Monday, April 30, 2007

Toucha-toucha-toucha touch me...I wanna be dirty.

Do my readers and other hangers on realize just how attractive I am? I'm not just hot, I'm hawt. I gots it goin' on.

I don't only know this because I look in the mirror everyday but because I seem to be the object of physical affection coming from strangers in public. There is just something about me that screams, "Touch me, I like it!" I think it's the dorky look on my face.

Two weeks ago, while I was out to breakfast with my visiting sisters, I was offered a hug from a dark man with a Indian accent in the next booth. After considering it, for all of a half second, I politely declined. He seemed disappointed, but did not offer to buy my breakfast.

Yesterday, while I was in the buffet restaurant line for breakfast, I was given a sudden and particularly squooshy hug from an older woman wearing a dowdy dress. While this assault on my person was happening, I couldn't figure out if I knew this woman in a past life or not.

Turns out I didn't know the woman, she was just swayed by how well I'd passed my attractive genetics to my three boys. She shared that she had seven children of her own, six of them boys. She thanked me for raising a lovely Christian family.

The Lord must have revelated my religious affiliation with her, because I sure didn't mention it. She goes on to tell me her life story, with her arm about my waist.

She had a bunch of kids, they had a bunch of grandkids, there were some great-grandkids and a few dogs in the mix too. She'd been married to her high school sweetheart since puberty. They've finished raising children. They like my town and have fun at the casinos.

Praise God.

Three of her children and several grandchildren either were in Iraq, or had been to Iraq, or were planning to go to Iraq. She gave her sons to the cause but wondered about the female grandchildren not married and "over there." I wondered if any of them were in the military or they figured Iraq was safer than staying home.

Her youngest son...the All American boy...the prom king and the quarterback...sadly, he was in the process of divorce from his own highschool sweetheart.

I commisserated.

Yes, this boy of hers was divorcing and his three kids were devastated. It's a terrible thing to not have a father at home after a divorce, so he tried to commit suicide and take the kids with him...

Uh...

She whispered into my ear that he had received a fifteen year sentence.

Not allowing a second for awkward silence after that bit of TMI, she unleashed me, warmly complimented my family and walked into the restaurant. Justin raised his eyes at me and asked, "Do you know her?" to which I replied, "Praise God, no."

The next time I'm out and about, I fully expect to be accosted by band of polygamous Nepalese sheep herders while eating a bowl of raisin bran.

I'm just their type.

Friday, April 27, 2007

I've got a loverly bunch of coconuts.

How do my readers and other hangers on like my new "hairdo"? Thanks! I cut it myself. (With help from this template.)

***

My 13 year old son has taken a sudden interest in boobs...especially the variety of boobs that bounce along uncovered and unsheathed.

This doesn't offend me. He's a normal kid, sort of. He's been eating like a horse. He purposely tries to deepen his voice when he talks. His feet are growing terribly out of proportion to the rest of his body. The fascination with naked bits is par for the course.

In what turned out to be one of the most interesting conversations of my life, discussing boobies with my son morphed into an educational foray concerning genital warts, herpes, pubic lice and leprosy. I am guilty of showing my son a photo of a man with warts all over his posterior. You want naked bits kid? Here ya go. Don't say I never gave you nuthin'.

It's been decided that you cannot get a girlfriend if you allow your leprosy to go unchecked.

I ended the conversation with the impression that my son was feeling grown up. I told him that other parents probably weren't showing their 13 year olds close ups of bum warts, and he should feel free to tell all his friends what he saw.

At least I didn't print off the photo for him. I haven't given up on that idea. Wallet sizes might prove to be an effective deterrent later.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Ode to the utter bliss that is retiring to the bathroom alone and not doing your business in front of your children.

Hello potty, my old friend,
I've come to sit with you again,
Because my toddler has ceased creeping,
Left in his crib, soundly sleeping,
And the respite
That was needed in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In the echoing walls I sit alone
With Ivory soap and pumice stone,
Near the glow of the mirror lamps,
The towels left on the floor, still damp
When my soul was soon flooded with porcelain delight,
Relief on the bowl so white!
And breathing in the sound of silence.

And in the toilet bowl I saw
The Two Thousand Flushes, almost gone.
That's a lot flushing after peeing,
That's a lot of convenient bowl cleaning!
And I'm grateful that I don't have to share
Or spare a square
And disturb this solitude of silence.

"Ahhh!" says I, "It only goes to show
Silence like a flower grows.
Feeling adult and not little over the age of two,
I'm in my bathroom and not in a zoo!"
And my thoughts like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In these walls of silence.

