The Last Time I Talked To My Mother: The Kill Me or Eat Me edition.

I'm still at my mom's house this week. Which is both exciting and terrifying.

Several of my Tennessee friends have called to ask if we'll be back home for the Fourth of July parties that they are thinking about having. And I sadly have to say, "No. We'll be here. Eating some concoction my mom made that doesn't have a name while watching re-runs of Frasier, where we will then turn in around 9:30. But y'all have fun!"

Hmph.

So I am assuming there will be no Fourth of July parties thrown in the state of Tennessee since we can't be back for them. And let's be honest, what's a party without me?

But tonight, I want you to take a walk with me. Down a little thing I like to call, Memory Lane.

No, not Mammory Lane. Memory Lane.

Chances are you have been sitting around this past weekend, sipping your lemonade under your ceiling fan, fanning yourself with a newspaper, and wondering, "Just what exactly is Melissa and her momma's relationship like behind closed doors."

See? I knew it.

Well, I'm here to tell ya.

So as Sophia from the Emmy award winning and always topical Golden Girls would say...

Picture it. Spring Hill, Tennessee. 2007....

I have just stepped out of the shower and now begin the first of my 12-step hygienic process. Applying Bio-Silk. Which makes my hair both shiny, manageable and tangle free.

It's gone. I look everywhere. It's gone.

I wrap myself in a towel. A small, cheap, hand towel. And stomp - only partially wrapped - down the hall.

I bang on "her" door. (Note: This is actually the guest-bedroom door. But she likes to call it "her" door and "her" room. As in, "Melissa, shut my door" or "Melissa, why don't you ever dust my room?")

No answer.

I bang again.

No answer. (Note: I can hear her.)

I bang, "MOM!"

"WHAT IS IT, Melissa?"

"WHERE is my Bio-silk?"

"I don't have your Bio-silk."

"MOOOOOOMMMMM! WHERE? IS? MY? BIO-SILK?"

"Uh, what makes you think I have it?"

"Because in the last two days you have borrowed my brush, my flat-iron and my toothpaste."

"I brought them all back to your bathroom....(under her breath) which you never clean and looks like a pig-sty."

"MOM! I CAN HEAR YOU! Now GIVE ME my Bio-silk."

"I don't have your stupid Bio-silk. MY hair doesn't need it."

"Would you open the door so I can come in there and look?"

Her door swings open. She is not happy.
She looks at me....slowly....up and down.....me and my little-bitty hand towel....
She asks...
"What is wrong with you?"

"I want my Bio-silk."

"I am not talking about your stupid Bio-silk, which I don't even know what that is. I am talking about you wrapping yourself in a towel and marching through this house like an idiot. I did not raise you to act like this."

"Like WHAT?"

"LIke an exhabitionist."

"Mom, I am not an exha..."

"Yes, you are. Yes, you are. You would join the circus if I'd let you."

"Look, if you don't have it..."

"Well, I DON'T have it. And if I DID have it. I wouldn't give it to you."

"WHY?"

"Cuz the way you're actin'. Look at you! I can't tell if your about to KILL ME or EAT ME!"

She SLAMS her door.

I STOMP back to my room.

I later find the Bio-silk which had been sitting on my counter top...the whole time.

And...scene.

Saturday In Our House.

4 Things Remi has done in 4 days at Nonie and Poppie's...

1. Remember this car? Well, Remi took a ride in it. A long ride. Down the interstate. With no seatbealt. And no top. Sitting on Nonie's lap. To get chicken.

2. Remi fell head first into the pool without the wonder that are "arm floaties." As she threw a toy into the pool, she flipped right in. Head first. I was outside the pool when it happened. And let's just say - you have never seen a fat girl run so fast.

3. Remi discovered Coke. And mommy discovered it in her sippy cup. No one has yet to fess-up to serving a 2 year old, Coca-Cola.

4. Remi was found inside a plastic box. She had been placed there by her cousin, who had kindly thrown in a pillow and pink blanket - for her comfort and warmth. They are really good to her here.

May you all pray and fast until we arrive safely back home to Tennessee.

How am I supposed to make a million dollars off our story if she isn't here to sign copies at the booktable?

Let me just start by saying, "Thank you." I really appreciate you all letting me get all...well, real with you yesterday. Your response was tremendous. I love your comments and I adore your emails.

Is this some kind of great "community" we got going here or what? I am really starting to consider having y'all over once a month for fajitas.

I really, really am starting to like y'all. A WHOLE LOT!

Okay, back to it!

Look, you know I am a good girl at heart. Really, I am.

Yes, I signed up for VBS. And yes, I bailed.

Yes, I am sorry cans of icing went missing. And yes, I may or may not know where they be.

And yes, I saw that golf cart just sitting over in the office parking lot at church with the keys inside and so I took it. But yes, I had bought some new sandals and they were killing my feet.

So see? For every thing there is a reason. I promise. I don't do anything without really thinking it through and making sure it's okay. And to be honest, whirling around our church campus in a golf cart while eating white icing out of a can seemed like a good idea. At the time.

Oh, for Pete's sake. I'm only kidding.
About the icing.
Not the golf cart.

I would however, like to thank all of you who have contacted me - by phone, email and comment - and have insinuated that if TWENTY cans of icing went missing it must be Melissa.

TWENTY CANS!!

That's a whole lotta food addiction goin' on there. So thanks for the vote of confidence, gang.

But on a more serious note...Last Wednesday became a very sad day for my family when they found a tumor on my mom's ovaries. A tumor that didn't look good - at all.

Please know that twice before we have heard them tell my mom, "There's a tumor."

And twice before we have heard them tell her, "It's cancer."

So needless to say, we'd been to this rodeo a time or two. And cancer was our fear.

