Naked Vampires Are Not A Sin (...They're not)

I was fairly conflicted this Easter.  I usually am when it's about religious holidays.  Mainly because I'm not that religious.  In that dress up and go to church and don't drink and don't swear and praying for a parking space is selfish kind of way.  You know?

As I've gotten older I've become more aware of the true meaning of these holidays, and it makes me feel like maybe I'm missing a big part of what's going on and maybe I should be doing more to celebrate than just making grapefruit and thyme Bellinis.

(which are not for anyone who has any kind of affliction to thyme)
(which I do)
(which is why I should have left it out)
(hindsight)
(still drank the pitcher, though.  Waste not and all that...)

We did the whole ham thing and I made, quite possibly, the best creamy scalloped potatoes

(Taylor Swift moment)

....like....ever.

My daughter and I dyed eggs and I got a little territorial about my egg that I'd wrapped rubber bands around and colored orange which ended up looking like a football.  Kind of.  A spider web maybe.  Not really the Martha Stewart display I'd seen at all.  I guess you have to do more than one for it to look right.

Anyway, she wanted to put a sticker on it that was a picture of half a pink Easter egg shell with a little fluffy chick sitting it.  And I said no.  So, to get back at me, she got territorial about the egg she dyed purple and drew butterflies on.  I wanted to take a picture of it and she wanted to eat it.  I've known my daughter a while now and I kind of know what gets to her.

"You are the most beautiful model ever.  I would be so happy to take a picture of you holding out this egg you made.  It's the most beautiful egg ever."

And snap.

(Doesn't that look wild?  Like I cut it out of the picture and just pasted it here?  It's 'cause her shirt was white.)
(No magic.  Just pics.)

I feel like I'm getting off track.

My point is that on this Easter Sunday, I felt really horrible sitting down after dinner to watch four episodes of True Blood.

(really, it was during dinner)
(It's only On Demand for the next five minutes so I felt an extremely pressing need to get through all twelve episodes this weekend)

I love this show.  It's creepy and sexy and weird and could totally never happen, but I love it.  Normally, eating dinner and watching TV is not a big deal on Sunday night.  We kind of let loose on the weekends.  We stay upstairs.  The kids stay down in the playroom.  If they try to come up, we kick them back down and shut the door.

Don't judge.  It's not nice.

These particular episodes of the show were especially....ummmmm.....ghoulish?  Satanic?  Of the devil?  And every time they took their clothes off or said "G**dammit!" I would roll my eyes toward to ceiling and say a silent

"I'm sorry."

When Jason Stackhouse took the Lord's name in vain I nearly threw my neck out.

It's just entertainment and it's all completely fake and I know the Lord knows that and He really just wants me to be happy and have some fun, it just felt really wrong.  Like I was doing a disservice to my children by allowing them to sit downstairs eating lemon meringue pie and laughing their jelly bean stuffed heads off at Wreck-It Ralph while we enjoyed ourselves with champagne and demonic vampires.

And maybe we should have been sitting all together at the computer Googling passages from the Bible

(because I don't really know any off the top of my head)
(except Psalm....)
(Matthew 6:9.  The Lord's Prayer)
(which I just Googled because I thought it was a Psalm)
(this is what I'm saying.)

As I climbed into bed last night I sent up several more silent prayers.  For my children.  For my beloved.  Thankful for the fortune of our life.  Our health.  Our bounty that allowed us to celebrate and give to our children in ways that made them feel happy and loved.

My love for the Lord and the grace I feel in my connection to Him is about more than just my knowledge of Bible verses.  I know that. 

("He's in here!  He's in your hearts!")
(Don't you love when you can quote Footloose and talk about God in the same breath?)
(That's why Footloose rules all.)

And I didn't feel at all guilty about the teeny, tiny, little request that I made that True Blood On Demand will last more than just the weekend.

(2 episodes left to watch)
(this show kills me)

Eat Ish!

I was watching TV with my son this weekend.  My wonderful son.  My wonderful son with the sweet, sweet hazel eyes.

