The floor is warm, the house is clean, the presents are wrapped and I'm about to settle down for a long Winter's nap. I tried to do some of that slumbery snore this morning, but was jarred awake in the wee hours by a worker man pounding on the front door. Ster forgot he was coming. In fact, so much slipped his mind, that about 3:00 AM, the poor dear decided he couldn't watch the clock one more second, and slipped himself a mickey~or half an Ambien~which I knew nothing of.
Ever hear what an Ambien is capable of doing? It's categorized as a "hypnotic sedative". A nurse I know took one and woke up on her trampoline. Go ahead and Google it. I'll wait......
....done? Okay, so that 3:00 AM decision? Mm hmm. Poor. Anyway, pound, pound, pound and I jump up, all heat miser hair, and morning musk whisper screaming,
"IS THAT SOMEONE AT THE DOOR? IS SOMEONE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE? STER! WHO IS IT? IS THERE A WORKER COMING TO FIX MORE STUFF? DEAR! WHAT'S GOING ON? DID YOU REMEMBER SOMEONE WAS COMING? HOW COME YOU'RE NOT UP? DO YOU KNOW WHO'S HERE? STERLING! STER!"
He just lays there.
Like it's MY problem.
Then finally, crack head meanders out of bed, toodles around the bedroom for a few seconds, which is HOURS in "stranger pounding on your front door" time, then wanders leisurely into the bathroom to gather up some shorts to cover his bedhead bum.
Anyway, he just admitted tonight that he was in an Ambien fog that whole time, bless his heart.
Hey, so guess what I'm eating? Little balls of chocolate, butter and sin. Satan balls. Compliments of the lovely, effervescent as a glass of pure carbonation, Heather. Even her name sounds like soft, purpley flowers in warm summer breezes. And she has cotton candy hair, just like me. Some of you know what I'm talking about (Missy). We really ought to just dye it pink, except then people would likely try to grab a wad and shove it in their mouths when we pass by. But that would probably only be at Lagoon and Disneyland and such.
Anyway, guess how much that bad news is costing us? SEVEN. FREAKING. GRAND. PEOPLE. That's right. And if you've been with me from the beginning, you'll recognize this as an exact carbon copy of this time last year.
And right after swallowing that chunk of glee, poor, dear husband came home with anxiety dripping out of his nose pores, on account of this guy named Jack~last name Ass~goes by the nickname Dumb~heehawing that he wanted his name removed from the records of our business. I KNOW! Like we hadn't already excommunicated Jack eons ago. Moron.
So anyway. That's all I got. Well, that and a gaggle full of blessings that I'm choosing to ignore. Because 'TIS THE SEASON, friends. Even though I have a life full of goodness, I'm sitting on Santa's lap and whispering that it's just not enough.
So I went to have a shower yesterday. Found out that the furnace/boiler had stopped working sometime the previous night. Or...perhaps...mid morning encroaching into noonday. On account of it may or may not have been officially afternoon when I stuck my toes into the freezing water.
I realized I had a decision to make. Do I call my husband who has been at work since the rump crack of dawn, and admit that my facade of being anxiously engaged is a sham, as I am JUST NOW realizing my plight? Or do I slather pits in deodorant and work some baseball cap magic, in order to keep up pretenses?
In the end, I shampooed in icicles that dripped from the faucet, turning my brain blood to slush, so that I might not have another elephant pooh hair encounter. Then throwing dignity to the wind, I called and came clean (figuratively) to my man.
And lucky for me, I am the only finger pointer/head bobber in this household, thus hubbie didn't even raise a fiber optic eyebrow. Just picked up the parts and fixed it like the brilliant mechanic that he is. And I wish I could say I learned my lesson. That from this day forward, I will jump out of bed and fling my flappy body into the refreshing mist without missing a beat. But the Lord hates liars.
He told me so when we were talking about...well, I shouldn't say.
Hard to talk, friends. Hard to type. Hard to sit. Hard to breathe. On account of my stupid Grinch jeans. No giving Christmas spirit WHAT.SO.EVER!
Seems their stupid stingy heart isn't the only thing two sizes too small. And here I am, trying to embrace the season by letting MY heart...and some other stuff...grow even MORE ENORMOUS, because of my giving nature and such. In fact, I put a magnifying glass to my belly, and what do you know? IT BUSTED RIGHT THROUGH THE FRAMEWORK, JUST LIKE WHEN THE GRINCH GETS THE SPIRIT! SO FUN!
So I'm just carrying on special holiday traditions, you know? And hopefully, my example will be a light on the hill for grinchy denim everywhere, so that we can one day see them wrapped all festive and generous, around GIGANTIC BULGING BUMS, as they understand what Christmas is all about.
And then they'll get their own animated Christmas special.
Hey, guess what's fun? Having your own blog! On account of you get to write your very own stuff! I know! So like, your own memories, your own experiences, your own feelings and even your own humor, filteredthrough your own personality prism. EVEN IF...now this is important...someone else doesn't "get it".
So like, I paint pictures with words the way I want you to see it, and use acronyms indiscriminately and embellish stories with ALL MANNER OF GLITTERY, SCATTERED PROFANITIES...and then, here's where you step in. YOU get to decide whether or not you want to read it. And guess what else? With such steely determination, you will find the offense you were after~with any number of stories, memories, experiences or humor. THUS, you are AS FREE AS A BIRD to fly away.
FREE AS A BIRD.
It's called agency. Part of the plan.
And when I say "fly away," I mean click off the link, turn off the computer and climb back onto the phone to weep, wail and gnash your teeth while you speak ill of me to your kin.
