NEWSPAPER DRESSES

I'm eating a stale doughnut, because I didn't quite reach my puke level (it was hovering about mid-neck) with the tacos, burritos and mexi-fries that I picked up for dinner. (We obviously have very expensive taste in our home.) DOD~day old doughnut~was a little dry, but that was OK, since I washed it down with caramels. (Not only expensive taste, but a commitment to a healthy lifestyle.)

I know~I don't know how I do it all, either. I guess I'm kind of fantastic. (humble shoulder shrug)

I was required to eat DOD because it was the only blueberry one in the box, and I'm a doughnut hoarder...and miserly...and the exact opposite of a Hallmark Mom~

~that mother is the one who wears newspaper dresses and fabricates her own shoes out of cotton balls and duct tape~all so she can buy little Timmy his new school sweater. And then they make 'After School Specials' (think Lifetime movies but about 25 years ago~soooo before your time) about her and you watch and feel guilty for not loving your own family enough to deprive yourself as much as she does, and a baby tear dribbles down your cheek while you see her give up her entire life and every dream she's ever dreamed for the love of her unappreciative children/cheating husband and then she dies a horrible, cancerous death or is hit by the bus that was about to slam into little Timmy, but she pushes him out of the way in her newspaper dress just in time to save his life...and lose hers.

You know...that Hallmark Mom.

And to state the obvious, I'm not her~although I do love me a fancy newspaper dress.

But that's a good thing~that I'm not her~ because it builds character for a child (incredibly lazy and selfish teenage son who calls from the front yard on his cell phone for me to drive him a block away~HOLY COW...but I'm not going to be specific, here) to have to mow lawns to pay for his own (freakin' ridiculously expensive) school sweater.

And it's a good thing, because 41 year old moms want (need) PRETTY, EXPENSIVE, HIGH HEELED shoes (not cotton balls and duct tape) almost as much as they want (need) rabbit poop ice and the sound of a Dr. Pepper being cracked open at 8:30 in the AM.

And it's a good thing, because day old blueberry doughnuts and mexi-fries are necessary for certain moms to stand having man-sick husbands *(see Amanda's comment) hovering like coughing/sweating/tuna eating helicopters all day long, while they try to go about their business. (Love you, puddin' pie. Hope you're feeling better.)

Plus, Hallmark Mom is dead. She was hit by a bus.

And I am ALIVE AND WELL...and going shoe shopping as soon as I swig down another caramel.

(gulp, burp, and selfish mom smile)

SOOOO SICK

Soooooo...guess who is home today sick? Whoops. I mean DYING?! (moan, cough, loud heavy sigh between the bedroom and family room as he leaves a trail of open tuna fish cans and blaring televisions behind him. And who doesn't love a TV/tuna house? Hmmm?)

Here's a hint. He's the same person who, on Christmas Eve several years ago, and with a house full of tiny tots with a FERVENT belief in the magic of St. Nick, when sent by his harried and hurried wife to the store a half hour before closing time for AAAALLLLLLLL of the Santa Clause stocking stuffers~and by all, I mean every single item to fill the Christmas stockings, as there was not a single, solitary thing that had been purchased for said stockings~came back home EMPTY HANDED because...prepare to furrow your brows in concern...he had cramps.

That's right.

Cramps.

But not just any cramps.

Special cramps.

The kind of special cramps that made him leave his full cart in the middle of the aisle as he burst out of the store and flew home, throwing himself writhing and moaning on the bed in LOUD, OBNOXIOUS, "I'M DYING, LIS. SERIOUSLY, THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH PAIN I'M IN. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW BAD THIS IS, LISA. SOMETHING IS REALLY, REALLY WRONG. I MEAN IT. I THINK I MIGHT NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL~(Moan, Writhe, Grunt, Groan)" pain~as his long-suffering wife continued the wrapping and baking and perfection making that is called Christmas.

