CHRISTMAS COMMERCIAL

Criminy, people! Have you seen my house? Have you seen the boxes and boxes of crapola just lying around like a lazy, farting cat in front of a roaring fire? Have you seen the bags and bags of "What the junk is this?" decorations, that had nothing to do for the last 11 months in storage, therefore, spent the time fornicating in the dark, plastic buckets with other worn and weary decor, resulting in a whole gaggle of illegitimate tinsel wads and cheap, tangled lights? Have you seen me outside, barefoot, trying to tie a crunchy, left over velvet bow on my iron railing, and then limping back indoors, as my non tempered glass feet immediately shattered and bled from the impact of extreme temperatures?

No. No, you haven't. Because you're too busy acting all competent and smug, having your lights, stockings and ornaments hung with care, and pretending you're in a Christmas commercial, wearing a form fitting cashmere sweater, smiling demurely and looking out your frosted window pane, while you blow on a mug of steaming hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

And I kind of hate you right now. And it's likely to continue until you remember how much you owe me, and prance on over here like a good reindeer does, to help out Princess Lisa, so she can start sucking down a few mugs of that Christmas cheer, herself. With marshmallows.

If I don't hear my doorbell ringing by midnight, you're dead to me.

BLACK FRIDAY

Me-"Hey, Mom. Let's make a quick run to Joanne's fabric. I know it's Black Friday, but it's later, and I'm sure the crowds are diminished by now. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

Me-"Why are all these people draped across chairs, holding bolts of fabric? Half of them are dozing."

Mom-"I know. How weird. It's been a long day, so maybe they're just worn out."

Me-"Oh, good. Here's the fabric we wanted. I'll go pull the numbered ticket, so we can get through the line faster. (pull ticket) Our number is 47 and they're on 30. Geez. This is going to take a while."

Mom-"Well, let's just wander around for a few minutes while we wait." (20 minutes passes)

Mom-"Hey. What number did they just call? I think that was 52. Oh, crap! We missed our number!"

Me-"I'll run up and see if they'll let us in."

Angry cutter lady-"G54...G54!"

Me-"Oh, hey. I missed my nuh....wait, did you say G? Wait, so there are LETTERS, too? Letters mixed with numbers? So if mine says H47...abcdefgh...so, then, how many numbers are assigned to each letter? Are there like, another HUNDRED to go, before you make it around to H47? Is that what's going on here?"

(Angry villagers strewn about fabric cutting area give me a collective eyeball roll)

Random customer-"We've. been. here. for. two. hours. and. twen. tee. minutes."

Me-"HOLEEEEE HE.......COW, PEOPLE! ARE YOU SERIOUS? FOR WHAT, LIKE TEN BUCKS SAVINGS? ARE YOU...wow. (pulling pitchforks out of purses and flipping Bics to light torches) Wow. Okay. Good luck with that."

And we heard the faint cry as we screeched out of sight, "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, NOW WHERE'S G59...G59!"

TO DO

I think you'll be proud of me. As many of you know, I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner, and may I just state for the record, that there is nothing quite so exhilarating as crossing things off a list. Things such as:

*Make a list-check

*Clean out my purse-check

*Get the mail-check

*Pick up Kleenex with my toes-check

*Eat a pile of pistachios-check

*Pick up kids from school-check

*Park at the grocery store and tweeze a few stray hairs-check

*Go to Tepanyaki for steak and shrimp-(burp) check

Now I know what you're thinking. How does she do it? How does Princess Lisa continue to amaze us all with her list making triumphs? Well, it's a talent, friends. A skill I've honed over years and years of procrastination. I eventually realized that the only way I was going to feel successful, was to write things that were highly likely to happen on their own.

Kind of like giving out trophies for "participant". Shines just the same as first place, and you can't really tell what it was for, unless you get close enough to read the engraving. So for all you know, when you see all those pretty red check marks on my THANKSGIVING TO DO's, you assume I'm accomplishing the hell out of things.

And I am.

