PROCRASTINATION

I'm speaking in the adult session of Stake Conference in less than 22 hours...and I know what you're thinking.

The answer is, I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M BLOGGING EITHER! CRIMINY!

I do this waaaaaay too often. It has a name. Procrastination. But I prefer to call it by it's better known and recognized tag~the 'WHAT THE HE%$ WAS I THINKING?! '

I see you nodding your blog head. You've likely experienced this. It's when you find yourself organizing the potting soil, seed packets and sharpening the blades on the mower out in the garage...just in case somebody passes by and wants to inspect your lawn care paraphernalia on their way into the WEDDING SHOWER THAT I'M HOSTING IN LESS THAN AN HOUR AND THE BATHROOMS ARE STILL SPLATTERED WITH TEENAGE URINE AND THE SHEETS ARE STRIPPED OFF MY BED AND I'M EVEN NOW IN MY BATHROBE AND FORGOT TO BUY THE UTENSILS, AS WELL AS THE BRIDE'S GIFT AND IS IT TOO LATE TO ORDER THE BALLOONS, BREAD BOWLS AND SHEET CAKE AND WHAT THE HE%$ WAS I THINKING?

Yeah, that.

So I'm going RIGHT NOW to work on this talk. Don't try to stop me. It's time to focus and study and prepare to be a tool in the Lord's hands. I can do this, people. I can. I've seen other people do it, so I know it's possible.

(doing the runner's hand flick and neck crack)

(breathing in and out in deep cleansing breaths)

(taking the sprinters position)

Get ready...get set...and...Oh, hey, did I tell you that my assembly coverage was on the front page of the local newspaper? I know! And Amberlee was doing the splits, and my brother Chris was in it TWICE and they didn't interview me, but that's OK, cuz I was running around wild backstage, but.............green mullet............jock dance off............wasting more time............don't expect much tomorrow night.................can't be trusted by the Lord.................bright shiny objects............I'll work on it tomorrow................

..............what the he%$ was I thinking.............

NUBILE DANCE MOVES

Hooooollllleeeeeeeee cow. I am exhausted. It's over. The assembly. And some of you are the freakin' diamelle, topaz and heliotrope jewels in my crowning glory, for your willingness to sport a green gang headband, tight Letterman's jacket and big sleeved prom dresses that have likely seen better (thinner) days. I actually bought you each a package of Chiclets, but "forgot" to give them to you. I know. Sad. But, listen...it's the thought that counts, friends. (chomp, chomp, chew)

I did, however, manage to throw out my hip and cripple both feet and a thigh within 24 hours. On account of I had to wear pointy heels all morning, cuz it was for the greater good, called fashion sense. But my toes are all about "what's in it for me" and were RAGING MAD. So I hissed for them to shut up, and reminded them of the profound words my mother raised me with, to explain the plight of the pretty...and that is, "Beauty is pain, dear." Which always shut me up.

But they didn't respond with long suffering, so I slapped them up the side of the foot and shoved them back inside the patent leather. And when the music was cranked, I couldn't hear them screaming, but alas, when I limped out to my car, the PIGS WERE SQUEALING, FOLKS! OUI, OUI, OUI, SNORT AAALLLL THE WAY HOME! Stupid fat pigs.

Plus, then, I have some mad dance skills that I felt weirdly compelled to show off to the student body last night. It might have been something like, oh, I don't know... maybe standing on one leg while holding the other leg behind my back by the ankle, and yanking it forward to the beat of the music, while the other hand is put to the back of the head, shoving it forward and jerking the elbow in time. Something similar to (exactly) that.

And yes, I know...so shut up.

I'm just trying to figure out what happened to my brain, as it usually discerns what kind of laughter it is...With...At...those are two very different things, you know. The filter must have been clogged up with cholesterol.

So anyway, my eye twitch is diminishing, as well as the consistent, day and night, "She must have just been weighed at the Dr.s office," thud and thump of my heart...and the concern that I may lose my hearing when the blood pressure brain bleed ruptures my eardrums.

And to reward myself, I went to TARGET...my earthly god. For your vicarious thrill, I have included pictures of the stuff I bought that has put a sideways smile upon my girlish face. Yes, I said girlish. Don't be so cynical.

If you need me to, I can always prove it, by showing you my nubile dance moves...........and I will.

Don't think I won't.......................................just later.

Much later.

TURKEY

There is a turkey, farting in my fridge. Somebody should take care of that. Not me. Somebody else.

CATCALL

I went to the high school today, to do some last minute prep work for the alumni assembly...that has consumed my heart, mind, soul and nervous system for a couple of months...and do you know NOT ONE STINKIN' KID WHISTLED AT ME? NOT ONE. Idiots.

The least they could have done was pretend that I deserved a second glance...I mean, come on, man. Throw a wrinkled old lady a bone. Too much to ask? Apparently.

But see, what we have here is the hallucinogen called High School Time Portal. It's a brain sweep, where the moment your over 40 feet walk up the stairs and enter "A" building, you're back in time, running a pic through your Tony home-perm hair and trying to decide if you'll have the fries or just a Diet Coke for lunch. (Fries WITH Diet Coke ends up being your choice, resulting in years worth of poor diet and nutrition and fluffy, girthy abdominal. Who knew?)

