Crystal's A Pistol

Sleepy Time Drug Induced Musical Medely

2012-02-20T01:02:00.000-08:00

I'm pissed that the light still won't show up on my freaking camera. I will have to perform sober and in broad daylight from now on. There seems no other way. How very disappointing.

I had lots of folks beggin for more singing Ambien posts as the last one was so entertaining, I must ask you to help me by suggestion songs for me to mutilate by forgetting half the lyrics. I would also like costume ideas. What should I wear for my weekly performance?

What do you think of my very serious performances? Be honest and true.

I gotta go to bed now.

Sweet dreams, people!

Purple Nurple Missionaries

2012-02-19T00:06:00.000-08:00

If my husband had not served a Mormon mission I would not have married him.

I was vigorously convinced by my mother from a young age to settle for nothing less than a returned Mormon missionary for my Eternal Companion.

I never went on dates with boys who were not Mormon. What was the point? If they had not served a mission I wouldn't want to marry them. And if I didn't want to marry them I wasn't gonna waste a perfectly good Saturday night on a non-pre-post-missionary man child.

When I first met my own personal man I almost dismissed him for his wild looks and the tough chip he carried on his enormous shoulders. But then he said,

"I served my mission in Virginia."

He had my attention.

Oh BABY! Say more of THAT! OOOOO yeah!

I was turned on. Turned on to this naughty tattooed boy of God. He surprised me. I like surprises. Sexy ones with muscles, especially.

So I married that post mission man child.

Does it seem shallow and closed minded to you that I would not consider a young man who had not gone on a mission?

I've heard it before.

There was an enormous black football player at BYU that was always asking me out. We were friends. He had not served a mission and had no plans to do so. I kindly declined his offer for a date every time he asked anew.

"You're prejudiced!" he accused one day.

"Why? Because you're BLACK? That's stupid. I don't care what color you are!"

"No. You're prejudiced because I'm no missionary."

"Oh... hmmm. Yeah. I guess I am. Sorry. I know what I want. I want a missionary, man."

And that was that.

I wanted a Missionary Man!

Mormon missionaries are special. I have always known that. 19 year old boys who don't have sex, don't drink, don't do drugs, don't even drink coffee or say too many bad words are IMPOSSIBLE to come by in The World.

Unless you are in MY world. My World which is chock full of them.

I wanted to bag me a clean, service oriented Man of God that would marry me have my babies. Or vice versa. Whatever.

I got me one of those. AND HOW!

Today my family and I spent the day in Phoenix celebrating the baptism and 8th birthday of Miss Italia Bleu.

Bleu's daddy was one of my husband's mission companions.

This is Bleu after having consumed red soda, copious amounts of hot tamales and mounds of delicious rainbow cake, hence the red teeth. It's a good look for her, I think. Organic.

I'm sure you see those Mormon dudes walking around with name tags and suits. Sometimes they ride bikes and people throw hamburgers and F bombs at them. They always come in pairs. Themz is the rules.

The Mish goes walking two by two HOORAH HOORAH!... You know that song, right?

Mr. Pistol and two mission companions of his youth hung out today.

I tried to get them to take a respectable photo for you all to see. I wanted you to understand clearly what good men of God who served honorable Mormon missions look like.

I begged them to settle down and show their serious, religious, reverent sides.

None of them listened to me. Instead there was a great deal of pushing, shoving, nipple pinching and groin punching (?) resulting in an every man for himself photo opp. It seems they became quite mistrustful of one another. And extremely protective of the family junk.

This is what quality returned Mormon missionaries look like. Apparently.

As the Mish Men wrestled like children I ate enough candy to kill a whore.

I started with peanut M&Ms.

Worked my way to the candy bar...

And finally made myself completely sick with monstrous slice of Bleu's 100 tiered rainbow cake.

The kids got all sugared up as well.

Here you see them pooling their efforts to run each other over with a golf cart. It was great fun. A smashing success!

It warmed my heart to watch my children play with the children of Mr. Pistol's mission companions.

I was especially touched when one of them threw up on the Jumpy jumper thingy and another promptly slid into said vomit. THAT is closeness, my friends.

My girls introduced their affinity for fake handlebar mustaches to the troops. Soon there were children of all ages running amok with homemade staches.

That was my day today.

I married me a Mormon missionary on purpose. I knew a boy who donated two years of life to the Lord would be an exemplary example of commitment, sacrifice, perseverance, selflessness and Love.

What I didn't know is how much fun it would be.

Happy Friday, Barry!!! And Mean People Suck

2012-02-17T00:38:00.000-08:00

"Are you going to do Barry, Mama? Can you please do a little tiny bit of Barry before you go? "

Maya's eyes were troubled. She had a rough day. A little girl in her class was mean to her. Said awful things about here to the other little girls. Lies. Tried to get all the other little girls to dislike my Maya.

Maya came home crying. She was sad all afternoon.

It's terrible when people are mean to each other.

Only miserable people are mean. It is impossible to be unkind and feel good inside.

I explained that to Maya.

I understood Maya's desire to be comforted after a day of coming to terms with the unkindness that runs rampant in this world.

I was on my way out the door to attend my book group when Maya requested Barry.

Barry helps me tuck the little ones in on most nights. But sometimes he is tired and hibernating.

Maya needed him tonight so he didn't hibernate.

"Hi Maya," said Barry.

"Hi Barry."

"Maya, did you have a hard day?"

"Yes. [Someone] was really mean to me. She told all the other girls not to be my friend."

"I'll bet that made you so sad. I wish I could have been there to protect you."

"Me too."

Barry has a high pitched baby voice. He thinks he is very very tough and strong. He likes to practice his growl. He likes to ask Maya and Tyson if his growl is scary yet. I've been working on it, he says. Then he growls. But it's a baby bear growl. And that's all. It makes Maya and Tyson giggle.

Maya hugged Barry tightly.

"Maya?"

"Yes, Barry?"

"What did you have for lunch?"

"Pizza."

"PIZZA!? YOU ARE SOOOO LUCKY!!! I LOOOOVVVVE PIZZA! I LOVE PIZZA WITH SARDINES AND BLACKBERRIES ON TOP!"

"Cause you're a bear. And bears love fish. And berries."

"Yup. I'm a big scary bear and LOVE FISH AND BERRIES!!!!"

I have to tell Barry to settle down and stop shouting. It is, after all, bedtime.

"Sing a song, Barry," says Maya.

He sings with all the passion of a plush baby black bear hoping to soothe the heart of a sad little Maya.

"Winne the Pooh doesn't know what to do. Got a honey jar stuck on his nose. He came to me asking help and advice and from here no one knows where he goes. So I decided to ask of the owl if he's there, how to loosen a jar from the nose of a bear..."

Maya giggled.

Barry's job here was done.

We kissed her good night.

Watch Maya's face in the following photos. Barry is a magical bear with the power to heal broken baby hearts.

I hate that Maya had a bad day.

I hate that I shelter her and provide a warm and loving environment in which she can thrive and grow to be a confident happy adult and that I must send her out into the world where awful little girls will hurt her tender feelings.

I hate that people in the world are so unhappy they must lash out at others.

It is only unhappy super sad people who inflict pain upon their fellow earthlings on purpose.

I'm sad people feel the need to be unkind. At any age. To my baby. Or to me. Or to anyone.

I imagine the pain I feel at watching Maya cry as a result of a biting, back stabbing little girl is very much how my Heavenly Father feels when He sees His children on Earth hurting each other. And He has to just watch it happen.

My baby went to bed happy. Thanks to Barry.

What would I do without him?

(Tyson loves Barry too, by the way. Barry and I will be devastated the day he decides he doesn't want Barry to sing him a good night song...)

********************************************************************

In other news, I WORE MY THIGH HIGHS TO BOOK CLUB TONIGHT!!!!

YAY FOR THIGH HIGH BOOTS!!

I felt extra sassy.

I haven't worn them for two years-ish.

It was high time!

I can't tell what is on my boot in the top pic there. It's either frosting or ranch. Maybe both.

Have you had cake pops yet? They are all the rage. OH MY GOSH! HEAVEN ON A FREAKING STICK! IT'S CAKE!!! ON A STICK!!! I can't get enough.

I had a great time at book club. Everybody laughed at me because of my Ambien singing post. And they imitated me. That means they love me. They think I should make it a weekly event. 'Cause I am so refreshing when I'm drugged.

I'll consider it.

YAY! YAY FOR NICE PEOPLE THAT IMITATE ME IN A LOVING FASHION!

People are mostly AMAZING!

I like my friends.

HAPPY FRIDAY EVERYBODY!!!! WE MADE IT!!!!!

14 is WAY too young to gift Red Lace

2012-02-13T23:01:00.000-08:00

When I was fourteen a boy sent me a pair of cheap, red lace panties in the mail for Valentine's Day. He had found them in his brother's underwear drawer. (The brother was not a girly boy but apparently had a serious 17 year old girlfriend that apparently had a thing for cheap, red lace.)

I met the boy of the panties at a church dance. Kyle. He was my first kiss. An innocent first kiss in broad daylight at a water park with my little sister screaming "STOP IT! STOP IT!" in the background. It never went further than that.

I hid those underpants in my junk drawer until I thought I might have a nervous breakdown. The fear of my parents finding them was too much to bear. I threw them away like yesterday's panties.

Kyle and I never discussed the racey lacey gift out loud. That would have been super icky and yucky gross and weird. We only saw each other every two weeks at church dances so there was really very little time to discuss under garments when we were both so intent on showing off our Running Man skills on the dance floor.

I'll never understand why he felt comfortable sending me such a present.

The more I think of this story the more I realize that,

A) If a 14 year old boy ever sent something like that to MY daughter I'd find him and ram it down his heated hormonal throat and

B) Valentine's Day is a time of gift giving...

We all feel pressured to BUY BUY BUY on this most commercial day of the year.

Brightly colored hearts and candy dance before our eyes. They taunt us and remind us that love is about purchasing stuff. Stuff must be purchased for everyone, you know. Don't leave anyone out now! The butcher, the baker, the trashy naked neighbor. All of these people need love too. In the form of heart shaped sugar cookies and beady eyed red teddy bears.

IT'S MADDENING!

WELL!

I AM SO OVERWHELMED WITH SHINY BALLOONS, RED ROSES AND FLUFFY FROSTING CUPCAKES I COULD DIE.... OF HAPPINESS!!!

YES!

JOY TO THE WORLD! VALENTINE'S DAY IS COME!

I have no patience for Valentine's Day haters. None.

There is always someone to show kindness to. Even if it doesn't mean you'll be "gettin' some" later.

I just can't get enough of the day!

I love helping my little ones fill out Valentine's cards for each member of their class.

All those little ones in the first and third grade will feel so HAPPY AND SAPPY tomorrow. Their tiny hearts will well with joy and their tiny teeth will begin to decay with all the lovely treats to be had!

Even the kid that picks his nose will take a break from picking to open his cards. His nose will have a long deserved break from the constant prodding and digging. His nose is exhausted.

Valentine's Day is a WONDERFUL tradition inflicted on us all by corporate America.

My older girls spent an hour at Walmart today buying their friends gifts, like a gallon of Sunny Delight and a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. I'll put it in a gift bag so it won't look ghetto, they said.

Imagine the glee of the friend who comes to school expecting nothing and is met with gift bag full of Sunny D!

I LOVE IT!

I LOVE IT!

I LOVE IT!

I love to give gifts. I love to get gifts. I love to watch others receive gifts.

It's FUN to show our love and care for each other with a cardboard heart full of crappy chocolate!

I'm all about LOVING and LIVING and LAUGHING and GIVING and SINGING and DANCING without shame or remorse. I'll make a fool of myself if it will make you smile. It is my gift to you. I'm generous like that. ;)

I still can't say exactly what Kyle was thinking when he sent me those underpants.

What I DO know is that it feels great to give Stuff.

In the end all it really means is, I was thinking of you. You mean something to me.

LOVE ONE ANOTHER EVERYONE!

REMEMBER THE GOLDEN RULE!

May we all be kinder, gentler and a little less selfish.

Happy Valentine's Day.

An Ambien Musical la lu lalululu... wha?

2012-02-12T23:41:00.000-08:00

This is super weird. I'm all ambiened up ya'll. Sunday nap means I gotz to medicate or I will be hurtin come Monday. Mondays are bad enough.

Whatever.

I hope you like looking at my clavical. My face is hidden from view for some strange reason. I'll have to do a different post in broad daylight wherein the focus is taken off my chest. Jeez!

I sang you some songs tonight cuz I was feelin so free and loose on the juice. unfortunately the lighting in my house is too dim to get a decent pic. The video is all dark and crazy.

Listen at your own risk.

I'm so glad we are friends here and you won't judge me on my absentminded nature and a missed note here and there... whilst medicated. Good grief!

Here'e something I want form YOU. Tell me something romantic. I want to read a story about love that will break my heart or make it swell to bursting. Whatcha got for me??

My New Tattoos

2012-02-11T23:48:00.000-08:00

Here is a photo of me and my man on a special, romantic Valentine's date.

You can see how terribly elated we are by the maniacal look in our eyes.

Okay. I'll level with ya. My man don't like to be on the flash bulb side of a camera. And I'm glad of that.

What in the world would I do with some show pony man who loved posing for the camera? I couldn't deal with a man like that. Nope. I'd be like, "Dude! Quit posing for the camera all the time. Get OVER yourself. It's unattractive."

I'm feeling pretty sassy today. Guess why.

I GOT TWO NEW TATTOOS!!!!

Here is another picture of me. I am modeling the tats for your benefit. But you can't really see them in this picture.

Here is a close up for ya.

Those are my wrists. They look really weird all close up like this. What if those were my legs? EWWWWWW! Those would be some jacked up legs, man. All vein-y and pale with a jarring shape to behold. You have to admit I have good veins for donating blood. Not that I ever do.

I got these sparkle tats at Imagen Hair Salon in Tucson. They are all the rage, you know. They last, like, 5-7 days.

I GET TO ENJOY MY HAPPY VALENTINE'S TATTOOS FOR FIVE TO SEVEN WHOLE DAAAAAYSSSS!!! All the girls at the salon were wearing them. When in Rome, baby.

I'm SOOO EXCITED about my wrist tats that I can't stop STARING at them. I just stare and stare and care and share. Like the Care Bears. When they say CARE BEARS STARE! And then magic love light comes beaming out of their chubby bellies and they save the day.

I don't save the day AT ALL with MY belly light.

But I did accidentally drop approximately 10 kernels of popcorn down my shirt as I was watching a movie tonight. The kernels fell all the way down to my tummy and stuck there. I had to just leave them. Digging for them in public was out of the question. As was leaving the sub par, disappointing movie for five minutes to remove them. They made a home stuck to my abdomen for the duration.

We watched The Vow.

I was so hoping for it to make me cry.

But did I cry?

DID I?

Not one single tear.

WHAT KIND OF CRAPPY LOVE STORY LEAVES A SAPPY WOMAN DRY-EYED?!

Lame.

That Tatertot Channing and that Rachael chick just didn't have chemistry. I didn't believe a word of it.

I'm glad my man and I have LOADS of chemistry. WE should have starred in that movie!

My man and I got a whole entire SCIENCE LAB of chemistry. We got it goin' ON with beakers and microscopes and lab coats, baby! EXPERIMENTATION is the name of the game. OH YEAH.

Mmmk. I seriously have no idea what the H I am talking about. Somebody stop me. One can make ANYTHING sound naughty. Even microscopes.

I've got to go prepare my lesson for the little children at church tomorrow. I must bid adieu.

Parting is such sweet sorrow... blah blah blah... til it be morrow...

I will leave you with my signature hand on hip pose and wish you all a happy Sunday.

God bless us everyone. ~Tiny Tim

I'm Appealing

2012-02-09T23:43:00.000-08:00

My face is falling off. I can see virgin pink skin beneath the dead flakes that refuse to fall but stick stubbornly.

The murdered skin taunts my audience as I smile and laugh as though nothing is amiss. The People try to look at my eyes as I speak but their eyes are tempted and can't help shifting to my lower face. Which is falling off.

The procedure includes such products as salicylic acid, lactic acid and retinoic acid. ACID. I have PAID a woman to cover my face in ACID. The acid has essentially killed three layers of skin that was alive and fairly well yesterday at 10:30 am.

I have done this so I will be extra beautiful to behold.

I am not to engage in any sweaty activity for the next 3 days. So sex is out of the question.

I am also not to expose my skin to the sun, wash my face with a washcloth, use a scrub, pick or pull the skin or talk to strangers named Chester.

I am DYING to pick AND pull the skin. It itches like the dickens! If I peeled and pulled skin would come off in triumphant sheets. Glorious sheets of yesterday's epidermis would line today's waste paper basket.

But no. Peeling and pulling will result in scarring. So I must let enormous chunks of dried flesh hang from my chin until it decides of it's own accord to abandon ship.

I took my face with me everywhere I went today despite it's altered condition.

The peeling began at a sushi lunch with my mother, brother and baby sis.

"Something is happening to your chin, Crys," said Michelle without concern. She never cares much for outer appearances.

"Oh. Has the peeling begun? I was told it would be another 24 hours. I got a vita peel at the dermatologist yesterday," I said.

"We should go out," said my brother dryly.

This is sarcasm.

He does not want to go out in reality. Not for 3 to 5 days at least.

The last time I got a peel I had no idea of the wrecked condition I would be in. I got the peel to celebrate my 33 birthday. I wanted a youthful glow. Fresh skin.

My brother had planned a lovely evening for he and me a couple of days after the peel. I would not cancel for the world. I was terribly excited.

He was very cool, collected and ridiculously handsome no matter how monstrous I looked. He took me to a fancy sushi dinner downtown.

Then he took me to an elite fashion runway show with beautiful, underfed models strutting their pristine smug mugs. All the while Joe stood cool with a drink in his hand. He said not a word.

He has not invited me out in public since.

K. That's a lie. He has. But it would make a better story if he hadn't.

I had a church meeting tonight. My condition had progressed rapidly since lunch.

There were 30 women in that room and I had to introduce myself.

I wondered if I could avoid mentioning my malady. The thought of letting them wonder and talk amongst themselves later made me giggle inside. But the looks of shock and concern as they stared were more than I could bear.

Has Crystal contracted leprosy? they thought. Perhaps she is being punished for hosting a super bowl party on the Sabbath. Yes. I'm sure that is what happened. Obedience has never been her strong suit, has it? It was only a matter of time...

Gossip really gets under my skin.

I put them and myself out of misery.

"Hello, I am Crystal Pistol. I am the girls camp director this year once again. And I have had a facial. So please don't be alarmed if my entire chin detaches from my face and falls to the floor."

We all laughed the laugh of relief. It's one of the best laughs. Except for maybe the belly laugh when you are five years old and your dad tickles you until you are sure you will never be allowed to draw another normal breath again in your life. That's a good one too.