The kind of special cramps that sent this wife on a journey to her happy place, so that she didn't charge him like a wild, snorting bull, slapping and slugging and knee to the groin-ing...which would probably have culminated in first degree homicide charges...something she would have been more than happy to perform, if it wouldn't have put such a damper on the evenings festivities...almost as bad as empty stockings on Christmas morn.

The kind of special cramps that, had he just listened to his wife when she, with furious fists on hips, flames shooting out of eye sockets and jaw clenched with grinding teeth~hissed~ "You just need to go POOH, dear." (The dear part wasn't very sincere~or tender sounding) If he'd just listened to her...suggestion...these special cramps might have passed at least a half hour sooner.

And pass they did, just exactly as his dear wife suggested.

About five minutes after the store closed.

So have you figured out who it is that is sick (dying)...right here...with me...all day long? (He just came into the room in his underwear and sat down to cough and sniff and whimper. Endearing, bless his heart.)

If you don't know by now, you're not as bright as I once thought you to be.

Bless your heart.

LETTING MY LIGHT SHINE

I made homemade caramels today...again. Now do you see? Do you see how worried you should be when you leave me alone for a few hours with a pantry containing packages of fat and sugar? Seriously, folks, I cannot be trusted. I've mentioned this before, but now it's really critical, because accidentally, I just figured out how to make them (caramels) without the butter separating from the rest of the ingredients. And you know, when you do something well, you're supposed to let your light shine, people~it even says so in the scriptures. LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE! So I HAVE to.

Because I'm a Christian.

So, hey, if I'm just trying to be a light on a hill and not hide it under a bushel, I'm simply following the teachings of Jesus, right? It's a talent, and we're supposed to be good stewards over these talents, so that we can get even more~and you guys know I'm kind of a hoarder and greedy, which means I want "ADDITIONAL" of everything...including talents. And probably Heavenly Father will bless me for being so righteous and making caramels~or sharing my talents as we've come to realize~by somehow altering the chemical makeup of the ingredients and rearranging it to have a "negative calorie" effect.

You know, the way Diet Coke works when it's eaten with a candy bar.

Science.

And everyone knows He's the best scientist in the Universe, and the elements obey Him, which seems to be working in my favor with this whole caramel thing.

So...just to be clear...that must mean that I will most likely get thinner because I'm following Jesus!

DO YOU SEE THE GLORY OF OUR HEAVENLY FATHER'S PLAN, PEOPLE? I'm telling you, it's BRILLIANT!

Just like me, as I continue to let my light shine in making (and eating) caramels, because I want to be just like Him.

And I want to be thin.

And apparently, this is the only way it can be done.

1985

My son went to visit his university of choice this week, which just so happened to be MY old university of choice, which of course, meant that HE (6'2, blond haired, blue eyed, buff and unfettered chick magnet) would surely want ME (clingy, saggy abdomined, 41 year old mother) with HIM (refer to previous description) as his escort. Goes without saying, right? Right? I know.

Which is why I offered to be his campus companion~and...silly boy...he tried to refuse~(thoughtful little goose-turd...so quick on his feet)~But I wouldn't hear of him going alone. (I'm thoughtful like that, too~do NOT underestimate my thoughtfulness.)

Ash~(with wild, desperate eyes)~"OH, NO! NO, NO NO, A THOUSAND TIMES NO, MOM! REALLY! Aaaaggghhh! (he reached toward my neck with both his hands~not sure why. Weird.) I would just HATE (for you to come) to put you out like that! You stay here...at home (where you belong) where you're not with me...on campus..."

Me~(with a soft, motherly smile) "Oh, son. Dear, dear son. It's no trouble. (you can't stop me) No trouble at all. (seriously, I'm going) I want to experience this with you. You know, to walk hand in hand~arm in arm~with their son as they explore this new world for the first time~it's what mothers live for. (Vicarious youth)

And so, we set out to (return to my glory days) USU, walking arm in arm, (I held on really tight, even ripped his sleeve a little bit) while I pointed out things I knew he'd (never) be interested in.

He loved it. I could tell. Really good times.

