How to Punk Your Kid in a VERY Funny Way

How to Punk Your Kid in a VERY Funny Way #humor #trick #kids #parenting #funny

So then…I tap my car blinker, round a corner, and catch Chloe’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

“What’s wrong, honey? You look worried,” I say to my 6-year-old daughter.

My son Tucker, age 9, turns around from the front seat to look at his little sister in the back.

“Well,” she says, “I’m can’t think of anything to confess for my Reconciliation.”

“Ohhh,” says Tucker. “I remember doing that when I was in second grade. You have to confess some sins to the priest before you can have your First Holy Communion.”

“Yeah,” says Chloe. “And it’s this weekend and everyone in my Communion class has to have a sin to tell Father Tom.”

“Well, honey, you shouldn’t stress about it,” I reassure her.

“But I don’t know what to say. What should I confess?” she asks.

“How about ‘Triple Homicide?’” I say.

Tucker bursts out laughing.

“What, what?” says Chloe.

“Triple Homicide!” says Tucker. “Yes, definitely say that, Chloe!”

“What does it mean?” she asks. “What’s tripplehommassigh?”

(Geez, what’s wrong with this kid? Doesn’t she watch Law & Order?)

“Oh, it just means you disobey your parents sometimes,” I say.

Tucker snickers. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says.

(Clearly he agrees with me it would be hysterical to have this darling little 6-year-old girl sweetly confess to murder to our elderly parish priest.)

But Chloe’s suspicious of our merriment. “Wait, what does it REALLY mean?”

“OK, OK. It means you killed 3 people,” I say.

“WHAT! Mom! I’m not gonna say that to Father Tom!” she exclaims.

“Yes, you should. Just sit down and whisper menacingly, ‘I’m confessing to Triple Homicide. And if you tell anyone, I’ll make it QUADRUPLE.’”

Tucker laughs so hard.

Chloe is horrified. (especially once we tell her what “quadruple” means)

But we tell her how funny this is – and how priceless the priest’s expression would be – and she actually considers it.

But of course on the big day, she chickens out and confesses to something totally lame like fighting with her brother or talking back to her parents.

Tucker and I are sorely disappointed.

But our spirits are lifted on the day of Chloe’s First Holy Communion when she provides us with a big belly laugh.

The Church is filled with the adorable 2nd graders – girls in gorgeous white dresses and veils; boys in mini suits and slicked back hair. The families are all beaming on this momentous occasion.

Chloe and a classmate are chosen to carry the bread and wine up the aisle to the altar to give to the priest.

As Chloe proudly walks up that aisle, past all the parishioners, she stumbles and DROPS the bread basket! The basket tumbles forward – and the consecrated holy hosts are about to go skittering across the floor in all directions!

There’s a collective “gasp!” from the congregation witnessing the travesty.

Thank God, (yes, I mean that LITERALLY), the basket rights itself before landing on the floor – with the Communion hosts safely intact inside! They do NOT touch the floor and do NOT need to be destroyed.

She quickly grabs up the basket and scrambles up the aisle to the altar, practically shoving it in the hands of the priest.

Tucker and I look at each other and lose it.  We’re biting our lips with laughter.

“One job. She had ONE job…”

(Of course Tucker is no stranger to creating an embarrassing ruckus in Church himself, as THIS story will quickly prove!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any embarrassing Church stories to share? When you were 6, what “sins” would you have been guilty of? Ever convince your kid to say something funny unbeknownst to them?)

SPONSORS WE LOVE

Today I’m delighted to tell you about Iva, the amazingly articulate and fabulously funny writer behind the Yes I’m Crazy, That’s Why I’m Awesome blog. Some posts are short and funny like the person in the backseat throwing a tantrum for KFC (who turns out to be her 60+-year-old Mom!) — and some posts are insightful, well-researched essays that make you ponder that topic in a new light.

Why I'm Cray Awesomely Oz Iva Photo with Caption

In Iva’s own words: “Yes I’m Crazy, That’s Why I’m Awesome was started to release all the activity in my brain.  I love writing and always have, so I figured a healthy outlet that is my very own, with reasonable restrictions (it is the web you know) was a good idea.  I describe myself as an essayist with a descriptive-style of writing. Twice a week I post short and sweet moderately well-articulated articles about society and life.  As much as I focus on various life experiences, I love researching various topics. I love learning about different things and constantly strive to do so via my blog.  I have an entire series devoted to just that appropriately titled ‘GTFO’ -check out some of my post links below: 

GTFO: Mind Over Matter
The Irrationality of Irrational Anger
Liebster Award: Who Me? Couldn’t Be!

