PERFECT!

YES! he is just as WICKED AWESOME as we all hoped he'd be. Even MORE handsome, MORE delightful and MORE spiritual than we dared dream.

And listen, folks, don't let's hate, okay? I mean, I'm sorry if YOUR son isn't getting up early to study scriptures and do the dishes that his brother was supposed to do, but never got around to, because he was busy rubbing his own bald head.

And I'm sorry if YOUR son doesn't speak lovingly to his sister, calling her "so cute," and "pretty little Jules," and all sorts of complimentary fluff, even when her own mother can't conjure up a favorable adjective in her behalf.

And I'm sorry if YOUR son doesn't call up the stairs, in reply to you asking who's down there and if they're still playing X-box, "It's me and Chris! Do you want us to come up now? No? Are you sure? Because we will!"

Yes, I'm sorry about all of that. But just because my son is PERFECT, well, it doesn't mean that your son is iMpeRfect...even though it's highly unlikely that your kid can even hold a melting candle in front of the glowing countenance that IS my son.

Anyway, I just wanted to confirm to you all, that from my loin has sprung a specimen of manhood that only the gods could expect to sproing. And he'll be heading up to school at juuuuust...preciiiiisely...the moment that the clock strikes twelve and we're left grasping at his shadow, holding the forsaken glass slipper, which will signal the end of the magic spell that allows us to view him through these rose colored glasses, ne'er to behold him farting or burping or itching his bum in public.

Which is just the way God intended it.

And oh! Hey! I got you something! A little belated, but thoughtful, just the same. Movie making at it's finest! Enjoy!

From God's Arms, To My Arms, To Yours

He's sleeping at the mission home right now.

Tomorrow, he packs his bags and bids a final farewell to the beautiful people of Brazil—his home for the last two years. Then clothed in one threadbare suit, and leaving behind all the rest, he will climb aboard the plane in the early morning hours that will bring him back across an ocean and a continent and into my waiting arms.

It's been done before, of course. And I'm not speaking of other sons, of other mothers, of other missions—I'm speaking of my own. It's been done before, this coming and going, sending and receiving, giving and taking. Yes, he was mine before he was theirs. And though I am his earthly mother, he was His before he was mine.

I remember a song from a few years past. Beautiful lyrics, relating the story of a young woman who had given up her child for adoption, explaining to the new parents how she had come to this place.

And though the verses are meant for this life...an earthly adoption...I can't help thinking that those pleas sound very familiar. That I was, truly, the interim parent. Having been entrusted to receive these spirits that were given to me by a loving Father in Heaven, and then expected, and even required, to relinquish them to the waiting arms of his next home. Brazil.

And I did.

If only for a little while.

From God's arms...to my arms...to yours.

And now, on bended knee and weeping with gratitude, back into my arms again.

If only for a little while.

SILENT TREATMENT

Well, the demon piggie wind is screaming so ferociously outside, that I have no choice but to stay inside, in front of the fire, drinking something poured over rabbit poop ice and blogging in my pajamas. I'm afraid if I try to get dressed, the wind will tear the size 2 jeans right off my shapely legs, and we can't have that, now can we? Shut up.

Anyway, I'm done giving you the silent treatment—and don't act like you don't know what you did. (two fingered eyeball point) But I think you've been punished long enough. Let us begin:

Happenings lately~

*I hosted a lovely Thanksgiving spread for 38 this past week, and just now noticed the dead flies in the window ledge of the bathroom everybody used.

*Since my son is still in Brazil, it's up to me to register him for his University classes, and I'm too stoopid to do it. Near as I can figure, it's some sort of filtering process—if you're smart enough to maneuver through the maze and find the cheese, well, you're rewarded with four years of tuition, books, fees and loans. But it's okay, because you trade that in for a piece of paper. That probably, and I'm just thinking out loud here, but probably you could find online, and print on your own, for way less money. But whatever. We say it's the journey that matters, folks. But in all my middle aged years, I've never applied for a job where they asked anything about my journey. The paper was all they cared about. Clearly they're not as enlightened as "we" are.

*I went to Just a Bed of Roses. Spent a lot...and I mean A LOT...of money on items that were just a little bit too special to give to you, so I kept them. See, Brenda goes out of her way to buy things especially because she knows I'll like them, and it would really hurt her feelings if I gave them away to others, all willy nilly and such. So in order to keep her heart intact, I'm biting this bullet called materialism and greed and keeping the universe in alignment.

*My son just called and because of power outages, etc, caused by the demon pig winds, wants me to call the school and give him permission to come home. Yeah, right. Like I want him home. Suck it up, son.

*He just texted me, "There's nobody in class!" And I replied, "Except you." He'll thank me one day.

*And lastly, MY MISSIONARY SON WILL BE HOME IN 15 DAYS! I KNOW! I CAN'T STOP SCREAMING EITHER! IT'S JUST SUCH AN ENORMOUS THING TO FATHOM AND IF I'D SHARED WITH YOU HIS LETTERS OVER THE PAST TWO YEARS, YOU'D BE BEATING DOWN MY DOOR TO CATCH A GLIMPSE OF THIS GODLIKE CREATURE, WHO STARTED OUT AS A SPOILED LITTLE HOP TOAD, AND NOW STANDS ERECT AND SHIMMERING, JUST LIKE EDWARD'S CHEST IN THE SUNLIGHT, EXCEPT HIS IS FROM RIGHTEOUSNESS, NOT SUCKING HUMAN BLOOD.

And THAT is what has been happening around here lately. Oh, plus I need to figure out a way to lose 20 pounds in 15 days, in order that there not be an awkward moment at the airport, wherein my boy searches for his adoring mother amidst the frenzied fans, only to find she's been swallowed by two years worth of Dr. Pepper, divinity and chocolate cream pies. I might need to wear a name tag.

Anyway, hope you've been well and happy and had enough time to think about what you did to deserve no blogs from me for three weeks.

Love forever,

Princess Lisa

I DISCREDIT MYSELF

So tonight I spoke at a Young Women's Evening of Excellence. My old high school friend is the one who made the call, and together, we made a pact—

"I won't discredit you, if you don't discredit me."

We were true to our word.

Turns out I didn't need to worry so much about Holly, but rather my own Princessy self, on account of at the end of the meeting, one of the darling girls approached me with radiant beams shooting out of her smiley eyes and exclaimed, "I READ YOUR BLOG!"

And I'm like, "Oh, thank you, hahahahah—wait, what?"

Then did a supersonic mental card catalogue flip through the last 2 years of blog posts, and realized it was too. late.

Just like Ethel, she'd done already been mooned.

