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.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Going Commando

Happy New Year!

What do you mean the new year isn't starting in August? My teacher husband an two of my three children are going back to school next week. I am again a housewife on my own happy new year!

Many people make their resolutions at the new year and I'm no exception. Baa, sheep, baa. Here are some of the things that I might accomplish in the coming school year if I remember.
  1. I will do my yoga tapes consistently. I love my yoga tapes. I love Bryan Kest. He wears no underpants under his loose yoga pants. I may or may not practice yoga in while wearing underpants.
  2. I will keep my legs shaved this winter instead of justifying not shaving them with the wearing of long pants. I may or may not wear underpants under my long pants.
  3. I will bake more cookies.
  4. I will go to public places wearing my shoes. It's a proper thing to wear shoes. It's not proper to go everywhere wearing your fluffy sheepskin slippers. The wearing of shoes requires the wearing of socks, so I have to buy some of those. I may or may not wear underpants while I wear shoes and socks.
  5. I will learn a new creative skill. I'm thinking mime. Writing a blog post about mime should prove intriguing. Underpants.

Suggestions for additions to this list are appreciated unless they involve geek to chic makeovers, the Kama Sutra or plastic surgery.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Victor, his name is Victor.

My beret wearing poet husband, Justin, was awarded an honorable mention in Nevada Arts Council Grants Program. He got a fat prize check in the mail for his efforts.

I've been encouraging my husband for the past two weeks to purchase this, because it's a major award.

...but he has decided against enjoying it's symbolism in our window on a daily basis. Instead he decided to purchase this:

A brand-spankin' new Creative Zen MP3 player, which will display his photos, record his voice, and has a compass in the stock.

Justin's choice of major prize was supposed to be delivered yesterday (Should I say "in a crate marked frah-gee-lay"? No, you're right, I shouldn't.) but nothing showed up on our porch. The UPS tracking system says it's been in Salt Lake City for the past 24 hours. Justin is besides himself. He hasn't been this excited since his Ovaltine decoder ring was due in the mail.

Ohhhhhhh farrrrrkkkkkkkkk.

I too am waiting on some packages from UPS. Mine contain blood encrusted latex Halloween props and a costume that looks like this:

I know what you're thinking. You'll shoot your eye out.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Elizabeth Berkley's got nothin' on me...

I've been busily updating my costume site this morning. Here, have a photo of me modeling one of the bestest costumes ever.

I'm my town's only showgirl.

Monday, August 06, 2007

Green Eggs and Scram

I did indeed go see Screech do stand up for free on Saturday night. The upside? The man is amazingly praticed at handling hecklers. With an array of dirty words and some references to geriatric pornography and anal sex with women over 30, he put the front row of idiots right in their places. The downside? He hit on a skanky woman in the audience and then picked her up immediately after the show.

Needless to say, even for the show being free of cost, I didn't feel taken.

Oh, and he is quite handsome in person.


There is a mouse in my house. It's here and there, it's everywhere!

My dumb gay cat has been chasing this mouse around for three days but has yet to actually kill it and eat it. My cat, in general, is a fairly good mouser. Picking up remnants of rodents and birds is a constant and necessary chore around Casa Absent Minded. I like my cat eating the local wildlife as there are 50 miles of open landscape directly to the west of my house. Field mice are free, cans of Fancy Feast are not.

What I want to know is what the hell is so special about this mouse that it remains alive? I keep seeing it zipping around, all James Bond like, evading my cat and sleeping with exotic women. It's really quite rude.

I've purchased mouse traps...and no, I didn't purchase the variety that keeps the mouse pondering the meaning of life. This mouse needs to die. More importantly, This mouse needs to not breed in my house.

So far the peanut butter I've left on the traps haven't been of the least bit temptation. If I have to I will go medieval on his mousy ass.

Yes, I'll leave a DVD of Octopussy running all night and the mouse will suffer a slow death, much like Roger Moore's career. Shaken, not stirred, Sam I am.

Friday, August 03, 2007

How to get a free Chia Pet

Walmart is so full of back to school goodness. My children are now supplied with the school supplies that make me feel like I've done my job educating them. Crayola markers are so awesome.

When we reached the checkstand the cashier had to go through every tiny pocket in the backpacks we were buying. People seem to think that putting things in the backpacks and then buying the backpacks sort of grandfathers them in to legally owning the things they are trying to steal.

We joked with the cashier about a customer stashing something in a "secret" backpack pocket and then becoming angry with the checker for being smart enough to find it.

That's when my thirteen year old son pipes up with, "I have a secret pocket in my pants!"


He innocently meant his change pocket. The cashier didn't inspect it for stolen goods.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Me and My Llama

Today is back to school shopping day. All summer long I've been waiting for this day. This is the day in which I'm given hope that school will indeed begin again and my children will take a much needed respite from The Cartoon Network.

My husband and I tried to explain to our children, just yesterday, why Popeye was better than Yu-Gi-Oh but the lesson was lost. Popeye? That's not anime. Hell, it ain't even in color sometimes. Spinach is infected with poo germs. Popeye is an Ecoli time bomb.

My kids wanted to know if I watched Spongebob Squarepants when I was little. They were amazed to learn that the only cartoons I watched were shown on network TV on Saturday mornings. I liked Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry and I will admit to watching Smurfs. Rocky and Bullwinkle? It kicks Spongebob's fluffy ass any day of the week.

Lolly Lolly Lolly get your adverbs here.

I told them about the way PBS used to be. I talked about Sesame Street before it had become a PC Elmo-centric playground. I tried to relay just how completely awesome The Electric Company was. I told them about the sweet sterility of Mr. Rogers. 3-2-1 Contact and The Bloodhound Gang? Boss.

To convince my children that they were being shafted in the children's programming department, I showed them this:

I win.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Where life is beautiful all the time....

My kids have contracted the summer blahs. I will go insane in approximately 2 hours.

Yes, that's me in the photo.

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