EXTRA DARK

Me, in the shower: "Huh. My hair has been really good lately. It's keeping it's color and everything. That's good." Wash, wash, rub, lather, rinse.

Hair, during creme rinse application: "Hey, did she just say we've been really good lately? Whooooaaaaa...emmerfightinwords. Let's taker down a notch, shall we?" Cackling hair laughter.

Twenty minutes later and for the REST OF THE YEAR (cuz it's Dec 31, so maybe it's not quite as dramatic as all that, but still,) CRAPPY hell-hair and angry slit eyes.



Me, while applying makeup: "I wonder...if I put my eyeshadow on...extra...dark...(swipe, smear, rub, sponge, gloop)...if it won't keep people's attention away from my chins."

Chins, laughing and quivering: "Does she really think she can manipulate our attention like that?! After ALL we've done to earn it!? Oh, man! She is priceless! 'Okay, listen up! It's lesson time. Hairs, start sprouting out of moles...right about...NOW.'"

While shopping an hour later, gothic eyeshadow eye boogers and chin-mole whiskers.


Geez, it's a good thing it's the end of the year.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

So guess what I have now?

Beef air.

That's right, stupid beef air. On account of hosting yet another family party (can I be done yet?) and needing to slow cook half a cow for the entire afternoon.

Beef air is nearly as toxic as taco soup, as it permeates hair, ceilings and missionaries just as intensely. But it's a little bit classier. A little more discerning. A little less onion, and a little more bouillon.

Beef is pretentious.

Beef is arrogant.

Beef is British.

Beef thinks we should be "grateful" to have it lingering in our home, as it lifts it's nose in the air and sniffs it's own...aroma (bum.)

But beef is mistaken. Beef is not welcome in my home~only on my grill. Unfortunately, beef oozed in under the pretense of "making a good impression." Sneaky, swarthy beef. And so we must NOW open our arms to embrace Febreze air freshener and left over Christmas candles. Which makes my house a full on sweaty adolescent boy who has drenched himself in Hollister cologne, thinking nobody will notice the B.O. undertones. That which is not removed must be concealed. Ew.

But speaking of Christmas (clear up there at the top of the blog~I think~or, wait, maybe I just intended to mention Christmas~oh, yup, there it is in the previous paragraph connected to candles)~it's time to un-decorate. Which is a source of frowny-smiles all around.

Frowny because it means no more frenzied snort and snarf of deep fried/chocolate covered/nougat filled/totally righteous because it's all about Jesus holiday feasting.

Smiley because I will be forced to self-medicate (credit card encased capsules) for my oncoming Winter time blues. (You can't be too careful with your emotional health, people.)

Frowny because it means the essence of missionary son will be packed away with the holiday fare~ne'er to resurface "The way he were." (Mem~ries...)

Smiley because when the kids return to school, I will~once again~return to my golden hours of bra-less, maternity under-garment, flying nun hair and wandering aimless alone moments.

So as we head into this new year, new day, new numbers written on checks, let us all have a moment of silence and do the frowny-smile together. A fond farewell to the past (wave, wave)...a hopeful joy for the future (fingers and legs crossed)...all slowly poured over a GIANT, PERFECTLY FROZEN PILE of NEW YEAR'S RABBIT POOP ICE!!!

See friends? It'll aaaalllllll be OK.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, SWEETHEARTS!

NEW DAY

Hey friends! Guess what? My pumpkin pie husband gave me a camera for Christmas!!! And it is FREAKIN' AWESOME! Why? Well, drumroll please......

Cuz it's BLUE!

That's right~I said blue! And not just ANY blue. Robin's egg blue, people!

I know! Crazy wonderful, huh?!!! It's like they finally get me, you know?

So I took a picture. And now I'll attempt to figure out how to post it. And if all goes well, a new day is dawning on my blog! A NEW DAY, I SAY!!!

Here goes.........

OH MY HECK, IT WORKED! New day it is!!! Hope you aren't melancholy about seeing the old day fade into the past. It's all about progress, people.

And treats. Progress and treats. And rabbit poop ice. Progress, treats and rabbit poop ice. And Diet Coke with limes. And Dr. Pepper. Progress, treats, rabbit poop ice, Diet Coke with limes and Dr. Pepper. And blue cameras. And diamonds. And tiaras. And pumpkin pie hubbies. So let's recap...It's about progress, treats, rabbit poop ice, DC with limes, Dr. P, blue cameras, diamonds, tiaras and pumpkin pie hubbies.

And probably some other stuff, too.

(like decorations and hot baths and reading and vintage fabric and polka dots and geraniums and divinity and truffles and families and glitter and Jesus and The gospel and missionary sons and sisters moving back and moms writing books and Christmas money and Sunday afternoon naps and high heels and Stewart plaid and........)

