Uncategorized – Page 7 – Angel Wheeler

Lions, Tigers, and Bears, Oh my!

Snakes, spiders, tornadoes, heights, death, the dark, the number 13.

The fear of colors, the fear of music, the fear of wrinkles, even the fear of the belly button.

Fear, fear, fear. Dear, dear, dear. There are so many things to fear.

My mother is a fearless woman. She taught us not to fear by not being afraid herself. Her sister on the other hand, whistles when she’s in the dark. My dad was a mighty fearless guy but got the heck out of dodge if there was a snake around. I’ve been told of my uncle who was so afraid to sleep outdoors one night that he kept a firm grip on a knife while in his bedroll, only to roll over and stab himself in the gut. We all know the types: the fearless or the afraid of their own shadow kind.

Franklin Roosevelt told us there is nothing to fear, but fear itself. But really? The world is full of rapists, ax murderers, and scientists attempting to recreate the dinosaurs. I’d say there’s plenty to fear.

I am a “what if” person. I wish I wasn’t, but something crazy will come into my head, and before I can stop myself, a whole scenario has played out. What if I received a call that my husband had died. What if I contracted mad cow disease. What if Sara Lee stopped making pound cake.

My former boss once told me I had an “adversarial relationship with the fates.”

In other words, If I can imagine it, then by just imagining it will stop it from happening. I think she nailed it. I also think by imagining things, we can overcome our fears. To say I have no fears would be crazy, I have a few, but I certainly don’t dwell on them, that would be crazy.

I do have a real fear of snakes. At least I did. I don’t like them. I don’t want to watch them on the Discovery Channel striking at the camera, I don’t really mind them if they’re in a cage at the zoo, but I certainly don’t want to coil one around my arm and I definitely don’t want to be bitten. My first real encounter with a snake was traumatic. We lived in our little trailer house on the prairie, it was spring, and there was a snake in my dirt driveway. I was panic-stricken. Because it was spring, it hadn’t shaken all the cold out of it’s belly yet, and was moving slowly. I didn’t know what to do. Panic overtook me. My thoughts raced. I paced the drive. I called my husband. I stewed. I fretted. Knowing I couldn’t rest until something was done, I built up the courage of David the little shepherd boy and with a shovel, I whacked that baby snake to death. Yes, I said baby snake. Baby bull snake at that. Not even a danger to me. It didn’t go as I thought. Instead of one good whack and a lost head resulting, my shovel bounced off that snake like a game of wall ball. I had to remove myself from within myself, and go all ax murderish on that bad boy. I became one with an ax murderer. It was not pleasant, but I knew I could do it.

Afterwards, my fear and the reoccurrence of snakes in the driveway and front yard caused me to learn to differentiate between good snakes and poisonous snakes. I googled pictures, I read articles, I researched what to do in case of a poisonous bite. I learned to ignore the good snakes. Eventually to overcome my fear, I had to play out the entire scenario of being bitten by a rattlesnake, if I were 3 miles from home on a walk, 10 miles from a hospital, without my cell phone, pushing my baby in a stroller. I envisioned it all. Would I run and risk the venom cursing faster through my bloodstream, would I slowly walk to preserve my life. What if I passed out on a dirt road and nobody came by for one hour, 3 hours, 12 days? What would become of my baby? It sounds crazy, but if I imagine the worse case, then it’s not as frightening and I face it.

Right up there with fear of snakes is my fear of water and my fear of illness. I don’t like the deep water. I think the ocean is a beautiful, miraculous, intriguing place, but I would be scared to death to be in it. Give me a kiddie pool please and I’ll use my imagination. I also fear a long, drawn out illness befalling me. I fear losing my health. I don’t want to be remembered as someone who was strong through the suffering.

Most mothers fear something might happen to their children, but I don’t allow myself to go there. I won’t allow myself to play out the possibilities. They are too vast and not to be toyed with.

There’s a fine line really. We can’t live in fear, yet we can’t be so fearless that we become foolish.

A person can drive themselves crazy with fear. When I have the kind of experience when I’m afraid to be home alone at night and begin imagining all the episodes I’ve seen on America’s Most Wanted happening to me, I hold tight to the promise of God who says to Fear Not for He is with me.

Sidenote: Did you know, 365 times the Bible tells us not to fear. One for every day of the year. The most frequent Biblical command. So, yeah, stop fearing!

Sidenote #2: I’m not afraid of belly buttons, but I’m afraid of not being able to find mine real soon.

