Oh my holy cow, I just got the happiest stuff in the mail! There is nothing so delightful as forgetting that you've ordered something and then having it arrive in a BIG, GIANT BROWN BOX, when you have no recollection of giving out your Visa number! I should be really concerned about that. But it's all about priorities, people. And for ME,delight and excite FAR outweigh responsible and financially competent. THAT is why Heavenly Father created BIG, GIANT BROWN BOXES.
And Froiline Maria... "Brown paper packages, tied up with string...these are a few of my favorite things..." SING IT WITH ME, PEOPLE!
Now I know that I've been known to "dis" brown, but in this case, I make an exception. Rules, like noses and arms, were made to be broken. And speaking of broken, husband accidentally busted three,count them, THREE milk bottles today. On the kitchen floor. At wee hours AM, when I was trying to remain a slumbering princess.
The profanity from his lips was as free flowing as the milk from the bottles. Which brings us to another subject~should a wife enter the special "circle of Hell" that is created when such accidents occur? Or should she use the brain that The Almighty gave her, to stay the stink away? After doing just that (entering,) it is safe to say that this is NOT a requirement for an eternal marriage. If it were, there would have been a mention of it in the ceremony. And yes, it IS that serious.
Also, whoever said those immortal words, "No use crying over it" was an idiot. They didn't find seven cupboards stuck closed later that day. They didn't find splatters on their ceiling and light fixtures three rooms removed, either. And they won't be smelling fermented, coagulating dairy for the next several weeks until they find the source. Stupid immortal word speakers.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. I entered the fray, mistakenly thinking it was my duty. But then, Potty mouth turned on me and started hurling obscenities like ice balls in a friendly snowball fight. Taken aback, I beat a hasty retreat. I serpentined through the family room and nearly made a clean getaway, but wasn't quite quick enough~ still had a few thwak and splatter the back of my head.
Which leads us back to our original subject~big, brown boxes. It's what hisface should be covered with for the next several days so that I can thump his stupid box head every time I walk past him without actually causing harm~or any tell-tale marks of said domestic abuse.
So husband and children are going to the Sand Dunes with our neighbors. Once again, I've declined the invitation. I spend enough time cleaning nooks and crevices in my home. I don't want to have to sift sand through my own fanny cranny. (And by the way, Maren, I know you relish the opportunity to make me look bad. I think there's a special place in Hell for you.)
Plus, my husband KNEW what I was when he married me.
Now I, on the other hand, DID NOT know what he was. He lied. Something he admits to now.
When we were first dating, he sent me this incredibly romantic tape (cassette~shut up) that asked me out for a date of...and I quote..."A candlelight dinner for two, followed by an old black and white movie...or maybe, 'Somewhere In Time'~a favorite of mine..." I swooned~dropped in a dead faint right there in the living room. My parents doused me in water and walked away, grinning at each other.
But they didn't tell me.
Somehow~I can't recall why (made out instead)~we never did end up watching the movie. But deep down, I knew that he truly loved old black and whites. We were so~in tune~so aware...of the true nature of each other's souls. Love does that, you know. (I just threw up a little bit.)
Anyway, long story short, the moment the ceremony was over, he gazed deeply into my eyes, held my hand and leaned in close to lovingly whisper in my ear..."I really do emit stinky gas~on VERY frequent occasions. I will start growing weird patches of hair in unpredictable places on my body. And I only watch Arnold and Bruce." Then he pulled away to discern my reaction.
And much like our entire Honeymoon, I kept the smile frozen on my face. Nooooooo...it was totally sincere and real~totally. Why wouldn't it have been? You're weird.
Anyway, I'm not going to the dunes. It's payback time, babe. Enjoy the grit. :)
I'm sitting here with a giant cup of rabbit poop ice, whilst sitting almost inside of my fireplace to keep from uncontrolled shiver and shake. It's called "trying to serve two masters" which we're told no man can do. But they've said nothing of women, and we all know how very...determined beautiful chicks can be. Are you saying I'm beautiful? Stop it. No, stop. I'm blushing. Gosh. (grin)
Anyway, speaking of determined, once again Jules is in the news. She declared recently that she's through with foofy. As in foofy dresses. And I won't lie...I'm a little bit ticked. But that's beside the point. This is about her, not me.
