Don't Try This At Home

I was all giddy last night as I took the leftover quinoa from dinner and the two ripe bananas and started to make a pudding out of them. I kept thinking, "wow, my blog readers are gonna be so impressed. This is gonna be all over Pinterest. I'm about to be a star." (Or something along these lines.) 

I measured some stuff out, took note about how much of this, and how much of that. I was all methodical and prepared to become your idol after I posted my masterpiece to my blog. It was brilliant. I was brilliant.

And then I finished.

Well, almost. Then I added the vanilla immediately after removing from heat. This is important, and I was going to tell you that.

And then I finished.

I poured it into a tupperware container to let cool. 

And then I realized something.

I forgot the egg.

Fail.

Sa-mo'-a-that-please!

I actually have a board on Pinterest titled "My Husband Wants Me to Make This." That is where most of the sweet stuff that I have pinned has landed. It's full of caramely, coconuty, chocolatey sweetness. So you would think that when I came across this pin, I would have pinned it to this board.

But I didn't.

I love Girl Scout Samoa cookies. (Now called Caramel deLites? I mean, that just makes it seem like they have fewer calories than they used to. And to my knowledge, they don't.) I know it is up for debate in most households which is the best Girls Scout cookie. But not mine. This is it. This is The One.

So I saw this recipe, and I had to try it. My original plan was to make them as a surprise for my husband to take with him on a weekend with a bunch of men from our church. But after all the effort that went into them, the thought of sending all two dozen of them with him only to be devoured in about 5 seconds by a bunch of hungry men inspired me to whip up an easy batch of butterscotch chocolate chip cookies. He took about 5 of the Samoas with him, but left the rest home for both of us to enjoy over the full week. Good decision, hubs.

So here's the recipe. As she states, it's not really a whip up, scoop, bake, and finish kind of cookie. It takes time. But oh man, is it worth it. My husband and I both agree that they even get better after a couple of days in the fridge.

This is my actual final product. I will try to improve on the picture taking...

I Am Not My Hair

For those that have known me for any amount of time at all, know my hair. Long. Sometimes curly, sometimes straight. I got compliments on it all the time. And that felt good. I liked my hair, too.

But I also hated my hair. I mean, yeah, I hated having to brush out the matted mess it had become before showering, or before going to bed, or before doing anything, really. I hated deciding what I was going to do with my hair each day. I hated that if I didn't wash my hair EVERY DAY it was just nasty. There was all that. But I also hated the way it made me feel. Like that if I didn't have my hair I wouldn't be pretty. If I didn't have my hair, would people still compliment me?

I've struggled my whole life with receiving compliments. Somewhere, in a distant time and place, I decided that if people said something nice about the way I looked, they were probably lying about it just to make me feel better. I thought they actually felt sorry for the way I looked, so they were just trying to be nice in some weird and twisted way. I never believed people when they would tell me I was pretty or even use the word beautiful. Because I didn't believe it was true.

But my hair was somehow different. I knew I had pretty hair. It was the one physical thing about myself that I actually believed was beautiful.

I've always been a big girl. I lost some weight around the time I got married, only to gain most of it back in a years time. I'm not proud of this, but it's reality. But I'm a big girl. Does this mean I can't be pretty? Does this mean I'm an undesirable person? Truthfully, I subscribe to those thoughts about myself more than anyone I know and love probably does. But I'm in the process of changing that.

So I cut all my hair off. 18 inches.

This hasn't meant an immediate transformation in thought. As previously stated, it's a process. But I like my new hair. It's fun! And I feel pretty. Which is important.

Before making the cut, I asked myself these exact questions: "Is cutting my hair going to make me look fatter? Is my husband still going to be attracted to me? Will my mom be mad at me?" Results: If anything, I lost weight because of all the hair no longer attached to my head. My husband loves my new haircut. My mom isn't mad at me. Turns out I'm still the same person I was with long hair. Only, in my opinion, better.

Despite his face, he really does like my hair...

*Update: my husband says it was at least 21 inches that was cut. Not 18. But who's counting?

I'm Offensive

So as it turns out, I'm afraid of offending people. I didn't know this about myself before really processing why it is I don't blog as often as I'd like. I mean, I have A TON of thoughts, and daily I find myself thinking, "I should blog about that." And then I don't. Why? Because maybe it contains some questionable material. Maybe I would use a word that isn't pretty. Maybe I would reveal something about myself that people didn't know, and then they'll stop liking me. So maybe it isn't a fear of offending people. Or maybe it is. And that the consequence of being offensive is having less people like me. 

That's really strange for me to think about, considering that most people I'm close to are people who I'm really not afraid to share my thoughts with at all. I disagree with people a lot. And I'm okay with that. So why am I afraid of putting my thoughts on a blog for all to see and form their own opinions about? I'm really not sure. But it feels different somehow. 

But here's the thing: I need to do this. I need to have an outlet where I don't have to censor my thoughts. Regardless if you get offended. And if you do, I'm sorry. Have a conversation with me. I'd love to talk to you about it. But in the meantime, I have to allow myself some freedom. 

* I hate that the Chase commercial singing "Frreeeeedommmm, frreeeedoooommm,...." is stuck in my head right now. You know the one? And now you're singing it, too? Ok, good. 

Unity.

I am a married woman. 

What does this mean? Let me tell you.

It means that I am faced daily with this person who I fell in love with once upon a time. Me. It means that even though I love myself, apparently more than anyone else, I made a choice to honor and respect and love another even more. It means that I have to do this, that I have to choose to do this, even when I don't feel honored, respected, or loved by anyone. It means that it's not about me. 

I got really used to things being about me after 28 years of having only me to look after and to love. I thought I was pretty neat, too. Easy to love, lovely to be around. 

And then I got married. And then I started to fall out of love with myself.

This is the worst thing. And this is the very best thing. 

I am learning what it means to get dressed in the morning in something rather unfashionable. I am learning how to put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. One foot at a time, my Father teaches me how to step into these threads. He teaches me how to wear something I've never been good at putting on by myself. He teaches me that I was never meant to do it by myself. 

Being married means that God is wrecking me for His glory. Being married means that I have made a promise to someone that, by the very grace of my Maker, I can keep. Being married means falling out of love with my old self, and learning to love me all over again. With a partner by my side. 

What a gift.