REMEDIATION

Okay, I am hanging my head in repentant shame. I've ignored you dear folks, and kind of replaced you, in a way, with my actual life. Life things like Student Body President elections, neuro-feedback therapy sessions, children failing core classes needed to graduate, thus leading to what they now like to call,"remediation"~or what we used to call, "flunking." Being a Flunkard is way more fun to say, but brings with it it's own devastation. Anyway, things like that, leaving little time for the things that bring me joy, with the exception of a daily bag of Cadbury mini-eggs, to get me through on a wing and a fatty prayer.

So you've been on hold. For about two weeks now. And I would imagine that, after awhile, you got a little bit sick to death of the elevator music that's been playing. And I don't blame you, because, "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy" instrumental version, has a pretty short shelf life, and I'm confident it went rancid by the late 70's.

Which makes me feel even worse about the fact that I can't write more today, and will be screwing the lid back on the jar, so you can pickle in the fridge for a few more days, since my DAMNABLE MIGRAINE HEADACHE IS ON DAY NUMBER THREE AND A HALF, AND THERE IS NO END IN SIGHT!

See, Migraine=stupid words coming out of my mouth. Mostly cuss. And I can't subject you, my dear, fresh, spring chick peeps, to profanity laced diatribes against the headache gods who JUST CAN'T LET IT GO, CAN YOU?

So let's just call it a day...or 14...whatever, and wait for those 47 ibu's to kick in. May the heavens bless you for your patience and long suffering~two courses I flunked back in Jr. High, thus, the migraine headache "remediation."

Love, Princess Lisa

NEXT TIME I'LL WAH

Went for a pedicure last night, ladies. And please learn from my mistake of going one hour before closing time, which is like licking up the sides of the empty tin that used to hold a cream pie filled with pumice and pink piggie polish time, topped with leg massaging energy. Seems these people DO have a life apart from my feet, and are ready to resume it 15 minutes before the actual closing time posted on the door.

Anyway, pulled out a brand new razor and swiped at my legs before heading over, because I learnt my lesson from last time. Realized too late that brand new razor/swipe/my calves are not on friendly terms, as I tore off toilet paper and attached it to about 30 bleeding nicks—10 of which were on ONE FOOT, people. Not even shizzing.

Now they stopped bleeding before I left home, but once my feet were immersed in steaming water, well, the life juices flooded back to the surface, to take a look around. Seems they liked what they saw, and decided to stay awhile, setting up lawn chairs and coolers, and cracking open Diet Cokes.

I tried to explain to the Vietnamese ladies that, "I hadn't wanted them to feel my prickly hairs, because that would gross them out, so I had done a quick shaving job, but it was a new razor, and I hadn't realized that without the proper soaking time, your legs just rebel and bumps raise in alarm, leading to a severing of the little bump heads, and that's why my legs are covered in cuts and why the previously blue water is now a tinge purple, because red and blue make purple, and I promise I don't have any blood born diseases like AIDS or some sort of Herpes or anything like that, no way, it's just that I didn't give them proper time to clot before heading over here, because I was afraid they'd close, and I'd have to go another day with hideous little pigs and blah, blah, blah."

But they were Vietnamese, remember? So they just stared at me like I had a booger on my lip and laughed.

And whispered.

And laughed again.

Then they pointed over at the waxing station and said—

"You Wah."

And I said, "Haha. Yes. Ha. Good idea."

Then I buried my face in an upside down magazine while they drained the purple water and began again.

Next time I'll wah.

Fer sher.

SPIT HAPPENS

Standing in front of my side of the bathroom mirror, glancing over at husband's side~

"Oh my gosh. He is so...seriously...look at all that toothpaste spit. ALL over the mirror. And I just cleaned that...honestly. I think if HE were the one doing the cleaning, he'd at least take the time to wipe up the spittle splat. He's just not careful."

I cross to his side to wipe up the smear and just happen to glance over at my side—light hitting the mirror from a different angle.

Well.

Will you lookie there.

Same exact splat.

Maybe even a little more.

Why?

Because spit happens.

And that, my friends, is a lesson in perspective.

FRICKIN' LASER BEAMS

I'm like a shark, with frickin' laser beams shooting from it's head. Sept they're boogers. From my nose. And it's only fair, because I mocked my husband when he caught those cold sores. Which, may I add, have a surprisingly long shelf life.

Anyway, now I've been brought low and I have no one to blame but myself.

