Monday, December 31, 2007

Everybody finds a way to shine

I'm a day early (I usually do this post on Jan 1), but what the hell, I'm back from the Utopia that is visiting my family in Utah County and I want to get my quote on.

Here is a glimpse into the mentality of the folks that have made me the upstanding housewife I am today.

"Thanks for the pot. It'll be fun!"
- My little sister's mother in law, upon receiving pot for Christmas from my parents. Oops, did I forget to type the "a" before I typed "pot"? She got A pot. She won't piss in it I'm sure.

"My church pants are my favorite pair of pants to go to sleep in."
- My first grade attending nephew C.J. who knows the meaning of life.

"Where I come from we shit in a ditch!"
- My brother in law Brian, explaining why he was a whiz playing Pictionary but admits to being such a dork doing most everything else. He got across the clue of 'rubber ducky' by first drawing a rubber.

"We named our band 'Nature's Fuckups'."
- Lisa, my older sister, who whispered the name of her band in the Rock Band video game she got this Christmas in my ear, so my 8 year old son wouldn't hear it and repeat it in front of Grandpa thinking he was ever so witty.

"Stop putting your hammer in the pie!"
-My sister Jill, upon finding her 3 year old was sneaking bites of underspiced pumpkin pie, using his plastic toy hammer as a fork.

"I know who made it by the smell."
- Another gem from Jill, said innocently upon receiving the gift of an anonymous tub of soup on her porch.

"Don't use that to kill me!"
- My 8 year old son, watching his older brother unwrap a myriad of old junk tools and machines, including a de-chained chain saw. These hunks of junk were given to my almost 14 year old son by my parents so he could practice using his new tool set taking apart things we don't use everyday instead of the things we do use everyday.

"And here comes in this wee drunk Gary Coleman!"
- Lisa again, noting her experience bowling at the same time as Gary Coleman's bowling team. She resists the urge to ask him to say 'What'choo talkin' about Willis!' but has not resisted taking photos of him on her camera-phone.

"What size ball does Gary Coleman bowl with?"
- Corey, my husband's sister, upon hearing that my sister bowls with celebrities and that my sister probably has a chest bigger than Gary Coleman. I did not inherit whatever it is that made Lisa's boobs that huge.

...and now I'm fully prepared for folks who are Google image searching for Gary Coleman to land upon this site because an image of my tubal ligation photo pops up instead. While both Gary and my uterus are cute, I think my uterus comes in a far second.

Quotes 2 and Quotes 1 for you New Years Eve revelers.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Fa La La La La! Part III

Hey! the harried housewife screams,
Glory to my new cold cream!
Nice and thick, and scented mild,
Spots and wrinkles reconcile.
Joyful, all these creases smooth,
And the dryness begins to soothe.
Then the harried wife proclaims,
'I'm as pasty as Eminem!'
Hey! the harried housewife screams,
Glory to my new cold cream.

Parts 1 and 2
Happy Holidays to all my readers and other hangers on. (Even if my holiday wishes are belated for Hanukkah, early for Kwanzaa and irrelevant for JW's. I don't even know when I'm supposed to gripe about Festivus. Anyway, have a good 'un.)

Friday, December 21, 2007

I didn't fart the blue dart.

There are moments in parenting when you sit back with a wistful smile on your face and think, "Ya know, I'm not too bad at this!" Things are going well, your kids are acting polite, they're clean, they're pulling great grades in school.

I did not have one of those moments yesterday.

You do not sit back with a wistful smile on your face while two of your three sons discuss the finer aspects of lighting farts in the backseat of your fabulous minivan. The third, the two year old, might have been involved in the conversation too for all I could tell. He yells, "TOOT!" just as often as he asks for juice boxes.

I swear to God and everything that is holy that I've told my kids to not play with matches. I had to have told the oldest to not do that for the last ten years on a daily basis. Brush your teeth, wash your hands, don't play with matches. Don't play with lighters either. Don't make sparks with the batteries you've pulled out of your remote control cars. Don't light things on fire by holding them against the lightbulb in your lamp. Don't rub sticks together. Don't take that magnifying glass outside. Just don't.

Why? Because I'm the Mom and I told you so.

Do you know what a blowback is? It's bad. It's painful internal burn bad. My sons have warned me to avoid blowback. Duly noted.

Time to buy more fire insurance on the house.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Square Knot

Fifteen years ago, a short while after Christmas, my soon to be husband tied a nylon braided bracelet, a wish bracelet, around my ankle.

He'd worn it first. It was a gift to him, from a friend, who blessed it in his own Wiccan way and then tied it to my husband's wrist. My husband had just been discharged from the Army and from war, and he was full of the possibilities in young non-military life and the G.I. Bill. Within weeks of being tied in place the bracelet had fallen off. The blessings and wishes that it symbolized had the power to come to pass.

Sometime after that, after we'd met and when Justin knew that we weren't just dating, he offered to tie the bracelet to any one of my appendages, with all it's blessings still attached. I chose my ankle because it wouldn't get in my way while I drew or painted or worked.

...and I wished on it. I wished so hard.

This bracelet has been attached to my body for a decade and a half. It's weave is whole and tight in some places and it's wonderfully worn and frayed in others. It's been with me for every shower, every meal, through work and play, there every time I've given birth and also with me at the ends of life. I've never tried to untie the knot that's held it. I've never wanted to remove it on my own, even if it's a pain to wear with pantyhose.

I've never told anyone my wish. Not my husband, not my friends or family. No one except me and God knows what was in my heart that day. It's a big wish and it's an enduring wish.

When I think about my bracelet in it's fifteenth year, I realize that the wish is fulfilled simply in the act of wearing it. It doesn't have to fall off on it's own to realize blessings. They are there, in every way, full of possibility and endurance. They are tied to me.

I have so much faith.

And I am so blessed.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Bah Humbug

Have you ever seen a version of "A Christmas Carol" which didn't have an incredibly annoying Tiny Tim? I admit to never have read Dickens' written version (to which I'll get to shortly) but every film version I've seen features a Tiny Tim that you wish was more like the Flick character in "A Christmas Story".

You wish Tiny Tim would freeze his tongue onto a pole.

I understand that Dickens wanted to personalize Scrooge's experience with the Spirit of Christmas. Tiny Tim is supposed to be sweet. He's supposed to inspire charity and good will towards men with his ever enduring spirit in the face of adversity. Couldn't a film director capture that and not make him so saccharine-y that you want to bitchslap the kid?

"God bless us, every one!" would be extra satisfying if followed by Mr. Crachit admonishing Tim to "Shut your piehole for once!" Bob Crachit is tired, he's poor, and dammit, he's not going to take it any more.

That being said, here is a top ten list of celebrities who film-makers should cast because they'd make fabulous Tiny Tims.

10. Paris Hilton
9. Woody Allen
8. Alec Baldwin
7. Michael Jackson
6. Courtney Love
5. Tom Cruise
4. Jack Black
3. Arnold Schwarzenegger
2. Britney Spears
1. Rosie O'Donnell

I've also been giggling all morning thinking about if Tiny Tim lived today, what crap would he put on his MySpace page? I'm thinking pics of kittens.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Spit please.

Not to flood my blog with any innuendos concerning my visit with the dentist, but my mouth sure is numb and my dental deductible has been met.


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Open Wide

I have a cavity!

I know, no big deal right? Except that I've never had a filling. Ever. I'm 33 years old and except for the removal of my wisdom teeth, my smile has been unmarked and pristine.

I'm going to lie prostrate for a dentist tomorrow morning and get drilled for the very first time.

And then I will give the man money.

It's all very sordid.

This last summer I went through a bout of acid reflux which left my esophagus achy and petulant. I feel better now but I ascribe the hole in my very back molar to it. My Beta style choppers couldn't withstand the onslaught of VHS format stomach acid.

That being said, kids, don't do meth.

Monday, December 10, 2007

My Fair Laddy

It occurs to me that I have not written about one of the most hunkiest hunks of hot pulsing meat byproducts when it comes to my bowhunk list.

I've had a crush on this particular bowhunk since the '80s when he first started appearing on television.

No, it's not Kirk Cameron. God sends you to hell for coveting Kirk Cameron.

It's not Magnum P.I. He's got hawaiian camel toe. Sally the camel's got two humps.

Though, the man has spectacular thighs.

Shuddup. I did not even hear you think Scott Baio. What is wrong with you?

This bowhunk is better in every single way. He's tough, he's muscular, he wears a skirt....

He's Groundskeeper Willie, The Simpson's cantankerous school janitor.

Willie is sexy. That's all there is to it.

Do I care if the man is a two dimensional animated drawing? Of course I do. It's incredibly inconvenient in the grand scheme of things. Oh well. It's not Willie's fault that he only exists on celluloid and was given this man's voice.

That's Dan Castellaneta, in case you're wondering. Dan doesn't have nearly the pecs.

