Saturday, January 30, 2010


Today's blog topic presented for discussion: urine threshold. As in, precisely HOW MUCH urine is considered inconsequential and may remain spattered on any/all bathroom surfaces, still allowing the bathroom to be branded "It's fine." (said with eye roll and attitude~bless their surly teen hearts)

The answer? ENORMOUS discrepancy on this one.

Offspring standard~If the whizz drizzle is a mere spray, it requires a cursory smear with one (1) square of dry toilet paper and the "don't ask-don't tell" policy comes into play. However, good news~if the piddle has puddled and dried, it's no longer considered a threat, becomes invisible and smells enchanting.

Mother standard~And let me be clear about this...THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS PERMISSIBLE PEE, PEOPLE! NONE, NUUUUUUUUUWWW, NEGATORY! There is ONLY the angry, loud lament of "Good hell I must have apes for children!" Followed by the sniff, swear and scour.

Now try as I may, I cannot figure out when the metamorphosis occurs between vacant child with no sense of sight or smell, let alone accountability for their own bodily emissions~into self aware adult with animal instincts enabling them to take a quick whiff of the air and point directly at the offending toddler in a crowd of thousands. But I do know it will be necessary for their survival. And not just out in the this here home as well. Sometimes mothers eat their young, you know.

In the meantime, I shall drag myself coughing and sputtering out of this river called "denial" and immediately suspend assigning the caterpillars in my family to jobs that are meant for full on Monarch's.

Now please excuse me, as I think I smell a child across the street. Something is amiss and I must put his fanny to my face and sniff.

It's what butterflies do.

P.S.~I just went out on my porch before tucking the house down for the night and OH. MY. FREAKIN'. HOLY. COW. The most wonderful surprise on my front steps...a giant bottle of Dr. Pepper and two absolutely stunning "Artful Blogging" books tied up in satin ribbons and an antique postcard, from the lovely Brenda! She's the owner of "Just a Bed of Roses," which is my FAVORITE antique/diamond brooch/vintage stuff store EVER. And can I just say, "YES! MY LOVE IS UP FOR AUCTION AND SO FAR, BRENDA IS THE HIGHEST BIDDER!"

Anyway, the message is clear, dear friend~ "Your blog may be humorous, hon, but it is visually...impaired." Subtle like a crow-bar to a kneecap. We'll call you "Blunt force Brenda." Okay, geeeeezzz. I'll step it up. But just REMEMBER...I am still but an ugly, wormy caterpillar. It may take a while to emerge as you intend me to be. :)

Friday, January 29, 2010


For all of you keeping track...HAPPY ONE HUNDREDTH BLOG, BEST FRIENDS FOREVER! How do you feel? Enlightened? Wise? Mirthy and Pretty? Or maybe you're just now realizing that like sand through the hourglass, so went the days of your lives. Plus, a cat crapped in it thinking it was kitty litter, so now you REALLY don't want it back.

Well, if so, let me make it up to you. Go get someones nursing baby, attach it to your chest at 2:00 AM and watch the clock while you wait for the giant and necessary burp that signals the meal is over. And just like that, time stands still just for you! You can thank me later.

Soooooo, second son is now a licensed driver! Let's get tiptoin' through those tulips of JOY, friends! How to jubilize and mark this momentous occasion? Well, son celebrated by nearly cracking in half his ONE AND ONLY CAR KEY, using it to crow-bar open his fuel tank door and then called his parents in crisis mode at 10:00 PM. We parents popped open a bottle of...aspirin...and did some of the best eye-rolling and insult hurling we've done to date. I know! And here we thought our best days were over, once eldest son left home! But alas, twas not the case, as we did ourselves proud, people. Proud, I say!

Not to be left out, third boy is a source of consternation to his mother as well, as he really doesn't understand that double barrel boogers are considered an adversary when it comes to Jr. High status. This is a kid who is over six feet tall, has muscles that put him in a league of "must be self aware" and dimples and personality that take your breath away. And yet, he has an apparent aversion to any reflective surface that might tell the true tale of his nasal passages. I've tried to explain the logistics of having 99% of the student body shorter than him~as in they're forced to look UP to speak with him~to which he sniffs long, hard and violently, leading to yet another bloody nose and even less ability to articulate his consonants. Bless his congested heart.

Jules keeps insisting that when I speak to her, I'm yelling. It goes something like this:

Me~"Jules, you need to play that piano piece again, and this time count."


Me~nothing out loud, but mentally counting the days until she has a daughter exactly like her. Insane laughter out loud and a worried look from the girl at the piano bench.

One other thing, she just mentioned that the small splint she found in the first aid chest must have been mine when I was a child because, "You were really teeny BACK THEN. Like skin and bones when you were little. I'm serious!" She apparently saw a picture of me back in the day and finds me "wanting" now, as a middle aged mother. Well, join the club.

Anyway, what a joyful family life I lead. Here's to another hundred blogs full of all manner of hideously embarrassing stories compliments of my children and dear husband.


CHEER, CHEER, CHEER and a cup of rabbit poop ice confetti!

Wednesday, January 27, 2010


Absolute Best and favorite two words put together? DOOBIES AND BOOZE.

Even better than that? With a FLAMING lisp~DOOBIETHE AND BOOTHE. Go ahead. Try it yourself. No, out loud! See? FREAKIN' AWESOME!

Ster and I have been laughing our heads off, texting it to each other over and over. It's our new "go-to" phrase.

"Hey, hon. What should we have for din?"

"Doobiethe and Boothe."

"What's wrong with the cat?"

"Doobiethe and Boothe."

"What's your lesson about?"

