The floor is warm, the house is clean, the presents are wrapped and I'm about to settle down for a long Winter's nap. I tried to do some of that slumbery snore this morning, but was jarred awake in the wee hours by a worker man pounding on the front door. Ster forgot he was coming. In fact, so much slipped his mind, that about 3:00 AM, the poor dear decided he couldn't watch the clock one more second, and slipped himself a mickey~or half an Ambien~which I knew nothing of.
Ever hear what an Ambien is capable of doing? It's categorized as a "hypnotic sedative". A nurse I know took one and woke up on her trampoline. Go ahead and Google it. I'll wait......
....done? Okay, so that 3:00 AM decision? Mm hmm. Poor. Anyway, pound, pound, pound and I jump up, all heat miser hair, and morning musk whisper screaming,
"IS THAT SOMEONE AT THE DOOR? IS SOMEONE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE? STER! WHO IS IT? IS THERE A WORKER COMING TO FIX MORE STUFF? DEAR! WHAT'S GOING ON? DID YOU REMEMBER SOMEONE WAS COMING? HOW COME YOU'RE NOT UP? DO YOU KNOW WHO'S HERE? STERLING! STER!"
He just lays there.
Like it's MY problem.
Then finally, crack head meanders out of bed, toodles around the bedroom for a few seconds, which is HOURS in "stranger pounding on your front door" time, then wanders leisurely into the bathroom to gather up some shorts to cover his bedhead bum.
Anyway, he just admitted tonight that he was in an Ambien fog that whole time, bless his heart.
Hey, so guess what I'm eating? Little balls of chocolate, butter and sin. Satan balls. Compliments of the lovely, effervescent as a glass of pure carbonation, Heather. Even her name sounds like soft, purpley flowers in warm summer breezes. And she has cotton candy hair, just like me. Some of you know what I'm talking about (Missy). We really ought to just dye it pink, except then people would likely try to grab a wad and shove it in their mouths when we pass by. But that would probably only be at Lagoon and Disneyland and such.
Anyway, guess how much that bad news is costing us? SEVEN. FREAKING. GRAND. PEOPLE. That's right. And if you've been with me from the beginning, you'll recognize this as an exact carbon copy of this time last year.
And right after swallowing that chunk of glee, poor, dear husband came home with anxiety dripping out of his nose pores, on account of this guy named Jack~last name Ass~goes by the nickname Dumb~heehawing that he wanted his name removed from the records of our business. I KNOW! Like we hadn't already excommunicated Jack eons ago. Moron.
So anyway. That's all I got. Well, that and a gaggle full of blessings that I'm choosing to ignore. Because 'TIS THE SEASON, friends. Even though I have a life full of goodness, I'm sitting on Santa's lap and whispering that it's just not enough.
So I went to have a shower yesterday. Found out that the furnace/boiler had stopped working sometime the previous night. Or...perhaps...mid morning encroaching into noonday. On account of it may or may not have been officially afternoon when I stuck my toes into the freezing water.
I realized I had a decision to make. Do I call my husband who has been at work since the rump crack of dawn, and admit that my facade of being anxiously engaged is a sham, as I am JUST NOW realizing my plight? Or do I slather pits in deodorant and work some baseball cap magic, in order to keep up pretenses?
In the end, I shampooed in icicles that dripped from the faucet, turning my brain blood to slush, so that I might not have another elephant pooh hair encounter. Then throwing dignity to the wind, I called and came clean (figuratively) to my man.
And lucky for me, I am the only finger pointer/head bobber in this household, thus hubbie didn't even raise a fiber optic eyebrow. Just picked up the parts and fixed it like the brilliant mechanic that he is. And I wish I could say I learned my lesson. That from this day forward, I will jump out of bed and fling my flappy body into the refreshing mist without missing a beat. But the Lord hates liars.
He told me so when we were talking about...well, I shouldn't say.
Hard to talk, friends. Hard to type. Hard to sit. Hard to breathe. On account of my stupid Grinch jeans. No giving Christmas spirit WHAT.SO.EVER!
Seems their stupid stingy heart isn't the only thing two sizes too small. And here I am, trying to embrace the season by letting MY heart...and some other stuff...grow even MORE ENORMOUS, because of my giving nature and such. In fact, I put a magnifying glass to my belly, and what do you know? IT BUSTED RIGHT THROUGH THE FRAMEWORK, JUST LIKE WHEN THE GRINCH GETS THE SPIRIT! SO FUN!
So I'm just carrying on special holiday traditions, you know? And hopefully, my example will be a light on the hill for grinchy denim everywhere, so that we can one day see them wrapped all festive and generous, around GIGANTIC BULGING BUMS, as they understand what Christmas is all about.
And then they'll get their own animated Christmas special.
Hey, guess what's fun? Having your own blog! On account of you get to write your very own stuff! I know! So like, your own memories, your own experiences, your own feelings and even your own humor, filteredthrough your own personality prism. EVEN IF...now this is important...someone else doesn't "get it".
So like, I paint pictures with words the way I want you to see it, and use acronyms indiscriminately and embellish stories with ALL MANNER OF GLITTERY, SCATTERED PROFANITIES...and then, here's where you step in. YOU get to decide whether or not you want to read it. And guess what else? With such steely determination, you will find the offense you were after~with any number of stories, memories, experiences or humor. THUS, you are AS FREE AS A BIRD to fly away.
FREE AS A BIRD.
It's called agency. Part of the plan.
And when I say "fly away," I mean click off the link, turn off the computer and climb back onto the phone to weep, wail and gnash your teeth while you speak ill of me to your kin.
And just one more FYI (another acronym I tossed in higgledy piggledy)~we know you dye your hair.
