HOLY

Sassy the cat likes to think of this laptop computer as her own personal heating pad. She's spent a lot of time on the keyboard lately, as it's her take-off pad for flinging herself into the transom window to perch and do a weird cat cackle at the pigeons who've nested there. Actually, more like built a three story high-rise, inviting all it's drunk on worms pigeon friends to make themselves at home, and "use this colonial pillar as your toilet." And since yesterday's blog was chock full of feces references, that's all I'll say about it.

So after the ugly and unholy I witnessed this past weekend, I feel an urgency to return to my home and make it more holy. Which brings to mind my own upbringing and the tremendous impact it had~and continues to have~on my life.

When I was in 7th grade, I would be squirming in Science class~last period of the day~and could just hardly wait for the bell to ring. And it wasn't to see my stupid friends, because they would most likely be busy sharpening their blades (they'd dulled when shoved into my back earlier on) and it wasn't to see a boy, because by the end of the day, my sideways ponytail (think Deb from Napoleon Dynamite) had usually come undone, leaving the entire left side sticking straight out with Miss Clairol hairspray residue. (Sometimes I'd put my bright yellow coat over my head as camouflage, looking out through the armhole, trying to make it down the hallway and onto the bus...clearly, I was brilliant and poised)...anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes. I watched. that. clock. I'd had just about all I could take for the day~my coffers were flooding with confidence beatings and "the wrong" jeans~apparently Kings wasn't the most fashionable place to purchase designer brands, who knew?~and it was time for a reprieve. It was time for a happy Mom who was there when I came busting in through the front door with a yell, "MOM! I'M HOME!" And she'd say, "I'm down here, dear." Down here was in her sewing room and I'd wad a piece of Wonder Bread into a ball and shoving it in my mouth, where it stuck to the roof, go climb on the washer and dryer to tell her all about the crappy day.

It was time for a sunshiny home, with the freshly folded clothes on my bed and the vacuum in the middle of the living room, with instructions for me to finish up. Wish I could say I put my heart and soul into that, but alas, I was a slaphappy teenager. I fully deserve all the sloth that my own chitlins heap upon me.

It was time for a quick search for hidden candy and a stolen sip of Mom and Dad's ice cold Pepsi that would "ROT YOUR GUTS OUT" if you were under the age of married. It was table setting time, as family dinner was a daily ritual. It was FAMILY FUN NIGHT time, where we'd go to the neighborhood store and buy a MASSIVE brown bag full of penny candy, bring it home and dump it in the middle of the living room floor, taking turns choosing our favorites and then consume it all while talking, laughing and burping together. (What's that you say? Dentist and nutrition issues? Don't know what you're talking about.)

It was time for Dad's homemade popcorn that he'd oft times make for just him and Mom after the kids had gone to bed, and we'd get a whiff of the heavenly scent, come out of our bedrooms STOMPING MAD, down the hallway with the accusation of, "YOU NEVER, EVER, EVER MAKE POPCORN FOR US KIDS! WHY IS IT OK FOR YOU TWO TO HAVE ALL THE FUN...AND THE POPCORN?! THAT IS JUST RUDE AND YOU NEVER, EVER, EVER DO FUN STUFF FOR US KIDS. YOU JUST SAVE IT FOR YOU GUYS. NO FAIR!!!" And they'd laugh and giggle and say these immortal words, "When you're the mom and dad, you can do the very same thing!" And we'd say back, with extreme intelligence and foresight, "But we'll NEVER be the moms and dads!" Then go stomping back to our popcornless beds.

I could go on and on, as the memories are still fresh as laundry on a line. But can I just say what a blessed thing it is to look back on my childhood with such peace and warmth? And isn't it funny that it didn't matter what my mom was wearing (she was always beautiful)...or how thin she was (she had a soft lap)...or what kind of car we drove? (It was a hideous brown van) And money? Three words~so very poor. But somehow, we always found enough for the giant brown bag of candy, or a piece of material for a lovely Easter dress.

What it comes down to is this. Bless my mother's heart for making our home a haven. And holy. For spending her days in the service of her family. For looking "Beyond This Moment" and knowing that out of small and simple things, come that which is GREAT!

Bless my father's heart for earning and providing. He tied his tie and walked out the door every morning to teach a bunch of snot nosed kids who needed a gun to their heads to be forced to learn, and then returned home to US, with a smile on his bedraggled face and a shout of, "Who wants to go for a bike ride?!" I would imagine that was last on his list, but it was first on ours.

