MEMORIAL DAY

HAPPY BEAUTIFUL MEMORIAL DAY, PEEPS!

Speaking of memories, I grin as I recall the days of my youth and the glorious family traditions carried on for generations. Ever lovely Cache Valley, visiting the graves and then gathering at Uncle Lynn and Aunt Laura's beautiful bungalow style home with the expansive lawns covered in sweet smelling lilacs and Iris flowers. Thousands of cousins to play with...some you weren't really sure were related or if they'd just wandered by and saw the party~but they could swing just as high as you could and were missing the same teeth, therefore, soul mates.

Feasting on potato salad, brownies and divinity just to pass the time until the REAL reason for the festivities to every child under 12...the most DECADENT THING ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH...The GARBAGE CAN FULL OF FREEZING COLD ICE WATER AND ALL THE POP YOU COULD DRINK. That's right. ALL. And to a child with no control over anything in their lives except their bladder, this was a as close to autonomy as we'd ever get.

But in order to conquer that ever elusive red cream soda, you were required to fish and grab until your veins throbbed and blood turned to slush. Totally worth it, because being seen with that red can in your frozen clutch was akin to a purple heart. They'd salute you as you'd pass by and a hush would come over the crowd.

Since we're on the subject of saluting, may I just put my typing hand over my bosom for a moment and give a heart felt and humble Thank You, to those men and women of nobility whose bodies lay in fields of clover and rows of flags, in order that I could swing in innocence on those lawns of lilacs. To the handsome soldier and spirited wife who dressed his coffin rather than their babes. To the Grandpas and Grandmas who lived and taught Greater Good through word and action, that the next generation would have the same love for God, Family and Country~and be willing to give of their own lives, in order to save ours.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life..."

...in this case, not even for his friends, but for generations of people yet to be, yet to appreciate, yet to sometimes even care. But I do. And you are forever in my heart~with every prayer on my knees, every trip to the graveside, every flag I salute.

God, Family and Country.

And a hush comes over the crowd.

ONION PARFAITS

So, do you people have ANY IDEA how ridiculously thin a regular Hershey's bar is? Hardly worth your spit...unless you were to, oh, I don't know, say take several (four) bars and stack them on top of each other, when no one was watching, and snarf them down like they were a special Princess Lisa Onion Parfait (layers~just like Shrek.)

Not that I'd know.

Because that would be wrong...and decadent. (shaking head in shame~furrowed eyebrows)

And sinful(-ly delicious.)

I can only imagine (remember.)

Also, did I mention the CORRUPT FOLKS WHO MANUFACTURE CHICLETS? Not that I want to cast an ugly pall over such an exquisite delicacy, but I feel it's my duty to pass on my knowledge that while ALL OTHER LARD/CHOLESTEROL PUSHERS are SUPERSIZING our portions and rumps, this little orange box has gone the OTHER WAY and is minimizing. They've spun this web of deceit gracefully, as the box has remained the same size. But the COUNT, people. The COUNT IS OFF BY TWO. FREAKIN. CHICLE. SQUARES. You heard me right. Two Chicles~M.I.A. Cheated by snake eyes.

On another note, I'm having a hard time finding my "zone." Like my work/create/energy/accomplish/exercise/arise before noon thirty/aspire/succeed zone. Not sure where it is. Might have been stolen when we went to daylight savings. A bunch of zones were munged up about that time, so I'm thinking that's when the farmer's got a hold of it and mistakenly planted it with their crops, expecting a fantastic harvest.

Which unfortunately has left poor zoned out Princess Lisa wandering around with remnants of Onion Parfait dripping from her chins while her family scavenges about finding nothing but cupcake sprinkles and evaporated milk for dinner.

Which is also the beginnings of a perfectly satisfactory dessert, people. So kwitcherbitchin.

STUPID ROSE

Well, Sniff has gone to get his braces off. If the before and after pics are posted, you'll know he was fully triumphant. But for now, them chicks ain't hatched, cuz we all know that sometimes Orthodontists who say "you'll get your braces off sooner if you wear metal head gear to school" are like Contractors who say "your house should be done by Christmas" are like Doctors who say "you need only gain 20-25 pounds in your pregnancy" are like magazines with articles about how women have the same "desire" as men are like Weight Watchers who say"nothing tastes as good as thin feels" are like manufacturers making tags stating one size fits all are like super centers that say "the customer is always right" are like ice cream cartons that say a "serving size is 1/2 cup" are like movie stars who say they "haven't augmented anything" are like...well anyway...they lie.

