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.