RIP, WRAP, CHOMP, CHEW

I've kind of been scared to write this blog. A little embarrassed, a little ashamed, a little worried (shallow breaths) because I had a really, really, horrid thing happen the other night and I'm still trying to work my way through it. (deep breath) I just don't need your judgement right now, OK people? Okay. Here goes...

I had just gone Christmas shopping and returned with a monster bag of presents and an equally large bag of treats~because, once again, I'm committed~and I'm generous. It's all or none, people. So anyway, in that bag was a sack of gumballs, which I ripped open the moment I sat down to wrap...it's called the rip and wrap...and it's another favorite part of the holidays. A present for you, two gumballs for me, another for you, three gumballs for me. Rip, wrap, chomp, chew. See how jolly? Anyway...

I bit down into an INCREDIBLY HARD piece of gum and as I tongued around in my mouth for it, had an explosive jolt of electricity shoot through my chest and brain as I questioned whether or not it really was an INCREDIBLY HARD piece of gum. Or, maybe...just maybe, it might be a PIECE OF BUSTED OFF TOOTH!!! DAMMITALLTOHELL!!! And as Bitty Boo suggested, my IQ immediately dropped several points as I became backwoods Mama Ethel with her scattered teeth rotting out of her head livin' in a single wide down by the river.

Now just for informative purposes, if there is something that rivals my passion towards chocolate and rabbit poop ice, it would be my fear~NAY, ABHORRENCE of the dentist. This stems, as most incidents in our lives, from an early childhood trauma which my own negligent parents subjected me to. (Bless their hearts.) It wasn't intentional, just based on ignorance, as all of the asinine things I've done to my own children can be traced back to. (My hands are clean, I tell you. CLEAN!)

Where was I? Oh, yes, dear mother took me to her regressive dentist (he actually walked backwards, which should have tipped me off,) where the room was poorly lit, dark brown (A~HA!) and dusty. I sat in the chair and he told me to "raise your hand when you feel pain" and then assured me that he would give me medicine if/when I signaled.

So I dutifully opened my five year old mouth to accommodate hairy fingers and metal implements, while the high pitch of the foot pedaled drill almost lulled me to sleep and slumber, so soothed I was by all that was taking place inside my orifice.

NOT!

The moment I felt the sharp pain as drill hit nerve, my panicky hand shot into the air. He responded with...and I quote..."You're fine. Put your hand down." And then he physically pushed my trembling, rigid hand down to my side. I shiz you not!

That day, it ceased being an issue of "maintenance" and forever more became a matter of "only if a tooth snaps off at the root." Which brings me (and by me, I mean YOU, too, because you're my friends, and friends hold friend's hands while they make bone chilling phone calls to the dentist office) here. To this place (and by place, I mean in the library at the computer with another cup of what can only be deemed "a main reason for my tooth bust," rabbit poop ice~which I fully intend to omit from my explanation as to why I think my mouth is shattering~thus you see the guilt and shame which also makes it near impossible to dial that number and reddens my face as I write) And to this time (and by time, I mean three cussin' weeks before my son leaves for his mission, as well as three stressful and weighty weeks before Christmas, and basically at thee worst possible time in my life for facing another emotional ordeal as I MIGHT JUST SNAP AS QUICKLY AND SHARPLY AS MY OWN STUPID TOOTH DID. Just sayin'.) (more quick shallow breaths followed by a mouth full of ice chomping)

Which brings us back to the only thing to be said to fully encompass the magnitude of what has transpired. Dammitalltohell.

Feel free to quote me, because as friends who call the dentist for each other, we are as one, and my words are your words.

Here's the number. (My fingers won't work, I've tried.)

THANKS(BURP)GIVING

(burp) HI GUYS!!

(BURPPP) I'm just finishing (baby burp) up (bigger burp) another piece of pie (grandpappy brap) with homemade cream. Oh, (burpBURPBURP) isn't Thanks(burp)giving(belch) WONDERFUL?!

Hope your (braaaaaap) day was as happy (burp) and filled with (stifled burp) holiday joy as mine. (burpity burp) And that you too (BUBBLIN' BURP) enjoyed the bounty of the feast! (BELCH)

(HAPPY GRIN, HEAD FLUNG BACK AND MOUTH WIDE OPEN EMITTING COLOSSAL TURKEY BURP!!!)

'NITE FOLKS!

IT MATTERS

An old grandpa friend from my childhood has passed away. And it's a wintry, cold morning. And I have to bring pie and homemade cream to my daughter's classroom. And it's Thanksgiving week. And I have pillows to sew, eyebrows to wax, hair to highlight and divinity to make...as well as a bed willing to enfold my still weary body for another couple of hours. And yet, I'm getting into a gray tweed dress with celadon jacket, crystals at the neck and ears and black high heels~(his wife loves pretty things)~and heading out, into the frosty November air.

Growing up, I couldn't quite understand why Mom and Dad would put on their Sunday attire and walk out our door just to walk past a coffin holding the empty body of someone who had so obviously moved on to things of an eternal nature. Plus, they were old. Old people are grandmas and grandpas and they're supposed to die..and their kids won't be sad, cuz they're old, too. They should be expecting the death, and therefore, not even be sad or cry. And then my mom and dad could stay home with me, where they belonged, while we watched, "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." Because that's where moms and dads should be...with their children.

And then my husband's mother died, followed by his father ten short weeks later. And guess what? I was right~that is where moms and dads belong~with their children. Who knew? Those dear folks braving the cold wintry air and missing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, that's who.

