Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Well, crap!

You know your day is going downhill when you spend twenty minutes, sitting at your desk, trying to remember if you'd already pooped today or not.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Nuke em before they nuke you.

It occured to me today, while I was considering what to have for lunch (in the same way I consider what to have for lunch nearly every weekday), that a large part of the mundanity of housewifery has to do with my daily lunch choices.

My lunches consist of two menu options these days, leftovers or instant oatmeal.

Let me give you a rundown of last week's lunches...

Monday: Leftover pot roast and mashed potatoes, microwaved on high.
Tuesday: Leftover McDonalds cheeseburger, microwaved in short bursts as to not completely liquify the cheese food product inside.
Wednesday: Instant oatmeal, maple and brown sugar flavor with exta water added, microwaved on high.
Thursday: Leftover beef and bean burrito, which was delicious, microwaved on high.
Friday: Leftover mashed potatoes and peas, held in the same container that held the leftover pot roast and potatoes, microwaved on high. I also got a rather large portion of chocolate birthday cake, because I was decorating the cake and I had to cut away some so I could form the correct birthday cake shape. You can't let this spare cake go to waste.

My toddler naps during the lunch hour so at least I'm saved from sharing boxed macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets...microwaved on high. It also keeps me from going out to get a fresh cheeseburger on any given day.

My teacher husband gets good lunches where he works. The cafeteria cooks from scratch. From three blocks away I can hear his jubilent cries of, "Today is fried chicken and biscuits, with butter, day! Now my life is complete!" Not to mention that he also gets paid for his lunch hour and his lunch is free, as much lunch as they can pile on his plate, because he supervises the students.

(He's a stinker, that one.)

To shake up my routine I actually cooked my leftovers today...on the stovetop...in a skillet...NAKED. It was shortly after my bath, OK? I was starving!

Todays menu? Leftover tilapia fish, cooked in onion, lime, sage and cilantro. This I rolled into a warmed tortilla (warmed in the microwave...I'll admit it. These habits die hard, alrighty?) with a little shredded cheese, salsa, sour cream and a leftover McDonald's side salad.

Jealous? I'm special for being a leftovers genius. At the very least, today I am special, and well fed.

Yes, I did get dressed. Get that image out of your head you perverts.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Taupe of the mornin'

So, the Blahscars were presented last night.

This year the men looked better than the women. I'd review tuxedoes for you, but a tuxedo is a tuxedo is a tuxedo. Let's just get on with the gender that should have been dressing to the nines...

It's my pretense and my pleasure to bestow upon Hollywood the Absent Minded Oscars Best Dressed and Worst Dressed awards. (Even if they were all mediocre.)

It was a tough call this year. It seemed that colors belonging in an old man's sock drawer ran rampant. Taupe, and more taupe, and grey and more grey, brown and more brown, some flat whites, some flat blacks. Blah.

Those that went bright went so screamingly bright that any viewer could claim new superhuman powers from the nuclear fallout.

And the Grecian look? It's gotta go. Tailoring is a good thing. That is unless the tailored gown is strapless and you need another good inch higher up on your bust. "I'm going to fall out" decolletage is embarrassing for us all, alrighty Rachel Weisz? (Who otherwise had a lovely gown.) The serial ill fit at the Oscars this year was criminal.

Giving the best dressed award wasn't a difficult choice however. Our best dressed didn't especially stand out, but she looked good and she glowed. The award goes to....

..Our Best Actress Helen Mirren.

I know, I know, taupe. This is the one actress it looked good on instead of making her look like zombie-ish. The proportions of her gown fit perfectly. It molded her tatas into a form I'd downright kill for. The woman is 61 and I want her boobs!

The best part of this gown, with all it's similarly toned beading about the bodice, was the large blood red brooch at her lower back. It's a sexy surprise in view of the whole.

Helen's hair was lovely.

Onto the worst dressed, which was a more difficult task because there were just so many to choose from. Even though the bottom half of Penelope Cruz's gown look like it was made from the skins of a herd of taupe muppets, and Eva Green was a gothy taupe vision, the worst dressed award goes to...

...Kirsten Dunst!

Oh Kirsten, you have such a lovely shape. Why did you put it under this glorified feed sack?

This is one dress that should have gone strapless. A little structure about the bustline could have cured many of this gown's ills, including the feathers at the bottom looking like so many tufts of dead grass. The wide babydoll collar completely kills any glamour the gown tried to portray.