Immediately after my meeting I attended a book group. We were to discuss Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible. Great book.

I made a similar announcement to the one I had made at church and everyone was perfectly fine.

There was one moment when a group member told of how she was once directing the music in church and her breasts starting leaking. She was a nursing mother at the time. Two large wet spots appeared on her blouse directly above her nipples as she conducted.

Ah... I remember those days. There are times in a woman's life when her cups runneth over. It's a wonderful, wet, bonding time.

As we all laughed and told of our own nursing disasters I realized that no one cared about my face.

At first I didn't know how I felt about that. I am awfully concerned about my face on a daily basis. It is common courtesy for them to CARE ABOUT MY FACE!

I suddenly remembered something my brother had said earlier today.

"No one cares about your face," he said. "Everyone is too busy caring about their own faces."

Wise beyond his years my brother.

Tomorrow I will go on a field trip with my son to Tucson's famous gem and mineral show at the Tucson Convention Center.

"Will your face look like THAT?" he asked in horror.

"Well not EXACTLY like this. My chin will be mostly peeled by then. But my cheeks will probably peel next. And maybe my forehead. I will explain it to everybody. Don't worry. It will be fine."

He is mortified. I'm sure he has considered asking me not to attend. Tyson really cares about having me look pretty for his little friends. Poor lad. May this be a lesson to him.

Beauty is only skin deep.

Pan dulce after midnight

2012-02-09T00:25:00.000-08:00

"So the guy kills his wife. BLAM! Shoots her dead. Because she had other boyfriends besides him," I say.

I am eating watery oatmeal. I like it like that. Milky and hot. It is 11:30 p.m. I have only moments ago finished reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.

Bella has come downstairs. She is grumpy and bleary eyed. Is having a tough time completing mounds of homework due tomorrow. I am happy to see her although I know she should be in bed.

"You want some oatmeal, honey? I'll make you some..."

She nods. It is a disgruntled nod with a fluffy ponytail.

As I stir the pot Bella wraps her arms around me. I hold my 11 year old baby tightly. She sighs.

She sighs that sigh we sigh when we were in need of affection and have suddenly had that innate necessity filled. There is undeniable satisfaction in a warm, solid hug.

The energy of a hug is powerful beyond human comprehension.

I make her oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins to soothe her rumpled soul. She eats it with furrowed brows and dark demeanor.

I play with her curly hair and scratch her head.

"It's like a rug," I say. "A very thick, curly rug."

She smiles in spite of herself, and croaks, "It's very spongy, like a pillow, when I lay down on it."

She then eats her oatmeal in silence.

"Sometimes men get all crazy and kill their wives," I say. "Like in my book. You see it on the news all the time. Some guy kills his wife or girlfriend in a jealous rage... just because she has a new man. Some men think they actually OWN the woman in their life. Like a pet or a pair of socks. So when she strays they lose their minds. I'm sure they think it's out of love...".

I keep rambling on about the plot of the book. Then I tell her some gossip I heard today about people at church. It's good stuff. Truly juicy. Dripping with juice. Oh man.

"Now don't go telling anyone about this, Bella. I'm treating you like grown up here."

"Ok. I won't tell. ...I'm too tired to do my homework, Mommy."

"Okay baby. Don't do it. Go to bed."

"But you gotta tuck me in...".

I wonder how many more times in her life she will ask me to tuck her in.

I tuck her in and say prayers with her. I stub my toe on a stool in the dark and stifle a bad word.

Now I am here typing. And it is far too late to be here typing. I will come to regret this.

When I was a child/teenager/adult my mother used to love to sit and chat at me in the still of the night behind a glass of milk and some pan dulce.

I was the Bella then.

I thought of that tonight as I talked at Bella. I remembered the hundreds of times I have sat at a kitchen table in the wee hours of the morning and listened to my mother talk. She has never yet run out of things to say.

Bella didn't say much but the enormous chocolate lakes in her head she calls eyes soaked it all in.

My mother has always healed my heart after midnight with her talking when the house is still and owls call to us.

It was her stories of Mexico and real live ghosts and wild Apaches and our Mestizos that have helped time and time again to mend the broken pieces of that constantly beating and bleeding organ.

My mother has taught me the importance of warm food in the healing of the heart. Empanadas of her baking. Cream of wheat. Tortillas con frijoles. Queso con salsa de chile verde.

Some people say it is bad to eat so late at night. "It will go straight to your hips" they say. The better to sway them with, my dear.

Only food and an understanding soul filled with Love can soothe the troubles of the world once it has gone to sleep.

My mother once told me the story of the boy in Mexico she dated. She had hopes of a future with this boy. He had a car. My mother had muddy, bare feet. The boy with the car was not very nice to my mother.

At night my mother sat at a kitchen table with her mother. Drinking coffee and eating pan dulce in the wee hours.

"He will be sorry, Mi'jita," said my wise Abuelita. "One day he will be be so sorry. He will wish he had chosen you."

My mother is beautiful, successful and the most intelligent person I know. Of course he is sorry.

When my heart had been broken by boys who did not appreciate me as they should have my mother would wisely sip her herbal tea with a touch of honey and say,

"They will be sorry. You will see. They will be so sorry they did not choose you."

They are sorry. I see now. A sorry sorry lot.

Food and love and talking and listening at unreasonable hours. Stories with sound morals and demons and angels. These things, I have discovered tonight, flow through my veins.

I look forward to the day Bella sits at a kitchen table with a mug of something hot and says to her own daughter,

"He will be sorry, my love. You will see."

A Bowl Of Love

2012-02-05T23:46:00.000-08:00

Check it, yo!

I'm makin' a weird face here, but you and I are close so we don't mind together, do we? No. You are welcome to join my super bowl party and chill and witness me make weird faces from dawn til dusk if it suits ya. Come on ovah...

Lookie at all the evil food (food is a term I use loosely here...) in my kitchen... Here you see chips of various varieties, nacho cheese, fresh salsa of my own chopping, a vat o sour cream, delicious fattening dips made by my girl, Shannon and little bbq smokies.

This is Shannon. She cooks amazing food. Tonight she made an jalapeno popper dip and a buffalo blue cheese dip that were TO DIE for. I will dreaming about the buffalo blue cheese tonight. And every night for ever more... sigh...

In addition, milk is on my counter. Some people these days consider cow milk the root of all evil. I consider it the root of my Lucky Charms. There is also Coke to be had. Full strength in all it's glory.

HOORAY FOR THE SUPER BOWL! HOORAY FOR THE RANDOM FRIENDS WHO CAME TO ENJOY THE GAME AT MY HUMBLE ABODE! HOORAY FOR THE WINNING TEAM! THE ONE WITH THE SHINY HELMETS...

I don't give a fig for football. Not me. I know it's supposed to be ultra sexy and attractive for a woman to know all about the game and cheer right along with the men. I don't belong to that breed.

Oh, I basically understand the game. I know a first down is when a big dude tackles a different big dude and they both fall down and roll around on top of each other for a while and then they help each other up and smack one another's big bottoms.

Pro football players have big bottoms, I noticed. Tight ends. That's because they are REAL men. My real man has a tight end big bottom too. Meowrrrm.

Super bowl was AWESOME, POSSUM!

Mr. Pistol and I invited over three families that don't really know each other and would probably not hook up of their own accord. It's fun to mix and match our friends! I think it went well.

I never know who to invite to stuff 'cause I have lots of friends and fam in Tucson. I'm always sure someone will feel left out and offended or that the ones chosen won't mesh. Ah well... If you weren't invited this time and would like to be, please leave a comment below. I will see to it that we buy plenty of psuedo-food to accommodate you and yours. :)

Mi casa es su casa. I am a lover of the peoples.

Here you see me talking with my hands to my super bowl buddies. I'm told I talk with my hands quite a lot. To which I shake my finger and say nay. Tis false.

We are all lethargic and comatose due to the vast quantities of food ingested. Blough. Delish.

How about that halftime show, eh?

Madonna is 53 years old, my friends.

I had mixed feelings at first. In the beginning she was slow. Low energy. I was disappointed but THEN ... OH THEN entered the man who BOUNCES ON HIS BUSINESS! THAT got my attention. My eyes were glued to the tube. He bounced from his junk to his truck then double flipped and landed on his feet. BRAAAVVVVAAAAAA! ENCORE!

Madonna is hot. I was impressed as the medley continued. Her body is SIC! Can YOU compete with that? She's got mad genius skillz. Well done Mama Madge!

I'd like to get the outfit she is wearing above for myself. To wear to a church talent show. I would sing, "Like a virgin... touched for the very first time...". IT WOULD BE A HOT HIT! I CAN'T WAIT!!!

Madonna said she would send it to me in the mail. Looking forward to it.

Kelly Clarkson sang too. That girl can really BLOW! That's what Randy Jackson says when someone can sing well. He says, "Woah you can really BLOW" . And she CAN. Man oh man can she sing like a canary. Chirpity chirp chirp.

Some of her little kid back up singers were making the strangest faces ever on a child. They were possessed by the music in an ugly contorted manner. Sounded angelic though, despite demonic possession of their facial expressions.

This is my friend Nephi. I am creepy and smiling behind him. Nephi is 16 and ate 4 heaping plates of nachos. He is a strapping young lad. Then he fell asleep on my couch. I felt very proud to stuff the boy full to the point of slumber.

This is Tyson. He is a 17 year old football/wrestling star. He is more well known at his school than the principle. And better liked than Miss Congeniality. He too ate 4 heaping hopping plates of super nachos. Here you see the result of said nachos. Sleepy time. ZZZZZZZZZZZ.

This is what the American tradition of the super bowl is all about, ya'll!

It is about bringing souls together in harmony despite social cliques or that lack thereof.

It is about rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air... that our flag is still there!

It is about the freedom to criticize who we will. Like Miranda Lambert/hubby and their very low energy and uninspiring performance.

It is about Love.

It is about eating so much you split your pants.

...AND THE HOME OF THE BRAAAVVVVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :)

I love this country.

Gimme Some Sugar

2012-02-05T00:07:00.000-08:00

"Look how gorgeous YOU are tonight! I LOVE your dress, sweetie! And what a lovely corsage! Okay. So... grab a little bag. Then you can pick five candies from the candy bar."

I repeated a variation of the above approximately 150 times tonight.

There was no insincerity to be had. They did look gorgeous. Every last one of them.

I volunteered at the elementary school Daddy/Daughter Sweetheart Dance. At first I had offered to bake a couple dozen cupcakes and send them in. Wash my hands of the thing whilst feeling philanthropic. When I discovered my husband had convinced Maya to be his date I simply had to be there.

Luckily someone called in sick and I was able to woman the Candy Bar.

SO SUPER LUCKY! I had the BEST job in all of Multi-Purpose Room Converted Into Candy Land! ...Except for maybe the DJ. He got to spin and choose the tunes all the night long whilst bobbing his head in time. At one point he even played the popular new hit, I'm Sexy And I Know It..

That song embarrasses me. I'm Sexy And I Know It.... Ick. I blush every time I hear it. I dance every time I hear it too... I dance as though I think I'm sexy and know it. I'm not gonna lie...

But the thought of a bunch of virile bachelors gyrating and grunting and flexing whilst singing, "I WORK OUT!" makes me terribly uncomfortable. It's alright to be sexy. And I feel it's okay to know it, to a degree. But I must draw the line at singing about being sexy and knowing it in public. Poor form, I say. Poor form. Hypocritical? You decide.

Anywho... I GOT TO DANCE TONIGHT!!!!! YEAH! MEEEE! And not in my kitchen either! Or in my bathroom with the potty brush! Or at my vanity with the blow dryer! I danced to real music with real people in the ACTUAL ROOM!

It was the most fun I've had in a long time. Dancing is on my top 3 list of funnest things to do with your body.

Granted, I was stuck behind the candy table and forced to wear black as a Mommy Volunteer. But I DANCED!

I was the only mommy in a floor length dress. Or a dress at all for that matter. So Lemito of me. Love that! Dressing up makes me HAPPY! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

Maya was reluctant to attend the Daddy/ Daughter Sweetheart Dance on the grounds that it was "weird". She finally consented to go when she understood that she is our last little girl and Daddy and I would cry ourselves to sleep on our huge pillows if we could not participate. No pressure.

I had to beg her to let me curl her hair. She did let me paint her nails pink though. But refused to allow me pick her clothes or apply sparkly eye shadow and a touch of blush and perhaps a smidgen of lip gloss even though I BEGGED.

"PLEASE, PLEASE let me put a teeny tiny bit of makeup on you," I whined.

"No, Mom. Please NO."

"PLEASE, YES, Maya! You are my last little girl! I need to make you look like a baby dolly!"

"Ew. Mommy. No."

And that was that.

My heart melted at the dance tonight when the music man played the country song, I'm going to miss this.

I looked around the room and saw 150 daddies with 150 little girls. Many of the tiny females danced in their daddies' huge arms. They swayed back and forth and smiled up at the men in their lives. There was safety in those arms. I got misty.

My own husband danced with my sweet Maya. I am grateful to have a sensitive man willing to get dressed up on a Saturday night and attend the Candyland Elementary School Dance. My sensitive man doesn't dance much, as a rule. The sacrifice was great on his part.

I really am going to miss this.

*sniff*

The last half hour of the dance Maya joined me behind the candy bar and we JAMMED! We danced to all KINDS of songs ranging from Y.M.C.A. to some Lady Gaga song.

It would seem from the pictures my husband snapped willy nilly that I have an exceptionally expressive face when I dance. Not all of the expressions are terribly flattering, I'm afraid. But apparently, this is what I look like...

In addition, Maya chose the prefect fluffery bouncing swishing swashing skirt for the occasion.

A wonderful time was had by all.

I hesitate in adding this last bit for fear you will (wrongly) assume I'm sexy and I know it, but I would be remiss if I did not share with you The Story Of The Slimy Single.

The Story Of The Slimy Single is merely the tale of a daddy sans wedding ring who thought he might get him some sugar at the Candy Bar.

My husband saw him swim circles about my booth, like a shark. He would at long last drag his daughter, who would rather have been dancing, to inquire about the licorice or sour patch kids or some confection equally as masculine.

"Howz business?" he said at one point with a sleazy wink.

"We're doing great," I replied mildly knowing my husband was behind me ready to grab Sleaze Man by his pencil neck in the Candyland.

"I was hoping there would be some single chicks here tonight. He he he."

"You've come to the wrong place for that..." I said.

He guffawed.

Gross. I hate when people guffaw.

I suppose Slimy might be popular with some ladies in the playing field. He was not bad looking, per se. it was just the goopy sloopy sloppy ploppy vibe of the man. Predatory, ...in a bad way...

Slimy had all the makings of a Cheeseball, what with all the shiny grease in his longish black hair, his black tucked-in shirt unbuttoned just enough for kinky chest hairs to peek a boo I see you, and his crisp black slacks pressed within an inch of their lives topping spit shined black shoes that spun on a dime for my benefit.

Slimy winked and jitterbugged and shook his skinny hiney directly in front of my table for two hours.

I paid very little mind. I was enjoying my job of playing Mrs. Willy Wonka far too much to care about Slimy and his hiney.

"I'm going to kill that guy," said my patient husband. "Every five minutes he looks over at you to try to catch your eye."

"Ew," said I, looking up to see if it was true.

It was.

Double ew.

"I don't like that this is the most popular booth in the entire place," said my observant husband. "Suddenly grown men like gummy bears?"

"Well, there's a lot of yummy candy at this booth..." I said.

"Yeah, that guy is hopin' to score some of THIS yummy candy," he said gesturing to my whole entire person.

"Look, baby, the only man that is gonna get THIS sugar *gesturing to my whole entire person* is YOU. That guy is a joke." I laughed for emphasis.

I continued, "There ain't NO WAY. Not if I was single. Not before I met you. Not after I met you. Not if you died. Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not in the rain. Not on a train. Not here or there. I would not could not ANYWHERE...".

And that is The Story of The Slimy Single.

Hooray For A Sick Day

2012-02-02T23:10:00.000-08:00

Let's change the subject, shall we?

I''m super de DUPER sick of all the belly aching I've done around these here parts in the last 24 hours. I was all like, BOO HOO WAAAH WAAAH SOMEBODY WAS MEAN TO MEEEEEEE..... NOW I'M GOING TO CRY AN ACTUAL RIVER SO EVERYONE WILL SAY NICE THINGS about how amazing i am AND CHEER ME UP!

I'm over it. I was only upset because I was very very ill and overwhelmed with sicky strep kids and also because Denise is a wicked witch with a b.

Dr. G saw me today.

"How are you? I haven't seen you in two years..." he said peering at his records with a furrowed brow.

"I've been healthy for two years," I smiled weakly.

He laughed. I can't say why.

Sometimes people laugh to fill in the gaps.

"I hope you have been getting a regular PAP and breast exam somewhere..."

"Oh. Yes. One must never neglect the PAP nor the very important breast exam," I said in a silly voice with a silly face.

He laughs again. But this time it's 'cause I pulled a funny.

I don't go to Dr. G for a PAP. He's too young and charming with lots of distinguished silver hair mingling with natural black. He's been my doc for 13 years.

No. No. Too weird. Thank you for offering though. I prefer a no nonsense older lady gyno for that particular job. The woman I go to for such matters delivered 3 of my children. She is very familiar with me in divers ways.

"What brings you in today?" he asked.

"I feel pretty yucky. That's the technical term."

He became serious and looked into my eyes with concern.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"All my children are being treated for strep. I have been taking care of them as they cough and throw up and breath on me fro two weeks now. I believe I have been compromised. I've been HIT!"

"Is your throat swollen?"

"I have no tonsils but if I had tonsils I believe they would be quite swollen."

"Your temp is normal."

"My tummy hurts."

"Hmmm. Ok. Deep breaths."

He listened to my lungs as I breathed deeply.

I imagined myself BURSTING out in song at that time in order to startle him... I would sing Dolly Parton's Jolene at the top of my lungs in true Dolly fashion.

"SHE TALKS ABOUT HIM IN HIS SLEEP AND THEIR'S NOTHIN I CAN DO TO KEEP FROM CRYIN WHEN HE CALL YOUR NAME...JOOOLENE!

How hilarious would that have been? I should have done it. Next time I WILL! YEAH!

I'm DYING to do a singing video for you all of my version of that song but my brother has advised against it. I may still do it. I sound VERY Dolly! I can DO DOLLY!

Alas I did not sing.

"Your lungs and chest are clear. I will have my nurse do a quick strep culture. It will take 3 to 4 minutes."

"I HATE those!"

We laughed.

"I know," he said.

The nurse came in with a 6 foot swabbing stick and a tongue depressor.
I whimpered. "I hate these... so much.... whimper...".

The nurse chuckled with her chuckle head. "Open your mouth real wide and stick out your tongue."

I did so with great mistrust.

