Going Out With A Bang.

This New Year's Eve will find me and my sweetie at a swanky, champagne-filled party, where we'll kiss passionately at the stroke of midnight, sing Auld Lang Syne (yes, I do know the words!), dance 'til dawn, then collapse blissfully into a slumber that lasts far into the first full day of our new year. Oh, and my dress? It's a little fuchsia satin & tulle number I found on sale at Saks. I have sassiest gold heels to decorate my feet, as well. Scott will be wearing a tuxedo, and while he'll be devastatingly handsome, we all know a tux is a tux...but a fuchsia dress? Well, that's a force to be reckoned with, my friends.

Sigh...

Yeah, this is the scenario I pray for every single New Year's Eve. I've always longed to dance the night away while sipping the bubbly and eating canapes to my heart's delight. The dream would be complete if Harry Connick, Jr. and Kings of Leon were performing live, for my jitterbugging pleasure.

Alas, the dawn of each new year finds me in bed, wearing sweats, waiting for that big ol' ball in Times Square, lamenting the day Ryan Seacrest began co-hosting New Year's Rockin' Eve & wondering why Fergie, Fall Out Boy, and Rihanna have to lip sync their "special performances." Dick Clark, I'll love you until the day I die. Inspite of all this.

We may not have spectacular plans for Wednesday night, but I do have a spectacular playlist for 2009. In my head I'll be whirling and twirling to these tunes. In the dress & heels. Because grown-ups can pretend too, you know.

Happy 2009, everybody!!!!


*OK, so Blogger refuses to cooperate with my playlist. Sorry. Here's the rundown--and the list, which I wanted front and center, is over there on the right. Good times.

"Be Gentle With Me"--The Boy Least Likely To
"Creator"--Santogold
"Got To Be Real"--Cheryl Lynn
"Sex On Fire"--Kings of Leon
"Live Your Life"--TI, featuring Rihanna
"Ice Cream"--New Young Pony Club
"Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"--Michael Jackson
"Shake It"--Metro Station
"Mercy"--Duffy
"Superbad"--James Brown
"Nite Runner"--Duran Duran featuring Justin Timberlake
"Untouchable"--Luna Halo
"Atomic"--Blondie
"The Way You Move"--Outkast
"Flourescent Adolescence"--Arctic Monkeys
"What Are You Doing New Year's Eve"--Harry Connick, Jr.
"Auld Lang Syne"--Pushmonkey

Rubble.

Empty boxes.
Scraps of wrapping paper.
Torn ribbons.
Plastic packaging.
Gift bags to save.
Gift bags to toss.
Polly Pocket, Littlest Pet Shop, Ponyville, Tinkerbell & her fairies, Barbie & her entourage...
Candy wrappers.
A Marble Maze Set--with 45 pieces!
Pretend food from McDonalds.
Real food from McDonalds.
Half-eaten candy canes.
A missing Sephora gift card. (Wince!)
Duplicate "Let's Go Fishing" games.
One fuzzy pink slipper in the kitchen, the other...who knows where?
Green slime. (Thanks, Aunt Mandy. Yeah, really.)
Empty glasses of much-needed adult "grape juice."
A newly watched copy of Jason Statham's "Death Race" on Blu-Ray. (Amen.)


Amidst all the chaos and rubble and wasteland that is my home's current state, I bid you "Happy Final Monday of 2008!" Please, y'all...please...tell me your homes are disaster areas, too. It will make me feel better and we can console each other through these trying, messy times. These trying, messy times known as the house's holiday hangover.

Seriously, my home is one heartbeat away from being a bad country song. I can hear Dolly warbling now..."Oh, if this house don't get a cleanin' soon, I'm gonna start drinkin' way before noon..."

For real.

I now have to clean...and sort...and divide...and conquer. Wish me luck, please. And send reinforcements, if possible. There's talk of truffles and lattes after this joint gets straightened out. YES!

What It Means To Me.

Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart Whose blood will save us
Unto us is born
Unto us is born
So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Perfect Son of God
Welcome to our world...
--from "Welcome to Our World," by Chris Rice


Merry Christmas, y'all!
With love,
Lula...along with Scott, Libbey, and Caroline, too!

An Explanation.

I have a post that is long overdue. Some very sweet, thoughtful, fabulous, and really gorgeous bloggy pals have sent me very sweet, thoughtful, fabulous, and really gorgeous stuff over the past week and a half. In a random encounter at the mall last week I actually met a bloggy pal in real life! So much goodness!!!

I must tell you about all of this. I need to tell you about all of this.

Instead, I am spending my evening without my children, who are currently getting their way over at Memaw and Papaw Bill's house tonight. They'll bunk with Kristi, who--at the ripe old age of 19--will probably let them stay up all hours, and feed them M&Ms and Coke mere seconds before bedtime. And this is OK. My girls love their "adopted" grandparents and "big sister," so who am I to keep them from an evening of revelry?

Since my girls aren't here, my husband has made a request for the evening. I must go and be a good wife now.

Let's keep those thoughts pure, my dears. We have 2 hours left in Return of the King, and he can blast his subwoofers and tweeters and whatevers as loud as he wants, since we are sans children. These are the big plans for the night.

