PIG PLUGS

Did I mention I'm in charge of our ward Roadshow? Well, I am. Just FYI~a Roadshow is a traveling 15 minute play, like old Vaudeville. It's been years since we've had them~and I'm not sure why, other than the fact that it was an incredible TIME, MONEY, EFFORT, CREATIVITY SUCKER. But really fun. Back in the day it required about 100 people behind the scenes, involved the entire 12-18 age group to perform on stage and we spent 4-6 months practicing lines, musical numbers and choreography. Add to it another few months for set design, props and costuming and a budget of gobs and gobs. So truly, a FANTASTIC affair.

My, how times have changed.

I have three weeks, people. THREE. And a hunnerd bucks. A HUNNERD. And they want the entire ward involved (400 people). And we can't practice on the stage, on account of our building doesn't have a stage. And my main lead is on a cruise~besides which, I haven't quite gotten around to asking her to be the main lead. And I'm going to South Carolina for a week, returning just in time for the performance. And it's in three weeks, people. THREE.

And did I mention I'm in charge? Just like I was in charge of teaching my missionary son to change his bed sheets every week. Just like I was in charge of my own diet, nutrition and exercise for the last 42 years. Just like I was in charge of teaching my boys to check for black heads in their ear canals.

Two words~EPIC FAIL.

But I'll think about that tomorrow, Scarlet. Today, I'm filling my gray matter with gibberish. Like this stuff~

I just finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. Freakin' AWESOME! But sadly, I now consider the movie so dumbed down that I have to black out my teeth and say "ain't," to watch it.

I finally decorated my house for fall. Hard. But a batch of homemade caramel helped the medicine go down. Mary Poppins taught me that.

I bought two new pieces of antique furniture, because my every happiness depended upon them. I'm always on the look out for my every happiness. Often, I find it in diamonds, but not this time. Weird.

I Zumba'd this morning, and surprised everybody, by totally ROCKING the new routine, on account of there were some seriously smutty dance moves. And apparently, I was born to dance lewdly at the break of dawn.

I'm going to lunch with some dear friends who have missionary holes in their hearts. We've concluded about the only way to heal heart holes, is to fill them with sweet pork. A little pig plug, if you will.

And I think that's about it. Roadshow worries are suffocating underneath the nonsense. Now hopefully, angels will pick up where I left off, and it will be a brilliant success.

If not, well, let us consider this a missionary/roadshow skin infection, as a result of dirty sheets/three weeks and a hunnerd bucks worth of prep.

That'll teach 'em.

APPLES AND TREES

Jules~"OH MY GOSH! DID SHE JUST SWEAR?" (referring to the radio announcer)

Me~"Yup, she did."

Jules~"That is BAAAAD."

Me~"She was just announcing the name of the rock group, hon. A long time ago, during the Civil war, the country was split into two groups. The Northerners were called Yankees. So when the Southerners talked about them, they'd call them the Da$% Yankees."

Jules~"Oh. Wow." (thoughtful pause) "So can I say it? Cuz she did. And you did. So can I?"

Me~"Nope. I only said it to tell you a story. And she said it to name the group."

I thought for a second.

Me~"You know what? It's your choice."

Jules~"Really? I can swear if I want? You won't get mad?"

Me~"It's your choice. You can decide for yourself." (smug mother expression, knowing she will make the right decision)

Jules~"DAMN YANKEES!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN! MOM, IF YOU GIVE ME A CHANCE TO SWEAR, I'LL TAKE IT!"

And I bent over and picked up the apple that didn't fall far from the tree.

Lesson learned.

MUD HUTS

How beautiful is this?

How about this?

And finally, this?

I had a sublime expedition yesterday, sight seeing and appreciating the beautiful Cache Valley in Logan, Utah. Couldn't get over the incredible architecture and craftsmanship displayed in practically every building.

One can't help but compare and contrast these masterpieces with what we consider a home today.

And then I wondered if there isn't a great lesson to be learned. Regarding how much our Heavenly Father loves us, and knowing our divine potential and heritage, He expects a beautiful masterpiece of our time here on Earth.