"Doobiethe and Boothe."

We're like that. (annoying) We enjoy (beating) a good phrase (to death.)

On a side note~guess what can go numb in the dentist's chair? Eyeballs. Who knew?

Well anyway, go enjoy your doobiethe and boothe and numb eyeballs. I know I will. (blink, blink, burp, toke)



Well hello there! JAZZ HANDS TO THE HEAVENS as I drop to my knees in thanks and humility for having my headache scooped out like pumpkin guts. I am light as a jack-o-lantern now and feeling dazzling and witty...

...which reminds me of how absolutely hysterical I was at the dentist's office the other day! Seriously, folks, I slayed the entire room! It was GENIUS! Every word out of my MOUTH was crazy brilliant, and it just got better as I went along. EVERYBODY was laughing! Everybody! Especially the voices inside my head. I was connecting nouns and verbs that NORMALLY, wouldn't have even gone together, let alone have been considered amusing. But THIS TIME, SOMEHOW, it was COMEDIC AMBROSIA!!!

It didn't last, sadly. Not sure why. It was like as soon as they were done, and took the pig nose off my face, things weren't quite the same. I think a pall was cast over the room, as they were all kind of sad to see me go. Grief and mourning.

Lucky for them, I'm going back in tomorrow for a couple of cavity fills. Let the hilarity recommence! a side note, I was able to return to my own bed last night, as husband's uvula (is it just me, or does that sound gross? OK, yeah, it sounds gross) is returning to standard size and air can now pass through with less me. Oh, no. No, no, no, you sillies. He still SNORES. Just at a lower decibel. But I figure it's a little bit like insurance that he'll never leave me. Just like my stretch marks ensure I'll never leave him. Bound forever through our imperfections~it's for our own good and the good of our eternal family.

All part of the plan, peeps. All part of the plan.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


It's kind of dreary, folks. Which makes me weary. Dreary, weary and leery of what is to come for the next three months. Will this wrinkled and whiskery old man Winter suck the hope of Spring into his cavity filled mouth, only to blow it out s-l-o-w-l-y for weeks on end as cold, gray and fermented inversion? The answer is yes. Yes, most likely. Which seems to suck the breezy joy right out from under my sails and I sit down with a thud on the deck of my optimism, twiddling my peep-toe-prepped and red polished hoofs.

And so, what is a motivated and self-sustaining woman to do with a forecast such as this? Two words: buy shoes.

Two more words: eat candy.

And two more: drink pop.

Now others~"professionals" (eye-roll)~might suggest this is self-destructive behavior. People like the sinewed, angry, screamy trainers on "The Biggest Loser." Which proves one of my theories. Thin=mean.

Still others might claim that this is too simplistic; that depression and weather worry simply CANNOT be dismissed with a quick trip to Target. They might insist that years of therapy are required to figure out why I want to hide out in my bathtub for the next three months, turning the hot water on with my toes (hidden talent) while reading a good book (trashy novel,) tipping a glass of DP into my mouth and opening up York Peppermint Patties with tongue and teeth, so as not to get the pages wet. To these beard wielding over thinkers, I scoff mid ice-chomp and wrap a towel around my raisinette mid-section. (I painted that picture specifically for your brain. And no, you can't get rid of it by forking out your eyeballs.)

Oh, ye of little faith. The path is straight, and narrow the way. Simple in design, far reaching in consequence and effect, with a healthy dose of self-hatred in the end. But these are things that build character, right friends? And we'll deal with them (debt, enamel rot and abdominal pork) when we have more daylight. For now, it's too dark to see straight.

Shoes, candy and pop. Come, join us as we shop. (Totally rhymes, thus it is inspired.)


Monday, January 25, 2010


Holy hell, my head hurts. Plus I feel nauseated, and the entire right side of my face is weeping uncontrollably and my eyes are slitted and I feel really angry and irritated, and on a totally unrelated topic, (cough*bullcrap*cough) did I mention husband snores? Well, he does. For hours and hours on end, in fact. His uvula is swollen~something he's kind of proud of. And like a giant stinker, though the sound (or stench) is hurled into the opposite wall or ceiling of the bedroom, somehow it ends up directly in my facial region. Let's just say that blessed be the Heavens for thinking up eternal marriage, as there are not too many temporal unions that could withstand the 'hounds of hell' snorting and guttural gurgling into their ear canals...all night, every night...and still stay committed and enthusiastic about their companionship. Bless his hell hound heart. Luv that man of mine.

In other news, Julia is off track. Again and still. I'd like to say I've figured out how to "enjoy that INCESSANT journey" that I keep telling OTHER people to find bliss in. But I'd be a liar. A giant, freaking, hypocritical FABRICATOR THAT HAS LOST HER SHARE OF FRESH SOCKS, AS SHE KEEPS STUFFING THEM IN HER DAUGHTER'S MOUTH TO MUFFLE THE REGURGITATION OF WORDS!!! (Jules keeps swallowing them whole, burping up lint and toe jam. OK, maybe they're not so fresh.)

And let's see. Anything else I can tell you to cheer you up? Just that Spring is on it's way. It's in Florida, right now, but it's expected any month now. Keep your prayers ascending heavenward and let's join our hands in pleading and supplication. Hope it's car doesn't break down or the balmy breezes will likely arrive by hitching a ride with a rock group's tour bus, which will taint it with doobies and booze. And I don't know about you, but I HATE it when my Spring is all liquored up.

OK, enough happy talk. Love you all. I'm off to buy more socks.

Friday, January 22, 2010


Ith ova. I'm back fwum th detith. It wathn thoe bad afto aw. Juth a li-l bih of numneth, buh aw in aw, nogh tho tewibow.

