SUPPLE BABY RUMP

Can I just say that I am SOOOO grateful I don't have to live my life in High Def. I was just watching some actress on TV and realized the pressure her pores are under to be diminutive, or cost their host face a job. Which is why I've chosen not to be a famous actress. Oh, they wanted me, folks. They wanted me BAAAAAAAAD. But I begged off, as I knew there was a sleazy side to celebrity...the junk called "must be a size 2/4 or less." And that right there frightened me to my chocolate filled innards.

My pores, however, were drawn like a moth to a flame. They loved the bright lights and big city, seeking the spotlight shamelessly. Unfortunately, they met up with cheap and seedy product lines, filling up with muck and debris and becoming attention prostitutes in the process. They're hardened...and soulless.

So I had no choice. I staged an intervention. Just like all addicts, they didn't think they had a problem. Their black hole appearance felt natural to them. But I consulted a specialist and after careful inspection and MIND-NUMBING EXPENSE, we came up with a plan. It's called, "aesthetician with excessively priced product line" repentance. I expect to spend the dirty harlots into submission.

There were SIX~count them~SIX IMPERATIVE PRODUCTS that should have been part of my daily regimen all along. Apparently the cotton ball toner I was using was like a band-aid to a severed arm when it comes to maintaining a weathered face like mine. Who knew?

Anyway, we're on the path to full atonement now. And it feels good, people. Supple baby rump good. And I hardly even NOTICE the lack of girth in my wallet. I guess if you want your PORES to diminish, you must be prepared to set the example with your FATTY CREDIT CARDS. All part of the intervention process.

Takin' one for the team.

Kind of like Team Edward or Team Jacob...but it's Team Supple Baby Rump Face.

(I'm having T-shirts made up. You can order them online soon. See? I'll be famous yet!)

AURORA

Hey, guess what I found? A cow that poops candy! Which combines three of my very favorites! CANDY, POOP (rabbit poop ice) and COWS (diamonds, remember?) Oh, and one other thing~CLASSY. Duh. It's like they read my blog or something.

Heeeeyyyy, maybe they DO, and if that's the case, what else can we get them to invent? How about something like a puke pill that if you eat too many treats, you hurl? I know it sounds bad, but you gotta know yourself, and in this area, I DO, and what I KNOW is that I don't learn on my own~I require "compelling." I can't be trusted to eat nutritiously, or wear sunscreen, or exercise, or to go to bed in a timely manner. None of those things occur to my natural man, and he is SOOOOOO in charge. So it's time for a puke pill. (By the way, did anyone else notice the 'genital warts' ad on my sidebar? Apparently I've mentioned warty genitalia somewhere, though I really can't recall where, and they hope to capitalize on 'our lifestyle.' Ew.)

Speaking of Ew, here's an episode that my beautiful niece's roommate experienced. And lucky for her, I don't know her name, (we'll call her Gertie) so she won't be humiliated and I won't be sued. It goes something like this:

Gertie was waiting for her bus, and started the upper lip sweat. She ignored it and climbed on anyway, thinking it would pass. Silly gert. She sits down amongst friends and suddenly goes into hyper-vomit, beginning in her hands and then sharing the blessing with any and all around her. A friend screams, "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A BUCKET?" and a dear boy hurriedly empties out his book bag as she continues to empty out her guts. She fills his bag and sits there dazed, covered in feminine, dainty hurl. The bus pulls over and she stumbles out, followed by kindly students. She steps onto the sidewalk, holds her hands out in front of her and loudly panics, "I CAN'T SEE! I CAN'T SEE!" then proceeds to BLACK OUT, people, dropping onto her knees and passing out on the concrete! When she comes to, a kindly student asks if he can drive her back to her apartment and she shrieks, "NO! NO! I'm fine. I'll get back just fine. You go. Go, I'm fine!" Well, apparently, poor Gertie was also discharging from her OTHER end. That's right. A real life not candy, pooping cow. I KNOW!!! CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT?!!! No, I did not make ANY of this up! AND NOW...SOMEONE BLOGS ABOUT IT! So sad.

Which takes me back in time a couple of years, to when hubbie and I vowed, once again, to "get in shape." (I laugh while I drool suckers and Dr. Pepper.) (slurp) So we're there in the gym and our personal trainer is REALLY, REALLY INSISTENT that I actually perform several reps of things. I guess two isn't several.

Whatever.

So he's pushing me and I keep feeling light headed, but I'll be darned if I'm gonna wuss out. Plus, he calls me "Princess" and that makes me feel pretty and I want to make him like me even more. So we finish the workout, and I sit down to wait for hubbie, in front of aaaaallllllll the treadmills. And I start an inner dialogue: "I wonder...I wonder if...could Ster maybe, I don't know, maybe back his car into the front doors, here? Are they wide enough that he could pull in without anybody noticing? It might be loud, but that's OK. And then I could, maybe I don't know, kind of crawl into the back seat and lay down and puke without anybody seeing me, cuz I'm willing to clean it up, if he could sneak me out of here...without anybody seeing me do it. Huh. Probably not. Well, then, let's seeeee....how about if...I wonder if I prayed hard enough, if maybe I could become invisible. Or could they just cover me in an invisible cloak or something to get out? Nope. Those aren't real.....what else? There's got to be a way..." And then, there is this beautiful music playing, and I am JUST SO RESTED, I've never BEEN so stinkin' relaxed in my whole LIFE...and somebody adores me and thinks I'm a Princess! Just like AURORA! And he's saying, "Hey, there, princess...how was your sleep? Yup, looks like she's coming around. CAN YOU GET HER A COLD WASHCLOTH TO PUT ON HER FOREHEAD? SHE'S SWEATING A LOT!"

And then it hits me. Aurora passed out. In front of the treadmills. And she's apparently sweating. And her hair is in a stringy ponytail. With no make-up. And one pant leg is pulled up to her upper thigh, as when she fell over, she did it without being self aware. Which means she ALSO wasn't holding in her gut at ANY POINT OF THIS FAINT. And this is just SUUUUUCH A FAAAARRRRR CRY FROM WHAT SHE IMAGINED WHEN SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL!!! dammitalltohell.

I never went back. And Gertie has no choice but to drop out of school. And as God as my witness, I will NEVER DO MORE THAN TWO REPS OF EXERCISE AGAIN! Because CLEARLY, that's what got me into this mess in the first place.

Well, that and genital warts. (let's see what the ad scrolls do with THAT! HA!)

