YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

So, 'member how I mentioned some sort of intolerance issue, the other day? Something about Cadburys and fart storms and such? Well, over the weekend, things have gone from bad to worse, friends. And let's be honest~with my eclectic diet, sometimes it's hard to pinpoint exactly where the witches brew has it's inception. Like, okay, I had some clementine cuties. And a Dr. Pepper. And nuts. And gum drops. And a cupcake. And Cadbury mini-eggs. Aaaaand half a gallon of ice cream. And I really can't say which one caused the intestinal disturbance, but most likely, it was the citrus.

Which brings me to our family's new staple product. Citrus scented Febreze. I'm going out now to buy a two year supply, because chances are, just like all of God's creations, my body chemistry will likely go from matter organized to flagrant anarchy over the next few years.

Which means it's just as likely that our chair cushions are going to rot from the inside out, as we tend to bury things deeply and in secret within these walls. Then later, as we kneel in front of the couches and chairs for family prayer, head bowed low, we detect these...hidden treasures of bum bouquets...leading to what we like to call "The Blame Game." Or, "He who smelt it, dealt it."

Anyway, I only share this with you, so that if you see a really attractive and seemingly untainted set of family room furniture out on the curb with a "free for the taking" sign, you'll know to just drive on by, people.

Nothing to see here.

Just gobs to smell.

You've been warned.

LEARN FROM HISTORY

Well, it is CLEAR to me that history is my favorite subject, dearhearts...because here I am repeating it—again and again and again. I'm hosting a double baby shower tomorrow. That's right. I said tomorrow. Guess what I've done? Here, let me make it easy for you and just spell it out...

*Bought some Easy Mac-n-cheese.

*Blew up seven of the 40 balloons. They're flooping around on the floor right now.

*Bought some cups.

*Don't need cups.

*Ordered 3 flat irons.

*They were on sale.

*Anybody need a flat iron?

*Finished up a bag of Cadbury mini-eggs...alone.

*Felt bad about myself.

*Read some Ensign articles.

*Felt better about myself.

*Farted up a storm. I'm Cadbury intolerant.

*Seriously considered cleaning out the back of my craft closet in the furthest corner of the house, you know, just in case someone says, "Hey, show me your craft closet. I will gauge your worth and my esteem for you by it's content and presentation."

*Closed the main bathroom door. It's contaminated. Somebody should take care of that before the 25-30 women with child bearing bladders show up.

And that's it, friends. Like they say, those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

Consider me doomed.

CRAZY A WEEPING

I haven't been writing lately, on account of I'm in mourning. The brilliance that IS Seriously So Blessed, has bid adieu, and I just don't know if I can go on. And you know, I don't think it should even be legal to get people hooked on a blog, and then just expect them to go freakin' cold turkey, without so much as a segue.

I mean, shouldn't there be some sort of patch or something? Criminy, even Meth users get to transition with Methadone, people. Smokers get Cigarest. So SOMEBODY OUT THERE NEEDS TO FIND ME SOME SORT OF OPIATE TO GET ME OFF SERIOUSLY SO BLESSED, WITHOUT EXPERIENCING THE WRENCHING WITHDRAWALS THAT I AM, AT THE PRESENT.

Until that happens, I'll be crazy-A weeping in the corner, hugging my knees with mascara streaming down my cheeks while I crack my head against the wall.

Let me know when you've got that patch.

Yesterday isn't soon enough.

BACK TO BED

Day two of no people at home in the morning, sept for me.

I went back to bed, I'll admit that.

Then Angie came by and started stirring up pots, pointing out what miserable shape my house was in. Seems I hadn't realized we'd only painted HALF WAY UP MY WALLS, PEOPLE! Who does that? Painters tape and sheets of plastic were everywhere, and I have no idea why we hadn't noticed it before! Plus, Sterling had removed the baseboards throughout the entire house, sometime in the last year, and it had just become white noise to both of us, until this visitor came to scrutinize our living conditions.

I tried to rectify the situation with lies and head nods, suggesting that this was only temporary~that no, in fact, we hadn't put the paint away, it was just "resting" in the closet. I grabbed a bottle of acrylic craft paint, and started squirting some midnight blue onto newly installed fretwork and corbels, so she'd think I was on my game, all the while barking out orders to "GET THIS PLACE IN ORDER!" while Angie walked away with eyeballs rolling back into the far recesses of her skull.

So I woke up.

Thanks a lot, Angie.