Two moe cavi-eeth thah I hafoo go back two fixth. Nexth week~thoe I dogh puh it off an geh vewy ankthus like I wath thith whole week. Nogh thah you coul tell fwum th way I wath acteen. Bugh BETHT OF AW...NOOOOOOOOO WOOT CANAW! Can you thay "THANK YOU HEAVENWY FATHOW!?!" Thiwiothly. Tendow mothey.

Anyway, ith all guuuuuuugh. Nigh.

Thursday, January 21, 2010


Know what's good? Tootie Fruities. Fist fulls.

Know what else is good? Caring about yourself enough to eat the very best.

Which is why I fill my home with all manner of very best. And you know what they say? You are what you eat...which is where it pays to be a creative thinker (spin doctor.) I submit it's all in what you actually "label" the food (toxic waste) that you ingest. People (liars) do it all the time! (Hollywood) It goes something like this~

~Adulterers become sex addicts.
~Thieves and murderers become victims of racism and poverty.
~Prostitutes become Ladies (Gaga)

See? Common.

So if you give it a pretty/fun/sparkly name, then obviously you are pretty/fun/sparkly. This is another law of the Universe, sweethearts. And remember? We don't argue with law, science or higher intelligence...unless it differs from our own (self-serving) beliefs (personal agenda.)

Take the term "lard" for instance. Little bit crude and ugly, if you ask me. So let's grab that bacon dripping, fluff it up with my robin's egg blue hand mixer, season it with vanilla and confectioner's sugar and Bippity, boppity, boo! you have "melt-in-your-mouth-scrumptious-creamy-center." You dig?

Let's try another..."empty calories." Now that seems kind of harsh and judgmental, not to mention cynical. So let's snatch that destined to be rump fat, flavor it with chocolate/caramel/cinnamon~put it in a shiny silver wrapper/freezer/miniature teddy bear form and you have, "A decadent dessert that will delight/sooth/motivate you to continue working/playing/multi-tasking." Pick your choose.

You get how this works? It's all about personal responsibility and creativity, people. And labels. And self deception. And saying something loud and long enough that other people start to believe it, too. Which brings us back to spin doctors. Which has much to do with education, because you can't BE a doctor without a great deal of schooling. Which leads us to progress...and diplomas...and as you can plainly see, we're back to that higher intelligence.

Which brings us full circle to me. That's right, me. I'm a doctor (spin.) At least I play one on this blog. Your prescription: Take two Oreos with a melt-in-your-mouth-scrumptious-creamy-center and call me in the morning.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010





(This picture is a dramatic interpretation of the previous dialogue)

Monday, January 18, 2010


Best fib ever to drip off a tongue~"You should seriously try out for American Idol. No, really. I mean it. You'll totally win." And somebody slurps it up, like the dregs of an icy cold Coke. Bless their hopeful hearts.

Which brings us to the most jolly, most engrossing, most mirthy month of the year~American Idol Reject TV. WHICH WE LOVE!!! makes one wonder...

...Who are these people that fart lies? And is there a special rock in hell for them to dwell under when they arrive? But more importantly, are they the same people telling me, "You should seriously write a book. No, really. I mean it. You'll totally be published?".....Surely not...

But it has me thinking about other pieces of fiction that we throw around like confetti~

"No, I don't see anything in your nose." Oh, it's there, friends. It's there. But people will maintain they were "too embarrassed" to mention something so intimate and gooey to a stranger. I'm sorry folks, but a bat in a cave is a bat in a cave. You are just playing chicken with the humiliation gods on this one~with you being most likely to end up dead in the road with your head tipped back and a cave chock FULL of bats! Just sayin'.

"The fancy pockets on those designer jeans look great on you." Yeah, a lie if your abdomen is even half-vast. (I thought that was particularly clever.) Those jeans just push and shove the ample girth out of their own way. "Get it out of here! Make it T-shirt's problem. I've got all the beef I can handle here with this rump." So it heaves it out the top of the waist band, where it splats and hangs like a pudding filled bundt cake, unrestrained and free to attract all kinds of attention. (And all of it self righteous.)

"It's not's me." Lie. It's you and you are gross to me.

"There is such a thing as waterproof mascara that comes off with soap." Like hell. Truth is you'll more than likely lose every lash you ever grew and it will impede new baby lash implantation like an IUD.

"Forty is the new thirty." Yeah, no. Forty is the new "I wish I was still thirty." Give it up, hon. It's called grace and it looks better on you than extensions and a spray tan ever will. And let's not go shootin' the messenger, 'm kay, pumpkin?

"I don't even notice the spot where you're thinning with your hair strategically combed like that." Horse feces. Here is a list of things that would call less attention to your bald spot: a monkey sitting on your face, picking it's nose and eating it. A family of tarantulas. Cheetos hot glued and sticking out of your scalp like antenna. Lady Gaga duct taped to your head. Two words~Own it.

"Drinking a Diet Coke with a candy bar does NOT cancel out the calories." Hahahahahaha! I just threw that one in there for fun. Of course that one's true. Geez! If it weren't, I'd have to kill myself! Whew!

And there you have it. Lies people tell. Shameful. (head shake)

But THANK GOODNESS for the people who believe them! I'm going to pop some corn...where's the remote?

Saturday, January 16, 2010


So, I think my nose grows in January. And probably February, too. I'll have to keep an eye on it.

I'm surprised I haven't noticed it until now...I'm not really sure if it's something new to make my forties exciting and, let's just see how enormous this thing will get before it ruptures...or if it's always gone on and it's just now gotten bulbous enough to have me thrown into a kind of panic. Even the pores grow in comparative relation. Must stay in proportion at all costs, bless their hearts.

