Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Back from vacation, which means angry at my children and husband. Not sure why, but apparently it's against the law for me to arrive home happy and rested.

Could be the toxic diet. (burp) Could be the lack of normal sleep. (we switched our AM and PM~we're crazy like that) Could be that we left our home in a flurry and then expected our children to look around them and realize that more might be expected of them to earn their keep than to play X-box and eat cold cereal in their underwear. Silly parent.

Cemented cereal in every last bowl~including mixing~scattered throughout the house. The laundry cascading in a lovely waterfall out of the dryer and onto the floor and a fine layer of dirt on every piece of furniture because no one thought it was "their job" to close the windows when the dust storm came blowing through last night.

A rain soaked Jeep with the top still off (once again, nobody's job) while the air conditioning and the furnace work together, but still have a friendly competition to see just how fast they can get our meter spinning. Synergy, people. Synergy.

Which brings us to the next 48 hours of me trying to keep my eyes from rolling completely back inside my skull (I keep slapping me up the side of my head to knock them loose) as my children screech and whine that "None of this mess is MINE!" Yeah. I know.

Two words.

'Nuff said.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009


It's one thirty in the afternoon and (yawn and bum scratch) I'm just now considering hopping into the shower to go about my labors. And by labor, I mean shopping. It's called a "labor of love" or a "labor THAT I love." By now you should know me, and that I have a VERY strong work ethic, even when I'm on vacation.

The last three days have consisted of a steady diet of Good & Plentys, seven different gourmet chocolate bars, family size bag of Jelly Belly beans, Toaster Strudels (four boxes,) Hostess cupcakes, gummy bears, Reeses, ENORMOUS Halloween bag of assorted candy, vanilla wafer cookies, Elfin cookies, Oreo cookies (don't really like those, but I'll take one for the team.) Doritos, other assorted chips, salsa, sugar cereal (four more boxes) another family pack of licorice and then...drum roll please...A BAG OF PEAS AND GLASS OF DIET COKE TO WASH IT ALL DOWN! Which we all know is a law of the Universe that keeps any of the previous calories from counting. Yay for laws of the Universe!

Now there is one slight drawback to this toxic form of nutrition, which is called "consequence." ~or in lay man's terms, "witches brew" which seems to be in gas form permeating the entire condo. The air is green people. The Grinch who stole Christmas green. Word to the wise (and Housekeeping) you do NOT want to pass by this door.

So what's a group of people basking in their own stench to do? (shoulder shrug) The only thing we can do, friends. Take another swig of Diet Coke~just to be safe, and flee the premises, slamming the door behind us (and sealing the crack with a dish towel so as not to alarm the other vacationers) as we prepare to go shopping while singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs.

Since, as I already mentioned, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Plus, I'm sure we can find a can of Spam somewhere to bring home for dinner.

Friday, September 25, 2009


Note to self. The reason you can't lose weight is because an entire "family pack" of pink and white frosted and sprinkled circus animal cookies~also known as bliss in a bag~have more calories that you can burn off with a twelve minute half-a**ed walk. It's science, Lisa. And you can't argue with science.


Just attended a bridal fair and had a few thoughts to share. They are as follows:

Fat armed brides wearing strapless dresses=denial. Pure and simple. A word of advice. Sleeves are your friend, sweetie. Embrace them, love them, WEAR them. 'Nuff said.

People attend a bridal fair because they're either (a) getting married or (b) somehow connected to someone that is getting married. So why the squirrel scurry like you're protecting your nut-pile when a vendor makes eye contact? (gasp!) Criminy! You're the people that back up while making a cross with your fingers to ward off salespeople when you enter their store, aren't you? "JUST LOOKING!" you scream, eyes darting around looking for an escape route. Mm hmm. Thought so.

"How you met" newlywed game stories are only interesting to you and your fiance, and sometimes, only to you. Especially with a sizable dose of "ums, likes and totally!"

The Cinderella story does NOT go backward, as in "I had always dreamed of meeting my prince, getting married and having babies. The fairy tale! My Cinderella story just happened in reverse." (simpering smile) Screech! Tires squealing and rubber burning. Sorry, babe~not a fairy tale. It's called "government subsidized life in the early stages." Nothing more, nothing less. And definitely nothing like a fairy tale. (tilted head, mocking smile)

I think that's it. Probably more equally snotty and sarcastic thoughts will occur to me after I post this, but for now, that's all she wrote. And by she, I mean me.


