MARY

Back to that "aimless wandering" that I'm so fond of. How is it that I find myself in front of the library computer, when I was heading for the kitchen to make rolls?

So let us stroll down my morning path...together...(it's lined with roses and stray kittens to smell and pet)...and you figure out for yourself whether or not I might need medication (not just caffeine~although I'm willing to up my dosage there, if you think it will help, and it probably will, so hold on while I go crack open another one, just so you don't have to remind me later. I wouldn't want to have to be compelled in all things, you know~cuz that makes for a slothful and unwise servant.)

Started in bed, flung myself out to pray with the fam and get Jules ready for the day, went into the great room to read my scriptures (intentions, people~very important~maybe even more so than actions, because remember? The road to Heaven is paved with them...and gold...so if you want to be rich, and walk on gold bricks, intend, intend, intend.) but then remembered the paint guy will be coming to cordon off the fireplace. Picked up the junk and clutter around the area, filling my arms with miscellaneous matter and then looked around for a place to set it down. Notice I did not say, put it away.

Draw your own conclusions.

Went back into kitchen to make breakfast, fed the girl, did her hair, started on the morning paper, sent the girl out the door, went back to bed...just for a moment...when the doorbell peeled and some fool was out there, expecting that the "lady of the house" would be ready or willing to accept callers. A hush fell over the home, not a creature was stirring till the caller went away. Silly caller. Calls are for noon.

However, it did give me a surge of adrenaline~and guilt~(now there is some scary synergy) Which sent me scrambling into the shower. Because everyone knows that if you're not actually accomplishing something, you should at least pretend you are...facade, people, and intentions...remember my vacuum in the middle of the room lesson? I hope I wasn't casting pearls before swine. (school teacher eyebrow raise)

So let's see~showered, groomed, dressed and then went to the door...so as to be able to say that YES, I DID answer the door. Must have JUST missed him. (by 30 minutes. Don't ask, don't tell.)

Tied a bow on the wreath left on my doorstep, picked up a screwdriver left on the floor, with my toes, people. Kind of a special talent I have that not a lot of people know about. Threw away piles of cardboard boxes. Went into the kitchen, read another newspaper article, lit the pumpkin spice candle, (remember, a candle can be mistakenly identified as "Are you kidding me?! She is the most amazing homemaker, for she even bakes pumpkins and spices~together~to fill her home with love.)

Decided to drink some caffeine...and by "decided," I mean it in the same context as when people bear their testimony about how "proud they are that little Mary decided to be baptized." Yeah. Not a decision made my Mary...just like going to school is not a decision that should be made by Mary. And apparently, someone already decided for me that I'd be happy as long as I had a caffeine over rabbit poop ice.

It's for my own good.

Hence, who am I to argue with a higher intelligence?

Where was I? Drank my soda, looked at the paper again, went to the fridge, ate a candy bar, went to the pantry, noticed the bag of flour, thought about making rolls and maybe freezing them for Thanksgiving, remembered my apron was in the library, went to get it but spotted a sticker on the new red stool that was half peeled and needed to be finished. Did that. Forgot why I was in the library. Saw the computer. Decided to blog...while sitting on the apron, that is in the chair, that is in front of the computer, that will keep the rolls from being made.

And THERE YOU HAVE IT, FOLKS! PROOF POSITIVE! Just as the nature of this blog was rambling and unfocused, so too is my life, it seems.

And who is to blame?

Stupid Mary, that's who.

THE FEAST

So I'm feeling a little bit unprepared lately (think "haven't been to class all term, can't open your locker, have no underwear on and keep doing cartwheels down the corridors, it's the final exam, your teeth keep falling out, you're back at your old place of employment, you give birth but didn't realize you were pregnant and then forget to feed the baby for weeks, you're giving the lesson in church but can't...quite...make...it...there..." kind of unprepared)~as Thanksgiving is next week...and I'm hosting...and I may have spent a great deal of time lately perfecting the "unfocused wander."

This has given my thought paparazzi quite a lot to assault me with, but I do my best to silence them with sleeping pills. However, sometimes a really aggressive scream will make it through the fog and I'll have to mull and fret.

So after extensive editing, here is my list of "must do's" that I've come up with and remember, I have a full six days left to do it in...seven, if you count the morning of, so I need your input as to on a scale of 1-10, where would my time be best spent?

Of course, all of these things are pressing and have seriously...and I'm not even kidding...been in my mind as to needing or shoulding be done~before Thanksgiving.

Let us begin...

