I fell ill and wrote a song and talked to the flowers for hours and hours

"Oh! good morning little flower!  I am so happy to see you today.  Are you my present?  A gift for me?  You are so beautiful!"

I continued talking to my brand new bloom in like manner until my husband entered the room.  Then I got all embarrassed.

"Hey!" said Mr Pistol.  "Did you notice your flower bloomed? It looks nice."

"Yeah.  It looks pretty...."

I tried to restrain myself but could not.

"I LOVE MY FLOWERS!  I FEEL LIKE I HAVE NEW BEST FRIENDS!  I EVEN TALK TO THEM AND SING TO THEM AND EVERYTHING! ....They can totally hear me, ya know!" I say.

"Mmmhmm." says he.

I have been quite ill the last few days.

My children did it to me, of course.

You coddle and cuddle and wuddle and muggle with your baby loved ones when they are ill.

You don't mind a fig if they snoot and snot on your shoulders and pant legs.  You feel their hot foreheads and administer to their needs.  You get up at 3am to provide breathing treatments and vomit buckets.

You do all of the things with good spirits and a healthy body.

Once their fevers have returned to regular and their bowel movements are not explosive you can begin to hope for normalcy...

But NAY!  Not so!  For it is time.  Mama must fall ill.  And Mama will fall hard.

Children will be monkeys and feeling fine.  "I'll so glad I'm feeling fine!" they chant.  And you, from your bed of fever and grief, are happy for them.

You cough.  You wheeze.  You scold yourself. You can't just lie here!  How will they survive without you?!  Who will water the plants and the people?

You feel guilty.  OH THE GUILT OF A MOTHER FALLEN ILL!  There is no more terrible guilt than that.

They NEED me, you cry. 

You watch your husband frantic with worry.  Ordering pizza.  Putting lopsided pony tails on the wrong child.  Forgetting lunch money.

You watch your husband bring you tea and toast and Robitussin and ibuprofen and Tylenol on a silver platter.  Your heart wells within your congested chest.

Ahhh,  THIS is true love!  No other man on the earth would or could love me in such a manner as to serve and serve my weakened frame with no hopes of immediate sexual compensation!  Ahhhhh.  Love is a many splendored thing!

Many friends offer to come and bring soups and treats to buoy you up in your time of illness.

You decline.  There is NO WAY you want people coming over when you look like DEATH WARMED UP!  You have not the energy for small talk nor the energy to slap on the required makeup.  You have an image to uphold.  Full kabuki only.  ...although soup would have been much nicer than leftover pizza... and I really could have used a few cake pops...

It is pride that has put distance between you and your cake pops.  PRIDE!

I could really use some cake pops right now...

Falling ill has weakened my flesh and brightened my spirit.

I have written lyrics to a song tonight, as per request of a musician friend of mine. 
I was requested to write lyrics to a song featuring the Three Gardens in the Bible, The Garden of Eden, The Garden of Gethsemane, and the Garden of the Tomb.  I hope I have done the vision justice.  Thought I'd let you peek at it.  You being my closest friends and all... :)

Reign Of Peace
Turning through the holy scriptures
I search to heal the ache within
I've felt deep pain and seen the Light
Redemption from my every sin


I'm cleansed by His sweet Reign of Peace
With humble heart fall to my knees
Confessing Jesus is the Christ
 My Savior Lord and King


In my mind I see a garden
Rich, beautiful beyond my dreams
Eden dressed with rose and lily
Mist cooled and fed by sunshine's beams
A fruit had grown to tempt and try
The parents of all living Fell
Man was banished from that haven
Removed to battle death and hell

I'm cleansed by His sweet Reign of Peace
With humble heart fall to my knees.
Confessing Jesus is the Christ
My Savior, Lord and King


Another garden floods my thoughts
Olive trees and tears of sorrow
Blood watered their poor roots that night
His flesh would die upon the morrow
I hear His cry deep in my soul,
"Not as I will, but as Thou wilt"
If it be that Thou pass the cup
                  T'was not the plan. 
                             His blood was spilt.