My readers have mentioned time and again that reading my blog, you can always learn something or at least leave pondering.  As one reader puts it: “I love your post content, I always feel I actually have some personal sort of growth from reading your blog!! :)” So come check me out sometime, I’d love to hear from ya! — Iva”

Thank you, Iva, for advertising on So Then Stories!  And thank you, readers, for checking out Iva’s blog!  — Darcy Perdu

Deciphering Last Night’s Drunken Deeds

Deciphering Last Night's Drunken Deeds
So then…I fumble for the washcloth through bleary eyes. My head’s throbbing as I soap up my arm, my chest, my breast – hey, what is this? What’s this big black mark on my boob?

I squint and bring my wobbly head closer to my left breast. I scrub harder but the black mark isn’t disappearing! What the hell? How’d my boob get so dirty and why isn’t it getting clean?

As the shower spray pounds my head like a thousand jackhammers, I have sudden flashes of last night’s escapades:

Dark nightclub
Loud music
Live band
Drinking
LOTS of drinking
Dancing – was I dancing?

I finish the shower post-haste, trying to shampoo tenderly, but each touch is torment.

I open the medicine cabinet for Tylenol, but it’s my brother’s house and apparently he and his wife keep their hangover cures elsewhere.

We’re all in our 20s – and they love to party, so I know they have hangover cures somewhere.

I stumble into the guest bedroom and paw through my suitcase for clothes. My business trip was fairly close to their Dallas home so I had hopped over for the weekend. They took me out last night – and I recall having a blast – but the details are…sketchy.

I walk into the kitchen, bypassing my brother Dan, and go straight to his wife Shelby, baring my bosom. “What the hell is this?” I ask.

“Ohhhh,” she says, laughing. “That’s the autograph!”

“The autograph? It wouldn’t come off!” I say. “Is it written in Sharpie?”

“Yes, I think he did sign in Sharpie,” she confirms, giggling. Dan snickers.

“‘He?’” I ask. “Who the hell signed my boob!?”

“The Hood!” they say in unison.

Ahhh, yes. The Hood. Suddenly a memory flashes. One of the band members!

“The bass player?” I ask. They nod.

Now I remember that Dan and Shelby took me to see one of their favorite local bands last night. They are a really great band and the whole club was rockin’. The Hood wore a black hood that completely hid his face, sort of like this:
Deciphering (Hood Photo)

I sit down and pour some cereal. “Do you have Tylenol?”

Shelby joins us at the table with the Tylenol and her coffee and says teasingly, “You really liked him, Darcy.”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “He was so sexy.”

“How can you tell?” asks my brother. “He wears a hood.”

“Yeah, but he’s tall and thin – and dressed all in black leather – and you could see that his hair was a little long under his hood,” I say. “Plus he’s an amazing bass player!”

“Yeah,” says Shelby. “Lots of girls love this band. The lead singer’s really good looking and so is the drummer – but most girls like The Hood ‘cause he’s so mysterious. He never takes the hood off.”

“I bet he’s gorgeous,” I say dreamily.

Dan scoffs. “Gorgeous? I don’t think he’s wearing a hood ‘cause he’s gorgeous.”

“Well, maybe he has a day job like a doctor or a lawyer or something – and he doesn’t want his patients or clients to know he’s in a rock band,” I say hopefully.

“No,” says Dan. “It’s probably ‘cause he’s hideous – but he’s a great bass player, so the other band members are like, ‘yeah, you can be in the band, Ted, but you gotta cover that shit up.’”

“No way!” I say defensively.

“And I doubt he’s a doctor,” says Dan. “Maybe he wears the hood ‘cause he’s a fugitive from America’s Most Wanted.”

“What?” I say, alarmed. “You let some deviant sign your little sister’s boob?”

They laugh. “I didn’t know you were gonna do that!” he says. “You and Shelby went to meet the band on their break. I was still at our table.”

