Tonight I decided to stay home and organize my house a bit, get a stock of what I have in my cupboards. As I reorganized my pantry (which is about the size of a very small coat closet) I noted that things were not as bad as I originally thought. I've been struggling a bit to feed my sons. That happens sometimes when your the only bread winner of the house and you expect money that just isn't there.

So, my original thought was that we would just continue to get creative with the ramen noodles.. until I went to find some, and we only had six packages left. I thought, well.. that will feed my boys once.. so I turned to the canned goods. I discovered six bags of dried beans, some canned meat substance, canned tomatoes, tomato soup, tomato paste, a can of enchilada sauce, canned peaches, pears and apricots, a huge bag of wheat flour, a comparable bag of white flour, a tub of crisco, some cake mixes and three small jars of salsa. There were a few other odds and ends, corn, peas, baking goods, and beets (of all things). I assess the situation and decide that this is really a good thing. I found a half a bag of potatoes, there's an onion in my fridge, I have some corn meal, salt, and eggs. There was even a bag of powdered milk.

I can do this. I really have a lot of food here.

In the midst of my maddened determination, I call mom. We're chatting along about a bunch of pretty inconsequential stuff, and I ask her if she knows how to make unleavened bread. Because, lets face it, my mother is a bread genius. In my mind anyway.

She says she's never made it, but,"Oh! Wait! I have a recipe here for tortillas that doesn't call for a lot of ingredients!"

I can hear her rummaging through something.

"Just a minute, I'm sorry, my book is a little unorganized. I gave a lesson on oatmeal, AH! Found it, here it is. Now, just wait a minute, let me ..." her voice trails off.

By now I have stood and wandered into the kitchen because I still have a lot to do.

"Okay, NOW, four cups of flour"

"Wait!" I interrupt."I need to go get my pad of paper, I wandered away from it."

"Okay, now I'm ready."

She reads the recipe to me. At one point it calls for me to knead the dough by hand for five minutes.

"That ought to wear out your hands." she absentmindedly comments.

I giggle a bit, and she finishes the instructions.

We talk for a few minutes more, and say our goodbyes.

I take down the slow cooker and pour in some beans, add some tomatoes, some salsa, some beef broth, some spice, and some canned meat substance.

I find my big plastic pink bowl and put four cups of flour, a cup of warm water, a quarter teaspoon of baking powder, a tablespoon and a half of salt, and some oil in the bowl. I begin to knead. I knead and knead. While I'm kneading I think,'that silly mother, doesn't she know I have worked since August on building up the muscles in my hands and arms massaging people..' The thought makes me giggle out-loud and I decide to call her back.

"Um. Mom? This dough looks just like I took a whole loaf of wheat bread and crumbled it into my bowl."

She laughs.

"And what could you possibly mean by kneading for five minutes will hurt my hands.. Don't you know who I am... "

A heartier laugh.

"Well, honey, put a little bit of water in it, about two tablespoons."

I do, and I continue to knead.

"Did you knead it for five minutes?"

"Well I started at nine o' one and now its nine o' six."

"Did you use white or wheat flour?"

"Wheat?!?"

"Okay, well, you have to really beat wheat flour, really stretch the gluten out."

I feel like I'm in one of my massage lectures.

"You have to really pound it and slap it and just really beat it."

I start to drive my fist into the heart of my rock of dough. The boys observe this and think it looks really fun. They wash their hands and beg me for a turn. I let them pound it for a bit,

"Did you let it sit for ten minutes?"

"No. I was trying to get it to stick together."

"Well let it sit."

"Okay, well the boys want to talk to you before they have to go to bed."

I surrender my phone and stand staring at this lump of dough on my counter. She talks to Dylan, to Ben.. the phone dies, so they call her on the other one.. she finishes her conversation with Ben and talks to Jed.

All the while I stand bent over my creation, considering it, never touching it.. Just allowing it to 'stand' for ten minutes.

They finish up, and the phone is turned over to me.

"Well, daughter, what is your dough doing?"

"It just sat there, It didn't do anything!" I cry

She bursts into laughter.

"Should it have done something?"

She's laughing really hard now.

She chokes out,"Well I'm certainly glad it didn't grow legs and walk right off your counter top!"

Now I know why she is laughing.

"Okay, now you need to split it into balls."

I try to tear my lump. It's like ripping through well weaved cloth. I grunt.

"This... Is... RE-ALLY.... HAARD!"

"Well, honey, just pinch it in half, then in half again, and again and again until you have enough to make 18 little balls!"

"Oh, Pinch it?!? I was just tearing it into pieces.. wow, they look a lot like when you take a whole piece of bread and squish it into a ball... there are these little crevices, almost like cracks..."