Tuesday my mom was scheduled to go in and meet the surgeon. Our guess was they would probably admit her to the hospital that day, with a surgery to follow the next day.

And so here in our story do you have me and Remi flying out to be with her ASAP. Yes, I was shirking my duties at V.B.S., but I would have rather been shirking them for a silly, stupid made-up reason. Not the very real one I was going home to.

And here's where the story gets interesting, because let me go on record as saying: Even though I once begged and pleaded for God to work a miracle in my life - and even though He didn't - I KNOW He still performs them.

Oh sure, there are certain things I am not sure about.

Like, I don't really understand why Charlie Daniels had to make The Devil Went Down to Georgia sound so scary. But he did.

I really don't understand why Oprah has to be on the cover of every "O" magazine.

And I don't understand why some of my friends have to jump through 68 hurdles, fill out 8 pounds of paperwork and wait 2 years to bring their baby home from another country, and Brangelina is bringing another one home any day now.

These things boggle my mind.

But I know that when God decides to perform a miracle. He can do it.

It isn't too hard.
It isn't too silly.
It isn't bad timing.
He isn't surprised by anything.
He isn't take off guard.
He can.
And He will.

If He so chooses.

(Let me interject here: Please don't leave me a comment telling me that you don't believe any of this, because He didn't do a miracle for you when you asked. Well, He didn't do one for me one time when I asked. But I still kept asking - because that's just me. And He still keeps healing - because that's just Him.)

And so I got off that plane, covered in sweat and soy sauce, and waited on what our next move would be.

And it was all for naught.

Because although I am not blessed to see miracles every day, I was blessed to see one on Tuesday. No surgery was needed. No cancer was identified. Mom was happy and healthy. And I was home with her.

Two miracles in one day!

And ya know? Now that I think about it...the fact that we don't see miracles every day may not be so much of a bad thing. Personally, I'm glad that I don't need to call on Him to perform a miracle every day. I don't want cancer looming at my doorstep or the fear of the death watching me from my window.

I'm happy to need a miracle - only every once and a while.

And I'm happy to trust Him - no matter what He decides to do.

And I'm happy to report that my mom is in fighting form.

In fact, just this evening I made dinner for her and dad, and my Granny joined us. Now there's a table of conversation for ya. Granny promptly told us that for months someone has been calling her house and asking for Pawpaw, trying to sell him something. Finally, they called today and she told them in no uncertain terms,
"Look. He's dead. He's been dead 11 months and so he ain't gonna buy anything and neither am I. And then I slammed the phone down."
She went on...
"I don't help anybody out over the phone anymore. Even if it is a handicapped child wanting a teddy bear, I - HANG - UP!!!"

Aaaahhhh....Precious.

Oh, and if you are wanting to know why I did the cooking - well, me too!

I told my mom since there was no longer the fear of death and she wasn't dyin' and all, she could go ahead and fire up that Fry Daddy tomorrow night!

Say what you want, but we're a heartwarming bunch.

We Interrupt This Visit With Mom to Bring You This...

Saturday I will have a paper due in my Persuasive Preaching class. My requirement was to write it on a current topic; my teacher gave us a list to choose from, we picked out our top choices and he would tell us which one we would be doing.
My choices went something like this:
1. Infertility
2. Self-esteem
In the email he wrote me back he told me to do Infertility, that self-esteem had been done to death. I wrote back that like it or not, self-esteem would be covered in my paper. Because to deal with infertility is to deal with self-esteem.

The two go hand in hand.

And so as I sit here tonight looking up facts and figures, statistics and terms...as I type in causes and effects and cures and treatments...I do so knowing that he wants to know these things. And I want an A.

But you see, I know the real story.

I know what facts and figures can't tell you and I plan on sharing all of that with him as well.

And so tonight, I lay here feeling blessed by God as my sweet disaster snores soundly beside me, smelling of powder and lavender and apple juice and holiness.

But it's these days I remember so well. Sometimes, too well. Sometimes I still feel them.

Once a month.
Every month.

So this is for Julie and Trina and Lexie and Kim. It's for Anna and Kady and Darla and Meg. It's for Michelle. And it's for me. And maybe it's for you.

You'll excuse us as we have a moment.

We've landed. Thank the sweet Lord on His Holy hill we have landed.

VBS. VBS. Whereforarthou VBS?

7:30 AM - I wake up late. What?? Remi decides to sleep in today of all days? You have got to be kidding me.

8:47 - I have decided that aside from packing and getting myself and Remi dressed, now would be a good time to call the Financial Aid office at my school and determine the status of my school loans.

8:49 - Hang up the phone because they won't quit using hard words that I don't understand, like "outstanding" and "pay."

9:38 - We are running late. Remi wants her sippy cup. My hair is falling from the humidity. I yell because The Attorney General won't cut on the air in the car and get it circulating for me. He begs me to go in the house and take some anti-anxiety medicine. I tell him we don't have anything like that. He offers to "mix me something up."

11:00 - Remi and I's flight leaves in 15 minutes and I can't decide between Wendy's or Manchu Wok in the new Nashville Food Court.

11:55 - We're off! I plug up a little Tom and Jerry for the Remster. I feed her pieces of hamburger while I down an egg roll.

12:15 PM - Remi wipes her mayo on my arm 32 times in a row. I spill soy sauce on my shirt. She doesn't want her sippy. She wants my Coke. "NO! Tom and Jerry! NO! Tom and Jerry. I want see Donkey...I want see Donkey."

12:48 - Remi has sat in frozen silence watching Shrek, with her headphones securely fastened, until.....she screams a bloodcurdling "OH MY GOOOODDDNNEESSSS." The six rows around us laugh. She never hears a thing.

1:50 - We have landed. Nonie and Poppy are there waiting for us. Remi screams again. A good scream. I have sweated through my clothes. I hand her off.

