blueandshoe

PRITTEEEEE SIRREUUUUUS CONNECTIONS

2012-01-26T13:53:00.000-08:00

Coming at you with a 7 on a migraine pain scale from 1-10. Last two days were full on 9, with all the accompanying "I might need a mixing bowl," and sensitivity to light and sound. I could, in fact, hear my son cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth in the other room last night. And yet, I let him live. Which proves that I'm a giver.

Now, I don't know if you guys know this, but I've got some prittteee sirrreuuuus political connections. In fact, you might say I'm the Utah version of the Wichita Lineman, which brings me to query aloud how a man can build such a gut wrenching, mournful song around a telephone repairman?—That Glen Campbell has super powers...probably even a secret lair of some sort...

Anyway, back to sirrrreuuuuuuus. So my Uncle Chris Stewart is running for Congress. You may know him as an author—he's a New York Times Best Seller, writing "Seven Miracles that saved America," and, "The Miracle of Freedom—Seven tipping points that saved the world." Also military techno thrillers, as well as the series called, "The Great and Terrible." Mind blowingly good. Plus, Chris has been a regular speaker touring with Time Out for Women, and he set a world record flying a B-1 Bomber nonstop around the world...with Niece Lis as his muse. And I think, but I'm not positive, but it's really really highly likely that his next book will be about a princess named Lisa...coincidence? I think not. True? I think not, either.

Which leads me to the part where I drop the names of some very close personal friends of mine—GLENN BECK and CHUCK NORRIS! That's right! That's what I said! GLEN AND CHUCK! (close friends call him Glen with one 'n') And it's hard to say which one I like more...just like cherry and grape snow cones, both favorites.

Have I met them, you ask?

Is that necessary, I reply.

And then I roll my eyes at your obvious naivetee (said with an affected French accent, meant to convey disgust and superiority.) The important thing here is, they're admirers and friends of Chris Stewart's, and because blood is thicker than water, the fact follows that the flow of good will goes right through Chris' veins and surging into mine, on account of me being his muse and all.

Anyway, I just wanted you all to know what a big deal I am. And maybe, if you play your cards right, I'll let YOU call him Glen with one n, too. Because as I once again testify, it's not what you know, it's who.

AND I KNOW HIM!

ALL YOUR FAULT

2012-01-16T16:11:00.000-08:00

I'm disgusted with myself.

I'm the first one to mock helicopter mothers who can't let go, but the last one to look away, as I watch my son's tail lights recede in the frosted January twilight.

The lump in my throat has restricted my breathing to the point of a high pitched, flemmy garble when I try to speak. It's embarrassing, and I'm not even hormonal.

And what makes it worse is that I'm not at Disneyland.
Or in Hawaii.
Or driving around in a light blue convertible Jag wearing sunglasses, red lipstick and a scarf tied 'round my brilliant platinum hair.

Yes, THAT is what makes it worse.

And I blame you.

Is it any wonder I miss him so much?

PARTING IS SUCH EXPENSIVE SORROW

2012-01-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

Bam. Gone again.

The college student has flown the coop and as I type this, is driving up to Cache Valley to his new crappy apartment that he'll share with five other guys (one bathroom) and probably some hidden tarantulas and such.

I just returned from Target, where I threw money at the situation, in essence giving him his very own wedding shower, but without the fiance.

Pots and pans, dishes, utensils, irons and boards and scissors and pens. Paper and towels and blankets and lotion and pillows and bread and butter and Coke. WHO KNEW, PEOPLE?! Seriously.

Anyway, I need a volunteer to keep me delighted and joyful. Code for shopping partner. Apply in the comment section. I'll pick you up in 30.

PERFECT!

2011-12-30T20:17:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-14T22:28:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-10-28T10:39:00.001-07:00

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

2011-10-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-17T20:36:00.001-07:00

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

2011-10-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-09T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-28T19:23:00.001-07:00

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!

2011-09-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-13T20:57:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-09-03T09:28:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-07T22:31:00.001-07:00

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?

2011-08-03T14:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-29T20:54:00.001-07:00

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

2011-07-19T16:50:00.001-07:00

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

2011-07-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-30T09:39:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-21T18:33:00.001-07:00

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

2011-05-14T10:50:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-11T17:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-08T19:22:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-12T12:39:00.001-07:00

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

2011-04-09T19:12:00.000-07:00

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?

REMEDIATION

2011-04-02T12:26:00.001-07:00

Okay, I am hanging my head in repentant shame. I've ignored you dear folks, and kind of replaced you, in a way, with my actual life. Life things like Student Body President elections, neuro-feedback therapy sessions, children failing core classes needed to graduate, thus leading to what they now like to call,"remediation"~or what we used to call, "flunking." Being a Flunkard is way more fun to say, but brings with it it's own devastation. Anyway, things like that, leaving little time for the things that bring me joy, with the exception of a daily bag of Cadbury mini-eggs, to get me through on a wing and a fatty prayer.

So you've been on hold. For about two weeks now. And I would imagine that, after awhile, you got a little bit sick to death of the elevator music that's been playing. And I don't blame you, because, "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy" instrumental version, has a pretty short shelf life, and I'm confident it went rancid by the late 70's.

Which makes me feel even worse about the fact that I can't write more today, and will be screwing the lid back on the jar, so you can pickle in the fridge for a few more days, since my DAMNABLE MIGRAINE HEADACHE IS ON DAY NUMBER THREE AND A HALF, AND THERE IS NO END IN SIGHT!

See, Migraine=stupid words coming out of my mouth. Mostly cuss. And I can't subject you, my dear, fresh, spring chick peeps, to profanity laced diatribes against the headache gods who JUST CAN'T LET IT GO, CAN YOU?

So let's just call it a day...or 14...whatever, and wait for those 47 ibu's to kick in. May the heavens bless you for your patience and long suffering~two courses I flunked back in Jr. High, thus, the migraine headache "remediation."

Love, Princess Lisa

NEXT TIME I'LL WAH

2011-03-17T10:39:00.000-07:00

Went for a pedicure last night, ladies. And please learn from my mistake of going one hour before closing time, which is like licking up the sides of the empty tin that used to hold a cream pie filled with pumice and pink piggie polish time, topped with leg massaging energy. Seems these people DO have a life apart from my feet, and are ready to resume it 15 minutes before the actual closing time posted on the door.

Anyway, pulled out a brand new razor and swiped at my legs before heading over, because I learnt my lesson from last time. Realized too late that brand new razor/swipe/my calves are not on friendly terms, as I tore off toilet paper and attached it to about 30 bleeding nicks—10 of which were on ONE FOOT, people. Not even shizzing.

Now they stopped bleeding before I left home, but once my feet were immersed in steaming water, well, the life juices flooded back to the surface, to take a look around. Seems they liked what they saw, and decided to stay awhile, setting up lawn chairs and coolers, and cracking open Diet Cokes.

I tried to explain to the Vietnamese ladies that, "I hadn't wanted them to feel my prickly hairs, because that would gross them out, so I had done a quick shaving job, but it was a new razor, and I hadn't realized that without the proper soaking time, your legs just rebel and bumps raise in alarm, leading to a severing of the little bump heads, and that's why my legs are covered in cuts and why the previously blue water is now a tinge purple, because red and blue make purple, and I promise I don't have any blood born diseases like AIDS or some sort of Herpes or anything like that, no way, it's just that I didn't give them proper time to clot before heading over here, because I was afraid they'd close, and I'd have to go another day with hideous little pigs and blah, blah, blah."

But they were Vietnamese, remember? So they just stared at me like I had a booger on my lip and laughed.

And whispered.

And laughed again.

Then they pointed over at the waxing station and said—

"You Wah."

And I said, "Haha. Yes. Ha. Good idea."

Then I buried my face in an upside down magazine while they drained the purple water and began again.

Next time I'll wah.

Fer sher.

SPIT HAPPENS

2011-03-09T10:43:00.001-08:00

Standing in front of my side of the bathroom mirror, glancing over at husband's side~

"Oh my gosh. He is so...seriously...look at all that toothpaste spit. ALL over the mirror. And I just cleaned that...honestly. I think if HE were the one doing the cleaning, he'd at least take the time to wipe up the spittle splat. He's just not careful."

I cross to his side to wipe up the smear and just happen to glance over at my side—light hitting the mirror from a different angle.

Well.

Will you lookie there.

Same exact splat.

Maybe even a little more.

Why?

Because spit happens.

And that, my friends, is a lesson in perspective.

FRICKIN' LASER BEAMS

2011-03-03T11:15:00.000-08:00

I'm like a shark, with frickin' laser beams shooting from it's head. Sept they're boogers. From my nose. And it's only fair, because I mocked my husband when he caught those cold sores. Which, may I add, have a surprisingly long shelf life.

Anyway, now I've been brought low and I have no one to blame but myself.

Speaking of blame, I needed someone to point a finger at yesterday. I was served up a big old steamy manure pie, made out of a one week lapse between policies in Workman's Comp, a tire exploding in an employees face, the subsequent ambulance ride and ER visit, a teenage son missing 30 (not even exaggerating) assignments and a few other surprisingly expensive and aggravating ingredients. You know, to give it savor.

I could barely contain myself while I sat mouth breathing in my bedroom chair, as I tried to consume the entire dessert myself. Fortunately, Sterling came in to take his fair share, and together we licked the platter clean.

Which makes me grateful for a husband who knows the difference between chocolate and cow dung, and that only one of those is his wife's favorite. And who takes a misfired bullet now and again when the gun is in her hand and she's swinging it around in wild eyed frenzy.

But other than that, I just have this miserable cold that makes it impossible to think clearly, or be funny, or be kind, or be generous, or be creative, or be productive.

And this time, I blame...how 'bout the Unions? Yeah. Them. Stupid Unions.

