PROCRASTINATION

I'm speaking in the adult session of Stake Conference in less than 22 hours...and I know what you're thinking.

The answer is, I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M BLOGGING EITHER! CRIMINY!

I do this waaaaaay too often. It has a name. Procrastination. But I prefer to call it by it's better known and recognized tag~the 'WHAT THE HE%$ WAS I THINKING?! '

I see you nodding your blog head. You've likely experienced this. It's when you find yourself organizing the potting soil, seed packets and sharpening the blades on the mower out in the garage...just in case somebody passes by and wants to inspect your lawn care paraphernalia on their way into the WEDDING SHOWER THAT I'M HOSTING IN LESS THAN AN HOUR AND THE BATHROOMS ARE STILL SPLATTERED WITH TEENAGE URINE AND THE SHEETS ARE STRIPPED OFF MY BED AND I'M EVEN NOW IN MY BATHROBE AND FORGOT TO BUY THE UTENSILS, AS WELL AS THE BRIDE'S GIFT AND IS IT TOO LATE TO ORDER THE BALLOONS, BREAD BOWLS AND SHEET CAKE AND WHAT THE HE%$ WAS I THINKING?

Yeah, that.

So I'm going RIGHT NOW to work on this talk. Don't try to stop me. It's time to focus and study and prepare to be a tool in the Lord's hands. I can do this, people. I can. I've seen other people do it, so I know it's possible.

(doing the runner's hand flick and neck crack)

(breathing in and out in deep cleansing breaths)

(taking the sprinters position)

Get ready...get set...and...Oh, hey, did I tell you that my assembly coverage was on the front page of the local newspaper? I know! And Amberlee was doing the splits, and my brother Chris was in it TWICE and they didn't interview me, but that's OK, cuz I was running around wild backstage, but.............green mullet............jock dance off............wasting more time............don't expect much tomorrow night.................can't be trusted by the Lord.................bright shiny objects............I'll work on it tomorrow................

..............what the he%$ was I thinking.............

NUBILE DANCE MOVES

Hooooollllleeeeeeeee cow. I am exhausted. It's over. The assembly. And some of you are the freakin' diamelle, topaz and heliotrope jewels in my crowning glory, for your willingness to sport a green gang headband, tight Letterman's jacket and big sleeved prom dresses that have likely seen better (thinner) days. I actually bought you each a package of Chiclets, but "forgot" to give them to you. I know. Sad. But, listen...it's the thought that counts, friends. (chomp, chomp, chew)

I did, however, manage to throw out my hip and cripple both feet and a thigh within 24 hours. On account of I had to wear pointy heels all morning, cuz it was for the greater good, called fashion sense. But my toes are all about "what's in it for me" and were RAGING MAD. So I hissed for them to shut up, and reminded them of the profound words my mother raised me with, to explain the plight of the pretty...and that is, "Beauty is pain, dear." Which always shut me up.

But they didn't respond with long suffering, so I slapped them up the side of the foot and shoved them back inside the patent leather. And when the music was cranked, I couldn't hear them screaming, but alas, when I limped out to my car, the PIGS WERE SQUEALING, FOLKS! OUI, OUI, OUI, SNORT AAALLLL THE WAY HOME! Stupid fat pigs.

Plus, then, I have some mad dance skills that I felt weirdly compelled to show off to the student body last night. It might have been something like, oh, I don't know... maybe standing on one leg while holding the other leg behind my back by the ankle, and yanking it forward to the beat of the music, while the other hand is put to the back of the head, shoving it forward and jerking the elbow in time. Something similar to (exactly) that.

And yes, I know...so shut up.

I'm just trying to figure out what happened to my brain, as it usually discerns what kind of laughter it is...With...At...those are two very different things, you know. The filter must have been clogged up with cholesterol.

So anyway, my eye twitch is diminishing, as well as the consistent, day and night, "She must have just been weighed at the Dr.s office," thud and thump of my heart...and the concern that I may lose my hearing when the blood pressure brain bleed ruptures my eardrums.

And to reward myself, I went to TARGET...my earthly god. For your vicarious thrill, I have included pictures of the stuff I bought that has put a sideways smile upon my girlish face. Yes, I said girlish. Don't be so cynical.

If you need me to, I can always prove it, by showing you my nubile dance moves...........and I will.

Don't think I won't.......................................just later.

Much later.

TURKEY

There is a turkey, farting in my fridge. Somebody should take care of that. Not me. Somebody else.

CATCALL

I went to the high school today, to do some last minute prep work for the alumni assembly...that has consumed my heart, mind, soul and nervous system for a couple of months...and do you know NOT ONE STINKIN' KID WHISTLED AT ME? NOT ONE. Idiots.

The least they could have done was pretend that I deserved a second glance...I mean, come on, man. Throw a wrinkled old lady a bone. Too much to ask? Apparently.

But see, what we have here is the hallucinogen called High School Time Portal. It's a brain sweep, where the moment your over 40 feet walk up the stairs and enter "A" building, you're back in time, running a pic through your Tony home-perm hair and trying to decide if you'll have the fries or just a Diet Coke for lunch. (Fries WITH Diet Coke ends up being your choice, resulting in years worth of poor diet and nutrition and fluffy, girthy abdominal. Who knew?)

Sadly, our only gauge back then to judge our nearly imperceptible young woman worth was the HIGHLY PRIZED filthy word, or low suggestive whistle emanating from a mouth full of braces and Cheetos residue. But you could live or die by that assessment and often popularity ebbed and flowed according to the Spirit Hall leer.

Anyway, when I got back from my mushroom trip back in time, I realized that my Age Appropriate Shopko Mom Shirt (that's a real brand, I'm pretty sure) probably acted as camouflage and I had been invisible to them. So that explains it.

But still, one catcall...wouldn't have killed you. 'Sall I'm sayin'.