FIFTY HUNNERD

So Eldest Son has arrived in Florianopolis! YAY!!! No more worry, as he's in the Lord's hands now, which is good cuz he'd be covered in doughnut crumbs right now if he were in mine. Speaking of doughnuts, did you know that if you break them into pieces and shake them, the calories fall out of the inner cake and you can eat as many of those pieces as you want? I know! Science is my favorite!

For entertainment purposes, I'll share with you yesterday's conversation with second son. He would like to~

~"become a better man" by saving up for a nicer vehicle and paying for it himself, because he just doesn't feel like it's "right" that the 20 something year old car he's driving now was just "given" to him. No, no, it's just not right. He really, really REALLY feels like he can build character by being able to save up for a BRAND NEW SPORTS CAR, because, as everybody knows, this is the only time in his entire life that he'll be able to JUST FOCUS ON HIM, as later on, he'll be on a mission, you know, and then come home~but he can drive that car to college, so it's foresight~and get married and have children, which will mean he's an adult and AAAALLLLL of the joy and wonder will go pouring out of his life like broken doughnut calories, and he will no longer be able to get that BRAND NEW SPORTS CAR, which is, OF COURSE, necessary to his JOY, HAPPINESS AND FULFILLMENT here on the earth,~

~(right about here, his enthusiasm dwindles, as he hears the words coming out of his mouth and realizes they sound like hop-toad farts. The flame flickers and dances, but he's committed and must finish what he started)~

~as EVERYONE KNOWS that SPORTS CARS are A REQUIREMENT for all young men who happen to be REALLY, REALLY INTERESTED IN CARS~like HE is. He feels this deeply...to his white hot magma core...and is just looking ahead in his life to make sure he never feels DISSATISFIED with his material possessions and youthful attainment...(Aaaaand...his NEW SPORTS CAR battery runs right ...down...to...chirping...crickets...)

Bless his heart.

I heard him out with a grin and then asked, "Um, what's that one scripture, that one that says something about "seeking?" He wasn't sure what I was talking about. "You know, the one that starts out like, 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and then all things shall be added unto you?' Something like that."

And immediately, a "SSSSSSSSsssssssssss" was heard from his eyeballs as every imaginary male in the world performed the 'unzip and extinguish' to the fire in his soul. But to his credit, and I'm being serious here, tremendous humility and maturity were displayed. He even smiled at the end. He already knew.

Which once again proves to me these spirits sent down to us now are just LEAPS AND BOUNDS, HORDS AND GOBS, FIFTY-HUNNERD TIMES better than WE (you mostly, but to sound humble, I'll include myself) were at that age. How in the WORLD are we supposed to raise them?

Well, what's worked for me is to eat a box of doughnuts and then hold my goopy hands in the air, professing, "Hey. Can someone help me out here? I can't really do much, cuz see? My hands are covered in slob. Lord? Will you please take care of him for a couple years till I can get this mess cleaned up? Thanksomuch! Preshiatcha!" And VOILA! There you go!

Don't ever say I never gave you anything. That brilliance right there is worth diamonds and gold! You're welcome.

HANDS

There's been some...talk (alarm)...shall we say...about the condition (scary appearance) of my hands, in the comment section of my blogs lately. To which I now respond~No, it's not contagious. Yes, I'm aware they're corpse-like. And yes, I've tried lotion.

Years ago, when I was about five or six, we were given the opportunity (forced) to play "Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Feeble Kid Right Over." That SPLENDID (cruel) game where you held each other's hands tightly and waited for the most malnourished, anemic child to attempt to break the link~usually ending with the wind being knocked out of them and/or broken ribs.

Well, if ever there was an excruciating moment in my life, it was every one of those. Not because I was the fragile child, as we've already established I was the BASE OF EVERY PYRAMID. No, not that. But because some brat missing a thought/mouth filter would inevitably scream, "EWWWWW!!! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR HANDS? THEY'RE LIKE GRANDMA HANDS!!!" And then wrench theirs away violently, like I was covered in boogers and warts.

Now, obviously, this could only raise my self esteem to lofty heights, as I held my head~and hands~high, like an Olympian with their Country's flag. And so I was obliged to do something that I'm not proud of people...but it was necessary...for survival...in the killing fields known as recess playground. I made up a story...a lie, really. And I know what you're thinking. "That's how she started to blog." And you'd be right. But it had humble beginnings as self preservation and only recently BLOSSOMED into shameless fame seeking.

"It's not my fault that my hands are this way," I'd fabricate. "When I was little, my dad was working on his car, and he put this oil stuff in a tray, and told me not to touch it. But I ACCIDENTALLY got it aaaallllll over my hands. And this is what happened." And I'd hold my hands up for inspection, and the kids would "Oooooo" and "Ahhhhhh" and look at me with disgusted rapture. Suddenly, I was kind of like The Phantom of the Opera~a little bit feared, but also weirdly compelling and pitied. It did the trick. They'd take me by the arm and grab their friends to Show and Tell about my tragedy~which would always end in an ominous whisper about "special car oil stuff" that you should never, ever, EVER get on your hands.

Fast forward to 6th grade square dancing, and in between every Virginia Reel, I would lick my hands, hold them together to make them warm, and then take hold of my partner's hand, letting him think the spit was sweat. I know. And I'm sorry, Troy.

"Heavenly Father, why would you do this to me? People make fun of me, and I'll never be able to hold a boy's hand without being embarrassed!"

"Compassion? Being compelled to stay virtuous and pure? You're welcome."

Fast forward even MORE years, and you have two innocents, holding hands over an altar, as they are told that on top of our hands, our Savior places His hand, and the only way for us to break up our eternal marriage would be to first remove our God. Truer words never have been spoken.

Still more years pass, and fresh from the heavens, an entire baby hand wraps tightly around one wrinkly mother's finger, as one by one, I clutch four beautiful infants to my overwhelmed and humble heart. And I nurture and I feed...and I plead. And I wipe, and I hold and I squeeze.

The story goes that a marble statue of the Christus was placed in a town square. Vandals came in the night, and broke both hands off, which could never be repaired. There was talk of removing or replacing the statue, but finally an answer came. A plaque was placed beneath the broken Christ. It simply said, "I have no hands but yours."

And one day, years from now, I will hold them up to my Heavenly Father for scrutiny. And I will Show and Tell Him everything that they did. And He'll listen...and I can only hope and pray that He will hold them up to ME, and whisper, "See? Do you see what they were capable of? Did you ever THINK that so much could come from just ONE SET OF THESE?"

And then I will look, and I will realize, that they never were just "grandma hands." They were His. And chances are, they have always been exactly in line with the age of my spirit.

And they will be BEAUTIFUL to me.

