I told my hub about my Dumb and Dumber cooking blog project and he asked me if I was dumb, or dumber.
Then he said, "Julia Child and Jim Carey have been there/done that. Why don't you think of something original?"
(He should start a Rude and Ruder blog.)
I told him that Julia Child made French fries and French toast and French dip sandwiches ! "I am not going to be a French chef," I said.
"What kind of chef are you going to be then?" he smirked.
I told him I was going to be a Pampered Chef! Then I wiped the smug grin off his face with my IKEA apron and went to get a pedicure.
But I didn't go by myself--when I live my dream, everyone lives my dream--I took my daughter and my sister's daughter's with me.
My sister tried to send her girls with cash to pay for their own pedicures, but PSHAW! I would NOT stand for it. This pampered chef party was on me!
See, one of the worst things about moving is that the whole world begins to revolve around YOU, YOU, YOU! (Make that ME, ME, ME!) It happens so gradually you almost don't notice it until you're sick to death of your endless list of needs.
You go to pour your kids some cereal and you make a note to self: need bowls and spoons. You go to open a can of chili: need can opener. The note to self goes on and on: Need rubber bands. Need a hammer. Need dressers. Need a lawn mower . . . a nap . . . silicone implants.
(J/K peeps. I don't need silicone implants. I mean, I do, but I got over it in my thirties.)
There is so much you can't do and so much you don't have while you're disassembling one life and reassembling another. You rely on the grace and goodness of those around you to open your cans and mow your lawn.
How anyone moves without my sister and her hub is the Eighth wonder of the world.
I swore on a stack of Glenn Beck books that I would never blog about my sister's hub, but if I hadn't made such a sacred oath I would totally do my Bette Middler in Beaches Kareoke for him. (The one that require a lot of feathers to make me some wings, plus a huge fan to generate the wind beneath those wings.)
So anyways, I just wanted to GIVE BACK to my sis and her hub, ya know! Is that so wrong?
I mean how hard can it be to pay for four freakin' pedicures?
Well, it's harder than you think when they don't take American Express. Or a personal check.
It's even harder when you're short on cash.
As the story goes, we ended up getting to keep our pedicures, but I had to trade in my uber cool mommy/aunt status as soon as I called for back up.
Thank Gad for my sister's hub, who came rushing through the front door in his red cape with his VISA gold card in hand.
(Being a pampered chef is not as easy as it looks.)
P.S. I went to Sunday School for the first time yesterday. If I wasn't so politically correct and culturally sensative on this blog, I would say that I found the one place where people aren't nice in Utah. I did feel the spirit though. While everyone was challenging each other about who has emeritus and which leaders can be called acting I got an overwhelming feeling that I was being suffocated by a pillow.