But at least what you see (read, hear) with me, is what you get, right? I mean, I think we all know our fair share of people who spend a fortune on makeup and dental work, since they have two faces to worry about. Usually, by the time you're in the midst of perimenopause, (the stupid spell check is underlining this word, like it's not real...like I made it up! RIGHT! LIKE I'M MAKING UP BURNING MAGMA FLASHES, APE SHIZ CRAZY MOOD SWINGS AND WHAT THE? IS THIS A SIX O'CLOCK SHADOW? WOMANLY FACIAL HAIR. Sheesh. Dumb crap spell check.) Anyway, where was I before it got so hot in here?...

Oh, yeah. Usually, by the time you're old enough to go through "life changes," you're old enough to know better. And I'm happy to say I'm learning. Sometimes still talk out of my fanny, but hopefully not both sides of my mouth. Not often, anyway.

In the end, I figured there was nothing left to do but own it. So I did.

And then I did The Snake. Plus I treated them to my signature knee grab head jerk. Because there's nothing that swipes up the attention in the room, like a foxy babe doing nubile, young dance moves.

Sorry you missed it.

(still really hot in here...has anyone seen my razor?)

PRINCESS AND THE PEA

My dear husband was away for over a week. It was supposed to have been four days, but he heard the siren song of the Mini-Cooper, tossed his return tickets in the trash and decided a trek across the nation was just what the doctor ordered.

Just a little info~he's 6'4 and so was his driving companion. Also, they had double the luggage, on account of they flew to the Carolinas to ride motorcycles through Ashville and surrounding areas. Well, it's cold on a bike, so there were helmets, leather jackets, riding boots, snowmobile suits, etc. Anyway, wrap all that up and tie it in a bow called mini, then open it up after a 3 day road trip and see how things turn out.

Actually, things turned out way better than expected. Especially when you consider that Jeff split his eyebrow open immediately upon entering, not ducking quite low enough to climb in, they got caught in an unexpected winter storm where the driver's door froze shut and required the two of them to climb in and out of the passenger side for two days, they pulled away from a gas station, without realizing they'd left the nozzle in the tank, and the Mini sits 3 inches from the asphalt, leaving the two men starring in their own version of The Princess and the Pea for the entire journey.

Surprisingly, they arrived laughing and joyful, which could be due to medication, but listen, who am I to look that gift horse in the mouth?

Speaking of mouths, mine keeps putting stuff inside of it. However, as I type this, I can look in front of me and see the box holding the walking gadget thingy whopper that will keep track of any calories that I leave behind in a burning heap of rubble, if I exercise. So there is intent, no matter what you may have heard.

But somehow, it still seems like toil and labor. And you know how I feel about that kind of verb and noun. Now if there were some sort of adjectives in front of them, like, "DELICIOUS, CHOCOLATY toil." Or "RELAXING, EFFORTLESS labor," well, things might be a little bit different around here.

But until you can find me some of those rectifying adjectives, I'll just keep staring at that gadget box. And hoping you take care of things before it's too late.

It appears I'm a Socialist. Now who is in charge of paying back my student loans?...

DO OVER DAM BRAIN

I could have slept in today, guiltless, on account of it was UEA break. Which is why my brain said, "Hey, I don't think this will be nearly as much fun for you to sleep in when you can—you know, when it's legal. So just sit back while I open the...hold it...just about...GOT IT! I JUST OPENED THE DO OVER THOUGHT DAM! SORRY! I HAVE TO SCREAM OVER THE TORRENTIAL FLOOD WATERS OF REFLECTION THAT I'VE KEPT IN YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS, JUST WAITING FOR THE RIGHT TIME TO LET THEM GO! AND I KNOW IT'S 4:47, BUT THERE'S NO BETTER TIME LIKE THE PRESENT TO LET YOU FLIP AND FILTER THROUGH EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE, DO NOW OR WILL POSSIBLY DO IN THE FUTURE THAT HAS, DOES OR MIGHT POSSIBLY CAUSE IRREPARABLE HARM TO YOUR FAMILY, YOURSELF OR YOUR REPUTATION. HAVE FUN!"

Dam brain.

FALCON STRONG

Beautiful pictures taken by my equally beautiful and exceptionally talented sister, Kara.

Pretty cool, eh? Or as my son would say, "Fartnocken' bombshiz awesome!"

Because he's classy like that.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

BOOGER SNOT WITCH NOSES

I made booger snot witch noses, friends. A terrible error in judgment.

If you're not "up" on the latest Halloween treats, then let me fill you in; 3 cups sugar, 3 cups Karo, 3 cubes butter, a smidgen of green food coloring and vanilla, and six All a dollar bags of Bugles. Which translates into 2 1/2 extra chins for my missionary son to pretend he doesn't notice when he gets off the plane in a couple of months. And we take lots and lots of family pictures, proving my excessive chin ratio. And I tug nervously at my uncomfortably tight cardigan that's meant to camouflage the rolls of not boob but slap on a nipple and suddenly yes, could be boob, fat rolls. I like to think ahead, people. And then act with wisdom and restraint when faced with temptation. I don't like how you're looking at me right now—if I didn't know better, I'd think you were making some sort of judgment call...unrighteously. (two fingered eyeball point)

Anyway, I did okay, in that I gave three of the six portions away. But if you graduated high school business math with a flourish, like I did, you'll conclude that there were still three portions left.

In my kitchen.

In a bowl.

Staying gooey under the warm halogen lights.

You might notice there's no picture of said booger snot witch noses attached to this blog post. That's on account of I had to destroy the evidence. They were the voice in my head all last night, early this morning, continuing on until around dinner time. I had no choice but to silence their screams over the course of 24 hours with my teeth and stomach acid. So it's okay—you can come out now. You're safe. The wicked witch noses are dead.

And you're welcome.

SPOTTED DICK

A few weeks ago, we bought us some Spotted Dick. I shiz you not. Did anyone else know there was such a thing? And that it can be found at World Market rather than an infectious diseases clinic? Yeah, us either. Neither. Whatever.

Anyway, yes, somebody out there is still sticking to their spotted dick guns, insisting in their English accent that there is "NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT NAME! I DON'T CARE WHAT THE WORLD HAS DONE TO IT~IT'S JUST SPONGE CAKE AND RAISINS!" They're the same people who keep naming their daughters Gay. While filling their plate with hors d'oeuvres, asking the hostess who cut the cheese?

Bless their hearts.

But I get it. I mean, seriously, it ticks me off how someone can take a perfectly lovely noun, verb or adjective and give it a revolting connotation. This changes our world, people. Just think of those poor pitiful peeps having taken for granted that Johnson would always be a good, strong, respectable last name. I wonder how they would feel, if somebody used their name to label, oh, let's say bum goats?