So in the meantime, I got another call from daughter, anxious to tell me about yet one more playground injury! This time she jumped off the jungle gym and landed SIDEWAYS ON HER FOOT, PEOPLE!

SO. MUCH. PAIN. AND. AFFLICTION. HEAPED like fertilizer upon one small, helpless, frail set of limping shoulders.

Also posting my first beautiful yellow rose of the season. And I don't know about any of you, but I can't say the word ROSE without saying STUPID first.

So Thanks a lot, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet and the sinking Titanic and James Cameron and Nearer My God to Thee and The Heart of the Ocean and inappropriate boobage in an otherwise magnificent film.

Stupid Rose.

MOUNTAIN DEW

'Member how I told you about that liquid gold I roll onto my face every night, called Skincerity? Yeah, well, somethin's gotta give here, because it peels up, then hangs by a thread from my face, tickling and twitching and making me feel like there might be tarantulas treading lightly across my upper lip. And THEN, the other night, I breathed a deep, cleansing breath and there goes a big ol' piece of mask sucked right up a nose hole! And who's gonna go in after that thing? Nobody. That's who. Just sayin'.

So anyway, I had an epiphany the other day about my third son. I realized he really IS barely 14...though his man-body professes otherwise. What clued me in? Well, besides his reliance on a third party to tell him when his nose needs blowing, how about the fact that he spray painted our house? Mm hmm. I know. And when we asked (screamed) WHY?! he wasn't really sure. He just found two cans of spray paint, held one in each hand, and thought it would "feel cool" to spray them both at the same time. And what better place to feel that coolness, than with the backdrop of our Southern Colonial red brick. Idiot.

Another source of pride, nine year old daughter walked to the grocery store~unattended~yesterday, and proceeded to buy a GINORMOUS 2 LITER BOTTLE OF WHISKEY...I mean Mountain Dew. But it might as well have been whiskey, for the amount of parenting and oversight involved. And what was going through the check out clerk's mind? Something like this...

"Oh my. Will you look at that. There goes tooth rot and morbid obesity in it's pupa stage. What an enchanting butterfly she'll be when she emerges from her XXL chrysalis, all scattered teeth and fat elbowed."

Something like that.

Anyway, I was humiliated that someone might have seen my daughter buy that bottle of diabetes. So as a repentant measure and to prove our worth as an eternal family, we went for a walk for Family Home Evening. And we threw away the whiskey...I mean Dew. And I'm now on my way to the grocery store to stock up on cukes and carrots.

Because nothing says GOOD MOTHER like a drawer full of uneaten vegetables.

SO SLEEPY

Sleepy. Soooooo sleepy. Like my house is filled with poppies and I'm looking for the Emerald City with Toto in a picnic basket. On account of piano recitals consuming our entire day. Three hours drive time and over three hours piano time. And I'm just gonna tell it like it is, friends. Sitting through 40~yes, FORTY~recital pieces by 97% not my children, is akin to the fascination one might feel when someone tries to explain every nuance of the dream they dreamed last night~how they started out in a car, but ended up in Walmart...it was so weird...and they had a different hairstyle than usual...they don't know why...then this guy they didn't know kept making them buy things...and then they were sliding down a mountain...but it wasn't really a mountain, somehow it was the water slide at Lagoon...but they were in a wagon, which had rusted wheels...yeah. Like that. That interesting.

NOW WAKE UP!

So anyway, here we are, once again at the start of a new week, a new day, a new rain, a new sinus headache. Which is delightful to me. But who am I to complain when my daughter has it soooo much worse? I mean, really. How is a girl supposed to go on with her day, as if NOTHING has happened, when she has a bruise on her hip? And not just ONE bruise, but TWO IDENTICAL BRUISES! I KNOW!

And THEN, not only two hip bruises, but she peeled a piece of dead skin off her ear and NOW IT REALLY, REALLY STINGS! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW BAD! PLUS...get THIS...there is this spot on her hairline that FEELS like it's bruised! NO, REALLY! It TOTALLY is KILLING HER! And so I ask you all, is it any WONDER that the child needed to MAKE AN EMERGENCY CALL TO ME FROM SCHOOL this morning, to TELL ME OF ALL THESE AILMENTS, and then request she either come home immediately from school, or at the very least, I could bring her some Tylenol~RIGHT NOW~in order that she might continue to bare these burdens...silently, of course...and with a pioneer spirit...for the rest of her day?

From the fruit of my loins comes this mountain of courage. So very proud. (heart pound, head tilt, biting lower lip to keep my emotions from overwhelming this blog)

So I'm off, peeps. Time to unwrap the TREASURES I found whilst dancing through "Just a Bed of Roses." If you've never been there, GET OFF YOUR LAZY, RAINY DAY MONDAY DUFF, put on your pirate eye patch and metal hand hook and get to seeking! If there's anything left, that is. Cuz remember my hoarding instincts?