So I bought her a dress~sans foof. Almost killed me...in fact, I'm wheezing and trembling a little bit still~but she loved it and was tickled to wear it for church the next day. (See, I told you it was all about her.) However, the night before, she had showered and washed her hair and then lazied up on me. Couldn't bring herself to brush through her sopping tresses before going to bed, causing grief and pain the following morning when it was time to put her hair in curls. Think Medusa.
So I was forced to yank and wrench through her snarls, as only a mother can do, inducing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth~mostly mine.
So she sits there silently sobbing, barely able to swallow past the choking lump in her throat and finally hoarsely whispers, "Are you mad at me for loving the dress?"
I stopped tugging for a moment to concentrate on rolling my eyes.
Can you say...melodramatic? Sha.
How about...overly emotional? Totally.
And here's another one...more perceptive than I give her credit for? Huh.
Maybe it is more about me than I realize.
I hate to admit it, but she may have seen my Freudian slip, as it peeked out from under my tweed gray dress.
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.
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.
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.
So get ready for a shocker.......husbands snore. I know! Here's a bag for you to breathe into. My particular husband gets rather vexed when I try to move him around for snort ceasing. I'm surprisingly tender about it, too. No, really, I am. Gosh, you never believe anything I embellish. But seriously? This time? Not even shizzing. I gently lift his arm, or tug on his pillow a bit to make his head roll the other way. Hardly ever do I have to resort to beach slapping or mud wrestling moves. However, husband reacts as if I've done just that, no matter how gently I treat his BOOMING LOUD and unconscious body parts.
It goes something like this~
Me~kindly pillow wiggle
Husband~"WHAT THE?! GEEZ! WHAT DID I DO?! WHY DID YOU SCREAM ME AWAKE?"
Me~moving his elbow to get him to roll over
Husband~"OWOWOWOWOWOUCH!!!!! THAT KILLS! YOU'RE KILLING ME! GEEEEEEEZZZZZZ......snore."
Totally not exaggerating...I leave that to him.
It kind of makes me wish I'd done something to merit that kind of response. Like when your mom says, "Oh, I'll GIVE you something to bawl about!"
The next morning, while searching for bruises and abrasions, he'll mention in passing some vague memory of being beaten with brass knuckles and a 2x4 in the middle of the night and when I tell him it was the soft pad of my index finger I used to tilt his head the other way, he's...surprised.
Now here's the twist~seems lately, PRINCESS LISA has been the snorehead offender! And she wakes herself up on regular occasion with nose barks that would make a congested pug-dog proud. Eyes darting in the pitch of the night, casting imaginary blame at shadows on the wall, while~now this is important~loudlyclearing her throat, so that anybody who witnessed the racket will think, "Oh. Well then. She was fully aware of all that. She meant to."
Now obviously, this shouldn't be happening, because princesses don't snore. And I've sent a memo to the angels and Walt Disney, but until all things are rectified, let's just keep this between us, shall we, dear hearts? Because I've been known to point the finger of shame in Sterling's general direction every now and then, never noticing the digits aimed right back at me.
And I'd like to keep it that way, 'mm kay pumpkins?
Missionary son was cursed with a plague last week~a plague based on the amount of times he's washed his Brazil infested sheets over the past few months. He wouldn't say what that number was~or even if it existed~just that he's learned his blistered, oozing, open sore rash lesson and won't soon repeat this error. Sometimes that's what it takes, you know.
I myself prefer to learn through YOUR mistakes, people. And let's face it~you've given me pleeeeeeeenty of opportunities to do so. So thank you, from the bottom of my no-fail-fudge heart.
Speaking of fudge, I still haven't received a call from the "You profess this is your actual weight? Really? And you're stickin' with that, are ya now?" life insurance premium nurse (tattle-tell). And remember when I said it might just be the catalyst to BECOME what I said I already WAS? You 'member that? Yeah, well, not so much. Which brings us back to fudge. Draw your own conclusions.
Anyway, keep on fumbling your way through life and I'll keep using you as an example of what not to do~because the more people who can benefit from your imperfections, the more worthwhile you become.
You're kind of like a donor.
A mistake donor.
And that right there is a very noble cause. To screw up your own life, that others might not. So hat in hand, we thank you.
(And by 'we' I mean 'me'...cuz I think all the 'others' I'm speaking of are just as bass-ackwards as you. But I didn't want to sound all judgmental, so I feigned humility and included them.)