I dove into my Halloween d├ęcor this week. Yup, just pulled on my swimming cap, plugged my nose and belly flopped into the boxes. Came up for breath every other bin, but the kids still had to jump in to save me. I was stuck under a “moaning rock” and several duplicate copper pumpkins that I’d forgotten I had purchased…four times. Honestly!

I know that I am to blame for this mess. It’s my hearty appetite~tough to curb. I feast on things and stuff like turkey at Thanksgiving. Gobble, gobble, snarf, belch. It’s called “mass consumption”~or hording. Semantics. (shoulder shrug)

Anyway, after dragging them up from the basement a few days ago, I walked past them~back and forth~back and forth~creating a breeze with the wafting of my nightgown...for three days. I know. Nightgowns rock!

I had every intention of putting them all up the moment the children painstakingly unloaded them right smack in the middle of the path between kitchen and "rest-of-the-house," for us to trip over, twist our ankles on and stub our toes with in the middle of the night. Which I did…every stinkin’ time I went to the kitchen for a handful of candy (frequent)…but pretty soon I could go directly from a hippo-like stumble into a graceful somersault and right back up again aiming toward the candy jar~while holding a cup of rabbit poop ice, without even skipping a beat! It was kind of neat to see.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Still haven’t put them up. Can’t. Too many. Too much. Too hard.

Soooo…would somebody please SLAP (really, really hard and fast, over and over again) my hand if I pick up/purchase ONE MORE WITCH, PUMPKIN, GOBLIN OR GARLAND~NO MATTER HOW VINTAGE, CHARMING, DESIRED OR NECESSARY TO MY HAPPINESS I LABEL THEM!

Thank you. The Lord bless you and keep you for your efforts in my behalf. You could do that when I put chocolate to my lips too, but I’ll more than likely turn feral on you~not really worth the risk.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


Decorating makes me joyful. First, I get to spend money. (joy dance) Second, my creative juices squirt out everywhere, leaving all around me drenched in fabulous, but me parched and needing even more Dr. Pepper and rabbit poop ice~win/win situation. And third, I get to turn my world some color other than brown. Ew.

So let's discuss this "shades of pooh" obsession~and by obsession, I mean disease. And by disease, I mean revolting, puss-filled, infectious and warty. OK, maybe that was a little harsh, but I become very passionate, friends, when it comes to dumbing down of any sort, and this is at the top of my list. I just do NOT get it. What is so beautiful/sophisticated/desirous about taupe, tan, brown, sand, neutral? Many words, one meaning~not a color.

When people refer to "earth tones," they are mistaken. The sky is not brown. The grass is not brown. Flowers, water, fruit, vegetables, trees (leaves)~ALL not brown. Therefore, Earth is not brown. Dirt is~not Earth. Big difference.

"What is she suggesting?" you ask.

It's simple. Spray paint, people.

"This is madness!" you scream.

"Is she competent?" you query.

"What can we DO to help her find her way back?" you fret.

I appreciate your concern. But I am committed to this concept. In fact, I am a Bible thumping, cross wearing, hail Mary saying, Book of Mormon reading, believer in the concept of COLOR! And not just ONE, but ALL KINDS! Red, Blue, Yellow, White, Pink, Orange, Copper, Green...the list goes on and on, my friends. It's almost as if the good Lord planned it this way. What? Crazy, I know! But maybe, just maybe, He knew that it would bring us JOY!

Which is, I believe, why men...and women...are.

And that is why I will continue to eat my Harvest Veggies, fill my cups with rabbit poop ice and decorate with the rainbow that was given me to splatter all over my world.

Now that is reason for JOY! Come, let us dance.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


So the very best part of my day is morning. Am I a morning person, you ask? I am a firm believer that arising any time that has an A.M. following the number is morning~all the way up to 11:59~A.M., see? Morning. So yes. Yes, I am. But that's not why it's the best part of my day.

The reason for jubilation is to see what happened to my hair during the night. It's always a surprise. It can be "Flying Nun" as I referred to in an earlier post. Or it can be "Mullet head/faux hawk." That's always a crowd pleaser. Every day is a wonder and today was no exception.

I woke up extra excited, because I'd gone to the salon the day before, so I knew the follicles had gotten really liquored up with product and spray. This was gonna be goooooood. Sure enough, there had been a party on my pillow during the night! Crazy! I ran out to the family room to show everyone. They were tickled~smiling and laughing and cheerful as can be. Love at home, people. Love at home.