This is # 2 on a list of 30 things. list 3 legitimate fears.

Dream Job

I’m pretty sure I was an odd child. No one ever told me this, but if they knew of my imaginary play they’d likely agree. I was the youngest of 4. My brothers were much older so while I was playing Barbies, they were cruising the drag picking up chicks, well attempting to anyway, and making the police earn their money. My sister was just a tad bit older, almost 2 years, but still old enough to not want to be bothered with a younger sister. I spent most of my time playing alone, using my imagination.

I dreamed of being a ballerina or an ice skater. I would don a black and white checked taffeta skirt and practice twirls, leaps, and one footed reverse triple axels in the living room.

I longed to be a teacher. My parents gave me full reign of the garage where I created a make believe classroom. I built a podium, drew out a map of the United States and rolled it up with a string to pull down during Social Studies. Tired of using a sock for an eraser, I stealthily carried a real one out of my second grade classroom. I taught my stuffed animals the 3 R’s to the tune of a dowel rod and never grew weary.

I tried my hand at song writing and wrote a song called “Black Thunder”. It was Christmas season and my parents were out for the evening. My sister and I hadn’t plugged in the Christmas lights on the outside of the house. When they returned it was dark and they questioned why the lights weren’t on. I showed them my song I wrote and they were so impressed they thought I’d plagiarized it. In order to convince them that I really was a dadgum song writer (name that movie), my dad told me to go write another one. He gave me the title, “it just ain’t Christmas if the lights ain’t on”. It turned out to be slow and sappy and not near as good as my rock anthem “Black Thunder”. That was the end of my song writing days.

There were times I set up a chair and desk perpendicular to my bedroom window and pretended I was a bank teller working the drive thru. I sat at a desk at my Grandmother’s and pretended I designed cosmetics after watching The Bold and The Beautiful one day. I’ve wanted to be a psychologist, I’ve wanted to be a journalist. I was silly enough to want to be a waitress and even a maid. I now realize I liked the aprons.

I’ve had many dream jobs in my life. There is still much I wish I was better at. One of my husband’s professors once said, “find something you love, and then figure out a way to make money doing it.” But there is also something else I know: once a hobby or interest becomes a job, the fun sometimes goes away and is replaced by responsibility and drudgery.

Right now in my life, having no job is pretty much a dream. I’m glad to stay home with my baby and give her the time and experiences that help her grow. But if someone wants to pay me to blog, that’d be alright too.

This entry is #7 on a list of 30 things. What is your dream job?

Day In, Day Out

I never awaken on my own. I’m usually smack dab in the middle of some amazing dream when a little person whose feet are in my ribs begins to stir and repeatedly request “muck”, the translation of milk in baby talk. Staggering out of bed with my daughter in my arms, leaving my dream of lottery winning or beach lying behind forever, I put aside all my needs, never considering even a trip to the bathroom, to satisfy hers instead. Because that’s what mothers do.

Eventually, I manage a cup of coffee or two, breakfast consists of oatmeal with brown sugar and milk, while a well-worn DVD of Sesame Street or Barney provides the background noise. I sing along and speak the lines by memory knowing I could recite the entire episode better than a 7th grader reciting the Preamble to the Constitution in History class. Repetition will do that.

Our outdoor surroundings are breathtakingly relaxing and outside time is a must even on cooler days. We’re surrounded by trees, pines, hummingbirds, deer, and birds of all colors. So Emma and I spend our time in the backyard with our dogs, chickens, slide, and sandbox soaking up Vitamin D. My girl toddles around exploring the ins and outs of pine needles, rocks, dog water, and sticks and I use this opportunity to read a short story or a chapter in a book. I might take my notebook and colored pen out and attempt a little short story of my own. But my mind gets weighed down with my character or the conflict that needs to surround him, the voice of inadequateness drowns out the voice of creativeness until I seek refuge in facebook or a round of Words with Friends on my phone. Eventually I become distracted enough with technology that I don’t even notice when my fictional character sneaks away and drowns in the river next to our house.

Lunchtime comes and goes, a cuisine suited to a toddler palette: noodles, goldfish crackers, bananas and the like. A yawn or sometimes a one year old frenzy indicates naptime so we shake the sand from our shoes and climb into an unmade bed for an afternoon nap. She wallers and hums. I pat and sing, and eventually she dozes off. I then sneak out of bed and quietly bottle around the house doing odds and ends; housework, exercise, more reading or occasionally I may be so bold as to nap with her.