TATTLE TELL

2011-02-26T10:15:00.000-08:00

From my daughter, to my husband while he's gone on a business trip. Seems I can't trust her as far as I can throw her...

thank you so much! I really do miss you! I really want you to come home! were are you sleeping??????????? I really want to know! I will take care of mom! today I can tell she was really sick because she was being really grumpy because when ever I talk to her really nice and I ask her something really nice when she is not doing anything she would yell at me and raise her voice! and she is kind of being mean to chris! I think she is just thinking of her bing sick and I think that she is just really sick so I think that that is why she is so grumpy! I love you so much! I really miss yo and want you to come home right now! love you!

SCREAM HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

2011-02-25T09:25:00.000-08:00

Two words, friends~Maturation. Presentation. Otherwise known as The Scream Heard Round the World.

I remember working up the courage to show my mother the permission slip~and I call her mother because she was the enemy that day. I folded it 18 times, whispered to Diana that I was "going in," set the receiver down and crept, sweating and trembling, into the living room. After a few panicky attempts, I finally hucked the paper square onto the newspaper she was reading and fled. I assume she read it, because she was there for the "Very Personally Yours" lecture and video.

Aqua booklet, black script, written in the 50's, but clearly meant to stand the test of time, because this was the 80's. Timeless advice like, "Not too hot!" regarding the temperature of your shower. Who KNEW what might happen should steam cover the mirror of a menstruating girl! And "Smile, sister, Smile!" when you check your reflection in your compact mirror, touching up your ruby red lipstick, but then are suddenly overcome by the poor fit of your girdle. Harsh realities, ladies. And yes, I've taken these things to heart over the years, smiling through my tears while I fix my bleeding red lipstick in the compact, shivering in my tepid bath. It really is the simple joys.

Anyway, my sister in law tried to prepare her twin daughters for the presentation. Appearing nonchalant, she told them the kinds of things they'd be discussing.

"You know, puberty and bras and periods and stuff. You know about periods, right?"

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Totally. Like, you know, the period of life we're in right now. Yeah, we know all about periods." heads nodding in self assured unison.

When she actually said the words, they ran screaming from the room~one even hid under the table, plugging shut her ear canals in the fetal position. "NOOOOOOO! AAAGGHHHH!! OOOOOO, THAT'S SO GROSS! DON'T TELL US! DON'T SAY IT ANYMORE! AAAGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Best part of that, my sister in law is pregnant. I suggested if she really wanted to have some fun, that she wait until the video was over, then pointing at her belly say, "So, now you know how I got this way, right? Me and Daddy...?" (eyebrow lift and head nod)

Long term damage.

As I said before, it really is the simple joys.

Man Stroke Woman - Man Cold

2011-02-19T11:27:00.001-08:00

Good news! My daughter has caught my husband's man cold. I KNOW, PEOPLE, I KNOW! How did I find out? A sampling of her comments:

"Mom, (cough cough) I taste blood! My throat is bleeding (cough) because I'm coughing sohard!"

"Mom, (cough) it hurts my fingers to touch stuff."

"Mom, (sprawled across the floor) Check my forehead. (cough) Bring me some medicine. (sigh) Can you get me some orange juice? I want the big chair in the car, so make the boys sit in the back. My neck hurts. My skin hurts. Can the boys clean my room?"

So yeah. Wish me well.

On a side note, my dear husband was obliged to awaken me in the predawn light, on his way out the door, to show me his cold sore. Because yes, it was THAT important for me to know that one~he has a cold sore, two~it's because he has a cold, and three~cold sores are caused by stress, and clearly he is stressed, on account of the physical manifestation on his lip.

But he can't help it. He's a man, and he has a cold.

Poor little bunny.

BIG BABY

2011-02-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

We saw this...

And THIS...

And even spent an evening warming our hands over this...but what thrilled me to my core? What made the thousands of dollars in lodging, food and entertainment seem like an insignificant coin tossed into the fountain of my quest for happiness?

This.

That's right, Big Baby, from Toy Story 3.

Thanks to Janine for finding it in the Tsunami of Disney paraphernalia. She's a pirate. Argh.

PEED MYSELF

2011-02-14T08:51:00.000-08:00

I'm writing whilst slobbering and sucking on an enormous Mickey Mouse Disney World jaw breaker on a stick. I can feel myself getting lock jaw, but it's worth it. Something magical about Disney.

We're back! And once again, I'm full up with stories...from fevers and flu and strep throat, to HOLY JUNK THAT PLACE IS EXPENSIVE. But because we both know the kind of tales I'm capable of, and the kind of humor (potty) you seem to enjoy, I'll just go with the one where I peed myself on the plane.

That's right, folks.

Peed myself.

On account of a sneeze.

It all began with a caught cold the eve before departure.

Which turned into a migraine the following morning.

Which turned into nausea and extreme sensitivity to light, sound, and MOST ESPECIALLY A FOUR AND A HALF HOUR PLANE RIDE HOME.

Which turned into eyes closed, in through the nose~out through the mouth, one finger in the air silent shushing of anyone who might tap my arm or think to distract me from clutching at the vomit bag.

Which turned into the slightest movement=waterfall of puke.

Which turned into a full bladder and a sleeping daughter draped across my lap.

Which turned into a complete inability to respond with the requisite knee jerk leg clamp in case of rogue sneeze.

Which turned into "ACHOO!"

Which turned into, "Aw, hell."...and two and a half hours still remaining on the flight.

It was good times, friends. Good urine soaked times. Fortunately, the cushion was pleather and my pants were absorbent. And with all the stench going on in an airplane, the smell of tinkle could hardly raise an eyebrow.

Anyway, I don't know why I thought it wise to share this humiliation. Except for the fact that I'm a giver and figured it outranked a box of chocolates and stuffed animal on this Valentines day of burnin' love.

What? You got ME something, too? Oh, you're so sweet...you shouldn't have! (rip, shred, tearing at the wrapping)

A book? How nice! Wait, what are Kegels?

(angry slit eyes)

You're dead to me.

I KILLED HIM

2011-02-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

Me~"YAY! You got asked to Preference! When is it?"

Son~"Um, in February sometime. I'll find out."

(days pass)

Me~"Did you find out when the dance is? We need to get flowers ordered, your shirt and tie, etc."

Son~"No, but I'll find out. It's like, the twenty somethingth."

(more days pass)

Me~"Did you find out when the dance is yet?"

Son~"Oh, Yeah. No. But I know it's after Valentines."

(more days pass)

Me~"When is Preference?"

(more days pass)

"When is Preference?"

(and some more)

"When is Preference?"

(and even more)

Me~(demon voice, distorted facial features) "FIND OUT RIGHT. THIS. VERY. SECOND. WHEN. THE. DANCE. IS!"

Son~"Okay, okay. Hold on, I'll text Dallin."

Son~"Whoa. Wow. Okay. So, it's next Saturday. The 12th. So. Huh. I guess it's a good thing we found out before we left, so we could order the flowers before we—"

Me~"—WHAT? LEAVE TO DISNEY WORLD AND WON'T BE BACK UNTIL SATURDAY? THE 12TH?! IN FACT, OUR PLANE FLIES IN AT 7:40...PEE FREAKING EM! SO EVEN IF ALL IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD, 9:00 THAT NIGHT IS THE EARLIEST YOU CAN BE HOME? IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY?"

Son~"BALLS! WHAT DO I DO?"

What did he do, you ask? He made a humiliating, penitent phone call and ruined the dance, that's what he did.

Then he brought her flowers, and apologized again.

And then I killed him.

YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

2011-01-31T12:01:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-27T17:21:00.001-08:00

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

2011-01-25T18:04:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-17T14:17:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-01-13T18:15:00.001-08:00

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

2011-01-12T13:17:00.001-08:00

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

2011-01-10T09:02:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-06T17:36:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-01T21:04:00.001-08:00

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. ;)

THEY MEAN IT

2010-12-29T22:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, so some foul odor was reeking up my fridge for days on end. I searched fruitlessly.

Until today, that is.

You know those dates stamped on cartons of heavy cream? Yeah, well, apparently it's not so much a challenge, as it is a serious warning.

They mean it.

Just FYI.

BETTER NEXT YEAR

2010-12-27T14:31:00.000-08:00

Reading Parade magazine interview with Biggest Loser chick.

Interviewer~"What are your New Year's Resolutions?"

Biggest Loser Chick~"Oh, I'm going to stop eating so many desserts. And really try to stay away from bread."

Me~"Mmm. Bread."

Then Me goes to the kitchen and two fists some butter rolls, while popping homemade bread into the toaster, which Me slathers in honey butter.

Me'll do better next year.

AMBIEN FOG

2010-12-23T21:57:00.000-08:00

The floor is warm, the house is clean, the presents are wrapped and I'm about to settle down for a long Winter's nap. I tried to do some of that slumbery snore this morning, but was jarred awake in the wee hours by a worker man pounding on the front door. Ster forgot he was coming. In fact, so much slipped his mind, that about 3:00 AM, the poor dear decided he couldn't watch the clock one more second, and slipped himself a mickey~or half an Ambien~which I knew nothing of.

Ever hear what an Ambien is capable of doing? It's categorized as a "hypnotic sedative". A nurse I know took one and woke up on her trampoline. Go ahead and Google it. I'll wait......

....done? Okay, so that 3:00 AM decision? Mm hmm. Poor. Anyway, pound, pound, pound and I jump up, all heat miser hair, and morning musk whisper screaming,

"IS THAT SOMEONE AT THE DOOR? IS SOMEONE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE? STER! WHO IS IT? IS THERE A WORKER COMING TO FIX MORE STUFF? DEAR! WHAT'S GOING ON? DID YOU REMEMBER SOMEONE WAS COMING? HOW COME YOU'RE NOT UP? DO YOU KNOW WHO'S HERE? STERLING! STER!"

