NUMBER 10

Happy Birthday, dear daughter!

And one more thing ~ HER TEAM WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP FOR THE CITY GIRL'S SOFTBALL LEAGUE! Jules made TWO (2) HOME RUNS, in fact. She got that from me, you know. Duh.

Perfect segue back to me, and my 10th birthday. That year, my angel mother made me a cake in the shape of the number ten. Pink frosted and sprinkles on tinfoil covered cardboard. Simply divine.

Well, just so happens my birthday also fell on Labor Day weekend, and the entire clan of extended family were to arrive at the cabin in Idaho. My Grandma Sybil always went early to sweep the mice poops out of the A-frame. I swore right then and there I would never be the Grandma Sybil. So far, so good.

Where was I? Okay, so I gingerly set the pink ten on the card table, waiting for just the right moment when the masses were sure to ARISE AND CALL ME BLESSED. I thought it best that I not look too eager, therefore, I wandered over to the swinging hammock, and laid low for a few minutes...15 at the most. When I was sure they would be wondering where bra-less Lisa was, I poked my head out of the pines and tried to look unaware of the impending celebration.

Guess what I found? Two things, people~a tinfoil covered piece of cardboard, as EMPTY AND BARREN AS MY SOUL, and the entire family gathered round the campfire, laughing lips littered with pink frosting and cake crumbs!

Damm fools had eaten my birthday cake!

And Princess Lisa had received not one. single. piece. of her own number ten cake.

Well, she never forgot it, folks. Fast forward ten years, when she was dating a darling man. She told him her sad tale. He kept these things in his heart. She arrived home late from work one eve, and called out to her parents. No answer~just the soft glow of candlelight from the kitchen. She entered in, and there sat her precious metal, Sterling, balloons in hand and grinning behind a perfect replica of her number ten birthday cake.

Reader, I married him.

GUILT

Hi.

So, we've been feeling really, really melancholy in our home these last few days. What with the boys all being gone on spiritual journeys and such. And like a pig in the mud, we've decided to wallow.

Been playing old family movies, folks. Every single night. And can I just say that, as a form of torture, seeing your maturing children back in the soft focus of remember when, well, it brings a grown father and mother to their weeping knees faster than any dripping water on the forehead, or '007-seatless-chair-gonad-whapping' ever could.

It's a combination of guilt, guilt and more guilt. Followed by an unhealthy dose of guilt.

"I should have breast fed longer."

"Would it have killed me to let him eat the dog food?"

"I should never have locked her out of the house like that."

How were we to know that they would grow up? As far as we were concerned, this was "The song that never ends...yes, it goes on and on, my friends..."

And then one day, this little piggy goes to the market...or Target...and the other little piggies stay home. And just like that, it's...over. The last baby lullaby refrain. Suddenly, the song was never so sweet, never so cherished, never so absent as it is from that moment on.

Years ago, my father solemnly and sincerely uttered these words..."If I'd known how wonderful you were going to be when you grew up, I'd have been so much kinder to you." And we embraced, and I laughingly reminded him that if he'd been any less of a parent back then, I'd never have been as wonderful as I am right now.

Or as humble.

You've heard the phrase, "All because two people fell in love..."

Well, it takes more than love to raise a child. I'm coining the phrase, "All because they locked me out of the house."

Feel free to put it in vinyl above your hearth.

PLENTY

So two sons have gone out the door to Especially For Youth, and packed "plenty" of underwear~their words. And though one man's PLENTY is another man's ONLY ONE EXTRA PAIR IN WHICH TO SHART, I left it at that. Kind of a "Don't ask~don't tell" policy I'm trying out. I'm considering using it in other areas of my life.

"What the...(sniff sniff) Oh my he!!, was that you?"

Don't ask~don't tell.

See? Kind of brilliant.

Anyway, today is shaping up to be a good day. I got my mole whisker on the very. first. tweeze. I KNOW! How often does that happen? Blue moon, people.

Plus...well, that's about it.

But I'll take it.

It's "PLENTY" to me.

Postscript~HEY! I FORGOT IT'S MY ANNIVERSARY TODAY! WHAT THE 'H'? (Thanks, Boo) Anyway, I guess there's more goin' down today than just a rogue chin hair. Seems I married my husband for TIME AND ALL ETERNITY on this day, 21 years ago! Congratulations to us, peeps! I think this calls for Dr. Pepper in champagne glasses...and roses...and gift cards...and cash...and diamonds...and a sky blue convertible Jag...and surprise trips to France...and good thing he has eternity to pay for it....and lobster...and more cash...and emeralds............HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, DEAR HEART! I LOVE YOU FOREVER!

LIKE

Table decor to set the stage...

A star shaped cake that I providently created...

Flip flops and the buckets that started it all...

Beautiful friend "chalking" her likeness...

First off, I think we can all agree that my house is probably made of Kryptonite. Else how could my Super intentions be weakened and annihilated on such a consistent basis? No other explanation. Kryptonite house.