Just sayin'.

BUREAUCRACY

This is my latest mail order item...that itty, bitty purple rectangular box. Can you see it? Look closely. It's on top of the ENORMOUSLY INEFFICIENT FedEx box that it arrived in. If ever there was an analogy for Federal Government/health care reform/the National Deficit/Bureaucracy and taxes to pay for entitlement programs, compared to actual necessity/overstepping it's bounds/the ability to pay for social programs/inefficiency in execution...this right here is it.

So there you are, folks. Today's political commentary.

(postscript~Husband thought I was suggesting that FedEx is government subsidized or owned. Nay~just using this as an object lesson for inefficiency.)

SISTER WIFE

Hi peeps! Just got back from helping out the 4th grade again for their Mountain Man Rendezvous, and can I just BLOG SHOUT LOUDLY that ROBIN PROVOST FREAKIN' ROCKS THE 4TH GRADE TEACHING SCENE!

That woman is all in, friends~heart and soul and fierce and festive buffalo earrings~that's right, buffalo earrings~kind of all in. Heart pound and two fingered kiss throw. That's me showin' you some love, lady. Take it all in. Oh, yeah. This is your day. You are FAMOUS NOW! BLUE AND SHOE KIND OF FAMOUS! And guess what. Now? If you google your name? It'll come up linked to this blog! And who doesn't want THAT?

You're welcome.

So, big, fat long story in my head, but short and sweet on the blog~I wore tennis shoes to the school...............................with a skirt.

I KNOW!!!!!

I don't know if I know who I am anymore, either. Can I even call myself Princess Lisa forever more? Cuz as far as I know, flowery, dainty Auroras do NOT wear tennis shoes...even when they actually play tennis! And now I have an eye twitch. And I'm not certain that the two are related, but come on...how could they NOT be?

Plus, another not-so-charming thing is that there is a B.O. funk dripping off of me. Almost like I'm wearing onions for earrings. On account of they were roasting/crock potting onions for said Mountain Man Rendezvous. And I think it might be against the law to crock pot onions. Pretty sure I saw it on T.V...or I read it somewhere...or I made it up. Whatever. You guys never believe me.

So let's break this down. I wore tennis shoes and a flowy skirt and reek of B.O.~also, worked at a Mountain Man Rendezvous with an average of 30 children round my knee at any given moment. All we're missing is a long braid and ENORMOUS bangs, and we're right back to that intriguing sister wife reference from yesterday.

Great. Maybe we have more in common than I thunk.

DING DONG DUNG

Just a little FYI~after submitting a piece for a certain website, I received a kindly suggestion, that I might want to "tone things down a bit" for their audience. And I laughed. But I did it. And now the entire article is devoid of any and all profanity, potty humor and personality.

So don't come whining to me when you read it and it sounds like a sister wife wrote it. Because I did my best to give you Princess Lisa and they returned it asking for the lady that lives down the street who wouldn't say (fill in feces reference) if she had a mouth full. And we all know I would~and do~even though my mouth is empty~except for some Ding Dongs and such.

Because that's who I am.

'S how I roll...

Running big, happy and spitting out profanities like they were Ding Dong Dung in my mouth.

(new favorite~Ding Dong Dung)

RUNS SMALL

Want to know how to tell when you're in denial? Like when it's SOOOOO OOOOOVERRR that you can only pray that you still have time, energy and a big enough shovel to dig yourself out of the muddy sludge hole you're lying high centered and face down in the bottom of? Here's how you know~when these words come flying like monkeys in Oz out of your mouth...

"Well. These must run small."

Mm hmmm. That's right.

These must run small.

Because they don't, friends.

They don't run small.

They do, in fact, run average.

And the recall that they didn't run small last year when you (me) bought and wore them every other day should be a big, fat abdomened tip off. Also, the fact that your other (stupid skinny) friend doesn't like to order from that catalogue because she says they run big, well, that should be a shaving cream pie to your double chinned face.

And the reason these...things...run small is because YOU (me) run big, because YOU (me) won't RUN AT ALL.

So the lesson we (me) learn here is that clearly, one cannot rest on their weight loss laurels for long. So like if you (me) lost some weight two years ago, but took one of those two years "off," whether for good behavior or simple lazy-assity (that's a word)~and, in fact, forget (refuse) to put new batteries in the scales~well, let's just say you're going to find an awful lot of things that run small...including but not limited to vintage yellow gingham dresses, seats on an airplane and self respect.