That's right, I said it. QUICK, HIDE THE GUN BEFORE THEY CAN SHOOT THE MESSENGER!
A friend of ours went in for a biopsy tonight on a rather large mole. Just decided it didn't look right as he climbed into the shower, and made the appointment THAT VERY MINUTE to have it checked.
Said the Dr. used something akin to a cookie cutter to stamp out a piece of the tissue, then sewed it up like a puckered balloon.
Dr.~"Come on in next week, and I'll take the stitches out for you."
Him~"Naw. I can do it myself."
Dr. gives friend a seam ripper tool, which he is looking forward to using on his own basted skin.
Now several things stand out to me here, regarding the GLARING DISPARITY I see between me and this brave knight. First, if I had noticed a 'not right' mole on Princess Lisa, I'd have spent up to 8 months of tortured, sleepless nights, fraught with despair over the impending Dr.'s visit.
Worries like, "Oh my holy junk, he's going to think it's my fault...that I grew this mole on purpose! He'll probably want to check my entire body for freckles and rogue tumors, which will bring to light my taffy abdomen and weathered breasts and such. I wonder if they can give me a local for the physical? Maybe a piggy snout of laughing gas or something? Course then I'd be out of control, laughing and naked under a paper napkin on the exam table...until I start coughing. And then I'd pee a little. You know, now that I think about it, maybe it's okay to die of a malignant mole. I mean, really, I've had a pretty good life. Kids are older and don't need me so much. Plus, people have been jerks to me lately and I really think I might be done. No, really."
Beyond that, I'd be compelled to take up drinking, so as to get liquored up enough to simply MAKE the appointment, as well as to actually keep it. Also, so I wouldn't be aware or care how much coughing, laughing or piddling went on. And the seam ripper? Yeah, no. Just, no.
So those are just the most obvious chasms separating this friend and me. And sure, one of us will likely live long and prosper, while the other may, well, okay, not. But she kind of feels it's better to leave them wanting more.
Plus, she's sure that's a beauty mark. (pretty sure)
You know how we always talk about opposition? As in, "There must be opposition in all things." Yeah, well, so since I looked smashing on Sunday, extra care with hair and makeup because we went to my sister's ward for her baby's blessing, and it's time to represent, you know? Can't have her neighborhood thinkin' she's a hick and comes from cousin marriage. Anyway, the next day I evened things right out. On account of I let my hair air dry.
Or should I say "error dry".
Yes, it was a mistake, friends. Anyone with a teaspoon of hair has no business letting a light breeze be in charge. But I thought I deserved it. I was tired and decided to rebel against personal standards and good judgement. As soon as I realized what a miscalculation it was, I tried to remedy the situation. But that only made it tap its foot and roll it's hair eyeballs at me. I tried ponytails, bobby pins, chiffon scarves and heavy eye makeup. The tapping got even louder.
Sterling came home and Julia came home and Chris came home and Seth came home and not one of them looked me in the eye. They just kind of stared questioningly at what was hanging limp and feverish across my forehead. Eventually, I mentioned the elephant in the room, but not before it left a steaming pile of hair pooh, that everyone had tried to avoid. Finally, I just took my bra off and put my robe back on. It was clear I was going nowhere.
So what do we learn from this, people? That Satan is a filthy liar. That's right. Stay with me here~see, Satan is always screaming for us to be free! And the only way we can be free is to disobey...parents, religious leaders, commandments, laws, promptings from the spirit...Lucifer spouts off that they bring us down and we're being led like sheep.
Yeah, well, shut it, Satan. Because from what I experienced yesterday, obedience brings freedom, not fetters. I disobeyed my own principles and went rogue for the day, and look what it brought me...A BRA-LESS SHACKLING TO MY HOME, WITHOUT EVEN THE POWER TO REPLENISH MY DWINDLING CHOCOLATE STASH!
And Satan laughed.
So don't tell me that steaming elephant pooh hair is the way to live your life. It's not. We deserve much more than that.
And I will be the one to laugh at Satan, not the other way around!
Na, na, na na na! (sticking fingers in ears and tongue out) (Now I'm wiggling my bum at him. He hates that the most!)
Favorite collectibles~all spindly legs and bulging bellies.
Magnificent Victorian glitter fest snow babies.
Porcelain Victorian ornament/doll.
Sparkling crystal earrings and necklace.
Vintage patent leather envelope clutch.
Enormous emerald ring, on account of I like to put on airs.
WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS "STUFF" FINDS~for me, of course~on account of who knows me better than me does? And because I'm so generous, money was no object.
Brenda is my favorite. She owns Just a Bed of Roses, which is also my favorite. Both favorites. My sisters and mom and friends celebrate all chick holidays by a visit to her threshold. We even set goals together. This year, we decided I need to work at wearing more necklaces. Now how many shop owners do YOU know that are this vested in the betterment of their clientele? None, people. 'Cept for Brenda. Only thing wrong with her is she celebrates with Christmas spiders. I know. Really, really creepy.
But she deserves to be forgiven this one heinous flaw. So take a flying leap to Farmington and get your own stuff. Then you wrap it up and put it under your tree, and tag it to you from your own husband, which is basically like hiding it in plain sight. You won't even have to shove it behind your dresses in the closet, and then bring it out a few months later, acting surprised that he's never noticed it before now.
Criminy, people! Have you seen my house? Have you seen the boxes and boxes of crapola just lying around like a lazy, farting cat in front of a roaring fire? Have you seen the bags and bags of "What the junk is this?" decorations, that had nothing to do for the last 11 months in storage, therefore, spent the time fornicating in the dark, plastic buckets with other worn and weary decor, resulting in a whole gaggle of illegitimate tinsel wads and cheap, tangled lights? Have you seen me outside, barefoot, trying to tie a crunchy, left over velvet bow on my iron railing, and then limping back indoors, as my non tempered glass feet immediately shattered and bled from the impact of extreme temperatures?