No answer.

He just lays there.

Like it's MY problem.

Then finally, crack head meanders out of bed, toodles around the bedroom for a few seconds, which is HOURS in "stranger pounding on your front door" time, then wanders leisurely into the bathroom to gather up some shorts to cover his bedhead bum.

Anyway, he just admitted tonight that he was in an Ambien fog that whole time, bless his heart.

I'm staging an intervention.

Look for us on TLC.

SATAN BALLS

2010-12-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

Hey, so guess what I'm eating? Little balls of chocolate, butter and sin. Satan balls. Compliments of the lovely, effervescent as a glass of pure carbonation, Heather. Even her name sounds like soft, purpley flowers in warm summer breezes. And she has cotton candy hair, just like me. Some of you know what I'm talking about (Missy). We really ought to just dye it pink, except then people would likely try to grab a wad and shove it in their mouths when we pass by. But that would probably only be at Lagoon and Disneyland and such.

Anyway, guess how much that bad news is costing us? SEVEN. FREAKING. GRAND. PEOPLE. That's right. And if you've been with me from the beginning, you'll recognize this as an exact carbon copy of this time last year.

And right after swallowing that chunk of glee, poor, dear husband came home with anxiety dripping out of his nose pores, on account of this guy named Jack~last name Ass~goes by the nickname Dumb~heehawing that he wanted his name removed from the records of our business. I KNOW! Like we hadn't already excommunicated Jack eons ago. Moron.

So anyway. That's all I got. Well, that and a gaggle full of blessings that I'm choosing to ignore. Because 'TIS THE SEASON, friends. Even though I have a life full of goodness, I'm sitting on Santa's lap and whispering that it's just not enough.

I want a Red Ryder BB gun, too.

That shoots Satan balls.

MUG BATH

2010-12-20T09:34:00.000-08:00

Boiler is still busted, or at least newly busted. Bless it's ice cold, irresponsible heart.

The HVAC man said, "Well, I've got good news and bad news." Looks like we'll have to wait until TOMORROW NIGHT to even find out how much the bad news costs to install.

And CLEARLY, Princess Lisa was not created from pioneer stock, as just like a pea at the bottom of 100 mattresses, she finds this turn of events annoying, uncomfortable and slathered in "EW".

SO ENJOY YOUR HOLIDAY BREAK, PEOPLE! If you need me, I'll be microwaving mugs full of hot water. And no. It's not for cocoa, but rather...

...To bathe in.

Merry Christmas to me.

ICICLE SHAMPOO

2010-12-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

So I went to have a shower yesterday. Found out that the furnace/boiler had stopped working sometime the previous night. Or...perhaps...mid morning encroaching into noonday. On account of it may or may not have been officially afternoon when I stuck my toes into the freezing water.

I realized I had a decision to make. Do I call my husband who has been at work since the rump crack of dawn, and admit that my facade of being anxiously engaged is a sham, as I am JUST NOW realizing my plight? Or do I slather pits in deodorant and work some baseball cap magic, in order to keep up pretenses?

In the end, I shampooed in icicles that dripped from the faucet, turning my brain blood to slush, so that I might not have another elephant pooh hair encounter. Then throwing dignity to the wind, I called and came clean (figuratively) to my man.

And lucky for me, I am the only finger pointer/head bobber in this household, thus hubbie didn't even raise a fiber optic eyebrow. Just picked up the parts and fixed it like the brilliant mechanic that he is. And I wish I could say I learned my lesson. That from this day forward, I will jump out of bed and fling my flappy body into the refreshing mist without missing a beat. But the Lord hates liars.

He told me so when we were talking about...well, I shouldn't say.

(pointing finger...but totally not at you ;) )

THE GRINCH

2010-12-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

Hard to talk, friends. Hard to type. Hard to sit. Hard to breathe. On account of my stupid Grinch jeans. No giving Christmas spirit WHAT.SO.EVER!

Seems their stupid stingy heart isn't the only thing two sizes too small. And here I am, trying to embrace the season by letting MY heart...and some other stuff...grow even MORE ENORMOUS, because of my giving nature and such. In fact, I put a magnifying glass to my belly, and what do you know? IT BUSTED RIGHT THROUGH THE FRAMEWORK, JUST LIKE WHEN THE GRINCH GETS THE SPIRIT! SO FUN!

So I'm just carrying on special holiday traditions, you know? And hopefully, my example will be a light on the hill for grinchy denim everywhere, so that we can one day see them wrapped all festive and generous, around GIGANTIC BULGING BUMS, as they understand what Christmas is all about.

And then they'll get their own animated Christmas special.

A classic.

DO YOU GET ME?

2010-12-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

Hey, guess what's fun? Having your own blog! On account of you get to write your very own stuff! I know! So like, your own memories, your own experiences, your own feelings and even your own humor, filtered through your own personality prism. EVEN IF...now this is important...someone else doesn't "get it".

So like, I paint pictures with words the way I want you to see it, and use acronyms indiscriminately and embellish stories with ALL MANNER OF GLITTERY, SCATTERED PROFANITIES...and then, here's where you step in. YOU get to decide whether or not you want to read it. And guess what else? With such steely determination, you will find the offense you were after~with any number of stories, memories, experiences or humor. THUS, you are AS FREE AS A BIRD to fly away.

That's right.

FREE AS A BIRD.

It's called agency. Part of the plan.

And when I say "fly away," I mean click off the link, turn off the computer and climb back onto the phone to weep, wail and gnash your teeth while you speak ill of me to your kin.

And just one more FYI (another acronym I tossed in higgledy piggledy)~we know you dye your hair.

That's right, I said it. QUICK, HIDE THE GUN BEFORE THEY CAN SHOOT THE MESSENGER!

What? You're offended?

Well, look at that...now you "get me".

BEAUTY MARK

2010-12-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

A friend of ours went in for a biopsy tonight on a rather large mole. Just decided it didn't look right as he climbed into the shower, and made the appointment THAT VERY MINUTE to have it checked.

Said the Dr. used something akin to a cookie cutter to stamp out a piece of the tissue, then sewed it up like a puckered balloon.

Dr.~"Come on in next week, and I'll take the stitches out for you."

Him~"Naw. I can do it myself."

Dr. gives friend a seam ripper tool, which he is looking forward to using on his own basted skin.

Now several things stand out to me here, regarding the GLARING DISPARITY I see between me and this brave knight. First, if I had noticed a 'not right' mole on Princess Lisa, I'd have spent up to 8 months of tortured, sleepless nights, fraught with despair over the impending Dr.'s visit.

Worries like, "Oh my holy junk, he's going to think it's my fault...that I grew this mole on purpose! He'll probably want to check my entire body for freckles and rogue tumors, which will bring to light my taffy abdomen and weathered breasts and such. I wonder if they can give me a local for the physical? Maybe a piggy snout of laughing gas or something? Course then I'd be out of control, laughing and naked under a paper napkin on the exam table...until I start coughing. And then I'd pee a little. You know, now that I think about it, maybe it's okay to die of a malignant mole. I mean, really, I've had a pretty good life. Kids are older and don't need me so much. Plus, people have been jerks to me lately and I really think I might be done. No, really."

Beyond that, I'd be compelled to take up drinking, so as to get liquored up enough to simply MAKE the appointment, as well as to actually keep it. Also, so I wouldn't be aware or care how much coughing, laughing or piddling went on. And the seam ripper? Yeah, no. Just, no.

So those are just the most obvious chasms separating this friend and me. And sure, one of us will likely live long and prosper, while the other may, well, okay, not. But she kind of feels it's better to leave them wanting more.

Plus, she's sure that's a beauty mark. (pretty sure)

ELEPHANT POOH HAIR

2010-12-07T10:21:00.001-08:00

You know how we always talk about opposition? As in, "There must be opposition in all things." Yeah, well, so since I looked smashing on Sunday, extra care with hair and makeup because we went to my sister's ward for her baby's blessing, and it's time to represent, you know? Can't have her neighborhood thinkin' she's a hick and comes from cousin marriage. Anyway, the next day I evened things right out. On account of I let my hair air dry.

Or should I say "error dry".

Yes, it was a mistake, friends. Anyone with a teaspoon of hair has no business letting a light breeze be in charge. But I thought I deserved it. I was tired and decided to rebel against personal standards and good judgement. As soon as I realized what a miscalculation it was, I tried to remedy the situation. But that only made it tap its foot and roll it's hair eyeballs at me. I tried ponytails, bobby pins, chiffon scarves and heavy eye makeup. The tapping got even louder.

Sterling came home and Julia came home and Chris came home and Seth came home and not one of them looked me in the eye. They just kind of stared questioningly at what was hanging limp and feverish across my forehead. Eventually, I mentioned the elephant in the room, but not before it left a steaming pile of hair pooh, that everyone had tried to avoid. Finally, I just took my bra off and put my robe back on. It was clear I was going nowhere.

So what do we learn from this, people? That Satan is a filthy liar. That's right. Stay with me here~see, Satan is always screaming for us to be free! And the only way we can be free is to disobey...parents, religious leaders, commandments, laws, promptings from the spirit...Lucifer spouts off that they bring us down and we're being led like sheep.

Yeah, well, shut it, Satan. Because from what I experienced yesterday, obedience brings freedom, not fetters. I disobeyed my own principles and went rogue for the day, and look what it brought me...A BRA-LESS SHACKLING TO MY HOME, WITHOUT EVEN THE POWER TO REPLENISH MY DWINDLING CHOCOLATE STASH!

And Satan laughed.

So don't tell me that steaming elephant pooh hair is the way to live your life. It's not. We deserve much more than that.