The 6 foot swabber was rammed down my throat. It began to swab. I gagged. The swabbing continued for up an hour. Swabbing the left of the throat. Then the right. Back and forth the swabber swabbed. And there I was all the while, gagging and gagging and heaving and hoing with no recourse- all in the name of strep and science.

Once the swab was removed from my person, I coughed and tears streamed down my face. I can't say why. Do people normally cry when a 6 foot swabber has violated their throat hole?

Dr G returned.

"Your strep test has come back negative. I cannot give you any antibiotics. But if your symptoms worsen call me. I will write a script and send it to the pharmacy online."

"Yeah. Ok. But can I at least have some Ambien CR? I don't abuse it. Only like once a week. And I really like it. Whadda ya say?"

"I don't see a problem with that."

"AWESOME!"

He laughed. I left.

NOW I HAVE AMBIEN!!!! HEEEEEHEEEEEEE! YES! I am writing under the influence as we read. Oh yes I am. I will remember none of this come cock crow time.

I am only indulging today because after my Dr visit I slept all the day long. In order to go to bed at a decent hour I must indulge. YAY! I love that pill! It makes me feel happy and loose. And FREEEEEE!! heeheeeheee.

My sweet sweet man took care of dinner this evening, as I was too ill with no strep to speak of. He took the kiddos to school. He picked them up. He even brought dinner home.

Daddy was the HERO OF THE DAY when he came gallopin' in with two bags full of burgers and animal style fries.

"HOOORAAAYYY!" We shouted with glee. "HOORAYYY FOR AVOIDING A HEALTHY HOME COOKED MEAL MADE BY MAMA! WE ARE SORRY SHE IS SICK BUT THIS WILL HEAL US UP NICELY!

The Troops could not believe their luck. Burgers? On a Thursday?

Despite the serious looks on our faces we are delighted with the unexpected, greasy meal.

I have to admit my burger left something to be desired. Nothing tastes as it should when one is ill. My burger was bitter and me thought me saw a fairy fly out from under the bun and do a dance upon a pickle. I picked at my food and more fairies emerged, grateful to be alive. I did not much enjoy my burger, but was soooo grateful to not have to cook.

Thank you to my sweet big strong man! How I love him and his gargantuan freakishly large... *cough*
...shoulders.

My favorite part of the evening was gathering together in the living room rather than at the dining table to enjoy, as a family, AMERICAN IDOL! I enjoy formal family dinners every night as much as the next guy but American Idol is a EVENT! Something to CELEBRATE! Did you watch it? I cried when that kid sang... the one that got bullied in school? He had heart. I really did well up...

In other news my dog needs a hair cut. I too need a haircut. I can only afford to do one of the options as per my budget. It's the dog or Me.

Lady is a lucky lucky dog. Tomorrow she will be groomed as a lady should. It's humiliating for her how fluffy she has become. What must all the other bitches be saying...?

I imagine she will direct the groomer in her educated English accent, "a little off the top... yes... and do be gentle with my ears... they are my mother's ears..."

I gotta go to bed now. See ya.

Denise and Susan Sicken Me

2012-02-01T16:15:00.000-08:00

Denise made me cry today.

Denise is nobody I actually know. Denise is just a mean stranger who hurt my tender feelings today.

My feeling are not usually terribly tender. I can be tough generally. Laugh things off. I'm not easily offended normally.

Today is different though. Denise, the mean and hideous on the inside random stranger, swooped in and said,

"Was just reading through your blog. Do you realize you use the word "I" more than any other blogger in the whole wide bloggerverse? Just an observation. I I I I I I I I I I I I ..."

Denise made me cry with her pointed finger pointing observation. Actual tears I cried. They streamed down my feverish face in an unexpected flash flood. In the muddy water of my tears were found entire uprooted trees of frustration, farm houses of pain and boulders of exhaustion.

Why does Denise the Troll have the power to wound me so today?

Three of my four children are home today from school with strep throat. It has been 2 weeks of battling that whore of all the earth in this house: streptococcus.

Susan S. Streptococcus is one of Satan's best women of the night. She is no respecter of persons and will invade the body of young, old, male and female alike. She sickens me.

Susan S. Streptococcus sneaks into unguarded orifices as a thief in the night. Heats the body and weakens the soul. She hides in the ice cold delight of shared popsicles and sloppy, innocent kisses among siblings and parents. She smiles and slithers from human to human and back again.

My children today are ill and needy and feverish. I do my best to keep them happy, comfortable and well hydrated.

There is no rest for the wicked, namely me.

And guess who else is experiencing strep-like symptoms but has been too busy caring for little ones and working her part time office job to get a culture. Guess who?

MEEEEE!

Me is also ill. Weak. Shakey. Emotional.

My throat is not swollen because 4 years ago a man with a scalpel sliced the tonsils out of my perpetually infected garganta. The recovery was the worst physical pain I've ever experienced.

Despite my own discomfort I am focused on my sick babies. The heat of fever and disgust with invisible germs has me cleaning like a madwoman.

All of the linens and bedding in the house must be washed. I MUST FIGHT THIS SUSAN STREP. I WILL DEFEAT THAT EVIL LADY OF THE NIGHT IF SHE KILLS ME! And she just may.

Yesterday I worked at the office all the day long and rushed home to fix dinner, take the healthier children to evening church activities and spend time with my lonely man. He is lonely when I'm away, you see. So I save the remainder of my energies for him. After my full day I began to feel the effect of Susan and her dancing army within my weakened body.

Sleep overtook me early. I did not check my blog or emails until today. I hoped to be uplifted by kind comments. I was disappointed. And hurt.

Amazing how unkind, cowardly strangers have the power to hurt another so easily in this day and age with no responsibility to be taken.

Denise broke my overloaded back with her easy breezy just an observation comment.

I. I suppose I do write I quite a lot. Perhaps it is because in the reality of everyday life so little is about I, or me for that matter. Perhaps I write I so as to remind myself I too am of worth. In and of myself.

I work my long tapered fingers to the bone for those I love. HOW SELFISH OF I! I am CLEARLY full of ME, aren't I? To refer to myself in regards to my relationship with my family. SELFISH!

The other day someone I dearly love was explaining to me what a good couple she thought my husband and I to be. She said,

"When I think of how much you have progressed and how much he has progressed in life since you met I can't help but notice that he has accomplished much more than you have. I know you are a mom and stay home so you don't have the opportunity to progress. But HE had his own business. HE was building multi-million dollar houses before the economy tanked...".

If you look closely you'll see that my tears today have those words written on them as well as Denise's. I am happy my husband has done well. I've been his little woman and helped him climb the ladder rung by rung.

In the eyes of the world I have not progressed. I have changed diapers and cleaned toilets for 15 years. My resume is riddled with home cooked dinners and furniture polish. I have been paid in hugs and smiles for my services.

I'd like to tie this blog post up with a cute little bow. Make it happy and share a pearl of wisdom or two. But I am too sick and too pissed off for cute little bows.

In addition, I must feed my family dinner now. Then I must finish washing bedding and putting mattress to sheet once again. I must also take my one healthy child to volleyball practice in an hour.

So you see? I am out of time.

I I I I I I I I

AYE AYE AYE CANTA Y NO LLORES

Everyday poetry

2012-01-31T00:29:00.000-08:00

Maya stayed home from school today. She was a sicky.

I secretly love when my children have slight colds and stay home from school to play with me.

We snuggled in my bed and watched Looney Tunes. We laughed and laughed. And snuggled and snuggled.

I thought I might burst with joy.

We thought we might hit a middle of the day movie in our comfies. We thought we might have some pizza for lunch. Maya had the pizza. I drooled and drank my protein shake like a good girl.

In the middle of the movie Maya wanted my 3-D glasses. Hers were too tight. I welled with love and gave them up. I wore the kiddie ones.

She also wanted my sweatshirt. Her Icee made her coldy. I welled with more love. I gave it up. And froze a little.

Halfway through the movie her throat hurt too much. We went back home.

I looked into her big clear blue eyes as I felt her forehead for fever.

I saw my husband in those big clear blue eyes. I did not expect to see him there. But there he was.

Strong. Sensitive. Brilliant.

I remembered the day I Knew.

I remembered the day a bolt of lightening struck my soul and said, "Marry Him."

I was confused. Afraid. And suddenly very sure.

I saw my children swimming in the ocean of his eyes. They laughed at my fear and asked me to jump in. The water was fine.

I jumped in.

I rushed in.

Fools rush in, you know. So the wise men say.

Tonight at dinner my son said,

"Jace's dad sharted in his pants. He tooted and then he pooped a little."

"I know what 'sharted' means," I said. "We don't say that word. It's not a nice word."

"Why Mama?" his green eyed freckle face was perplexed. His innocence made me ache inside.

I was loathe to educate him on this matter.

"Because it is a combination of two not nice words. S-h-i-t. And Fart. The combination is 'shart', " said I.

My children giggled. Then they laughed. Hard. At shart.

I shook my head and smiled.

I made tostadas for dinner. With fresh everything.

We discussed and memorized the 3rd article of faith. The kids took turns doing dramatic interpretations. There was rolling on the floor, leaping like frogs and preaching to the choir as they delivered their lines.. There was horrible screeching and melodic deliveries.

We believe that through the atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel.

They all know it now.

It's good to memorize things.

I allowed my husband to envelope me in kisses and warm sentiments as our children lost their silly minds in the midst of us.

He brought home flowers today. They were kind of ugly. Grocery store wilting yellow flowers. Petals fell all over the floor.

I smiled with sincerity and told him I loved him. I do.

Is it possible that those ugly petal dropping wilty flowers made me love him all the more?

I believe it is.

Mine is a life of everyday poetry.

`Romance In The Time of Cholera

2012-01-30T01:37:00.000-08:00

I am reading Love In a Time of Cholera as Nickelodeon blares it's latest tween show in my irritated ear.

The kids are climbing all over me. Tyson is launching Legos across the table to see how far they go. Maya is snuggling at my feet. The dog is snoring and passing gas. Yet amid all this, I am engrossed in Love.

All of me is throbbing as a result of this fairly naughty book. My heart beats a bit more rapidly than what would be considered respectable.

I really should cease reading it. I certainly won't watch the major motion picture! I have no desire to witness first hand the major motion of various vital body parts of unknown actors in said picture. No sir! Not me.

Reading the book is somewhat graphic. I admit. The story is so compelling I must see it through!

But don't worry, I use the little black censor bars in my imagination so as to lend a degree of modesty to the lovers. I have no intention on dwelling on the male apparatus of a stranger, even a fictional one. Female parts, strange or no, have no effect on me so they remain uncensored in my brain.

I am being slightly naughty in continuing to read but...

Oh... but the romance.... ahhhhh the romance has me spinning. My heart is full with pain and love.

She falls in love. He loves her true. They love in secret. Yes, they do. For years they write notes of passion. They are to marry, a reckless union. Then She looks him in the eye one day and realizes... *gasp* She does not love him. It was all an illusion! So she marries another. The devastated lover is sick and pale with grief. He lives his life in the hope of having her one day again...

When my husband sees me engrossed in my book of friends he says, "Now, don't you go falling in love with one of them romantic guys in your book."

"You're silly," I say... "YOU are far more romantic than the goofballs in this book... but... if I had married someone else... instead of you...if I had dumped you and married someone else.... would you have waited for me? Would you love me forever? Would you have lived every moment waiting for a chance to have me back?"

"Of course I would, baby!" he says. "You are the only one for me. There is no one else."

"What if I died? How long til you found another wife? You hate to sleep alone..."

"You're starting to hurt my feelings with these questions. I would NEVER, EVER want another woman but you. No other woman could even compare to you."

"Yeah... I don't know... I can just see your mom waiting a good 4 months out of respect for the dead and then setting you up with a nice, smiley, plump, good cook, Mormon spinster.... The children would need a mother, you know. She'll probably be super cheerful all the time. A little ray of sunshine. THEN maybe you'll be happy!"

I feel sick. I feel sad. BETRAYED! Tears fill my eyes. He already has a plump Mormon housewife waiting for me to DIE! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS CRAP! AFTER ALL I HAVE SACRIFICED! I HAVE DEVOTED MY LIFE TO THIS MAN AND HIS CHILDREN AND NOW LOOK!...

At this point my husband is terrified. Confused.

"I don't know what to do when you get like this," he says.

"YOU CAN START BY DUMPING THAT SMILEY MORMON WHORE YOU WANT TO MARRY SO BADLY!"

Now I'm crying. Sorta.

My man softens and soothes me with lots of words. Words including "baby" "I would never" "you're the only" "I love you" after several more "babies" I am feeling slightly better but still shaken.

Love is so very painful. Is it not? It is.

Love aches and hurts and causes me to throb in the best/worst possible way.

Love can destroy an individual.

Love is the only thing that truly matters in this dark and dreary wilderness.

Without Love in all it's forms I am lost. It is the breath in me.

I breath my Love on those closest and most of them are filled to capacity. Filling others with love is a passion I enjoy. It is a service I render.

Does that kind of love exist in reality? Like in the book? Would a man possibly remain in love with a woman he cannot have for the length of his life in the hopes that in old age he would have her again?

Do people really not get remarried after a spouse dies at a young age?

Do such romantics exist in the world?

I hope so.

Wiener Boy

2012-01-25T13:41:00.000-08:00

"I drew my wiener! ...Hey Maya's mom! I drew my 100 year old wiener! Look!"

Not 15 minutes ago I was volunteering in Maya's 1st grade class. We were celebrating The 100th Day of School for this school year.

I helped with various centers. There were counting games and writing activities. My favorite center, however, was one in which the little ones drew a picture of themselves at the age of 100.

"Just be creative," said their teacher. "When you are 100 will you be bald? Will you have wrinkles? Maybe you'll have a cane."

So the children drew and drew. They drew on their imaginations.

Some were quite realistic in their artwork. Liver spots and dementia were included.

My own child drew an old lady with wild blue eyes and a thick, black handlebar mustache.

"You are going to have a mustache when you're an old lady?" I asked.

"Yup. Some women grow facial hair."

While my child's artwork was creative and warmed my heart, I must admit my favorite picture was drawn by Wiener Boy.

"I drew my 100 year old wiener!" he shared with the rest of the class. He held out his paper for me to see.

I took a gander.

This small white child had used a dark brown crayon to draw his 100 year old wiener. He was generous and graphic in his depiction. He drew a substantial head, and everything. It hung there. Loud and proud. Unaffected by stares and giggles.

"Where are your clothes?" I asked, laughing.

"I'm too fat and old to put them on. I can't bend. My underwear ripped off."

He drew a pair of brown undies rent in twain. They lay on the floor at the feet of his naked 100 year old self.

"Old people fart a lot. I'm going to fart a lot when I'm old," said Wiener Boy. "And I'm going to order my food on the phone so people can just bring it to me."

"You should draw a cloud of gas coming from your butt," offered a helpful child. My child.

"Good idea!" he said.

"The gas should be green," said Maya, sagely.

And green it was.

What will YOU look like when YOU are 100 years old?

I REFUSE to talk politics cough ROMNEY RULEScough

2012-01-23T23:42:00.000-08:00

Do I dare discuss politics?

Nah.

I don't want to alienate my readers. I want everybody to like me and love me.

I will keep myself to myself so far as presidential candidates are concerned.

Yup.

I will tell ya that I watched the Monday night debate though. (I also watched the latest episode of that Kardashian mess. I can't get ENOUGH of that trash!)

I may even subliminally infer I have a slight preference regarding who should win Republican candidate and the whole enchilada, for that matter.

(ROMNEY FOR PRESIDENT!)

I have no intention of being an immature mudslinger.

(Newt's private life and personal history gross me out. His voice is unpleasant, like nails on a chalkboard or like the stench of eye of Newt in a wicked witches brew. Very smelly. And he is very selfish to keep all that thick white hair on his head for himself and not share when there are so many bald men with cold heads in the world.)

It's pretty cool I live in a country in which I can say whatever I want about politicians without fear of punishment.

It's pretty cool that there is a black president in a country that not so very long ago would not allow black children to attend the same schools as white children.

My dad was telling me just the other day how he remembers the very first time black children were allowed to ride on the same bus as he and his classmates in South Carolina.

He remembers how strange it was. And how scared the new passengers seemed that day. How his daddy (my Pops) had warned that morning, "Now, you don't look at them and they won't look at you!"

Black children have no need to be scared now, do they?

White kids can look at black kids. Black kids can look at white kids. They can even be friends. Imagine that.

We have a black president. We have come so far.

Guess what else is cool.

It's pretty cool that a Mormon is running for president. He is doing well.

Not so long ago an extermination order was put out by a certain Governor Boggs allowing people to shoot Mormons in cold blood. Just because they were... Mormons.

We are no strangers to persecution.

But now look! Mitt Romney is a Mormon dude and he is doing quite well for his little Mormon self!

I must admit I like Romney largely because he is Mormon. I know what he stands for. I stand for the same things. He is a good man. With a good family.

He's one of my peeps, Romney is.

Guess what bums me out though.

People are afraid of Mormons. People think we have weird beliefs.

True.

We do. Have weird beliefs.

But so does everybody else.

Other Christian sects think our Book of Mormon is bizarre and false. They preach against us in their places of worship. They think there is no way an angel could have appeared to a young boy and told him where to find ancient scripture in the form of gold plates hidden in the ground on a hill in upstate New York.

Putting it that way I guess I agree it is a strange belief.

Know what else are strange beliefs?

A talking donkey.

Noah filling an ark, constructed by he and his sons, with every animal, male and female, on the earth right before a flood came and drowned the entire human population not on that boat.

Sampson cutting off his hair and losing all his strength.

Hungry lions not eating Daniel.

The garden of Eden.

A virgin giving birth to the Savior of the world.

Those things are all in the Bible. I believe the Bible is the word of God. As do all my Mormon pals the world over.

And what about people who believe God is sort of an essence. A cloud. A fluffy, fuzzy presence that is nowhere, yet everywhere... That's pretty weird.

Buddhists believe peculiar stuff too. Let's not leave them out.

So you see, my friend, we are all a peculiar people.

Perhaps the key to demolishing fear is education. Knowledge is power.

Got any questions about Mormons and our beliefs? Ask away. I'm ready.

PS I wish Kim Kardashian had held out just a few more days in her marriage to Chris. I'm just not ready to see their train wreck relationship end yet! There is only one more episode until splizville! I also wish I had professionals to do my makeup like Kim's everyday. She looks very Kardashian Barbie.

On Awareness And The Art of The Flippy Floo

2012-01-22T00:50:00.000-08:00

"Look, guys. I had four kids so that you might entertain EACH OTHER!" I said today at the park. "Do I look like a circus monkey to you? I am not your performing baboon! GO PLAY!"

I was irritated.

I had had the brilliant idea of bringing my children to the park so they could play. I would then take the opportunity to sit on a lovely park bench under a tree and read.

But every time I settled down and became even slightly engrossed in the mere beginning of a paragraph I would hear the bleating.

"Ma!"

"MAaaa!"