2:15 - Poppy pulls through Wendy's. I eat twelve fries.

2:27 - Poppy pulls over so I can throw up.

2:52 - Poppy pulls over so I can throw up.

3:00 - Promise Poppy that the next time I fly I will let the Attorney General "mix me up a little something" first, to stem off the nerves.

4:45 - Remi jumps into the pool with Mallory, Bailey, Andy and Ben. She has arrived in heaven.

5:40 - I miss the Attorney General already.

6:20 - My mom bakes a homemade cake and pours the chocolate icing on it while it is still hot. It pretty much falls in the middle and looks doughy and messy. And I remember why it is I LOVE IT when she cooks.

7:15 - Ben puts Remi in a plastic box and closes the lid. We find her punching the sides to get out. I imagine she is just fine, so I take a picture to be used later on this blog. I later hear they passed me over for "Mother of the Year."

8:20 - Nonie screams for me to come HELP HER! HELP HER! I fly out of the house in my pajamas to see Remi running around the pool. "What is it?" "Melissa, she's going to fall in and get hurt." "So don't let her. Make her stop." "She doesn't want to." "Mom, you don't give her a choice. You make her mind or spank her." "Weeeeelllll now, she just got here."

8:23 - I give them both a spanking.

Camp Rock, it was not.

Oh, my. I am going to be in so much trouble. I know I am. I'm going to be in a big, fat, heap of it.

Y'all are going to tar and feather me. And then smear Pop Rocks alllllll over me. Then you'll probably delight in dragging me to the nearest church holding Vacation Bible School and feed me to the droves of small children.

Please don't. I can explain.

I have just been dismissed from Vacation Bible School.

Let the tarring begin now.

But look! Here's the dealio. I have been "sitting on go" the past few days to fly home to Texas. I knew the call would come - I just wasn't sure when. And then wouldn't you know it, that sweet man that I referred to only days ago as God's example of what fathers should be called me and told me he would be in Houston to pick me up - TOMORROW.

As in, "Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I love ya, Tomorrow. You're only a day away!"

Isn't that just something?

I wanted to tell him "no." Really, I did. I wanted to tell him that I had to refuse the ticket and stay tucked away in Capt''n Jack's Snack Shack. But alas, I could not. It would not have been right. He would have been disappointed. And have you ever had to disappoint a man who once shaved off the mustache he'd worn since 1964 all because you told him he looked like an 80's porn star? You can't hurt him twice, you just can't.

To be perfectly honest, there are other reason's I'm headed home. All of which I'll tell you about. Eventually. Someday. Maybe.

But in the mean time, you'll just have to trust me.

Besides, let's take a look at me + VBS. Shall we?

I had to push a cart. Up a hill. In the sun. And that's kinda like hard labor.

I had to push "strawberry drink" on to small, unsuspecting children. And I don't want to be blamed for the obesity epidemic in our children today. Okay? I'm already dealing with my own stuff.

Then there was some song they played where people got up and "cha-cha shuffled" to the left and to the right. Okay, I don't dance. And I've never even heard this song before. So as everyone shuffled, I downed Goldfish out of a Dixie cup. And I'll be honest. There were a few Capri-panted teachers that should have let the chil'lens do the dancing.

So see? Maybe it's just not my year. Maybe I should just go home to mom, work on my shuffle and come back and show them what I'm made of next year. Maybe.

I served my time this morning. What more do you want?

Apparently there is Vacation Bible School in states other than the ones that fall below the Mason Dixon line, where Paula Deen reigns supreme and where Blue Bell is sold.

I didn't know.

Forgive me.

Tomorrow you will find me serving big bowls of "crow" in my Snack Shack.

Ahhhhhh...my lovelies...y'all can be so mean, sometime.

V. very B. bad S. sign

This year's Vacation Bible School theme is....uhhhh....you know what....I'm not exactly sure.

It has something to do with water.

I think.

So maybe, Jaws?

The Perfect Storm?

Of course, considering that our numbers for tomorrow morning are already topping the 600 mark, I'm going with...Mutiny On The Bounty.

(By the way, if you are reading this here bloggy and are from some Northern state and wonder what all this Vacation Bible School talk is about, well, Vacation Bible School is a southern thing that we do in order to make ourselves seem more self-sacrificing. So later in the week when our momma's call us - as mine most assuredly will - and ask us,
"Have you cleaned that refrigerator out yet?" - as mine most assuredly will - we can say,
"Oh Lordy, momma, I've been working Vacation Bible School all week."
And she'll say, "Oh mercy, bless your heart, sweet thing. Just take a load off and call me back later."
And we'll hang up and smile.
And although we'll be tired and exhausted and smell like something dead, we will know it was all worth it cause it got our momma off our back for one more week.
The end. Amen.)

Either way, aren't you glad I'm serving your children this week? That should make you feel all warm and fuzzy and not at all concerned.

Seriously. I have mucho experience in the dramatic arts. I sing whether people want to hear me or not. And I pretty much have no fear of public speaking. So therefore....I am serving snacks.

Why are you laughing? They're serving graham crackers with white icing on Wednesday. So for me? It's all about the Wednesday.

To God be the Glory.

P.S. There is a good chance I will be blogging periodically this week about various children I spend time with. So if I am serving yours, tell them to be good. Or else their name goes out on this here information super-highway. And by "be good" I mean....
a.) no talky backy
b.) no calling Miss Melissa names like "Hey cookie lady,"
c.) no making fun of Miss Melissa if they see her with Oreo between her teeth or white icing on her chin
d.) and no asking for seconds. That is an absolute. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if they're even late to snacks - they lose their cookie. What happens to it is anyones guess. To bad. Their loss.