Are those flaming torches and pitchforks in the distance? Huh. Weird.
Back to school! I know. I'm soooo glad, because it's been an exhaustive two weeks. But finally...FINALLY...we wave goodbye to that one day we went swimming and the time we thought about going camping. Good riddance.
We had our traditional Back to School fashion show and Father's Blessing last night, which is a carry over from my glowing, golden, soft focus childhood. Course, back then, it was always Sunday night, but now...NOW...it's on a Tuesday, or Monday or whenever the hell the dart hits the calendar when they're in their district meetings~"Okay~then, looks like we're gonna start on Saturday this year."~anyway, it USED to, and SHOULD be, Sunday that precedes the first day of school.
And back then, it was early Fall. WHAT? THAT'S JUST CRAZY TALK! WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WITH THE CRACKLE OF FALLEN LEAVES? AND CRISP, COOL AIR? AND SWEATERS AND AUTUMN SKIES AND HOMEMADE BREAD COOLING WHEN YOU CAME BUSTING IN YOUR FRONT DOOR? That sounds HORRID!
A better idea would be two weeks after the previous school year ends, when brand new year anticipation is at it's peak. And mid July, so the temperatures are hovering above 100, bringing cozy repose at every recess.
And the teachers are refreshed.
And the kids are anxious...to go to bed in full daylight.
And it's clear as mud that this is progressive thinking.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Back then we'd runway strut our home sewn outfits and exhibit our array of minty fresh school supplies from Kings, which by the way, was and is THE BEST STUFF STORE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, PEOPLE! Then, we'd end the evening with a fully customized priesthood blessing from our dad, in order that we might have our childhood anxieties appeased. And they were.
So that's what the Bings did last night, because even though the back then is no more, some things still are.
Back to school shopping with nieces and daughter (highlights)~
Sister-in-law~"I told the girls absolutely no peace shirts."
Girls~"Can we PLEASE, PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE get new peaceshirts?"
Me~"Are you feeling okay, honey?"
Em~"I feel wiggly and my eyes will only open half way."
Me~"Do you feel sick?"
Em~"I don't think so...but I probably feel like throwing up."
Lil~"Maybe looking at some fashion will make you feel better."
Lil~"Um, I think I need to go to the bathroom."
Lil~(whispered) "Um, nothing really came out, but toots."
Lil~"Um, I think I need to go to the bathroom again."
Lil~(whispered) "Um, nothing really came out but more toots."
Lil~"Um, I think I need to go to the bathroom again."
Me~"You know what? Let's not rush this, Lil. Feel free to sit and wait until something besides toots come out."
All of them~"THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA, THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA, THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA, THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA, THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA, THANK YOU SO MUCH AUNT LISA"...X's infinity.
Me~"You're very welcome, girls. You're very welcome, girls. You're welcome, girls. Oh, you're welcome, girls. You're welcome. You're welcome. You're welcome. "OKAY, NO MORE SAYING THANK YOU TO AUNT LISA!"
To sum up, Em remained feverish and wiggly, but never did puke. Apparently looking at fashion really can make you feel better. Lil never succeeded in getting more than toots to come out, no matter how many trips we made to the food court public cesspool~which, may I add, is my favorite hangout spot. And Jules found a bouncing dress. Every time she'd jump, it would boing straight up, displaying her underwear and belly, which created all the MORE fun, making for giggling good times spent in the red carpeted Macy's dressing room. (Boing, boing, bounce, hop, boing, bounce, hop...)
We blew a few hundred imaginary (debit card) dollars, which the intelligent girls promptly put into real world terms. "OH MY GOODNESS! THAT'S ABOUT WHAT A COUCH WOULD COST!"
Which stopped me dead in my tracks on our way back to the car. Now just a word of caution...
...never, ever, EVER put a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants shopping trip into REAL WORLD TERMS. There's a reason that somebody penned the saying, "Ignorance is bliss."
Because it is, friends. It is. And we would all do well to stop using our heads to suck the joy and frivolity out of life.
Now let's get back to mindless squandering, shall we? See? Isn't that better?
Ever get just kind of overwhelmed with love and affection for people? Over the last few days, I have had so many experiences being the recipient of tender mercies from my Heavenly Father and Savior~using friends and family as surrogates to pass them along~that it leaves me feeling like a 34 B on a 44DD...filled to overflowing.