MID LIFE CRISIS

What I bought this weekend~$9.99 at TJ Maxx.

What Sterling bought this weekend~not $9.99. Seems he's halfway to dead, on account of this mid-life crisis on custom wheels.

In other news, Chrissy was asked to Preference~fun to live vicariously through children.

Jules and her magical hair, palming a polka dot balloon. Skill.

I HEART U

Eye. Heart. Ewe.

You make me proud. Every last one of ya. Except when you're doing something shameful, but as long as I don't see you, then it doesn't count.

Thank you for rising to the occasion. I have surpassed my wildest 100 followers expectations, and now I'm shooting for one billion.

Go tell your friends.

;)

DO AS I'M DOING...FOLLOW FOLLOW ME!

Hey, this is kind of important. I have 98 beautiful people who feel of one heart and one mind with me, enough to actually put their money where their mouth is~or put their face on my followers~same thing.

I need two more. (She said sheepishly)

I know. Pathetic. In fact, I'm rolling my disgusted eyeballs at me, right along with you.

It's called being an attention whore, friends. And it's pretty clear that you've turned me into one, so don't go acting all, "What is up with Lisa? Why is she so needy?" Because you knew what I was when you picked me up, mm kay pumpkins?

Mm kay.

Anyway, I'm looking around the room for something to offer you~you know, to make it worth your while. Right now, I see a beautiful blue vintage crystal candy dish...with YOUR NAME (on the leftover candy canes inside.) PLUS, I'm throwing in a gum box with 7 Chiclets still remaining! AND..."Technic is Fun" piano workbook! That's right! Because—I think we all concur—Technic really IS fun.

So come on out, friends! COME OUT INTO THE FRESH, GAPING JANUARY INVERSION AIR! Let the smog settle deep in your pores, as you remove the bushel and instead, let the light of following Blue and Shoe shine bright on the hill of blog!

In conclusion, just like a delightful old Primary song that we used to roll our arms to, "Do as I'm doing...follow, follow me!"

Amen.

THE FAT GIRL DRESS

Did I ever tell you guys that my wedding dress became "the fat girl" dress? Yep. It did. One more mark on my chalkboard of self esteem.

See, my mother is an EX.CELL.ENT. seamstress—even used to sew for Saks 5th Avenue. And years ago, when the economies were mean, she realized it was the perfect time to make a foray into wedding dress rentals, as the notion that saving Aunt Roberta's dress for little Mindy who wouldn't fully appreciate what the hell a yellowing, high necked chiffon Gunny Sax had to do with her own wedding, had finally been tossed out, along with the avocado green appliances.

Also, the reality of spending gobs of dollars on a dress that would be worn once, smeared in lipstick and cake, and stained with B.O., only to settle into the dark recesses of your too small apartment closet, with 1980 fairy tale fantasies of being worn by your fashion forward daughters in the new millennium, well, just bears a head cock and questioning expression.

And an OMGosh cuckoo twirl.

So my mother and her partner became the "go-to gown gurus," creating gorgeous dresses the girls could rent and return, without a second thought, or second mortgage. And one of the ways they accommodated diverse sizes, was to insert gussets up the sides of the dresses, allowing for an extra expanse of "girth." Well, apparently, the specific design of my dress, ended up being uniquely qualified to camouflage baby bumps, whether or not they were actually pregnant. Thus, the "Lisa" became synonymous with pudgy pork.

Why do I tell you all this? Because, once again, the economies are mean. And we find ourselves unable to dip our toes in the "Say Yes to the Dress" alternate universe, but completely capable of a full on immersion in the real world of wedding dress rentals.

Thus, I give you "Mae Belle Bridal," where she can make you or your daughters as beautiful as you have any right to be...at a fraction of the cost.

And don't worry, if they turn your dress into the fat girl dress, I shan't say a word. Because what happens at Mae Belle, stays at Mae Belle.

BLEACH JOBS

Our son

Yup. That's right. This is what happens when a child gets a wild hair...or a bunch of them...and as a mother, you have a choice. Is this the hill you want to die (dye) on? The answer, in this case, was no. Clearly.

Thus, we embrace our very own Draco Malfoy, and enjoy watching him lip sync to "Rebel Yell." He asked me what would happen when it started to grow out.

I told him he'd have roots.