And how often do we look at the people living magnificent lives, wish for the same, but then turning away, lower our own expectations to walk into our mud hut dwelling and call it "good enough."

And Satan laughs.

Just a thought.

STAGES

I just went for a quick drug run, as a result of a plea from Jules calling from school with an allergy related something or other whine. Seems lately she needs constant reassurance that her mother will come jetting to her aide at her plaintive beckon call. Which, surprisingly, I'm OK with. It's called a stage, but sometimes dresses up as eternal, so the two are often confused.

Some of you are still choreographing and learning your lines on that platform. "Midnight vomit on the bed"......."Perpetual Hunch Back Baby Hover" and the crowd pleaser, "Necklace ripped off, and cascading beads in church pew." I won a Tony for that one.

While the curtain is up and you're starring, you can't imagine the blessed day will arrive when they're all in school, the house is still and you're lounging in your robe with a glass of ice cold Dr. Pepper, Halloween candy and a laptop in your reclining chair at noon thirty. Not that I'm experiencing such a thing presently, my friends.

No. (shaking head in pensive manner)

I'm deep cleaning my house.

And decorating for fall.

And pruning the frenzied rose bushes.

Plus, I'm canning peaches, pears and tomatoes, making freezer jam and sharpening my lawn mower blades for next year. Homemade bread is in the oven and I've made a mental list of the groceries I'll need when I prepare my family a gourmet meal this evening.

THAT is what I'm doing.

And I'm sorry if it makes you feel guilty and uncomfortable that my level of activity is swelling and cresting over you like a Tsunami on the shore. But it is what it is, people. And it is spectacular!

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. I have bugs in my nose holes and hair, on account of a Ten Commandments locust like swarm I biked through on my way to the school. I thought it was ash from the Herriman fire. But it wasn't. It was bugs. From Hell. And that's a place, people...NOT a swearword.

Just examine the scriptures.

Which are sitting open on my table, on account of me being able to read them in silence, on account of the stage I happen to be in at this time of my life, on account of going through those other stages, and somehow, making it out alive with no poop under my fingernails.

Which gives me more time to quote the word of God to YOU, helping you to become a better person~more righteous~and able to recognize the difference between profanity and where Satan dwelleth.

Long story short~you're welcome.

The end.

SPIDER MONKEY HEADACHE

Is it gone? Shhhhhh......don't look. You're being too obvious. Keep reading this blog, and pretend we're not talking. Now just act casual while I look over your shoulder. Okay. Alright. I think it's safe. Oh what a relief! HOLY COW, PEOPLE! I thought it would NEVER leave! Nothin' worse than an uninvited and unwelcome guest. Freakin' headache CANNOT take a hint! I thought it would figure it out when I kept throwin' back fistfuls of pills. I mean, isn't that migraine talk for grabbing an elbow and ushering it to the door? I thought so, too. But every time, it just stood there, talking and snapping it's gum, while letting all the cold air out, until the medicine had lost it's window of opportunity. Then I'd turn to go back inside and WHOMP~the little spider monkey would wrap itself around my head again and came back in with me.

Anyway, last night, if you'd been passing by my kitchen window around 3:00 A.M., you might have seen a woman (not me) in drooping undergarments, one eye glued shut with leftover mascara, teetering on a stool and rummaging through her medicine cache, praying there was a miracle cure she'd overlooked.

Turns out there wasn't. But her sympathetic drug lord husband insisted she take just one. extra. pill...to see what might come of it. Which she did. And as she lay there, waiting to drift...off.....in.....to.......A WIDE EYED CAFFEINE BUZZ CAUSED BY THAT ONE. EXTRA. PILL, WHY, SHE HAD GOBS OF TIME TO ENTERTAIN THOUGHTS!