If you've worked VBS this year or any year and have a story to add to my "Stretch Marks does VBS Extravaganza" then leave me a comment. Or email me. If your story wins then...well, nothing. But you'll have the pleasure of knowing you won. And I may call your momma and ask her to lay off you just one more week. No lie. I'm not above it.

So what's your story?

Saturday In Our House.

Thankfully, this is not the Baptist Pastor of the big ol' Baptist church in the big ole' town of Thompson Station sitting in that Porsche convertible. Thankfully. Cause that would be so horrible and fleshly and spoiled rotten of him.

However, that is - thankfully - his wife.

Have a happy, fleshly, spoiled rotten Saturday, ya'll.

You Asked. Now You Shall Recieve.

Let's get straight into this...

My friend Marky asked: Melissa, have you seen that commercial for Pizza Hut where they bring the pasta into an unsuspecting restaurant full of people? Do you think that's for real? My husband and I disagree about it.

Marky, Marky, Marky. I'm glad you didn't tell me who thinks it's for real and who thinks it's an idiotic attempt to make all of us who watch American television look like morons. Cause I would hate to offend either one of you. But it's so funny you ask this trivial, yet all important question, because you see, the Attorney General and I have had this exact discussion. It went like this...

Me: Is that commercial for real.
Him: No. Don't be stupid.
Me: Okay.

So you see, if you really think about it - it's not for real. I know this because A.) nothing on television is real - except for Judge Judy. I really believe her. B.) Do you really honestly think the pasta created by PIZZA HUT is good enough to trick a room full of New Yorkers? I mean, I'm pretty sure anything I could pick up at the Spring Hill drive-through has to be lacking in something. And C.) The Attorney General said it wasn't real. Thus...it isn't real.

Lovely Lisa emailed me to ask this: Okay, I went to a wedding last weekend and they passed around a boot that we were supposed to put money into. What's up with that? I had just given them a gift from William's Sonoma that wasn't cheap! So was that really necessary? I didn't put any in - and my sister said I was rude for not doing so. We both read your blog religiously - so this should be good - who is is right?

Uh, oh. Cat Fight.
To be perfectly honest. I agree with you. However, it's your own durn fault if your sister even noticed you didn't put any money in! Why didn't you fake it? What's wrong with you woman? If a shoe, or boot, or one of those ridiculous money-tree's is passed around, you FAKE IT! Do you hear me? You fake it. Here is "faking it" in three easy steps:

1. Take the boot from the person that passed it to you with a huge smile on your face, act excited as you reach down for your purse and utter something like, "Oh good, good. I was wondering when it would get over here."
2. Pretend to take money from your purse. Pretend to fold it up. Pretend to have it in your hand. Pretend, pretend, pretend. All the while muttering, "Have you tasted this punch? Oh my Lord, this punch!"
3. Stick your hand in to the boot all the while smiling, smiling, smiling...laughing, laughing, laughing...and making comments like "They better use this money for bills and not trivial stuff like lotions or soft lighting light bulbs."

See how easy that is? So do I fault you for not giving? No. Do I fault you for ignorance? Yes.
You both should be very happy.

Little Lula LeighAnn Litton asked me if I would post a clip of me singing.

No.

Well, my lovelies, that's all for this Friday's edition. I hope you have a wonderful Friday night. And I beg you to go out and do something fun! Go see "Get Smart." Or go eat cheap Mexican food and order cheese dip in honor of me! Go to Marshall's and spend an absurd amount of money. Or tell your family you forgot something at the grocery store and you'll be right back...and then go and get your feet done.

Until next time, bloglies.

Same Kind of Different As Me

Yes, I've read The Shack. And yes, I liked it quite a lot.

But this?

This is who I want to be.
This is who I need to be.

Read all about it here and then just look over at my little carousal down on the right hand side over there, and click on it. Before you know it, it's yours for a low, low Amazon price.

You won't be sorry.
But you will be challenged.

Please get this book. And let's discuss it. Let's do the whole Oprah book-club thang. I'll be Oprah and I'll serve chilled water in wine glasses and something ritzy and shrimpy. And you can come in your fanciest clothes and we'll sit around and discuss how this book has made us realize that none of it, absolutely none of it, even matters.

Tell me when you're done.

The invites are in the mail.

Oh No, He Di'int.

Durn me for ever putting that little Email Me sign on the side of my blog. People actually take me up on it. Not that I could run very far from this man.

So here is the email I received yesterday from someone I love. Loved. Sorry, someone I loved.

Melissa,
I really do enjoy reading your blog, really I do.
But I'm starting to wonder if you know ANYONE besides YOU!

Love,
Dad

Uuhhhhh.....

So where do I go from here? Seriously. Tell me. Now that I know my dad no longer loves me and thinks having me was a mistake, where do I go? What do I do?

Who will hide money in my house when he leaves, then when I call him crying, will tell me to go look under the plant in the upstairs bonus room?

Who will take my car and have it detailed for me when he's here because he thinks it's "the dirtiest car he's ever seen?" And also fill it with gas.

Who will pay for our meal and when we protest say, "I'll stop paying for dinner the minute I stop being your dad."

Who will tell me how proud they are of me and how beautiful I look in one breath, only to tell me to "quit slouching and stand up straight", in the other?

Who will still look in to the eyes of a 34 year old woman and say, "Pull my finger" as if it's the first time I've ever heard it. (That 34 year old woman is me, by the way, he doesn't just do that with random 34 year olds. Yet.)

But now what will I do, since in that email he is quite obviously saying he never loved me and I should consider myself orphaned.

So would you help me? Would you leave my dad a comment letting him know that not only is he loved - but he's also produced a pretty great kid. (Okay, that would be me. Catch up.) Not to mention the fact that he lives with my mom and has his hands full keeping her reigned in. Now that's what I call devotion.

Leave him a message.

I'll start.

