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.
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.
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 thenumber 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.
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)
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.
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)
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.
Tired of people aiming and shooting willie-nillie at said target on my fanny.
Tired of people who, after aiming, shooting and nailing me dead center through the fanny, scream and moan that I've offended them by receiving their arrow through my fanny.
After having yanked and pulled out many poison tipped arrows lately, I am weary. Can't keep turning the other (fanny) cheek, because it's full of holes, too.
So as the wounds heal, the skin gets thicker, whether I want it to or not. A casualty of willie nillie arrows and Mama Bears that don't understand this term is nothing to aspire to.
Here's a thought~Let us remove the Mama Bear mantra and instead aspire to be Mothers who know...
Mothers who know... that their child often tells only a "smidgen" of the truth~and only the "smidgen" that makes them look innocent. Mothers who know... that children must reap what they sow~without Mama Bear intervention~or become a government subsidized burden to society. Mothers who know... that their child will most surely rise to the height of the bar they're told to catapult over, whether it's two inches off the ground or in the beautiful starry skies.
I dreamed last night that I went to a restaurant with several tables built for two. A couple of steps up from these tables was a platform with the entire wall being shower stalls...open to the public for full view, as there were no rods or curtains. All of the tables were full, but there were openings in the stalls.
So if you REALLY wanted to eat there, you had to strip down naked, lather up and take a full on shower in front of the people seated at the tables.
So I did.
But I left a really small tip, because I really, really hated doing it. That'll show 'em.
Now for the kicker. I made reservations to return. But you can BET I'll be going on a diet before I do.
I'm not stupid, you know.
(Anyone else out there have horrible naked dreams? Please share.)
Aaaaannnnddd, going to spend too much money on eldest son today. It wasn't quite enough that we had to pay for the mailbox massacre~we wanted...needed to do more. But what? How can we show full appreciation and admiration to son for just being HIM? And, for being born. Yes, just for being born. I'll tell you how...lavish birthday gifts and money pouring down like raindrops from Heaven, that's how! So we've seeded the clouds and he now stands open armed and head tilted, ready to receive the downpour.
Therefore, on such a momentous occasion, I'd like to treat you to a small anecdote. THIS is how we knew the boy was meant for greatness~and I share this with only you~a few of my closest and dearest friends. Enjoy...
Moments after being born, son was lying wide eyed in the incubator (not just for baby chicks, I guess) and without even a fig-leaf for modesty. His two grandpappys were there, admiring what had been produced from their off-springs loins. One grandpa points and says to the other, "Wow. Would you look at the pecker on that boy?" Other grandpa shakes his head and says, "Ooo, ahhhhh, eehh, heh heh heh heh." Which is gentleman speak for, "I feel terribly uncomfortable with that remark~but yes, yes that is quite a stem on that apple." Two grandpas smile at each other, to themselves and then walk away whistling.
And he's been delighting and impressing us ever since.
And there you have it. Out of small and simple things come that which is great. I'm speaking, of course, about his spirit and...what were you think-...oh, never mind.
SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOY-SON!!! (insert something profound here)
(Now weep and sob as you read this, knowing that THIS is a Hallmark moment.)
No dunes on account of busted bikes and barf. See? I knew that would happen all along~totally inspired.
It just looked like I was being thoughtless and self-absorbed. And just for the record, there will probably be lots and lots of times that I look thoughtless and self-absorbed, but I won't be. That's not who I am, people~not how I roll.
Try to remember that so I don't have to keep wasting my time telling you, cuz I have waaaay more important things to do that to remind you of how selfless I am.
So husband and children are going to the Sand Dunes with our neighbors. Once again, I've declined the invitation. I spend enough time cleaning nooks and crevices in my home. I don't want to have to sift sand through my own fanny cranny. (And by the way, Maren, I know you relish the opportunity to make me look bad. I think there's a special place in Hell for you.)
Plus, my husband KNEW what I was when he married me.
Now I, on the other hand, DID NOT know what he was. He lied. Something he admits to now.