Holy junk, that shrimp was tasty. I'm adding that to my list one more time.

GUM

Heard from the backseat on our last trip to Park City~

"Who gave you gum?"

(chomp, chomp, chew, smack)

"Sterling did."

(smack, chomp, chew)

"STERLING! YOU ARE IN TROUBLE! Spit it out. Now. I mean it. Give it to me." (hand held under chomping chin)

(hysterical laughter, rebellious head shake and even louder gum smacking followed by a fist bump between Sterling and the offender)

Now I'm not naming names, people. But let's just say that the next time you see your DOCTOR/RELIGIOUS LEADER/43 YEAR OLD PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY...

...put your hand under his chin and tell him to spit it out, or you'll tell his wife.

RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL...

You know how when little kids are being chased by their monster dad, and they're so hysterical and trapped that the only thing they can think to do, is turn and run directly into the arms of their attacker? Yeah, well, that's what this is. I'm telling you the story before you find out on your own and hit me where it hurts~in my (false) pride.

So it started with a last minute decision to get a pedicure. Seems a few months previous, my surly little toes had thrown a fit, screaming that they didn't need any "professional supervision". They thought they could make it on their own, so they packed up their polish and pumice and waved goodbye in peep toes. Stupid daft hoofs. But there they were, three months later, all cracked, bleeding and chipped, having shredded their last pair of pantyhose, and bawling that they couldn't pay their light bill and needed a place to stay.

Anyway, being the nurturer I am, I took pity on them. Which brings us to the desperate need and split second decision to run to the pedicurist. I entered the shop, obeyed the Vietnamese command to "choose culuh," grabbed a couple of magazines and rolling my pant legs up, slid my feet into the warm blue water. Suddenly, I was seized with clarity and dread, but it was too late.

I was Rapunzel.

Leg hair Rapunzel.

Which does not make for an enchanting fairy tale.

I quickly texted Kara, for sisterly support: "Oh. my. holy. junk! I just put my feet in the water, and forgot I haven't shaved!"

Kara: "How long has it been?"

Me: "Since before South Carolina."

Kara: "Oh, Lisa. Oh, geez. Well, don't bother apologizing. She doesn't understand English, anyway. Plus they're probably talking about you right now."

And they were.

So I did the best I could to stare at my magazine and avoid the teeny little girl's mocking laughter and black eyes. Which seemed to be going fine, until she held up my foot and scrutinized my heels, which were covered in half inch deep, dead dermis splits. This had slipped my mind, on account of they'd stopped stinging the day before. Our eyes locked and a silent understanding was reached. I was no longer welcome in this establishment.

And then, thinking the worst was over, I leaned forward to scratch a hairy limb, only to drop two brand new magazines into the basin filled with recently shaved skin shards. The girl just stared at me, lifted the trash lid and pointed and snapped for me to retrieve and discard. Not even the hint of a smile. Just my nervous laughter filling the air.

I kept my head down for the remainder of the appointment, which normally lasts around an hour and a half, but this time finished in just under 45 minutes. Weird. And then I beat a hasty retreat straight to my bathtub ledge, in order to right the wrong. I figured I could quickly shave, post-pedi, and rewrite history. Because sometimes I lie to myself.

So what do we learn from this, friends? First, Vietnamese girls hate Americans. Second, just because a foot stops stinging, does NOT mean it's in peak physical condition. And third, I need a new hairstyle, as they've just posted my mug shot on the wall.

Jerks.

TOP TEN REASONS

So next week is Thanksgiving, folks. LET THE GLUTTONY BEGIN! Not me, you. Because let's not pretend you haven't already started sampling the menu items, 'mm kay, pumpkins?

Anyway, here is my Blissfully Domestic post to tide you over until I come clean about the hairy legs crime scene at the pedicurist last week. I'm working up to it~not ready to admit guilt. Would prefer to cast sideways glances at all of you, as to your own conduct.

I'm off! Turkey burps and Dr. Pepper kisses, peeps!