Any way I look at it, I consider it a "con."

Friday, January 15, 2010


Waiting to receive an email from missionary son, so I might as well muse while I'm here.

I exercised this morning. Exhausting. For anyone else who might want to follow suit, I used three and five pound hand weights. I know. No wonder my arms are shaky. (I can barely keep the powder doughnut dust from getting all over me.) But don't try to keep up with me~remember~I'm an overachiever. Can't help myself. It's my circle of life.

I've been to the fabric store twice in 24 hours, purchasing well over what was necessary (hundreds) and keep looking at the bags sitting on the sewing room floor wondering what's inside. Two things are apparent here: One, I'm anxiously engaged. Two, the purchases must have been crucial.

Sassy (our stuck-up cat) is unaccepting of the sad truth regarding the fish being "re-gifted" to their original buyer. She jumps up to the empty counter, hoping they still live there but finds it as empty as Lady Gaga's soul. Snotty kitty tears drip and fall off her whiskers as she lifts a hind leg to clean herself~not unlike Lady Gaga, once again. It's something to see. Or not. Ew.

Remember those eyelashes that went missing? Well, I found them. Implanted in my legs from the knee down. Thousands and thousands of them, probably from over the years. But I think they've lived a hard life. Like, after their initial fall from grace...or my eyelids...they turned hard and coarse~kind of like a prostitute. Little street-walker stubble, wearing sequin halter tops and fishnet, poking out of my pantyhose mesh. I tried to make it work, for like, a month...(or more.) But the more I waited, the darker and more whiskery they became. (I think they were transgender) Plus, it's time for a pedicure and I will NOT have those hair-hores (I spelled it wrong so it wouldn't seem so offensive) speaking for me.

The fog told me to go back to bed. I protested, but it took me by the nape of my neck and told me not to get out until well past noon. I'm kind of afraid of's hard to read. Can't really tell what it's thinking, as it's not very transparent.

I'm going to obey fog now. See you at 12:15.

Thursday, January 14, 2010


I have a very small window of opportunity to post, as the girl will be home from school in mere moments and will have begun her diatribe directed at me before she even starts up the walk. So I'll make this hasty (and disconnected, abrupt and hardly worth your time.)

Third son is home sick today. Once again, I didn't take a child at their word when they put "feel" and "slang term for feces+'ity'...wait, that wouldn't be right. Okay, how about this~when you put your fingers to your lips, what do you say? That's right. Now add 'ity'. There. " together in a sentence regarding their health. Raised one eyebrow as he told me through the only passage left unplugged, "Bob...I thick I should probably stay hobe." My response? "YOU'RE GOING TO SCHOOL. AND MY NAME IS NOT BOB!"

So when I picked him up from school yesterday, he told me that in his TA (Teacher's Assistant~NOT T**s and A**. Oh. my. gosh. you are so gross) class, his teacher tried to wake him up THREE times and he still didn't respond. He was waiting for my reaction to be disbelief about the thrice. Apparently, the whole "sleeping in class" idea was a non-issue. He assured me he wasn't drooling, but the open mouthed snoring had become a distraction.

Anyway...kept him home today. Chalk one up for "nurturing."

Okay, she's home. She's talking to me. I knew it wouldn't last.

I'll get an earlier start tomorrow. (still talking to me)

Still talking...and still.........and it persists.....

Okay, I'm back. She's gone to her friend's.

Addendum to previous post about how second son was asked to the dance by the darling girl with a mean spirited mother. (she masterminded) They asked him with a bowl of gold fish that just. won't. die.

We've tried.

No matter how many times we let the cat lick up their life sustaining water.

No matter how much fish food we dumped in their tank to turn it toxic. No matter what, they. just. won't. die.

So here was our only option...

His reply! (Take THAT, masterminding, fish buying and gifting mother!)

Wednesday, January 13, 2010


My dear sweet Bitty Boo is in the initial stages of production on an even teenier version of herself! I KNOW! Sooooo much fun for ME! She, on the other hand, is a retching and wretched mess. Still, though, fun for ME! (joy dance and purse in hand to buy BBB (bitty boo baby) stuff.)

And remarkably entertaining. Here's how our conversation went yesterday.

Me~"So did Baby Maby sleep last night?"

Her~"Hold on." (unholy gagging sound you make right before you puke. No letters put together in print can make that sound we all have in our heads, so go ahead and pull from personal experience and make your own "gag-almost-a-vomit" sound. Go ahead, I'll wait. Out loud, not just in your head. OK, yeah, that sound.) "Kay. Ummm, yeah, kind of."

Me~(stifled and snorting laughter) "You okay?" (snicker, chortle)

Her~"Hold on." (same sound and then clearing throat) "Yeah, I'm okay." (throat clear) "Sorry, I puked so much last night that my throat flesh was mostly eaten away." (throat clear) "It should grow back though. When my body is done making another body, it'll have more time for me again."

Me~"Oh my hell." (I could have pretended that I said another word, but we all know me by now, so what's the point?) "You know, I had a migraine last night and it made me nauseous and I thought, "Oooohhhhhh. THIS is what BB feels like...but ALL THE TIME. And she can't even TAKE any medicine to make it go away cuz it'll mutant-up the baby~or lay down and know that it'll most likely be better tomorrow, cuz you actually puke in the middle of the night, right? And it's still there when you get up in the morning! So I totally understand...cuz of my migraine."

