Friday, June 29, 2007

Masturs and Johnson


I feel compelled to do my part in defending the English speaking world against a scourge. This atrocity is breaking down communication across our great land. It may even be silently effecting you!

Masturbation is not spelled with an E. There is only one E in masturbate and it's right at the end, where it's most satisfying. U masturbate. YOU masturbate. I don't masturbate, but U does.

Have you been spelling this most important term "masterbate"? I understand there is some mastery in performing this act properly. Many people practice diligently and become experts. Many people don't practice this at all and are the masters of their domains.

I have practiced and have mastered both writing the letter U manually and typing it on my keyboard. It's right there between the Y key and the I key.... a more convenient placement than the E key in my opinion. I use my right index finger to ever so gently tap on the U key, over and over and ovur.

Go forth and E no more.

End public service announcement.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Colonel Mustard, in the lavatory, with a plunger

Let's play a guessing game!

In a few moments I will be prancing off to our local hardware store to see if they have a pipe snake. Some child living in my home has placed something inside the toilet, yesterday evening, and the toilet is now mostly clogged.

It's something that was small enough to go down the pipe but not big enough to go down all the way. That could be so many things! Since I'm the handy person in my house it's up to me to fix the toilet and find the "mystery prize". Guesses are welcome.

Last night, I told all the children living in my home who do not wear diapers to not use that toilet. I placed a length of tape over the seat to remind them to not use the semi clogged toilet. I was woken up in the night by children using my bedroom toilet.

Let's play another guessing game.

What do you think I'm going to do to the 13 year old child, who lives in my home and who does not wear diapers, who took a huge and not entirely solid shit in the semi clogged toilet this morning?

Guess away....

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Middle child, Parental syndrome.

I realized this morning, whilst speaking of the thoroughly engaging career choice of stay at home parent, that I mention my 13 year old son a lot, and I mention my 2 year old son a lot, but I don't often mention my 8 year old son.

Did you know I had an 8 year old son? I do! He's awesome.

(Oh, you read my birth stories and you do? Good!)

My middle boy is just so laid back that with all the frustration of a high drama teenager and all the constant chasing of a sprited toddler, he's sort of left to his own little laid back devices. Alec is such a sweet little boy. He's always been able to entertain himself...and I take this for granted way way way too much.

What, me worry?

I musn't let him slip through the parental cracks or else he'll be dressing like Marilyn Manson at age 12, writing badly rhymed depressing poetry and worshipping household appliances. He'll shave off all his body hair and leave it in the tub for me to clean up.

Alec, this post is dedicated to you. You're just that great and don't think I don't notice. Let's make rootbeer floats later.

...and we'll toast our floats with the wish that life never become a Morrissey song.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Charles in Charge of my wrongs and my rights.

My husband has taken off to Vegas with another woman!

...and a couple of guys too, in the school district's brand new Ford Excursion, for an AP teaching conference.

You know how those public school teachers are always getting together for wild parties, hiring hordes of strippers, drinking Everclear with Red Bull and diagramming sentences. It's difficult to keep up with lesson plans.

I'm all by my lonesome (except for the kids) until Thursday.

Oh the trouble I could get into! Muahahahaha!

I think I'll go hang all the toilet paper rolls backwards...
I'm going to remove all the bags of cereal out of ther boxes and switch 'em around...
I'm going to reprogram our satellite TV favorites menu to only include women's and do it yourself networks...
I'm looking into buying a miniature horse as a housepet, complete with a miniature horse sized litter box...
I'm going to decoupage the bedroom ceiling with images of Scott Baio and Peter Frampton.
Fried. Green. Tomatoes.

Again, muahahahahaha!



The intervention will be held promptly on Friday at 4 pm.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Last chance to get in your Kenny story!

I haven't forgotten Kenny! Get in your Kenny story before I do though...

I'm offering a neato prize!

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Falling off the going commando wagon.

I have an embarrassing admission to make. Please please please don't make fun of me too much.

Sigh.

Hello. My name is Becky. I am a housewife. I have been wearing my mother's and my older sister's hand me down underwear.

They weren't used! I was given several dozen pair of their new and unworn underwear because they bought panties that were tighter than they had anticipated. It's a compliment in a way. My bottom is smaller than the genetics we share. Thanks for the free drawers Ma.