And Seriously? An evening snuggled up with my man, while watching Aragorn, is just what I need. It's my Christmas gift to myself.

The important, pertinent blog stuff will have to wait. Y'all understand, right?

Thanks and much love.
XOXO

In Excelsis Deo.

Scott came home with a fancy, shmancy new camera a couple of weeks ago and we've been waiting for the perfect moment to break it in. Our moment arrived.

Last night was our church's Christmas pageant. Libbey was an angel. A bright, beautiful angel, adorned in a flowing white robe, gossamer wings, and a sparkling silver halo. You would have thought the child was making her Broadway debut the way I fervently snapped 50 pictures in a span of about 3 and one half minutes. (An easy accomplishment because of the new camera--I felt like a member of the paparazzi, wildly clicking away.) Scott, sitting next to me, steadily held the camcorder, zooming in and out on our gorgeous angel's face.

The grand finale of the performance was a rocking rendition of Joy to the World, complete with hand and arm motions and a thumping bass line. I captured all of this on camera, live and in action, with every intention of showcasing our little star's big night on stage...er, pulpit. Perfect blog fodder for the holidays, right? And seriously y'all...she was adorable...throwing her arms in the air, singing about Jesus, smiling for the audience, acting a bit nervous, and just being her precious self.

Please allow me to share a picture from last night, as I was a very proud mama:

Um. Yeah.

New camera+not reading instructions=the deletion of all 57 photos.

I'm still not over it. It's gonna take some time. Please bear with me.

I did manage to get a picture of her last evening...after the halo and wings had been stored away until next year. She still looks pretty angelic, I have to say. I love her more than my own life.

Flashback Friday!!! Oh Yeah, And A Winner, Too!

Nobody does it better than the fellas at the Chop Suey Palace!
Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-rah!

Ready for your Christmas Peking duck??? I rove this scene.

I know...you really want to know the deal. Who is getting their very own copy of Love Actually, as well as a Starbucks giftcard?

Random Generator, do your thing, please:

Here are your random numbers:
50
Timestamp: 2008-12-19 05:05:30 UTC

Number 50...number 50...who are you? It's Kristen, of Dancing in the Margins!!!! Wooooooooooo! Hooray! (And a big cheer also goes out to Kristen because she just finished The Hunger Games...and loved it, of course! Peeps--go read The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins--you won't be disappointed.) The movie and Starbucks giftcard are on their way to you, my friend.

Happy weekend, y'all...less than a week 'til Christmas!

For Christmas, Actually...

I love the holiday film classics and have already watched Home Alone 1 & 2 (with my beloved Tim Curry, of course!), Christmas Vacation, White Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, and It's A Wonderful Life this month.

OK, some more than once. Alright...some more than twice.

Usually classified as a romantic comedy, one movie in particular is a favorite of mine this time of year. The entire film takes place during the month of December. And I adore it. Some of my favorite actors--most of whom are Brits--are in this particular flick, too. Jennifer P.--I thought of you while viewing this and you know why. Yeah, he's in it.

I watched this for the zillionth time just the other day and thought of y'all. Yes, you bloggy people that I enjoy tremendously. And I had an epiphany: Wow--I need to give this away on my blog. So here I am...giving it away...just in time for Christmas, too.

While I'm at it, I'm thinking someone needs a $20 giftcard to Starbucks. Yes, you do. Merry Christmas from me.

A great, warm & fuzzy movie* (with the requisite dramatic and tearful moments, of course) and some fabulous Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate from the 'Bucks. Or whatever you desire to order...but that hot chocolate is hard to beat, I'm telling you. So comment away--and I'll choose a winner on Friday.

I so love Hugh Grant...especially when he gets down with his bad self. You must watch him.


*p.s. Necessary Disclaimer: Love Actually has nudity in it--if that kind of thing offends you, then you might not enjoy this film. But it's funny nudity...seriously...I wouldn't steer you wrong. Promise.

Please Don't Tell Paula.

OPEN MEMO TO THOSE WHO DINED AT MT. CARMEL BAPTIST CHURCH, SUNDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 14:


I am very sorry if tiny pieces of plastic were ingested whilst enjoying delicious corn casserole. Pretend it was really opaque onion. Not the wrapper which contained the frozen creamed corn.



Let's not speak of this again, please.



Signed,

THE PERSON WHO MADE THE CORN CASSEROLE AND FOUND A SMALL PIECE OF PLASTIC IN THE LEFTOVERS.

(I'm not saying it was me...I'm just sayin'.)

730 Days.

Dear Favorite Aunt,

When I first heard Kanye West's "Love Lockdown" last month, I picked up the phone to call you, because I knew you'd love it.

After I finished reading Eclipse I couldn't stop thinking, "Call Aunt Doris and tell her she has to go get all three books..."

This past summer Libbey told me, "I love shoes and jewelry...do you think I got that from Aunt Doris?" Well of course she did...she's your Mini-Me. Jewelry, shoes, make-up...and an appreciation for nightgowns. Style is inherited, indeed.

Scott tells the "Sha-theed" joke every other month or so, always giving you the credit for that bit of hilarity. He maintains it will forever go down as your finest moment.