And he turns to me and asks,  "How old is Aunt Tracy?"

Being a former teacher, I responded to his question with a math problem.  It's my nature.

"She's 10 years older than me."

(and also to see if he actually knows how old I am)

"So she's 54," said my son with the sweet sweet hazel eyes and the old soul that can see all the way through me to my back collar button.

"Nooooooo," said I.

And then just because I like to mess with him and watch him get all twirly and stuff, I followed with,

"Do I look 54?"

But, he's a pretty smart kid, my son with the old soul, and he knew right away that I joshin'.

"No, but you said she's 10 years older than you.  So she must be 54."

This drew one of four conclusions:

A.  My math lesson worked.  My son can subtract, and conversely, add.
B.  My son has no idea how old I am.
C.  Both A & B
D.  C

"That would mean I'm 44.  I'm not.  I'm 42."

(okay...so, he has a vague idea how old I am...whatever...)

And then, just because I still wasn't done messing with him, and I was still waiting for him to get all twirly like I like, I said,

"Do I look 42?"

The truth is, though, I really don't care.  I don't think of myself in terms of my age unless it's to use it as a point to reinforce my complete and total gagging response to something.

As in,

I am 42 years old and I don't have to eat spinach if I don't want to.

Or,

I am 43 years old and I shouldn't have to sleep on the couch because you snore when you eat late night snacks.

("You're not 43.  You're 42.")
("Whatever...dude...okay...don't eat pizza at 11:00 at night! is what I'm saying....")

I think you get my point.

But, then my son with the sweet sweet hazel eyes and the old soul that can see all the way through me to my back collar button and the loopy smile that slays me every time said,

"Yeah, you look 42...ish."

And then I ran to the bathroom, washed my face and smothered it in Pore Refiner and Advanced Night Repair and Daywear BB Cream and when I got back he said,

"I was just messin' with you, Mom."

Ish sucks.

Is This Real?....No. It's Just Monday Night.

I heard a woman on TV last night ask a question that was, quite possibly, the dumbest thing I've ever heard asked in real life....except that it was on The Bachelor, which totally doesn't count as real life, but it's what was on after we finished our episode of Homeland on demand.

(which totally rocks the shiz, by the way....)

Bachelor Sean, after six weeks, had just gotten down on one knee and proposed to the lovely, albeit, slightly twitchy Catherine, while at the same time admitting that he still lights up when he thinks about another woman,

and she said,

"Is this real?"

and I started laughing because did she seriously just ask that?  But, then I realized that he wasn't answering her, which is the first sign that the roller coaster ride is over, the fireworks have stopped, and the host has walked away....

(when you stop answering each others questions)
(because you don't really care)
(because you're exhausted and just want 47 seconds of uninterrupted think time to yourself)
(if that wasn't clear....)

So, to help the poor girl out, I thought I'd give her a crash course in what I have learned are the realities of life so she can avoid such publicly televised embarrassments in the future.  Helping out is what I do:

A Woman's Guide To REAL and NOT REAL

by 

Me

Having a bathtub full of baby chicks and shooing the neighbor's pit bull off the top of your fence because the full grown chickens free ranging in your backyard look like a delightful mid-morning snack all to satisfy your beloved's latent, repressed desire to be a suburban farmer ~ REAL

Watching an elephant come walking through the trees to be your mode of transportation for the day and shrieking, "Oh my God, I'm so happy right now!" ~ NOT REAL
 
Allowing your son, who only .062 seconds earlier told you that his neck hurt, to throw up everything in his stomach onto your purple, velveteen couch because it's the better option than walking him down the hall to the bathroom while he yaks up lunch from three days ago ~ REAL

Accepting a diamond ring purchased for you by a TV show and thinking that it comes with any type of actual commitment ~ NOT REAL

Taking a shower, doing your hair, putting on some make-up and having your 6 year old say, "Good for you, Mom!  You haven't gotten pretty in a long time!" ~ REAL

Classifying, in any way, shape or form, the social interaction of 8 women and one guy as a date ~ NOT REAL