"MaAaAaAaam!"

They bleated and bleated and it was,

"LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!"

"LOOK HOW HIGH I CAN CLIMB!"

"I HAVE SAND IN MY UNDERWEAR!"

Over and again a different child would seek my attention. I am sure they had a conference and planned exactly how to interrupt and frustrate me in the most efficient of manners. My children are brilliant.

It's my fault, really. Normally I play with them at the park. Normally I climb trees and swing and hang from monkey bars.

But I found it a very pressing issue to read my book club book today. I Am Number Four. I am not enjoying the book very much. I want it over and done. Rip off the band aide. Alien invasions force me to furrow my brows and sigh in dismay.

"Mama, come play lava monster with us!" shouted Maya.

"I don't want to play lava monster today, Maya! Can't you see that I am reading? Sarah is in a burning house and she might not survive... And aliens may destroy the earth at any moment! There are far more important things in life than Lava Monster! ....GOOOOO. PLAAAAY!"

I began to feel very guilty for chasing my children off.

I began to become angry with them for making me feel guilty.

I work hard to take care of them everyday, don't I?! Every MINUTE, even! I never STOP taking care of other people! Don't I DESERVE to be SELFISH once in a while and read about aliens destroying the earth!? HUH?!

Selfish.

Oh.

Huh.

Crap.

I remembered suddenly the teachings of a Tibetan monk. Sakyong Mipham.

I truly hate when the teachings of Tibetan monks flood my mind just as I am trying to be selfish and angry. Sometimes I want to be selfish and angry.

True love is the natural energy of a settled mind, an inexhaustible resource that we must cultivate... We are not meant to wait for moments of love to randomly arise but to be always cultivating love like a garden... When we practice being in love, we are... freeing our minds from "me" ...contemplating love gives us the biggest of minds; the farther our love extends, the bigger our heart grows.

Freeing my mind from "me". That is what would bring me the most happiness. I begrudgingly conceded the point.

I put down my book.

I sighed.

I prayed one word.

FINE!

"Let's practice your flippy floo, Maya," I hollered.

Maya's face lit up. My heart swelled and I thought of how quickly time passes. Life flies by with a buzz and a flutter and it is gone.

Very soon Maya will not want to flippy floo on the monkey bars. Very soon her biggest concern will not be blisters on her little hands due to flipping and flooing.

I became very Aware. Of the blue of the sky. The sun on my skin. Tyson's brilliant green eyes. Joy in my heart.

In celebration of that Joy and Awareness I included you in the Flippy Floo.

The following is an instructional video. Free of charge. The art of the Flippy Floo.

I am adamantly against the spanking of children. I find it an archaic and demeaning practice. I have, therefore, come to the conclusion

if you can't beat 'em... join 'em.

A Snotty Question

2012-01-19T00:09:00.000-08:00

"What are you reading?"

This is considered a rude question in my original family.

Why rude, you ask?

It has been used as a weapon in the past.

My wicked little sister asked this question to my husband-to-be when I first brought him to meet the fam.

It was obvious my blue collar, black finger nail fiance was no reader. He was rough. Rugged. Tattooed. Sported a shaved head and an enormous chip on his shoulder.

I found him in Provo, Ut. He paved roads for a living and pretended to attend the community college.

I was a snotty junior attending the private and prestigious BYU. I drove a red Porsche 944.

My sister, Coral, was disgusted with my choice. She found it incongruent with her expectations.

She wanted me to marry my boyfriend of three years who desired to be a writer when he grew up. But that long time boyfriend was far away in Poland serving a 2 year mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I still feel badly about the Dear John I sent all those years ago...

"What are you reading?" was the question on Coral's lips at Mr. Pistol's first dinner with my book nerd family.

All eyes were on the future Mr. Pistol.

He stammered. He stuttered. His eyes shifted from me to my evil sister in a confused fashion.

"Well, I... read a lot of magazines..." came his reply. He read weight lifting mags and my brother dubbed him "The Circus Strong Man."

The discomfort at the table was palpable. Coral's narrowed eyes held a victorious gleam. Her lips were upturned in a smug hint of a smile. I wanted to kill her.

Since that time my husband has come to understand the importance of reading as a basic survival tool. He reads now. In addition, I read classics to him as bedtime stories and during long road trips.

My husband is also the very first in his family to have earned a college degree. Quite an accomplishment.

He doesn't join my siblings and I in impromptu book discussions for the sheer principle of the thing. We are book snobs. Some of us worse than others. Michelle is the most discerning. In her humble opinion, if Dickens did not write it it must be tripe.

Guess what though?

My lovely and once conniving Coral has recently married.

Her new husband came to meet our lovely and now accepting family for Christmas. (The refiner's fire has made us all for more grateful and loving than previously.)

My mother generally raised the fateful question at the dinner table,

"What are you reading?"

It was not, this time, directed toward the newest family member, Ray. We all now know the cruelty in this inquiry when one is caught unawares.

We discussed books and authors until our husbands' eyes had glazed over completely. Ray and Mr. Pistol were in the same boat. Nice to have you aboard, my friend.

I've heard tale that Coral is reading the classics to Ray as he works on fancy classic cars in the garage. Classic. :)

Soon Ray will be confident and prepared to answer,

"What are you reading?"
*******************************************************

I need a new book. I'd like your suggestions.

I'm in dire need of a fluffy, fun romantic book and will make my heart race but not too fast... Let's keep this PG-13). I want to laugh, grin like a fool and maybe even cry a bit. And I don't want to have to think too hard with this one.

Whatcha got?

And to answer the question, What are you reading? I will share I am reading the following,

Fahrenheit 451 -I listen to this in the car as I run errands and on the way to work. I love it. I am obsessed!

Oliver Twist- I read this in the bathtub a little at a time every night. It inspires me to adopt a child every time I pick it up. I'm not kidding.

I Am Number Four- I am reading this for a book club. It's not my first choice. I don't really dig alien invasion books much. I do a big deep sigh every time I pick it up.

Scripture- Right before bed to center myself. Stay in tune with God. Not lose my ever lovin' mind. Remember why I'm Here in the first place.

I need a fluffy book!

Suggestions?

Hot Air

2012-01-17T23:40:00.000-08:00

A simple man sat next to me on the bus one day and blew in my face.

I was a 19 year old Sophomore attending Brigham Young University. I lived at Rain Tree Apartments which was quite a trek to campus on especially snowy days. So I rode the bus.

I had never ridden a public bus before. I admit I was nervous. The crowd on the morning bus to The Wilkinson Center was nothing I had expected.

How can I politely inform you the bus was littered every morning with retarded older men?

I had nothing against the men. I tried not to stare. They did not offer me the same courtesy. I smiled at the men if they stared too long. Sometimes they would laugh and slap their hands over their mouths. Sometimes I would compliment a super hero lunch box and receive a smile in return. Yet other times my smile was returned with an angry glare and a snarl.

Day after day I rode this bus to school.

I became accustomed to my morning commute and fellow passengers, as we become accustomed to all things at first uncomfortable in this life.

One fine day a creased and ageless blue-eyed man in a grey beanie sat next to me. I never discovered his name but today we shall refer to him as Bob. Bob was a regular.

Bob was one who generally stared and glared when I entered the bus. I felt uneasy around Bob. His eyes were piercing and fixed upon me for the duration on any given day.

Except, of course, for the day Bob puffed up his white whiskered cheeks like Red Riding Hood's big bad wolf.

I entered the bus that fateful morn in a cheerful mood. I sat in my usual spot. Bob stood from his usual seat and made his way to the seat next to mine. Bob sat. I was surprised but smiled kindly.

"Good morning," I said.

Bob turned to me suddenly, his cheeks filled with air. I could not help but turn my face more surely toward his. His mouth was inches from my nose.

How has this happened?!

Without warning Bob puckered his toothless mouth and blew.

Bob blew his putrid eggs for breakfast extra onions refusal to brush teeth for many moons breath directly into my startled face.

WHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, went Bob's breath.

He blew my hair back.

My eyes watered. For many reasons.

"Why did you do that?" I asked once I had gathered my wits.

"Because... I... like... you..." he said in a belabored manner with a thick Utah drawl.

I felt very calm here.

Peaceful. Warm.

He liked me! He really liked me!

I smiled, "Well. I like you too. But next time you should just TELL me you like me. I don't like it very much when you blow air in my face."

Bob scowled and looked at the floor. Then he growled and pulled his beanie low over his eyes.

Bob never blew hot air in my face again.

Tonight I thought about Bob because I went to a church function.

I always wonder if people (women) at church functions like me.

I'd like to think they do. But some maybe don't.

Women are fragile creatures with fragile egos sometimes. My ego. Their egos. Fragile.

There must needs be a ridiculous invisible pecking order detested but subscribed to by most all of us.

One never really knows where she stands, does she?

Both men and woman can be known for blowing hot air. Insincerity and mistrust are far easier than vulnerability and raw honesty.

So we smile tight lipped smiles, shake hands with without full eye contact and blow hot air.

But it is not the honest, warm blue cheese for lunch flavored breath of friendship air, is it?

I wish it were more often.

I say we become more like Bob in our sincerity.

I say we blow surprise jalapeno hummus breath in the face of an acquaintance teetering on the edge of Good Pal and say,

"I like you."

Midnight Love Waffles

2012-01-15T00:35:00.000-08:00

Midnight Saturday waffles after a low carb week are the best!

Tonight was my one cheat meal for the week. It's been salads and chicken breast and protein powder for as far as the eye can see all the week long. I've been lifting weights and running daily for a charity called Diminished Bottoms by Valentine's Day. So far I'm the only participant... that I know of... I am accepting donations as protein powder is expensive.

My man made me the wondrous waffles. What a wonderful waffle making man I have! He deserves an extra special cuddle after all his hard work.

Nothing makes a woman fall more deeply in love than a huge plate of syrupy carbs topped with sliced bananas, powdered sugar and berries galore.

As I slowly indulged in sinfully delectable, homemade waffles tonight I became contemplative. Philosophical.

I waxed romantic about the waffles in my plate on my lap. I curled up on the couch like the Queen of Sheeba and considered the confection.

Waffles, I have decided, are the Daddy.

The Daddy is supposed be Big, Thick, and Substantial. He should have a deep commanding voice, as waffles do.

The Daddy should hold down the fort. There would be no fort without The Daddy.

The Daddy should stick your ribs and fill you up. You should feel full after an encounter with The Daddy. The Daddy should fill you up.

The Mama, on the other hand, is the syrup. Mama is sweet. Kind. Gentle. Sticky? Ok... not sticky... But sweet.

The Mama is the glue, you see. The Mama sticks everyone together. Without the The Mama The Daddy is nothing but a lonesome sniveling pile of tasteless bready substance who can't find his own socks.

Which leads me to the babies.

The berries are the babies. They cling to the Mama and the Daddy. They stick and stick and stick. They are delicious to the soul. Nutritious. Babies are delicious and nutritious.

Babies have various personalities that must be attended to in creative fashions. You very rarely see a family with 4 blueberry children. It's a rare case to see that. That would be too easy.

Instead you find families with soft mushy banana babies that don't want to stay on the fork because they fall apart at the smallest hint of trouble.

In that same family you might find a sliced strawberry baby who is sorta rebellious and tart with a smart/disrepectful retort for everything.

And don't even get me started on the raspberry child. That child has the devil in her from the start. All you can do for that baby is love her extra hard and hide your valuables.

As I ate my waffle I became happier and happier and fuller and fuller until I hit rock bottom. TOO MUCH! OH! OH! OH NO! IT WAS WAFFLE OVERLOAD! My tiny tunny was stuffed too full of family.

I looked at the half eaten waffle on my plate and what do you think I saw?

That's right.

The disintegration of the family.

It was a sobering moment.

Crazy Pants Crys

2012-01-13T01:37:00.000-08:00

THE ARTICLE CALLS THEM MASSIVE PANTS! It even goes so far as to say Heidi Klum might be hiding a clown car in her pants and that tiny clowns will soon emerge from the hems (I'm paraphrasing a bit here).

I don't care WHAT the Wonder Wall article says. I LOVE LOVE LOVE these jeans.

What's not to love? That's what I think. These easy breezy 70's throw back pants give off a devil may care vibe. They gently suggest, "I like what I like. I'm confident. I have a flare for the dramatic and a desire to use my pants as sails for ship or as a kite on a windy day!"

But the article in question did a poll. 77% of the folks polled described the pants as Hideous. The minority of voters felt they were High Fashion.

77%!!! Can you BELIEVE that crap?!

People can be so painfully boring. It hurts me sometimes how bland The People can be.

My children disagree with me. They hate the pants too.

When I picked Maya (7) up from school wearing similar pants today she shouted,

"WOAH! THOSE PANTS ARE HUGE!!"

Serena (13), upon seeing my denim clad legs immediately shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"I hate those pants. They are so weird, Mom. Don't wear those."

But I WILL wear them. I will wear them with pride and my Wild Things t-shirt and a pink cardi.

I must be insane to do what I am about to but... below you see proof I am wearing the self-same pants as miss super model Heidi Klum.

Mine are Free People brand.

HEAR! HEAR! FREE THE PEOPLE FROM THE OPPRESSION OF COOKIE CUTTER PANTS THAT ARE INCAPABLE OF HOUSING SEVERAL LEGS AT A TIME THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BELONG TO THE WEARER OF SAID PANTS!

Don't you DARE make comparisons between Heidi and I! Or I'll have you evicted from the premises and verily removed from the situation and I also won't be your friend anymore.

Here you see I am pretending not to look at the paparazzi that are obsessed with me and my new pants which I bought on shopbop.com for 70% off the original price long before Heidi graced us with the above pics.

Also, I am using my children as props just as Heidi has done. Children make wonderful props. If you don't have any children you should have some based alone on the great photos you will surely enjoy.

I have been known to wear crazy pants in the past. When these were purchased I didn't think they qualified as outlandish. But according to the poll and my children I must be completely out of my mind.

I'm told crazy people have no idea they are crazy. Perhaps I fall into this category, as the slacks in question seem perfectly reasonable and nothing out of the ordinary.

In short,

I LOVE MY PANTS!!!

Can YOUR pants do THIS??

Or THIS?

Yeah. Didn't think so.

Who's laughing NOW brown cow?

In other news, my Bella has been sick for two days. I think it is strep. Gotta take her in to see the doc tomorrow. Poor baby. I'd take it from her in a second and keep that illness for myself if I could. I hate when my babies don't feel well.

PS I mustache you a question...

Home Sweet Home: Tucson, Az

2012-01-12T01:08:00.000-08:00

I find the prickly pear cactus to be quite beautiful. Spectacular, even. She is unique. A survivor bearing fruit against all odds. One would be wise to pattern one's life after her.

I have been witness to folks who visit my beloved desert and turn up their ignorant noses.

"I find the desert to be so ugly! I prefer green trees and grass," they say.

I then give the speaker of this offensive speech a good firm shove into said prickly pear. Themz is fightin' words, my friend! I'll show you ugly!

My Irish pal, Vince, requested I write a post about Tucson for people who live in other countries and are not familiar with the town. It would be my pleasure, Vince! I love Tucson with my soul.

I have lived in Tucson for most of my life. I lived in Germany as an Army Brat for a few years. And I attended Brigham Young University for the last three years of college. I have, however, traveled to far, strange and distant lands (including South Carolina) and Tucson is and ever will be the owner of my heart.

As a child I grew up in Tucson's South Side. A predominantly Mexican Mexican and Mexican American community. I spoke Spanglish there.

One could say,

Dame dinero for an ice cream cone, Apa!

or conversely.

Give me money para un cono de nieve, Dad!

We all understood the flip flopping of the two languages.

In south Tucson I played softball, barefoot in the streets until dark to the comforting sounds of Mexican Corridos blaring from passing cars and barking stray dogs.

I once witnessed a gang rumble in which one gang used scissors to stab the neck of an opposite gang member.

A black man exposed himself to me when I was 13.

I had 3 bicycles stolen out of my carport.

I was smashed in the face with a baseball bat for having a white father. I was not Mexican enough.

In south Tucson I learned to dance Mexican ballet Folklorico.

I enjoyed the benefits of an enormous extended family.

I ate carne asada and tortillas on a regular basis.

In south Tucson I learned to love my Mexican heritage. I fell in love with Mexican boys wearing cowboy hats and boots. I danced with these boys to cumbias and corridos until we could dance no more.

I had a pinata for my 16th birthday, made by my mother, in the shape of a heart. We demolished it in the carport. Then my friends and I danced to a battered boombox until vertigo. Happy times, those.

When my parents began doing better financially we moved to East Tucson. I was 16.

In East Tucson I learned that girls may not yank you by the hair in the High School hallway for looking at their boyfriends, like the South Tucson girls did, but they would certainly stab you in the back with a sharp tongue. Many of the young women I encountered reminded me very much of the venomous rattle snakes so prevalent in our desert.

The cultural difference in predominantly white upper middle class Tucson was a shock to my system. I had a very hard time adjusting. Many of the girls were unkind and dismissive and the boys were terrified of me. I was too curvy, too brown, too loud, too real, too Mexican.

There were, of course, a few people that were kind right off the bat but I had to learn how to behave in order to become accepted as one the general population.

I practiced my rich white girl accent until I had it down flat!

*ahem* DADDDY! BUY ME A CARRRRR!

In East Tucson I learned how to temper my temper. I learned I cannot say everything I think in mixed company. I learned to be more refined in word and deed.

In East Tucson I felt more physically safe. I enjoyed the clean air and open spaces. I often jogged with my yellow lab, Athena, at 11pm by the light of the moon, dodging saguaros and outrunning skinny coyotes. I often fell and would come home with blood running down my legs to which my mother would respond,

"AGAIN?!"

I have the scars to prove it.

I attended the University of Arizona for my freshman year of college. Those wildcats sure know how to party!! ...Which is why I was shipped off to the sober land of Mormons to finish my education. (Some of the best three years of my life, by the way!)

I now live in North Tucson in the burbs. I am a typical suburban housewife. Soccer Mom extraordinaire!

Yup. It's cool here. Good place to raise kiddies. I do find the social situation quite political, but I'm workin' it out.

I'm doing my very best to mingle with the locals. I'm not sure I have quite learned the magic word required to be invited to play dates and brunch with these ladies. But I'm working on it... I'm studying their bowel movements, eating habits and sleep schedules so as to become one with the community.

Whether one resides in the rich cultural neighborhoods of South Tucson, in a custom home with a view in East Tucson, in a dorm room at the UofA or in the burbs of North Tucson one thing remains constant.

The Old Pueblo has the most beautiful sunsets on the planet.

VIVA TUCSON!!!

Watch Your Attitude Or The ABCs of Abundance

2012-01-09T23:59:00.000-08:00

Tonight I gathered all my children together and taught them stuff. Important stuff.

The prez of the Mormon church wrote an article in our Mormon mag. The mag is called The Ensign.

