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.
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."
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.
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.
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 did...you 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.
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.
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.
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"?
Oh...fine...it's only easy to imagine ME doing that. Thanks a lot.
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 know...uh...to 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!
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.
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.
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 Christmas...so 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.