EVER!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO...I am in soooooo much truuuuuuublllllll!!!!!!!!!!

Let's just say you never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVERRRRRRRRR blog about a prepubescent girl's baby chick armpit hair.

EVER, EVER, EEEVVVVRRRRRRRR!!!

But most especially if she has older brothers that read your blog.

BABY CHICKS

Puberty update:

Yesterday, daughter walks over to me sitting on the couch, looks around covertly and whispers sideways to my face~

"Mom. I'm growing armpit hair."

"Reeeaaallly? Let's see." I respond discreetly.

Eyebrows furrow as she does another stealth testosterone room sweep, then an abrupt arm lift right next to my nose. I went cross-eyed to focus. Nothing.

"Where is it?" I stare eagerly at the exposed pit.

"Right there," she points and whispers.

"Where? Like how many am I looking for?" I vigorously whisper back, still about an inch away and moving her from side to side to see if it magically appears in certain lighting. I blow in the vicinity and watch for movement. Still naught.

Oooooh, I get it. She has an imaginary friend. Named Armpit Hair. Bless her heart.

But she's insistent. "MOM! See?" She puts her chin to her chest and pulls her mouth down at the edges in concentration. "Right here. Lots of baby hairs all over under here." she snorts and giggles and smiles a huge toothy grin...and by toothy, I mean four toothy, since she's shaken, shoved and yanked until every last one of those tots fell in surrender, like wounded and dying in a battlefield. The ugly stage battlefield. And yes, I remember my own violent "right of passage" skirmish well. It sucker punched me in the fourth grade and kept my neck firmly in it's elbow crook until well into Jr. High, folks. WEEEELLLLLLLLL into Jr. High.

Back to pits~ again, I lift and shift and finally, a soft shaft of light illuminates what might be considered new, baby hair growth.

Baby chick pit hair.

Aaaawwwwww.

Who knew that in the midst of ugly stages, there can be an Easter Bunny reminder that good may still come. That sunshine and flowers and new teeth will take root...along with those fuzzy little follicles.

And that's what this is, kids~Spring, in baby chick pit hair form.

I'll take it.

GREATER GOOD

I'm going to go out on a limb here and "suggest" that Cheetos may not be A) Nutritionally sound B) Free of additives and C) Made of actual food. However, and this is really all that matters, they ARE A) Scrumptious B) Alluring with their 'come hither' crunch and C) On sale 3 for $5, which means I MAY HAVE bought...and POSSIBLY ate...all three bags by myself. But you probably can't prove it, unless you perceive the suspicious orange tint on the end of my nose. But I'll just say it's from eating too many bottles of carrot baby food.

Course, I can fix it with almonds, people, and I am in the process of doing so, if you'll just quit questioning my intent. Yes, this brown slobber is from Hershey's kisses. But what you DON'T know is that there are almonds inside of them and I'm just doing whatever is necessary to get that goodness in me.

Sorry for the long pause~

I was just interrupted from my musings with a collect phone call from my first born son. He's in an airport in Los Angeles, waiting to climb on another plane and settle in for a 12 1/2 hour flight to Brazil. Good times await him, friends. Good, comfortable, head bobbing and leg stretching times.

And forgive me if this blog is sopping wet with angel mother tears, as I feel as if he's lost to me all over again. I didn't want to hang up the phone~even having "toll charges" running wild and threatening to tattle-tell in my brain. Funny how I didn't find his voice nearly as endearing when he lived here. Probably because it was usually demanding something...like gas for his car, or a later curfew, or for the Earth's axis to go directly through him. But now...well, now he's gone. And I would give my last bag of Cheetos and handful of chocolate coated almonds to hold him once again in my arms...and swing him in the tree swing in his summer pajamas...and run my fingers through his wispy bowl-cut hair...and listen to him talk about tools and trucks and biting baby brothers with fluffy baby-lip lisp.

But I finally did hang up the phone, with a lump in my throat and a crack in my voice as I told him to "have a wonderful mission."

Then closed my weeping eyes tightly and immediately told the only person I could think of about my sorrow...My Heavenly Father.

He knows. He gave his son up for a greater good, too.

And so I say goodbye all over again.

POTATO HEAD

Above pictures entitled, "Why Heavenly Father created Lisa's feet." Also, an homage to my mother's family, as her maiden name is Stewart and HELLO! STEWART PLAID HEELS! If ever there was reason to go on living, here they are.