Suddenly~it mattered that my husband's boyhood primary teacher stood in line for over an hour, just to give him a hug and pat his sad, whiskery face.

It mattered that a loved neighbor left a pan of homemade rolls in his parents' kitchen~though it was a little bit hard to chew and swallow past the lump in our throats.

It mattered that our brand new neighbors, who barely even knew our names, would travel the distance and take a day off work, if only to clasp us in their arms and tell us they felt our grief and shared it with us.

And we wept.

And we embraced.

And we were thankful.

It seems our Heavenly Father invites us to be His hands on this earth~even missing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in the process~as He understands that we may only become as magnificent as He wants us to be, if we serve in His name.

And that means we don our pretty dresses, make that batch of bread and stand in line for an hour...to comfort those who stand in need of comfort...to bear one another's burdens...to be His hands...

...and to hold theirs.

VINTAGE STUFF

Bought me some stuff. And remember how I feel about stuff? Happy, happy stuff. The bright light in my eyes. The reason for matter to exist~so as to form stuff. Heavenly Father created me, and then he made stuff FOR me. He's thoughtful like that.

LOVE Him.

And stuff.

This particular stuff is going to be VINTAGE DECOR for my freshly painted basement rec room. We finally hired it out, as we painted it ourselves a couple of years ago and it never quite "meshed" with what my brain had in mind. In fact, Brain was a little bit angry when it saw what had turned out.

"What the H?" Brain demanded. "Who thought of this? Seriously, whose idea was that?"

I shrank into the background and tried to slink away~but Brain pointed a finger at me and began to shake it violently, "YOU! I should have known!"

I started to sob, "I'll fix it, OK? I'm sorry, Brain, I'm sorry! I'll fix it!" Brain was disgusted and unmoved by my tears. Brain hates me sometimes.

But you know, it wasn't entirely my fault what happened down there, as husband was quick to shirk. And by shirk, I mean halfway through the process, he handed the bucket and roller to the oh so detail oriented 16 year old son and said, "Here. You finish." And husband walked away. I am not even shizzing you!

No instructions, no pointers, no guidance whatsoever.

"It's for his own good. (mine) I'm trying to make him a MAN, Lis. (I'm tired and a slacker.) That's how the boy will learn. (to hate painting...and me.) He'll figure it out." (I'm going to pour me a Coke with lime.)

And he did figure it out. To the horror of Brain and the walls of my home. They wept at what they'd become.

Enter the professional painter, robin's egg blue walls, white bead board and my stuff! ~ Cherry red frames around classic calendar prints...a red leather and chrome step stool chair...more vintage prints with the likes of freckled little boys eating baked beans in cowboy hats, to 1950's housewives in heels and crinoline, with red lipstick smiles...a reproduction pay phone...vintage model cars...huge floral pillows tossed on the furniture...and me smiling at the potential for happiness and joy with a colorful, magnificent pile of stuff.

Bless stuff's heart.

(I told you I'd fix it, Brain. Now shut it.)

MARY

Back to that "aimless wandering" that I'm so fond of. How is it that I find myself in front of the library computer, when I was heading for the kitchen to make rolls?

So let us stroll down my morning path...together...(it's lined with roses and stray kittens to smell and pet)...and you figure out for yourself whether or not I might need medication (not just caffeine~although I'm willing to up my dosage there, if you think it will help, and it probably will, so hold on while I go crack open another one, just so you don't have to remind me later. I wouldn't want to have to be compelled in all things, you know~cuz that makes for a slothful and unwise servant.)

Started in bed, flung myself out to pray with the fam and get Jules ready for the day, went into the great room to read my scriptures (intentions, people~very important~maybe even more so than actions, because remember? The road to Heaven is paved with them...and gold...so if you want to be rich, and walk on gold bricks, intend, intend, intend.) but then remembered the paint guy will be coming to cordon off the fireplace. Picked up the junk and clutter around the area, filling my arms with miscellaneous matter and then looked around for a place to set it down. Notice I did not say, put it away.

Draw your own conclusions.

Went back into kitchen to make breakfast, fed the girl, did her hair, started on the morning paper, sent the girl out the door, went back to bed...just for a moment...when the doorbell peeled and some fool was out there, expecting that the "lady of the house" would be ready or willing to accept callers. A hush fell over the home, not a creature was stirring till the caller went away. Silly caller. Calls are for noon.

However, it did give me a surge of adrenaline~and guilt~(now there is some scary synergy) Which sent me scrambling into the shower. Because everyone knows that if you're not actually accomplishing something, you should at least pretend you are...facade, people, and intentions...remember my vacuum in the middle of the room lesson? I hope I wasn't casting pearls before swine. (school teacher eyebrow raise)

So let's see~showered, groomed, dressed and then went to the door...so as to be able to say that YES, I DID answer the door. Must have JUST missed him. (by 30 minutes. Don't ask, don't tell.)

Tied a bow on the wreath left on my doorstep, picked up a screwdriver left on the floor, with my toes, people. Kind of a special talent I have that not a lot of people know about. Threw away piles of cardboard boxes. Went into the kitchen, read another newspaper article, lit the pumpkin spice candle, (remember, a candle can be mistakenly identified as "Are you kidding me?! She is the most amazing homemaker, for she even bakes pumpkins and spices~together~to fill her home with love.)

