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Shhhhh....
Justin and two out of three kids have gone to see "Harry Potter and the Enchanted Jock Strap".
At least I think that's what it's called. I don't care. Could have been "the Magickal Shower Massager" or "the Cauldron of Vienna Sausages" for all I could be concerned over it. The only reason I can appreciate it's existence is that the noise in my house has decreased by 75%.
Tomorrow morning, when I set this to post, we're all going to be shoved together in our fabulous mini-van again to do things that cannot done in my little corner of rural Nevada casino hell.
What the hell am I still doing here? I have quiet to enjoy!
Friday, July 17, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Birthdays only come once a year.
Today is my husband's 40th birthday.
Justin doesn't want to do much to mark this occasion. It's an absolute no to coffin themed parties or a last frat boy style trip to the tee-tee bar. That means I've had to cancel the clown and pony show. I'm a little disappointed, but hey, it ain't my birthday.
When I went to Google image search "turning 40" I noticed that many images were of folks who had gotten their first tattoo to commemorate the beginning of their lives. What a unique idea? Get one on your lower back. It'll be hot.
So, Justin, happy birthday. If you would like me to hold your hand while you go under the needle I'm willing. Let me suggest a few tattoos to sport well into your old age.
There is no one living on this planet who doesn't love the magical glittery quality of unicorns. Happy 40th!
When you've been on the planet forty years, having good friends becomes a blessing. Happy 40th!
Hewwo! I'm 40!
It's never too late to have a schoolgirl crush. Happy 40th!
There is nothing wrong with displaying a profound statement about how you live your life right on your forehead. Now, I'm not suggesting to Justin that "Git-R-Dun" or "Psycho" should be it, but the idea of more fitting phrase is worth considering. How about "I like cheese!" or "I teach for the money!" Happy 40th!
Finally, you could fulfill one of MY fantasies for your 40th birthday. You'd get "presents" back in spades...
I love you Justin. Happy Birthday!
Justin doesn't want to do much to mark this occasion. It's an absolute no to coffin themed parties or a last frat boy style trip to the tee-tee bar. That means I've had to cancel the clown and pony show. I'm a little disappointed, but hey, it ain't my birthday.
When I went to Google image search "turning 40" I noticed that many images were of folks who had gotten their first tattoo to commemorate the beginning of their lives. What a unique idea? Get one on your lower back. It'll be hot.
So, Justin, happy birthday. If you would like me to hold your hand while you go under the needle I'm willing. Let me suggest a few tattoos to sport well into your old age.
There is no one living on this planet who doesn't love the magical glittery quality of unicorns. Happy 40th!
When you've been on the planet forty years, having good friends becomes a blessing. Happy 40th!
Hewwo! I'm 40!
It's never too late to have a schoolgirl crush. Happy 40th!
There is nothing wrong with displaying a profound statement about how you live your life right on your forehead. Now, I'm not suggesting to Justin that "Git-R-Dun" or "Psycho" should be it, but the idea of more fitting phrase is worth considering. How about "I like cheese!" or "I teach for the money!" Happy 40th!
Finally, you could fulfill one of MY fantasies for your 40th birthday. You'd get "presents" back in spades...
I love you Justin. Happy Birthday!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A basket of goodies.
I've made it back from the land of the wild donkeys. My sun-baked brain tells me that if I had said I'd made it back from the land of the wild asses you would have expected a far more lewd story than the reality of my family vacation. Sorry to let you down "nifty housewife" searchers.
For the second summer in a row my husband and I took the boys to Virgin Valley, NV, to dig in the dirt for opals. We found them. It was almost a telepathic experience. The opals sent out little shimmery "find me" vibes and we couldn't help but to scoop them up. I've adopted them, brought them home, and tucked them into between quilts with a glass of water and a story.
I found these:
Ooh, shiny things.
My husband found this...worth enough to pay for our trip:
The lady digging in the dirt next to us, wearing a dubiously tied string bikini top, found a $4000 opal. Next year I'm wearing tassled pasties to the mine. See if I don't. Give us a twirl darling.
As always, our family demands quality accommodations, so we set up our tent at the free CCC campground near the mines. It features a streamlined lack of trees, a new watertight pit restroom facility, and some new hooks outside of the shower house to hang your towels on.
The pond was developed over a warm spring. The swimming is a little mossy at the bottom and a little minnow-y at the top. No doubt, since I was swimming with a bunch of Bud Light drinkers, the pond was a little urine-y in the middle. Beer is yucky.