Because of this I haven't had to buy panties for a very long time. (With the exception of the super HUGE panties I bought to wear the last time I was pregnant.)

While I was in town on Tuesday I treated myself to new underpants. Don't get yourself all excited. I bought cotton bikini panties. They aren't shiny. They are not thongs.

This is the pair of underpants in one of the six packs that brings a wave of nostalgia over me.


When I was in sixth grade, new to the mature world of changing in a locker room for gym class, I was teased for wearing cotton panties with flowers printed on them. It marked me as a little girl instead of an impending teenager. I didn't know what kind of underwear I was supposed to wear. At the time I didn't know they made underwear that looked like this:


Had I worn these to gym class I don't think I could have avoided jingling. I'm now 32 and I haven't avoided becoming more than a little girl.

Speaking of jingling. This thing fell out of my bra:



...and I am now comfortable.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

I am not a lawyer but I play one on the interweb

Yesterday, while I was participating in the awesomeness that is court mandated jury duty, my son's second birthday came to pass. We celebrated it last Saturday with a gorgeous white cake with cream cheese and strawberry jelly filling and strawberries on top. My kid likes "shrawbries" and he likes shoving his fingers into cake.

Speaking of fingers, my sister took this photo of my husband teaching my son a valuable life lesson...


Awwww....memories...

***

I didn't get selected to be on the jury. All of the potential jurors names were put into a drum and mine was never called. I am disappointed about this. The whole process was incredibly fascinating to me.

I saw a man cuddling with a woman in an alcove off a hallway in the courthouse. This woman couldn't have weighed more than 70 lbs and she couldn't have been skankier unless she carried around a neon sign advertising the fact. She looked nasty and so used. I wondered what kind of charm and personality kept this man in the mindset that this woman was cuddling material.

When we were all called into the courtroom, and we all passed through the metal detector (which beeped several times but no one bothered to check the people it beeped at), the lawyers sat down and so did the accused. It was our cuddler! I would have bet anyone fifty bucks in that moment that he was on trial for some meth related offense. I was proven right when the charges were read.

Giving trial strategy advice isn't my forte' but I would think it would be a good idea, if you were being tried for meth possession, that you leave your girlfriend home if she looks like the after example in this photo:


After they had picked a jury the rest of us were excused. A nice clerk paid me $80 cash for my mileage.

***

I used some of my mileage money to go to one of my favorite home cookin' restaurants in Elko. They fed me a huge plate of the most satisfying macaroni and cheese with ham. I felt like hugging random people after paying my lunch bill.

Two church going ladies sat in the booth behind me, also enjoying the macaroni and cheese. They exclaimed how "yummmmmmy!" it was after every bite. They also appreciated that the restaurant actually buttered the hot vegetable side because many restaurants don't...or they use margarine or scary tropical oils.

This led to their discussion on which vegetables are best with lots of butter...

Which morphed into talk of which green vegetables are best with lots of butter...

Which, logically, turned into which fibrous vegetables, topped with lots of butter, cause the most favorable and unfavorable reactions in one's digestion.

Apparently the woman right behind me does not get gassy when she eats broccoli. I was grateful to know this given our proximity. I still considered hugging her. The macaroni was just that good.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

A jury of my schmears

I'm off to perform my civic duty. I may be back today. I may be back Thursday. I might just stay longer if I get all wild and unruly in court, like is my habit. We'll see.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Scissoring makes me hot.


I'm running behind...

June's Bestest Housewifely Doodad? Kitchen scissors! I use them to cut off that ugly bit of gristle at the end of raw chicken breasts.

My pair broke. They were cheap and I abused them. I am going to buy better ones. I'm going to buy kitchen scissors that can be used to butcher whole sides of beef. I'm going to buy kitchen scissors that will slice through cans of Spam. I'm going to buy kitchen scissors that are lithe enough to circumcize gnats!

I'm drawing the line at using my kitchen scissors for amateur taxidermy on webcam, for fun and profit. The chocolate brown lab, that belongs to my neighbor, who craps on my lawn? He's safe for now...