No. No, you haven't. Because you're too busy acting all competent and smug, having your lights, stockings and ornaments hung with care, and pretending you're in a Christmas commercial, wearing a form fitting cashmere sweater, smiling demurely and looking out your frosted window pane, while you blow on a mug of steaming hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
And I kind of hate you right now. And it's likely to continue until you remember how much you owe me, and prance on over here like a good reindeer does, to help out Princess Lisa, so she can start sucking down a few mugs of that Christmas cheer, herself. With marshmallows.
If I don't hear my doorbell ringing by midnight, you're dead to me.
Me-"Hey, Mom. Let's make a quick run to Joanne's fabric. I know it's Black Friday, but it's later, and I'm sure the crowds are diminished by now. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."
Me-"Why are all these people draped across chairs, holding bolts of fabric? Half of them are dozing."
Mom-"I know. How weird. It's been a long day, so maybe they're just worn out."
Me-"Oh, good. Here's the fabric we wanted. I'll go pull the numbered ticket, so we can get through the line faster. (pull ticket) Our number is 47 and they're on 30. Geez. This is going to take a while."
Mom-"Well, let's just wander around for a few minutes while we wait." (20 minutes passes)
Mom-"Hey. What number did they just call? I think that was 52. Oh, crap! We missed our number!"
Me-"I'll run up and see if they'll let us in."
Angry cutter lady-"G54...G54!"
Me-"Oh, hey. I missed my nuh....wait, did you say G? Wait, so there are LETTERS, too? Letters mixed with numbers? So if mine says H47...abcdefgh...so, then, how many numbers are assigned to each letter? Are there like, another HUNDRED to go, before you make it around to H47? Is that what's going on here?"
(Angry villagers strewn about fabric cutting area give me a collective eyeball roll)
Random customer-"We've. been. here. for. two. hours. and. twen. tee. minutes."
Me-"HOLEEEEE HE.......COW, PEOPLE! ARE YOU SERIOUS? FOR WHAT, LIKE TEN BUCKS SAVINGS? ARE YOU...wow. (pulling pitchforks out of purses and flipping Bics to light torches) Wow. Okay. Good luck with that."
And we heard the faint cry as we screeched out of sight, "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, NOW WHERE'S G59...G59!"
I think you'll be proud of me. As many of you know, I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner, and may I just state for the record, that there is nothing quite so exhilarating as crossing things off a list. Things such as:
*Make a list-check
*Clean out my purse-check
*Get the mail-check
*Pick up Kleenex with my toes-check
*Eat a pile of pistachios-check
*Pick up kids from school-check
*Park at the grocery store and tweeze a few stray hairs-check
*Go to Tepanyaki for steak and shrimp-(burp)check
Now I know what you're thinking. How does she do it? How does Princess Lisa continue to amaze us all with her list making triumphs? Well, it's a talent, friends. A skill I've honed over years and years of procrastination. I eventually realized that the only way I was going to feel successful, was to write things that were highly likely to happen on their own.
Kind of like giving out trophies for "participant". Shines just the same as first place, and you can't really tell what it was for, unless you get close enough to read the engraving. So for all you know, when you see all those pretty red check marks on my THANKSGIVING TO DO's, you assume I'm accomplishing the hell out of things.
And I am.
Holy junk, that shrimp was tasty. I'm adding that to my list one more time.
You know how when little kids are being chased by their monster dad, and they're so hysterical and trapped that the only thing they can think to do, is turn and run directly into the arms of their attacker? Yeah, well, that's what this is. I'm telling you the story before you find out on your own and hit me where it hurts~in my (false) pride.
So it started with a last minute decision to get a pedicure. Seems a few months previous, my surly little toes had thrown a fit, screaming that they didn't need any "professional supervision". They thought they could make it on their own, so they packed up their polish and pumice and waved goodbye in peep toes. Stupid daft hoofs. But there they were, three months later, all cracked, bleeding and chipped, having shredded their last pair of pantyhose, and bawling that they couldn't pay their light bill and needed a place to stay.
Anyway, being the nurturer I am, I took pity on them. Which brings us to the desperate need and split second decision to run to the pedicurist. I entered the shop, obeyed the Vietnamese command to "choose culuh," grabbed a couple of magazines and rolling my pant legs up, slid my feet into the warm blue water. Suddenly, I was seized with clarity and dread, but it was too late.
I was Rapunzel.
Leg hair Rapunzel.
Which does not make for an enchanting fairy tale.
I quickly texted Kara, for sisterly support: "Oh. my. holy. junk! I just put my feet in the water, and forgot I haven't shaved!"
Kara: "How long has it been?"
Me: "Since before South Carolina."
Kara: "Oh, Lisa. Oh, geez. Well, don't bother apologizing. She doesn't understand English, anyway. Plus they're probably talking about you right now."
And they were.
So I did the best I could to stare at my magazine and avoid the teeny little girl's mocking laughter and black eyes. Which seemed to be going fine, until she held up my foot and scrutinized my heels, which were covered in half inch deep, dead dermis splits. This had slipped my mind, on account of they'd stopped stinging the day before. Our eyes locked and a silent understanding was reached. I was no longer welcome in this establishment.
And then, thinking the worst was over, I leaned forward to scratch a hairy limb, only to drop two brand new magazines into the basin filled with recently shaved skin shards. The girl just stared at me, lifted the trash lid and pointed and snapped for me to retrieve and discard. Not even the hint of a smile. Just my nervous laughter filling the air.
