MISERABLE JOY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.