Bless them both for understanding that our home could~and should~be a Heaven on Earth.

And now, please excuse me, as I have a batch of bread that needs to be baked and several loads of laundry patiently waiting. Appears just putting the word holy in front of HE%#, isn't the right idea. I have a tremendous journey ahead of me~would that I were perfect~but out of small and simple things...

PRUNES

Soooooo......picture painting time. This picture IS worth a thousand words, and all of them offensive and poopy, therefore, consider this your parental advisory. Get the faint of heart out of the blog. Also, a quick disclaimer~when I refer to 'Las Vegas,' I am referring to the few blocks that Satan has cordoned off as his own ranch. Not YOUR neighborhood, kay? Good. OK, let the story begin...

Imagine if you will, that SATAN gorges himself on rancid prunes, prunes and more prunes, along with BUSHELS of rotting fruit. (I refill my palette with a yellowish-green color) He fills his bowels to BURSTING with brown broccoli and cauliflower that someone forgot about in the fridge. THEN he grabs his THREE FOOT LONG BEER BONG AND SUCKS IT DOWN to dregs, waits till the blend starts to gurgle and seethe, then finally, when he can feel the witches brew is steaming with sulfur, he drops his pants, squats down and aaaaaallllll of the people in Las Vegas notice the sky darkens. They look up and see a GINORMOUS FARTING RUMP HOVERING OVER THE CITY, WHICH ERUPTS AND SPEWS ONTO THE PEOPLE BELOW!

But they don't notice, because it's been done before. They're wallowing in it already. The streets are filled with it...diarrhea courses down The Strip in the form of pornography, scream and thud music and gray faced gamblers staggering out into the light of day, shielding their red eyes while they light up another cigarette and proceed to urinate against the nearest building. And everybody just sludges through...covered in runny feces, because as one well bread woman belched out, "WHAT'D YA EXPECT? YOU'RE ON THE STRIP!" And she scratched at a portion of the enormous gut hanging out of her tube top, causing a mole to bleed. Priddy.

And we WERE, people. We were on the strip. And can I just say...oh. my. word. I can't ped-egg scrape at my eyes long enough to remove the filth and debris that is called Las Vegas. No amount of Bon Jovi or Phantom of the Opera can fix what ails that town. There is not enough Barry Manilow or Donny and Marie to camouflage the state of being. And the slogan? The only thing that stays in Vegas is your soul. And your cash. The disease is yours for the taking home and keeping, honey. ALL YOURS! Re-infect to your hearts content! BTW, I thought of a new slogan..."Bob! Geez! Look what you stepped in! The Strip!"

Something else we noticed is the aroma. We kept thinking we'd find a pocket of fresh air somewhere~twas not the case. We did, however, get to choose between two fragrant choices~Smoke or Fart. And sometimes you would get two in one with smoky-fart. We just walked through the entire city with our shirts pulled halfway up over our faces. And yes, we could have been more discreet if we'd just breathed through our mouths, but can I just say that farty smoke is NOTHING you want stuck to your tongue.

So blinded by the flashing lights and gross was I, that I had a hard time keeping my footing. I mostly just pin-balled my way through every casino, bouncing off the throngs as I tried to grope my way out. But out was not a relief, as it meant you were back on the diarrhea Strip and Satan had probably just finished up his lunchtime meal, which consisted of sushi, corn and crab cakes. And another beer bong.....and no, the darkening sky is NOT refreshing rain.....

Thus, you can see, that I had a temporary lapse in sanity. For which I apologize, friends. I know I threw you under the bus as I bid you farewell the other day. And telling you to build me a snowman while I got a suntan? Well, that was just freakin' arrogant! And I shake and lower my head in shame.

Let me just leave you with the words of our Savior, which seems a little bit blasphemous, considering the tone of this blog. But truth is truth, no matter where it's sandwiched...

"WICKEDNESS NEVER WAS HAPPINESS."

'Nuff said.

Amen.

(Oh, yeah, Bon Jovi was good.)

DODGE BALL

Ok, peeps. I don't even know what to tell you. I'm gone. Outta here. This snow's the death of me and I have no other alternative but to get the heck out of Dodge. As in Dodge city, not dodge ball. But I was a really good player in my youth. Could straddle and jump and hardly EVER got out. But anyway...