WHORISH KNITS

A beautiful blue platter from "Just a Bed of Roses," that I painted. Hey, if real ones aren't blooming yet, you make them yourself! Necessity is the mother of invention.

Hi, peeps! It's sunshiny! And you can thank me later about having a prayer/talk with Heavenly Father about that. I've got connections. We're pretty tight~like this~(fingers trying to cross together, but not very successful, because with age comes a surprising lack of finger agility) Sometimes, when things have gotten out of hand here on the Earth, I have to mention it. For His sake. Wouldn't want a bunch of angry children murmuring against their Creator.

"Dear Heavenly Father," I begin...and then it gets a little bit less respectful from there. He sometimes chuckles and humors me. Other times, He throws down a little crap on the face, just to remind me that it could be~OR GET~waaaaay worse. And that's always good for a humbling reprieve so he can get a few things done before I start up again. But all in all, He's very good to listen to me, even when I end every sentence by going up, down, up. That's a whine, in case you don't have a nine year old daughter for reference. You can borrow mine if you've forgotten what it sounds like. No, no trouble at all. I've already got her in the box, just punching a few...more...air...holes. THERE! Now I just need an address. Post it in your comments and I'll send her out today. Or I can just look you up in the phone book. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way~doesn't matter to me. Just get ready to sign for her when she arrives.

But as I was saying, it's sunny!!! Thus, like a tick backing out of a dog's bum, here I am! And just in time, it seems,...for EASTER CANDY HAS ARRIVED! Cadbury eggs and microwaved peeps (not YOU peeps, marshmallow peeps! Silly peeps!) have been lying dormant in my mind, but now have been set freeeeee, hair tossing in the wind, white dresses billowing in the breeze, as they run through a field of flowers and into my outstretched arms...and GIANT OPEN MOUTH, BEARING RAZOR SHARP TEETH AND DROOLING IN ANTICIPATION OF RIPPING AND TEARING OFF THE FIRST PEEP HEAD AND BUNNY EARS OF THE SEASON. It's almost spiritual.

Also, about to come to pass is the making of the Easter dress! Which in the past, has entailed beautiful, ethereal white embroidered cotton and rose smocking, with patent shoes and purse to match. I know. I can barely see with these memory stars in my eyes. But looks like THIS year, THIS YEAR, what with angel babe beating the hell out of her femininity every day, I'll be trolling the whorish knits and bedazzled tennis shoes. QUICK, SOMEBODY GRAB ME A BUCKET!!! (gag, gag, wretch, hurl)

(Wiping my mouth)~So, anyway, looks like the storm clouds have started rolling back in and Heavenly Father might be done "listening." For now. But it's Okay. I'll be alright.

My Easter Candy is still here for me~galloping in white cotton dresses and patent shoes through the tulips and daffodils.

And chocolate never wears whorish knits.

FEBRUARY

I just today realized why February is Satan's mistress. He LOVES it, because everything about the month reminds him of him. Satan loves the smell of his own farts. You can quote me on that.

So let us compare~

First~All of the jolly holidays are over by February and you're left with the dregs of everything. And if you end up in the bowels, this also means your "Eat, Drink and Be Merry" JOLLY attitude, came back on you like a bean burrito at midnight. See? Satan.

Second~February is ugly...the kind of grotesque only a mother could love. And I do believe that Satan spawned February...I read it somewhere...or I heard it on television...or I made it up. So Beelzebub is February's mother, and thinks it's "just going through an awkward stage."

Next~Nothing grows in February. No tulips, no trees, no bank accounts. Which binds and gags us as we're thrown into financial prison...which is commonly referred to as a "hellhole," which brings us back, once again, to Satan's abode.

Another thing~February is smarmy. It's an oily moustached car-salesman with it's Valentine come-ons and inferior products all wrapped up in a skanky red foil and overpriced roses. But deep down inside, we know it's imitation. It has it's own agenda and gets to us with counterfeit emotion, counterfeit people, counterfeit love. In essence, Lucifer.

Even more...February LIES and says it's the shortest month, but we all know it's a watched pot and a nursing baby~it never, ever, ever seems to be through. February pretends it's a precursor to Spring, but we suspect the moment we buy those cute green sandals with the giant flower on the toe, we'll step outside into muck and mire, and forfeit a flippie to the sludge. I could go on and on, but you get the gist.

What I really want to do...what would truly make me bright and sunshiny...would be to slap February up the side of the head until it's puke brown hair extensions landed in it's lip gloss~the vacuous toad. But I can't. Because I'm a lady. Put your eyebrows back down.

Anyway, February AND Satan exhaust me and I just can't WAIT to see their reign end.

But in reality, I DO know the days are numbered. Soon, very soon, Spring and Light and Creation will emerge, and February will die a lonely, wretched death.

And where will it's Snake Mama be? I'll tell ya where...nowhere, that's where, because He won't be hanging around for the ending...

...He never does.

HIGHLY DESIRABLE

Hi. It's past 12:00...I know, too late for someone who recently had to purchase Metamucil. But I'm a rebel...'ts how I roll.

Speaking of rebels~today I got a little bit Crazy in the Spring air~I went outside for some exercise, cuz I figured four months off was probably about right~it was time to get back on that little red wagon. So I did, but nobody would pull me. I yelled and yelled and yelled...and can I just say, "BAD FORM" to those very SELFISH preschoolers who just walked on by.

Anyway, I was forced to HOIST my agile, ballerina body up and out, to mosey my girth away, but it actually ended up being fine, folks, because there was BREEZY BEAUTIFUL AIR SWISHING THROUGH MY HAIR. AAAAHHHHH!!!!! I flared my nostrils and sucked as much as I could into my depleted coffers, because there is really nothing quite like that fragrance. Better even than freshly cut diamonds.

But then suddenly, I became ill. Mm hmm. Spring Fever. Debilitating without proper medication. So I popped a couple (bags) of Cadbury eggs, grabbed the keys and the sons and went in search of stuff.

I like to think stuff has a soul, you know? Else how could the nurturing instinct be so powerful as to make me snatch and clutch it to my ample bosom, and then take it home with me without a second thought? I'm a giver, people...A caretaker........I AM A stuff foster parent.

"Who's a good stuff? Hmmm? Who's a good stuff?! YOU are! Yes, you are! Youz a good stuff! Yes, you is! (pet, pet, baby talk, coo) You da MOST BESTEST STUFF in the whoooooole wiiiiiide woooorld! Soooooo fun! Sooooo pretty! (pet, pet, caress, stroke) Ooooh, Mommy loves a pretty stuff!" (belly farts and flinging toss in the air)

Anyway, sons, stuff and I had a wonderful bonding experience. And they've named their new sister, "Hollister shirts." Darling.

