NEW DAY

Hey friends! Guess what? My pumpkin pie husband gave me a camera for Christmas!!! And it is FREAKIN' AWESOME! Why? Well, drumroll please......

Cuz it's BLUE!

That's right~I said blue! And not just ANY blue. Robin's egg blue, people!

I know! Crazy wonderful, huh?!!! It's like they finally get me, you know?

So I took a picture. And now I'll attempt to figure out how to post it. And if all goes well, a new day is dawning on my blog! A NEW DAY, I SAY!!!

Here goes.........

OH MY HECK, IT WORKED! New day it is!!! Hope you aren't melancholy about seeing the old day fade into the past. It's all about progress, people.

And treats. Progress and treats. And rabbit poop ice. Progress, treats and rabbit poop ice. And Diet Coke with limes. And Dr. Pepper. Progress, treats, rabbit poop ice, Diet Coke with limes and Dr. Pepper. And blue cameras. And diamonds. And tiaras. And pumpkin pie hubbies. So let's recap...It's about progress, treats, rabbit poop ice, DC with limes, Dr. P, blue cameras, diamonds, tiaras and pumpkin pie hubbies.

And probably some other stuff, too.

(like decorations and hot baths and reading and vintage fabric and polka dots and geraniums and divinity and truffles and families and glitter and Jesus and The gospel and missionary sons and sisters moving back and moms writing books and Christmas money and Sunday afternoon naps and high heels and Stewart plaid and........)

MUSINGS

Did you know they have products for "embarrassing urine odors?" Mm hmm. They're advertising on my blog. Which makes me particularly proud.

I'm not cleaning right now. I just figured I might as well fess up, so you can't figure it out on your own and then confront me.

It's Christmas Eve Eve and I've managed to talk myself out of several mandatory projects that were just never...quite...able...to...crawl...(pant, pant)...to...the...top...of...my (breathe, rasp, gasp)...TO-DO...list. Maybe next year. Or not. Whatever.

I have pistachio flakes and green nut chunks in my teeth.

An entire lime in a Diet Coke over rabbit poop ice does a Christmas elf goooooood~even if it does rot the enamel off.

It's never too late to shower and get dressed for the day (3:00 P.M.) and it's never too early to take off your bra and get back into your pajamas (5:00 P.M.)

Christmas is playing a game and just passed me, screaming...READY OR NOT, HERE I COME! But I'm not running, screaming or flailing to get away, cuz I'm too mature. Plus I just took my bra off.

It's called being resigned~something I fully embrace, cuz it comes with hot chocolate, new pajamas and a ring of sugar around my mouth.

Which reminds me of another game that I'm too mature to play.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, BLOG BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!!!

GOOD BIRD

I've been wrapping, folks. Wrapping and wrapping until my fingers are bone dry and split, cracked and bleeding. That's how committed I am to giving...of myself, my stuff and my finger juices...this Christmas season.

Just had to honk my own horn, (it's french, because it's Christmas) as apparently everybody else has been too busy thinking of Baby Jesus and peace and love, to do so for me. Good thing I'm shameless.

And speaking of shameless, my eating/lack of exercising is out of control. I know. Not whopping news knowing me as you must by now, but shameful all the same...as well as difficult to ignore, after my near fainting experience bellows it as thunderous as a batch of boys playing X-box.

So my dear friend asks me to go for a walk with her yesterday. And we both know that she isn't the one requiring this brisk trot, (hatefully thin) therefore, she is pulling the cunning, "Hey, the woman across from me has a bat in her cave, (flapping wildly every time she breathes in and out) and it will embarrass her if I tell her about it, so I'll just ever-so-slyly swipe at my own schnoz, and see if she mirrors my action." Hence, "Hey, Lis, wanna go get some exercise?" And she nods her head yes. Which I parrot.

Good bird.