Decided to drink some caffeine...and by "decided," I mean it in the same context as when people bear their testimony about how "proud they are that little Mary decided to be baptized." Yeah. Not a decision made my Mary...just like going to school is not a decision that should be made by Mary. And apparently, someone already decided for me that I'd be happy as long as I had a caffeine over rabbit poop ice.

It's for my own good.

Hence, who am I to argue with a higher intelligence?

Where was I? Drank my soda, looked at the paper again, went to the fridge, ate a candy bar, went to the pantry, noticed the bag of flour, thought about making rolls and maybe freezing them for Thanksgiving, remembered my apron was in the library, went to get it but spotted a sticker on the new red stool that was half peeled and needed to be finished. Did that. Forgot why I was in the library. Saw the computer. Decided to blog...while sitting on the apron, that is in the chair, that is in front of the computer, that will keep the rolls from being made.

And THERE YOU HAVE IT, FOLKS! PROOF POSITIVE! Just as the nature of this blog was rambling and unfocused, so too is my life, it seems.

And who is to blame?

Stupid Mary, that's who.

THE FEAST

So I'm feeling a little bit unprepared lately (think "haven't been to class all term, can't open your locker, have no underwear on and keep doing cartwheels down the corridors, it's the final exam, your teeth keep falling out, you're back at your old place of employment, you give birth but didn't realize you were pregnant and then forget to feed the baby for weeks, you're giving the lesson in church but can't...quite...make...it...there..." kind of unprepared)~as Thanksgiving is next week...and I'm hosting...and I may have spent a great deal of time lately perfecting the "unfocused wander."

This has given my thought paparazzi quite a lot to assault me with, but I do my best to silence them with sleeping pills. However, sometimes a really aggressive scream will make it through the fog and I'll have to mull and fret.

So after extensive editing, here is my list of "must do's" that I've come up with and remember, I have a full six days left to do it in...seven, if you count the morning of, so I need your input as to on a scale of 1-10, where would my time be best spent?

Of course, all of these things are pressing and have seriously...and I'm not even kidding...been in my mind as to needing or shoulding be done~before Thanksgiving.

Let us begin...

1. Deep clean the garage.

2. Deep clean the entire house.

3. Paint the house~interior and exterior.

4. Create a Thanksgiving play list of favorite holiday tunes.

5. Redecorate the basement.

6. Have family pictures done and portraits hung on walls.

7. Have carpets cleaned.

8. Resurface all wood floors.

9. Replace kitchen formica with marble.

10. Sew matching silk shantung dresses for daughter and me.

11. Have new custom mantle created, installed and painted.

12. Buy all Christmas presents.

13. Create "theme" tables, with coordinating runners, china and silverware.

14. Sew matching Stewart plaid vests and ties for hubbie and sons.

15. Blog about my list of to-do's.

16. Lose 18 pounds.

(That last one was me takin' it down a notch as I originally said 20, but then I thought, you know, that might send me over the edge, so I'll drop it to 18~just keepin' it real.)

Anyway, I figure after finishing up this list of essentials, I can concentrate on the periphery...like the feasting.

Which brings me to the next question~on a scale of one to ten, where does the Thanksgiving MEAL actually fall? Is it really all that?

Because I'm thinking, the possibility of someone rummaging through my nightstand (therefore it had better be so FREAKIN' organized as to make Martha Stewart peuce green) just might set the holiday spread on the back burner~at least until a couple hours before the guests arrive...(Can you nuke a turkey? How about peas, potatoes, rolls, gravy, yams, pumpkin pie and the relish tray?)

Alright. Okay. I think I'm on top of this.

That's not sweat.

It's just really, really EXTRA warm in here...isn't it?

Hell's Bell's, people.

WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP TO "ROAST?"

DERMIS DROUGHT

So the amount of moisture in my body is depleting rapidly of late~it's a drought, folks. A Winter Skin drought. And I seem to be peeling like a ripe Christmas Clementine.

My lips are parched and shriveled (someone needs to invent lip caulk), my fingers are cracked and bleeding, even my nose is...well, let's just say that, besides the occasional bloody nose, there is no other "running" going on. In fact, in someone were to grab me by my honker, chances are pretty good that there would be some serious "shard" damage done.

But here's the captivating thing...my stretch marks...YES, I said stretch marks, all have their very own, individual peels! Not even kidding. They have inherited the hoarding gene, too, it seems. I'm kind of proud.

I would dare say the stretch mark situation is a gift from above~for being so delightful, probably~because Heavenly Father knows how much I love a good skin shucking~(not corn though, and that's important, because corn cobs have earwigs. Ew.)

Anyway, one of my most favorite memories is when Sterling went to the tanning clinic right before we were married. He was the poster child for The Farmer's Tan at the time, and just knew his beautiful bride (that would be me) would want her man sun-kissed and glowing for that all important first...presentation. (He didn't know that would be the furthest thing from my mind. At the first unveiling, I was fully engulfed with thoughts of self preservation~but that's another blog.)

To continue, Sterling has a rather, oh, shall we say~impatient nature~sometimes...and this was one of those sometimes that came back to burn him in the fanny...literally. (And just so you know, when I write literally, I don't mean the world's uneducated 'literally' that actually means 'figuratively,' as in "I will slap you into tomorrow~literally!" Yeah, no. Far as I know, time travel slapping isn't possible yet, so that would be a perfect example of 'figurative'~but anyway~) Back to literal speak. He decided that he was the one rare, sturdy individual who could handle a full 25 minutes on his first tanning clinic visit...and apparently there was no adult supervision there to save him from himself...so he did just that.