We also could have forgiven the ashy grey color if there wasn't just so much of it covering her body. It washes out her hair and would her face too if it wasn't for the lipstick.

So there we have it. The Absent Minded best and worst at the Blahscars. I'm hoping for better next year.

Go Scorcese.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Lucky number 13

Today is my oldest son's 13th birthday. Happy birthday Kaelan!

No, today is not tell tale steaming marital nooky day either. My son's conception happened a long time ago...and the only reason I remember the birth is because it's on video tape.

Thirteen. Oh Lord help me. Soon there will be funny hairs!

I've had no less than four people tell me that in three years my boy will be able to drive. Able is a slippery word. He may want to drive very badly but I may not allow it simply because I'm the Mom and I said no. Driving a teenaged boy up a wall seems like an interesting occupation.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Me love you long time.

I stayed up late last night watching The Tyra Banks Show. If you recall, my husband rather likes Tyra Banks. He thinks she has a lovely smile.

...and she didn't look fat to me.

I usually don't watch Tyra on TV, and last night I wasn't watching to discern what Tyra's got that I don't. Last night she was doing a show on a topic that I found incredibly interesting.

The Ladies of the Bunny Ranch Brothel... Tyra talks to workin' wimmins in a sensitive manner, complete with a parental warning!

I'll admit to finding the idea of prostitution in a brothel intriguing. No, I'm not going to go out tomorrow and apply for a position as a lady of the evening at the two brothels 50 miles to the west of me. I find it intriguing that simply because I have a vagina and a sense of willingness, that I can be a tradable commodity. I too could make millions in a home based business, call for your kit today!

(As an aside, I have a link to a photo of my uterus, pre and post tubal ligation, in my sidebar under "proof...no more sons." Google is bringing up the photo in image searches for "menage et trois". Hilarious...and completely free.)

When customers go to a brothel and express interest in doing business, they line up the ladies like so many chunks of meat and cheese at a deli counter. The pastrami looks very fresh today...I'll take a pound...and some potato salad too. Can I get a fork?

I wonder about how a prostitute hides those embarrassing bodily quirks we all have in the interest of customer service? What if she gets a pimple on her butt? What if she accidentally passes gas? What if the seafood she had for dinner stops agreeing with her? Does the customer get a refund if she's suddenly stricken with narcolepsy?

My husband deals with these quirks because he loves me and I trapped him into marriage. If you don't have to I don't understand why you would, much less pay a lot for it.

And how do you get around telling your latest customer that he has been your best customer this century when in reality he was no more exciting than a spoonful of milk of magnesia? I couldn't do it...I'm not that good of a salesman.

"Yeah, Dude? You suck, and not in a good way...and you were miniscule. Aww, don't cry ya wuss! NO REFUNDS! Now shoo, I've got a headache."

I guess faking an orgasm isn't that difficult.

Tyra's next shows on the calendar include:
Promiscuous Girls
Jennifer Hudson
Tyra gets on the cover of People magazine
Cindy Crawford and what it's like to be a supermodel

I'm emailing her. These shows aren't edgy enough. An expose' on the housewife blogger would bring in ratings in droves. I wouldn't have been a housewife without my vagina.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Living Dangerously


I've taken my life into my hands.

Yesterday I purchased a bag of lovely green baby spinach leaves. I am going to eat them...maybe without even washing them first.

ACK, THE HORROR! Pray for me.

I'm not a huge risk taker generally. I like to have my own safe little world; the kind of world where cuddly kittens and puppies run about chasing butterflies all the live long day. You aren't going to find me driving over the speed limit, going out without sunscreen or jumping out of airplanes. Watching "I Love Lucy" drives me insane because she's always scheming. Watching "Deal or No Deal" last night pissed me off right proper.

When I was a teenager (long long ago), I thought that I should engage in some kind of thrill seeking behavior in an effort to grow as an individual. They say putting yourself outside of your comfort zone is a good thing, right? So I paid good money to bungee jump off an eight story tower at the Utah State Fair. Rebel rebel...

After making sure my bladder and bowels were empty, the bungee jump worker bee lent me a pen to sign a release form and then strapped me into a harness. There is nothing more fabulous than neon pink nylon strapping pulled tightly across one's chest and crotch. Woo, the tickle!

I was sent trudging up several flights of stairs. Each step brought me closer to both liberation and doom. Eight stories doesn't look nearly as high up when you are on the ground looking up at it, even if it's a drop in the altitude bucket in the bungee world. Nor do you anticpate that it's windy and damned cold up there.