I flushed, and brushed, then weighed
I hung the towels and sprayed some Glade.
And I sighed at the thought of leaving,
My constitutional so relieving.
And then the tub said,
"You know, your kid is going to nap for another hour,
you don't have to shower."
So I soaked in the sounds of silence.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

You wanna make something of it bucko???

Dear gentle readers and other hangers on:

I have begun and subsequently deleted approximately eight unfunny posts stuffed with vitriole and topped with a buttery ichor. This has put me quite behind in my posting duties.

My excuse, at the moment, is that my body has been deluged with this month's allotment of female hormones and therefore I am cranky.

I do sincerely intend to apologize for this, but my mea culpas are coming out sounding more like a besa mi culas. Please don't take this personally...I am only temporarily off my rocker.

For lunch, I plan on microwaving a double glazed donut and topping it with oreo ice cream. I am not sharing.

Love,

Becky, The Absent Minded Keeper of the Broom

Monday, April 23, 2007

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

I want a third column!

Apparently there is no simple way to add a third column to your old, non-beta, minima blogger template. (Don't tell me there is darn it, I've been trying all this past week and I refuse to believe it!) My little brain is oozy trying to get my columns all symetrical. Margins, pixels, page percentages, float right, float left...just stay where I put you dammit!

Why don't I use one of the new-fangled blogger three column templates? Because I lose the nice little pushpin to the left of my post titles. I have no idea how to insert my pushpin in those stinky new blogger template widgets. I must not sacrifice the pushpin!

My individuality is at stake here...

***

Today is hair coloring day. I've been in denial about just how much of my salt and pepper roots show. Stop staring...just stop it.

What I hope to do is to enter my bathroom grey and exit my bathroom thirty minutes later as Aishwarya Rai.



I understand that this is a lot of faith to be putting into two boxes of Garnier Nutrisse hair coloring and a pair of free disposable gloves.

Didn't I say I my individuality is at stake? Apparently so is Aishwarya Rai's.

I won't sue anyone if it doesn't happen....this time.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Harlot O'Scara

I wish I'd grown up to be a drag queen...

But then, you readers and other hangers on have seen me wearing the huge fake boobs.
Sigh, fabulous.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Whipple-isms

It's time to panic folks.

Casa Absent Minded only has one roll of toilet paper left...and there are two bathrooms. Of course I schlepped the roll from my son's bathroom and took it to my own. What do they need TP for?

I can hear you from here telling me to go to the grocery store. "Becky", you say, "They have rolls and rolls of TP just sitting there on the shelf, waiting to be adopted, cuddled, loved! Go buy some!"

Yeah, but that requires that I put on some pants...

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Doo Doo Doo-Doo-Doo

Keeping checking back in. In between working on costume photos, a new blog header and picking my nose, there will be a post.

In the meanwhile, look at this.



Updated. If you are looking for more post, it's in my comments...

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I hide hundred dollar bills in my bra.

Last week I opened the door to a salesman.

No one knocks on my door during the day unless they are either missionaries or salesmen. Same difference. Depending on my state of dress I'll answer. My most recent salesman was lucky enough to see me in a full state of dress. I wasn't in sweats, or flannel pajamas. I was actually wearing proper foundation garments! Assured that my breasts were pointing perkily forward, I opened my door.

This particular salesman was offering me a free home security system. It's just what I'd sat on Santa's lap and asked him to put in my stocking last December. The company the salesman was representing was offering two free systems on every street in my tiny town. Since I was home during the day, I got to be a lucky recipient for my street! In return for this fantastic offer, I could display a sign in my yard, subscribe to a monthly monitoring service, and fess up to the names of my neighbors and to whether they rent or own their houses.

This salesman, who I admit had stunning eyes, pulled the "little woman" card. I wasn't in the least bit interested in more noisy crap in my house before this sales tactic, but after I was only concerned with him seeing how high I could raise my stunning eyebrows at him.. He told me that just last week there were two robberies the next block over, that I needed to protect myself and my belongings, being home during the day and all.

It's the same tactic the missionaries use when speaking of my salvation. They offer me free stuff too.

Couldn't the man see that my town was tiny? Didn't it occur to him that if I knew the names of all my neighbors in this very tiny town, and to whether they rented or owned, that I would also know if they had been victims of a robbery? Didn't he further know that three of my neighbors are cops?

What a putz...with incredibly sexy eyes.