And I will be the one to laugh at Satan, not the other way around!

Na, na, na na na! (sticking fingers in ears and tongue out) (Now I'm wiggling my bum at him. He hates that the most!)

MOUTH EMISSIONS

2010-12-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

Julia: "Mom, can I wear mascara today? Cuz my eyelashes are like, invisible."

Me: "Yup. Bring it to me. But only a little bit."

Julia: (brings me tube and leans in close) Ugh! OH MY GOSH, THIS IS THE WORST PART! I love how it looks, but I HATE HOW IT SMELLS!"

Me: (sniffing wand) What do you mean smells? (sniff, sniff) It just smells like mascara."

Julia: "Yeah! And mascara smells like ROTTEN EGG GAS! And STINKERS! Hold on, I have to hold my breath!" (sucks in lung full and leans back in for more application)

Me: (sniffing again) Rotten egg gas stinkers? You're crazy! I don't smell anythi......oh. Oh. OH! That's not the mascara, dear. That's me! That's my morning breath!

Seems every single time she asks me to apply mascara, her nose is downwind from my A.M. kisser. Apparently bums aren't the only things capable of emitting. 'Nuff said.

CHRISTMAS STUFF

2010-12-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

Favorite collectibles~all spindly legs and bulging bellies.

Magnificent Victorian glitter fest snow babies.

Porcelain Victorian ornament/doll.

Sparkling crystal earrings and necklace.

Vintage patent leather envelope clutch.

Enormous emerald ring, on account of I like to put on airs.

WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS "STUFF" FINDS~for me, of course~on account of who knows me better than me does? And because I'm so generous, money was no object.

Brenda is my favorite. She owns Just a Bed of Roses, which is also my favorite. Both favorites. My sisters and mom and friends celebrate all chick holidays by a visit to her threshold. We even set goals together. This year, we decided I need to work at wearing more necklaces. Now how many shop owners do YOU know that are this vested in the betterment of their clientele? None, people. 'Cept for Brenda. Only thing wrong with her is she celebrates with Christmas spiders. I know. Really, really creepy.

But she deserves to be forgiven this one heinous flaw. So take a flying leap to Farmington and get your own stuff. Then you wrap it up and put it under your tree, and tag it to you from your own husband, which is basically like hiding it in plain sight. You won't even have to shove it behind your dresses in the closet, and then bring it out a few months later, acting surprised that he's never noticed it before now.

Not that I've ever done that.

You're weird.

CHRISTMAS COMMERCIAL

2010-11-30T20:42:00.000-08:00

Criminy, people! Have you seen my house? Have you seen the boxes and boxes of crapola just lying around like a lazy, farting cat in front of a roaring fire? Have you seen the bags and bags of "What the junk is this?" decorations, that had nothing to do for the last 11 months in storage, therefore, spent the time fornicating in the dark, plastic buckets with other worn and weary decor, resulting in a whole gaggle of illegitimate tinsel wads and cheap, tangled lights? Have you seen me outside, barefoot, trying to tie a crunchy, left over velvet bow on my iron railing, and then limping back indoors, as my non tempered glass feet immediately shattered and bled from the impact of extreme temperatures?

No. No, you haven't. Because you're too busy acting all competent and smug, having your lights, stockings and ornaments hung with care, and pretending you're in a Christmas commercial, wearing a form fitting cashmere sweater, smiling demurely and looking out your frosted window pane, while you blow on a mug of steaming hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

And I kind of hate you right now. And it's likely to continue until you remember how much you owe me, and prance on over here like a good reindeer does, to help out Princess Lisa, so she can start sucking down a few mugs of that Christmas cheer, herself. With marshmallows.

If I don't hear my doorbell ringing by midnight, you're dead to me.

BLACK FRIDAY

2010-11-26T19:06:00.000-08:00

Me-"Hey, Mom. Let's make a quick run to Joanne's fabric. I know it's Black Friday, but it's later, and I'm sure the crowds are diminished by now. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

Me-"Why are all these people draped across chairs, holding bolts of fabric? Half of them are dozing."

Mom-"I know. How weird. It's been a long day, so maybe they're just worn out."

Me-"Oh, good. Here's the fabric we wanted. I'll go pull the numbered ticket, so we can get through the line faster. (pull ticket) Our number is 47 and they're on 30. Geez. This is going to take a while."

Mom-"Well, let's just wander around for a few minutes while we wait." (20 minutes passes)

Mom-"Hey. What number did they just call? I think that was 52. Oh, crap! We missed our number!"

Me-"I'll run up and see if they'll let us in."

Angry cutter lady-"G54...G54!"

Me-"Oh, hey. I missed my nuh....wait, did you say G? Wait, so there are LETTERS, too? Letters mixed with numbers? So if mine says H47...abcdefgh...so, then, how many numbers are assigned to each letter? Are there like, another HUNDRED to go, before you make it around to H47? Is that what's going on here?"

(Angry villagers strewn about fabric cutting area give me a collective eyeball roll)

Random customer-"We've. been. here. for. two. hours. and. twen. tee. minutes."

Me-"HOLEEEEE HE.......COW, PEOPLE! ARE YOU SERIOUS? FOR WHAT, LIKE TEN BUCKS SAVINGS? ARE YOU...wow. (pulling pitchforks out of purses and flipping Bics to light torches) Wow. Okay. Good luck with that."

And we heard the faint cry as we screeched out of sight, "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, NOW WHERE'S G59...G59!"

TO DO

2010-11-22T16:14:00.000-08:00

I think you'll be proud of me. As many of you know, I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner, and may I just state for the record, that there is nothing quite so exhilarating as crossing things off a list. Things such as:

*Make a list-check

*Clean out my purse-check

*Get the mail-check

*Pick up Kleenex with my toes-check

*Eat a pile of pistachios-check

*Pick up kids from school-check

*Park at the grocery store and tweeze a few stray hairs-check

*Go to Tepanyaki for steak and shrimp-(burp) check

Now I know what you're thinking. How does she do it? How does Princess Lisa continue to amaze us all with her list making triumphs? Well, it's a talent, friends. A skill I've honed over years and years of procrastination. I eventually realized that the only way I was going to feel successful, was to write things that were highly likely to happen on their own.

Kind of like giving out trophies for "participant". Shines just the same as first place, and you can't really tell what it was for, unless you get close enough to read the engraving. So for all you know, when you see all those pretty red check marks on my THANKSGIVING TO DO's, you assume I'm accomplishing the hell out of things.

And I am.

Holy junk, that shrimp was tasty. I'm adding that to my list one more time.

GUM

2010-11-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

Heard from the backseat on our last trip to Park City~

"Who gave you gum?"

(chomp, chomp, chew, smack)

"Sterling did."

(smack, chomp, chew)

"STERLING! YOU ARE IN TROUBLE! Spit it out. Now. I mean it. Give it to me." (hand held under chomping chin)

(hysterical laughter, rebellious head shake and even louder gum smacking followed by a fist bump between Sterling and the offender)

Now I'm not naming names, people. But let's just say that the next time you see your DOCTOR/RELIGIOUS LEADER/43 YEAR OLD PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY...

...put your hand under his chin and tell him to spit it out, or you'll tell his wife.

RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL...

2010-11-17T10:01:00.001-08:00

You know how when little kids are being chased by their monster dad, and they're so hysterical and trapped that the only thing they can think to do, is turn and run directly into the arms of their attacker? Yeah, well, that's what this is. I'm telling you the story before you find out on your own and hit me where it hurts~in my (false) pride.

So it started with a last minute decision to get a pedicure. Seems a few months previous, my surly little toes had thrown a fit, screaming that they didn't need any "professional supervision". They thought they could make it on their own, so they packed up their polish and pumice and waved goodbye in peep toes. Stupid daft hoofs. But there they were, three months later, all cracked, bleeding and chipped, having shredded their last pair of pantyhose, and bawling that they couldn't pay their light bill and needed a place to stay.

Anyway, being the nurturer I am, I took pity on them. Which brings us to the desperate need and split second decision to run to the pedicurist. I entered the shop, obeyed the Vietnamese command to "choose culuh," grabbed a couple of magazines and rolling my pant legs up, slid my feet into the warm blue water. Suddenly, I was seized with clarity and dread, but it was too late.

I was Rapunzel.

Leg hair Rapunzel.

Which does not make for an enchanting fairy tale.

I quickly texted Kara, for sisterly support: "Oh. my. holy. junk! I just put my feet in the water, and forgot I haven't shaved!"

Kara: "How long has it been?"

Me: "Since before South Carolina."

Kara: "Oh, Lisa. Oh, geez. Well, don't bother apologizing. She doesn't understand English, anyway. Plus they're probably talking about you right now."

And they were.

So I did the best I could to stare at my magazine and avoid the teeny little girl's mocking laughter and black eyes. Which seemed to be going fine, until she held up my foot and scrutinized my heels, which were covered in half inch deep, dead dermis splits. This had slipped my mind, on account of they'd stopped stinging the day before. Our eyes locked and a silent understanding was reached. I was no longer welcome in this establishment.

And then, thinking the worst was over, I leaned forward to scratch a hairy limb, only to drop two brand new magazines into the basin filled with recently shaved skin shards. The girl just stared at me, lifted the trash lid and pointed and snapped for me to retrieve and discard. Not even the hint of a smile. Just my nervous laughter filling the air.

I kept my head down for the remainder of the appointment, which normally lasts around an hour and a half, but this time finished in just under 45 minutes. Weird. And then I beat a hasty retreat straight to my bathtub ledge, in order to right the wrong. I figured I could quickly shave, post-pedi, and rewrite history. Because sometimes I lie to myself.

