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In the interests of keeping it real, there are some things about myself I feel I must share.
- I got my hair highlighted yesterday. The stylist uses foils. The gray is coming in thicker and thicker, and pretty soon, I’m going to have to color the whole mop, because highlighting alone will not be enough. This makes me sad. Right now, the grays blend in fairly well with the highlighting, and I don’t look too washed out. But my complexion + gray hair + my regular hair color is not a happy color combo. Yesterday, my husband dropped by the salon where I get my hair done, while I was in the midst, as it were. He had never seen “the price I pay for beauty” before. He was initially stunned, but then asked how many channels I was picking up. Then, he pulled out his phone, and snapped this picture:
What price, beauty?
- Before I left to get my hair done did, I worked a good part of the morning to prepare something yummy-but-frugal in the slow cooker for my family to enjoy before they dash out the door to attend the men’s evening Bible Study Fellowship class. I made a lentil stew from America’s Test Kitchen’s cookbook, Slow Cooker Revolution. It smelled marvelous, all day long. It had many of the same spices as chicken tikka masala. I was eager to try it. The verdict on all my labor and toil? Meh. I mean, Jacob sold his birthright for THIS??? Mediocre may, in fact, be too kind an adjective. I will not be repeating that recipe. It may have been my fault because I used brown lentils (they were what I had) instead of the red lentils that the recipe called for. But I think the main problem was that the whole dish was overcooked. But, let the record show: Susan in the Boonies cooked a loser dinner.
- I also made my daughter a pumpkin pie yesterday, in honor of her birthday. It was just out of the oven as they were leaving to go to the Bible Study. The recipe said to wait two hours before serving it. They left, knowing that there would be pie on their return. But did I wait for them, good mother that I am? While they were gone, I cut into my daughter’s birthday pie, and I helped myself to the very first slice, all warm and creamy, topped with chilled whipped cream that began to melt when it hit the warmth of the pie and the crisp, flaky crust. I wonder what kind of eternal punishment awaits me for cutting that first piece of pie while I was home all alone for four hours. Neither she nor her Daddy (who are my two pumpkin pie eaters) batted an eyelash that I had already cut into the pie, upon their return, so I didn’t volunteer that I might perhaps be feeling the need to apologize for being a bad Mommy.