MUSINGS

Did you know they have products for "embarrassing urine odors?" Mm hmm. They're advertising on my blog. Which makes me particularly proud.

I'm not cleaning right now. I just figured I might as well fess up, so you can't figure it out on your own and then confront me.

It's Christmas Eve Eve and I've managed to talk myself out of several mandatory projects that were just never...quite...able...to...crawl...(pant, pant)...to...the...top...of...my (breathe, rasp, gasp)...TO-DO...list. Maybe next year. Or not. Whatever.

I have pistachio flakes and green nut chunks in my teeth.

An entire lime in a Diet Coke over rabbit poop ice does a Christmas elf goooooood~even if it does rot the enamel off.

It's never too late to shower and get dressed for the day (3:00 P.M.) and it's never too early to take off your bra and get back into your pajamas (5:00 P.M.)

Christmas is playing a game and just passed me, screaming...READY OR NOT, HERE I COME! But I'm not running, screaming or flailing to get away, cuz I'm too mature. Plus I just took my bra off.

It's called being resigned~something I fully embrace, cuz it comes with hot chocolate, new pajamas and a ring of sugar around my mouth.

Which reminds me of another game that I'm too mature to play.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, BLOG BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!!!

GOOD BIRD

I've been wrapping, folks. Wrapping and wrapping until my fingers are bone dry and split, cracked and bleeding. That's how committed I am to giving...of myself, my stuff and my finger juices...this Christmas season.

Just had to honk my own horn, (it's french, because it's Christmas) as apparently everybody else has been too busy thinking of Baby Jesus and peace and love, to do so for me. Good thing I'm shameless.

And speaking of shameless, my eating/lack of exercising is out of control. I know. Not whopping news knowing me as you must by now, but shameful all the same...as well as difficult to ignore, after my near fainting experience bellows it as thunderous as a batch of boys playing X-box.

So my dear friend asks me to go for a walk with her yesterday. And we both know that she isn't the one requiring this brisk trot, (hatefully thin) therefore, she is pulling the cunning, "Hey, the woman across from me has a bat in her cave, (flapping wildly every time she breathes in and out) and it will embarrass her if I tell her about it, so I'll just ever-so-slyly swipe at my own schnoz, and see if she mirrors my action." Hence, "Hey, Lis, wanna go get some exercise?" And she nods her head yes. Which I parrot.

Good bird.

So we go and I am immediately out of breath and trying to talk, but can't seem to fully enunciate a single word, leaving off the endings of everything, because I'm dying and it's just not worth the effort to articulate. Sounds something like this, "Oh, I...kno...cuss...I...di...tha...mysel...an...i...mae...me...si...to...see...mysel...i...th...mirr...(the dots are breath sucks and wheezes, with not one single draw actually filling my lungs.)

Lucky for both of us, shapely friend realized my failing health and carried most of the conversation, which kept her from having to carry me.

Finally, we arrive home and stop in front of my house, finishing our chat as now I can stand fully upright without grabbing my side in pain. I answer her first couple of questions clear and concise before the nausea sets in. You know, the nausea that accompanies insufficient supply of oxygen to a brain? Yeah, that nausea.

And then the background starts to fade out and close in. And I'm too stupid to actually acknowledge this quickly but instead, go right into the denial sector of my brain. (It's huge in there. Hardly leaves room for intelligence.)

"Surely she can't tell that I'm not making sense."

"I wonder if I can finish this conversation, distracting her with eye contact, before she notices my lips are blue."

"This too shall pass."

Yeah, totally daft.

Mid-sentence I interrupt myself with, "Yes, and then when we dropped him off~hey, I think I'm passing out. Yeah, I'm passing out. I'm going to lean up against this here mailbox. Hold on just a sec." And I stagger over to the mailbox as sweat gathers on my upper lip, trying to keep talking, waving away her concern, "Oh, sha. No. I'm totally fine. It's going to pass, cuz I'm~yeah, nope, it's not passing. I can't hear anything anymore." (I smack at my ears)

Shouting~"I think I'm going in probably, before you have to heave me out of the snow drift. OK? Yeah, okay." I answer myself.

Trying for a casual wave, which comes off as more like a swatting at swarming bees, I lurch up my walk with my hands on my knees~into the front door, dropping onto my bed before my eyes rolled back inside my skull.

Good times.

WHICH SCREAMS TO ME, AND PROBABLY YOU, TOO, PEOPLE, that I have REALLY let myself go. (I'm howling, leaping and lunging, as the balloon vanishes into the atmosphere) I mean, really, REALLY, if a gal can't go for a simple little saunter without swooning, then REALLY, there has GOT to be SOME room for improvement. No, really.

And just like a (someone else's~not mine) horribly spoiled child, the shrew will eventually have to be tamed, or suffer the consequences of a not-very-approving public eye (think full-length mirror.)