"Eeeewwww. She's got some major Misty going on there."

But now that I think about it, why was somebody allowed to label underwear going up a rump crack, "goats?" Poor animal. What did they ever do to deserve this stinky wedgie implication? And speaking of wedgies, those were SHOES, people. Still are, just like thongs. And yes, once again, we have a poor unsuspecting flip flop shoe that had the misfortune of being worn by the lingerie designer who decided a string of bum floss resembled his footwear. Which brings us to poor unfortunate floss. Far as I know, floss is for TOOTH DECAY, not fanny cheeks. How did HE get mixed up in all this wretchedness?

You see? It's the song that never ends. And I'm angry, folks. They've maligned all sorts of beautiful, helpful contributors to society. Farm animals. Shoes. Happy people. Cheese cutters. When will it ever end?

Likely, not until every one of our names ends up in that steaming pile of verbal vomit...or should I say "ralph"...

Poor guy. He never even saw it coming....

TIP TOP OF THE PYRAMID

I'm decorating again, friends. And doesn't it seem like I just barely did this? I thought so, too. Which is how I feel about making dinner—didn't I just do that a few weeks ago? Geez. It never ends.

Anyway, it's been a riotous time around here lately. Homecoming, Homecoming and more Homecoming, on account of being in charge of the alumni—or as Julia spells it 'iluminy'—events at good ol' CHS. Which is pronounced "chuhs" in case you were wondering. Like lunch-uhs and watch-uhs and witch-uhs.

Did I ever tell you that I was a cheerleader there at chuhs? I did? Well, it bears repeating. Princess Lisa/Varsity cheerleader. So one time we went to competition, which was a really big deal to us, because people just didn't go around competing back in the 80's.

We were lazy farts.

With big hair.

Anyway, we hired a couple of University cheerleaders to teach us an awesome routine, set to "Naughty Naughty," and you may wonder aloud how I remember that when I can't remember to wake up in the morning. One word—priorities. Now quit interrupting.

So we climb inside Nancy's ENORMOUS SUBURBAN where her little sister mouth breathes metallic funk from her unbrushed braces over my shoulder the entire trip. Long story short, we were the only high school that showed up, because APPARENTLY, there was an even more prestigious competition going on at the mall downtown.

Realizing we still have time, we shun the loser host school, hop back into the vehicle and lumber down the freeway to the competition where the COOL kids are. Because we are going to show that damn East High with the bobs and the Beemers that GIRLS WITH MULLETS CAN THROW DOWN!

We were proud—some might even say arrogant. Because clearly...clearly...no. other. cheerleaders. could have spent as many hours whining about practicing as we had. We were that prepared. Sad to say, the person playing our music wasn't, and started it one measure too late.

Like dying Energizer bunnies, we performed a few startled moves, threw some girls in the air, forgot to catch one, then slowed to an aimless wander...not unlike liberals asked to cut social programs. Finally, the loudest voice barked out, "DOWN!" And we obeyed, dropping into our first positions, unfortunately not in correct formation.

Waiting for the music to begin again, Liz crawls over and whispers hoarsely to anyone who'll listen, "Guys! Ouch! I think I broke my ankle! Seriously. Guys. Ow ow ow. I think my ankle's broken. It really hurts. Bad. I think it's broken. Ow. Like, I heard a crack. No, really, ow ow, I'm pretty sure..." then in unison we compassionately HIIIISSSSSS like a nest of snakes to, "Shut it, Liz! You're FIIIIINNNNE! Now DO IT!" And she did.

Turns out Liz did break her ankle. Poor girl busted that thing prit-near in two.

Also turns out that when the base of all of your pyramids has a broken ankle, things ain't likely gonna go your way.

And lastly, turns out we might as well have been taking a dump in an outhouse, we shat that place up so bad.

So what did we learn? Well, stop competing for one. Also, Liz is kind of weak. Plus funky brace mouth makes princesses puke.

But in the end, what would we do without a starting point for our progression? Makes me grateful I was so low, as there was no place to go but up—to the tippy top of the poorly constructed pyramid!

Speaking of up, I have to get up in the morning, so I'm heading for bed~sweet mullet dreams to come. I only hope you have a few of your own...

'Nite, all.

WHEN WE'RE HELPING, WE'RE HAPPY!

SUPERCALIFRAGILIPSTICK...wait, not lipstick...anyway, Mary Poppins! Went to see the play last night and the stadium seat could hardly contain my jivin' to the show tunes bum! You would not believe the set design, and Burt walking up the walls, and the singing and dancing and INCREDIBLE production quality! But even more entertaining was the lunatic family two rows ahead who nearly kilt their child for not shutting up.

Half an hour into the show, this kid starts using his outside voice. The older brother hisses and shushes at him from the seat next door. For like, five minutes. Dingbat takes it as a challenge and continues using outside voice, but takes it up a notch with body jerks. Two seats over, mother shoots laser beams through him with her crazy eyes. Brainless keeps it up, and third seat over joins into the fray. Soon, the entire row is SHUSHING THE HELL OUT OF THE KID, causing uproar and judgment calls in upper and lower mezzanines, and Jack Donkey just keeps. it. up.

Finally, the mother reaches across, grabs the kid in a Vulcan neck pinch and the kid falls to sleep. Unintentionally.

Just in time, too, because the audience was forming a line to take turns helping...if you can call a bat and duct tape helping.

I kind of think you can.

FACEBOOK FRAUD PROFILE PIC

So a few friends decided to go to lunch, on account of I just discovered the DESSERT HEAVEN ON EARTH that calls itself "Kneaders." I hear they have soup and sandwiches, too. Beside the point. Anyway, I wanted to share the fatty love with as many chicks as I could, because I'm a giver—which goes without saying, and still, I continue to do so until you really get how benevolent I am.

Where were we? Oh yeah, Kneaders. Going there this weekend. So Deena goes all apeshit crazy and informs me that she has invited a friend of hers who has been led to believe that funny speaks as funny writes. And even though she promised not to ask me to say something amusing, I can already feel my nose and ears turning all precious gem, people, as the unspoken pressure turns the black coal that is Princess Lisa, into a diamond...or CZ. Whatever.

So I informed her that she just cursed me to wake up drooling, with one eye crossed and anal seepage. Plus she's dead to me. But that doesn't change the fact that some unsuspecting lass out there is expecting to meet the photoshopped, edited, two hours condensed into one paragraph copy of Princess Lisa.

