Country Music Ain't The Only Noise We Make.

I have a long standing love / hate relationship with toilets ("potties" if you're currently raising a 3 year old). If you've been reading The Stretch Marks blog very long then you know that we've established this.

In fact, I have a long standing feud with public toilets.
Hate them.
Hate them with a passion.
Hate them with a red hot passion.

And it's not just the toilets in crazy places like - the airport or county lock-up (though I've never actually been to county lock-up I can close my eyes and imagine what their toilets must be like.) No, it's all public toilets. I hate the toilets at Target. And I hate the toilets at Costco. I even hate the toilets at Marshall's and LifeWay, which is really saying something since I frequent them every single solitary time I go into those locals.

But Ronnie on the other hand has a fondness for public restrooms. So much so, in fact, that he has rated them. Oh, yes he has. He can tell you where the best restrooms in a 50 mile radius are. He can tell you which ones play music and which ones don't. He can tell you which ones have those automatic sprayers that go off in order to scent (or de-scent) the air. He can tell you which ones have doors that go all the way to the floor and which ones have doors that don't close properly.

I can give you the Ronnie Rating of any Restroom on Restaurant Row. Wow. That's a mouthful. So considering I find myself in one on almost every shopping trip I go on I pay close attention when he talks. His favorite - and now mine, I must admit - is the restrooms at the former Parisian - now Belk's - in our local Cool Springs mall.

Seriously? Have you tried it? Doors that go all the way down to the floor, so it's like your in you're own little dorm room. Music that plays loudly enough for you to hear it - but not so loudly you get distracted from the task at hand. And an automated timer that goes off every 5 to 7 minutes; enough to de-scent, but not enough to make it smell like really dirty flowers.

It's perfection.

So imagine how my interest must have been peaked when I saw on my MSN homepage that the rating was in for America's best bathroom! And can you believe it? It was right here in middle Tennessee:

NASHVILLE, Tenn. - The Hermitage Hotel has afternoon tea in the grand lobby. Down-filled duvets (that's a fancy word for comforters). A presidential suite with 2,000 square feet. And a really nice toilet.

So nice, in fact, that it's been voted (drum roll please) America's best restroom.

Flush in the middle of downtown Nashville, the luxury hotel and its ground-floor men's bathroom are definitely the head (so to speak) of the class. The redoubtable restroom is art-deco style with gleaming lime-green-and-black leaded glass tiles, lime-green fixtures, terrazzo floor and a two-seat shoeshine station.

"You just can't find anything like it anywhere else," says Janet Kurtz, director of sales and marketing at the hotel.

The restroom won the honor in online voting sponsored by Cincinnati-based Cintas Corp., which supplies restroom hygiene products and services. The company says "tens of thousands" of people voted over two months last summer. Precise numbers are kept, well, private.
Criteria were hygiene, style and access to the public. The highfalutin honor has earned the restroom entry to "America's Best Restroom Hall of Fame." "People see it and fall in love with it," Kurtz said.

It has four stools, three urinals, four sinks, spotless mirrors and a Sultan telephone that connects to the front desk.

And, (how do you put this delicately?) women seem attracted to it. Lita Esquinance of Bradley County, Tenn., guides friends to the restroom for a discreet peek just about every time she visits Nashville. One of them, Sonja Luckie, jokingly summed up her visit with this discerning observation: "For men, it's very stimulating."

Huh? Stimulating? I don't exactly know what that means, nor do I want to. Besides, maybe it's just the man I'm married to but I don't think he needs any more stimulation when it comes to the restroom. He can spot a newspaper at 20 paces and feel the urge to go. Sometimes it's like being married to a cocker spaniel.

So what about you all? Am I the only one who has a love/hate relationship with public restrooms? And is Ronnie really the only one that rates them? I doubt it. Leave me your tips on where I can find the best one in the area...Lord knows I'll need it.

Oh, and while I've got you here, here's an aside from my own personal "pet peeve file." When building your next home DO NOT - I repeat, DO NOT - put a bathroom right off of your living room. That is wrong on so many levels. Talk about clearing a room. I once had a hostess thank me for getting every one out, since she was exhausted and the night had gone on too long. Don't thank me, thank the chili and rice krispie treats you served us. Sheesh.

Oh, Yes He Is.

No one has ever written me a song.
No one has ever written a song about me.
No one has ever written a song while thinking of me.
No one has ever even written a song while talking to me on the phone.

I know this because I have asked countless dozens to write me a song. I've asked friends of mine to write a song commemorating the times I was "there for them" and sing it at a party held in my honor. And I once asked the AG to write me a love song to the theme of "My Girl Likes To Party All the Time" called "My Girl Acts Snotty All the Time."

But nope.

I got nothing.

Until now.

A few months back Ronnie came in to my house and handed me a CD. "Here Mish, this is for you. I want you to listen to it."

"Why?"

"Because it's a song Mandisa and I just finished writing and I wrote it with you in mind. I told her all about Elisha and your story, we started writing and now I think you'll hear your story woven throughout. Here. It's from me to you."

Meridith was sitting there listening and she wanted me to run over and put it in the CD player. But I couldn't. I couldn't listen to the song. Not that night. Not that week. Not even that month. In fact, almost 8 weeks went by before I actually stuck the CD in the CD player. My head wanted to listen but my heart wasn't there yet.

And sometimes you have to wait on your heart.

Not many people know my story, not all of it at least, but Ronnie does. He knows every last, ugly, sordid detail because he's been the AG's best friend for some time now. So when he writes words like "and you can't even get out of bed, He is with you" he knows that truer words have ne'er been spoken...or written...or sung...or whatever, about me. I suppose if there's anyone I trust to write my heart - it's him. (Or David Foster, but he won't return my calls.)

I've listened to the song now. In fact, I've listened to it almost 100 times. I love it. But I'm really glad I waited on my heart; it knew best.

Here is the song someone finally wrote for me. And the Attorney General. And of course, sweet Elisha.


http://mandisa.sparrowrecords.com/multimedia/?id=1048822

Monday Mourning.

I. Am. Devastated.

If you are knew to the Stretch Marks blog then you may not know that I own every DVD of The Golden Girls. I've seen every episode 12 times. And I know every word to every scene of every episode.