TWENTY FIVE FULL MINUTES, FOLKS.

WITH BRAND NEW BULBS.

The stripes would have made a barber shop pole proud.

So the weeks preceding our marriage were fun and fancy free~and filled with him laying down in the middle of the family room floor, baring his back and partial bum (no pre-nuptial nudity, folks, just a smidgen of crack) so that I could peel beautiful, long, satisfying strips of flesh, to my hearts content. An early wedding present from my impending groom. So thoughtful~it made me love him even more. (head tilt and heart pat)

Back to my stretch marks~and who doesn't want to hear more about them? Too bad. So I was jumping into the shower yesterday, scaling and scratching, when I happened to glance down at my protruding abdomen (yeah, like I could miss it.) Every single rip in my tissue had an independent dead skin border! Like they'd all been individually packaged, in their very own wrap, and now the paper was pulling away, ready for removal~like a gift!

As a result, I did what any self-aware woman would do...let's just say that chimps and all manner of monkey have nothing on me when it comes to grooming. I stood there for about a half hour~fully engrossed in picking and preening~my gut shoved out to almost full term proportion (another maternity reference...but NOT foreshadowing) and my chin resting on my chest. A beautiful sight, to be sure.

Sorry you all missed it.

In conclusion, I need a new vacuum, as I've clogged the filter several times trying to suck up the piles of dead dermis~a lovely term~and one that you're welcome to use whenever you see fit.

You're welcome. (another head tilt and heart pat)

BABY BLOOMERS

Well, I finally did it. I finally got thin~in fact, wasting away, people!

"How did she do it?" the crowds demand.

It's a wonderful thing, friends. Wonderful, I tell you. And anyone can do it. Even YOU!

I will probably write a book about it and make millions, but since I love my blog best friends forever~BBFF~I will share the secret and you won't even have to buy my new bestselling book when it comes out. And since it'll have to be printed over and over again, because of its and MY popularity, and will be on the New York Times best-sellers list, you won't even be able to get yourself a copy anyway.

I'll probably be on Oprah, too, so I'll already be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, because as soon as Oprah hosts me, it's the highest peeks, you know. So I can spare the money I'd make off of you, because the world will be my oyster. (wet slurping sound)

Anyway, the secret. Here it is. Shhhhhhhhh....buy bigger underwear.

I know. Brilliant! Or, if you don't want to go all the way, you can always go back to your maternity underwear, as I did.

See, I was rummaging through some drawers that haven't been rummaged for years (ten, in fact), when what to my wondering eyes should appear? But MATERNITY UNDER-GARMENTS!

Oh, they looked so happy to see me! But lonely, you know, because they'd been my best friend for months and months~four different times, in fact. And then, they were just tossed aside, as if they were a worn out pair of undies...which they were. But the point is, it wasn't very fair of me to discard them into a heap. And that was a faux pas that needed to be un-fauxed .

So I washed them and folded them and showered and donned them. And oh my holy cow~TOTALLY THIN NOW!

You have no idea! They drape and droop across my waif-like frame~my mini, bitty, elf-like bod, and they sag and bag beautifully and I just look teeny in them. No tugging, no yanking, no "goats," up a fleshy fanny (better known as wedgies, but those are shoes to me, because I'm old~just like thongs are flip-flops, not disgusting "goat-giving-fanny-floss"~which we all know is the truth, so don't go lying about 'no panty-lines.' Sha! Whatever. (eyeroll) )

All that is left is loose fitting unmentionables that assure you and everyone around you that you've finally conquered your snarling sugar and lard filled demons. (SHUT UP, YOU HISSING FIENDS!)

Oh, I just feel so joyous and free, you have no idea! But if you did, you yourself would jump on the maternity skivvies band-wagon/train.

ALL ABOARD...(oh my gosh, you're wasting away in front of me...bless those baby bloomers!)

COMPASSION

So I nearly drop-kicked hubbie through the door and into his truck this morning...cuz he told me last night that he was "determined to go to work tomorrow." And I mumbled under my breath, that I was determined that he would go to work tomorrow. And this is tomorrow. So he's at work. Where he should be. Kind of reverse chauvinism...like when pig-men say they're "keepin' their womenfolk barefoot-n-pregnant and in the home~WHERE THEY BELONG!" the pig-ladies say they're "keepin' their menfolk shoe-shod and earnin' money~WHERE THEY BELONG!" And it's true~no apologies for my backwoods mentality. It's the way the Good Lord wants it and who am I to argue with the Good Lord?

Anyway, I had like, oh, an hour and 45 minutes aaaaaalllll to myself...I KNOW! Come to mama!

So many possibilities, so little time! I got anxious just trying to decide how to spend it~wasted several precious seconds~I could nap, or read, or watch some trashy Lifetime drama...which I don't even know why that came to mind, since it's totally NOT something I would do (prove it)...maybe YOU would, and who would I be to judge? I mean, you are who you are, you know? But for me, and I'm not trying to sound superior because actions speak louder than words and I sicken myself with my own humility sometimes~like right now I want to gag writing this...must be the humility~ but for me, that just seems like a journey to the dark side~scary.

And remember, it's all about the light on the hill?~which comes back to making/eating caramels. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Where was I? Oh, some trashy TV show. I would never waste my time on that. ( She killed him, and he totally deserved it. He wouldn't go to work and he left open tuna fish cans all over the house.)