But the most fun of all was that there was a truckload of students (teenage girls) there in the mall~ from England~which made them HIGHLY DESIRABLE to my sons. SKYSCRAPER, HELICOPTER, TOWER OF BABEL DESIRABLE. And I was witness to their superior flirting skills, people. Pleasantly surprised, as the apples fell~or were hurled with athletic prowess~faaaaarrrrr from the tree.

I sucked. it. up. in High School flirting. My older sister ROCKED THE SCENE! But me...I stood in the wings watching the play, face and fingers smeared against the window pane~on the outside looking in, always a bridesmaid~never the bride, the square peg in the round hole, living on the Island of Misfit Toys...well, you get the idea. So I was cheery to see the next generation takin' things up a notch.

Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah. Stuff. Bought a bunch. And like the poisoned-by-her-own-mother-girl on "The Sixth Sense,"......"I'm feeling much better now."

PAWS

So I'm on the phone with a friend the other morning, and Snotty Sassy comes limping in, with a catcher's mitt on her paw. And it's covered in fur.

"HELLS BELLS, WHAT'S HAPPENED TO HER PAW?" I toss the phone, and grab the cat. I thought she'd been in a fight, and then I saw the green band around her 'wrist.' An ELASTIC band, people. And we ALL know that elastic bands wrap themselves around kitty cat limbs...TWICE...when they argue. It was a kitty-cat paw ponytail.

"SETH!!! SEEEETTTTHHHHH!!!!!!" I whisper. Or maybe it was an hysterical scream. Whatever. He flew down the stairs looking about as deranged as my tone. "DID YOU PUT AN ELASTIC BAND AROUND SASSY'S PAW?!" I asked. (shrieked)

"NO. NO, I DON'T THINK I DID. OKAY, WAIT. MAYBE I DID. I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T KNOW. PROBABLY. PROBABLY, YES. OKAY, YES, I THINK SO. I THINK I DID! WHY? WHY?! IS SHE GOING TO DIE?!!! WHAT'S WRONG? I WAS JUST PLAYING WITH HER. I THOUGHT SHE COULD GET IT OFF!! WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT DID I DOOOOOO?!!!!!" He was wild eyed and psychotic looking, tormented with the possible harm he'd caused.

Now all children would do well to answer their mothers in this repentant and humble manner, as it softens a frozen heart just like butter under an armpit. It saved the boy's life.

We quickly cut the band off, and then my 'natural-man nurturing' took over. I stood there in stained nightgown, yesterday's mascara smeared up the side of my face, pointing and looking enormously credible, while I lovingly mentioned that, "SHE'LL PROBABLY LOSE HER PAW. IT'S MORE THAN LIKELY. IT'LL TURN BLACK AND PUTRID AND ROT FROM THE INSIDE OUT, OOZING PUSS AND SLOB, AND THEN SHE'LL BE A CRIPPLED CAT FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE, AND WON'T BE ABLE TO PROTECT HERSELF FROM PREDATORS...AND AAAALLLLLL BECAUSE YOU PUT A DA$% ELASTIC BAND ON HER PAW...AND YOU'RE MEAN. YOU'RE JUST PLAIN MEAN TO HER, AND YOU WILL BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE TO YOUR HEAVENLY FATHER FOR YOUR STEWARDSHIP OVER HER AND WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO SAY? HUH? HUH? WHAT? THAT YOU WERE PLAYING, AND HER PAW FELL OFF?! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT."

Yeah, no trauma there. I told Seth that he needed to seek forgiveness from his Heavenly Father.

That's funny, huh?....Can you say, PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF?! I would imagine something close to those very words being said to me, but regarding my thinking, feeling children rather than a ball of meowing fur.

"Hmmmmmm, says here you fling insults like dung, scream rather than teach and basically have been found "wanting" as a Mother in Zion. You're mean. You're just plain mean. Don't you realize that you are given stewardship over these spirits? What are you going to tell your Heavenly Father, huh? Huh? What? That you were rearing them and their paws fell off? Good luck with that."

And so, once again, I commit to do...and be better.

Because nothing seems more shameful than holding up a handful of little people paws when I stand before my Creator.

DIAMOND COWS

Ashy came home last night~just for a 15 minute visit! Sadly, I was the only one who saw him. I just hated to see him climb into his bright blue dune-buggy and drive back to Brazil. Dear sweet boy. Love him.

And speaking of love...twoo wuv...that bwessed awangement...that dweeam widdin a dweeam. (Princess Bride) GUESS WHAT MY LOVER HUSBAND GAVE TO ME FOR VALENTINES DAY?!!!

NEWER, FRESHER AND BIGGER DIAMONDS!!! That's right. Newer, fresher, bigger...because that's how many cows I am worth.

So let's discuss these diamond cows.

For those not familiar with the story, Johnny Lingo is a hot bodied Don Juan islander who fell in love with MAHANA...YOU UGLY...COME DOWN FROM THAT TREE!~a less than beautiful island girl. He had loved her from their childhood, but she'd been brought low by mean neighbors and a creepy dad~all with really BAAAAADDD wigs. (low budget movie) They thought her worthless and when BARE NAKED (except for a weensy little sarong~but I barely noticed this part, cuz I'm not gross) SMOKIN' JOHNNY WITH THE WAVY HAIR asked for her hand in marriage, they expected it would be payed for with only ONE diseased, skinny cow, as livestock was their form of currency.

While the islanders waited for the groom, the other brides all bragged of their own worth as four or five cow wives. Heifers=worth. BUT ALAS, when Lingo finally arrived, the BIG, BEAUTIFUL HEIFERS just kept coming and coming! EIGHT COWS! EIGHT COWS! Nobody have ever heard of such a thing! Then he whisked her away for months of lusty honeymoon lovin'.

When they returned, she had been transformed into a GLORIOUS ISLAND GIRL, complete with smiling capped teeth and a MUCH better wig! AND A FLOWER IN HER HAIR! Her father was FURIOUS, saying, "YOU CHEAT ME! YOU CHEAT ME! SHE WORTH TEN COWS!"

So do you see, friends? Do you SEE how cows/diamonds=worth=lusty honeymoon lovin'=flowers in hair=good wigs=my husband loves me abundantly and wants to give me lots and lots of (10) cows/diamonds in order to see what I will metamorphosis into?

Which means....I guess he's still waiting....

That first couple of diamonds evidently didn't give him quite the results he was looking for. And to be honest, I'm kind of disappointed in what he ended up with. Especially in the morning. Or anytime before noon. Or when I'm naked.