And maternity undergarments won't fix it. Dammitalltohell.

DIAMOND BROOCH

Went shopping again~for Christmas presents intended for other people, but somehow that was lost in translation. Like, when Brain looked at a wonderful crystal and diamond brooch and said, "Oh, my. Will you look at that? That is absolutely PERFECT for so-and-so. Pick it up and let's buy it, Body." And Body was dutiful, picked it up, paid for it, took it home and promptly put it in it's own drawer.

Brain detected this altered plan and yelled at Body. "HEY! What the H? I told you that was for so-and-so. Now go wrap it and put a tag on it with their name on it! Criminy, Body, I can't trust you as far as I can throw you!" And Body just laughed and walked away from the drawer, with the brooch left inside. I know, right? Body is really, really disobedient.

Which brings us to my problem. You all know that I am a hoarder at heart, and therefore, struggle with "letting go" of stuff. Something I've actually worked feverishly to triumph over, beginning with letting a friend have the larger portion of the broken stick of gum when I was seven....teen. (I still feel the anguish as if it were yesterday.)

And you also know how much I adore stuff, therefore, the letting go of it goes heartily against my nature...(Charlton Heston said it well... "You can have this gun~or stuff~when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers." That's passion talk, not crazy talk, as some people might suggest.)

However, I also love to increase other people's happiness by introducing them to "love of stuff"~(the first hit is free)~so that they can share in my guilty pleasure, as we all know that it can't be that bad, if everybody else is stuff lovin' too. It's called "stuff pimping" and no, I'm not proud of it. But I've got a habit to feed, okay, people?

So back to this contradiction~how does one serve these two equally demanding masters? As in, how do I bring stuff loving joy to other people at this gift giving season, as well as keep my own voracious stuff monster's appetite satiated and subdued? It's a conundrum. (And I just looked up the word conundrum, so as to use it properly, because I'm NOTHING if not proper.)

I'll keep you in suspense no more. Here's what I've decided to do...and it's really quite simple~

BUY MORE STUFF!

I know! Brilliant! And we all know how many brilliant ideas I am capable of, so this should be no surprise to any of you.

See, the more stuff I buy, the more I can hoard for myself and the more will be left-over for gift giving and stuff addicting and everybody's happy, folks!

Nobody needs to know that I kept the original gift intended for them~as long as there is a replacement, it's aaaaaaaaall good.

Plus, like a bride on her honeymoon flashing back to old boyfriends~there's no need to come snooping in my drawers for your "what might have been" gifts. The grass ain't always greener...so let's embrace that balding husband, 'mm~kay pumpkin?

As long as everybody stays away from the drawer, nobody gets hurt...

I'm serious. Drop the brooch.

COMPOSURE WIPE-OUT

A few things worth mentioning:

1) Putting on mascara (or any eye makeup, for that matter) the morning that you watch your weeping children embrace and say heart-ripping-out-of-chest goodbyes, for two years, is just plain denial.

2) Cocky mothers who mock other mothers for weeping are only setting themselves up for composure wipe-outs~the Lesson Teaching Angels (they're the ones who used to be tattle-tells on the playground before they died) make sure of that.

3) I've run out of moisture~squirted every last drop out of my face. And even though every other thing on me~including eyes, ears, lips and fingers~shriveled and shrank like a grape to a raisin from the dehydration, my nose become even MORE bulbous...and enlarged...and discolored...and shiny. I screamed that it was unfair while I swiped furiously at it with powder, but nobody thought it was their job to listen. Jerks.

4) And speaking of jerks, some foolish (and when I say foolish, that is me being TERRIBLY generous, because what I'd really like to call this fool is not very Christlike~and is probably more like an offensive curse word that would make you question my upbringing) people might think, that rather than feel the emotional angst that accompanies such an act as letting your eldest child go and serve his God for two years...that they can instead bandage the gaping wound with stacks of twenties~and it won't hurt as bad.

So, for instance, they might go buy some ASININE and staggeringly expensive item~without even whispering their intentions into their eternal companion's ear~and THEN act surprised when angry slit eyes show up on her face.

5) Fools should never, ever, ever be surprised to find themselves locked out of houses after bandaging wounds with dollar bills.

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

Ooooooooooookaaaaaayyyyyyyy. This must be like a funny joke, right? Because I'm looking around for a candid camera, as it's just way too ironic that missionary son would turn into a grade A whopper of a goose turd, mere MOMENTS before leaving his family...for two years...with this sulfuric acid (farty) taste left behind (from selfish "basturdish" behavior) just a'ruminatin' in our mouths.