Go ahead - laugh. Mock. I care not. Your words cannot hurt me. For on this Monday morning I am hurting along with the rest of ....uhhh... Broadway, senior citizens over the age of 72 and a vast majority of the homosexual community.

So sure, you're TiVo may be filled to the brim with hip current shows like 90210, Gossip Girl or America's Next Top Model - but mine will forever be full of Dorothy. She will be immortalized through my TiVo season pass, just the way God intended.

Enjoy her with me for a moment, won't you? Because no one....NO ONE...can deliver a line like Dorothy.

Someone pass me a Kleenex.

Thelma, Louise and Granny.

Whenever I come to Lufkin there are a few things I look forward to.

1. Ray's hamburgers: Oh, they are greasy and gooey. My face breaks-out just looking at them.

2. Del Rio Cantina: Some people hate this place. I love it. Any Mexican food restaurant that just leaves melted butter on the table for you to pour over your food is aces in my book.

3. The Library. HHHHHAAAAA. I'm kidding.

actually...

3. Doing anything - absolutely anything - with my mom and my Granny.

Now let me state for the record that it's the both of them, together, that makes it so fun. Anyone can spend time with my mom. (Yeah, yeah, yeah - been there, done that.) And anyone can spend time with Granny. (It's entertaining I'll give you that.) But the two of them together? Johnny Carson never had a duo like this on his show.

The only thing that would be even better would be adding my aunt Melba to the mix (I think you'll remember her from this post). Because adding her to the mix is like adding Oreo's to Blue Bell, it just makes it more delicious and a whole lot more fattening. Uh, oh. I'm gonna get in trouble for that last part.

So yesterday I decided to take mom and Granny out for a little afternoon "delight" with my two little ones. They are always making comments like, "Melissa, what do you do all day?" "Melissa, why haven't you put on any make-up?" "Melissa, are you making your husband pick up pizza again?" So I thought I would teach them a lesson. I took them to ride the train at the zoo, play on the jungle gym, and............and here's the clincher........CHIK-FIL-A.

Oh, yeah. That'll teach 'em.

So in order for you to get just half of the entertainment I received yesterday I will now leave you with some tidbits from our day.

(Getting on the train)
Granny: Anet, wrap him in a blanket.
Anet: Mom, it's not even cold.
Granny: Wrap him in a blanket!
Anet: Mom, it's 90 degrees outside.
Granny: It's the wind that gives them earaches. You don't know anything, it's probably why you were so sick these last few years.
Anet: Mom, I had cancer! Not an earache!

Granny: I don't want you to drink after me Melissa, I'm pretty sure I have T.B.

Granny: You know the Yates? We hate them. We've always hated the Yates, haven't we Anet?
Mom: Yep.
(Ten minutes later)
Me: You know I'm going to blog everything y'all are saying, right?
Mom: Like what?
Me: Like Granny saying that y'all hate the Yates.
Granny: Who are the Yates?

Mom: She's spoiled.
Granny: Very spoiled.
Mom: Her momma always spoiled her.
Granny: And her daddy always spoiled her.
Mom: And her momma was crazy.
Granny: And her daddy was crazy.
Mom: Yep, and now her momma's dead and her daddy's dead.
Granny: And she's still spoiled.

Granny: You know he has a talk show now? And absolutely nothing to talk about.

Granny: Melissa, what's wrong with Rocco's eyes? Don't you ever give him anything? Don't you ever give him Visene or even a Kleenex?

Mom: Remi woke me up this morning. It was just like being woken up by a prison warden. She even hit me over the head with a boot.
Granny: Well, I would have already been up and going, so she wouldn't have had to wake me up.
Mom: (Rolling her eyes) Of course you would have.

Mom: Ya know, I wish I'd knocked her out when I had the chance. I wish I had just cleaned her clock. I wish I'da punched her in her nose.
Granny: I'm surprised you didn't.
Mom: Well, I was in the bed with a headache.

Have a good weekend my lovelies.
From me, mom and the Granster.

Somethin' Bad's Goin' Down at the Comfort Inn

I need you to know upfront that this kind of entertainment does not come down the pike very often. You can pay $8.75 if you'd like for entertainment theatre, but I assure you, even Meryl Streep on her best day could not pull off this kind of drama.

If it's your first time here you will quickly come to learn I pride myself on some IBS stories. It's just my thang I guess you could say.

Oh, and also I have no life.

So this story took place two summers ago. "Two summers ago? How do you even remember back that far, Melissa?" Because dear friend, when something this traumatic happens to you, you tend to put it in ye' ol' vault, knowwhatI'msaying?

So there is something that I do in the summer, you will probably object, that's fine, I still do it, not gonna stop. I sneak into hotel pools. I've done it since I was 14 years old and my cousin Randy Jean taught me how - so if you have a problem with it, take it up with her.

Of course I've come a long way since those days with Randy. I now carry around hotel room keys from various trips I've been on in case I needed to flash one; ya know, make it look real. I also carry with me a plain white towel. Hello? That's basic Hotel Room Basics 101. And I've perfected my response should anyone ever ask to see my key or know what room I'm staying in:

(Scenario 1: The "Make a Scene" Scenario) "Uh, no. You may not see my room key. You pervert. I've seen Dateline. Like I'm gonna tell you I'm in room 815 so you can come in and KILL me later? I don't think so! How would you like me to go to management and tell them about you? You crazy serial killer."

(Scenario 2: The "Answer a Question With A Question" Scenario) "Uh, yes, I'm staying in this hotel. Are you staying in this hotel? Yes, I'm from out of town. Are you from out of town? Yes, I'm allowed to use this pool. Are you allowed to use this pool?

(Scenario 3: The "My Husband Is An Attorney And He Suggested I Use This One" Scenario) "You'd like to see my room key? Well, I'd like to invoke my 4th Amendment Rights."

But never, in all my hotel room research, did I ever account for the fact that I do suffer from incurable, debilitating bouts of IBS that can only be remedied with some immediate relief and a cold washcloth. What was I supposed to do if I got "the fever" when I was at a hotel pool? Huh? Never even crossed my mind.

And then it happened....Summer. 2007. The Comfort Inn.

