PROBING

HEY, GUESS WHAT THEY DO TO YOU WHEN YOU'RE OVER FORTY YEARS OLD?! GO AHEAD, GUESS.

I'LL GIVE YOU A HINT...AND YES, I KNOW I'M SCREAMING, BUT THAT'S MY BRAIN, NOT MY MOUTH, AND IT'S JUST EXPERIENCED SOMETHING TRAUMATIC, SO IT CAN'T HELP ITSELF. ANYWAY, BACK TO GUESSING. NEVER MIND. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO WAIT FOR YOU.

THEY EXAMINE YOUR rectum!!! THAT'S RIGHT. THAT'S WHAT I SAID. rectum.

I KNOW! SO IT WASN'T ENOUGH THAT THEY "ABRA CADABRA UTERUS WANDED" MY INNARDS, BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT'S ANOTHER THING THAT THEY DO, BESIDES THE PAP SMEAR, AFTER YOU TURN 40 AND ARE CONSIDERING A PERMANENT END TO CREATING LITTLE PEOPLE. APPARENTLY, THERE ARE JUST AAAALLLLLL KIIIIIINNDDDSSS OF PROBING, ( holes) SMUSHING (boobage) AND DRAWING (blood) TO BE DONE.

AND NOW, THE WEATHER IS SO HIDEOUSLY UGLY THAT THE REWARD SHOPPING TRIP WILL LIKELY NOT TAKE PLACE, WHICH LEAVES ME NO ALTERNATIVE, PEOPLE, BUT TO COMFORT MYSELF WITH OLD, DESTRUCTIVE COMPULSIONS. AND I FEEL SAD ABOUT THAT. AND A LITTLE BIT ASHAMED, SINCE I MOST LIKELY LIED TO THE DR. ABOUT MY REFORMED DIETARY HABITS. SOMETHING ABOUT "ALL BETTER NOW."

BUT YOU CAN BET YOUR SWEET FREAKIN' BIPPY THAT THERE IS A MIXING BOWL FULL OF CANDY THAT WILL BE IN MUH BELLAH TONIGHT!

ELEPHANT MEMORY

Hey! I won! I won! I didn't even know I'd been nominated, but I WON THE BLOG AWARD! So from the bottom of my heart, Linda, I thank thee for measuring my personality, humor, prettiness, dainty mannerisms, congeniality, ability to wear the heck out of high heels and overall beguiling nature, FOR ME, so that I didn't have to remind everyone by myself that I excel in these areas...and many others...but to mention a few, these. Cuz that would be narcissistic, and I am just not. that. girl. Maybe you are...and believe me, you are...but not me.

Kay, so I'm going to probably be wearing my diamonds, formal and chandelier earrings for the next couple of days~you know, just as a subtle reminder to my family, lest they forget how popular their mother is, plus to give proper credentials to the actual process of my winning and stuff. But first I have to eat a few peppermint patties, on account of TOMORROW IS MY FREAKIN' PAP SMEAR!

I know. You'd forgotten, hadn't you? Did I? Hmmm. That's funny. Probably not. Like not for even a couple of minutes put together over the entire last two months since I made the appointment. And since we're friends and stuff, LET'S JUST REMEMBER WHAT YOUR DUTIES ARE, OK? YOU MUST BEAR MY BURDENS! BEAR, BEAR, BARE BUM WITH A PAPER APRON BEAR.

So I'll expect to see you bright and early on my doorstep "BEARING" a box of slobbery chocolates to get me through the appointment. I'll probably have to get all liquored up with Dr. Pepper, too. Need a volunteer for designated driver. Plus, an IMPERATIVE trip afterward to Target or TJ Maxx, for my "reward for being good" present. And money is no object, right dear? Right? Cuz remember my FIRST pap smear? 'Member that? Huh? 'Member? 'Member how I was a young virginal not-yet-bride, and we went to the Dr. for my VERY FIRST HORRIFIC EXPERIENCE? And you sat out in the waiting room and read magazines while I went like a lamb to the slaughter? Yeah. And then I came out all pale and trembly? And you said, "Hey, before I take you home, I want to show you something." And I whispered breathlessly in my brain, "Oh. my. gosh. He's going to surprise me with something tender, sensitive and pink! I am so glad that I am marrying this...well, he's not just a man! He's a KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR! And, OH, how I adore him!"

And then you drove me...........STRAIGHT TO YOUR STUPID 'A' NEPHEW'S HOUSE WITH THE MOTORCYCLE TRACK IN HIS CRAPPY 'A' BACKYARD, AND YOU CLIMBED ON YOUR LAME 'A' BIKE AND PROCEEDED TO HAND ME THE DUMB 'A' CAMERA AND TELL ME TO "TAPE" YOUR 'A' WHILE YOU RODE THE DAMM 'A' TRACK AROUND AND AROUND AND AROUND, CHANGING CLOTHES A COUPLE OF DIFFERENT TIMES, JUST TO SEE HOW YOU LOOKED ON VIDEO WITH A JACKET OR WITHOUT, AND THIS WENT ON FOR THE ENTIRE FREAKIN' 'A' AFTERNOON?! 'MEMBER THAT?! HUH?! HUH?! DO YOU?

HMMMM. WELL, I DOOOOOO!!!!

So, as I was saying, my reward present for going through this experience, as well as not yanking on a certain "appendage" belonging to my pumpkin' pie hubbie when I return, will have no monetary limit or undesirable exclamation upon presentation.

Because I am worth it.

And I have the memory of an elephant.

And the tape to prove it.

Now which one of you is driving tomorrow?

TEMPLES

Lesson on LDS Temples for tomorrow's lesson in Young Women. Worth a little extra effort for the handout, as the subject matter is near and dear to my heart.

FLESH APRONS

Alrighty then...so, the highly anticipated and much admired Vintage Yellow Gingham Dress came in the mail the other day. No. No, I didn't mention it to you right away. There might just be a reason for that. One explanation could be that it was the wrong version of the dress.

See, the dress I ORDERED was the fantasy catalogue model~which they apparently ran out of. The dress I RECEIVED was the reality version. So they pulled the old "bait and switch." Which is illegal, people. But when the Sheriff arrives at their door, they would tell him that it was EXACTLY the same dress, and show a swatch of the lemon yellow checks to prove it.

And the Sheriff, being A MAN, wouldn't realize the lie he was being told, cuz he has no idea about cut, fit and flatter. So he'd tip his hat and smile and say it must be a misunderstanding, that he'd write up a good report and for them not to worry. Then the manufacturers and shipping and handling would go back inside, close the door and collapse in a heap with MANIACAL LAUGHTER at what had just transpired.

So as I yanked the reality version over my head, (where it got stuck, as even my FREAKIN' HEAD IS TOO FAT FOR THIS DRESS,) I caught sight of the tag. It read~YEAH, NO, THIS REALLY IS YOUR FIGURE AND WOW, WE ARE SO SO SORRY. IT IS TRULY DREADFUL AND FANTASTICALLY UNFLATTERING ON YOU. IN FACT, IF WE'D KNOWN THAT YOUR BOOBS WOULD LOOK SO...WELL, ENORMOUS, AND SETTLE IN DIRECTLY ATOP YOUR ABDOMEN, LIKE A PIGEON ON A NEST, WITH ONLY A CREASE FOR DIFFERENTIATING, WELL, LET'S JUST SAY WE'D HAVE RETHUNK THE WHOLE IDEA. NOPE, A SWEATER WON'T HELP. NICE TRY. AND LIKE A BOX OF B B's SCATTERED ALL OVER THE FLOOR, WE WISH YOU WELL IN GATHERING UP YOUR SELF ESTEEM.