Her~"Hold on." (sound) "Yeah, thanks." (inner dialogue~Are you freakin' KIDDING ME?! You REALLY THINK that one measly, lame-A MIGRAINE and a dust particle of ' I don't feel so good' is an insight into the CRUEL NIGHTMARE THAT HAS BECOME MY LIFE?! (sound) (angry slit eyes) If only I had the power to make you feel for five minutes what I feel eternally, I could probably paste a smile over my acid washed mouth)~(sound, sound)

Me~"I heard that. I can read inner dialogue."


Me~"I forgive you."


So there you have it. PURE ENTERTAINMENT.

Now, as a side note, that which does not kill us, only makes us...nope, not stronger. Want to kill someone else. (husband)

But BB has chosen the higher ground~to learn from this experience~and is logging it in her travelogue called, "Things that I will change when I become a Goddess and in charge of my own world." All righteous seeking women have this notebook. It has headings like, "Periods, discharge and all manner of OB-GYN issues" as well as, "Arachnids, serpents and things with more than two legs that jump or maneuver at mach speed." Stuff like that, which after thoughtful and fastidious pondering, we've concluded there surely must be a better way. Seems somebody just got tired from all the creating going on as this world was being formed and delegated some really crucial issues to a lesser command (pre-schoolers.) And yes, I'm going to "a lower kingdom" for that assessment.

But since Bitty Boo is already feeling damned, the least I can do is keep her company.

Monday, January 11, 2010


Okay, I'm fatter this week. And I know what's causing it. I do. It has NOTHING to do with gummy worms, (fistfulls) Pop Tarts (boxes) and Dr. Pepper, (cases) and EVERYTHING to do with Tuna Fish and string cheese. Weird, I know. But true.

Also, no matter what you think, (you're so judgmental) yesterday's family activity was about togetherness and nothing more. The fact that the five of us gathered around the fireplace and a 16 POUND Hershey bar (totally serious~they make those and we buy them. 'ts how we roll) was brought out on a silver platter (aluminum cookie sheet) and set before us like the goose in a Charles Dickens classic yesterday afternoon~knives in hand as we carved ribbons of brown ambrosia that curled and fell into melodious piles, only to be stabbed with that same knife and dropped onto waiting tongues~For an hour~Did I mention this went on for an hour? Sixty minutes of pure captivation~Just because we put our family first, it has no bearing on my reported fatterness.

And no, we didn't feel it necessary to calculate how many ribbons make up a full size bar(s)...(many, many, many bars)...because it was in a different state~like water and ice. Ribbons are not the same as squares. Plus, they have fewer calories, cuz they're THIN. And thin ribbons=thin bodies. Duh.

Now don't try to tell me it couldn't possibly be the cheese and fish causing girth increase. It is. I know it is. (Shhhhhhhh.) Nothing you say will make me believe otherwise. (la la la fingers in my ears)

And no matter what, my family means more to me than probably even high heels. I know. Really serious. So that means if it takes chocolate ribbons on a Sunday afternoon...for an hour...or until our noses bleed keep us cohesive and happy, I'll do it. I'll take one for that team. Team family. And Hershey. They come first, people. Numero uno.

String cheese and tuna fish are a distant second...or third...or maybe even closer to 89.

Sunday, January 10, 2010


So guess what? Lost two eyelashes today. Which leaves me with one...two...three...four...five. Five. That's right, five. Cumulative. For both eyes. Combined. You think I'm kidding. (heavy sigh) I was allotted seven total eyelashes this quarter~and they instructed me to "Take good care of them, Lisa. I mean it. Make 'em last, cuz when these are gone, they're gone, understand?" And I made eye contact with them, (don't really know who 'them' is, but just go with it) nodded sincerely and gave 'em the thumbs up. Then, like an Olympic swimmer, I tipped my head and let aaaallll of the warnings drain out, while I climbed into the shower and proceeded to RUB MY EYEBALLS WITH A COARSE, PEASANT WASHCLOTH AND LEVER 2000! I know. I'm a vacant little troll sometimes.

And now I have a half inch void in the middle of one eye, which I'm sure I deserve. And yes, I've purchased and used-up the $150 "remedy". Stupid, rich liars. But I'm OK with it, people. I'm OK with alopecia eyes, as worse things have happened~(old boyfriends+grocery stores+sweats and mouth corner mustard=worse) BTW~sincere apology to anyone actually suffering from alopecia. I'm incredibly callous on this blog, (and in life) and you should know that by now.

Which brings us to one of the pluses of being in your forties and having waaaaay uglier stuff happening on regular occasions. (cough/sneeze and pee, elbow cellulite, rotting teeth busting out of your head...need more? Squishy and bigger bum in front than back, black-hole pores, rogue skin 'eruptions'.....)

Had the hair loss happened in my 20's, I'd have gone into hiding like a naked man climbing out of an icy lake. (Seen it~that there's nothin' to be proud of.) Or even in my 30's, I'd have probably tried some sort of camouflage, like a pregnancy or something?~ to keep the focus down south. That's how I got Julia.

But now, like a welcoming hug from a fat-armed friend, I embrace it. Have to. I is what I is. And that is a follicle-impaired (scalp included,) front-bummed, urine soaked, scattered teeth 41 year old vain (but only in a 'Bless her heart, she tries her best' kind of way) ice chompin' chick named Lisa!

And they say that ignorance is Bliss. Ha. They're so funny. Bliss is chocolate...

...and I loooooove chocolate!

Saturday, January 9, 2010


Sooooo sorry about that last post. It was so unlike me. Usually when my bucket runs dry, it's a slow leak and I'm prepared for it. I can usually staunch the flow before I bleed out. But this time, well, let's just say Julia needs a new hairbrush. (whack, whack, whack) Bless her heart.