During late afternoon, we pack up and head to the Middle School to pick up my niece Ash from school, then it’s back home for more of the same. Usually after it’s too late, I realize I didn’t plan anything for supper. This realization throws me into a maddening search on the internet for a recipe consisting of tomato sauce and salmon.

My husband returns from work, and the evening passes as all other evenings in American households. Supper, dishes, baths, and bed.

Once a week we join a playgroup and two days later we visit the library where I engage in adult conversation, usually about kids.

I spend most of my day on a toddler level. I sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider, I read Goodnight Moon, I blow bubbles, mold homemade play dough, hold hands while climbing steps, clean noses, wipe butts, give hugs and kisses and receive as many back, wash high chairs, cook spaghetti, step on hair clips abandoned on the ground, wipe crayon off the wooden floor, wash sticky hands and faces, and wipe tears.

Through it all, I dream of writing.

Some days I wonder if this is all there is. I am in the trenches of motherhood. Stay at home motherhood. There are times I feel very purposeless, unimportant. Cooking and cleaning is my existence. But deep in my soul, I know there is no greater purpose for me than this girl named Emma, whose hair hangs in her eyes, whose nose wrinkles when she grins. I am the most important person to her right now. I won’t always be. This time is numbered, and I’m doing my best to make it count. For both of us.

This entry is #12 on the list of 30 things. Describe a typical day.

Ending My Writing Drought

It’s just a common old ice box. Fridge on bottom, freezer on top, almond in color. It came with the house. Unlike other women folk who show pride in their appliances, notably the cleanliness of it, the outside of my fridge looks much like the inside. And if you’ve been reading here long enough, you are witness to the fact that my icebox could easily appear on an episode of What Not to Eat. And if you haven’t been reading here long, enter at your own risk.

It will not come as a big surprise to discover inspirational quotes, scriptures, and hand print art decorating the outside doors of the fridge, held in place by various magnets either given to me or picked up for free throughout the years. There is Ashlynn’s Algebra papers with A’s stacked on top of Emma’s immunization records affixed in place with a #1 Teacher magnet. There is a Christmas card photo halfway covered by a magnet boldly displaying Poison Control’s 1-800 number which fortunately I have yet to call since I know from previous experience that eating rat squares didn’t kill my niece Zoie, so until somebody eats at least two, I won’t worry.

A fortune from 3 years ago announcing I will inherit a large sum of money is stuck randomly next to a postcard size depiction of Jesus in a white robe and open arms that my mom brought with her on her last visit. You can always count on your mom to worry about your soul. Don’t worry, my soul is safe.

And hidden behind all of this is a torn piece of notebook paper from a spiral notebook. On that paper I have scribbled 30 things that I was going to blog about. I attached to the fridge so I would see it often and I wouldn’t forget to blog about these particular 30 things. Anyone else see the irony?

It’s really not that I forgot. Okay, sometimes I did. But also, it’s hard. These topics may leave me vulnerable, they force me to think, and think hard, and quite frankly some are just dull. But I said I would, and so I will. Starting tomorrow.

My blog is currently under a dry spell, and this is my effort to bring some life back to it.

Not to mention afterwards I can throw away the list on my fridge and replace it with a scribbled color page with coffee stains.

What about you? What’s the oddest thing on your fridge?

And by the way, this gem right here is my 500th blog post. Here’s to 500 more. Cheers.

The Hummers

I overheard them talking in the doctor’s office a few weeks ago.

You need to get ready for them.

They’re here.

We saw some at our place yesterday.

Hummingbirds.

So I heeded their advice and went to The Walmarts to buy a couple of feeders. I googled how to make sugar water (4 parts water to 1 part sugar), and I filled my feeders and hung them on the patio.

I doubted they would come. Just because I doubt most good things will come in my life. It’s a huge weakness in my character. But lo and behold, as Emma Kate and I were outside enjoying the day, the dogs, and the chickens, they came. They did! Two of them hummed their way over to the feeders and got a drink.

I was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. I ran to get my camera and of course, as in the way things happen, they flitted away to the trees. I could still hear them tweeting and buzzing around, but they wouldn’t come to the feeders again.

I waited and waited and waited. Some might find waiting on the hummingbirds tedious and boring, their minds filled with a laundry list of to-do’s that they would rather be doing, but the simplicity of the afternoon overtook me and as I waited on the hummingbirds, I sat in the sun and let it warm me all the way to my insides. There’s something healing about a little sunshine warming the innermost.