And don't worry~I did take extra precautions to fit in, so as not to humiliate the boy beyond what he could bear. First, I held a candle in front of me throughout the day~in order to cast a soft, ethereal light on my features. Nobody noticed the candle, just my "soft focus" face. My face was baby rump smooth. (I learned that magic trick from Hollywood~Hey, if they can turn a horse's fanny into a baby's rump, there must be some magic to it.)

Also, I bought dark brown nail polish and painted my nubs. And we all know that dark brown nubs on the end of wrinkly, crinkly age spotted hands practically SCREAMS youthful essence.

Soooooo, to reiterate...Lisa+brown nail nubs+soft focus candlelight+19 year old eye candy on her arm while she walks around her college campus from 23 years ago = a return to PYT (Pretty Young Thing, for all you Michael Jackson fans~and by the way, I just saw his movie and it WAS FREAKIN' AWESOME and I did the Cabbage Patch and The Snake in my seat, which ALSO made me look exactly like I did the first time I learned and performed those dances at high school stomps...and heard his songs...so even MORE youngness glowed all around me.)

And I sit and hum and move my bum...to a crowd pleasing favorite...

She's still preoccupied...with 19..19...1985.

Wonder who "she" is and why "she" hasn't moved on.

It's almost 2010.

Geez.

THOUGHT PAPARAZZI

So I'm lying in bed, it's 4:13 in the morning and I stir~not much, just a wee bit~but enough to alert the stupid-'A' thought paparazzi. They're like celebrity seeking paparazzi, but they're only after my peace and tranquility...plus they're teeny tiny and dwell in my brain...and smell like farts. I don't know how I know that...I just do.

Those worry screamers stay up all night, most every night, wired on 44oz Red Bull and an IV mainlining corn syrup, just sitting on the sidewalk of my brain, waiting...until they sense consciousness. And then my head explodes with flashing lights and shrieking anxieties as they run chasing me down the street of my mind. I trip and skid across the concrete gray matter, and they're on top of me~yelling and freaking me out~

"Hey! Hey! You haven't been to the dentist in almost a year!" (cameras click and lights flash...)

"Lisa! Your daughter has been off track for nearly a month and she hasn't picked up a book ONCE! Her teacher is going to be so mad at you!" (I hold up a hand to stave off the glaring lights...)

"Yeah, and your daughter is going to be DUMB!" (I look down, embarrassed...)

"Yeah. Plus, she'll have teeth rotting out of her head, because you didn't take HER...or HER BROTHERS to the dentist, either!" (I squint against the flashing and start to tremble...)

"Have you heard your cat in a while? She probably snuck out last night and got in another fight. Bet she's hacking up fur-balls and bleeding in a back alley where the other bully cats left her for dead!" (I nod and look at my shredded hands...)

"Have you forgotten anything important lately? Like some REALLY, REALLY CRUCIAL promise to someone and THEN YOU FORGOT ABOUT IT?! Think! Think long and hard...it's probable, isn't it?" (I struggle to stand, noticing bloody, skinned knees and a tooth that was knocked out in the melee...)

I pick up the tooth and shove it back in place. They continue snapping pictures and screaming worries, making sure they catch me at my most vulnerable.

There. That ought to do it.

They check their cameras, make sure they got the "money" shot and pack things up for the night. Now they'll go home, regroup and come back later, ready to camp out on the brain sidewalk once again. Red Bulls and corn syrup at the ready.

And I'll lay awake for another hour or two, stewing. Simmering. Like a crock pot.

Crap. I haven't thought of anything for supper. My forehead creases. My hands wring and another hour passes.

Changed my mind. I don't want to be famous anymore.

PEACE

Had a dear friend, when I mentioned I was going to blog about something, snark that "it's only considered a blog if you have an audience." ALSO that I can't count myself as a hit on my own website. Then he hissed, swiped a claw at the air and turned away to continue grooming himself.

To which I now respond, "Isn't Halloween over? Black cats and a butcher knife to the back are usually just for horror movies, and I can't bring myself to watch those after October 31st."

And so, let us move on...TO THANKSGIVING!!!