So missionary son wrote to us yesterday, and we were THRILLED to read of his 'spirichal' growth for the week, with the BEST story of all consisting of having a horrible urge to laugh at a really inappropriate time. ALSO, having an equally terrifying urge to break wind, at the same indecent moment.

Trying his best to stifle BOTH the hilarity AND the bowels proved to be too much for the poor lad, and he had to choose one or the other to blow out of an orifice. He chose wrong. A giant flatulent rrrrrriiiippped right through his trousers, filling the air~with sound and essence~(two senses at once~he's an overachiever like his mom) in front of an entire room full of missionary peers... as well as a woman investigating the church.

I know. (Head tilt, heart pat) So proud. (two handed tear fan)

Unintentional though it was, not his proudest moment. In fact, his words were, "MY LIFE IS OVER!!!" And it very well may be, since his own mother just posted about it on her blog. Honestly! Can you believe her? That dame is so self serving.

Anyway, apparently they serve these 2,500 young men a diet LOADED with fart-inducing fare. And let's face it~these are NINETEEN year old young men~BOYS, really~donning zits and Adams apples bigger than their skulls~being sustained with a steady diet of churros, broccoli and processed cheese. (I'm just guessing) So really...REALLY...what is the disgust and faux outrage all about, people? I mean, have you EVER known an adolescent male to be discerning about where or when he rids himself of discomfort? Answer: Eyebrow raise.

By the way, I'm still waiting for more "Best of blog" input. Remember, your donation comes with an all expense paid "acknowledgment" shout out...which I think we all agreed, was very meaningful to everyone. OK? OK. (hand claps) Now let's get bizzy!

Early church tomorrow. Nine year old sleep over last night. Saturday Mom all day today. 'Nuff said.

Friday, January 8, 2010


Speaking of fish (I know I wasn't speaking of fish, but I was thinking of fish)~my second son was asked to a girl's choice dance tonight. Which is DELIGHTFUL, as we adore the girl.

Now, lest ye think me daft, let me clarify~

Not the kind of adore that goes with a witless and simpering, 'Oh my heck, aren't they just the CUTEST couple?! We just LUUUUVVVV HER, (she's on the drill team, you know) and when she comes over we give them lots and lots of privacy, (so they can fornicate) and we hope they NEVER, EVER break up, (when they get in a fight, I text her and tell her to take him back, because that's the kind of mother (stupid) I am.) And surely, there won't be any adjustments to their personalities (like maturity)...or lost opportunities for progression (like DATING or an EDUCATION)...or baby bumps underneath prom dresses (They can live in our basement~after all, it's OUR grandchild)...over the course of these critical years that might destroy their young lives, because these are gooood kids.'

Yeah, not stupid "adore." More like great family, smart girl, modest dress, no possible hooter action, kind of adore.

By the way, did you know that you can answer a nine year old girl the exact same way about 14 times in a row, and she'll still ask you the exact same question, switching a couple of words around and demanding that you give her your full attention each and every time, and then be furious that the answer stayed the same. I just told Jules I was getting "irritated." (Hi. My name is Lisa Understated Bingham.) And SHE replied, "You NEVER, EVER, EVER LISTEN TO ME!" and goose-turded out of the room. My GOODNESS, isn't she enchanting. (that was a statement, not a question. A question could have been answered)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Fish. There was a humorous story here originally, but Julia sucked me dry. Bone dry. Not a happy or creative thought remains.

I can't even figure out a way to end this post.



Thursday, January 7, 2010


Did I ever tell you all that I was the base of every pyramid I was ever a part of? Yes. Yes, I was. The base of every...single...pyramid. (she said dejectedly)

The brown trunk for the leafy treetops.

The unnoticed stem of the blossoming rose.

The earth's concealed magma core.

Which is the position they save for the most feminine, elegant, teeny tiny Disney princess on the team. Obviously.

Which brings us to a gem I like to call, "Snake-face Stephen and his venomous comment that almost drove me to sucking down Tablespoons full of vomit inducing Ipecac." Let us commence...

Stephen was in the gym early, before the basketball game, and sadly, so was I. He had slithered and perched right in front of me with his permanent wave hair, tortoise shell glasses (with gradient shading~they got darker the higher you went~like a windshield) and brown knit shirt with horizontal stripes. (Mm hmmm. Just sayin') He then leaned over to the girl next to him and fork-tongue HISSED while pointing strait at me with obvious glee, "That's Lisa. Yeah, her. She's the biggest cheerleader." And the girl nodded as she looked me up and down in critical assessment.

And I bent over to tie my shoe...

...and died a thousand deaths.

That night I went home, went to the medicine closet and pulled out the case with first aid supplies. "In case of poisoning" it said. Exactly what had happened~I'd been poisoned. But fortunately for me, the antidote was already in my system.

Self worth, a comforting gift from my Heavenly Father, kicked in immediately and the anti-venom had been at work since I'd bent to tie my shoe. I didn't realize it yet, but as soon as I held the bottle in my hands, I almost laughed aloud at my own melodrama. "Are you kidding me? You know who you are, Lisa. And THIS is NOT who you are." And I pushed the case back into the closet, arose and went into the kitchen for a treat. (Apparently, THAT is who I am. Surprise, surprise.)

I don't really know how it happened~that I was saved from a life filled with self doubt and destructive choices. A tender mercy, absolutely. An inborn spiritual strength, positively. A raising up by goodly...and Godly...parents, as the BASE for who I was...and am...and will continue to be, undeniably.