To make matters worse, Remi was with me. She was just over a year old, but anyone who's anyone knows that when you take a child (doesn't matter if it's one child or 4 children) you carry everything but the kitchen sink with you to that pool. They might get hungry. They might get thirsty. They might get too much sun. They might get a tooth. They might need a float. They might need a hat. They might need a Chik-fil-A nugget. They might need a nap.

I think you get the picture.

Needless to say on this particular day, my hands were full.

So when the moment finally came I knew that the only choice I had was to get out of that pool or do some heavy duty explaining to maintenance. But just exactly where are you supposed to go when there is no bathroom available to you and time is NOT on your side?

Suddenly I saw it. The cleaning lady. She was cleaning rooms on the bottom level. She was doing three rooms at a time and I could easily sneak into one without her ever knowing. Right?

Wrong.

And now comes the part of the story that is....how you say...awkward.

Because for the next 15 minutes I sat motionless in a locked bathroom, of a hotel room I had not paid for, at a hotel I had snuck in to, while a Mexican cleaning woman knocked - no, beat - on the door, speaking words that I never heard in my 11th grade Espanol class. To make matters worse - soooooo much worse - I wouldn't respond to her. I couldn't.
I was mortified.
And sick.
So so so sick.
And did I mention mortified?

So while she beat on the door yelling what I can only imagine was, "Help, there's another homeless man in the bathroom!" in Spanish, I sat inside the bathroom, locked up, hands over my face (and nose), and a baby on my lap.

That's right, folks. You didn't think I left her at the pool did you?

So all the while the "homeless man" has blockaded himself in the bathroom, he's also taken an infant hostage. I could just imagine Channel 5 bursting in the room at any moment.

And that, my lovelies, is really where the story ends. There was not dramatic ending. No shootout. Or hostage negotiations. Eventually she did bring in her friend Margarite - who also spoke no English, but did at least seem not to yell quite so much - and I knew that I was eventually going to have to walk out of that bathroom. It would be The Comfort Inn Walk of Shame. Sure, there was a good chance I would be arrested, but at least I would be arrested without the cold sweats and gurgling noises. And if they wanted to arrest a woman with IBS and her baby, then so be it! If Guantanamo Bay is full and I'm all they can come up with to arrest then fine - off with my head!

So without any pride left at. all. I walked out of the Comfort Inn bathroom. Both women stopped talking and looked at me, "What? It's a woman? In a swimdress? With a baby and Chik-fil-A nuggest in her hand? This is who's been locked up in the bathroom? This is who we've been yelling at?"

And without a word I walked out the door of room 119 and got into my car.

Remi actually waved and said, "Bye, bye."

Apparently they understand "bye, bye" because they waved back. All while their mouths hung open. But the silence....oh the silence. It was the silence that made it the most awkward.

Well, the silence and I'm sure they resented the fact that there would be much janitorial work to be done over in that there bathroom.

And Now A Word For Our...Judges.

Ok. I knew it was going to happen. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. The AG told me I was crazy. His exact words? "Why do you continually open up aspects of your life to the general public that they will both find offensive and horrifying?" But did I listen? No.

And now you've left me posts and sent me emails as to how unsafe letting Rocco ride in my lap was. Bubba even took it upon himself to tell me that if he ever sees me doing it again he will call the police himself. He is currently enrolling in the police academy and has made it quite clear that under no uncertain terms he will ticket me. I believe he will do this - no doubt.

So I suppose I need to apologize and tell you all that there is good chance it will never happen again, so you all can just calm down and quit texting me. However, I would like to state for the record that I wasn't the one driving. Does that help your feelings?

No?

I didn't think so. Oh wait, I have to go. My mother-in-law is texting me...again.

_______

And Now A Word For Our Judges:

Dear Randy,

Dawg, I am quite sure I would never notice if you didn't show up for work next week. At least I can't say that about Paula; I mean, let's be honest, we would notice if she weren't there. But you? I wouldn't notice. Every week you say these three things - "Dawg, that was just alright for me / Mmmm...that was not your best performance / Dude - that was hot right there" - you just say them to different people wearing different outfits. So no, I wouldn't miss you. But that's just me. Perhaps there are others who would object to my opinion. But you're judging is just alright for me, I just feel like week after week we are not getting your best performance and I'm really ready to look at you and say "that was hot right there!"

Dear Kara,

Are you sorry you took this assignment? Do you ever look at Paula and Simon and think, "I could totally be hanging out with Hillary Duff right now?" I would. But that's just me. And I still love Hillary Duff, so. I actually think you're doing a really fine job. You say things of lasting importance (though you do tend to throw around the word "brilliant" which I find ridiculous since you are dealing with people like Lil Rounds and not Stevie Wonder) and you seem to genuinely be happy for them when they do good and you give constructive criticism for them when they don't. Thank you. And since I'm in to constructive criticism as well, let's not ever wear our hair pulled back tight on our head again, okay?

Dear Paula,

Tonight you said "visceral." I will give you $84,000 if you can tell me what "visceral" even means. The end.

Dear Simon,

As Americans we must confess: you speak the truth. Sure you do it in that haughty British accent of yours, that one finds either irritating or titillating - depends on the person, but it is truth nonetheless. You only say what we all are thinking (i.e. "I would have bet $10,000 you would sing a Donna Summer song tonight.") Sure you don't dress like anyone who owns 12 cars and small country, and your hair has probably looked exactly like that since you were in 8th grade, but you are one heck of a judge. And may I just go on record as saying that my favorite moments of the evening have been the faces you make when Paula is commenting. Priceless.

Tuesdays Really Should Be Treated Better Than This.

I know the eight of you who read me every day (Hi! Granny!) worried when I didn't show up for work yesterday. No need to worry. I just called in sick.

I have the motto that "if you can't do something well, then don't do it at all." And so yesterday I stuck to my guns on that one...and so I just did nothing at all. Which reminds me of another motto I recently adopted, "if you can't do something without not breaking a sweat then just deny that it has to be done and go back to bed."

That one is actually working out a lot better for me.