On the other hand, I'm certain your finest moment was the time you asked for a dime...because the vending machine read "Correct Change," and you had "only two nickles."

Or maybe it was the time I phoned to tell you that I'd broken up with Matthew McConaughey, in favor of Jason Statham. You didn't ask why, nor question my motives. Instead you replied, "Well, I heard he doesn't wear deodorant--he ain't gonna get any sugar--or much else--if he stinks." You then promised to rewatch The Italian Job in support of my new man, while reminding me no one would ever take Richard Gere's place in your heart, and that Looking For Mr. Goodbar was his finest moment.

Last month Caroline asked, "Where is Aunt Doris?" The tears welled as I reminded her, "In heaven."

Because you certainly are...in Heaven...where you belong. And although today marks two years since I've had you with me on this earth, it still feels as if a mere two days have passed.

I miss you. We all miss you. We all love you. You'll always be my favorite aunt...
xoxo,
Leigh

Doris Jean Vincent Raley, March 5, 1932--December 16, 2006.

Happy Bits.

I feel the need to share with y'all the things that are making my life happy this holiday season.

*Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate at Starbucks.

It's nirvana in a cup. A little, cozy mini-vacation, if you will. Liquid dessert. For real.

*I'm obsessed with scarves. If I'm wearing a sweater and gloves and it's above 20 degrees, I need no coat if my neck is warm. This is my latest and most favoritest:

Black and pink houndstooth, y'all. It's so sassy, yet so Sherlock Holmesesque...which is so ME!

*I cannot walk past the red kettle without making a donation. It's not Christmas until I hear the ringing bell:


*Some call 'em ugly. Others call 'em overpriced. I agree for the most part. Yet still I wear my Uggs with pride, combined with extreme warmth and comfort. It's all for the good of my feet...and if my footsies are happy, all seems right with the world.

*I'm not very picky about Christmas music...my tastes are wide and varied, but there are some songs that should not be messed with. As in do not even think of remaking them. Or go ahead and do what you will, musicians and vocalists of the world...just don't expect me to listen. These three songs are the definitive versions for me. Please, do not mess with 'em.
"The Christmas Song"--Nat King Cole
"It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year"--Andy Williams
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"--Judy Garland
{Coincidentally, Judy's version of "Have Yourself..." is the original, and is from the movie Meet Me In St. Louis, which is my 2nd most favorite movie in the world. }

Throw in some Vince Guaraldi Trio (the soundtrack to Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!), Kurt Bestor's instrumental version of "What Child Is This?" (go on iTunes and look it up--it's been one of my faves since high school) and Harry Connick Jr.'s "O Holy Night," and I'm happily ensconsed in my comfort coma. I need to stay there for two more weeks, please.

Now it's your turn...what are your "happy bits" this season? What comprises your comfort coma? Please share. I want to rejoice with you.

Flashback Friday--Christmas Edition!

Christmas 1975.

Yes, it's me...a few days after my first birthday, in fact.

Look at how Mama purposely hung those foam-covered, silk-wrapped ornaments on the bottom branches of the tree! She must have really loved me, 'cause here's proof that I was all up in the business of redecorating this faux evergreen.

Because if my girls get within two feet of our 10-foot living room tree, I'm throw a fit bigger than a backstage pageant mom who discovers her little star's gossamer teal dress is not a one-of-a-kind original, as promised by Miss Dolly at the Lil' Missy's Shop of Pageant Goods & Sundries. Lest y'all think I'm hateful about this scenario, rest assured each child has her very own tree in her very own room. Caroline's has unbreakable ornaments, of course. Did you even have to ask?

Happy weekend, y'all!

All Is Calm, All Is Bright...

Dear Mrs. Sherry,
I love you. I love that you are the Children's Programmer at our local public library. I love that you love my children, particularly Caroline. I love that you come up with all kinds of fun field trips for my three year old. You know, like decorating a tree...in the rain...at the park...with Santa...and 10 other three year olds. Yeah, good times.

Until Santa tries to hug Caroline. Dude, you're messin' with the wrong child.

She'll show you. She'll show you how to pout, that is.

She'll also show you how she refuses to decorate the tree. Yes, she will. And yet she is rather cute in her refusal.

Mrs. Sherry to the rescue! Wow, Caroline is capable of smiling!

So thank you, Sherry Myers, for being such a light in the life of my daughter. Especially at Christmas. Especially when I roll my eyes a lot and have to remind everyone within earshot, "She is nothing like Libbey, clearly." Especially when she's in one of her moods...or crying...or pouting...or in one of her moods. And especially when I'm in one of my moods.

Oh, and just so everyone knows...the picture below is the ornament Caroline refused to hang on the tree. It has but one word written upon it. One very appropriate word: Hallelujah and Amen. It's my grown-up Christmas wish.

My Secret Weapon.

My Christmas gift to you--a recipe that I very rarely share, because I'm stubborn and like to keep all the good ones for myself. But not this year, as I'm feeling very generous and of much good cheer. And because I love y'all a whole lot.

Make a Smilebox postcard

(This one's from my "aunt who's not my aunt," Pat Smith, of Meridian, Mississippi. She's not only one of the finest ladies God ever created, but also the best cook in the wide world. I love you, Pat...thanks for being my family!)

