GO

Forget that last post. I want him gone again.

He turned sloth on me today and that roller coaster ride just keeps dipping and diving.

Stay.

Go.

Stay.

Go.

No, really. Go.

ENTITLED

I went shopping with my eldest son for mission stuff. He is about to leap into the Mormon Missionary ravine called "the unknown" ~ as in unknown language, unknown people, unknown diet, unknown companions, unknown rodent and arachnid infestations ~ and re-emerge two years later as either A MAN... or... a disappointment. I'm betting on a thick necked, broad shouldered, crisp white shirt and natty tie wearing, scripture studying, whisker shaving, serving The Lord for two years spiritual giant of A MAN!!! (Forty seven...forty eight...forty nine...that's me counting my eggs before they hatch.)

Anyway, spent vast sums of money and may still have to sell Crystal Meth on the side to pay for the rest.

Settle down.

I said may.

Back to the shopping. What should have been a bonding between mother and son and a reminiscing about melancholy moments, passing time and future expectations, ended up resembling something like this...more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, WHAT ELSE CAN YOU GIVE ME MOTHER?! I WANT MORE, MORE, WAAAAYYYY MORE~THIS ISN'T NEARLY ENOUGH!

Soooooo...Heartwarming. (benevolent smile)

Then it occurred to me that my dear, sweet man-child has become...gasp...ENTITLED! Which is not only a curse word in my home, but actually on a par with THEE MOTHER OF ALL CURSE-WORDS! I've had to wash mouths out with soap for lesser offenses. (On a side note, I just hung up on my second son who is standing out in front of my house right now, and called on his cell phone to tell me he needs me to drive him to a house a BLOCK AWAY, PEOPLE. Not even shi**ing.)

(Fill in the ** with your choice of double letters...like ZZ or DD...just want you to feel a part of my posts.)

Well, I took the mollycoddled bull by the horns and decided to finish up without him and then, adding insult to injury, I'm going to wrap all of his stuff~white shirts, ties, socks, umbrella, winter hat, travel alarm clock, sewing kit~all of the absolutely no fun to receive for Christmas necessities~and give them as his CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. *Maniacal laughter!

That's right. Along with all those necessities, the boy is getting the shaft as well. Builds character~and ends entitlement. Two birds, one stone.

So what was the point of all this? I'll get to that now.

I was wrapping his gifts today, just up in my sewing room with bags and tape and ribbon and paper scattered all around me, and was enjoying the Christmas journey, when suddenly WATER STARTS SQUIRTING OUT OF MY EYES, PEOPLE! Like somebody threw an entire bucket...of tears and snot and mascara ALL over my face and walked away. No warning, no comfort, just a blast of wrenching emotion to the heart.

And THAT is what I have to look forward to for the next couple of months while my spoiled brat baby boy prepares to fly.

And I just do not know if I can be a part of this.

"CUT!" I shout. Exit stage left.

Now where is my stunt double?

BLOG-LOG

So Bitty Boo has once again shown herself superior to me in her comprehension of BL or blog~log. (That's short for "dialogue."~I'm trying to sound superior by making up my own nicknames and acronyms.) She informed me that the number of views refers to my profile, not my daily posts. Also, apparently once you sign in to make comments on someone else's blog, you're considered a "blogger" or some such jibber-nonsense.

And all I have to say is~

I knew that. (with a wrinkled up nose and annoyed expression)

And then I walk away, raise my eyebrows and do the surprised smile when you can't see me anymore.

STRAIGHTENING RECORDS

I just have to set things straight. My blog profile says I've been a blogger since 2007. I didn't even know what a blog was two years ago. Also says there have only been 180 views to my blog since 2007. It has claimed this for a month now, and I know there are more than that, as I MYSELF have logged on to my own blog enough times to have reached that number single handed. What can I say? Vanity. And a healthy dose of poor self esteem. "Has anyone commented on my post? How about now? How about now? How about now?"

Also, it takes AT LEAST three to four times to have a comment post. Don't know why. I've tried to figure this out and have even gone to Bitty Boo with eyes wide open and innocent, hoping she could work magic, but alas, even her powers are limited. Who knew?

Anyway, just had to officially set the records straight.

Now please, people, show some dogged determination in leaving comments so I don't have to come mouth breathe over your shoulders. You've been warned. *This does not apply to Bitty Boo or Anonymous (Maren) as they've shown themselves to be steadfast and immovable~and vocal. I LOVE vocal! (unless you don't agree with me)

TWO MASTERS

I'm sitting here with a giant cup of rabbit poop ice, whilst sitting almost inside of my fireplace to keep from uncontrolled shiver and shake. It's called "trying to serve two masters" which we're told no man can do. But they've said nothing of women, and we all know how very...determined beautiful chicks can be. Are you saying I'm beautiful? Stop it. No, stop. I'm blushing. Gosh. (grin)

Anyway, speaking of determined, once again Jules is in the news. She declared recently that she's through with foofy. As in foofy dresses. And I won't lie...I'm a little bit ticked. But that's beside the point. This is about her, not me.