Won't she be surprised (alarmed) when instead, she sees the placenta afterbirth, and has to hide her natural instinct to grimace and exclaim, "WHAT. IS. THAT?"

So now I can't go.

But I'm sending my facebook fraud profile picture in place. Just open up the computer and place a Diet Coke in front of her.

It's the least you can do. Deena. (two fingered eyeball point)

HERE'S TO BIRTHDAYS!

Witchy hat from Bed of Roses...to DIE for! A generous birthday gift from my dear mother.

This year's addition to my Halloween witch collection. Saw it in Victorian Trading~loved it~set it aside in my covetous mind~bought it for $20 cheaper at Bed of Roses! Yes!

Another dazzling vintage inspired item from Bed of Roses. Does it ever end? I hope not...

Old school room pictures~going to frame and mount and dream of a simpler time...

Vintage linen perfection~I'm making it into a bag some day.

Lapel roses for my collection. They don't even need to be watered...except with tears over their exceptional beauty.

A parting birthday gift from Brenda~owner of Bed of Roses...her generosity knows no bounds.

The 'piece de resistance' from my husband and children~I GIVE YOU THE IPAD 2! With keyboard attachment...and sky blue cover on order...and money pulled from every one of their pockets~not because they HAD to, but because they WANTED to, right children? Right.

And yet another undeserved gift, this time from Adie Mitchell and her DOMINATION OF ALL THINGS SCENTSY! She's a giver, that Adie from my youth. I used to babysit her. Now look~she gives me gifts of cinnamon and light. Let that be a lesson to you~never ever EVER burn those babysitting bridges, no matter how heinous the child. (Adie, you were an angel...an ANGEL, I say!)

Of course, scattered amongst these picturesque offerings, there were luscious sweet rolls and bags of chocolate and cinnamon and caffeine brought to my door, all wrapped up in blue and tulle and smiling faces of beautiful friends. I was nominated Homecoming Queen, according to my Facebook birthday wish popularity. And those willing to dine on porky nuts and berry salads numerous times over the last few days, brought a smile to my wrinkled lips and a twinkle to my dimming eyes.

So there you have it...Princess Lisa turns 43. Or 34, if you transpose, which I believe is still using the same numbers, therefore cannot be considered a bald faced lie. Hey! Can I help the intrinsic value that was given to numerals? No. No, I can't people. The only thing I can do is rearrange them until they're aesthetically pleasing, and live with the fact that I'm now 9 years younger than when I began. It's science, people. You can't argue with the universe. (disgusted eye roll)

Birthdays rock, BBF's. Can I hear a WOOT WOOT! (fist pumps in the air with bat wing arms swinging to the beat)

FEELING THE SPIRIT

I know. Believe me, I know. But I didn't have this exact shade. The wrong has been righted.

If there is anything black, white, or classic hounds tooth, we seek after these things.

Sheets. Or material for a nightgown. Depends.

Vintage apron that I didn't even have to make! My bread will taste so much better with the 1950's hairdo that I shall sport in order to wear this.

Marshalls department store has arrived in Utah, dear friends. It is a glorious day. A glorious day, indeed. I did my best to give them a fat elbowed welcome, and they in return gave me a dent in my wallet. But I forgive them, because where much is given, much is required—words to shop by, as well as a sound gospel principle.

I asked on Facebook whether or not you can feel the spirit in a department store. The answer is a RESOUNDING YES...if you're as righteous as me. If you haven't ever felt the spirit, well, clearly you're a sinner.

And a bad shopper.

And I feel sorry for you...

...and your posterity.

Might need to baptize you myself.

NOT WHAT I EXPECTED

Jules~"Mom, you said you'd never let me get colored hair, but then you let me get this feather. And that's just like colored hair." (smug grin)

Me~"No, I never said I wouldn't let you get colored hair. I said I wouldn't let you get lots of SHOCKING streaks of colored hair. And that's a feather, not blue hair." (busy reading a magazine)

Jules~"Nuh uh. It's just like colored hair. I never said I wanted to get a thousand pieces of colored hair. I only wanted one—just ONE red piece of hair. But you said it was 'worldly.' " (head bob and pursed lips)

Me~(putting magazine down and making eye contact) "Why exactly did you come in here? To start an argument? Do you, or do you not have a fun blue feather in your hair?" (ignoring the impulse to slap her)

Jules~(walks away)

Now am I missing something? Because from my point of view, the correct response was, "Thank you, dear Mother, for allowing me to not only live, but to do so in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Most especially, for supporting me in plugging a trendy, unnecessary and overpriced chicken feather into my skull. Life, as I know it, is good, and I have only you and your generosity to thank."

Instead, I opened the door to an 11 year old version of the fast talking, sweating, cleaning supply sales lady from the South who wants to use my bathroom, dropped off on my street by a white van.

In other words...not what I expected when I heard the knock.

TODDLERS AND TIARAS AND BLOODSUCKER WORMS

I just finished looking through some blogs that have the uncanny power to not only enlighten and entertain, but also leave me feeling completely.......less. Less than them. Which is dumb, because I don't want to be them, or live them's lives or even experience most of what them experience. Nonetheless, I feel......less.

Which is why I like to watch Toddlers and Tiaras.

On account of you could cuff your children's wrists and lock them inside a feces strewn bird cage, and STILL feel you're an exceptional parent, compared to the WHAT THE HELL! going on with that show.

Speaking of mothers and mullets, came upon an old classmate from elementary school on social media. Long ago, on rainy days, the boys used to chase terrified, screaming girls with bloodsuckers (worms, really, but it looked like they were filled up with blood, thus the graphic nickname that lent horror to the experience.) We'd flee into the girls' bathroom to take refuge.

Enter the "mostly a boy" girl, who would grab a handful of bait and come busting through the doors, bringing with her all that is vile and unholy! She'd stand there in her Tuff Skin jeans and untucked plaid shirt and laugh like a freakin' maniac while the girls huddled in a, "TELL MY MOTHER I LOVE HER!" pile of weep and sob.

I can't remember what happened next. Maybe the bell. Maybe a teacher's intervention. Maybe I passed out and she stomped on my face. Hard to say. But what I do know is this—she was a force to be reckoned with. And I'm grateful the worms were the only thing she ever wielded against me. I'm sure she's a lovely person now—likely just reacting to trials and traumas in her own young life. Or maybe she just liked the feel of a bloodsucker in her fist. Either way, it's all good.

Which reminds me for no good reason of my poor son who is experiencing his own ordeal in taking the acne medicine Accutane. Looks like his face has been hammered with a meat tenderizer, and it's not going to be over anytime soon. But it's one of those "greater good" experiences, friends. Hideously disfigured now, chick magnet arm candy later.