So since I am sitting in Texas in my parents house where they keep it around 94 degrees at all times - watching the NBA playoff game (Who am I kidding, I'm not watching, I couldn't even tell you who's playing; wait, yes I can, white vs. blue) - and popping Rolaids since my mom made her famous "tacos." (I use air quotes on purpose) I will do what every bloggy loser does when they have nothing else to do. I will make a list.

Oh, quit complaining.

Here is a list of things. Not things I love to do on a rainy Saturday. Not things I love to eat while vacationing in Rio. Not things I will find in my couch if I removed the cushions. Just things...ya know, random things.

Melissa's List of Random Things:

1. I tried watching The Closer, really I did. But she drives me up a wall. I know southern accents - I have a southern accent. That is not a southern accent. That is woman trying desperately to have a southern accent without looking like she's trying too hard. But she is. On the other hand you all should hear me say "looks like another point for the criminal justice system." I can say it just like her and so my parents and the AG make me do it all the time like I'm some sort of show pony. Which, let's be honest, I am.

2. My friend Theresa asked me the other day, "what have you decided to do with your hair?" When I told her I hadn't yet decided she said, "Well, you need to decide quickly. And when you do - let me know." So I'm thinking this in-between thing isn't working for her. Or me.

3. However, I did go get my hair colored. And now it's blond. Good, ol' fashioned, Paris-Hilton-only-wishes-she-was-this-white-trash blond. When I walked out the door to go get it done Meridith was watching my kids and I told her, "The next time you see me I'll look just like this - only a lot cheaper." She said, "That'll be hard." But I love it!

4. The AG and I saw State of Play on Saturday night. Really good. And this is coming from someone who looooaattthhheesss Russell Crowe. Still, really really good.

5. The following confession is illegal. Please do not turn me in or call Dateline: Last Friday on the way home from picking the AG up at the airport the kids and I were so excited to see him, and we stopped for ice cream not far from our house. After getting our ice cream and letting Rocco eat some of mine I left him in my arms - in the front seat - as we drove home. About two miles from our house I noticed a suburban with two women sitting in it who were looking at me horrified! And I realized it was because I was sitting in the front seat of a moving vehicle, with the windows rolled down and my 7 month old babies arm hanging out the window as we all sang along to Keith Urban. The only thing missing was a Lady Slim hanging from my mouth. It was then and there that I realized: I AM A REDNECK.

6. Is anyone else watching Kings? Love it; it really is quite good. But they moved it to Saturday nights. Which is never a good sign.

7. My juicing adventure has gone from juicing five days a week to making one glass of carrot juice a week, taking one sip, making a horrible face and pouring it down the drain. I tried.

8. Stay tuned to the Stretch Marks blog for the post: Somethin' Bad Is Goin' Down at the Comfort Inn. Oh yeah, I said Comfort Inn.

Talk to y'all later.

Fat Gap.

Meridith: When was the last time you came to the mall?

Me: I have children. I don't come to the mall.

Meridith: I didn't think so, cuz you didn't know what Williams Sonoma was and you asked if they had a Chess king.

Me: Chess King rocked. They outfitted all of the guys in my 8th grade class for our 8th grade prom: "Fireworks and Friendships."

Meridith: Do you like that store?

Me: Yankee Candle? Uhhhh, yeah. Hello? They can make my entire house smell like cookie dough.

Meridith: Yum. You wanna go in there?

Me: No. Their candles cost like, $800.

Meridith: Do you wanna go in there?

Me: Thomas Kinkade Gallery? What am I? 80?

Meridith: Thank the Lord. What about there? You wanna go there?

Me: The Cookie Company? Yes, yes, I do.

Meridith: Good. Me too.

.......10 minutes later.......

Meridith: There's the Build-a-Bear store. I bought Remi that gift card for Christmas and still haven't taken her yet. I need to do that. You and I should plan a date to take her and do that.

Me: I'm not going.

Meridith: Why???

Me: Because not going to Build-a-Bear is my gift...

Meridith: To whom?

Me: To me.

Meridith: Wanna go in there?

Me: Buckle?

Meridith: Yeah.

Me: Uhhhh....no. Girls my age need thicker material. Thank you.

Meridith: Ohhhh....look. The Gap. I love The Gap.

Me: (nothing)

Meridith: What? You don't like The Gap?

Me: (silence)

Meridith: What don't you like about The Gap?

Me: (wait for it)

Meridith: Man, that's a big Gap. I would love to go in there, but...

Me: (stay silent long enough and it will come...)

Meridith: I mean, I've tried on their clothes, but...

Me: (and here it comes.)

Meridith: I'm too fat for their stupid clothes.

Me: Really? (My college counseling class would deem this the "let them talk it out" phase.)

Meridith: Yes. See that dress in the window? Do you think I should try and put that on my body?

Me: (my mother did not raise a fool, I keep my mouth shut.)

Meridith: They're sized too small.

Me: Oh yeah?

Meridith: Yep. And they're too expensive.

Me: Oh.

Meridith: But I do like them.

Me: I know.

Meridith: You know what I think?

Me: What's that?

Meridith: There should be a store called...

Me and Meridith at the exact same time: The FAT GAP!

.......Hysterical laughter......

Meridith: You were thinking it too?

Me: I was.

Me: Their clothes also shrink really bad when washed.

Meridith: Yes, yes they do! Thank you. That makes me feel better.

Me: And I'm pretty sure they give their money to save the planet causes.

Meridith: Ooohhhh, I hate that! Thank goodness I'm not giving them my money.

Me: Yep. Beautifully hip clothes, a huge spacious store, a company that tries to prolong the existance of all nature and living things. They suck.

Meridith: Yes they do suck.........want another cookie?

Me: Yep.

Meridith: Me too.

In Over My Head.

Sheesh...today has been a long one. As I am writing this I am sitting in a dark room (finally), with no sound (finally), no children running and screaming (finally), no phones ringing (finally), no knocks at the door, no buzzer on the dryer going off.


I am alone. All is quiet. And I am ashamed.


And a little embarrassed.


Scratch that, alot embarrassed.


Today was one of those days when I did a lot of different things, and none of them did I do very well. I've been having a lot of those days lately.