My voice trails a little.

"Then add a little water to them."

"I dunno, the recipe says they'll be really dry..." I respond,"Did you say little balls? Because these are about the size and consistency of golf balls.."

Again she breaks out into a hearty laugh. She laughs and laughs and laughs. I can imagine her face turning red, her hands rising up and slapping her legs as she rocks back and forth on her seat.

Its really hard to form the balls, but I finally complete the task.

We talk a little more, because the balls are supposed to sit for another ten minutes.

We are carried away in our conversation.

She asks,"Well, how did they turn out?"

Oh, shoot.

I was making tortillas.

"I haven't rolled them out yet."

"Do you have any PAM or non-stick spray?"

"HECK NO!! That stuff is of the devil. I almost hate it as much as margarine," I chide,"That stuff is one ingredient away from what it's packaged in.. and PAM is mostly alcohol! You may as well just pour a shot of whiskey into your skillet!"

She is laughing really hard now.

She catches her breath,"Pour a little olive oil or canola, or whatever you use onto the counter-top and roll your balls out with that. Just don't use flour."

"Oil?!? Right on my counter-top?!?"

I do as she says, pouring a dollop of olive oil on my counter. I use a paper towel to make my work surface, then grease up my rolling pin. I plop a rock hard ball into the center of the oily spot and try to squish it. Nothing. It doesn't give at all.

I must've been grunting and complaining, because she says,"Pinch it a little, slap it flat, throw it on the counter and hit it until it's flat! Wheat flour is really resistant, you have to work it to make it pliable."

"My kids have gone to bed, I don't want to make too much noise and wake them."

But I do as she says anyway. I roll, it cinches back to its original shape, like a great elastic blob. I roll again, and again, and again. FINALLY. Its somewhat flat, and somewhat thin. I step back and take a look.

"Well. It looks like a great flat blob of excrement. Or, have you ever seen rubber puke.. I would compare it more to that, because its kind of splatted. Its about three inches across, and maybe two hand lengths high, with all these little weird tendrally branches."

I pick off a piece and plop it on my tongue.

"UUUUUGHHHH!!!! It TASTES like PLAYDOUGH! Did you ever eat playdough as a child?!?"

She's laughing so hard she can't really talk.

"Holy cow, you should go to the lady that gave you this recipe and tell her your daughter is pretty robust, tried to make it, and it was really really hard! Tell her its CRAP! No wonder no one makes anything by hand anymore, this is really not worth it!! I can see why the women of old were all muscle and lean, they worked their BUTTS off just making dinner!"

She's still laughing, but manages to say,"Don't try to eat it now, you have to cook it first.. put it in a pan and brown it, then try it."

So I heat up my skillet and carefully place my splat inside.

"Is it bubbling?"

"The edges are curling, I wouldn't call it bubbles, but you can see that air is collecting under it. I wonder what Jed would say about my creation..'OOOH neat! Salty splat shaped tortillas, cooool!!'" I flip the thing over.

"It turned white!"

"It what?!?" "White, its white on the side that was touching the pan!"

She is silent.

"White?"

"Yeah! Completely White!"

She asks if I have some honey or jam or butter to put on it.

"Don't you think I should try it plain before I feed it to my kids?"

"You might want to smother it with something, so you can convince them that its good."

This explains a lot of culinary scenarios in my childhood years.

I pull off a piece. It's really hot on my tongue, and I think for a minute that it might be worth saving the batch.

Then my taste sensors kick in.

"PLEH!! UUUghh... Ohhh man! It started out chewy, but now it just tastes like really HOT playdough! Forget it, I'm not subjecting my kids to this... "

I'm hastily scooping and tossing the remaining, painstakingly created, balls off my counter and into the trash.

She laughs and laughs, then tells me she is going to bed.

"Alright. I think I have enough ingredients to make cornbread, Good Night!"

I stir my bean concoction, thinking to myself... wasn't that what I planned in the first place? Oh well.. It was a fun and rare moment alone with my mom.

She did not say the word "ideally"...

She did not say "perhaps"

There was no inclination of "maybe"

The answer was in-tact.

She said the money was coming today..

She said for sure for sure.

I know because I asked ten million ways...

and she promised, reassured.

I budgeted and planned.

I made arrangements with 'the man'.

I was so very proud

Very proud of me.

Then, I get a dose of reality.

The money did not come today.

"I swear" was not in play.

"The girl is fairly new at this" was the answer of the day.

"I expect that I won't be charged for this, and a discount of services, too.

I trusted your company to do well by me.. and this is how you do?

I understand human error, but asked a million ways.. and all I was given were these six words.. your check will be there Tuesday.."

"I apologize, ma'am, that is all I can say.

