SIX WORDS FOR A STORY FOR TUESDAY

Different, but all the same: Royalty.

A STORY FOR TUESDAY

Today, Gilmore Girl, Tuesday and I played. Gilmore Girl had a couple of quick errands to run. Tuesday and I didn't want to go so I stayed in the car with her and told her stories. Here's one:

There was once a little girl ladybug who was different. She had an orange body with blue spots.

She didn't go to preschool because she was afraid the other ladybug children would laugh at her. She didn't go out to play because she was afraid children would laugh at her. She wore a coat to church on Sunday, even in the summer, because she was afraid people would laugh at her.

Soon she was old enough for school and her mother said she had to go. The little ladybug with an orange body and blue spots said she was not going to go to school. She cried and threw a tantrum--several tantrums--and then she sulked.

The Friday before school started her mother got a whole stack of paper, two dozen markers and a pot of glitter. She worked late into the night. When she was finished she left the house and stapled the papers on trees. She stapled the papers on bulletin boards. She taped the papers on the windows of grocery stores and on the door to the school and outside the city hall. When she came home she kissed her little orange girl with the blue spots and went to bed.

On Monday morning the little girl threw a tantrum--several tantrums--and then she sulked but her mother would not change her mind. She ate a breakfast of aphids and put on her coat and said she was ready. Her mom made her take off her coat and said, "You don't need that. So what if you aren't like everyone else? Be brave and show others who you really are." And then she took her daughter's hand and they left for school.

The little ladybug kept her head down and so she didn't see the people on the street curtsy when she passed. When they got to school the Principal curtsied and welcomed her, calling her, "Your Princess-ness."

The little ladybug looked up. Her eyes showed the white all around--that is if ladybugs have white all around.

When they got to the classroom the teacher curtsied and said, "Welcome, your Majesty."

The children all stood up. The girls curtsied and the boys bowed at the waist--that is if ladybug children have waists.

The mother smiled and pushed the little ladybug a bit and then everyone crowded around the little ladybug with the orange body and the blue spots and said, "Will you be my friend?" And of course she would.

When the momma ladybug left the school she took the paper off the door of the school and off trees, grocery stores, and the city hall. She stuffed them in the garbage can and put the lid on top. One paper fluttered to the ground. It said:

"Of Royal Birth." There was a glittery picture of a king and queen ladybug with orange bodies and blue spots.

The paper said, "Everyone is of Royal Birth. Some are more easily recognized than others."

And so it is true. All the ladybugs, men and women ladybugs, children ladybugs and baby ladybugs were or royal birth, just like you are, Tuesday. You are of Royal Birth because of your Father in Heaven. Everyone born on earth is of royal birth. They may look different but they are all Heavenly Father's children and should know how wonderful they really are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then I heard a little voice from the back seat that said, "That's good, Grandma."

And she's right. It is.

WHAT KIND OF VISITING TEACHERS ARE WE, ANYWAY?

Today was another little snow-big snow day and we had scheduled visiting teaching appointments because two of the women we visit are off on high adventures, one is going to Hawaii--for three bloomin' weeks--the lucky duck--and the other is off to Florida--for one bloomin' week--she is obviously only one third as much of a lucky duck but a lucky duck, just the same. Maybe she is only the beak and the feet of a lucky duck.

I told them I hope it snows here all the time they are gone so they will feel extra privilidged and pampered and other "p" words like pleasured and pandemonium. That last "p" word really doesn't fit but it's after midnight and it's all I can think of. I'd do that for my friends, put up with three weeks of snow so they could bask on the sunny beaches and feel privileged and of royal birth. I'm so nice sometimes that I think I should hurt myself.

Anyway, we needed to get our visiting done and it was a blizzard this morning but we went anyway. I took this picture--of what I laughingly call our Beaver Dam--in the back yard to show you the falling snow but the Internet Gremlin's have erased the falling snow. What's up with that? They didn't want you to know how hard working and noble we are, to trek out in the blizzarding snow.

So, we visit two of the women--we ALWAYS stay too long because they are such fun and we get into all kinds of interesting discussions which HAVE NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH THE LESSON WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GIVE.