ANYWAY...the credits were just rolling, when the phone rang. It was Jules. She said she was sick.

DAMMITALLTOHELL. (she said tenderly)

I told her she'd need to demonstrate her condition...that I wasn't willing to take her at her word. It took a little convincing on her part..some coughing and talk of puking and a little bit of sobbing~but she eventually won me over. The office staff glared at me when I arrived to pick her up. But I explained...

"MAN-SICK," I said. Then I held up my fingers to show them how many days it had been going on. Unspoken communication. Sympathy eyes all around. They went back to their work without another eyebrow raised. There but for the grace of God go they. 'Nuff said.

Hence, here I am again, with another person needing compassion, love and charity. And am I willing to give it? Well, here's the fascinating thing.......Yes!

I know. Weird. But apparently it has something to do with merit, and I find kindness coursing through my veins for my daughter. I want to feed her and tuck her in with snuggy blankies, and I check her forehead gently for any sign of fever. And probably, should she leave a tuna fish can open in the middle of the floor, I would bend over and pick it up and toss it in the garbage without a single thought of flipping her the bird or making ugly, mocking faces...behind her back, of course...(no witnesses~that's very important, folks.)

Therefore, this can only mean one thing...Sterling didn't receive compassion because he didn't deserve compassion. Who knew? And I don't know how I intuitively knew it, but I did.

Must be a "spirichal" gift~(a reward for caramel making.)

TROLL HUT

When I was a child, I was taught a song in church that went like this..."Saturday is a special day...it's the day we get ready for Sunday..." and then it goes on to paint a beautiful, heartwarming vision of parent and child, working hand in hand, cheek to cheek, smile to smile, together...as one heart, one mind, one spirit. Inspiring.

But just as a flat abdomen on a 19 year old, too beautiful to endure. And like so many fairy tales, the wicked witch will come cackling across the page~in disguise, of course~but we all know it's Malificent deep down. In this story, (horror) she takes on the form of Saturday Mother. (Never to be confused with Hallmark Mom. Ever.)

Saturday Mother dresses down. She wears an oversized T-shirt, a sloppy pony-tail and angry eyes. Saturday Mother also should be left alone, as nothing good can come from speaking to Saturday Mother. The sooner you learn this, the less hostile the home environment and the more likely your chances of survival.

One character flaw of Saturday Mother is that she tends to assume that her children have the same interpretation of the English language as she does. What she doesn't understand is that the ipods hanging out of their ear canals actually act as "meaning-filters." Therefore, when she gives an assignment, it is immediately lost in translation and it turns into something like this...

"Go dust" = "go check out that song on i-tunes and download it."

"Make sure you scrub out the inside of the toilet bowl" = "go add to the pile of rancid dishes on your bathroom counter."

And "Clear off the kitchen table" = "Make sure to stack a bunch of critical/time sensitive documents and shove them~intermixed with scratch paper~into the far recesses of drawers (sock) that we'll never check when searching for them.

This does NOT help to calm Saturday Mother. In fact, the only thing proven to bring peace into the home is the completion of assigned jobs to her satisfaction (infrequent and nearly unattainable) ...and premium chocolate (readily available in mass quantity at your local grocery store.) One seems easier to provide, so that tends to be what melts the wicked witch.

So I'm sitting here sucking on candy, trying to kill off Saturday Mother right along with the chocolate in my mouth. "I'm melting...I'm melting..."

Of course, truth be told, sometimes Saturday Mother is a little bit reticent to be anxiously engaged, too. She might choose to become distracted with things like, oh, I don't know, blogging? And/or maybe a Sudoku puzzle or two...or eight...whatever. (It's brain exercise, and you know how dedicated she is to her healthy lifestyle.) And she has been known to kind of wander..aimlessly...and unproductively...on occasion.

However~and this is a beautiful discovery~as long as she parks the vacuum in the middle of the family room, it's aaaaallllll good. This conveys intent, folks.

This gives practical application to the inspirational quote, "Hope springs eternal!"

But even more significant, if someone drops by unexpectedly, it's OK if the house is a polluted, mucky troll hut! Because it's obviously on the mend, as the vacuum is in the middle of the room, people...and will undoubtedly be used that very day~it's almost a guarantee that things will get better.

Course, faith without works is dead.

Stupid works.

ILL REPUTE

Heli-hover-husband was worried about and wanted me to make sure that nobody in my blog audience thought that he was "straying." Because as I described Hallmark Mom's life, I referred to her "unappreciative children/cheating husband."

And since it goes without saying that children~especially mine~and little Timmy~are the center of their own Universe and we are but mere peasants created to serve them, he thought you might assume that I was writing in code and actually referring to my own life...and suggesting that my puddin' pie was of ill repute.

Which he most assuredly is NOT.

His repute is VERY healthy, people.

No swine flu for a pig husband here, folks.

Just a tuna-eatin' sweat pot, who also happens to still be sick. (normal flu, though~no oinkin')

What gave it away?

Well, let's see. Could it have been his turkey butt hair that he "couldn't find the strength" to comb down before going out into public? Now that is some SERIOUS eye candy. Yeah, baby!

Was it his Zombie-like slog and stomp as he trudged (I glided) through the store...for a full five minutes...until he had to collapse in a perspiring heap into the massaging chair?