Oh Groundskeeper Willie, you haggis voiced bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's's because I know exactly what you don't wear under that kilt.

No wonder Willie is the running champion of the Scotch-toberfest caber toss.

Edited to add...yes I know Willie didn't appear until season two, 1990. That date screwed with my searching for Tom Selleck camel toe photos. Don't you take this joy from me.

Thursday, December 06, 2007


I'm a clean adult.

What I mean is that I positively absolutely enjoy bathing. A bathtub is the clitoris of a house in my opinion.

My bathtub isn't fancy. It's only one of those plastic insert jobbies. It works, it's ok, it keeps the water warm and it has an acceptable recline angle. I can't use cleanser on it but I can shine it up nicely with a little Greased Lightning.

A few Christmasses back my husband gave me a nifty thingabob that hooks over the edge of my tub, you plug it in, and then it provides two powerful jets of hot tub wannabe. The manufacturer of this thingabob tells me that it's not a good idea to use bubblebath while enjoying the jets, but I rebel and create mounds of bubbles. They shouldn't poo-poo on my bath experience.

More and more I am thinking that I should treat myself to the ultimate bathtub. Something deep, with it's own jets, with a nice place to sit and shave body parts. Something with enough room to place hundreds of bottles of bath goop.

Yes, I want a geriatric walk-in bathtub. Want. Bad.

Of course, it might suck not being able to get out of the tub until it drains, but I'm fully willing to take that as a matter of course.

A walk in bathtub, that's the John Holmes of bathtubs. My current bathtub is Masters and Johnson average. It works, it's ok, it has an acceptable recline angle.

I'm going to be forthcoming enough to admit here that I keep typing bathtub as "bathrub". I'm going to go fix a cup of hot chocolate now.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007


I was a filthy child.

Though my Mom very fond of cleanliness and has an ongoing unrequited romance with an Electrolux vacuum, she couldn't stop me or my little sister from coming into her house covered in all manner questionable substances.

I'm unaware of any brain damage I may have caused myself. I am not a doctor.

As I've mentioned before, I grew up on a horse farm. That alone presents opportunities for filth that other locations don't. When you live on a horse farm there is horse poop, and when there is horse poop there is an opportunity to shovel that poop daily. Everything in it's place and so the horse poop was dumped out of the wheelbarrow into a huge pile at the back of the paddock area.

This, logically, makes me:


It's best to not play king of the hill, on the manure pile, in the dead heat of summer. I'll let you think that one out for yourselves. My sister and I had simple rules for the game. You had to sit on your bottom, you could move your legs and arms, and even pull hair, but your butt had to stay put. Victory was in throwing your sister off and have her tumbling to the bottom with at least three dried horse apples clinging in her hair.

In addition to the manure in the backyard, we had a running irrigation ditch in the front yard. At most it was a foot deep and perfectly fine to play in all summer. You're right in thinking that it was a never-ending source of mud. We built houses for our Barbies out of mud. We built houses for the feral farmcats out of mud. We built houses for the toads found in our window wells out of mud. The toads were the only new house owners to ever pee on us. They just don't appreciate fine architechture. There were mud pies and cookies and cakes. Occasionally it was mixed with the manure and slung.

The neighboring farm was home to cows, pigs and chickens. Cow manure doesn't pile up well so at least we left that alone. The chickens on the other hand, they not only left free range poop all over but free range eggs too. Either was excellent for picking up and throwing at your unsuspecting playmates. Typically the eggs were unfertilized and you became thankful if you were hit with a fresh one. What was better was to find a nest of eggs that had ripened somewhat. In addition to the surprise of odor, the splash of green contents was always exciting.

No wonder my Mom never let me wear better looking clothing outside to play. More often than not she stuck me in the green polyester hand me down bell bottoms my older sister had worn. Green the same shade as those ripe eggs. When they became too short as pants, they were cut off. The butt parts were still good.

There were times when we were clean. Mom kept us combed up for school and she never let us run around with crusty noses. We learned what it meant to use the hose. Hair washing with cold hose water is not pleasant. But hey, my playmate nextdoor, she had good aim.

My kids need to play in more mud.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Ode to a Menstrual Cramp

Once upon a midmonth dreary, while I p-m-s-ed, tiffed and teary,
Over many a red and swollen volume of infected pore,
While I prodded, pimple zapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my bathroom door.
"'Tis the children," I muttered, "tapping at my bathroom door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Back into the bedroom moody, all my soul within me broody,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"The hell?" said I, "I'm gonna kill whoever's making that racket!;
Come on out, whoever you are, and this mystery explore
-Dammit, come on out and this mystery explore;
-'But the kids were quiet and nothing more.'

Closed here I slammed the door, and flinging open my undies drawer,
Out popped a belted kotex, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least of a warning made it; not a minute stopped or stayed it;
But with tact of boor or brutus, fell down to my chamber floor.
Lounged upon a patch of carpet, just upon my chamber floor,
Lounged, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this cottony wad a-beaming my sad fancy into screaming,
By the sterile and april fresh-ness of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy purpose be clean and monthly," I said, "aren't ya a bit early?,
Fluffy, white, and ancient kotex, wandering from my undies drawer.
Tell me what the hell you're doing on my beige carpeted floor?"
Quoth the kotex, "Cramps make ya sore!."

"Kotex!" said I, "thing of evil!--kotex still, if pad or devil!
Whether nature sent, or whether hormones tossed thee here afloor,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this beige carpet not flaunted--
In this home that midol haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Can't I--can't I put this off until next week?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the kotex, "Cramps make ya sore."

Thus I sat engaged in cussing, but no syllable expressing
To the pad, whose fiery aches now burned into my pelvic core;
This and more I sat complaining, my gut squeezing, menstruating
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Five days and this will be o'er;
on the weekend this will be over, as it's always done before."
Dammit all to hell, cramps make ya sore!

Thursday, November 29, 2007

My 8 year old son's letter to Santa (which I opened and plan on replying to.)

Christmas List

Well, I like science, If you can, bring 3 things of that. I realy like Monopoly, I like the spongebob best, I like legos, I have so many decisions, so pick random. and no girl toys do you sell computers and laptops as presents? I'd like my own computer. NO (real) CARS, I'm not able to drive yet. I'd like an Eye-clops and spy gear. I like experiments. but only give one. I don't know which one I'd like, Except for making thunder.

That's 8 or 9, you can do the rest I'd like but

I am a nice


I'm going to ask Santa to bring my son a real car anyway.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Morning Minutia VI

The best way to make sure you've eaten all the raisins in your bowl of raisin bran is to dump the contents of the bowl onto the couch and then systematically look through it.

I reserve the right to wear sweats during sex this winter.

I did not steal my children's winter coats. The ditsy checker at the store left those damned magnetic tags the coats when I bought them and no one stopped us at the door when we set off the buzzers. Therefore they are MY tags and I can use my Dremel tool to hack them off.

The most exciting item on my list this Christmas is a Crock Pot. Mine broke. If you can't figure out why this is exciting you need to think outside of the crock. I reserve the right to wear sweats while I use my Crock Pot this winter.

I'm feeling the urge to cut my very long hair again.

I am not a ninja.

I do not like this new brand of coffee in my coffee maker. It doesn't smell like coffee. It smells like cat pee. Tastes OK though.

Who is hanging out in my neighbor's house during the day, when she's gone, blasting bass speakers? Should I go knock on the door and tell whoever is inside that it's rattling the decor on my walls?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Ever hear a pilgrim ask if he looks fat in his pants?

And did you ever think to what Turkeys are grateful for? Huh? HUH?

Happy Thanksgiving all!

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Absent Minded Nooky Report: #1, You put your leg here and I'll put my arm this way, ok, now put your hips here...hold still...gotcha!

Oh my eyes, my eyes!

I've spent my morning looking at websites of the non-porn variety explaining the thousands of positions two people can get themselves tangled into to achieve some sort of penetration.

I thought I could impart some wisdom or at least some practicality related to sexual positions but my mind got stuck on an entanglement entitled "The Boston Brute". I don't think my husband can bend that way. I worry about any man that finds himself able to bend that way.

Not to mention that some of these entanglements require that you somehow defy the laws of gravity. Not only do you have to be double jointed but you should be able to float. Up, up and my beautiful balloon...

I'm all for becoming creatively entangled during sex. I like as much skin on skin on skin contact as their can possibly be. I'm just not a fan of hurting myself, especially in the middle of the night with the lights off, to achieve that end. If you jab me with your elbow one more time I will kick your ass.


Because this is the internets and I'm apparently female, I've been asked a time or two by excitable menfolk what my favorite sexual position is. My standard answer to this question has been: Wrists and ankles are duct taped to the ceiling fan, I'm down asswards, and he's on the bed, standing on his head. Whirly whirly!

I imagine that the internet menfolk receiving this answer are cocking their head to the side, pondering the mechanics of this, while sitting in their parent's basement wearing only black socks.

