TOTALLY FAMOUS

I just remembered that I'm famous. Well, not so much me, but more like my house. And my cat in one scene. So sit back and enjoy a glimpse into the life and times of Lisa's rockin' famous house...

FIBROUS ACID ANYONE?

Summer harvest has begun, friends! So far, we've managed to miss the perfect plucking time on every stinkin' Zucchini by 24 hours, allowing them all to double their midsection girth and go to seed. Crap.

But today, I reaped two tomatoes and a "husky" zuke (not yet obese) and ATE THEM ALL! By myself, people. Then I washed it all down with a refreshing yet acidic Diet Coke, containing nutrasweet, which is known to cause relentless flatulence.

Now, here's the problem—in about 2 hours, I'm going into the woods to preach to a bunch of young women. And when I say woods, I mean not by my bathroom. So my question to you is; how much fiber and acid and flatulence is too much fiber and acid and flatulence to be contained in my guttal region?

I think we're about to find out.

Pray for me, folks. Hard.

PRINCESS LISA JUDGING QUEENS

I'm busy, folks. Figuring out what to wear for the pageant. On account of I'm a judge, and I think we all know how significant the scrutinizing. Probably way more than the contestants. Especially under the dim glare of the partial spotlight that manages to pick up half your nose and an eye socket. Plus "the wave"—you know, when I lift my arm and let the excess flesh swing haphazardly to let the family and friends locate the person they'll either adore or abhor within the next three hours.

Also, I've been anxiously engaged writing up my bio. Course, if I were candid, it would say something like, “Lisa likes to chew and spit gum pyramids. She’s an incompetent secretary, often times forgetting to take roll. Her teeth seem to be rotting out of her head, and her fleshy abdomen is getting more spongy by the day. But still, here she is evaluating you, which should really make you question the sanctity of the Miss America institution.”

Instead I made up a bunch of stuff that would be difficult to disprove and used vague references that I can Bill Clinton my way out of. Mostly I’m just excited to wear pretty new heels that will charm them to the point of forgetting the Emperor has no clothes.

Anyway, I guess you can only hope that your daughter isn't up on that stage...for a multitude of reasons...but mostly because I'll steal the show.

Now I'm blowing you pageant kisses. Farewell, darlings! (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist)

DAMN BABIES

So Julia is here, talking to me. Even though she has a friend with her. Even though they're playing with yo-yos. Even though I'm wearing my computer face. None of those things seem to distract her from making sure I'm an integral part of her life.

"Hey, Mom. I just figured out what I want for Christmas. Oh my gosh! KeeLee got a NEON PINK RIP-STICK FOR HER BIRTHDAY! I TOTALLY WANTED ONE OF THOSE! Do you think I should put my hair in a ponytail? Mom, you really need to see me light this match. These are really good matches. You totally need to get more of these. Seriously, watch this! Did you see me do the Eiffel Tower trick? How 'bout Cat's Whiskers? I feel like my hair is shorter right now. Like about an inch. Here. Feel it. Does it feel shorter to you?"

Clearly, important and time sensitive issues. No way can those babies wait till later.

Speaking of babies, my sister's baby has started nibbling on her nipples with razor sharp incisors. Which takes me back to a moment in time that was seared like a branding iron into my young brain. I was at a family party, when I overheard my aunt speaking to the other mothers in the family. It went something like this:

"So he just kept biting me and biting me, every time I'd try to nurse him. Finally, he just bit a piece of my nipple right off! It was excruciating!"

'Really? Really, was it excruciating?' I mused in horror, while shielding my own flat chest in case that baby came at me. Well, I guess that sounds about right. And also it seemed like, to me anyway, a good reason to throw that damn baby away.

Yeah, so anyway, fast forward to my own children. One of which I had to stop nursing at 5 months, and another at 8 months, on account of them being repeat chew toy offenders.

But I kept those damn babies.

Which says an awful lot about a mother's love.

