I was fine until she handed me the rock salt . . .

It's come and gone - the moment I was dreading. Steph and Tom left this morning for the midwest and it's doubtful if we'll ever see Stephanie again (Tom's sticking around for awhile - I'll be feeding him off and on). The big goodbye was looming all week - like an axe in the ceiling. I knew about it, but if I didn't take a close look I could pretend it wasn't there. We had them over for dinner as much as we could.

Especially since their refrigerator selected this week, of all times, to go out.

Poor Stephanie, Monday morning she called - in the midst of movers, packers, upheaval - to ask if I would come over and take everything out of her fridge. We got a bunch of food that I shared with friends. Wednesday she called and said she was emptying out every single thing in her cupboards, pantry and laundry room and giving it all to me. My friends and I have been totally blessed by this bounty.

Steph, if you're reading this - thank you so much!

There I was, loading up basket upon basket (laundry basket) of her food and cleaning supplies when she handed me a box of rock salt. You use rock salt to make homemade ice cream and we did that a lot with the Dennisons. I teared up, barely regained my composure and moved on, desperately trying to avoid the reason she'd given me the rock salt. She came over to put a couple of things in my freezer, closed the door, said, "That's the last of it" and we both started bawling, hugging each other in the garage. WAAAAAAAH! I'm crying now, just thinking about it.

Cinnamon rolls are another thing we used to do together. Well, I use the word "we" very, very loosely here. I would make them and Stephanie would eat them. I made her some on Thursday morning. My kids woke up to the smell of those babies baking and were like, SCORE! I don't do cinnamon rolls on weekday mornings because it means getting up at 3 am to let them rise (I roll them out the night before and put 'em back in the fridge) then again at 6:15 to bake. You know how I am about mornings - ugh.

This week has brought to light my mature and responsible ways of coping with stress. Ready? I eat and I clean. So now all my herbs are in alphabetical order and my hiney needs its own zip code. And that's on YOU, Stephanie. It's your fault. I refuse to take responsibility for any of it.

Back to the cleaning . . . you know, it would be one thing if I cleaned a bathroom or caught up on my laundry. But no, when I'm stressed out I pick totally obscure, random and impractical things to organize and clean. Things like my boys' underwear drawer or the cupboard under Duane's bathroom sink or the tupperware shelf. Next thing you know I'll be painting my garage floor. Where does that come from? I realize that prayer and taking my burdens to God are better options but the list of Freudian defense mechanisms is a veritable buffet from which to choose. Personally, I like avoidance and denial. They work for me in a completely shallow and immature way. So does wine.

OK, about the wine? That was a hint, people. You know where I live.