I found a new best friend.

Pioneer Woman.

I know you have all heard of her. Gathered her recipes. Cooked her delish food.

And though her recipes are fabulous, her words are my life.

I have just spent the last 2 hours of Treyson's nap reading her story. despite the dishes piling up in my sink.

totally. worth. it.

I don't know her. But, she is me.
Her words re. her husband. EERILY similar to my journal:

"We lived life at entirely different paces. His day began before 5:00 am and his work was back-breaking, sweaty, grueling. I worked so I’d have something to do during the daylight hours, so I’d have a place to wear my black pumps, and so I could fund a nightlife full of gourmet food and colorful drinks. For Marlboro Man, nightlife meant relaxation, an earned reward for a long day of labor. For me, nightlife meant an opportunity to wear something new, to gloss up my lips, to let it all hang out.

But as alluring and appealing as our differences were, at times they also concerned me. Could I ever marry a man who’d never, in his entire life, eaten sushi? The prospect had never crossed my mind until now. Could I, a former vegetarian, conceivably spend the rest of my life with a man who ate red meat at every meal? I’d never thought about it before. And, most concerning, could I ever—in a million years—live so far out in the country, I’d have to traverse over five miles of gravel road to reach my house? The chances didn’t look good."

unlike so many modern-day couples today, where geographical mobility is always a healthy option, I knew good and well that with Marlboro Man, a rancher who lived on land that had been in his family for years, one thing was a certainty: he was where he was, and any future plans involving him would have to take place on his turf, not mine. It wasn’t as if I could take off for Chicago armed with even the faintest hope that Marlboro Man might relocate there one day. Downtown Chicago isn’t known for its abundant wheat grazing pasture.

No, his life was on the ranch—smack dab in the middle of Nowhereville—and it would stay on the ranch. His dad was getting older, which meant Marlboro Man and his brother held the future of the ranch in their capable and calloused hands. He couldn’t move; not to Chicago, not to New York. Not to Philadelphia or San Francisco or Boston or Seattle or Miami. Not even to St. Louis or Dallas or Chattanooga. Not now. Not ever."

If only I could form words into sentences as she does.