KIND OF GREAT

I just got home from a Stewart family reunion. There's nothing like one of those yearly events to remind me of what a slacker I am. Want proof? Let me give you a rundown of who's who in my clan. We have a Federal Judge, a current National Best Seller, a B-2 B pilot, an Adjutant General. We have three young men serving their God and fellow men in Brazil, three having recently returned from Japan, Russia and Brazil and a soldier father who just left his beautiful wife and three children under three, to serve for a year in Afghanistan. We have a D.C. lobbyist, several Stake Presidents, former CIA operatives and military pilots. We have flight school instructors, lawyers, District Judges and many successful small business owners.

And then we have the mothers who raised them, the sisters who support them, the cousins who adore them and the wives who are the wind beneath their wings.

Of which I am one.

Hmm. I think I might be kind of great after all.

KISS AND SPIT

Me~"Is that a seed spitting cup?" referring to an industrial sized styrofoam container filled to the brim with gloopy discarded shells.

Son~"Yeah. It's mine. I'm doing pretty good at it, too. I should be a great kisser."

Me~"Soooooo...so like, you think sunflower seed spitting and kissing go hand in hand?"

Son~"Yeah. Don't they?"

And my question to you is, who started that fib, and when are they old enough to discern for themselves between truth and fiction? Honestly!

Now please excuse me while I go pick out the green M&M's, because you and I both know what those babies do! (wink wink)

TWINKIE ARMS

I just groomed myself into a bloody nose. (Not picking—blowing, people. Geez.) And FYI, that's something that will never, ever, EVER happen to my children...or even my dear husband, for that matter. Mostly they just wait for me to point, pull and pick out the things that shouldn't be sprouting from their faces. I have to admit, I'm happy to oblige.

Anyway, I just returned from my daughter's softball game which was apparently really crowded, because demons from Hell couldn't find an empty spot, so took the lawn chair next to me, making their thoughts my own the entire game. So like, for some reason, I became really annoyed with the woman sitting in front of me, violently rolling my eyeballs at her excessively large upper arms. I may have even named them TWINKIE ARMS, where instead of a bone, it was filled with FATTY LARD INNARDS. Yeah, that's right. That's the kind of mean and ugly I'm talking about. We won't go into my OWN Ding Dong abdominals— Geez, pot calling kettle black...

And then there was the less-than-stellar ball playing that I surely couldn't have done better, but for some reason, had NBL expectations of these 11-12 year old girls. Cussing and bemoaning under my breath, you'd have thought I had money riding on the outcome. Or, at the very least, that we were a highly competitive, recreationally vigorous family.

But such is not the case, friends. In fact, I had picked Julia up from swimming mere moments before arriving for the game—her hair in a dripping wet braid, makeup smeared under eyes and lo and behold, sauntering along in flip flops. Had to have Ster bring her tennis shoes before they yelled, "Play ball!" So you can see, it's not like I had much vested in the match—just decided to go all bat-shiz crazy about their perceived shortcomings.

Anyway, I was crawling out of my skin with irritation the entire time. And yes, they lost.

BEE AE DEE!

Probably because of old Twinkie Arms Mom up front—distracting the players with her Hostess aroma. But my point is this—I kept my thoughts to myself, people. No shouting matches with the Dump (dumb+ump=dump.) No "WE WANNA PITCHER, NOT A BELLY ITCHER" chanting from the sidelines. Not even spitting sunflower shells into the WAY TOO CURLY HAIR of the other woman sitting in front of me, who probably deserved to find some wayward nuts and debris when she returned home, simply because she had the misfortune of sitting in front of me.

None of that.

Because I have you—my BBFF's. I was able to keep it from the masses, because I knew I could come home and SPEW THIS TRIPE ALL OVER MY BLOG.

For which I apologize.

And thank you.

And lastly, say...

YOU'RE WELCOME.

NOW LET'S PLAY BALL!