Your check will be there by Next Friday."

"I hope you take it under your wing, to advise your new girl of the reality of things"

"Oh, yes, of course, I certainly will.."

I try very hard to keep from sounding shrill..

"You've no idea the pain this has caused, for nothing is worse than financial flaws.. I have promises made, people won't get paid, and three boys are being robbed.

You can bet YOUR pay that this will be the LAST time you hear from ME. My business goes elsewhere, in fact." Authoritatively." I will educate myself next time enough, so that when spindly women that don't know there stuff, offer to help.. I can say no thank you ma'am I did it myself.

I never again will fall for your scam, your quick refund crap can go in the CAN!"

Then as if I had not given such an alarming address..

The man replies simply,"Do call if there's further duress."

I slam the phone down, and put on my coat, I tell my boss grumpily I need to just go.

I walk 'round the block, consider my options.

I walk and consider many concoctions.

I could lie, I could steal, I could beg, I could borrow.

Or I could just wait and deal tomorrow.

I enter my office, and put down my head.

I lift the phone and dial instead.

I call all the companies to which promises were made.

I apologize profusely and explain plans were waylaid.

They thank me kindly and make new arrangements.

I feel really awful for my personal derangement.

So I call the tax man as well,

"I'm sorry I told you and your company to go to hell, I still won't do business with you next year, or the following, I fear. But, I am willing to claim my part of the mess.. and so now I am doing what I think is best.

I am not doing business there again, and rest assured I won't recommend friends. It is not right to blame you for my plight. But, if the woman I conferred with had her information right, I would not be so angry tonight."

Tax man broke free of his silence,"Who might I ask is this, so I can reference this non-compliance?"

I give him my name.

He says I have cause to complain. He agrees if it were his boat sinking, he'd do the same.

And so my friends, if I mentioned to you, your bread will be buttered by my fortitude...

Regress with me briefly, it was a fantasy in the making..

I am not rich, not for the taking.

The boys and I ventured out among the masses tonight, to file my taxes, and to buy some much needed groceries. (We've been living on Ramen... which, according to some, is what poor people eat... but that isn't why we ate it, actually.. yeah, it was.) Did you know that our society has become soo accustomed to convenience, that you can file your taxes right in the same store you buy your toothpaste and milk from? Hell, you can have your eyes checked, your hair cut, buy presents for anyone of any age, find a wedding ring, an outfit for work, some sensible shoes... all while you 'run in' for ben and jerry's. Don't get me wrong, I love the convenience, I love that a store much like the one I've described here has kept my sister and her children fed, clothed, sheltered, healthy, and for the most part happy. Of course, she had to sell her soul to work there, but her family is well by and large due to the existence of that store. And, I suppose, mine is too.

We shop there not only for convenience, but because they usually have the lowest prices. Believe me, if I were of the fortunate few that had an income that was 80% expendable... I would certainly shop at little local mom and pop places or maybe organic food stores. I would happily support the underdog. But, I am not. And as if I stepped on the tines of a rake, reality pops up and beans me in the face.

So there we are, my sons happily amusing themselves in the toy aisle, and I grudgingly agreeing to astronomical fees for tax preparation (again because of my generational coding that will NOT wait a few weeks... must have money now, now, now.. instant gratification.. blah blah blah) . I text the boys to come back after just a whole gruelling hour for one w-2. Holy Crap, ridiculous.

We alight ourselves to the food block of the store. Does everyone shop on Friday night? Really? This is where the entire population convenes? I had no idea. Living in Utah, with the schedule I have, and the admiration for other humans being, I shop on Sundays. There, I said it. I hate the crowds. Absolutely abhor them. When I step foot in that store on a Sunday, nary a chime from a register will sound. Muted conversations between employees stalking shelves, maybe, but rare is it to find a crowd. On occasion I pop in after class. I like watching the late night crowd. Single people mostly. Sometimes a mother still in her nursing scrubs.. a pile of kids following her, tired and cranky... I notice she forgets to remove her name tag. Her hair is a matted mess, bags under her eyes, she unloads her cart near to tears from telling her kids again and again no.. no.. no.. I always wonder why it is so completely not okay to hug a person when they need it. Even if its a stranger. Why can't I just offer this bedraggled, beautiful person some restitution?

Friday night, Ben is riding the cart between my arms, giving me a place to rest my head. My neck is strained, and aches from holding up my head. Yes, my brain is THAT big. HAHAHA! Dylan is wearing his heelies. He and Jed have decided to make a race of finding the next items on the list and returning them to the cart. Usually I set the rule that they are not to roll or run, and they must be kind and courteous to the other customers. Tonight, I don't really care.