So I bought her a dress~sans foof. Almost killed me...in fact, I'm wheezing and trembling a little bit still~but she loved it and was tickled to wear it for church the next day. (See, I told you it was all about her.) However, the night before, she had showered and washed her hair and then lazied up on me. Couldn't bring herself to brush through her sopping tresses before going to bed, causing grief and pain the following morning when it was time to put her hair in curls. Think Medusa.

So I was forced to yank and wrench through her snarls, as only a mother can do, inducing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth~mostly mine.

So she sits there silently sobbing, barely able to swallow past the choking lump in her throat and finally hoarsely whispers, "Are you mad at me for loving the dress?"

I stopped tugging for a moment to roll my eyes.

Can you say...melodramatic? Sha.

How about...overly emotional? Totally.

And here's another one...more perceptive than I give her credit for? Huh.

Maybe it is more about me than I realize.

I hate to admit it, but she may have seen my Freudian slip, as it peeked out from under my tweed gray dress.

I'll work on hiking that baby up.

OPPOSITES

Went to the Halloween store~against my will and only because it was my daughter's DREAM mother/daughter date. Oh, she's such a soft flower petal of a maiden.

There are two main categories in the shop~Whore and Horror. Here's how it went...

Jules~"MOM! MOM! Can I have blood on me for Halloween? Like running down my face and stuff?"(jumping up and down, almost screeching with delight)

Me~"No, I'm sorry. I went as far as I could go letting you be a football player."(shaking my head with faux sorrow)

Jules~"Ooooo. I luuuuuuvvvvv those pointy vampire fingers. (referring to sharp metal claws that evil, murdering people wear on one finger.) Can I get one? Pllleeeeeeeeaasee!"(dancing around like she needs to wee)

Me~"Not only no, but 'H' no." (calmly and with a raised brow)

Jules~"Oh my gosh, Mom. That is sooooo cooooool! I love those sooooo much! Can I be that for Halloween next year?" (referring to a corpse mask with partial skin stretched over sinew and patches of bloody hair)

Me~(silence...thoughtful silence) "Do you just want to be exactly opposite of me?"

Jules~"Well, I don't want to. I just am." (laughing and oblivious to the implication that she "doth not seek for mine approval," walks away to look at more gore)

Out of the mouths of babes.

TWINS

So Ju-ju comes in to me yesterday and sighs a breathy sigh. She stands there waiting for me to notice. She has taken great pains in her mid-afternoon (we're off track~the day begins at noon-break) decorating ritual and is seeking recognition for a job well done.

I hadn't noticed yet, but this was manifest in the amount of glitter applied to her eyelids~and cheeks~and chin~and forehead (who knew foreheads needing a dusting of dazzle?)...and the bright red lipstick seeping well beyond her lips boundaries~as true beauty knows NO boundaries..and the fragmented smoothing of her Hollywood hair style, rats nest in the back, brushed front and sides. (She can't even see the back, Mom, so nobody else can either. Duh.)

Another long sigh...and hip shift with leg thrown out, thumping loudly on the carpeted floor. I didn't know legs could thump loudly on carpet, but if they're attached to a nine year old in make up, they do.

I finally looked up, jumped and startled, but then composed very quickly, as I knew we were treading treacherous ugly-stage territory.

"Wow. Look at you. That...is...some sparklin' you got goin' on there." I smile an eyebrow furrowing smile, meant to convey "What the H?" but in a very kind and motherly way.

She's proud. Just as proud as proud can be. She throws her hands down and across her outfit in a flourish and exclaims, "Look! Do you like my outfit? I just MADE IT UP!"

Truth had been spoken. It was apparent that this design was her very own masterpiece. And then I started to think and nearly speak critically, but before any damage was done, Heavenly Father stepped in by hurling me wildly back in time to exactly this moment in my own life.

There I was, walking through the neighborhood streets, pushing the stroller for a child I was babysitting (kind of insane that someone would trust me with their child at age 9) and clomping along in my gold and blue "culotte" ensemble, complete with dark suntan pantyhose (my mothers) and wedgie heels (my older sisters) and a puss completely smothered in a pot of cream blue eyeshadow (free sample from the Avon lady) and Max Factor lips.

Wasn't wearing a bra~which was painfully apparent~but not to me.

I thought I was beautiful. Stunning, in fact. I knew my teenage sister's boyfriends preferred me to her, and were just hanging around the house to catch a glimpse of me in my pre-pubescent glory. Poor sister~If she only knew.

So BAM, SLAM, BACK TO THE PRESENT and I blink my eyes hard and fast and feel like I'm looking at my own twin~just 32 years later.

I laugh.

Oh. I know who you are, beautiful girl.

Carry on.