So what do we learn from this, friends? First, Vietnamese girls hate Americans. Second, just because a foot stops stinging, does NOT mean it's in peak physical condition. And third, I need a new hairstyle, as they've just posted my mug shot on the wall.

Jerks.

TOP TEN REASONS

2010-11-15T10:32:00.000-08:00

So next week is Thanksgiving, folks. LET THE GLUTTONY BEGIN! Not me, you. Because let's not pretend you haven't already started sampling the menu items, 'mm kay, pumpkins?

Anyway, here is my Blissfully Domestic post to tide you over until I come clean about the hairy legs crime scene at the pedicurist last week. I'm working up to it~not ready to admit guilt. Would prefer to cast sideways glances at all of you, as to your own conduct.

I'm off! Turkey burps and Dr. Pepper kisses, peeps!

YOU DIDN'T WAVE

2010-11-12T19:32:00.000-08:00

I just got back from doing a little shopping. So here's today's question:

What is...

Better than the State Fair...

Better than the hallways of a Jr. High school...

Better than a family reunion...in a double wide...in the back woods of Alabama?

Answer~The Mall Food Court.

I'm telling you, folks, people watching as good as that shouldn't be legal. It was like looking through a microscope at a petri dish full of rapidly multiplying bacteria, and wondering when the mutation would come to a horrifying climax.

By the way, you didn't wave back at me.

CASTING STONES

2010-11-10T11:10:00.000-08:00

I'm home, muh peeps! Back from a terrible few days in Park City. It was horrid. I hated every second. Every outlet shopping, restaurant eating, movie watching, late sleeping, condo residing, hot tubbing moment. Dreadful. I shudder just thinking of it.

As my friend and I sat caramelizing in the jacuzzi, we read the plaque on the wall that warned any pregnant women to shun this activity. And we laughed even as we were becoming light headed and nauseous, because we no longer heed medical warnings, on account of our wrinkly wombs and such. I also recalled the day that avoiding scalding hot tubs was as good as an announcement~

"Hey! You're only sticking your toes in. ARE YOU PREGNANT?" And we'd smile coyly, as the cat was out of the bag. Apparently the vomit dripping from our chin wasn't a strong enough indicator.

Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I went visiting neighbor ladies with my Mother in law? Now, a quick descriptive of my dear MIL, Ramona~fiery red hair that she "dyed" until she "died". Blue eyes, pink nails, coral lipstick that never managed to stay within the confines of her mouth, and the sharpest tongue with the bluntest delivery. Which I know nothing about myself, so shut up.

So we were chatting with a young woman in our neighborhood, and she told us she was 'expecting'. Ramona said with delight, "Oh, how wonderful! Do you know what you're having?"

Woman~"Yes. I do." Long pause.

Ramona and me~Eyebrows raised in expectation.

Woman~Even longer pause. Initiates staring contest.

Ramona~"Well? Is it a boy or girl?"

Woman~no reply.

Ramona~"I thought you said you knew what you were having."

Woman~"Well, I know what we're having. But we're not telling anyone else."

Ramona~with incredulous disbelief, laughed~"Well, hell, I don't really care WHAT you're having. I was just trying to make conversation!"

We were never asked to visit with her again. But we didn't care. She deserved it. She was stupid. And since I've never said or done anything stupid, thoughtless or insensitive in my entire life, I can cast that stone, people, as I am clearly without sin.

So what did you all do while I was in Park City? Never mind. I don't really care. I was just trying to make conversation. Now hand me that boulder, will ya?

THANKSGIVING DECOR

2010-11-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Happy, happy pilgrims. Why are they happy? Probably because they get to feast for three days straight. And there was no Black Friday back then.

New scalloped table~LOVE IT! Not to brag or anything, but I think the centerpiece and table sang, "The Circle of Our Love" as they made a promise in Heaven that they would find each other after they were born, and I was the glue that brought them together. Just sayin'.

"There's a great big turkey down on Grandpa's farm, and he thinks he's very..." what a shame we can never sing that "straight" faced again.

My new pilgrim set~loving the pewter and mixed metals.

Nice rack....plate rack, that is.

Some poor bird was plucked naked to dress this fake Turkey. Hardly seems fair.

FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC vintage material! Can you even believe they make such wonderful stuff? I can die happy now~clutching this fabric in my hands. I want my coffin lined in it.

And MORE vintage...not sure what I'll do with it~just know I couldn't live without it. Any ideas?

REAL MATERIAL! I KNOW! What is it about Little Golden Books that immediately makes the world right again?

Jules and I getting "artistic". Oh, AND, that little squirt of hair is my "messy bun". I know. Shut up.

Meet Jules~the balloon twisting savant. And no, I'm not being compensated for endorsing Pepsi products. But I probably should be.

WHITE NOISE

2010-11-05T08:58:00.001-07:00

Something is up with my TV signal, so I might as well blog. Not that I am addicted to staring vacuously at the mind numbing screen or anything. But maybe you are, which is sad. It's sad to me you spend your days yelling that, "IT'S JUST A JOLLY CHRISTMAS SWEATER! ARE THOSE POM POM BALLS DANGLING FROM THE TREE REALLY HURTING ANYONE? LET THE POOR WOMAN ALONE, STACY AND CLINTON! CRIMINY!" And it's sad to me that you know every verse of the CMT top 20, singing about your HillBilly Bone all loud, proud and oblivious at Gardner's Village, while loitering around ladies who lunch. And it's equally sad to me that you are probably still in your nightgown, unsure what to do with yourself, minus your early morning routine of falling back to sleep with the soothing lullaby of Mythbusters.

So sad for you.

Anyway, I have completed a few chores lately. First, I decorated for Thanksgiving, which means I also UNDECORATED for Halloween. No small task. Plus I finally noticed and threw away the last remaining "vomiting it's own innards" jack-o-lantern on the front porch that had become white noise to me.

But I was only on the fringe of the white trash neighborhood, as it's been LESS than a week, and I happen to know a woman who still has her pumpkin corpse on her front porch from HALLOWEEN, CIRCA 2009, PEOPLE! Course, it's now the size of a shriveled-up kumquat, so maybe she forgot it was once the majestic king of squashdom. (Suddenly, the word squash is cracking me up.)

And you know, maybe she's gone green, but doesn't know that shouldn't be taken so literally~as in green, moldy, rotting pulp staining her front walkway. So who am I to judge this woman who so obviously loves Mother Earth, and is just trying to feed the cement with all manner of fall harvest, as surely it gets hungry, too?

Anyway, where was I? Eh, never mind. I'll just end with a TGIF, even though those initials lost their thrill after I left (notice how I chose left rather than finished or graduated~here's a pencil~draw your own conclusion) college, as a MOTHER'S work is never done.

Course, sometimes it's never started.

Which could be why it's never done.

Touche.

WHAT HAPPENS IN PHOTOSHOP...

2010-11-02T13:26:00.001-07:00

Yeah.....sooooooo.......just took another batch of photos for the newspaper column. And just for the record, if you hear talk of 'deleting moles,' full 'face and neck airbrushing' and 'mouse click chin minimizing,' well, don't you believe a word of it, folks.

Especially the one about moving one of my eyeballs a full half inch up or down. That's just crazy talk.

Because as everybody knows~what HAPPENS in Photoshop, STAYS in Photoshop!

Isn't that right, Kara? (two fingered off-kilter eyeball point)

PIE WITH CREAM

2010-11-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Dainty flower Jules...the fro sporting ostrich jockey.

Nothing says Halloween like a flash flood rainbow.

A chickencess...new Halloween concept in the process of patent.

Ahhhhhhh. That's me sighing with chocolate drool relief that it's officially November and we can now enjoy the harvest season without getting all tangled up amidst bloody corpses hanging from tarantula webs. Not that I don't enjoy that...about as much as pushing play on the answering machine and hearing a "reminder call" from my dentist.

But shouldn't it disturb us that we're entirely desensitized to melting faces and strewn body parts on front lawns? On the up side, I have filed away in my demented brain the most opportune time to murder you, as I can bury your body in full daylight while smiling and waving to the mail lady. (straight faced eyebrow lift)

Speaking of dead birds, I'm hosting THE FEAST this year. I've found it's the only way I can be trusted to perform household hygiene on an annual basis. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I must be compelled in all things. And if there is no reason for said yearly cleanse, well, you can expect oniony B.O. reeking from my kitchen's armpits and a few boil like zits popping up on the baseboards. And nothing says, "Oh my he%#, what IS that?" like a white head on a baseboard.

So just like all good intentions, I'm starting tomorrow.

Or next Monday.

Or the Wednesday night before THE FEAST.

Don't roll your eyes. You knew what I was when you picked me up, people.

Plus there's a tremendous satisfaction found in white head extraction.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes...

"WHO WANTS PUMPKIN PIE...WITH FRESH CREAM?"

LOVE AND REASON

2010-10-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

Me~"Honey, you forgot to wash your hair last night. You need to go jump in the shower."

Jules~(digging out eye boogers)"MOOOOOOMMMMM! MY HAIR IS FINE LIKE THIS. I'LL JUST TAKE OUT THE BRAID AND IT WILL BE FLOWY. IT'S FINE!"

Me~"Okay, let me see it. (Medusa on crack) Nope, sorry. It's not fine. It's gross. Go shower. Hurry, quick!"

Jules~"UUUUGGGHHHHH!!!!! THAT MAKES ME SO MAD! WHY CAN'T I WEAR MY HAIR LIKE THIS! I HATE TO SHOWER IN THE MORNING!"

Me~"Dear, you KNEW you needed to shower. I'm sure you remembered last night, and still chose not to. Now get up there and shower."

Jules~(stomping up the stairs)"I DID NOT REMEMBER! I REMEMBER THAT I DIDN'T REMEMBER!"

And yes, friends. that is how we began our day. With a delightful, but more importantly, REASONABLE, conversation.