And I'm sorry this post is so late, but I couldn't find my eyebrows. I ended up using my sense of touch and just filled them in where they would normally be, but with so little guidance, let's just say it's a blessing this blog isn't HD.

So anyway, I gave birth to a happy, healthy PATRIOTIC PARTY last night. Thirty seven minutes into it, I sat in the cool of my kitchen and shot off a cocky email to my sister telling her how "WONDERFUL it is when the girls are old enough to entertain themselves..." then SCREAM, SPLASH, SHRIEK, SLAM!

'Twas the sound of my pride going before the fall.

The whole gaggle of sopping wet divas came crashing in, determined to compress all four hours of planned activities into one, spurred on by Miss GREEDY GUTS Birthday Princess, who was more anxious than an irritable bowel to explode in a flurry of activity that would culminate in the HIGHLY ANTICIPATED PRESENT OPENING, with the preceding activities just being the mode of transportation in which to arrive.

Now I know how crestfallen you all must be that you weren't there for the minutia. But dry those eyes and put your paws together in a happy clap, peeps, cuz I'm gonna gloss over a few topics of discussion! It'll be just like we were looking at the same moon!

Um, okay, so did you know that there is, like, this girl in their class that like, TOTALLY thinks she's like a TOMBOY? But like, she like, TOTALLY brings make-up and stuff to school, like a girly-girl, but then, like, she thinks that she has like, the right to call herself a Tomboy just because, get this, like, she picks up spiders! I know! Like that makes you a Tomboy! (outrage and disgusted eye rolling)

So then, like, oh my gosh! The song, "California Girls" is like, TOTALLY THE BEST SONG EVERRR! But it's kind of like, gross and stuff, like that part about bikini tops and Daisy Dukes and stuff, but like, oh my gosh! They totally LUUUUUV that song!

And then, like, this boy they all know, always like, acts, like he like-likes one of the girls, but then, he like, says he only likes her, not like-likes her. But that's OK, cuz she wants to like, keep her options open, like, cuz she's not ready to settle down with anyone yet, you know?

The rest of the party in a Dr. Seuss nutshell~

~They swam, they chalked, they valley girl talked.

They roasted, they toasted, they continually boasted.

Throw in six bags of gummy worms, licorice, circus peanuts and animal cookies, add to that three more bags of Cheetos, Doritos and Lays, plus watermelon, s'mores, birthday cake and snow cones and you have what I like to call "14 untouched hamburgers thrown in the garbage can."

And there you have it. The end.

Like.

NEARSIGHTED

How can a child who has just received his first pair of contact lenses and can't BELIEVE the difference in his ability to SEE all that this wondrous world has to offer~how BLIND he must have been over these last couple of years and he can't imagine why he didn't realize how poor his eyesight was~how does this SAME child THINK he got his contact in his eyeball, even though there is NO. CHANGE. IN. VISION. WHATSOEVER...and go throughout the entire day not questioning if he did, in fact, manage to place the lens over his nearsighted orb, only to find out at the end of the day that, "Well, looky there...what is that crusty withered thing sitting on my bathroom counter? Huh. Looks like my brand new contact lens that I put in my eyeball this morning. Course it's all dried out. I guess I'll just throw it away."

And he did.

And I only screamed at him for a little while.

Then I left the house.

Then I came back in to scream again.

But I called it "discussing" that time.

Two very different things.

FATTY HEART

Second son had his wisdom teeth taken out today. When they told me what time, I ignored them, because I knew they were just making stuff up. Here's some news~Did you know there are TWO 4:00's? ONE of them has an A. M. after it! And I only know this because my alarm went SCREAM SHRIEK BUZZING in my brain canal, at that A.M. one this morning. My adrenaline only stopped pumping like the pistons on the Titanic about an hour ago. Speaking of high blood pressure...

Husband has taken out a life policy on me...without my consent. Now some of you may be thinking, "Heeeeeyyyyy...that sounds suspiciously like maybe he's going to kill you in your sleep and be the subject of a Dateline episode." And yes, maybe that should be my worry...but it's not. I have much LARGER CONCERNS, PEOPLE! On account of MY LARGE GIRTH WILL BE THE SUBJECT ON THE EXAM TABLE.

Pumpkin pie couldn't figure out why I broke into sobs after his passing remark of, "Oh, by the way, the nurse is coming over some time this week to do your physical for the life insurance policy. When would be a good time and I'll call her?"

I know. He can't help it. He just doesn't savvy.

I tried to explain how my self worth is tied up in my crappy blood pressure and body bulk. I did this by suggesting maybe he could "take his...appendage...lay it across an ice cold steel exam table, have the nurse MEASURE girth and length, and then rate his value accordingly."

That helped. A little bit.

Still...apples and oranges, folks.

I'll let you know if I go through with it. And if I end up in the arms of Jesus, you'll know the anxiety was too much for my sweet little fatty heart.

Either that, or Sterling murdered me in my sleep.