As happened to me this past week, sometimes the Adversary gathers his very best minions and they all converge at once. Snarling and shrieking, the hounds of Hell pull on their leather jackets, tie their crossbone skull caps and come tearing through your garden party on Harleys, crashing in the swimming pool of your soul.
They're the zit on your wedding day.
The troll fingers in your birthday cake.
The knife in your back...and through your heart.
That's what Satan does...it's how he rolls...and the sooner you recognize his whisperings, the quicker you can spray the can of Raid and scrape the stinger off your bum.
The Beelzebug killer comes in a variety of forms. It can be friends who pick you up for custard and conversation. It can be parents who give you strength through wisdom and words. It can be a mown lawn, an incredulous and supportive response~from sisters, friends and neighbors. And it can be a knight in Sterling armor who pulls the knife out and stands watch over your spirit, ready to fight your battle should you feel too weak.
I have about 18 cans of LOVE in my pantry now. All equally effective on their own, but used in Synergy? Wow. The scream of RAAAAAAIIIIIIIDDDDD!!!! can still be heard echoing from the depths below. Little devil-bug legs sticking straight up, and forked tongues hanging out of reptilian mouths.
And just like Huey Lewis and the News sings, now THAT'S the POWER of LOVE.
How is Sandra Lee from 'Semi-homemade', so freakishly thin? And can she be trusted? I mean, shouldn't the prerequisite for dependable foodies be an untucked shirt?
I guess it doesn't matter~as long as she continues to make lovely tablescapes while coordinating curtains, dishes and Mix Masters every episode. Course, when she runs out of mixer colors, she has to end the show. What a shame.
Speaking of food, I went to a new grocery store last night and was thoroughly unimpressed.Enormous warehouse, no rhyme or reason for the layout and get this~I had to bag my own groceries. Which may not seem an imposition, but between the raised eyebrow of the checker and the tapping foot of the guy waiting behind me, let's just say that two loaves of bread and a carton of eggs makes an effective, albeit regrettable, pillow for a 13 pound watermelon.
Anyway, until now, I didn't fully appreciate my friendly neighborhood market, with fresh peaches, sugar snap peas and acne prone baggers that call me Ma'am. I remember the day that happened for the first time. Before then, I'd always been Miss (hot babe). Funny how just the switch up of those two words can be considered a hostile act.
That was also around the time I had to stop leering at LDS Return Missionaries.
And started wearing pantyhose for support rather than vanity.
You know, I'd forgotten how warm and cozy a summertime walk can be. I'm still sweating, even after eating a cup of ice and laying partially naked while making carpet angels on the floor. But alas, I had no choice, people. On account of I lied on the pre-life insurance policy interview.
There is a profound story of an Indian boy who goes off by himself for several days to become a man. He climbs a mountain, reaches the top and is terrified to hear the rattle of a snake nearby. The snake asks the youth to put him under his shirt and take him down to the bottom of the mountain, as it's freezing to death. The youth says, "No! I know what you are! You will poison and kill me." The snake says, "No. I won't bite YOU. YOU are special."
Ultimately, the youth gives in and picks up the coiled snake, tucking him under his shirt and takes him to the bottom. When he releases the snake, the snake suddenly STRIKES and BITES the boy.
"BUT YOU PROMISED!" the boy cries as he lays, dying. The snake hisses these powerful words...
"YOU KNEW WHAT I WAS WHEN YOU PICKED ME UP!" And slithers away.
Now I didn't WANT to bear false witness, folks. But when you look a woman in the eye and ask how much she weighs, she has no choice BUT to look away and fabricate. That's what we do. That's how we roll. Ask any Drivers License bureau.
And I did keep it within a ten pound parameter of my current weight, soothing myself with the promise that THIS will be the catalyst to actually BE that weight when the nurse shows up at my door with BP cuff and scales. Kind of like when you (me) buy a pair of pants in a size too small, vowing you'll (me'll) fit into them by the end of the month. Only to find them again years later and give them to the D.I...not because they never fit (tags still attached) but because you're (me's) a giver, people. Generous to a fault.
But if, for some nutty reason, I don't quite attain that distorted number that tripped off my tongue so easily~even WITH sweaty summertime walking~I can not be held accountable, folks. I mean, really (hisssss)...Really, they knew what I was (hisssss) when they picked me up.