Well, enough of my train of thought. The conductor is heading to bed...

Choo choooooooooooooo

TOTALLY FAMOUS

I just remembered that I'm famous. Well, not so much me, but more like my house. And my cat in one scene. So sit back and enjoy a glimpse into the life and times of Lisa's rockin' famous house...

FIBROUS ACID ANYONE?

Summer harvest has begun, friends! So far, we've managed to miss the perfect plucking time on every stinkin' Zucchini by 24 hours, allowing them all to double their midsection girth and go to seed. Crap.

But today, I reaped two tomatoes and a "husky" zuke (not yet obese) and ATE THEM ALL! By myself, people. Then I washed it all down with a refreshing yet acidic Diet Coke, containing nutrasweet, which is known to cause relentless flatulence.

Now, here's the problem—in about 2 hours, I'm going into the woods to preach to a bunch of young women. And when I say woods, I mean not by my bathroom. So my question to you is; how much fiber and acid and flatulence is too much fiber and acid and flatulence to be contained in my guttal region?

I think we're about to find out.

Pray for me, folks. Hard.

PRINCESS LISA JUDGING QUEENS

I'm busy, folks. Figuring out what to wear for the pageant. On account of I'm a judge, and I think we all know how significant the scrutinizing. Probably way more than the contestants. Especially under the dim glare of the partial spotlight that manages to pick up half your nose and an eye socket. Plus "the wave"—you know, when I lift my arm and let the excess flesh swing haphazardly to let the family and friends locate the person they'll either adore or abhor within the next three hours.

Also, I've been anxiously engaged writing up my bio. Course, if I were candid, it would say something like, “Lisa likes to chew and spit gum pyramids. She’s an incompetent secretary, often times forgetting to take roll. Her teeth seem to be rotting out of her head, and her fleshy abdomen is getting more spongy by the day. But still, here she is evaluating you, which should really make you question the sanctity of the Miss America institution.”

Instead I made up a bunch of stuff that would be difficult to disprove and used vague references that I can Bill Clinton my way out of. Mostly I’m just excited to wear pretty new heels that will charm them to the point of forgetting the Emperor has no clothes.

Anyway, I guess you can only hope that your daughter isn't up on that stage...for a multitude of reasons...but mostly because I'll steal the show.

Now I'm blowing you pageant kisses. Farewell, darlings! (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist)

DAMN BABIES

So Julia is here, talking to me. Even though she has a friend with her. Even though they're playing with yo-yos. Even though I'm wearing my computer face. None of those things seem to distract her from making sure I'm an integral part of her life.

"Hey, Mom. I just figured out what I want for Christmas. Oh my gosh! KeeLee got a NEON PINK RIP-STICK FOR HER BIRTHDAY! I TOTALLY WANTED ONE OF THOSE! Do you think I should put my hair in a ponytail? Mom, you really need to see me light this match. These are really good matches. You totally need to get more of these. Seriously, watch this! Did you see me do the Eiffel Tower trick? How 'bout Cat's Whiskers? I feel like my hair is shorter right now. Like about an inch. Here. Feel it. Does it feel shorter to you?"

Clearly, important and time sensitive issues. No way can those babies wait till later.

Speaking of babies, my sister's baby has started nibbling on her nipples with razor sharp incisors. Which takes me back to a moment in time that was seared like a branding iron into my young brain. I was at a family party, when I overheard my aunt speaking to the other mothers in the family. It went something like this:

"So he just kept biting me and biting me, every time I'd try to nurse him. Finally, he just bit a piece of my nipple right off! It was excruciating!"

'Really? Really, was it excruciating?' I mused in horror, while shielding my own flat chest in case that baby came at me. Well, I guess that sounds about right. And also it seemed like, to me anyway, a good reason to throw that damn baby away.

Yeah, so anyway, fast forward to my own children. One of which I had to stop nursing at 5 months, and another at 8 months, on account of them being repeat chew toy offenders.

But I kept those damn babies.

Which says an awful lot about a mother's love.

KIND OF GREAT

I just got home from a Stewart family reunion. There's nothing like one of those yearly events to remind me of what a slacker I am. Want proof? Let me give you a rundown of who's who in my clan. We have a Federal Judge, a current National Best Seller, a B-2 B pilot, an Adjutant General. We have three young men serving their God and fellow men in Brazil, three having recently returned from Japan, Russia and Brazil and a soldier father who just left his beautiful wife and three children under three, to serve for a year in Afghanistan. We have a D.C. lobbyist, several Stake Presidents, former CIA operatives and military pilots. We have flight school instructors, lawyers, District Judges and many successful small business owners.

And then we have the mothers who raised them, the sisters who support them, the cousins who adore them and the wives who are the wind beneath their wings.

Of which I am one.

Hmm. I think I might be kind of great after all.

KISS AND SPIT

Me~"Is that a seed spitting cup?" referring to an industrial sized styrofoam container filled to the brim with gloopy discarded shells.

Son~"Yeah. It's mine. I'm doing pretty good at it, too. I should be a great kisser."

Me~"Soooooo...so like, you think sunflower seed spitting and kissing go hand in hand?"

Son~"Yeah. Don't they?"

And my question to you is, who started that fib, and when are they old enough to discern for themselves between truth and fiction? Honestly!

Now please excuse me while I go pick out the green M&M's, because you and I both know what those babies do! (wink wink)

TWINKIE ARMS

I just groomed myself into a bloody nose. (Not picking—blowing, people. Geez.) And FYI, that's something that will never, ever, EVER happen to my children...or even my dear husband, for that matter. Mostly they just wait for me to point, pull and pick out the things that shouldn't be sprouting from their faces. I have to admit, I'm happy to oblige.

Anyway, I just returned from my daughter's softball game which was apparently really crowded, because demons from Hell couldn't find an empty spot, so took the lawn chair next to me, making their thoughts my own the entire game. So like, for some reason, I became really annoyed with the woman sitting in front of me, violently rolling my eyeballs at her excessively large upper arms. I may have even named them TWINKIE ARMS, where instead of a bone, it was filled with FATTY LARD INNARDS. Yeah, that's right. That's the kind of mean and ugly I'm talking about. We won't go into my OWN Ding Dong abdominals— Geez, pot calling kettle black...

And then there was the less-than-stellar ball playing that I surely couldn't have done better, but for some reason, had NBL expectations of these 11-12 year old girls. Cussing and bemoaning under my breath, you'd have thought I had money riding on the outcome. Or, at the very least, that we were a highly competitive, recreationally vigorous family.