So there you have it. Damm reality.

But what's a girl to do, friends? Walk around nekked, in heels? We all know a stout girl's best friend is a pretty pair of pumps...and a tape worm....but I don't know where to buy those. And yes, I do have a built in flesh apron, so I wouldn't be COMPLETELY nekked~maybe I could add some rick-rack or something~but that would probably do more damage than good. I'm just thinking out loud here.

I don't know. I don't know what the answer is. I just know that it has yet to be found in my boxes of doughnuts and bags of Cadburys.

But I'll keep searching. Not giving up.

In the meantime, I'm going to buy some rick-rack. And maybe some hot pink furry ball trim. I could attach a couple of those for pasties, too, so as to be modest in my nekkedness.

Hey! A new chick trend! We'll be FLESH APRON, PUMPS AND PASTIE PIONEERS! And yes, it was all my idea, but I'm sharing it with you.

You're so lucky.

SUCKER PUNCH

So I went to my neighborhood Mass Meeting last night. How did it go? Well, remember when you were a kid and you'd come riding your banana seat bike home after being at your friends all day, having a great time and thinking all was well in your teeny tiny world? Totally carefree and oblivious to any angry black clouds on the horizon, you'd be chomping on your bubble gum, and bust through the front doors, only to be plowed in the gut by a sucker punch from a sibling, MORE THAN EAGER to be the bearer of bad news, that went something like this..."Aaahhhhhmmmmmmmmm. You are in sooooooo muuuuucchhh truuuuuubbbblllllllle. They are sooooooooo maaaaaaaad at yooooooouuu."

So, yeah. It was the political version of that. And the oblivious child is the incumbent.

There is an uprising taking place, folks. And just like the rock group Twisted Sister stated so profoundly, "They're not gonna take it...anymooore." Course, the delegates said it without a curly platinum wig and blue triangle eyeshadow, so we'll just have to wait and see if it has the same impact.

Speaking of Twisted Sister, let's take a happy little jaunt down memory lane together, as I'm in charge of my High School Alumni assembly. Mm hmm. Hugs and kisses to Janine for that one. So I just spent several hours watching a 26 year old video. And I am filled to overflowing with vintage mirth! I'm just gonna throw out a few morsels, for you to munch on...

High waisted, painted on, button fly, 501 shrink-to-fit-jeans. You really did wash them, and they shrunk up several sizes, and then you'd lay on the bed to button them up, eventually breaking every last belt loop trying to hike them over your love handles because, by da%$, you were NOT going to get the bigger size, because the waist measurement was actually ANNOUNCED FOR THE WORLD TO SEE ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE PANTS! Genius marketing on that one.

Boy's Muscle T's, that were hacked off right above the hairy part of the belly button. Yup. Meant to accentuate their "trail to happiness" (a disgusting reference probably from some cruddy teen movie back then) but really only managing to gross out girls.

Hair parted down the center of the head and "feathered" with a comb. No such thing as gel, mousse or "product." Only Miss Clairol and Aqua Net. We were hair pioneers.

Perms. On everyone. And picks.

Short shorts. On boys.

Hacky Sack. Played best while wearing the hacked off muscle T and high waisted button fly.

Safety Dance. Performed by the really cool Senior boys while they wore Varna sunglasses.

Now, I know it looks as though I'm mocking the ways of the 80's. And I am. But there were good times caught up amongst those Togas and mullets. Like State Football Playoffs. And my very own beautiful sister being crowned Homecoming Queen. Also, the Fag-ettes, which was a VERY POLITICALLY CORRECT~OBVIOUSLY~group of jocks, dressed up in mini-skirt drill team uniforms, performing jump splits and high kicks for screaming and adoring audiences on every possible occasion. I wipe a proud tear.

Back to sucker punches to the gut...I told my kids that I wore high waisted pants and they'd most likely be coming back around.

They threw up in their mouths.

I told them to get used to the taste.

Nothin' quite as much fun as being the bearer of bad news. And that's why I'm a delegate.

CHICKLET MARRIAGE

So, am I the only one just TICKLED LIKE ELMO about the passing of the UBER BRILLIANT health care bill? I know! Because as EVERYBODY KNOWS, our government is known the world over for efficiency, frugality and integrity. Every. Last. Worker. Program. And. Idea. And everybody also knows that the government is it's own entity, with a NEVER ENDING SUPPLY OF MAGICAL MONEY, that has no source known to man, and is surely not funded by the public. Like I said, IT'S MAGICAL AND NEVER ENDING! Oh, and free. Also, one last 'everybody knows' is that this great nation was founded upon principles of care-taking and entitlement. Capitalism? American Dream? Surely you jest. Don't you mean Socialism? Communism? Monarchy? Those are the only forms of government that have been proven to build up the people. Duh. What is this Capitalist and Free Market of which you speak?

"SHE'S A WITCH! SHE'S A WITCH! DROWN HER AND SEE IF SHE FLOATS!! Oh, she didn't float. I guess she wasn't a witch after all. Hmm. Well, clear her name then. All is well that ends well."

Once we drown and murder our current health care system, we'll realize it wasn't actually the evil it was said to be. That the true evil lies in unchecked government, subsidized EVERYTHING and building a complacent, whiny, entitled welfare mentality in the people who once stood for hard working, risk taking, God, Family and Country loving principles. And then we'll clear it's name. Now let's just see if it starts breathing again on it's own.

And that right there was my first official foray into political blogging. I may touch upon religion freely and often, but politics will probably only see a day in the sun every once in a blog while. So if you don't agree with me, well, hell. I can't imagine you wouldn't agree with me. The end.

On another note, heard a great analogy by my missionary son. When speaking of the demise of a poorly planned and executed marriage between a couple of kids who had no business getting hitched, he said, "I love those two, but their marriage will last about as long as the flavor in a handful of Chicklets." AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Too funny! And too true! Not that you wish for a quick end to what should be forever, but some things were never meant to take place to begin with.

Like men with perms.

Or low waisted jeans that shove out muffin top batter.

Or an entitled, welfare based, you have a right to call an ambulance for a hang nail and we're here to make sure you GET what you DESERVE, government health care bill.

'Nuff said.

CHOO CHOO

I just went for a refreshing walk...and still haven't sucked in a full lung of air. Just kind of hyper-ventilated the entire time. Is that bad?

So, Big news~we got a new Mac computer! Our kids begged...

and begged...

and begged!

We said, "Hell no!"...

"Not right now." ...

"Grab the keys and hop in the car!"

I know. It's all about consistency. And by the way, I will be the instructor for an "effective parenting and loving boundaries" class later this month. I teach my example...clearly.

