To begin with...

Okay.  The "boy" I wrote about in the last post?  I had a couple people (including my mom) email me privately to mention how young he looked.  Way to make me feel old, friends and neighbors.  People, please...  That dude is in his 30's.  Like, only 12-13 years younger than me.  Big whoop.  That's not even a Demi/Ashton age difference.  I think my rockstar may even be married and have a kid or two. 

I also do not believe that an occasional glance at the opposite sex is wrong.  I tell my husband this all the time.  He is free to glance at Halle, JLo, or Brooklyn Decker.  Who wouldn't?  Besides...
1.  If Mormons can glance, I figure, so can I (and I happen to know for a fact that Mormons glance.  I won't say how I know, or mention any particular Mormon by name... *cough, lookingforgeorge, cough*). 

2.  Philippians 4:8 says, "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." 

I have thought about some abs that are truly lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy, so that's 5 out of 8.  And I always give God all the glory and thanks for the beauty of His creation.  So...  there you go.

I have a very strict policy:  I only look if they are 21 and older.  It's my personal code of honor.

Okay, that's a lie.  But, if they're under 21, I just take a brief glance at the abs and move on.  Really.  Okay, brief-ish.  But I don't give the face time to become engraved in my mind.  That's what separates the Normals, like me, from the Pervs.  Just a peek at the abs.  And pecs, maybe.  Okay, probably pecs, too.  

Oh, that reminds me of a funny story...  A few years ago, I was on one of my exercise kicks.  These come around approximately once a decade when I will buy whatever exercise program is currently being schlepped on some late-night infomercial.  I have so much optimism and motivation when I order... and then the box arrives. 

It gets put under my bed, usually unopened, until I can clear a good exercise space. 

I've never cleared a good exercise space.

Sooo...  a box of DVDs, with those big rubber band thingies, etc., was recently pulled out from under my bed by a curious 2 yr old, and a poster from inside the box was opened up and left lying on my floor (the poster, which I'm assuming was included for motivational purposes, has a ripped, tan man on one side and a woman who must have sold her soul to the devil- because her body is just too dang good- on the other).  The poster was lying with the man side facing up. 

Evan and I walk into the room.  Evan sees the naked, tan torso of a man.  The first thing he thinks of to say is, "Oh, Mom (all disappointed-sounding, like I'm 5 years old and just peed on my Easter dress)...  Tell me you didn't.  Please tell me that is not a Taylor Lautner poster."

How do you spell that little breathless noise you make when you're really exasperated?  Because that's the noise I want to spell right here ___________________. 

What is with you people?  Does everyone think I'm a perv?  Gee whiz.  You mention one kid's abs and one rockstar and the whole world goes nuts.

I'm offended.  Deeply hurt. 

Okay, not really.  I couldn't care less.  I ocassionally take notice of man-boys.  Deal.  I'm a fat, Chaz Bono-looking, dangly, old, wrinkly house frau, with no evidence of my once-hot former self.  It's not like the man-boys are looking back.

Onto other topics, shall we?  Before I either get depressed about my pathetic, desperate, wrinkled, be-Chazzed state, or get another email from Mom (kidding, Mom.  Love getting emails from you). 

How about a little Sammy Story to finish this post?

Sam loves Reese's.  LOVES them. 

But he can't say 'Reese's.'  He calls them 'Feces.'  It's so funny to watch him hop around when he spies the package, then hearing him say, "Feces, Mom?  Feces?  Feces!!! Mom?  MOM?!?  Yaaaayeeesss! FECES!" 

Today, I gave him a bite of a Feces and he said, "That's good, Sir!"  Hahaha.  Gosh, I love that boy.

The feeling has passed...

Do any of you guys like The Str*okes (and right now, my mother and both of my blog buddies named Elaine are saying, "What are The Str*okes?")? These are The Str*okes:

They're a band (which I'm guessing you could have gathered on your own). I think I like them because they remind me (a little) of some of the music I was listening to in the 80's, when I was young (you know... way back before cell phones, pc's and fire)- it's rock with a little new wave-ish thing going on, some punk, and a little bit of awesome, all mixed together (and before my mom asks me, "Why were you typing all those little stars in the middle of your words?" ...Mom, it's because I don't want some stoner kid, who is Googling for this band, to wind up at my blog by accident and then leave me weird and/or filth-riddled comments). 