I am a wife: But when he calls all I want to do is talk about me, whine about me, talk about me some more. Sometimes we hang up without me even remembering to say, "how is your day going?" Oftentimes we hang up without me ever knowing why he called to begin with. Because we never get to it. Because "I" got in the way.


I am a mother: But then there's all the yelling. The slamming a dishtowel on the counter because "someone" wants another sippy cup. Another one? Seriously? There's taking a People magazine and walking into the bathroom, locking the door, and just plopping down on the floor. There's putting them down early for a nap. Or turning on one more cartoon. And knowing that if video cameras were set up in this house we would be a Dateline special waiting to happen.


I am a friend: But thank the Lord for Facebook or I wouldn't know how 2/3 of my friends even are. I don't write. I don't call. And I rarely make myself available were any of them to need me. I say "I have a lot going on," but selfishness rarely takes a holiday.


I am a daughter: But at times I am not a very good one. I forget their birthdays and anniversary's, yet cry FOUL if they were to forget mine. I get testy and temperamental. I get sappy sweet. Only to do it all over again. I cry "give me space," and then "why haven't you called?" Call it "complex", really it's just childish.

Today I told my daughter that we were going to learn a life lesson, it's called "we will not eat like an animal - we will eat like a lady." This may be why it was such a long day. Eating oatmeal like a lady instead of like a wolverine takes a lot of patience on the part of the student and the teacher.

By the end of the day I had stripped off pajamas covered in oatmeal, washed a blanket laced in applesauce and slipped and fell in yogurt in my kitchen floor. Did I mention it was a long day?

Silly metaphor, but it works.

This life of mine is a mess. And oftentimes I feel so over my head that I might be doing everyone a favor to just slip under my applesauce blanket and call it a day. Or I could decide to try. Try to be a lady. Try to be a better wife. A more patient mother. A more loving daughter. I'll slip and fall, sure. But if a two year old can try it, so shall I.

Who's with me?

Who's in over their head in this life? But willing to wipe themselves off and start over? Today is a new day. And though we are sinners saved by grace, we are not wolves, we are ladies.

Eat up.

Idol Chatter.

I don't think in all my years of watching American Idol I have ever posted on it. Maybe I have, I really don't know. Besides, I try to erase from my memory from anything I post on here (want to know why? See this, this and this.)

But now I will give you all my take on American Idol because I feel certain you have all been sitting around, biting your nails, wishing for this.

You haven't?

Hmmph.

Last night's Idol was "songs from motion pictures." I would now - for the record - like to list 4 great songs that no one thought of. Why, I do not know.

1. Holding Out For A Hero (Bonnie Tyler) - Footloose
2. Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) - Bandits

I would now like to go on record as saying that I heart cheesy power ballads. And I double heart Bonnie Tyler. And I triple heart Footloose, so let's go with any song from that movie.

3. Rapper's Delight (Sugarhill Gang) - The Wedding Singer

Please note: These songs are not personal suggestions for anyone to sing. Though I feel certain that kid that looked like Chicken Little from Season 5 could have tore this up.

4. Think (Aretha Franklin) - The Blues Brothers ("Two whole chickens and some dry white toast." Anyone remember that?)

Okay...on with my thoughts.

Dear Allison,

Just one week would you dye your hair black just so we can see how it looks? Please? I heard your voice described as "a set of vocal chords that have been marinating in Jack Daniels for 30 years." I couldn't have said it better myself. For 16 you are amazing. I do not think you did yourself justice with that song from Armageddon, but mainly because:
1. No one can sing like Stephen Tyler. NO ONE. (Hey Adam, NO ONE.)
2. And lastly because no one can sing like Stephen Tyler.
So next week, sing something from Pink. That's who you sound like. And color your hair...black...just for me. Think about it.

Dear Anoop,

I love you. I really do. I don't know why everyone has been so mad at you and continually putting you in the bottom three. I'm confused by this. I think you are cute as a button, you have a beautiful voice and I loved you in Slumdog Millionaire. Granted, the song you chose was as cheesy as heck and all I could think of while you were singing it was the date I went on to Robin Hood with a really cute cowboy who yawned the entire time and then apologized for it by saying, "Sorry, I was up early cutting meat." I never really figured out what that meant, but I gave up cowboys and married an attorney. And I have to say, things worked out a lot better for me. I hope they work out for you, too. I think you deserve to stay longer than Lil, for Pete's sake.

Dear Adam,

Uh...................................I'm not a fan. And it's not because I feel like I am watching a Broadway musical every time you perform. And it's not because you gyrate, though I hate it when people "gyrate." And it's not because you lick the microphone like you're trying to get it pregnant. It's because you wear more make-up than my 10th grade science partner. Bare Minerals. The end.

Dear Matt,

Dude. What is up? You could have sang any song from the movie Ray and yet you chose a Brian Adams song from a movie about a shirtless Lothario? What gives? My desire is for you to shave your head, wear white sneakers, sit behind a piano and sing Senorita. Oh, wait. Maybe my desire is just to go download Justin Timberlake from itunes and call it a day.

Dear Kris,

That performance? A.W.E.S.O.M.E. Really wonderful. Delicate and simple. And who in their right mind doesn't like that song? You just keep showin' up, little man.

Dear Danny,

Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny. I want you to marry Meridith. Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny. You and Meridith would be perfect for each other. I like you so much. And I love your voice. But Meridith, she loooooovvvveeesss you. And it's not just because you sang Endless Love and it's not because you kind of got weepy eyes when you sang it and it's not because your eyeglasses are the cutest thing since Leo's side swept bangs. It's because...okay, I lied, it's because of all those things.

Dear Lil,

It's been nice knowin' ya, Lil. But my dear, you tried to do something that I will always and forever object to: You tried to pull off a Bette Midler song. And pulling off a Bette Midler song can only, should only, be done by - ME. Of course, this is my own personal opinion, but it's one I'm sticking to. I guess I just find it astonishing that out of all the songs (Hello! Preacher's Wife, DreamGirls, Body Guard and Blues Brothers) you chose, The Rose. Hmmm. Call your kids, momma's coming home.

So there you have it. My thoughts.

Oh, and just so you all know, if I was on American Idol on movie soundtrack night I would be breaking out in some Queen of the Night, oh yes I would. Would it be good? No. It'd probably be horrible, but I'd go down in a flame - that's for sure.