I kept my head down for the remainder of the appointment, which normally lasts around an hour and a half, but this time finished in just under 45 minutes. Weird. And then I beat a hasty retreat straight to my bathtub ledge, in order to right the wrong. I figured I could quickly shave, post-pedi, and rewrite history. Because sometimes I lie to myself.
So what do we learn from this, friends? First, Vietnamese girls hate Americans. Second, just because a foot stops stinging, does NOT mean it's in peak physical condition. And third, I need a new hairstyle, as they've just posted my mug shot on the wall.
So next week is Thanksgiving, folks. LET THE GLUTTONY BEGIN! Not me, you. Because let's not pretend you haven't already started sampling the menu items, 'mm kay, pumpkins?
Anyway, here is my Blissfully Domestic post to tide you over until I come clean about the hairy legs crime scene at the pedicurist last week. I'm working up to it~not ready to admit guilt. Would prefer to cast sideways glances at all of you, as to your own conduct.
I'm off! Turkey burps and Dr. Pepper kisses, peeps!
I just got back from doing a little shopping. So here's today's question:
Better than the State Fair...
Better than the hallways of a Jr. High school...
Better than a family reunion...in a double wide...in the back woods of Alabama?
Answer~The Mall Food Court.
I'm telling you, folks, people watching as good as that shouldn't be legal. It was like looking through a microscope at a petri dish full of rapidly multiplying bacteria, and wondering when the mutation would come to a horrifying climax.
I'm home, muh peeps! Back from a terrible few days in Park City. It was horrid. I hated every second. Every outlet shopping, restaurant eating, movie watching, late sleeping, condo residing, hot tubbing moment. Dreadful. I shudder just thinking of it.
As my friend and I sat caramelizing in the jacuzzi, we read the plaque on the wall that warned any pregnant women to shun this activity. And we laughed even as we were becoming light headed and nauseous, because we no longer heed medical warnings, on account of our wrinkly wombs and such. I also recalled the day that avoiding scalding hot tubs was as good as an announcement~
"Hey! You're only sticking your toes in. ARE YOU PREGNANT?" And we'd smile coyly, as the cat was out of the bag. Apparently the vomit dripping from our chin wasn't a strong enough indicator.
Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I went visiting neighbor ladies with my Mother in law? Now, a quick descriptive of my dear MIL, Ramona~fiery red hair that she "dyed" until she "died". Blue eyes, pink nails, coral lipstick that never managed to stay within the confines of her mouth, and the sharpest tongue with the bluntest delivery. Which I know nothing about myself, so shut up.
So we were chatting with a young woman in our neighborhood, and she told us she was 'expecting'. Ramona said with delight, "Oh, how wonderful! Do you know what you're having?"
Ramona~"I thought you said you knew what you were having."
Woman~"Well, I know what we're having. But we're not telling anyone else."
Ramona~with incredulous disbelief, laughed~"Well, hell, I don't really care WHAT you're having. I was just trying to make conversation!"
We were never asked to visit with her again. But we didn't care. She deserved it. She was stupid. And since I've never said or done anything stupid, thoughtless or insensitive in my entire life, I can cast that stone, people, as I am clearly without sin.
So what did you all do while I was in Park City? Never mind. I don't really care. I was just trying to make conversation. Now hand me that boulder, will ya?
Happy, happy pilgrims. Why are they happy? Probably because they get to feast for three days straight. And there was no Black Friday back then.
New scalloped table~LOVE IT! Not to brag or anything, but I think the centerpiece and table sang, "The Circle of Our Love" as they made a promise in Heaven that they would find each other after they were born, and I was the glue that brought them together. Just sayin'.
"There's a great big turkey down on Grandpa's farm, and he thinks he's very..." what a shame we can never sing that "straight" faced again.
My new pilgrim set~loving the pewter and mixed metals.
Nice rack....plate rack, that is.
Some poor bird was plucked naked to dress this fake Turkey. Hardly seems fair.
FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC vintage material! Can you even believe they make such wonderful stuff? I can die happy now~clutching this fabric in my hands. I want my coffin lined in it.
And MORE vintage...not sure what I'll do with it~just know I couldn't live without it. Any ideas?
REAL MATERIAL! I KNOW! What is it about Little Golden Books that immediately makes the world right again?
Jules and I getting "artistic". Oh, AND, that little squirt of hair is my "messy bun". I know. Shut up.
Meet Jules~the balloon twisting savant. And no, I'm not being compensated for endorsing Pepsi products. But I probably should be.
Something is up with my TV signal, so I might as well blog. Not that I am addicted to staring vacuously at the mind numbing screen or anything. But maybe you are, which is sad. It's sad to me you spend your days yelling that, "IT'S JUST A JOLLY CHRISTMAS SWEATER! ARE THOSE POM POM BALLS DANGLING FROM THE TREE REALLY HURTING ANYONE? LET THE POOR WOMAN ALONE, STACY AND CLINTON! CRIMINY!" And it's sad to me that you know every verse of the CMT top 20, singing about your HillBilly Bone all loud, proud and oblivious at Gardner's Village, while loitering around ladies who lunch. And it's equally sad to me that you are probably still in your nightgown, unsure what to do with yourself, minus your early morning routine of falling back to sleep with the soothing lullaby of Mythbusters.
So sad for you.
Anyway, I have completed a few chores lately. First, I decorated for Thanksgiving, which means I also UNDECORATED for Halloween. No small task. Plus I finally noticed and threw away the last remaining "vomiting it's own innards" jack-o-lantern on the front porch that had become white noise to me.