So of course, their bums haven't been out of the library chair since we unpacked the MONSTROUS 27 inch MONITOR. But I gotta say, that thing is FREAKIN' COOL! And it would be even COOLER if I knew how to work it. Dare to dream. I know, I'm supposed to stay hip, groovy and with it, (just like the words I often use) as I told all of my friends in high school that I intended to do when I became a mom. I also told them I would, "ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS RIDE THE RIDES AT LAGOON!!!" Couldn't IMAGINE not finding incredible delight in swirling and twirling...never thought it would lead to hurling.

Speaking of hurling...once again...I know. Don't pretend you don't enjoy it. Anyway, got a letter from missionary son and he had a great experience. He was on a 7 hour bus ride, going to his first baptism. The bus was lurching from side to side, and he began a horrible stomachache. His seat companion offered chocolate, and he felt compelled to accept. I don't know why, either. Anyway, soon he was relegated to singing "I am a child of God" in his head, as he pleaded for mercy from the heavens to not do anything that would lead to him being labeled, how did he put it?..."Vomitando homen" or Barf Man, in English. QUIT LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT! THIS STORY ENDS WELL. So his prayers were answered, as he drifted off to sleep and woke up to realize he'd made it through the ordeal fully in tact. The end. Geez. You guys are so quick to assume.

But once again, his story turns into mine~cuz it's all about me. So, when I was in high school, a gaggle of stupid girls (yes, I was one of them) went out with some even MORE stupider Return Missionaries. What made the RM's doltish? Well, how about the fact that they had asked out a daft gaggle of eager and 'we're-easily-impressed-without-effort' 17 year olds? I know. (eyeroll.) Anyway, they took us up a horribly winding road in a weensy little VW Bug, and I was in the back seat, "sitting" on my date's lap...which all girls know is a HUGE fake-out, because we're not about to let them feel our full weight, as they might realize we're heavier than we look...which we've gone to great pains to lie about, too. Nope, instead I held my entire weight with my Olympic skater-like thigh muscles and hovered.

Sooooo relaxing.

Anyway, after a couple of minutes of this, I turned the most appealing shade of booger green you can imagine. Upper lip sweat and a steady, unending supply of prayers ascending up into the heavens along with my rolling eyeballs. I won't go into the full repartee, but the end result was an INSISTENT AND PROFUSE CROSS MY HEART PLEDGE TO THROW UP ON MY WEDDING DAY, NO REALLY, I DON'T EVEN MIND IF I'M IN MY DRESS, OR ON MY WEDDING NIGHT, IF YOU THINK IT'S FAIR, HEAVENLY FATHER, BECAUSE REALLY, REALLY, IT MEANS THIS MUCH TO ME..SO SERIOUSLY, HAND TO THE HEAVENS, IF YOU KEEP ME FROM HURLING IN THE BACK SEAT OF THIS BUG, I WILL GLADLY BARF ON MY WAY TO THE TEMPLE!!!"

Happily for me, Heavenly Father has better foresight than we Earth dwellers, and he throws tender mercies into my lap on very regular occasion. No Vomitando homen...or woman, thank heavens.

So to sum up...Mac computers+spoiled children+missionary's with stomachaches+mothers who hover+unable to catch my breath on a walk+weensy VW bugs=today's blog.

What a train of thought...choo chooooooo.....

PANIC AND DREAD

I have just figured out the most brilliant mother/wife manipulating tool in the UNIVERSE, people! Seriously magic, and oh so simple. But it only works if you are prone to use your family as blog fodder. Here's the scenario~

Kids/hubbie say/do something daft/comical and I SAY...get this..."WHERE IS THE COMPUTER?" And then I smile.

That's IT!! That's all it takes! I KNOW! STINKIN' GLORIOUS! Nothing but a seemingly benign threat, that is actually more malignant and aggressively hostile than a tumor, as they realize that their names are about to be taken in vain!!! Their reputations that they've worked so hard to align with all things cool, successful and credible~with one SWIPE AT THE KEYBOARD, it can aaaallllll be taken away.

Two little words...PUBLISH POST.

Anyway, just thought I'd share that sweet morsel with you. It's rather fun to put the fear of all that is holy, into your family, on regular occasion. Kind of gets back at them for being so~well, just for being them. And no, it doesn't make them appreciate or love you more...but panic and dread is a pretty acceptable substitute.

And sometimes a mother/wife has to find joy in the simple things.

HOT POTATOES

Some of my very most favorite songs~"Boo Boperetta." And "Pay the rent collect." Oh, also, "Hot potatoes." Just to name a few. Not familiar? Hm. Well, maybe you don't listen quite so carefully to your radio, like I do. Maybe music doesn't speak to your soul as eloquently as it does to mine. Or maybe my ear is just a little bit more 'fine tuned' than yours. But whatever. I don't judge.

And yes, now that you mention it, they do seem kind of...unlikley names for songs. Pay the rent collect? Not sure where Prince was going with that, but I guess "baby" is "much too fast." Who knew? And listen, HE is the artist, (formerly known as)~not me. I just interpret his work, according to my own experiences.

And Boo Boperetta, by Sade? It might be a special language that only she understands. Once again, who am I to question? Does she owe me an explanation for speaking in tongues? No. No she doesn't, people.

Hot Potatoes? Well, that one's a little bit more perplexing. But it's repeated over and over again, so I know for sure that's what they're saying~ "Hot potatoes, hot potatoes...hot potatoes. Hot potatoes, hot potatoes...hot potatoes. Hot potatoes, hot potatoes...oh, oh, oh, hot potatoes." You can look it up. Falco sings it. And it says, "Rock me, hot potatoes." If that helps.

Anyway, obviously, I'm a connoisseur of lyrical gems, and have a very broad mind. I let the creative genius speak freely, never invoking reason or thought to the equation. As clearly, they have very strong feelings for potatoes, if they're willing to write an entire anthem about them.

So the next time you hear me belting out a tune, at the top of my lungs, like~ 'SHE'S GOT ELECTRIC BOOTS, A MOHAWK, TOO'~(Elton John~duh) feel free to sing along with an open heart...and an empty mind.

It's synergy, people. Synergy.

HEAVE

So, I can't be positive, but it's highly likely that Gerard Butler probably has a crush on me. I know. Sort of embarrassing, since I'm a middle aged woman and stuff, but the way he looks at me through the television screen when he's on talk shows is really, really intense. Plus, when he tossed Kelly Rippa over his shoulder this morning and carried her off the stage, he gazed right. at. me. And clearly, that was code for, "Should be you, Lisa. Should be you." Clearly.

But don't worry, pumpkin pie honey. You're still ma man. Even though you haven't been able to carry me since, well, ever. But that's not all your fault. Just mostly. You know, I'll never forget the time I hopped up for a piggy back ride, and you collapsed to your knees, screaming~

"GET OFF ME! GET OFF! OH MY HELL, YOU'RE KILLING ME!"

Ahhhhh. (head tilt, heart pat) Good times. Good times. And surprisingly, just that quick, the honeymoon was over. Too bad it was actually ON our honeymoon. But it's OK. I understand. You'd courted me and I was yours. Well played, dear.