YOU DIDN'T WAVE

I just got back from doing a little shopping. So here's today's question:

What is...

Better than the State Fair...

Better than the hallways of a Jr. High school...

Better than a family reunion...in a double wide...in the back woods of Alabama?

Answer~The Mall Food Court.

I'm telling you, folks, people watching as good as that shouldn't be legal. It was like looking through a microscope at a petri dish full of rapidly multiplying bacteria, and wondering when the mutation would come to a horrifying climax.

By the way, you didn't wave back at me.

CASTING STONES

I'm home, muh peeps! Back from a terrible few days in Park City. It was horrid. I hated every second. Every outlet shopping, restaurant eating, movie watching, late sleeping, condo residing, hot tubbing moment. Dreadful. I shudder just thinking of it.

As my friend and I sat caramelizing in the jacuzzi, we read the plaque on the wall that warned any pregnant women to shun this activity. And we laughed even as we were becoming light headed and nauseous, because we no longer heed medical warnings, on account of our wrinkly wombs and such. I also recalled the day that avoiding scalding hot tubs was as good as an announcement~

"Hey! You're only sticking your toes in. ARE YOU PREGNANT?" And we'd smile coyly, as the cat was out of the bag. Apparently the vomit dripping from our chin wasn't a strong enough indicator.

Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I went visiting neighbor ladies with my Mother in law? Now, a quick descriptive of my dear MIL, Ramona~fiery red hair that she "dyed" until she "died". Blue eyes, pink nails, coral lipstick that never managed to stay within the confines of her mouth, and the sharpest tongue with the bluntest delivery. Which I know nothing about myself, so shut up.

So we were chatting with a young woman in our neighborhood, and she told us she was 'expecting'. Ramona said with delight, "Oh, how wonderful! Do you know what you're having?"

Woman~"Yes. I do." Long pause.

Ramona and me~Eyebrows raised in expectation.

Woman~Even longer pause. Initiates staring contest.

Ramona~"Well? Is it a boy or girl?"

Woman~no reply.

Ramona~"I thought you said you knew what you were having."

Woman~"Well, I know what we're having. But we're not telling anyone else."

Ramona~with incredulous disbelief, laughed~"Well, hell, I don't really care WHAT you're having. I was just trying to make conversation!"

We were never asked to visit with her again. But we didn't care. She deserved it. She was stupid. And since I've never said or done anything stupid, thoughtless or insensitive in my entire life, I can cast that stone, people, as I am clearly without sin.

So what did you all do while I was in Park City? Never mind. I don't really care. I was just trying to make conversation. Now hand me that boulder, will ya?

THANKSGIVING DECOR

Happy, happy pilgrims. Why are they happy? Probably because they get to feast for three days straight. And there was no Black Friday back then.

New scalloped table~LOVE IT! Not to brag or anything, but I think the centerpiece and table sang, "The Circle of Our Love" as they made a promise in Heaven that they would find each other after they were born, and I was the glue that brought them together. Just sayin'.

"There's a great big turkey down on Grandpa's farm, and he thinks he's very..." what a shame we can never sing that "straight" faced again.

My new pilgrim set~loving the pewter and mixed metals.

Nice rack....plate rack, that is.

Some poor bird was plucked naked to dress this fake Turkey. Hardly seems fair.

FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC vintage material! Can you even believe they make such wonderful stuff? I can die happy now~clutching this fabric in my hands. I want my coffin lined in it.

And MORE vintage...not sure what I'll do with it~just know I couldn't live without it. Any ideas?

REAL MATERIAL! I KNOW! What is it about Little Golden Books that immediately makes the world right again?

Jules and I getting "artistic". Oh, AND, that little squirt of hair is my "messy bun". I know. Shut up.

Meet Jules~the balloon twisting savant. And no, I'm not being compensated for endorsing Pepsi products. But I probably should be.

