MIA

Hey honeys~

Okay, so guess who's gone missing? PRINCESS LISA, that's who. On account of she's busy checking for ticks, on account of she's at her yearly Young Women's camp excursion, on account of a funny joke played by the outdoorsy gods.

But in order that I might subdue the hurt and pain that is likely to be heaped upon your weary shoulders throughout this week of no brilliant insights and well placed vulgarities, I will splint and wrap you up in the chiffon bandage called Vintage Lisa Blue and Shoe! I KNOW!!! SO EXCITING!!!

Who knows? We may just end up closer than we ever were before, after you come to know...Lisa~The Early Years...months...whatever.

Enjoy, darlings. Enjoy.

"TIIIIIIICKK!!!!!"

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2009

DRIP, WHIP AND TIP

I'm kind of a blamer. Like, I have a hard time accepting that bad things can happen to people when they don't really deserve it, so to make sense in my world, there has to be someone to blame for it. That way, bad things can never happen to me, unless my horrid choices warrant them. And yes, I know this is absurd, but it's a warm, fuzzy blanket of ignorance that I choose to wrap myself in sometimes.

So the other day, my dear son got a bloody nose. This is the child that has constant seepage of the nasal passages, and is known throughout the land as "Sniff." We've never actually heard him pronounce his M's and N's yet~and he's thirteen. I'm always reminding him to blow and frightening him with dire warnings of packed snot eventually becoming brain tissue. Anyway, he comes down one morning full to the brim with boogers, and it's almost time to catch his ride to school. I yell~I mean gently remind him~to blow, he says he doesn't need to, blah, blah, blah. He relents, and runs upstairs to do it, as he's a bashful blower. Time passes~no return of the boy.

"BOY!" I bellow.

I hear a little whimper from upstairs, run up and find him buried alive under a pile of bloody tissues. I am instantly taken back to my days of riding the bus to school, the tickle in the nose and watching in horror as drops of blood~without warning~landed on my new puffy blue coat. Thus leading to the "drip, whip and tip." Drip=blood. Whip=neck Tip=head. Damn bloody noses. I had to shake myself out of the reverie to help my boy, and by help, I mean blame.

He arrived at school with a wad of tissue in his nostril and a head full of "your own fault" from his mother. I'm loving like that. I returned home, blew my nose and "What the H?!" My neighbors watched as I retrieved the morning paper with a plug of toilet paper hanging out of my own honker.

I know. It's only fair.

So my hubbie gets a headache the other day.

"What did you do? Did you eat properly? Drink too many Coke's?" (As if there is such a thing. Ha!) I'd point at his chest as I reached another fist into my bag of peas.

"You should be more like me. See how healthy I am? If you'd just eat peas instead of whatever it is YOU do, you'd be fine. Geez." Chomp, chomp, eye roll, chomp. Woke up the next morning with a migraine. I know. Shut up.

You'd think I'd learn. You'd think this would soften me up. Make me a little more compassionate~a little less judgmental.

Nope. Just angry.

And it's somebody's fault.

I'll let you know when I find out whose.