PIGGY

Soooo...apparently, according to my lacking-a-mouth-filter-daughter, I bear a striking resemblance to "Miss Piggy" as she plays the part of Bob Cratchet's wife in The Muppet's Christmas Carol. And I don't know why YOU think it's not seriously complimentary~(though even the girl knew it wasn't "good," as she qualified her comment by saying, "I know that's not good...but I think it's true.")~because it totally THRILLS ME! My aspirations have finally paid off.

And you know, if the bar has been set right there at the level of "pig," then really, REALLY, there's nothing else to do but join the oink ranks and continue with my present level of consumption. So MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME...as I shove my snout full of holiday joy. Don't you wish your daughter had flattered you so? Dream on, friends.

I'll admit, though, it's fun to find out the perceptions of our children about their family~unless there's a porker reference~and yesterday was full of amusement as our children said sobbing and excruciating public goodbyes to their brother.

In our monthly "Fast and testimony" meeting at church, the congregation is invited to come up to the pulpit and bear testimony of the gospel and share faith promoting experiences. Ideally, these testaments should revolve around Jesus Christ as our Savior. However...(she said sheepishly)... somehow, in the sweeping emotion of the day, my entire clan went tripping and charging up to the pulpit, without forethought as to what they intended to say, and proceeded to make the meeting an uncomfortable, albeit unintentional, worship service for their earthly brother Ashton, rather than their eternal brother Jesus Christ. Which makes a mother...wince.

They wept and sobbed, pubescent voices cracking and unchecked boogers seeping, as they professed fervent love and admiration for their missionary bro. They regaled with stories of "ridiculously awesome" hair, "freakin' cool" clothing and "Lord of the Rings marathons." Yes. Yes, that's right. With priorities such as these being taught in our home...I know. I'm one incredible mother. I might start up classes...just to benefit other~more often than not~inferior mothers (probably you,) and I won't even charge (very much.)

The Bishop and his counselors on the stand started to sweat and tug at their collars, heads in hands with eyes darting toward the clock on the wall every few seconds. (A quick shout out to Brother "Man-pri Marker." We missed thee whilst thou wast away.) They were hoping the hands would show in their favor~kind of like checking the fridge every two minutes, hoping the food fairies had placed a giant cream pie on the shelf since the last time you looked.

When the time finally DID expire, they were like a race-horse out of the shute. "AAAAAAND...we'd like to thank all those who BORE TESTIMONY...(not YOU, Bingham family) about OUR SAVIOR...(that's right, OUR SAVIOR, NOT your son) at THIS SEASON OF HIS BIRTH!...(two fingered eyeball point from their eyes to ours) 'Nuff said. Amen."

And they ended the meeting.

I'm not gonna lie. I was relieved.

And now, my fellow Christmas piggies, I'm off to find another trough of slop to eat.

"Oinkity, grunt, SNORT!" (that's pig talk for 'Adieu.')

Here I am again...I think, I really think, I know how to post pictures!!!!! Oh my gosh, this is exciting.

TA DA! Here is my family...in case you were sitting there in your Saturday Mom ponytail with leftover decorations strewn about thinking, "Hm. You know what I'd like~just to make my day complete? I'd like to see a picture of Lisa's family."

Well, I'm here for you, friends. Without further ad0...

ELDER ASHTON

MY FIRST OFFICIAL BLOG PICTURE...(by popular demand)...AND I'M REALLY NOT SURE HOW I DID IT. No, seriously. No idea. BUT YAY FOR ME, PEOPLE!

And of course, as everyone knows the first born child gets more pictures taken of them~by about ten fold~than all the other children combined, so I might as well buy into the theory and post first born~in all his Elder Ashton glory.

Now the real test will come as I try to duplicate my efforts, which I cannot guarantee, as I yam what I yam. (Popeye reference~but I don't like spinach, unless it's in salad)

I'll tell you what I tell my own kids..."You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Actually, I never said that myself, but a neighbor lady down the street did. Whatever.

DIAPER BIBS

We had an explosion in our home yesterday. A chaos bomb went off about 1:30 in the afternoon~12 minutes after I stopped slurring (dentist~not liquor) and about half way through my Dr. Pepper. ("What were YOU doing when they killed the President...or cancer was cured...or the tarantula troopers fell out of the sky?" "Oh, I was about six ounces into my Dr. Pepper."~that's how I MMM~Mark Monumental Moments~with beverage memories. Still waters run deep, people.)