I'm technically not supposed to be calling my church "Mormon".

Technically I'm suppose to say, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which is a mouth full of wordy words. But that's our real true name 'cause we are Christians and all. I read the bible and everything...

Some people think we are a CULT. They think we grow horns and tails and sacrifice cats and goldfish. Silly. I sometimes grow fangs and suck the blood of innocent citizens. But horns and tails?! That's ridiculous!

So the article President Thomas S. Monson wrote was about the ABCs of Abundance. He offered suggestions as to how we might all live full, successful, peaceful and abundant lives.

I will sum up in my own special way.

A is for Attitude. Don't choose a crappy one. You can CHOOSE your attitude. In any situation you can decide how you are going to feel.

"Bella," I said addressing my 11 year old. "What situation really REALLY pisses you off?"

"Well, I hate it when I am in line at school to go to the bathroom and some jerk girl just runs into the bathroom and steals my stall when it's not her turn. We only have a 4 minute passing period!"

"I can see how that would be frustrating," said I. "But once the girl is in the stall there is nothing you can do, is there? You can't kick in the door and yank her off the pot while she's pooping, can you?"

My children giggled at the prospect.

I continued, "All you have left is your attitude regarding the jerky potty thief. You can choose to be angry and hold a grudge and let her ruin you day. Or you can CHOOSE to have peace in your heart. Being upset will only hurt YOU. Eventually you will have pees in the potty and you will be relieved in every way possible."

B is for Believe In Yourself, Others and Eternal Principles.

I believe in fairies and Santa Claus and Leprechauns and MYSELF. I also believe in YOU!

Plus I have faith that if I am obedient to God's laws I will be blessed.

I am already super duper blessed beyond what I deserve. I try not to ask for too much more than what I've been given... BUT...

I can't help but hope He blesses me with lots and lots of money so I can get TONS of plastic surgery as I age. Aging gracefully would make me really unhappy. We are meant to be happy on this earth.

I hope I can fill every crevice of my face with stuff that makes it stay frozen and I want enough lip fillers to rival Daisy Duck. Sexy!

C is for Courage

I told my kids that people can be mean and discouraging in the world.

Sometimes people will say, "YOU SUPER SUCK! YOU CAN'T DO...[whatever it is you have your heart set on doing]."

This is where we stand up straight and tall and puff up our chests (but not too much if you're a well endowed chick because then people judge you... trust me... I know...) and swing from the trees like Tarzan. We are to beat our chests and accomplish the task at hand!

That's what I taught my kids tonight. I hope it sinks in.

Speaking of sinks, I cleaned all of mine today. It was cleaning day here at the Pistol house. Monday is always cleaning day.

Then I made a delish, healthy dinner.

Then I did homework with the kiddos.

Then I cuddled with my big, strong man.

And plus, I went to the gym this morning. It was leg day and I'm training for another half marathon.

Then I got the car washed.

In addition, I took lots of deep breaths when Maya pitched a crying fit this morning because she wanted to wear her denim shorts to school even though it was freezing outside.

These are the ABC's and 123's of my life.

My attitude is GRRRREAT! (Except at 6:30 am because I hate mornings.)

Quote of the day:

William James, a pioneering American psychologist and philosopher, wrote, “The greatest revolution of our generation is the discovery that human beings, by changing the inner attitudes of their minds, can change the outer aspects of their lives.”¹

NOOKIE SALES

2012-01-07T00:51:00.000-08:00

I wasn't shocked by his utterly inappropriate words.

Perhaps I should have been?

But then again. No.

The elderly can say whatever they want. They've lived on this god forsaken planet long enough to have earned that right. THEY HAVE HAD ENOUGH!

Seniors got in free today. They were everywhere. Shuffling along in orthopedic shoes they made their way among the booths. They hummed. Some hawed. They slowly pushed their walkers from isle to purchase free isle. Silver haired ladies and shiny headed men confidently took over the Arizona Home Show at the T.C.C. today.

I was meant to be charming and delightful. I was meant to sell people on the idea of building a lovely high end custom home with Golden Star Properties

"Hello sir," said I to a trembling man with grey hair covering only the sides and back of his freckled head. "May we build you a custom home?"

"Nope," said he.

I smiled. "Are you having a good day at the show?"

"Yup."

"Wonderful! There sure are a lot of people here today. Aren't there?"

"I just came over here to say I appreciate a young lady that wears a dress. You look real nice."

"Well thank you! What a kind thing to say," I smiled some more. I'm good at smiling.

"Yeah. These days you can't tell if young ladies are selling products or just sex with the way they dress."

"Oh! .... I...". .... ????!!!!! I admit my winning smile faltered here.

"I get so sick of pretty young girls looking like whores all the time. Seems like all they want to sell is sex and more sex."

I had collected myself by the time he uttered "sex and more sex." I was ready. I would not be intimidated by years of wisdom and lack of decorum. NO SIR! NOT ME!

"You are SO right, sir! " I said with teeth glinting and an upturned mouth. Cheshire cat in action. "Why at the last home show I saw a couple of lovely young ladies wearing teeny tiny half shirts and itty bitty short shorts and cowgirl boots. They were selling something at a booth. But I can't even remember WHAT they were selling! They were advertising SEX that's what! They sure got a lot of attention."

"HUMPH!" said the wise old man. "I just say what I think."

"Me too!" I winked and smiled.

"HUMPH!" he said again. "You look real nice. You just keep that up."

"Yes, sir. You have a nice day now."

In other news I taught my mother a new word tonight.

NOOKIE.

As soon as the wise old sexy man left I exclaimed,

"BAHAHAHA! Did you guys hear what that old dude just said to me?"

I told my parents the story but used the word "nookie" instead of "sex". It felt less brash to say "nookie"

"...so then he said [blah blah blah] NOOKIE AND MORE NOOKIE!... HAHAHAAA!" I giggled.

My father laughed heartily but then felt slightly guilty and shook is head.

My mother smiled weakly.

"What is... noo... key?" she asked with her thick (albeit charming) Mexican accent.

"Nookie is another word for sex," said I.

"OH! ........Nick... key?" she said, unsure.

"No, mom. NOOK. KEY."

"Nike... key?" her brows were knit together in concern.

"NOOK. KEY, MOM." I said loudly. "NOOK. KEY. NOOK. KEY. NOOKIE!"

My dad looked around nervously. "Geez, why don't you say it louder, Crys? The old, deaf man three rows down didn't hear you."

I wore a bratty gleam in my eye and smiled my winning smile.

"Mmmmk, daddy. ANOTHER WORD FOR SEX IS NOOKIE."

I feel badly my parents ended up with such an unruly child. They are never ones to encourage lowbrow humor. I am the bringer of filth in this family. I find it lightens the load and passes the time.

My parents are hardworking, respectable, clean-minded Americans who don't even know the word "nookie". I'm so proud if them!

I am a naughty girl indeed. Time to repent. :)

Sexy Weight Loss Tips

2012-01-05T23:29:00.000-08:00

Wanna lose weight?

Eat with your wrong hand. Go on! Try it! Are you right handed?? YOU ARE?! Grab a spoon with your left monkey paw and have yourself a bowl of soup, why don'tcha?

Women's Health Mag this month suggests eating with your wrong hand.

I tried it.

I'm left handed. I'm told being left handed means lots of good, creative, sexy things about me. Plus stats say I will die a good decade earlier than my righty counterparts. Whatever. Stats are stupid.

I'll give you a stat... In a study conducted by marsupials in Madagascar it was discovered that 1 in every 6 white males are attracted to women with cavernous armpits.

Mmm hmm. True story.

I tried eating a bowl of cereal with my right hand tonight. Just to see. I was terribly uncomfortable. TERRIBLY UNCOMFORTABLE!

It was TORTURE! I could focus on nothing else but hand to mouth coordination! I was an infant! There were Lucky Charms flying in every conceivable direction! Green horseshoes, yellow diamonds, blue moons and little green men with Irish accents found themselves splattered on my walls, floors and chin and thigh.

It was TERRIBLE! I couldn't just watch TV and mindlessly shovel tiny marshmallows into my mouth without a thought. I felt confused and deprived and frustrated. I had to actually THINK in order to indulge. Awful. Just awful.

I gave up.

I eventually put the spoon in the rightful left hand.

Yum yum yum mmmm. Bad girl.

The spoon in the wrong hand idea got me to thinkin'.

What ELSE might we come up with that would help us with our weight loss goals?

I have a few suggestions.

Method A: The Big Squeeze

Buy a pair of pants two sizes too small. Wear them all day. Berate yourself for not being minute enough to breath in said pants.

Focus on your excess skin (and/or fat) that is now hanging over the waistline of the unforgiving trousers. Feel that pant-too-tight-pinch on your private parts. Tell yourself it is your over-eating and under exercising that has done this thing. Repeat the following in your mind (or aloud, if you so desire):

THIS IS YOUR FAULT!

and also:

YOU EAT TOO MUCH!

That aughta do it. You will be on your way to starvation skinny in no time! :D

Method B: EAT NAKED

This is not my idea. I wish I could take credit, but I will give credit where credit is due.

Marissa Miller, Women's Health's January cover model, claims to eat naked. Eating naked is meant to make her feel sexier.

Marissa says, "Eating smart is all about having an awareness of your body. The most obvious way to do that is by seeing it. So when you're trying to lose weight spend more time wearing less."

OBVIOUS. EAT NAKED! DUH! YES!

Yes. Why didn't I think of that?! By all means! It makes perfect sense! Wear LESS while you eat. Have a pastrami on rye and simultaneously take a gander at the nudey miracle of YOU!

It's okay if you have rolls of back fat! It's okay that your tummy is squishy and thighs are squashy! It's okay that you have a triple neck!

With the EAT NAKED METHOD of weight loss you will soon detest your current shape so much you will surely ditch your daily burger and fries for a healthy bout with Bulemia. :)

(Not that Marissa is Bulemic or suffers from eating disorders of any kind, you understand. I'm not saying THAT! Don't be silly.)

YAY FOR EATING NAKED AS A WEIGHT LOSS METHOD! YAY!! AND HOORAY! IT'S BRILLIANT ADVICE TO DOLE TO THE MASSES! BRILLIANT!

Method C: Two Birds. One Stone.

Ex-lax. Consume lots and lots of Ex-lax. Daily.

You will spend a great deal of time on the family throne, which will allow you ample opportunity to catch up on your reading and correspondence. (Tip: Invest in extra soft tp and a quality magazine rack. Maybe a flat screen to pass the time...)

This method will simultaneously reduce your waistline and increase your brainpower!

Anyone for a game of trivia? you will say as you saunter about in size 2 pedal pushers .

Method D: This Could be YOU

Tape pictures all over the house of the fattest man in the world. Remind yourself you are only 3 Reeses PB Cups away from donning his diaper.

There you have it, folks!

Just a few gentle suggestions to help you accomplish your goals in the new year!

Do YOU have any suggestions for weight loss? Why don't you share with the rest of the class? :)

They Will Want To Come Home

2012-01-02T23:22:00.000-08:00

I'm HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!

I took an Ambien tonight. It's a vital emergency. I have been lying me down to sleep at 3am IN THE MORNING every night during this two week vacation from school. My habit has been to rise at noon-ish. I have been delighted with the schedule. DELIGHTED!

But now I must attempt to get back to normal. I am to awaken my body and soul and senses at 6:30am IN THE MORNING! Tomorrow morn. Thus, I eat the blessed Ambien, which is meant to lull me into a sound and dreamless sleep. Ahhhh.

I have missed you so very much my bloggy friends! I have missed you with my heart and elbow.

Let us catch up on the goings on that occurred in the last few days, shall we? I am under the influence of a silly drug so I won't remember any of this when the cock crows. Fun!

Mmmk.

So my sister came to visit the fam with her new Wisconsin Hubby. They raise 'em good out there in Wisconsin so far as I can tell. Ray is a real stand up guy. I still can't get over how good and sweet and patient he is with Coral's kiddos. And mine. He actually loves them and everything!

My two sisters and I gathered all our munchkins together and let them run amuck in the snow of atop Mt Lemmon.

"RUN AMUCK, I SAY, RUN!" I shouted at our little desert rat babies as they slipped and slid through the fluffery snow.

My beautiful niece, miss October toby toblerone was so posh and fetching in her pointy little snow hat. Looking at her just brings a smile to my silly face tonight.

My Maya meant to do some damage to one of her cousins with the weapon in hand. Fun for everyone to be had in the form of enormous snowballs to the face or groin. Ahhh yes.

My sisters and I manned the bantering section. We warmed the banter seats and bantered as banterers often do. There were quips and puns galore. Wish you had been there.

Once the children were plumb tired of our banter and their frozen fingers and bottoms we went to my Mama's house. The above shot includes my entire original family.

My Mama was once given an important blessing that says that her children would love to come home...

Tis true. My parents live in the same town I do. Yet, I packed up my whole family for three days.... Destination? MAMA AND DADDY'S PLACE! WOOHOO!

Mama feeds us til we gosh durn pop our bottons. And we just keep eating. Cause food tastes yummy and diets will be relevant next week.

We keep eating and laughin' and banterin' and watchin' movies about poopy pie. We laugh some more about poopy pie... And then we burst into song at the slightest provocation.

"It's like marrying into a musical," my husband explains to Coral's new man. "You never know when it's going to happen. You never know what will trigger it but these girls cannot refrain from singing...even in the grocery store..."

At that point Coral and I randomly belted out "Mama said there'd be days like this...there'd be days like this my mama said..."... harmony and all. I miss her when she's gone. :(

Coral and I did some serious school work whilst the kiddos played at the park. Fashion mags are a wealth of vital information. This ain't no joke. You see my face? Am I smilin? No. Cuz fashion is SERIOUS, cuz.

A little girl whom I do not know stepped on my Gucci sun glass and busted them into several unrecognizable pieces. I am very sad as those were the last $400 glasses I will ever buy. Let us bid adieu to the end of an era. A Gucci Sun Glass Era.

Twist your neck to get the full effect of my trash can pain.

Michelle and I are twinners on accident for the family New Year's party. So here we pose. I happen to be in love with my skirt. It's a special one because of the details on the backside of the skirt.

I happen to be wearing my holiday booty at the moment so this skirt fit quite well. It will be too big in a month as I return to my boring rabbit food and running routine. But as for now, this is my official hoilday booty.

Drum roll please....

All I really have to say about this weekend is that I love my mommy and daddy. They take such good care of us even though we are grownups and everything. I enjoy my parents. I enjoy the spirit in their home as it is a spirit of peace and love.

I once again find myself marveling at the thought that I am blessed beyond my wildest imaginings. I don't deserve all that I have. There are those in the world whose hearts are far more pure and they do not enjoy what I do.

When I grow up I want to be just like my mom and dad. A compilation of all their individual strengths.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

See ya in the funny papers... or more likely... I'll see ya in the gym. :)

Smurfy From Da Block, Yo.

2011-12-29T01:02:00.000-08:00

Wut up, G? Dis is Cryssy from da block comin' at ya live and ready to jive!

I lives in the burbs now, yo. It's coo' up in here. Mostly white folks. But I like me some white folks.

I wore a sweatsuit all day today in honor of Jennifer "J. Lo" Lopez i.e. Jenny from da block.

To be fair, I have been wearing Victoria's Secret sweatsuits every winter for years now. I would have worn one with or without J. Lo's stamp of approval. But let's pretend she was my inspiration here.

I buy a new VS suit every year. They are just so comfy and fluffery and matchy-matchy. I love them with my soul. I meant to buy a black one. Inconspicuous. Slimming. Chocolate sauce stains don't show up.

Sadly, there were no black sweatsuits available in a size S. Not online. Not in store. Strange. Don't you think? There were plenty of larges and extra large black sweaty suits to be had for the Biggie smalls but no smalls for the Smallie smalls. One would venture to guess (given the slimming effect of black) that the larger sizes would be snatched up first. But no.

So I settled (uneasily) on a blue one, which Mr. Pistol ordered and wrapped and put under the tree. I gasped in surprise Christmas morn. *GASP! * "How did you guess?! Daddy always knows JUST what Mama wants, kids!"

Back to Jenny: J. Lo wore sweats whilst shopping Valentino. A girl after my own poor heart.

J. to the Lo is making it ai'ght for all the ladies to sport sweats in public with pride! YAY! She is taking slouchy to new heights! This week she wore her heather grey sweatsuit to the Valentino store. Valentino is my very favorite couture fancy brand. That girl is living out my fantasy.

Hooray! Glory day! Sweaty pants are classy pants, ya'll. Matchy-matchy is IN! YES! All my wildest dreams are coming true!

I have a sneaking suspicion her newest lover, Casper Smart The 24 Year Old Boy Toy, is to be thanked. Jenny is reverting back to her hip hop look due to this sprite young chap.

Let's take a gander at ol' Casper, shall we?

He's a studly young sody pop drinkin' man fresh out of puberty, Casper is. He's got his big boy pipes now, he has. Vocal pipes, I mean. Bo knows. And now Casper knows... Jenny in the biblical sense. Lucky boy?

Nah. We should pity the little man. She will have her fun and spit him back out into the cold. She doesn't plan to hurt in him her current reverie, but it will happen.

Poor lad. No other woman will compare to the bootyful, rich and powerful Jennifer in his mind for the rest of his life. He is ruined. Dead, lonely man walking. It is really quite cruel of her.

On the other hand, since the beginning of time men have used women far younger than themselves for physical gratification and prestige.

Some men have encouraged the oft believed notion that males age well and women age poorly. Silly notion. An erroneous perception. Men and women lose facial elasticity, agility, flexibility, beauty and hair at roughly the same juncture in life. Both sexes eventually look and feel like crap. Men need feel no extra measure of pride on this account.

Jennifer Lopez, however, is turning tradition on it's ear. She is an powerful, prestigious 42 year old woman out for a romp. And by, George! She shall have her filthy romp. At the expense of her children and reputation, she shall have it!

I have been a huge fan of Jennifer since she starred as Selena. I danced in my living room along with Jenny as she strutted her Fly Girl bottom in In Living Color. I dig her music. I dig her Latina culture. I dig her warmth. I dig her funky fresh style. I admit I enjoy emulating her in some ways.

While I refuse to follow her Valentino clad feet in her personal life, I will throw you a ficticious gang sign, screw up my face, don enormous silver hoops on my lobes and rock my Smurfy sweatsuit in honor of my girl.

Jennifer Lopez is downright Smurfy in my book! I don't care what anybody else smurfs!

The End

My Christmas Obsession of 2011

2011-12-27T01:38:00.000-08:00

My husband snapped a picture of me bright and early on Christmas morning.

"That will be deleted," I growled.

I growl in the morning for at least an hour after awaking from slumber. And I don't take kindly to cameras at that hour. I quite enjoy slumber. I also don't take kindly to mornings. They should be banned.