Kind of dizzy. I had to go back to bed this morn~and just so we're clear, I didn't WANT to, but I was FORCED~for what was meant to be a quick cat nap, but turned suddenly violent as I fell off~no, strike that~somebody SHOVED ME off~a snooze cliff and into a heinous death sleep. You're nodding your blog heads, I can see. Death sleeps are brutal, as you just. can't. drag. yourself. out. of. seizing. unconsciousness. and even if the house burned down you would be found cremated but still asleep in the rubble. Usually I reserve those for Sunday afternoons after church, since it always ends with half my face on the other side of my face and smear hair. So why today? Do tell!

Two words. Third son. He had a HERCULEAN brain fart and forgot he's 13, staying out until 1:00 AM~did you get that last part?~AE FREAKING EM! this morning. And what does a 13 year old 'sniffer' DO until 1:00 AM? Well, one thing is certain~anything BUT answer his phone.

It was on silent. (ssshhhhhhhh)

Yeah.

I know.

So are my eyes, but you can still HEAR THE SCREAMING FURY BURNING INTO YOUR FLESH, can't you? His fanny should have been in FLAMES as those silent calls came through.

Now, to be fair, because I'm NOTHING if not sensitive to another's plight, he did have permission to be gone and he mentioned a very vague "late" in passing. His late=1:00. My late=10:00. Oil and water. Also, he was with some wonderful young men, having "one last hurrah" (I think we're up to last hurrah #649) before another boy heads out to the mission field for two years. So it's not like he donned a ski mask as he went out the door. Still.

I'm not sure which was angrier, my heart or my jaw. Neither one would calm down, and even when he arrived home safe and COMPLETELY UNAWARES of the chaos he'd caused, they wouldn't let it go. They stayed up and snarked for a good hour afterward, palpitating and clenching, talking smack on teenagers and partial frontal lobe development.

Anyway, fast forward and there was a fully repentant boy living here this morning. Funny how things come full circle.

Which reminds me of the dark circles under my eyes, which are sitting on top of each other as I type this, compliments of my death sleep. Excuse me while I play Mrs. Potato Head with my face.

DORA

Feeling creatively parched today. Shriveled lips, cracked and bleeding nail beds, reptilian feet. And yes, I CAN TOO blame it on my creative juices drying up. A good woman can always find something/someone else to point the finger of shame towards.

Anyway, sometimes I'm just as dry as Ferris Bueller's homeroom teacher. "Blog topic. (pause) Blog topic. (pause) Blog topic. (pause)" Just waiting for a response from my brain that has called in sick...and dying, in need of an organ transplant, but it's on the waiting list, so it may be years. Speaking of Ferris, he sure knew how to make the most of his days, didn't he? Makes me feel like my own expectations are pathetic.

Kind of like when I go out to dinner, look down, and realize that JUST the appetizer in this restaurant is more than I would consider preparing as the entire MEAL for my own family. To which I say, SOUP is good people. Soup is fine~FINE, you big babies. No need to go overboard with an entree...or even a roll. It's like the perfect white linen dress~you don't go slapping a Dora the Explorah applique on it to make it BETTER. No, you don't. It's already perfect in it's simplicity.

And if simply soup doesn't put a smile on your face, a plate of deep fried chips and salsa with a smattering of sour cream and guacamole should more than hit the spot. No need to accessorize with a meat, fruit, vegetable (salsa is vegetable) or any other food group. Plus, where is the candy in that Egyptian pyramid? Huh? Huh? I'll tell you where...NO WHERE! Who were the brilliant scientists that left out THAT food group? Looks like their "Ooooo, look at me. I'm a genius mind! I have above a 1.7 GPA" (said with a snotty, stupid baby voice) education had a few holes in it, now, doesn't it? And THAT RIGHT THERE is why I dropped out of college, people! Nothing whatsoever to do with a "below C average three quarters in a row, so you're suspended and can't return until you appear before a board of admissions and academically superior peers and kneel on bended knee, weeping and pleading for them to let you back into the college that you've mocked as "Harrison High" like you were too good to be there, but now they won't allow you on campus until you sign some papers and promise to study and take a 'remedial' course to prove that you're serious, so as not to be a liability to them on a National level" reason.

Let's just say I got engaged to be married just in time.