Meridith said it's too bad that American Idol isn't for people in my "age range". She said, "American Idol was made for someone like you, Melissa. You have so many different personalities, and you could showcase them all."

I don't think anyone has ever said anything that nice to me.

The Bra Bonanza of 2009.

If God really does humble the proud - and He does, oh believe me, He does - then it's any wonder He has any time to help Melissa win Dancing With the Stars or bring justice to pirates run amok.

Because I take up A LOT of His time.

Take this weekend for instance.

In what should have been a weekend dedicated entirely to Him, a Sunday spent doing nothing but worshipping and praising Him and a worship service where my focus should have been solely on Him, I had to go and mess it all up. By getting my focus off of Him and on, you guessed it, me.

I hate it when that happens.

But it happens. I admit it. I am but a sinner, saved by grace...can I get a whatwhat?

So on Sunday, in what was one incredibly powerful worship service and while I was standing in the choir loft, my mind drifted to the fact that this time next year I will be attending a new church. Not the one I have faithfully attended for the past eight years. Not the one I love just like a second home. Not the one full of people I love and friends I admire. Nope. A different one. And so for a moment, I got sad. And when I get sad, this is how my thoughts go:

Next year at Easter I will be somewhere different. I will be singing with a different choir in a different choir loft. I wonder if their songs will be as good as ours. I wonder if I'll be an alto or if I'll switch to soprano just to make sure I don't lose some of my upper register. Yep, I won't be looking out at these people - I'll be looking at different people. New people. I wonder if they'll like me. They might like me better if I cut my hair. Or if I buy some of those Jessica Simpson hair extensions and then my hair will look like it's already grown out and it won't be at this "in-between" phase which really puts people off. Wow. It's Easter. Oh, and why am I not singing? Why am I not singing the solo this year since it's my last Easter to spend at this church? What's up with that? It's probably best though since my hair is

kind of in-between.

Embarrassing, I know.

But honest.

Those are how fast and shallow and prideful my thoughts were running.

I can admit this now because I have repented and asked Him to please forgive my ridiculousness and I feel certain He has. He does every time.

But just so He can still show who's boss, here's what happened next.

After the choir was dismissed from the choir loft I headed down to the seat the AG and Meridith was saving for me. Rocco was sitting with his daddy since he had been suffering from an ear infection all weekend and wasn't quite up to the nursery, and so happily I slid into my seat and proudly placed what I felt certain was the cutest kid in the building on my lap. (See? Again, PRIDE.) Within minutes however the Pastor started his Easter message and Rocco decided that sitting on mom's lap wasn't all it was cracked up to be. So as I got up to carry him out of the service God proved once again that He knows me inside and out and it was high time everyone else did, too.

And right then and there, as I walked from the fourth row from the front all the way down the middle aisle and out the back door, past some 1200 people who I feel certain were staring at me and not the pastor (durn...PRIDE, again) Rocco grabs the neckline of my dress....yanks it all the way to the left....and I never notice a thing.

And now 1200 people know that my bra is tan, has flowers sewn into it and has straps as wide as Interstate 65.

Yes, that's right. It wasn't until I walked out the back door of the sanctuary and a friend of mine saw me and said, "Oh Mel, you're bra...it's....it's...showing...Rocco let go of mama's dress...oh, yes...it's showing...bad," that I decided to breathe my last breath and die right there.

And die, I did.

To my hair being not quite short and not quite long.
To being not quite brunette and not quite blond.
To moving.
To not having the starring role on Easter Sunday.
To focusing on me.
To not focusing on Him.
To pride.

And later - when David laughed so hard he cried - I did, too. And I admitted that I was glad that God is still in the business of giving "grace to the humble and resisting the proud." The proud. That would be me.

So there you have it, the Bra Bonanza of 2009. If you would like to donate to the Bra Cause you may do so by sending checks or money orders. Thank you.

My Deep Regrets.

Please accept my sincere apology. I really didn't mean for it to happen like this. I would go back and do it all over if I could.

Are we still friends?

I hope so.

Just know that next Easter I will make sure you get a chance to see these two close up. I promise. I can imagine how angered you must be knowing that you missed laying eyes on something this precious. I know I would be.








Mother - noun - 1. A female parent. 2. Someone who subjects others to obnoxious images, stories and tales of their children. 4. One who loves a child so much that they assume everyone else must as well, therefore causing severe nausea to those who have to listen to their incessant rattling on about them.







Hope your Easter was as cute. But hey, let's be honest...

Really Good Friday.

Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, He has risen.

Luke 24:5

This Good Friday, I hope you believe.

Who Had More Plastic Surgery? Kelli Pickler or Frankie Avalon?

I am really not being ugly in my title. Personally, I thought Kelli Pickler looked beautiful on Idol last night...notice I didn't mention Frankie Avalon.

But those were the hot trend words being Googled. And you know the rules this week. Hey I don't make the rules, I just follow 'em.

Well, actually, I did make this rule. But I'm also following it.

__________


Ya know, I've been asked a lot of different things in my life.

I've been asked to sing at weddings, funerals, a football game, hockey game, 3 homecoming games and a bar mitzvah.



I've been asked to speak to ladies groups, couples groups and women in prison.


I've been asked to provide the games at, well, at every party I go to (I AM REIGNING GAME QUEEN!).


I've been asked to scoot over, pay the bill, shut-up, change the channel and make a decision.


I've been asked to color people's hair, cut people's hair and hush up about people's hair.


But I have never - ever - been asked to blog about something, by another blogger; considering the request came from someone who actually HAS a blog, I am deeply honored.

I suppose the reason she didn't want to do it herself is because she is a major player on the staff at a major church and blogging about such things is lowly and beneath her...so she passes them off to me. That may be the case, but it's not the reason I'm giving. I'm assuming she passed it to me because she thinks my writing is prolific. Yeah, that's it, that's the reason I'm going with.

So I received an email from this "major player" yesterday with the following pictures and description:

Ladies, a few ideas for your new spring wardrobe. COMING SOON TO A WAL-MART NEAR YOU !What you see below are not see-thru skirts. They are actually prints on the skirts to make it look as if the panties are visible and these are the current rage in Japan .. They'll be the rage here in Canada and the USA soon. The end is near! I forward this as a public service, so you won't have a heart attack when the rage reaches the North America .