Having a slight crush on the mom who lives one block over from you and manages to walk her kids to school every morning in the full hair and make-up of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model mixed with a granola bar, while you barely manage to stagger to the car wearing electric blue yoga pants and a faded, bleach stained, over-sized night shirt that says "Very Sexy" on the back that your husband bought you from Victoria's Secret when you were pregnant because he wanted you at least think you were sexy ~ REAL

Having center eyelashes that curl up to your eyebrow ~ NOT REAL

Wetting your pants every time you sneeze because your business end is totally stretched out from pushing two, watermelon sized human beings through it ~ REAL

Meeting a guy at any place called Proposal Point ~ NOT REAL

Living every day in fear that your husband will have a heart attack and die from the stress he incurs trying to run a business in an economy that has been for crap the last several years and knowing that if that actually ever happened, you'd be alone for the rest of your life except for your children whom you would never allow to leave you ever ~ REAL

Living every day in fear that the man you've known and lusted after for 6 days will ultimately choose the vampire chick over you ~ NOT REAL

Putting the kids in the car then running back into the house and closing the door so you and your beloved can have 10 quiet seconds alone together ~ REAL

Pulling a guy to the other side of the pool deck so you and he can have quality time alone while 25 other women watch you and curse you and send up silent prayers that your 47 layers of make-up will crack off your face and you'll be revealed as a two-headed turtle freak with nothing significant to offer to any man ever ~ NOT REAL

Drinking three glasses of wine in 52 minutes so you'll be just buzzed enough to pass out and maybe get some actual sleep before the freight train next to you starts rumbling and you just want to shove corks up his nose to stop the flow of air and shut him up ~ REAL

Riding barefoot, on an elephant, off into the Thailand sunset, while pinching every part of your new fiance's body, exclaiming "Is this knee really mine?  Is this shoulder really mine?" ~ NOT REAL 

Believing, after investing 18 monogamous years, that you have, with absolute certainty, found the love of your life, your best friend, and the person you'll spend forever with ~ REAL

Believing, after investing 42 days with a guy who has been simultaneously dating 25 other women, that you have found the love of your life, your best friend, and the person you'll spend forever with ~ So phenomenally NOT REAL I can't even begin to tell you how NOT REAL that is. 

I could go on and on, but, as my mother says,

Then I'd have to charge you,

and I've got enchiladas to make and freeze for the weekend, and dinner to get ready for tonight and kids to pick up from school, and DVDs to get in the mailbox so we'll have something good to watch on Saturday...

You know...real stuff.

Saucy

One of the things my beloved really loves to do with me is cook.

You totally thought that sentence was going another way, didn't you?  I know.  I did too when I first thought it.

He loves to be in the kitchen together, which is actually really sad for him because I rarely let him in the kitchen.

He tends to be one of those controlling, over my shoulder, "You sure you know what you're doing?" types of cooking partners.

And it sort of pisses me off, but in a quiet, passive aggressive kind of way.  Most often I turn into a psycho Ghostbusters demon floating four feet above the stove, growling

"You want a piece of this?"

and then I shove a hot spoon in his mouth.  Backs him right up.

We haven't been together over the stove since right after Thanksgiving when we spent all day making 47 gallons of stock from the leftover turkey carcass.

A couple of weeks ago he came home with 153 cans of diced tomatoes.

"You know.....I don't know...If you feel like making sauce or something."

So, I put them on the shelf in the garage and waited for my Pizan inspiration to hit me.  Good sauce takes all day and I have to be in the mood.

Then he brought home a three pound wedge of parmesan.

"Look at the rind!  I thought it would be great for the sauce!"

It was.  It was a beautiful rind.  I cut it off and put in a plastic baggie in the fridge, then ate the rest of the wedge for lunch.

He kept asking me about it.

"Sooooooo.....what do you think?  Sauce?'

And then my mother made sauce and it became abundantly clear that I hadn't broadcast any new episodes from Mama Lisa's Kitchen in a while,

and he said,

"Okay...tomorrow.  We're making sauce."

