IT'S A LAWJ!

Hey there, muh peeps! Or, should I say, "HEY Y'ALL!"

Okay, so here is today's Ashville, Noeth Cerlawna conversation overheard in the department store.

Darling little grandmama southern belle tugging a snug sweater over her ample bosom~

"Oh, wheel you lookey theyah. Ah managed to squeeeeeze into this heyah sweatah, even though it's only a saz...WHUT IN THE...it's a LAWJ? Heeyah I thowt this whole tam, ah was wearin' a smawal! Oh! That is jus' terribahl. Ah thowt it was a smawl. But it's a LAWJ!"

And her sweet little friend just smiled at both their reflections in the mirror, without saying a word.

HOW DELIGHTFUL! When I passed by the same rack a few minutes later, she was still there, primping and preening, and pulling at that same lawj sweatah. So I blessed her heart, gave her some sugah, and took another bite of my pecan log.

Wish you were hear, darlin's.

But you're not.

So I'm eating for both of us.

BUH BYE

Today's four letter word:

BELT. That's right, BELT. On account of it sounds like a swearword to my belly when it rolls off my tongue.

So I'm going to South Carolina for the week to visit my beautiful older sister, Nicki and her fam. Nicki used to pee on me after we got out of the tub, when we were little. I'll tell you that story when I get back. But for now, just hold tight, read my latest from Blissfully Domestic and I'll bring you some fresh, tasty peanuts and left over Dramamine.

You're welcome.

CHRISTMAS IN OCTOBER

I just LOVE me some Berenstain Bears, don't you? And boy, did they know how to grow a pumpkin or what? Some mad cartoon farming skills.

Anyway, JINGLE BELLS, BATMAN SMELLS, Lisa got started on her Christmas shopping today. Not willingly, mind you, so put the seething, "Commercialization of the holiday season has RUINED Jesus' and my life" retort in your files for a later infraction. Nope, it was pure necessity, as while YOU have been lying about, shoving candy corns onto your two front teeth and replenishing your stock of vanishing 'trick or treat' candy~don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about~we missionary moms with elders serving in FREAKING BRAZIL are gathering up in our vintage aprons the entire festive holiday season that takes other, less gifted women, all of November and December to accumulate.

Then we wrap every carefully chosen item individually, and mail it all off in ENORMOUS, SPACIOUS 3 inch deep x 9 inch wide boxes ($50 each)...only to be embezzled by corrupt South American postal workers.

I'm considering one of two things, in order to keep the bast......rombone player's filthy, pilfering paws out of our loot. One~offering up a 24 hour fast. Two~offering up my 10 year old daughter as a human sacrifice.

What?

If the postal gods require it, people, who am I to argue?

Either way, I'm going to need your help. Now go get the duct tape~it's in the junk drawer.

What?

Geez, you guys are so suspicious! I meant for my mouth.

24 hours is a really long time.

SCABS AND SCHOOL

First things first~I have a scab under my nose that I can't stop picking at. Don't judge me, I just needed it to be your burden, too. Here, go ahead, take it. No, really, take it. Thank you. I feel better now.

So the other night, I read aloud for the whole family, "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". I even held up the book to show them the pictures, on account of I learned that routine from my own experiences teaching school, ages four through eight~my age, not theirs.

Remember playing school? Loved it. I made sure I was always the art teacher, while my older sister, Nicki, was the spelling teacher. For some reason, it always ended with them (two younger siblings) begging and sobbing to go learn spelling, which was really, really dumb, "because art is WAY better than spelling, you stupid kids!" And I shoved them in that direction, where Nicki lovingly scooped them up and they all whispered together while casting furtive glances in my general direction.

WAS IT MY FAULT THEY DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO DRAW AN APPLE THE RIGHT WAY? I don't think so, people. So let's not go shooting the messenger here. Gads.

Anyway, I've changed. I'm more patient now. And to prove it, just re-read that first paragraph about the scab I won't let heal. All because of my tremendous growth in that area.

Lesson learned. (pick, pick, pull...CRAP!)

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?

So second son was asked to the girl's choice dance coming up next month. And of course, since it's all about me, I had strong feelings about the whole thing, on account of my experience asking a kid to Sadies my Jr. year.

His name was Paul, but I like to call him assface. Don't worry, it's a scriptural reference, minus the face part. Means donkey. Anyway, I gathered up my courage, and a woman in my neighborhood willing to dress up as a witch and deliver a pumpkin. He was to return the pumpkin to me with his answer carved into it.

Now, I had done my homework, friends. I knew he hadn't been asked. And we were friends. We smiled and spoke to each other in the halls and everything. So I kind of knew what I was getting into...