But such is not the case, friends. In fact, I had picked Julia up from swimming mere moments before arriving for the game—her hair in a dripping wet braid, makeup smeared under eyes and lo and behold, sauntering along in flip flops. Had to have Ster bring her tennis shoes before they yelled, "Play ball!" So you can see, it's not like I had much vested in the match—just decided to go all bat-shiz crazy about their perceived shortcomings.

Anyway, I was crawling out of my skin with irritation the entire time. And yes, they lost.

BEE AE DEE!

Probably because of old Twinkie Arms Mom up front—distracting the players with her Hostess aroma. But my point is this—I kept my thoughts to myself, people. No shouting matches with the Dump (dumb+ump=dump.) No "WE WANNA PITCHER, NOT A BELLY ITCHER" chanting from the sidelines. Not even spitting sunflower shells into the WAY TOO CURLY HAIR of the other woman sitting in front of me, who probably deserved to find some wayward nuts and debris when she returned home, simply because she had the misfortune of sitting in front of me.

None of that.

Because I have you—my BBFF's. I was able to keep it from the masses, because I knew I could come home and SPEW THIS TRIPE ALL OVER MY BLOG.

For which I apologize.

And thank you.

And lastly, say...

YOU'RE WELCOME.

NOW LET'S PLAY BALL!

POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY, FRIENDS!

I welcome the holiday in it's entirety—lilacs on headstones, flags on porches, potato salad picnic lunches where we reunite with second and third generations, making up word games in our head to help us remember..."StEEve is married to AnEEta..." Seems to do the trick, until you realize that they're aging right along with you, faces and hairlines morphing and melding, and then it's really all just a crap shoot...

Anyway, apparently the heavens are suffering some sort of postpartum depression and can't seem to shake themselves out of it. I don't really know how to help, but clearly slapping the clouds over and over and over again while screaming, "GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, YOU BIG FAT BAWL-TIT!" hasn't done the job. She continues to sob and wallow, slurching around in stained sweats permeated with the heavy scent of pancake syrup and too much Downey. She sits amidst a dozen loads of unfolded laundry, oblivious to her rising waters midsection threatening homes and property throughout the state of Utah.

She didn't used to be like that. Heavens used to keep herself up. She wore sky blue eyeshadow...painted her lips in sunset hues...her perfectly proportioned figure was kept locked and loaded within four seasons and river banks. Gracefully, she'd sop up her springtime tears with a linen handkerchief made of temperate breezes and moderate sunshine. But now...well, I think we can all see she's let herself go, and not even an afternoon of Oprah and ice cream can bring her out of it.

Hopefully she'll pull herself together before it's too late and the floods and mudslides are imminent. Until then, is there a Dr. in the house who can prescribe heavens some sort of upper, or downer, or whatevertheheller she needs to expedite the process?

I'll wait while you call it in. ;)

IMPAIRED

Sunday fairies prepared this magical bowl of pretty for our Sabbath day feast.

"Just a Bed of Roses" perfection. I wipe a happy tear.

This is the kind of awesomeness that just drips from my sister, Kara's being. She made me these—jealous? And just like a new pair of shoes that make a 5 year old run faster, I am now the most efficient and organized Relief Society Secretary the world has ever seen. Just ask Maren. Wait. Don't ask Maren.

So Brenda, from Just a Bed of Roses, is all bent out of shape about me not blogging so much lately. In fact, she kind of threatened that she might just walk away from her awesome shop, leaving me stuff-less, if I didn't cow down to her pressure. Do you know that this woman ties up her bags with beautiful silk ribbon and an OLD 45 RECORD?! SERIOUSLY! So "MOOOOO," I say, "Moooo!" Because I need Bed of Roses like I need thickening products for my teaspoon of hair. And yes, it IS that crucial.

Anyway, whilst shopping there yesterday, a damnable DUI headache came crashing through her open shop doors and slammed into me, "head on." (Punny.) But I popped some ibu and kept on keepin' on with my shopping expedition, because I can do hard things, people.

Fast forward two more ibus and four hours later, and I'm driving to U of U for a workshop, wind and rain slashing at my car, headache from hell hammering at my skull, stoplights that sensed my oncoming vehicle, and a sense of direction that is about as accurate as Hollywood's moral compass. I was half an hour late to a seminar with seven students. Not like I could slink into the back row without detection, you know. I apologized to the class and spent the next 2 1/2 hours trying to talk myself out of puking.

The room was sweltering, the lights were BLINDING and my pain meter was hovering between 9 and 10. I made it through to the end and stumbled out to my car, only to plead and beg to the heavens, ending every sentence with an annoyingly high pitch, "Please, Heavenly Father, PLEASE make this pain go away! I don't want to vomit in my car on the way home. And I know there are other people who have it way worse, and I can't imagine you are even paying much attention to my whining, but really, REALLY, is there a lesson I'm supposed to be learning here? Because I'm not, Heavenly Father. No, really—I'm not. My head hurts too much to comprehend any kind of life lesson right now."

The one sided discourse went on to the very last moment, before I squealed into my garage and managed to make it to my bedroom, disrobe, brush my teeth and climb into bed, all with my eyes completely shut. Not even shizzing.

Anyway, I'm now at a 4, which is serious progress. And why do I regale you with this? Mostly to excuse the fact that I'm still in my pajamas with yesterday's makeup smeared down my cheeks after 1:00 in the afternoon. Also, to set up a possible lawsuit I'm considering filing against Brenda, because I got the headache at her place of business, and I hear she has deep pockets, as all small business owners are known to have.

And yes, Brenda, I'll consider settling out of court—for a vintage brooch and antique linen a day. I'm drawing up the papers now. Sign on the dotted line.

FALLING EYEBALLS

Some day, when I'm awfully low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you...and the way you looked...last night. (totally using this if she's dating a doofus and I need to break them up)

The best of friends~Jules and Shaniqua Porquita

Yesterday, Jules was at a church activity, where her awesome leaders taught the darling pre-teen girls how to make scripture cookies. So cleaning up today, I came upon the recipe...as well as a special message she and her friend were sending back and forth to each other, as clearly, the spiritual nature of the activity overcame them both. Here is Julia's portion, verbatim and as follows:

"*Shaniqua Porquita (*name changed to protect the innocent) is weird, nasty and crazy and thinks 2+2=62 and eats boogers out of people's noses and licks dogs poo and eats eyeballs and then the eyeballs fall out of her butt."

Now I'm not completely certain why these girls were busy writing such...poetry...and from what Jules says, it was a collaborative joke. What I do know is that this is a proud, proud day for me, as a mother. And I can only hope and pray that someday you get to experience the very same thing.