When we were first dating, he sent me this incredibly romantic tape (cassette~shut up) that asked me out for a date of...and I quote..."A candlelight dinner, followed by an old black and white movie, or maybe 'Somewhere In Time'..." I swooned~dropped in a dead faint right there in the living room. My parents doused me in water and grinned at each other. They knew.
Somehow~I can't recall why (made out instead)~we never did end up watching the movie. But deep down, I knew that he truly loved old black and whites. We were so in tune...so aware of the true nature of each other's souls. Love does that, you know. (I just threw up a little bit.)
Anyway, long story short, the moment the ceremony was over, he gazed deeply into my eyes, held my hand and leaned over lovingly to whisper in my ear..."I really do emit stinky gas~on VERY frequent occasions, I will start growing weird patches of hair in unpredictable places on my body and I only watch Arnold and Bruce." Then he pulled away to discern my reaction.
And much like our entire Honeymoon, I kept the smile frozen on my face. Nooooooo...it was totally sincere and real~totally. Why wouldn't it have been? You're weird.
Anyway, I'm not going to the dunes. It's payback time, babe. Enjoy the grit. :)
Have I ever mentioned my daughter? Oh, that's right~there was that post about "no joy," but I didn't really get into too much detail.
I had planned to have another child shortly after Ju-Ju was born. And you know, I kept those plans, even after giving birth to her, and if you can forget hemorrhoids, a swelling nose (no, really, my nose was enormous~she almost escaped my womb through my nostrils) and hating everything but the taste of dirt and oranges for nine (that's a lie~it's almost ten) months, then pretty much you know you were serious.
However, after the initial burst of excitement about having a female make and model, I realized that her outward appearance might be mine to mold and create...but not her personality.
That, apparently, was up to Heavenly Father.
And HE, apparently, doesn't take cues or direction from MOTHERS.
Which I personally think is kind of a mistake, but whatever.
So the curse that most everyone's mother places on them at some point in their youth~usually after a dastardly deed~that "hope you have a child EXACTLY like you" came true. And how can I claim that I was undeserving of such a trial...I mean daughter, as this?
Which brings me to Ju-Ju. And to Bitty Boo and Taz. And Amanda's Screaming Banshee. What did they do to deserve their little demons? I mean, if we're going to blame someone, let's get right to it.
So here is my theory. I believe there was a gorgeous piece of material in Heaven. It was so precious, that it was put on a high shelf and "saved for nice." Sky blue with diamonds and glitter. Soft, shiny, magnificently high in thread count, and there were three (or more, but I can only speak for three) spirits just waiting for bodies. One day, those three mavericks climbed up the shelf and pulled that fabric down. They wrapped themselves in it and danced and twirled and then requested of Heavenly Father that they might ALL be cut out of the same cloth. So they were.
The same screamy, wild haired, wild eyed, I want it all and I want it NOW, don't tell me NO, I have NO idea what kind or patient means, love me even when I'm horrid, I will eventually become the most amazing, delightful, beautiful, wonderful person you have ever had the privilege to know daughter, CLOTH.
And Heavenly Father chuckled and sent them down to us.
Now all we have to do is figure out how to sew them up correctly.
Looks like I need some sewing lessons.
So down on my knees I go. But this time I don't remind Him that I'm receiving "no joy." Instead, I thank Him for the divine nature of the cloth and pray for the ability to create what He had in mind when He sent it to me~a beautiful princess costume~because she is His daughter.
Did everyone reading this know that Bitty Boo's smile lights up a room? Her hands are pretty when she lightly touches her face. Her hair is just like a model in a Pantene commercial. Also, her wedding ring is HUGE, even though she NEVER would have requested something so ostentatious. She's just not that way.
So good at directing her sister's blog topics.
Her sister doesn't even know when she's being manipulated into writing complimentary fluff pieces on her. She just does what she's told. She's kind of like a Borg~resistance is futile.
Oh my holy cow, I just got the happiest stuff in the mail! There is nothing so delightful as forgetting that you've ordered something and then having it arrive in a BIG, GIANT BROWN BOX, when you have no recollection of giving out your Visa number! I should be really concerned about that. But it's all about priorities, people. And for ME, delight and excite FAR outweigh responsible and financially competent. THAT is why Heavenly Father created BIG, GIANT BROWN BOXES.