Dad,

I do know other people. But they ALL say they want to hear about me. Honest! I've asked them...50, 60 times. Sure, some of them paused, but I know what that pause meant. I'm a smart girl. They want ME and they were just too shy to say it.
I love you dad. You are so funny. And good. And just because you wanted a "shout out" in the Stretch Marks Gazette doesn't make you selfish. You're tired of mom getting all the attention. Trust me, I get that.
So dad, please don't leave me or abandon me or stop loving me...as I will eventually need some help with these school loans.
Plus (with the exception of one) you're the best man I've ever known.

Love,
Melissa

Slipping Into the Deep End.

Allow me to set the scene for you...

(The following will evoke images of me and nudity. Prepare yourselves.)

Mama has had a hard day.

1. Cause it's Monday.
2. Cause she only got 4 hours of sleep the night before - Lord knows why.
3. She has just finished her 35th page of Interactive Essays and they are now due to her Professor within 15 minutes. She is still 8 pages short. She turns them in, anyway.
4. She got a haircut over the weekend and no one, absolutely no one, not one single person even said anything about it. And this hurts.
5. And Remi decided that sidewalk chalk can be used any number of places. Not just sidewalks. She feels this was poor marketing on their part.

Mama wants the AG to come home.

1. Cause it's Monday.
2. Cause she only got 4 hours of sleep the night before. And this has made her cranky. Of course, considering she is a cranky person by nature - this should be no shock to him.
3. This one has nothing to do with Interactive Essays. She quit caring about them the minute she hit SEND on her email.
4. She got a haircut over the weekend and is still pretty hacked about the whole thing.
5. Well, Remi and the whole chalk fiasco.

So anyhoo, the AG finally gets home. He is not feeling well, but do I have something to help him out. I have made him a huge dinner of fresh green beans (from my father-in-laws garden...which is much like ordering from Cracker Barrel only way better), corn casserole, and garden squash with onions. Oh, and sweet tea.

Now, if you notice I did not mention one carnivorous item. That is because my child has decided she is a vegetarian and fruititarian (is that anything?). This little known fact should may later be added to my reasons for having a bad day and being in a perpetually hacked off mood. How can I raise a child that doesn't like meat?

That's like instilling my wisdom in her and her still not wanting to color her hair. And so help me if that happens....

So as soon as the AG walks in the door here's what I do: I set the timer on the oven (all dishes are in and cooking. Check.). I fill Remi's sippy cup (child is present, accounted for and happy. Check.). And I finish dusting the bedroom and making the bed (I do this before he enters so that he thinks I did earlier in the day making me look busier and therefore more attractive. Check.) And I head in to the bathroom and draw me a big ole' tub of water.

I add my Avon Skin So Soft and bubble bath.

Things are lookin' up.

I fix me a big glass of ice water, grab something good to read, and dive in.

Aaahhhhhh....

AG: (Stomping through the house) What is that noise?

Me: The faucet in the tub.

AG: What's wrong with it?

Me: It's dripping. It's no big deal.

AG: That is a big deal. Isn't it driving you nuts?

Me: No. It's not. Worry about it later.

Rem: Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy...

Me: Whatever you do, do not tell her you are in here with...

AG: I'm in here with mom!

Rem: (Rounding the corner at 98 mph) Oh!!!!!! Momma! You in tub! I come in! (Begins the proverbial strip-down)

Me: No, no. That's okay. Mom just wants a little time to herself. Please honey, take her out with you.

AG: I'm not going out. I'm fixin' to fix this drip. I can't believe it's not driving you nuts.

Me: No, surprisingly, the drip is not what's driving me nuts.

AG: (Coming back in with an Allen Wrench that we probably got when we got married and he is just now decided to use.) Let me look at it. (Begins to turn the faucets on and off.)

Me: That's hot! That's hot water! Turn it off!

Rem: Mama I nekkkkkeeeddd....I neeekkkeedddd....I neekkkkeeedddd. Mama! Mama! Mama!

Me: What baby?

Rem: I come in.

AG: Oh, here's the problem. (Hit. Hit. Clang. Clang.)

Me: Remi, please don't....

AG: Just let her come in. Otherwise you're going to make me bathe her later. Here Rem, crawl in.

Rem: (She dives in beside me) Mama, moose over.

Me: I can't scoot over Remi. There's no where else to move.

Rem: Moose over, mama. Mooooose over.

Me: Fine Remi.

Rem: Mama, I tee-teed.

AG: Okay, I fixed it. No more annoying drip.

Me: Oh, there's still an annoying drip, I assure you.

AG: What was that noise? Did you hear that?

Me: What now?

AG: Your oven just went off.

Me: Sigh.

Thoughts From the Stage.

Yesterday was Sunday. And I don't know about your house, but in my house, it's church day. Yep, even on Father's Day. Sunday is church day. So we go. Mainly, because we love it. But also because it's the South and we're supposed to. Just like we're also supposed to sneak out early to get a good seat at Cracker Barrel.

That's just what you do on a Sunday in the South. The rules aren't hard.

So yesterday at church I helped assist in leading worship. Which, I will readily admit, is a job I love. I mean, I LOVE to worship. I do. Anytime you pass me in the car and I'm singing....it's worship. If you see me in Target and I have on my ipod...it's worship. I just love it. And yesterday was a beautiful day of worship at our church.

But not only did I help with the worship, I also had the choir solo. So it was, as I like to call it (as do several of my sarcastic friends in the choir), a Melissa Lee Extravaganza! (Oh, hush. I hear your comments.)

I made a comment a month or so ago in the middle of a conversation that went something like this, "...so right in the middle of the song I spotted Mr. X in the congregation and I was thinking, 'Uh, huh...who is his lady friend with him?' but I just kept right on singing..." now, the sentence is not the point. The point is that whomever I was talking to was floored that I could be singing a song and still thinking about my surroundings.

