Friday, December 22, 2006

Pass the figgy pudding.


I got my readers and other hangers on the same thing I gave you all last year?
This is your last weekend to shop like madmen. Don't waste it!

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Fa La La La La! Part II

It's beginning to look a lot like Housework
Ev'rywhere I go;
Take a look in the fridge and sink,
stacked high once again
With leftovers and dirty plates a-stink.

It's beginning to look a lot like Housework,
Dust in ev'ry room,
But the dirtiest sight to see is the cobwebs that will be
Swept up by my dollar store broom.

A pair of carpet stains and crayon on the wall
Is what's left by Barney and Ben;
Graham cracker crumbs and spilled kool-ade
Is the fault of Janice and Jen;
And Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again.

It's beginning to look a lot like Housework
Ev'rywhere I go;
There's cat barf in the front hall,
some in the den as well,
The sticky kind you stepped in with your toe.

It's beginning to look a lot like Housework;
It's a neverending rut!
And the feeling that it brings makes me throw up my hands and sing
That it can kiss my butt!

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Where should I hang these ornaments?

Is it just me or does everyone else just not feel very Christmassy?

I only put up my $12 faux Christmas tree yesterday. It's not even fully decorated yet. There is a strand of mini lights dangling off it, and a stuffed snowman sitting under it. On the plus side, all the shopping is done.

I've decorated more in my blog header than I have in my house.

Things are bare around here.


Note: When a person goes about searching for a humorous Christmas graphic to illustrate points in her blog, she should not be surprised when she happens upon a photo of a unclothed man with a length of tinsel garland wrapped around his wang...

Monday, December 18, 2006

Choxie choxie full of moxie

I got hit on in Target on Saturday.

(Is that why they call the place Target?)

I would have much preferred being hit on by tall, dark and handsome. Muscles are arbitrary. IQ would be nice. Someone with a deep smooth voice and long sooty eyelashes. Someone with a really huge...vocabulary. Someone with an excellent credit score...

Instead I got hit on by a middle aged woman. Right near the aisle with all the shoe racks and closet inserts.

"Ma'am, can I ask you a question?"...says the not tall, not dark, not handsome lady, leaning into me, fluttering her sorta sooty lashes.

"Sure!" I thought she was going to ask my opinion on clothes hangers. NO WIRE HANGERS!

"Do you use Mary Kay?"

"Why no I don't. I don't use anything!" Couldn't she tell I was naturally natural? No, I don't need a speck of foundation, not a lick of mascara. Yup, Target.

"Would you like a facial?"

"Not especially!" Translated: My Mommy told me not to take candy from strangers.

"You look so nice. (flutter flutter) I'm working toward a car..."

I didn't assume this woman was psychic. I informed her that I live out in the boonies and that I drove 120 miles just to come to Target.

She looked at me funny.

I know she's heard interesting refusals before...you have to expect that when you hit on people in Target...You have to expect that when you are foisting Mary Kay at the unsuspecting...but at least I was telling the truth!

I could have expanded on this truth and asked what her credit score was. Afterall, she wanted to fondle me. I need a little proof of commitment for that sort of thing.

Friday, December 15, 2006

When a problem comes along, you must whack it.

FLOOOBERBLAHHHT!

Alright, I feel better now.

Every time I've sat down to write about the winter blahs to you, my dear reader's and other hangers on, there is someone that wants my attention. My baby wants to watch Blue's Clue's. My cat wants out. My baby needs a diaper change. My cat wants in. My baby thinks he needs a cookie for breakfast. My cat needs a diaper change. My baby wants out...

FLOOOOOOBER! BLLLAHHHHHTTT!

Don't ask me what that means. It's nicer than typing crass words for private anatomy. I so want to be nice because Santa is watching and I really need expensive electronics in my stocking. Didn't I say I going to write evening posts?

It's been suggested by medical types that the winter blahs can be improved by the ingestion of sufficient quantities of vitamin C. I know my winter blahs are about to be greatly improved by ingesting my vitamin C in the form of:


Terry's Chocolate Oranges...

December's Bestest Housewifely Doodad!

Just whacking the chocolate, as the packaging recommends, relieves pent up wintertime frustrations. Don't overdo it. Don't whack it with a snow shovel, or with your cat. Cat hairs...'nuff said.