1. Deep clean the garage.

2. Deep clean the entire house.

3. Paint the house~interior and exterior.

4. Create a Thanksgiving play list of favorite holiday tunes.

5. Redecorate the basement.

6. Have family pictures done and portraits hung on walls.

7. Have carpets cleaned.

8. Resurface all wood floors.

9. Replace kitchen formica with marble.

10. Sew matching silk shantung dresses for daughter and me.

11. Have new custom mantle created, installed and painted.

12. Buy all Christmas presents.

13. Create "theme" tables, with coordinating runners, china and silverware.

14. Sew matching Stewart plaid vests and ties for hubbie and sons.

15. Blog about my list of to-do's.

16. Lose 18 pounds.

(That last one was me takin' it down a notch as I originally said 20, but then I thought, you know, that might send me over the edge, so I'll drop it to 18~just keepin' it real.)

Anyway, I figure after finishing up this list of essentials, I can concentrate on the periphery...like the feasting.

Which brings me to the next question~on a scale of one to ten, where does the Thanksgiving MEAL actually fall? Is it really all that?

Because I'm thinking, the possibility of someone rummaging through my nightstand (therefore it had better be so FREAKIN' organized as to make Martha Stewart peuce green) just might set the holiday spread on the back burner~at least until a couple hours before the guests arrive...(Can you nuke a turkey? How about peas, potatoes, rolls, gravy, yams, pumpkin pie and the relish tray?)

Alright. Okay. I think I'm on top of this.

That's not sweat.

It's just really, really EXTRA warm in here...isn't it?

Hell's Bell's, people.

WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP TO "ROAST?"

DERMIS DROUGHT

So the amount of moisture in my body is depleting rapidly of late~it's a drought, folks. A Winter Skin drought. And I seem to be peeling like a ripe Christmas Clementine.

My lips are parched and shriveled (someone needs to invent lip caulk), my fingers are cracked and bleeding, even my nose is...well, let's just say that, besides the occasional bloody nose, there is no other "running" going on. In fact, in someone were to grab me by my honker, chances are pretty good that there would be some serious "shard" damage done.

But here's the captivating thing...my stretch marks...YES, I said stretch marks, all have their very own, individual peels! Not even kidding. They have inherited the hoarding gene, too, it seems. I'm kind of proud.

I would dare say the stretch mark situation is a gift from above~for being so delightful, probably~because Heavenly Father knows how much I love a good skin shucking~(not corn though, and that's important, because corn cobs have earwigs. Ew.)

Anyway, one of my most favorite memories is when Sterling went to the tanning clinic right before we were married. He was the poster child for The Farmer's Tan at the time, and just knew his beautiful bride (that would be me) would want her man sun-kissed and glowing for that all important first...presentation. (He didn't know that would be the furthest thing from my mind. At the first unveiling, I was fully engulfed with thoughts of self preservation~but that's another blog.)

To continue, Sterling has a rather, oh, shall we say~impatient nature~sometimes...and this was one of those sometimes that came back to burn him in the fanny...literally. (And just so you know, when I write literally, I don't mean the world's uneducated 'literally' that actually means 'figuratively,' as in "I will slap you into tomorrow~literally!" Yeah, no. Far as I know, time travel slapping isn't possible yet, so that would be a perfect example of 'figurative'~but anyway~) Back to literal speak. He decided that he was the one rare, sturdy individual who could handle a full 25 minutes on his first tanning clinic visit...and apparently there was no adult supervision there to save him from himself...so he did just that.

TWENTY FIVE FULL MINUTES, FOLKS.

WITH BRAND NEW BULBS.

The stripes would have made a barber shop pole proud.

So the weeks preceding our marriage were fun and fancy free~and filled with him laying down in the middle of the family room floor, baring his back and partial bum (no pre-nuptial nudity, folks, just a smidgen of crack) so that I could peel beautiful, long, satisfying strips of flesh, to my hearts content. An early wedding present from my impending groom. So thoughtful~it made me love him even more. (head tilt and heart pat)

Back to my stretch marks~and who doesn't want to hear more about them? Too bad. So I was jumping into the shower yesterday, scaling and scratching, when I happened to glance down at my protruding abdomen (yeah, like I could miss it.) Every single rip in my tissue had an independent dead skin border! Like they'd all been individually packaged, in their very own wrap, and now the paper was pulling away, ready for removal~like a gift!

As a result, I did what any self-aware woman would do...let's just say that chimps and all manner of monkey have nothing on me when it comes to grooming. I stood there for about a half hour~fully engrossed in picking and preening~my gut shoved out to almost full term proportion (another maternity reference...but NOT foreshadowing) and my chin resting on my chest. A beautiful sight, to be sure.

Sorry you all missed it.

In conclusion, I need a new vacuum, as I've clogged the filter several times trying to suck up the piles of dead dermis~a lovely term~and one that you're welcome to use whenever you see fit.

You're welcome. (another head tilt and heart pat)

BABY BLOOMERS

Well, I finally did it. I finally got thin~in fact, wasting away, people!