But aaaaaahhhhhh yes, you most certainly can.

For instance...I have been in the middle of a solo before and thought the following:

"I totally should have gone to the bathroom before this song began, it's like 85 minutes long."

"Where is the Attorney General? Seriously. How long does it take him to park the car? He's missing my song." (Keep in mind the AG has heard me sing some 4,569 times. He is unimpressed. Which I must admit, makes him all the more alluring.)

"Can they see through my shirt?"

"Oh, look! April's parents are here! Hi Pam!"

"What word comes next? What word comes next? Whoo...that was close. I'm hungry."

"Oh, she got her hair cut. And colored. It's about time."

See? These are just a few of the things that can run through my mind at any given moment during the solo portion of a song.

Please don't judge me. I'm only human. I mean a woman can't notice a good color job or perm and not dwell on it, if even for a second.

However, and play close attention here, that does not mean I do not mean what I am singing. I absolutely mean what I'm singing. In fact, I take the job of leading out in worship most seriously. It's my favorite job. But sometimes, something will happen on the stage that will throw me. It will cause me to lose focus. And my mind will wander and I will start thinking about things that are silly and ridiculous and before I know it, our Pastor is requesting a song and yet I am in the middle of a Paula Deen recipe that I have suddenly decided to try...or remembering a line from Andy Griffith...or trying to count up how many times the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders appeared on the Love Boat.

See? This is a serious problem.

Take yesterday for example.

The worship time was going well. Really well, in fact. People were filling the altar and praying with their spouses and I was thinking about the next song in the set-list, when our Pastor turns around to me and says, "Do you know the song..." and before he could reply I say, "We Built This City on Rock and Roll? Yes, I do. Would you like us to sing it?" To which he gets tickled and says, "What about Shamalamabambam?" (Which I personally think he made up) and suddenly we are off to the races and my mind began to wander. Oh no.

And as the sweet time of worship continued and everyone all around me was singing all I could see or hear was this...and it took everything I had not to laugh.

P.S. Before you call my mom and tell on me. She knows. And so does the Lord. Trust me, he knows my thoughts waaaayyy better than I do. He's not mad. Even he gets tickled at Dana Carvey sometimes.

Enjoy!

Happy Father's Day.

Remi has this picture frame in her room...

and it says...

"My prince did come...his name is daddy."

Ya know, Remi?

I feel the exact same way.

Saturday In Our House.

Have a great weekend, ya'll.

You Asked. Now You Shall Recieve.

Before we go any further, I have a few things to get off my chest from this past week.

#1. I had heard that wasps' die after they sting you but I had never heard that about bees. But I know what I saw. And that bee was out to live it up in his last hours. 'Belee dat.

#2. I am sooooooooooo contempohip. With not a bit of crunch in me. I mean seriously, if I could have lunch with two people it would be Darlene Zschech and Rob Bell. Mock me, I don't care.

#3. Yes. He is very hot. I know this. For he tells me all the time.

Kickin' Kimberly wanted to know:
A. What one specific trait do you have that you hope is passed on to Remi.
B. What trait do you pray to God Remi never has?

Oh, sheesh. Don't think I haven't thought about this a million and one times. It's interesting, when you adopt a child you wonder what is in their DNA. Were their birthparents calm or hot-headed? Were they overachievers or underachievers? Oh, the questions that race through your minds.

But then you bring them home.

And Lucky Charms become their favorite breakfast. Their play microphone is their favorite toy. And they love to look at themselves in the mirror and say, "Ohhhh...Remi. You precious." And you think, "They're just like me!!!!!" Hooray!

Hooray? Really?

Because when it comes to one trait of mine that I hope Remi never has to deal with...it would be....oh my, this is honest....my metabolism. (Go ahead, yuck it up.) But it's the truth. There are very few "featherweights" in my family. We've all had to deal with our weight our entire lives. And sometimes it was just plain hard. Hard to lose it. Hard to deal with it. Hard to hear the criticism. Hard, hard, hard. And I just want her to look and feel her best. Always. There is so much in this life for a little girl to deal with as it is, so I hope she can always look in the mirror and feel good about what she sees. If she can do that, then the smart-mouth, laughter during super serious times, and inability to memorize scripture should just take care of themselves.

However, if there is one trait I hope for her to have it is my...oh, here we go again...ability to pick good men. Actually, I meant that as a joke but now that I'm thinking about it, maybe I will go with that. And what I mean by that is this. I hope she finds her growing up years fun and carefree - not serious and tied down. I hope she shares them with good sister friends - not backstabbing fairweathers. I hope she is at church every time the doors are opened and finds her lifeblood in the things that are going on there - not at the latest, greatest social event. I hope she dates occasionally - not every single Friday night because everyone else is. And then goes off to college and meets the man of her dreams - because she didn't meet a thousand of them in high school. And I hope she believes him when he tells her how special she is - because she didn't already hear it from every Tom, Dick and Harry.

That's how I did it. And it worked well for me.

So yeah, picking out a good man. Is that a trait?

If not that, though, confidence. I hope she walks, talks, and worships - with confidence.

Teasing Trish actually said: Melissa, how would you explain artificial insemination to my 8 year old son? He has a very good friend in school whose mother is not married and has decided to have another baby by method of AI. We have always explained that babies are from a MOM AND DAD...he knows that she does not have a dad and therefore is curious about how the mom got pregnant...Please help me avoid a situation similar to the dead pet conversation, and I would prefer to avoid anything that involves a turkey baster and tomatoes.

I call her "teasing" because surely this is a joke. Right? Trish must think that just because I'm getting my seminary degree, as we speak, that I am as wise as Beth Moore. As candid as Joyce Meyer. And as anointed as Kay Arthur.

I'm not. Not even close.