So the next time I pass by you, and you hear screaming, you'll know it's coming from my buttons as their little fastener arms are pulled slowly out of their sockets while they clutch at the two sides of fabric they're meant to hold together. And feel free to feel sorry for them, but be ready to duck should one come popping and flying like a piece of shrapnel at your eye.

Course, it's not my fault.

That shirt runs small.

That's why I buy shoes.

ADOPTION

So as WONDERFUL as it is, to see our children looking outside of themselves in bringing souls unto Christ and spreading the love of our Savior throughout the Brazilian countryside~as FANTASTIC as this is...and it IS...FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC...but it SEEMS as though MY son has gotten a weeeee little bit carried away. Apparently, I'm about to become the proud adoptive mother of an aspiring rock band rider on the outside. What. Head cocked in befuddlement?

Maybe this will help. Here is an epistle from one of the dear Portuguese girls that I made the ENORMOUS MISTAKE of accepting as a facebook friend. Not that she doesn't deserve my friendship or love...or the thrill of reading my status updates. But maybe, just maybe, we have different-notions-of what a facebook friendship/connections to the same 19 year old boy should result in. Clearly, I'm not as committed to this relationship as she is. Read on:

HI,I am (name left out to protect the innocent,) the Meiry I am mine better friend! you are mother you bingham of it? I and it are great friends, give in them well super. I find it sufficiently funny, and with all the very pretty respect also. In the church we have English lesson and us two we make much tricks and we laugh sufficiently, I am teaching to some words in Portuguese it, it is sufficiently smart and already he says well the language very. A fort I hug dear! E I control some message of it for you! ; D.

I´m sorry if not to obtain to understand something to me, my English is not very good.

Well, I'll do 19, 29 july.Bom yes I have plans to leave Brazil, my dream is to ride a rock band on the outside, so I invited the Bingham to be the drummer he agreed, but it all depends on my blessing patriarchal not yet received, if God allows me to accomplish my dream I go to London to study music if it does not allow I plan to go to the USA as an exchange and study to know the prophet cinema.Em Bingham invited me to visit your city and also to you allow your family would be my adoptive family in exchange! Because after all is much better to stay with people we know and who are mainly from the church.

In addition both in Utah as London want to make my life, I do not like here, Brazil is a beautiful country, people loving and cheerful, but has a lot of corruption and pay many taxes, it would be hard!
Then I have no emotional bond with my family and would not be hard to stay away from parentes.Pretendo travel in January if all goes well and will also Meiry.

You can let me leave your message for Bingham, he will be very happy, and as I see it is missing a lot of you.

Bye and a big hug., D

So, there you have it. Looks like she'll be arriving here in January~if God says it's OK.

I have to go now. Need to strap on some knee pads, as I have some praying, persuading and pleading to do.

This is NOT something that can be left to chance, people.

FERMENTING FLORA

My Mother's Day flowers are dead. Stinky, wilting and heads hanging in exhaustion. I don't know what to tell them. Thank you, maybe? Thank you for giving me the best days of your life, standing upright and flourishing for a full 72 hours, in order that I might dress you in my best white porcelain pitcher and display you on the front entry table, for all the world (neighborhood kids) to admire and covet?

Well done, thou good and faithful flowers. Well done.

Funny how quickly the fragrance of "rose" turns to "fart," though. Last night, I was on the couch and kept smelling a rotten batch of linger longer~some people think that's the term for a social gathering. It's not. It's a pile of warm pooh air that won't dismantle quickly. Often, they're orphans. Nobody claims responsibility. People find them and don't know what to do with them, so they abandon them in grocery store aisles...kind of like a stray cat. I myself might have been known to drop off one or two of my own there. Not proud of it, people. But it is what it is. And more often than not, they find a home with an unsuspecting shopper that happens to walk past, dragging it like a screaming child through the rest of the store with them. So grateful for people willing to take them in.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah. I thought it belonged to my son, but alas, he was waaaaay in the kitchen and surely it would have lost some pungency traveling the distance. Then I considered it could have been Princess Lisa. Her memory isn't what it used to be, and she's been known to point the finger of shame, only to find her majesty the only one in the house. Far as I could recall, it wasn't me either...this time.

It wasn't until this morning that I wafted past the dying flora and caught a quick whiff of flatulence. Just proves that looks can be deceiving.

Just ask little Ethan Stacy. He thought his Mom was his Mom~committed to love, protect and give up her own life if needs be, in order that she might save his. Turns out she wasn't...and she didn't. Like I said, looks can be deceiving.