I whirl on Shelby, which sends a rush of pain to my head. I pop two Tylenol. “Shelby, clearly I was plastered! Why’d you let me do that?”

Dan interjects. “‘Cause she was plastered too. We all were!”

Shelby says, “Well, lots of people were asking for their autographs. But you didn’t have any paper, so when you asked The Hood, you just whipped out your boob and told him to sign there!”

I blush bright red. “Omigod! How embarrassing!!”

They laugh at me.

“I don’t even remember that happening!” I say. “When was that?”

Dan thinks a moment and says to Shelby, “Was that before she danced with that cowboy?”

“I danced with a cowboy?” I say.

“Nah, I think it was after she drank champagne out of her shoe,” says Shelby.

“What?”

“Yeah,” says Shelby. “You can tell we were smashed ‘cause we started with beer and wine, then shots, then champagne.”

“Oh, man, I only remember the wine part,” I say. I curl my lip at the idea of drinking anything out of my high heel. How unsanitary!

Shelby laughs. “Oh, you were having a good time last night! Drinking and dancing! I can’t remember exactly when you got your boob signed, though.”

Dan says, “Was it before or after she threw up in her shoe?”

“WHAT!?” I shout. “I threw up? In my shoe?”

They both laugh again. “Yep!” says my brother.

“And you mean to tell me there was a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ to my throwing up? How could there be an AFTER? Why wouldn’t you take me straight home if I THREW UP?”

“It’s a really great band,” says my brother, shrugging.

Oh my good God.

I vow to never drink again.

And to burn my shoes immediately.

Regrettably, I break both those promises.

— Darcy Perdu

(Ever offer your lady parts for an autograph? Why do you think The Hood wore a hood? Please share a funny story from your drunken days so I can feel better about myself!)

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Deciphering P 1100 x 700

When Divorced Parents Try to Top Each Other in SPECTACULAR Fashion

I thought the MOM'S birthday party for the kid was lavish -- then I heard the DAD'S party theme!  Holy Shizznit!! #funny @sothenstories
So then…my friend Lila thrusts a glass of wine in my hand and pulls me over to a couple who are sampling appetizers in her living room.

Ever the fabulous hostess, Lila says, “Darcy, these are my friends Keith and Julie.  They’re just about to spill some gossip, so listen up.”

Julie laughs and says, “Well, I was just going to tell Lila about the birthday party we attended for Jake, one of our son’s friends.  It was a little…over the top.”

Lila snorts.  “Ha!  Over the top?  His family’s loaded!  So spill – what was the party like?”

Keith says, “Apparently Jake had mentioned to his Mom that he misses having a real winter because we all live out here in sunny Los Angeles—”

“So she had truckloads of snow delivered to their house!” interjects Julie.

“Really?”  I say.  “I’ve heard of schools and carnivals out here trucking in mounds of snow for hundreds of kids to enjoy – but just one family financing their own Snow Day?  Wow!”

Keith says, “It was amazing.  They have a huge house and gigantic yard, so it took tons of snow to cover everything.  They even had enough for a little snow HILL for the kids to sled down—”

“And enough for the kids to build SNOWMEN!” interrupts Julie.

“Oh my God,” says Lila.  “That’s incredible!”

“It was pretty cool,” agrees Julie.  “The Mom had hot chocolate carts, outdoor fire pit for s’mores, full buffet, music, snowball fights — everyone walking around in jackets and mittens.  The kids had a blast!”

“OK,” says Lila, her eyes dancing merrily.  “So what did his Dad do?”

“His Dad?”  I ask, sipping my wine.

Keith says, “Oh, the parents are divorced.  Not amicably.  So he hosted his own separate birthday party for Jake.”

“Seriously?” I ask.  “What?  How old is this kid?”

“He’s 10,” says Julie.  “So the Dad hosted his own birthday party for Jake at his house the very next Saturday.”

“And you were invited to that party too?”

“Yep,” says Keith.  “And the Dad doesn’t want to be outdone by the Mom, so he—”

“Trucks in SAND!” shouts Julie.

“No!” Lila and I shout in unison.

“Yes!” Keith and Julie shout back, laughing.

Some of Lila’s other guests look over to see what all the commotion is, but we go right back to our wine-slinging and gossip-mongering.  (I ain’t proud – I’ll admit it!  We’z gossipin’ all up in here, y’all!)