So putting on her fancy party dress, she became a nocturnal hostess, turning up the music loud~the irritating, vacuous, filthy lyric tunes she'd had stuck in her brain all week~and proceeded to perform an interpretive dance for the masses. There was something for everyone...lists to be made, "What I meant to say" dialogue to be hashed out, lousy parenting to feel guilty for. It went on for hours. As the last guest fled by the light of the breaking dawn, she was left with a litter strewn floor and a garbage bag full of empty pizza boxes. But do you know what made it all worth it? THE THOUGHTS, PEOPLE! The fantastic, brilliant, genius ideas that sloshed around in her brain and ended up dripping out of her ears.

Course, since she was laying on her side, they soaked quickly into her feather pillow, meaning most of them couldn't be retrieved. But she grabbed a few before they disappeared. Here they are......

Sheets. Ear wax. And something about potato bugs. If only she could remember the connection.

Anyway, laughing softly to herself, she managed to scribble those down on her bedside tablet, before sleep overtook her and headache finally tripped out the door, drunken and slobbering on Excedrin tablets at 6:45 in the A.M.

Too bad her son came in to pray 7 minutes later. But as of right now...this very second...spider monkey headache has taken up residence at the Zoo. Please, if you see him, throw him some bananas, so as to keep him happy and content and away from my face.

I'll keep working on that whole potato bug idea. It's sure to be dazzling in the light of day.

MIDGET MOUTH

My beautiful sister's version of me, with "hardly any" photoshopping. "In fact, Lisa, usually I have to do a lot more skin fixing...(wait for it)...on people your age."

This is for my newspaper column, and I think we are all wondering the same thing.....

......with a mouth so petite, how in tarnation does she eat so much?

Hard to say, friends. Hard to say. It may have something to do with compensation~like when a blind person hears better in order to balance out his loss of sight? Well, my nose girth clearly compensates for my midget mouth. In fact, it's highly likely that I actually inhale my food...LITERALLY...and not just figuratively.

That's my theory, anyway.

ONE YEAR AGO TODAY

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BLUE AND SHOE BEST FRIENDS TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!!! I know, you've heard those words before~"WOLF! WOLF!"~but this time...THIS time, he's really eating the sheep!

Kidding.

I just wanted to see if you'd come running. But seriously, folks~This is an ACTUAL ANNIVERSARY, DESERVING OF HEART POUNDS AND GENEROUS TO A FAULT GIFT GIVING.

Now, I know I said no parties, no Jaguars, no trips to Australia (Oprah), but I lied. And then, I realized that you can't know WHAT is an appropriate gift for such an occasion~(diamonds are always proper)~if you don't know WHAT the anniversary is for. So to clarify, one year ago today, I began Blue and Shoe!!! I KNOW! SO FANTASTIC!

Now talk about PERFECT TIMING, because to celebrate, MY first book has come out! And by MY, I mean Jessie Clark Funk's book. But I think we all know she built the book for me. It's called, "Forget the chicken soup, where's the chocolate?" And it's just barely been shipped to her from the printer, so I'm not sure when it will be out on shelves for the HUDDLED MASSES YEARNING TO READ IT. But far as I know, Princess Lisa has written four delightful contributions and will likely be the break out star of the publication.

Anyway, isn't it SUBLIME?

And theeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnn...EVEN MORE MAGNIFICENT NEWS! Guess who is the new humor columnist for The Syracuse Islander newspaper?! Huh? Huh? GO AHEAD! GUESS! AND THAT RIGHT THERE WAS TOTALLY RHETORICAL, CUZ I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHO WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! MEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEME!!! But my head is down and I'm blushing like Flower, the skunk, on account of my humility and such.

Now don't let's be haters, people. Shun that ugly green creeping into the tips of your ears and nose~nobody looks good in 'shade of peas.' Do not fret. I shall never forget my humble beginnings, and will PROVE this to you all, by giving the universal sign of love pouring out of me and filling you to the brim.............the pinky lift acknowledgment.

That's right. The pinky lift.

While I'm talking on the cell phone, and I see you on the street/on my blog/in Zumba class, I shall lift my eyebrows, my chin and my pinky~IN UNISON~so as to overwhelm you with recognition.

You're welcome.