43 And Counting.

Guess what's arriving in my happy little mailbox today?

Yes, I have all the episodes stored on my DVR. What of it? I want the official boxed set. I need the official boxed set. It's my birthday gift to myself. (Indeed, my birthday is stretched out for pretty much the entire month of December. Just giving y'all advanced warning.) See where it says "The Expanded Experience?" I'm all over that, people...all over each second of it. Besides, all those behind-the-scenes bits of deliciousness are worth every penny. And hello...Saywer...shirtless.

I rest my case.
(Congrats, Josh Holloway--he's gonna be a daddy, y'all. But I digress...)

I've been waiting for my show to return since the end of May. THE END OF MAY! I cannot stress how depressing this is. I curl into the fetal position every night and pray, "God, help me through this...You've taught me to wait, You've given me patience...I've held fast. Please give me solace and redemption, in Jesus' Name. Amen."

I'm not kidding. I'll say this now, so that I don't have to mention it again: I do not joke when it comes to Lost. It's a Very Big Deal and Very Serious Business to me.

Have I frightened you away? Or are my fellow Lost-lovers joining this calvary of Lost craziness?

Finally, here's the new promo picture for Season 5. The islanders, as we've never seen them:
Seriously, I get chills every time I look at this. Dang, Juilet is smoking hot, eh? And I must have Sun's boots. Thank you, Kristen, for sending this to me over the weekend. You are the truest of friends. My love for you runs deep and wide, and could very well be categorized as obscene. I'll prove it to you when we're in London. At the pub. With Robert. And his trumpet. Ahem.

*Happy Tuesday, everybody! Go watch Lost!!!

Therapy & Barbie.

Are y'all wrappers? I love to wrap Christmas gifts. I mean really wrap...I only use the occasional gift bag and that's simply when an item is all funky-shaped or is so large it requires an entire roll of paper. I ain't wasting my carefully selected and color-coordinated wrapping paper, folks.

So I wrap. I get all comfy cozy in my pajamas, pop in a Christmas DVD, have my coffee within reach, and spend hours making my gifts look fabulous. It's truly therapy for me. It's not a chore, nor do I begrudge having to do it. I look forward to several marathon gift wrapping sessions each December.

On Saturday, while the snow fell, I sat on the floor and wrapped--in my pajamas!--for about 5 hours. I laughed my way through my 146th viewing of Christmas Vacation, ("That there's an RV!"), Miracle On 34th Street (I still cry when Santa speaks to the little Dutch girl in her familiar language--and then they sing together! Oh, it gets me every time!), and one of my all-time favorite movies ever, White Christmas. I adore Bing Crosby & Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney is one of the greatest vocalists in the history of recorded sound.

But my favorite part of White Christmas? Fawning over Vera-Ellen's Barbie-ish figure and glorious dancing abilities. Seriously, was her waist even 17-inches? When I was a little girl I realized Vera-Ellen was the closest thing I'd ever seen to a human being having Barbie's enviable figure...long, slender-but-shapely legs, that minuscule waist, perky boobs, and blonde hair. She. Rocks. My. World.

For those of you unfamiliar (and why are you unfamiliar with White Christmas, may I ask? It's stinking magnificent, people!), you must watch this short clip:

Oh wow, could she ever tear up the dance floor! I love watching this. It makes me feel so good about myself...while I wrap...with the snow blanketing my world...in my jammies...watching Christmas movies...and real, live Barbie dolls. Vintage Barbie, at that. Seriously y'all, it's therapy at its finest.

Good times.

Flashback Friday!

The Truthful message of one little cartoon continues to shine each holiday season. I appreciate the reminder, and I'm thankful network television still has the courage to air this every December, in its entirety.

"That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown." Indeed, Linus...indeed.

p.s. Thanks ever so much for all the birthday love yesterday...I dig y'all with every fiber of my newly aged 34th year self! I was pretty absent from the blogging world...'cause I was eating nachos for lunch...and supper...and at bedtime. Now I'm full and will be making the rounds all weekend. Y'all have a good one!

Coming Clean.

For the past thirty-three years I've been called a lot of things. Things like:
Stuck-up
Bitch
Whiner
Complainer
High-maintenance
Drama Queen
Dumbass
Liar
Manipulator
Ugly
Loser
At one point or another I'll admit these were correct assessments of my character. In every criticism there is a bit of truth, or so my friend, Lane Sanders, told me many years ago.

I've also been the recipient of a few niceties, as well. Such as:
Friendly
Warm
Outgoing
Beautiful
Kind
Fabulous
Down-to-earth
Funny
Loving
Intelligent
I have a hard time accepting compliments because I tend to ignore any favorable press bestowed upon me. Compliments from my husband and two daughters are freely given and easily accepted, though. I'm thankful for this.

I've had a lot of labels thrust upon me for 407 months. By nature of humanity, I'll wear many of these titles over and over again. The good, the bad, and the ugly. By nature of Divinity, though, I have the ability to shrug off the ugly and bad, and accept the good with grace.

Today I begin my thirty-forth year on this earth, and the label I most identify with is child. God's child. I choose to start my new year by coming clean, receiving new mercies, learning from mistakes, and seeking Him as I move forward. It's a journey, y'all...and I thank each of you for being on this crazy trip with me!

