So yesterday my sister-in-law, Robin, turned 53. You wouldn’t know it, she doesn’t look a day over 32.

She’s all sorts of trouble these days, after recently realizing that she’s milk and gluten intolerant. Have you ever tried to bake a cake for someone who can’t eat basic cake ingredients? Let me tell you, it’s a labor of love.

So, like a good little sister, I raided her cupboard of all things non-gluten and started to bake her a cake.

“Whatcha doin’?” Harrison asks me, walking into the kitchen.

“I’m baking Aunt Robin a birthday cake. She’s turning 53!”

“Ohhh,” he says with this angelic look on his face, “Is she going to Heaven now?”

Holy birthday cake, but I love that boy.

What is it that gives you a sense of completion, deep down in your gut?

While I was rewinding The Brave Little Toaster Goes to Mars this afternoon, I caught a glimpse of Meryl Streep being interviewed about her new Julia Child’s movie. She said something that stuck in my head. She said, “Happiness and success comes from being yourself, in the most vivid way you possibly can.”

It made me pause before starting up the movie. I thought for a second, and realized that yes. She’s right. Nothing replaces that extra bit of umf that we put into whatever it is we love.

I think sometimes as mom’s, wives, worker bees and homemakers, we get completely wrapped up in the happiness and success of those around us (unless we happen across a particularly good vampire novel which trumps everything else), to the point where we ride along on their success and joy and call it our own.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve found happiness in a clearance sale at The Rack, or a smokin’ hot haircut. Sometimes a private pan of brownies does the trick. But none of that really gets to the heart of it.

I’ll tell you right now, since I’ve been writing on this here blog, I’ve been happier with me than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Why? Because I’ve found my place to be me. Vividly me.

I don’t care if your thing is writing, basket weaving, dog training or cooking, if you don’t stop to find what makes you tick, deep down in your core, and cultivate it, you’ll end up confused and dissatisfied with your life. Find it. Find it now. What have you got to lose?

I’m all about fair stories this week. Check out this week’s column in The Vidette for more details.

So we went to the Grays Harbor Fair this weekend. Rex insisted on riding the Ferris Wheel, and the Ferris Wheel insisted that I go with him. Personally, I hate heights and anything that spins, so this put me in a great mood. Here are a few things I suggest you should never do on the Ferris Wheel.

Get on.

With a four-year-old.

Try to clean the face of that four-year-old while you’re waiting 45 minutes for the Ferris Wheel to load.

Attempt to keep the four-year-old from kicking the car in front of you, a struggle which simultaneously rocks your car, despite the big sign that says, “Do Not Rock Cars.”

Look down.

All I can say is, there’s a reason Disney Land doesn’t have a Ferris Wheel, you gettin’ me?

I have a thing to say about bedtime.

I can’t help it, I’m a compulsive putter-to-bedder when it comes to my children. In the wintertime, we have lights out by 7:00 for the baby, and 7:30 for the boys. In the summer, the boys usually get an extra hour, but unless cousins are present, they go to sleep with the sun still high in the sky.

I can remember getting sent to bed as a child, with the late summer sun still running for the hills. There were nights that I hung around in bed for what seemed like hours, peeling wallpaper (sorry, Mom) and counting flowers on my quilt. But this was a critical step in my upbringing. I knew, from the time I was an infant, that I was a less-important person in our house.

My parents were so smart.

When kids get to stay up as late as the adults, the cycle of “I’m just as important as you are” begins. This is a dangerous loop. Once your children figure out that they actually have worth, it’s all over. Better to keep them humble and ignorant as long as humanly possible. There will be plenty of time for them to think they know as much/more than you, and think they deserve the same/better treatment.

But under the age of ten? Get to bed, Kid, before I turn into a pumpkin and jack-o-lantern all over your little bare bum.

You know, I was planning to write some witty little quip today, then I read this post right here and decided that she says it SO MUCH BETTER. Hop on over to the Youngbloods–this is my kind of reality check.

Sigh. I just licked the last little bit of white sauce out of my Lean Cuisine container and chased it with some sugar-free chocolate. I then chugged 16 oz. of water, and have sternly told my stomach that the kitchen is closed so stop grumbling.

I hate 6 pm.

In other news, have you ever dreamed that your husband was dead, only to wake up all panicked and find him snoring next to you?

Now picture the same dream, an empty bed, and a husband who’s been hijacked by a bunch of 16 year-old boys, and is currently canoeing away somewhere in the wilderness without any cell phone coverage. I’m completely convinced that he’s either been eaten by a bear, or drowned.

I thought to myself, what am I going to do all alone? Who’ll pay the bills, and take out the trash? And what about that horrible hilly lawn, and come on, I can’t sleep in the dark by myself. Something might be under the bed.

But…

I have to admit, I’m a different person when I Single Parent it. I used to wonder how women raised children without husbands around, but I’ll tell you right now, they’re tough. When I’m on my own, it’s amazing how much I get done.