From my mouth to God's ears.

You're welcome.

SPENDING SOIREE

Cousin baldies. Don't ask.

Oh my holy junk, could this purse have screamed my name any louder? And because I'm a nurturer, I wrapped it in my arms and held it to my bosom on my way to the cash register.

The holy grail of youth in a bottle~I'll let you know how quickly I'm disappointed.

I would make out with this brooch if I could.

Beautiful "not dead yet" Mother's Day flowers. Sterling TOTALLY outdid himself with the flora and fauna this year.

I've been spending the last few days enraptured with blue blue skies, songs of birds and lilac blossom perfume breezing through my home. This is a celebration, my friends. A soiree for all things fragrant and pink. And because my windows have been thrown open wide, I thought, "Why not do the same with my wallet?" Thus, the preceding, Lisa is going to debtor's prison, but at least she'll be wearing new high heels for the journey.

The lengths I go to for your blog enjoyment. I mean I spend and I spend and I spend, and is it ever enough for you? No. No, it isn't. But don't ask me to stop, because I'm a giver and that would just be against my nature.

You're welcome.

ROOT CANALS AND ROBOTS

First off, I'm getting a root canal today.

Am I worried?

Well, I wasn't until I went to sit with a friend of mine who was in a horrific accident a few weeks ago. He's still bed ridden and has rods of steel weaving in and out of his body, holding it together.

He's going in for another surgery today, and I said, "You know what? I'm getting a root canal today...but I bet you'd rather be getting a root canal than having surgery, huh?"

"Holy crap, a root canal?" he responds, reassuringly. "No, not really. I think I'd rather be having surgery." Yeah, so. Kind of worried, now that you mention it.

But that's not why I called. You know how I'm the inappropriate secretary for my women's group at church? Yes, well, one of my jobs is to set appointments for visits, and usually the best way to reach them is through email. And I like to add a special little 'cyber eye contact' with each note I send, to let them know, "Yes. I see you," without having to actually say or hear the words—which is what Hillary Weeks did to me in the stadium at the Women's Conference a couple of weeks ago.

Loud and clear, Hillary. Loud and clear.

Anyway, a lady in our ward just had a baby about 2 weeks ago, and she was already at church,with the baby, which I thought was weird. Now every week, Megan the darling teenager, sits with this woman during the meeting, to help her with her children. So I see Megan with the brand spankin' new baby in it's carrier~no cloth covering him or anything~again, weird. I could just see him from the side—wee little body with teeny tiny hands and feet—but what I saw looked precious. And Megan would take him out intermittently, which I thought was weird once again, because the new mother just sat there, practically ignoring her offspring.

Anyway, I send this note, "Hello there! I caught a peek of your baby at church the other day and he is just darling! Can we come visit you tomorrow?" She answers back yes, and we set the appointment. So I go to my Relief Society Presidency meeting this morning, to discuss important matters~things like my root canal and such. They seemed really interested, but changed the subject immediately. So I reached over and picked up that social cue, and started to regale them with how efficient I am at making appointments.

Me~"I made an appointment with Chayla. Can't believe she was at church already."

Maren~"Did you see how many times Megan had to take her robot baby out?"

Me~"Ha! I know! Wait, what? Robot baby."

Maren~"Yeah, Megan's robot baby from school. She's had it all weekend. She even had to bring it to church, and it would start to cry, so she took it out, like three times, during Sacrament."

Humiliating illumination.

Me~"OH! MY! HE$! YOU. ARE. KIDDING. ME!!! I THOUGHT THAT WAS CHAYLA'S NEW BABY, AND I TOLD HER I'D SEEN A PEEK OF HIM, AND HOW DARLING HE WAS! AAAGGHHHHH!!!! OH MY GOSH! AAAGGGHHHHH!!! NO WAY! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT WAS A ROBOT BABY! NOW SHE THINKS I SAW THE ROBOT BABY AND THAT I THINK HE'S HERS AND WHY DIDN'T SHE SAY SOMETHING WHEN I MADE THE APPOINTMENT? I MEAN, I ONLY SAW HIS TEENY HANDS AND FEET AND I THOUGHT HIS FACE MUST BE CUTE, TOO, BECAUSE THEIR KIDS ARE TEENY AND CUTE AND I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRUST ME TO MAKE APPOINTMENTS AND EMAIL CONTACT WITH MEMBERS OF OUR WARD!"

We had a good laugh.

And now I'm presently pre-employed.

Which is odd.

But Maren assures me you can be fired when you're a volunteer.

Who knew?

STRIPLING WARRIORS

My sister gave a lesson in church today, blending LDS missionary work and motherhood together. She asked for my feelings on the subject, and so we begin—

It was a brilliant summer day, and we were both busy at work in the kitchen~I was kneading bread while Ashton hammered the pegs into the little playschool workbench. Hammer, bam, crash, crack, bang.

“Mom, when I go on a mission...” he lisped—and we spoke of when and where and what it would be like. Then I heard the telltale break in his baby boy voice as he realized what he was saying—the weight behind the future plans. Suddenly it was more than he could bear. “Mom! I don’t want to go! I don’t want to leave you! I want to stay here and be little! Do I have to go? Do I?” And he bowed his head over his knees and wept. I scooped him up into my mother’s arms and told him a lie...but I knew better. I knew that there would come a day when he would want to go...when he did want to leave me...when he would move away from home as a young man, to be about his Father’s business.

The boy turned 14. He had just finished building and detonating a bomb. He had his cell phone taken away weekly. He refused to floss between his braces and had eye boogers and mouth corner mustard on a consistent basis. We weren’t sure if he was going to live past the age of 15—it was iffy at best. We walked up a dirt trail on our way to Youth Conference testimony meeting—I was there as a leader, and I didn’t know it at the time, but he was there as a leader, too. He spoke of Joseph Smith~his same age~being willing to die for this Gospel and his God. Then he fervently declared that, if it were asked of him, he would do the very. same. thing. And he bowed his head over his folded arms, and wept.

He grew strong and handsome—became a slave to fashion and an admirer of beautiful women. He was elected Student Body President, lettered in Debate, tutored special needs peers and figured out just in time, how to be a friend to his siblings. All of this was intermixed with Come To Jesus scoldings, “What in tarnation were you THINKING?” and a heavy dose of believing the Earth’s axis went directly through him.

We raised the bar. And he ducked under it.

We raised the bar. And he tripped over it.