And Froiline Maria... "Brown paper packages, tied up with string...these are a few of my favorite things..." SING IT WITH ME, PEOPLE!
Now I know that I've been known to "dis" brown, but in this case, I make an exception. Rules, like noses and arms, were made to be broken. And speaking of broken, husband accidentally busted three, count them, THREE milk bottles today. On the kitchen floor. At wee hours AM, when I was trying to remain a slumbering princess.
The profanity from his lips was as free flowing as the milk from the bottles. Which brings us to another subject~should a wife enter the special "circle of Hell" that is created when such accidents occur? Or should she use the brain that God gave her to stay the stink away? After doing just that (entering,) it is safe to say that this is NOT a requirement for an eternal marriage. If it were, there would have been a mention of it in the ceremony. And yes, it IS that serious.
Also, whoever said those immortal words, "No use crying over it" was an idiot. They didn't find seven cupboards stuck closed later that day. They didn't find splatters on their ceiling and light fixtures three rooms removed, either. And they won't be smelling fermented, coagulating dairy for the next several weeks until they find the source. Stupid immortal word speakers.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. I entered the fray, mistakenly thinking it was my duty. But then, Potty mouth turned on me and started hurling obscenities like ice balls in a friendly snowball fight. Taken aback, I beat a hasty retreat. I serpentined through the family room and nearly made a clean getaway, but wasn't quite quick enough~ still had a few thwak and splatter the back of my head. Nice.
Which leads us back to our original subject~big, brown boxes. It's what hisface should be covered with for the next several days so that I can thump his stupid box head every time I walk past him without actually causing harm~or any tell-tale marks of said domestic abuse.
I walked half a block, carrying Taz (this will be important later) to her waiting crib and laid her down. It's official, folks. I cannot have any more children. It's gone~the critical component necessary to continue seeding and spawning is gone.
"What?" you ask. "You're missing a womb?"
No, no I have a womb. It's stretched and sagging and could easily house triplets in it's present state.
"Like patience, then?"
Well, of course I don't have patience. As far as I know, that was never a prerequisite for having children in the first place, or there would be at least four less in the world.
"Then what, Lisa? What could it be?!"
I'll tell you, friends. Mother's arms.
That's right, mother's arms...and legs...and back...and hips...but mostly arms. Those limbs that allow young mothers to hold a 30 pound baby carrier with a 20 pound child in one arm, a purse and a 30 pound toddler in the crook of the other arm, grocery bags tucked under her chin while kicking along a forsaken tricycle and shoving a car door shut with a hip.
Arms that "ustacould" throw a kid over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes and steer a mountain bike with a flat tire all the way home. Arms that "ustacould" carry an exhausted Halloween cow home when he collapsed in a heap halfway through Trick-or-treating.
But "ustacould" is over, friends. It's over. I've been betrayed by my own biceps. My own middle aged, turkey gobbler, crepey skinned biceps. May they rest in peace.
Already on my third batch of caffeine today. The first two didn't take. Must have been duds. I know, I was skeptical too. But you can't argue with lethargy. It doesn't argue back anyway~just sits there with eyes rolling back in its head.
The reason for needing to be hyper-alert? Taz is coming for a visit. And by visit, I mean tornado/whirlwind/typhoon/tsunami/hurricane or any other natural disaster you can envision. I'm boarding up my windows and nailing down furniture now. Can't be too careful.
As a side note, the mailbox is being created once again and should be born sometime this afternoon. I'm going to buy some onesies for it. With polka dots. And a giant hair bow. Because, as so many things in life, my ability to accessorize is a representation of my worth and I will not be mocked. Or if I am, it will not be because my mailbox is bald.
Great Gramma sent mailbox murdering son some money this past week. His eyes lit up like diamonds while his version of sugar plums (beef jerky, hamburgers and gum) danced in his head. He could hardly wait to spend the wind-fall.