I love this season~this harvest time of year. I love red maple leaves against October blue skies. Love glittery copper wreaths on front doors. Love pumpkin spice and gingerbread and homemade cinnamon-nutmeg whipped cream on EVERYTHING~including another giant heap of whipped cream~(let us not scrimp at this time of year, friends. It's all about the bounty. Aaaallll about the bounty.)

And some of what I love is actually more of an absence of what I hate. Like I hate freaky grim reaper clad teens trick-or-treating at my door~tatted and pierced and pretending the holiday belongs to them.

"Aw. Soooooooo sorry, fledgling gangstas." (I throw out a gang sign and grab my crotch, so they know I'm 'down widdat.')

"We're out of shasizzle candy." (Shoulder shrug, chest pound with a fist and insincere frown, followed by a door slam to their thug faces.) "LOCK ALL THE DOORS AND WINDOWS, QUICK!"

I also hate ENORMOUS tarantula spiders and their furry babies cascading from fake webs everywhere. Cuz you know dang well, people, that there are some real arachnids laughing their hairy spider fannies off while dangling a centimeter in front of your eyeballs, while we coo, "Oh, lookey at the darling fake spiders, honey. Sooooooo festive." (hysterical spider laughter in spidey pitch~which is too high for us to hear)

Anyway, the moment the clock hits midnight and we turn the calendar forward a month, all those ugly things disappear with the ghoulish mist and I am again at peace~Impending gluttony and an excuse for every last calorie peace. Aaaahhh.

So let us all raise our fists in the spirit of the Pilgrim and the Indian~~~knuckle bumps to one and all! Hip hip hooray!~

I can almost see them wiping a tear as they look down from the Heavens.

(Might be weeping from embarrassment rather than pride.)

D.I.S.A.S.T.E.R.

Let's call this post; THINGS THAT SPELL DISASTER...

Homemade caramels and divinity, variety box of king size candy bars, left over Halloween candy, (OK, actually not technically left over, but more of, oh, let's say borrowed from a nine year old in a BOY football costume, which made her mother mad, so she deserved to lose a few treats) Lays potato chips, Trix cereal, fridge full of cold Dr. Pepper, Pumpkin spice egg-nog and Lisa. (Even my garbage disposal would have regurgitated.)

Migraine headaches and Fast Sunday. (Angry eyes and ibuprofin on an empty stomach~but it certainly had no connection to the first paragraph.)

Leisure time and teenage boys. (Giant cardboard mustache on giant storefront woman's face, anyone? In fact, let's make sure it gets posted on FACEBOOK for an entire community to witness. Oh, my sides are aching from the joyous laughter.)

A captive audience (stay-at-home-mother) and nine year old daughter. (Imagine me gnawing my foot off to get out of the trap.)

Ivory fur cats out all night without front claws. (Think pasty white business man~wearing a Rolex~lost and asking for directions in a "chilling" neighborhood. I was going to say ghetto, but that's probably not PC, and I live for PC.)

Boxes and boxes of decorations to be put away and exchanged for even more boxes and boxes of decorations and no pressure on the homemaker in charge to do it within a certain time frame. Like, no shower hosting, no seasonal party, no impending visitors, NOTHING, PEOPLE. (Basically, she (I) can't be trusted to be a self-motivator and really, really needs someone to threaten an unannounced visit to give her (me) an adrenaline rush, which will actually only send her (me) fleeing wild-eyed into the garage to deep clean, just in case the visitors want a tour of where we park the cars, rather than tend to the pressing task of said BOXES AND BOXES and rotting pumpkin corpses. Like I (she) said, she (I) can't be trusted.)

Anyway, all of these disasters occurred over the last few days here in this household.

I'm just wandering around in a stupor, holding my cone wearing cat as she tries to lick and re-infect her open wounds.

I scratch her ears for her every few minutes and continue wandering. If you see me in my nightgown and flying-nun hair mid-way down the street, you'll know I've wandered too far.

Please, just turn me around and head me back in the direction of home.