By the way, duct tape residue on the blades makes your ceiling fan near impossible to dust.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

R.I.P. B.H.D.

Same poo, different day.

It's midmonth which means I usually post some kind of recommendation for a useful product to make a housewife's life go much smoother. Today I was about to enthusiastically yak on about my sheepskin wool lined slippers but I have nixed it.

Slippers. I was going to attempt to write something interesting about slippers. I'm the cure for insomnia. I'm the cause of coma.

Truth is, I believe the Bestest Housewifely Doodad has lost it's appeal, at least to me. I've even skipped months recently because I simply couldn't think of anything else unique that I personally use that I'd recommend. It had to end before I started raving about hemorrhoid treatments or cat litter. (And those two would be interchangeable posts, don't you think?)

I'm on the lookout for a new running gag. Something fresh. Something timely. Something I know a lot about that just might interest my readers and other hangers on. Something witty, provocative, in depth and spiritual too...

Screw that, I think I'll just write about sex.

Thank you sex, I like you, I really like you.

Suggestions and questions are welcome.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

I can't believe it's not Louie Anderson

I'm worried about myself.

I woke up this morning fresh from an incredibly erotic dream. Yes, there was nudity and the touching of the nudity and the tasting of the nudity and even random moments of sniffing of the nudity. It was all very naked.

This dream kept me asleep for fifteen minutes longer than I meant to.

Who's the lucky individual you ask? Who's the object of my dream affections? Who lit a fire in my sleeping loins? Interpret if you like, I got it on with...

Louie Anderson.

My subconcious isn't reaching too far. I did buy tickets to see him perform in my town's new concert hall. I think the man is funny. My husband and I are going to go watch Louie perform real close up. I don't think I'll wear fancy underpants like I meant to when I went and saw Dustin Diamond. I think the cotton grannies will do just fine.

As erotic dreams with celebrities go, this one was new to me. In my dreams I've gotten it on with Simon Cowell, Mr. Bean, unwillingly with Tom Cruise (shudder), Maria de Medeiros (the female lead in the movie "Henry and June") and there was a threesome with Sean Connery and Mario Lopez (I woke up and thought, "That's the only time they'll work together.")

I once had a dream in which I was churning butter with an old fashiond churn that turned out to be pretty hot. It's a wonder the butter didn't melt.

Whatever would Freud say about me? How does this relate to my parents, my constant pencil chewing or my wish to have a penis of my very own? I don't think I use enough cocaine for him to have an opinion.

I don't use enough butter either.

Friday, November 09, 2007

You know, the pills are made of monkey cum.*

I did a bad thing and did not check my load of whites for a brown crayon before I put them in the dryer. One of my favorite blouses looks like the last square of industrial TP at a highway rest-stop.

I bought some goo to put on the marks so they'll disappear. It wasn't expensive goo but then my blouse wasn't all that expensive either. If it doesn't work I won't be too upset.

Don't you wish there was goo to make annoying people in your life disappear? How much would you pay for such goo?

I wouldn't mind spritzing the lady who gives me and my teacher husband the stinkeye in the grocery store for failing her progeny (who didn't hand in nearly enough completed homework and couldn't stay awake in class) with my spray bottle of "Twit be Gone". This product may also be effective with ineffective politicians or telemarketers you can't block because they catagorize their scam as a charity.

Or...instead of a spray...a heavily advertised drug that heals other people of their highly annoying traits. I want a new drug. One that doesn't cause dry mouth and erectile difficulties.

Terrorists are annoying.
George W. Bush is annoying. (Oh lord, why did I just have to think of Dubya experiencing erectile difficulties and why in the world would I relay that thought here so you too would think it all day? Heh.)
Paris Hilton is annoying.
This generation of Millenials is annoying.


At times I'm annoying. Sigh.

Did you think I wouldn't do at least a little self introspection here? I mean really, I DID start this post with my own laundry faux pas.

While I sit down with my load of whites and patiently dot the easily miscontrued brown crayon marks with goo, I have time to compare and contrast everyone I think is annoying with my own behaviors, everyone except Dubya Bush. Or maybe I'll just watch Oprah.

Let's hope the goo won't give me too much of a buzz during the process.

*Uncharateristic semen reference courtesy of "Kids in the Hall: Brain Candy"

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

33's and 44's

Yesterday was my 33rd birthday.

The nice thing about being in one's thirties is that I don't have to live through those perky breasted twenties again. I really don't know how I survived that.

When I'm forty I will be done raising my oldest child and I can have his room!


I've been tagged by Deb and her pants. I've participated in a version of the fours before but my answers have changed, and thank god. I once listed Dr. Pheel as one of my favorite programs. What a circus that turned out to be.

Four places I've lived:
♥Most of Utah County, except BYU land.
♥San Diego
♥Cedar City, UT
♥Bendover, NV.

Four jobs I've had:
♥Grocery Store Checker
♥Costume Shop Manager
♥Head Washwoman
♥Greeting Card Pusher

Four things I'd like to do before I die:
♥Win a top prize at WOW.
♥Marry off my children and take over their rooms for fun and profit.
♥Maybe open a little store.
♥Create a bitchin' art car.

Four favorite desserts:
♥Chocolate Cake
♥Pecan Cheesecake
♥Blueberry Pie

Four interesting facts:
♥I can tell the sex of bugs by their genitalia.
♥I grabbed my brother in law's buttocks this last weekend.
♥I own three pair of catseye granny glasses.
♥I'd rather parade about my town completely naked than wear thong underwear.

Four favorite TV shows:
♥Big Love
♥The Price is Right

I tag Hillary Clinton and Mitt Romney.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Calisthenics make you winded and windy.

Never underestimate the power of peer pressure.

The peers I speak of are the group of friends that I've had since high school. As we are all entering our thirties we are finding ourselves more cantankerous, and chubby, and hairier in some places and balder in others. Our slowing metabolisms and penchance for pregnancy has ruined how we once saw each other as sixteen year olds.

One of those fools had a bright idea to join up at Introplay and have a friendly work out competition.

...And I volunteered to put my body through abuse because of my damned competitive nature. You do not want to play Scrabble with me. I promise you.

It does go nicely with my first day of school resolution to perform more Yoga. I like Yoga. I like the yoga man on my yoga tapes. I've always been particularly flexible even if the positions I can get myself into look about as graceful as a skydiving giraffe.

The competition will be tough to beat too. There are twelve of us divided into three teams. Each team is hosted by a marathon runner. No, I'm not the marathon runner. I keep reading how marathon runners hurl. I dislike hurl. I won't be performing Yoga until I puke.

I may also be utilizing my "Sweatin' to the Oldies" videotape that was elephant gifted to me at a Christmas party with these same friends last year. They thought they were getting rid of junk but little did they know they were handing me their thoughtfully wrapped downfall!

Am I the only one that thinks that Richard Simmons is a teeny bit sexy? Nevermind...

I'm off to perform sit ups and jump-roping. Then I'll slam down a Gatorade and feel accomplished.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Sleepless in Bendover



What? You want me to type something? You actually want me to find the energy to move my fingers and say something coherent?

Silly wabbits.

There is much sleep lacking at my house. My husband hopefully slept well last night, but hasn't been able to sleep for four or five days previous. My two year old didn't sleep on Halloween night, being that he was all hopped up on sugar and trans-fats. That's why I didn't sleep much two nights ago. I got in maybe three hours last night.

Yesterday was heavy cleaning day at my house. My family is venturing out to see me this weekend and I felt compelled to freshen my house some. They seem to appreciate this.

On top of cleaning, yesterday was Christmas card day at my very part time job. Remember back when I said I was taking a job stocking greeting cards at the local grocery store and it would require 2 to 4 hours a week of my time? Durr...I forgot the Season's Greetings. I put in four hours last night stocking Christmas cards doused in glitter and I'm expecting another four tonight.

When I got home I was tired and thought I was ready for bed, but I stayed hopelessly awake until three. Falling asleep was blissful until Mr. Sandman did indeed bring me a dream. I could not stop stocking glittery happy holiday greetings. There were cards and cards and cards and cards...and no envelopes...and glitter floating so thickly in the air you would think I'd grow a dream horn out of the middle of my forehead and become the star of the movie Legend.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas...all...night...long.

I'm amazed I managed to spell a good amount of words correctly so far.

Yawn. Have another YouTube.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I don't just have bolts in my neck...

Happy Halloween!

Have a little video of a ghost. Watch just below the rocking chair...

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

My soapbox is cuter than your soapbox

I've been fighting the most terrible urge all this morning to go about moralizing on today's post. (...and moralize on and on and on...) I want so much to name the rights and wrongs of the world and satisfactorily judge them black or white...and don't you dare disagree!

I'm trying to define in my own head why I am feeling so preachy.

I sure have some strong convictions about some things. I don't get why people would have convictions just as strong running in the complete opposite direction. I mean...duh...why don't you think MY way? It's only logical you know.