And this is what I'll be singing/praying all day long...it is the cry of my heart...

When the best of my intentions
Won't reach for their potential
And the language of love
Hesitates to leave my tongue
I tire of trying to translate
What I am to what should be
No, the inside of this stained-glass cup
Never really does seem to come clean
So I stake out my pretenses
And keep washing white these fences
But the colors underneath them
Keep showing through again
I tire of trying to translate
What I know to what I do
Won't You scrub this dusty window, Lord
Let Your light get through
When I come to You, I come clean
Can't pretend to any good in me
Wash me in Your love, I come clean...
--from "Come Clean" by Scott & Christine Dente

p.s. This matters to no one but me...but I've waited all my life to be thirty-four. 34! It's my favorite number...my hero wore it many years ago, tearing up the field, winning the Heisman, bringing pride statewide. I love you, Herschel Walker. I will wear your number proudly for the next 365 days.

Seventy-Six Trombones.

Every time I enter Walmart, Belk, Best Buy, or pretty much any store with the security sensors at the entrance/exit, the store alarm goes off. Regardless of whether I have my keys, cell, excessive bling, or whatnot. Regardless of whether I've stashed stolen goods in my purse. Just checking to see if y'all are really reading. My favorite Walmart greeter, Herschel, says it's because I have a heart of gold. Aw. Thanks, Mr. Herschel. Clearly he doesn't know me very well.
I digress.

Last night as I entered Hellmart (ahem!), the blaring nuisance announced my presence, as per usual. I barely glanced at the greeter behind me, but said offhandedly, "Yep, it's me. I'm here!"

And as per usual, the second I passed through those same sensors while exiting Hellmart, the blaring nuisance started up once again. Seriously, it's my superstore anthem. President Bush has "Hail to the Chief." I have "Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep!"

This time the greeter hurried over to me. A greeter I'd never seen before. I launch into my prepared speech: "It's just me...they go off all the time when I walk through..." He pokes and prods through my purchases, asking, "Did you buy any DVDs? CDs? Video games?" Of course not. It's just me!

He then inquires about my sweatshirt. "So, are you a Georgia fan?" Why yes--it's the reason I'm wearing this red hoodie, "GEORGIA" emblazoned across my chest. Mr. Greeter then asks, "You are so familiar. Where do I know you? What's your name?" I'm very polite in my response...."I'm Leigh Anne Litton. I'm in here twice a week, or maybe you know my husband, Scott." I wait for the obligatory, "Oh yeah--he's my doctor," or "I know Scott Sr." because I hear both of these statements at least once a week, from various lifelong residents of this little mountain town.

But Mr. Greeter gets all sparkly-eyed with recognition and says:
Wait a minute...you're the one who sets off the sensors every time! Yeah, that's where I know you from! Man, oh man! Do you have a...you know...well, any metal in you anywhere?"

Kid. You. Not. Dude went there. He certainly did.

I refer Mr. Greeter to Herschel--and his assessment of my heart of gold. And then I ran from Hellmart, practically channeling Dale Earnhardt, Jr. with my cart speed. Scott would be so proud!

My fame has proceeded me, y'all. In Walmart. With the greeters and the alarm system. I cannot make this stuff up.

{I couldn't resist. }

Read This, Then Read Below, Please!

Merry SITSmas, y'all! Did you know I'm am honorary Cullen family member? Yep. I am. I have proof.

But first, head on over to The Secret is in the Sauce and join in the fun with me and my fellow SITStas. If you're not on the SITS bandwagon, what are you waiting for? Christmastime is here...spread some cheer! Oh, and there's free stuff involved. All I'm gonna say is: Sephora Giftcard. (Seriously, I just heard the angels rejoice. Amen.)

And now...click on the image in the post directly below this one...it's of me and some of my family members. Dancing the Charleston. Blogger wouldn't let me edit, hence the reason for two separate posts.

OK, go now...please...and make merry!

Merry SITSmas, Y'all!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

An Edict...

...just in time for the holidays...

Had I known this day was coming I'd have taken more time to prepare. Or prepare as much as possible for the inevitable, that is. I (wrongly) assumed this discussion was still a few years down the road. Nope. Not my child. My she's-not-even-seven-years-old-yet child.

Libbey: Mommy, I can't wear these big, high panties anymore.

Me: (looking at her pink Hanna Andersson panties, i.e. the best underwear in the world)
What do you mean, "big, high panties?"

Libbey: Well, they stick out of my jeans when they're high like this. I just want to wear my Jolly Roger ones from Old Navy. And I don't want to wear this big kind anymore. Or Gymboree clothes, because they're for little girls...you know?

Me: But those pink ones are so comfortable! I love comfortable panties. (So true!)

Libbey: Well, they are comfortable...but they just don't look very cute on my body.


And scene.


This past weekend I found 23 new gray hairs. Nothing surprises me anymore. Sigh...