So we go and I am immediately out of breath and trying to talk, but can't seem to fully enunciate a single word, leaving off the endings of everything, because I'm dying and it's just not worth the effort to articulate. Sounds something like this, "Oh, I...kno...cuss...I...di...tha...mysel...an...i...mae...me...si...to...see...mysel...i...th...mirr...(the dots are breath sucks and wheezes, with not one single draw actually filling my lungs.)

Lucky for both of us, shapely friend realized my failing health and carried most of the conversation, which kept her from having to carry me.

Finally, we arrive home and stop in front of my house, finishing our chat as now I can stand fully upright without grabbing my side in pain. I answer her first couple of questions clear and concise before the nausea sets in. You know, the nausea that accompanies insufficient supply of oxygen to a brain? Yeah, that nausea.

And then the background starts to fade out and close in. And I'm too stupid to actually acknowledge this quickly but instead, go right into the denial sector of my brain. (It's huge in there. Hardly leaves room for intelligence.)

"Surely she can't tell that I'm not making sense."

"I wonder if I can finish this conversation, distracting her with eye contact, before she notices my lips are blue."

"This too shall pass."

Yeah, totally daft.

Mid-sentence I interrupt myself with, "Yes, and then when we dropped him off~hey, I think I'm passing out. Yeah, I'm passing out. I'm going to lean up against this here mailbox. Hold on just a sec." And I stagger over to the mailbox as sweat gathers on my upper lip, trying to keep talking, waving away her concern, "Oh, sha. No. I'm totally fine. It's going to pass, cuz I'm~yeah, nope, it's not passing. I can't hear anything anymore." (I smack at my ears)

Shouting~"I think I'm going in probably, before you have to heave me out of the snow drift. OK? Yeah, okay." I answer myself.

Trying for a casual wave, which comes off as more like a swatting at swarming bees, I lurch up my walk with my hands on my knees~into the front door, dropping onto my bed before my eyes rolled back inside my skull.

Good times.

WHICH SCREAMS TO ME, AND PROBABLY YOU, TOO, PEOPLE, that I have REALLY let myself go. (I'm howling, leaping and lunging, as the balloon vanishes into the atmosphere) I mean, really, REALLY, if a gal can't go for a simple little saunter without swooning, then REALLY, there has GOT to be SOME room for improvement. No, really.

And just like a (someone else's~not mine) horribly spoiled child, the shrew will eventually have to be tamed, or suffer the consequences of a not-very-approving public eye (think full-length mirror.)

And maternity undergarments won't fix it. Dammitalltohell.

DIAMOND BROOCH

Went shopping again~for Christmas presents intended for other people, but somehow that was lost in translation. Like, when Brain looked at a wonderful crystal and diamond brooch and said, "Oh, my. Will you look at that? That is absolutely PERFECT for so-and-so. Pick it up and let's buy it, Body." And Body was dutiful, picked it up, paid for it, took it home and promptly put it in it's own drawer.

Brain detected this altered plan and yelled at Body. "HEY! What the H? I told you that was for so-and-so. Now go wrap it and put a tag on it with their name on it! Criminy, Body, I can't trust you as far as I can throw you!" And Body just laughed and walked away from the drawer, with the brooch left inside. I know, right? Body is really, really disobedient.

Which brings us to my problem. You all know that I am a hoarder at heart, and therefore, struggle with "letting go" of stuff. Something I've actually worked feverishly to triumph over, beginning with letting a friend have the larger portion of the broken stick of gum when I was seven....teen. (I still feel the anguish as if it were yesterday.)

And you also know how much I adore stuff, therefore, the letting go of it goes heartily against my nature...(Charlton Heston said it well... "You can have this gun~or stuff~when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers." That's passion talk, not crazy talk, as some people might suggest.)

However, I also love to increase other people's happiness by introducing them to "love of stuff"~(the first hit is free)~so that they can share in my guilty pleasure, as we all know that it can't be that bad, if everybody else is stuff lovin' too. It's called "stuff pimping" and no, I'm not proud of it. But I've got a habit to feed, okay, people?