I weep and hear, "Why weepest Thou?"
A final garden fills my view
Empty tomb; his voice rings clear
                     My life I've lived and died for YOU!"

Triumphant o'er the grave He stands
Majestic King of Kings
My Lord!  My God!  Accept my soul!
Thou hast redeemed me from death's hold

I'm cleansed by His sweet Reign of Peace
With humble heart fall to my knees
Confessing Jesus is the Christ
My Saviour, Lord and King

That's what counts with children...

For years I was told I was far too lax.

"You let your children walk all over you!" was the constant refrain. "They need RULES.  They need discipline!  They need a good spanking!"

Silly.

Sure.  When my Bella asked for an Oompla Loompa for Christmas one year I did become slightly ridiculous about procuring a tiny person for her.  But now he is part of the family and rubs my feet every night whilst I devour Willy Wonka's famous Scrumdidliumtuous bars.   I'd say it was a sound investment on my part.

When a three year old Serena knocked a child on his head at the playground because he was on her equipment I made sure to pretend I didn't see the event in question.

Let children be children, I always say... But then there was the mother of that knocked down boy who tried to scold my precious, innocent baby girl... I simply wouldn't have it!  I stormed over to that woman and shouted obscenities two inches from her face until my husband dragged me away.   I can be proactive when the need arises.

Until recently I never made my children make their own beds.  That was MY job, of course.  Sweet little angels should spend their hours playing and laughing.  The making of beds is for women who have already bid adieu to their youth and childhoods in exchange for a family of their very own...

I let my Maya wear the same pair of denim shorts every day to kindergarten last year.  She became hysterical at the mention of another article of clothing.  She is very loyal.   I let her have her way.  Why upset her with confusing options and the vanity of a complicated wardrobe?

When my son sprinted circles around me at the Walmart today I scarcely acknowledged his bad behavior.  I may have said, "Stop running, honey" so softly as for him not hear me... until a grumpy older woman began glaring at me and shaking her fist and shouting for me to control my child. She further scolded that children these days are disrespectful and unkempt.

I'll have you know my children are QUITE respectful ( of any adult that is not me) AND kempt!  Hmph.

Given the lackadaisical nature of my parenting one would think them ignorant little monsters, hoodlums and bullies.

NOT SO!

Report cards came today.

REPORT CARDS CAME TODAY!!!!

MY CHILDREN ARE GENIUS YOUNG HUMANS DESPITE MY MOTHERING!!!

Serena boasts a 3.85 GPA.

Bella pulled in a 3.7 without breaking a sweat.

Tyson got 110% on his end of the quarter report. (I may have added the extra ten percent but HE DESERVES IT!!! - because the freckles are so darn cute.) He has also got perfect scores on every spelling test this year which include difficult bonus words such as Superchocolationatory.

Maya has also received perfect scores on every spelling test thus far and continues to wear the same (new-these are her first grade shorts...) pair of shorts every day to school as they help her think clearly.

I may continue to provide my children with live-in giraffes and live otters for the bathtub when they desire it but they are growing up to become civilized, caring citizens that will contribute to society in myriad positive ways.

In fact, just today I asked Bella to clean out the freezer.  She did so happily.

"Hey , Mom. I could totally do this chore in the summer time.  It would be soooo refreshing.  See?  I could just get inside the freezer and I would be cool as a cucumber...".

Then she asked for the $5 I had used as bait.

I paid her for doing a chore I detest because that is what children are for... In addition, youngsters must not only learn the value of work but also the value of getting paid.

I wish only for the happiness of my offspring.

Happiness and harmony.  That's what counts with children..."
                                                                   ~Mrs. Salt of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory (The first                              movie... which I love and have memorized...and recite often at dinner parties involving fancy peoples who are not familiar with the film.)

Thread Dread

The better part of my day was spent all a'tangle in Thread and Hair and Shoelaces.

My sister introduced the concept to my 6 year old this weekend.

A strand of hair is wrapped 60 Google times with colorful Thread.  The end may be adorned with beads and charms of the owner's choosing. 