WHITE NOISE

Something is up with my TV signal, so I might as well blog. Not that I am addicted to staring vacuously at the mind numbing screen or anything. But maybe you are, which is sad. It's sad to me you spend your days yelling that, "IT'S JUST A JOLLY CHRISTMAS SWEATER! ARE THOSE POM POM BALLS DANGLING FROM THE TREE REALLY HURTING ANYONE? LET THE POOR WOMAN ALONE, STACY AND CLINTON! CRIMINY!" And it's sad to me that you know every verse of the CMT top 20, singing about your HillBilly Bone all loud, proud and oblivious at Gardner's Village, while loitering around ladies who lunch. And it's equally sad to me that you are probably still in your nightgown, unsure what to do with yourself, minus your early morning routine of falling back to sleep with the soothing lullaby of Mythbusters.

So sad for you.

Anyway, I have completed a few chores lately. First, I decorated for Thanksgiving, which means I also UNDECORATED for Halloween. No small task. Plus I finally noticed and threw away the last remaining "vomiting it's own innards" jack-o-lantern on the front porch that had become white noise to me.

But I was only on the fringe of the white trash neighborhood, as it's been LESS than a week, and I happen to know a woman who still has her pumpkin corpse on her front porch from HALLOWEEN, CIRCA 2009, PEOPLE! Course, it's now the size of a shriveled-up kumquat, so maybe she forgot it was once the majestic king of squashdom. (Suddenly, the word squash is cracking me up.)

And you know, maybe she's gone green, but doesn't know that shouldn't be taken so literally~as in green, moldy, rotting pulp staining her front walkway. So who am I to judge this woman who so obviously loves Mother Earth, and is just trying to feed the cement with all manner of fall harvest, as surely it gets hungry, too?

Anyway, where was I? Eh, never mind. I'll just end with a TGIF, even though those initials lost their thrill after I left (notice how I chose left rather than finished or graduated~here's a pencil~draw your own conclusion) college, as a MOTHER'S work is never done.

Course, sometimes it's never started.

Which could be why it's never done.

Touche.

WHAT HAPPENS IN PHOTOSHOP...

Yeah.....sooooooo.......just took another batch of photos for the newspaper column. And just for the record, if you hear talk of 'deleting moles,' full 'face and neck airbrushing' and 'mouse click chin minimizing,' well, don't you believe a word of it, folks.

Especially the one about moving one of my eyeballs a full half inch up or down. That's just crazy talk.

Because as everybody knows~what HAPPENS in Photoshop, STAYS in Photoshop!

Isn't that right, Kara? (two fingered off-kilter eyeball point)

PIE WITH CREAM

Dainty flower Jules...the fro sporting ostrich jockey.

Nothing says Halloween like a flash flood rainbow.

A chickencess...new Halloween concept in the process of patent.

Ahhhhhhh. That's me sighing with chocolate drool relief that it's officially November and we can now enjoy the harvest season without getting all tangled up amidst bloody corpses hanging from tarantula webs. Not that I don't enjoy that...about as much as pushing play on the answering machine and hearing a "reminder call" from my dentist.

But shouldn't it disturb us that we're entirely desensitized to melting faces and strewn body parts on front lawns? On the up side, I have filed away in my demented brain the most opportune time to murder you, as I can bury your body in full daylight while smiling and waving to the mail lady. (straight faced eyebrow lift)

Speaking of dead birds, I'm hosting THE FEAST this year. I've found it's the only way I can be trusted to perform household hygiene on an annual basis. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I must be compelled in all things. And if there is no reason for said yearly cleanse, well, you can expect oniony B.O. reeking from my kitchen's armpits and a few boil like zits popping up on the baseboards. And nothing says, "Oh my he%#, what IS that?" like a white head on a baseboard.

So just like all good intentions, I'm starting tomorrow.

Or next Monday.

Or the Wednesday night before THE FEAST.

Don't roll your eyes. You knew what I was when you picked me up, people.

Plus there's a tremendous satisfaction found in white head extraction.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes...

"WHO WANTS PUMPKIN PIE...WITH FRESH CREAM?"