Or maybe it was the high pitched buzz that Sterling mistook for a bold, aggressive...if invisible...mosquito, therefore swiping violently at the empty air around his own head and ears, until he finally figured out it was his own wheezing? (at least he found the humor in that...tender mercy)

Any of these might have helped you to figure out his health...which is indeed~continuing to be annoyingly ill.

But once again, I announce to one and all...DEFINITELY NOT his repute. :)

NEWSPAPER DRESSES

I'm eating a stale doughnut, because I didn't quite reach my puke level (it was hovering about mid-neck) with the tacos, burritos and mexi-fries that I picked up for dinner. (We obviously have very expensive taste in our home.) DOD~day old doughnut~was a little dry, but that was OK, since I washed it down with caramels. (Not only expensive taste, but a commitment to a healthy lifestyle.)

I know~I don't know how I do it all, either. I guess I'm kind of fantastic. (humble shoulder shrug)

I was required to eat DOD because it was the only blueberry one in the box, and I'm a doughnut hoarder...and miserly...and the exact opposite of a Hallmark Mom~

~that mother is the one who wears newspaper dresses and fabricates her own shoes out of cotton balls and duct tape~all so she can buy little Timmy his new school sweater. And then they make 'After School Specials' (think Lifetime movies but about 25 years ago~soooo before your time) about her and you watch and feel guilty for not loving your own family enough to deprive yourself as much as she does, and a baby tear dribbles down your cheek while you see her give up her entire life and every dream she's ever dreamed for the love of her unappreciative children/cheating husband and then she dies a horrible, cancerous death or is hit by the bus that was about to slam into little Timmy, but she pushes him out of the way in her newspaper dress just in time to save his life...and lose hers.

You know...that Hallmark Mom.

And to state the obvious, I'm not her~although I do love me a fancy newspaper dress.

But that's a good thing~that I'm not her~ because it builds character for a child (incredibly lazy and selfish teenage son who calls from the front yard on his cell phone for me to drive him a block away~HOLY COW...but I'm not going to be specific, here) to have to mow lawns to pay for his own (freakin' ridiculously expensive) school sweater.

And it's a good thing, because 41 year old moms want (need) PRETTY, EXPENSIVE, HIGH HEELED shoes (not cotton balls and duct tape) almost as much as they want (need) rabbit poop ice and the sound of a Dr. Pepper being cracked open at 8:30 in the AM.

And it's a good thing, because day old blueberry doughnuts and mexi-fries are necessary for certain moms to stand having man-sick husbands *(see Amanda's comment) hovering like coughing/sweating/tuna eating helicopters all day long, while they try to go about their business. (Love you, puddin' pie. Hope you're feeling better.)

Plus, Hallmark Mom is dead. She was hit by a bus.

And I am ALIVE AND WELL...and going shoe shopping as soon as I swig down another caramel.

(gulp, burp, and selfish mom smile)

SOOOO SICK

Soooooo...guess who is home today sick? Whoops. I mean DYING?! (moan, cough, loud heavy sigh between the bedroom and family room as he leaves a trail of open tuna fish cans and blaring televisions behind him. And who doesn't love a TV/tuna house? Hmmm?)

Here's a hint. He's the same person who, on Christmas Eve several years ago, and with a house full of tiny tots with a FERVENT belief in the magic of St. Nick, when sent by his harried and hurried wife to the store a half hour before closing time for AAAALLLLLLLL of the Santa Clause stocking stuffers~and by all, I mean every single item to fill the Christmas stockings, as there was not a single, solitary thing that had been purchased for said stockings~came back home EMPTY HANDED because...prepare to furrow your brows in concern...he had cramps.

That's right.

Cramps.

But not just any cramps.

Special cramps.

The kind of special cramps that made him leave his full cart in the middle of the aisle as he burst out of the store and flew home, throwing himself writhing and moaning on the bed in LOUD, OBNOXIOUS, "I'M DYING, LIS. SERIOUSLY, THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH PAIN I'M IN. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW BAD THIS IS, LISA. SOMETHING IS REALLY, REALLY WRONG. I MEAN IT. I THINK I MIGHT NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL~(Moan, Writhe, Grunt, Groan)" pain~as his long-suffering wife continued the wrapping and baking and perfection making that is called Christmas.

The kind of special cramps that sent this wife on a journey to her happy place, so that she didn't charge him like a wild, snorting bull, slapping and slugging and knee to the groin-ing...which would probably have culminated in first degree homicide charges...something she would have been more than happy to perform, if it wouldn't have put such a damper on the evenings festivities...almost as bad as empty stockings on Christmas morn.

The kind of special cramps that, had he just listened to his wife when she, with furious fists on hips, flames shooting out of eye sockets and jaw clenched with grinding teeth~hissed~ "You just need to go POOH, dear." (The dear part wasn't very sincere~or tender sounding) If he'd just listened to her...suggestion...these special cramps might have passed at least a half hour sooner.

And pass they did, just exactly as his dear wife suggested.

About five minutes after the store closed.

So have you figured out who it is that is sick (dying)...right here...with me...all day long? (He just came into the room in his underwear and sat down to cough and sniff and whimper. Endearing, bless his heart.)

If you don't know by now, you're not as bright as I once thought you to be.

Bless your heart.

LETTING MY LIGHT SHINE

I made homemade caramels today...again. Now do you see? Do you see how worried you should be when you leave me alone for a few hours with a pantry containing packages of fat and sugar? Seriously, folks, I cannot be trusted. I've mentioned this before, but now it's really critical, because accidentally, I just figured out how to make them (caramels) without the butter separating from the rest of the ingredients. And you know, when you do something well, you're supposed to let your light shine, people~it even says so in the scriptures. LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE! So I HAVE to.