CHILD'S PLAY

Drinking caffeine in it's purest, most unadulterated form...over rabbit poop ice, with birds chirping and me smiling. Ah, simple joys, people. Simple joys.

To be honest, I've had a lot of simple joys lately. The simple joy wrappers litter my counter tops, nightstand and pockets of my bathrobe. Obviously, I've been paying close attention to everyone's vinyl lettering and wooden letter blocks that TELL me, in NO uncertain terms, to simplify. And what better way, than by finding simple joy in Child's Play? And by Child's Play, I'm referring to that ENORMOUS BAG REMINISCENT OF LEFTOVER HALLOWEEN CANDY CALLED 'CHILD'S PLAY' THAT YOU CAN BUY AT YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD TARGET!

Plus, then you get a bag of Smarties to dump into the strainer bowl, and you have very CLEVER, AND AMUSED CHILDREN. Because it's all about the kids, friends. All about the kids. Okay, wait. I already said it was about simple joys. Well...why can't it be about both? Thus it becomes all about the simple joys of intelligent, frolicking children, which means I'm a better mother than you! See? In the end, it's all about me. Duh.

Which is better than having it be about my husband, as the poor lad has read one too many references toward his swollen uvula. And rather than take comfort in the fact that part (most) of what I blog about has no basis in reality, and is a magnificent exaggeration of practically everything, he has started questioning his worth to me as husband, celestial companion, father of my children, reason for my heart to go on beating.

And I can't blame him. If I were to pull up his thoughts and feelings on the computer, day after day, and find references~albeit embellished~about the woman sitting in her robe at noon thirty, with a partially peeled facial mask hanging from her chin, I might feel, oh, less than appreciated and adored.

So it's time for a little reality version of Lisa's husband~to counterbalance the gibberish I'm guilty of typing out day after day. For the record, he is HIGHEST HEIGHTS...in humor because he thinks I'm hilarious, in kindness toward my parents when his very own have left this world, in strength of character proven as a successful business owner, in overlooking my faults which I like to suggest are kind of invisible, in loving his children when I can't, in loving his wife on silent Sunday mornings, in providing for our family beyond my wildest dreams, in being long suffering when told to climb yet another relationship mountain, in turning his weaknesses into strengths, in gifting me OFTEN AND GLEEFULLY with pink and yellow roses and diamonds and rabbit poop ice makers, in being blind to my two different sized eyes, in recalling only the good in our marriage and thinking I'm the reason for it. And short of hot gluing multi-colored feathers to my underarms~giving me wings to fly~then pointing and shouting to anyone who'll listen, "That's my wife right there. Oh, wow! Would you look at her soar!"

And so, I make a blog announcement to one and all that I CHOOSE STERLING! Over and over and over again.

And do you hear that?

My heart continues to beat...

...because he chooses me.

Thank you, dear man. For choosing me.

PIONEER CHILDREN

It's Saturday. That means I woke up snarling, but I shoved a piece of chocolate in my jaws and flipped on a church music CD. It's all good now.

It's like pioneer children who sang as they walked and walked and walked. But it's more like Lisa's children cleaned as they whined and whined and whined...and whined. They slur and stumble, so drunken with whine are they. But it's not just whine...it's bawling and eye rolls and leaving piles of crap littering the stairs and vacuuming only the middle section of their bedrooms, leaving dust bunnies alone to fornicate, multiply and replenish the pollen count in my home.

No wonder none of my kids can pronounce their consonants.

Side note regarding house cleaning...We bought a new washer last night. Our drum barrel was going out on our old one...and by old, I mean an ancient SIX YEARS! It had lost it's teeth, eyesight and walked with a limp. I think washer years are like dog years.

So it was more like~hmmm. Wait. My age.

Anyway, can I just say, without fear of lawsuit, because I'm kind of like Oprah, and remember what she did to the beef industry when she said she wouldn't eat hamburgers anymore? Well, so we're similar, in that I have a huge fan base and following, as so many of you want to emulate me, as well you should, so I have to be really careful with the words out of my blog, else I could turn the economy on a dime. And even with that in mind, I'm still going to say that I HAAAATE FRONT LOADERS! HAAAATE, HAAAATE, HAAAAAAAAATE!!! And I hate the idiot environmentalists that came up with the idea of returning to "olden days, didn't work back then, but still, let's revisit the dark ages of laundry" energy savers. Yeah, no. Bad idea then. Bad idea now.

Three words. Low flow toilets.

Three more words. Several extra flushes.

One word. Floaters.

One more word. Ew.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Lest ye environmentalists call me ugly names, I'll say for the record that I chose an ENERGY STAR top loader. But only because it was my only choice. And guess what?

I kill spiders.

That's right, you heard me~even in their own environment.

And I laugh while I do it.

So there. (my tongue is out and I look really mature)

YAY!

YAY FOR THE BOY!

STREAKING

So maybe it's the hormonal imbalance that I assume I'm suffering from right now. Or maybe it's just that EVERYBODY AND EVERYTHING IS A FREAKIN' IDIOT. Not sure which. But most likely, it's that EVERYBODY AND EVERYTHING IS A FREAKIN' IDIOT. Especially my husband's snore-head uvula. Clearly.

But I'll try to abstain from name calling from this point on. Going to focus on positives.

Ummmmm....hm. This is going to be a very, very, very short post.

Okay, here's one. I like crumbnut doughnuts. And though the taste is exquisite, the name is even more so. Crumbnut. Crumbnut, crumbnut, crumbnut. Worth buying a box just to say you're eating a crumbnut.

Let's see...okay, also I'm not so vexed with Sunshine anymore. I think Storm Cloud, with it's ENORMOUS RUMP, sat on our little Sunshine's beam. Finally, it pulled itself free and streaked naked across the sky...if only for a few moments. I don't fully trust it. Sunshine is kind of known for lying. But today, for right now, I'll graciously accept a few beams filtering through the "WHAT THE...?! ARE YOU LOST?!" snowflakes.