Anyhoooo...  I'm sure you couldn't care less about my taste in music and it's really not the point of this post, anyway.

This...

little lamby is the point of this post.  He's their singer, Julian (Jules).  He may, just possibly, have a tiny bit to do with why I like The Str*okes, if we're really telling the truth.  And don't I ususally tell a little more truth than you wanted to hear?  Why, yes.  Yes, I do. 

This little boy could recite transcripts from traffic court to music and I would listen (oh, don't be so shocked that fat, Christian, 44 y. o. moms/housewives still look at rockstars.  We do.  And we look at ones a lot younger than this kid... ;D... We are also a teensy bit fond of the abs on teenage werewolves, but that's a post for another day...  We take a quick peek.  We say, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." And we go on with our fascinating lives of laundry, snot wiping and grocery shopping, feeling completely content and fulfilled... : /...). 

I think he's pretty cute in that Bad Boy, Rocker, "I'm-going-to-'borrow'-$500-from-your-purse-while-you're-not-looking, to-buy-drugs-while-I'm-out-with-your-best-friend, then-break-up-with-you-right-after-I-use-your-place-to-take-a-shower-cuz-I-really-need-one" kind of way. You may not see the same thing I see (my daughter doesn't. She thinks he's icky.  She had the nerve to ask, "What is wrong with you, Mama?"  Oh, sweetie...  Many things.  So very many things), but I think he's cute. 

Anyway, The Str*okes were on S*NL and as I was watching, the most horrific realization washed over me.

My little lamby looks very much like Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond), who is not my idea of sexxx-say. Granted, he's a much younger Ray, but Ray is in there somewhere, just the same.

Look!

Do you see it?  You gotta see it!  Look again.  Subtract 20 (okay, 25) yrs from Ray and add a wig...

See?  Studly

And...  Dudly

You do see it, right?  Tell me it's not just me.  I don't know how I went so long without noticing this before.  But alas, Julian is ruined for me now.  I'm sorry, Julian.  That's it.  Infatuation over.  Accept it, honey, and try to move on.  I will never look at you and see a bad boy rockstar again. 

Way to wreck it, Ray Romano. Thanks. 

At least I still have Colin Farrell.  He doesn't resemble some middle-aged whiny dufus, does he?  Nevermind.  I don't really want to know. 

Maybe Julian's resemblance to Ray is most obvious when seeing him in motion- something about his facial expressions as he sings... This is a clip from their S*NL performance, if you're curious. But, I'll warn you: If you listen to this, I'm pretty sure he slips a word in there, around the 3:59 mark, he shouldn't have been saying on network tv (not even on S*NL). I could be wrong, but I have Mom Ears that are super-sensitive to the EFF word, so I'm probably not. Even a hearing-impairment doesn't hinder the power of Mom Ears when it comes to picking a random EFF out of what is otherwise mostly garbled nonsense. Just skip the last 20 seconds or so if you don't go for the nastiness. I have a feeling you'll be turning it off long before then, anyway.

Just watch for a few seconds (on mute, if you want), then try to tell me this isn't a young, weed-smoking, possibly heroin-addicted Ray Romano:

Looking on the bright side...

As long as we remain in our current situation, I'm trying to "give thanks in all circumstances," so I have decided to list a few of my reasons to be grateful here:

Top Ten Reasons Why It's Awesome to Be Poverty-Stricken

10.  From what I've been able to determine from my own unscientific observations at my local Wal-mart, a lack of personal hygiene and poverty seem to sometimes go together.  From what I've witnessed, being poor gives me an excuse to stop worrying about hair, makeup, body odor, dental care and wearing a bra (this may sound a little catty and judgmental, but notice I said 'sometimes,' so as not to offend poor people with good hygiene, or non-poor people with bad hygiene, and in my defense... you haven't seen the lovely ladies who shop at my Wal-mart).

9.  I don't have to feel guilty for saying 'No' to kids who are selling ridiculously expensive crap for school fundraisers or charities.

8.  My sons have stopped asking to borrow gas money from me.

7.  If I can't afford groceries, I'll have no choice but to lose weight.  And...

6.  When I can afford groceries, I'll learn a new appreciation for yucky things I hate, like cheap, frozen pizza and the same old boring ham or peanut butter sandwiches.