But I was only on the fringe of the white trash neighborhood, as it's been LESS than a week, and I happen to know a woman who still has her pumpkin corpse on her front porch from HALLOWEEN, CIRCA 2009, PEOPLE! Course, it's now the size of a shriveled-up kumquat, so maybe she forgot it was once the majestic king of squashdom. (Suddenly, the word squash is cracking me up.)
And you know, maybe she's gone green, but doesn't know that shouldn't be taken so literally~as in green, moldy, rotting pulp staining her front walkway. So who am I to judge this woman who so obviously loves Mother Earth, and is just trying to feed the cement with all manner of fall harvest, as surely it gets hungry, too?
Anyway, where was I? Eh, never mind. I'll just end with a TGIF, even though those initials lost their thrill after I left (notice how I chose left rather than finished or graduated~here's a pencil~draw your own conclusion) college, as a MOTHER'S work is never done.
Yeah.....sooooooo.......just took another batch of photos for the newspaper column. And just for the record, if you hear talk of 'deleting moles,' full 'face and neck airbrushing' and 'mouse click chin minimizing,' well, don't you believe a word of it, folks.
Especially the one about moving one of my eyeballs a full half inch up or down. That's just crazy talk.
Because as everybody knows~what HAPPENS in Photoshop, STAYS in Photoshop!
Isn't that right, Kara? (two fingered off-kilter eyeball point)
Nothing says Halloween like a flash flood rainbow.
A chickencess...new Halloween concept in the process of patent.
Ahhhhhhh. That's me sighing with chocolate drool relief that it's officially November and we can now enjoy the harvest season without getting all tangled up amidst bloody corpses hanging from tarantula webs. Not that I don't enjoy that...about as much as pushing play on the answering machine and hearing a "reminder call" from my dentist.
But shouldn't it disturb us that we're entirely desensitized to melting faces and strewn body parts on front lawns? On the up side, I have filed away in my demented brain the most opportune time to murder you, as I can bury your body in full daylight while smiling and waving to the mail lady. (straight faced eyebrow lift)
Speaking of dead birds, I'm hosting THE FEAST this year. I've found it's the only way I can be trusted to perform household hygiene on an annual basis. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I must be compelled in all things. And if there is no reason for said yearly cleanse, well, you can expect oniony B.O. reeking from my kitchen's armpits and a few boil like zits popping up on the baseboards. And nothing says, "Oh my he%#, what IS that?" like a white head on a baseboard.
So just like all good intentions, I'm starting tomorrow.
Or next Monday.
Or the Wednesday night before THE FEAST.
Don't roll your eyes. You knew what I was when you picked me up, people.
Plus there's a tremendous satisfaction found in white head extraction.
Lisa here, snacking on Twizzlers, Blow Pops and such, on account of trick or treating being the season, and me being an active participant. Trying my best to keep the recession from interfering with candy productivity. Because SOME people have cut back, I am being FORCED to increase my own personal consumption, in order to keep candy maker profits from going down the toilet. Just doin' my part, friends. Being the giver that I am.
Anyway, what else? Oh, hey. Did I mention I have a new calling in my church? I'm the Relief Society Secretary. UH HUH! THAT'S RIGHT. I SAID SECRETARY! Something they CLEARLY do not understand about Princess Lisa, is her complete ineptitude when it comes to all things technical, template and calendar.
Not that she can't, but more because she won't.
Oh, sure. She can type. And even attach pictures, with consistent tutoring from her teenage sons and a reminder post-it attached to every flat surface in her home. However, when they say things to me like, "Hey, you'll want to blind CC that newsletter before you send it out"~well, let's just say it turns to Klingon mid sentence. And I never learned Klingon, on account of no real world application. Or so I thought.
Last Sunday, the Primary President came into our class looking for a substitute teacher. I arose, fully committed to teaching 8 year olds for the next couple of hours, and it wasn't until the RS President grabbed my attention with her incredulous two fingered eyeball point, that I remembered I already HAD a job...and should actually be in another room at that very moment taking role...which I fully INTENDED TO DO, ANONY...just hadn't gotten around to it yet. But I was going to. Later. After everyone had gone home. Geez.
Anyway, I'd best be off. I have to get to graphing next month's calendar with my ruler and Sharpie~making a quick trip to Hobby Lobby for some seasonal stickers to decorate my mimeographed copies.
Because I'm cutting edge, people, that's why.
Jealous? Get your own secretary skills. These are taken.
Beautiful sister who lost 22 pounds before I came out. She's very selfish like that.
Jake, aka 'gentleman kitty', after feasting on a wild pig in butter sauce. This is actually a very flattering picture, believe it or not.
The Biltmore estate. Nothing more to say.
Nick and Brad riding a Spyder. Who knew those words went together?
Oh, people. People, people, people. Where to begin? Do I start with the farting passengers in the rows just in front of us as we rode a radio controlled model airplane into Columbia? Or how HEAD CHEERLEADER AND FOOTBALL CAPTAIN POPULAR we were on the roads of North Carolina, riding our Can-Am Spyders? Or the story of how the child in charge while we were gone, left his 10 year old sister home alone until 2:30 AM, while he and his younger brother ("I was just following Chris!") enjoyed a festive Lord of the Rings marathon? So much to tell, so little time to blog. And so we begin...eenie, meenie, miny...
Let's go with that whole Lord of the Rings marathon, shall we? Okay, so I get a call from my narc, who informs me that the fresh milk delivery from the previous morning is 18 hours warmed by the noonday sun, and the boys are just now rousing, all zit faced and greasy hair, from the previous night's activities. Seems they tucked Jules in nice ... and tight ... and safe as a 10 year old has any right to be, by CALLING and telling HER to make sure the doors are locked and garage closed, as they'll likely be late getting home.