If at any time the Head wearing the Dread wants the Thread removed Instead, the hair must be CUT from the scalp, never to return. 

Naturally I allowed all of my girls to participate in the family trend.

Looks like so:

 All the cool kids are doing it.  HOP ON BOARD!  It only costs 33 cents for a Thingy of thread!  So cheap I'll drop dead!  Yeah, that's what I said. Don't be miSled.  (I don't know anything about sleds.  I from Tucson.)

I was a thoughtful Mama today and took Thread orders this morning before school...

"I want silver and purple with an owl charm and blue beads."

"I want neon green and hot pink and a blah blee blah charm for me."

"I want an Oompa-loompa NOW, Daddy!"

"Alright, Wonka, how much for a Golden Goose?"

"She was a Bad Egg..."

Ugh!  I digress.  So sorry.  My mind is mangled.

Where was I?

The Boy.

The Boy said, "If the girls get all this Thread in their hair what do I get? What will you do for ME? ...hmmmm?"

"I'll take you to the park," I said.

Once we arrived at the park The Boy insisted I Thread Dread his SHOELACES.  He watched anxiously over my shoulder.

I love that. 

He was duly satisfied with the final product. 

"Awesome!  My shoes look SO COOL!" he said.

"Quit whipping your sister with that jump rope," I said.  Business as usual.

NEXT!

Took me only 45 Hundred Hours to complete Serena's request.

"My arms are tired from doing this for so long," I complained.

"Quit complainiing, Mom.  You're a Lift Waiter.  You can handle it." 

"It's weight lifter, honey."

"Same thing.  You almost done?  I'm hungry."

My sweet Bella was kind enough to allow me to cook her dinner before her turn.  Generous.

Chicken burritos with fresh Salsita, in case you wondered.

Dinner was devoured in .5678 seconds flat.  I was back on the job.

I must confess I started Unraveling fast when The Threading began to cut into my American Idol time.

And that's how my day went.

How was yours?
**************************************************

PS  Some Anon Jerk left a nasty comment today that made me feel super sad and bummed and low.  "this the Worst blog yet..." said He/She.   The comment was regarding a post I did about how wierd and cool my sister is.  And how I wish I could be more like her.  Born of insecurity... I deleted it, because it was INDEED the worst one yet.

However, ANON, you are a Big Meanie. And them is fightin' words.

I encourage constructive criticism of my work.  Not flat out abuse, you dim-witted mandrill anus.

Carry On.

Stabbing: Who Done it?

"Who stabbed holes in the leather couch with a pencil?!" I demanded. 

My children all looked at their shoes.

"Speak up!  I want to know who defaced my couch!  Couches don't grow on trees, you know!" I said.

Still no one confessed.

Not I, said the cat.  Not I, said the rat.  Not I, said my fibbing children.

I had the feeling Maya was the culprit.

So I said, "I have the feeling Maya is the culprit!"

Everyone looked at Maya.  Some of the other children nodded in agreement.  There was muffled muttering, Maya,yes,Maya did it,Mayaisacouchstabber,Maya.

"I didn't do it!!  I really didn't do it!" said the accused.

We all continued to eye the 6 year old fireball with suspicion.

At long last,  the pressure and guilt were too much.

"It was me..." said TYSON.  "I stabbed the couch with a pencil.  I don't know why."  Tears filled his eyes.

We were shocked.  T-bone is my peacemaker.  Maya is my tiny tornado!  How could I have been so wrong?

Maya burst into tears.

"Oh MAMA!  WHY WOULD I LIE?  YOU ALL LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS LYING!

I wrapped her up in my arms.  "I am so sorry, my love.  Mama was wrong.  You were right."

"I used to lie when I was little," she continued.  "When I was 4 I lied all the time.  But now I'm SIX!  I have already lost THREE TEETH!" she cried. 

I held her while she cried.  "I know, baby.  You're big now.  I should have known better," I said.

"AND WHY WOULD I LIE ON A SUNDAY?!  I WOULD NEVER LIE ON A SUNDAY!" she wailed.