I'M GOIN' TO VEGAS! YEAH, BABY! And as I commented in my status on FB, it is a horrid, filthy, degrading SIN-MECCA...unleeeeeeeesssss....you're going to see FREAKIN' BON JOVI IN CONCERT!!! Then it's glittery and magical and makes you look like you did in college when people used to tell you that you looked like the lead singer in the band. It was all about the big hair...you know it was...and it was awesome...and big hair made your waist look tiny, just like ginormous shoulder pads.

So to sum up~Make a snowman for me, and I'll get a suntan for you. See? Synergy...and friendship...and thinking of each other as we enjoy the elements, no matter where we (you) are...and (me) laughing.

Stay cozy! (heart pound, kisses)

SAVING FOR NICE

Hey! Guess what I get to do? I'll give you a hint...it involves gloved fingers, paper aprons and the words, "OK, now. Scooch your bum aaaaallll the way down to the end of the butcher paper covered table...aaaannnnnnndddd reeelaaaaaxxx." FYI, I've put it off for three years now, but that's only because I didn't want to seem gluttonous.

Plus, I've been saving it for "nice." That's what husband's mom always did~saved things for 'nice.' You'd use her bathroom and there would be eight threads left spanning a hand towel, and you'd think as you blew and waved your hands dry, "Hmm. Mom could use some new towels. I'll get her some for next gift giving occasion." So you did, and when she opened them, she'd hold them up and announce, "Oh, how lovely. We'll just save these for 'nice.'" Then she'd pry open the 'nice' drawer to shove the latest set~along with 50 years worth of fresh towels that had been buried alive. And you could swear you heard howls and shrieks as they shielded their terry cloth eyes from the glare of daylight, before the drawer slammed closed once again, only to be opened when the next set of 'nice' arrived at the funeral parlor.

Anyway, I've been saving this experience for 'nice.'

OK, so here's another clue...three words...P. A. P. One more word...smear. Doesn't that just conjure up good times? Such a pretty, pretty word combination.

Have you figured it out yet? No? You're not as bright as I thunk you were. OK, one more clue...and this is BY FAR the most distressing part...as it involves~(Jaws music in the background)...A MEDICAL SCALE!!!!! AS IN I WILL BE REQUIRED TO PLACE AAAALLLL OF MY 'NO I HAVEN'T TAKEN MY ABDOMINAL GIRTH SERIOUSLY' BODY ON THAT MEDICAL SCALE~WHICH IS OUT IN THE PUBLIC HALLWAY, SO YOU REALLY CAN'T STRIP DOWN TO BARE NAKEDNESS IN ORDER TO REMOVE THOSE EXTRA T-SHIRT OUNCES THAT REALLY, REALLY DO MATTER, FOLKS~BECAUSE APPARENTLY HALLWAY NUDITY IS 'FROWNED UPON.' AND ANYBODY CAN JUST WILLY NILLY WALK BY AND LOOK OVER THE NURSE'S SHOULDER TO WITNESS THE DEAFENING SOUND OF THE SCOOT and CLINK METAL FIFTY POUND INCREMENT BARS. AND SUCKING IN HAS ABSOLUTELY NO EFFECT ON THE FINAL WEIGH-IN NUMBERS. NOR DOES SQUEEEEEZING YOUR BUM CHEEKS TOGETHER OH SO TIGHTLY. AND YES, BUM CHEEKS CAN GET CHARLIE HORSES. JUST SAYIN'.

Feel sorry for me? Thank you. I would imagine they'll find cancer, or polyps, or an undiscovered pregnancy or something, which would totally serve me right for putting this off. And I have no excuses, except for cowardice. But really, if I'm being brutally honest, it's the "documented" part of that weigh-in, that makes me palpitate and upper lip sweat. It's on PAPER, people! INK on paper! See, I can lie to myself, but that da%$ scale is very, very discerning and can see right through my "big boned" and "that's muscle in my chins, and muscle weighs more than fat" lie. If the scale had an eyebrow, it would be lifted for my entire appointment. Sadly, my Dr. does, but she duct tapes it down while I'm there. Bless her heart.

Anyway, send an extra prayer my way, would you please? It's not for another three weeks, but I thought I'd burden you early with my angst.

I'm a Blog spider. So carry my spidery, smeary burden for me, won't you?

Thanksomuch. Preschiatcha.