Anyway, It's not like I'm going to pursue the Phantom of the Opera. It's just nice to know he cares. Deeply. About me. Princess Lisa. And he thinks I'm enchanting, and would that he could toss me over his shoulder effortlessly, to carry around everywhere he goes, instead of having to substitute stupid Kelly Rippa and Jennifer Aniston.

I was just thinking that, you know, when I'm on my book tour? Well, I'm going to "mention" in passing, to Oprah, that I would JUST LOVE to meet Gerard~that I have a secret crush on him. And it's probable, as Oprah is known to do, that she'll make arrangements to have him on satellite to say a simple, "Hello" to me, and I'll act all surprised and flustered, being excited to meet him over the waves, but then without warning, the satellite will cut out and go to static, like they lost the connection, and I'll be all disappointed and pouty. But suddenly, a roar will erupt in the audience, turning louder and louder and they'll start SCREAMING AND SHOUTING AND POINTING, and THEN...THEN...HE WILL COME WALKING OUT ON THE STAGE BEHIND ME, PUT HIS HANDS OVER MY RIDICULOUSLY BLUE EYES, AND I'LL TURN AROUND AND SEE THAT IT'S THE PHANTOM, AND I'LL HAVE A TOTALLY ADORABLE MELT-DOWN!!! And he'll GRAB me, toss me over his shoulder effortlessly, and carry me off to his lair...and that's where I leave you to use your imaginations...

Just as I've evidently been doing waaaaay tooooooo muuuuuuuch this morning.

OK, time for a shower and a quick glance in the mirror to bring me back.

Hmm. Wow. Now that I stare reality in the face, it's no wonder hubbie can't 'toss' me anywhere. Girth doesn't toss. It heaves.

And in truth, I'd take a heave from my hunky husband over a toss from a fantasy phantom any day. :)

BOOK!

Okay, so HERE'S SOME FUN NEWS!!! Wonder why I haven't posted yet today? No, it's only partially because of sloth. The BIGGER reason is because...

I'm writing some submissions for a BOOK! (GASP!) That's right, A BOOK, I SAY! Go ahead, rub your eyes all you want. It'll still say the same thing.

How? Well, there once was a beautiful, talented girl named...yes, that's right, Lisa. Aw, you're so good to me. But that's not where I was going with this...named Jesse Clark Funk. And SHE was under a witchy spell that convinced her that Princess Lisa would be a great collaborator for a book she was publishing. What she didn't know is that Lisa can't. be. trusted. to be refined. And putting her alongside Jesse and others in this book is akin to polishing a turd, then comparing it to real diamonds under seer stones.

Fortunately, the average citizen doesn't OWN a seer stone, so unless they sniff really hard and figure out something is amiss, they might be fooled into buying this book.

I won't bore you with the innards of this story. Suffice it to say that I'm working on my submissions, and if you have any favorites, speak now or forever hold your noses. Just sayin'.

By the way, kind of pathetic "comments" lately. Only a few stalwarts to give me love and esteem. To which I give a sweeping THANK YOU, DEAR LADIES! But to the rest of you, another raised eyebrow. Cuz remember, I'm going to be famous, soon. And you'll WANT to know me then. This time right here is payin' your dues for the glittery connection that is to come. Union dues, people. Or blog dues. Whichever.

Anyway, get some comments a comin'.

Kisses! (that was an insincere Hollywood type farewell. gag)

AFRO

You know how all the experts (Oprah) say things like, "Follow your passion!" "If you want to be a success, you need to do what you KNOW!" Stuff like that? Yeah, well, guess what ladies? Guess who's going to make the most out of her ENORMOUS, GIRTHY PASSION?! That's right! MOI! That's French for me. I know. It looks like you'd pronounce it, "moy," doesn't it? Kind of like when I kept reading about having a paradigm shift, but I pronounced it "pair-a-diggim." Or like when I read about the girl named "Foe-ebb." Yeah, that would be Phoebe. I amaze even me. Or moi. Anyway, where were we...

Here's what got me thinkin' like this. See, this morning I once again got on the "you've got to exercise, dammit!" bandwagon, and thus flopped down in a sullen pudding puddle on the floor of my bedroom. I yanked the stupid 5 and 8 pound weights out from under the bed~(couldn't find the 3's)~and got to work. For a full 20 minutes. Only two or three breaks in between, so determined was I. The moment I hit my numbers, I rolled the weights back under my bed frame and using the covers as leverage, pulleyed myself back into bed. Then went into a snory slumber, within like 3 seconds~not even shizzing. It wasn't my fault. I'd put my body into shock and that was all it knew to do.

"WHAT THE CRAP WAS THAT?! Did she...did she just EXERCISE?! Before noon thirty? What the...?!! Seriously? Does she think we'll just RESPOND to her demands, like a ransom note for her kidnapped figure? News flash, honey~just because the word "mini-eggs" is behind the word "CADBURY" doesn't make it a baby portion of protein. It's not muscle you've been building with that diet...it's chin. And CHIN looks hideous in yellow gingham dresses."

Body is really kind of snarky and abusive. But he's all I have...and I LOVE HIM...HE NEEDS ME! WE LOVE EACH OTHER! AND HE'LL CHANGE! HE TOLD ME SO!!!

Anyway, body went into recovery mode, and I went unconscious. But when I awoke, all blurry eyed and wiggly armed, I remembered a great conversation I had with some "ladies who lunch." Somebody brought up the intriguing medical procedure of FAT HARVESTING, where they take fat out of somewhere like a rump, and inject it into wherever you're lacking. Like for me, it would be my "only thing on my body with a high metabolism" lips.

So basically rump lips.

Which gives fresh meaning to "talking out of your..." well, you're familiar with the verse.

So as we all discussed where we would TAKE the fat from, and where we'd have it INJECTED, suddenly, I realized that I AM A FAT HARVESTER! There was hardly a spot on my body in NEED of an injection, but OH SO MANY CHOICES of where to pull the necessary lipoid.

And THEN I had the epiphany, "OH MY HOLY COW! I AM A FAT SOD FARM!" That's right. A FAT SOD FARM! Just like a sod farm grows grass for the barren soil, I can grow FAT for the barren bellied! Almost like being a surrogate~which is incredibly noble! Which is kind of my middle name, if I'm being humble. (If I'm bragging, it's my first name.) And I KNOW how to grow chins, ladies! I have done it many, many times over!

See, I've been fooling myself into thinking I'll rock this whole "weight and nutrition" song. It's like the girl with the Afro who is desperate for stick straight. My body has an Afro, friends. And no amount of flat-ironing...or 3 pound weights...will give me long, flaxen tresses. Well, actually, it could, but that would take effort...and goal setting...and a shunning of all things Easter and joy. So it's best to just embrace that fro and wear big old gold hoop earrings to compliment and accentuate the look.

And just like the hoop earrings, we've come full circle to the original idea of making the most out of our passions! So THANK YOU, OPRAH, for not only supporting, but helping me to embrace my natural man tendencies.

I'm planting my fat seedlings now. It looks like a back to back harvest this year.

Or chin to chin.

NAILS ON A CHALKBOARD

Fun shower favors...lucky, lucky bride and attendees!