And then I realized what a great mother I am. That I can send my children and husband out into the world with joy in their hearts, gives me tremendous satisfaction. I'm wonderful like that.

You should be more like me.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


So today, I went in for a pedi. (That's the stupid term for pedicure.) Some of you may know about my feet, but for those of you ignorant and full of bliss, I'll paint a beautiful picture. Cracked. Bleeding. Wrinkled. Troll-like. Same as my hands, but my feet tip the scale of gross-out. In fact, I did not even let my husband see my feet before we were married~not until it was too late for him to back out. Not even kidding.

Anyway, one day a while back, probably high on Dr. Pepper and licorice, I announced loudly to one and all that I would be "HAVING MY FEET DONE, PEOPLE." My family silently crossed themselves. See, all of them had at one point or another received an accidental slice by my reptilian claws, (Accidental, I say.) and I'd shredded my fair share of sheets, and they were just really concerned about possible litigation. It took about three weeks of prep work, but finally, I had scraped enough dead skin off my heels to allow them to be touched by another human, as well as dropped a full shoe size in the process. Bonus!

I went to a little Vietnamese shop where the poor woman looked down at my feet~looked up into my eyes~and glared, staring straight through me and throwing firey darts into the depth of my soul. Then she went to work; scraping, filing, sanding, cutting. (This was the skin, not the toenails.) Think total reconstructive surgery. She was sweating and swearing (in Vietnamese though, so it was fine), angry and hostile by the time she finished. Wiping her brow, she lifted up my freshly polished hoof, shook it and pointed at me. "YOU COME BACK FOE MOE TIME TO FEEX DIS! FOE MOE TIME!" I nodded vehemently, as if I were a child in trouble~which I kind of was~and she threw my foot away in disgust, stood up and just walked away. I tried to speak and she stopped walking, put her hand in the air to silence me, and then continued on.

I was ashamed. For I had neglected a very, very important universal truth. A golden rule, one might say. "Maintain on yourself what you would have others maintain on them." Like skin...or hair, people. Nose hair, specifically. And ear hair. And eyebrow tentacles...I mean hair. All of which continue to grow weekly, dear, therefore need to be trimmed continually! Hells Bells. I won't mention any names. (cough, husband, cough)

So let's give a shout out to maintenance. YAY FOR MAINTENANCE!!! It may make us feel worldly and sinful, decadent and prideful, but it seems to be worth the effort. And who knows, a marriage may be saved in the process.

Monday, September 21, 2009


I'm kind of a blamer. Like, I have a hard time accepting that bad things can happen to people when they don't really deserve it, so to make sense in my world, there has to be someone to blame for it. That way, bad things can never happen to me, unless my horrid choices warrant them. And yes, I know this is absurd, but it's a warm, fuzzy blanket of ignorance that I choose to wrap myself in sometimes.

So the other day, my dear son got a bloody nose. This is the child that has constant seepage of the nasal passages, and is known throughout the land as "Sniff." We've never actually heard him pronounce his M's and N's yet~and he's thirteen. I'm always reminding him to blow and frightening him with dire warnings of packed snot eventually becoming brain tissue. Anyway, he comes down one morning full to the brim with boogers, and it's almost time to catch his ride to school. I yell~I mean gently remind him~to blow, he says he doesn't need to, blah, blah, blah. He relents, and runs upstairs to do it, as he's a bashful blower. Time passes~no return of the boy.

"BOY!" I bellow. I hear a little whimper from upstairs, run up and find him buried alive under a pile of bloody tissues. I am instantly taken back to my days of riding the bus to school, the tickle in the nose and watching in horror as drops of blood~without warning~landed on my new puffy blue coat. Thus leading to the "drip, whip and tip." Drip=blood. Whip=neck Tip=head. Damn bloody noses. I had to shake myself out of the reverie to help my boy, and by help, I mean blame.

He arrived at school with a wad of tissue in his nostril and a head full of "your own fault" from his mother. I'm loving like that. I returned home, blew my nose and "What the H?!" My neighbors watched as I retrieved the morning paper with a pack of toilet paper hanging out of my own honker. I know. It's only fair.

So my hubbie gets a headache the other day.

"What did you do? Did you eat properly? Drink too many Coke's? (As if there's such thing as too many Cokes! Ha!) " I'd point at his chest as I reached another fist into my bag of peas.

"You should be more like me. See how healthy I am? If you'd just eat peas instead of whatever it is YOU do, you'd be fine. Geez." Chomp, chomp, eye roll, chomp. Woke up the next morning with a migraine. I know. Shut up.

