NOT WHAT I EXPECTED

Jules~"Mom, you said you'd never let me get colored hair, but then you let me get this feather. And that's just like colored hair." (smug grin)

Me~"No, I never said I wouldn't let you get colored hair. I said I wouldn't let you get lots of SHOCKING streaks of colored hair. And that's a feather, not blue hair." (busy reading a magazine)

Jules~"Nuh uh. It's just like colored hair. I never said I wanted to get a thousand pieces of colored hair. I only wanted one—just ONE red piece of hair. But you said it was 'worldly.' " (head bob and pursed lips)

Me~(putting magazine down and making eye contact) "Why exactly did you come in here? To start an argument? Do you, or do you not have a fun blue feather in your hair?" (ignoring the impulse to slap her)

Jules~(walks away)

Now am I missing something? Because from my point of view, the correct response was, "Thank you, dear Mother, for allowing me to not only live, but to do so in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Most especially, for supporting me in plugging a trendy, unnecessary and overpriced chicken feather into my skull. Life, as I know it, is good, and I have only you and your generosity to thank."

Instead, I opened the door to an 11 year old version of the fast talking, sweating, cleaning supply sales lady from the South who wants to use my bathroom, dropped off on my street by a white van.

In other words...not what I expected when I heard the knock.

TODDLERS AND TIARAS AND BLOODSUCKER WORMS

I just finished looking through some blogs that have the uncanny power to not only enlighten and entertain, but also leave me feeling completely.......less. Less than them. Which is dumb, because I don't want to be them, or live them's lives or even experience most of what them experience. Nonetheless, I feel......less.

Which is why I like to watch Toddlers and Tiaras.

On account of you could cuff your children's wrists and lock them inside a feces strewn bird cage, and STILL feel you're an exceptional parent, compared to the WHAT THE HELL! going on with that show.

Speaking of mothers and mullets, came upon an old classmate from elementary school on social media. Long ago, on rainy days, the boys used to chase terrified, screaming girls with bloodsuckers (worms, really, but it looked like they were filled up with blood, thus the graphic nickname that lent horror to the experience.) We'd flee into the girls' bathroom to take refuge.

Enter the "mostly a boy" girl, who would grab a handful of bait and come busting through the doors, bringing with her all that is vile and unholy! She'd stand there in her Tuff Skin jeans and untucked plaid shirt and laugh like a freakin' maniac while the girls huddled in a, "TELL MY MOTHER I LOVE HER!" pile of weep and sob.

I can't remember what happened next. Maybe the bell. Maybe a teacher's intervention. Maybe I passed out and she stomped on my face. Hard to say. But what I do know is this—she was a force to be reckoned with. And I'm grateful the worms were the only thing she ever wielded against me. I'm sure she's a lovely person now—likely just reacting to trials and traumas in her own young life. Or maybe she just liked the feel of a bloodsucker in her fist. Either way, it's all good.

Which reminds me for no good reason of my poor son who is experiencing his own ordeal in taking the acne medicine Accutane. Looks like his face has been hammered with a meat tenderizer, and it's not going to be over anytime soon. But it's one of those "greater good" experiences, friends. Hideously disfigured now, chick magnet arm candy later.

Well, enough of my train of thought. The conductor is heading to bed...

Choo choooooooooooooo

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.