I watched my darling daughter play in the animal’s drinking water. We have a waterer for the chickens and a big bowl for the dogs, but they don’t seem to understand the distinction, so the dogs drink after the chickens and the chickens drink after the dogs, and Emma Kate drinks after both. It’s good for the immune system I say.

She got pine needles and dunked them through the water and sucked the moisture off, she splashed, and she laughed. And the laughter from a little child on a sunshiny spring day is music to the ears.

She herded chickens and hugged them from behind and Grace, our heeler dog, herded right along with her. Ever vigilant to protect Emma from chicken danger. Meanwhile, Drew, who’s a couple milkbones short of a full box, chewed on a pink bone and didn’t ever once feel his manhood threatened. Real dogs chew pink bones.

And finally as the day drew to a close, and the sun dipped behind the house, and the shadows grew longer, I got a halfway decent picture of a hummingbird. But my true treasure is the several decent pictures I got of a simple day in the backyard that soothed and healed my soul.

The Dress

This is EK’s Easter dress that I finished today.

That is, if “finished” means taking 2 safety pins and pinning up the neck where it was too big.

No, you don’t need to tell me that Easter was yesterday.

Or that she didn’t wear it to church because

1) it wasn’t finished

2) we didn’t go to church.

Anyway, I’m super proud of this dress, even though it lacks perfection or completion for that matter. My mother would be proud too that I even lined up the chevron stripes on the sides. It is a pattern I bought from adelaideoriginal.com She has the cutest dresses that she makes, but at nearly $50 a pop, I just can’t do that. But she did release a pattern for one of her dresses so I snatched it up.

I am a very beginner sewer and this did involve a technique I’d never tried before, so it was a bit frustrational on my part.

It has an extra long hem, and the way the neck and sleeves fit, I think she’ll be able to wear it for a few years. So that makes me happy. And I had fun! My sister gave me the material and it was exciting watching it come together and picking the color and designing the flower on the sash.

It’s perfect for Spring and hopefully she’ll get to wear it out soon, without the safety pins in the neckline!!

What Crazy Must Feel Like

There are three days left in the month of March. I haven’t blogged all month. I won’t even pretend to act like I’m not aware of that. Every day I say to myself, “I need to blog. I want to blog. I wish I could blog.” When I don’t blog, it’s not the same in my world.

I’ve had a super busy month and I’ve had a super case of anxiety of which I can’t explain.

I found myself in the bathtub at 3:00 a.m. the other night, unable to sleep, tormented when I found sleep by my dreams of fighting for my life, awakening to the feeling of the bed floating while I lay under my blue and white comforter, but at the same time I was looking down from outer space onto the sphere of the earth with all the blues and greens, and seeing myself lying on my bed, and my bed being lifted off the world, right off the continent of North America, into the dark abyss of the unknown where I would be hurled and spin out of control with no way of reaching my bedroom again.

And then I was being pumped up, like an exercise ball. Puff, puff, puff. With every puff of air I became a little head and two little arms and legs on a huge round body. Like that blueberry-gum chewing girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I wrapped my arms around my literal self to convince my mind it wasn’t happening, but couldn’t. I was going to explode. I was a humongous bubble. Any puff might be the one that stretches the limit and causes the explosion. But instead of the fruit of goodness, kindness, patience, love, joy, peace, and gentleness that should burst forth were I to explode, there would be anger, rage, resentment and jealousy and all the ugly things that fill me. I imagined all the onlookers, all the ones who know me, standing in my bedroom gawking at the aftermath of my demise. Staring as the ugly insides of me oozed down the wall and dripped from the ceiling. They wouldn’t find a drop of goodness, not even a drop of blueberry juice. Wow, they would think. How could one person be filled with all that ugliness.

The beginning of crazy, I thought. This is the beginning of me losing my ever loving mind. This must be what crazy people feel like. I saw myself a bag lady, pushing my shopping cart, wearing three coats in summer, with six cats piled on my shoulders and head, mumbling to myselves. And then I began to worry about who will take care of my baby if I lose my mind, which caused more anxiety. So I got out of bed and I did some normal things. I took a bath, then I did a load of laundry, and sat on the couch drinking hot mint tea while the rest of my house slumbered in peaceful darkness oblivious to the lunatic living inside the same four walls. And I recited the scripture, “For you have not been given a spirit of fear, but one of power, and love, and a sound mind.” A Sound Mind! A SOUND mind. A sound MIND. I recited it over and over. I have a sound mind. The Peace of God filled me, held me, and calmed me.