So back to this contradiction~how does one serve these two equally demanding masters? As in, how do I bring stuff loving joy to other people at this gift giving season, as well as keep my own voracious stuff monster's appetite satiated and subdued? It's a conundrum. (And I just looked up the word conundrum, so as to use it properly, because I'm NOTHING if not proper.)

I'll keep you in suspense no more. Here's what I've decided to do...and it's really quite simple~

BUY MORE STUFF!

I know! Brilliant! And we all know how many brilliant ideas I am capable of, so this should be no surprise to any of you.

See, the more stuff I buy, the more I can hoard for myself and the more will be left-over for gift giving and stuff addicting and everybody's happy, folks!

Nobody needs to know that I kept the original gift intended for them~as long as there is a replacement, it's aaaaaaaaall good.

Plus, like a bride on her honeymoon flashing back to old boyfriends~there's no need to come snooping in my drawers for your "what might have been" gifts. The grass ain't always greener...so let's embrace that balding husband, 'mm~kay pumpkin?

As long as everybody stays away from the drawer, nobody gets hurt...

I'm serious. Drop the brooch.

COMPOSURE WIPE-OUT

A few things worth mentioning:

1) Putting on mascara (or any eye makeup, for that matter) the morning that you watch your weeping children embrace and say heart-ripping-out-of-chest goodbyes, for two years, is just plain denial.

2) Cocky mothers who mock other mothers for weeping are only setting themselves up for composure wipe-outs~the Lesson Teaching Angels (they're the ones who used to be tattle-tells on the playground before they died) make sure of that.

3) I've run out of moisture~squirted every last drop out of my face. And even though every other thing on me~including eyes, ears, lips and fingers~shriveled and shrank like a grape to a raisin from the dehydration, my nose become even MORE bulbous...and enlarged...and discolored...and shiny. I screamed that it was unfair while I swiped furiously at it with powder, but nobody thought it was their job to listen. Jerks.

4) And speaking of jerks, some foolish (and when I say foolish, that is me being TERRIBLY generous, because what I'd really like to call this fool is not very Christlike~and is probably more like an offensive curse word that would make you question my upbringing) people might think, that rather than feel the emotional angst that accompanies such an act as letting your eldest child go and serve his God for two years...that they can instead bandage the gaping wound with stacks of twenties~and it won't hurt as bad.

So, for instance, they might go buy some ASININE and staggeringly expensive item~without even whispering their intentions into their eternal companion's ear~and THEN act surprised when angry slit eyes show up on her face.

5) Fools should never, ever, ever be surprised to find themselves locked out of houses after bandaging wounds with dollar bills.

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

Ooooooooooookaaaaaayyyyyyyy. This must be like a funny joke, right? Because I'm looking around for a candid camera, as it's just way too ironic that missionary son would turn into a grade A whopper of a goose turd, mere MOMENTS before leaving his family...for two years...with this sulfuric acid (farty) taste left behind (from selfish "basturdish" behavior) just a'ruminatin' in our mouths.

So, there are a couple of reasons this can be happening. One~Heavenly Father knows that, like child birth, it eventually has to get SO UNREASONABLY HORRID that you have NO QUALMS about letting the 8 lb 4 oz human OUT the same way the tiny micro-organism got IN.

Your nose can't sprawl any wider across your face (I had abnormal nose expansion~seriously huge honker~baby almost birthed out of a nostril, as it was wider than my birth canal) You can't pop any more skin (had dreadful stretch marks, too~as opposed to splendid stretch marks~but we've already discussed this topic) And you can't continue to survive on a teaspoon full of air for one...more...moment... (gasp, gasp, wheeze, gulp)

Second possibility~I have been given a faulty child. Sure, he looked normal when we got him~the packaging gave no sign that the merchandise was defective. It took 19 years to figure out he was missing a few very key pieces of character, including but not limited to~compassion, sympathy, empathy, selflessness, obedience, foresight and the good sense that God should have given him. Too late to send him back. (Exchange policy clearly stated at time of receipt.)