"Yes," I agreed.  "On the sabbath we take a break from lying to keep it Holy.  What can I do to make it better?"

"You could paint my nails..." she sniffed.

My baby forgave me my tresspasses because I knew not what I had done.

And what about tyson's punishment? asks Katy.

Well his guilt was his own punishment.

He climbed into the arms of his Uncle Jason and found refuge and protection from the storms of life.

I am such a pushover.





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

It's Crystal.  ...PISTOL IF YOU'RE NASTY! 

Check out my black and white top!  It's super RAD.  80's retro.  $20 at Tilly's.   I'm super excited about it!  I plan to wear some hot hooker heels to go with.  (You gotta admit the fluffy slippers are smokin' too though!)

Back when I was in jr. high these loose fitting half-shirts were worn with nothing underneath by both males and females,  simultaniously creating a trashy and titillating fashion statement for the ages.  LOVE IT!

As a Mormon Material Girl I nod to the over-exposed with a Red Shade layering shirt.  Shade is a Mormon people clothing company specifically geared toward modesty. 

I'm not sure those Mormons meant for Shade shirts to be worn with skin tight leggings... but you got one life and you not coming back so express yo self! 

The way I feel about leggings can be expressly expressed through a special song written by Lionel Richie in 1985.

Stuck on you
I've got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can't lose
Guess I'm on my way

Mighty glad you stayed

WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM!

Ethnically Ambiguous Incubator

Strangers tell me my kids don't look like me.  And everywhere I go I'm accused of being some other race besides Half-Breed-Mexi-Mormon.  Sometimes I wonder whether I exist AT ALL!

Just call me NONDESCRIPT INCUBATOR, why don't ya! 

My offspring were baked and hatched looking mostly like LITTLE WHITE KIDS, of all things! 

That's why I'm SO INSECURE AND FEEL THE NEED TO POST PICTURES OF MYSELF EVERYWHERE AND also fix the rear view mirror so I can always see my reflection rather than the boring cars behind me!

People WALK ALL OVER me with their ethnic mal-assumptions!

When I went to Italy people thought I was Italian.  BELLA!  BELLA! shouted short brown men in the streets of Venice.  (Apparently it's a popular name over there...)

When my husband met me he only liked me because he thought I was Polynesian.  Not kidding.

When I went to Canada people thought I was Canadian, eh.

When I go to Mexico people call me "gringa" even though I can dance Latina booty circles around any Full Breed and eat at random roadside taco stands without getting sick.



True Story That Happened Today:

My parents paid me REAL LIVE MONEY! 

I booked it to the first nail salon I could find for an Emergency Pedicure.

The place was owned and operated by a Vietnamese family.

It went something like this.

Them:  "Are you Asian?"

Me:  "No.  I'm actually half Mexican."

Them:  "You have black hair like Asian.  You color your hair?"

Me:  "No.  My hair is black.  It grows like this."   (I didn't tell them about the Sexy Box Color. It's our little secret...)

There was a lot of Vietnamese banter as they examined my eyes, hair, teeth, gums and hooves. I neighed. 

Them:  "You maybe have Asian blood in distant ancestors...  You cut nails too short.  When you cut?  They don't grow fast.   Only slow."

They INSISTED I was Asian even AFTER I said I was Mexi!

A couple of my children and husband came into the shop to check my progress.

Them:  "Those YOUR children?"

Me:  "Yes."

Them:  "They no look like you.  They look like HIM." 

There was pointing at Mr. Pistol, more Vietnamese discussion, gesturing at me and LOUD LAUGHTER! 

It seems my Vietnamese friends found the lack of family resemblance hilarious.

I felt competely inadequate both because I my kids sprung forth from my womb looking little like me and also because I don't speak Vietnamese.

(I HATE it when people talk about me in a language I can't understand... like French, any Asian dialect or Red Neck.)



Another true story that happened today:

  I took my 3 daughters to get their hair cut.  (Maya was elated to have her hair washed in a fancy sink for the first time ever.)

My girls all have GOBS AND GOBS of AMAZING, WILD CURLY LOCKS.