"How did she do it?" the crowds demand.

It's a wonderful thing, friends. Wonderful, I tell you. And anyone can do it. Even YOU!

I will probably write a book about it and make millions, but since I love my blog best friends forever~BBFF~I will share the secret and you won't even have to buy my new bestselling book when it comes out. And since it'll have to be printed over and over again, because of its and MY popularity, and will be on the New York Times best-sellers list, you won't even be able to get yourself a copy anyway.

I'll probably be on Oprah, too, so I'll already be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, because as soon as Oprah hosts me, it's the highest peeks, you know. So I can spare the money I'd make off of you, because the world will be my oyster. (wet slurping sound)

Anyway, the secret. Here it is. Shhhhhhhhh....buy bigger underwear.

I know. Brilliant! Or, if you don't want to go all the way, you can always go back to your maternity underwear, as I did.

See, I was rummaging through some drawers that haven't been rummaged for years (ten, in fact), when what to my wondering eyes should appear? But MATERNITY UNDER-GARMENTS!

Oh, they looked so happy to see me! But lonely, you know, because they'd been my best friend for months and months~four different times, in fact. And then, they were just tossed aside, as if they were a worn out pair of undies...which they were. But the point is, it wasn't very fair of me to discard them into a heap. And that was a faux pas that needed to be un-fauxed .

So I washed them and folded them and showered and donned them. And oh my holy cow~TOTALLY THIN NOW!

You have no idea! They drape and droop across my waif-like frame~my mini, bitty, elf-like bod, and they sag and bag beautifully and I just look teeny in them. No tugging, no yanking, no "goats," up a fleshy fanny (better known as wedgies, but those are shoes to me, because I'm old~just like thongs are flip-flops, not disgusting "goat-giving-fanny-floss"~which we all know is the truth, so don't go lying about 'no panty-lines.' Sha! Whatever. (eyeroll) )

All that is left is loose fitting unmentionables that assure you and everyone around you that you've finally conquered your snarling sugar and lard filled demons. (SHUT UP, YOU HISSING FIENDS!)

Oh, I just feel so joyous and free, you have no idea! But if you did, you yourself would jump on the maternity skivvies band-wagon/train.

ALL ABOARD...(oh my gosh, you're wasting away in front of me...bless those baby bloomers!)

COMPASSION

So I nearly drop-kicked hubbie through the door and into his truck this morning...cuz he told me last night that he was "determined to go to work tomorrow." And I mumbled under my breath, that I was determined that he would go to work tomorrow. And this is tomorrow. So he's at work. Where he should be. Kind of reverse chauvinism...like when pig-men say they're "keepin' their womenfolk barefoot-n-pregnant and in the home~WHERE THEY BELONG!" the pig-ladies say they're "keepin' their menfolk shoe-shod and earnin' money~WHERE THEY BELONG!" And it's true~no apologies for my backwoods mentality. It's the way the Good Lord wants it and who am I to argue with the Good Lord?

Anyway, I had like, oh, an hour and 45 minutes aaaaaalllll to myself...I KNOW! Come to mama!

So many possibilities, so little time! I got anxious just trying to decide how to spend it~wasted several precious seconds~I could nap, or read, or watch some trashy Lifetime drama...which I don't even know why that came to mind, since it's totally NOT something I would do (prove it)...maybe YOU would, and who would I be to judge? I mean, you are who you are, you know? But for me, and I'm not trying to sound superior because actions speak louder than words and I sicken myself with my own humility sometimes~like right now I want to gag writing this...must be the humility~ but for me, that just seems like a journey to the dark side~scary.

And remember, it's all about the light on the hill?~which comes back to making/eating caramels. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Where was I? Oh, some trashy TV show. I would never waste my time on that. ( She killed him, and he totally deserved it. He wouldn't go to work and he left open tuna fish cans all over the house.)

ANYWAY...the credits were just rolling, when the phone rang. It was Jules. She said she was sick.

DAMMITALLTOHELL. (she said tenderly)

I told her she'd need to demonstrate her condition...that I wasn't willing to take her at her word. It took a little convincing on her part..some coughing and talk of puking and a little bit of sobbing~but she eventually won me over. The office staff glared at me when I arrived to pick her up. But I explained...

"MAN-SICK," I said. Then I held up my fingers to show them how many days it had been going on. Unspoken communication. Sympathy eyes all around. They went back to their work without another eyebrow raised. There but for the grace of God go they. 'Nuff said.

Hence, here I am again, with another person needing compassion, love and charity. And am I willing to give it? Well, here's the fascinating thing.......Yes!