I just finished "clicking" an order to receive a darling yellow and white gingham dress in the mail. Isn't clicking wonderful? Like reindeer on a housetop...Click, click, click. Course, then there's that whole association with funds being removed from bank accounts. I imagine that sound is probably more like fingernails on a chalkboard. Or opening an ironing board. Or the sliding 50 pound increments on a medical scale. But we'll think about that tomorrow, Scarlett.

Back to vintage dresses~big giant lemon yellow and white checks! And I plan on looking EXACTLY LIKE THE TEENSY CHICK MODELING THAT THERE DRESS. Which is the only reason I bought it. If there was a chance I'd look like ME~SHEESH, no way! Don't you just love truth in advertising? What they really need is an app where you give them your waist, chest and chin measurements and the picture morphs into you wearing the dress. Course, that would mean a government bailout for the fashion industry when it does a crash and burn. It would also mean sobbing, screaming, angry Spanx hurling women rioting in the streets and...OK, yeah, now that I think about it, let's keep that anorexic size 2 as our catalogue mirror.

Speaking of well appointed and fashionable, (me) after running around higgedly-piggedly yesterday, I dropped by Bitty Boo's to pass off the shower invitations for her to mail. By the way, they were freakin' DIVINE, as she's the queen of all things photography and photoshop. THE QUEEN, I SAY! Check out her work here. Anyway, she does a quick up and down of my attire and says~

"Did you wear that just now to Hobby Lobby?"

And I said, "Yeah, I think I did."

And she said, "Oh."

Now just to put this in perspective, Kara is THE MOST EFFUSIVELY GRACIOUS AND COMPLIMENTARY WOMAN IN THE ENTIRE WORLD...NAY, IN THE GALAXY!!! She can find charm in a wart. So if she says, "Oh,"...well... that's Kara speak for "WHAT IN THE HOLY ROAST WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU GOT DRESSED TODAY? WHAT ARE YOU, A VAMPIRE? AFRAID LOOKING IN A MIRROR WILL STEAL YOUR SOUL?" Followed by a silent point and mouthing the words 'Ew. Gross.'

"But I was cold." I said.

"Oh."

And then I looked down.

"Oh," I said.

And THAT is why I'm willing to bear the screeching nails across the chalkboard visual as my funds deplete, in order to look exactly like that elegant creature in the magazine. Imagine if you will, the Hobby Lobby doors parting, as I make my HOLLYWOOD ENTRANCE in retro checks and pointy red pumps to match my fluffy, pouty lips.

It comes with the size 2 figure.

See page 14 for additional features.

PIONEERS

Oh my heck, Brian Regan ROCKED! PAPER, SCISSORS, ROCKED, friends! However, my children and husband...and OK, yes, me...have fifty hunnerd new one liners rolling around in our consciousness, just WAITING to shoot out of our mouths all willie nillie and misdirected. You might want to shun us for a few months, till the newness of the funny wears off. GODSPEED! Hahahahahaha!!! Oh my heck, see? There went one right there! Seriously, shun me for a while.

Sooooo, Jules puked this morning. And I sent her off to school as soon as she'd blown the cereal out of her nose. (She was TOTALLY GROSSED OUT that your mouth and nose share the same tubes and they're not really particular about which path the barf travels. Therefore, Apple Jacks may just as readily come out a nostril.) Anyway, does sending her to school after that make me a "bad" mother? I prefer to think it makes me a "mother concerned with character development, because the Pioneers had to do stuff like that all the time, but they didn't have a toilet to hurl into, and then they'd use their skirts to wipe it off, and have crusted vomit on them until they found a river to wash themselves and their clothing in, which would usually have dung swooshing around in it, so it's not like it was a sanitary wash cycle like we have access to now. Plus, your pioneer program is today, so what better way to get in character than by hurling, wiping and carrying on in the work?" That's what I prefer to think. Don't call DCFS, and I'll keep my suspicions regarding your parenting skills between me and my "friend." But just so you know, we talk about you a LOT. A REALLY LOT.

And just like Jules puking, Second Son has gotten "relatively cool-ish car" out of his system, too. Which incidentally coincided with his first gas tank fill-ups that he had to pay for himself, as well as the realization that he could actually SEE the needle dropping as he drove around the block. A horsepill dose of reality is always good to rid a kid of the illness named Vanity. So he sold his sporty two seater and opted instead for the blank canvas called "Nissan with peeling putty job." The adoption process went remarkably smooth. All it took was eight cans of black and white (bi-racial baby) spray paint to make him feel like a proud papa. We're carrying on the great and admirable tradition of eyesores on the road.

Anyway, I'm off to tutor. I may send my kids to school barfing, but by DA%$, they're gonna be good readers! Buh bye!

COURT

I was summoned to court last night, as apparently, I was the defendant in a VERY STRONG CASE against me, for an intestinal infraction committed sometime between 11:00 and midnight. I felt entitled, as I considered it my bonus for finishing up daughter's County projects...not that I did any of them for her, you sillies...no, no, certainly not...because of course a nine year old child knows how to access and procure information for a brochure from several sources, including but not limited to Internet, pamphlets and information gathered from the original county seat, attain and display a product the community is known for, as well as design, edit and produce a float illustrating Garfield County, with all it's natural wonders, interesting but less known facts and miniaturized versions of National forests and Canyonlands.

Mmm hmmm.

That's right.

All her.

Anyway....

All night long, my stomach bore testimony against me.

"You're honor, exhibit A~a chocolate covered waffle cone, with freezer burn. Ms. Bingham ingested this~WITH NO THOUGHT TO BELLY OR ESOPHAGUS~expecting her actions would bring no negative repercussions."

The judge (Brain) looked at me with disdain.

Gut lawyer continued~"Exhibit B~the TUMS she chomped and chewed, thinking that would remedy the situation. Let's just say she might as well have taken an aspirin for a brain tumor, for all the good it did."

As the hearing wore on, I just hovered under the courtroom covers, growling, gurgling and emitting. There was really nothing to say. I done brung it on myself. My sentence was to be thrust out of a nightmarish sleep and forced to lay awake writhing. I deserved it...and I'm partially repentant right now...but in a few hours, well, we know what happens when you get me and a bag of Cadbury mini-eggs in the same zip code.

I PHANTOM OF THE OPERA CURSE YOU, stupid chocolate covered waffle cone and Cadbury mini eggs!

Anyway, I tried to go back to sleep, but it was futile. Too much useless and out of my control things to worry about. Brain Paparazzi, you know.

But here's some fun news...GOING TO SEE BRIAN REGAN TONIGHT! YEAH, BABY! 'Bout time for some fresh material, as the entire family can recite verbatim, AAAAALLLLLL of his old routines. Which sounds like it might be entertaining, but more often than not, makes a mother want to coral the children for "SLAPS ALL AROUND IF YOU ANSWER ME ONE MORE TIME WITH A ONE LINER!"

Anyway, it's past time for some hygiene, caffeine and Easter decorating. I'm off like a shirt at a rock concert! What? Who? Huh?

Shhhhh...nobody you know. (eyebrow lift)

HOLY

Sassy the cat likes to think of this laptop computer as her own personal heating pad. She's spent a lot of time on the keyboard lately, as it's her take-off pad for flinging herself into the transom window to perch and do a weird cat cackle at the pigeons who've nested there. Actually, more like built a three story high-rise, inviting all it's drunk on worms pigeon friends to make themselves at home, and "use this colonial pillar as your toilet." And since yesterday's blog was chock full of feces references, that's all I'll say about it.