BUT, and this is important, folks, I AM willing to slather on some fake island tan, pull on a bad wig with a flower tucked behind an ear and wrap myself in a tropical print Moo-Moo. Now isn't THAT sayin' something? Yes, yes it is, friends. It says I earn my keep. And my cow diamonds.

So come hither, hubbie. THIS Moo-Moo Mahana is all yours! Lucky! (now if I could just get down out of this tree)

THRILL OF THE DRILL

So after my last busted and rotting tooth episode, husband felt like he was missing out on all the fun. "Where's MY busted and rotting tooth? Huh? What about ME? You ALWAYS have busted and rotting teeth and I never, ever, EVER get to. No fair! Plus, YOU always get to have your teeth drilled down to the nub and root, and I NEVER do. Goll. Hmmphhh." Arms folded across chest, head down and mumbling, with tentacle eyebrows sprouting out and over his glasses (Not sure why I mentioned that, as it really has nothing to do with this particular story. I just wanted it to be part of your visual, forever and ever, because I get to revel in it every day, forever and ever. And it's really too beautiful not to share. Therefore, my gift to you. No, thank YOU for sharing it with me. Enjoy.) as he kicks a rock down the street.

He had no idea his life was about to change. That soon...very soon...he, too, would feel the thrill of the drill.

So a couple of weeks ago, he goes to the dentist after having some old fillings break out and LO AND BEHOLD, THE MAN DOTH HAVE BUSTED AND ROTTING TEETH! Enter not one, but TWO, TWO, TWO CROWNS AT ONCE! And for this story, we're totally glossing over the cost associated. Some things are just too painful to relive.

Anyway, he has a double header. And he does it WITHOUT PAIN KILLER!!! HOLY HELL, PEOPLE! I KNOW!!! Remember MAN-SICK? ME TOO!!! And you know what? I are not dumb...I are smart. And Something...SOMETHING is amiss here. But that's also another story. This story is about what happened later that night.

He's really weirded out by the fact that he's not allowed to chew on one side, because of the two temp crowns. He mentions it to me, oh, I'd say 436 times in about an hour. Which is just soooooo...endearing. It's hard to emphasize enough JUST how endearing it is. Anyway, we go out to dinner with a couple of friends and we're chatting in the car when we drop them off. He offers us gum and we continue chatting.

You know that dream (nightmare) where your teeth crumble and fall out of your mouth, into your hands? Well, just like a Disney fairytale, some dreams really DO come true.

Husband is suddenly silent. At least on the outside.

On the inside, it went something like this..."AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!! OHMYGOSH OHMYGOSH OHMYGOSH MYTEETHJUSTCAMEOFF!!! MYCROWNS,MYCROWNS,MYTEMPORARYCROWNSJUSTPULLEDOFF! ICAN'TBELIEVEIFORGOTNOTTOCHEWGUMONTHATSIDE! AAAGGGHHH! WHATDOIDO? WHATDOIDO? WHATDOIDONOW?!! SCREAM,SCREAM,FREAKOUT,SCREAM!" Something kind of like that.

Which got me to thinking~what exactly is the expiration date for body parts? I mean, how long are these enamel covered bones in our mouth good for? And how about other bits and pieces? Like a good friend just had a hysterectomy and I'm thinking, "Heeeeyyyyy. Wait a minute here. Why is it that we were made with stuff that has to be surgically removed? Shouldn't there be some sort of "dissolve after use" put into play? You know, the way baby teeth roots just disintegrate before adult horse teeth grow in? Shouldn't our uterus be that proficient?

And yes, I myself am experiencing some "unfortunate" effects of a disintegrating human body and you'd be proud of the grace and dignity I display. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN ANOTHER FREAKIN' PERIOD?!! I THINK IT'S CONSIDERED AN EXPLANATION POINT WHEN IT'S TWICE IN ONE MONTH! WHO'S IN CHARGE HERE? AND WHAT'S THIS CRAP ABOUT PERIMENOPAUSAL? IS THAT EVEN A WORD?!" See? Grace, dignity, decorum. All synonyms for Lisa. Bless my elegant heart.

In conclusion, I'm angry. That's right, angry. That teeth rot out. That periods go rogue. That body's betray and can't be counted on for the long haul.

But hand me another fistful of cinnamon bears and a box of tampons and I'll handle it all with the grace and dignity you've become accustomed to witnessing in me.

%$#*@&*# perimenopause.

MORNING MUSK

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?!! Seriously, angry slit eyes and lifted eyebrows worthy of botched plastic surgery are being sent through the Universe network to Hollywood and whoever gave a thumbs up to taking the two HOTTEST men in the Valentine's Day movie and making them LOVRRRRSSS! That's right. You heard me. BOY LOVRRRRSSSS for Valentine's Day. Can you say "pandering to politically correct agendas?"

Now there was other hetero-smut passing for love, too. Namely fornication, adultery and phone sex. But the thing that was just more than I could handle...that brought me to fling my head back, three snaps in a ZEE formation with righteous indignation and "Oh no you di-nt!" was the fact that EVERY SINGLE COUPLE...EVERY ONE OF THEM...KISSED~nay, MADE OUT PASSIONATELY when they had just. woken. up.

I KNOW!!!

And they close talked. With morning breath! Because as EVERYBODY KNOWS, nothin' says lovin' like MORNING MUSK AND EYE BOOGERS.

So reality check~have the writers/producers never been the recipient of little baby sweaters knit over their teeth during the night? Do they have no sense of smell...or how about a healthy gag reflex? Not to brag, but when we say our morning prayers, I turn my entire body in the opposite direction and cup my hand over my mouth, just so the sulfuric vapors have further to travel before they slam into the rest of the families faces. It's what I do...because I'm self aware...and I'm human.

Therefore, I pose this question~ Where was Adam's Eve when this movie was being made? Sound random? Well, here's the basis. Bitty Boo was remarking that Heavenly Father didn't let Adam get very far before he was put back to slumber and Eve was formed. Like maybe two steps and here comes "deeeeeeep sleeeeeeeeeep." Which makes sense, really. I mean, he'd started making and naming things like Armadillos...and Octopus...and Tarantulas. I know. Who does that? Adam~when he's alone~that's who.

Then Eve is brought into the garden and suddenly the sky is being painted blue, there's a roast in the oven and flowers are being christened Violet and Rose. Shoulder shrug. I'm just the messenger here, folks. Put the gun down.

So my point is, Eve has gone missing. And this is just me talking, but it might have something to do with open mouth kissing in the morning musk dawn.

I'd flee, too. Ew.