"There is Beauty all around, when there's love at home...."

SECRETARIAL SKILLS

2010-10-27T10:05:00.001-07:00

Well howdy, folks!

Lisa here, snacking on Twizzlers, Blow Pops and such, on account of trick or treating being the season, and me being an active participant. Trying my best to keep the recession from interfering with candy productivity. Because SOME people have cut back, I am being FORCED to increase my own personal consumption, in order to keep candy maker profits from going down the toilet. Just doin' my part, friends. Being the giver that I am.

Anyway, what else? Oh, hey. Did I mention I have a new calling in my church? I'm the Relief Society Secretary. UH HUH! THAT'S RIGHT. I SAID SECRETARY! Something they CLEARLY do not understand about Princess Lisa, is her complete ineptitude when it comes to all things technical, template and calendar.

Not that she can't, but more because she won't.

Oh, sure. She can type. And even attach pictures, with consistent tutoring from her teenage sons and a reminder post-it attached to every flat surface in her home. However, when they say things to me like, "Hey, you'll want to blind CC that newsletter before you send it out"~well, let's just say it turns to Klingon mid sentence. And I never learned Klingon, on account of no real world application. Or so I thought.

Last Sunday, the Primary President came into our class looking for a substitute teacher. I arose, fully committed to teaching 8 year olds for the next couple of hours, and it wasn't until the RS President grabbed my attention with her incredulous two fingered eyeball point, that I remembered I already HAD a job...and should actually be in another room at that very moment taking role...which I fully INTENDED TO DO, ANONY...just hadn't gotten around to it yet. But I was going to. Later. After everyone had gone home. Geez.

Anyway, I'd best be off. I have to get to graphing next month's calendar with my ruler and Sharpie~making a quick trip to Hobby Lobby for some seasonal stickers to decorate my mimeographed copies.

Because I'm cutting edge, people, that's why.

Jealous? Get your own secretary skills. These are taken.

OREOS

2010-10-25T13:26:00.001-07:00

"NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVERRRRRR go shopping for Halloween candy when you're hungry," she said.

With Oreos in her teeth...

...And double fisting Twizzlers...

...Pouring a bowl of Franken Berry marshmallow cereal.

FINDERS KEEPERS

2010-10-22T07:22:00.000-07:00

Sorry~can't talk right now~juggling.

Balls.

Lots of them.

Kind of hard, on account of intermixed between the ping pongs are bowling balls named roadshow.

Wish they were gum balls.

Then I could catch them in my mouth, chew, and spit 'em out.

Then you'd step in them, and they would be your problem.

Ever stepped in a wad of bowling ball before?

Nope.

Me neither.

Anyway, if you see one of these babies come rolling by, pick it up for me, will ya?

HAHAHAHAHA!!! YOU FOOL! FINDERS, KEEPERS! SO LONG SUCKAH!!!

IT'S AUTUMN TIME...

2010-10-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Fall...

A view from our Sunset Maple. Heavenly Father was SO on his game when he created trees.

My witch collection. Izoldi is in the middle with the 'substantial' chin. 'Member how I told you about her? She lived under our bed when we were little.

My latest addition. And I'm pretty confident those are extensions...nobody's eyelashes are THAT long, people.

Another new witchy-pooh. The kids find her frightening, but I think they just realize she can see through their soul.

Stairwell garland.

View into the library. Jesus watches what you pull up on the Internet in there, so, you know...

Autumn sunshine on a festive wreath. God Bless America.

A farewell bloom just for me. Simply because they love me...and I give them candy when you're not looking.

BLESS YOE HAWTS

2010-10-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

Beautiful sister who lost 22 pounds before I came out. She's very selfish like that.

Jake, aka 'gentleman kitty', after feasting on a wild pig in butter sauce. This is actually a very flattering picture, believe it or not.

The Biltmore estate. Nothing more to say.

Nick and Brad riding a Spyder. Who knew those words went together?

Oh, people. People, people, people. Where to begin? Do I start with the farting passengers in the rows just in front of us as we rode a radio controlled model airplane into Columbia? Or how HEAD CHEERLEADER AND FOOTBALL CAPTAIN POPULAR we were on the roads of North Carolina, riding our Can-Am Spyders? Or the story of how the child in charge while we were gone, left his 10 year old sister home alone until 2:30 AM, while he and his younger brother ("I was just following Chris!") enjoyed a festive Lord of the Rings marathon? So much to tell, so little time to blog. And so we begin...eenie, meenie, miny...

Let's go with that whole Lord of the Rings marathon, shall we? Okay, so I get a call from my narc, who informs me that the fresh milk delivery from the previous morning is 18 hours warmed by the noonday sun, and the boys are just now rousing, all zit faced and greasy hair, from the previous night's activities. Seems they tucked Jules in nice ... and tight ... and safe as a 10 year old has any right to be, by CALLING and telling HER to make sure the doors are locked and garage closed, as they'll likely be late getting home.

And why not in person? Oh, that would be because they hadn't actually BEEN home, per se, the entire day preceding this tucking in, as any Lord of the Rings fan knows, the shows are as long winded as a February freeze. And it was a marathon, remember? With break time only for the necessities~ie., Mountain Dew replenishment, sword fighting and urinating out the window wells. No time for house calls or welfare checks. Duh.

Now, lest ye cast full blame upon them, it was really our fault. First, we bred a younger sister. Second, we went to South Carolina. And last, we told them all, "No friends over while we're gone." Which translates through their I-pod filter into, "Leave home immediately and only come back to sleep it off." So see? The finger goes this way, too.

Thus, in the end, we gave them a good phone screaming, mentioning things like: shut the hell up with your lame excuses, X-box grounding for the calendar year, DCFS and the foster care system and warm milk on cereal for eternity. One or all of them seemed to do the trick, as we returned home to a clean kitchen and a partial vacuuming job. They managed to suck up everything but a dried out carrot in the middle of the floor. (shoulder shrug)

Now for the sake of time, all the rest gets the Readers Digest version~a three day headache~and don't tell me it had anything to do with excessive caffeinated beverages every time we passed by a restaurant/convenience store/the fridge~because I won't believe you. I think it's just a curse God has chosen to give me, in order to keep me low.

Next, Jake, the fattest southern kitty in the world, who only hunts and eats pigs feet and deep fried mice, gets high centered while walking and has rubbed all the fur off his underbelly.

A couple of new favorite southern expressions, compliments of Brad and Carly~"Makes yer butt pucker," in referring to something that makes you cringe and recoil. And, "No, seriously, he's a tick," in regards to a lazy, rotund man who is a suck and drain on society. Now really, who tells it better than the SOUTH? Nobody, that's who!

In the end, I'm back home, better for having been with my beautiful southern belle sister and niece, hospitable brother-in-law and oo-ing and ah-ing over The Biltmore estate, fall leaves on country roads and just how close one can come to hurling on an airplane full of farty passengers, without actually filling the bag.

Plus, now I'm even more charming than ever, so WATCH OUT, PEOPLE! I CAN ANNIHILATE YOUR CHARACTER WITHOUT YOU EVEN KNOWING I WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU!

Cuz that's the southern way.

Bless yoe hawts.

IT'S A LAWJ!

2010-10-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

Hey there, muh peeps! Or, should I say, "HEY Y'ALL!"

Okay, so here is today's Ashville, Noeth Cerlawna conversation overheard in the department store.

Darling little grandmama southern belle tugging a snug sweater over her ample bosom~

"Oh, wheel you lookey theyah. Ah managed to squeeeeeze into this heyah sweatah, even though it's only a saz...WHUT IN THE...it's a LAWJ? Heeyah I thowt this whole tam, ah was wearin' a smawal! Oh! That is jus' terribahl. Ah thowt it was a smawl. But it's a LAWJ!"

And her sweet little friend just smiled at both their reflections in the mirror, without saying a word.

HOW DELIGHTFUL! When I passed by the same rack a few minutes later, she was still there, primping and preening, and pulling at that same lawj sweatah. So I blessed her heart, gave her some sugah, and took another bite of my pecan log.

Wish you were hear, darlin's.

But you're not.

So I'm eating for both of us.

BUH BYE

2010-10-13T06:55:00.000-07:00

Today's four letter word:

BELT. That's right, BELT. On account of it sounds like a swearword to my belly when it rolls off my tongue.

So I'm going to South Carolina for the week to visit my beautiful older sister, Nicki and her fam. Nicki used to pee on me after we got out of the tub, when we were little. I'll tell you that story when I get back. But for now, just hold tight, read my latest from Blissfully Domestic and I'll bring you some fresh, tasty peanuts and left over Dramamine.

You're welcome.

CHRISTMAS IN OCTOBER

2010-10-11T20:36:00.001-07:00

I just LOVE me some Berenstain Bears, don't you? And boy, did they know how to grow a pumpkin or what? Some mad cartoon farming skills.

Anyway, JINGLE BELLS, BATMAN SMELLS, Lisa got started on her Christmas shopping today. Not willingly, mind you, so put the seething, "Commercialization of the holiday season has RUINED Jesus' and my life" retort in your files for a later infraction. Nope, it was pure necessity, as while YOU have been lying about, shoving candy corns onto your two front teeth and replenishing your stock of vanishing 'trick or treat' candy~don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about~we missionary moms with elders serving in FREAKING BRAZIL are gathering up in our vintage aprons the entire festive holiday season that takes other, less gifted women, all of November and December to accumulate.

Then we wrap every carefully chosen item individually, and mail it all off in ENORMOUS, SPACIOUS 3 inch deep x 9 inch wide boxes ($50 each)...only to be embezzled by corrupt South American postal workers.

I'm considering one of two things, in order to keep the bast......rombone player's filthy, pilfering paws out of our loot. One~offering up a 24 hour fast. Two~offering up my 10 year old daughter as a human sacrifice.