He was very excited.  He prepped all the fresh ingredients,

and set our pots side by side, like they were holding hands,

and I showed him how to make sauce.

It took all day, and we ended up with two gallons of sauce.  He was happy.

And full.

And for the record, the only person I've ever heard call sauce gravy is Tony Soprano. 

There's regular tomato sauce and there's meat sauce.

You can get fancy and call it Marinara or Bolognese.

You can forget what you're doing and write "Meet Sauce" on the container.

You can pour in a bottle of wine and make it drunk sauce.

Just don't call it gravy.  It's dumb.

Buon Salute!

The Crooked Green Glass

Once upon a time a person I don't know, in a glass factory I've never been to, in a city I'm not sure of made a crooked green glass.

It was sent to a home store where it sat on the shelf in it's awkward, lopsided state, just waiting for me to find it.

I picked it up and felt my fingers curve perfectly around its ornate goblet.

I felt the weight of it against my palm.

I held it up to my lips and imagined the wonderful smell of hooch wafting over it's sparkly rim, as I proclaimed,

"This would be such an awesome wine glass!"

My mother crinkled her nose and scoffed,

"Oh no....Water.  Milk, maybe, but not wine,"

which made me sad because clearly my mother did not know the true depths of hoochy-mama-ness.

I brought it home and set it on the counter.

It tilted.

It slanted.

It was, dare I say, catawampus?

I opened a bottle and filled it up, sheer delight shooting out of my fingertips and I set it on display for my beloved.

"What is that?  It looks like something I'd get a garage sale," he said,

which didn't make me bitter as much as it made me amused because I don't know when my beloved has ever been to a garage sale.

I didn't care what anyone thought.

It was the perfect color green.

It looked vintage in my cabinet.

It held a fantastic amount of hooch.

We've become great pals, the crooked green glass and me.

My beloved still laughs when I put it on the counter.  He still leers at it from its base and titters at how ridiculously cockeyed it is.

He cannot see the light the way that I do.

He cannot feel the love of green and vintage and wine.

"Whatever....It's totally crooked......Hahahaha!"

And we lived happily ever after.

There's A Chicken At My Door

 I'm working very hard to clean and organize our playroom.

It's a resolution of mine.

I'm not sure what is more unnerving.

That the windows of our playroom are so dirty.

Or that I'm being watched by a chicken.

How Many Pictures Of A Ref's Butt Can You Take?

I've photographed a lot of football games.  And when I say "a lot" I mean close to 46.

As a football momtographer, never, ever, ever, ever, ever have I ever seen a referee so blatantly in the shot as this guy was yesterday.

I know that the refs have to be on the field.  They're there to do a job, and they know you're trying to do one too.  They're usually nice about the pics you're trying to get.

It's always fun when they say cutesy stuff like "Be sure to get my good side."

Or "Do I have to smile for this?"

Or "These stripes don't make me look fat, do they?"

Or, "Pardon my butt."

So clever.

But, this guy? Right in the middle of the damn shot every time.  I mean every.  time.  No matter where I went or what angle I tried to shoot from.

Even when the captains were shaking hands.

Even when it was my son that I couldn't see shaking hands as a captain.

Usually the refs get the play set up and then move to the sideline so the players can run without crashing into them.  This guy was set up almost in line with the players.  I've only seen that done with little, little guys who are like teeny, tiny balls of football fluff that couldn't run over a marshmallow much less a big, burly ref.

This is what it can look like when the refs know where they're supposed to be and get the hell out of the way.

Although, as I said, I do realize that they're there to do a job, and it's far more important than mine,

but, come on....

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood.  I've been looking at a ref's butt all morning.....

My Chicken List...a.k.a. Let's Do 52 ~ Wk. 23 {Solo}

I'm really angry at the chickens.

The chickens are on my list.  At the top, in fact.

My list is called  

Chickens I'm Really Angry At Because They Ate My Pumpkin Plants

I'm not that creative when I'm angry.

I've replanted six of the pumpkins, and the chickens better stay away from this time, or I'll have them for dinner.