Then I blamed my craziness on my supper not settling well, too much gas and bloat, and I got a grip. And finally I went back to bed knowing I don’t ever want to experience that again, but it wasn’t a total waste. At least I got a load of laundry done.

Am I worthy of a ‘hello, nice to meet you?’

I’m ranting.

Not just because I’m mad, but because I’m sad too. Anger and tears. That’s what happens to me. First I get angry, and then I cry and then I get angrier that I’m crying, and then I cry harder, which makes me more angry. Aaarrrggghhhh!

I have such a high tolerance too. I rarely get mad, so I have to sort this out in my mind. Why am I so mad? Or am I really hurt? Yes that’s it, I’m hurt. If my friend were sitting on my bed with me right now she would remind me that anger is a peacock emotion. In other words, anger shows itself while a different emotion is being hidden. One of those hidden emotions is hurt.

I have just been treated so rudely by someone in the educational field, a professional I dare call him, and I’ll use that term loosely. Blatant, out and out, rudeness. Offensive. Treated as if I were nothing. A nobody. My niece’s teacher would not look up from his computer to simply say hello when my niece wanted me to meet him. As I introduced myself, I got a hmmmm hmmmm in response, right along with a “I’ve got a conference at 3:30”. He didn’t stand, he didn’t say hello, he didn’t extend his hand, he didn’t even look me in the eye.

I am an outsider here. I am reminded of it all too often. My self worth and self confidence is at an all time low for whatever reason, and for someone to not acknowledge that I exist, that I am standing in the same room, that I am a human being with a beating heart, well quite honestly, he waylaid me. I have been drop-kicked in the gut.

Am I unworthy to be spoken to. No, that’s ridiculous. I feel so silly to allow someone to make me feel this low. Yet, I do.

This is a feeling I don’t think I have ever experienced before IN MY LIFE. A feeling of complete unworth. And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Which causes me to question, have I ever treated someone else like this? Even unconsciously? I hope not. I hope I have never made anyone, be it a parent at school, a relative, a clerk at the convenience store, a classmate from high school, or a beggar on the corner feel as if they were nothing, as if they didn’t matter, as if they were unimportant. But the truth is, I have. I’m sure I have. Even though I can’t recall it, they remember it. How could someone forget. It hurts too deeply.

So, what will I do? Will I fire off a scathing email to him like I want, and then visit his principal and tattle on him, like I want?

No I won’t.

Will I tell my husband through my tears what happened and beg him to go beat him up, like I want?

No I won’t.

Will I find out where he lives and throw a roll of toilet paper through his tree branches and then egg his car?

Maybe I will do that.

No, I won’t.

Instead I’ll remind myself of who I actually am. I’ll thank my God that He has made me HIS CHILD, that I am a daughter of THE ALMIGHTY KING, that I am HIGHLY FAVORED, that God DELIGHTS in me, that He SINGS over me, that I am LOVED so very much that God himself would robe himself in flesh, remain sinless, yet die a gruesome death for me. FOR ME. I am WORTH that much to Him. Unworthy to be spoken to by a teacher, maybe I am, but to God I am SOMEBODY. Because of that, I will lift my head, I will wipe my tears, and I will remember that everyone (including that teacher) is worthy of a smile, a kind word, a simple hello. I will strive to be a better person who treats everyone I meet with dignity and respect, regardless of how busy I am, what kind of day I’m having, or whether I had my coffee that morning. What a humbling experience I’ve had today, and what a reminder and a lesson I have learned.

If I have ever made you feel bad about yourself, please forgive me. Please know it was not intentional. Please know I did not intend to hurt you.

Sending you my cyber hug,

Angel

Today, I’m remembering my dad. I hope that’s alright with you.
It’s been 2 years, probably about this time exactly, that he died.
I miss him. A lot. Some days it hurts, and other days are just days like every other one before.
There’s a lot of good in this world, we shouldn’t dwell in sadness, so I’m reposting this blog from a couple of years ago. It makes me smile. Hope you do too.

Angel Wheeler

Today, I’m remembering my dad. I hope that’s alright with you.
It’s been 2 years, probably about this time exactly, that he died.
I miss him. A lot. Some days it hurts, and other days are just days like every other one that has come before.
There’s a lot of good in this world, we shouldn’t dwell in sadness, so on a sad day, I’m reposting this blog from a couple of years ago. It makes me smile. Hope you do too.