So far I've wanted to spout off rabid opinions on:

  • Common law marriage.

  • George Bush Jr. and the debacle on terror.

  • I'm ok, you're ok.

  • The economics of stay at home parenting.

  • The religious right and the religious who are left.

  • Why using the term "fur babies" is just wrong.

  • That if my teacher husband failed your progeny, why you shouldn't be giving him the stinkeye in the grocery store.

  • I've painted my soapbox a pretty purple color and glued some sparklies and feathers on it.

    Of course it's perfectly proper to moralize on your own blog for all the world to see. I've done so in my usual witty yet entirely humble way from time to time. Today I'm just stuck. I'm not holding back because my opinion might be read and commented on. I'm holding back because I'm finding myself frustrated with my own damned surety.

    Shouldn't I question this stuff more in my never ending quest in self improvement and higher learning? Even if I do come to the same conclusions, should I just take them as read in the first place?

    ...and is this just a phase of early thirties to which I should pay no mind to whatsoever?

    ...and is Ex-Lax on sale?

    I believe later on today I'll ask my husband to relieve some of this heavy thinking with sex. I'll leave my sparkly soapbox in the other room.

    Monday, October 29, 2007

    Look, I made a bubble.

    Just a quick drop in. I'm going to go have a bath. I plan on shaving my armpits.

    I'd invite you but I don't want you to go blind. You're welcome.

    ...edited to add this photo. Engage.

    Friday, October 26, 2007

    I feel stupid...and contagious.

    I'm buying these. I don't care what you say. They're mine!

    Oh they're pristine. They're beautiful! They are Chuck-a-licious.

    It's about time I bought I new pair. I've owned and worn my old pair of Chucks since 1991.

    Sixteen years. Since high school. Since the days I smelled like teen spirit. When the lights are on, I'm less dangerous. I've written Oingo Boingo lyrics in Bic pen on this pair. It's a spandex obsession.

    This isn't my only pair of old crusty Chucks. Oh no! I bought this pair in 1992. The spirit of Christmas moved me.

    These had jingle bells attached to the back of the shoes, but I removed them. They were not kick-ass. Jingling does not get along well with Oingo Boingo lyrics.

    I will receive my leathery new Chucks in 6-10 days. You may send your congratulations then.

    "Becky, congratulations on being a great big dork. Wear those Chucks with pride."

    Don't worry, I will.

    Wednesday, October 24, 2007

    He knows who's been naughty or nice...

    Today is Parent/Teacher conference day.

    I've been waiting for this day all year long! I've put up the tree and strung popcorn and hung up my stocking and wrapped all the presents.

    Don't you say a word. You'll ruin my delusions!

    Lucky for my oldest son, he's brought up his grades considerably. We've been fighting a notion he's had for years, that homework isn't entertaining and therefore not worth doing much less handing in. I remind him that giving birth to him wasn't entertaining either, but some things you just have to do.

    Should I be comparing childbirth to a carnival shooting gallery? Hit the target, get a prize! The little lady's a Winnnnnahhhhhh! Ding ding ding!

    I suppose attending Parent/Teacher Conferences are optional. I wasn't sent a summons but a note that looks more like an invitation without the gift registry. I could stay home. I could lounge on my couch and watch childbirth programs on Discovery Health. On Friday I could mail the teachers a card wishing them well with a crumpled five dollar bill in it.

    My teacher husband gets frustrated because the kids that most need these conferences have the parents that don't show...and that's why I attend. How much of my kid's homework would ever get done if I didn't appear to be in evil collusion with their teachers? It's how they know I care.

    I don't require my kids to attend their conferences. It's not Parent/Teacher/Student conference. It's my time to talk about my children behind their backs with other responsible adults conference. I need to be free to discuss my children's wellbeing without their little ears and their little psyches hearing every word. The mystery of the meeting is a plus that is sometimes used to my advantage.

    My son's teachers should not be surprised if I bring a fruitcake to the meeting. I think the situation calls for it.

    Monday, October 22, 2007

    Don' about me...

    The bulk of my Halloween sewing is finished. Thank you, my dear readers and other hangers on, for being so patient.

    At one point my two year old got a hold of my container of gold cup sequins and mixed them with a mud pie in the backyard. It was the most fabulous mud pie ever.


    My husband and I recently went to see the movie Superbad. It's a teen movie and it was...well...superbad. It was crude and rude and disgusting. We laughed our asses off. Being assless has effected our romantic life somewhat. We don't plan on suing even though it makes those chaps I wear to bed somewhat pointless.

    Justin and I have a guilty pleasure in teen movies. It all starts with Lord Love a Duck for me and he's back with Annette Funicello in a one piece bathing suit.

    I wonder if Annette Funicello or John Hughes would have put their stamp of approval on Superbad?

    Justin thought the movie could have used a small pinch of Molly Ringwald and some Ray-Bans, hold the Ducky.

    Yeah, I don't remember her dressing like this in Pretty in Pink either. However, this image doesn't ruin that "girl next door" quality about Molly. Neither does that nude scene in that one movie she know, the one with that nude scene. You still want to marry her and impregnate her with dozens of your babies.

    Oh Molly Ringwald, you lip pursing tart! Why do you attract my husband so? Sorry, dumb question. She's America's prom date and how.

    And when Molly freak dances with you at a drunken party, she won't leave stains on your clothes.

    Tuesday, October 16, 2007


    I'm sewing today...

    So have some sheep porn.
    You're welcome.

    Monday, October 15, 2007

    She's alive....ALLLLIIIIIVVVEEEEE!

    An aside, before I get into my post...I have made the best salad EVER. Delicate cod sautee'd in butter, mushrooms, crumbled bacon, cracked pepper and dill served over spinach, ripe tomatoes and shredded cheddar. It's fabulous.

    I am not eating my salad looking like this:


    This is a photo from last night, wherein which I pranced about the house with green mud all over my face. When your hormones are tantrumming it necessitates skin care you wouldn't otherwise participate in.

    I used to like peel off face masks. There is a moment of triumph when you peel it off your face in one large sheet. Ever spread Elmer's glue all over your hand in elementary school and then peel it off after it dried? You could see your whole handprint! It's extra awesome to see your own faceprint! Or you could peel off a footprint or buttprint...let's not get more descriptive than that.

    Despite the fun of peel off mask, I'm a recent convert to clay based face masks with lots of good old sulphur in them. Proactiv makes a heavily advertised and expensive version that smells much like diaper cream. (Speaking of buttprints.) I found this version at The Family Dollar for a buck fifty and it smells much better. I'm proud to present October's Bestest Housewifely Doodad:

    Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque.

    It's spearminty! Do not confuse it with tootpaste.

    This is lovely stuff on oily skin types. Slathered on once a week, it'll leach out all the nasty crap that infiltrates your pores. Got pimples? A little dab will do ya. Avoid your eyes, let it dry and then rinse off with plain water. The sulphur and bentonite in this all natural formula is what makes this mask work well, while the mint encourages blood circulation.

    (Do not answer the door having forgotten that you've dabbed green mud on a pimple. It's your HOA association presidency and they will stare at it while they inspect your siding and fencing for weather damage.)

    Mint Julep Masque comes in both tubes and tubs. You may prefer a tub because this stuff is thick. Squeezing it out of the tube takes hand muscle. Buy it at a grocery or department store near you.

    If you have very sensitive skin, Mint Julep Masque might irritate that.

    God, that was a good salad.

    Thank you Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque. I like you, I really like you.

    Thursday, October 11, 2007

    He who smelt it....

    When I was pregnant with my first I lost the ability to control where and when I passed a little wind. I just couldn't sense that sort of impending doom. I'd regain the ability to be discrete shortly after giving birth but every time I began to show in pregnancy I became Mother Snap, Crackle and Pop.

    This is how I ended up embarrassing myself at a rather somber poetry reading. At least it wasn't my husband up on the podium. What kind of Freudian slip would that be?

    We all know that it's dangerous territory to fart alone in an elevator...or whilst almost alone in a store aisle. It's important to only cut cheese in appropriate places and around the appropriate people. Don't fart at a poetry reading if you can help it.

    If you are with Tom Cruise, don't fart on set.

    Since I'm an insomniac sometimes I crawl into bed long after my husband has gone to sleep. One night, while doing so, I ripped one that was so loud that the neighbors dog was soon barking. It roused Justin from his quiet sleep just enough for him to mumble, "I'm sorry for snoring so loud!" I burst out laughing. I couldn't let him take the blame.

    It makes you wonder if Tom ever toots in bed with Katie...or better yet, it Katie ever toots in bed with Tom. Or if either of them farts on set. Could you imagine Katie crawling in bed and "snoring"?'s only easy to imagine ME doing that. Thanks a lot.

    I'm blaming the next one on you.

    Tuesday, October 09, 2007

    Manscaping 101

    If you are fond of discussing marriage and relationships, like I am, from time to time you will find a man who will ask the pressing question which I am blogging about today.