Either way, you can't have my stuff.

BREATHTAKING

Conversation had today between Boo, darling sister and mother of sweet young things, and me, mature sister and mother of tween....

Boo~"Oh. my. gosh. You should have SEEN what 'A' and Baby Maby had on for their pictures the other day. 'A' was wearing this pair of white capris, with a blue and white striped shirt and this FANTASTIC red organza flower~big as her skull! Then she wore her red sparkly Dorothy shoes and a red bow in her hair and she was in this field of yellow flowers and the sun was shimmering and breezes blowing her golden locks around her beautiful face...and then...THEN, Baby Maby joined in with her red sparkly shoes, and she had on a floral yellow shirt with yellow pants and red and white polka dot skirt and a giant red bow in her strawberry blond curls and they were jumping into each other's arms and swirling around in the meadow and oh. my. gosh. It was just.....breathtaking!

Me~"Oh. I can just imagine! But did I tell you what Julia had on the other day?"

Boo~"No, what?"

Me~"Wellllll...just picture this. She was wearing a pilling, what-used-to-be tye dyed shirt, but had mopped up every color in the wash one day, so it's kind of hard to tell if it's like a mustardy brown smear now or what...anyway, that shirt in the size 'too small' so as to accentuate the slouch and slump posture of a recently developing 4th grade girl. And then, along with that, a pair of hot pink neon plaid shorts, sitting low on the hips, allowing plenty of room for pre-pubescent muffin top and protruding, fully unaware gut~her ratty and fly away hair tucked behind her ears, and two lone front buck teeth, praying for back up. It was just.......breathtaking."

Boo~"Oh. Yeah. I saw her. I thought maybe she'd just gotten back from swimming or something."

Me~"Yeah. No. She'd dressed up for the day."

Boo~"Sorry."

Me~"I curse you and your offspring."

FIRST BIRTHDAYS

I've been reading a lot of young mother blogs lately, and how they're celebrating their child's first birthday with enormous frosted cupcakes, vintage garland and professional candids to capture the mother's white toothed smile as she prances about in her skinny jeans, holding captive the audience of 12 month old party goers, gleeful and shimmering and never once breaking into an oniony sweat.

Which got me all misty eyed recalling my son's first birthday, and how we celebrated by chucking him fully dressed into the shower and shoving his screaming face under the nozzle till he nearly drowned, while scrubbing his eyeballs out with SOS pads...which is something I'd highly recommend, because everyone knows that nothing says happy happy joy joy like soap and Brillo in the eyeballs...as surely that was the best way two idiot first time parents knew to rid the kid of the cup of kerosene he'd just dumped over his head.

All of the party pictures are of him clawing at his eyeballs and shrinking and repelling from his parent's touch. Weird. But I sure wish we could have afforded the professional photographer to capture the...essence...of our (incompetent) little family. Oh well. It's all safe and sound in my mind's eye~and we ALL know how spot-on Princess Lisa's recollection can be.

Anyway, fast forward 18 years, and here I am preparing for an EXCITING MATERNITY SHIRT BIRTHDAY PARTY!

What's that? Some new fangled fiesta franchise?

Well, actually, it's daughter's birthday party I committed to host based upon a really, really cute 4th of July bucket I saw at Target. Which is right along the same lines as finding a darling maternity shirt, then getting pregnant just so you can wear it. Tremendous amount of foresight in both of those scenarios...fortunately, my party will never demand that I "Come and inspect the bum!" before climbing down from the toilet, or want to live in my basement until it can afford a place of it's own.

I wish I could say I've learned my lesson, but if you see me in a cute new maternity shirt...well, don't ask.

BEIGE ROSES

So I was reading about "Provident Living." I know! Snore. But I thought I should read it, because that's what good and wise homemakers do, in order that we might prove our good and wise ways to others, thereby making them feel inferior to us and our righteous hardship/provident living lifestyle. Duh.

So I'm just gonna say it...could these people be any more beige? I submit not. And as I read their stories and threw up in my mouth, I could see them in my minds eye. These peeps are sooooo unattractive, folks, you have no idea. Besides the fact that they babble about eating peanut butter and jelly regularly, still using beat up old college furniture and avocado green appliances without handles, as well as only shopping thrift stores for necessities, I imagine they also have sister wife hairstyles, round toed vinyl shoes with chewed up heels and newspaper dresses...but that's just my mind's eye. It sees what it wants to see, friends. I can't change that.

Anyway, I couldn't help but think that this is not quite what Heavenly Father had in mind when he created us. I do believe the scripture goes something like, "Men are that they might have joy..." Not camel-toe in high waisted acid washed thrift store jeans. And just why is provident living synonymous to sacrifice and deprivation rather than creating and flourishing?

If you tell me to bake a loaf of bread because it's sinful to buy Wonderbread, well, you just ruined everything. I. Want. Wonderbread. Dammit.