I waited and wondered how long it would take until he remembered that he's going on a mission and that this check was meant to help him prepare for said church service. I grew seven new wrinkles in the process of patience, and finally took it upon myself to remind him. He was atheistic in his recognition of truth.
"Huh? What do you mean? How do you know? I think it's more of a "congratulations" kind of thing, Mom."
"What do you mean? Like a "congratulations for being YOU?" I responded.
"Yeah. Like for being a good kid and going on a mission and stuff."
He really struggled with this news. Wanted proof. I had to sit down for a moment and regale him with stories of our family's religious rituals. He still gazed absently at my forehead, so I yanked on a chunk of his bangs to pull him back.
Finally, he received a testimony of all that I said, and as a pig to the slaughter, retrieved the money from his wallet and handed it over for future "preparation." I patted his head. Good piggie. Nice piggie. Poor piggie.
Anyway, I'll talk to y'all later. I'm going to buy some gum.
A little ditty for you, based on the old poem by, well, I don't know who, but repeated oft to me by my parents. (Not very subtle, Mom and Dad. Not very subtle.) I've changed the words a bit to be more fitting of my own recent experiences.
There once was a girl (middle aged woman~go ahead and guess)
Who had a little curl (zit)
Right in the middle of her forehead (Yup, right smack between my eyes. Are. you. kidding.)
Bitty Boo is here visiting, with Taz. (short for Tazmanian Devil) That's the daughter she locked out of her house.
I'm calling DCFS.
Kidding, Taz totally deserved it!
Anyway, had the most hysterical time watching her interface with my brother's dog. Taz grabbed the teeny poodle, pulled an ear, poked an eye and fell on it thrice in ten seconds flat. Poodle curled an Elvis lip and growled a warning. Taz mistook it for an invitation~to do the same thing all over again.
Taz yanked and slapped and thrust a finger into poodle's face. Poodle nipped. Taz was stunned, jerking her teeny fingers away.
"What the H?" I could almost hear her wee little two year old pipes exclaim. Course, she can't articulate that clearly, but we have a connection.
She wasn't really sure how to respond, so she shoved another digit into Poodle's snout and chipmunked, "Bad dog!" Bad dog bit again.
"What the H? Seriously!" So she did it again, and again, and AGAIN, even going so far as to chase the pup down, grasping it's fur by the neck and pointing into it's mouth full of incisors, naming it inferior. Poodle obliged with the same repetition, intending to train this child in the way of really bad dogs.
And every time, she'd jerk away, wide eyed and aghast at what had transpired.
I laughed. I laughed, and laughed and laughed. And then I looked around while wiping my mirthy tears and realized that I was the adult, and apparently obligated to roadblock the rest of the experiment.
So I did.
(It's not really a swear word if you spell it wrong.)
Son busted down our newborn (one month old) brick mail box. I had just finished swaddling it and laid it down for a nap, when it was obliterated with one mistaken gear shove of the Jeep. Reverse is so close to Park. I know.
I laughed and screamed~hysterically and sporadically~even went so far as to wildly karate kick and chop the air. Looking back now, I wipe a proud tear.
When I finished my tantrum, I looked down and waving my hands in surrender, walked to my car and drove away, leaving devastated boy in the middle of the street without a friend in the world.
Glinda the Good Witch must have appeared in her pink bubble shortly thereafter to tell the neighbors it was safe to "come out, come out...the wicked witch is DEAD!" (or gone to the store~whichever.) so they came creeping out of their homes to see the ruin. They did what I could not...helped him clean it up without feeling worse about his acuity, potential tobe a night manager at a convenience store, and prospects for finding a decent wife because of such supreme OBTUSITY. Not a word? Sure it is. Means dumberness.
So thank heavens for family and friends that bear our burdens. I'll return the favor when I catch you chasing your child through the streets with a butcher knife. Until then, please accept my sincere gratitude...and this here brick that I've covered in fabric for a door stopper. There's lots more where that came from.
I am a loud spirit trying to subdue itself in this body. Sometimes successful, other times, not so much. I am a happy, thriving, religious homemaker, wife and mother. And none of these things are contrary, no matter what the world tells you. :)