Okay, here on my thoughts on this issue:

1. I don't know that I see the problem. Seriously, what is everyone so upset about? If I've read this correctly - and indeed I have - I will have the option to wear a skirt that gives a false impression of my backside. Let me tell you the only thing worse than this: wearing a skirt that gives a realistic impression of my backside. Mainly because the picture would be both embarrassing and degrading and also because the skirt would have to be much larger. And I'm not really into those Do-si-Do skirts that people wear when they go to hoe-downs. Seriously, as horrible as those backsides look on that skirt they look a heck of a lot better than what I'm carrying around back there.

2. I checked this out on Snopes.com and I'm sad to say, it isn't true. The skirts WILL NOT be available in the U.S. So don't get your hopes up. On the up side, we can continue to eat what we want and stay in a horizontal position on the couch without people looking at the backs of our skirt and mumbling under their breath, "Oh yeah, right. Sure."

3. I will be moving to Japan later in the year.

4. Let us begin to pray now that they come out with a swimsuit that has Elle McPherson's body imprinted on it. I would be willing to pay $84,000 for this. Anyone with me?

Fat Camp

That is an honest to God google trend word today. Honestly. People somewhere, right now, are googling "fat camp."

I think the gods are trying to tell me something.

__________

Yesterday I put my baby on an airplane. And by my "baby" I am not only talking about the Attorney General but also Remi. The two of them flew to Texas so that the AG could get some work done at what is now his new job, and so Remi could stay with my mom and dad and slowly but surely drive them to drink.

Actually my parents have a week full of fun activities planned for her; Poppie even went so far as to hide plastic snakes in his flowerbed for her to find and Nonie planned an Easter egg hunt just for her! Had she stayed here with me we might have, might have, gone to the Library.

Oh yes, I know. It was a hard decision for her, I'm sure.

But I am here with Rocco and my world couldn't be calmer, quieter or sweeter.

And so yesterday as I was driving away from the airport, at mock speed, for fear she might change her mind and decide to stay the week with me, I heard the song "Your Gonna Miss This" by Trace Adkins.

You're gonna miss this

You're gonna want this back

You're gonna wish these days

Hadn't gone by so fast

You're gonna miss this

So take a good look around

You may not know it now

But you're gonna miss this

And I thought of Remi. And how the terrible 2's have yanked the proverbial carpet from under my feet. They have challenged me and yet strengthened me. Sure, they've made me cry, but they've also made me laugh. And I listened to the words of that song and I thought...

GIVE ME A FREAKIN' BREAK TRACE ADKINS!

And I turned on The Best of the 80's and rocked out to Karma Chameleon.

But then I turned down the radio and put a call into my mom.

"Hello?"

"Take care of my baby this week."

"Ohhh, we're so excited. We have so much planned for her."

"I know, she'll have a blast, but take care of her okay? That's my whole world I just put on that plane."

"Melissa, she is not your whole world."

"Mama, trust me, no matter how many children you have, whichever one just walked out the door is the one that is your whole world at that exact moment."

She assured me she would be safe and that she would have fun.

And I hung up.
And cried.

Harold, Kumar and Cutner

See that title? Means nothing.

Anyhoo...

You know there are really very few joys in life anymore.

I hate to be one of those senior ladies (I am not talking to you, Granny. Everyone knows you are not a senior) who stands up in church and says, "I'd just like to thank Jesus for another day, because every time I turn on the news it's another sad story and I just think this world is coming to an end," and then everyone in the pews beside me and in front of me all shake their heads in both agreement and disgust at the news media and give me a clap as a vivid reminder that they are altogether joined with me in mutual understanding.

But y'all, I would really would like to thank Jesus for another day because seriously, every time I turn on the news it's another sad story and I just think this world is coming to an end.

Oops. I have become the very thing I despise.

The next thing you know my stockings will fall down just below my knees and I'll be in line for the KFC buffet every evening at 4:45PM.

I am creature of habit. And every morning at 7:20, once a bottle is in a mouth and sippy cup of chocolate milk is in two little hands I turn on the TODAY show. I do not watch FOX, I will not change to GOOD MORNING AMERICA and don't even get me started on CBS. I watch Matt and Meridith, I do not agree with half of what they say but they are family now - and just like family I roll my eyes at their musings but am intrigued by their stories.

But every day the stories get worse. First it was the gas prices, then Wall Street, then that paparazzi guy pushed Bernie Madoff and I wasn't sure who I wanted to go up in flames more, then there was that lady and the chimp and the chimps owner who gave it a Vicadin for the love of pete, then another kidnapping, another earthquake, and etc. and etc. and etc.

It's enough to make you enjoy the really really simple things, isn't it?

Take tonight for instance. We were having dinner out when Remi decided she would like some birthday cake. And a birthday song. And a gift or two would be nice.
"But, Remi, it's not your birthday."
"Yes, momma and I need birthday cake."
"Remi, your birthday isn't for a month. We'll eat cake then."
"Momma, just get me cake now. For my birthday. And a song."
"But Remi..."
Insert prince on white horse.
"Excuse me miss, could we have four desserts for the table. It's my little girls birthday."
"Oh, yes sir. I'll be right back."

And just like that the AG orders 4 slices of cake for he and I, Remi and Meridith; and just like that we place her cake in front of her and sing "Happy Birthday" unabashed and unashamed in the middle of a restaurant, to a little girl who still has six weeks to go.

Becuase sometimes a girl just needs a little cake.

And sometimes a song does a world of good.

Today as we were driving home we were bumper to bumper in traffic. It was pouring down rain and we were crawling along. Suddenly we noticed that directly to our left was the littlest black hatchback we'd ever seen, carrying what might have been the biggest driver we'd ever seen. His shoulders must have stretched from one window to the other. But that wasn't what caught our eye. It was the fact that every time traffic stalled he picked up a blue recorder and began to play. My eyes had to be deceiving me - surely he was smoking with some kind of fancy paraphernalia. But nope. He was playing a recorder. (The same kind my best friend Nicole used to play "It's Beginning to Rain" in Sunday night church when we were in 6th grade.)
A blue recorder.
And he played it with pride.
Even as the two imbeciles next to him (that would be us) laughed so hard tears rolled down our cheeks.
Still he played.