But if you show me a gorgeous, golden brown loaf of homemade bread, steaming right out of the oven with a fresh bowl of whipped honey butter ready to spread...AHHHHH, HEAVEN ON EARTH, PEOPLE! BRING ME MY APRON!

If you tell me to make my children's clothes out of necessity, and that it's wrong to buy brand new anything, well, joy sucking just occurred.

But if you show me an heirloom blessing dress with tatting and pink embroidered rosebuds on the white cotton smocked bodice?...OH. MY. TARNATION! WHERE IS THE NEEDLE AND THREAD?

Tell me to decorate my house from items purchased at the D.I. because it's cheap? Yeah, well, you're dead to me.

But if you show me how I can make something FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC using a hot glue gun, a can of spray paint and somebody's old used up something or other...well, that there is a WHOLE~NOTHER~BALLGAME! I BECOME A DOMESTIC GODDESS, hand in hand with my Heavenly Father who gave me a soul full of creative juices meant to be used up...not dried out.

Anyway, my point is this...Women are that they might have joy. And some of our best joy is brought to us courtesy of our Divine Nature~meaning we create, we nourish, we evolve, we progress.

And did you know that Provident actually means "preparing for the future?" Mm hmm. It does. There is nothing in there about stripping the color and wonder from our homes or lives, in order that we might be considered more righteous. Far as I can tell, if I want my future to BLOSSOM AS A ROSE, I've got some providenting to do!

NOW BRING ME MY SPADE AND GARDEN GLOVES! I'VE GOT TO GET TO WORK!

(And in my garden, there is no such thing as a beige rose. Just sayin'.)

DEMON WIND PIGGIES

TWO HUNDRED AND ONE, people. No, not my weight, darlings~my post. Geez, you're tactless. And yes, I know. The celebration loses some of it's excitement when the numbers don't end in 'double aught.' Which reminds me of the class of 2000 and how, when they had to cheer their numbers at high school assemblies, they came up with the uninspired, "DOUBLE AUGHT, DOUBLE AUGHT, DOUBLE, DOUBLE, DOUBLE AUGHT!"

"When did YOU graduate, Granddaddy?"

"Double aught."

"Huh?"

So yeah, they may have been gifted with the uber cool 'CLASS OF 2000' millenia awesomeness, but stunk it up bad with their class cheer.

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

And speaking of taking away, the damm hurricane winds came in last night and popped the heads off my rose blooms like they were thumbing Mentos out of the package. And I don't know about you, but as far as I can tell, just like evil spirits inhabiting the bodies of wild pigs, wind has no reason to live. WIND is a terrorist, friends. A cowardly towel headed terrorist~waiting until the darkest hours, coming out in the pitch black of the night and blowing things to smithereens while the victims lay bug-eyed in their beds, sensing death and destruction await them in the morning light.

And it's not like torrential rain, that actually brings nourishment in the wake of it's rule. Or the baking, blistering sun that may crack the earth, but also sends rays of hope, vitamin D and sun streaked tresses. Or the blizzarding snow, that has no sense of social cues and often overstays it's welcome~but brings along with it shimmering white crystals and life sustaining juices. See, all of these have purpose under the Heavens. But wind? Nothin'.

Big.

fat.

double.

aught.

All that's left to do is wait impatiently for Wind to run screaming and squealing over the sharp cliffs to the rushing waters below, ending their crappy hog lives in a blaze of glory. Like Thelma and Louise.

Die, little demon wind piggies, die.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

View from my Summertime porch...

HAPPY 200th POST, PEEPS!

I KNOW! SO EXCITING...FOR ALL OF US!

Not really sure how I'll celebrate. Probably go get the key to the city and have a bicycle parade with crepe paper in my spokes. Stuff like that. Feel free to drop by with a glittery, breezy gift~nothing too extravagant. Maybe call me up and tell me I look young and fresh. Just helping you out with some simple suggestions, cuz I know how busy you all must be, racking your brains for Father's Day. I want this love fest for Lisa to just come naturally...like my brilliant posts have for me.

And as a happy gift for YOU, I will link a few favorites from our time together over the last few months. We've shared a lot, you and I...me...whatever. Us have shared lots of times. So let's stroll down Princess Lisa's rose strewn path of times, shall we?

First off, any of you joining us at B&S (Oh my he&%, I just realized my blog's acronym is B.S! That is just soooo...accurate.) already in progress, might want to understand Why Blue and Shoe...

Now, a look inside my worst nightmare...

And a heart wrenching missionary farewell...

I could go on and on, friends. In fact, I could link every. single. post. But I won't. Because I am NOT an attention whore. What I AM is...A GOOD MOTHER...AND The base of every pyramid.

Oh, one last thing. 'Member that foam from yesterday? And how I led you to believe it might not be done until next Christmas? Yeah, well, I lied. Once again I've outdone myself and put you to shame. But keep your chin up, BBFFs. Paste a smile on that weary face! Because TOMORROW, there will be ANOTHER BLUE AND SHOE POST!

It's the least I can do.

You're welcome.