And not in that "Come on in.  Draw up a chair.  I'll feed you a hot, home cooked meal" kind of way, either.

I think you get what I'm saying.

I'm determined to have pumpkins and sunflowers in my garden this year that do not get eaten by creatures.

You hear that, chickens?  Keep your free-ranging selves over there!

That should about take care of it.

One Photo, Two Things....

I took this picture the other day and I have two things to say about it:

1.  I manually focused it without a tripod and I'm pretty proud of how clear those little pollen stems are.

2.  If I could live in a tree, I'd want to live in this one.  It's pink and pretty.  It's a happy tree...and it's in my front yard which would make it darn convenient when I need to shower and change my clothes and eat and stuff...

Just nine weeks ago it looked like this:

...so, the fact that today it looks like this:

is life affirming and wonderful.

And I realize that putting those last two pictures in makes this more than 'One Photo', but I needed them to make my point.

I think you understand.

Sitting Pretty In Pink,

L.

Let's Do 52 ~ Week 10 {Flower Power} or Things I Love That Are Yellow

Things I Love That Are Yellow

The sun

Lemon bars

School buses (especially when they're going to my kids' school because it means that school is in session and my kids are there and not at home making a mess and bunch of noise, which just does nothing but make me happy....)

Lisa's lemonade ~ a wonderful concoction of vodka, sweet and sour and lemonade that Prince Charming
     invented for me years ago.

Pineapple

White wine ~ which is not really yellow, but when you put it all together in one bottle,
     it kind of looks yellow

Daffodils

Roses ~ the yellow ones

Christina Aguilera's hair ~ which is so severely unnaturally yellow I could scream

Butter

The center of a daisy

Forsythia ~ which totally sucks because there used to be a big Forsythia plant next to our garage when
     PC moved in, but I didn't know what it was and it just looked like a huge, overgrown weed and I
     ripped it out.  I'm kicking my ass now.....

Champagne Sangria ~ I've never actually had this, but I saw it on Food Network and it looked really
     good. I'm sure I'd love it.

John Frieda's Go Blonder Lightening Spray ~ which comes in a yellow bottle so I'm counting that

The Sneetches ~ because how do you not?

Happy Weekend!

Love,

LL.

Phoning It In

Hi. 

You've reached the Double L Photography Blog.  Sorry I don't have anything meaningful for you right now.  Lisa really hasn't been feeling all that deep and wordy and creative lately.

In fact, she really hasn't even been taking that many pictures, which would totally explain the Ricky Martin blog from earlier this week.

I'm thinking that I might just start a category for her called Phoning It In.  This could be the first entry...except for the five or six other entries that she's written in the past couple of weeks that would also fit into that category.

Lisa's actually not here right now.  I hoping that she's out working on something great.  Or something sorta' great.  Or just something.  Anything, really.  Just not a Glee review...'cause that was...just...wow.

She might be cooking.  I heard a rumor about enchiladas.  And something about brownies that make your clothes fall off.  I'm not sure what was going on there.

Or reading. She's got about 147 books on her nightstand.  Boy, that Ellen DeGeneres sure has a lot to say.

Or Facebooking.  She does that a bunch.  You might be able to find her there if you can't wait until later. 

Otherwise, just leave a message after the beep and she'll get back to you when she gets a better idea than this.

And even though she probably hasn't told you in a while, I still have mad, crazy, puffy chocolate heart love for you.

She does, too.  

She just can't think of a better way to say it right now. 

Thanks!

~Beeeeeeep~

The Biggest Argument We've Had This Week

As a general rule, Prince Charming and I get along really well.  We're not one of those couples who fight all the time and you wonder how they ever stay together.  I sometimes wonder how we stay together because he's so cool and yummy looking, and I'm me.  But, I try to not to question it...gift horse and all that.

We just don't fight all that often.  We truly are best friends.  And I don't mean that in the cheesy, "Oh, he's just my best friend!" and it makes you want to stab your eyes out with a fork kind of way.  I mean it in the best possible, giggling-slumber party-popcorn fight-braid each other's hair- kind of way.  I'm probably the one person in the world who knows that PC does a mean French Braid.  That thing stays in for days.