You'd think I'd learn. You'd think this would soften me up. Make me a little more compassionate~a little less judgmental. Nope. Just angry.

And it's somebody's fault. I'll let you know when I find out whose.

Saturday, September 19, 2009


A few days ago, sometime around noon, since I was still wandering around in my nightgown, hair resembling the flying nun, (you're all too young to understand that reference, I know. Me too) I zombied over to my nightstand, shoved a paw into my chocolate stash and pulled it back out...EMPTY! "What the H?!" I blinked a few times, hard, and then like cold water to the face, was hit full force by the reality of my situation. Chocolate. Gone. Oh. No. Who was in charge, here? How could this happen? And how had my hoarding instincts gone so completely awry?! I had to act fast, but since I wasn't appropriately attired to go out into public (unless it was Walmart, and I just wasn't in the mood to dress down) I had to make do with what I had around the house.

You know, we've all heard the stories of alcoholics running out of liquor and becoming so desperate that they go to the medicine chest and knock down a bottle of cough syrup. "Who does that?" I would ask, galloping along on my high-horse. Now I know, people. For I, too, have been brought low. Two words. Chocolate chips. Two more words. Semi-sweet. Ew. Whinny, snort, hind leg horsey kick, and me flying through the air.

After my less than gracious fall from grace, I staggered back to my feet, dusted off my rump and grabbed my inner Scarlett, screaming to the heavens, "As God as my witness, I shall never go hungry again!!!" Luckily, nobody saw this.

Anyway, I threw myself together and tore down the road to Target, where I purchased...and I am NOT making this up...NINE bags of chocolate, people. Seriously, NINE. I know. Should have been more. Everything from Hershey's kisses (assorted fall flavors) to Ding Dongs, Choxi chocolate covered cherries (more fruit) and giant Hershey bars. Usually, I'd have thrown in, oh, I don't know, a bag of apples? Just so the cashier wouldn't judge me too harshly~we've all seen that raised eyebrow a time or two. But this time, no pretense. No pride. Just chocolate. I didn't even wait until I was out in the car before I tore into a couple of bags. I was drooling chocolate before I even got my car door open. Thank you, Jesus! (I know that sounds blasphemous, but I was sincere.)

I'd like to say this stash-o-chocolate lasted~for even the rest of the day~hey, I never professed to be made of steel, ok? But a lesson was learned, friends. A life lesson. And that is...hold on, I have to open another kiss. Ok. That lesson is this. Hoarding is good. Hoarding is our friend. Make certain before going to bed at night that you have enough...PLENTY, even...of whatever YOU need to make it through the next day. Rabbit poop ice, chocolate, liquor~whatever. As the Boy Scouts have taught~be prepared. 'Nuff said.

Friday, September 18, 2009


So I am officially a diamond. (I choose emerald cut.) You might think it's because I am multi-faceted. Oh sure. Or because I'm bright and shiny. My nose, mostly. And then there's the "of great worth" assessment. All of these things are true. But that's not where I'm going here. It's the pressure, people. The terrible, claustrophobic, mind numbing pressure. I guess some people think I'm funny. And that might sound like it's a good thing. But apparently, they expect me to keep on being funny. Criminy. I can hardly breath.

When my oldest boy was right smack in the middle of "the ugly stage," he accidentally said something funny. He had no idea that it was funny, or why it was funny, but he did know that we laughed. Big mistake. HUGE! From that moment on, everywhere we went, the world was his stage.

"Hey. Mom. Tell 'em. Tell 'em that funny thing I said. Go ahead." And he'd wait~in full on prepubescent, mouth-corner mustard, eye-booger sporting anticipation~he'd wait. Bless his earnest heart. We'd lie, as any good parent would do, and tell him we'd tell them "later." Yeah, right. He eventually outgrew this...this unfortunate phase and now looks back with horror~as most of us do about things we were once loud and proud about.

So now I find myself in the position of trying to be funny. Hells bells, friends. Nobody wants that. I become ugly-stage Lisa, mouth breathing over your shoulder as you read my words, and asking with horrendously self-conscious eagerness and bad breath, "Is it funny? Huh? Is it? Tell me it's funny." Breath, breath, sniff, breath. Good heavens, I do NOT want to be that person.

So here's how this is going to play. It's called "lowered expectations." As in, take that high bar that you wanted to see me vault over, drop it to about a foot off the ground and I'll lift my knee yay high and step over it. I should clear it, just not in an exhilarating, action packed manner. If I stumble now and then, remember I warned you. And be grateful that my chin is not resting on your shoulder right now.