Last~it's possible that Heavenly Father is very practical and loves me a great deal. Something I've always known, but now it's deeply cemented in my mind. He knew my motherly instincts would overwhelm and nearly annihilate me at this Christmas season, so he allowed son to be delightful...most of the time...over the last month. To get those vexing tears and tender emotions out of the way.

Once that was done, he let the character flaws overrun the teenaged body, and morph him into "Gooseturd boy" so as to make the parting not so much "sweet sorrow," but more "absence can't HELP but make the heart grow fonder."

And so, my friends, think of me from now on when you hear the term, "Kick 'em to the curb," because THAT is EXACTLY what we intend to do.

Our plan is to pull up to the MTC (missionary training center)...slowing down, but not necessarily stopping..then I'll reach across the boy, pull the handle and shove the door open with one hand, while keeping the other hand on the wheel, foot to the pedal and continuing to look out my front windshield. Sterling will then hop out and jog along side the car, pop the trunk, yank out the luggage and the son, tossing them both into a pile on their rumps (yes, luggage has a rump) on the snowy curb, jump back into the passenger side of the vehicle, and all without even breaking stride or a sweat.

We've practiced and we've got it down to 13 seconds~give or take a couple.

But lest ye think we are hard hearted and unfeeling, we fully intend to wave goodbye.

And THIS is why I am a weighty contender for Mother of the Year. (I could use your vote.)

TACO SOUP

Ahhhhhhh. It's over.

The multitudes~(made up of wonderful, supportive friends, family and neighbors~as well as~oblivious, food scavenging/dessert hording adolescents without a thought for what the garbage bags hanging from every door knob meant to them as consumers and disposers~for apparently scattering and kicking soiled and dripping with tomato sauce utensils, paper goods and baby sipped water bottles underneath chairs, tables and on any clean and decorated surface would do the job equally as well)~descended, ate, mirthily (I know it's not a word, but it's more fun to say than "mirthfully") congratulated and then filth and crudded up the place, (but some of them also gave us generous checks to help out with missionary economics, so all is forgiven them. The rest of you? (raised eyebrow and condescending expression)) then tromped back out the door to their awaiting carriages (mini-vans) and fish tailed down the ice rink streets, smiling and singing,~"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...to our clean home...that doesn't have ground in cream puffs smeared into the carpet...and fermenting food sleeping in assorted nooks and crannies that won't be found until next summer when she moves the furniture.......so glad I'm not herrrrrrr........Ooooh what fun it is to ride..."~you get the idea.

I, on the other hand, waved goodbye, closed the door and only then let my stomach erupt, popping dress seams and ripping pantyhose, as I could finally relax the gut that I'd been holding in all day, pretending that my recently invented and strictly adhered to "stress and reward eating system" was not causing any tell-tale damage.

I scratched my bum, let out a wee little (giant-gut-dropper-warm-pooh-air-bomb) stinker and went about the home opening every single door and window I could to get the smell of taco soup (thus the giant-gut-dropper-warm-pooh-air-bomb) to flee my premises. "FLEE! FLEE!" I waved and shouted, moving air around with my arms flapping wildly.

EVERYTHING smells like taco soup, people. Everything.

The left over cookies, (sniffed while I wolfed and gobbled. I'm no waster) my hair, (sniffed and grimaced all night as I tried to sleep through the stench) the ceiling, (I stood on a chair and sniffed~it's best to know what you're dealing with right from the very beginning.)

You can smell it hanging in the air like tree ornaments up the front walk. It has even infiltrated the sleeping rose bushes outside and next years crop will undoubtedly smell like fragrant, rosy B.O.

Anyway, the temp has been a balmy 30 degrees most of the day, hence I've kept the windows cracked and several candles burning so as to scorch the reek the "H" out of here. Missionary son will probably arrive at the training center and they'll dispatch him straight to sanitize/detox/quarantine, so as not to take any chances of the other missionaries becoming infected with taco soup.

Which may make it easier for him to leave this stinky home.

Which may also distract me from him leaving this stinky home.

Which may be a reason to bless taco soup's heart in all it's foul and disgusting glory.

Bless you taco soup. Grace in disguise.