Heart pound, kiss throw and fingering '200' in sign language.

CONSTRUCTION

So far, so good. No phone calls about death, maiming or accidental 'sharting' from Young Men's camp headquarters. Which may seem like a small thing to many of you, but you don't know my son like I do.

Anyway, I have something that you don't~besides a belly full of watermelon rumblings~and I'm sure you're all jealous. You can guess all day long, but I'm pretty confident this is not something at the forefront of your brain, so I'll just tell you. It's two ENORMOUS PIECES OF FOAM LAYING ACROSS HALF MY STAIRCASE THAT NOBODY UNDER 41 SEEMS VISUALLY AWARE OF, EVEN THOUGH THEY TRIP, STUMBLE AND PLUNGE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE LANDING EVERY TIME THEY COME DOWN, THE FOAM IS CLEARLY INVISIBLE TO THE NAKED CHILD'S EYE AND AFTER EVERY CRASH AND BURN, THEY LOOK AROUND AS IF THEY TRIPPED OVER A PEBBLE, THEN PULL THEMSELVES UP FROM THEIR CARPET BURNED KNEES, RUBBING THEIR GOOSE-EGGS AND BEAT A HASTY RETREAT, LEAVING THE HAZARD FOR THE NEXT UNSUSPECTING STAIR TRAVELER.

That's what I have. I knew you'd be jealous.

Now don't hate me because I have such well trained children, peeps. It's just that I've spent years perfecting my parenting skills and you still have a ways to go. Good luck with that.

And yes, in theory, I could carry the foam up to my sewing room where it's awaiting a new party dress of porch swing material. But that would just be enabling, (hard) and you all know what kind of mother I am, (lazy) so it's highly unlikely this will take place.

I'll take pics when Foam is complete. But until then, here is a quick snapshot of her...BEFORE the trusses and 2x4's. And no, there's no precise 'projected completion' date as yet~but I've promised they'll be in by Christmas.

For sure.

No worries.

Plan on it.

Course, the cost of lumber and plumbing is likely to skyrocket in between now and then, so the bid will be null and void, but that can't be helped....plus, I'm waiting on the sheet rockers...and the paint guy, but he's had an unexpected death in his family, so when he's done with the grieving process, we're next on his schedule...unless he gets cancer, which he's been known to get from time to time and project to project, so maybe by NEXT Christmas......

WHIZ DRIBBLE

Good day, peeps!

So now that second son has returned from camp ~ (and NO, he did NOT need that excessive extra pair of underwear that I insisted he bring. Nor did he need shampoo, toilet paper or his sense of smell. Obviously.) ~ and third son has now gone, taking along for the trip one (1) forced pair of extra under-britches for HIS week long camp. And here's a fun piece of news...if the boys are to be believed~and why would they lie?~after incredulous discussion, this filthy habit is APPARENTLY NOTHING UNIQUE TO WEEK LONG SCOUT CAMPS! Nope. Just a day in the life of two teenaged pigs. I mean boys.

APPARENTLY THEY OFT and REPEATEDLY PUT ON THE SAME WHIZ DRIBBLED PAIR OF UNDIES...wearing them for days at a time...because, get this, they don't have enough of them to maintain a daily exchange schedule...and their MOTHER won't buy them more.

That's right.

She is to blame.

Because she is an underwear miser.

Anyway, here's another fun one. Last night, during a carefully orchestrated swear-fest and finger point session with second son, third son was busy in the other room trying to pass out. And what do you know? He succeeded. GOOD FOR HIM!

After his own personal "radio in his head" techno music jam session caused by dying brain cells, he awoke to realize that he had no recollection of most of the day's happenings, which sent him into a full-on adrenaline surge of fight or flight. He chose flight, rushing from one room to the next, doing algebraic equations in his head to prove that he was going to be OK.

When none of them could be solved, he came flying into our bedroom where the point and swear had just finished up and thought it safe to mention he might be dying. It went something like this...

"Mom and Dad, um, OK, so I thought it would be fun to kind of try to make myself, um, like sort of, um like hold my breath until I passed out? cuz that's what I've done before, like when I was in elementary and stuff and everything was OKAY THEN, BUT NOW, UM, LIKE NOW?...LIKE NOW I CAN'T REALLY REMEMBER ANYTHING, OR LIKE WHAT'S TODAY? IS IT SUNDAY? IS IT? CUZ I DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT I'M DOING HERE AND IS TOMORROW MY CAMP? IT USED TO BE SUNNY AND NOW IT'S NIGHT TIME AND I DON'T REMEMBER IF...IS TOMORROW MY CAMP? WHERE'S MY LIST? CUZ I CAN'T FIND IT AND I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I WAS PASSED OUT AND MY HEAD HURTS, AND NOW I'M REALLY REALLY REALLY SCARED! DID WE HAVE ROAST BEEF FOR DINNER? CUZ I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT I ATE! WHAT DID I HAVE FOR DINNER? WAS IT...DID I EVEN EAT DINNER? WHAT TIME IS IT? IS IT SUNDAY? IS IT? CUZ I DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT I'M DOING AND I TRIED TO PACK FOR MY CAMP OUT, BUT THEN I COULDN'T REMEMBER WHERE MY LIST WAS AND I THINK SOMETHING'S REALLY WRONG! I'M REALLY SCARED! I'M REALLY REALLY REALLY SCARED! I THINK I MIGHT BE DYING!!!(WEEP, SOB, HOWL, CROC TEARS) PLEEEEASE HEEEEELPP MEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

So I responded (accused) with~

"WHY IN THE CRAP DID YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH AND TRY TO PASS OUT!"