Furthermore, you're just a whiny, demanding, entitled kid~just like Ferris. You want to go to the ballgame, AND eat a four course meal, AND sing a Beatle's song on a float in the parade...ALL IN A 90 MINUTE MOVIE. Hells bells. 'Bout time somebody taught you to appreciate what you have...or don't have...or what I'm not supplying you with...like nutrition. Plus, your mother's job is to build character, and what better way to accomplish this~in a timely manner~than sacrifice? And YES, willing should be a part of the equation, but we don't have all day, people.

Sheez. Now where was I before you started whining?

Well, it doesn't really matter, since nothing's coming to mind anyway. Except building a pyramid out of Smarties and candy hearts. Huh. Weird. Don't know why that's come to mind.

FOREVER

Just got home from the salon, and can I just say that I hope I never, ever have enough time or desire, as my hairdresser did, to separate my locks into thousands of individual strands, spray it, wax it, rat it and flat iron it into baby water spouts and rainbows all over my head.

I am my own gay pride parade.

So last night, we gathered for Family Home Evening and waited for our youngest son to teach us the lesson. And when I say "teach," I mean, "monotone recitation with intermittent booger sniffs from what might as well have been the health care reform act without any inflection animation or attention to punctuation."

It was...captivating.

I stared~cross eyed~around the room and found myself reading everybody's thought bubbles. They ranged from oily noses to enlarged prostates, with a smattering of hidden candy and Diet Coke thrown in for fun. Hard to tell whose was whose.

Now friends, we try to be obedient and have these gospel lessons in our home each week. But we've also found that we open arm and loud laughter embrace these occasions when they arrive loaded down with ice cream and doughnuts. It's like a conduit that allows the spirit to come busting in through the front doors, all happy and spiritual and ready to enlighten~rather than slinking in through the basement window all stoic and somber and quoting from scripture. Not that there's anything wrong with the word of God, but it's OH SO MUCH MORE TASTY with seven or eight licorice sticks hanging out of your lips like cigars.

And I just feel sorry for the poor, ornery fool who doesn't recognize and advocate the compatibility of sugar, fat, gospel and family. What a waste. It's synergy, people. And we've talked about this concept before, but it bares repeating. It goes something like this...Treats=smiles=joy=happy=spiritual=family=celestial=Godly= MUST BE A BLESSING FROM OUR HEAVENLY FATHER.

So let us continue in our quest for eternal families. Determined, steadfast and immovable...

...lumpy, lethargic and in a smiley sugar coma.

Whatever it takes to be together forever.

CRIME

Good news! We slept in a tent last night! I know. Really, really fun...if it had been in the summer...and we were camping (bite your tongue)...and the tent was in the middle of a five star hotel (that's better.) But that's another story. Back to this one~why were they sleeping in a tent?

Well, and this is kind of gross, but that's what makes my blog so intriguing and I try to set a high standard of intrigue (gross-out factor) for you all to enjoy (eschew.) We were actually sleeping in our own bed carrying on a (bum) conversation with each other. Husband would pose a (gassy) question, to which I (my fanny) would reply. And then we would laugh and laugh and laugh. We have really high standards for pillow talk.

Our blankets billowed and bulged as the flatulence flew, and just when we thought the covers would make contact, another warm pooh air bomb would explode and blow them sky high once again. Thus, the tent.

Now, we're not really sure which of us was the greater felon...we try not to point fingers as this time there was no mistaking we were both perps. But we have been able to pinpoint that an ingestion crime occurred sometime between noon and ten PM~which is the "mindless snacking" interval for our Sunday. I know. We're all about restrictions, people. Either way, with such a substantial window of opportunity, I think it's highly unlikely an arrest will take place. All we can do now is seek forgiveness from our bedroom (we're so sorry, covers. We'll make it up to you with Febreez and a sanitize wash cycle) and try not to become repeat offenders. (Yeah, right.)

But you know, friends, this is why we have a happy marriage. It's the little things~like mirthy, stinky, matrimonial beds. And sharing a cup of rabbit poop ice and Diet Coke with lime. And surprise diamond rings "just because." What? Where did that come from? That was weird.

But do you get where I'm going with this, kids? I think it's pretty obvious...if you want a happy marriage, it takes surprise diamonds. Diamonds are all that matter. Because they're little (but not too little, hint hint.) And they don't stink.

'Nuff said.

P.S.~This pic is a shout out to Brenda~she's pushing me to "improve" my blog with visual aids. You're regretting that suggestion about now, aren't you, dear? Either way, the art work is compliments of Jules. The hand is compliments of a cadaver. (Anony~feelin' guilty?)