SACRIFICE

So, tell me friends, what exactly are the spells I need to cast, the buttons I need to push and the prayers I need to pray to make me like my daughter? What am I missing here? Is there a manual? Is there a potion? Is there a light at the end of this hellish tunnel filled with bats, spiders and flying monkeys?

The reason I ask is because I just got back from helping with reading groups in her class. And I "suggested" she blow her nose when she couldn't pronounce her consonants. I know. I know. I should be shot. Also, yes, my family has a seemingly inordinate snot supply.

Anyway, I made the suggestion and then I looked at her with motherly love, just kind of waiting for her to comply, (eternal optimist) but realized too late that she'd lit and lobbed flaming darts into my eyeballs and hair and channeled Rosemary's Baby, 360 head turn, pea-soup puking and accusing me in a DEEP demonic hiss of embarrassing her in front of all her friends. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. I WAS THE ONE DOING THE EMBARRASSING, NOT THE SCREAMING, STUPID NINE YEAR OLD GIRL WHO WOULDN'T SHUT UP FOR A GOOD, SOLID THREE MINUTES AND KEPT BLAMING AND SHOOTING THE BOOGER MESSENGER.

Soooo, in any case, I was just wondering...purely hypothetical...but is it possible that a human sacrifice might just be mandatory to appease the gods in charge of mother/daughter relationships? And........can the daughter be the sacrifice? And if so.......(fingers crossed) do you need to PROVE that it's truly a sacrifice before you can lay her on the altar? Bound. With duct tape. And only her nose exposed?

I'm just asking for a friend.

She wanted me to find out.

You don't know her.

FAVORITE

Sooo excited! My sister Nicki is coming to visit! (JOY DANCE) Which can only mean two things...SHOPPING AND EATING...(with scores of bathroom breaks in between as we're kind of incontinent, but whatever)...but even MORE importantly, these verbs are hitched to the best adjective in the world...GUILTLESS!

That's right, guiltless, because it's a bonding ritual that we've been commanded to perform on a regular basis in order to keep families together forever, and also to make sure the scriptural prophecies by Malachi come to pass. In Malachi 4:6 we read, "And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse." Which can be a reference to geneology, but also, and much more LIKELY, is a reference to sisters and mothers~cheek to cheek, belly to belly~laughing, talking, shopping and eating all kinds of fat drenched deliciousness (crap.) And I know, if it hadn't been so difficult to carve onto those ancient plates, he'd have written all the rest of those words~trust me. Plus, and even MORE CRUCIAL~Do we REALLY want to be held responsible for a SMITING CURSE on the Earth? I don't think so.

So there you go.

Therefore, I've saved up my money and my calories, in order to be able to splurge while she's...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! OH. MY. HECK! I'm sorry! That was just TOO CRAZY to keep going with! Freakin' hysterical!!! Oh, my gosh! Aaaaaahhh! Sooooooooo funny! Oh, you guys know me too well. (tear wipe) There was no saving of any kind going on, people. NUUUUUUUNNNNNN at all. Oh my gosh, sorry, forgive me while I grab a tissue to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. Aaahhhhhh. I slay me! Just a sec, I need to compose myself. (throat clear and another tear wipe) OK. I think I can go on. (throat clear) Fine. OK. We're good.

Aaaaaaanyway...where were we? Oh yes~rewrite~I'll be doing some supplemental shopping. How 'bout that? That's more like it. And I'll think of you poor miserable, cold and cloudy February sweeties while I do it. It'll be like you're there with me, as you're in my heart, therefore it's almost like a gift I'm giving you. No, no~no need to thank me. Just thank my generous heart. (head tilt, heart pat) I think it has a secret crush on you. (ssshhhhh)

In conclusion, we have learned several things from this blog entry...1)Lisa is generous and selfless, and she's saving Earth from a curse. Greater good. 2)She is more spiritual than you, as she's able to quote scripture at will, in order to rationalize her decadence. And if Heavenly Father is on your side, you're golden. 3)Lisa is HIS (Heavenly Father's) favorite. He told her so. Just sayin'.

'Member~you're in my (making heart shape with hands in meaningful sign language) Kisses and Toodles!

SAPLINGS

We went to the Aquatic Center last night for Family Home Evening. "Yaaaaaayyyy! Everybody get ready! Get your suits on and finish up your beans so we can go! (hand claps) Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!....Why aren't you hurrying?......Why are you all looking at me like that?......Why is Jules the only one running up the stairs to get her suit on?........WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!!"

Yeah. I know. I had a momentary lapse in memory/reality. I forgot they're not 2,6,8 and 11, therefore, "SWIMMING FOR FHE" is no longer a reason for giddy laughter and pee-in-your-pants excitement. It's been replaced with, "Huh? Wait. Now....hold on. What? When did you decide this? Swimming? I...seriously? Like, do we ALL need to go? How about we have a church lesson instead? I don't want to get WET...Plus there's a bunch of pooh and loogies in the water. That's pretty sick."

And they were right. I was witness to the filthy nature of the cesspool, as I sat next to a mother with enormous swinging pendulum breasts, getting her herpes infected and diaperless children into their suits while they picked their noses with dirt encrusted fingernails. And ate it. But, hey, at least that's one less loogie in the pool. Glass half full, people.

And since nobody else would take on the assignment of getting in the actual H2O to keep their sister/daughter alive, (Jerks) I was forced to be the life-guard. And APPARENTLY...there are rules against being in the wading pool in a dress, cardigan and kitten heels. Some kind of "dress standard" that seems pretty damm discriminatory, if you ask me. (If it's spelled wrong, it can't be deemed offensive~just a reminder) Which means I was forced to display my "41 year old 'body-magnifying-glass' lycra." I rocked that wading pool, friends. PAPER, SCISSORS, ROCKED! And don't worry. They're young. Their little minds will forget. But I did notice that stretch fabric shirring doesn't necessarily carry the load it's designed to when it comes to camouflaging a flesh apron.

Which brings us to a nugget that formed in my less than fit brain~Two words, SPANX SUIT. I mean, really. REALLY. Is that SO HARD to construct? Let's get on top of things, designers. Time to ride that belly fat train!

Anyway, long story short, two of us swam, two of us lifted weights, one of us talked on the phone and one of us served a mission. All in all, not the MOST successful family togetherness night we've ever had.

And as I washed the....unsanitary....out of my hair later that night, I realized that another season has ended and a new one is just coming out of the winter freeze.

It's thaw time, people. THAT'S RIGHT, THAW TIME! Which means we get to eat the fruits of the seedlings we planted. The fruits of our labor, if you will. And I do believe that I planted and nurtured some mighty fine saplings.

And she looked around, and thaw that it was good. (I am so sorry~that was a very poor quality joke. It was made in Taiwan.)