I know. Weird. But apparently it has something to do with merit, and I find kindness coursing through my veins for my daughter. I want to feed her and tuck her in with snuggy blankies, and I check her forehead gently for any sign of fever. And probably, should she leave a tuna fish can open in the middle of the floor, I would bend over and pick it up and toss it in the garbage without a single thought of flipping her the bird or making ugly, mocking faces...behind her back, of course...(no witnesses~that's very important, folks.)

Therefore, this can only mean one thing...Sterling didn't receive compassion because he didn't deserve compassion. Who knew? And I don't know how I intuitively knew it, but I did.

Must be a "spirichal" gift~(a reward for caramel making.)

TROLL HUT

When I was a child, I was taught a song in church that went like this..."Saturday is a special day...it's the day we get ready for Sunday..." and then it goes on to paint a beautiful, heartwarming vision of parent and child, working hand in hand, cheek to cheek, smile to smile, together...as one heart, one mind, one spirit. Inspiring.

But just as a flat abdomen on a 19 year old, too beautiful to endure. And like so many fairy tales, the wicked witch will come cackling across the page~in disguise, of course~but we all know it's Malificent deep down. In this story, (horror) she takes on the form of Saturday Mother. (Never to be confused with Hallmark Mom. Ever.)

Saturday Mother dresses down. She wears an oversized T-shirt, a sloppy pony-tail and angry eyes. Saturday Mother also should be left alone, as nothing good can come from speaking to Saturday Mother. The sooner you learn this, the less hostile the home environment and the more likely your chances of survival.

One character flaw of Saturday Mother is that she tends to assume that her children have the same interpretation of the English language as she does. What she doesn't understand is that the ipods hanging out of their ear canals actually act as "meaning-filters." Therefore, when she gives an assignment, it is immediately lost in translation and it turns into something like this...

"Go dust" = "go check out that song on i-tunes and download it."

"Make sure you scrub out the inside of the toilet bowl" = "go add to the pile of rancid dishes on your bathroom counter."

And "Clear off the kitchen table" = "Make sure to stack a bunch of critical/time sensitive documents and shove them~intermixed with scratch paper~into the far recesses of drawers (sock) that we'll never check when searching for them.

This does NOT help to calm Saturday Mother. In fact, the only thing proven to bring peace into the home is the completion of assigned jobs to her satisfaction (infrequent and nearly unattainable) ...and premium chocolate (readily available in mass quantity at your local grocery store.) One seems easier to provide, so that tends to be what melts the wicked witch.

So I'm sitting here sucking on candy, trying to kill off Saturday Mother right along with the chocolate in my mouth. "I'm melting...I'm melting..."

Of course, truth be told, sometimes Saturday Mother is a little bit reticent to be anxiously engaged, too. She might choose to become distracted with things like, oh, I don't know, blogging? And/or maybe a Sudoku puzzle or two...or eight...whatever. (It's brain exercise, and you know how dedicated she is to her healthy lifestyle.) And she has been known to kind of wander..aimlessly...and unproductively...on occasion.

However~and this is a beautiful discovery~as long as she parks the vacuum in the middle of the family room, it's aaaaallllll good. This conveys intent, folks.

This gives practical application to the inspirational quote, "Hope springs eternal!"

But even more significant, if someone drops by unexpectedly, it's OK if the house is a polluted, mucky troll hut! Because it's obviously on the mend, as the vacuum is in the middle of the room, people...and will undoubtedly be used that very day~it's almost a guarantee that things will get better.

Course, faith without works is dead.

Stupid works.

ILL REPUTE

Heli-hover-husband was worried about and wanted me to make sure that nobody in my blog audience thought that he was "straying." Because as I described Hallmark Mom's life, I referred to her "unappreciative children/cheating husband."

And since it goes without saying that children~especially mine~and little Timmy~are the center of their own Universe and we are but mere peasants created to serve them, he thought you might assume that I was writing in code and actually referring to my own life...and suggesting that my puddin' pie was of ill repute.

Which he most assuredly is NOT.

His repute is VERY healthy, people.

No swine flu for a pig husband here, folks.

Just a tuna-eatin' sweat pot, who also happens to still be sick. (normal flu, though~no oinkin')

What gave it away?

Well, let's see. Could it have been his turkey butt hair that he "couldn't find the strength" to comb down before going out into public? Now that is some SERIOUS eye candy. Yeah, baby!

Was it his Zombie-like slog and stomp as he trudged (I glided) through the store...for a full five minutes...until he had to collapse in a perspiring heap into the massaging chair?

Or maybe it was the high pitched buzz that Sterling mistook for a bold, aggressive...if invisible...mosquito, therefore swiping violently at the empty air around his own head and ears, until he finally figured out it was his own wheezing? (at least he found the humor in that...tender mercy)

Any of these might have helped you to figure out his health...which is indeed~continuing to be annoyingly ill.

But once again, I announce to one and all...DEFINITELY NOT his repute. :)