When I reached the jump platform, another Bungee Jump worker bee explained the jump procedure. I was told that I should jump facing forward and hold my arms outward. He checked my strapping again, declared me "tight", hooked the bungee cord to the jump ring under my boobs, and led me to the dizzying edge of the tower.

"I'll say one, two, three and then you jump, ok?" He instructed.

"Yeah ok." I groaned.

"Wahtahthree!"

...and I don't jump. He did not enunciate. Those were not three separate words and I'm not jumping without the proper countdown.

"Ready? Ok! Wahtahthree!"

There is glue on the bottom of my feet.

"You gotta go this time or else!"

Or else what? You'll push? I'll kick your ass if you push!

"One...twoooooo....THREE!"

...and I sort of fall over. I expected the feeling of falling, but I did not expect the weightless feeling of bouncing and being flung back upwards. It was not in the least bit pleasant.

On that first bounce up I make contact with the jump ring attaching the bungee cord to the lowering cord...with my face...causing a split in the skin beside my eye. It wasn't a terrible injury. I've had worse paper cuts. A little injury was just gravy on that unpleasant falling upwards feeling.

I don't boing around for long. When I was a teenager I didn't weigh much more than your average wet paper sack. Finally hanging still at the bottom of the rope was a welcome relief.

Bungee jumping is not something that I plan on repeating again, unless someone feeds me a lot of happy pills beforehand. I was not happy, I was not liberated.

Will I be happy or liberated eating bagged spinach? No, but it'll taste damned good.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Nothing gets between me and my Calvin's.

Have a good President's Day folks.

(For those of you who don't live in the US, Have a swell February 19th regardless.)

For the record, I think that Calvin Coolidge was the sexiest president ever.



Imagine Calvin boy here in a thong. Yum!

Edited to add: Did you know that when you use the highlight function on your google toolbar to easily find Calvin Klein slogans on a page full of famous slogans, that the highlights will automatically post in your open blog post window? I didn't! I had to go into my HTML and remove bright yellow "Calvin"s!

Friday, February 16, 2007

Brokedown Palace

I spoke much too soon.

Three posts ago I wrote, "While I was baking pork chops last night, the element in my electric oven turned disco, began to sparkle, and then up and burned out." I followed this statement with many nonsensical references to Elton John.

I also wrote, "Today I will be searching about the internets for a replacement element. I like to see if I can fix things myself. I fixed my dishwasher once..." The element has been purchased and I'm confident in my abilities in switching them out.

I was confident in my abilty to fix my dishwasher. This one time the water pump was making rude noises. There was junk in the pump. I flushed the pump. The pump became junkless and therefore it worked.

My dishwasher stopped working yesterday. Yesterday the water pump went *poof* and made smoke. I am now not confident that I can replace the pump... or even want to. The dishwasher is at least ten years old. R.I.P. Frigidaire Precision Wash System. You are a candle in the wind.

If you are counting, that's my oven not working and now my dishwasher not dishwashing. My electric can opener has given up the ghost as well. I had to open my new can of coffee with a poorly functioning manual can opener this morning. It took me fifteen minutes.

However will I cope when my kitchen is falling to shambles all about me?

Maybe I'll build a bonfire in my backyard and roast a can of Spaghettios on a spit. It's only what the pioneers would have done.

***

In my current state, it's nice to know I have items in my home that work as they are supposed to every single time you use them. Over many years of abuse, these items remain reliable. These items require no special care, or batteries or sweet talking over large glasses of cheap wine.

This is one of the reliable things in my home:


The reusable coffee filter. February's Bestest Housewifely Doodad!

I recently bought a new 3 year coffee filter. My former 3 year coffee filter was eight years old. It probably would have lasted two more years had I not offered it early retirement and a gold watch.

This doodad makes great coffee. It's made from heat resistant plastic mesh, allowing all the lovely coffee oils to drip into your coffee pot rather than hanging onto a paper filter. This is one of the reasons that coffee prepared with a coffee press is so damned tasty...but if you like the convenience of a drip style coffee maker, a reusable filter is a fine compromise.

Using this filter also solves the problem of wet floppy paper filters slopping grounds into your coffee pot. You know you have this problem with the last ten paper filters in the package...the buggers lose their shape! The reusable filter keeps it's girlish figure year after year.

When I make a fresh pot of coffee, I usually just throw my used grounds down the disposal, rinse the filter and refill. (That is when you can get your can of coffee open.) If you are the type of coffee consumer that reuses grounds, this filter is ideal. The reusable coffee filter is dishwasher safe. (When your dishwasher works.)

