How did this happen???

I'm not sure where to begin.  First, I feel that I should lay down some ground rules.  This is my blog and therefore you must abide by my rules, regardless of rationality. 

1.  Spelling/grammatical errors are acceptable, though not encouraged.  I will TRY to utilize spell check and similar features, but no promises. 

2.  Timeliness is not of the essence.  I shall blog only when I want, on what I want.  This is not a newspaper so I have no deadlines to meet.  Please do not ever have expectations. 

3.  We lead rather boring lives.  (Actually, I love our little life that we've created together, but I always feel the need to apologize for the lack of trips overseas, the meeting of dignitaries, etc.)  If you don't appreciate the wonderfulness of our simplistic existence, please leave and never come back. 

Well, I believe that should cover most of the basics. 

Again, I have no idea where to begin or how this all started.  I always knew I would be a rancher's wife.  Period.  Just like I always knew I'd be a vet and make millions of dollars.  (So far my batting average is not that high...)  Growing up I never realized that being the 'wife' meant I would also have to be the behind-the-scenes coordinator.  If Dad wanted to go to the pasture I could always drop absolutely everything I was doing and immediately go with him.  Not the case these days. 

Example: 
One evening last week I am in the midst of a huge bake-a-thon.  Homemade sugar cookies with browned butter frosting (my first attempt ever at frosting from scratch) and sprinkles.  And then, to show off my superior homemaker skills I was going to make a loaf of bread that would be fresh from the oven right at supper time.

From time to time I have these momentary lapses with grasping reality and I failed to realize that:
1.  I would have to be at the house, uninterrupted, for an extended period of time.
2.  Wes never comes home at 'supper time'.  Not that I grew up in this sort of home, but I have always clung to this fantasy of Leave it to Beaver and watching a husband stroll through the door at 5:15 and sit down to a perfectly cooked three course meal.  In reality, its usually about four hours after this time when he comes home to something that can easily be reheated. 

Sooooooo, as I'm nearly elbow-deep kneading my dough, Wesley barges in and asks me to come transfer equipment from the hayfield back to the house with him.  Now.  I called Mom to see what I might do to salvage my hard work, knowing that perhaps she had been in a similar situation before.  Perhaps..... oh I crack myself up.... 

Long story short, the loaf never materialized and I've yet to reattempt this venture.  Stay tuned!  (Yes, these are the little things that I live for these days.) 

Ooooh!  More rules!
4.  Stories will digress according to my discretion.  I try to reread my stories to make sure that one can keep up with me, theoretically, but no promises.  I feel that this first post may serve as an adequate example of future endeavors.