5.  Winning!!!  (I don't know how this applies, but if Charlie Sheen can keep repeating it as his life falls apart, so can I)!!!

4.  Poverty has distracted me from constantly obsessing over my bad haircut.

3.  I won't have to call 911, like Paula Abdul, to make my boyfriend let me out of his car, because my boyfriend can't afford gas.

2.  I am being given opportunities to appreciate and admire the wonderful people I call my children, all over again.  If they're not praying with me or for me, they're trying to hand me a paycheck or a piggy bank, or they're offering to sell video games or other things to help out.  I'm often told we've raised great kids.  Chances are, they are great kids in spite of us, not because of us, but yes- they are great kids. 

1.  I am being reminded on a daily basis that God is bigger than all of this.  He doesn't need my money to help Him take care of us.  He does it anyway.  Just because He loves me.  He is good.  And I am thankful.

Of gratitude and sex dolls...

Instead of thanking you all in a comment on the last post, I wanted to say it here- in a post of its own- to make sure you would see it.  You have no idea how much your words of support and kindness meant to both of us.  I showed Darrell most of the comments last night, and he had tears in his eyes, just as I did (well, actually, I had tears running down my face).  We were both overwhelmed.  Thank you, guys.  You may not think you helped...  but you did. 

Once again, we are blown away by the fact that those loving, supportive comments came from friends we've never met. Funny, isn't it?   (We do have friends and relatives in our lives who are nice to us, too...  I don't mean to make it sound like we don't.  Ha! That wouldn't speak very highly of us, would it?  If our only friends and supporters were of the cyber variety?)

(...Oh. My. Goodness.  Speaking of having friends who aren't "in the flesh," did you guys see that episode of "Strange Addictions" where that creepy little dude had a life-sized silicone doll for a wife?  Have I already blogged about this?  I wouldn't be surprised if I'm repeating myself, as it made such an indelible impression.  I was... well, I don't know what I was, but it was like a mix of being shocked, horrified and nauseous.  Is there a word for that?  Shockiffauseous?  He talked to it, you guys.  He put it in a chair at the table and ate dinner with it.  He did, um, other things with it, too.  Oh, did you hear that?  Did you hear me gag just then?  I accidentally vomited in my mouth just a tiny bit.  I honestly had bad dreams after I saw that show.  And in my defense, I didn't watch it on purpose...  It was just "on" and before I knew it, I could not change the channel.  But, I digress...)

Back to the topic, which is neither sex dolls, nor the scary men who love them... We'll do an in-depth discussion of that another day, perhaps? 

(Oh, gosh.  I just realized I may have offended one of you who might possibly be the proud owner of your own little silicone friend.  If you own a, um, synthetic partner, dear friend, I'm sure yours is, um, very nice.  I was not referring to you, of course, when I used the words creepy, scary and unholy.  Oh, I didn't use the word unholy?  Of course I didn't.  Why would I?  What could possibly be unholy about knowing a doll in the Biblical sense?  I fully respect and tolerate that freaky little alternative lifestyle you've got going on there.  I am not repulsed by it at all.  Whoopsie, I just puked again, but that little bit of vomit was about something else.  Not you.)

Now, back on track.  For real this time...  Thank you! I love you guys.  Whether we've met or not, you've proven to be wonderful friends when I need them and I hope I will be the same for you.

In answer to some of your questions: 
Yes, I would be very willing to work from home.  In fact, I'd rather do that than get a night job elsewhere.  I haven't heard of any real options to do that around here, other than the phone sex trade... and that pesky little gag reflex of mine has probably ruined my shot at a lucrative career in that field.  If local friends hear of legal and non-gag inducing opportunities to work from home, please let me know!

Yes, we are in the process of contacting our creditors and letting them all know what's going on.  Some are more understanding than others.  Some of those people act as if I owe them personally.  Jerks.  Are they trained to make a bad situation feel even worse? 

One last thing before I go:  I just want to mention that something goofy is going on with my comments, or email address-  I'm not sure which.  But, I'm not always receiving your comments.  Sometimes, they're being sent to the junk folder and other times I don't get them at all and just happen to notice them here on the blog.  So...  if you ask me a question or otherwise expect to get a response to your comment (but don't), don't think I've blown you off! : ))