I almost, almost, asked him if he knew which house just down the street, next to the house of a cop, was the residence of a man on the sexual offenders list. That guy, he might could use a free security system.

I informed the salesman that I absolutely didn't want a security system, shook his hand and sent him on his way. He asked for his brochure back.

If I don't want all of the free stuff, I get none of it.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Morning Minutia IV

My legs need shaving. I just pulled one my long stray hairs off my shin. It was stuck there velcro fashion.

There is still hidden Easter candy in the video cabinet. At least the hidden tootsie rolls were soft and fresh. When my toddler finds them he won't bust his teeth.

Do I buy another vacuum to clean my current vacuum? It's dusty.

I wrote a diatribe on the nature of faith and God, a bit after 8:00 am this morning, for my long time friends to read. If there wasn't a reason for them to think I was a fruit before, I've damned myself now...

I love my husband.

I don't have to plant bedding flowers in my beds this spring if the dandelions are thriving so brightly, right?

I almost love the ruffler foot for my sewing machine as much as my husband. I refuse to get frisky with household appliances though, no matter how enticing they are.

Am I the only one that thinks it's funny that I get spam email from dishonest people addressed to "dear honest person"?

I know this is funny. I had two black molly aquarium fishies which were named "The Olsen Twins". One of them stopped eating and died. The other one died shortly after after losing it's identity.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Spray on mojo

I woke up this morning to my house smelling delightfully masculine.

Justin and I gave our son some studly AXE spray on girl lure for his thirteenth birthday. Not Axe...AXE...because it's just that potent. We were hoping to inspire some form of personal hygiene in the boy. It worked. He takes extended showers and then sprays AXE allllllllll over.

I didn't realize at the time that there is a whole lifestyle and set of guidelines to wearing AXE girly lure. I didn't realize that the use of AXE is a rated R venture instead of PG-13. I didn't realize that wearing AXE takes the teaching of my son of all things birds and bees to another level.

The chapters in the AXE Wearer's Handbook, "Coping With All The Ladies" :
Handling Multiples
How to turn a fivesome into a manageable threesome.
How to tell triplets apart.
How to watch women kiss in front of you.

Great Escapes
How to escape a friend's mom.
How to elude stalkers.
How to slip out without waking her up.
How to escape from handcuffs.

Self Defense
How to avoid women ripping your pants apart.
How to avoid chafing.
How to avoid a bad case of rugburn.

Mixed Bag
How to remove a hickey.
How to gain access to a janitor's closet without a key.
How not to ruin a brand new pool table.

Ack!

I'm a negligent parent! I've sent my child into the world unprepared and he is going to be tackled by hoards of wanton wimmins with huge....olfactory systems. I could be reported for this!

How do I prepare my itty baby boy for fratboy casual monkey style acrobat sexuality caused by musky AXE hypnosis in a can?

Things were simpler when your baby boys smelled like baby lotion. Women wanted to handle them just as much back then and you knew that he didn't care if women started kissing in front of him.

Monday, April 02, 2007

It's uterUS, not uterYOU

Hello folks! My name is Becky. I'm a Housewife. I have a uterus!

If you are one of the lucky multitudes using Google image search, and you have discovered the photo of my tubal ligation procedure under any number of random search terms, you now know who owns the most adorable uterus on the internets.

Welcome to The Absent Minded Housewife! Put up your feet. Would you like some coffee? A backrub? Comfy? Good!

You may want to scroll along my sidebar. I have posts about the female celebrities my husband thinks have impressive...um...personalities. I have posts about my own odd celebrity attractions. I have posts about my band camp hijinks. I have posts about pooping out babies.

...And I have a link to a photo of what is keeping me from pooping out any more babies. Score!

You could ask, "Becky, why would you post such a thing? Certainly that's quite personal!"

Yes, it is personal. The truth is, I don't have a decent excuse for keeping it on my sidebar. I could say, since I've given birth to three sons, that it's my passive aggressive answer to the ever annoying question, "When are you going to have a girl?" I could say that it's a statement about the erotic myths of being a housewife and when you ask to see my private parts, that's exactly what you get. I could say that I'm out to disgust the unassuming with graphic images of surgery, internal organs and female bits.

If you were disgusted, I apologize profusely. I suppose I keep the photo there because I'm not particularly disgusted by it. This is me, all of me, the deep in my gut me. All you need to know about me, you can read it like fingerprints, right on my uterus.

Or, if you rather not read my uterus, here is a photo of me wearing a rather large pair of fake costume boobs. Enjoy.

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