What?

If the postal gods require it, people, who am I to argue?

Either way, I'm going to need your help. Now go get the duct tape~it's in the junk drawer.

What?

Geez, you guys are so suspicious! I meant for my mouth.

24 hours is a really long time.

SCABS AND SCHOOL

2010-10-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

First things first~I have a scab under my nose that I can't stop picking at. Don't judge me, I just needed it to be your burden, too. Here, go ahead, take it. No, really, take it. Thank you. I feel better now.

So the other night, I read aloud for the whole family, "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". I even held up the book to show them the pictures, on account of I learned that routine from my own experiences teaching school, ages four through eight~my age, not theirs.

Remember playing school? Loved it. I made sure I was always the art teacher, while my older sister, Nicki, was the spelling teacher. For some reason, it always ended with them (two younger siblings) begging and sobbing to go learn spelling, which was really, really dumb, "because art is WAY better than spelling, you stupid kids!" And I shoved them in that direction, where Nicki lovingly scooped them up and they all whispered together while casting furtive glances in my general direction.

WAS IT MY FAULT THEY DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO DRAW AN APPLE THE RIGHT WAY? I don't think so, people. So let's not go shooting the messenger here. Gads.

Anyway, I've changed. I'm more patient now. And to prove it, just re-read that first paragraph about the scab I won't let heal. All because of my tremendous growth in that area.

Lesson learned. (pick, pick, pull...CRAP!)

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?

2010-10-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

So second son was asked to the girl's choice dance coming up next month. And of course, since it's all about me, I had strong feelings about the whole thing, on account of my experience asking a kid to Sadies my Jr. year.

His name was Paul, but I like to call him assface. Don't worry, it's a scriptural reference, minus the face part. Means donkey. Anyway, I gathered up my courage, and a woman in my neighborhood willing to dress up as a witch and deliver a pumpkin. He was to return the pumpkin to me with his answer carved into it.

Now, I had done my homework, friends. I knew he hadn't been asked. And we were friends. We smiled and spoke to each other in the halls and everything. So I kind of knew what I was getting into...

...or did I?

A day went past. No answer. Another day...then a week...still no answer. Just rumblings. Rumblings that sounded something like, "Paul doesn't want to go with Lisa. He begged this other girl to hurry and ask him, so he doesn't have to go with her." Which started even more rumblings within my gut, resulting from a heart that had plunged into a belly full of acid and though not completely digested, left behind the crunchy outer shell, while fully consuming the innards made up of self esteem.

Long story short, he never answered me. Just expected I'd know. And I did. I knew from then on that Paul=assface. A.k.a. donkey. And a bunch of other knowledge regarding his parentage~the son of a something or other.

But a lesson was learned, friends, just like every time we're hit in the face with a manure cream pie. And in this case, it was about what my own children would or would not do, if asked by someone they felt less than excited about (not a commentary on son's feelings.) Because one day, the person who doesn't know how to carve a pumpkin, might be discovered on a social network, like, oh, say Facebook? And possibly, that person might have, gee, I don't know, found themselves beaten into submission with an GINORMOUS ugly stick! Plus, they might even have married the poor, stupid lass who "hurried up and asked them to the dance," only to end up divorced, unemployed and subsisting on a steady diet of government cheese while living in a van down by the river. (I might have embellished the cheese and van, but the rest is hands to the heaven.)

And you never know. Who's to say that this person might not be scanning a blog, or the local newspaper one day, and find a little tale about a girl's choice dance, written from the perspective of the NEWSPAPER COLUMNIST WITH A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE, BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN AND THE COMMON SENSE TO HAVE HER PICTURE PHOTO SHOPPED TO THE HILT, BUT NOT ENOUGH SO SHE CAN'T BE RECOGNIZED. And maybe, just maybe, this imaginary donkey might think twice about his decision of whether or not he could have been bothered to answer a girl with her heart on her sleeve...that fell into her stomach.

And someone who still remembers how long it took to refill that crispy heart shell with a soft, meringue center, might scream at the top of her blog lungs~ "HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW? HUH? HUH?"

That's what I thought.

'NUFF SAID.

DAUGHTER

2010-10-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

My sister can do amazing things with swearing daughters.
Jules is worried you'll think she's bad.
I told her you all swear way worse than she does.
When looking at this picture, she humbly commented,''Hm. I am a pretty girl."
Love this child of mine.

LIES PEOPLE TELL

2010-10-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

We'll call this, "LIES PEOPLE TELL." Let us begin...

Lie~"Allergy/cold/flu medicine leaves you feeling drowsy, therefore, go ahead and expect a decent night sleep."

Truth~Except for you, Lisa. You get to experience the amusing side effect of having your face fall asleep and tingle with pins and needles, leading you to claw and slap at your nose every few minutes. All. Night. Long.

Lie~"A bag of sugar snap peas is good for you. It's roughage. Helps digestion."

Truth~Except for you, over 40 woman. Your bag of peas will pass the evening hours by inflating fat cells with their gassy pea emissions, making balloon animals and tucking them into cracks and crevices throughout your guts. They think it's funny.

Lie~(not an announcement) "Pregnancy is a joy. It lasts but nine months, you're only sick in the morning, and that ends in the first three months. After that, you're livin' the dream."

Truth~Except for you, darling Kate and Erica...and every other woman in the world, except the chick they interviewed for the study. Ever hear of "the spits?" That's when you have an aversion to your own pregnancy spittle, and can't swallow it without puking, thereby leading you to carry around a box of Kleenex everywhere you go, in which to discard your excess saliva, which also results in enormous, chapped monkey lips.

Ever hear of "color sick?" That's when you can't stand to look at certain colors~the more vibrant=the more nauseous. So like, you can't look at/walk past/sit on your jewel tone couch. Or wear your new pink Avon lipstick. Or shove that purple and red shirt in the back of your closet fast enough.

And finally, ever hear of "crouching down on all fours in the gravel of a country road, and vomiting so hard that your nose starts to bleed, and the only thing your husband can find to help you mop up your face is an oil rag from his tool box?"

So yeah, I totally lived that dream. The TEN-NOT NINE-MONTH DREAM, people.

BUT...for a parting gift, you get this really fun baby. And it smells like love. And when you kiss it's neck, a memory sweep is performed, (kissy sniff) leaving you doubting (sniff, love) whether it was really (sniff) as bad (kissy kiss) as you made it sound, (kiss, sniff, kiss) all those symptoms you complained of earlier. (sniff, sniff, kissy squeeze) Let's do it again!

Anyway, those are just the lies that were told today. And since I have a very discerning spirit, I was able to see them for what they were, roll my eyes and write a blog about them, once again, for you. Because I'm a giver.

PIG PLUGS

2010-09-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Did I mention I'm in charge of our ward Roadshow? Well, I am. Just FYI~a Roadshow is a traveling 15 minute play, like old Vaudeville. It's been years since we've had them~and I'm not sure why, other than the fact that it was an incredible TIME, MONEY, EFFORT, CREATIVITY SUCKER. But really fun. Back in the day it required about 100 people behind the scenes, involved the entire 12-18 age group to perform on stage and we spent 4-6 months practicing lines, musical numbers and choreography. Add to it another few months for set design, props and costuming and a budget of gobs and gobs. So truly, a FANTASTIC affair.

My, how times have changed.

I have three weeks, people. THREE. And a hunnerd bucks. A HUNNERD. And they want the entire ward involved (400 people). And we can't practice on the stage, on account of our building doesn't have a stage. And my main lead is on a cruise~besides which, I haven't quite gotten around to asking her to be the main lead. And I'm going to South Carolina for a week, returning just in time for the performance. And it's in three weeks, people. THREE.

And did I mention I'm in charge? Just like I was in charge of teaching my missionary son to change his bed sheets every week. Just like I was in charge of my own diet, nutrition and exercise for the last 42 years. Just like I was in charge of teaching my boys to check for black heads in their ear canals.

Two words~EPIC FAIL.

But I'll think about that tomorrow, Scarlet. Today, I'm filling my gray matter with gibberish. Like this stuff~

I just finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. Freakin' AWESOME! But sadly, I now consider the movie so dumbed down that I have to black out my teeth and say "ain't," to watch it.

I finally decorated my house for fall. Hard. But a batch of homemade caramel helped the medicine go down. Mary Poppins taught me that.

I bought two new pieces of antique furniture, because my every happiness depended upon them. I'm always on the look out for my every happiness. Often, I find it in diamonds, but not this time. Weird.

I Zumba'd this morning, and surprised everybody, by totally ROCKING the new routine, on account of there were some seriously smutty dance moves. And apparently, I was born to dance lewdly at the break of dawn.

I'm going to lunch with some dear friends who have missionary holes in their hearts. We've concluded about the only way to heal heart holes, is to fill them with sweet pork. A little pig plug, if you will.

And I think that's about it. Roadshow worries are suffocating underneath the nonsense. Now hopefully, angels will pick up where I left off, and it will be a brilliant success.

If not, well, let us consider this a missionary/roadshow skin infection, as a result of dirty sheets/three weeks and a hunnerd bucks worth of prep.

That'll teach 'em.

APPLES AND TREES

2010-09-27T14:41:00.001-07:00

Jules~"OH MY GOSH! DID SHE JUST SWEAR?" (referring to the radio announcer)

Me~"Yup, she did."

Jules~"That is BAAAAD."

Me~"She was just announcing the name of the rock group, hon. A long time ago, during the Civil war, the country was split into two groups. The Northerners were called Yankees. So when the Southerners talked about them, they'd call them the Da$% Yankees."

Jules~"Oh. Wow." (thoughtful pause) "So can I say it? Cuz she did. And you did. So can I?"