Oh, one last thing. Beautiful Jackie from House of Sarager, is coming into town and we wanted to get together for a MAD CAP, WILD AS A MARCH/CHIN HARE bloggers dinner, and YOU are invited! To go along with the pinky lift. We're thinking next week, Thursday eve, the 23rd, at Biaggis at The Gateway. Around six-ish? Let me know if you can come and I'll bring the Chiclets. Sorry, I ate the pie. It was getting all slobbery.

So to end this beautiful anniversary blog...I LOVE YOU ALL, MY PINKY IS LIFTED AND FEEL FREE TO SLIP THE TRIBUTES INTO THE COMMENT SECTION...

...in case you can't make it to Tiffany's.

REAL FRIENDS GET PIE

Soooooo...who was it? Huh? Who, people? And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about...I CAN COUNT, YOU KNOW! I KNOW WHEN MY FOLLOWER NUMBERS DIMINISH...EVEN IF IT'S ONLY BY ONE! IT'S NOT LIKE I'M A BLOG FOLLOWER PROSTITUTE, SHAMELESSLY FOLLOWING OTHERS, SO THEY CAN BE A NOTCH ON MY BLOG BEDPOST! I HAVE EARNED EVERY ONE OF YOU, AND THIS IS HOW YOU PAY ME BACK? BY REMOVING YOURSELF FROM MY LIST?!

Yeah, well, guess what? I don't really care. On account of APPARENTLY, you don't know what funny IS.

And you're disloyal.

And you probably have sister wife hair.

And you know what else? Your nose resembles a SNOUT and yes, those pants DO make you look fat.

Oh, and one last thing? You really DIDN'T mean that much to me, on account of I don't even know who it is that's missing. I was just using you. Your name was written on the bathroom stall.

And guess what? I DO know who my real friends and followers are, and they get pie for dessert. That's right. Pie.

And Chiclets.

And roses. And chocolates. And diamond rings.

All on account of being true and faithful, as I am to them.

So go on and slurp up the remnants of my past posts, when you get parched and dehydrated from lack of fantastic creative/funny juices squirting abundantly from my blog. But don't come crawling back here when you find the grass ain't any greener~or less profane~on the other side of the fence.

There are just as many steaming cow pies over there, and you're likely to step in most of them. Enjoy.

ZUMBA HEADACHE

Headache once again. It could be the weather...or my eating habits...or the excessive amount of caffeine I consume...or, well, any manner of things that I subject myself to. But I blame Zumba.

And since you brought up Zumba, here is my latest Blissfully Domestic article. It may sound vaguely familiar, but I assure you, it's just your imagination.

MIXING BOWL LOVE

Hey, friends. Had a truly beautiful mother-daughter bonding moment this morning. To begin, I Zumba-ed. But first~and most importantly~I bought new pants, so I was no longer petting zoo offensive. You're welcome.

Then, things started going a little bit downhill, in that Char had to remind me how to breathe correctly, on account of I had the urge to pass out and puke...again. My brain yell sounded something like this~"Oh my H...Are you KIDDING ME, LISA? You're gonna head south during the cool down portion? Seriously! That's like breaking your leg climbing out of bed! The LEAST you could have done, is a FANTASTIC CRASH AND BLAZING BURN-OUT while hip-hop thrusting. Then at least you might have held your head high when they carried you out. But this? You know what? If you go down, you are dead to me."

And I didn't want to be dead to me, so I pulled it together.

So fast forward a half hour~home, eating, braiding Jules' hair and I notice fresh sweat. But this time it's cold. And it smells like farts. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but there it is. Anyway, I go into hyper-braid, finish frenzied and crawl to the couch, where I sit silently, breathing slowly and methodically. Jules assesses the situation with a raised eyebrow and simply asks~

"Would you like a bucket?"

Almost imperceptibly, I nod.

"I'll go get you one."

And she brings me a mixing bowl to barf into.

