It appears from the comments on my last post that many of you want to be just like my MIL when you grow up.
Apparently I gave the impression that I lub my MIL to pieces and that I think she is wonderful, even though she's a pool shark who can't hop on one foot.
Not exactly the impression I was going for when I wrote that post, but what. ev.
And then Vern says my MIL is precisely the kind of person she would like to see liquored up.
Vern, SERIOUSLY, trust me on this one. Batteries were not sold separately with this model. Liquor is not required to be thoroughly entertained by her randomness.
Although I must say that her particular brand of random is like a fine wine, which just gets better with age.
Take for instance last week when I was downloading photos of the family playing frisbee golf . . . I wish I could show you the photographic evidence of my hub in mid air with his shirt riding up, awkwardly exposing his happy trail. In other words, his unwaxed belly. Unfortunately that kind of exposure would be grounds for divorce.
"That's an umbilicus." my MIL said pointing to his belly. Only she pronounced it deliberately and phonetically, as if she were reaching back and back and back to college to pull out the exact pronunciation so it sounded more like umbill-AHH-kiss.
Oh peeps, you had to be there, but I nearly peed my pants LOLing. I mean, seriously, WHAT THE WHAT? And WHERE THE WHO?
That wasn't the only new thing I heard come outta her mouth this reunion either. I'd never heard the story about when she was a BYU cougarette and they had to make crepe paper dresses for a dance number. She swears on the Holy Bible it was real crepe paper, the kind you decorate with at birthday parties. Imagine THAT! And she's a sweater. Big time. Can you guess the punch line?
Good GoLLy, Miss MoLLy!
And I had never heard the story about the time Robert Redford yelled at my FIL at the tennis club because my FIL refused to give up his court to him.
"Well," says my MIL with a huff, "your dad wasn't done playing."
Just when you think you've heard it all, she starts pulling stuff like that out of nowhere. Do you think someone needs to follow her around with a tape recorder?
But enough about her. I haven't even told you about Bills Island, which is muy bonita. Muy, muy bonita. And muy glamorous too. At least that's what Garden of Egan says, and she lives in Rexburg so she should know. She says Bills Island is oooh ahhhhh. She says I must be dang famous/rich/beautiful/fancy to be staying here.
I think she might be right. Remember last year how both Pepe LePew and Edward were stalking me? Well this year it's Alvin and the chipmunks who are following me around.
They would hide in the woods and wait for me to roll out of bed and go for my walk. Then, out of nowhere, there they were, sucking on helium and singing pop songs.
The Hodge Lodge itself is a glamorous place. Probably because it belongs to a famous guy, Merril Hoge, who used to play football for my boys favorite team, the PITTSBURGH STEELERS, baby!
Go STEELERS!
Shucks, I miss my leisurely days hanging out with the singing Chipmunks, reading Hunger Games and envying all the tree huggers. Seriously the trees on Bills Island literally stand around all day long with their arms around each other. They hold hands too. It's like one gigantic lub fest. They're open minded and tolerant too. Of all the wild flowers, which, to a discerning eye, aren't really wild at all, just misunderstood non-conformists.
The misunderstood nonconformist flowers don't have to bloom where they're planted (or transplanted) on Bills Island either. They just bloom wherever they please, and no one tries to line them up like pretty maids all in a row, or clean them up, or weed them out. They just go with the flow. There's no protocol or manners or expectation on Bills Island.
And there's no Walmart.
But enough chitter chatter. I'm going on Trek tomorrow so you can imagine all the things I've got to get done today--pedicure, braid extensions, eyelash implants.
In other words, I'm going to shut my trap now--it's Wordless Wednesday after all--and let the pictures do the talking for me.
(If you think I'm wordy, just wait until you see how wordless I can be.)
(Oh, btw, when you come to the photo where my MIL looks like Farrah Fawcett . . . that was my fault. The one where my FIL is glittering like Edward . . . NOT my fault.)
La la la la la la la la la la la (I'm singing a happy little working song).
Yee Haw!
This is my Holly Hobby impersonation.
Making musubi for our sack lunches. Bet the pioneers woulda lubbed musubi!
Annie git yer gun.
