable, tough! You brought it on yourself.

So, now what? I can’t trust him until I believe him, and I can’t believe him until I hear what I believe to be the truth. And if he is telling the truth, then I'm fucked.

I went for a walk last night and when I arrived back home, I had finally gathered all of my thoughts and feelings into actual rational sentences. I was almost giddy with excitement because how often have I been able to gather actual rational sentences? Not very.

He wasn’t home. In response to my text message, he said he’d be home in an hour. I spent that time furiously scribbling notes because there was no way in hell I’d remember everything I wanted to say in the exact way I wanted to say it.

I spent the next three hours after that sitting on the edge of our bed, watching Family Guy, wondering if he had finally had enough of me and my insecurities. Would he come home to tell me he couldn’t deal with it anymore, it wasn’t worth it? Would he come home at all?

And that just may be the worst of it. The fear that he might leave me, that there’s the potential of him doing so. I’ve never experienced it before, having always thought that if- IF- one of us ever left the other, I'd do the leaving. I always just assumed he was happy, that I made him happy and why would he leave? How fucking naïve.

(The recipe. A printer-friendly version.)

And, peeps? Thanks for the support.