Sadly, our only gauge back then to judge our nearly imperceptible young woman worth was the HIGHLY PRIZED filthy word, or low suggestive whistle emanating from a mouth full of braces and Cheetos residue. But you could live or die by that assessment and often popularity ebbed and flowed according to the Spirit Hall leer.

Anyway, when I got back from my mushroom trip back in time, I realized that my Age Appropriate Shopko Mom Shirt (that's a real brand, I'm pretty sure) probably acted as camouflage and I had been invisible to them. So that explains it.

But still, one catcall...wouldn't have killed you. 'Sall I'm sayin'.

CHILD'S PLAY

Drinking caffeine in it's purest, most unadulterated form...over rabbit poop ice, with birds chirping and me smiling. Ah, simple joys, people. Simple joys.

To be honest, I've had a lot of simple joys lately. The simple joy wrappers litter my counter tops, nightstand and pockets of my bathrobe. Obviously, I've been paying close attention to everyone's vinyl lettering and wooden letter blocks that TELL me, in NO uncertain terms, to simplify. And what better way, than by finding simple joy in Child's Play? And by Child's Play, I'm referring to that ENORMOUS BAG REMINISCENT OF LEFTOVER HALLOWEEN CANDY CALLED 'CHILD'S PLAY' THAT YOU CAN BUY AT YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD TARGET!

Plus, then you get a bag of Smarties to dump into the strainer bowl, and you have very CLEVER, AND AMUSED CHILDREN. Because it's all about the kids, friends. All about the kids. Okay, wait. I already said it was about simple joys. Well...why can't it be about both? Thus it becomes all about the simple joys of intelligent, frolicking children, which means I'm a better mother than you! See? In the end, it's all about me. Duh.

Which is better than having it be about my husband, as the poor lad has read one too many references toward his swollen uvula. And rather than take comfort in the fact that part (most) of what I blog about has no basis in reality, and is a magnificent exaggeration of practically everything, he has started questioning his worth to me as husband, celestial companion, father of my children, reason for my heart to go on beating.

And I can't blame him. If I were to pull up his thoughts and feelings on the computer, day after day, and find references~albeit embellished~about the woman sitting in her robe at noon thirty, with a partially peeled facial mask hanging from her chin, I might feel, oh, less than appreciated and adored.

So it's time for a little reality version of Lisa's husband~to counterbalance the gibberish I'm guilty of typing out day after day. For the record, he is HIGHEST HEIGHTS...in humor because he thinks I'm hilarious, in kindness toward my parents when his very own have left this world, in strength of character proven as a successful business owner, in overlooking my faults which I like to suggest are kind of invisible, in loving his children when I can't, in loving his wife on silent Sunday mornings, in providing for our family beyond my wildest dreams, in being long suffering when told to climb yet another relationship mountain, in turning his weaknesses into strengths, in gifting me OFTEN AND GLEEFULLY with pink and yellow roses and diamonds and rabbit poop ice makers, in being blind to my two different sized eyes, in recalling only the good in our marriage and thinking I'm the reason for it. And short of hot gluing multi-colored feathers to my underarms~giving me wings to fly~then pointing and shouting to anyone who'll listen, "That's my wife right there. Oh, wow! Would you look at her soar!"

And so, I make a blog announcement to one and all that I CHOOSE STERLING! Over and over and over again.

And do you hear that?

My heart continues to beat...

...because he chooses me.

Thank you, dear man. For choosing me.

PIONEER CHILDREN

It's Saturday. That means I woke up snarling, but I shoved a piece of chocolate in my jaws and flipped on a church music CD. It's all good now.

It's like pioneer children who sang as they walked and walked and walked. But it's more like Lisa's children cleaned as they whined and whined and whined...and whined. They slur and stumble, so drunken with whine are they. But it's not just whine...it's bawling and eye rolls and leaving piles of crap littering the stairs and vacuuming only the middle section of their bedrooms, leaving dust bunnies alone to fornicate, multiply and replenish the pollen count in my home.

No wonder none of my kids can pronounce their consonants.

Side note regarding house cleaning...We bought a new washer last night. Our drum barrel was going out on our old one...and by old, I mean an ancient SIX YEARS! It had lost it's teeth, eyesight and walked with a limp. I think washer years are like dog years.

So it was more like~hmmm. Wait. My age.

Anyway, can I just say, without fear of lawsuit, because I'm kind of like Oprah, and remember what she did to the beef industry when she said she wouldn't eat hamburgers anymore? Well, so we're similar, in that I have a huge fan base and following, as so many of you want to emulate me, as well you should, so I have to be really careful with the words out of my blog, else I could turn the economy on a dime. And even with that in mind, I'm still going to say that I HAAAATE FRONT LOADERS! HAAAATE, HAAAATE, HAAAAAAAAATE!!! And I hate the idiot environmentalists that came up with the idea of returning to "olden days, didn't work back then, but still, let's revisit the dark ages of laundry" energy savers. Yeah, no. Bad idea then. Bad idea now.

Three words. Low flow toilets.

Three more words. Several extra flushes.

One word. Floaters.

One more word. Ew.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Lest ye environmentalists call me ugly names, I'll say for the record that I chose an ENERGY STAR top loader. But only because it was my only choice. And guess what?

I kill spiders.

That's right, you heard me~even in their own environment.

And I laugh while I do it.

So there. (my tongue is out and I look really mature)

YAY!

YAY FOR THE BOY!