The showers run continuously, pumped in from the warm pond water. That means that on the day we left I may have rinsed off in recycled beer.
That's ok I guess. I didn't party at all in college. Time to catch up.
There is one bodily fluid I am THRILLED to have not had any contact with...at least I think I didn't. Stop that. I told you this wasn't going to be lewd. No, I'm not linking to any nifty housewife sites for your convenience. This fluid will be slightly gross however. You'll read from this point forward if I know anything about my readers and other hangers on.
See, one of those slightly drunk co-swimmers and pond urinators had an enormous pulsing pimple on his back. It's those kind of blemishes that make you wish you did have back hair. A thick curly crop of it. I tried to ignore this pimple but it had it's own telepathy and was screaming, "What big eyes you have Grandma!" Could have glued a tassled pasty to it. Give us a twirl sweetie.
It wasn't long until the man got out of the pond and dragged his pimple with him. A Bud Light shortage causes any self respecting pond dweller to move his donkey. The minnows even felt the relief not having to avert their eyes.
When pimple man returned with a freshened cooler and the moss untangled from his toes, the silence from "What big teeth you have Grandma!" was textural. Someone back at his camp had attacked Big Red.
I thought I'd heard screaming. That wasn't in my head. Mrs. Pimple must have taken care of the thing. God bless the woman. She's only doing her job. If it had burst in the pond someone would have had an eye out.
Hey...I couldn't help the pimple spotting. I'd been looking for red flashes all day. My eyes are highly trained!
In some ways it's a plus he returned to swimming. Ducking down to the middle easily sterilizes the wound.
And with that thought, I got out and had a nap.
For the second summer in a row my husband and I took the boys to Virgin Valley, NV, to dig in the dirt for opals. We found them. It was almost a telepathic experience. The opals sent out little shimmery "find me" vibes and we couldn't help but to scoop them up. I've adopted them, brought them home, and tucked them into between quilts with a glass of water and a story.
I found these:
Ooh, shiny things.
My husband found this...worth enough to pay for our trip:
The lady digging in the dirt next to us, wearing a dubiously tied string bikini top, found a $4000 opal. Next year I'm wearing tassled pasties to the mine. See if I don't. Give us a twirl darling.
As always, our family demands quality accommodations, so we set up our tent at the free CCC campground near the mines. It features a streamlined lack of trees, a new watertight pit restroom facility, and some new hooks outside of the shower house to hang your towels on.
The pond was developed over a warm spring. The swimming is a little mossy at the bottom and a little minnow-y at the top. No doubt, since I was swimming with a bunch of Bud Light drinkers, the pond was a little urine-y in the middle. Beer is yucky.
The showers run continuously, pumped in from the warm pond water. That means that on the day we left I may have rinsed off in recycled beer.
That's ok I guess. I didn't party at all in college. Time to catch up.
There is one bodily fluid I am THRILLED to have not had any contact with...at least I think I didn't. Stop that. I told you this wasn't going to be lewd. No, I'm not linking to any nifty housewife sites for your convenience. This fluid will be slightly gross however. You'll read from this point forward if I know anything about my readers and other hangers on.
See, one of those slightly drunk co-swimmers and pond urinators had an enormous pulsing pimple on his back. It's those kind of blemishes that make you wish you did have back hair. A thick curly crop of it. I tried to ignore this pimple but it had it's own telepathy and was screaming, "What big eyes you have Grandma!" Could have glued a tassled pasty to it. Give us a twirl sweetie.
It wasn't long until the man got out of the pond and dragged his pimple with him. A Bud Light shortage causes any self respecting pond dweller to move his donkey. The minnows even felt the relief not having to avert their eyes.
When pimple man returned with a freshened cooler and the moss untangled from his toes, the silence from "What big teeth you have Grandma!" was textural. Someone back at his camp had attacked Big Red.
I thought I'd heard screaming. That wasn't in my head. Mrs. Pimple must have taken care of the thing. God bless the woman. She's only doing her job. If it had burst in the pond someone would have had an eye out.
Hey...I couldn't help the pimple spotting. I'd been looking for red flashes all day. My eyes are highly trained!
In some ways it's a plus he returned to swimming. Ducking down to the middle easily sterilizes the wound.
And with that thought, I got out and had a nap.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
My rocks are shinier than your rocks.
For the next few days my family will attempt to engage in quality bonding type fun.
Have you folks watching the treasure hunting shows on The Travel Channel? We caught the bug last year. WE'VE GOTS TO GO OPAL MINING!