So therefore here's my advice. This is and a buck will get you a cup of coffee...that's about it. Tell him. In full detail. Tell him every single sordid detail. He'll never ask again and he'll never believe you anyway.

But lovelies, this is where you come in. Many of you have children in this age range. What do you suggest Trish do?

Please leave a comment letting her know. That way she'll be satisfied with a response and somehow I'll receive credit for it since this is my blog and I was brave enough to post her question.

P.S. Trish, you no allowed questions any mo'.

Well, gang, that's all for this Friday. I have a few more questions that I have yet to post and those will be coming up soon, but after that - it's all up to you. Email me your questions and I'll get to them. Remember, any question about any thing at any time. (Except for Trish, obviously.) I haven't received near enough - because let's be honest. I love to hear myself talk.

Have a great day my friends.

Spank That Itch!

I have an itch I can't scratch.

No, I'm not kidding. I, literally, have an itch I can't scratch.

What the heck do I do??

I went swimming at Miss Cindy's pool the other day and got stung THREE times by the same bee.

I know that sounds unbelievable. And since I seem to be a bit notorious for, oh, what is it called, ah yes, exaggerating, you probably think you can't believe me. But you can. I swear.

After all, I don't exagerate near as much as Hannah. Good grief! She told me the other day that she had gotten stung by a jellyfish TWELVE times on her stomach in the 20 minutes that she had been in the ocean. TWELVE?? What a fibber. I am soooooo not that bad.

Of course, she's 10. So this might be completely inappropriate - me squaring off against a 10 year old and all.

But that stinkin' bee got me when my defenses were down. I had Remi in the pool. And let's be honest, I would rather try and hold up an overweight marching band than try to tame that wee thing. She's a pistol. And that bee knew it. So he caught me with my hands full.

And before I knew it I felt three separate attacks from the same stinkin' bee.

So that night my left shoulder blade begins to itch. And itch. And itch. And itch.

Did you knew bee stings itch? I did not.

Now, I'm out to dinner with four other couples. It was a going away dinner for one of the couples at a nice Japanese restaurant. Later we went for dessert and had deep fried Oreo's. Okay, not the point.

And I'm itching horribly and so I ask my friend Kelli, who shall remain nameless, Kelli, to scratch my back, Kelli, for me, and she, Kelli, says,
"Well, babe. I don't see anything."
"Okay, but I got stung today and I really need you to scratch on my left shoulder blade."
"But I don't see anything..."
"Just scratch and I'll tell you where..."
"Okay..."
"Up, up, no down, now to the left, to the left, up, up, right there. Right there."
"But I don't see anything."

Is it just me or is the person doing the scratching not required to see anything? I wasn't asking her to describe it - I was asking her to scratch it.

And lo and behold, if on the way home from dinner I didn't say to the AG...
"Babe, can you scratch my shoulder it's really itching."
"I don't see anything."

Uhhhh.

The worst part came when I woke up all. night. long. with this incessant itching. And I can't reach it. It's terrible. I considered waking the AG up, but he was sleeping so hard. And so I didn't because, well, I'm just really good like that.

But also I had just woken him up at like 3AM a few nights before to ask him if he had the taste of tuna in his mouth. (He didn't. But he didn't have to be rude about it.)

And then there was the infamous night that I woke him up to ask him, "What was that song Rick Astley sang when we were in high school?" And he actually awoke from a deep sleep and said, "Never gonna give you up - never gonna let you down - never gonna run around and desert you."

I thought that was amazing. Out of a dead sleep!! Do you know how hard that is? But he was furious because he was up till 5:30 hearing it in his head, he said. But who knows. He exagerates.

So instead of waking the dead I decide to go get Remi's Spanking Spoon. (Yeah, you heard me right.) Apply some Hydrocortisone cream to the end of it and massage gently.

But when I looked in the mirror...you guessed it...I couldn't see anything.

Of course this morning those three bites were lit up like a Christmas tree. Big and red and ugly. Man, I love showing off my boo-boo's. Remi gets it honest. But what in the world do you do if you have a scratch you can't itch? Suggestions anyone?

All of a sudden it sounds like we are getting into something deep and philosophical, doesn't it...an itch you can't scratch...but let's don't do that. I don't want to ruin my reputation for being shallow and flighty. I have a rep to protect.

Okay, I have to go. I am currently scratching my back with Remi's Spanking Spoon and she just spotted me. Her eyes got huge and she said, "Ohhhhhh...mommy, don't spank you."

"Hey Remi. To the left. Now up. Up. Up a little more. C'mon Remi. Get serious about this."

It's a Watercooler Carnival!

It's Watercooler Wednesday, my lovelies.

Oh, what is that? You ask.

Yeah...I have no idea.

I think it's also referred to as a "blog carnival."

What's that? You inquire.

Not a clue. Not even one.

But I'm doing it.

"I'M OUT THERE JERRY AND I'M LOVIN' EVERY MINUTE OF IT!!"

Okay, let's get serious for a moment. I have a lot of blog knowledge...hey, no laughing in the back. I heard that!...that I want to share with you. It's important that you know these kinds of things. So gather 'round my children and I will let you drink from my well.

Watercooler Wednesdays is a blog carnival that goes on every Wednesday over at Randy Elrod's site. So, it's kinda like your hanging out at Randy Elrod's place. Which could be good or bad. Depends on whether he's got TiVo. Which is how I base almost everything.

You simply sign up on his page as to what you'll be writing about and, well, it leads others to your site. It's about reaching out, meeting others, fellowshipping. Really it's what the New Testament church is all about. So Randy Elrod, then, is kinda like the Apostle Paul. Only I imagine Randy to be more hygienic, not as short, and not wearing an incessant smirk on his face. Which is nothing against the Apostle Paul - but he didn't have TiVo and that can lead to some pretty grim fastidiousness and all around sour attitude.