A person can put their beef, spam and gnat foreskin encrusted scissors in the dishwasher, open, and they should come out sparkling clean. This is especially important after cutting raw meats of any sort. Germs from meat juice have this way of making a person feel a little woogie. Spam is cooked, true, but that makes a person feel woogie too.

You should be buying your kitchen scissors at real department stores instead of at the dollar store like I did. Buying two pair might be a nifty idea. One pair for meat and processed meat products and another pair for produce.

Thank you kitchen scissors. I like you, I really like you.

***

Happy Fathers Day to those whom it applies. I hope you all had swell weekends.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Here come da judge, here come da judge.

When I came home from vacation I had a nice blue paper in my mailbox threatening me with a fine and a bench warrant if I did not do my civic duty and show up to the jury selection process.

Man, that's what I get for registering and not voting for Dubya!

Actually, I don't mind going. The trial begins on my son's second birthday (We'll be celebrating this weekend anyway.)and will last three days if I'm selected. Because I have to drive 120 miles to get to the county seat they'll put me up in the no-tell motel and feed me. You know, I didn't think a vacation by myself would be something the government would pay for.

What kind of trial do do you think I'll get if it only lasts three days? I'm not thinking serial killer here. I'm hoping it's identity theft or insider trading. I want something with a lot of charts and graphs. I like pretty colors.

There is possibility that the trial may be cancelled. I have to call a neato 24 hour hotline up until the day of the trial for the latest news in trial scheduling. So far, no dice.

The blue paper instructed that I should appear in proper courtroom attire. If I appear in hot pants and a tube top do you think I'll be dismissed? I'd probably be held in contempt of court for not having enough chest to hold up the tube top and I'd pay a fine for being lopsided as well.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Gift of the Magoo

I'm not done moralizing whining! Feel free to smack me if you wish.

It seems that a visit to Sam's Club inspires a buttload of bloggable topics. Let me tell you about a couple my husband and I witnessed in the midst of an argument. They were surrounded by their four schoolaged daughters.

I don't know what started the argument or how much these two argue or even if the argument was valid. The subject was stuff. Who had the stuff, who put away the stuff, where the stuff was put away and who is ultimately responsible for making sure the stuff can be found again. What I do know about their argument is that it was in public, it was in front of their children in public, and it was snappishly sarcastic.

The argument ended when the Father wheeled his cart off in a huff pronouncing, "I put it away where you could see it, duh!." The mother waited for her husband to be out of earshot to pronounce to her daughters that "Daddy was being rude!"

Uh...

What a gloriously positive message about men, marriage and resolutions to relay to the kiddies. It was said out of such a casual tone that it led me to believe this wasn't the first time that the girls had heard that Daddy was being rude. Mama was seeking some sort of validation from a captive audience, forcing them to choose between them. Woe to them if any had said, "Mom, you weren't being so friendly there yerself beeyotch."

Guess what you Sam's Club twits? You pass this bullshit along to your kids! They internalize it and then you don't know how it will burst forth when they reach adulthood and form relationships of their own, raising their own kids, putting away their own stuff.

This strikes me as especially timely as my family will be attending my husband's grandmother's family reunion in a month. It's a four day event, a sleepover, and what would seem to be the most tedious and exasperating thing is immensely entertaining. Why? Because my GMIL had parents who actively worked to ensure a loving family legacy and their first object in that was to treat each other like gold, modeling for their family. I didn't know these relatives. They died before I was even in puberty, but what they did and felt for each other is a tangible that is felt even six generations later. What security!

Alrighty...put down the bat...I'm done.


***


I got called to jury duty on the 19th. Happy happy, joy joy.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Angels on the head of a pin.

I return...sound off the horns!

Bear with me for the moments you are here. I'm going to whine about whiners.

While I was enjoying free food samples at the Sam's Club this week I was exposed to a woman I wanted to bitchslap in the worst way. She whined about the lines being long on a Saturday. She whined about Sam's not having a product she needed. She forced her way into a new checkstand line and then whined about people not recognizing she was there first. Then she whined about the way the checker was putting her things back into the cart. On top of this, she couldn't get herself together enough to pay for her things making the people waiting behind her in those long lines wait that much longer.