And why not in person? Oh, that would be because they hadn't actually BEEN home, per se, the entire day preceding this tucking in, as any Lord of the Rings fan knows, the shows are as long winded as a February freeze. And it was a marathon, remember? With break time only for the necessities~ie., Mountain Dew replenishment, sword fighting and urinating out the window wells. No time for house calls or welfare checks. Duh.
Now, lest ye cast full blame upon them, it was really our fault. First, we bred a younger sister. Second, we went to South Carolina. And last, we told them all, "No friends over while we're gone." Which translates through their I-pod filter into, "Leave home immediately and only come back to sleep it off." So see? The finger goes this way, too.
Thus, in the end, we gave them a good phone screaming, mentioning things like: shut the hell up with your lame excuses, X-box grounding for the calendar year, DCFS and the foster care system and warm milk on cereal for eternity. One or all of them seemed to do the trick, as we returned home to a clean kitchen and a partial vacuuming job. They managed to suck up everything but a dried out carrot in the middle of the floor. (shoulder shrug)
Now for the sake of time, all the rest gets the Readers Digest version~a three day headache~and don't tell me it had anything to do with excessive caffeinated beverages every time we passed by a restaurant/convenience store/the fridge~because I won't believe you. I think it's just a curse God has chosen to give me, in order to keep me low.
Next, Jake, the fattest southern kitty in the world, who only hunts and eats pigs feet and deep fried mice, gets high centered while walking and has rubbed all the fur off his underbelly.
A couple of new favorite southern expressions, compliments of Brad and Carly~"Makes yer butt pucker," in referring to something that makes you cringe and recoil. And, "No, seriously, he's a tick," in regards to a lazy, rotund man who is a suck and drain on society. Now really, who tells it better than the SOUTH? Nobody, that's who!
In the end, I'm back home, better for having been with my beautiful southern belle sister and niece, hospitable brother-in-law and oo-ing and ah-ing over The Biltmore estate, fall leaves on country roads and just how close one can come to hurling on an airplane full of farty passengers, without actually filling the bag.
Plus, now I'm even more charming than ever, so WATCH OUT, PEOPLE! I CAN ANNIHILATE YOUR CHARACTER WITHOUT YOU EVEN KNOWING I WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU!
Hey there, muh peeps! Or, should I say, "HEY Y'ALL!"
Okay, so here is today's Ashville, Noeth Cerlawna conversation overheard in the department store.
Darling little grandmama southern belle tugging a snug sweater over her ample bosom~
"Oh, wheel you lookey theyah. Ah managed to squeeeeeze into this heyah sweatah, even though it's only a saz...WHUT IN THE...it's a LAWJ? Heeyah I thowt this whole tam, ah was wearin' a smawal! Oh! That is jus' terribahl. Ah thowt it was a smawl. But it's a LAWJ!"
And her sweet little friend just smiled at both their reflections in the mirror, without saying a word.
HOW DELIGHTFUL! When I passed by the same rack a few minutes later, she was still there, primping and preening, and pulling at that same lawj sweatah. So I blessed her heart, gave her some sugah, and took another bite of my pecan log.
BELT. That's right, BELT. On account of it sounds like a swearword to my belly when it rolls off my tongue.
So I'm going to South Carolina for the week to visit my beautiful older sister, Nicki and her fam. Nicki used to pee on me after we got out of the tub, when we were little. I'll tell you that story when I get back. But for now, just hold tight, read my latest from Blissfully Domesticand I'll bring you some fresh, tasty peanuts and left over Dramamine.
I just LOVE me some Berenstain Bears, don't you? And boy, did they know how to grow a pumpkin or what? Some mad cartoon farming skills.
Anyway, JINGLE BELLS, BATMAN SMELLS, Lisa got started on her Christmas shopping today. Not willingly, mind you, so put the seething, "Commercialization of the holiday season has RUINED Jesus' and my life" retort in your files for a later infraction. Nope, it was pure necessity, as while YOU have been lying about, shoving candy corns onto your two front teeth and replenishing your stock of vanishing 'trick or treat' candy~don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about~we missionary moms with elders serving in FREAKING BRAZIL are gathering up in our vintage aprons the entire festive holiday season that takes other, less gifted women, all of November and December to accumulate.
Then we wrap every carefully chosen item individually, and mail it all off in ENORMOUS, SPACIOUS3 inch deep x 9 inch wide boxes ($50 each)...only to be embezzled by corrupt South American postal workers.
I'm considering one of two things, in order to keep the bast......rombone player's filthy, pilfering paws out of our loot. One~offering up a 24 hour fast. Two~offering up my 10 year old daughter as a human sacrifice.
If the postal gods require it, people, who am I to argue?
Either way, I'm going to need your help. Now go get the duct tape~it's in the junk drawer.
Geez, you guys are so suspicious! I meant for my mouth.
First things first~I have a scab under my nose that I can't stop picking at. Don't judge me, I just needed it to be your burden, too. Here, go ahead, take it. No, really, take it. Thank you. I feel better now.
So the other night, I read aloud for the whole family, "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". I even held up the book to show them the pictures, on account of I learned that routine from my own experiences teaching school, ages four through eight~my age, not theirs.
Remember playing school? Loved it. I made sure I was always the art teacher, while my older sister, Nicki, was the spelling teacher. For some reason, it always ended with them (two younger siblings) begging and sobbing to go learn spelling, which was really, really dumb, "because art is WAY better than spelling, you stupid kids!" And I shoved them in that direction, where Nicki lovingly scooped them up and they all whispered together while casting furtive glances in my general direction.
WAS IT MY FAULT THEY DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO DRAW AN APPLE THE RIGHT WAY? I don't think so, people. So let's not go shooting the messenger here. Gads.