So, there are a couple of reasons this can be happening. One~Heavenly Father knows that, like child birth, it eventually has to get SO UNREASONABLY HORRID that you have NO QUALMS about letting the 8 lb 4 oz human OUT the same way the tiny micro-organism got IN.

Your nose can't sprawl any wider across your face (I had abnormal nose expansion~seriously huge honker~baby almost birthed out of a nostril, as it was wider than my birth canal) You can't pop any more skin (had dreadful stretch marks, too~as opposed to splendid stretch marks~but we've already discussed this topic) And you can't continue to survive on a teaspoon full of air for one...more...moment... (gasp, gasp, wheeze, gulp)

Second possibility~I have been given a faulty child. Sure, he looked normal when we got him~the packaging gave no sign that the merchandise was defective. It took 19 years to figure out he was missing a few very key pieces of character, including but not limited to~compassion, sympathy, empathy, selflessness, obedience, foresight and the good sense that God should have given him. Too late to send him back. (Exchange policy clearly stated at time of receipt.)

Last~it's possible that Heavenly Father is very practical and loves me a great deal. Something I've always known, but now it's deeply cemented in my mind. He knew my motherly instincts would overwhelm and nearly annihilate me at this Christmas season, so he allowed son to be delightful...most of the time...over the last month. To get those vexing tears and tender emotions out of the way.

Once that was done, he let the character flaws overrun the teenaged body, and morph him into "Gooseturd boy" so as to make the parting not so much "sweet sorrow," but more "absence can't HELP but make the heart grow fonder."

And so, my friends, think of me from now on when you hear the term, "Kick 'em to the curb," because THAT is EXACTLY what we intend to do.

Our plan is to pull up to the MTC (missionary training center)...slowing down, but not necessarily stopping..then I'll reach across the boy, pull the handle and shove the door open with one hand, while keeping the other hand on the wheel, foot to the pedal and continuing to look out my front windshield. Sterling will then hop out and jog along side the car, pop the trunk, yank out the luggage and the son, tossing them both into a pile on their rumps (yes, luggage has a rump) on the snowy curb, jump back into the passenger side of the vehicle, and all without even breaking stride or a sweat.

We've practiced and we've got it down to 13 seconds~give or take a couple.

But lest ye think we are hard hearted and unfeeling, we fully intend to wave goodbye.

And THIS is why I am a weighty contender for Mother of the Year. (I could use your vote.)

TACO SOUP

Ahhhhhhh. It's over.

The multitudes~(made up of wonderful, supportive friends, family and neighbors~as well as~oblivious, food scavenging/dessert hording adolescents without a thought for what the garbage bags hanging from every door knob meant to them as consumers and disposers~for apparently scattering and kicking soiled and dripping with tomato sauce utensils, paper goods and baby sipped water bottles underneath chairs, tables and on any clean and decorated surface would do the job equally as well)~descended, ate, mirthily (I know it's not a word, but it's more fun to say than "mirthfully") congratulated and then filth and crudded up the place, (but some of them also gave us generous checks to help out with missionary economics, so all is forgiven them. The rest of you? (raised eyebrow and condescending expression)) then tromped back out the door to their awaiting carriages (mini-vans) and fish tailed down the ice rink streets, smiling and singing,~"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...to our clean home...that doesn't have ground in cream puffs smeared into the carpet...and fermenting food sleeping in assorted nooks and crannies that won't be found until next summer when she moves the furniture.......so glad I'm not herrrrrrr........Ooooh what fun it is to ride..."~you get the idea.

I, on the other hand, waved goodbye, closed the door and only then let my stomach erupt, popping dress seams and ripping pantyhose, as I could finally relax the gut that I'd been holding in all day, pretending that my recently invented and strictly adhered to "stress and reward eating system" was not causing any tell-tale damage.

I scratched my bum, let out a wee little (giant-gut-dropper-warm-pooh-air-bomb) stinker and went about the home opening every single door and window I could to get the smell of taco soup (thus the giant-gut-dropper-warm-pooh-air-bomb) to flee my premises. "FLEE! FLEE!" I waved and shouted, moving air around with my arms flapping wildly.

EVERYTHING smells like taco soup, people. Everything.

The left over cookies, (sniffed while I wolfed and gobbled. I'm no waster) my hair, (sniffed and grimaced all night as I tried to sleep through the stench) the ceiling, (I stood on a chair and sniffed~it's best to know what you're dealing with right from the very beginning.)

You can smell it hanging in the air like tree ornaments up the front walk. It has even infiltrated the sleeping rose bushes outside and next years crop will undoubtedly smell like fragrant, rosy B.O.

Anyway, the temp has been a balmy 30 degrees most of the day, hence I've kept the windows cracked and several candles burning so as to scorch the reek the "H" out of here. Missionary son will probably arrive at the training center and they'll dispatch him straight to sanitize/detox/quarantine, so as not to take any chances of the other missionaries becoming infected with taco soup.