We raised the bar. And he backed up, gathered up his noble spirit and running with all his might, flung himself to the heavens and catapulted over the bar, soaring to the highest heights! We stood on the sidelines and watched with mouths gaping. And we bowed our heads on each other’s shoulders and wept.

He was called to Florianopolis, Brazil, leaving one week before Christmas. He and his very best friends strengthened and brought each other unto Christ, and then departed within months of each other, to bring even more souls unto Christ. Stripling Warriors, these young men. I received the long awaited letter the very first week he lived at the Missionary Training Center. “Mother, I love you so much...you have no idea. And you were right. About everything. I am just now beginning to see it all. Thank you.”

I’ve placed him in his own little section of my heart as a necessity. I only check in every week, and only for a short while, as I read his letter and write him mine. It’s the only way to survive the gaping hole that is exactly his shape and size. But just last week, I was checking through my wallet during sacrament meeting, and pulled out Ashton’s missionary picture. I touched the one dimensional face, then handed it to my husband whispering, “Remember him?” He poignantly stared at the image, then whispered back, “He’s still ours, you know. We get him back.” And we looked into each others eyes and smiled.

And I know that within a few short months, there will be a young man, sweltering in the brilliant Brazilian sunlight, hammering away at the work. Scriptures in his hand, a tool in the Lord’s. Hammer, bam, crash, crack, bang. The letter will arrive and his voice will crack and echos from the past will take on a different meaning, “Lord! I don’t want to go! I don’t want to leave these people! I want to stay here and continue to grow big! Do I have to go? Do I?” And he will bow his head over his two year sacrifice and weep.

But the work will go on. Because some other courageous mother stands at her kitchen counter, kneading bread and talking of when...and where...and what...in preparation for her own Stripling Warrior to go to battle—to be about his Father’s business.

And he will not doubt it, because his mother tells him it is so.

NULL AND VOID

I'm pretty sure that jelly bean calorie content is null and void any time after the stroke of midnight on Easter.

Same goes for all chocolate in the shape of an egg, chick, or bunny.

And Rollos in pastel foil.

And egg shaped gum in plastic cartons.

And anything that once lay in a bed of cellophane grass.

You can quote me on that.

BRACE FACE

So Jules has been BEGGING AND HARASSING to get braces. For like two years. No, I'm not kidding. And yes, she is weird. Anyway, I've repeatedly told her that they can't attach brackets and wires to imaginary denticles, as she has, at best, scattered teeth in a random pattern throughout her mouth.

So things suddenly became crucial this past Sunday, in that she found out her twin cousins have THEIR braces date set for this coming August! Which meant to her that they must be booked solid, and it is IMPERATIVE that she get herself on the schedule. Clearly this is a competitive industry, and those teeth will not straighten themselves, Mother.

She actually pulled out the phone book (a relic from the past you may or may not be familiar with) and pushed the numbers for me, before handing off the phone and telling me to speak into the receiver. The appointment was for today.

So we're sitting there with the X-rays in front of us, as they explain the procedure, etc. With the end of the pencil, they point to a section of her mouth and say,

"As you can see, she's missing this incisor here."

I laugh, and then say, "Wait, what?"

"Yes, well, it just didn't grow. You can see that it's not showing up in the X-ray."

Julia booms~"SEE MOM! I TOLD YOU THAT THIS TOOTH HAS BEEN MISSING FOR 2 YEARS! YOU DIDN'T BELIEVE ME! YOU TOLD ME IT WAS FINE!"

My eyes told her to shut up.

But sure enough, there was no tooth. In fact, on the other side where that same incisor should be, there is this protrusion that she has lovingly referred to as her "vampire fang." We thought it was just turned sideways. Nope. Seems it's a pointy little nub. A stupid, ugly, pointy little nub that FOR SOME REASON MUST BE HER MOTHER'S FAULT!

But listen, I am not taking responsibility for this mutation. Nosirree. I think we can all agree that it is her FATHER'S FAMILY who did something...and I'm not sure what, but SOMETHING...to bring us to this point of crazy a$$ tooth germination.

And when I said something to that effect—I think it was, "It's the Bingham side. Her father. They did this," they just smiled patronizingly and mumbled, "That's what they all say."

The good news is, it can be fixed. The bad news is, they look at me weird now. Like maybe while I was pregnant with her, I hoarded for myself some of the building blocks needed to make her mouth. Like maybe that incisor is in MY jaw, and I just didn't want to give it to her. In fact, I smiled a lot, so they could see I only had the two I was supposed to, but they didn't seem to notice.

Anyway, it is what it is.

And it is...just another notch in my guilt belt. No wonder I keep gaining weight~I never have to cinch it tight—it just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger...

SQUEAKY CHEESE

Just got home from St. George, Utah. We stopped by the "Squeaky Cheese Factory" in Beaver. Did you know Beaver shuts down at 6:00 PM? Yeah, no. Seriously. Even McDonalds. Yeah, no. Seriously. So when all we could find was static on the radio as we rode out of town, Jules said, "Geez. Even their RADIO shuts down at 6:00!" Good one, Jules. Here's another~

Jules~"Um, Mom? Do you have rotten walnuts in YOUR ice cream, too?"

Me~"Nope. My walnuts are fine. How do you know they're rotten?"

Jules~"Well, first of all, most of them are green!"

Me~"Ha! Not walnuts, dear. Pistachios."

Now just so you're not angry, thinking I had any fun without you, (besides ROCKIN' OUT to REO Speedwagon, which is clearly illustrated in the above pic,) let me assure you that the sky was as a leaking urine soaked baby diaper nearly the entire time. It just smelled better. And the riotous wind ripped through my hair, adhering most of it to my lipgloss every time I stepped out of the car. And the warning cry of "ROAST," was heard loud and often in the automobile, on account of us implementing the family vacation motto a few years ago. It is as follows~

"ANY AND ALL RUMP ROASTING THAT OCCURS IN AN OCCUPIED FAMILY VEHICLE, MUST BE MADE KNOWN TO EVERY INHABITANT, AND IN A TIMELY MATTER, BY SHOUTING, 'ROAST!' IN ORDER THAT MOUTHS MAY CLAMP AND WINDOWS UNROLL, SO AS TO KEEP THE DAMAGE AND JUSTIFIED HOSTILITY TO A MINIMUM."

It seems to be effective, but there are occasional mishaps, in that we'll get a mouthful of shart essence without so much as the telltale rumbling. But they're teenage boys. We take what we can get.

Anyway, just wanted to catch you up to date. Oh, and here's something fun...SECOND SON CHRISTIAN DALE IS THE NEW STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT for his High School next year!

I know!

And I know what you're thinking. The answer is yes—I did do it for the sweater. What's your point?