And maybe that smell this morning wasn't from the fermenting bouquet, but rather because I was walking past the newspaper with the front page picture of the rotten, decayed soul that called himself step father to the child. A step father wielding a hammer and black garbage bag.

Mm hmm. Yes. I do believe THAT is what I inhaled.

And that is all I'll say about this subject. Wouldn't want to sound like I'm judging "IT."

Bless it's steaming pile of excrement heart.

(FYI~there seems to be a dim-bulb "anonymous" that has no sense of humor and he/she keeps leaving incredibly mediocre comments, thus, I'm forced to moderate the comment section. Thanks a lot, anonymous, for spoiling it for the rest of us.)

SPOONFUL OF SUGAR

I just returned from being the reading group tutor (chaperone) for my daughter's class. It's 4th grade, which means thanks to hormonal and general maturation disparities, compliments of a God with a dry sense of humor, the girls know everything and the boys don't know why.

It's painful to watch. If you're a male and you even LOOK like you might be about to pronounce a word incorrectly, it's best to just go prone, as every A-cup sportin' girl in the group senses trepidation and takes the sprinter position of "predatory-animal-about-to-make-a-kill"~ at the ready to ATTACK and ANNIHILATE the feeble reader, hissing and biting out the correct annunciation before it has a chance to drip off the obviously daft tongue.

The poor lads just stammer and stutter their way through the excruciating 20 minute routine, eyes darting up to the girl's faces, as unfamiliar words cause them to tremble and sweat. Every once in a while, they get through a passage without making a single mistake, and there is a sweet moment of triumph. But it's rare, folks. And short lived. Because all little Britney has to do is roll her eyes and the win is dis.missed. Poof. Like it never even happened.

But the day will come, peeps. For right now, they're still too young to understand that they'll eventually find their gonads and will outdo the smug, arrogant maidens in a myriad of affairs, including but not limited to armpit hair, paychecks and the awe inspiring ability to lose ten pounds just by going to the bathroom. Sadly, until then, they're at their mercy. Cowering, defeated and humble.

And that's why I bring Smarties~lots of them~as a reward. A spoonful of sugar helps the pride go down.

Just ask Mary Poppins.

And my husband.

FIVE THINGS

I've been "tagged" by Krista, as she is JUST DYING to know stuff about me. And who am I to disappoint her? I mean, really. Plus, I'm a giver, so it just comes naturally to toss out the morsels of nourishment and entertainment to my peeps. And so we begin...

1. What were you doing five years ago?

I was probably watching TV and feeling guilty about something I wasn't doing. On a larger scale, we'd been in our home a year, so I was feverishly decorating. And Julia was vomiting words. And Chris was having anxiety stomach aches. And Seth was grinning and sniffing boogers. And Ash was having his cell phone taken away. And husband was worrying needlessly.

2. Where would you like to be in five years?

Same glorious neighborhood and home, writing brilliantly while adoring children maintain 4.0 GPA's in high school and college, and serve missions and are perfect and tell anyone who'll listen what a magnificent mother they have and going on dates with pumpkin pie husband and paying off bills and aging backwards like Benjamin Button and miraculously losing weight while increasing empty calorie consumption and having long, luxurious fingernails that don't split like a banana and cuticles that don't snag pantyhose. Is that too much to ask?

3. What is on your to do list?

I prefer to let others recall for me, what I've signed up to do. Hopefully, they're on the ball enough to make a reminder call or send an email, so I don't disappoint them.

4. What are five snacks that you enjoy?

Five? Seriously? That's just silly. A better question would be what are five categories of snacks you enjoy. But I'll do my best. Hot tamales, cinnamon bears, Hershey's bars, truffles, doughnuts, Good-n-Plenties, Twizzlers, Chiklets, all fruits, most vegetables, almonds, all things carb and a refreshing beverage over rabbit poop ice. I start to feel ill when I get too much blood in my sugar level.

5. What are five things you would do if you were a billionaire?

This is something I've considered (obsessed about) on occasion (daily) as Ster and I like to imagine (plan on) winning the lottery~you know, just for fun (when bills come due.) Anyway, a quick run-down...pay off all financial obligations, including parentals. Hire a chef, housekeeper and someone to raise my children to adulthood. Just kidding. I can clean my own house. Next, I'd hire an assassin to kill off political enemies. Only two more? Crap. Um, how about worldwide travel and last but not least, HOST A GIANT BURIED TREASURE BIRTHDAY PARTY...and then speedily forget where I hid the chest.

And there you have it, folks! I know. Even more of me to love, now that you know my innermost Princess Lisa thoughts. And I, too, am amazed at the depth and breadth of my soul.