Because I'm a Christian.

So, hey, if I'm just trying to be a light on a hill and not hide it under a bushel, I'm simply following the teachings of Jesus, right? It's a talent, and we're supposed to be good stewards over these talents, so that we can get even more~and you guys know I'm kind of a hoarder and greedy, which means I want "ADDITIONAL" of everything...including talents. And probably Heavenly Father will bless me for being so righteous and making caramels~or sharing my talents as we've come to realize~by somehow altering the chemical makeup of the ingredients and rearranging it to have a "negative calorie" effect.

You know, the way Diet Coke works when it's eaten with a candy bar.

Science.

And everyone knows He's the best scientist in the Universe, and the elements obey Him, which seems to be working in my favor with this whole caramel thing.

So...just to be clear...that must mean that I will most likely get thinner because I'm following Jesus!

DO YOU SEE THE GLORY OF OUR HEAVENLY FATHER'S PLAN, PEOPLE? I'm telling you, it's BRILLIANT!

Just like me, as I continue to let my light shine in making (and eating) caramels, because I want to be just like Him.

And I want to be thin.

And apparently, this is the only way it can be done.

1985

My son went to visit his university of choice this week, which just so happened to be MY old university of choice, which of course, meant that HE (6'2, blond haired, blue eyed, buff and unfettered chick magnet) would surely want ME (clingy, saggy abdomined, 41 year old mother) with HIM (refer to previous description) as his escort. Goes without saying, right? Right? I know.

Which is why I offered to be his campus companion~and...silly boy...he tried to refuse~(thoughtful little goose-turd...so quick on his feet)~But I wouldn't hear of him going alone. (I'm thoughtful like that, too~do NOT underestimate my thoughtfulness.)

Ash~(with wild, desperate eyes)~"OH, NO! NO, NO NO, A THOUSAND TIMES NO, MOM! REALLY! Aaaaggghhh! (he reached toward my neck with both his hands~not sure why. Weird.) I would just HATE (for you to come) to put you out like that! You stay here...at home (where you belong) where you're not with me...on campus..."

Me~(with a soft, motherly smile) "Oh, son. Dear, dear son. It's no trouble. (you can't stop me) No trouble at all. (seriously, I'm going) I want to experience this with you. You know, to walk hand in hand~arm in arm~with their son as they explore this new world for the first time~it's what mothers live for. (Vicarious youth)

And so, we set out to (return to my glory days) USU, walking arm in arm, (I held on really tight, even ripped his sleeve a little bit) while I pointed out things I knew he'd (never) be interested in.

He loved it. I could tell. Really good times.

And don't worry~I did take extra precautions to fit in, so as not to humiliate the boy beyond what he could bear. First, I held a candle in front of me throughout the day~in order to cast a soft, ethereal light on my features. Nobody noticed the candle, just my "soft focus" face. My face was baby rump smooth. (I learned that magic trick from Hollywood~Hey, if they can turn a horse's fanny into a baby's rump, there must be some magic to it.)

Also, I bought dark brown nail polish and painted my nubs. And we all know that dark brown nubs on the end of wrinkly, crinkly age spotted hands practically SCREAMS youthful essence.

Soooooo, to reiterate...Lisa+brown nail nubs+soft focus candlelight+19 year old eye candy on her arm while she walks around her college campus from 23 years ago = a return to PYT (Pretty Young Thing, for all you Michael Jackson fans~and by the way, I just saw his movie and it WAS FREAKIN' AWESOME and I did the Cabbage Patch and The Snake in my seat, which ALSO made me look exactly like I did the first time I learned and performed those dances at high school stomps...and heard his songs...so even MORE youngness glowed all around me.)

And I sit and hum and move my bum...to a crowd pleasing favorite...

She's still preoccupied...with 19..19...1985.

Wonder who "she" is and why "she" hasn't moved on.

It's almost 2010.

Geez.

THOUGHT PAPARAZZI

So I'm lying in bed, it's 4:13 in the morning and I stir~not much, just a wee bit~but enough to alert the stupid-'A' thought paparazzi. They're like celebrity seeking paparazzi, but they're only after my peace and tranquility...plus they're teeny tiny and dwell in my brain...and smell like farts. I don't know how I know that...I just do.

Those worry screamers stay up all night, most every night, wired on 44oz Red Bull and an IV mainlining corn syrup, just sitting on the sidewalk of my brain, waiting...until they sense consciousness. And then my head explodes with flashing lights and shrieking anxieties as they run chasing me down the street of my mind. I trip and skid across the concrete gray matter, and they're on top of me~yelling and freaking me out~

"Hey! Hey! You haven't been to the dentist in almost a year!" (cameras click and lights flash...)

"Lisa! Your daughter has been off track for nearly a month and she hasn't picked up a book ONCE! Her teacher is going to be so mad at you!" (I hold up a hand to stave off the glaring lights...)

"Yeah, and your daughter is going to be DUMB!" (I look down, embarrassed...)

"Yeah. Plus, she'll have teeth rotting out of her head, because you didn't take HER...or HER BROTHERS to the dentist, either!" (I squint against the flashing and start to tremble...)