VULTURES

So I was at a bridal shower a few weeks ago and we were having a GAY OLD TIME! There was chocolate and caffeine and polka dot table cloths and all was right with the world...when suddenly, I sniffed and whiffed a bride (fresh kill) that a mob of postnatal women (vultures) had circled in on. Poor dear. I could actually see her heart pounding 'neath her girlish mammaries as her eyes darted toward the front door for escape. But then the grandmother walked over and slowly twisted the lock. Aaaand so it began...

"You know, when I was pregnant, I got these whopping hemorrhoids. It felt like a grape was hanging out of my rectum for like, six months."

"Well, mine were worse. And when I gave birth, I tore. Like rrrrriiiiiiiippppp. It actually made a noise. And then they had to sew my bum and all my lower innards back inside."

"Ha! You think that's bad? I split in half. Literally. And they had to staple me. Four hundred and seventy seven steel clamps to put Humpty back together again."

A moment of silence to consider the last visual.

"Well, after I had baby Horace, he would NOT breast feed. My knockers were MAMMOTH! SOOOOO ENGORGED!"

"That's nothing. I got a breast infection that lasted eighteen years! Just try latching a suckling babe to a bleeding boob! THAT'S RIGHT~I SAID BLEEDING! Excruciating."

"Whatever. Get this. Both sides were engorged, then infected and THEN, my son actually bit my nipple in two. Mmm hmmm. And eventually, one day, Plop. They just up and fell off."

Another moment of silence and reverie.

We were shameless, folks. Scarlet letter outrageous. And I can't help but feel somehow responsible for the PYT backing~shrieking and screaming~out of the room...and the marriage...but it couldn't be helped. She had to know. And it was our duty (hand wringing pleasure) to inform her. And that's one case where the messenger probably should be shot.

Why do we do it? Nobody knows for sure. I think it's kind of like a sneeze~can't be restrained, is a natural urge and it just feels so FANTASTIC mid-spew. But the innocents face is left covered in flying mucus and snot, and there's no undoing the memory of being soiled with another person's boogs~or hemorrhoid/lactation narratives.

Anyway, I'm very disappointed in us~but mostly you. And that's because I don't think you've learned your lesson, cuz I can tell by your watery eyes that you're about to erupt once again with boogery tales and spew them all over another prenatal lassie.

Poor, poor lassie.

Don't worry~I'll hold her down.

DISCLAIMER

Holy JUNK! Talk about a backlash! Apparently my last post was a house of mirrors and every reader saw themselves reflected as phone spiders. To which I now say, HEY, PEOPLE! I, TOO, am a phone spider. Sometimes. Just not all of the time. And I'll do better. Like when I notice I've grown a spidery leg out of my bum, that's a sign that I'm morphing and I need to put the phone down. And that's all we can expect, right? Right. So THE END. I don't want to hear another whine about it.

And now we'll title today's blog~Disclaimers and Refutation.

You know how they will put a new drug on the market, and you'll think, "Oh my cows! This is fantastic! A MIRACLE CURE! Now I can live a full and happy life as this medication is EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED to fix whatever ailed me."

But whoa, whoa, WHOA unto the chick who throws down a pill or two without reading the fine print. Which usually combines fun and exciting words like, "uncontrolled flatulence," "anal seepage" and "warty genitalia." (a new favorite of mine) Alluring words like those. Therein lies the skull and crossbones, and we'd be well taught to read those baby words to understand what we're really getting.

Thus, I feel compelled to baby word warn you regarding Blue and Shoe. Stand back.

Blue and shoe is exaggerated entertainment. More often than not, the topics are pulled out of thin air, or the author's rump. If you find yourself in the words, you might have a slight vanity issue, because almost every blog is a direct reflection of the author's life, imagination and shortcomings. It's all about her. Not you. Her. Reading Blue and Shoe has not been PROVEN to cause uncontrolled flatulence, anal seepage or warty genitalia, but this does not mean that it does NOT. It just can't be PROVEN. Blue and Shoe will bring mirth to your face if you "get" it. But angry slit eyes if you don't. Blue and Shoe has been known to profane on a consistent basis~words as well as subject matter~but as has been pointed out, it's more often than not SPELLED incorrectly, thereby negating any offense. Satire, sarcasm and heavy doses of irreverence, fat and sugar, are the main ingredients of this blog. If you're allergic to ANY ONE OF THESE, we suggest you walk away from the buffet and take an enzyme immediately. And I don't know who "we" is, as it's just "I," but whatever. We speak Borg.