Lila and I pop some appetizers from the table while Julie fills us in.

“The theme was Egypt or something, so he trucks in tons of sand to cover his whole yard,” says Julie.  “Palm trees are poking out of the sand – tents are set up everywhere – catering people dressed like pharaohs are serving platters of Egyptian-Middle Eastern food.”

“Are you serious?” asks Lila.

“This is all for a 10-year-old’s birthday party?” I ask incredulously.  “I mean, his SECOND birthday party, after the Snow Day birthday party?

“Wait, wait, the best part is coming,” says Julie.  She turns to Keith, grinning.

“Right in the middle of the birthday party — in come CAMELS and BELLY DANCERS!” says Keith.

“Get the HELL out!”  I say.

“No way,” says Lila, laughing.  “Camels and belly dancers?”

“Yes!” says Julie.  “Camels for the kids to take rides — like a freakin’ PONY ride, except it’s a freakin’ CAMEL!  And belly dancers for the –”

“Dads!” says Keith, grinning.

“Oh my God, that’s insane.  In-SANE,” I say, smiling and shaking my head.

“I knew they’d go overboard,” says Lila, laughing.  “But I never dreamed they’d throw a blow-out Snow party and a blow-out Sand party within a week of each other!”

I think a moment.

“Wait,” I say to Keith and Julie, “You guys attended both parties?”

“Yeah,” says Julie.  “Our son was invited to both.”

“So, tell me,” I say, “Did your son give Jake two presents since there were two parties?”

“Oh, hell no,” says Julie.  “We gave one gift.  We don’t want Jake to get spoiled.

We all DIE laughing.

Like literally, we all fall down and die laughing at that.

Ahh, poor Jake.  Poor little rich boy with the over-compensating competitive parents.

Not to be judgy and all – but DAMN, those parties make my fiesta forays look positively paltry!

However, my parties do have a few things in common with Jake’s parties – one time we served SNOW cones – and another time, we had a craft table where the kids filled glass vases with colored SAND – and thanks to my chocolate addiction, my big BELLY always DANCES!

— Darcy Perdu

Why don’t ya pop your lil ol email address rightcheer so ya kin git all my funny true stories in yer dadgum inbox?

(What are some of the wild and unique parties you’ve attended (or hosted)?  I love to hear cool party ideas!  Any examples of divorced parents trying to outdo each other – or perhaps some competitive moms in your class or neighborhood who try to one up each other on playdates, parties, or gifts? Do tell!)

 

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Bill Hart Author Photo

Check out some flattering reviews of Bill’s book on Amazon, which is selling it a special price of $2.99 on Kindle (and for a limited time, includes the audiobook for free) .   And thank you, Bill, for advertising on So Then Stories! — Darcy Perdu

I Don’t Mean To Be All Judgy On This Chick, But REALLY…

I Don't Mean to be all Judgy on this Chick -- But REALLY! #funny #moms #class #kids #students #school

So then…the kindergarteners sing the last note of “You Are My Sunshine” and the classroom erupts with applause from the parents sitting on little chairs in the back.

The teacher announces, “OK, parents, that concludes our parents’ program. It’s noon, so you can just take your kids home with you now – or let them stay at school until 3:00.”

Who SAYS that? Right in front of the kids?

That’s like telling a 5 year old, “Here’s a BRAND NEW PUPPY JUST FOR YOU! – unless your Mom says no.”

So now kids are tumbling over to their parents asking to go home now – and many of the Moms are wearing that conflicted expression of “Ahh! I had hoped to have another 3 hours of peace and quiet – but I’ll be the worst mom ever if I don’t take my kid home now.”

The air is thick with guilt.

Some of the kids are clueless, though, like my daughter, who’s happily pressing Valentine’s candies into her cupcake with her friends. She knows I need to return to the office and she loves her school pals, so I’m good to go.

Meanwhile, I overhear this exchange:

Mom 1: Are you taking your son home now or having him stay ‘til 3?

Mom 2, blowing nose: I don’t know…I’m sick today, so I was thinking of having him stay.

Mom 1: Oh – well, if you don’t feel well, why don’t you take my son home with you too – and he can keep your son company while you rest!

Mom 2: *?*

Who says THAT?