I've got boys heading out~once again~to Pioneer trek this week. Four days of pull the handcart, check for ticks, pull the handcart, check for ticks. Probably some great spiritual insights thrown into the mix, too, but if it were me, that might become white noise as the scream of burrowing flesh eaters consumed my brain. Fortunately, it's NOTme. I'm sure they knew if it WERE me, I'd show up completely slathered in petroleum jelly and tight fisting tweezers and matches.
I blame Obama. And the public school system. Scary text book revelations with words like: undetectable until it's too late...tick born diseases that melt your face off...sucking your blood and leaving body parts behind. Those are just the ones I vividly recall~and remember how pinpoint accurate Lisa's memory is.
Years ago, we were coming back from an evening of camping and my little sister was in the back seat with a friend. They both had long, luxurious tresses~much like that ladies' legs. Apparently, there was some sort of TICK RAVE going on while they slept head to head, because the insects were mixing and mingling with their drug laced pacifiers and decided to make it an all nighter. They both ended up with ticks in their skulls. I think I passed out when I heard the"TIIIIIIIICK!" screamthe next morning.
Same thing happened with my older sister. We went to visit the graves on Memorial Day, and after reminiscing around my Grandpa's headstone, returned home. Later that evening, an alien howl came through the vents and echoed through the neighborhood as Nicki found a new mole on her neck. A mole with legs.
Regarding my brother, he probably has a tick right now, but hasn't noticed it...cuz he's a boy. Some sort of gender disparity. In fact, I remember my cowboy Grandpa who would ride the range collecting ticks like thimbles, and then scrape them off his body with a credit card when they became bothersome. Or so it seemed. He was a mans man, Grandpa Boyd.
So what we're left with here, folks, is the last sister standing. The gig is up. The news is out. They finally found me. Renegade ticks comin' in for the bounty.
In two weeks, I'm going to girls camp. We can't wear Capri's, because of the tick infestation. They told us this like they were sharing the weather report. My ears started to ring and my left shoulder went numb.
Thus, in fourteen days, if you hear the SCREAM HEARD ROUND THE WORLD, could we all just bow our heads in a moment of silence for the fallen Young Women's leader?
My pioneer ancestors will already be hanging their heads in shame.
Just got back from a wonderful day spent with my birthday girl mom and little sister. We watched Tom Cruise~or should I say, TOM watched ME. I know. Awkward. Just like Gerard Butler,I think he's got a thing for me. I don't know what it is about a grape aging into a raisin that gets these leading men all flustered, but I'm clearly all he can think about. Shoulder shrug and hair toss.
Plus, we had our toes done. And I shaved two days ago, thereby morphing my legs into a prickly pear cactus for the poor little Vietnamese woman giving me a leg massage. I guess she could consider them like a hand loofah though, right? So in my own special way, I was serving her, people...remember~always a giver.
Speaking of hairballs~Sassy coughed one up today, and it looked suspiciously like she might have been grooming the woman's legs I sat next to at my last pedicure. When she plunked down, I screamed at the top of my lungs, "What the he#$ are you thinking coming here looking like that when you know the woman has to touch you and get all tangled up in your leg mane?!" And by screamed, I mean my facial expression was 'the picture that shrieked a thousand words.' I think there's a special place in Hell for people like her.
And her hell mate will be the girl I was chatting with on the phone, who casually mentioned that she slept-in the morning of her LADY DOCTOR APPOINTMENT and didn't have time to shower. That's right~didn't. have. time.AND...she had played a lot of sports the day before. Sweating. In all sorts of locations.
I had to throw the receiver down while I vomited.
I think it's safe to say that at times like that, YOU MAKE THE TIME...even if you have to build it from scratch.
So what have we learned today, folks? First, Tom and Gerard are working out some kind of arrangement. Second, leg tresses are highly undesirable. Third, I have a wonderful recipe for TIME, so you have no excuse to EVER run out the morning of your Down There Doctor appointment.
How many boxes of Chiklets is TOO MANY boxes of Chiklets? I'll answer that question with a question~just how many teeth do we really need anyway? And is diabetes as bad as they say? Don't know yet~sure to find out. But so far, my body seems to be adjusting just fine to the insulin shock and hopefully I can keep from seizing until after this post.