She just knew, people. And I've never felt closer to my darling girl as I did this morning. And whoever says that nurturing instincts are held equally by both genders is FREAKING WRONG, in that the last time I passed out after exercising, Ster just happened to be there and wildly bellowed, "SHE'S PASSING OUT!......SHE'S PASSED OUT! OH MY GOSH WHAT DO WE DO WHAT DO WE DO WHAT DO WE DO?!" Making sure to involve the ENTIIIIIIIIIIIRE gym full of patrons, rather than let it be an intimate moment between just us two.

Bless his heart.

Anyway, kisses and mother love to my Jules...even if she's dressed in her football uniform, her heart beats tender, capable...

...and discrete.

SALSA BEAT AND GYRATING HIPS

Never went to sleep last night, friends, on account of I had a Zumba class this morning.

I can hear you, you know.

Hush up...or you won't be able to hear this over your judgmental laughter.

Anyway, a few things were learned today. They are as follows...

1) If there were a "What Not To Wear" Zumba class version, Stacy and Clinton would have come busting in, and Lisa would be on TLC's season opener.

2) Candy corns are not Lisa's friend.

3) Neither is her sports bra...even if it IS pink.

4) Though they both start with the same first two letters, ZUPAS cannot be a tag team fill in for ZUMBA. I already tried. Last week. Five times.

5) Had Lisa been alone, she'd have done a crash and burn after the first 10 minutes. But since she likes to put on the appearance of robust health, she lumped and bumped her way through the entire routine, waiting until she got home to puke.

6) I'm almost not kidding about that last one.

7) Goats and camels have no business in a Zumba class. There should be some sort of sign with a big, black line through a zoo animal's crotch, stating that there stipulation.

8) A portly woman with enough determination can exert even more energy avoiding the mirror, than she does in hip-hop thrusts and shoulder shimmies...thus losing even more weight than the average size 6 Zumba attendee...SO THERE, YOU WRETCHED TEENY TINIES!

And there you have it. Now guess what? For maximum benefits, I have to go back there again. I KNOW! CURSE YOU LATINOS WITH YOUR SALSA BEAT AND GYRATING HIPS!

Anyway, I'm leaving now. I've got to fill my cheeks with harvest pumpkins, since the corns can't be trusted.

ROAST A COW

This explains it...read on...

"He's hiding, he's hiding, and no one knows where...and all you can see are his nose and his hair." But you can hear him, people, cuz bathrooms echo... Just sayin'.

You know how we sometimes ask pumpkin pie husbands to go in search of Super Plus with wings? Yeah, well, payback is a beach. Do unto others.

Spy cam shot of the Labor Day travesty that is mine to mourn...this was actually clean last night...shut up. FYI, the copper cabinet is Rabbit Pooh, whom we love.

Son compelled to come down at 10:17, only to persevere and resume napping on the couch until after 11:00.

Professional, customized birthday cake~if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it~

HAPPY LABOR DAY! And from one who gave her mother an insiders look into the TRUE meaning of the day, only what, 28 years ago?...give or take...you can trust me when I say, she deserved much more than she received for her efforts that day. Many much more. And because of that, I think it's also safe to say that the best Labor Day policy is sloth, as the harvest from that tree is sure to be fatty, sour and rebellious.

I'm sorry, Mother dear. You were clearly gypped.

Another basis for being a slug could be because it's still my birthweek. Or because holiday exertion is against the law. Or because my entire family is in residence, people...AS WE SPEAK...and if there were a spy cam hooked to my forehead right now, you'd be seeing the lesson in futility that IS Labor Day weekend.

And just so you know that I've been passing along my ethics to my spawn, here's a little dialogue that just happened~

Julia~(looking out the window at CHAR'S family~they hotdog relish making us look bad) "Whoa. They're doing yard work today?"

Me~"Yup."

Julia~"You don't do work on Labor Day."

Me~"Labor means work."

Julia~(face squinched up on one side) "Oh."

Then she walked away to melt some chocolate, so she wouldn't have to work so hard to eat it.

On a side note, I found my camera in the magazine rack next to the toilet. Not sure what that means~or what I'll find when I download these shots. But one thing is sure~we'll "BARE" witness together! HAHAHAHA!!!!