Which may make it easier for him to leave this stinky home.

Which may also distract me from him leaving this stinky home.

Which may be a reason to bless taco soup's heart in all it's foul and disgusting glory.

Bless you taco soup. Grace in disguise.

GOBS

I've got gobs and gobs and gobs and gobs and GOBS of stuff to do tonight, since tomorrow we'll have around 250 people tramping through our home, (jealous?) expecting a "light lunch" and another cuss-load (guess what curse word that was supposed to be?) of people coming for dessert.

Hence, I am sitting here on the computer telling you about it, because sometimes I'm just too darn tootin' on the ball, (boing bounce) and it starts to make people feel dizzy and uncomfortable as they watch me bounce circles around them while I straddle the springy sphere, because obviously they'll never be the sharp tack that I am (which is weird that I haven't popped my bouncy-horse-ball because of said sharpness) and I hate to make people feel poorly about themselves...because I'm thoughtful like that, remember? So I'm not going to do those gobs of things right now. For you.

But if past experience has taught me anything, it's that nobody else is going to do those gobs, either. Which leads us down a path of "gobless" and that is not a journey we want to take the night before the hordes arrive, people. Because then I'll just blame you...and then you'll be offended...and likely talk about me behind my blog...and we'll start to avoid each other...and things will just get "weird."

So maybe I've misjudged this "being thoughtful" idea and had better get off my cuss (guess which one THAT was?) and get going on those gobs.

By the way, how clean do you suppose my carpets will be post hordes and gobs?

Yeah. I know.

TEENY TINY

Hi. Lisa here.

I've been decorating my miniature doll house for Christmas~thus it seemed appropriate to shrink my font. And by "my" I mean not my, but should be my, because "her" doesn't really even appreciate it, because "her" wears football costumes and wants to be a boy. Well, maybe not BE a boy, but BURP like one anyway.

So, I've been decorating this incredible Victorian mansion, which my brilliant and talented son built for his sister last year for Christmas~(she totally wanted it. I'm positive. She just didn't know that she wanted it, so I had to show her by telling Santa to give it to her as her main present instead of all the other things on her list that she'd plead for preceding the holiday..She'll thank me later)~with teensy wreaths and tinsy garland and weensy curtains and eensy Christmas trees and holy cow, people, it is MARVELOUS! MARVELOUS, I SAY! You should see it. And if I had figured out how to take a picture, hook it up to the computer, download and attach, you WOULD be seeing it. But obviously, the screen is blank. So that must mean I've reverted back to my wide-eyed and innocent pac man ways.

I know.

I'm disappointed in me, too.

But I will feel better once I eat another few truffles. Feel free to do the same until you think highly of me once again.

A GOOD DAY

Hi.

In case you couldn't tell, that was said kind of muffled and plugged-nose like. That's cuz I have a wad of toilet paper shoved up inside my nostril, since I have a bloody nose. Might need to be cauterized, as it doesn't seem to be slowing down. Which makes me smiley all over, people!

And I'm having a hard time typing, because there are shards of metal hanging out of my pointer finger, for some unknown-to-me reason. I said I don't know. What? You think I am fully self-aware aaallll of the time? Well I'm not. Sometimes shards of metal get stabbed into pointer fingers and nobody knows how they got there. They just announce their presence with razor sharp pain.

And don't act like that's never happened to you. Ever had a mysterious bruise? And not just a wee little baby brown one. Like a MONSTER SIZED, PURPLE, GREEN, YELLOW, RED AND BLUE LESION that you don't even KNOW you have until someone says, "Holy hell, what happened there?" And then you either have to admit you're just like me and don't necessarily notice a lopped off finger, or you make something up.

Anyway, where was I? Hold on, I have to change tissue wads~this one's soaked through. K. Um, oh, yeah. Screaming razor sharp pain. And really aggressive bloody noses. And $7,000 bills for furnace repair. And splits in the end of every single finger and toe~and heels and lips~that I've had to superglue shut (except for the lips) and that's why I'll probably die from superglue cancer...but that can't be helped. (Hey, they sting really bad.) And repairmen who show up late and think nothing of the fact that Vanity (I hate her) held a gun to my head, so I was forced to shower WAAAAAAAYYYYY before a woman like me (lazy) would normally be compelled to shower. (noon)

So all in all, a good day, wouldn't you say?

Oh, crap. I can feel it running down my throat.

IN CHARGE

Having a hard time remembering why I chose to be a mother. And to celebrate the Christmas season. And to be born...as all three of these things seem to have brought me to a place of tremendous stress lately and I don't know who is in charge...because CERTAINLY it couldn't and really SHOULDN'T be me...so there has obviously been a mistake made somewhere down the line, people, and we'll be needing to fix this...immediately.