And that's about it, folks. Sorry. You caught me on an off day. And yes, I could have refrained from blogging, but that's not fair to you. My peeps. My BBFF's. My looking-through-the-window-of-her-computer-soul-to-find-out-the-essence-of-Lisa-chicks.

You're welcome.

THIN LINE

Cute second son is running for Jr. Pres~

Vintage Coca-Cola posters with his face photoshopped in...

Hey, pals! Okay then. I'm done with bed and Lortab and stinkin' up the joint with my sweaty head. Actually had a dream that I was hugging people and I smelled sour~ew~so I woke up sheepish and ran straight to the shower. Wouldn't want those imaginary dream people to judge me, you know.

Speaking of clean, I have to come clean on something. Some of you dear peeps have "assumed" that I was speaking of a more serious procedure~akin to the ripping out of innards that I spoke of wanting to do on my own. I hang and swing my head in shame.

Though I've loved the sympathy and phone calls and blog comments and candy and decorating magazines and love notes and offers of dinners being brought in, I find it necessary to put up a hand to halt! I AM UNDESERVING, FRIENDS! Kind of red faced to say the only thing I had done was a burning and inserting. Of which only one was actually successful. Dammitalltohell. So SAVE THOSE TENDER MERCIES FOR NICE, because eventually they'll have to go back in and do RIGHT what they should have DONE RIGHT in the first place. And then I'll enjoy your lovely meal and earnest faces. But for now, I'm not nearly so sick as you thunk me to be.

And though not completely triumphant, all was not lost, as I learned a couple of things. After coming out of my very first anesthesia stupor, and thinking (being the operative word here) how INCREDIBLY STUPID THE WOMAN ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CURTAIN SOUNDS! OH MY GOSH! SLUR, SLUR, SLURRRRRRING HER WORDS! I KNOW I DON'T SOUND THAT STUPID! Also, being ASTONISHED that it was all over JUST. LIKE. THAT! And I didn't remember a THING after them saying you'll feel the effects soon, and I had started to feel the effects in my NOSE, and so I POINTED AT MY NOSE TO SHOW THEM WHERE I WAS FEELING THE EFFECTS, then suddenly, HERE I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM AND IT'S OVER! THAT IS JUST STINKIN' FREAKIN' AMAZING! I CAN ONLY HOPE I DIDN'T LET LOOSE WITH A STINKER WHILE I WAS UNDER! And I thought these same thoughts over and over, for a good five minutes or so.......well, the thing I LEARNED about coming out of anesthesia is that there is a TEEEEENY, TIIIIIINY, WHISPER THIN FINE LINE BETWEEN WHAT YOU'RE THINKING AND WHAT YOU'RE ACTUALLY SAYING OUT LOUD! In FACT, that line is sooooooo fine, that often times, they're one and the same.

Another thing I learned is that nobody really needs to, or wants to, or should know how many people they called in to gather round your...open knees...to see what they could do about getting one of those things to insert. Apparently, it was like feeding a "wet spaghetti noodle into a needle's eye" (Dr.'s words) and they called in extra hands with different vantage points to try to shove that pasta through. Also, did you know they can inject Novocaine into your fallopian tubes? Makes them relax~just like a hot bubble bath. Anyway, plenty of observers-turned-active-participants during my unconscious plight. Thereby making it impossible for me to look anybody in the eye, in the whole clinic, as they might have different memories of our...interaction...than I had.

So that's where we stand. The burning and the learning went well, the thinking and speaking were indistinguishable, and the participants many and varied.

In retrospect, maybe I need one last Lortab for the road. Help to knock out a memory or two that I sincerely feel I can do without.

FINE

I'm TODALLEE FINE. TODALLEE. No neeeeeeed towurybout me and this here Lortab pill that I just putted into my sistm. saaalll goooooood.

eyem gunna write smore latrrr.

NO MORE

Sooooo...I'm about to become infertile, folks.

That's right. A desert plain.

Fruitless.

Barren.

A seedless watermelon.

Kind of a miserable joy.

I mean, seriously, I was about to rip my innards out myself over the last few months of Mother Nature gift giving. She just felt ENORMOUSLY GENEROUS, and couldn't DO ENOUGH PRESENTING. (She must have heard I'm a hoarder.)

So it was time. And I was more than ready. I'd started throwing tampons out my car window like salt water taffy in a parade!

But then I was driving past Dillards~my 'go-to' department store for the most beautiful, classic baby/toddler clothing ever created~and without warning, my 41 year old heart about shattered to pieces! It was the sudden realization that I am...done. It is the finale. That in the blink of a "procedure," the curtain call has come, and I am bowing out of my child bearing years.

And something that has always been a choice, will now be, well, decided.

And yes, I know. I know what will go away. No more gas can remains being dumped over a tow-head toddler. No more overdose of Dimetap with a less than alert babysitter (Daddy). And no more screaming and doing the limp-body/floppy-arms-over-the-head-collapse while I try to grab them up in a pencil skirt and four inch heels.

No more hearing the scream and moan of a child, knowing that something is really, really wrong. No more bloody broken teeth while playing "airplane" and crash landing on the kitchen floor. No more chicken pox for Halloween, sharing the love, and infecting the rest of the siblings at even two week intervals.

That's right. None of those things.

Which also segues to some other no more childhood "stuff."

No more sun filtering through fly-away hair as you "WATCH ME JUMP (2 inches) HIGH!" on the trampoline. No more newborn nuzzling into my neck and lungs full of baby bouquet. And no more white eyelet blessing dresses with silk rose smocking.

No more lifting a slippery wet babe out of bubble baths and into their hooded towels. No more "Mark, Set, Go!" followed by a race to get into their pajamas. No more belly blows and "Whosagoodboy?" with hysterical baby laughter as a reward.