This is a repost. It’s about my dad. It’s bits and pieces from his emails, all compiled into one.

Ignore the punctuation and spelling, because he does too.

Even though you may not have known him, he was good at his job, so listen to him.

About Exercise:

“i’m really enjoying it, although i’m sooo tired by the end of the week. hope i can stay focused and…

View original post 637 more words

Sara Lee, my first love

I just so happen to be one of the unfortunate souls who’ve been cursed with a sweet tooth. Mine doesn’t hide in the back with the molars, but actually lives up front and center and it makes sure that it gets noticed when a hankering comes along, which is just about every day around four o’clock. And sometimes at 2:00, and it’s been known to complain at 8:30 in the morning and then give me fits about every 2 hours afterwards.

I’ve kicked the sugar habit in the past before and really, I’ll agree, that the first 2 or 3 days are the worst but if you can make it past that, it does get easier. I need to kick the sugar habit again, but it is hard when Sebastian the Sweet Tooth bellows and moans and groans like he does. He’s like a spoiled child in the grocery store kicking and squalling until you give in on the candy aisle. He needs quieting and that comes in the form of any sort of sweet in the house. I happen to be married to a fellow sweet tooth harborer, and you can bet there’s usually a cookie or a brownie, a cake or a scone lying around to curb the fit. When I’m in dire straits to hush Sebastian the Sweet Tooth, I pop open the Semi-sweet chocolate chips and have a small handful. Sometimes two. And sometimes with a spoon of peanut butter.

But the worst temptation of all for Sebastian the Sweet Tooth is Sara Lee All Butter Pound Cake. It’s actually not allowed in the house unless there’s a special occasion or a weak moment, usually the latter. It doesn’t last; the pound cake not the weak moment. And I mean it won’t last 2 days. Even if it’s the family size all butter pound cake. Family Size means just enough for me and Sebastian. I like it cold, not frozen or room temperature and I find myself with a butter knife in hand, eating it by the slice repetitively. My sweet husband will buy it for me every now and then as a profession of his love because obviously he doesn’t mind loving a curvy woman. He knows the way to my heart.

This past week J-Dub went grocery shopping. Unpacking the white plastic sacks, he reached his hand in one and with a coy little smile he said, “I got you something.” I was hoping I was right when I guessed. Yes. Yes. Yes. Sara Lee All Butter Pound Cake. I waited until the next morning around 8:30 when Sebastian the Sweet Tooth awoke grouchily. I noticed on opening the package that the lid stuck to the cake more than usual and pulled off quite a bit of the top layer. I sat down with my cup of coffee, because there aint much better than coffee and cake wouldn’t you agree, I sliced the end piece, took a bite, and made a dreadful face.

It was awful! So I took another bite. I had to. Perhaps my taste buds had gone awry over night. It was sticky, and instead of a firm texture it had more of an angel food cake texture, sort of spongy, and a terribly salty aftertaste. Well, I finished the piece, thinking surely it was just me, but I didn’t enjoy it.

So at lunch, Sebastian the Sweet Tooth and I attempted another piece since that crusty end piece really is never all that good. But we got the same results. Awful. I checked the date on the package and it had like a year left, you know all those preservatives. Upon further inspection, I noticed something I had never noticed, and you can bet I had looked at the cover of that pound cake plenty in my time. But right there it said “now more moist”. What????? That could only mean one thing. My taste buds are fine and dandy and instead the recipe to my beloved All Butter pound cake had been altered.

Now I’ve been upset before in my life. When I get upset, the first thing I want to do is react in some way that is unbecoming to myself with screams and stomps and plenty of embarrassment and regret following. So more often than not, I allow logic to win and I start talking to that street fighter in my head. I talk him out of any reactions that are bubbling in my belly, expanding with force and trying to push themselves to the top of my throat and out of my mouth.

But this? This was too much. They’d gone and messed up my Sara Lee Pound cake. I couldn’t just let it go.

So I emailed them and asked them if they had indeed changed the recipe and kindly told them that I prefer the old cake better and to please change it back. I received an email from them in about 24 hours, explaining that yes they did change the “formula” because people complained about it being to dry, but they received an overwhelming amount of new complaints with the new “formula” and were returning to the original. My heart leapt.

Today I received a coupon from Sara Lee for a free product up to $6.99 in value. That amount will more than cover a family size *ORIGINAL* pound cake for sure.

Sara Lee, Sebastian and I thank you!!!!