So after the ugly and unholy I witnessed this past weekend, I feel an urgency to return to my home and make it more holy. Which brings to mind my own upbringing and the tremendous impact it had~and continues to have~on my life.

When I was in 7th grade, I would be squirming in Science class~last period of the day~and could just hardly wait for the bell to ring. And it wasn't to see my stupid friends, because they would most likely be busy sharpening their blades (they'd dulled when shoved into my back earlier on) and it wasn't to see a boy, because by the end of the day, my sideways ponytail (think Deb from Napoleon Dynamite) had usually come undone, leaving the entire left side sticking straight out with Miss Clairol hairspray residue. (Sometimes I'd put my bright yellow coat over my head as camouflage, looking out through the armhole, trying to make it down the hallway and onto the bus...clearly, I was brilliant and poised)...anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes. I watched. that. clock. I'd had just about all I could take for the day~my coffers were flooding with confidence beatings and "the wrong" jeans~apparently Kings wasn't the most fashionable place to purchase designer brands, who knew?~and it was time for a reprieve. It was time for a happy Mom who was there when I came busting in through the front door with a yell, "MOM! I'M HOME!" And she'd say, "I'm down here, dear." Down here was in her sewing room and I'd wad a piece of Wonder Bread into a ball and shoving it in my mouth, where it stuck to the roof, go climb on the washer and dryer to tell her all about the crappy day.

It was time for a sunshiny home, with the freshly folded clothes on my bed and the vacuum in the middle of the living room, with instructions for me to finish up. Wish I could say I put my heart and soul into that, but alas, I was a slaphappy teenager. I fully deserve all the sloth that my own chitlins heap upon me.

It was time for a quick search for hidden candy and a stolen sip of Mom and Dad's ice cold Pepsi that would "ROT YOUR GUTS OUT" if you were under the age of married. It was table setting time, as family dinner was a daily ritual. It was FAMILY FUN NIGHT time, where we'd go to the neighborhood store and buy a MASSIVE brown bag full of penny candy, bring it home and dump it in the middle of the living room floor, taking turns choosing our favorites and then consume it all while talking, laughing and burping together. (What's that you say? Dentist and nutrition issues? Don't know what you're talking about.)

It was time for Dad's homemade popcorn that he'd oft times make for just him and Mom after the kids had gone to bed, and we'd get a whiff of the heavenly scent, come out of our bedrooms STOMPING MAD, down the hallway with the accusation of, "YOU NEVER, EVER, EVER MAKE POPCORN FOR US KIDS! WHY IS IT OK FOR YOU TWO TO HAVE ALL THE FUN...AND THE POPCORN?! THAT IS JUST RUDE AND YOU NEVER, EVER, EVER DO FUN STUFF FOR US KIDS. YOU JUST SAVE IT FOR YOU GUYS. NO FAIR!!!" And they'd laugh and giggle and say these immortal words, "When you're the mom and dad, you can do the very same thing!" And we'd say back, with extreme intelligence and foresight, "But we'll NEVER be the moms and dads!" Then go stomping back to our popcornless beds.

I could go on and on, as the memories are still fresh as laundry on a line. But can I just say what a blessed thing it is to look back on my childhood with such peace and warmth? And isn't it funny that it didn't matter what my mom was wearing (she was always beautiful)...or how thin she was (she had a soft lap)...or what kind of car we drove? (It was a hideous brown van) And money? Three words~so very poor. But somehow, we always found enough for the giant brown bag of candy, or a piece of material for a lovely Easter dress.

What it comes down to is this. Bless my mother's heart for making our home a haven. And holy. For spending her days in the service of her family. For looking "Beyond This Moment" and knowing that out of small and simple things, come that which is GREAT!

Bless my father's heart for earning and providing. He tied his tie and walked out the door every morning to teach a bunch of snot nosed kids who needed a gun to their heads to be forced to learn, and then returned home to US, with a smile on his bedraggled face and a shout of, "Who wants to go for a bike ride?!" I would imagine that was last on his list, but it was first on ours.

Bless them both for understanding that our home could~and should~be a Heaven on Earth.

And now, please excuse me, as I have a batch of bread that needs to be baked and several loads of laundry patiently waiting. Appears just putting the word holy in front of HE%#, isn't the right idea. I have a tremendous journey ahead of me~would that I were perfect~but out of small and simple things...

PRUNES

Soooooo......picture painting time. This picture IS worth a thousand words, and all of them offensive and poopy, therefore, consider this your parental advisory. Get the faint of heart out of the blog. Also, a quick disclaimer~when I refer to 'Las Vegas,' I am referring to the few blocks that Satan has cordoned off as his own ranch. Not YOUR neighborhood, kay? Good. OK, let the story begin...

Imagine if you will, that SATAN gorges himself on rancid prunes, prunes and more prunes, along with BUSHELS of rotting fruit. (I refill my palette with a yellowish-green color) He fills his bowels to BURSTING with brown broccoli and cauliflower that someone forgot about in the fridge. THEN he grabs his THREE FOOT LONG BEER BONG AND SUCKS IT DOWN to dregs, waits till the blend starts to gurgle and seethe, then finally, when he can feel the witches brew is steaming with sulfur, he drops his pants, squats down and aaaaaallllll of the people in Las Vegas notice the sky darkens. They look up and see a GINORMOUS FARTING RUMP HOVERING OVER THE CITY, WHICH ERUPTS AND SPEWS ONTO THE PEOPLE BELOW!

But they don't notice, because it's been done before. They're wallowing in it already. The streets are filled with it...diarrhea courses down The Strip in the form of pornography, scream and thud music and gray faced gamblers staggering out into the light of day, shielding their red eyes while they light up another cigarette and proceed to urinate against the nearest building. And everybody just sludges through...covered in runny feces, because as one well bread woman belched out, "WHAT'D YA EXPECT? YOU'RE ON THE STRIP!" And she scratched at a portion of the enormous gut hanging out of her tube top, causing a mole to bleed. Priddy.

And we WERE, people. We were on the strip. And can I just say...oh. my. word. I can't ped-egg scrape at my eyes long enough to remove the filth and debris that is called Las Vegas. No amount of Bon Jovi or Phantom of the Opera can fix what ails that town. There is not enough Barry Manilow or Donny and Marie to camouflage the state of being. And the slogan? The only thing that stays in Vegas is your soul. And your cash. The disease is yours for the taking home and keeping, honey. ALL YOURS! Re-infect to your hearts content! BTW, I thought of a new slogan..."Bob! Geez! Look what you stepped in! The Strip!"

Something else we noticed is the aroma. We kept thinking we'd find a pocket of fresh air somewhere~twas not the case. We did, however, get to choose between two fragrant choices~Smoke or Fart. And sometimes you would get two in one with smoky-fart. We just walked through the entire city with our shirts pulled halfway up over our faces. And yes, we could have been more discreet if we'd just breathed through our mouths, but can I just say that farty smoke is NOTHING you want stuck to your tongue.