No more Christmas Eve fevers. No more matching Sunday ties. No more skinned noses for family pictures. No more swaying in a comforting rhythm.

No more...No more...No more.

Thus, the miserable joy.

I know it's time. I know it's a season. And I know it's fleeting.

And so, I bid adieu. I bow deep. I bow grateful. I bow in humility at the blessing of being trusted with these years. These babes. These sons and daughter of my very own.

And the curtain closes. Farewell.

CHICLETS

Shower gift for Morgan~fun stuff for Summertime

Table runner, watering can, dishtowels~LOVE the fabric!

Is it SO wrong to eat six boxes of Chiclets...by your lonesome...in a half hour? I submit no.

Plus, it's not like I'm EATING them, because all you do is chomp, chew and suck out the flavor, then spit the left over gum wad into a giant pile of dead gum corpses on your used up newspaper. So you don't like, really, ABSORB the calories or anything. Unless you swallow it. I think that's written somewhere~the rules regarding chewing up Chiclets. Or I heard it on TV. Or I made it up. Whatever.

Anyway, I'm not going to feel guilty. Because I ate a bag of peas (and hamburger, fries, onion rings, 44 oz root beer) afterward. AND, I brushed my teeth. So it's all good.

Hey, by the way, did you know that when you go into the Dr.s office for what they refer to as a benign "CONSULTATION," that it translates in medical profession speak as, "Why don't you go ahead and weigh her again."

I KNOW! Crazy, idiot, medical professionals! Bless their hearts.

So I followed the nurse back, "Baaahh baaahhh." No idea that she's going to motion all nonchalant like at the scale and say, "Go ahead and step on here..." and she kept her head down, looked at her chart and acted like she didn't just ROCK. MY. OVERWEIGHT. WORLD!

So I kind of screamed, "Woooo. Hoe. Waaaaiiiitt...um...I just DID that two weeks ago!" I tried to keep my crazy eyes from taking the stage, but they insisted on performing an 'Interpretive Dance.' (Amberlee)

The nurse looked up, totally unconcerned~as any size 2 would be~and said, "Oh. Well, OK then. Let's get your blood pressure. Go ahead and have a seat."

Then she kept asking me questions, after she'd strapped the cuff to my arm! HOW INSANE IS THAT?! LIKE I COULD ANSWER HER! I had to hold up my "ssshhhh" finger and continue to breath in and out through my nose to try to calm down. I think my numbers alarmed her. But not HALF as much as the scales alarmed me. So we're even.

Anyway, just had to pass that trivia by you, cuz you're my BBFF's and I like to burden you with nonsense. Have a good day, peeps!

MEDALS

My mother in law, Ramona and my Grandma Stewart~two incredible women who knew...

I was just reading the batch of comments from the latest posting of Seriously so blessed~which is THEE MOST SPOT-ON SATIRE DIRECTED AT THE CLICHE YOUNG PERFECTION SEEKING LATTER DAY SAINT WOMAN that I've ever read~pure genius~and I'm laughing my guts out as I rummage and hork down my kid's left over Easter candy, because I'm soooooo faaaarrrr from those years of competition with my fellow young mothers.

I don't know that I was ever even in the race.

Maybe I thought I was, but I was dressed in a pencil skirt and flip flops, doing finger stretches, while the REAL competitors warmed up their hamstrings in $1,000 worth of Nike gear. The gun shot went off, and I wandered away looking for kittens in the clouds.

So I was talking with Bitty, about perceptions. Seems the more we TRY to be identified in a certain way, the less likely we sincerely ARE that person. The people I know that are busy exuding a perfect life, are also the ones I work feverishly to avoid. Can't help but feel inferior. And I already have a mirror and scale for that~don't need to see it reflected in their lash extended eyeballs. And I'm sorry, but lip gloss has NO bidnis being on a mouth at 6:00 in the morning. That's where eye boogers belong...well, not on the MOUTH, but on the face, more specifically in the wrinkly corners of the eyes.

The people I kind of want to stalk~but clearly wouldn't, because it's ILLEGAL, folks...or if I did, at least I wouldn't mention it on a public blog...NO, I'd do it with great stealth and secret combinations~those people are the ones that have no idea how TRULY FANTASTIC they are.

I adore the woman who can pull-off shoving a giant pink flower haphazardly in her effortless up do (Bitty Boo.) I love to watch the mothers of a newborn who sincerely laugh when, after a quick taste, realize what they THOUGHT was mustard under their nails, is actually NOT MUSTARD (unidentified beautiful brunette at recent church service.) I worship greatly the women who consistently offer a fat armed hug and genuine smile, even without a recent bleaching and EVEN MORE SO, the ones WHO FREAKIN' OWN THEIR MOM JEAN/CAPRI STATUS! (pleated front, elastic waist and flat bum.)

I look up to the woman with soft cheeks, who smells of Dove and homemade bread (sister Nicki and Mom.) The one who wears spectator pumps with white linen (Grandma Stewart.) The one who is oblivious to the competition going on outside, and instead concentrates on the slow and steady progress in her own home (many, many wonderful women~too many to name.)

Those women already know who they are. They know what makes them happy. They know how to bring others comfort. They know that seasons change, that sorrow and joy ebb and flow, that the gift is in the journey, not in the race.

So back to those kittens in the clouds. I found them. And they were frolicking against my favorite sky blue background. So I painted a couple of rooms in my house the very same color, which brings me more thrill than any gold medal around a sweaty neck after a heated race EVER could. So I guess it's yet another lesson in enjoying the journey, and admiring the women of God who surround me daily.

If I could hang each one of them from a ribbon and clutch them against my bosom as a reminder of what I am aspiring to, I would.

Just need a hole puncher strong enough...

