SPENDING SOIREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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