You can get a reusable filter all your own at most grocery type stores, in basket and cone styles. It'll set you back two or three dollars. If you use your filter for eight years, that'll save you over forty dollars as well as that many trees!

I know some of my readers and other hangers on aren't coffee consumers. If this is you, disregard this post. Postum doesn't need any filters, right?

Thank you reliable reuseable coffee filter. I like you, I really like you.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

...and I pick my nose.

It's time to come clean.

I have nasty habits! I have embarrassing quirks! I have shameful thoughts! I have done bad bad dirty naughty bad bad things!

I'm quite ready to confess..........to some of them.

1. In sixth grade gym class I often made it a point to be to the locker room first so I could change into my gym clothes before the other girls. I didn't have a bra yet. One day my stomach was somewhat upset and I couldn't stop myself from delivering one of the most eye watering smells known to humankind while I was still alone in the room. The odor was so awful that it wasn't even recognizeable as a fart, as was evidenced when the other girls entered the room and mentioned that it smelled like diesel fuel. When the girls complained about the smell to the gym teacher, I kept my lips zipped.

2. Steven S, from my elementary school classes, I had a terrible crush on you! My older sister used to tease me about this relentlessly, giving you the nickname "Stinky Stalebreath". Even though I haven't seen hide nor hair of you since fifth grade, I admit to hoping (if you're married that is) that your wife isn't prettier than I am.

3. I buy and hide good chocolate candy in my bedroom, so the kids can't have any. Twinkies too.

4. Stumpy...if you're reading this...I've told the story of our first sexual experience to approximately ten zillion people. You just can't make up crap like that. (Fess up with the experience on my blog? Maybe, someday....my MOM might read this!) I hope I'm prettier than your wife too.

5. I had an erotic dream about Simon Cowell the night before last. He's a thoughtful and sensitive lover. It's made me quite giddy, though I don't even like American Idol.

6. I don't love Lucy. That show upsets me.


There it is. I feel light and frothy now.

Bestest Housewifely Doodad tomorrow...

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

WUV

If you want to know what love is...

Click HERE.

I love you too Justin.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Hold me closer tiny dancer.

Because my oven is broken I cannot possibly celebrate Valentine's Day.

While I was baking pork chops last night, the element in my electric oven turned disco, began to sparkle, and then up and burned out. Burnin' burnin...

Where is Elton John when you need him to fix your oven?

Today I will be searching about the internets for a replacement element. I like to see if I can fix things myself. I fixed my dishwasher once. The dishwasher has stopped wearing catseye glasses and singing, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight".

The love I have for Justin, my own personal rocket man, isn't at all like the element to my stove. When our love begins to sparkle I never think, "Crap! Another thing I gotta fix around here!" Sparkling love is a fix all it's own.

Unfortunately sparkling love does not fix ovens in time to bake the huge, frosted and sprinkled Valentine's Day sugar cookies I intended to give to Justin tomorrow.

Justin, you'll just have to settle for your half baked wife in the duck suit again. Happy Valentine's Day.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Don't Speak

I mentioned to my fabulous husband this weekend that I hadn't tarted a celebrity lately. (See "running gags" on the sidebar.) Since I do indeed try to consider my husband's tastes when I accuse him of having crushes on celebrities, I asked him which celebrity he'd like to see on the chopping block tart list next.

In reply, he told me he'd have a good long think about the issue, during steaming marital nooky, and he'd get back to me after.

Blink.

Hey teacher man...Just for that smug remark I'm threatening to tart Estelle Getty. Had you not satisfactorily bent me five ways to Sunday during marital nooky, I would have threatened to tart Bea Arthur. Got it? GOT IT? That's what I'm talkin' about.

Now that we've got that bit of business out of the way, I'd just like to add that my husband finds....


...Gwen Stefani rather attractive.

Oh Gwen Stefani, you towheaded SoCal ska princess! Why do you attract my husband so? Sorry, dumb question, she actually writes her own lyrics and tunes, unlike other pop princesses we know.

And she looks nothing like Estelle Getty or Bea Arthur, at least in this point in time.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Get out your magnifying glass.


Alrighty folks, put on your Sherlock Holmes hats...this housewife is presenting to you:
THE MYSTERY OF THE PURLOINED PAMPER!
Do you have your hats on? Good...
Hey! Yes, YOU, Put the hat on your head. That's just disgusting.