Because I live by the motto, "What would Jesus do?"

And then I do the opposite.

(footnote~he didn't die.)

SUPAHSTAHS

SUPAHSTAH PUMPS!

Hey, did you know that if you wear excruciatingly high heels all day one day, the next day you're required to go to the Vietnamese pedicurist and get a lengthy foot/calve massage? It's the law, people.

And I am nothing, if not a LAW ABIDING CITIZEN.

So now my red tipped toes are grinning from piggy to pig.

Also, I like to peep please, and many of my peeps have requested a visual of yesterdays superstar pumps, so TA DA!!!!!!

SUPAHSTAH!!!

WEDDING

I have returned from a lovely family wedding where the fun sucking rain (do NOT say this five times, fast), DRENCHED us on our way into the ceremony and then promptly scurried away like a scurvy little spider, leaving a pile of drowned rats in Sunday best, to pose for wedding pictures.

Speaking of spiders, there was a Granddaddy tarantula trying to find it's way out of some gentleman's nostrils. Either that, or his wife is BLIND AS A BAT and failed to mention (scream) that he needed to TRIM HIS FREAKIN' SALT AND PEPPER NOSE HAIRS. But I'm still inclined to think aging tarantula. Hard to prove, either way.

Bought and ate a pound of fudge while we waited for the luncheon. Gained five pounds in my neck and fingers swelled up like Jimmy Dean sausages. And I don't know about you, but I feel kind of irritated and lied to by the fudge making elfins.

Course, the best part of today was that I finally got to wear my fantastic sling back PUMPS. The ones I purchased a couple of years ago without any idea of what I could wear them with, but having a sure knowledge that just like Snow White's Prince Charming, SOMEDAY, my coordinating outfit would come. And it did, people. It did. Never give up on your shoes.

If you buy them, they will come.

Anyway, I wore the hell out of the beautiful creatures and, I'm ashamed to say, like a straw slurping up admiration, nothing left over for the newlyweds..........poor dears. I felt so bad for them, since they'd gotten all dressed up and everything, so I made sure to splash the attention dregs their way.................by pointing my floral linen pumps in their direction.

AND YES, I DID SAY FLORAL LINEN PUMPS!!!

I KNOW!!!!

IS IT ANY WONDER THE BRIDE FADED INTO THE BACKGROUND LIKE 1980'S WALLPAPER?

So to sum up~actually, I'm too tired to sum up. Good day. Time for bed. Nite.

GAMBLED AND LOST

Me~"You ready to go on your week long camping trip, son?"

Son~"Yup. All ready. Totally packed. See ya."

Me~"Wait. Where's your luggage?"

Son~"Right here. (referring to fanny pack around his waist) See ya."

Me~"Wait. Give me a rundown of what you packed."

Son~"All the stuff I was supposed to. See ya."

Me~"Wait. Specifics. Where's your pillow?"

Son~"I don't need one. I can roll up the edge of my sleeping bag and it'll be fine. See ya."

Me~(eyeroll)~"Wait. You want to go the entire week with your head flat on the...never mind. Idiot. Did you pack your swimsuit?"

Son~"Yeah. I mean no. I have these shorts. It'll be fine. See ya."

Me~"Wait. Dear, you're going to Lake Powell...on a house boat...that's a floating house, because it's sitting on a body of water."

Son~(eyeroll)~"Okay. Geez. I'll pack it. Done. See ya."

Me~"Wait. How about underwear?"

Son~"Yeah. I mean...yeah I did. See ya."

Me (sensing a sin of omission)~"Wait. How many?"

Son (smearing his lips while he spoke)~"mphonemph. See ya."

Me~"Wait. What? Did you say one?"

Son~(eyeroll)~"Mom, it's a bunch of guyeeeees."

Me~(eyeroll eyeroll eyeroll)~"Oh. my. he$%. Are you kidding me? They're probably the pair you're wearing. (they were) Go get more. NOW!"

Son~"Okay. Geez. See ya." (shoves one (1) more pair into side pocket)

When I mentioned to Sterling that I had to fight his son to bring an extra pair of boxers, husband's reply was this~

"Well, he'll be singing praises to Sweet Jesus and his mother, won't he now, when he sharts his first pair."

And that right there is why I love my husband.