So now I tag some other BBFF's that I'd love to hear from~

Brenda, at Just a bed of roses, because she makes and sells the MOST glorious stuff~just like me.

And Mimi at Mimi Sue's Cottage, because she's inspiring~just like me.

And Marcy, at a Girl in a Gorilla Suit, because she likes hysterical tampon commercials~just like me.

And Sydney at The Daybook, because her photography is truly stunning~just like me.

And lastly, Kate, at Smug marrieds, because she has beautiful feet~just like me.

Enjoy them all, friends. Feel free to love and adore them...just not as much as you do me, or I'll have to cut you.

(I'm mouthing the word "seriously.")

(raised eyebrow, thumb making slicing motion across neck and two fingered eyeball point)

MAY

Today is supposed to be my friends' daughters' outside wedding. And it's May. In Utah. Which could choose to be any number of things, but NEVER accommodating. May has a pretty name, and therefore, people tend to think highly of her~that surely, with a name like THAT, she can't help but BE what she SOUNDS LIKE. But then again, strippers have pretty names, too...Bambi, Angel, Princess...and we all know the apple falls far from that pole.

I myself am sitting here excited to attend the outdoor track meet that is in a few hours. The metal bleachers on a slight tilt to throw your back out. The cold, whipping winds that blow rain sideways into your ear canals. The linger...loiter...kill time for hours...no, SERIOUSLY, HOURS, for an event to be called, which lasts roughly 5 minutes. Then no scores post. Then you go home.

So worth it.

We did have some fun one year though, with eldest son. It was when the sun had warmed the day, as it was closer to June. The boy had a rough day at school and I wanted to help comfort him, so I took him out to lunch for a couple of bacon cheeseburgers. You know, to settle his stomach as they're known to do.

So I kind of forgot he had a track meet later on. Oh well. Whatever. He had one of the first events and he was running the mile. And he took it seriously, as he's a strong runner. So run, run, run, five minute mile and second place. Something like that. YAY, YAY, CHEER, CHEER. He climbed into the truck for the half hour ride home with husband, and as I'm talking to Sterling on the cell phone, I hear screaming! So I scream back, "WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT IS IT?! A WRECK? WHAT? WHAT!"

"YOUR SON JUST PUKED ALL OVER THE TRUCK! OH MY HELL, IT'S EVERYWHERE! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, ASH? SERIOUSLY? WHY DIDN'T YOU ROLL THE WINDOW DOWN? A WATER BOTTLE? WHAT THE?! THAT TINY...? YOU REALLY THOUGHT YOU COULD CATCH ALL THAT CHEESEBURGER PUKE IN A WATER BOTTLE? OH MY H...I'VE GOT TO GO. I'LL CALL YOU BACK."

So to clarify, as runners are known to do, they get pukey after so much exertion in running a race and when he started to feel ill, get this, he DIDN'T WANT TO ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW, AS IT WOULD GET VOMIT ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE TRUCK DOOR...bless his barfing heart, so instead, grabbed a water bottle and tried to throw up INSIDE of it. Using the one inch opening for his 5 inch, gaping, spewing orifice. But he used his hands as a kind of "connector" to funnel the fluids into the bottle. Needless to say, it was like putting a thumb over a lawn hose on full blast, spraying fermenting bacon cheeseburger chunks over the ENTIRE CAB...and the inhabitants therein.

And it baked into them...aaaaaalllll the way home.

We sold the truck.

Hope you didn't buy it. :)

CHOCOLATE CAULK

Well, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!! What do you mean, 'Huh?' Wasn't yesterday Christmas? Oh, that's right. It just felt like it to me. See, I spent months, weeks, days, hours and minutes in anticipation of the event~my missionary son's phone call~and yesterday was the day! SO EXCITING! Aaagghhhh! Scream, scream, scream!

And suddenly, here it is! Christmas morning! A flurry of shredded wrapping paper, shrieks of excitement, and the joy, the thrill of getting EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED! HOW DID YOU KNOW? Then Wam, Bam, Thank you, ma'am!...over just like that.

Boxes and decor litter the floor, the cat plays with strewn tinsel and the tree skirt is barren...and I look at the carnage...of my soul...and wonder if it was all worth it? See, I'd forgotten about that hole in my heart. And for one hour and 10 minutes yesterday, the jigsaw puzzle was complete. What a glorious picture it made, too. MY ETERNAL FAMILY, just exactly as I remembered!

But alas, with the disconnect of the telephone line, the child is once again removed and I am left rent and clutching at what seems to me, a gaping wound in my chest where he belongs...