Anyway, we were informed that our dearly beloved (this week anyway~last month he was a swear-word) missionary son would be leaving a week earlier than expected. And the funny thing is, they just said it, like it was Okay to just say something like that~like it was legal and everything to do this to a missionary mother~because of course she was aaaaalllllllll out of things to do to prepare the young lad~having speedily and efficiently planned, purchased and packed every needful thing for TWO YEARS IN BRAZIL~in fact, she'd probably been twiddling her manicured fingers and pedicured toes just to keep busy~and wasn't feeling the least bit tender about his impending departure.

"Bring it on!" they'd heard her scream~fist to the heavens.

So they done brung it.

I ugly cried everywhere I went. In the fruit isle picking up oranges? Dripping snot and smearing it on my coat sleeves. In the fabric store choosing white fur trim? Howling with head flung back and mouth corners turned down. At the restaurant eating steak and salmon with vanishing son? Sobbing and drooling with head propped up on fist.

More water dripped and pooled from my orifices than had any right to escape from a person's face. I just kept an adult diaper taped to my chest all day to sop and absorb...Hey, if you're going for ugly, might as well own it, baby.

Anyway...I nearly drowned in the waves of emotion...but then, suddenly, was FLUNG and TOSSED back into the air like a GIANT, BOUNCY BEACH BALL...(which resembles my abdomen as well as my fleshy hooters, so it was the perfect analogy)...by my dear friends and loved ones. Who knew when I was "friending" people that they would come in so very handy one day? Bless their optimistic hearts.

They told me happy things~made grand promises of future blessings (which I wrote down and also kept track of who said what, so they're accountable for said promises and blessings coming to fruition,) and just basically gave me a delightful sense of well being...kind of like Serotonin, but in people form.

So I'm much better now. Just like the nearly dead peasants laid out as garbage in Monty Python's Holy Grail...

...not dead yet...

...feeling much better, actually...

But just to be safe, don't take that corpse cart away just yet. I still have ten days to tread water~and it looks like another wave is about to come rolling in and I never learned how to surf emotions.

"Anyone seen my diaper bib?"

GASSY

Reasons dentists and their assistants should learn sign language, have code words, or just simply lie:


"Hey, (to the assistant) can I get some suction here? That's really a lot of blood."

"Almost done...well, not really almost done. More like, oh, I'd say 60% through the drilling." (me giving an insincere gassy pig-snout thumbs up...gassy as in laughing, NOT gassy from your rhymes with gassy, starts with "A"...OH MY GOODNESS, THAT WAS CRUDE! HOLY COW, I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT. And yes, I could erase it, but for some reason, I don't want to.)

"Make sure she swishes her mouth out a few times. There's quite a bit of debris in there." (I guess debris is already code, but I cracked it immediately, so it's obviously not nearly sophisticated enough. FYI, debris stands for butchered gum tissue, bloody tooth shards and gobs of drool.)




Next, things that make me feel inferior and unattractive~besides my 41-year-oldedness:

Apparently, I have "restless mouth syndrome~(It resembles restless leg, but makes your dental assistant have to "babysit" your jaw while taking impressions) I guess continuing to talk and ask questions of the help~even if it IS to take their minds off the judgements rolling around in their head about the quality of your oral hygiene~isn't very conducive to a proper cement molding of your teeth and you'll have to keep doing it...over and over again, people...until you either shut up on your own, or you're compelled to shut up by having the young assistant clamp your mouth together for you. (Note to self~make sure to pluck that witch hair growing out of the chin mole next time, as that is most likely where the young assistant will place her tender hand while vising your mug.)

Another ugly...plucking pieces of cement out of my eyelashes while blinking rapidly and trying to look unconcerned, as the water sprayer went "rogue" a few times and blew chunks of~remember our new favorite~bloody debris~all over my countenance.

And lastly, smelling my own fermented breath as rubber gloved hands work feverishly to patch up decay and rot. I know. Disgusting. But let's call a spade a spade, shall we? ("Hi. My name is spade.")