By the way, I forgot to mention my near death experience. I'll wait while you grab a Kleenex. So we were walking out the door for our holiday weekend, and we noticed rabbit poop ice machine was under the weather~some sort of anal seepage. We handed it a bowl to throw-up in and told it to watch TV until we got back. When we returned, it was pale and listless, so Ster started guttin' it like a fish. I couldn't watch~my maternal instincts are too strong. I turned away and bit my knuckle.
Long story short, imagine ice machine on a gurney, paddles connected, the shout of "CLEAR" and voltage coursing through it's wires as we tried desperately to save its life. The beep on the monitor quickens momentarily...then slows...then all is silent except for quiet weeping in the corner. The Priest crosses himself and everything goes dark as I pass out cold on the floor.
When I came to, the repairman was just finishing up and I was writing him a hefty check, generous tip included, for "unsticking a gear." I gave him a puffy eyed smile as we embraced and I held his face in my hands.
Waving goodbye, I went in and put my ear to the belly of the door...just making sure it was still breathing. Once again, that maternal instinct.
We nearly lost him, folks. And I shall never again take for granted the giving soul that is...Ice Machine.
You can't see it, but this keyboard is slicker than a teenager's honker. APPARENTLY, the last person (son) to use it was also scarfing down a bag of potato chips, leaving behind animal fatty fingerprints as a sort of "guess which keys I touched" spy game. So forgive me if I accidentally spell some of my swear words correctly, thereby making them genuinely offensive, as it's most likely that my fingers slipped on the...lubricant.
So I'm back, peeps. I know. Once again, I didn't mention my impending departure. And it's not that I don't trust you, it's just that I don't trust you. And let's not act like you don't know why, M'kay pumpkins? (two fingered eyeball point)
Anyway, I was attending the annual meeting of brilliant minds, patriotic souls and bum-less bodies known as the Stewart family reunion. And yes, that right there was SOME BRAZEN NAME DROPPING. I do that quite often, truth be told. It's an arrow in the quiver of my credibility arsenal. Here's a for instance~
I went to a conference, and as I stood in the waiting area to go into class, there was this darling little creature whom someone introduced as Hilary. I said, "Hilary who?" And everyone but Darling Little Creature turned stone faced BORG on me, and in disgust and unison, rolled their eyes and hissed, "HILARY WEEKS...*idiot." (*more implied than spoken)
She's famous. And I love her. So I went ape-shit stupid. (Sorry~lubricant, remember?)
Now, I'm nothing, if not good at covering faux paws, people...I have a pocket full of them, remember? But inappropriate humor seemed to be my calling card that day. When I could see there was no way out and she was recoiling like a Shrinky Dink from my crazy desperate cackle and stare, I did the only thing I could do~I just kind of barkedout~
"STEWART! THAT'S MY FAMILY! THEY'RE ACCLAIMED...AND DISTINGUISHED...AND IMPORTANT. SO I AM, TOO. BECAUSE THEY ARE. HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW? HUH HILARY? HUH? HUH? YEAH, THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT."
It was like super glue on cracked and bleeding fingertips. Fixed and forgotten were the idiot words out of my mouth and Darling Little Creature reached for my hand and held it to her weensy little bosom.
Maybe it was to stop me from stroking her hair.
We may never know.
Either way, I will continue to use the family moniker often and recklessly, as I see fit. And sadly, I shall never be a source of pride and swagger to them, but you can only have so many contributors in one family.
It's the law. I read it somewhere...or heard it on T.V...or made it up. Whatever.
I just now recovered from the migraine I received as a parting gift for helping out with Field Day yesterday. You know me and my greed~I tore into the wrappers immediately and reaped the rewards for the entire day and into the night. Wouldn't want anyone ELSE to get their hands on MY blinding headache.
So TODAY is the LAST DAY OF 4th GRADE! WOOHOO! We went back to school shopping last week, on account of there were only three weeks until 5th grade begins, on account of THEY ONLY HAVE TWO WHOPPING WEEKS OFF FOR SUMMER, ON ACCOUNT OF THIS CRAP CALLED 'YEAR ROUND.' But you won't hear too much complaint from these thin lips, since that also means my ears will stay connected to my skull, on account of the girl won't be around to chew and chatter them off.
Anyway, I've got to go. Here comes my boyfriend, Patriotism. I'm making a cake for him, on account of it's his birthday. We're in love. He's really strong and courageous and he looks smashing in his red, white and blue uniform. Plus, he backhands Socialist tyrants right and left if they so much as LOOK at me lustily.
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. :)