Thursday, September 17, 2009


I love me some veggies. Always have. Always will. I frequently get more than the suggested five servings daily, because I'm just a little bit better than all of you. A little more concerned with my nutrition. A little bit more attentive to daily allowances. It's a tight wire act~all about the balance, people. All about the balance.

I keep several bags of veggies in assorted places throughout my home. Some people might consider them "hiding places." I prefer to call them "easily accessible." There are some in my nightstand, some in my sewing cabinet(s), some in my car console, some in the desk drawer next to me. In fact, I am munching on a handful right now. Mm mm scrumptious. Yay for veggies!

Pumpkins and Corn are my favorites. Halloween Harvest pumpkins and corn, to be specific. I also love peanuts. Circus. And fish. Swedish. And beans. Jelly. I figure that's a pretty good blend of carbs and protein. Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially healthy, I'll throw in a plent-i-pac of fruit. Juicy. I like to mix things up. I'm crazy like that.

And so I pose the question, how does one eat so many veggies and fruit~more than the daily requirements~and still struggle with double chins and abdominal rolls? It's perplexing to me. In fact, I was so concerned, I decided to consult the Dr. Dr. Pepper, if any of you are familiar with his reputation. I plan on meeting with him this afternoon, over a cup of rabbit poop ice. I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, I'll double fist my veggies and protein while I walk this precarious high-wire. Remember, it's all about the balance, people. All about the balance.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


Bitty Boo calls me up today and all I hear is screaming. "I've just locked the baby out of the house. Tell me it's OK. She's looking at me through the window while she knocks on the door. I need you to tell me it's OK that I am not letting her back in. It's for her own protection. I can't hurt her if she's outside, you know?" By the way, the screaming was not from the baby, but from the baby's mother.

I laugh hysterically. I had that child. Actually, I was that child, but that's another story. When my daughter was Baby Maby's age, I had a heart to heart with Heavenly Father. "Ok, here's what's goin' down. I am receiving NO JOY Heavenly Father. NO JOY WHATSOEVER from this child. You're going to have to fix her." And I waited. I'm still waiting.

But to be fair, He did send me some tender mercies to make amends. For example, she has long hair, so I can curl and twirl and adorn it with diamonds and flowers. And, for Halloween, she allowed me to make her a princess costume every year. Maybe not whole-heartedly, but in the end, I won. "You want to be a cat? How about a cat princess?" "You want to be a witch? How about Glinda the good witch?" You get the idea. It doesn't really matter how it happened, OK? Just that it happened. And yes, my good fortune did run out, as just yesterday I clicked on the "buy now" button for a football ensemble for her costume. It is powder blue, so I haven't begun to sob...yet.

So back to Baby Maby. That chick sure has her mother's number. Just as my daughter had~and has~mine. A push here. A shove there. And laughing maniacally as she watches her mother nose dive off the cliff of insanity. Then shrugging her shoulders, wiping her hands and turning away. "Now what?" I'll tell you what. You're locked out of the house, that's what. And Bitty Boo shrugs her shoulders, wipes her hands and turns away. Take two year old!


So I sit down to the desk to write a blog entry, and without trying, conjure up "ugly computer face". This is a recent discovery~this screwing up of my facial features~as my son brought it to my attention just a couple of weeks ago. Bless his heart.

I had wondered why the sudden increase of wrinkles around my mouth~lipstick seeping into the cracks like filler putty. Also, my eyes have crows talons (not feet, talons) scratching out from the corners and down to almost mid cheek. What the H, people? But I had dismissed it, like any self-deceiving...I mean respecting...woman would do. Until one evening, my son walks into the library, stands directly in front of me and stays there...watching. "What's got you so concerned, Mom?" He grins with his head to one side~cocked. And cocky.

"Huh?" I articulate.

"You should see your face. It's all scrunched up, and your shoulders are kind of quasi-motto. And like, your lips are shoved clear out away from your face." He was still grinning.

I immediately relaxed my mouth and lifted my eyebrows~a kind of surprised innocence look. Which we all know, is the "applying make-up face." He chuckled and left the room, standing tall and unblemished, and I went back to reading, writing and morphing~completely unaware. And unbelieving. Until he set up the computer to record my face as I was typing. Mm hmm. That's right. 'Nuff said.