"Have you heard your cat in a while? She probably snuck out last night and got in another fight. Bet she's hacking up fur-balls and bleeding in a back alley where the other bully cats left her for dead!" (I nod and look at my shredded hands...)

"Have you forgotten anything important lately? Like some REALLY, REALLY CRUCIAL promise to someone and THEN YOU FORGOT ABOUT IT?! Think! Think long and hard...it's probable, isn't it?" (I struggle to stand, noticing bloody, skinned knees and a tooth that was knocked out in the melee...)

I pick up the tooth and shove it back in place. They continue snapping pictures and screaming worries, making sure they catch me at my most vulnerable.

There. That ought to do it.

They check their cameras, make sure they got the "money" shot and pack things up for the night. Now they'll go home, regroup and come back later, ready to camp out on the brain sidewalk once again. Red Bulls and corn syrup at the ready.

And I'll lay awake for another hour or two, stewing. Simmering. Like a crock pot.

Crap. I haven't thought of anything for supper. My forehead creases. My hands wring and another hour passes.

Changed my mind. I don't want to be famous anymore.

PEACE

Had a dear friend, when I mentioned I was going to blog about something, snark that "it's only considered a blog if you have an audience." ALSO that I can't count myself as a hit on my own website. Then he hissed, swiped a claw at the air and turned away to continue grooming himself.

To which I now respond, "Isn't Halloween over? Black cats and a butcher knife to the back are usually just for horror movies, and I can't bring myself to watch those after October 31st."

And so, let us move on...TO THANKSGIVING!!!

I love this season~this harvest time of year. I love red maple leaves against October blue skies. Love glittery copper wreaths on front doors. Love pumpkin spice and gingerbread and homemade cinnamon-nutmeg whipped cream on EVERYTHING~including another giant heap of whipped cream~(let us not scrimp at this time of year, friends. It's all about the bounty. Aaaallll about the bounty.)

And some of what I love is actually more of an absence of what I hate. Like I hate freaky grim reaper clad teens trick-or-treating at my door~tatted and pierced and pretending the holiday belongs to them.

"Aw. Soooooooo sorry, fledgling gangstas." (I throw out a gang sign and grab my crotch, so they know I'm 'down widdat.')

"We're out of shasizzle candy." (Shoulder shrug, chest pound with a fist and insincere frown, followed by a door slam to their thug faces.) "LOCK ALL THE DOORS AND WINDOWS, QUICK!"

I also hate ENORMOUS tarantula spiders and their furry babies cascading from fake webs everywhere. Cuz you know dang well, people, that there are some real arachnids laughing their hairy spider fannies off while dangling a centimeter in front of your eyeballs, while we coo, "Oh, lookey at the darling fake spiders, honey. Sooooooo festive." (hysterical spider laughter in spidey pitch~which is too high for us to hear)

Anyway, the moment the clock hits midnight and we turn the calendar forward a month, all those ugly things disappear with the ghoulish mist and I am again at peace~Impending gluttony and an excuse for every last calorie peace. Aaaahhh.

So let us all raise our fists in the spirit of the Pilgrim and the Indian~~~knuckle bumps to one and all! Hip hip hooray!~

I can almost see them wiping a tear as they look down from the Heavens.

(Might be weeping from embarrassment rather than pride.)

D.I.S.A.S.T.E.R.

Let's call this post; THINGS THAT SPELL DISASTER...

Homemade caramels and divinity, variety box of king size candy bars, left over Halloween candy, (OK, actually not technically left over, but more of, oh, let's say borrowed from a nine year old in a BOY football costume, which made her mother mad, so she deserved to lose a few treats) Lays potato chips, Trix cereal, fridge full of cold Dr. Pepper, Pumpkin spice egg-nog and Lisa. (Even my garbage disposal would have regurgitated.)

Migraine headaches and Fast Sunday. (Angry eyes and ibuprofin on an empty stomach~but it certainly had no connection to the first paragraph.)

Leisure time and teenage boys. (Giant cardboard mustache on giant storefront woman's face, anyone? In fact, let's make sure it gets posted on FACEBOOK for an entire community to witness. Oh, my sides are aching from the joyous laughter.)

A captive audience (stay-at-home-mother) and nine year old daughter. (Imagine me gnawing my foot off to get out of the trap.)

Ivory fur cats out all night without front claws. (Think pasty white business man~wearing a Rolex~lost and asking for directions in a "chilling" neighborhood. I was going to say ghetto, but that's probably not PC, and I live for PC.)

Boxes and boxes of decorations to be put away and exchanged for even more boxes and boxes of decorations and no pressure on the homemaker in charge to do it within a certain time frame. Like, no shower hosting, no seasonal party, no impending visitors, NOTHING, PEOPLE. (Basically, she (I) can't be trusted to be a self-motivator and really, really needs someone to threaten an unannounced visit to give her (me) an adrenaline rush, which will actually only send her (me) fleeing wild-eyed into the garage to deep clean, just in case the visitors want a tour of where we park the cars, rather than tend to the pressing task of said BOXES AND BOXES and rotting pumpkin corpses. Like I (she) said, she (I) can't be trusted.)

Anyway, all of these disasters occurred over the last few days here in this household.

I'm just wandering around in a stupor, holding my cone wearing cat as she tries to lick and re-infect her open wounds.

I scratch her ears for her every few minutes and continue wandering. If you see me in my nightgown and flying-nun hair mid-way down the street, you'll know I've wandered too far.

Please, just turn me around and head me back in the direction of home.