He then pulled out a gun to shoot the messenger, and we spent the remainder of our Sabbath afternoon offering proof of what happens when unbleached follicles appear above the surface of the scalp—as well as discussing the wisdom, or lack thereof, of root maintenance for an unemployed 14 year old.

And as far as I know, there isn't a government subsidized program for teenage short sightedness....okay, wait. That's completely false, on account of most of what the government funds these days is based on exactly that. Just not as it applies to bleach jobs.

But give it time......

MISERABLE JOY

Julia

Juju bees

Jules received all kinds of mixed messages from Santa this year. Things like a Ripstick that yelled, "YOU'RE JUST A KID!" and then a blow dryer, flat iron and make up that screamed, "JUSTIN BIEBER IS HOT!" Either way, a terrible thing to do to a kid. Stupid Santa.

Too young to shave? That's what I told her. And I didn't want to let her—let's just be clear as an ice pellet on that point. But when your daughter says, "I think I looked pretty today at church. Lots of people were looking at me...but I think they might have just been looking at how hairy my legs are"...well, pretty much you have no choice. Otherwise, you'll be paying for the therapy.

So today, I went in to get my hair done, and she pled to come along and have her hair trimmed and layered. I smiled condescendingly, patted her head and said no. Then, as I sat there in the salon chair, I was overcome with lunacy and called to tell her to get ready—I was going to bring her back and let her have some soft highlights and layers.

She went BAT-POO CRAZY!

I led her back to the chair, and returned to the waiting room, occasionally glancing back to see how she was doing. She's sitting there, dressed in black plastic cape and foil, and I suddenly realize what's happening.

"NO, WAIT! NOT YET! I DIDN'T MEAN FOR HER TO GROW UP. DO OVER! DO OVER! I CALL DO OVER! I JUST WANTED TO WIN THE FUN MOTHER AWARD, BUT I REALLY DIDN'T MEAN IT! GIVE HER BACK! GIVE HER BACK TO ME! NO MORE PRETTY. PUSH DOWN ON HER SHOULDERS, REALLY HARD....LET'S TRY TO STUNT HER GROWTH. JUST A FEW MORE YEARS OF THE UGLY STAGE. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.......don't let her be big. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry. It's too late. I didn't realize. I'm the one who gave her mixed messages. It was me. I told her it was okay. But now.............please, let it begin again. I'm not ready for Juju bees to be gone."

So my little girl has crossed over the line. Or, quite possibly, was pushed by an overanxious mother, rushing to see what was on the other side. And it wasn't what she expected.

I find myself in a state of miserable joy, my friends.

BUSTING MIRRORS

Well hells bells. Can I just say that is NOT how I wanted to start my new year? Here I've spent all this time sprinkling glitter, high heels and polka dots across every surface I own, including this blog, just so that I might draw attention away from the issue at hand. But then, when I'm at my most vulnerable, it hits me right between the eyes. It's almost too painful to relive, but for you...my blessed blog peeps...I will. Only because I know you won't pass unrighteous judgement on me, on account of I have all kinds of surveillance footage of you, so, you know...anyway, here goes. (eyes closed, deep breath and pursing lips)

There I was, daintily flopping out of my festive, New Years Day shower, when what to my wandering eyes should appear, but a REFLECTION OF MY NEKKED, THREE TIERED MIDSECTION GLORY~POST HOLIDAY SEASON GLUT AND HOARK! Seems some INSANE LUNATIC positioned my vanity mirror in just such a way, as to capture the essence of shame and regret that IS Princess Lisa at this time of year.

Holy Shiz is right!

There aren't enough forks in the world to stab in my eyes after that offense. Plus, it was horrifying enough to burn right through the denial portion of my brain, and lodge itself in 'long term damage'.

Anyway, I don't know who it was, but there's no way that was an accident. I think we can all agree that it's highly likely I've angered some gods here and there. Or, quite possibly, Satan himself...especially after that whole "Las Vegas" post last Spring.

But whatever. It is what it is, and I take none of it back. However, I have learned my lesson, folks~No more mirrors. That's right. Not even compact. I kind of think that's why Vampires are eternal~clearly, they understand the connection between reflected fanny fat and death. See, mirrors=unflattering images=stress=shortened life span=corpse in a coffin. So remove the mirrors, bring on eternal life.

Glad I could help guide you through the nuances of my logic. Feel free to ask me some other stuff, but not right now. I'm busy busting mirrors.

Gosh, I feel prettier already.

And surprisingly thin.

No way to prove otherwise, so it must be true. ;)