Plus our furnace broke (yay!) And there will be workmen over here for the next three days, (yay) drilling new gas lines, (yay) cutting holes in sheet rock (yay) carrying old dead metal away and bringing in new, fresh, fantastically expensive alloys (yay, yay, yay~in fact, $7,000 worth of yay!) And all the while this is going on, they will carefully remove their sludge covered work boots and shod themselves with ballet slippers, tiptoeing everywhere they go.

Was that a chortle I heard? I didn't think so. (angry slit eyes)

And yes, I know that I've been a ball o' whine, lately. (Similar to a ball o' twine, but not as much fun to be around and kittens aren't nearly as attracted to it.) And I also know that I run the risk of alienating my BBFF's...even though you committed to stick with me through thick and thin (even calling me thin when I'm decidedly thick) when you accepted my friendship terms...(you were a little tipsy when you signed the contract, but I'm betting you can't prove that in court. Just sayin'.)

So because of our mutual respect and love, I will try to smother my rising blood pressure stats (where's a down filled pillow?) and Plaster of Paris a smile on the lower half of my face...but it will not reach my eyes, friends. It will not reach my eyes.

Which doesn't really matter, since I've covered them with my hands, anyway.

"Oh my gosh, where did Lisa go? She's vanished into thin air!" (much more flattering than thick air.)

Hint: My favorite and oft used childhood theory~if I can't see them, they can't see me. Thus, I've disappeared.

Now, go find out who is supposed to be in charge and ask them all your stupid questions.

PIGGY

Soooo...apparently, according to my lacking-a-mouth-filter-daughter, I bear a striking resemblance to "Miss Piggy" as she plays the part of Bob Cratchet's wife in The Muppet's Christmas Carol. And I don't know why YOU think it's not seriously complimentary~(though even the girl knew it wasn't "good," as she qualified her comment by saying, "I know that's not good...but I think it's true.")~because it totally THRILLS ME! My aspirations have finally paid off.

And you know, if the bar has been set right there at the level of "pig," then really, REALLY, there's nothing else to do but join the oink ranks and continue with my present level of consumption. So MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME...as I shove my snout full of holiday joy. Don't you wish your daughter had flattered you so? Dream on, friends.

I'll admit, though, it's fun to find out the perceptions of our children about their family~unless there's a porker reference~and yesterday was full of amusement as our children said sobbing and excruciating public goodbyes to their brother.

In our monthly "Fast and testimony" meeting at church, the congregation is invited to come up to the pulpit and bear testimony of the gospel and share faith promoting experiences. Ideally, these testaments should revolve around Jesus Christ as our Savior. However...(she said sheepishly)... somehow, in the sweeping emotion of the day, my entire clan went tripping and charging up to the pulpit, without forethought as to what they intended to say, and proceeded to make the meeting an uncomfortable, albeit unintentional, worship service for their earthly brother Ashton, rather than their eternal brother Jesus Christ. Which makes a mother...wince.

They wept and sobbed, pubescent voices cracking and unchecked boogers seeping, as they professed fervent love and admiration for their missionary bro. They regaled with stories of "ridiculously awesome" hair, "freakin' cool" clothing and "Lord of the Rings marathons." Yes. Yes, that's right. With priorities such as these being taught in our home...I know. I'm one incredible mother. I might start up classes...just to benefit other~more often than not~inferior mothers (probably you,) and I won't even charge (very much.)

The Bishop and his counselors on the stand started to sweat and tug at their collars, heads in hands with eyes darting toward the clock on the wall every few seconds. (A quick shout out to Brother "Man-pri Marker." We missed thee whilst thou wast away.) They were hoping the hands would show in their favor~kind of like checking the fridge every two minutes, hoping the food fairies had placed a giant cream pie on the shelf since the last time you looked.

When the time finally DID expire, they were like a race-horse out of the shute. "AAAAAAND...we'd like to thank all those who BORE TESTIMONY...(not YOU, Bingham family) about OUR SAVIOR...(that's right, OUR SAVIOR, NOT your son) at THIS SEASON OF HIS BIRTH!...(two fingered eyeball point from their eyes to ours) 'Nuff said. Amen."

And they ended the meeting.

I'm not gonna lie. I was relieved.

And now, my fellow Christmas piggies, I'm off to find another trough of slop to eat.

"Oinkity, grunt, SNORT!" (that's pig talk for 'Adieu.')

Here I am again...I think, I really think, I know how to post pictures!!!!! Oh my gosh, this is exciting.

TA DA! Here is my family...in case you were sitting there in your Saturday Mom ponytail with leftover decorations strewn about thinking, "Hm. You know what I'd like~just to make my day complete? I'd like to see a picture of Lisa's family."

Well, I'm here for you, friends. Without further ad0...