EVER!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO...I am in soooooo much truuuuuuublllllll!!!!!!!!!!

Let's just say you never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVERRRRRRRRR blog about a prepubescent girl's baby chick armpit hair.

EVER, EVER, EEEVVVVRRRRRRRR!!!

But most especially if she has older brothers that read your blog.

BABY CHICKS

Puberty update:

Yesterday, daughter walks over to me sitting on the couch, looks around covertly and whispers sideways to my face~

"Mom. I'm growing armpit hair."

"Reeeaaallly? Let's see." I respond discreetly.

Eyebrows furrow as she does another stealth testosterone room sweep, then an abrupt arm lift right next to my nose. I went cross-eyed to focus. Nothing.

"Where is it?" I stare eagerly at the exposed pit.

"Right there," she points and whispers.

"Where? Like how many am I looking for?" I vigorously whisper back, still about an inch away and moving her from side to side to see if it magically appears in certain lighting. I blow in the vicinity and watch for movement. Still naught.

Oooooh, I get it. She has an imaginary friend. Named Armpit Hair. Bless her heart.

But she's insistent. "MOM! See?" She puts her chin to her chest and pulls her mouth down at the edges in concentration. "Right here. Lots of baby hairs all over under here." she snorts and giggles and smiles a huge toothy grin...and by toothy, I mean four toothy, since she's shaken, shoved and yanked until every last one of those tots fell in surrender, like wounded and dying in a battlefield. The ugly stage battlefield. And yes, I remember my own violent "right of passage" skirmish well. It sucker punched me in the fourth grade and kept my neck firmly in it's elbow crook until well into Jr. High, folks. WEEEELLLLLLLLL into Jr. High.

Back to pits~ again, I lift and shift and finally, a soft shaft of light illuminates what might be considered new, baby hair growth.

Baby chick pit hair.

Aaaawwwwww.

Who knew that in the midst of ugly stages, there can be an Easter Bunny reminder that good may still come. That sunshine and flowers and new teeth will take root...along with those fuzzy little follicles.

And that's what this is, kids~Spring, in baby chick pit hair form.

I'll take it.

GREATER GOOD

I'm going to go out on a limb here and "suggest" that Cheetos may not be A) Nutritionally sound B) Free of additives and C) Made of actual food. However, and this is really all that matters, they ARE A) Scrumptious B) Alluring with their 'come hither' crunch and C) On sale 3 for $5, which means I MAY HAVE bought...and POSSIBLY ate...all three bags by myself. But you probably can't prove it, unless you perceive the suspicious orange tint on the end of my nose. But I'll just say it's from eating too many bottles of carrot baby food.

Course, I can fix it with almonds, people, and I am in the process of doing so, if you'll just quit questioning my intent. Yes, this brown slobber is from Hershey's kisses. But what you DON'T know is that there are almonds inside of them and I'm just doing whatever is necessary to get that goodness in me.

Sorry for the long pause~

I was just interrupted from my musings with a collect phone call from my first born son. He's in an airport in Los Angeles, waiting to climb on another plane and settle in for a 12 1/2 hour flight to Brazil. Good times await him, friends. Good, comfortable, head bobbing and leg stretching times.

And forgive me if this blog is sopping wet with angel mother tears, as I feel as if he's lost to me all over again. I didn't want to hang up the phone~even having "toll charges" running wild and threatening to tattle-tell in my brain. Funny how I didn't find his voice nearly as endearing when he lived here. Probably because it was usually demanding something...like gas for his car, or a later curfew, or for the Earth's axis to go directly through him. But now...well, now he's gone. And I would give my last bag of Cheetos and handful of chocolate coated almonds to hold him once again in my arms...and swing him in the tree swing in his summer pajamas...and run my fingers through his wispy bowl-cut hair...and listen to him talk about tools and trucks and biting baby brothers with fluffy baby-lip lisp.

But I finally did hang up the phone, with a lump in my throat and a crack in my voice as I told him to "have a wonderful mission."

Then closed my weeping eyes tightly and immediately told the only person I could think of about my sorrow...My Heavenly Father.

He knows. He gave his son up for a greater good, too.

And so I say goodbye all over again.

POTATO HEAD

Above pictures entitled, "Why Heavenly Father created Lisa's feet." Also, an homage to my mother's family, as her maiden name is Stewart and HELLO! STEWART PLAID HEELS! If ever there was reason to go on living, here they are.

Kind of dizzy. I had to go back to bed this morn~and just so we're clear, I didn't WANT to, but I was FORCED~for what was meant to be a quick cat nap, but turned suddenly violent as I fell off~no, strike that~somebody SHOVED ME off~a snooze cliff and into a heinous death sleep. You're nodding your blog heads, I can see. Death sleeps are brutal, as you just. can't. drag. yourself. out. of. seizing. unconsciousness. and even if the house burned down you would be found cremated but still asleep in the rubble. Usually I reserve those for Sunday afternoons after church, since it always ends with half my face on the other side of my face and smear hair. So why today? Do tell!

Two words. Third son. He had a HERCULEAN brain fart and forgot he's 13, staying out until 1:00 AM~did you get that last part?~AE FREAKING EM! this morning. And what does a 13 year old 'sniffer' DO until 1:00 AM? Well, one thing is certain~anything BUT answer his phone.

It was on silent. (ssshhhhhhhh)

Yeah.

I know.

So are my eyes, but you can still HEAR THE SCREAMING FURY BURNING INTO YOUR FLESH, can't you? His fanny should have been in FLAMES as those silent calls came through.

Now, to be fair, because I'm NOTHING if not sensitive to another's plight, he did have permission to be gone and he mentioned a very vague "late" in passing. His late=1:00. My late=10:00. Oil and water. Also, he was with some wonderful young men, having "one last hurrah" (I think we're up to last hurrah #649) before another boy heads out to the mission field for two years. So it's not like he donned a ski mask as he went out the door. Still.

I'm not sure which was angrier, my heart or my jaw. Neither one would calm down, and even when he arrived home safe and COMPLETELY UNAWARES of the chaos he'd caused, they wouldn't let it go. They stayed up and snarked for a good hour afterward, palpitating and clenching, talking smack on teenagers and partial frontal lobe development.

Anyway, fast forward and there was a fully repentant boy living here this morning. Funny how things come full circle.

Which reminds me of the dark circles under my eyes, which are sitting on top of each other as I type this, compliments of my death sleep. Excuse me while I play Mrs. Potato Head with my face.