The only time that we really ever get annoyed with each other is when he wants to watch golf and I'm not ready to fall asleep yet.  Last night, however, was a slightly different story.  It started when he sat down in his chair and began flipping through the channel guide on TV.

"What's on tonight?"

"I don't know."

Flip.  Flip.  Flip.

"Oh!  Glee!  I forgot about that."

"Greeeeaaat."

"No.  It's Ricky Martin night.  Awesome."

"What else is on?"

"Nothing.  Just Glee."

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Of course."

"Oh my God...."

And then he covered up the side of his face with his hand so I couldn't see that he was rolling his eyes and mouthing, "Dork"...but I totally saw him. Whatever.  He was just jealous because he's not a homosexual Latin man with perfect teeth and 1 Grammy, 8 World Music Awards and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame...hello!  He was in Menudo and sang She Bangs.  Okay?  Thank you.

After spending the next 93 minutes ping-ponging between the kids, helping with homework and valentines and showers and dinner clean-up and dessert and dessert clean-up, I plopped down on the couch and put my feet up.  It was 7:51 p.m.

Prince Charming acted like he didn't even know I was there.

Then it was 7:54 p.m.

He wasn't even looking at me.  Like I didn't exist!

Now it's 7:56 p.m. and I'm starting to get a little antsy.

"Are you going to watch this game or are we watching 'Glee'?"  Who cares about college basketball before March anyway?  Right.  This is what I'm saying....

Big sigh.  "Ugghhh...why don't you DVR 'Glee' and watch it tomorrow and we can watch 'Fringe' tonight?"

"No.  I don't want to DVR it.  I won't sit down tomorrow and watch it.  I have other stuff to do during the day besides watch TV."

"Like what?  Play on the computer?"

"No!"

"Yes.  Just record it and we'll watch 'Fringe'."

"Look.  I've had a busy day just like you and I want to sit down and relax with the show that I want to watch, just like you.  So if you don't want to watch it, fine.  I'll go in the other room."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Sure."

"Because sometimes you say that then you get all upset because it's like I'm forcing you out of the room."

"It's fine.  I'll be fine.  Just because we haven't seen each other all day, and I've been busy with the kids all night.  It's fine.  We don't have to be joined at the hip, you know.  We can catch up later.  It's fine."

"And then we'll watch 'Fringe'?"

"It's fine," and I covered up the side of my face with my hand so he couldn't see me rolling my eyes and mouthing "Science-Fiction Freak".

So I grab my Girlie, we snuggle under the covers of my bed and start watching.  Ricky Martin singing "Sexy and I Know It."  It was awesome.

Then there was a big long break and he wasn't on there, and I got kind of disappointed.  I wanted more bon bon shakin'.  My Vida was Loca and I needed to drink from his Cup of Life, but then Emma said that I shouldn't hog her fiance's nog and it all went to hell in hysterics.  

And then...Ricky Martin sang "La Isla Bonita" with the slutty chick and she was so bad.  But it was FREAKIN' AWESOME!  During the commercial break I came walking out to the living room with a huge, post-Big O. smile on my face.

"What?"

"Ricky Martin just sang Madonna!"

"So?"

"It was so AWESOME!"

"Whyyy?"

"Because Ricky Martin just sang Madonna!"

"Great.  Are we watching 'Fringe' now?"

"No.  It's not over yet.  How is Ricky Martin singing Madonna not the coolest thing ever?" and I salsa danced back down the hallway.

"You're a DORK!"

I walked back over and said, "Gleek."

"Oh my God...."

Of course, after the episode was over I told my son that I was kind of surprised that they did a whole Latin episode and they didn't do one Selena song.

"Selena Gomez is from Latin?"

Probably, yes....but soooooooooooooo No!