I do my best, however, on Christmas mornings to put aside my differences with the A.M. I do my best to smile and exclaim at the wondrous gifts that magically appeared overnight. With gusto I praise Santa and his elves and Walmart for all the bounty they have afforded us.

This Christmas was no exception. I was beyond enthusiastic and exclaimed,

"LOOK, TYSON! SANTA BROUGHT YOU A SKATEBOARD!!! SANTA IS SO AWESOME! SANTA ROCKS!... YOU'VE BEEN WANTING A NEW SKATEBOARD FOR A MILLION YEARS!

AND MAYA! YOU GOT THE BEAN BAG CHAIR YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED! NOW YOU CAN PLAY WITH YOUR NEW LEAPFROG EXPLORER THINGY WHILE YOU SIT ON IT!

Serena, Santa left me the receipt to that Victoria's Secret sweatshirt in case you want a different color...

Bella, Santa hopes those Vans fit... He checked your current shoe and went up a half size... ".

My children tore through the wrapping paper encasing all their gifts in 30 seconds flat. It always amazes me how weeks of preparation for Christmas morning (by Santa and his elves and not by me at all) can come to such a violent end.

I must brag about a gift my husband bought me...

I told him a week before Christmas that it be awesome, just awesome to own a pair of pajamas. Real, actual pajamas. A top with buttons. And a bottom with an elastic waistband. And the top and bottom should match, ideally. I mentioned that Victoria's Secret models make those jammies look very extra super sexy. And I'll bet I would enjoy some extra super sexy pajamas from V.S.

I further mentioned that I have been watching the Kardashians as of late and the smallest sister (Not Kim or Kloe but the other one that's married to that guy and had his kid and may be pregnant with his other kid and he still hasn't married her and I think he is a total loser for calling the mother of his child his girlfriend and not his wife...) ...the smallest sister wears Victoria's Secret pajamas all the day long in the shows where Kim is married to that selfish basketball guy and Kim is selfish too and that's why their marriage fell apart in 72 days... and I think Kim's small sister looked darn cute in her jammies...

AND GUESS WHAT????

MY HUSBAND TOTALLY SURPRISED ME AND GOT ME MY VERY FIRST PAIR OF REAL LIFE ACTUAL PAJAMAS!!!!

I. WAS. SHOCKED! ...SHOCKED!

HOW DID HE EVER GUESS THE INNER MOST DESIRE OF MY HEART?

They are pink with polka dots. He picked the color all alone. He done good. They are truly everything I dreamed they would be. I mean to begin collecting all the colors offered in the catalog. So if you'd like to buy me a gift.. I am a size S for Small... Or I would be fine with an M for medium because then they would be even extra comfy.

I have shown you a sneak peak of my polka dot jams. ... But I have jumped the chronological Christmas gun here.

After opening gifts I went back to bed, went to church and sang Christmas hymns for an hour and returned home to prepare Christmas dinner.

Here you see me browning Italian sausage for the stuffed mushrooms I offered as appetizers.

And here is my husband showing his gratitude for said mushrooms and greasy delicious sausage, which I normally do not allow in the house.

As I cooked my children played with their Christmas loot.

Bella used Tyson's new tough guy wrestling dude as a model. Her grandma had sent her a doll's clothing sewing kit. She was elated to receive this present and got straight to work. This is her creation. I see a great future for Bella in the fashion industry.

My parents joined us for a lovely meal. I served sumptuous appetizers and fresh tomato basil soup and grilled cheese on good sourdough. We enjoyed apple pie for dessert.

My parents said their goodbyes and I ran upstairs to slip into my night clothes. OH! OH! SOOO COMFY! I CANNOT EXPRESS TO YOU IN WORDS FOUND IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE THE COMFORT AND JOY... COMFORT AND JOY!

I wore my night clothes outside as I watched Tyson fall off his new skateboard time and time again. I also watched Maya ride up and down the street in her signature denim shorts, boots and coat.

Christmas exhausted me, I must admit. I love the entire season. I spin like a top from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. I am happy, happy, happy. But I must confess, I felt all tuckered out come Christmas day evening. Do you see the Christmas circles under my Christmas eyes?

But not to worry.

I was prepared in the most stylish of manners to curl up on the couch with a book (Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, I am currently on page 342...).

I also watched Mongol with my husband, which I bought him for Christmas because he suggested a week before Christmas that he might enjoy some of his favorite movies and his very own movie case so the kiddies wouldn't scratch up his DVDs like they always do.

He was so surprised when he opened his movies and DVD holder on Christmas morn. SHOCKED.

So cozy and happy was I with the day and in my jammers that I fell asleep on the couch whilst watching ancient Mongols killing the crap out of each other.

It was a happy sleep.

It was a happy day.

An Embarrassment Of Riches

2011-12-25T01:17:00.000-08:00

My children are nestled all sung in their beds as visions of skateboards dance through their heads. They could barely contain themselves at bedtime for the utter excitement of Christmas.

I am nestled all sung in my chair
I'd like some more cookies but I don't think I dare...

Before I tell you about my day allow me to share the thought in my head.

I am baffled. Beyond comprehension I am awestruck. Here is the reason, my friends:

I have been blessed with far more than what I deserve.

My Christmas Eve was spectacular. I was filled to overflowing with gratitude, tamales and sugar cookies.

Why have I been given all of This? Riches beyond Midas' imagination.

I have no answer. I am only grateful.

I shall now take you with me on my Christmas Eve journey. On we go...

"Can I wear this mustache to Benny's tonight, Mama?"

"No, honey. Sorry. You're grandmother wouldn't like it."

"Benny wouldn't care though... Grandmother just wants me to be Lemito."

"As do I, Lemito. No stash. Respect. Respeto."

We made cookies, my offspring and I. Star shaped. Cane shaped. Gingerbread man shaped. And also we made cookies of the Snickerdoodle variety. I have a healthy appetite for cookies of the snickerdoodle variety.

"This red frosting looks like blood," said Bella. "it's pretty cool actually, 'cause the red in candy canes is supposed to represent Jesus' blood."

"Well, that's a deep and morbid thought to share whilst making sugar cookies," said I.

"Yeah, and also the canes are supposed to represent the canes of the shepherds in the field. And if you flip them upside down it makes a 'J'. For Jesus. ...Why does Christmas always have green stuff though too?"

"Life," I responded. "Green signifies new life. The life beyond death. Resurrection. A chance to live forever..."

"Huh. That's cool. Can I eat one yet?"

"Yup."

When the cookies were all rolled and shaped and baked and frosted I sent my children up and down the neighborhood delivering plates of said confections to whomever would open their doors to them.

*****************************************************************

We found ourselves at my very young and handsome uncle Benny's house at 6:30pm.

"I have a special surprise for you," he said.

"Oh yeah?" said I.

"We bought a kareoke machine and got Santa Baby especially for you to sing tonight."

"Oh no."

Oh. Yes.

Here is a teeny tiny super dark and silly clip in which I said "come and krim my Christmas tree...". My camera refused to record anymore than 40 seconds based on the fact I was making a complete fool of myself and singing through my nose to be funny. ...I have no shame. We establish this time and again. Shame is highly overrated in my mind.

Cousin Aaron, my little cousin Aaron, wondered if I could possibly take a candid shot of him. He and I are related. As you can clearly see we both take beautifully choreographed candid photos.

My sister, Michelle, is winking at you. She's a sly one, that. She'll wink and leave you broken hearted to cry in your menudo. Menudo is delicious. I quite enjoy it.

Cousin Joe sang Adam Sandler's I Want To Grow Old With You. Uncanny really, how when I closed my eyes me thought me could actually hear Adam's voice. Joe sounded like his vocal twinner. I love that song. It's a really great song.

Benny and Aaron sang several exciting and memorable duets. If I could recall what they sang I would tell you... I do know, however, that they were indeed memorable and exciting and entertaining. Not bad for a couple of meatheads. Not bad at all.

My children were total hams when it came their turn. Maya belted out Frosty The Snowman as if her life depended on it. Tyson was her backup dancer. That boy can MOVE!

Baby Santa wipes kisses off her cheek when you kiss her. She wipes the kisses right off! Tiny Evita plays hard to get, which is a trait that also runs in this Mexican family of ours. My Tia Letty is training her up in the way she should go. Make them work for it, baby.

Bondi (Rosalina), Victoria and Myself pose in lovely trio. Snow White Thrice. My baby cousins are all grown up. YEEEOWZAAAA! MUY CALIENTE! ;P

The largest blessing in my life, however, is my big, strong man.

"You're my big strong man," I like to say in my cutest little girl voice.

And he is.

"I love you sooo much!" I say.

And I do.

Maya prepared a small plate of cookies for Santa.

"I don't want to give him too much or he'll get a tummy ache. Why does he never finish the milk I leave him?"

"Well, he is in a big hurry to get to all the boys and girls all over the world in one night... He probably just chugs a bit of milk to wash down his cookies and he is on his way..." I said.

OH MY GOSH!!!

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!! WHILE I WAS WRITING THIS POST THERE AROSE SUCH A CLATTER THAT I JUMPED UP FROM MY CHAIR TO SEE WHAT WAS THE MATTER!

THEN I SAW HIM!!! SANTA!!!! SANTA CAME!!! AND I SAW HIM! It went sorta like this...

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAMA PIG!

2011-12-23T01:07:00.000-08:00

Javelina are disgusting animals. And they'll kill ya for a nickel.

So there we have two good reasons for detesting the coarse-haired rodents. Yes? Yes.

Javelina are not smart animals. They smell awful. They scare easily. They have terrible eyesight. They eat poopy diapers for dessert and cacti as an entree. And they'll kill ya for a nickel.

Tonight my daughters and I got in my car to take a little tween friend home at 10pm.

(I don't like sleepovers so we do 'late nights'. Sleepovers mean there is no sleeping to be had. And also it means my children desire to sleep at the homes of their friends which means I have no idea what is happening to my precious angels in the middle of the night. No thanks. Too many Chester Molestors out here. They can tattle to their therapists when they grow up. )

So, I'm backing out of my garage and I run something over. It's a bumpy, squishy something.

And suddenly there arose such a clatter
that I checked my rear view to see what was the matter...

"What in the world?" I say.

"There is trash all over the driveway!" shout the girls. "The big green trash can is in the middle of the street... How...???"

I am preparing to get out of my car when I spy an enormous daddy javelina glaring at me with his beady, unintelligent eyes.

"I feel you are a threat to my tribe so I will charge ya and kill ya for a nickel and tear you to shreds if you get out of your car. Then I'll eat a poopy diaper for dessert," he snorted.

"EWWWW!!! I HATE JAVELINA! THEY ARE SOOOO GROSS! And they'll kill ya for a nickel," I said with enthusiasm, vigor and a pinch of malice.

"There are, like, 12 of them!" hollered the girls in unison. "We have never seen so many all in one place in our live long lives!"

"NASTY! NASTY! NASTY!" I said with great depth of disgust. "Now your dad has to come out here and clean all this trash in the middle of the night!"

"I'm scared," said Serena.

"Don't be silly. It's not like they can open the car door and scrape your face off," I said because I am always understanding and sensitive to the tender feelings of my offspring.

By this time I have backed out of my driveway completely. We are surveying the extent of the damage and marveling over the vast number of hairy pigs running mad in the light of my high beams.

But, LO! What is THIS?

What to my wondering eye should appear? ...But a mama javelina and her four tiny reindeer...

"Oh my gosh! Oh my goodness!" I cry with the blink of my eye. "Look at that mama and her teeny tiny babies! Oh! They are so cute! I can't believe how cute they are!"

Mama began to run from me with her four tiny ones in tow. I followed her slowly so as to get a better look at the babies.

I changed my tune. I changed my song. And you'll change yours before too long...

"RUN, MAMA! RUN WITH YOUR BABIES! RUN AWAY INTO THE DESERT AND PROTECT THEM FROM HARM! RUN!! RUN, MAMA, RUN! MERRY CHRISTMAS MAMA JAVELINA. I'M HAPPY YOU HAD A YUMMY MEAL FROM MY TRASH CAN FOR YOUR BABIES! NOW YOU CAN SLEEP SOUNDLY WITH FULL TUMMIES! MERRY CHIRSTMAS!"

I actually shouted all those things aloud. My girls and their friend didn't even call me crazy and tell me to quit being weird because they too were touched.

I took the friend home. By the time I had returned there was not a javelina in sight.

I emerged from my vehicle with a light heart. I had done a good deed with my garbage can. For one man's trash is another pig's late night snack.

I got to work collecting bits and pieces of trash the animals had strewn all over the street. My Bella helped me. Serena remained afeared that a monstrous javelina would run out from the bushes and scrape her face off so she hurried inside. Where does she get these silly notions, I wonder?

Merry Christmas, Mama Javelina and baby javelina!

Merry Christmas, Mister Pistol! ('Cause I cleaned all that smelly, wet, gooey, nasty trash with my bare hands while you were inside watching TV! And cleaning trash in the middle of the night is a man's job but I love you and was trying to serve you in an anonymous fashion...)

Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!

A Christmas Epiphany or Friends, Romans, Gym Rats... Lend Me Your Ears

2011-12-22T00:04:00.000-08:00

"I brought you a talking book," he said. He fiddled with his racket and shifted his clear blue eyes to the floor then back up to meet mine.

"You did?" I was puzzled.

I had only spoken, in passing, once to this man. A girlfriend of mine had introduced us. I had carried on a polite conversation of economy with both of them and made my excuses. I had to return to my workout. I don't go to the gym to make friends, ya know. I go to build up my guns and squeeze into my skinny jeans.

"I remember you saying how much you like Malcolm Gladwell. You said the only book of his you had not read was What The Dog Saw."

He extended his hand toward me. It held a box entitled What The Dog Saw.

I tried to collect myself and remember the conversation in which I had shared so much. The recollection was dim and distant.

"Oh! My goodness! How thoughtful of you!" I said. "I have been wanting to read this book. I really enjoy Malcolm Gladwell's writings. I find them fascinating... I'm sorry... I don't seem to remember your name. I'm terrible at remembering names."

"Chuck. I'm Chuck."

"Well... thank you so much for the book, Chuck! I can't wait to listen to it. ...I'm Crystal, by the way...".

"I know you're Crystal," he chuckled as though I were daft. "EVERYBODY knows you're Crystal." He waved his arm grandly to indicate that the entire population of LA Fitness knew me by name.

I was embarrassed and blushed. I am rarely embarrassed. Blushing isn't my thing. And yet...

For the last two weeks Chuck has found the opportunity everyday to approach me and discuss the book. I am kind but never let the conversations go on for too long.

I did enjoy the book immensely.

Chuck is a man in his golden years. He frequents the gym and plays racket ball three times a week with his golden years friends.

Last week the golden boys brought him a sheet cake for his birthday. They ate it cheerfully in their tube socks and terry cloth sweatbands. They ate without hurry among the various grunting meatheads. I was offered a slice but declined. (Thank you so much! But I am watching my figure... to which came the reply You look great. You can afford some cake... Used to be women enjoyed flaunting a fuller figure...)

Chuck's friends have noticed I am kind to Chuck.

I never meant to be kind to Chuck...

I am certainly not kind to the drooling young men who don't seem to care who they gawk at so long as she has all the necessary female anatomy. I stare right through the young, single set. The manner in which they stalk their prey makes me feel hostile. In addition, I don't have time to play with fire. Thank you very much.

Chuck's friends have begun to approach me.

The other day Bill thought he would engage me in conversation thrice. I did my best to be patient though I began swelling with irritation.

"I look at my face in the mirror and I can't believe it," said Bill. "I know my face looks old and I'm bald... I can't believe I'm BALD! But under my clothes I look great! I am in great shape!" He gestured to his abdomen. I glanced involuntarily. Doh! I was now checking out old men?!

I blushed and stumbled through a weak response.

On Bill's second visit of the hour he found me red in the face and pushing an inordinate amount of weight on the leg press. He waited patiently for me to finish my set. There was clearly no hurry. So considerate of Bill.

"My x-wife almost killed me. She actually DID kill her second husband."

"She KILLED her husband?" I gasped.

"Yes. She took him out into the desert and shot him to death."

"Why would she DO that?"

"Because she is *&@%ing nuts. That's why. I told him. His name was Bill too. I said, 'Bill, she's &@%$ing crazy. She'll kill ya'. She'll kill ya dead.' And she did. She shot him. In the desert... She's locked up now".

"Wow. That's terrible! Narrow escape for you, huh, Bill?" I smiled.

"I used to be real bitter and angry all the time. I had a terrible temper. I threw things. I thought I couldn't control it. B#LLSH*T! We all CHOOSE our reactions. Temper can be controlled. ...But now I am a healer and I realize every moment past, present and future is Now. This minute is all I have. Now is forever."

I allowed him to talk for far longer than prudence as a gym rat generally allows. On his third visit he found me lunging my way into dumbbell oblivion.

"You're working hard there, Crystal."

"Yup. I've got to go soon so I'm trying to hurry...".

"I just wanted to give you a Christmas gift." He handed me an angel ornament. He was dripping wet. He had run out to his car in the rain to get me the angel. "I thought you needed an angel princess."

I was touched. (Not physically, you understand, because I do have my limits and I would have knocked his block off had he laid a golden hand on me.)

"Thank you, Bill. This is very kind of you. I love her. I'll be very careful not to break her."

"You know what I think is sad?" He searched my face.

"What do you think is sad?"

"I think it's sad that some folks just come to the gym so that people will talk to them.... See that woman over there? The very heavy one?"

I nodded gravely.

"That woman doesn't hardly work out at all. She just comes here to chat. She's just a chatty Cathy."

I cocked my head and looked at Bill. I glanced at Chatty Cathy. I thought of Chuck.

I really looked at Bill this time. Focused in. I saw his soul. It dawned on me that he is a soul of great worth. It was a startling realization.

It is sometimes hard to remember in the hustle and bustle of life and in the ingratitude of our blessings that the older gentleman eating sheet cake in the gym with a racket in his hand is a soul of great importance. A Divine being with infinite value.

For one brief moment in time my mind was enlarged.

I smiled warmly ( no teeth- so it was a soft smile) and without a hint of the irony I had previously seen in his statement.

"Yes," said I. "Sometimes people just need someone to talk to."

I Only Look Like A Psycho First Thing In The Morning

2011-12-21T01:04:00.000-08:00

"Mom, can I go hang out at Carissa's house today?" asked Bella.

"I don't know her parents," I replied all groggy like from the safety and warmth of my comfy bed at noon yesterday.

Yes. Noon. I slept in my bed until noon like a teenager. And I did the same thing today. It is Christmas vacation, ya know. I work hard when the kids are in school what with all the homeworks and projects and play dates.

I deserve to sleep until I just can't abide the bedhead any longer.

I have amazing bedhead. It's like nothing you've ever experienced in nature. I look certifiably insane every single morning and especially on the mornings during which I sleep until noon. In addition, my voice is very croaky and my eyes are squinty. I'm unrecognizable. Truly.