He didn't see us laughing. Though I doubt he would have cared. He found joy. Even in the oddest of places. Interstate 65, 5 o'clock traffic and a blue recorder.

See? Little joys.

Sometimes it's cake, sometimes it's a song sung to you by those you love the most, sometimes it's a blue recorder, and sometimes it's just the simple reminder that joy can be found to your left, your right, or right in front of your eyes.

Seen any lately?

Heidi Newfield Is A Troubador From Nantucket

I want this post to mean something, really I do. But that title is rreeeaalllyy not helping. Allow me to explain.

The Attorney General has decided that my blog is really not "up to par" with his expectations. My blog is not generating enough buzz as, say, John Mayers. And my Twitter followers are not as many as Ashton Kutcher (but maybe that's because I haven't twittered since God was a boy.) So I've promised him that I would try and devote as much time to my blog as I do to Golden Girls re-runs (which is quite a lot, I must admit.) He spent 104 hours this weekend trying to convince me that using Google's "hot" trend words in my title would be a good place to start.

I would now like to show you what the Google hot trends words are for today:

Heidi Newfield
Troubador
Kenney Chesney
www.CBS.com
Reba McEntire
There once was a man from Nantucket
Johnny and June

Well, that should be easy.

So here's what I've decided. For the rest of this week I will include hot trend words in my post title, whether they have a blame thing to do with it or not. Most times, they will have absolutely nothing to do with it. But I really want the man to be proud of me because oftentimes when he's proud he brings me home a malt from Marble Slab, and well, I'm a happy camper when that happens. So that explains why this week you will find my post titles rather intriguing. Just wanted to let you know.

But on to Monday's actual dealings:

This weekend was a precious one...

There was a zoo day with two kiddos in monkey hats drinking juice out of beaver bottles, with two parents who thought a family of four looked really good on them.

There were long naps in a very full bed under slow moving ceiling fans.

There were hot baths of Johnson and Johnson Bed-time Bath that make kids smell like tiny miracles and makes sleep come quicker, easier.

There was a date night, a vineyard, a slow meal over Italian food and completely comfortable conversation with my best friend and true love.

There was a wonderful worship service at church with people I love and community like nowhere I've ever known.

It was a wonderful weekend. But today is Monday. It's Monday for me and it's Monday for you, mama. And by mama, I mean you. Yes, you! You right there!

You who woke up today and wondered if this Monday would be as hectic and relentless as last Monday. It's for those of you who woke up on Friday and wondered where in the world your week went and what at all you accomplished. All you who fell into bed each and every night with tired feet and sore legs. Those of you who looked in the mirror and saw scream lines instead of laugh lines. It's for those of you who whispered, "Jesus, please give me strength. Or I shall surely kill this child." Or "I need you now, Lord. NOW!"

Yes, Monday is here. And so it might be a good time to say this prayer together. I'll start:

Lord, today is Monday and Friday seems waaaay too far away.

Won't you help me?

It was you who said in 2 Corinthians,

"My grace is enough for you; for My strength and power are made perfect and show themselves most effective in weakness."

Well, here I am Lord. Show yourself perfect!

Because if there is one thing I am, it is weak.

So do for me (and my kids and my husband, my finances and my heart)

what I cannot do for myself.

Psalms tells me and I know from experience that "my flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the Rock and firm Strength of my heart and my Portion forever."

Your Word reminds us that you give "power to the faint and weary, and to him who has no might He increases strength."

That's me!

I admit my weakness and total dependence on you.

Thank you that today, this Monday, and every morning that I wake up I can most assuredly say that, "In the day when I called, You answered me; and You strengthened me with strength (might and inflexibility to temptation) in my inner self."

You do for me what I cannot do for myself.

I love you.

I serve you.

Now and forever.

Amen.

Remember, if Heidi Newfield is a troubador, then my lovelies, so are you. Happy Monday.

Get Out Your Bibles - This Is Gonna Go Deep.

Obviously that title is what we, in the writing world, call "ironic." Look it up.

This post will not be deep. In fact, there's a good chance it won't even be coherent. Last night here in our neck of the woods we had a storm. And apparently it was a doozie, though I wouldn't know because we tend to sleep through storms. I kid you not. I once woke from one of the best naps of my lifetime to the telephone ringing and my dad screaming, "Baby, are you okay?" Come to find out there were 3 trees down in my yard and my mailbox had been uprooted. And all while I dreamed I was a professional ice skater. It was magical.

So yesterday our storm started getting all ugly and violent about 3 o'clock and lasted until the wee hours, or so I hear. I can't be sure of that because our dinner was on the table by 5pm and we were all fast asleep by 7:00. That's how much we love storms. Even Meridith joined in the festivities, claiming that she felt like she was 80 because she was eating bacon and eggs at 5pm and retiring for the night at 7. But then she decided that it looked very much like a "Forks day" outside and she got all weepy and romantic and drifted into a deep twilight of slumber. (Anyone get that?)

At one point during the storm I decided that walking to my mailbox to get my mail might be a nice idea. No one that was driving by waved at me and my neighbors peered at me through their windows like I was psychotic. I didn't care; there was a good chance my Entertainment magazine was in there and no amount of lightening could stop me. Remi said, "Momma, what are you doing going in the rain? You are gonna get wet. It's raining like puppy dogs." To which Meridith replied, "Just let her Remi, rain does something weird to your momma." I told her to hush and flip the bacon.

My magazine wasn't there by the way. But I was undeterred. Sometimes a girl just needs a good walk in the rain. Clears the head. At least it does for me. I suggest you try it sometime.

So even though I missed the finale of ER (which I wanted to see only on the slightest notion that George might be on there one last time) and although there was no 30 Rock and the Attorney General was not home to put on his pj's at 3 in the afternoon and eat biscuits and gravy with us, and even though Mer and I got the urge to watch The Gilmore Girls but knew no one who had Season 5 on DVD, it was a wonderful evening.

And I am very, very well rested.

Praise Jesus.