It's only natural, when you wake your toddler up from his nap, to expect to find him still wearing his diaper. This is especially true when he's wearing a sleeper and it's zipped up to his chin. When I unzipped my toddler for a diaper change, I found no diaper to change. He was going commando in his footie pajamas.

During the space of a nap, his diaper had gone mysteriously missing!

I know he was wearing a diaper when I laid him down. I put the diaper on him myself. I am absent minded but I usually do manage to cover up my kid's butts when a butt covering is necessary.

I inspected the crib. There were no awol diapers in the blankets, under the sheet, or smooshed between the mattress and the railing. The diaper had not fallen under the crib, nor was it thrown from the crib, across the room. It was not sticking to any wall. It was not hidden in any toybox.

The diaper was not placed in the hamper. It didn't fall to the floor when I unzipped my child's jammies. It had not flipped off his body only to land on my couch, under my table or behind the entertainment center.

I looked at the cat. A suspect! The cat denied absconding with the diaper as such behavior would interrupt his nap. I believed his alibi.

Back to square one. Simplicity Watson...

An initial shake of the sleeper brought forth no diaper. However, shaking did unleash the smell of diaper. Aha, a clue! It had to be here!

Wherever could a diaper hide in a size 18 month sleeper?

Right down in the footie part...all wadded up in the very tip of the toe.

...and it was poopy.

Elementary my dear Watson.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

The 9th snotphony

Finally, I seem to be getting over my cold.

You know how your nose sorta clicks when it's draining? That clicking begins to sound orchestrated by Beethoven when you are high on Mucinex.

There are no warnings on the box that Mucinex will make you high*. I feel bamboozled...and hey, that's fine by me because when you are loopy the word "bamboozled" sounds perverted and clowny at the same time. Bambooooooozzzzzlleeed. Heh.

In the interest of keeping my eyeballs from popping out of my skull, I've left out the sexy clown graphic that would so aptly illustrate "bamboozled". Have a graphic of Beethoven instead.

*Mucinex probably doesn't make a person high, just my body reacts a little differently to cold meds.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Sperm meets egg, then BAM!

Today is my middle son's 8th birthday. Happy Birthday Alec!

Last year, on this day, I posted a long narrative of Alec's birth. There isn't any need to post that sort of thing again. Afterall, my middle son can only be born once. I thought instead I'd post a long narrative of Alec's conception...

I kid!

It's my son's birthday, not "Mom thrills the internets with tales of steaming marital nooky" day.

Maybe tomorrow will be Steaming Marital Nooky Day?

...meh, don't hold your breath.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

Gimme the remote control!

Ahhhh...the master of the universe, my toddler, is down for a nap.

When he's asleep it's my turn to wear the He-Man pants. Furry panties are exquisite against the skin.

...and no, I'm not putting back on my shirt.


***

I was the receiver of some very compelling gossip yesterday.

I thoroughly enjoyed this gossip. It was especially good because the subject of the gossip was if a personality type where there is such joy in learning of their fall from grace. He/she did what? You've got to be kiddin'. Really? Holy schmoly, that person really screwed up, heh.

It occurs to me this morning that it was this kind of thing I was going to direct my postponed rant about Oprah and Dr. Pheel towards.

I once said Dr. Pheel was one of my favorite TV programs. It's not anymore. There was a time I thought that the man was presenting a program that a normal, everyday person could relate to. More and more it's become a circus freakshow, only a few degrees off the likes of Jerry Springer. I'd need to smoke more opium to relate to this. I'd need to date all of my sister's significant others to relate to this. I need to grow an extra arm out of my butt to relate to this.

...and to get me started on Oprah. She had that poor kidnapped child as a guest last week. The kid hasn't been home long enough to take a decent pee and the Oprah show is pouncing on him with demands to know whhhhhaaaattttt happpppennnnedddd??? Oprah interviews a celebrity, he jumps on a couch, and it becomes international news!

This makes me shake my head.

And yet, I watched it. I turn to Dr. Pheel, on occasion, to see him pounce on the hapless. I'm willing to turn an ever eager ear to some of the best gossip I've ever heard, even though I probably won't be repeating it. (Don't even ask!)

I like like this stuff.

I console myself with the notion that I could be worse. I could be actually taping the programs so I can watch them again. I could be spewing warm, fuzzy advice on both Dr. Pheel's and Oprah's message boards. I could own naugahyde furniture. I could deep fry a twinkie.

But then again, I could just turn the TV off.

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