This requires a couple days of rolling around in the dust, listening to wild burros bray at 2 second intervals every hour of the day, and sleeping in a tent with boys who have yet to discover how nifty foot powder really can be.
I'm leaving my makeup and my designer clothing at home. Wearing Jimmy Choo heels in the middle of nowhere is so gauche. I might get donkey poo on them.
Choo poo...heh, that rhymes.
Have you folks watching the treasure hunting shows on The Travel Channel? We caught the bug last year. WE'VE GOTS TO GO OPAL MINING!
This requires a couple days of rolling around in the dust, listening to wild burros bray at 2 second intervals every hour of the day, and sleeping in a tent with boys who have yet to discover how nifty foot powder really can be.
I'm leaving my makeup and my designer clothing at home. Wearing Jimmy Choo heels in the middle of nowhere is so gauche. I might get donkey poo on them.
Choo poo...heh, that rhymes.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Price Check
The Price is Right is on.
Have I mentioned that I'd like to have a cuddle with Drew Carey? I would. It's on my bucket list. #3...grope Drew Carey. Grope him hard.
If that's #3, I don't think I'll share #1 or #2. Lord knows what you'd think of me then.
It's a lovely thing to consider groping Drew Carey during The Price is Right until we must take a commercial break between pricing games. Visualization is still possible during the geriatric scooter commercials but Vagisil commercials are fantasy downers. Especially when two of your three growing and curious sons ask why women aren't allowed to scratch their itches in public.
...and what IS vaginal odor?
The woman currently bouncing and cuddling Drew in front of the showcase wheel? No doubt in my mind she's experienced vaginal odor a time or two or three. She overbid on her showcase.
Why aren't I allowed to scratch my itches in public? You men scratch your itches. If I have a random itch, depending on my location and the location of that itch, I have to endure it. Or duck behind something and stealthily scratch. Or find a bathroom and get real itch relief.
What's proper is that I apply a cream before I go out in public to avoid rude behavior?
Screw that. I'm going to scratch out of spite.
On the Vagisil website there is information on how to explain such matters from mother to daughter. How useful. There are no tips on how to explain "down there" to my sons.
There are also no tips on how to explain why I find Drew Carey attractive and no creams to relieve it.
Have I mentioned that I'd like to have a cuddle with Drew Carey? I would. It's on my bucket list. #3...grope Drew Carey. Grope him hard.
If that's #3, I don't think I'll share #1 or #2. Lord knows what you'd think of me then.
It's a lovely thing to consider groping Drew Carey during The Price is Right until we must take a commercial break between pricing games. Visualization is still possible during the geriatric scooter commercials but Vagisil commercials are fantasy downers. Especially when two of your three growing and curious sons ask why women aren't allowed to scratch their itches in public.
...and what IS vaginal odor?
The woman currently bouncing and cuddling Drew in front of the showcase wheel? No doubt in my mind she's experienced vaginal odor a time or two or three. She overbid on her showcase.
Why aren't I allowed to scratch my itches in public? You men scratch your itches. If I have a random itch, depending on my location and the location of that itch, I have to endure it. Or duck behind something and stealthily scratch. Or find a bathroom and get real itch relief.
What's proper is that I apply a cream before I go out in public to avoid rude behavior?
Screw that. I'm going to scratch out of spite.
On the Vagisil website there is information on how to explain such matters from mother to daughter. How useful. There are no tips on how to explain "down there" to my sons.
There are also no tips on how to explain why I find Drew Carey attractive and no creams to relieve it.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Dammit, if you touch that hose again I'm going to eat one of you!
As usual, summer vacation has me off kilter.
Have you noticed? No? Aww you're sweet for telling me the stories I want to hear.
In between "Yes you did! No I didn't!" and "Don't eat that hairy banana you rubbed on the cat!" and "Don't spray inside your open window with the hose!" and "Don't even TOUCH the hose!" and "Quit eating sugar right out of the canister!"...it's taken me two hours to write this post.
Now that I'm done having children, and that my youngest child will be in kindergarten sooner than later, the purpose of my life is going to shift. This thing which I have been doing for the last 13 years will develop a gaping kid free hole in it's middle.
Which I can fill with just about anything I guess. The possibilities have me excited.
Conversely, the possibilities also have me as blocked up as government cheese. The idea is just so BIG.
Tell me more stories.
For all that is good and holy, tell me stories without the phrase, "Can I play Playstation?" in them.
Have you noticed? No? Aww you're sweet for telling me the stories I want to hear.