Terry's Chocolate Orange is made with real orange oil! Once whacked, the sphere easily breaks into twenty segments of beautiful silken chocolate coziness. It's enough to share with loved ones in this season of giving....but who am I kidding? Just buy two or three or a dozen.

You can purchase this confection at just about any grocery store for around two bucks. Apparently Terry's Chocolate Oranges come in milk and dark chocolate. I don't care what kind of chocolate it is as long as it's vitamin packed.

Terry's Oranges are a Kraft food product. They are not the cheesiest.

I realize that, technically, chocolate is not a doodad. The question that needs to be asked here is, "Does chocolate improve the lives of housewives?" and the answer is that Yes, yes it does. Therefore this spectacular chocolate gets the doodad nod.

Thank you Terry's Chocolate Orange. I like you, I really like you.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Bazongas

Why yes, I'm on 25 peeps again. Please click the nice linky to keep me on.

This occurence fits in nicely with the adolescent theme I've had going on in here the last two posts. I've had much traffic already because the photo I chose this time prominently features my enormous fake boobies!

One would assume I got some stealthy plastic surgery because I'm built like the Bonneville Salt Flats, wherein which I live...but one would be wrong.




I'm modeling these!





I find what people say about flatchested women particularly interesting. Their assumptions manage to wiggle out of their brains and past their lips, right to my ears.

1. "More than a handful/mouthful/teacup is a waste."
This only makes me feel good because I DO try to do my part when it comes to conservationism...even if it's unwittingly. Wouldn't it just be awful to be one of those wasteful women?

2. "Your nipples must be more sensitive!"
Compared to whose? Frankly, I wouldn't know. I've never had anyone else's nipples. I won't have a basis of comparison until my nipples begin shooting lightning bolts.

3. "I know you must be wild in the sack to make up for what you lost on top!"
Keep on with that fantasy buddy. Between you and me, I just lie there and let my extra sensitive nipples do all the work. Zap...zap zap...smoke...

4. "You must be intelligent!"
Why yes, I am. This is not because my body spent time developing brain cells instead of breast tissue. Big boobs doth not equal dumb either.

5. "How did you manage to breastfeed with those?"
Very well, thanks. Moo.

6. "Don't you feel like a boy sometimes?"
Nope. When I suddenly grow a penis I might feel like a boy...maybe...but until then I can rest assured that my DNA has caused me to be decidely female. Giving birth three times really made me feel female.

7. "Don't you hate shopping in the little girl section of the store for underwear?"
Yes I do...so I don't. Other small breasted women exist and therefore there is a whole rack of bras in the women's lingerie section featuring smaller brassieres! God help me if I ever buy another Mary Kate and Ashley bra...

And there you have it. Ittee Bittee Tittees and the myths that make up for the size. Thanks for visiting my site if you've come from 25 Peeps! Thanks for visiting my site if you didn't come from 25 Peeps!

Monday, December 11, 2006

Deck the Balls

This weekend, while I was considering and then deciding against cleaning the fingerprints off my sliding glass door, I spent a good deal of time watching my almost 13 year old son and the neighbor kid of the same age in my backyard.

Neighbor kid was punching himself in the crotch...

Repeatedly...

And then both boys were laughing uproariously.

Self injury involving delicate reproductive organs sure is a hoot. I figured this was a male adolescent rite of passage, much like fart jokes and giggling over the word "bazongas". If they hurt themselves, I'd be sure to point and laugh at them, but otherwise I'd leave them to their hijinks.

I'm not past adolescence myself. Today I received quite a bit of traffic, via Rockstar Mommy, because in response to her post about uncouth shoppers I posted a link back to my own uncouth shopper story. The story prominently features the passing of wind. I thank her for tolerating my link. Yesterday I wrote about maxi pads and posted a link to a page full of jock straps. Writing the word "bazongas" just now completely cracked me up.

The coop dee gracey? At this precise moment I'm laughing over stretchy penis jokes on a rerun of "The Man Show." Ziggy zaggy ziggy zaggy oy oy oy!

I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toys R Us kid.

The mystery of why the neighbor kid was punching himself in the crotch was solved just today. My seven year old son rushed up to me, cheeks flushed, eyes streaming, as he breathlessly exclaimed, "Wanna see something funny!"

Sure kiddo. Funny is good.