Oh, my. I just blasphemied this holiday by laughing so hard. I've got some repenting to do. HAVE A WONDERFUL NATIONAL HOLIDAY and/or REASON TO ROAST A COW, friends! I have to go lay down. It's already 11:16...

....A.M.

JUST WHAT I WANTED

FOURTH visit to Zupas+SECOND day of post cut and color bad hair=FORTY TWOOTH year on Earth, people!

And while relishing the MADE FOR ME PERFECT BIRTHDAY WEATHER yesterday, swigging down a Dr. Pepper from Anony, and arms open wide walking t'ward what was sure to be a cascade of gifts once I opened the mailbox...a waterfall of blue Tiffany boxes, birthday checks and Jag convertibles...while singing a duet with Carly Simon in ANTICIPATION of the abundance of ketchup love that was soon to be pouring down upon my hamburger head...well, I was just overcome with what fantastic friends ME has earned.

You're my allowance for the ILLUSTRIOUS WOMAN IN ZION job that I do so well.

Little amigo coins in my ceramic pig.

The tip jar at the register of the Princess Lisa establishment.

Now I do have to say that the mailbox action was more drought than flood. But then, sometimes houses wash away in heavy rains. And sometimes it's required of Lisa to shove her knife down into that damm stubborn, stingy Heinz bottle and drudge up her own 'just what I wanteds', on account of she's tired of pretending she likes bottles of bath salts from All a Dollar.

Not that she doesn't.

Just that she doesn't.

Anyway, that's what I did. I purchased, people. I didn't purchase PEOPLE. I purchased COMMA people. All manner of wares~from vintage purses to Halloween decor. Every last piece, just what I wanted! Then I left it out in the car overnight, so as to prolong the suspense.

"HOW DID YOU GUESS?!" I squealed upon sifting through bags this morning.

"Oh, I just listened to your subtle hints." I replied.

"BUT IT'S PERFECT! I'VE ALWAYS WANTED ALL OF THIS!" I effused.

"I know. It's just that you mean so much to me, I had to make sure this was your best birthday ever." I humbly admitted.

And it was. At least until next year, when I'm sure to outdo myself.

So you see, all of you nay givers actually gave me the best present of all...permission to spoil the birthday girl like a piece of forgotten fruit in a warm crisper.

And no, that smell is NOT me...

...it's the fermenting roses I sent me.

MY NEWBORN BABE!

THANK THE HEAVENS ABOVE, I FINALLY HAD MY BABY! And, she's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, peeps. She weighed 8 lbs 5 oz, which you'd have never guessed, seeing as how I practically dozed through the entire natural birth. And yes, I DID say AU NACHO (not Dorrito 'nacho' but rather 'nAcho'~short A, like CAT)-RAAALLLL...in a tub, no less, thankyouverymuch!

Now some of you might go all smug on me here, and claim that I can only count a child as mine, if I actually delivered the babe from my very own girthy abs. To which I roll my eyes while explaining...condescendingly ...HE-LLOOO...I had it VICARIOUSLY, people. Duh. Through my sister? And since she used the name I had previously mentioned I would have used, should I have had another daughter...well, I think it's pri-tty clear that she had my baby.

I also think it goes without saying that anyone willing to gain sympathy weight and/or grow a burly flesh sack along with the baby mama, well, she deserves to receive the newborn child as a parting gift.

Sort of like a SWAG-BAG. A baby swag-bag that was left over from the Emmys.

Anyway, I've taken possession of this little girl...if not physically, then at the very least mentally, emotionally and spiritually. And I'll admit it's probably best this way~that someone else should lactate and suffer excruciating after-birth pains rather than me, on account of my Princess and the Pea fragile constitution. Plus, lest I forget, I'll always have the tangible manifestation of this vicarious pregnancy in the form of burly sag flesh sack remnants.......

........maybe I can fill it with potatoes. Or onions.

Oh, no, wait. That's burlap. Never mind.

P.S.~2nd visit to Zupas...