In conclusion, may I just profess my undying love and feelings of great tenderness toward Dashboard Confessional~the rock group~whom I've grown to know intimately. They worked tirelessly and in synergistic harmony with nitrous oxide, making sure this was a very convincing Out Of Body Experience. It was almost on a par with vaginal exams and sausage fingered OB's on the delivery room table.

I guess I really CAN do hard things...not just EAT hard things.


(Which is kind of how this whole thing got started...)

MEAN SLIT-EYES

My appointment is tomorrow...weird how I even remembered. So I thought it would be prudent to make up a last Will and Testament, just to make sure the right people (and by "right" I mean colorful, red and blue, sparkly diamond, perfect mother, righteous, teeny waisted, shapely calved, white toothed, full lipped, flower lovin', beautiful, brilliant and clever, *imaginary*) get my stuff...should something happen to me, which it won't, right? RIGHT?

I have always found it works out to my advantage to be OVERLY worried about things in general, and then whatever the end result, it can't be quite as horrid as I imagined. Like when I was a teenager, the nights that I blew my curfew and didn't give it a second thought, were always the nights that my mom had locked me out of the house and then answered my (sissy-timid) knock on the door with mean slit-eyes and hostility. But the nights I stewed and fretted that I was sooooo in trouble were the nights she yawned, smiled and slurred, "Nite, hon."

So as a quick observer, the lesson was learned, "Worry the cuss out of life, and everybody's happy...and has stomach aches and ulcers...but that's what Tums are for, people." Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Will and Testament and worried as junk.

Actually, my biggest concern is that my ipod battery will run out and the dentist will speak to me and I'll actually hear him...and the drill...which will yank me out of my zone~ which means I'll have to respond to put him at ease, because I want to make sure he likes me since it's all about him, right? And if he likes me, he won't think it's my fault that my teeth bust into pieces~probably some genetic flaw that can't possibly be my failing~and he'll make sure the procedure is painless and quick and almost delightful~and he'll tell me I'm a model patient and to "keep eatin' that ice, honey. It's obviously done wonders for your nubs, I mean teeth." And he'll smile and pat my hand and tell me he doesn't need to see me again for fifty seven years. Not even for cleanings. And he'll give me a bag of gumballs that are extra soft, and a special magical potion that tastes like licorice and coats your teeth and makes them impervious to cavity creeps~as well as gleaming white for eternity~ without ZINGING THE CRAP OUT OF YOUR TOOTH NERVES like stupid Crest Whitestrips. And now that I write it, it doesn't sound so bad after all. In fact, what have I been so worried about?

I'm only a few minutes late for curfew...my mom will totally understand. Sheesh. What's the big deal...? (sissy-timid knock on the locked door)

(ominous music in the background as she answers the door with mean slit eyes and hostility...)

To be continued...

LEFTOVERS

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there lived an ice-chompin', busted tooth sportin' princess named Lisa. And it was Christmastime. And she had a maze of holiday decoration boxes strewn throughout her castle...once again (sound redundant? I know! And I'm livin' this nightmare!)...and NO energy or desire to display them. But mostly, this was because she had somehow acquired gobs and gobs of useless crap that she had no intention of putting up, but couldn't bring herself to throw away (remember the Depression? Okay, well me neither, but I've heard about it and people order me to "Save that cool whip bowl!" referring to it, so I do and I'm better and more righteous than you because of it.)

Where were we? Ah, yes~Princess Lisa called them "leftovers." Just like the bowl of Thanksgiving peas in her fridge that had wrinkled and grayed, they still hadn't reached full expiration and it would be sinful to bury them before they were fully dead.

Anyway, Princess Lisa was in charge of "finishing up" the decorating after her family had gone off to school and work~which she fully intended on doing (remember how important intentions are?) but somehow...somehow~she was distracted (bright, shiny objects) while walking past the Christmas tree (spells disaster for simple minds like Princess Lisa's) and made not even a dent in her own grooming for the day, let alone the heap of holiday cheer.

This story ends badly, friends, so I won't finish it. (body found decomposing the following year in a box of peas...I mean leftovers...I mean old crap decorations) So we'll move on to happier things...

I can't think of any right now, because my tooth is still broken and there is an impending dental appointment echoing in my brain...and also because the boxes are mocking me. And no matter how much caffeine I drink or cups of ice I chomp, I can still hear them.

Stupid leftovers.