And so, I AM THE BASE of every pyramid. Every. Single. Pyramid. (she said majestically)

The mother of the family.

The rock for the wise-man's house.

The Spanx underneath the little black dress.

Go ahead. Climb on. I hold strong.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010


So, Valentine's Day is approaching and I was thinking last night, around 1:00 AM, that I would share with you an adolescent Valentines Day luuuuuuv fantasy I had. Which sounded like a brilliant blog topic at the time. And then I woke up this morning and knew that, just like an acid-trip flashback, I'd had what I refer to as a creative twist flashback. Let me explain.

See, years ago, I would be up at all hours of the wee, with a child attached to a portion of my body, sucking the life juices out of me~which may have been made up of brain cells, but we'll never know for sure, right? Anyway, where was I? I forget. Wait a sec, it'll come. It usually does.

Oh yes. I'd be up all night long~intermittently, and in order to stay awake, I'd have to think~creatively.

Well, one night, I was doing some of my BEST visionary thinking, eyes propped open with toothpicks and slurched over in a rocking chair, when I had thee MOST. BRILLIANT. IDEA. THAT. HAS. EVER. FORMED. (IN A NURSING MOTHER'S BRAIN)...and that was...drumroll take creative twist (remember the wrinkled craft paper from the 80's? Yeah, that) and unravel it, (oh my gosh, this is so fantastic!) pinching it together every 12 inches (oh my heck, I can't believe nobody has ever thought of this before!) and hot glue a navy blue silk flower (never really seen one in nature, but that must be an oversight by Heavenly Father) with fake maroon baby's breath, (navy blue and maroon, totally timeless! ) at every pinch~and then attach it to the wall (with push pins, because we were renting) as a border!!! SO A CREATIVE TWIST BORDER!!! I KNOW! I KNOW!

If only it weren't 2:47 in the morning, I would SOOO pull this suckling child from my breast and call my sister to tell her about my idea. But alas, against my will, I had to go back to bed (an energizing three hour milk production break) and wait for a more appropriate hour to share this significant gift with the world.

Aaaaannnnddd....enter discernment and clarity. Two things that had open-mouth snory slumbered while I'd been up nursing and innovating. They arose when I did that morning, fully refreshed and clear headed, but unfortunately NOT quick enough on their feet to stop my fingers before I dialed Nicki's number.

Then they started arguing about who's fault it was that this rancid idea had gone unchecked for an entire 6-8 hours and didn't even notice that I'd started speaking in wild excitement into the receiver.

When they finally shut up long enough to hear me, they both ran screaming and flailing around in my brain, knocking into gray matter walls and trying to disrupt me mid-sentence. Then they shook my eyeball roots and slapped at my equilibrium until I had to grab a chair and sit down like a sobering drunk, while they briefed me on what had transpired the night before.

We had a good laugh, Nick and I. Aah. Good times. (wiping a mirthy tear) She'd been a nursing mother, too, so she understood toothpick eyelids and rogue ideas. But she's never let me live it down~and I have to say I don't blame her. That's just a gift from the sibling-rivalry and power-lording gods. And you don't look one of those in the mouth. (yeah, I don't get that whole 'gift horse" thing either~but I say it like I do)

Anyway, back to the luuuuuv idea. Not gonna share it. Nope, nope, nope. Discernment and Clarity won't let me. They're mean. They wear camouflage. And they two-finger-eyeball-point while mouthing "creative twist," when I even LOOK like I might share something silly.

So don't even ask.

Talk to the hand.


(I lied. They're on vacation. Don't be surprised if you get a call about 2:47.)

Tuesday, January 5, 2010


Hello there, dear BBFF's! OK, here's what's goin' down. I need some input. Putting together a "query" letter for agents and I need to send my best that I can be published...because remember, I already have the perfect 'book tour' outfit and shoes? (see above picture, which may or may not be the right pair~because there are just so many other shoes in the sea, and I don't want to limit myself to only one option, just in case we're not fully compatible) But apparently I need a book to publish in order to go on a book tour, and to be seen in the perfect book tour outfit and I shall need YOUR help. YOUR intelligent, brilliant insight. Would you be so kind as to put together your "top ten list" of Lisa's blog posts? Or if you can't stand to re-read so much tripe, just your top three.

Then I'll compile, add, subtract, ignore some, trump up others, paint blue and sprinkle glitter and we'll come up with a final list together. Then it's like you're RIGHT THERE WITH ME when I'm spurned...over...and over...and over again. But remember that misery loves company, so we'll ALL hang out by the mailbox, sipping our Dr. Peppers over rabbit poop ice and cackling and laughing in unison, reading the rejection form letters and mocking the stupid editors and agents, as we huddle and freeze in our nightgowns like one big, happy BBFF family. (everyone remember to brush your teeth, cuz there will be lots of 'close talking')

Now, just to cover all bases, in case an acceptance wiggles and worms it's way through the postal process, I SHALL NOT FORSAKE THEE, FRIENDS. In fact, so beholden to you sweeties will I be, that I will give EVERY ONE OF YOU A SHOUT OUT in my "acknowledgments." Which is very meaningful to all of you, I can tell. But you deserve it, dear hearts. You deserve it. (head cock, pursed lips, heart pound and two fingered kiss)

But only if you send me your list. The rest of you shall remain anonymous, and that's sad, because as everybody knows, the reason for existence is fame. That's right, fame. Because it's long lasting...and eternal in nature...never changing and definitely not fickle.

Which is why I'm seeking it. My wisdom and foresight amazes even me.

Oh, I can hardly wait! Good times await us, blog friends. Good times.