Anyway, I've changed. I'm more patient now. And to prove it, just re-read that first paragraph about the scab I won't let heal. All because of my tremendous growth in that area.
So second son was asked to the girl's choice dance coming up next month. And of course, since it's all about me, I had strong feelings about the whole thing, on account of my experience asking a kid to Sadies my Jr. year.
His name was Paul, but I like to call him assface. Don't worry, it's a scriptural reference, minus the face part. Means donkey. Anyway, I gathered up my courage, and a woman in my neighborhood willing to dress up as a witch and deliver a pumpkin. He was to return the pumpkin to me with his answer carved into it.
Now, I had done my homework, friends. I knew he hadn't been asked. And we were friends. We smiled and spoke to each other in the halls and everything. So I kind of knew what I was getting into...
...or did I?
A day went past. No answer. Another day...then a week...still no answer. Just rumblings. Rumblings that sounded something like, "Paul doesn't want to go with Lisa. He begged this other girl to hurry and ask him, so he doesn't have to go with her." Which started even more rumblings within my gut, resulting from a heart that had plunged into a belly full of acid and though not completely digested, left behind the crunchy outer shell, while fully consuming the innards made up of self esteem.
Long story short, he never answered me. Just expected I'd know. And I did. I knew from then on that Paul=assface. A.k.a. donkey. And a bunch of other knowledge regarding his parentage~the son of a something or other.
But a lesson was learned, friends, just like every time we're hit in the face with a manure cream pie. And in this case, it was about what my own children would or would not do, if asked by someone they felt less than excited about (not a commentary on son's feelings.) Because one day, the person who doesn't know how to carve a pumpkin, might be discovered on a social network, like, oh, say Facebook? And possibly, that person might have, gee, I don't know, found themselves beaten into submission with an GINORMOUS ugly stick! Plus, they might even have married the poor, stupid lass who "hurried up and asked them to the dance," only to end up divorced, unemployed and subsisting on a steady diet of government cheese while living in a van down by the river. (I might have embellished the cheese and van, but the rest is hands to the heaven.)
And you never know. Who's to say that this person might not be scanning a blog, or the local newspaper one day, and find a little tale about a girl's choice dance, written from the perspective of the NEWSPAPER COLUMNIST WITH A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE, BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN AND THE COMMON SENSE TO HAVE HER PICTURE PHOTO SHOPPED TO THE HILT, BUT NOT ENOUGH SO SHE CAN'T BE RECOGNIZED. And maybe, just maybe, this imaginary donkey might think twice about his decision of whether or not he could have been bothered to answer a girl with her heart on her sleeve...that fell into her stomach.
And someone who still remembers how long it took to refill that crispy heart shell with a soft, meringue center, might scream at the top of her blog lungs~ "HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW? HUH? HUH?"
We'll call this, "LIES PEOPLE TELL." Let us begin...
Lie~"Allergy/cold/flu medicine leaves you feeling drowsy, therefore, go ahead and expect a decent night sleep."
Truth~Except for you, Lisa. You get to experience the amusing side effect of having your face fall asleep and tingle with pins and needles, leading you to claw and slap at your nose every few minutes. All. Night. Long.
Lie~"A bag of sugar snap peas is good for you. It's roughage. Helps digestion."
Truth~Except for you, over 40 woman. Your bag of peas will pass the evening hours by inflating fat cells with their gassy pea emissions, making balloon animals and tucking them into cracks and crevices throughout your guts. They think it's funny.
Lie~(not an announcement) "Pregnancy is a joy. It lasts but nine months, you're only sick in the morning, and that ends in the first three months. After that, you're livin' the dream."
Truth~Except for you, darling Kate and Erica...and every other woman in the world, except the chick they interviewed for the study. Ever hear of "the spits?" That's when you have an aversion to your own pregnancy spittle, and can't swallow it without puking, thereby leading you to carry around a box of Kleenex everywhere you go, in which to discard your excess saliva, which also results in enormous, chapped monkey lips.
Ever hear of "color sick?" That's when you can't stand to look at certain colors~the more vibrant=the more nauseous. So like, you can't look at/walk past/sit on your jewel tone couch. Or wear your new pink Avon lipstick. Or shove that purple and red shirt in the back of your closet fast enough.
And finally, ever hear of "crouching down on all fours in the gravel of a country road, and vomiting so hard that your nose starts to bleed, and the only thing your husband can find to help you mop up your face is an oil rag from his tool box?"
So yeah, I totally lived that dream. The TEN-NOTNINE-MONTH DREAM, people.
BUT...for a parting gift, you get this really fun baby. And it smells like love. And when you kiss it's neck, a memory sweep is performed, (kissy sniff) leaving you doubting (sniff, love) whether it was really (sniff) as bad (kissy kiss) as you made it sound, (kiss, sniff, kiss) all those symptoms you complained of earlier. (sniff, sniff, kissy squeeze) Let's do it again!
Anyway, those are just the lies that were told today. And since I have a very discerning spirit, I was able to see them for what they were, roll my eyes and write a blog about them, once again, for you. Because I'm a giver.
Did I mention I'm in charge of our ward Roadshow? Well, I am. Just FYI~a Roadshow is a traveling 15 minute play, like old Vaudeville. It's been years since we've had them~and I'm not sure why, other than the fact that it was an incredibleTIME, MONEY, EFFORT, CREATIVITY SUCKER. But reallyfun. Back in the day it required about 100 people behind the scenes, involved the entire 12-18 age group to perform on stage and we spent 4-6 months practicing lines, musical numbers and choreography. Add to it another few months for set design, props and costuming and a budget of gobs and gobs. So truly, a FANTASTIC affair.