I Am Thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all! Enjoy these next four days with your family and friends. I pray blessings over each of you!
XOXO,
Lula

"We give thanks to You, O God,
we give thanks, for Your Name is near;
men tell of Your wonderful deeds. "
--Psalm 75:1

The One Where It Gets Permanent

I'm going to tell a little story...she won't remember it. Because she never remembers anything, and really, I take my job as historian of our high school/early college memories very seriously.

Fifteen years ago I walked into a tattoo parlor with my friend Kelly (and our other friend Kelly--they were the number 3 and 4 graduates in our class, respectively. I threw that out there because I think y'all need to know that I have always made it a point to befriend the brilliant folks...I include each of you in this category, just so you know.) and watched as she inked her ankle with a little infinity symbol. I remember thinking, "Before I die, I will get a tattoo." It didn't happen at that moment because we were eighteen and I feared the wrath of my parents. But I knew...I knew the day of reckoning would eventually arrive and I'd never again be able to say, "I am ink free." It was on my list of life goals.

I achieved that goal. I got my tattoo this past Saturday, in California.

Here's me baring boo-tay for Randy, the tattoo artist:

Tattooed Minivan Mom took the pictures...in fact, Randy is her tattoo artist of choice, so I was in good hands. And he had really good hands because I barely felt a thing. I promise y'all, I kept saying, "Um, when's it gonna hurt?" I'm not a masochist or anything, but I was really wanting to feel some pain. I didn't. Sigh...

I would also like to point out that Randy's hands gave me a little rubdown once he finished the job. I joked, "Dude, should we smoke a cigarette now or something? It seems appropriate." It's a wonder he didn't run screaming from the shop. Instead he gave me a big ol' hug. I guess he figured it was the right thing to do, since he'd seen crack and all.

The entire process took about twenty minutes. Here's the end result:

It's little...it's rebellious...it's sweet...it's ME! You can't really see in this picture, but Lu's sockets have eyelashes. Tell me that's not the coolest. 'Cause it is.

Oh yes, I named my tat. Because Tiffany usually shortens "Lula" to "Lu," and I just love that. I love her. She unknowingly named my pink-bowed jolly roger. It makes me happy.

Of course now I want another one. There's been talk of additional inkage with these two girls. We'll let y'all know if it comes to fruition.

Finally, I have to tell y'all the two best comments I've received in regards to my newly tattooed self. My 31 year old brother, Eric, texted, "Dude, now you are a thug!" Yay--that was the goal all along, of course.

And my precious 3 year old Caroline, who squealed upon seeing it, "Mommy--that's a PIRATE!" Yes, my baby love...it is a pirate. Just like your mother.

The One Where We Partake of the Grapes, Win Friends, and Influence People.

If you're familiar with even the tiniest bit of the fandom that is Twilight, then you're aware that whenever this handsome man so much as shrugs his shoulders, grown women faint, little girls cry, and even heterosexual men stop and take notice. All he has to utter is a simple, "Um..." and the resulting screams reverberate around the world. Until this past weekend I found this phenomenon rather bewildering. I mean, I love me some Robert Pattinson (he is altogether delicious, but no replacement for my boyfriend, Jason!), but mass hysteria for one man alone? Well, OK. And then I went to SoCal with Heather and Tiffany.

I now understand what Rob must feel when swarmed by fans...demanding pictures, thrusting for autographs, screaming his name. Because seriously...we three girls got this our entire weekend. Kid you not. We felt so famous...all we had to say was, "We are bloggers," and folks lost their minds...demanding pictures, thrusting for autographs, screaming our names. OK, maybe there was no screaming, but there were many requests for our blog addresses...and pictures too numerous to count. For real, y'all. We've decided we roll well in the fast lane of fame. And that's always good to know. In advance. I'm just sayin'.

Here's Tiffany eating the best Mexican food on the planet. She's all, "Wait while I savor this bite..." And scene.

I'm convinced that should Heather ever record a CD of any kind, this right here should be the album cover. It's so blingy...so mysterious...so sexy. It makes me want to kiss her. Again.

Have you ever toured four wineries in one day? Eaten a fabulously prepared picnic lunch on the grounds of a gorgeous vineyard? Consumed two bottles of wine--apiece--in mere hours? If you answer "no" to any of these questions, I highly recommend you take measures to amend this situation. Because it is a good time. Indeed.

Sometimes, for just the sheer joy of it, one must cup clusters of grapes growing on the vine. And have that moment photographed for all eternity.

In that same vein, sometimes, merely for rapturous joy, you must drink chocolate port in a dark chocolate, edible cup, with a little bit of champagne splashed on top. Oh. My. Head. Fantastic!

And while enjoying the various wineries, you must befriend the coolest gals on the tour bus. Because then you are guaranteed many more laughs than you thought possible...and it's always nice to have new BFFs. Especially when you ask these new BFFs, "Hey, wanna eat Mexican with us tonight?" and they're all, "Word!" Then they show up at Rosa's (the best Mexican food on the planet--did I mention that already?) and see what you've ordered and remark, "Oh, I have died and gone to Heaven. Amen!" If we didn't know it before that moment, we knew it when we supped together. Amy, Tonda, and Sharon...y'all were so fun...when are we planning our next vacation?