    Should a man shave...ya be more attractive...uh...besides his face? Do women like that?

    I don't presume to speak for other women, but I will speak for myself on the subject. Blogging about hair removal is one of my favorite topics afterall. Answering this question requires a chart.

    I searched for hours for a better representation of a hairy unclothed man...oh the things I have seen and the places I have been...shudder. We'll have to make do with public use Da Vinci Man. Points are numbered, so let's take the manscaping tour, shall we?

    1. Most women do not care if you are losing your hair. We DO care if you are losing your hair and you insist on a combover or wearing a toupee'. Bald is sexy. Bald men have solar panels because they are love machines. Patrick Stewart? I. Want.

    2. A man is not impressing anyone by growing his ear hairs long enough to serve as his combover. I don't know about other women, but I am not interested in clipping your ear hair for you. They make neato clippers for the purpose. Use em'. The same goes for the nose hairs.

    3. Beards are sexy. This is my personal opinion which I know is not shared by other women. Beards are sexy and they feel nice on the thighs. Keep your beard long enough to be soft and wash it often. It's not a food keeper or an aroma saver. If you do grow a ZZ Top beard, keep it combed. (A beard isn't combover material either.)

    4. Back Hair. Personally I don't care if you've got it or not. However, if it's so prominent that it gets tangled, take a pair of clippers to it and mow it down to a manageable length. I personally would offer to help with this endeavor if I got a trip to the fabric store out of it.

    5. Manly men have armpit hair. (I'm a manly man...sigh.) Keep it from growing so long that it gets tangled as well. I am not offering to help with this. No, not even for twenty dollar a yard velvet or promises to bathe my cat. If your deodorant gets all caked in your armpit 'fro then, dude, trim it.

    6. Don't shave your chest. Chest stubble is scratchy on my girl bits on my front. Regular chest hair is a lovely sensual experience. You could wax it. That would be fun to watch. Tangled? Clippers then a trip to the fabric store.

    7. Yes, you've got a hairy butt. That's ok. Don't moon my family and friends. Anyone else is fair game.

    8. It doesn't make it look bigger. Enough said.

    9. I appreciate a furry leg on a man. I appreciate a furry leg on a man who has really nice thighs.

    10. Toe hair is a fact of life. I have toe hair too. Do not grow your toe hair long enough to trip on or use as a combover. Actually, I might have this hobbit fantasy....

    11. You have hair here? Stop that. You'll go blind. Alright, use Nair. No kissing, no telling.

    Finally, do not leave wanton hairs on my pink girly soaps in the shower. Why are you using my soap? Gah!

    Monday, October 08, 2007

    Ladies and Germs...

    Welcome to my 400th post.

    This blog would not be possible without the support of public television and viewers like you. Thank you!

    This blog would not be possible without coffee. Preferably hazelnut flavored coffee. Thank you coffee.

    This blog would not be possible without my feminine bits, with which I have produced offspring who inspire me to aspire to housewifery. Thank you uterus. Thank you breastesses that have reverted back to being erogenous zones instead of smorgasbords.

    This blog would not be possible without the man I'm married to, who is also thankful for my feminine bits. Thank you Justin.

    This blog would not be possible without my muddled brain...muddled because of tantrumming hormones which have rendered me to an amazing state of absentmindedness yet again. Thank you brain...but no thanks hormones. You and your whiskers and your hot flashes can go back where you came from.

    This blog would not be possible without my three sons who continuously challenge my patience and my humor. Thanks boys.

    This blog would not be possible without the admiration I have for James Spader. He's damned sexy. Thank you James Spader....and Kevin Spacey too.

    This blog would not be possible without my dumb gay cat. Thanks Booger.

    Thanks to my regular readers, who come back for abuse reasons I hope are uplifting and moral. You folks brighten my day and light up my life. It's nice to be heard sometimes.

    Friday, October 05, 2007

    How to turn on the gen x male.

    1. Whip up a delicious heaping mound of cheeseburger flavored Hamburger Helper.

    2. Eat this ugly mass of food while watching "American Beauty" allowing him to hold the remote, so he can switch it to CSI.

    3. Serve him a big slice of chocolate cake during Jon Stewart.

    4. Put the kids to bed and enthusiastically retire to the bedroom.

    5. Get completely naked and lay on top of the bed.

    6. Let him have the pick of the game controllers.

    7. Then completely own him during a game of nude Tony Hawk Pro-Skater.

    I so shred.

    Thursday, October 04, 2007

    Fried Green Tomatoes and a nice Chianti.

    Fried Green Tomatoes is on Lifetime right now. I can't help but watch. I think it's a mutation in my DNA.

    In general I'm not a sucker for chick flicks. It's true that I discuss vaginas and periods and boobies on this blog but I'm not doing so in the sense that I'm full of female power. You will never catch me dancing around a kitchen table, huffing in the reek of scented candles, wearing my BFF's jeans and declaring that "I WILL be loved for ME!" The only time I want to hear, "You go girl" is when I'm in a bathroom.

    I'm eagerly awaiting the gooey bloodbath of Saw IV. It will be so awesome.

    Yet here I sit, enraptured, waiting for Kathy Bates to screech, "Towanda!" and purposely crash into a some skanky woman's Volkswagon. I will feel vindicated!

    Perhaps it's the cannibalism in this movie that puts me over the XX chromosome hump. One of my very favorite movies is "Silence of the Lambs". Plenty of goo in that one too.

    In Karen Durbin's list of the 50 greatest chick flicks, published by "O" magazine, I find that I have enjoyed 14 in the list (Someone left #50 off the website.) #14 is "Aliens", which I counted, and has goo too. Fine, I'm fickle.

    Excuse me a moment, Kathy is Towanda-ing......

    "I'm older and have more insurance." Awesome.

    Monday, October 01, 2007're it.

    I have introduced sheer Evil into my home.



    It was inspired evil. I'm not taking full credit for this evil because I was influenced by an short woman, with spiky blond hair, who thinks her husband has better thighs than mine.

    I have purchased a Playstation because SHE purchased a Playstation.

    I have three sons who are going to go absolutely brain-steaming bonkers this Christmas. (I said SHHHHHHHHH...alrighty?) It might require some sort of restraints.

    What the schmo was I thinking? These children of mine, with the exception of the one still in diapers, will forget all the potty training I have instilled in them up to this point. They will sit in front of the family shrine television in puddles of their own refuse, unblinking and barely responsive.


    More time on the computer for me.

    Friday, September 28, 2007

    I am woman...and I've been given a right to vote.

    Anyone else think it's amazing that a wife can have a different opinion than her husband?

    I'm not talking politics here. I don't give a flip about Democrat vs. Republican in this post. I have no opinion on the subject of Hillary's question in this debate. Hell, I have no opinion on Hillary as a presidential candidate.

    What gets me about this is that no man on the panel would have been given his wife's public opinion on their debate questions as smug justification that their answer isn't valid, even if their wife was in politics.

    I thought we were done with the times where a wife was told not to worry her pretty little head about such things. Cook me a pot pie. Go ask what's upsetting The Beav.

    Thursday, September 27, 2007

    360 easy payments of $535

    Did you happen to catch CBS Evening News with Katie Couric yesterday? Fine, I'm the only one that watches. Nevermind. I have a beef with what I saw. Not bullion cubes but full cow.

    Let me quote the first two paragraphs in yesterday's story, Graduating Into Debt.

    For accountant Alex Guzzetta, not a day goes by when he doesn't think about these numbers: $90,000 in student loan debt, $20,000 owed to the federal government and $70,000 to a private lender.

    “A third of every hour I work is basically just going towards just maintaining the interest on my student loans. I'm not getting anywhere, they're not getting any lower. I'm just buying time,” he tells CBS News correspondent Kelly Wallace. What the hell is wrong with this picture?

    I had a long diatribe ready on college for the Pokemon generation but it's giving me heartburn. I'll get to the point of it. Is shucking your buns through college not an option anymore? Are we bypassing more affordable state schools in favor of a brand name on a diploma, relying on that to say what we are much like the brand name on a pair of jeans? Is a brand name on a diploma all the more proof that you've gotten an education than actually opening a book and studying no matter where you go? Is learning on easy credit terms really learning?

    Le sigh...

    What's just as bad is that our post-grad accountant doesn't realize he's news-storied himself out of work. I'd gouge a pencil in my eye before I'd let him touch my meager accounts.

    Wednesday, September 26, 2007

    It's about your vagina too...unless you haven't got a vagina.

    By far the most out-clicked link on my blogroll is All About My Vagina.

    I'm not going to write about vaginas today, I'm just pointing that out.

    Naughty, naughty.

    Monday, September 24, 2007

    I'll buy you a green, that's cruel.

    There are times in my life where I find something compelling and moving and so I'm called into action.