*Shart~intention to force a flatulent, (fart) without realizing there is more to it than meets the eye, (diarrhea) resulting in "sharting" one's pants. Also known as a G.A.L., or "gambled and lost."

SLOW-MO HIPPO

Whew.

That. was. close.

I almost was a boy scout sexual predator. ALMOST. But fortunately, I took the vital and obligatory online Boy Scout Safety training course, filled with awkward living room scenario discussions and intimidating quiz at completion, and, well, crisis averted.

A swift and abrupt desist in my pervert tendencies. And it's a good thing, because holding the official position of SCOUT UNIFORM SPECIALIST, there was a very real threat every time I interacted with a nubile, young buck.

So last night, I was cutting me a big ol' pile of rose lovelies, when my foot fell like Alice in Wonderland into a rabbit hole (sprinkler downspout) and guess who went flailing and falling like a slow-mo hippo? That would be me...Princess Lisa. And I don't know about you, but when me hears the words "falling princess," ME sees in me mind's eye, something more akin to a fair maiden in white lace and chiffon, tresses upswept with wild flowers and ribbon woven throughout, baby tendrils spilling down over ivory cheeks...and putting the back of her hand to her forehead, the fall is more of a swoon, as she faints into the arms of a muscular, handsome prince who just happens to be riding by on his stallion and sees the vision of loveliness and is drawn to her beauty as a moth to the flame. He catches her teeny, tiny body~by her 18 inch waist~effortlessly lifts and carries her in his arms through the rest of the forest, only to have her awaken as he emerges from the woods, a shaft of warm light resting upon her splendorous features, and casting a shadow where her Snuffleupugus eyelashes flutter and sweep.

Something like that...not that I've given it much thought.

Anyway, that would be the expectation from someone named Princess Lisa~even if the title was bestowed on me by me. Still, there should be a certain amount of Aurora embroiled in her grace and beauty.

But you should know better by now, because often times, Princess Lisa is obstinate and rebellious and will. not. conform. She is a poor, poor, POOR EXCUSE FOR ROYALTY peeps, and you would do well NOT to use her as an example to your daughters, or read them any bedtime stories about her.

This will only bring sorrow as one day, you might be gazing out your own window and watch that same daughter do a slow motion hippo stumble and crumble, abdomen spilling out from the top of her capris and profanities spilling out from her thin lips.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

BABES

I just read about a girl who is changing her diet and going to the gym, in order that she might GAIN weight. Mm hmm. Gain. She figures she needs to take care of that embarrassingly high metabolism before it becomes a really big problem. So here's some free advice, darlin'. Don't you worry your skinny little jeans 'bout that. Time has a way of taking care of these things, without any help from the victim. I mean recipient.

It's called babes.

Babes that you carry in a stretched out flesh sack that turns your nose enlarged and bulbous and makes your hair fall out in clumps. Babes that suckle the marrow from your bones as well as the collagen from your lips. Babes that leave your metabolism groaning in the gutter alongside your swimsuit and eyelashes, grabbing Johnny's hand as he pulls her out of the corner, so they can Dirty Dance together on stage.

Man, that movie rocks. And yes, I can mash potato.

Course, not that I'd know, but rumor has it that you can achieve the very. same. results. with a steady diet of Dr. Pepper and licorice. In case you're afraid of commitment. But I'm not.

Anyway, back to movies. My male babes were recently given permission to watch Schindler's List. Surprising how nudity is so much less intriguing to a teenage boy when it has to do with concentration camps and gas chambers. They were disturbed, to put it mildly, and I'm glad. The perfect beginning to a carefree, lazy Summer.

Segue into Summer, and I've got some big plans, peeps. Parties to plan, camps to attend, gardens to sow and roses to cut. And can I just say that Heavenly Father was on a CREATIVE SKYSCRAPER when he invented the scent of Rose? Seriously. Somebody should bottle that. Oh, they have? Well, okay then.

Anyway, I'm off to splash on some Eu de Red Roses and figure out square foot gardening. If the Bumbles come swarming, I'll let you know by screaming loudly.

EXPLOSION

Okay, so at times...in the (very recent) past, I may have been known to use my family as blog fodder. And, yes, at times (daily), I may not have been extraordinarily generous?~ in my praise and/or shown all (any) of them in the best light (pitch black). And once again, yes, okay, yes, I may have been guilty (prison sentence) of playing up and exaggerating their worst (made up) attributes.

And I want you to know that I forgive you, friends.

That's right. I forgive you for expecting me to throw them under the bus FOR YOU...and your very selfish and low brow entertainment. I guess you can't help that you have such low self esteem~that the only way you can feel good about yourselves and your OWN family, is if mine looks hideously dysfunctional in comparison.

I've come to realize that it's just who you are~it's how you roll~and you will probably be judged harshly at the Pearly Gates because of it.

Anyway, what was the point of all this? Oh. Yeah. That picture there at the top was the work of both of my sons and can I just say that I find it ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!? Brilliant, I say.