In between "Yes you did! No I didn't!" and "Don't eat that hairy banana you rubbed on the cat!" and "Don't spray inside your open window with the hose!" and "Don't even TOUCH the hose!" and "Quit eating sugar right out of the canister!"...it's taken me two hours to write this post.
Now that I'm done having children, and that my youngest child will be in kindergarten sooner than later, the purpose of my life is going to shift. This thing which I have been doing for the last 13 years will develop a gaping kid free hole in it's middle.
Which I can fill with just about anything I guess. The possibilities have me excited.
Conversely, the possibilities also have me as blocked up as government cheese. The idea is just so BIG.
Tell me more stories.
For all that is good and holy, tell me stories without the phrase, "Can I play Playstation?" in them.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Acting my age...12.
In two weeks my husband, Justin, turns 40.
Being 40 is the official mark of adulthood. It's the time in life that you cannot possibly pretend to be a frat boy or a sorority sister anymore. People stop finding it cute when you lift your shirt and expose your chest like you could freely before. Not just at large crowd events, but at smaller venues, like the grocery store or Carl's Jr.
Forty is the age where you have to stop wearing your ball-cap backwards. It's law.
I'm not yet forty. I'm 34. This is a precarious age even when you consider my early menopause symptoms. This is MILF age. Young enough to still giggle but old enough to take no crap.
I find I've been presented with a dilemma concerning my maturity.
No, I'm not concerned over my enjoyment of fart jokes. No question there. Fart jokes are still funny.
I'm concerned over the implications of a song I heard over casino loud speakers in Vegas. A song I really liked. A song I made a point to remember some of the lyrics to so when I got home I could look it up and then stream capture it off of YouTube. A song I've listened to repeatedly since I've gotten home. I've moved my butt and hips to it.
The song? Performed by teeny-boppers. Youngsters. Minors. Children who cannot yet walk into a bar and order a long island iced tea.
Listen to my concern.
What's even more stupid about this...or maybe it's a consolation...this song is TWO years old. Yes, the duh factor is obvious. I did not catch it.
Why, I may hitch my mom jeans up to my boobs and go chasing after The Jonas Brothers at this point!
Do The Jonas Brothers have first names? I have no idea.
When I was a teeny bopper it was all New Kids on the Block. I'm sure they had names. I didn't know them then. I don't know them now. Every pubescent girl in 1989 loved them. I had sense enough then to observe their antics and become nauseated. Even their zits were scripted.
Twenty years later I've lost all the sense I was so blessed with as a teen.
Only six years to rectify the situation before it becomes hopeless. Certainly there is hope. I've never seen any High School Musical and I'm damned proud of that.
Being 40 is the official mark of adulthood. It's the time in life that you cannot possibly pretend to be a frat boy or a sorority sister anymore. People stop finding it cute when you lift your shirt and expose your chest like you could freely before. Not just at large crowd events, but at smaller venues, like the grocery store or Carl's Jr.
Forty is the age where you have to stop wearing your ball-cap backwards. It's law.
I'm not yet forty. I'm 34. This is a precarious age even when you consider my early menopause symptoms. This is MILF age. Young enough to still giggle but old enough to take no crap.
I find I've been presented with a dilemma concerning my maturity.
No, I'm not concerned over my enjoyment of fart jokes. No question there. Fart jokes are still funny.
I'm concerned over the implications of a song I heard over casino loud speakers in Vegas. A song I really liked. A song I made a point to remember some of the lyrics to so when I got home I could look it up and then stream capture it off of YouTube. A song I've listened to repeatedly since I've gotten home. I've moved my butt and hips to it.
The song? Performed by teeny-boppers. Youngsters. Minors. Children who cannot yet walk into a bar and order a long island iced tea.
Listen to my concern.
What's even more stupid about this...or maybe it's a consolation...this song is TWO years old. Yes, the duh factor is obvious. I did not catch it.
Why, I may hitch my mom jeans up to my boobs and go chasing after The Jonas Brothers at this point!
Do The Jonas Brothers have first names? I have no idea.
When I was a teeny bopper it was all New Kids on the Block. I'm sure they had names. I didn't know them then. I don't know them now. Every pubescent girl in 1989 loved them. I had sense enough then to observe their antics and become nauseated. Even their zits were scripted.
Twenty years later I've lost all the sense I was so blessed with as a teen.
Only six years to rectify the situation before it becomes hopeless. Certainly there is hope. I've never seen any High School Musical and I'm damned proud of that.
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