Then when people click on your link it shoots them directly to your site - where you had better have written something to do with Arts or Culture or Entertainment or anything you might consider a "watercooler topic." Which could be just about anything. I mean, have you ever actually stood at a watercooler and talked? I haven't because I prefer the tables in the breakroom. But once, at a bank, I actually saw some people standing next to a watercooler and discussing. But they were discussing Melrose Place and I couldn't join in because my mom would never let me watch it. Or Dirty Dancing. I still have never seen that movie.

And see?? We're talking culture right now, my lovelies. It's happening right before your very eyes.

And I thought I was going to have to discuss gas prices. (Which would have sounded something like this.....Wow. Have ya'll see those gas prices? And scene.)

Or that man on the news who sells lightening bugs as a way to preserve energy. (Which would have sounded something like this....Wow. Did ya'll see that old guy on the news who sells lightening bugs? And scene.)

But I didn't have to because I slipped in several cultural effervments. (That's not a word...please don't look it up...it's not a word...I was just trying something.) I slipped in that line from Kramer on Seinfeld. And then that whole Melrose Place thing came out of nowhere, right? And what about Dirty Dancing? That has to get some of you Swayze fans up in arms, right? In fact, I bet I can slip something else culturally relevant in before we even end this post. Wanna bet?

Man. I am watercooling all over the place.

But the truth is Watercooler Wednesdays are just plain good for ya. They help you meet new people. Really get your blog out there. Make a name for yourself, ya know? Which is so important in this day and age. Because the world around is ever changing and ...

Oh, I have to go. King of Queens just came on and it's the one where he wants to eat a big sandwich.

See? See how I did that?

Whisper This.

I think a child is old enough to fix their own sippy cup of milk when they look at you and say, "Go fix sippy cup." And when you walk out of the room to do so, they add, "WITH MILK!"

I think we've created a monster.

But have you ever seen a monster in a big pink bow? Aaaaaaaaadorable.

Guess who I saw on the Today Show, yesterday? Nope. Not Tom Cruise. Nuh-uh. Not Angelina's twins. No way Jose'. Not the New Kids on the Block reunion concert. I saw The Potty Whisperer.

She is real, people. And she is weird.

Well, I shouldn't say that. I don't know her. I just entertain the notion that things that are beyond my comprehension (or let's get honest - too hard for me to do) are just weird. Maybe they're not at all, but I call them that. Because it makes me feel better. And bigger.

For instance, if I see someone roller blading...I say, "that's weird." Because I've tried it and can't do it. And so it makes me feel better to call them names.

Or if I see someone forgoing dessert, I might say, "Okay, that is just weird." Because that is a task entirely too difficult for me - so I make fun of it.

Get the gist?

Or let's say I see one of my friends, uh, I don't know, let's say, making bread. I would say, "Okay, we can't hang out any more cuz that's just weird." Again, maybe they're not weird. But making bread is. Because I can't do it. I've tried. I even bought a bread machine. Still can't. (Bread machine will be on sale this weekend at garage sale. Stop by.)

So I think this Potty Whisperer is weird. Mainly because she can get small children to do what I can't even get my child to say. She can get them to sit on the potty, I can't even get her to say "potty." She is so abject to the notion of the potty that yesterday I had to go to the potty myself and she stood in front of the door begging me, "Momma don't go in there. Please momma. Don't go near potty."

Also she's weird because she let someone come up with the name The Potty Whisperer for her, and never once said to them, "Hey dude, between you and me, don't call me that again. Okay? It's weird. I mean, Robert Redford made a movie about a horse whisperer and even that didn't do so good. So the chances of me pulling off what even Hubbell Gardner couldn't pull off, is just insane." But no. She stuck with it.

That's just weird.

She believes that if a child pees or poos in their pants/on the floor then they are responsible for cleaning it up. Duh! We know this P.W., that's why we brought our child to you. Because every time we turn our back they poo on the floor and then consider it art. Why do I have to pay you to get them to do what they love to do at home, for free? (The question is, does she sing to them? Because Remi won't clean up anything unless I sing to her the whole time. Who knows.)

So I believe this to be $250 worth of weird.

I think another thing that's weird is that when you enroll your child in her class and they succeed they get to wear t-shirts that say "Booty Camp" on them. And all I'm saying about that is that I find it weird when people use a play on words but it turns out cheezy. Like "Booty Camp" or a man I saw wearing a shirt with a chicken on it that said, "I don't use fowl words."

See? That's weird.

If you were to go to one of the maaaannnnnyy baby whisperer websites, you would see that their proven philosophies are: No punishment, no pressure, no coercion, no shaming. And yet, here are mine: No sitting on mommy's white carpet, no laying on mommy's comforter, no sitting on mommy's lap, no more bathtub time with mommy.

Now I ask you...what is weirder? I mean, if you can't coerce or shame a small child into using the potty then where in the world does that leave us? My mom raised me on 8 pound bags of M&M's and feelings of inferiority. And look how I turned out!

It also states not to use "obsessing" or "perfectionism." What? That's just weird. I have obsessed about being perfect for the last 34 years and lady, that's a whole lotta work. Try that at your booty camp.

One website refers to a child from 6-24 months as a "late starter." (Uh....thankfully Remi is just now 24 months because if I had a child that was 26 months and not yet potty-trained, well, I don't mean to embarrass anyone, but I would be so ashamed I wouldn't even leave the house.) I mean seriously, as parents, how embarrassing to have to look at your 8 month old and be like, "What is wrong with you? Why won't you do this? Why aren't you like all the other babies in....India."

See? Weird.

Of course Al Roker swears it worked on one of his kids. And he's the Weather Whisperer. So what do I know? I'm just the Blog Whisperer.