...But he doesn't really. He is where he belongs, and I know it. And should he suddenly reappear and say he was here to stay, I'd duct tape him to the next plane heading back to Brazil and tell him to return when his service has been rendered and not. one. second. before. Just so we're clear.

But for now, I weep. And I do my best to fill the hole with chocolate caulk and Dr. Pepper. I have no choice. My hands are tied. A mother's heart cannot sustain a fissure for long. It must be healed. And until my son is returned to me, this is my only option.

Love that Elder Ashton Sterling Bingham.

BUSTIN' A GHETTO MOVE

A couple of sons and friends~can't believe they told people I was their mom...

Jolley's mom and me~pre-move bustin'...

More youthful missionary moms~love these chicks...

And yet another, gorgeous Erica~looks too good for midnight...

The reason for attending midnight showings~where else can you wear your homemade Iron Man 2 costume? Nowhere, that's where.

OK~a riddle. What does popcorn, Dr. Pepper, Reeses Pieces, the jerk, the swim, the Q-tip, the snake, the sprinkler, the cabbage patch, the Saturday Night Fever pointer finger move, the trademark leg grab and jerk, the midnight showing of Iron Man 2, the pre-movie dance off competition and the winner of said competition, all have in common?

PRINCESS LISA, THAT'S WHAT!!! I KNOW!

And sure 'nuf, I threw my hip out again. BUT IT WAS CLEARLY WORTH IT, cuz I won a poster, which is PROOF that I rock. Literally and figuratively.

Now I know my triumph wasn't necessarily because of all those nubile young dance moves I mentioned above, because, let's face it, doing the Q-tip...Q-tip...and then throwing it away, isn't a serious threat to the kid bustin' a ghetto move on his shoulders, spinning around and around and around on the cement floor, until he grinds his shoulder skin off.

That right there is commitment (and stupid...and kind of gross.)

But I submit, that you cannnot underestimate the power of the compassionate youth who sees somebody's mother out there making a freaking farce of all that is Good and Holy, and like putting down a horse with a broken leg, ends it quickly and compassionately.

In the horse's case, a bullet to the head.

In mine, a poster in the hand.

Either way, IT IS DONE.

So yes, people, I know the spirit in which the victory was won. And I'm not proud. Well, actually, I kind of am. I'll take it. I'll take that Iron Man 2 poster and hold it close to my bosom. My heaving, sweating, bless my heart and my busted hip, bosom.

ALL FOR THE LOVE OF THE MISSIONARY SON.

No, really.

Totally for him.

Not about me, people.

Not this time.

All about the boy.

Every last little bit of it...

Mm hmm.

You heard me.

Him.

Not me.

OK, me.

IBUPROFEN

Hi. 'Smee.

My mouth is frozen up from eating several cups of rabbit poop ice one after the other~even my eyeballs are frosted. But it can't be helped, friends. The ice is the perfect consistency right. this. very. moment. Can't be wasted.

Hey! Did I mention that I am going to see IRON MAN 2~AT MIDNIGHT tonight...with a bunch of FREAKIN' AWESOME women who just happen to be the mothers of my son's best friends who are all on missions at the same time, and if they were here, the boys would totally go to the midnight showing, because they're young and insane, but since they're out serving their God, they can't serve the master of midnight movies...but their mommas can...so we are takin' one for the team...TEAM MISSIONARY SON...and arriving at the theater when we'd normally be arriving in our beds, with a pic line of Dr. Pepper and popcorn? Did I mention that? Well, consider it mentioned.

I'm pretty excited. It makes me feel young. Not fer real young. More like make believe young. Cuz we all know the adrenaline rush will run out roughly 45 minutes before the theater even dims. And my body will quickly adapt to the sugar and caffeine and decide to either give me a migraine, and/or start exploding like popcorn in hot oil, into fat cell pockets all over my body.

Kind of like boils.

Fat cell boils, filled with Dr. Pepper and licorice.

Hate to be there when those babies rupture.

Anyway, good times just around the midnight bend.

And speaking of bend, husband has been bending and stretching, getting our sprinklers and yard in order. He's now almost crippled. Much like me after my nubile, young dance moves. I kind of erred the first time he complained that his wrist hurt after using the weed eater. Pulled a "YOU, not ME." Big mistake. Huge.

"You know. There's probably something wrong with you. You really shouldn't be in pain after such a simple task." Me said knowingly... and condescendingly. And about every other "ingly" you can think of that is known to irritate a spouse.

So then, when ME came limping in after the assembly, me slipped in a puddle of those very same words that he tossed out like marbles on the linoleum. He did the two fingered eyeball point, then helped me up with his stiff wrist and we called a truce.