My final Heather, Lula, and Tiffany In California installment is tomorrow. Someone got a tattoo on this trip. I'm not saying whom and I'm not saying where the ink was placed. You just gotta come back to find out, is all.

p.s. Yesterday's picture? With the Filipino Fellas? Please...they are totally our new boyfriends. Did you even have to ask?

The One With Our Fabulousness & The Movie.

Because it was an event of Biblical proportions, Tiffany, Heather, and I had to be together. Even though I was sick. Even though my plans were changed 67 times. Even though it required a cross-country trip. It meant that much to us. After all, we were brought together earlier in the year by Twilight. Did y'all know that? I'll save that story for another post. It's worthy.

Just as we are worthy...look how fabulous we are:

After consuming large quantities of the best Mexican food I've ever had in my life (Carne Asada Nachos, people...and fresh pico de gallo...Oh. My. Head.), we did a little window shopping. And because we love her, took this homage to our gal Rhea:

(I didn't mean to be all Minnie Pearl with the tag hanging out, but you get the gesture.)

Then it was time to head to the movie. While in line we met the sweetest gals...discovered one of 'em was a blogger...and became BFFs, all before the credits rolled. This, my friends, is the joy of Twilight. It brings people together. Yes, it does.

That's Casey next to Heather...go read her blog. She is awesome, y'all. Plus she deserves mad props and major awards for sitting next to us for two hours.

And then the movie began. It was an emotional roller coaster for us. Did I mention we had Tattooed Minivan Mom with us, too? She declined photographs. And we respect that because we love her.

Back to the movie. For two hours there was much hand holding...seat shifting...sighs of delight...sighs of incredulity...declarations of intent to flee the theater...declarations of lust for Edward's lipstain...declarations of lust for Edward...a few "that's hot!" shoutouts...a few "Oh, dear!" summations...more seat shifting, more hand holding, more sighs, more groans. And then it was over. I also took this picture and endured much scolding from the person on my right. I stand by my decision to preserve this moment for posterity. And for blog fodder.
Seriously, Robert Pattinson has the most gorgeous hands I've ever seen. But I digress...

My dear friend, Kristen, summed up her feelings for the movie when my words failed me: "The first few scenes were so painful, had I remembered to bring my sackcloth I would've donned it right then and there." Oh, Kristen...my love, my hero...you are correct. You hit that nail on the head, precisely. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth the first half hour of this feature film. But since I'm tired of dwelling on the lows, I'll mention a few highlights...things that did make me happy:

*Carlisle turning Edward? Hot. I said it outloud, too.

*Jasper twirling a baseball bat? Hot. I said it outloud, too.

*The kiss? Hot. I said it outloud, too.

*Edward's ruby red lips? Hot. I must have that shade for my own.

*Emmett? Hot. I may have said it outloud, but I'm not sure. But I am certain of my Team Emmett status. Amen.

*Yes, that was my pole song as the soundtrack to the baseball scene. A big high-five goes out to Jennifer P. for thinking of me during this moment. I love you in ways that are kind of obscene, my friend.

*Pretty much anything from the baseball scene 'til the end was enjoyable for me. Before that? Not so much. I refuse to say more, lest I get all fidgety and flummoxed again. It's taken me a few days to get past my disappointment.

Moving on...

Tomorrow I'll regale y'all with more stories of Tiffany, Heather, and Lula In California, as well as the meaning behind this picture:
These fellas may or may not be our new boyfriends. I'll let you ponder...

The Twenty-First of November.

15.
15 Months.
15 Long Months.

The wait is over.


I will say no more. Because I might start crying. Yeah...

Go see the movie.
Happy weekend, y'all!

*Edited on November 22 to add:
Saw the movie. All I'm gonna say is, "Eh." Still...go see it, but only if you've read the book. If you haven't...sigh...it's a train wreck. (Rob, I still love you, honey--you did a good job.) Come back on Monday to read about my I'm going to California to see the movie/I'm not going to California to see the movie due to being sick/I was drug to California, still partially sick, to see the movie and ended up having a BLAST while coughing the entire time story. There are other bloggers involved in this tale. I have the pictures to prove it.

In Which I Sever All Ties to Her Franchise.

A Prelude To This Post
So I have been sick this past week. Very sick. So sick that my husband-who-never-takes-me-seriously-when-I'm-ill rushed me to the hospital last Saturday morning. I truly thought I was going to die, because I usually have to be bleeding from my eyeballs or barfing a lung before he'll even cast a cursory glance in my direction. (For the record--physicians aren't known for their bedside manner--when it comes to their family members, that is. That's all I'm saying. And I love you, Scott...thanks for being my doctor.)

A bojillion pills (seemingly), hours of sleep, and 6 days later I can now say that I am...not better. Not 100% that is, but I'm getting there. I've missed blogging...reading blogs...and keeping up with all of you. I feel detached, but give me a few days and I'll be back to normal. Keep in mind that normal is a relative term where I'm concerned. Sigh...

{And an enormous thanks to all of you who checked in on me these past few days--I felt so loved, and I mean that in a completely non-cheesy kind of way. Y'all are so hardcore. Thanks!}

Onto what I really want to share with y'all.
Last Friday I announced that my boyfriend (Jason Statham, for those of you unaware) would be appearing on The Tonight Show. I DVRed it, of course, and finally sat down to watch on Monday evening, positive it would be the medicine I needed to boost my pathetically weak immune system. I just knew it would make me feel better.