DORA

Feeling creatively parched today. Shriveled lips, cracked and bleeding nail beds, reptilian feet. And yes, I CAN TOO blame it on my creative juices drying up. A good woman can always find something/someone else to point the finger of shame towards.

Anyway, sometimes I'm just as dry as Ferris Bueller's homeroom teacher. "Blog topic. (pause) Blog topic. (pause) Blog topic. (pause)" Just waiting for a response from my brain that has called in sick...and dying, in need of an organ transplant, but it's on the waiting list, so it may be years. Speaking of Ferris, he sure knew how to make the most of his days, didn't he? Makes me feel like my own expectations are pathetic.

Kind of like when I go out to dinner, look down, and realize that JUST the appetizer in this restaurant is more than I would consider preparing as the entire MEAL for my own family. To which I say, SOUP is good people. Soup is fine~FINE, you big babies. No need to go overboard with an entree...or even a roll. It's like the perfect white linen dress~you don't go slapping a Dora the Explorah applique on it to make it BETTER. No, you don't. It's already perfect in it's simplicity.

And if simply soup doesn't put a smile on your face, a plate of deep fried chips and salsa with a smattering of sour cream and guacamole should more than hit the spot. No need to accessorize with a meat, fruit, vegetable (salsa is vegetable) or any other food group. Plus, where is the candy in that Egyptian pyramid? Huh? Huh? I'll tell you where...NO WHERE! Who were the brilliant scientists that left out THAT food group? Looks like their "Ooooo, look at me. I'm a genius mind! I have above a 1.7 GPA" (said with a snotty, stupid baby voice) education had a few holes in it, now, doesn't it? And THAT RIGHT THERE is why I dropped out of college, people! Nothing whatsoever to do with a "below C average three quarters in a row, so you're suspended and can't return until you appear before a board of admissions and academically superior peers and kneel on bended knee, weeping and pleading for them to let you back into the college that you've mocked as "Harrison High" like you were too good to be there, but now they won't allow you on campus until you sign some papers and promise to study and take a 'remedial' course to prove that you're serious, so as not to be a liability to them on a National level" reason.

Let's just say I got engaged to be married just in time.

Furthermore, you're just a whiny, demanding, entitled kid~just like Ferris. You want to go to the ballgame, AND eat a four course meal, AND sing a Beatle's song on a float in the parade...ALL IN A 90 MINUTE MOVIE. Hells bells. 'Bout time somebody taught you to appreciate what you have...or don't have...or what I'm not supplying you with...like nutrition. Plus, your mother's job is to build character, and what better way to accomplish this~in a timely manner~than sacrifice? And YES, willing should be a part of the equation, but we don't have all day, people.

Sheez. Now where was I before you started whining?

Well, it doesn't really matter, since nothing's coming to mind anyway. Except building a pyramid out of Smarties and candy hearts. Huh. Weird. Don't know why that's come to mind.

FOREVER

Just got home from the salon, and can I just say that I hope I never, ever have enough time or desire, as my hairdresser did, to separate my locks into thousands of individual strands, spray it, wax it, rat it and flat iron it into baby water spouts and rainbows all over my head.

I am my own gay pride parade.

So last night, we gathered for Family Home Evening and waited for our youngest son to teach us the lesson. And when I say "teach," I mean, "monotone recitation with intermittent booger sniffs from what might as well have been the health care reform act without any inflection animation or attention to punctuation."

It was...captivating.

I stared~cross eyed~around the room and found myself reading everybody's thought bubbles. They ranged from oily noses to enlarged prostates, with a smattering of hidden candy and Diet Coke thrown in for fun. Hard to tell whose was whose.

Now friends, we try to be obedient and have these gospel lessons in our home each week. But we've also found that we open arm and loud laughter embrace these occasions when they arrive loaded down with ice cream and doughnuts. It's like a conduit that allows the spirit to come busting in through the front doors, all happy and spiritual and ready to enlighten~rather than slinking in through the basement window all stoic and somber and quoting from scripture. Not that there's anything wrong with the word of God, but it's OH SO MUCH MORE TASTY with seven or eight licorice sticks hanging out of your lips like cigars.

And I just feel sorry for the poor, ornery fool who doesn't recognize and advocate the compatibility of sugar, fat, gospel and family. What a waste. It's synergy, people. And we've talked about this concept before, but it bares repeating. It goes something like this...Treats=smiles=joy=happy=spiritual=family=celestial=Godly= MUST BE A BLESSING FROM OUR HEAVENLY FATHER.

So let us continue in our quest for eternal families. Determined, steadfast and immovable...

...lumpy, lethargic and in a smiley sugar coma.

Whatever it takes to be together forever.

CRIME

Good news! We slept in a tent last night! I know. Really, really fun...if it had been in the summer...and we were camping (bite your tongue)...and the tent was in the middle of a five star hotel (that's better.) But that's another story. Back to this one~why were they sleeping in a tent?

Well, and this is kind of gross, but that's what makes my blog so intriguing and I try to set a high standard of intrigue (gross-out factor) for you all to enjoy (eschew.) We were actually sleeping in our own bed carrying on a (bum) conversation with each other. Husband would pose a (gassy) question, to which I (my fanny) would reply. And then we would laugh and laugh and laugh. We have really high standards for pillow talk.

Our blankets billowed and bulged as the flatulence flew, and just when we thought the covers would make contact, another warm pooh air bomb would explode and blow them sky high once again. Thus, the tent.

Now, we're not really sure which of us was the greater felon...we try not to point fingers as this time there was no mistaking we were both perps. But we have been able to pinpoint that an ingestion crime occurred sometime between noon and ten PM~which is the "mindless snacking" interval for our Sunday. I know. We're all about restrictions, people. Either way, with such a substantial window of opportunity, I think it's highly unlikely an arrest will take place. All we can do now is seek forgiveness from our bedroom (we're so sorry, covers. We'll make it up to you with Febreez and a sanitize wash cycle) and try not to become repeat offenders. (Yeah, right.)

But you know, friends, this is why we have a happy marriage. It's the little things~like mirthy, stinky, matrimonial beds. And sharing a cup of rabbit poop ice and Diet Coke with lime. And surprise diamond rings "just because." What? Where did that come from? That was weird.

But do you get where I'm going with this, kids? I think it's pretty obvious...if you want a happy marriage, it takes surprise diamonds. Diamonds are all that matter. Because they're little (but not too little, hint hint.) And they don't stink.

'Nuff said.

P.S.~This pic is a shout out to Brenda~she's pushing me to "improve" my blog with visual aids. You're regretting that suggestion about now, aren't you, dear? Either way, the art work is compliments of Jules. The hand is compliments of a cadaver. (Anony~feelin' guilty?)