Me~"Nope. I only said it to tell you a story. And she said it to name the group."

I thought for a second.

Me~"You know what? It's your choice."

Jules~"Really? I can swear if I want? You won't get mad?"

Me~"It's your choice. You can decide for yourself." (smug mother expression, knowing she will make the right decision)

Jules~"DAMN YANKEES!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN! MOM, IF YOU GIVE ME A CHANCE TO SWEAR, I'LL TAKE IT!"

And I bent over and picked up the apple that didn't fall far from the tree.

Lesson learned.

MUD HUTS

2010-09-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

How beautiful is this?

How about this?

And finally, this?

I had a sublime expedition yesterday, sight seeing and appreciating the beautiful Cache Valley in Logan, Utah. Couldn't get over the incredible architecture and craftsmanship displayed in practically every building.

One can't help but compare and contrast these masterpieces with what we consider a home today.

And then I wondered if there isn't a great lesson to be learned. Regarding how much our Heavenly Father loves us, and knowing our divine potential and heritage, He expects a beautiful masterpiece of our time here on Earth.

And how often do we look at the people living magnificent lives, wish for the same, but then turning away, lower our own expectations to walk into our mud hut dwelling and call it "good enough."

And Satan laughs.

Just a thought.

STAGES

2010-09-22T11:13:00.001-07:00

I just went for a quick drug run, as a result of a plea from Jules calling from school with an allergy related something or other whine. Seems lately she needs constant reassurance that her mother will come jetting to her aide at her plaintive beckon call. Which, surprisingly, I'm OK with. It's called a stage, but sometimes dresses up as eternal, so the two are often confused.

Some of you are still choreographing and learning your lines on that platform. "Midnight vomit on the bed"......."Perpetual Hunch Back Baby Hover" and the crowd pleaser, "Necklace ripped off, and cascading beads in church pew." I won a Tony for that one.

While the curtain is up and you're starring, you can't imagine the blessed day will arrive when they're all in school, the house is still and you're lounging in your robe with a glass of ice cold Dr. Pepper, Halloween candy and a laptop in your reclining chair at noon thirty. Not that I'm experiencing such a thing presently, my friends.

No. (shaking head in pensive manner)

I'm deep cleaning my house.

And decorating for fall.

And pruning the frenzied rose bushes.

Plus, I'm canning peaches, pears and tomatoes, making freezer jam and sharpening my lawn mower blades for next year. Homemade bread is in the oven and I've made a mental list of the groceries I'll need when I prepare my family a gourmet meal this evening.

THAT is what I'm doing.

And I'm sorry if it makes you feel guilty and uncomfortable that my level of activity is swelling and cresting over you like a Tsunami on the shore. But it is what it is, people. And it is spectacular!

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. I have bugs in my nose holes and hair, on account of a Ten Commandments locust like swarm I biked through on my way to the school. I thought it was ash from the Herriman fire. But it wasn't. It was bugs. From Hell. And that's a place, people...NOT a swearword.

Just examine the scriptures.

Which are sitting open on my table, on account of me being able to read them in silence, on account of the stage I happen to be in at this time of my life, on account of going through those other stages, and somehow, making it out alive with no poop under my fingernails.

Which gives me more time to quote the word of God to YOU, helping you to become a better person~more righteous~and able to recognize the difference between profanity and where Satan dwelleth.

Long story short~you're welcome.

The end.

SPIDER MONKEY HEADACHE

2010-09-20T09:29:00.000-07:00

Is it gone? Shhhhhh......don't look. You're being too obvious. Keep reading this blog, and pretend we're not talking. Now just act casual while I look over your shoulder. Okay. Alright. I think it's safe. Oh what a relief! HOLY COW, PEOPLE! I thought it would NEVER leave! Nothin' worse than an uninvited and unwelcome guest. Freakin' headache CANNOT take a hint! I thought it would figure it out when I kept throwin' back fistfuls of pills. I mean, isn't that migraine talk for grabbing an elbow and ushering it to the door? I thought so, too. But every time, it just stood there, talking and snapping it's gum, while letting all the cold air out, until the medicine had lost it's window of opportunity. Then I'd turn to go back inside and WHOMP~the little spider monkey would wrap itself around my head again and came back in with me.

Anyway, last night, if you'd been passing by my kitchen window around 3:00 A.M., you might have seen a woman (not me) in drooping undergarments, one eye glued shut with leftover mascara, teetering on a stool and rummaging through her medicine cache, praying there was a miracle cure she'd overlooked.

Turns out there wasn't. But her sympathetic drug lord husband insisted she take just one. extra. pill...to see what might come of it. Which she did. And as she lay there, waiting to drift...off.....in.....to.......A WIDE EYED CAFFEINE BUZZ CAUSED BY THAT ONE. EXTRA. PILL, WHY, SHE HAD GOBS OF TIME TO ENTERTAIN THOUGHTS!

So putting on her fancy party dress, she became a nocturnal hostess, turning up the music loud~the irritating, vacuous, filthy lyric tunes she'd had stuck in her brain all week~and proceeded to perform an interpretive dance for the masses. There was something for everyone...lists to be made, "What I meant to say" dialogue to be hashed out, lousy parenting to feel guilty for. It went on for hours. As the last guest fled by the light of the breaking dawn, she was left with a litter strewn floor and a garbage bag full of empty pizza boxes. But do you know what made it all worth it? THE THOUGHTS, PEOPLE! The fantastic, brilliant, genius ideas that sloshed around in her brain and ended up dripping out of her ears.

Course, since she was laying on her side, they soaked quickly into her feather pillow, meaning most of them couldn't be retrieved. But she grabbed a few before they disappeared. Here they are......

Sheets. Ear wax. And something about potato bugs. If only she could remember the connection.

Anyway, laughing softly to herself, she managed to scribble those down on her bedside tablet, before sleep overtook her and headache finally tripped out the door, drunken and slobbering on Excedrin tablets at 6:45 in the A.M.

Too bad her son came in to pray 7 minutes later. But as of right now...this very second...spider monkey headache has taken up residence at the Zoo. Please, if you see him, throw him some bananas, so as to keep him happy and content and away from my face.

I'll keep working on that whole potato bug idea. It's sure to be dazzling in the light of day.

MIDGET MOUTH

2010-09-16T09:38:00.000-07:00

My beautiful sister's version of me, with "hardly any" photoshopping. "In fact, Lisa, usually I have to do a lot more skin fixing...(wait for it)...on people your age."

This is for my newspaper column, and I think we are all wondering the same thing.....

......with a mouth so petite, how in tarnation does she eat so much?

Hard to say, friends. Hard to say. It may have something to do with compensation~like when a blind person hears better in order to balance out his loss of sight? Well, my nose girth clearly compensates for my midget mouth. In fact, it's highly likely that I actually inhale my food...LITERALLY...and not just figuratively.

That's my theory, anyway.

ONE YEAR AGO TODAY

2010-09-15T07:10:00.000-07:00

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BLUE AND SHOE BEST FRIENDS TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!!! I know, you've heard those words before~"WOLF! WOLF!"~but this time...THIS time, he's really eating the sheep!

Kidding.

I just wanted to see if you'd come running. But seriously, folks~This is an ACTUAL ANNIVERSARY, DESERVING OF HEART POUNDS AND GENEROUS TO A FAULT GIFT GIVING.

Now, I know I said no parties, no Jaguars, no trips to Australia (Oprah), but I lied. And then, I realized that you can't know WHAT is an appropriate gift for such an occasion~(diamonds are always proper)~if you don't know WHAT the anniversary is for. So to clarify, one year ago today, I began Blue and Shoe!!! I KNOW! SO FANTASTIC!

Now talk about PERFECT TIMING, because to celebrate, MY first book has come out! And by MY, I mean Jessie Clark Funk's book. But I think we all know she built the book for me. It's called, "Forget the chicken soup, where's the chocolate?" And it's just barely been shipped to her from the printer, so I'm not sure when it will be out on shelves for the HUDDLED MASSES YEARNING TO READ IT. But far as I know, Princess Lisa has written four delightful contributions and will likely be the break out star of the publication.

Anyway, isn't it SUBLIME?

And theeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnn...EVEN MORE MAGNIFICENT NEWS! Guess who is the new humor columnist for The Syracuse Islander newspaper?! Huh? Huh? GO AHEAD! GUESS! AND THAT RIGHT THERE WAS TOTALLY RHETORICAL, CUZ I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHO WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! MEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEME!!! But my head is down and I'm blushing like Flower, the skunk, on account of my humility and such.

Now don't let's be haters, people. Shun that ugly green creeping into the tips of your ears and nose~nobody looks good in 'shade of peas.' Do not fret. I shall never forget my humble beginnings, and will PROVE this to you all, by giving the universal sign of love pouring out of me and filling you to the brim.............the pinky lift acknowledgment.

That's right. The pinky lift.

While I'm talking on the cell phone, and I see you on the street/on my blog/in Zumba class, I shall lift my eyebrows, my chin and my pinky~IN UNISON~so as to overwhelm you with recognition.

You're welcome.

Oh, one last thing. Beautiful Jackie from House of Sarager, is coming into town and we wanted to get together for a MAD CAP, WILD AS A MARCH/CHIN HARE bloggers dinner, and YOU are invited! To go along with the pinky lift. We're thinking next week, Thursday eve, the 23rd, at Biaggis at The Gateway. Around six-ish? Let me know if you can come and I'll bring the Chiclets. Sorry, I ate the pie. It was getting all slobbery.

So to end this beautiful anniversary blog...I LOVE YOU ALL, MY PINKY IS LIFTED AND FEEL FREE TO SLIP THE TRIBUTES INTO THE COMMENT SECTION...

...in case you can't make it to Tiffany's.