So blinded by the flashing lights and gross was I, that I had a hard time keeping my footing. I mostly just pin-balled my way through every casino, bouncing off the throngs as I tried to grope my way out. But out was not a relief, as it meant you were back on the diarrhea Strip and Satan had probably just finished up his lunchtime meal, which consisted of sushi, corn and crab cakes. And another beer bong.....and no, the darkening sky is NOT refreshing rain.....

Thus, you can see, that I had a temporary lapse in sanity. For which I apologize, friends. I know I threw you under the bus as I bid you farewell the other day. And telling you to build me a snowman while I got a suntan? Well, that was just freakin' arrogant! And I shake and lower my head in shame.

Let me just leave you with the words of our Savior, which seems a little bit blasphemous, considering the tone of this blog. But truth is truth, no matter where it's sandwiched...

"WICKEDNESS NEVER WAS HAPPINESS."

'Nuff said.

Amen.

(Oh, yeah, Bon Jovi was good.)

DODGE BALL

Ok, peeps. I don't even know what to tell you. I'm gone. Outta here. This snow's the death of me and I have no other alternative but to get the heck out of Dodge. As in Dodge city, not dodge ball. But I was a really good player in my youth. Could straddle and jump and hardly EVER got out. But anyway...

I'M GOIN' TO VEGAS! YEAH, BABY! And as I commented in my status on FB, it is a horrid, filthy, degrading SIN-MECCA...unleeeeeeeesssss....you're going to see FREAKIN' BON JOVI IN CONCERT!!! Then it's glittery and magical and makes you look like you did in college when people used to tell you that you looked like the lead singer in the band. It was all about the big hair...you know it was...and it was awesome...and big hair made your waist look tiny, just like ginormous shoulder pads.

So to sum up~Make a snowman for me, and I'll get a suntan for you. See? Synergy...and friendship...and thinking of each other as we enjoy the elements, no matter where we (you) are...and (me) laughing.

Stay cozy! (heart pound, kisses)

SAVING FOR NICE

Hey! Guess what I get to do? I'll give you a hint...it involves gloved fingers, paper aprons and the words, "OK, now. Scooch your bum aaaaallll the way down to the end of the butcher paper covered table...aaaannnnnnndddd reeelaaaaaxxx." FYI, I've put it off for three years now, but that's only because I didn't want to seem gluttonous.

Plus, I've been saving it for "nice." That's what husband's mom always did~saved things for 'nice.' You'd use her bathroom and there would be eight threads left spanning a hand towel, and you'd think as you blew and waved your hands dry, "Hmm. Mom could use some new towels. I'll get her some for next gift giving occasion." So you did, and when she opened them, she'd hold them up and announce, "Oh, how lovely. We'll just save these for 'nice.'" Then she'd pry open the 'nice' drawer to shove the latest set~along with 50 years worth of fresh towels that had been buried alive. And you could swear you heard howls and shrieks as they shielded their terry cloth eyes from the glare of daylight, before the drawer slammed closed once again, only to be opened when the next set of 'nice' arrived at the funeral parlor.

Anyway, I've been saving this experience for 'nice.'

OK, so here's another clue...three words...P. A. P. One more word...smear. Doesn't that just conjure up good times? Such a pretty, pretty word combination.

Have you figured it out yet? No? You're not as bright as I thunk you were. OK, one more clue...and this is BY FAR the most distressing part...as it involves~(Jaws music in the background)...A MEDICAL SCALE!!!!! AS IN I WILL BE REQUIRED TO PLACE AAAALLLL OF MY 'NO I HAVEN'T TAKEN MY ABDOMINAL GIRTH SERIOUSLY' BODY ON THAT MEDICAL SCALE~WHICH IS OUT IN THE PUBLIC HALLWAY, SO YOU REALLY CAN'T STRIP DOWN TO BARE NAKEDNESS IN ORDER TO REMOVE THOSE EXTRA T-SHIRT OUNCES THAT REALLY, REALLY DO MATTER, FOLKS~BECAUSE APPARENTLY HALLWAY NUDITY IS 'FROWNED UPON.' AND ANYBODY CAN JUST WILLY NILLY WALK BY AND LOOK OVER THE NURSE'S SHOULDER TO WITNESS THE DEAFENING SOUND OF THE SCOOT and CLINK METAL FIFTY POUND INCREMENT BARS. AND SUCKING IN HAS ABSOLUTELY NO EFFECT ON THE FINAL WEIGH-IN NUMBERS. NOR DOES SQUEEEEEZING YOUR BUM CHEEKS TOGETHER OH SO TIGHTLY. AND YES, BUM CHEEKS CAN GET CHARLIE HORSES. JUST SAYIN'.

Feel sorry for me? Thank you. I would imagine they'll find cancer, or polyps, or an undiscovered pregnancy or something, which would totally serve me right for putting this off. And I have no excuses, except for cowardice. But really, if I'm being brutally honest, it's the "documented" part of that weigh-in, that makes me palpitate and upper lip sweat. It's on PAPER, people! INK on paper! See, I can lie to myself, but that da%$ scale is very, very discerning and can see right through my "big boned" and "that's muscle in my chins, and muscle weighs more than fat" lie. If the scale had an eyebrow, it would be lifted for my entire appointment. Sadly, my Dr. does, but she duct tapes it down while I'm there. Bless her heart.

Anyway, send an extra prayer my way, would you please? It's not for another three weeks, but I thought I'd burden you early with my angst.

I'm a Blog spider. So carry my spidery, smeary burden for me, won't you?

Thanksomuch. Preschiatcha.

VULTURES

So I was at a bridal shower a few weeks ago and we were having a GAY OLD TIME! There was chocolate and caffeine and polka dot table cloths and all was right with the world...when suddenly, I sniffed and whiffed a bride (fresh kill) that a mob of postnatal women (vultures) had circled in on. Poor dear. I could actually see her heart pounding 'neath her girlish mammaries as her eyes darted toward the front door for escape. But then the grandmother walked over and slowly twisted the lock. Aaaand so it began...

"You know, when I was pregnant, I got these whopping hemorrhoids. It felt like a grape was hanging out of my rectum for like, six months."

"Well, mine were worse. And when I gave birth, I tore. Like rrrrriiiiiiiippppp. It actually made a noise. And then they had to sew my bum and all my lower innards back inside."

"Ha! You think that's bad? I split in half. Literally. And they had to staple me. Four hundred and seventy seven steel clamps to put Humpty back together again."

A moment of silence to consider the last visual.

"Well, after I had baby Horace, he would NOT breast feed. My knockers were MAMMOTH! SOOOOO ENGORGED!"

"That's nothing. I got a breast infection that lasted eighteen years! Just try latching a suckling babe to a bleeding boob! THAT'S RIGHT~I SAID BLEEDING! Excruciating."

"Whatever. Get this. Both sides were engorged, then infected and THEN, my son actually bit my nipple in two. Mmm hmmm. And eventually, one day, Plop. They just up and fell off."

Another moment of silence and reverie.

We were shameless, folks. Scarlet letter outrageous. And I can't help but feel somehow responsible for the PYT backing~shrieking and screaming~out of the room...and the marriage...but it couldn't be helped. She had to know. And it was our duty (hand wringing pleasure) to inform her. And that's one case where the messenger probably should be shot.