My, how times have changed.
I have three weeks, people. THREE. And a hunnerd bucks. A HUNNERD. And they want the entire ward involved (400 people). And we can't practice on the stage, on account of our building doesn't have a stage. And my main lead is on a cruise~besides which, I haven't quite gotten around to asking her to be the main lead. And I'm going to South Carolina for a week, returning just in time for the performance. And it's in three weeks, people. THREE.
And did I mention I'm in charge? Just like I was in charge of teaching my missionary son to change his bed sheets every week. Just like I was in charge of my own diet, nutrition and exercise for the last 42 years. Just like I was in charge of teaching my boys to check for black heads in their ear canals.
Two words~EPIC FAIL.
But I'll think about that tomorrow, Scarlet. Today, I'm filling my gray matter with gibberish. Like this stuff~
I just finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. Freakin' AWESOME! But sadly, I now consider the movie so dumbed down that I have to black out my teeth and say "ain't," to watch it.
I finally decorated my house for fall. Hard. But a batch of homemade caramel helped the medicine go down. Mary Poppins taught me that.
I bought two new pieces of antique furniture, because my every happiness depended upon them. I'm always on the look out for my every happiness. Often, I find it in diamonds, but not this time. Weird.
I Zumba'd this morning, and surprised everybody, by totally ROCKING the new routine, on account of there were some seriously smutty dance moves. And apparently, I was born to dance lewdly at the break of dawn.
I'm going to lunch with some dear friends who have missionary holes in their hearts. We've concluded about the only way to heal heart holes, is to fill them with sweet pork. A little pig plug, if you will.
And I think that's about it. Roadshow worries are suffocating underneath the nonsense. Now hopefully, angels will pick up where I left off, and it will be a brilliant success.
If not, well, let us consider this a missionary/roadshow skin infection, as a result of dirty sheets/three weeks and a hunnerd bucks worth of prep.
Jules~"OH MY GOSH! DID SHE JUST SWEAR?" (referring to the radio announcer)
Me~"Yup, she did."
Jules~"That is BAAAAD."
Me~"She was just announcing the name of the rock group, hon. A long time ago, during the Civil war, the country was split into two groups. The Northerners were called Yankees. So when the Southerners talked about them, they'd call them the Da$% Yankees."
Jules~"Oh. Wow." (thoughtful pause) "So can I say it? Cuz she did. And you did. So can I?"
Me~"Nope. I only said it to tell you a story. And she said it to name the group."
I thought for a second.
Me~"You know what? It's your choice."
Jules~"Really? I can swear if I want? You won't get mad?"
Me~"It's your choice. You can decide for yourself." (smug mother expression, knowing she will make the right decision)
Jules~"DAMN YANKEES!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN! MOM, IF YOU GIVE ME A CHANCE TO SWEAR, I'LL TAKE IT!"
And I bent over and picked up the apple that didn't fall far from the tree.
I had a sublime expedition yesterday, sight seeing and appreciating the beautiful Cache Valley in Logan, Utah. Couldn't get over the incredible architecture and craftsmanship displayed in practically every building.
One can't help but compare and contrast these masterpieces with what we consider a home today.
And then I wondered if there isn't a great lesson to be learned. Regarding how much our Heavenly Father loves us, and knowing our divine potential and heritage, He expects a beautiful masterpiece of our time here on Earth.
And how often do we look at the people living magnificent lives, wish for the same, but then turning away, lower our own expectations to walk into our mud hut dwelling and call it "good enough."
I just went for a quick drug run, as a result of a plea from Jules calling from school with an allergy related something or other whine. Seems lately she needs constant reassurance that her mother will come jetting to her aide at her plaintive beckon call. Which, surprisingly, I'm OK with. It's called a stage, but sometimes dresses up as eternal, so the two are often confused.
Some of you are still choreographing and learning your lines on that platform. "Midnight vomit on the bed"......."Perpetual Hunch Back Baby Hover" and the crowd pleaser, "Necklace ripped off, and cascading beads in church pew." I won a Tony for that one.
While the curtain is up and you're starring, you can't imagine the blessed day will arrive when they're all in school, the house is still and you're lounging in your robe with a glass of ice cold Dr. Pepper, Halloween candy and a laptop in your reclining chair at noon thirty. Not that I'm experiencing such a thing presently, my friends.
No. (shaking head in pensive manner)
I'm deep cleaning my house.
And decorating for fall.
And pruning the frenzied rose bushes.
Plus, I'm canning peaches, pears and tomatoes, making freezer jam and sharpening my lawn mower blades for next year. Homemade bread is in the oven and I've made a mental list of the groceries I'll need when I prepare my family a gourmet meal this evening.
THAT is what I'm doing.
And I'm sorry if it makes you feel guilty and uncomfortable that my level of activity is swelling and cresting over you like a Tsunami on the shore. But it is what it is, people. And it is spectacular!
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. I have bugs in my nose holes and hair, on account of a Ten Commandments locust like swarm I biked through on my way to the school. I thought it was ash from the Herriman fire. But it wasn't. It was bugs. From Hell. And that's a place, people...NOT a swearword.
Just examine the scriptures.
Which are sitting open on my table, on account of me being able to read them in silence, on account of the stage I happen to be in at this time of my life, on account of going through those other stages, and somehow, making it out alive with no poop under my fingernails.
Which gives me more time to quote the word of God to YOU, helping you to become a better person~more righteous~and able to recognize the difference between profanity and where Satan dwelleth.
I am a loud spirit trying to subdue itself in this body. Sometimes successful, other times, not so much. I am a happy, thriving, religious homemaker, wife and mother. And none of these things are contrary, no matter what the world tells you. :)