YOUTHFUL ESSENCE

FYI~My very first micro-dermabrasion today. Crystal warned me it would hurt. Crystal told me it would sting. Crystal said to be prepared to have my toes curl. Just like her name, Crystal is brilliant. She had me set up for "AAAGGHHHH!!!! I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I WISH I WERE A MAN!" But alas, twas not the case. Slight discomfort. Surely not so troublesome as a vaginal wand. In the end, I actually thanked her.

I thought of it as a tiny old lady gunky skin debris vacuum. And as we all know, you can scrub your entire home, from top to bottom, but without the final vacuum tracks, it's as if you haven't lifted a finger. Might just as well have been blogging all freakin' day long. Not that I've ever done that, but probably you have. (condescending head tilt and face scrunch) So this hundred dollar vacuuming was very, very, VERY NECESSARY, DEAR. ABOUT AS NECESSARY AS YOUR LAST MOTORCYCLE ACCESSORY.

So now here's your assignment, friends. When you see me over the course of the next several weeks, I expect a hearty, "OOOOOHHHH, LIIIIISSSAAAA...YOU ARE POSITIVELY GLOWING. IN FACT, SO YOUTHFUL ART THOU, THAT I FULLY EXPECT TO SEE A CRACK UP THE MIDDLE OF YOUR FACE, BECAUSE YOUR COUNTENANCE SO CLOSELY RESEMBLES A BABY'S RUMP!"

Is that so hard? That's all I ask, people. The truth. Plain and simple....and exaggerated beyond recognition.

Back to necessary, I've been introduced by my face pimp, Jill, an addictive product pusher, to a new ware named "Skincerity." It's this mask stuff that you put on at night and it basically seals in your skin juices. Two things~it's dreadfully expensive and yet, enormously vital to my baby bum face. Makes zits go away. Makes pores go away. Makes money go away. But I think the rule is~ two outweighs one, right? Greater good, people. Always remember that noble decree.

So I'll let you know how this goes. Or better yet, why don't YOU let me know how this goes. If you see me and I SCREAM YOUTHFUL ESSENCE, then we'll know it's worth the price.

"YOUTHFUL ESSENCE, YOUTHFUL ESSENCE, YOUTHFUL ESSENCE!" She screamed!

And can I just say, I never, ever, EVERRRRRR thought I'd be throwing this much cash into the Fountain of Youth. I used to just toss a dirty penny and a wish every now and then. But lately, hell, I might as well chuck in credit cards without limit and let the waters wash away my life savings.

But as long as I go out looking like the way I came in, it's worth it? Right?

(Ding dong)

Don't answer that.

CIRCUS PEANUTS

Know what's yummy and almost tastes like Easter all over again? Circus peanuts. Stale ones. From Hobby Lobby. Go get some.

SO, WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL, MAKES ME FORGET ALL ABOUT THE ALUMNI ASSEMBLY I'M IN CHARGE OF IN TWO WEEKS, WEATHER OUTSIDE, LADIES AND GENTS! What a tender mercy.

Oh, you caught that part about the alumni assembly? Well, yes. It's been on my mind a little bit lately. And because friends share their inner most thoughts, here's a little peek into my scattered gray matter for the last several weeks~the hours between 11:00 PM and 7:00 AM...

Dream, dream, drift off and dream about OH MY HE&%, OH MY HE&%, YOU STILL DON'T HAVE THE JOCK DANCE-OFF TEAM PUT TOGETHER! YOU TOLD HER YOU'D GET HER THE LIST SO SHE COULD START TEACHING THEM THE DANCE AND YOU STILL HAVEN'T DONE IT! LIGHTNING FLASHES, THUNDER CRASHES! OH MY HE&%, OH MY HE&%, OH MY HE&%!!!!

Snooze, relax, breathing dies down to HOLY FREAKING COWS, HOW MANY ALUMNI ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO ATTEND? MAYBE THEY'VE ALL LIED AND SAID THEY'D BE THERE, BUT WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO IT, THEY FORGET and THERE ARE ONLY 6 OF US?! THAT'S RIGHT, SIX!!! FILTHY TOILETS OVERFLOW WITH MANURE WATER! WAKE UP, ADRENALINE SURGE AND FLIP ON EVERY LIGHT SO YOU CAN WRITE DOWN THESE FLEETING BUT URGENT THOUGHTS RIGHT NOW ON YOUR BEDSIDE LIST. HURRY, QUICK, QUICK, BEFORE THEY DUMP OUT OF YOUR LITTLE PEA BRAIN AND SOAK INTO YOUR PILLOW, NEVER TO BE SEEN AGAIN UNTIL THE MORNING OF THE ASSEMBLY WHEN IT'S TOO LATE!

Finally fall asleep and dream of little shimmering fairies that turn into OLD, WHISKERY FAT CHINNED MEN DRESSED IN ALUMNI CHEERLEADING UNIFORMS AND BUILDING A PYRAMID THAT COLLAPSES ON THE HIGH SCHOOL STAGE, INTO A PILE OF BROKEN BONES, SHATTERED DREAMS AND HIP REPLACEMENTS AS THE AMBULANCE SIRENS SCREAM PAST MY BEDROOM WINDOW, ALL TO THE TUNE OF LADY GAGA'S JUST DANCE!

And that right there is just a weeeeeee, liiiiiittllllle, teeeeeeeny, tiiiiiiiny glimmer of insight into what is causing my blood pressure to SOOOOOOAAAAARRRRR to the HIGHEST HEIGHTS OF THE MEDICAL CHARTS...which will be really good for me when I show up for my "procedure" next week and they have to make me lie on my left side until it calms down enough that they can put me under. They may even have to perform the surgery while I lie on my left side. I guess guts are guts, no matter which way the body is situated.

Anyway, is it any wonder I've found solace in stale circus peanuts? And maybe a box or two of hot tamales? Or maybe a few (10) bars of chocolate and "found" Easter Bunny remains? See, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get through big, fat, STUPID assignments that don't even result in being elected class president or receiving a higher salary...or any salary.