So now, every time one of us staggers to our feet after performing another "simple task," we exchange a knowing glance and pop a handful of ibuprofen. It seems to be working well.

OKAY, I'm off to thread a vein.

Wish me well. (yawn)

Is it over yet?

Where's my Ibu?

DOOR DECOR

One of today's projects~since the wind whipped and ripped the other decor right off the door and threw it like a spitball into the eye of the storm.

Stupid freakin' wind.

MASTERPIECE THEATER

Husband is let down. No blog from Lisa today. So sad. I'm repentant. Here it is.

BLOG!

There.

G'nite.

:)

That reminds me of a story my dad used to tell us every night when we'd beg for a masterpiece and he had only enough energy for drivel. It went like this:

"I'll tell you a story, of Reevy-o-norie. And now, my story's begun...

I'll tell you another, about his brother. And now, my story is done."

We hated those two lines more than a bowl full of slobbery beef stew. The moment we heard the first refrain, we would GROAN AND HOWL~"DAAAAADDDDDD!!!!!! NOOOOOOO FAAAAAAIIIIRRRRR!!! THAT'S NOT A STORY! WE HAAAAAAAAATE THAT STORY! TELL US A REAL ONE!"

And he usually would. Bless his exhausted heart. He'd tug at his tie and we'd scootch over, making room for the author. A favorite? Izoldi. She was a witch. She lived under the bed. I have a dazzling Halloween witch collection, and my very first acquisition was an hysterical paper mache hag. She has twiddling pointy fingers, painted red nails, giant gold hoop earrings, a buck toothed smile and about 18 strands of black hay hair. She's beautiful. And she's my Izoldi.

Another was the story of Cinderella and her two "sisty uglers."

BAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! (We would HOWL with laughter!) "DAD! THAT'S NOT HOW YOU SAY IT! SAY IT AGAIN!" And he'd tell us the sisty ugler's names~Anastasia and Drucilla ( I thought he said Drizilla, which was even funnier!)~two names that were said to be common in days of long ago and far away, but were a SCREAM to children of the 70's. He'd say them with a grimace and a nasal tone that would throw us over the edge of sanity!

Two little girls, dressed in pink and blue penoir sets, arms thrown across our foreheads as we lay in our white and gold princess canopy bed. Tears streaming past our ears, into our hair and settling on our pillows as we stared at the ceiling and listened with joy and rapture to our DAD...THE FUNNIEST MAN IN THE WORLD!

And he was.

Still is.

I am the "Reevy" to my father's "Izoldi."

And now my story is done.

KISSES, BOOGS AND TOENAILS

Remnants found on the kitchen table after a certain child vacated~a dried up booger and a toenail.

There just aren't words.

So good news, people. I don't even REMEMBER what time I fell asleep last night, and there was not one single panic attack from 4:00 AM until 7:00 AM. I slept like a drunk! I was all sauced up on peace and tranquility and, OK, maybe a weensy little, hardly noticable and surely not inappropriate dose of Nyquil. But whatever. (cough, cough, achoo! See? Totally medicinal and necessary)

Remember how it is the last two months of pregnancy when your nose bloats, and there's a foot in your chest cavity playing 'kick the can' with your lung at any given time and you spend every waking moment pushing down hard on your stomach, working to leverage a bosom full of air, mouth breathing just to stay alive and trying to halt your mind from going into fight or flight when it recognizes that you're THE FOOTBALL AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOG PILE AND YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE OF ASPHYXIATION. 'Member that? Well, I just gave birth.

So the only other "thing" I have this week is an etiquette presentation for a gaggle of crass, raunchy youth. I KNOW!!!! PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

It's OK though~I'm not charging. They can't sue.

So after that, it's back to noon thirty showers for me.

I forgot to mention third son's birthday was this past week. And MAN, WAS HE RIPPED OFF! Blizzarding, stupid snow outside and him sick in bed for two days with "My skin hurts," rolling, glazed eyeballs and fever. And more boogs than I have ever in my life heard blown out of nasal passages. The snot gods worked feverishly day and night to refresh the supply, lest he run out.

We tried to fix it. We took him out to lunch. We showered him with gifts. We even let him order a Pepsi. All of which were white noise to the pounding in his head and mucus in his ears. Ah, well. There's always next year. And wouldn't it SUCK to be a kid again and know you had to wait another stinkin' YEAR? Man, I'm glad I can spend myself into a good mood whenever I need to.

Which is often.

But it's OK, cuz I'm the mom.

Well, it's nearing noon thirty. I'm off!

Kisses, boogs and toenails, peeps!