Tuesday, July 7


After visiting this site, my husband, Mark, decided to give me his opinion of the blog design. Now keep in mind, I’m not a DeVry graduate, so I think that under the circumstances, I do alright. It seems that the particular shade of pink that I chose for the word “amen” bugs his delicate designing sensibilities. See, according to Mark, “it should really commit to either being red or pink…I don’t know. I just hate that color. It’s so indecisive.” Now there is an obvious joke sitting right here about men and commitment, but since it’s not 1978, and probably would reflect more on me than Mark anyway, I’m going to leave it alone.

I will say this: ladies, be careful about letting your man go to art school for four semesters, because you’ll pay for it for the rest of your life. And no, I'm not just talking about the crushing student loans. Not only can expect the joy of him butting into the shade of pink you choose for your little blog, but the green for the kitchen and whatever color you like for the couch. You’ll have to hear obnoxious phrases like “that green really has too much yellow in it for me,” or "I'm not wild about that blue. It's too gray."

But there will be some variation of those comments every time you try to do anything involving color. Oh and don’t you dare get mad, because then it just turns into how he and his knowledge of color and Bigfoot and are just misunderstood. Is it his fault if the beige paint on the wall has a slight red undertone to it? And if we don’t prime it, like, six times, it’s going to bleed through? And we’re going to see it every day and it’s just going to bug us the entire time we live here? Is it?

Who puts that much thought into blue? It's fucking BLUE!

It’s kind of like who would have thought that being married to a pastry chef would suck the fun out of eating dessert? I used to enjoy baking, now I get critiqued. I've learned not to ask "how is it?" although I will admit that following directions aren't exactly my forte. I can't help it. It's a long-standing family tradition and it drives Mark up the wall.

In my family, we only resort to something as asinine as "directions" after we have failed, thrown a temper tantrum and usually damaged the item in some way. Then and only then will we read directions. But when it concerns food, basically you just skim the recipe, wave it off saying "yeah, yeah," and when it doesn't work, you curse (a lot) and then dump the ruined food in the garbage. If you have enough ingredients left, you can try again using the directions, but only if you can see them through the blinding rage. So maybe that's why the only thing that I'm allowed to do in the kitchen these days is order pizza, which is kinda OK with me.

But truth be told, baking has become enjoyable on a completely new, psychological level. Lately, I have been going to the store and getting those microwave brownie things (Mark refuses to buy them). And as the pre-made, store bought goodness "cooks" in his kitchen, I begin to talk about how much I love the pink “amen” on this blog. You know, baking is fun.