And P.S....Thank you and big Latin Lover love to the Sun Sentinel in Florida for posting Ricky Martin in Glee pics on their website so I could rip them off and put them on here.  I'll be searching for People Magazine next.  They archive their stuff right?  It's not too late to Google Search 'Sexiest Man Alive' for our next argument.

Bradley Cooper....Duende!!!!  That's how you say "uber-delish!!!" in Ricky Martin. 

Un!  Dos!  Tres!

I'm Really Not This Stupid

I showed Prince Charming the blog that I wrote about the skating party.  I always get nervous showing him anything I've written.  I'm afraid he won't like it.  Or won't get it.  Or finally realize that I really am the nerdy freshman to his dreamy Prom King.

If he laughs while he's reading, I know I've hit it right.  Or, at least I know I've found his ticklish spot.

But, if he squints, puts his hand by his eyes, shakes his head and starts quietly re-reading the words out loud, I know I've crapped it out big time.  Which is pretty much what happened when he read about the skating party.

"What?  What part are you on?"

"This thing here about getting in the car.  I don't get it.  You make it sound like we didn't want to go."

"You didn't."

"I never said that."

"You mean when you started jumping up and down screaming 'Please don't make me! Please don't make me!' that didn't mean that you didn't want to go?"

"I didn't do that...and don't write that either."

He doesn't understand why I like to do this.  The creative process that I go through and how it connects me with the outside world.  The bigger picture that evolves and puts my place in the universe in perspective.

"No.  You just like the attention."

Which is totally not it at all.  I mean, sure.  I don't see my mom as often as I used to, but that doesn't mean she's not paying attention to me.

"You see?  That.  What does that even mean?"

"It's a joke.  You know, like, my mother is the only person who reads this.  I'm trying to be funny."

"Oh...Okay....I guess."

I'm trying to tell a story, and not be the worst story-teller in the world like I know I am.  My brother is a great story-teller.  He can put you right in the moment every time.  Give you all the details, and the nitty-gritty, and the funny, and the serious, and the crux of the situation so that you feel like you just went through the whole thing with him and you want to run out and tell someone about the amazing thing that just happened to you.

Me?  I start telling the story, then realize that I forgot to mention something before, so I have to go back and tell that part of the story again, then jump forward to where I was before I remembered what I forgot, then your eyes start to glaze over and you look like an American Idol judge when someone really bad comes up to audition and you just want to put your hand up and say, "Okay.  That's enough.  Thanks for comin' out."

Then I decide that I shouldn't so much try and tell the story.  I should just write it the way that I would say it if we were having coffee together.  Did you want coffee?  Are you sure?  It's no trouble.  I have brownies, too.  Or how about tea?  Pot roast?  I could throw one on.  It would only take a few hours. 

The whole thing ends up being an exercise in the stream of consciousness that goes through my head and the only person who finds it remotely sensical at all is me.  Is sensical even a word?....'cause my spell-check doesn't recognize it.  It didn't recognize nitty-gritty either.  It tried to change it to titty-gritty.

I guess I feel like I just need to defend the fact that my postings lately have been more like the rants and ravings of a psycho mom who doesn't get out enough and spends her spare time doing things that require minimal thought, like reading Ellen DeGeneres books, and less like the college educated, former teacher turned Momtographer that I'm trying to be.  I have less and less time to spend crafting my thoughts into something meaningful and worthwhile, so rather than try to converse, I'm just trying to get a quick laugh.

I know.  I hear what you're saying.  Really, I do.

Hmmm?  Oh.  Did I not put a picture in here?  Sorry.

Ummmm....How about this one?  I took it of my kid a couple of weeks ago and I really like it.

Orrrr....uhhhh...this one?  I took this one with my kid last week, and I kind of like it. 

"I don't understand.  Why is the glass upside-down?"

"Because it's interesting.  It doesn't look the way you'd expect it to."

".................What?"

"It's art.  It's creative.  It's an outlet for me.  You know, like you and the Golf Channel."

"Did you write a blog about golf?  You didn't show me that one."

"What are you...."

"And don't even write that because it's not what I said at all."

He's going to hate this one.