...or did I?

A day went past. No answer. Another day...then a week...still no answer. Just rumblings. Rumblings that sounded something like, "Paul doesn't want to go with Lisa. He begged this other girl to hurry and ask him, so he doesn't have to go with her." Which started even more rumblings within my gut, resulting from a heart that had plunged into a belly full of acid and though not completely digested, left behind the crunchy outer shell, while fully consuming the innards made up of self esteem.

Long story short, he never answered me. Just expected I'd know. And I did. I knew from then on that Paul=assface. A.k.a. donkey. And a bunch of other knowledge regarding his parentage~the son of a something or other.

But a lesson was learned, friends, just like every time we're hit in the face with a manure cream pie. And in this case, it was about what my own children would or would not do, if asked by someone they felt less than excited about (not a commentary on son's feelings.) Because one day, the person who doesn't know how to carve a pumpkin, might be discovered on a social network, like, oh, say Facebook? And possibly, that person might have, gee, I don't know, found themselves beaten into submission with an GINORMOUS ugly stick! Plus, they might even have married the poor, stupid lass who "hurried up and asked them to the dance," only to end up divorced, unemployed and subsisting on a steady diet of government cheese while living in a van down by the river. (I might have embellished the cheese and van, but the rest is hands to the heaven.)

And you never know. Who's to say that this person might not be scanning a blog, or the local newspaper one day, and find a little tale about a girl's choice dance, written from the perspective of the NEWSPAPER COLUMNIST WITH A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE, BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN AND THE COMMON SENSE TO HAVE HER PICTURE PHOTO SHOPPED TO THE HILT, BUT NOT ENOUGH SO SHE CAN'T BE RECOGNIZED. And maybe, just maybe, this imaginary donkey might think twice about his decision of whether or not he could have been bothered to answer a girl with her heart on her sleeve...that fell into her stomach.

And someone who still remembers how long it took to refill that crispy heart shell with a soft, meringue center, might scream at the top of her blog lungs~ "HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW? HUH? HUH?"

That's what I thought.

'NUFF SAID.

DAUGHTER

My sister can do amazing things with swearing daughters.

Jules is worried you'll think she's bad.

I told her you all swear way worse than she does.

When looking at this picture, she humbly commented,''Hm. I am a pretty girl."

Love this child of mine.

LIES PEOPLE TELL

We'll call this, "LIES PEOPLE TELL." Let us begin...

Lie~"Allergy/cold/flu medicine leaves you feeling drowsy, therefore, go ahead and expect a decent night sleep."

Truth~Except for you, Lisa. You get to experience the amusing side effect of having your face fall asleep and tingle with pins and needles, leading you to claw and slap at your nose every few minutes. All. Night. Long.

Lie~"A bag of sugar snap peas is good for you. It's roughage. Helps digestion."

Truth~Except for you, over 40 woman. Your bag of peas will pass the evening hours by inflating fat cells with their gassy pea emissions, making balloon animals and tucking them into cracks and crevices throughout your guts. They think it's funny.

Lie~(not an announcement) "Pregnancy is a joy. It lasts but nine months, you're only sick in the morning, and that ends in the first three months. After that, you're livin' the dream."

Truth~Except for you, darling Kate and Erica...and every other woman in the world, except the chick they interviewed for the study. Ever hear of "the spits?" That's when you have an aversion to your own pregnancy spittle, and can't swallow it without puking, thereby leading you to carry around a box of Kleenex everywhere you go, in which to discard your excess saliva, which also results in enormous, chapped monkey lips.

Ever hear of "color sick?" That's when you can't stand to look at certain colors~the more vibrant=the more nauseous. So like, you can't look at/walk past/sit on your jewel tone couch. Or wear your new pink Avon lipstick. Or shove that purple and red shirt in the back of your closet fast enough.

And finally, ever hear of "crouching down on all fours in the gravel of a country road, and vomiting so hard that your nose starts to bleed, and the only thing your husband can find to help you mop up your face is an oil rag from his tool box?"

So yeah, I totally lived that dream. The TEN-NOT NINE-MONTH DREAM, people.

BUT...for a parting gift, you get this really fun baby. And it smells like love. And when you kiss it's neck, a memory sweep is performed, (kissy sniff) leaving you doubting (sniff, love) whether it was really (sniff) as bad (kissy kiss) as you made it sound, (kiss, sniff, kiss) all those symptoms you complained of earlier. (sniff, sniff, kissy squeeze) Let's do it again!

Anyway, those are just the lies that were told today. And since I have a very discerning spirit, I was able to see them for what they were, roll my eyes and write a blog about them, once again, for you. Because I'm a giver.