Then...I was up in my sewing room...sewing...(who knew?) and I was getting a jaw ache. And that's when I noticed that I have thrust my lower jaw so far forward as to resemble the missing link. My shoulders were hunched around my ears, one foot was turned in and sideways and once again, my lips were "shoved clear out away from my face"~kind of like I was trying to keep a pencil on my upper lip. So I relaxed all of these body parts, did the Olympian head adjustment from side to side, cleared my throat and went back to sewing, only to find myself in exactly the same position just seconds after the fix. I mean, seriously, seconds later. I ask again, what the H, people?!

And guess what? Since I've been writing the blog, I have undone my ugly face at least a dozen times. Probably more. And so I wonder, exactly how long has this been going on? And who didn't tell me about it? And how many wrinkles could have been staved off, if there had just been a token finger lift and point? I will be the first to tell someone if they have a bat in their cave, almond flakes in their teeth or a witch hair standing tall and proud out of a mole. That's just common courtesy, people. So a quicker warning about ugly computer face would have been much appreciated. Now I'll forever have upper-lip-pencil-holder wrinkles. Great. Might as well go do the ugly cry. I nailed that baby in Jr. High.


I can understand your confusion as to why someone would put two random words together and call it a blog. Random, you say? Only to the un-indoctrinated ~ Prepare for doctrine.

Shoe is one, if not thee most important item in every woman's wardrobe. I remember Shirley asking Laverne this most important question ~ "Pump or flat?"~ right before she went out with Carmigne Raguso. (Don't mock my spelling. You don't know how it's spelled, either. Criminy.) Anyway, I was but a child when I heard the word, not privy to the power of the pump, but instantly my spidey sense tingled and I knew that this thing...this pump...was going to play a very large part in my own life one day and that I should pay close attention.

Shoe is pretty. Shoe is forgiving. Shoe fits no matter how many "tastes" of cheesecake you may have stabbed off with your fork that afternoon. No judgement. No "Hmm. Looks like somebody needs to exercise some will power now, don't they?" None of that crap. Shoe loves us, so we love shoe.

And Blue? Well, let's first clarify which blue we're referring to. It's sky, robins egg, cornflower and brilliant. Not necessarily midnight, cobalt or navy. Just had to be clear.

Blue is an October sky. Blue is my photo-shopped eyes. Blue is the "pretty" room in my home, the brooch on my vintage hat and the watering can on my porch. It is my new favorite and I can't imagine how we ever parted ways from my first inclination toward loving it, till now. I must admit, I went astray for several years in the interim. I was young. I was naive. I was seeking for greener pastures. But Blue waited patiently for my return. And I did.

So Blue and Shoe are two of the most beautiful temporal things I have in my life. Couldn't live without them. Separately, they are Heavenly, but put the two together and you have synergistic CELESTIAL GLORY! What more could a girl want? Besides a giant bag of Good~N~Plenties and a Diet Coke with lime over rabbit poop ice? And I've got both of those covered ~ and my shoes still fit. Aaahhh. Life is good, people. Life is good.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


I'm famous now. Just sayin'.


So what the junk? I had to have my wee little size zero (yes, I said zero, like that should even register on the number chart) sister figure out for me how to access my own blog. Whatever. I never professed to be brilliant with technology. In fact, I tend to "pac-man" my way through everything cyber and space. Accidental? I think not, she said with raised eyebrow.

And how does one pac-man? It's an inside joke between Bitty Boo (size zero sis) and me. One day, I made my own invitations for some shin-dig and feeling confident, showed them to BB. She looked at the invites...looked at me...and snot flew out of her nose as she tried to stifle a riotous snort. "What. Is. This?" She queried. "This is my invitations. What?" "Lis, they look like a pac-man ghost. You can't give these out. I can't let you. You're my sister and sisters don't let sisters drive drunk on the computer. Here. Move." And with that command, she shoved me over and out of the office chair, sat down to the computer and produced a masterpiece. And I knew right then and there exactly why my husband did such a lousy job on the dishes, the vacuuming, the sweeping, the laundry, etc. Because he knew I'd take one look at his pac-man effort and command him to "move" and he could walk away--all innocent and wide eyed, as if it had been his best effort, but just wasn't enough. Brilliant.

So Bitty Boo fixed my wide-eyed effort just now and you can all thank me later, as you won't be forced to relive the 80's through arcade style blogging.

I look forward to our chats, dear reader. And I say reader not to mimic Charlotte Bronte, so much as to refer to the one "fur sure" follower I know of. Bitty Boo. But she's teeny, so she only counts for half.