And why not, you are asking yourself--that is if you are still here, reading this drivel. Because both Sarah and I got so involved watching LOST last night that neither one of us prepared the lesson--which is right here. So we discussed earth changing ideas and probably some drivel. That's my job, to supply the drivel.

In our defense, Sarah says she is going to prepare a written message and deliver it with a little Valentine treat. Personally, I think Sarah has an ulterior motive. "Honey," she will say. "I need to make a quick trip to Hawaii to deliver my Valentine treat and a little message. I'll be back in about a week." You go for it, Sarah.

At our last appointment--which we were late to--because we stay too long at the other homes--because I insist on putting my two cents of drivel in after all the interesting stuff is said--we were at Pam's house. Pam of Pam's Place--she always writes great, insightful things on her blog, as apposed to me who will post anything, including fortune cookie messages that tell me to leave home--in the dark of night. Anyway, we were at her house and she said, "Will you forgive me?"

Now, I ask you, what could this angel of a woman do that needs forgiving? Well, you don't know so I'll tell you. She went to J-Dawg without me. Yes, it's true. She did. But, the next sentence out of her mouth atoned for her grievous crime.

"So, do you want to go?"

"Right now?" both Sarah and I said.

"Yes, right now."

Well, we were all in the car so fast that her welcome mat was still spinning--because we had catapulted off the porch into the snow. Sarah had never been to J-Dawg before. She was a J-Dawg virgin.

Here it is. Yes, nothing but a shack. In the summer it in 900 degrees inside. I think in the winter it's just right. There are two workers. One takes orders, slashes the dawgs and puts them on some kind of a grill that chars them just right--not enough to give you cancer right away and just enough to make them taste heavenly.

Here is the extensive menu. Are you impressed? I am telling you; those food carts in downtown New York City are not one iota better than this.

Here's the condiment list. Someone earlier today was so excited to get their J-Dawg that their wagging fanny practically erased the words jalapenos and banana peppers--which every condiment guru knows are really pepperoncini but we will forgive the owners as they have to cater to the masses who do not know the proper name for condiments.


And masses there are. There is always a line, waiting to order. Sometimes the line snakes right into the street and grumpy motorists have to stop and roll down their windows and yell at the line-snakers. Then they pull over and stand in line and order their own dawgs. Sometimes they double park and the cops come to give them tickets and they get in line instead and, well, it's just one big happy, dawg eating crowd, there on 7th East.

So, the next person grilles the buns and then puts the condiments on.

If you want them expertly done you will watch closely and be high maintenance, like me. Extra sauce--it's a sweet barbeque sauce. Extra pepperoncini--but you can't call it that or the worker says, "Huh?" You might have to smile, winningly and say, "more" a couple of times until the pepperoncini is piled to a height that is "just right"--Goldilocks would have loved J-Dawgs.

If you are faint of heart--like me--then you say, "no jalapenos." Then you smile your best smile and say, "That is the best dang dawg that anyone has ever made for me," and then they forgive you for being so crabby and wanting things just the way you want them. But let's face it, you are paying a whole $2.75--unless you want a drink too--and you want your cheap money's worth.

We took our dawgs back to Pam's house, which is always clean, unlike mine, which is not, but has interesting clutter that the archeologists will be delighted to find in a thousand years when they uncover my house that was slowly covered with dirt. See my insightful blog about this very problem. Not that I'm dirty, mind you, just clutterly so I don't have a clue how houses of people who leave pot shards lying around get covered up.

Here are Pam and Sarah, the J-Dawg virgin, having their first bite. Mmmm. I tell you, Sarah is now a J-Dawg addict and she has made it a rule to go visiting teaching to Pam last from now on so we can take a little detour. And maybe we will even give Pam the lesson. If we haven't watched LOST the night before.

Don't tell Sarah's husband. He thinks she was giving sincere and insightful visiting teaching lessons and not out gallivanting all over tarnation, eating food products that the Polish, bless their culinary hearts, have perfected to deliciousness.