Speaking of blame, I needed someone to point a finger at yesterday. I was served up a big old steamy manure pie, made out of a one week lapse between policies in Workman's Comp, a tire exploding in an employees face, the subsequent ambulance ride and ER visit, a teenage son missing 30 (not even exaggerating) assignments and a few other surprisingly expensive and aggravating ingredients. You know, to give it savor.

I could barely contain myself while I sat mouth breathing in my bedroom chair, as I tried to consume the entire dessert myself. Fortunately, Sterling came in to take his fair share, and together we licked the platter clean.

Which makes me grateful for a husband who knows the difference between chocolate and cow dung, and that only one of those is his wife's favorite. And who takes a misfired bullet now and again when the gun is in her hand and she's swinging it around in wild eyed frenzy.

But other than that, I just have this miserable cold that makes it impossible to think clearly, or be funny, or be kind, or be generous, or be creative, or be productive.

And this time, I blame...how 'bout the Unions? Yeah. Them. Stupid Unions.

TATTLE TELL

From my daughter, to my husband while he's gone on a business trip. Seems I can't trust her as far as I can throw her...

thank you so much! I really do miss you! I really want you to come home! were are you sleeping??????????? I really want to know! I will take care of mom! today I can tell she was really sick because she was being really grumpy because when ever I talk to her really nice and I ask her something really nice when she is not doing anything she would yell at me and raise her voice! and she is kind of being mean to chris! I think she is just thinking of her bing sick and I think that she is just really sick so I think that that is why she is so grumpy! I love you so much! I really miss yo and want you to come home right now! love you!

SCREAM HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

Two words, friends~Maturation. Presentation. Otherwise known as The Scream Heard Round the World.

I remember working up the courage to show my mother the permission slip~and I call her mother because she was the enemy that day. I folded it 18 times, whispered to Diana that I was "going in," set the receiver down and crept, sweating and trembling, into the living room. After a few panicky attempts, I finally hucked the paper square onto the newspaper she was reading and fled. I assume she read it, because she was there for the "Very Personally Yours" lecture and video.

Aqua booklet, black script, written in the 50's, but clearly meant to stand the test of time, because this was the 80's. Timeless advice like, "Not too hot!" regarding the temperature of your shower. Who KNEW what might happen should steam cover the mirror of a menstruating girl! And "Smile, sister, Smile!" when you check your reflection in your compact mirror, touching up your ruby red lipstick, but then are suddenly overcome by the poor fit of your girdle. Harsh realities, ladies. And yes, I've taken these things to heart over the years, smiling through my tears while I fix my bleeding red lipstick in the compact, shivering in my tepid bath. It really is the simple joys.

Anyway, my sister in law tried to prepare her twin daughters for the presentation. Appearing nonchalant, she told them the kinds of things they'd be discussing.

"You know, puberty and bras and periods and stuff. You know about periods, right?"

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Totally. Like, you know, the period of life we're in right now. Yeah, we know all about periods." heads nodding in self assured unison.

When she actually said the words, they ran screaming from the room~one even hid under the table, plugging shut her ear canals in the fetal position. "NOOOOOOO! AAAGGHHHH!! OOOOOO, THAT'S SO GROSS! DON'T TELL US! DON'T SAY IT ANYMORE! AAAGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Best part of that, my sister in law is pregnant. I suggested if she really wanted to have some fun, that she wait until the video was over, then pointing at her belly say, "So, now you know how I got this way, right? Me and Daddy...?" (eyebrow lift and head nod)

Long term damage.

As I said before, it really is the simple joys.

Man Stroke Woman - Man Cold

Good news! My daughter has caught my husband's man cold. I KNOW, PEOPLE, I KNOW! How did I find out? A sampling of her comments:

"Mom, (cough cough) I taste blood! My throat is bleeding (cough) because I'm coughing sohard!"

"Mom, (cough) it hurts my fingers to touch stuff."

"Mom, (sprawled across the floor) Check my forehead. (cough) Bring me some medicine. (sigh) Can you get me some orange juice? I want the big chair in the car, so make the boys sit in the back. My neck hurts. My skin hurts. Can the boys clean my room?"

So yeah. Wish me well.

On a side note, my dear husband was obliged to awaken me in the predawn light, on his way out the door, to show me his cold sore. Because yes, it was THAT important for me to know that one~he has a cold sore, two~it's because he has a cold, and three~cold sores are caused by stress, and clearly he is stressed, on account of the physical manifestation on his lip.

But he can't help it. He's a man, and he has a cold.

Poor little bunny.