ELDER ASHTON

MY FIRST OFFICIAL BLOG PICTURE...(by popular demand)...AND I'M REALLY NOT SURE HOW I DID IT. No, seriously. No idea. BUT YAY FOR ME, PEOPLE!

And of course, as everyone knows the first born child gets more pictures taken of them~by about ten fold~than all the other children combined, so I might as well buy into the theory and post first born~in all his Elder Ashton glory.

Now the real test will come as I try to duplicate my efforts, which I cannot guarantee, as I yam what I yam. (Popeye reference~but I don't like spinach, unless it's in salad)

I'll tell you what I tell my own kids..."You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Actually, I never said that myself, but a neighbor lady down the street did. Whatever.

DIAPER BIBS

We had an explosion in our home yesterday. A chaos bomb went off about 1:30 in the afternoon~12 minutes after I stopped slurring (dentist~not liquor) and about half way through my Dr. Pepper. ("What were YOU doing when they killed the President...or cancer was cured...or the tarantula troopers fell out of the sky?" "Oh, I was about six ounces into my Dr. Pepper."~that's how I MMM~Mark Monumental Moments~with beverage memories. Still waters run deep, people.)

Anyway, we were informed that our dearly beloved (this week anyway~last month he was a swear-word) missionary son would be leaving a week earlier than expected. And the funny thing is, they just said it, like it was Okay to just say something like that~like it was legal and everything to do this to a missionary mother~because of course she was aaaaalllllllll out of things to do to prepare the young lad~having speedily and efficiently planned, purchased and packed every needful thing for TWO YEARS IN BRAZIL~in fact, she'd probably been twiddling her manicured fingers and pedicured toes just to keep busy~and wasn't feeling the least bit tender about his impending departure.

"Bring it on!" they'd heard her scream~fist to the heavens.

So they done brung it.

I ugly cried everywhere I went. In the fruit isle picking up oranges? Dripping snot and smearing it on my coat sleeves. In the fabric store choosing white fur trim? Howling with head flung back and mouth corners turned down. At the restaurant eating steak and salmon with vanishing son? Sobbing and drooling with head propped up on fist.

More water dripped and pooled from my orifices than had any right to escape from a person's face. I just kept an adult diaper taped to my chest all day to sop and absorb...Hey, if you're going for ugly, might as well own it, baby.

Anyway...I nearly drowned in the waves of emotion...but then, suddenly, was FLUNG and TOSSED back into the air like a GIANT, BOUNCY BEACH BALL...(which resembles my abdomen as well as my fleshy hooters, so it was the perfect analogy)...by my dear friends and loved ones. Who knew when I was "friending" people that they would come in so very handy one day? Bless their optimistic hearts.

They told me happy things~made grand promises of future blessings (which I wrote down and also kept track of who said what, so they're accountable for said promises and blessings coming to fruition,) and just basically gave me a delightful sense of well being...kind of like Serotonin, but in people form.

So I'm much better now. Just like the nearly dead peasants laid out as garbage in Monty Python's Holy Grail...

...not dead yet...

...feeling much better, actually...

But just to be safe, don't take that corpse cart away just yet. I still have ten days to tread water~and it looks like another wave is about to come rolling in and I never learned how to surf emotions.

"Anyone seen my diaper bib?"

GASSY

Reasons dentists and their assistants should learn sign language, have code words, or just simply lie:


"Hey, (to the assistant) can I get some suction here? That's really a lot of blood."

"Almost done...well, not really almost done. More like, oh, I'd say 60% through the drilling." (me giving an insincere gassy pig-snout thumbs up...gassy as in laughing, NOT gassy from your rhymes with gassy, starts with "A"...OH MY GOODNESS, THAT WAS CRUDE! HOLY COW, I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT. And yes, I could erase it, but for some reason, I don't want to.)

"Make sure she swishes her mouth out a few times. There's quite a bit of debris in there." (I guess debris is already code, but I cracked it immediately, so it's obviously not nearly sophisticated enough. FYI, debris stands for butchered gum tissue, bloody tooth shards and gobs of drool.)




Next, things that make me feel inferior and unattractive~besides my 41-year-oldedness:

Apparently, I have "restless mouth syndrome~(It resembles restless leg, but makes your dental assistant have to "babysit" your jaw while taking impressions) I guess continuing to talk and ask questions of the help~even if it IS to take their minds off the judgements rolling around in their head about the quality of your oral hygiene~isn't very conducive to a proper cement molding of your teeth and you'll have to keep doing it...over and over again, people...until you either shut up on your own, or you're compelled to shut up by having the young assistant clamp your mouth together for you. (Note to self~make sure to pluck that witch hair growing out of the chin mole next time, as that is most likely where the young assistant will place her tender hand while vising your mug.)