Here is an example.

I obviously do NOT have gobs and gobs of amazing, curly blah blah blah hair.   

The chick cutting Bella's hair looked at me blankly and said,

"OMG!  YOUR DAUGHTERS HAVE THE MOST AMAZING HAIR!  WHERE DID THEY GET IT?"

"WELL OBVIOUSLY NOT FROM ME!" I screamed.  "Thanks for rubbing it in!"

I kicked her really hard and refused to tip even after she spent countless hours flat ironing.

So you see my dilemma, Yes?

When someone sees a beautiful black woman she can say,

"Now THAT'S a gorgeous black woman!"

When a lovely Latina lady hynopizes you with her hips you can say,

"Aye Mami!  Rosita is SMOKIN'!"

But when I enter a room I am accused of being a Greek Goddess!

(Assuming, of course, the audience in question is Greek.)

Life is so unfair.

Blood

When we were little girls we shared a bed.  Talked long into the night about Butterflies and Cavemen.  Popped each other's toes.

"Not the big one!  Not the big!  Noooooo!  ...That hurts, stupid!"

And we'd laugh.

The last four nights found us sharing a bed once again.  We did not discuss Cavemen and Butterflies.  There was no toe popping.

But we laughed.

Cackled, really.  Giggles turned to witchy cackles and unseen creatures in the night lurked at our windows to catch a glimpse.

And we cried.

As grown women we discussed matters of the heart.  Love.  Children.  Pain.  Family.  Spirits.  God.  Demons. Art.  Life.  Death.  Dreams.

I am in Awe of us.  I am in Awe of our Divine Nature.  I am in Awe of our Awesome creativity.

Between the two of us we have created 8 children.  Eight humans sprung from within us.  We nurtured them before and after their births with our own tiny bodies.  We continue to shape and mold these gifts from God so they might fulfill the measure of their creation.

Do you see our enormous children?  Some of them have grown taller than us.

We simmered our little boys in the couldron of our wombs with slime and snails and puppy dog tails.  Because that's what little boys are made of.

Our girls were baked with sugar and spice and everything nice.   Because that's what little girls are made of.

I saw them all playing together and said,

"We are human clown cars, Coral.  These huge humans lived inside of us and then marched right out!  And there they stand! ...With their own brains and ideas and everything!"   

I feel too small to have created something so big. 

It's Mind Boggling, I tell you!  My Mind is Officially Boggled. 

Coral's children are my children and my children are hers.

When little Joey-Blue slammed her eye on the slide at the park she ran to me in tears.  I scooped her up and kissed her tiny face.  I nurtured and soothed.  I looked into her huge, dark eyes and saw myself.  The passionate fire that lives in me also dwells with her.

She came away with a healthy shiner.  The other children lovingly dubbed her, "Joey-Shiner."

My Bella is an artist in her soul.  Coral took Bella under her wing and bought her her very first charcoals and taught her how to use them. 

It takes a village.

Our children understand on the deepest level that Blood is Thickest. 

"I want you to be my best friend for always, Tyson," said the lovely little lady.

"Maya, please take my dream catcher away.  It catches my bad dreams.  I'm scared of it.  I don't want anymore bad dreams."

Maya carefully tucked the offending dream catcher under her clothes in her suitcase.

Our children have been born into an elite club.  Our blood runs hot and strong in their veins.  They have inherited our intense passion for Life and Love and the Persuit of Happiness.

I couldn't help but smile every night after they were tucked in bed. I listened to them discuss Butterflies and Cavemen.

And every night, after they'd had their fill of giggling and banter, they curled up like kittens and fell asleep.

In other news:

My mom can kick higher than your mom!  She'll be 60 in two months... 

...which means when I'm 60 I will be able to kick higher than YOU!

SO THERE! HMMMPH!

NANNY NANNY BOO BOO! STICK YOUR HEAD IN POO POO!

I'm sorry.  That was childish.

I'm begging you to PLEASE not stick your head in POO POO on my account.

Serena Star

"This baby will have blue eyes," I said to my sister.