He gleefully screeches, "Merry Christmas, here's a nutcracker!" and punches himself in the crotch. I wonder who taught him that?

That's definitely one way to spread Christmas Cheer...

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Bloody Hell

I know I have one or two...maybe even five...men that read my blog. As to not offend masculine sensibilities I'm offering this warning...

This post is about feminine hygiene products. If the discussion of maxi pads and tampons doesn't leave you feeling April fresh, stop HERE.

(Psst, I'm not mentioning why women go to the restroom in groups.)

Alrighty then...

What's better to write about when you haven't written for over five days...about the length of your normal, average, run of the mill menses? OK, you can think of around ten better things to write about. List 'em in my comments.

I'm tired of pads and I'm tired of tampons. I'm not necessarily tired of menstruating but I'm tired of feminine hygiene products. I'm tired of pink wrappers. I'm tired of floral scented, fresh scented and unscented. I'm tired of ultra thin, thin, regular, super, superlong, overnights, and I've struck oil! I'm tired of soft covers, ultra dry covers and wings. I'm tired of cardboard applicators, plastic applicators, no applicators and applicators that don't have enough ridges on them so you can get a decent grip. I'm tired of pantyliners smaller than my credit card...and pantyliners thin enough to wear with a thong. I'm tired of wayward tampon strings.

When my oldest was four he became concerned over my older sister's scabbed knee, and thinking logically, providing her with a big maxi pad to make it feel better. I'm tired of maxi pads being thought of as just another band-aid.

I'm tired of women not disposing their feminine hygiene products in a hygenic manner. C'mon ladies, wrap 'em up nicely and put them in the proper receptacle in the public restroom. Fresh ones do not belong pasted on the walls, under the toilet seats, in the unflushed toilet or on the doorknobs. Nasty.

I wouldn't mind it if I had my own menstrual hut. Spending a week in blissful solitude, menstruating my little heart out, may be better than choosing the proper protection. There would be no questioning if my pad or tampon can stand up to the rigors of horse riding, bike riding, jogging, chasing heathen children or olympic diving. Perhaps I can hire a man with muscles to serve me sandwiches and chocolate while I'm there.

At least my generation wasn't subjected to the menstrual belt...and for that I will forever be grateful.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

A day in the life of Booger: a dumb gay cat.

My house sits at the edge of a hill and my backyard ends in a steep slope.

My dumb gay cat isn't allowed outside when it's dark, so every morning he makes it known that he wishes to go outside to do his business.

And every morning his business consistes of sauntering out my back door, jumping nonchalantly up my retaining wall, looking around to see if anyone is watching and then suddenly dashing up the hill to the top and rolling gleefully in the dirt.

After again making sure no one was watching, he sits at the top of the hill, surveying his self declared country of dumbgaycatizstan. He makes sure all the trees have stayed where he put them and that no other cats are currently invading.

When this business is done he makes his way back down hill, cool as a cucumber, and yowls to be let back in the house.

Some days I wish I were my cat.

...Except for that pooping in a box thing.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

A one, and a two...


I'm a little sad today.

I've missed one of my favorite re-runs on PBS. It's pledge drive time. They've replaced regular programming with very special programming; trying to convince me to unload my wallet on their commercial free asses.

Don't I wish to make a pledge to support such spectacular shows like the one that PBS is showing you during pledge drive? No I do not! PBS only shows the really good programming during pledge drive, sneakily snatching away my Lawrence Welk. They aren't getting any moolah from me.

Yes, I'm a little sad because there was no Lawrence Welk on today.


Oh shut up...millions have loved Lawrence Welk! MILLIONS!

Lawrence Welk is a costume maker's wet dream...and I make costumes. My pants get squishy when I watch. Every performer's costume is sewn to wide lapel-ed 70's perfection. I become giddy when the camera pans toward the audience and I see long dead little old ladies in catseye glasses.


Oh the sequins! The chiffon! The bullet proof polyester pantsuits!


I think my dream job would have been to work for Larry Welk and the champagne sewers. I'm almost considering moving to Branson.


The last time I caught Larry was two weeks ago. A perfectly coiffed male performer made quite a show in singing "I've got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts". It was rendered so innocently that a person might forget that the song was about boobs. I was moved to snickering.

Oh Lawrence Welk, you accordian diddling bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's right...It's because we both like blowing a good bubble.

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