So even though you've been responsible for the bloody stripes across their backs, hopefully you can man up enough to give then a pat on the back and a simple "Well done" for this one.

It's the least you can do.

NOT SUCKING

Hi. Heading out the door to watch my daughter play softball. After every hit/catch/throw, she shimmies up the chain link fence surrounding her pit and yells out,

"MOM! MOM! DID I DO GOOD?"

And of course, I yell back,

"NO. THAT WAS CRAP."

Because as her main goal in life is to be my opposition in all things, (remember Halloween?) if I say she sucks, she'll NOT suck, just to stick it to the man...or the mom~whichever~and win trophies for NOT SUCKING just to spite me.

And some of you well meaning peeps have suggested that "she may be in need of some extra attention." To which I say, this darling chickadee of mine already stands on the street corner named ENOUGH ABOUT ME, WHAT ABOUT ME? wearing fishnet stockings and sequined halter top, approaching rental cars with a come hither stare. (aka attention whore)

If she had any MORE scrutiny, she would be a bleeding, misshapen mole with irregular borders.

Bless her ALL ABOUT ME heart.

Wonder where she gets that.

Weird.

MAD SKILLS

Hey friends. First things first, notice the weather? Hear those birdie songs and see the contrast between sky and cement? (For those of you outside the bi-polar state of Utah, just nod your heads and say 'yes'.) Well, you can thank me.

See, I decided to be a giver last night and plead your case to Heavenly Father. I told him you were on your last pic-line of serotonin. That you were about to build a Tower of Babel and come up there to talk to Him yourself. I told Him that, even though you were wicked and corrupt, that you were now death bed repentant and promised to throw up on your Wedding Day/First Day on the new job/In front of television crews/While at the gym working out...if He would just please, please, pleeeeeeease give you a taste of this thing called Spring.

And let it linger on your tongue.

And let it last longer than a bowel movement.

So look out your windows and say Thank You...to both of us.

You're welcome.

On another topic~the other day, I was at the Blogger Conference, and pointed out to Linda that I had received my period zits just in time to meet people I'll never see again, but who have seen my profile pic, and therefore, will always think of me as the woman with the photo shopped face. Anyway, pointed out my boils, and Linda said, "I thought you were through with all that." I assured her I was.

And then guess what?

'Member that procedure I had several weeks ago? The pasta that wouldn't thread? The many spectators gathered round my open knees? The tampon parade and the "NO MORE" blog? And who could forget the MULTIPLE WEIGH INS, BODY FAT PERCENTAGES AND DANGEROUSLY HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE BLINKING ON THE DIGITAL SCREENS? 'Member all that?

Didn't take.

That's right. Didn't. dammit. take.

Guess I was one of those "rare percentages" in that a BURNING and SEARING OF THE ENTIRE UTERINE LINING was just a little hicca-burp. My Scarlet O'Hara womb considered it a challenge and made a fancy green dress out of those singed curtains.

And I guess I should be proud that I have such will and determination, but it seems my body/psyche only responds in REBELLION. Never in alliance.

So what have we learned here today, folks? First, Lisa is generous and has power over the heavens. Second, she is also RARE, and can most likely regrow any appendage and/or guts she has removed, as she has WICKED MAD HEALING (and numchuck) SKILLS. And last and most frightening, you will need to prepare to vomit in public, as that was part of the deal.

Enjoy that spring time air, peeps! And once again, you're welcome.

FIESTA

Woke up this morning to a horrible after-party Feee-esta! in my mouth. Last night we married onion and garlic~which seemed a good idea at the time~but ended up being SUCH an unholy union. You have no idea. There was Salsa, Salsa and more Salsa, as Beans and Velveeta played WELLLLLLLL into the night.

Anyway, you did NOT want to be a dead fly on our bedroom floor this morning, as the green air swirled and hissed, writing "RED RUM" on our mirrors...only to attempt escape when the door was swung open by our unsuspecting child ready for morning prayer. I opened my mouth to speak, and melted son's face right off. We ended up having an impromptu exorcism. Kind of exciting.

So did I tell you all about the CAPTIVATING, ENCHANTING, MOST BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS LISA RAINCOAT that was screaming my name inside the treasure chest called "Nordstrom Rack?" Krista and Linda were with me upon seizure~they witnessed it's perfection. And I grabbed it and tucked it under my armpit, because some other HIDEOUSLY UNDESERVING shoppers were eyeing it also, but repelled and backed away as soon as I licked it. Seems both my rivals AND raincoat were moisture proof.

Anyway, I brought her home and pulled her out the next morning to play. We danced and twirled as I hugged her to my bosom. And then I slipped her on. And by slipped, I mean WRENCHED, as I suddenly morphed into Chris Farley from Tommy Boy, while the whole house full of onlookers had the exact same lyrics, sing songing through their heads...

"FAT MOM IN A LITTLE COOOOAT! FAT MOM IN A LITTLE COOOOOAT!"

That's right. Fat.

Seems the damm raincoat must run small.

Shut up.