Why do we do it? Nobody knows for sure. I think it's kind of like a sneeze~can't be restrained, is a natural urge and it just feels so FANTASTIC mid-spew. But the innocents face is left covered in flying mucus and snot, and there's no undoing the memory of being soiled with another person's boogs~or hemorrhoid/lactation narratives.

Anyway, I'm very disappointed in us~but mostly you. And that's because I don't think you've learned your lesson, cuz I can tell by your watery eyes that you're about to erupt once again with boogery tales and spew them all over another prenatal lassie.

Poor, poor lassie.

Don't worry~I'll hold her down.

DISCLAIMER

Holy JUNK! Talk about a backlash! Apparently my last post was a house of mirrors and every reader saw themselves reflected as phone spiders. To which I now say, HEY, PEOPLE! I, TOO, am a phone spider. Sometimes. Just not all of the time. And I'll do better. Like when I notice I've grown a spidery leg out of my bum, that's a sign that I'm morphing and I need to put the phone down. And that's all we can expect, right? Right. So THE END. I don't want to hear another whine about it.

And now we'll title today's blog~Disclaimers and Refutation.

You know how they will put a new drug on the market, and you'll think, "Oh my cows! This is fantastic! A MIRACLE CURE! Now I can live a full and happy life as this medication is EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED to fix whatever ailed me."

But whoa, whoa, WHOA unto the chick who throws down a pill or two without reading the fine print. Which usually combines fun and exciting words like, "uncontrolled flatulence," "anal seepage" and "warty genitalia." (a new favorite of mine) Alluring words like those. Therein lies the skull and crossbones, and we'd be well taught to read those baby words to understand what we're really getting.

Thus, I feel compelled to baby word warn you regarding Blue and Shoe. Stand back.

Blue and shoe is exaggerated entertainment. More often than not, the topics are pulled out of thin air, or the author's rump. If you find yourself in the words, you might have a slight vanity issue, because almost every blog is a direct reflection of the author's life, imagination and shortcomings. It's all about her. Not you. Her. Reading Blue and Shoe has not been PROVEN to cause uncontrolled flatulence, anal seepage or warty genitalia, but this does not mean that it does NOT. It just can't be PROVEN. Blue and Shoe will bring mirth to your face if you "get" it. But angry slit eyes if you don't. Blue and Shoe has been known to profane on a consistent basis~words as well as subject matter~but as has been pointed out, it's more often than not SPELLED incorrectly, thereby negating any offense. Satire, sarcasm and heavy doses of irreverence, fat and sugar, are the main ingredients of this blog. If you're allergic to ANY ONE OF THESE, we suggest you walk away from the buffet and take an enzyme immediately. And I don't know who "we" is, as it's just "I," but whatever. We speak Borg.

That should do it. I'm having this notarized, so it's official. In fact, it may be a requirement for continued reading for you all to sign that you've read and understand this, else I SHALL NOT CONTINUE TO DISPENSE THE HUMOR, FOLKS! You'll have to go off it COLD TURKEY...and you'll be just like Kinicky from GREASE coming off a heroin high on VH1~which we all know to be remarkably high brow entertainment.

And I can almost guarantee that Kinicky has his fair share of anal seepage. I know. Ew.

PHONE SPIDERS

My good friend Anony just called to tell me there is a SALE on our favorite blue hairspray! And that right there was enough to get me to quit screening my calls and actually pick up. Wait. No, no, no. I didn't mean I screen calls. That would be rude. I meant I practice "selective answering." That is self preservation. Apples and oranges, folks.

Even in the most beautiful summer months, we don't fling our windows wide, without making sure there is a filter~a barrier~for jumping, hairy spiders. Thus, the same is true for people pests that like to torpedo into our homes through fiber optics, making us jump and slap our own bodies as we try to "GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF! AAAGGHHHHH!!!"

Just the other day, I went to Target to buy Mucinex for sniffer boy. They made me sign that, "I will not be making meth with this here booger drug." And that got me thinking that SURELY, if I have to sign about snot meds, there should ABSOLUTELY be a requirement for telephone installation. I've come up with my own list of the phone terrorists that would be on the "do not fly" ~or answer~ list:

The "What else can you do for me?" callers. I have to answer their ring with a pencil and paper in hand to record my next assignment. They are usually the people that load their plate up with boiled spinach and cold beans and weenies, let it ruminate in it's own turd-like juices for a few days, then carry it over to my house for me to lick clean, as they profess they're just "overwhelmed" by their own self-appointed burdens. Needless to say, the taste left in my mouth afterward is not necessarily minty fresh. I have to spit a lot when I'm talking to them.

The "I have once again made a HORRENDOUS life decision~as Satan is my master~which will undoubtedly bring me to my knees in desperation~certainly not prayer~and I want to give you a play by play of every crisis that I continue to center my life around, intermixed with weeping and pessimistic gnashing of teeth. Then I'll ask your advice and pretend you have made an enormous difference in my life, professing that I wouldn't know WHAT to do without you, don't ever, ever leave me, you are my ONLY FRIEND!...followed by a titanic brain fart of every call to action and death bed repentance, continuing on eternally in my white-trash ways."

The "I don't have any pots full and boiling over on my creativity stove, therefore, neither do you, so you have a wallet full of time to spend on entertaining me."

The "I know I was supposed to do something staggeringly time sensitive and urgent, but I forgot, so do you still want me to do it?"

These are just a few. I'm sure there are others. Feel free to add your own.

My sister used to answer her phone with a Raid list in hand~the apologies she could offer up to phone spiders for not being available to babysit their lamblike wee tots, that they "just can't take with me to The Walmart, cuz their (grimy paws) minds are just so engrossed in (destroying) fresh merchandise, and they somehow get their hands on 10-12 candy bars, unwrapping and taking a slobbery bite when I'm not looking, but I'm just way, way, WAY vigilant, so I don't get how they can be so lightening quick. But then the stupid cashier totally expects me to pay for them, but I'm like, "Um, hello? That ain't MY fault that you guys put candy at my kids EYE LEVEL. You shoulda thought about that before you filled your check-out lane with stuff that's gonna tempt them. That's YOUR fault and I ain't paying for it. Then I dump the piles of destroyed merchandise on the conveyor belt for her to figure out what to do with. Can you even believe her gall? Anyways, um, can you watch them for like, I don't know, I should be done around dinner time. But if you want to keep them longer and have them eat with you, it's totally fine. You can bring them by later."

The only thing that keeps me from tearing the device from the wall and letting it hang by it's wires, is that sometimes, on beautiful occasion, there is the sing-songy, lyrical ring that comes from a real friend. The "Hey, I was just thinking of you and wondered what I can do to lighten your load? Do you need a stack of twenties? How about a years supply of cinnamon bears and good-n-plenties? Or a gift card to Hobby Lobby? I would imagine you're still in your pajamas, as it's only noon thirty, so I'll just leave them on your doorstep so you don't have to be seen. I love you! And you're thin."

And that right there is why I am so adept at performing "selective answering."

No hairy "A" phone spiders need call me up. My Raid is ready.