    What's moved me this time? Confessions of a Prairie Bitch. The action? I asked Nellie Oleson to be my Myspace friend. She is just that awesome.

    Haven't we all encountered our own Nellie Oleson's growing up? I had one in elementary school and another in the upper grades.

    Elementary Nellie shared a physical trait with Little House Nellie, in that they sported a similar hairstyle with the exception that Little House Nellie's was a wig. I disliked Elementary Nellie because she kept trying to buy off my puppy love crush with real crayola markers. How could I compete with that?

    High School Nellie was a whole different sort of nasty. I would like to think that puberty had something to do with her behavior but we all know that nasty is nasty, hormones or not. She directed several different methods of torment toward me from 7th grade up until the day I'd tired of it.

    I loved this dress. It's 1991, I'm in 10th grade and I am in complete love with my jolly green giant dress. I put the dress on and I felt confident, pretty, sexy, powerful. A definite bargain for nine dollars. (The red notation reads, "highschool boyfriend"...couldn't edit out the wrist corsage either.)

    High School Nellie disliked my dress. The dress could have been thousand dollar couture and she would have found something biting to say about my dress. What she said, as I walked down the highschool hallway wearing it, wasn't the worst of the things she'd said to me since 7th grade, but it was enough.

    The power of green cotton knit compelled me. I walked up to her, my eyes never leaving hers the whole time. I got within an inch of her nose, then looked her pudgy body slowly up and down, met her eyeball to eyeball again and said, "At least I can wear it." I didn't let up on my stare until she backed off.

    No, it's wasn't right to say something about her body, but stick a fork in me, I was done. It was an achilles heal that I was more than willing to pierce with an arrow at that point.

    She never bothered me again. I took all the fun out of it. I wore that green dress a lot.

    Later in life I'd come to the understanding that her parents, even though very well off and generous with their gifts to her, neglected her horribly. Little House Nellie outgrew her nastiness...I wonder if High School Nellie ever did.

    Friday, September 21, 2007

    Stamped and Approved

    I once had a soulful and spiritual accounting professor. You read that right, a soulful, spiritual accounting professor. He was definitely one of my favorite teachers out of my college career. He was fond of posting a profound quote on the chalkboard, every class, before we got to the dirty work of preparing statements. He was cleansing our cranial palates.

    One morning he posted a quote that read something along the lines that people shouldn't be putting their faith into institutions, lest they find themselves disappointed (...I have googled all morning and I cannot find it exactly).

    I asked the professor, being one of the few married students in the class, that if marriage is an institution, should I not have faith in my marriage? It was my habit to sit in the front row of all of my classes and that made any of my questions difficult to ignore. That's why I got A's people.

    He smiled and replied, "Have faith in your husband."

    That was one of many lessons I've had over the years that marriage is not it's own separate entity. It's a private entity, it's an individual entity. It is not in itself the cause of happiness or despair. Like water, it only takes on the shape of the container it's in.

    Throughout the years of my many interactions on the interwebs with people from all walks of life I was again recently presented with the ever pervasive notion that marriage is just a piece of paper and therefore it doesn't mean a thing. That, if they avoid marriage, they will also avoid a painful future. Why get married when the divorce rate is that mythical 50%?

    The piece of paper argument bothers me. It's wussy. Hell, I don't care if you get married, or don't get married, just don't tell me that marriage is an institution beyond your responsibility or input. You aren't marrying marriage. You are marrying a real live person with individual interests, goals, values, habits and history. You are marrying a person who will fart in bed and gleefully pull the sheet over your head.

    Pieces of paper? Yeah, I don't need those either! You can have the twenty dollar bill in my wallet, don't mean nothin'. Have the credit cards too. Take the deed to my house and my car. Birth certificate? Take it. Here are my bank statements and bills and checkbook and W-2s. Have my coupons. Take the library card and the card that guarantees my kid a free cookie every time we visit the bakery in the grocery store too. All pieces of paper that I shouldn't need!

    We live our lives by media. We thrive in mounds of paper that grant us stuff. Don't single out one piece of paper and declare it meaningless out of questionable self serving least not while you have a wallet in your purse or back pocket.

    Wait, give me that cookie paper back. I really do need that!

    Wednesday, September 19, 2007

    Five Stars

    I received a visit last week from a person, whom I assume was of the male persuasion, wondering where he could go to rate his wife.

    I'll give her a B+. She has a good beat and I can dance to it.

    I hadn't thought of providing a wife rating service before. The glass half full part of me wants to determine "How completely and totally wonderful is my wife?" and the glass half empty part leans toward "How big of a skanky hag did I end up marrying?" The part of me that has no glass at all says, "Screw society, I'm going to go live alone in a cave and eat twigs and talk back to my own farts."

    This is not to ignore the idea that this alleged man wanted to rate his wife physically. I'm sure he did. She probably is a lovely woman with a great personality. Who wouldn't want to stroke their ego be complimented for bagging that fine piece of ACE the good fortune of falling in love with such a beauty?

    Perhaps he wants to rate his wife's bowstaff skillz?

    I think the two highest scoring factors in rating one's wife is that she is:

    A) Female.
    B) Not made out of plastic.

    All the rest is subjective. There is even some give and take when it comes to that plastic thing.

    Four out of five dentists recommended me to my husband.

    Tuesday, September 18, 2007

    Got a receipt for that?


    My Halloween season for my business has officially begun. I've had my first Ebay disgruntled customer for the year.

    She claims I sent her an empty package. Sure, I'm absent minded, but golly gee, I'm not stupid. The packaging I sent her item in is way floppy unless it has the item inside of it. Floppiness never escapes my notice! Besides, I've sent so many of this product over the years (in envelopes as big as 1977 microwaves) that the mail carriers at my post office, who know me and see me most every day in this very small town, would probably call my house and ask if I forgot something.

    It's a possibility that her package could have been opened en route and her item was taken. Who votes for that scenario? Raise your hands! Unfortunately I cannot prove that she didn't receive an empty package so I'm stuck.

    I have two options. I can refund her money or I can send her a replacement. (I know, you're thinking about the third option of emailing her and telling her to kindly shove it. Ebay dislikes it when you do that.) I'm leaning toward refund. She didn't spend enough that paying her off is going to hurt. I'm not going to get replacement product for another week besides. And I don't wanna send her anothern dammit!

    I'm only giving her the benefit of the doubt at this point because even though she hasn't got much feedback, it's all good feedback. After I refund, I'm a gonna block her.

    I love Ebay. I love Ebay. Sigh. I love Ebay.

    Monday, September 17, 2007


    You've read the descriptions of how much a stay at home mother should be making in a year for the services she provides. You know, 1300 bucks for cooking meals, 800 bucks for kissing boo-boos, stuff like that.

    How much for at home Hazmat? I'm going in to clean my 13 year old son's room. The fumes have reached the proper shade of green today.

    It was nice knowin' ya'll.

    Friday, September 14, 2007

    Up Where We Belong

    I received an interesting email a few days ago which I read and then deleted without response. The more I think about it the more I think that this anonymous comment on my life needs commenting on.

    Since I don't have that nifty email anymore, I'll summarize. It asks why my blog doesn't have more photos of my husband and me together, or funny marital exchanges. Why don't I declare my love for all to see via tickers, or links to Flickr albums, or even links to everything my husband does? This is a housewife blog, isn't it?

    If I posted a sparkling MySpace style GIF, would you feel better?

    I wuv you schnookums!

    Not that I don't appreciate my reader's more porcine qualities, but parading about what connects my husband and me in marriage is putting pearls before swine. Pork chops taste good. Bacon tastes good.

    The email insinuated that I'm hiding some sort of truth about marital boredom or that we never have marital discord. We've been married fourteen years. Ya gotta be kiddin'.

    There is a difference between hidden and private. Any casual porn peruser on the interwebs can tell you this! (Do not send me your favorite links, mmmkay? I don't need to know about your hot pink latex fetishes.) It's not that I keep these things out of my blog out of some sort of concern over staying annonymous, but out of concern that putting it out there for everyone will make what we've built less valuable to us. What we are together isn't ever going to be stamped with a UPC code and marketed for public consumption or comment.

    Do we fight? Yup. Do we have differences that probably aren't going to be resolved? Yup. Do we tolerate and appreciate that? Yup. Are we happy? Yup. Has my husband ever showed up at the factory and carried me off in his arms while wearing a pristine white uniform? No, thank god, no.

    Frankly, I'd rather post a twinkling photo of myself on the commode with a wad of toilet paper in my hands. (Do not send me links of this either, mmmkay?) I post about my husband and our marriage just enough. Don't be a little Oliver Twist about it.

    Wednesday, September 12, 2007

    I'd you profen

    Would anyone like a headache? I've got one and I'm willing to give it to anyone who wants it free of charge.

    This headache came on suddenly, as "that time of the month" headaches are prone to do. I guess I've got no takers on my period either.

    Fine, I'll keep all this joy to myself.