Coral rolled her eyes.

"That doesn't make any sense.  Brown is dominant.  There is no way you could have a blue-eyed child," she said.

"It just came to me.  I saw her.  I have no doubt.  Her eyes are blue," I said.

I filled the closet that was to be hers with ruffley, blue dresses.

Her blue eyes were wide and thoughtful the day she was born.  Almost confused.  She didn't cry for several minutes which frightened the doctors. I was too young and naive to concern myself with a silent newborn.

"She is so serene and calm," I said. 

I was also too naive to decipher between serenity and lack of oxygen.  Serena proved to be a little fire ball.

There has been very little evidence of the serenity I saw in those first few minutes.

Serena is passionate, intelligent, tireless, driven, comical and loud.

We celebrated Serena's 12th birthday tonight at home.  She requested homemade burgers and french fries and a family movie night.  The feature film was The Last Airbender, which nobody watched because all the children took turns fighting over who got to sit next to Mama or on Mama's lap.  I was kicked several times in the scuffle.

In case you are wondering what The Youngsters are into these days, here is one of Serena's favorite clips.  After watching it 30 times myself, I begin to see the genius behind The Annoying Orange and a talking Pasta claiming to be an artist.

It's three minutes.  You can do it.  Hang in there.

 

So...what did you think?  Compelling, eh?

I am having a hard time coping with the fact Serena is so grown up.

I'm all misty and teary remembering all the nights I held her tiny body and played with her fingers and toes.  I couldn't believe this little miracle was entrusted to me.  What must God have been THINKING?

I was so protective.  I never let anyone feed her a bottle.  I nourished her with my own body for the first 18 months of her life. 

She slept in my arms every night.  Until, one fine day, my husband had had enough of sharing his wife and his bed with a squirmy infant.

He forced me to let Serena cry in her crib.  I cried in mine.  I heard her screaming, "Mama! Mama!" from behind her closed door.  Ripped my heart out.

When she was 3, she attempted her first ballet recital at a Nursing Home.  She was terrified by all the toothless, grinning elderly people.  She stood frozen in the middle of the stage as the other tiny ballerinas danced around her.  She held her arms out to me and again cried, "Mama!".

When Serena was 5, she insisted on wearing fancy dresses and sparkly shoes to kinder everyday.  I was so proud of my little lady.

When she was 10, she was The Mean Girls target.  I cried with her everytime I picked her up from school and found her weeping.  I had vivid fantasies of yanking those little girls off a swing set by their hair.  Alas, there was nothing I could do.

Now, she is in the era of secret crushes, giggly gossip, lip gloss, i-pods, slumber parties (which are always at my place because there is NO WAY I'm letting her out of my sight at this age.) and perfume.

"Get me some perfume and good smelling lotion for my birthday and Christmas," she said.  "I want some becuase YOU always smell so good."

It's scary she is watching me closely.  She wants to smell good because I "always smell so good".  What else does she see in me that will be emulated.  It's a terrifying thought.  An enormous responsibility. 

The next major stage in Serena's life is romantic Love and solid crushes.  I dred it.  They are called crushes for a reason.  Love can be so painful. 

I do not look forward to witnessing the heartbreak that will surely come.  I will try my best to be objective but will secretly detest any boy who walks through my door with the potential to break her heart.  I  know that when he makes her cry I will cry too.

When she was born I was struck by the knowledge that for the first time in my life I Loved another human being more than I Loved myself.  I knew I would sacrifice my sleep, potential for monetary success and prestige, peace of mind, freedom and even my life for her happiness.

I knew her eyes were blue before she was born. 

I now know Serena was sent to me as my first born to teach me how to be a mother.  Before the world was, she promised she would come to me and I promised to comfort her when she called, "Mama!"

I love you, Serena Beana.  Happy birthday!

Little Hotties and Tiger Chips

"Your laugh is infectious.  Stop it," said my sister, Michelle, yesterday as I laughed infectiously at a stupid clip featuring The Muppets crazy Swedish chef.

Side note:  Whyz the chef gotta be Swedish, huh?  What are they trying to say? I think it's a little racist. 