It's my very own homemaker/wife/mother/blog writer reward system. And if the numbers on the scale are any indication of my prosperity, well, let's just say it's lookin' PRETTY DARN GOOD FOR ME, PEOPLE! NAME IN NEON LIGHTS, GOOD!

Ah, the sweet taste of success........tastes suspiciously like circus peanuts.

SENSIBLE SHOES

More pretty stuff...

Hi peeps!

Just got back from driving the Sister missionaries around here, there and everywhere as they went to the Ogden Temple, Family History Center, Walmart, the Distribution Center and Mall. They left at 6:00 AM, and this is their "day off."

Mm hmm.

You heard me.

And yes~

~you are a lazy sloth compared to them.

And I am embarrassed for you.

Now ME, chose to be a giver this morning, generous beyond belief with blessings someone else is just as entitled to as I am. For instance, when the missionaries gave me the choice between waking up at 5:45 AM to drive them to the temple, or waiting until 10:45 to pick them up, I pondered for a split second and then screamed, "10:45! 10:45! THE SECOND ONE! NOT THE FIRST! THE SECOND ONE! NUMBER TWO!" Because listen, other people need opportunities to grow, too, you know. I may be a hoarder, but not when it comes to blessings. Well, OK, that was a lie. Just not when it involves the numbers 5 and 45 and the letters A.M. (shudder, twitch)

I was asked to sit with one of the sisters as she recuperated from a toe surgery last night. Two words entered my brain as I opened the door to the apartment. One~Good. Two~H$##. But that first word is kind of misleading, as it connotes something positive. Which this dwelling had no business suggesting. Then two more words came to mind, having to do with holi.........ness. But not so much to the Lord, as to a portion of feces.

Anyway, by the end of the visit, I realized one reason for putting these sweet young chicks in such foul surroundings is to help the teaching of the WORD OF GOD to move forward at a panther's pace. Because there is not a female alive that would choose to spend any more time than is absolutely necessary INSIDE that troll hut. The pit of despair conditions ensure that they will do whatever they must in order to flee the premises~including leaving at 6:00 AM on their day off, and proselyting from dawn till dusk. Method to their madness. Kind of brilliant if you ask me.

In conclusion, I'll state the obvious. I was not a sister missionary. (surprise eyes) But I'm kind of like their angel~not on a spiritual par, but able to serve them...as a chauffeur...and gopher...and occasional refreshing rabbit poop ice supplier. Clicking along in my pumps and diving for cover under their righteously modest skirts as they enter the Celestial Kingdom in sensible shoes and cardigans.

At 6:00 in the freakin' AM.

PITY PARTY

Hi all! Some of you are blessed to have completed your Spring break.

Well, good for you. (I said that with a snotty, nasal tone~just FYI)

ME, on the other hand, is equally~nay~MORE BLESSED THAN THEE, to be the mother of a girl off track. That's right. Off track. Which means another delightful 2 1/2 weeks of daughter-babble-white-noise interrupted with an occasional, "MOM! MOM! You didn't answer me!" She just walked over and started to twist my unkempt hair into spikes all over my head. I now have hair horns in four sections on my skull. And no, there will be no accompanying picture so uncross those fingers.

So anyway, I'll try to get back onto a blogging schedule, now that you're all done being preoccupied with menial things like your children, husband, home and Easter. Now you can give ME the time and attention that I require...AND DESERVE...because it's all about Lisa, folks. All about Lisa.

So we had a fun weekend "Come to Jesus" with our second son. Hold on for a sec. Sorry, I had to stop and watch while my daughter played "air piano" (like air guitar) for me. It was necessary to show me RIGHT NOW that she knew more of her harder recital piece~the one that she screamed, howled and bawled was "WAAAAYYY TOOOO HAAAARRRRDDDD FOR A LITTLE GIRL LIKE ME." But now she can play it. Where was I? Sorry, wait. Just a second. She needed to know RIGHT NOW exactly when the TV pitch man Willie Mayes had died. Followed by a moment of silence together to remember how sad that was.

OK, so back to Jesus. Yeah, so second son got kind of mixed up between his elder brother's 19 year old pre-missionary freedom and that of his own 16 year old present day. Thinking they were one and the same, including access to cars, curfews and cash. Silly boy. He was mistaken. The catalyst for the kite strings being pulled in was the call Saturday night from his friend's cell phone and an uncertain voice stating~

"Um, so Chris told me to call you, cuz his car lights just went out. We're screaming down the road at 55 MPH in a spray painted matte black car, in the pitch black of the night, four idiot boys with an underdeveloped quarter brain between us, and no headlights. So, um, what should we do?" That middle part wasn't actually spoken, just understood. Husband's calm answer?

"GOOD HELL! TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE ACCELERATOR AND PULL OVER!"

"Oh. OK. Then what?"

I know.

Teenagers should be illegal.

Now son wasn't fully aware when he arrived home that he was about to be "restricted," and thought there would be gobs of sympathy and/or empathy shown him by his parentals. He came into our bedroom, blowing his pity party horn with, "Oh my gosh. TWO things happened to me! ONE, my car lights went out. THEN, I locked my KEYS in my car!" Just so you know, this was the one, two, THIRD time in six days that he'd locked his keys in the car. Not even shizzing. And do you suppose there had been a suggestion by his mother after the FIRST lock-out, that FIRST ON HIS LIST should be to have another key made?! Why, yes. Yes, it had been mentioned. And dismissed as insane.

So he was surprised beyond measure when we yanked that blow horn out of his mouth and smashed it to smithereens with our angry slit eyes commentary. But that's not the end.

The end is this~he felt safe enough to tell us the next day, that because of our quick privilege smiting, the rest of his woe is me never had the chance to cross his lips the previous night. Apparently, NOT ONLY had he locked his keys in his car again...BUT...he'd also locked the TOOLS inside that he'd borrowed from his father in order to break IN to the locked car the first and second time. Mmm hmmmm. That's right.