Poor her. Her shopping experience in the land of plenty was substandard. Come here woman, let me knock some gratitude in ya...hard.

I ran into a few folks this week who, from all outward appearances, had pretty decent lives and yet they found it necessary to bemoan their "fates". The whiny Sam's Club patron wasn't nearly the worst of 'em. Most of these folks wanted a quick, yet shallow, vent with some equally quick and shallow commisseration to make them feel temporarily better. And what they were whining over? Opportunities that many would feel blessed to have and their own choices.

I'm not saying that a person shouldn't feel badly about some of the goings on in their lives. Having a feeling is fine and dandy. It's what you do with that feeling that matters. Not all feelings need a voice.

I suppose this is the part of me that puts me on the "strange look" list with many of my own sex. I'm not a good venter. I don't want to just listen to other people while they vent. I dislike emotional dumping and am uncomfortable being dumped on. I want you to fix it. I want to tell you what to do to fix it. I want to smack around people who are continually dumping over stuff that they have the power to change and ultimately doesn't matter.

If you have your health and your loved ones do too...shush.
If you have enough to eat, something warm to wear and a roof over your head...shush.
If you have people around you that love you or at least tolerate you...shush.
If you have the opportunity to work, even digging ditches...shush
If you have brain enough to learn...shush.

There is no grace in complaining about long lines at Sam's Club. There is also no grace in bitchslapping people. The whiny Sam's Club patron unknowingly remained assault free. She came this close...

There is just too much good in the world to not step back, savor it, and then write an entry in your Oprah gratitude journal about it. There is just too much available grace, even when life is craptacular sometimes. There just IS and IS is better than isn't.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

This post. It's disgusting.

Dee-scust-teeeeeng.

There seems to be a pervasive question on the housewifely mind upon entering this summer season. I admit that this question wasn't on my mind until yesterday, but I was made aware of this question by results of my sitemeter. Three people, using the MSN search engine, were cautiously asking, "Is it safe to stick a popsicle in my vagina?" I assume they were women.

Apparently the answer to this question can be found right here on The Absent Minded Housewife as I'm the second hit listed behind a site detailing abortion aftercare tips. I do love to chat about vaginas, but since I have not broached this particular subject as of yet, I will take the opportunity to do this now. I think the heat is getting to me.

Yes Virginia, a popsicle is a cool and refreshing summer treat. No Virginia, it's not safe to put one inside your vagina.

It's best to just not introduce any sugary or starchy or foody substances into the vagina. You are providing a tasty smorgasbord for yeasts. You will get sour. It will itch. Itching is not comfortable in the summer months at all.

...and watch that popsicle stick.

I apologize for ruining anyone's "9 1/2 Weeks" fantasy. Here is another fantasy I feel compelled to completely ruin. Thong underwear? Prime bread baking fodder. Them thar underpants ain't sexy.

Think about this logically. The way thong underwear prevents nasty panty lines is by shoving the panties all back in between one's buttcheeks so the fabric rests against one's off ramp. A person's off ramp isn't known to be free from sweat and germs just by the very nature of it's exit only design. You are providing a panty highway from the back to the front for any enterprising germs that come along. Germs do not pay three bucks a gallon for gasoline.

These underpants don't give you panty lines either, but they do provide healthy air flow.



You'd need to eat popsicles wearing these. They tend to be toasty....but not toasty in that bread baking sort of way.

***

I'm off to Utah County once again. This is to prove to my husband's and my respective families that we are not dead. There may be a random post in the next week made in either a motel parking lot or at a Barnes and Noble. I hesitate to make a Barnes and Noble post. It may be worse than this one.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Dude...

Dude dude dude....

and dude...

This is all I've heard for the past 24 hours. Nonstop...throughout all the hours of darkest night and the early morning and echoing through my head even as I type.

Yep, I allowed my 13 year old son to have a sleep over. They did not sleep at any point. They duded all night long.

In between every dude was placed a high screechy pre voice change giggle. We let them watch Beavis and Butthead. We did not let them watch Borat. Dude, denied! Heh heh heh, dude, he said dude.

After two hours of dude-ing through computer games this morning, my son's friend has gone home. Dude, it's naptime.

***

Don't forget your Kenny story, Dude.

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