I was wrong.

It started off well...Jason comes out looking delicious in a chocolate brown suit, smiling and just being his glorious self. (Hi, honey--yes, I am loving you all the way over here in Virginia. We'll chat soon, wink-wink.) Jay Leno rants and raves about how much he loves the Transporter flicks, how he digs Jason and is a big fan, and I'm all, "Yeah, Jay--rack 'em up, baby--rack 'em up--you're adding cool points by the minute."

While I'm watching I keep noticing the guest sitting to Jason's right...the one who was on before him...and I'm thinking, "She needs to scoot it on over and get out of his personal space." Because her hair and her arms are all up in the screen. See there, in the far left? I mean, yeah...I know how you operate, Sister...I get your game...I know you want to be close to his essence, breathing the same air, attempting surreptitious whiffs of his scent...I get it. I totally do. You are all in his Kool-Aid and you sure don't know the flavor. Then she had to go and do this:

Oh, she did NOT grab his arm. Oh, but she did.

Shameless hussy.

You don't get the best of both worlds, Miley Montana. You are 16. He is 36. Even if we ignore the age issue there is the simple fact of the matter that he is my man. M-I-N-E.

I literally had to stop watching.

And then I got all riled up and darn if it didn't make me feel worse. He was my medicine, she was another strain of disease.

It's gonna take a few more days for me to get over this. Bear with me y'all...I'll keep busy by making dust rags out of Libbey's Hannah Blah-bana t-shirts & pajamas. Oh, and that poster hanging on the back of the playroom door? Yeah, we now have a new target for darts. I'm just sayin'.

Doctor's Note

Please excuse Lula from blogging today. She has been sick all weekend and needs more time to recuperate. Rest assured she misses all of you, and knowing her as I do, she will probably sneak and get on her computer sometime today. Lula can be naughty like that. I oughtta know!
Signed,
Dr. Litton, also known as "Mr. Lula"

Flasback Friday!

Really this is more of a not-too-Far Back, instead of a true Flashback, but still...I couldn't resist. The fabulous Tonggu Momma sent this little ditty to me and I told her, "Oh, girl...that is going up on Lulaville!" Because I love all of you and think you need to enjoy every second of this:

You must watch at 0:42--it's the best part.

Before the hating starts, let me emphatically state: I am a fan of the HSM movies. I am a fan of Zac Efron and yes, I'm glad he's now 21. Just sayin'.

It's all in good fun...we need good fun, don't we? Yes, we do.
Happy weekend, y'all!

p.s. Thanks again, Tonggu Momma--you've made my weekend!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*I would be remiss if I didn't inform y'all that my boyfriend will be on Jay Leno tonight.

You're welcome.

When Laundry Leads To Luxury...Or Not.

Today I was ironing pillowcases and thinking about the time years ago when Oprah casually mentioned on her show, "There is nothing better than freshly ironed pillowcases..." And at that moment I said to myself, "Are you kidding me? Oh wait, you're Oprah." Or Oprahdiculous, as I've renamed the woman.

Now stop for a minute. Before y'all utter "Why is Lula ironing pillowcases?" I will confess to leaving the sheets in the dryer for 2 days. They crumpled in the claustrophobia. My parents are coming soon and the guest bed needs clean sheets. These were rendered withered beyond repair and I didn't want my folks getting huge creases on their faces. I'm a good daughter.

Anyway, I'm standing there pressing pillowcases, thinking of Oprah and her starched and creased 25,000 thread count beauties, and dreaming of living so lavishly that I could have freshly laundered sheets. Every day. Every single day. Of my life.

Then I started imagining what it'd be like if every day were clean sheet day! I mean every day, not just Sunday. And if I had a housekeeper putting new linens on our beds each day, why couldn't she also shampoo my hair every morning? Complete with a 10 minute scalp massage, please. And while she's at it, freshly brewed coffee, my morning paper, and my slippers would be truly appreciated immediately following the lathering of my locks. I wouldn't have to lift a finger.
Can you imagine?

I cannot. I can dream. But I can't think of what it would be like to have a full-time maid or personal assistant. Or a towel warmer. Is that not dreamy? Tell me it's not. A big, fluffy, warm towel at your fingertips, seconds after exiting the shower? Have mercy.

So there I am, still ironing sheets for my folks, while the girls are watching Little Bill. At that moment I experienced a toe-curling revelation: I'm lusting over laundry. I used to fawn over such as this:

Oh River, how I loved you, how I longed to smoke with you. Sigh...

This, however, gives me much greater pleasure:

I was meant for this...to hop in, read, eat, and dream amidst clouds of luxurious Italian threads. Seriously, this is my version of Disney World. And if I'm dreaming at full potential, I might as well have a catheter--'cause why get out of the clouds for an act so inane it's been nicknamed and numbered 1 and 2?

Immediately following this revelation I knew in my head what my heart has been trying to tell me all along. I am middle aged. Just turn the television to Wheel of Fortune, hand me a bag of Nutter Butters, and ask for regular updates from the Weather Channel. Amen.