    Tuesday, September 11, 2007

    Feed Dogs

    I've been told that today has been named Sewing Machine Day.

    I don't think that's why the highschool football team put an American flag in my front yard this morning, but I can roll with this.

    So, what's your most favoritest sewing machine? (If your answer is yours truly then you'd be correct.) Currently I'm salivating over a new Pfaff. It sews, it embroiders, it changes your baby's diapers. It was unveiled last week and it's so new they haven't even put a price tag on it yet.

    I'd pay five bucks for the thing. Maybe ten. I'll put twenty down on it if promises to potty train my kid.

    Have I ever mentioned that I like sewing? I like sewing! It's been a long time since I've machine sewn over my fingers so I must be pretty good at it. Once I cut off the tip of one of my fingers with a rotary cutter. It grew back, despite my bionic woman fantasies.

    My most recent project is a Nudie Suit for my nephew for Halloween.

    A Nudie Suit does not look like this:

    But rather, it's this Hollywood-ized backwoods glamour, named after the designer, Nudie Cohn aka The Rhinestone Tailor:

    That's Porter Wagoner's suit, if you're asking. Porter never wore fig leaves while performing as far as I know. This suit makes me salivate in degrees that are downright geyser like. I am water in the desert. I am sequins in the sun!

    I'd like to wish all my readers and other hangers on a pleasant Sewing Machine Day. May your tensions always be set properly and your bobbin always be full.

    Friday, September 07, 2007

    Becky's Bedhoppers

    I'm not usually of a worrisome nature. Sometimes I take a Scarlett O'Hara approach to the concerns of the world. However, I find I can't ignore this particular worry any longer.

    If Drew Carey is going to host "The Price Is Right" will the models continue to be "Barker's Beauties" or will they get a new moniker?

    I know, you were worried about the exact same thing...

    The name that comes to the forefront in my mind, if we excuse a few variations on two crude four letter words, is "Carey's Cuties". It's not PC, but hey, it's got alliteration.

    What would the models be named if Rosie O'Donnell had gotten the hosting gig? Rosie's Posies? O'Donnell's Doll's? O'Donnell's O'Dommes?

    Of course we can't limit our naming possibilities to Drew Carey and Rosie. I'm sure many other celebrities and talk show types were considered as well.

    • Bill Clinton's got charisma. Bill's Fillies.
    • Star Jones ain't been on TV for a while. Star's Harlots.
    • Mario Lopez won't do "Circus of the Stars". Lopez's Dispensers.
    • Since the Geico Caveman got a sitcom, the Gecko is jealous. Gecko's Lot Lizards.
    • There just isn't enough Oprah. Winfrey's Self Actualized and Strong Women (who are modeling because they choose to and do not feel objectified or demeaned in any way).

    ...Don't let me start in on Dick Van Dyke or Englebert Humperdinck.

    Wednesday, September 05, 2007

    Nap Interrupted

    Being so full of snot, I didn't sleep very well last night. That's why, during my bath just moments ago, I fell asleep in the warm water.

    The crash of thunder woke me. When a lightning storm is striking right over your house it's a bad idea to stay sleeping in the bathtub...

    ...and now it's hailing. Awesome.

    ....and yes, I'm naked.

    Tuesday, September 04, 2007

    Spiced snot and ham.

    I can't think.

    My brain is packed with snot much like a can of Spam is packed in that nasty jelly stuff. Two weeks into the school year and already the first head cold has descended upon my house.

    At this point you could open my skull with a rusty can opener and enjoy my brain on a Ritz.

    While I go huff mentholatum fumes, why don't you take a gander at (Thank the powers that be that internet doesn't come with scents.)

    Thursday, August 30, 2007

    Cinderella Undercover

    I admit to having an ecletic list of music on my little Windows media player. Yes, I illegally downloaded most of it. I'm a bad bad human being.

    Right now I'm listenin to Shakira. All of us want to be Shakira when we grow up. Don't deny it.

    Next on the list, Flock of Seagulls and Tracy Chapman. Imagine if they got together and had a baby.

    Then there is Erasure, The Zombies, Oingo Boingo, Dolly Parton and Outkast.

    All of the songs on my list have been chosen for their ability to rev my brain. You know, that sludgy thing that's been running out of my ears overloading with Yo Gabba Gabba and Ed, Edd and Eddy. I don't have a big playlist, but I do have enough for my brain cells come out of their comas.

    Now that Justin has a new handy dandy MP3 player, (Which stores photos and movies and has a compass in the stock.) I've called dibs on his old one. I haven't desired an MP3 player up to this point. I don't always need a soundtrack to my daily life. What I do need sometimes is something to keep my brain occupied while I perform never ending loads of dishes and laundry. There are philosophical questions presented in your random ELO song that vacuuming just can't compete with.

    My dustrag might lie, but my hips don't.

    Wednesday, August 29, 2007

    I will not allow him to tattoo "mother" on his ass.

    There is a time in children's lives when they learn that their parents are not the most impressive and infallible creatures on the planet...and that time happened for my two year old last night.

    I have sinned, in his eyes, in my calling as mother. I put something completely inedible on his dinner plate. The fact that the rest of the family ate their turkey pot pies doesn't change the fact that his was completely inedible.

    Even my dumb gay cat thought it was edible. In fact, he liked it quite a bit. He didn't barf it up on my carpet.

    From this point forward it's my evil plan to be a parenting party pooper. I will not allow this child to eat chips and twinkies for dinner. I will not allow this child to gorge on all his Halloween candy in one sitting. I will not allow this child to burp the alphabet at restaurants. I will not allow this child to feel up random girls in his bedroom with his door closed. (Yes, I know you read the hypocritical post I made last week...shup!)

    He is going to hate parts of me from this day onward...and that is just fine and dandy by me. I brought him into this world and I will take him out.

    If he burps the alphabet in a restaurant past the age of 30, I have failed.

    Tuesday, August 28, 2007

    Morning Minutia V

    I have a rather large pimple on the back of my neck. It has me questioning whether we are in the midst of the first plagues of Armageddon. End of the world or not, it's so sore that I have needed to take ibuprofen for it.

    I'm now employed. I don't know how I'm going to handle a time commitment of 2-4 unscheduled hours a week. I guess I'll just have to give up watching plastic surgery programs on cable TV.

    My toddler has been going behind the couch to make poo-poos in his diaper. I think he's embarrassed to drop one in front of Dora the Explorer. It's time to get out the evil Once Upon A Potty video.

    I'm sad that season two of Big Love is over. It's my weekly Utah fix.

    It's healthy to allow my freshly changed toddler to eat the mud that he's playing in, right? There's protein and iron and stuff.

    I saw the last of the lunar eclipse this morning. It would have been more awesome had I woken up an hour earlier. Waking up that early isn't sane.

    I'm happy about Drew Carey taking over for Bob Barker on The Price is Right. I watched because Bob is sexy. I'll continue watching because Drew Carey is sexy. I wouldn't mind parts of me becoming friendly with his flat-top.

    Beer is yucky.

    Friday, August 24, 2007

    At least the wet dreams have stopped...

    Tomorrow is Justin's and my 14th anniversary. This puts us right square in the puberty of our marriage.

    Sometimes there are funny hairs, but with proper grooming, hairs in the state of marriage aren't bothersome or pokey.

    Sometimes there are funky odors, but with the habitual use of soap, a little stink in marriage can be quickly remedied.

    Sometimes there are pimples, but if you don't pick at 'em too much, they won't fester and spread.

    Sometimes there are rushing hormones....and thank the Lord for that.

    I love you Justin. I'll see you later in homeroom.

    Thursday, August 23, 2007

    I need a crocheted jumpsuit.

    I like Kraft macaroni and cheese. There...I said it.

    In fact, I have a box of the stuff sitting on my kitchen counter now. I'm just waiting for the water to boil. I'm going to make up the stuff extra runny.

    There is nothing wrong with having a love affair with trashy food. As an American I think it's part of my civic duty to eat dehydrated food with a powdered sauce mix. Just add water, a stick of margarine and love.

    Then throw a squirt of ketchup on top. For garnish.

    You're right, that's going too far. I dislike ketchup. Let's squirt ranch dressing on it instead.

    Amber waves of grain now comes fortified and shaped like Spongebob Squarepants. After I eat this runny neon orange mess I'm going to perform complicated tantric yoga positions in front of my VCR.

    God Bless Ann Margret...and The Who.

    Tuesday, August 21, 2007

    AOL keyword Stumpy

    Out of my two years of writing this blog, I have hesitated in writing possibly the funniest story of my life. You see, even though it's incredibly personal, and I've relayed this story to thousands of people already, I've never put it out there in a fashion that could be googled.

    This story won me a Snickers bar in an informal contest.

    Get yourself a drink, sit down, relax, and prepare to be told the completely true (I ain't kidding, TRUE.) story of:


    It was the summer before my senior year of highschool. That made me awfully close to being 18 years old. Oh I was so young...and flatchested...and stupid...oh stupid.