Another ugly...plucking pieces of cement out of my eyelashes while blinking rapidly and trying to look unconcerned, as the water sprayer went "rogue" a few times and blew chunks of~remember our new favorite~bloody debris~all over my countenance.

And lastly, smelling my own fermented breath as rubber gloved hands work feverishly to patch up decay and rot. I know. Disgusting. But let's call a spade a spade, shall we? ("Hi. My name is spade.")



In conclusion, may I just profess my undying love and feelings of great tenderness toward Dashboard Confessional~the rock group~whom I've grown to know intimately. They worked tirelessly and in synergistic harmony with nitrous oxide, making sure this was a very convincing Out Of Body Experience. It was almost on a par with vaginal exams and sausage fingered OB's on the delivery room table.

I guess I really CAN do hard things...not just EAT hard things.


(Which is kind of how this whole thing got started...)

MEAN SLIT-EYES

My appointment is tomorrow...weird how I even remembered. So I thought it would be prudent to make up a last Will and Testament, just to make sure the right people (and by "right" I mean colorful, red and blue, sparkly diamond, perfect mother, righteous, teeny waisted, shapely calved, white toothed, full lipped, flower lovin', beautiful, brilliant and clever, *imaginary*) get my stuff...should something happen to me, which it won't, right? RIGHT?

I have always found it works out to my advantage to be OVERLY worried about things in general, and then whatever the end result, it can't be quite as horrid as I imagined. Like when I was a teenager, the nights that I blew my curfew and didn't give it a second thought, were always the nights that my mom had locked me out of the house and then answered my (sissy-timid) knock on the door with mean slit-eyes and hostility. But the nights I stewed and fretted that I was sooooo in trouble were the nights she yawned, smiled and slurred, "Nite, hon."

So as a quick observer, the lesson was learned, "Worry the cuss out of life, and everybody's happy...and has stomach aches and ulcers...but that's what Tums are for, people." Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Will and Testament and worried as junk.

Actually, my biggest concern is that my ipod battery will run out and the dentist will speak to me and I'll actually hear him...and the drill...which will yank me out of my zone~ which means I'll have to respond to put him at ease, because I want to make sure he likes me since it's all about him, right? And if he likes me, he won't think it's my fault that my teeth bust into pieces~probably some genetic flaw that can't possibly be my failing~and he'll make sure the procedure is painless and quick and almost delightful~and he'll tell me I'm a model patient and to "keep eatin' that ice, honey. It's obviously done wonders for your nubs, I mean teeth." And he'll smile and pat my hand and tell me he doesn't need to see me again for fifty seven years. Not even for cleanings. And he'll give me a bag of gumballs that are extra soft, and a special magical potion that tastes like licorice and coats your teeth and makes them impervious to cavity creeps~as well as gleaming white for eternity~ without ZINGING THE CRAP OUT OF YOUR TOOTH NERVES like stupid Crest Whitestrips. And now that I write it, it doesn't sound so bad after all. In fact, what have I been so worried about?

I'm only a few minutes late for curfew...my mom will totally understand. Sheesh. What's the big deal...? (sissy-timid knock on the locked door)

(ominous music in the background as she answers the door with mean slit eyes and hostility...)

To be continued...

LEFTOVERS

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there lived an ice-chompin', busted tooth sportin' princess named Lisa. And it was Christmastime. And she had a maze of holiday decoration boxes strewn throughout her castle...once again (sound redundant? I know! And I'm livin' this nightmare!)...and NO energy or desire to display them. But mostly, this was because she had somehow acquired gobs and gobs of useless crap that she had no intention of putting up, but couldn't bring herself to throw away (remember the Depression? Okay, well me neither, but I've heard about it and people order me to "Save that cool whip bowl!" referring to it, so I do and I'm better and more righteous than you because of it.)

Where were we? Ah, yes~Princess Lisa called them "leftovers." Just like the bowl of Thanksgiving peas in her fridge that had wrinkled and grayed, they still hadn't reached full expiration and it would be sinful to bury them before they were fully dead.

Anyway, Princess Lisa was in charge of "finishing up" the decorating after her family had gone off to school and work~which she fully intended on doing (remember how important intentions are?) but somehow...somehow~she was distracted (bright, shiny objects) while walking past the Christmas tree (spells disaster for simple minds like Princess Lisa's) and made not even a dent in her own grooming for the day, let alone the heap of holiday cheer.

This story ends badly, friends, so I won't finish it. (body found decomposing the following year in a box of peas...I mean leftovers...I mean old crap decorations) So we'll move on to happier things...

I can't think of any right now, because my tooth is still broken and there is an impending dental appointment echoing in my brain...and also because the boxes are mocking me. And no matter how much caffeine I drink or cups of ice I chomp, I can still hear them.

Stupid leftovers.