Some adults say they just can't sleep in anymore, now that they are adults. I can't understand it.

Sleeping is a skill I have worked hard all my life to perfect.

Sleep is where all the dreams of fairies and unicorns and talking earth worms fill my mind. In dreamland I can fly and spit in seven different languages.

Let's get back to Bella, shall we?

Yes. Let's.

"So is that a no?" she asked.

I hesitate. She knows I hate to say no. No is my least favorite word. I feel positively wretched when I must deny my children the desires of their hearts.

But in this case I was strong and steadfast and immovable.

"Yes.... ...that's a ....no..."

She looked so disappointed I almost changed my mind. Those expressive eyes of Bella's will bring the man of her life to his knees one day. Mark my words.

"Well then can you at least take us to the zoo and can we pick her up and take her with us?"

Those Bella eyes.

"Yes. I'll be ready in 20 minutes."

Within an hour I had controlled my hair and eaten a ham and cheese sandwich for brunch and was on my way to Carissa's.

Carissa came bounding out the door and jumped in the car. We were off to the zoo.

It suddenly occurred to me... Heeeyyy... wait just a cotton pickin' minute here... If I don't know Carissa's parents... than that means... they don't know me! The parents of this sweet, lovely little girl have allowed her to jump into the car of a stranger.

I am that stranger.

What if I were a scary psycho?

What if I were to feed her to the lions at the zoo?

Or "accidentally" dropped over the railing at the crocodile exhibit?

Or offer her a toxic Big Mac with freeze dried fries?

Luckily for Carissa I am not a scary psycho, despite the fact I look like one every morning.

We had a lovely time at the zoo.

I treated the children to milkshakes at Dairy Queen afterwards and took her home.

But I felt unsettled.

When I was a child my mother never let me out of her sight. I rarely went to friend's houses. She rammed stranger danger and molestation awareness down my throat at every turn. She told me terrible tales of abduction. She spared no details when she told bedtime stories of bad men chopping up little girls and leaving their bodies in ditches.

I was deathly afraid of all men with facial hair. Terrified of anyone on a motorcycle. And thought little old ladies might poison me at the slightest opportunity.

I have passed these wonderful fears on to my own children (minus the scary details).

I don't know what to think about parents that easily let their children out the door without getting the 411.

What do YOU think? Were your parents overprotective? Would you let your child go somewhere with people you didn't know? Are you terrified of strange motorcycle riding men with facial hair?

"

Hallelujah!

2011-12-19T00:07:00.000-08:00

My arms were naked. Oh, the shame.

I didn't get the memo. So I stood before a thousand people with bare nudey arms.

Not only did I stand before them but I was asked to pray. Did you hear me? Let me say it louder..

I WAS ASKED TO PRAY IN FRONT OF ONE THOUSAND HUMANS!!! IN A MICROPHONE! AND ALL THE PEOPLE COULD HEAR MY VOICE! AND SEE MY NAKED ARMS!!!

Sorry I had to shout there... I feel better now.

Tonight was the great Community Messiah Sing Along.

I didn't even KNOW I was gonna sing until three weeks ago when the choir director's wife called me. SHE called ME! ...AT MY HOUSE! WITH HER PHONE!

I was informed that I was invited to sing in Handel's Messiah Choir as a Soprano. And that they had already had several rehearsals but I could just jump in... (I had never even heard 95% of the music prior...).

But I was singin' soprano alright! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HAAAAALLLEUUUUUJAH!

This choir is FANCY. Only FANCY people with amazing voices and talent can sing in it. I didn't even audition cuz the little paper thingy said,

"Accomplished musicians only".

NOT accomplished singers need not apply. So I didn't apply. I can apply myself when I so choose. But here I did not. I am not accomplished. I took 9 years of piano lessons. That's my training. You don't get a medal for piano lessons, ya know...

BUT THEY CALLED ME! MEEEEEE!

Charmed, I'm sure. I accept!!! OH, I ACCEPT!

I made my whole little family get dressed up tonight and I even drugged my parents along. Drugged 'em like I used to drag 'em when I was in first grade singin' Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at the big Christmas performance.

See... here I am getting Maya ready...

She only cried for an hour about having to wear a pretty dress and letting me curl her hair. You think I exaggerate? Nay. Not so. Tis true. She recovered. I have not.

I wrote a bit of a song...

What Child is this?
Who won't wear her dress...
Her mother is losing her mind...

Catchy, eh?

I managed to get all the children out the door in proper attire on time.

I arrived at the church and was called aside by our illustrious Choir director. (That guy is AMAZING, by the way! Totally love him! Talented, engaging, awesome, good taste in prayer sayers...etc...)

"Will you offer the benediction?" he asked.

"It would be my honor," said I.

"Thank you!" said he.

"No. Thank YOU," said I.

I then proceeded to freak out in my head for the duration of the sing along. Two hours of freaking out.

WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD HE ASK MEEE? WHEN THERE ARE A THOUSAND PERFECTLY GOOD MORMONS IN THE CONGREGATION??!! AND THEY ARE ALL GOOD AND HOLY AND MOLEY... AHHHH!!! HOLY CRAP!!

Just so you know, the Stake President offered the opening prayer. He is the Mormon man who is in charge of like three thousand Mormons in Tucson. And I offered the closing one.

You'll be relieved to discover I did not pass out or have an accident. I thought I might. My prayer was lovely and my voice didn't get all crazy and squeaky from nerves. It was smooth and composed. Phew!

My head exploded at one point, however, due to my hitting a very super dee duper high note. I think I hit a High H in H Major... and then my head exploded. Glitter and confetti flew positively everywhere.

I'm fine now.

The entire evening was an amazing honor for me.

Even though we were asked to wear long sleeves and I was the only painted harlot in short sleeves. And I'm sure people looked at me and thought,

"Yup. That's Crystal Pistol. Always trying to get the wrong kind of attention. Would you just LOOK at her bare naked arms! Shameful, really!"

And I'm just kidding. No one would really think that... but I was supposed to wear long sleeves. Oops.

I sang the songs. Made a few mistakes. In the video below you will see I make a lot of silly faces when I sing. And at one point I thought I might sing with the altos. Whoopsie!

Anywho, all is well. And that's all I have to say about that.

I'm happy as a clam, ma'am.

A Christmas Miracle: A Change Of Heart

2011-12-18T00:02:00.000-08:00

Tears stream down my face whene'er the thought crosses my mind.

A miracle has occurred. A Christmas miracle.

A heart has been found.

Spencer is five years old. He was a healthy, normal, laughing, running, playing, praying little boy. Two months ago he said his tummy hurt.

His heart was broken. He was whisked to a hospital and there he has stayed. Hooked to machines. Sick and tired and confused.

His mother is my good friend, Nancy. She wrote journal entries daily to inform those of us who love Spencer and his family of his progress.

We waited for a heart. We prayed. I prayed. Daily and more than daily.

I saw myself as Nancy. I saw my son in the hospital. Scared and confused and hurting. I saw myself at his side wearing my brave face, so as not to frighten him. I tried to get him to smile and eat his lunch. I read him stories and sang him songs. I cried myself to sleep for fear.

I saw my own heart broken. And I prayed for Nancy.

There is no greater fear for a mother than that of losing a child. And as I write this the tears won't cease.

A heart was found for little Spencer. A heart was found for Nancy.

A heart was found for all of us who love them.

Yesterday the transplant transpired. A new heart beats in his tiny chest. He is doing well today. He may be home by the New Year.

As I contemplate the miracle of prayer and modern medicine tonight I cannot help but think of another mother.

And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there was in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.

And, lo the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on the earth peace, good will toward men.

...Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. ~St. Luke 2:7-14; 19

Like Mary, I keep all these things and ponder them in my heart.

Gratitude and Love envelope me as I think of that child in swaddling clothes. The Saviour of the world who would save Mankind from sin. Save us from the grave. Offer us eternal life and forever families.

There are those who roam this earth with broken hearts. Hearts that cannot be remedied with modern medicine.

Men and women ache for relief from the sorrows they endure. Untold tales of anguish and pain. They suffer financial pains. The pains of abuse. Addiction. Mental illness. Infertility. Confusion. Loneliness. Sin. Darkness is upon them. Hope is seemingly lost.

But in that darkness if they turn their eyes toward heaven they will have light. And the light casteth out darkness. Hope is not lost. The pain of this fallen realm can be quelled.

Our broken hearts can be made new.

For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy!

New life is available to all who suffer.

Come unto him. Those that are heavy laden. And He shall give you rest. He shall give you peace.

Praise God! Glory to God in the highest!

Good will towards you, my friend.

Peace on earth.

Merry Christmas.

PS My daughter filmed bits of my choir rehearsal today. The following is an Austrian Alp Carol. We sing of Christ as a babe. A lullaby.

Lippai from your sleep awake. Let me sleep.
Lippai from your dreams awake. Let me sleep.
Wonderous the sights we see.
Out on the hillside near.
Brighter than light of day shining clear
In Bethlehem a babe is born
"Who has told you so?"
Angels were heaven sent.
:Have they told you so?"
Mary a maid so pure
has born a beautiful son.
Go, follow the shining star
Haste with the wind.
Born in a manger low,
sent from above
No lovlier babe is born
filling all with love.
Only to rock the child
my greatest joy would be
Cradled in Mary's arms
for the world to see.

It's A Tough Job...

2011-12-15T23:01:00.000-08:00

I went to Walmart twice today. TWICE!

Please don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect, you know.

The truth I am forced to face is I am officially a people of Walmart. I frequent the warehouse for more often than I would like to admit.

Don't look at me that way. I had to get milk and broccoli and fem products and a Leapster toy for Maya from Santa. At Walmart all my dreams came true. That was trip number one.

Trip number two entailed picking up gift cards for the kid's teachers in order that my children might be favored above all others. While other moms are gifting cookies in sweet little boxes that will ensure said teachers cannot fit into their teacher pants come January, I am showering them with money. Money, money money by the pound... (Pete's Dragon reference.)

I can't actually shower them with wads of green cash, of course. That gesture would lack class and decorum. A gift card is far more acceptable. And what could be classier than Walmart where one might readily acquire both broccoli and tampons in one fell swoop? Very elegant of me indeed.

In praise of Walmart, I must say I come away feeling grateful for the little things. Such my teeth. So many shoppers and employees are missing them. Pity. They have lovely smiles.

In other news, Maya wore a red skirt and danced around the stage tonight during her First Grade Christmas performance.

She was the best one. All the other parents think their child was the best but that is only because those parents are smoking crack.

My children was the star the show, of course!

I smirked not a little as I watched other parents gushing regarding little Johnny's performance.

"Oh! My little Johnny stole the show! He is a natural..." they murmured.

Your little Johnny was picking his nose whilst my Maya twirled and swirled circles around your nose picking Johnny.

One boy fell off the stage in his Santa costume. I wish I had recorded it. He just fell right off! BLAM! Down he went into a pile of donkey pinatas. I laughed heartily. Don't worry. He was fine. His parent's emerged with bruised egos. Nothing serious.

Here are some expressive pictures of my baby.

And here is a lovely video of my Maya.

Here I am with the star of the show. She was so kind to allow me backstage to bask in her glorious presence.

In closing I must point out that my baby girl is seven years old now. I must further point out that I look really hot holding a baby in my arms. A baby is the most feminine accessory imaginable.

Seeing as how Maya is beyond the babe in arms stage I will proceed to "accidentally" drop birth control pills down the drain and poke holes in various contraceptive devices.

I love being a mama. I LOVE BEING A MAMA!

PS I must apologize for not being nearly narcissistic enough recently. I have been serving others and working my fingers to the bone. My manicure is for naught. I will therefore kill two birds by posting several pictures of myself doing the dishes.

You're welcome.

List

2011-12-12T23:46:00.000-08:00

"From now on I want to buy a new pair of Ugg boots for each of the kids every Christmas," said a very spoiled woman wearing $700 hair extensions and $300 designer jeans.

(Ugg boots are $150 a pop. Some people say they are Uggly. But I think they are super cozy and Huggly for your feet)

"These are the ONLY jeans I will wear! I don't like how other brands make my bottom look. I work hard for this bottom. I DESERVE expensive jeans," she said when questioned about the extravagance of her taste.

I was friends with this woman at the time but I as I look back I realize I don't like her very much.

That woman was me. Moi. Yo.

Yes. Just a couple of years ago I was careless and frivolous and selfish. I can admit that now. It doesn't even hurt anymore.

I have been through the refiner's fire.

Tonight my husband asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year.

"I want you to write me a list tonight," he said. "It should have at least 12 things. We don't have the money to get it wrong."

My mind went blank. I don't want nothin'.

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CARE VERY LITTLE FOR MATERIAL POSSESSIONS!

THIS IS UNPRECEDENTED!!!

Actually, that's not true. Before the housing boom that made the entire world overspend and incur serious debt, I was humble and child bearing with vomit on my shoulder and sorta frumpy, even. ( I remember THINKING I was hot though. Even with the frizzy hair and all. Weird. Confidence is everything, ya'll).

I shopped sales and thrift stores. I cut my own hair. Bangs. Bad bad bangs. I bought my makeup at Walgreens (and not the expensive stuff neither... I'm talkin' Wet N' Wild here, folks.)

During The Boom, Chanel and Prada and Valentino showed up under the tree in solid gold bows delivered by Cupid himself. They were close friends of mine, Chanel and Cupid. My husband derived as much joy as I did at gift giving time. He dressed me like a million dollar Barbie doll. It made him look good too.

Anywho...

I can't think of what to write on my list.

Here is a tentative, timid list... (I'm not gonna get all sappy and start listing stuff like world peace and puppies and a star named after me... This is material goods only that I kinda want, sorta but I'm totally cool without...)

1. A snug, black Victoria's Secret Zip up Sweatshirt. (The one I got last year is mangled and pilling cuz I wear it night and day.)

2. Black Victoria's Secret sweatpants boyfriend cut. (Despite the pants I desire, I don't have a boyfriend beyond my husband. In addition, any man that can fit his thighs into my pants is not for me. I like THICK THIGHED MEN. We've had this convo, you and I. My husband's thighs are literally thicker than my waist. No joke. Even when I'm bloated!)

3. See... here is where I start struggling... ummm... boots?? Yeah. Boots. You can never have too many sexy boots. I'd like some flat sexy ones though, which means they have to go up past my knees. I have a ga-billion 4 inch heeled boots already. (Luckily, my boot collection was not burned in the refiner's fire... Phew!!)

4. Yoga passes to that one studio I used to be able to afford twice weekly. It smells like hippies and makes me feel authentic when I practice there. Ommmmm.... Namaste.

5. Long sleeved shirt that is not too short for my uber long torso. I'd like to keep my backside covered when I lean over, Thank you. I'd prefer the shirt in black. shadeclothing.com

6. Christmas socks. With Santa and reindeer and frosty and lights that flicker on and off when I sneeze or laugh or choke on a chicken bone.

7. Lay's plain potato chips and a pint of french onion dip on Christmas day. You know the kind, right? You gotta buy the sour cream and then get the little packet of powder onion flavor stuff to pour in and mix. I'd like to watch It's A Wonderful Life and cry in my onion dip.

8. Pecan pie.

9. Maybe I should ask for a top that is not black. Mmmk. Yup. A not black top.

10. A cozy sweater. Red? No wool. I'm allergic. I get all itchy and miserable in wool. Target might have a not wool one. Anthro has a lovely red one on sale but it has wool so... that's out.

11. World Peace

12. A star named after me

Puppies poop on the carpet.

What material possession do YOU kinda want?

Do You Want To Live To 100... Even Though You're Gonna Get All Saggy And Forgetful?

2011-12-12T00:06:00.000-08:00

Research shows U.S. babies now have better than 50-50 odds of living to 100. ~National Geographic Nov. 2011.

And also,

Most studies of the centenarians show that if you're a woman, a nonsmoker, wealthy or slim, you're off to a good start. ~Brad Scriber wrote this stuff in the mag mentioned above.

Mmmmk.

So that means I may live to be 100!

I'm a woman. I did not build this snowman. He was here when I came.

I live the U.S.

I don't smoke or drink alcohol or do drugs or watch movies with questionable material or read super sexy books that make me feel sweaty and short of breath or have any fun whatsoever according to the opinion of the general population.

I'm wealthy, not by the standards of The Black Eyed Peas or Kate Middleton or The Muppets, but by the standards of the majority of the world, I am wealthy.

I have some sweet soft suede thigh high flat Lucky Brand boots to prove how wealthy I am. I bought them on sale at Dillard's last year during Black Friday. A stranger in the supermarket liked them so much last week she actually knelt down to pet my leg. THAT'S how wealthy I am.

On the other hand, my vacuum cleaner sucks 'cause it broke so it doesn't suck right now and I don't have the funds to replace it at the moment due to Christmas, and yet... I consider myself wealthy.

I enjoy an embarrassment of riches, really.

What other qualifications to reach 100, did it say? Hmmm...

Ah yes...

Slim.

Well... it really depends on the time of year. I'm a generally slim-ish with a juicy booty. I enjoy times of skeletal safety when I am experiencing great stress or have succumbed to a nasty bout of depression. Lately I am in the red zone so far as slimness goes. I suppose it means I have a healthy attitude regarding food. Whatever. After the holidays I will go back to running 10 miles a day and eating only protein powder and egg whites. Slim will not elude me!

I've done the math.

I am 35 years old. According to my calculations if I live to be 100 than I have no less than 87 years left on this earth and in this body.

In this body.

IN THIS BODY??? FOR 87 MORE YEARS??

I'm terrified. What will I look like in that amount of time?

I am nothing if not VAIN! You KNOW this!

If I were to spend 98 years in THIS body as it now is I would be pleased. I work hard to not be a frump. But to live in a constantly decaying vessel in which things break and cease functioning properly is SCARY!

I'M FREAKING OUT HERE! I DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT MY FUTURE SAGGING FLESH AND LOSS OF EYE SIGHT AND INCONTINENCE! Oh me OH MY!

Let's instead have YOU think about what YOU'LL look like and experience at the age of 100. Let it permeate your skull.

How does it make you feel?

Do you WANT to live that long?

I wouldn't mind sticking around to meet grand babies and great-grand babies and I might start an Old Gal Hip Hop group and perform at middle schools throughout the country raising awareness of .... who cares really... Dancing IS my thing, ya know...

What do you plan do to with yourself with the time you may have left?

Carpe Diem, my friends!

Let's do something truly CRAZY!

Like jaywalk in the presence of an officer of the law. Or blowup your neighbor's mailbox. Perhaps we could run about our own home in the buff when no one is home singing, "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas" .

I wish to grow wings and feathers and fly to Africa and ride an elephant all the way to Ireland. I would then have a stimulating conversation with a leprechaun.

If I'm gonna be Here I might as well enjoy it, eh?

Happy Living Everyone! Cheers to Life!

I Just Don't See It...

