Introducing Gigi Brulee

Yesterday was not one for the books. The great part was that my alter ego (more on her later) made an appearance, and turned things around for me. I'm going to blame a large part of yesterday's behavior on Please Makit Stop...So there. Deal with it. It started out as a grand morning, filled with blueberry pancakes by the dozens, as my brain shut off halfway through mixing the batter. I recently purchased and promptly read, cover-to-cover, The Pioneer Woman Cooks. This gal is a woman after my own heart and stomach. No, she's not a cannibal, but her wit, humor, cooking savvy, photog skills and overall likability make her one of my new (virtual) best friends. Huge Kudos to Tammy for crawling under my rock long enough to say, "Hey! You! Check out P-Dub!! She's fab!!" Anyway, one of her first recipes to go through my test kitchen was the Sour Cream Pancakes, to which I added fresh blueberries. This has become WyoBaby's new fave food, and in the last two weeks, she's consumed it on five different occasions. They're light, fluffy and oh-so-simple. The first few times, I made a regular batch, but quickly realized we were a few 'cakes shy of full bellies. So yesterday, I decided to make 1 1/2 batches. This went well, up until the third ingredient, when my brain, which betrays me on a daily basis, kicked into double-batch mode. Having finally realized this, I had to go back and add more of the first two ingredients, resulting in enough batter to feed 10 people. But Lord love him, J plowed through those pancakes with a gusto not seen in days! I think it was the fuzzy green, light-up St. Patrick's Day Pimp Hat he donned for breakfast which gave him the little boost in appetite...

Put this hat in the following pic, and you'll discover the vision seated next to me at the breakfast table. Happy Sunday morning to me!!

After the great pancake feast of '10, my beloved husband and child headed for the hills, leaving Yours Truly to tackle the breakfast dishes. Fine, thank you very much. So after shining the kitchen, I moved on to bigger and better things, such as vacuuming. This would be where things went downhill faster than a dog covered in Crisco (inside joke, courtesy PH!). I have been telling J for a solid year that I loathe and despise our vacuum. You may remember we have two cats, and those two produce the hair of four, I swear. Most of our flooring is hardwood, so the extent of my vacuuming is three good size area rugs and two bedrooms. Consequently, I don't really feel I'm asking too much of the ol' Dirt Devil, and yet, it insists on tormenting me. Daily. I could almost swear it sits in the closet at night and, with the help of my mop and broom, plots new and exciting ways to turn me into a quivering mass of nerves. Yesterday was no exception; the only thing different was how I defended myself against my enemy's strategic manueverings. After spending five minutes running the dang thing over the rug in our office, something in me snapped. I believe it was right around the moment I realized it would have taken less time for me to get down on my hands and knees and pick up the debris than I had just spent willing the vacuum to work. The house was empty at the time. All of a sudden, in true toddler fashion, I threw down the vacuum and burst into tears. As my hot angry tears streamed down my cheeks, it occurred to me that this was doing nothing to improve my situation. I wiped my snot and tears on my shirt sleeve (it was a ratty sweatshirt!), sucked in my bottom lip, picked up the Dang Devil, and stomped out of the room. After slamming it down on the dining room floor, I opened up my laptop and clicked on iTunes, knowing somewhere in there lay the key to my sanity. After waiting 10 minutes for it to open, (my PC has also caused me to bawl like a baby, in despair of how SLOW its processor has become) I set out to find some pick-me-up tunes. Now, I don't shop the Top 10 because if I did, I'd be listening to the same songs as every 16 year-old in America. I like to check out the What We're Listening To section. It was there I found a little jewel entitled Preservation: An Album to Benefit Preservation Hall & The Preservation Hall Music Outreach Program (that would be the abbreviated title). The album pic alone was enough to grab my attention, so I previewed a coupla songs, and was hooked y'all. The beauty is, it was a smokin' deal! Twenty-five songs for $13.99; how can a girl go wrong? So I clicked Buy Album, and used the last of WyoBaby's gift card to restore my sanity. (I now owe her some downloads, but it was TOTALLY worth it!) People, you need to check out this collection. It is jazz at its best. As soon as the first song began to play, I was no longer WyoMomma, Housecleaning Lunatic Extraordinaire, I was Gigi Brulee, (I'm a foodie, whadya want from me? It's one of my fave desserts!) sitting at a beat-up wooden table, sipping whiskey in a N'oleans jazz dive, watching through the smoky haze as a mysterious stranger headed my way. (Household appliances reduce to me a sobbing, slobbering mess; I have a penchant for drama, okay?) As I let the sultry jazz notes seep into my brain, I felt the tension melt away, and regained my perspective. Good music is some of the best therapy out there.

This morning, having returned to a more sane version of Moi, I hopped on the ol' World Wide Web (thank you Al Gore!) and began researching vacuums. I have found The One. It's a Hoover, and all the reviews say it's pretty much the best thing since New York Cheesecake. Of course, I started out thinking I needed (like the very air I breathe) a Dyson, but have since changed my mind. And for the record, that was in no way a result of J stating, point-blank, that we WOULD NOT be shelling out big bucks for said machine. Totally unrelated. Came to that conclusion all by myself, right after I put on my Big Girl Panties.