That guy is NUTS!  That Muppet Chef blew up two talking pumpkins with a bazooka and created pumpkin pies in their stead.  His sidekick, Beaker (who happens to be a talking singing beaker with fabulous orange hair fluff) , is really a very impressive soprano.  His harmony is right on... I'm a little jealous...

Michelle spends a great deal of time contemplating the likes of Dickens, Dante and that guy who wrote War and Peace.  Michelle says a lot of big, fancy words.  Michelle writes poetry that gets published by Ivy League colleges.

Michelle hates it when I make her laugh with Idiot Humor.  I only use Idiot Humor with Michelle because it is beneath her.

I derive great joy when I can see a laugh coming on after I imitate Animal from the Muppets.  I enjoy how she argues with herself before the laughter escapes her lips without consent.  I am delighted when she internally berates herself for succombing to The Laugh I inspire.

Then she says, "Shut up!  You act like a child."

Then I do a ridiculous dance that may involve flapping my arms and wobbling my knees around precariously.

Then she laughs more and belittles herself further internally for allowing such tomfoolery to entertain her highly developed mind.

Michelle is the baby of the house but far exceeds both of her sisters in maturity.  (It's not saying much, really...)

I have fallen in love with her children.  Josh and Julia.  They speak my language.

JULIA:

We went to Mt. Lemmon yesterday.  It was 54-ish degrees.  I am a desert rat.  I lost all sensation in my feet, finger tips and face.

"I am very cold, Julia." I said.  "I have holes in my pants and this mountain is very very cold."

"You're right," said Julia.  "Mountain is cold.  Very cold."

"I need a big hug to warm me up and make me feel all better," I said.

She wrapped her arms around me.

"Thank you, Julia!  I feel so much better now!  You are very huggy and warm."

"Aunt Crystal Lion," said she.

"Julia Lion," I said.  I like to be agreeable whenever possible.

JOSH:

I was my nephew's hero today when I supplied him with a giant bag of Puffed Cheetos.  He was The Keeper of the Cheetos and distributed them wisely and evenly, one at a time, to the other children. He was Big Brother Government.  Socialism at it's best.  Obama would have approved, I think.

"Tiger Chips...," said Josh with an orange smile.

I crouched down so we could see eye to eye on the issue.

"I love Tiger Chips, Joshy," I said.  "They are crunchy and extra Orange."  My face was dead serious.

"Crunchy," said he.

"Tiger chips are delicious and synthetic.  They make me ROAR.  Like this...," I roared loudly, but not so loudly as to scare the child.

Then we both roared.

"Roar like the movie," said Josh.

"Yes!  Like the movie!" said I and roared again. 

I'm not sure what movie to which he was referring... but when in Rome, ya know?

BILL:

I like to call Bill:  Bill "Prepare-ed-ness" Burger.

Bill is always prepared.  He seeks out and collects any cool gadge that might be used in case of a critical disaster.  He always carries a handy pocket knife... in his pocket, which is exactly what the name infers...

"I can't feel my fingertips!" I groaned.

Bill rushed to his car and emerged with a Little Hottie for each of my hands.  That's TWO Little Hotties, Folks. 

Little Hotties are tiny magical bean bags that get warm with the power of your mind when you shake them.  The heat lasts for eight hours.  EIGHT HOURS!  It's a modern MIRACLE, I tell you!

Bill will have the last laugh when the world goes up in smoke and we all go running to him in the hopes he might toss us an M.R.E. or a road flare.

Bill then forced me to watch clips of the Muppets on his laptop.  It was my turn to laugh against my better judgement.

I really identify with The Muppet called Animal.  That's his name.  Animal.   I feel he shares my Loves, Hopes and Fears.  He and I want the same things out of life.  Can you see the expressiveness in his eyes?  He and I are kindred spirits. Carpe Diem.  Seize the day, my friend.

PS  My camera is going blind.  She is very sensitive about her malady and does not know she is being replaced soon.  Don't tell her as it will make her feel obsolete... which she will be...