That should do it. I'm having this notarized, so it's official. In fact, it may be a requirement for continued reading for you all to sign that you've read and understand this, else I SHALL NOT CONTINUE TO DISPENSE THE HUMOR, FOLKS! You'll have to go off it COLD TURKEY...and you'll be just like Kinicky from GREASE coming off a heroin high on VH1~which we all know to be remarkably high brow entertainment.

And I can almost guarantee that Kinicky has his fair share of anal seepage. I know. Ew.

PHONE SPIDERS

My good friend Anony just called to tell me there is a SALE on our favorite blue hairspray! And that right there was enough to get me to quit screening my calls and actually pick up. Wait. No, no, no. I didn't mean I screen calls. That would be rude. I meant I practice "selective answering." That is self preservation. Apples and oranges, folks.

Even in the most beautiful summer months, we don't fling our windows wide, without making sure there is a filter~a barrier~for jumping, hairy spiders. Thus, the same is true for people pests that like to torpedo into our homes through fiber optics, making us jump and slap our own bodies as we try to "GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF! AAAGGHHHHH!!!"

Just the other day, I went to Target to buy Mucinex for sniffer boy. They made me sign that, "I will not be making meth with this here booger drug." And that got me thinking that SURELY, if I have to sign about snot meds, there should ABSOLUTELY be a requirement for telephone installation. I've come up with my own list of the phone terrorists that would be on the "do not fly" ~or answer~ list:

The "What else can you do for me?" callers. I have to answer their ring with a pencil and paper in hand to record my next assignment. They are usually the people that load their plate up with boiled spinach and cold beans and weenies, let it ruminate in it's own turd-like juices for a few days, then carry it over to my house for me to lick clean, as they profess they're just "overwhelmed" by their own self-appointed burdens. Needless to say, the taste left in my mouth afterward is not necessarily minty fresh. I have to spit a lot when I'm talking to them.

The "I have once again made a HORRENDOUS life decision~as Satan is my master~which will undoubtedly bring me to my knees in desperation~certainly not prayer~and I want to give you a play by play of every crisis that I continue to center my life around, intermixed with weeping and pessimistic gnashing of teeth. Then I'll ask your advice and pretend you have made an enormous difference in my life, professing that I wouldn't know WHAT to do without you, don't ever, ever leave me, you are my ONLY FRIEND!...followed by a titanic brain fart of every call to action and death bed repentance, continuing on eternally in my white-trash ways."

The "I don't have any pots full and boiling over on my creativity stove, therefore, neither do you, so you have a wallet full of time to spend on entertaining me."

The "I know I was supposed to do something staggeringly time sensitive and urgent, but I forgot, so do you still want me to do it?"

These are just a few. I'm sure there are others. Feel free to add your own.

My sister used to answer her phone with a Raid list in hand~the apologies she could offer up to phone spiders for not being available to babysit their lamblike wee tots, that they "just can't take with me to The Walmart, cuz their (grimy paws) minds are just so engrossed in (destroying) fresh merchandise, and they somehow get their hands on 10-12 candy bars, unwrapping and taking a slobbery bite when I'm not looking, but I'm just way, way, WAY vigilant, so I don't get how they can be so lightening quick. But then the stupid cashier totally expects me to pay for them, but I'm like, "Um, hello? That ain't MY fault that you guys put candy at my kids EYE LEVEL. You shoulda thought about that before you filled your check-out lane with stuff that's gonna tempt them. That's YOUR fault and I ain't paying for it. Then I dump the piles of destroyed merchandise on the conveyor belt for her to figure out what to do with. Can you even believe her gall? Anyways, um, can you watch them for like, I don't know, I should be done around dinner time. But if you want to keep them longer and have them eat with you, it's totally fine. You can bring them by later."

The only thing that keeps me from tearing the device from the wall and letting it hang by it's wires, is that sometimes, on beautiful occasion, there is the sing-songy, lyrical ring that comes from a real friend. The "Hey, I was just thinking of you and wondered what I can do to lighten your load? Do you need a stack of twenties? How about a years supply of cinnamon bears and good-n-plenties? Or a gift card to Hobby Lobby? I would imagine you're still in your pajamas, as it's only noon thirty, so I'll just leave them on your doorstep so you don't have to be seen. I love you! And you're thin."

And that right there is why I am so adept at performing "selective answering."

No hairy "A" phone spiders need call me up. My Raid is ready.