The makings of a memory right there. And a blog.

To which I say, "Thank you, second son. And bless your underdeveloped brain's heart."

MAGGOTS

~The pretty stuff from St. George~

So did I mention that I have an "alarming" Vitamin D deficiency? Yup. Dr. told me. So much so, in fact, that they called in a prescription to be filled immediately and I have to have another check on my numbers in a few weeks. And here are the symptoms of said deficiency~lethargy, depression, fatigue, muscle aches and pains...etc. Which is pretty much the disease called January through May.

Now here are the side effects of the supplement~lethargy, depression, fatigue, muscle aches and pains...oh, and one other...con-sti-pa-tion. So basically, you trade in one batch of crappo symptoms for the identical batch of crappo side effects, and it's a wash. Except for that last highly desirable one.

Also, my sister, Nicki, just facebooked me to scream that she had to order bi-focals, as lately, we've both had this condition that we refer to as "wormy vision" or "maggot eyeballs." See, after focusing on something close for a few minutes, and then averting our gaze to out there, we noticed squirmo wormo lines all over the out there vicinity. Kind of like baby maggots. Thus, our condition. Anyway, she decided to fix it, without realizing the fix would entail "SERIOUSLY? IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY?!" glasses. I myself have picked out a nice pair of rose colored shades called denial, and will embrace my nightcrawler world for as long as I need to, in order to keep that reading glasses chain from choking the youth out of me.

Anyway, this growing old is for the birds. And not just any bird, but food grubbing scavengers. Or Sesame Street Bert's favorite~portly, perching, pooping pigeons. That's right. I'd give the curse of growing old to a pigeon any day, because they're a stinkin' thorn in our side right now. We have a batch of welfare recipients who've taken over our colonial pillars and invite their Hippie Ding Dong pigeon friends to "come crash at my pad." They're squatters. Squatters as in they've taken up residence, and squatters as in they squat over the edge of the pillars and take a daily dribbling dump onto the porch area below. We kind of hate them.

We've tried to sour the milk, as in we put blocks of wood on top of their ledge. Did you know pigeons can perch on one leg, teeter on a half inch platform and fall asleep? Well, they can. So then we got a plastic owl to frighten them. Did you know that pigeons consider plastic owls a toilet, too? Well, they do. Then we got our neighbors giant bird catching net and tried MULTIPLE times to sneak up and ensnare it. Did you know pigeons can sense giant bird catching nets being wielded by angry, less-than-graceful husbands, and all they have to do is flap a wing and they suddenly rise into the air and out of reach? Well, it's true.

Anyway, pretty much we've decided to kill them.

But now that I think about it, maybe the wiser thing to do is to curse them with the old age hex, and watch them self destruct. Just imagine how much better for us it would be if they became near AND far sighted, constipated and fatigued! Throw in a batch of Vitamin D deficiency and they'll get so depressed and achy, they'll waste away their days whining, rubbing their necks, and patting around their bird-bodies for their "readers."

"I swear, I just set those stupid things down, and somebody...SOMEBODY KEEPS MOVING MY STUFF! If people would just leave my stuff where I put my stuff, then I wouldn't have to WASTE AWAY MY WHOLE PIGEON LIFE LOOKING FOR WHERE SOMEBODY KEEPS PUTTING MY STUFF." (shuffle, neck rub and darting pigeon eyes)

I think we're onto something here folks. Scientists and Black Magic Hexers, start looking into that, will you? In the meantime, I'll go take my pills...now where did I leave that bottle? SOMEBODY put it away somewhere. Have to SAVE ME FROM MYSELF...if I'd WANTED my pills put AWAY, I'd have DONE IT...people always puttin' my stuff places I don't WANT my stuff.......(shuffle, neck rub and darting maggot eyeballs...)

LAURA AND NELLY

Well, HEEEELLLLOOOOOO friends! Did ya'll miss me?! Give Lisa sum sugah! Sooooooo, I've been goooooone. And no, I didn't tell you, because we all remember last time when I threw it in your sweet and earnest little faces like a shaving cream pie at a carnival, how I was off to warm, green pastures, (Las Vegas) but they ended up being littered with steaming cow pies, (Satan's pooh) so it was a humbling experience (freaked me out) and I apologized (compelled to, not willingly) later for having been so stinkin' giddy about getting the roast outta here. PLUS, 'member I told you to build a snowman while I got a tan? I know. Seriously. I blow chunks, man. Snotty, mean spirited chunks.

But this time, I duct taped my Nelly Oleson disposition to a chair, sock wad in her mouth, and kept it quiet that I was heading off into the wild blue St. George yonder. And to be honest, it may have had a little something to do with not wanting to come back to a missing rabbit poop ice maker and a Cheshire cat smile on one of my blog followers. I'm no idiot.

Anyway, Readers Digest version of the vacation~hopeful springy weather, 30 turns to 60 degree JOY, JOY, JOY, splitting storm brewing headache, TJ Maxx trip, zebra pumps, antique bookstore, angry slit eyes migraine, antique french picture, popcorn popping on the apricot trees, medicinal Dr. Pepper(s), period on my white skirt-oh my hell, why didn't anybody tell me?!, Starbucks for Internet to read missionary son's letter, crap food, crap food, crap food, inspiring Conference talks, Easter egg hunt, Exedrine, Advil, hidden baskets, snoring husband, invited to be a regular contributor for Mormon Mommy Blogs, rain, storm, blow, blow, blow, beautiful, brilliant white Mormon temple, tile floors funneling every whisper and scream directly into our bedroom and ears, dietary fiber~too little too late, "cool" green dork glasses on 9 year old, "Thank you, thank you, thank you INFINITY for the Hollister clothes! You're the BEST MOM AND DAD IN THE WORLD!" promptly forgotten infinity appreciation when asked to pick up dishes, 60 degrees back to 30 and 26 voice messages to return.