2011-12-10T01:54:00.000-08:00

Aniston got the hottest woman EVER award???!!! PFT!

Can it be true?

I don't see it. She's pretty. She's cute. She's toned... But HOTTEST? EVER???

Tell me why she was voted as such! SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT I AM MISSING HERE!

She is just REGULAR in looks for heaven's sake! Is that the allure, I wonder?

I like Jennifer. I am a huge Friends fan. I watch reruns nightly as I paint my toes and plan my workout for the next day. Jen is a big part of my life. I know her well. We are... well... friends.

However, were I to vote for the most sexy woman ever I would have to choose Sophia Loren.

Now that's a sexy broad! Do you dare argue?

It's not even that I'm partial to brunettes... although they do have a certain dark, come-hither allure... Sensual chocolate, if you will.

Were the iconic blonde, Marilyn Monroe, voted as hottest woman ever in the world it would make sense to me. The woman oozes sexual appeal. Her eyes and mouth are classic mouse traps for the common man. SNIP SNAP and he is caught in the warm embrace of her gaze. No escape. No recourse. He is had.

Jen is a cutie pie. She is. I won't disagree with that statement. She's got a tight little tush and firm abs. She's fit. Incredibly fit. But hottest EVER? EVER??? Really?

Perhaps young men of today with voting power in the Men's Health Mag have changed the paradigm. What was once alluring is now passe?

Perhaps Girl Next Door (being more attainable) is now what males consider the most desirable.

Women over 40 should certainly shout HOORAY at this outcome. Jennifer Aniston is 42. As is Jennifer Lopez, who won People's sexiest woman in the world or some such nonsense. (Who comes up with this crap?)

Although I am 35 and still have a good 7 years before I hit that milestone I too will shout HOORAY! The way is being paved!

HOORAY FOR THE MONEY THAT ALLOWS THESE WOMEN TO SIP THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FOR FAR LONGER THAN HEAVEN INTENDED! HOORAY FOR GREAT GENETICS AND BOTOX AND YOGA AND SPANX AND LOW CARB DIETS AND HOLLYWOOD CHEFS WHO PLAN YOUR EVERY MEAL!

HOORAY FOR MODERN MIRACLES!

I suppose the bottom line here is that every man must decide for himself.

There must needs be someone for everyone (and Tommy's love was Becky).

Mi Nana Pa' Mi Tata, and all that jazz.

Can you hear the magic of the bell?

2011-12-09T00:38:00.000-08:00

"

I CAN'T HEAR THE BELL!! OH, MAMA, I CAN'T HEAR THE MUSIC OF THE BELL!"

My Bella (11) thought herself hilarious as she shouted these words over and again on the train ride to the North Pole last night.

We rode the Polar Express which is a train built in 1928. We boarded in Williams, AZ on the rim of the Grand Canyon and drove straight through to the North Pole.

It is very cold in the North Pole this time of year. The reindeer are cross with all the laborious labor they are meant to perform in December, so in a rude rebellious manner, they leave their droppings absolutely everywhere underfoot. It is stinky and messy and steamy warm.

Also, elves are just everywhere. We hit a few, I think. With the train. I saw one flying through the night sky with the force. He was lovely in his little elf suit. Pity. There are always casualties. Elves are attracted to very bright lights and every year when the magical Polar Express pulls into Santa Land filled to the brim with pajama wearing children, at least three elves jump out in front of the train in an over-zealous attempt to greet the children and the pretty pretty light. Poor little creatures. It's lights out for them now, isn't it. May they rest their tiny elfin souls in peace.

I thought my Isabella hilarious as well with all her obnoxious screaming. Her age is to blame. It was her way of informing the world that Santa is a child's game and she is much too old and wise to play into the fantasy but she still wanted to participate. (She is not, however, too old for enormous Christmas snicker doodles and hot chocolate, thank goodness.)

I especially found Bella humorous when Santa Claus boarded the train in his fluffery red suit and beardy bearded face. At this juncture in time my Bella, screamed at the top of her lungs with believable feigned panic in her high pitched voice,

"SANTA!!! OH IT'S SANTA EVERYBODY!! HE'S HERE!!! HE'S REALLY REALLY HERE!! ON THIS VERY TRAIN!! AHHHHHH! " She grabbed at her own face and pulled her own hair to show her extreme excitement at his coming.

I encouraged her by laughing loudly and sincerely. Bella is a funny little lady of mine.

Santa greeted every boy and girl and Mum and Daddy on the train with a smile and a bouncing belly like a bowl full of jelly. He gifted us each with a magical bell. A sleigh bell from one of his reindeer. One might suppose that Dancer and Prancer are quite pissed off by the lack of jingle and jangle in their reins as a result of St, Nick's generosity at their expense.

Maya was terrified at first of the idea of having to speak to Santa.

"I don't want to sit by the isle. I'm scared of Santa. Never mind. Move Tyson. I want to sit by the isle. I changed my mind, Mama. I'm not afraid."

On and on she vacillated until Santa actually boarded the train. Then she screamed in earnest.

"AHHHHHHHH!!! SANTAAAA!! Mama, I'm scared."

But the closer he approached the more comfortable she became.

This is the way of things, isn't it? Like the frog in the pot.

Maya was mortified when the train conductor insisted all passengers sing Happy Birthday To Maya. I was elated. My sweet little Maya Papaya is the my lovey dove.

I so enjoyed spending time with my family on an old rickety train. We were read The Polar Express by the man in a funny hat. He showed us the pictures. We were served hot cocoa and cookies. We sang Christmas carols. I was interested to hear just how many people cannot carry a tune in a bucket or on a train nor in the rain nor in a box nor with a fox. Some people just cannot sing, Sam I am.

Santa even gave ME a bell. I shook it and shook it. I shook with wild abandon,

"I BELIEVE!" I shouted. "I BELIEVE IN THE MAGIC OF THE BELL!!!"

I feel sorrow in my heart for those who have lost their sense of wonder.

Do YOU hear the magic of the bell?

Sub-par Pinatas Suck Eggs

2011-12-04T23:54:00.000-08:00

Store bought pinatas SUCK POOP!

In parties past I have painstakingly made my own pinatas from scratch. Night after night I would add the flour glue combination and strips of yesterday's newspaper to a balloon shaped like the final product. I was the master of this Frankenstein.

The pinatas I make are crafted with love and spunk. They leave children baffled and awestruck. Hitting one of my creations feels very much like batting a brick wall or a metal pole. There is a "ding!" that sounds when struck that lets the player know they have met their pinata match.

Usually, after all the children have had at least two opportunities to abuse my Frankenstein with forceful hits to the face I take over. Frank meets his maker and I take him down sans blindfold.

This particular pictured pinata was purchased at a Hispanic grocery store for $18. I thought it a good deal considering I had not had to put in hours and hours of glue laden manual service.

WRONG! The store bought pinata was WEAK at best. I was sorely disappointed.

It began to come undone with the first solid hits to its person. It could not stand the pressure of a 4 year old child. In addition, not all the children had a chance to hit the thing before it gave up the ghost. Sinful! Disappointing!

The candy just fell to the floor in a heap. Terribly boring. It is meant to fly in all directions so children might run from here to there and crash into one another in the acquisition of mini bags of M&Ms.

The children screamed and threw themselves atop the candy with their entire tiny bodies. There was kicking and rolling around on the cold, wet ground. There was thievery and tears. A terrible sight to behold, this brutal game that turns sweet children from the middle-class white suburbs into barbarians.

One sweet, gentle red-headed child stood weeping softly as she watch the other children shriek like banshees and greedily claw the ground for more candy. She did not have it in her to join them.

"Come here sweetheart. I found a few pieces of candy for you," I said.

She sniffed gratefully.

"These kids got really scary," she added in a small voice.

They will be all set to become Black Friday criminals as adults if they keep this up.

Maya is turning 7 this week. We celebrated her birthday as she requested. She was very particular about who she would and would not invite. She wanted pink balloons and a teal pinata.

She insisted upon apple pie rather than birthday cake.

Apple pie, it is!

And there you have it folks.

7th Birthday party for youngest baby completed. Phew! I should be given an award.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEST FRIEND, MAYA! I LOVE YOU, BABY.

MY SWEET WILD ANIMAL! :)

Daddy To The Rescue

2011-12-03T23:56:00.000-08:00

"I need you to sing with me, Dad. I can't do it alone."

"Yes, you can. You sound great. I'll just play for you... Or you can do it a capella... You were asked to sing a solo."

"NO! I'll freak OUT! Those people are SCARY!"

"Honey, you'll be fine. They are just people. You don't need me."

"Yeah HUH! I DO TOO NEED YOU! Come on!"

"Crys..."

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!" I drug out the word in a series of roller coaster dips and peaks. I whined and whimpered to the best of my ability. I may have pouted my bottom lip a touch. I certainly furrowed my brow.

He sighed.

I won.

My daddy sang with me tonight. I am invincible with my father at my side.

I might could have done a good job without his help. I might could have choked and cried and completely lost my marbles in front of the Mormons as well. (I say "might could" in honor of my daddy's southern roots. Although he is a well educated and traveled man he still sometimes slips and reverts to how he "might could" have done something. I find it so endearing, ya'll.)

My dad's love is gentle and unconditional. My dad's for love for his children has been tried and tested. He has proved himself to be a worthy foe of that Adversary who wishes to destroy eternal family bonds.

My dad has been patient with his children as they have endured trial after trial. Sometimes the trials have come as a result of our own poor choices. Other times he has helplessly watched his children be hurt and trampled.

In every instance he has waited with open arms for the opportunity to lift us, sooth us and heal us with prayer and love. He has never left us alone.

Tonight as I sang by his side I had a fleeting thought. It struck me as if by lightening.

I have a Heavenly Father. I share Him with you.

In the infantile understanding of my feeble human mind I see how much I must be Loved by Him who grants me breath.

I see how He has never left me alone. It is I who have strayed from HIM at times. I am a miserable stray.

I see how I am invincible when I am filled with His Light and Love.

For God so Loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son.

His love is unconditional. He waits with open arms to comfort me when faint.

My song is a prayer unto Him. He fills my lungs with the very air I breathe that I might reach the Heavens with my words of praise.

My earthly father wants nothing from me. He desires only my happiness.

The same is true of my Father in Heaven. I am that I might have Joy.

Tonight I am filled with gratitude to the consuming of my flesh. For both of my Fathers.

Christmas Trees Smell Delicious and Please Me Greatly Despite The Fact They Have Nothing Whatever To Do With Jesus

2011-12-01T23:54:00.000-08:00

"I suppose it is because I am so serious," said my sister Michelle, "but I don't enjoy putting up Christmas trees. What do Christmas trees have to do with Jesus?"

To this I intelligently replied, "BECAUSE IT'S FUN!"

You do see how my response is juvenile and makes no conventional sense to the mature mind, right?

What do Christmas trees have to do with Jesus? ...Because it's FUN...?

I could never be a lawyer with this caliber of comeback. (My mom always said she wanted to me to be a lawyer... She said I'd be good at it. ...turns out all I wanna do is be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. So much for women's lib. I am far too confident in my femininity for bra burning. But thanks for offering. Sagging is just not my thing, at this point.)

CHRISTMAS IS FUN!

I sang all day today because why? Because it's FUN and also it is December 1st!

YAY FOR DECEMBER!

YAY FOR CHRISTMAS TREES AND SANTA AND STOCKINGS AND GETTING WAY TOO FAT FOR OUR SKINNY PANTS BUT THAT IS WHY WE HAVE FAT PANTS, DUH!

Tonight after work I gathered my younguns together and exclaimed with all the fervor of my Christmas loving soul,

"WHO WANTS TO TRIM THE TREE AND DRINK HOT CHOCOLATE???!!!"

"MEEEEEE!" shouted the two youngest voices.

But hark! Whose voice through yonder hallway is missing? What's this? What's this you say? Where are my two eldest? Where are their shouts of glee at the mention of a Christmas tree?

Those shouts of glee have gone the way of all the worldly world. I am saddened.

"We don't really care about decorating the tree. But we want hot chocolate."

DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT DECORATING??? THE TREE???? WHAT?!

Well, they may as well have kicked me in the nose with a response like that. Have I taught them NOTHING? How can Santa fly his magic sleigh anywhere NEAR our house with that kind of anti-Christmas cheer for all to hear? Dancer and Prancer are especially sensitive to negative energy as they have become Buddhists in their old age.

So my girls want hot chocolate do they? They want a sweet reward for being a sullen tween and a grumpy teen, do they? To the uncooperative go the spoils.

"Smile for the camera, Serena," said I.

"I don't wanna."

"Not only are the angels in heaven recording every tiny deed you do, but I am also recording your life on my blog. Say hi to the peoples."

"Lame."

Yes. I can see how she might think I am lame at 13. Sigh. (She secretly adores me and wants to be just like me, of course. She is the MOST like me of the four. But don't tell her. She'll never forgive you.)

So the little red hen worked and worked and watched her smaller chicks accidentally drop and shatter ornament after blessed ornament with a smile.

When it came time to place the golden star atop the tree my eldest daughter said,

"I wanna do it."

"Tyson asked first, honey. And you didn't help trim the tree so your punishment will be that of watching your brother put the star on the top."

She growled in her throat and rolled her eyes. (She gets those moves from me, by the way. I'm a big throat growler.)

Hooray for Christmas and Christmas trees and for the men of the house who top trees together with nary a complaint!! HOORAY!

HAPPY EARLY DECEMBER, EVERYONE! May you not be trampled by over-zealous shoppers in the malls and maybe you should avoid the malls entirely as I heard two people were shot on black Friday and what is this world coming to.

We Are Lemito And Proud

2011-11-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

When I was a toddler I hugged the big, fluffy head of my sister.

"I'm going to marry my boyfriend, Coral," I said. Then I would kiss that noggin and Coral would blink.

I have made it my personal business to care for this sister of mine. The wild card sister. I protect her because she is me. My sister soul mate. She is the me I might have been but, through the grace of God, did not become. She is the wild things I may desire but refrain. I am proud of her free spirit.

She knows I have protected her and supported her in every situation. She asked me to walk her down the isle. I was honored to do so.

These last two years I have wearied God with my tearful pleas on her behalf. As the empty life of a single mother of four seemed to kill her slowly, I dropped to my knees oft and prayed for her deliverance from pain and confusion. Acutely I felt every disappointment and sorrow she felt. I dreamed her dreams. My heart ached and my eyes were filled with tears for her often.

Coral is now safe. Safe in the arms of a wonderful man. A solid, strong, kind, patient man of 28 who has never been married or had children. He is hers. Ray.

Ray is a our ray of sunlight. I consider him a true blessing in our lives. He has taken upon him the daunting responsibility of Coral and her four children. His great love for my sister trumps all. He is happy to be a part of her family. So few young men would feel the same. In fact, I don't know of any.

As Ray said his vows he said, "I love you all". He meant Coral and her children and the new addition within her. I cried.

To show our appreciation we sang a special song for Ray. It is the song my parents danced to first they met.

Can I have this dance for the rest of my life? Would you be my partner every night? When we're together it feels so right. Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?

I am pleased to brag that I was in charge of getting Coral's children ready for the festivities. I also was in charge of the bride's hair. I ironed shirts and curled little girl hair and blushed little girl cheeks and applied lipstick to tiny little girl lips.

I really bonded with these little ones this weekend. After the wedding we snuggled by a roaring fire and ate Wisconsin cheese and crackers as we watched movies. The newlyweds were doing their newlywed thing. Grant (the 14 year old) seemed a bit vulnerable and asked that I sleep with him on a futon both nights I was there. I was so happy to be a friend to him.

I felt that my very presence was of service. I was grateful to be of help. I love those babies of Coral's as my own. I can't wait to meet the new baby boy (we witches have seen him). :)

My mother compared us to Morticia Adams of the Adams family. We strolled into the humble tavern dressed like vampires in black and red. We looked sharp and overtly over-dressed. Very Lemito.

Lemito was a boy of my childhood. His mother was simple. She dressed her son in three piece suits everyday before she sent him off to kindergarten. Lemito also carried a leather briefcase. He insisted on shaking the hands of every adult in his line of vision. He would extend his arm in hand shaking position from several feet away and walk with purpose to the person intended to receive the shake.

Lemito's mother would say (in Spanish), "I would never send MY son to school in just shorts and a t-shirt like the other children. He is special and should dress the part."

Poor Lemito.

"We are Lemito," my mother laughed.

We were indeed dressed differently from the Wisconsin locals in our black lace, crimson lips, black suits and red silk ties.

"I love that we are Lemito," I said. "I think we look like dark vampires from ancient Spain."

My mother is so beautiful! It gives me great hope for my own future. :)

All in all I got my cake and ate it too! It was a wonderful experience.

PS I found a random baby and stole him from his mother. I am wont to do this as I am always starving for a baby...

I Was Spared By A Thankful Scorpion On This Thanksgiving Day

2011-11-24T11:28:00.000-08:00

Slaving.

Slaving

TAAAADAAAAAA!!!!

I DID IT!!!

I MADE MY VERY FIRST THANKSGIVING DINNER WITHOUT MY MOMMY'S HELP! It was all from scratch and everything.

I'm not gonna lie. It was fabulous. Every bit of it. I cooked for 8 hours yesterday. Secret ingredient? Love. (And a pinch of sacrifice...)

It was the best day ever. I was so happy as I cooked. I thought of my family enjoying my special Love meal filled me with deep satisfaction and peace.

Oh how I adore feeding the people I love. How I adore slaving and slaving and slaving and getting all the credit. The glory is MINE! ALL MINE!

I imagined the songs of praise and lip smacks of my children. The satisfied grunts of my husband. The wagging stumpy tail of my silly little cocker. All was right with the world.

I sang practiced singing Handel's Messiah as I cooked. The birds in the trees were singing. I almost got stung by a scorpion.

Yes. A scorpion heard my singing and decided to perch himself atop a dishtowel in the dishtowel drawer. I grabbed said dishtowel and noticed a small yellow-ish creature with his tail at attention and precisely half an inch from my thumb.

"I was going to sting you and ruin your meal and deal and day. But you seem to be in tune with God and the Universe at this time. I'll let you off with a warning."

I screamed and dropped the scorpion towel at my feet. He charged. I stomped him flat with my boot.

Today I am thankful for this entire world and this tumultuous mortal experience with it's highs and lows and stops and gos. I am thankful to be scorpion venom free.

In other news I will be flying to WISCONSIN in the morning!! (I'll bet nobody was ever as excited as I to go to WISCONSIN! I'll bet Wisconsin has never seen it's name entirely in caps before today.)

My kids keep asking if I will cut the cheese in Wisconsin.

Don't be silly. I'm too pretty to cut cheese. I have those who do that kind of thing for me.

Baby sis is gettin hitched on Saturday! YAY! Yay for Love and new beginnings.

I'm all packed up.

As you can see I've only packed the essentials.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!!! See you next week. :)