    My best friend and I took off in her rusty yellow Pinto to a neighboring town to drive endlessly up and down their main street. I honestly don't know what the point of this activity was even while I was in the middle of it. Carbon monoxide makes people act funny. The Pinto was especially fumey and so we pulled over at a convenience store to let it cool down. That's where I met Derwood (name changed to protect anyone else using his real name). Derwood had just gotten home from serving in the Navy. Derwood had a tattoo.

    I found Derwood to be witty. We had shared acquaintances. When he asked me out I agreed to go. At the end of the night, Derwood and his buddy followed me and my friend home to make sure her Pinto didn't explode on the way. This chivalry made me quiver.

    When Derwood called to make date arrangements, telling me that he would be picking me up on his motorcycle, I almost had to cancel the date. There was no way in hell that my parents would have allowed him to take me away on a bike. I told him I'd be happy to take us wherever he planned in my car. Oh that car...a '78 Mustang II...I loved driving that wimp of a car. Gas was a dollar a gallon then.

    Friday came, I drove to his house, and he was nowhere to be found. I. Was. Pissed. His brother was the only one home, stoned, and he tried his best to explain to me that Derwood wasn't there. He kept repeating something about a motorcycle. I left him babbling.

    I don't remember which other family member of his called me later informing me that Derwood missed our date because he had wrecked on his bike. He suffered several broken ribs and shattered one of his legs. Yes, he was wearing his helmet. Over the next week and a half I visited Derwood at the hospital. He had surgery on his leg. I kept him company while the painkillers kept him feeling good. They would not let me watch while he used the portable urinal.

    When Derwood was released he was packaged up all perty in a full chest and leg cast.

    This is when my parents thought it would be a good idea to go on a weekend vacation and leave me and my 16 year old little sister home to fend for ourselves. She fended. I brought Derwood over. He barely fit into my wimpy car wrapped in all that plaster.

    We hung out watching movies most of the evening. It got late, and he was tired and in pain. After giving him a pain pill I told him he could just sleep there. No use trying to finagle plaster-man back into my car. We moved to my bed and snoozed off.

    You know what the neato thing about pain pills is? Sometimes they work! Derwood's pain? Gone. Derwood's libido? Fully present. Say hello to my little friend.

    Just so you have the proper picture in your head let me give you some specifications. I'm 5'10", around 100 lbs at the time, flatchested and fully mobile. He's 6 feet, around 230, encased in a leg and chest cast and wasn't going to move into any position that wasn't laying on his back.

    ...and I crawled on top of this...

    ....and that's when I discovered, before any real contact, that I had gotten a "rawther heavy period".

    At that point all of his brain cells had moved south. He didn't really care what state my vagina was in. I tried to explain that I was a mess. Didn't matter.

    At three in the morning, my brain cells also went AWOL, and I got my stupid on.

    Did you know that a man that immobile cannot move? Really, he can't! That left me doing all the grunt work...for hours and into the dawn. He just couldn't get finished and I wasn't getting anywhere. I was so exhausted. At least I didn't find any of it painful.

    God bless my little sister. She chose that moment to walk into my room. The act finally came to an end when she screeched, "What the HELL?!?", which completely killed the mood. She stomped off just about as angry as I'd ever seen her.

    I hopped off the man, relieved, and leaving him covered in...well...nevermind. He about puked. I told him I was messy! I washed him off, got him up and stripped the bed.

    While I was driving Derwood home I made mention that I was a virgin. His eyes got big. He questioned whether I was telling him the truth as no virgin knows how to go on top like I did. I think I said something about the concept not being that difficult to understand. He told me afterwards that if he had known he would have lit some candles or something. Dude, that's romance.

    I dated Derwood until November and past my 18th birthday. I dumped him over the phone, on Thanksgiving day, because some trustworthy people had let me know that he was married and only living with his family because he was separated. Derwood hadn't bothered to tell me that little factoid. I felt so sordid.

    I need chocolate now.

    Monday, August 20, 2007

    The best day of the year.

    It's time to take a big deep cleansing breath. You know, the same kind of breath they teach you to take at Lamaze classes when you are done having a great big labor pain.


    Inhale......and hahhhhhh...out. Good!

    No, I'm not pregnant. Today is the first day of school!

    On the upside, two of my three children will be under someone else's supervision for 8 hours every weekday for the next nine months. Today I managed to get them dressed in new clean clothing. My 13 year old wanted to wear a pair of jeans from last year, with gaping holes in the knees, in which he had reinforced with several layers of duct tape. I'm not opposed to his creative pants, but he can wait until next week to wear them. Today I wanted to dress my children nicely...and as deceptively as possible.

    On the downside, the two year old child remaining at home wants to watch Yo Gabba Gabba on TV. After five minutes of watching this show I have an urge to bet on dog fights. One of the characters looks like a dildo...It's got one eye! Here, play dildo ball. For the next nine months there will be toddler programming chock full of lisping ducks and "Pawprint! Pawprint!" Please, I beg you, help me keep my brain firmly lodged in my skull and not running out of my ears like steaming lava.

    This year the junior high has instituted a No Crack policy. Crack is wack. (whack?) Consequences will be dire if you bring any crack to school. Crack is just so tempting at that age.

    There will be no...



    The kids are somewhat disappointed about this. It's, like, violating their basic human, like, rights for administration to not, like, let them wear their pants around their asses.

    Besides, I didn't go through 23 hours of labor with that kid to let him show off his skinny ass all day.

    Wednesday, August 15, 2007


    Housewifery is what I've termed as "The Daily Failure". This is because a housewife's work is never done. It consists of hours upon hours of toilet scrubbing, dish scrubbing, crayon marked wall scrubbing, floor scrubbing, tub scrubbing, kid scrubbing and the never ending scrubbing of the various substances kids mysteriously throw on the ceiling. You manage to clean your house into a semi presentable state and then, boom, drippy gooey mess, failure, the process has to start all over again.

    Madge, it's hell on my hands. Get your damned dishsoap away from me.

    Instead, bring me a tube of August's Bestest Housewifely Doodad!

    Camille Beckman Glycerine Hand Therapy.

    I first discovered the sensual experience of Camille Beckman while working at this one costume shop slash beauty supply in Utah County several years ago. I took some of my meager earnings and purchased a tube. Apricot scented. The store frowned upon taking the sample tubes home with you and not sharing with everyone else.

    I see you've noticed that the photo I've posted isn't apricot. Camille don't make it none more. Don't ask me why, I don't know. They may have renamed the scent something fancy. Instead I posted a photo of the best smelly lotion Camille makes. Oriental Spice, originally designed for men, but smells way better on me. It's musky. The scent makes me want to jump my husband's bones and roll about him like a rabid dog in heat.

    The glycerine and the dimethicone in this lotion cover your dishpan hands in soft lube-y ecstacy. It feels like you've armored your hands with the same stuff that they put on pots and pans to make it nonstick, but in a less industrial and more girly feminine type way. If your hands really are in bad shape, all cracky and peely and scratchy, this lotion will heal them right up. Tootsies too. Slather it on your feet and put on a pair of socks, it's divine.

    Glycerine Hand Therapy comes in several scents and sizes. A six ounce tube, which lasts me forever (I still have that tube of apricot), will set you back ten dollars. You can't find it at Wallyworld, or most grocery stores. It's sold through giftshops and online. It's worth paying shipping and handling.

    I just rubbed some into my hands. I dare say I'll feel like a success, and quite frisky, while I scrub my oven. Get that image out of your heads you perverts.

    Thank you Camille Beckman Glycerine Hand Therapy, I like you, I really like you.

    Tuesday, August 14, 2007

    A special day for a very special person!

    I am risking my membership in the Super Duper Housewives Club today. I have a job interview.

    One of my neighbors had a job looking over the greeting card aisle in our local grocery store. She wanted to stop working this job for a variety of reasons. Mostly being that she wants to retire and so she referred me to the position.

    It will take two hours a week out of my incredibly hurried and busy life. I don't even know how much it pays. I don't care. I like the idea of getting out to listen to Muzak.

    These days job hunters are warned that future employers will Google a prospective employee's name and email address to find how they've represented themselves on the internets. I'd like to welcome any "Greeting Card Company" representatives to my blog should I be subjected to such a search. Hello! I'm Becky. I'm a housewife.

    If you don't mind, please avoid my last post about band camp. Don't look at these photos of my chest here and here. Ignore my story about gastrointestinal upset. Pay no attention to the reason I will not be having any more sons. Don't be concerned about my filthy language.

    Despite everything I put out here for anyone and everyone to see, I promise I will be a good, hardworking, company loyal, employee. I promise I won't hawk no more dirty books. I promise I won't say no more bad swears. I promise I'll eat all my lima beans.

    ....and I promise to never make a post like this again.

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