And there you have it. Jealous? You know you are, Laura Ingalls! You ALWAYS want what I have! (evil, conniving grin as I flip my platinum ringlets and wash out my white skirt...)

MEANT TO SAY

I thought you might be interested in how I answered some of the questions my Dr. asked me.

"Is your blood pressure always that high?"

"Nooooo. Hm mm. Nope."

What I MEANT to say was, "Oh. my. holy. roast. Are you freakin' kidding me? You make me wait over two months for this appointment and another hour in the waiting room, to get the anxiety juices EXPLODING through my veins. The pager flashes and buzzes, scaring the bejebus out of me. You walk me back here, have me pee in a cup, weigh myself in front of TWO other nurses, with the new HIGHLY ACCURATE electric scale that ALSO MEASURES BODY FAT PERCENTAGE~THAT'S RIGHT, BODY FAT PERCENTAGE~and you LEAVE MY EXTREMELY HIGH SCORE (not a basketball game, people...not PROUD of this high score) SCREAMING IN DIGITAL NEON TO DELIGHT EVERY PASSER-BY! Then you seat me, stab and squeeze the hell out of my finger and strap a cuff to my arm that turns into a tourniquet, where I can feel the resounding thud of my pulse while I contemplate the stirrup ride that is waiting for me in the next room. Had I walked off the plane and into this women's center, from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, with the machine gun still strapped to my back and enemy blood splattered on my face, my heart still couldn't slam any harder into my chest than it is right now.

"Are you drinking any caffeine?"

(long pause) "Um. Not a lot."

What I MEANT to say was, "Yes. Yes, I am. And it's medicinal...much like California marijuana. And if you think for even a split second that you're taking THAT away from me, you are UP IN THE NIGHT! You can have my Dr. Pepper and Diet Coke (with lime~that's important) when you pry them out of my cold, dead hands!" (thank you, Charlton Heston)

"Have you had a mammogram?"

"No, not yet."

What I MEANT to say was, "I know you told me to do this last time. And I was disobedient. And I feel badly about that now...mostly because I got caught. And because my dear neighbor has breast cancer and she's about my age, so apparently I'm not immortal. But mostly because I got caught."

"Do you do self breast exams?"

"Mm hmm."

What I MEANT to say was, "I did them for a good, strong month after the last exam. Just like I flossed my teeth for the month after my last cleaning, where they scraped the gunk off, what felt like, my soul. I am a slothful, daft, fair weather lump checker/teeth flosser. And I'm sorry."

One last comment~

"Your 'lining' is a mess, dear."

"Wow. Is it?"

What I MEANT to say was, "Really? Why, thank you. Because I have sooooo much control over my uterine lining."

Anyway, good times. Good times.

What I MEANT to say was, "Hated it. Every single second. But I'm a woman and I'll be fine."

POPLIAR

Mother Nature is a punk. Snow in April. 'Nuff said.

SOOOOOO...ANYWAY.....back to me. Guess what I got? Another blog award! I KNOW!!! Because I'm so stinkin' popliar! (Quick explanation)~When Jules was about four or five years old, she came stumbling in through the front doors with a broken heart and a new word. Popliar. As in, the older girls down the street told her that she was just trying to act "popliar"...when she CLEARLY was NOT popliar...so she should just stop trying to be popliar.

Little snots didn't even know how to pronounce the word, but they already knew plenty good how to annihilate pre-school self esteem. Wouldn't want four year old self worth to get out of hand. And though Julia knew NOTHING of what this word signified, she knew there was something horribly wrong if you WEREN'T on the list~a big yellow notepad which the girls actually carried around with them. They'd even take it out to recess, balancing it on a hip while they walked around, assessing prestige, and adding and erasing names at will. Basically, it was the playground (Hollywood) "A" list, and all of the neighborhood girls (stars) were hyper-alert about their notebook (celebrity) status.

Then, some of the girls decided that popliar was more like a synonym for rude. Like, "Oh my gosh...quit acting so popliar!" or "I hate to play with her. She's popliar all of the time." Kind of like when I was little and everybody called people IGNERNT. As in, "Oh my heck, he was so IGNERNT to me!" "You're the most IGNERNT sister! I'm telling Mom how IGNERNT you were to me in front of your friends!" We had no idea that WE WERE GLARINGLY IGNERNT OF OUR IGNERNCE.

Which makes me wonder...why can't WE decide that seemingly negative words are now positives? Or positives now negatives? Like couldn't we use the name Angelina Jolie to connote an unattractive woman? And would that change how the world sees her...and me...in comparison? For instance, "Oh. my. gosh. Um, tres Jolie? More like 'Angelina Jolie.'" Or how about, "She's got a Faniston. Um, yeah. Bad." (That would be a Jennifer Aniston fanny.)

I think I'm onto something here. It's the power of the emphasis. And the mean spirit. And the adversary. And OK, never mind.

Which brings us back to my TOTALLY meritorious BLOG AWARD. Didn't have to climb on a single dead body to get to the highest heights of the award mountain...BECAUSE THE ANGELS CARRIED ME ON THEIR GILDED WINGS!!! BECAUSE I'M ETHEREAL...AND HYSTERICAL...AND LIGHT AS A FEATHER, SO THEY HARDLY EVEN FELT MY WEIGHT AS I GRABBED ONTO THEIR ROBES WHEN THEY DID A FLY BY THAT NIGHT. They tried to shake me off like a booger, but I have a steely grip.

Anyway, thank you Krista, for noticing that Angelina and Jennifer pale in comparison to me...at least on some level...or possibly because you don't know them. But for whatever the reason, I'm grateful to have yet one more reason to wear my chandelier earrings another day.

Bless you!