So let's get to readin' and list making! And if by chance, your comments on the blog will not publish, as has been known to happen WAY TOO FREAKIN' MANY TIMES...which MAKES ME REALLY ANGRY...but should that happen, then send me your list to my email address: we'll call it "WISE FAME SEEKING" in the subject box. There.

Consider me mouth breathing over your shoulders right now. That should hurry things along.

Monday, January 4, 2010


"Hello me-time, my old friend....I've come to talk with you again..." A little slightly altered 1960's hippy music to start the year out. Did you hear that? Me neither. Isn't it wonderful?!

I luuuuuuv me some me-time. And by me-time, I mean thoughtful pondering and really righteous, just trying to be a better mom by filling up my own bucket so that I have enough bucket juice (which tastes suspiciously like Dr. Pepper) to splash all over my family, so this me-time is obviously for THEM and not the least bit selfish like some (many) people might suggest. (Also, don't even THINK about dropping by during this me-time, or my bucket juices will dry up and my family will suffer with life-threatening dehydration as a result, so in order to save their lives...because remember, me-time is really about them~as so many other things I do that might LOOK selfish to the naked eye, but are in actuality very UNSELFISH~trust me on's best not to call or expect me to be up and dressed~or really accomplishing anything~during this very unselfish and critical juncture.)

Me-time is my favorite.

I also love the fresh New Year sparse. (see above vintage displays~my only New Year fluff) Because for the last, oh, I'd say four months now, there hasn't been a single flat surface in my home that hasn't housed some sort of seasonal decor that needed to be nurtured. And by nurtured I mean dusted, fussed with, rearranged, added to, watered, regrouped, changed out or sprayed with glitter...just like my own children. Which is part of being a homemaker, and I knew that going in, people. But still, one can only go to Target with glitter flakes clinging to nose hairs and eyelashes so many times, before one is mocked by cashiers.

And speaking of cashiers, I've once again become acquainted with a new batch. Another duty of a housewife fighting the war against Winter blues, so she's taking her mental health very seriously and has STOIC RESOLVE that includes a daily financial workout (beating.) Yes, she is THAT committed to being in peak mental condition.

Would that I were that committed to being in peak physical condition. But I've started down the right path. I intend to, friends. And as we've discussed before, the pathway to Heaven is paved with good intentions, which means I'm even closer to being in the Celestial kingdom than ever before. And yes, it does feel good.

OK, so it looks like this year has begun "prit-near perfect." Me time, rabbit poop ice, a strong defense for Winter blues and intentions.

My bucket is getting heavier by the second. I should probably get a straw.

Friday, January 1, 2010


HAPPY NEW YEAR, PEEPS! And now for the most pressing issue...resolutions.

Yeah, I know you're smiley all over, just like me, at the thought of fixing what has been corrupted over the past year. So, shall we take stock?

Let us begin with our 41 year old bodies and what they're made up of after the conclusion of these 365 days. Question: Can Dr. Pepper (or Diet Coke with lime) take the place of the 70% of our bodies that should be made up of water? Answer: Yes. Yes it can. And you can quote me on that. Also, feel free to pattern YOUR diet after MINE, (misery loves company)...because it can only do you good. And by good I mean not good.

Next, how is our exercise regime coming along? Well, I think we all know the answer to that. It's apparent by the fact that I post on this blog day after day after day, doing tireless finger crunches on the computer keyboard. My fingers are in PEAK PHYSICAL FORM, friends. I can actually see the bones under the skin, (rib cage) and the sinew is strong and controlled (six pack.) The skin is taught and tan, stretching over strong knuckles, (no stretch marks.) I think you get the picture (but really probably not, as I shan't be taking one of me and sending it to you, because I've heard they're worth a thousand words and I don't want those words getting all jumbled up in your mind's eye.)

Okay, what's next? Let's go with financial responsibility.

Moving on...

And finally, parenting skills. Another question: How many times can you whack a daughter on the head with a hair brush without causing long-term "repercussions?" Answer: An undetermined number~I'll let you know when I've stopped and we'll see if there is any lasting damage. (For novice whackers: The hair hides any tell-tale signs, so all is well as long as it's done in the privacy of your own bathroom every morning before school starts and she is whining and whining and wants to wear another ugly boy outfit and you have been Just sayin'.)

In conclusion, I think it's time for a pact. Let us all cut, (I'll wait while everybody gets a razor blade. NO, THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL! Okay, now then~) squeeze and raise our fingers to the computer screen, repeating these words together..."What happened in 2009 STAYS in 2009." There. Go ahead and wipe off the screen. I think our secret is safe.

Now if only I could get my chins to stop bearing witness against me...

PS~Somebody just "dropped by" a few minutes ago, forcing me to run and hide like a squirrel eating nuts behind my bedroom door. As if there is an appropriate time to drop by on New Years Day. FYI~there is no "acceptable" time (not even 3:14 PM) on New Years. There is only "too early." Now you know.

PSS~I punished my hair for being entitled~washed it today with crappy shampoo. Hair straightened right up cuz it KNEW I meant business. So to all you hair enablers out there, take heed. A firm parental hand does wonders for spoiled tresses. (If the problem is small, Pantene will do. If it's out of hand, I recommend Suave.)

PSSS~I've attached a picture of Jules and her friend after playing the "blindfolded application of makeup on each other's faces" game. Good times. Good times. Now where is that hairbrush?

PSSSS~I know it's supposed to be "PPPPS" but that sounded too much like something I do every time I sneeze (if I don't cross my legs in time) so I went another way. And all of you who noticed and thought me un-edumacated, you're kind of a snob. Just sayin'.