Seriously! Not “since you’re sick, why don’t I take YOUR son home with ME so you can rest” — she actually suggested the sick mom take another kid home with HER!

Just what a sick mom needs – TWO 5-year-olds running around her house creating havoc!

Not to mention, why would you want to send your kid to someone’s house when they’re sick? (We generally try to avoid close contact with sniffling, slobbering, sneezing people so we don’t get sick too.)

I try hard not to be judgy of Mom 1, but I am literally thunderstruck by her audacity.

And she’s not backing down. She’s telling Mom 2 that the kids will have so much fun together at Mom 2’s house! She’s really selling it! Very enthusiastic! Mom 2 wavers, looking uncomfortable.

As mentioned, I have to get back to the office, so I can’t even offer to take Mom 2’s kid off her hands for a playdate – and I don’t know either of the Moms well enough to interject with an alternate plan (or a swift kick to the rear).

So instead I flash a look at Mom 2 that says, “Ermagerd, she is cray-cray if she thinks yer gonna take her kid home too – you stay strong, gurl, don’t let this chick railroad you into a forced playdate!”

Just then, Chloe zips over to show me her candy-cupcake creation, so I don’t know how the situation resolves between Mom 1 and Mom 2, but I hope that mama stayed strong!

Have you ever?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Honestly, I was stunned by this woman. How about you — any similar situations where you just thought, “I can’t believe they just said that!” Any funny stories about Moms, playdates, school parties, or teachers who sell you out in front of your kids? Do tell!)

SPONSORS WE LOVE

Birth with Balance teal logo
I’m delighted to welcome Birth With Balance as a sponsor of So Then Stories! The lovely Chelsea Ann Wiley has created a warm, wonderful website chock full of amazing birth stories from women all over the world. These true accounts of birthin’ babies include stories that are hilarious, suspenseful, touching, heartbreaking, and joyous. As a labor and delivery nurse, Chelsea noticed that many women entered the maternity ward not knowing what to really expect — or clinging to a birth plan that unfolds a bit…differently than planned. Chelsea created the Birth with Balance website so that “through storytelling, active discussions, and supportive listening, we create a collaborative opportunity to connect women around the world and contribute to positive childbirth experiences.”  Naturally, my favorites are the funny ones like “Ready or Not Here I Come” and “Childbirth Advice.” Click those links, then poke around on Chelsea’s site to find more great stories — then ADD YOUR OWN! Be sure to share the site with others, especially moms-to-be! Thanks, Darcy Perdu

She’s SO Wrong – But Oh, How I WISH She Weren’t!

So funny!  My tween suddenly discovers a SHOCKINGLY HARSH TRUTH!   #ohtobeyoung!  #humor #college #weight #sothenstories

So then…she pops a Parmesan Bread Bite in her mouth and says, “I’m so mad!”

I pop a couple Bites myself and ask, “Why?”

“Well,” says my tween daughter Chloe, “You know how everyone talks about the ‘Freshman 15’ that happens in your freshman year of college?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she says, “I just found out it means you GAIN 15 lbs!”

I nearly choke on my soda. “What did you think?!”

“I thought it meant you LOST 15 lbs! I’ve thought that for years! I was so excited!” she says, waving her Bread Bite around. “I had all these plans to pig out the summer before I went to college! I was gonna eat pizza and donuts every day, knowing that I’d lose 15 lbs. as soon as I got there!”

She looks deeply aggrieved, like we’ve all been in on this conspiracy to deliberately mislead her.

I’m dying laughing. Could you imagine?

(If the “Freshman 15” means you LOSE 15 lbs., I’ll enroll in college again right now! Then I’ll deliberately fail all my classes so I can re-enroll as a Freshman every year!)

I smile and shake my head as I gaze upon this crazy little daughter of mine.

She’s actually quite bright, but sometimes she says embarrassingly hilarious things like this that make me wonder if I dropped her on her head too many times as a baby. (How many times? I dunno. Why are you being all judgy?)

But I suppose she comes by it honestly. I remember when I found out everyone in the WHOLE WORLD (except for me) was in on a HILARIOUS, HORRIFYING SECRET!