And just one more FYI (another acronym I tossed in higgledy piggledy)~we know you dye your hair.
That's right, I said it. QUICK, HIDE THE GUN BEFORE THEY CAN SHOOT THE MESSENGER!
A friend of ours went in for a biopsy tonight on a rather large mole. Just decided it didn't look right as he climbed into the shower, and made the appointment THAT VERY MINUTE to have it checked.
Said the Dr. used something akin to a cookie cutter to stamp out a piece of the tissue, then sewed it up like a puckered balloon.
Dr.~"Come on in next week, and I'll take the stitches out for you."
Him~"Naw. I can do it myself."
Dr. gives friend a seam ripper tool, which he is looking forward to using on his own basted skin.
Now several things stand out to me here, regarding the GLARING DISPARITY I see between me and this brave knight. First, if I had noticed a 'not right' mole on Princess Lisa, I'd have spent up to 8 months of tortured, sleepless nights, fraught with despair over the impending Dr.'s visit.
Worries like, "Oh my holy junk, he's going to think it's my fault...that I grew this mole on purpose! He'll probably want to check my entire body for freckles and rogue tumors, which will bring to light my taffy abdomen and weathered breasts and such. I wonder if they can give me a local for the physical? Maybe a piggy snout of laughing gas or something? Course then I'd be out of control, laughing and naked under a paper napkin on the exam table...until I start coughing. And then I'd pee a little. You know, now that I think about it, maybe it's okay to die of a malignant mole. I mean, really, I've had a pretty good life. Kids are older and don't need me so much. Plus, people have been jerks to me lately and I really think I might be done. No, really."
Beyond that, I'd be compelled to take up drinking, so as to get liquored up enough to simply MAKE the appointment, as well as to actually keep it. Also, so I wouldn't be aware or care how much coughing, laughing or piddling went on. And the seam ripper? Yeah, no. Just, no.
So those are just the most obvious chasms separating this friend and me. And sure, one of us will likely live long and prosper, while the other may, well, okay, not. But she kind of feels it's better to leave them wanting more.
Plus, she's sure that's a beauty mark. (pretty sure)
You know how we always talk about opposition? As in, "There must be opposition in all things." Yeah, well, so since I looked smashing on Sunday, extra care with hair and makeup because we went to my sister's ward for her baby's blessing, and it's time to represent, you know? Can't have her neighborhood thinkin' she's a hick and comes from cousin marriage. Anyway, the next day I evened things right out. On account of I let my hair air dry.
Or should I say "error dry".
Yes, it was a mistake, friends. Anyone with a teaspoon of hair has no business letting a light breeze be in charge. But I thought I deserved it. I was tired and decided to rebel against personal standards and good judgement. As soon as I realized what a miscalculation it was, I tried to remedy the situation. But that only made it tap its foot and roll it's hair eyeballs at me. I tried ponytails, bobby pins, chiffon scarves and heavy eye makeup. The tapping got even louder.
Sterling came home and Julia came home and Chris came home and Seth came home and not one of them looked me in the eye. They just kind of stared questioningly at what was hanging limp and feverish across my forehead. Eventually, I mentioned the elephant in the room, but not before it left a steaming pile of hair pooh, that everyone had tried to avoid. Finally, I just took my bra off and put my robe back on. It was clear I was going nowhere.
So what do we learn from this, people? That Satan is a filthy liar. That's right. Stay with me here~see, Satan is always screaming for us to be free! And the only way we can be free is to disobey...parents, religious leaders, commandments, laws, promptings from the spirit...Lucifer spouts off that they bring us down and we're being led like sheep.
Yeah, well, shut it, Satan. Because from what I experienced yesterday, obedience brings freedom, not fetters. I disobeyed my own principles and went rogue for the day, and look what it brought me...A BRA-LESS SHACKLING TO MY HOME, WITHOUT EVEN THE POWER TO REPLENISH MY DWINDLING CHOCOLATE STASH!
And Satan laughed.
So don't tell me that steaming elephant pooh hair is the way to live your life. It's not. We deserve much more than that.
And I will be the one to laugh at Satan, not the other way around!
Na, na, na na na! (sticking fingers in ears and tongue out) (Now I'm wiggling my bum at him. He hates that the most!)
Favorite collectibles~all spindly legs and bulging bellies.
Magnificent Victorian glitter fest snow babies.
Porcelain Victorian ornament/doll.
Sparkling crystal earrings and necklace.
Vintage patent leather envelope clutch.
Enormous emerald ring, on account of I like to put on airs.
WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS "STUFF" FINDS~for me, of course~on account of who knows me better than me does? And because I'm so generous, money was no object.
Brenda is my favorite. She owns Just a Bed of Roses, which is also my favorite. Both favorites. My sisters and mom and friends celebrate all chick holidays by a visit to her threshold. We even set goals together. This year, we decided I need to work at wearing more necklaces. Now how many shop owners do YOU know that are this vested in the betterment of their clientele? None, people. 'Cept for Brenda. Only thing wrong with her is she celebrates with Christmas spiders. I know. Really, really creepy.
But she deserves to be forgiven this one heinous flaw. So take a flying leap to Farmington and get your own stuff. Then you wrap it up and put it under your tree, and tag it to you from your own husband, which is basically like hiding it in plain sight. You won't even have to shove it behind your dresses in the closet, and then bring it out a few months later, acting surprised that he's never noticed it before now.
I am a loud spirit trying to subdue itself in this body. Sometimes successful, other times, not so much. I am a happy, thriving, religious homemaker, wife and mother. And none of these things are contrary, no matter what the world tells you. :)