I actually detailed my huge vehicle today all by myself. We’re talking two hours and a toothbrush detailed. The kind of detailed that you don’t want to know about. Seriously, what are those kids doing back there? I swear they smuggle spray paint into the car when I’m not looking so they can graffiti all over the upholstery.

So I saw that spin-off of The Bachelor, “More To Love”  last night. In case you missed the previews, it’s a show about one Big Guy dating 20 Big Girls (and no, it’s no relation to Big Love, although that would have been a better title). I forced Jenny to come watch it with me. It was kind of like a reality television train wreck.

Here’s the thing. First off, why didn’t they have 20 guys vying for one plus size girl, instead of the other way around? After seeing the pilot episode, one thing is for sure: these girls each deserve their own group of men, duking it out over who gets to share the hot fudge Sunday with them, not the other way around. The show is totally heartbreaking.

And if I hear one more contestant tearfully lament that, “This is my only chance at love!” I might actually gain a little weight, go on the show under a false identity, just for the chance to say on national television that Fat Girls Are People Too, and that darn it, men want me. Would someone please give these girls some hope?

And secondly, HOW DARE THEY POST THE PARTICIPANT’S WEIGHT?! Because obviously, the women on this show are totally confident in their appearances. So confident that most of them missed prom, have never had boyfriends, and cry during every. Single. Interview.

And the guy? At first glance I really thought he seemed quality–until he started asking for kissses in three different languages. I’m sorry, but if you want to kiss me after three minutes of stimulating conversation with 19 other women watching, you’re obviously smooching up the wrong tree. Then again, if someone had recruited me for my plus size and posted my weight on national television, I probably wouldn’t have the courage to say no either.

I don’t know if I can stand to watch another episode, it’s so totally wrong. I feel like I should send these girls a copy of my *Bounce Back! tape to listen to. “Ba-bou–ba-bou–ba-bou–ba-bou—-Bounce Back!”

Oh yeah, and have any of you watched Dating in the Dark? See, this is what happens when you’re away from your husband for too long. Shameful late-night television indulgences. I disgust myself.

*Bounce Back! is a motivational casette tape that was released by our church in the ’80’s. Apparently, I’m the only person who ever listened to it. Hey, it got me through fifth grade (I was kind of chubby). I still have two copies that I keep in a safe deposit box for when June turns ten.

For starters, I haven’t put on tennis shoes yet, and my feet have not hit the pavement. I have vertigo. I was busy with my kids. I needed to stare at a patch of grass. The excuses are endless.

So being home in Elma, I picked up a little freelance work with the local paper. I’ll tell you straight up, it’s been years since I did any real journalism. My column is fun and easy and rolls off my keyboard without any serious brain power or painful finger effort.

One of the problems with being out of the loop this long is that I forget basic journalism lingo. When my editor emailed my assignment, he asked for 3600 characters, or about twenty inches. There was a time when I didn’t even think about how long twenty inches was, it was just a given. 3600 words? Okay, I can make that happen.

After pestering my short list of people and getting sources squared away, I finally sat down to write. 600 words into the deal I was sweating bon bons and wondering if I should pad my article with future weather predictions and back alley gossip. I fasted, I prayed, I freaked out.

Then I realized it. My editor said characters. Characters aren’t words, they’re spaces. 3600 characters equals just about 800 words.

And here I was, wasting all that valuable freak-out time on nothing. It made me wonder just how often my freak outs are actually valid. I seriously think that most of the things we women flip our flops about are nothing more than semantical errors.

Must. Stop. Freaking. Out. All the time.

I have had such a solid grip on my weight since the June Bug broke through the surface that I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to want to throw the scale through a window.

I’m on vacation. I’m at my mother’s house. These two things do not make for good weight control (unless you’re looking to store up for the long, cold winter). And even though I know, I know, that her scale is four pounds heavier than mine (because no one can gain four solid pounds during a 14 hour car trip), I still feel violent and resentful every time I cross it’s threshold and offer up my self-esteem to the digital gods.

And so, I’m back to my good old, miserable old plan. The one that involves lots of Lean Cuisines and no eating after 6 pm. It also means spitting accidental bites of PB&J on homemade white bread into the trash and eating so many sugar-free Russell Stouver’s mint patties that I spend a significant amount of time in the bathroom. Cause I’m healthy like that.

But there is a new twist to this plan that I intend to implement tomorrow morning. I am going to start running. There, I said it. I hate running, it’s stupid and boring and not at all social. Running is for smart people who care about their hearts more than their knees (my knees are WAY more important to me). I should probably admit here that I’ve been trying to get started all week. It’s those stupid shoes. Who ties shoes anymore? Heels don’t have strings.

I do have to say that after three days on the system I’m already down a pound, and by the end of next week I’ll be back to my untoned self. When I get back next month, I am picking up my yoga classes with some seriously zen enthusiasm.

Hold on, do I smell brownies? Mmmm, chocolate.