Yep, we’re two peas in a pod, just tryin’ to navigate the harsh realities of life…one Parmesan Bread Bite at a time…

— Darcy Perdu

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(Did you GAIN or LOSE the “Freshman 15?” Did you or your kids have any similar misperceptions about common sayings or concepts? How many Parmesan Bread Bites can you eat in a single sitting?)

How to Pull a Fast One on Your Neighbor

How to Pull a Fast One on Your Neighbor  #funny #baking #cookies #kids #parenting #humor

So then…I clamber down from the kitchen stool and dejectedly place the flour and sugar on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” asks my little sister, Della, age 7.

I sigh with all the long-suffering frustration rattling through these 11-year-old bones of mine. “We don’t have any brown sugar. How can we make chocolate chip cookies without it?”

Della looks stricken. She’s not familiar with the ingredients necessary for the recipe, but the very thought of our grand baking plan being crushed has cast her into despair.

She furrows her brow and leans her bony little arms against the kitchen counter. I rustle through some more cabinets unsuccessfully, but eventually come to rest next to her, concentrating hard on how to solve our problem.

Our siblings and parents are out of the house.
I’m too young to drive.
The store is too far to walk.
Our dream of warm home-baked yummy goodness is crashing to a halt.

Eureka!
I grab a piece of paper and a pen.

“Dear Mrs. Hanover,
We are making chocolate chip cookies. Can we please borrow ¾ cup of brown sugar?
Sincerely, Darcy and Della”

I hand the paper to my little sister so she can walk down our street to Mrs. Hanover’s house, our sweet neighbor who is friends with our Mom. (It’s perfectly safe – we run around to the houses in the neighborhood to visit our pals all the time.)

So off she goes, feeling very important on her mission, while I begin gathering the rest of the necessary supplies. A short while later…

“Got it!” she exclaims, bursting through the door with the package of brown sugar.

I turn to her with such sadness she can only imagine our entire immediate family has been run over by a Monster Truck. (This is, after all, Louisiana.)

“What? What?” she asks.

I open the fridge and point. “We only have 1 egg left and the recipe calls for 2.”

“Oh.”

We stare at the egg. We stare at each other. Back to the egg.

Della’s eyes are pleading with such desperate craving; I know a big sister has no choice.

“Dear Mrs. Hanover,
We are making chocolate chip cookies. May we please have 1 egg?
Thank you for the sugar.
Sincerely, Darcy and Della”

And off she goes again, note in hand, to rescue the operation!

When she returns, we set about mixing and stirring and laughing. We preheat the oven and pull out the cookie sheets.

We stir the butter and vanilla into the delicious golden batter.

I open the cabinet and gasp!

“What?! What?!” Della asks.

I turn slowly, with a deeply pained expression, and whisper. “We have no chocolate chips.”

Her eyes go wide.

We stare at the batter. We stare at each other. Back to the batter.

Dare we? How far can one stretch the goodwill of one’s neighbor?

I take a deep breath.

“Dear Mrs. Hanover,
Thank you for the egg.
We are making chocolate chip cookies. May we please have a bag of chocolate chips?

Sincerely, Darcy and Della”

And off she goes again, my valiant little soldier.

I stand by the window and peek past the curtain to see her walking down the street with all the dread of a condemned man off to the guillotine.

Will Mrs. Hanover get mad?
Will she call our Mom?
Or worse — is SHE out of chocolate chips too?

When Della comes running back in, holding a bag of chocolate chips aloft, hootin’ and hollerin’ – I am overjoyed! We dance around, absolutely thrilled!

“What did she say?” I ask. “Was she mad?”

“No!” says Della. “She burst out laughing and said she can’t believe we started making CHOCHOLATE CHIP cookies and didn’t even have CHOCOLATE CHIPS in the house! And then she said if we bring her another note, there better be some chocolate chip cookies attached!

Fair enough, Mrs. Hanover, fair enough.

And God bless you and your well-stocked pantry.

— Darcy Perdu

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(What have YOU borrowed from a neighbor? Or has anyone borrowed something strange or interesting from you? Any stories of you and your siblings cooking — or conspiring — or creating clever solutions to your problems?)

In honor of this post’s subject matter, I’m sharing a link to the most outrageously delicious Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies my daughter and I made yesterday from this recipe we found on Pinterest: Sally’s Baking Addiction  BEST COOKIES EVER! Enjoy!