Ben and I weave through the veggies and fruits on our journey to find bread. We stop for a bent and elderly Japanese woman, who slightly nods and wanders the other direction. We make it past the displays of meat, the frozen goods, pause for a few minutes to let an impatient sea hag by. Down the center aisle we wander, Dylan and Jed return with their spoils. They are eager for the next items. I tell them and off they go. Ben and I find the creamer for my coffee, two gallons of milk, some sunny d, and stand staring blankly at the yogurt. Its on sale. Two for a dollar. I remember a time... in all my years... that yogurt was expensive if it was twenty-five cents. We carefully select five flavors, two of each. I am standing there, debating over strawberry kiwi or key lime, when I realize there is someone of my height standing very close behind me. It kind of freaked me out a little, so I turned very suddenly to assess the situation. Having turned so quickly and with no warning, the woman there didn't have time to move, and I elbowed her, hard... in the chest. I hate it when people are so damned impatient that they have to get right up on you to attain their own goals. I didn't apologize. I know I hurt her. She stood there for several seconds with a really un-attractive pained look on her face. I asked if she would survive.. she said she would, so I took a step in her direction, she stepped back, I stepped forward, she stepped back... we continued this little dance until she had backed to the point she should have been in to start with. I returned to find my yogurt, saddled Ben up, and wandered away.

We buy butter, we buy, toilet paper, we buy apple sauce and cereal. There is a couple behind us in line. They are wearing matching sweatshirts. They are white with skulls and little flames on them. They're son is sitting in the belly of the cart. They are completely engulfed in their conversation, their child screaming for this or for that. I don't say anything. My purse is in the part of my basket where small children usually sit. The kid stands up in their cart and makes a reach for it, offsetting the weight, putting the wheels into motion.. and two oblivious parents do nothing. I catch the little brat and control myself enough to not lay a spanking of my own on him. His mother turns around and all but screams,'SIT DOWN, NOW!!'. Okay, I understand now. I slip junior a chocolate kiss as I prepare to leave.

I don't hate people. I love people. I love people of all shapes, sizes, colors, genders, ages and cultures. I absolutely do. It's just difficult to tolerate certain personalities.

Maybe I have some growing to do.

Anyway, that's why I hate buying necessities. The only time I meander into a store of this magnitude, is when I am completely out of everything. Then, I have to go. I have to endure it. Trying to find a parking spot, parking all the way out a mile away from the entrance, walking to the doorway, passing three empty spots up close along the way... waiting for people to finish their conversations, you know, that last fifteen minutes with carts parked side by side in the narrowest of aisles right in front of what you need. People that reach around you, over you, between your legs to attain their own grocery goods. The ankle beaters that run you down for not moving along fast enough. The squeezers of every last apple to find just that perfect one. (Thanks for fondling mine along the way). The store clerks and employees that pretend they don't hear you when you say, 'Excuse Me...?' I really hate chasing them across the store shouting,'Hey, YOU!! Yeah, In the BLUE SHIRT WITH A NAME TAG! YOU!!! MY HELL, STOP RUNNING!!! I JUST NEED TO KNOW WHERE THE DAMNED TAMPAX ARE!!!!!'

So, this month has been turbulent already. I over exerted my neck during my Movement class at school. Had an x-ray done at an insta-care. The doctor scared me to death by diagnosing my neck as 'locked' and ordering a ct scan at the hospital to see if I needed surgery. . . ct scan came back normal, emergency room doc (with the bedside manner of a lion that just felled a gazelle) prescribed a muscle relaxer and rest.(ha!) I asked if the medicine would affect my cognitive ability, he said yes, so I elected not to take it. I have been using alternating heat/cold and a massage pillow to relieve the tension in my neck. I returned to work Tuesday, didn't attend school that night, went to work today, and returned to school tonight. BIG MISTAKE. Tonight we had sports massage, a modality that is rambunctious and requires perfect posture. Long story short, the hands on portion sent me running out the door and to my apartment. I embarrassed myself profusely by disrupting the entire class, and am really hesitant to go back now. Oi.

Love my job. It bodes well. I just need to stop second guessing myself, and manage my time better.

Dylan is working diligently on his science fair project. He has a partner that comes over to work on it with him. He is doing really well in school, and is a HUGE help at home.

Jed is creating a diorama of some crazy whale who's exact breed absolutely evades me. He also is making a life sized poster of a book report that he has to present to his class. He has a really stubborn streak that makes me crazy, but he does well when he tries.

Ben has been really good about coming home and getting down to business with his homework and chores. He is always careful to give mom a big hug every time she needs it.

I've said it a million times. I am a lucky lucky woman to have been blessed with three of the most wonderful sons a mother could have.

Alright then. I hope all is well with you and yours.