Monday, December 31, 2007

Everybody finds a way to shine

I'm a day early (I usually do this post on Jan 1), but what the hell, I'm back from the Utopia that is visiting my family in Utah County and I want to get my quote on.

Here is a glimpse into the mentality of the folks that have made me the upstanding housewife I am today.

"Thanks for the pot. It'll be fun!"
- My little sister's mother in law, upon receiving pot for Christmas from my parents. Oops, did I forget to type the "a" before I typed "pot"? She got A pot. She won't piss in it I'm sure.

"My church pants are my favorite pair of pants to go to sleep in."
- My first grade attending nephew C.J. who knows the meaning of life.

"Where I come from we shit in a ditch!"
- My brother in law Brian, explaining why he was a whiz playing Pictionary but admits to being such a dork doing most everything else. He got across the clue of 'rubber ducky' by first drawing a rubber.

"We named our band 'Nature's Fuckups'."
- Lisa, my older sister, who whispered the name of her band in the Rock Band video game she got this Christmas in my ear, so my 8 year old son wouldn't hear it and repeat it in front of Grandpa thinking he was ever so witty.

"Stop putting your hammer in the pie!"
-My sister Jill, upon finding her 3 year old was sneaking bites of underspiced pumpkin pie, using his plastic toy hammer as a fork.

"I know who made it by the smell."
- Another gem from Jill, said innocently upon receiving the gift of an anonymous tub of soup on her porch.

"Don't use that to kill me!"
- My 8 year old son, watching his older brother unwrap a myriad of old junk tools and machines, including a de-chained chain saw. These hunks of junk were given to my almost 14 year old son by my parents so he could practice using his new tool set taking apart things we don't use everyday instead of the things we do use everyday.

"And here comes in this wee drunk Gary Coleman!"
- Lisa again, noting her experience bowling at the same time as Gary Coleman's bowling team. She resists the urge to ask him to say 'What'choo talkin' about Willis!' but has not resisted taking photos of him on her camera-phone.

"What size ball does Gary Coleman bowl with?"
- Corey, my husband's sister, upon hearing that my sister bowls with celebrities and that my sister probably has a chest bigger than Gary Coleman. I did not inherit whatever it is that made Lisa's boobs that huge.

...and now I'm fully prepared for folks who are Google image searching for Gary Coleman to land upon this site because an image of my tubal ligation photo pops up instead. While both Gary and my uterus are cute, I think my uterus comes in a far second.

Quotes 2 and Quotes 1 for you New Years Eve revelers.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Fa La La La La! Part III

Hey! the harried housewife screams,
Glory to my new cold cream!
Nice and thick, and scented mild,
Spots and wrinkles reconcile.
Joyful, all these creases smooth,
And the dryness begins to soothe.
Then the harried wife proclaims,
'I'm as pasty as Eminem!'
Hey! the harried housewife screams,
Glory to my new cold cream.

Parts 1 and 2
Happy Holidays to all my readers and other hangers on. (Even if my holiday wishes are belated for Hanukkah, early for Kwanzaa and irrelevant for JW's. I don't even know when I'm supposed to gripe about Festivus. Anyway, have a good 'un.)

Friday, December 21, 2007

I didn't fart the blue dart.

There are moments in parenting when you sit back with a wistful smile on your face and think, "Ya know, I'm not too bad at this!" Things are going well, your kids are acting polite, they're clean, they're pulling great grades in school.

I did not have one of those moments yesterday.

You do not sit back with a wistful smile on your face while two of your three sons discuss the finer aspects of lighting farts in the backseat of your fabulous minivan. The third, the two year old, might have been involved in the conversation too for all I could tell. He yells, "TOOT!" just as often as he asks for juice boxes.

I swear to God and everything that is holy that I've told my kids to not play with matches. I had to have told the oldest to not do that for the last ten years on a daily basis. Brush your teeth, wash your hands, don't play with matches. Don't play with lighters either. Don't make sparks with the batteries you've pulled out of your remote control cars. Don't light things on fire by holding them against the lightbulb in your lamp. Don't rub sticks together. Don't take that magnifying glass outside. Just don't.

Why? Because I'm the Mom and I told you so.

Do you know what a blowback is? It's bad. It's painful internal burn bad. My sons have warned me to avoid blowback. Duly noted.

Time to buy more fire insurance on the house.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Square Knot

Fifteen years ago, a short while after Christmas, my soon to be husband tied a nylon braided bracelet, a wish bracelet, around my ankle.

He'd worn it first. It was a gift to him, from a friend, who blessed it in his own Wiccan way and then tied it to my husband's wrist. My husband had just been discharged from the Army and from war, and he was full of the possibilities in young non-military life and the G.I. Bill. Within weeks of being tied in place the bracelet had fallen off. The blessings and wishes that it symbolized had the power to come to pass.

Sometime after that, after we'd met and when Justin knew that we weren't just dating, he offered to tie the bracelet to any one of my appendages, with all it's blessings still attached. I chose my ankle because it wouldn't get in my way while I drew or painted or worked.

...and I wished on it. I wished so hard.

This bracelet has been attached to my body for a decade and a half. It's weave is whole and tight in some places and it's wonderfully worn and frayed in others. It's been with me for every shower, every meal, through work and play, there every time I've given birth and also with me at the ends of life. I've never tried to untie the knot that's held it. I've never wanted to remove it on my own, even if it's a pain to wear with pantyhose.

I've never told anyone my wish. Not my husband, not my friends or family. No one except me and God knows what was in my heart that day. It's a big wish and it's an enduring wish.

When I think about my bracelet in it's fifteenth year, I realize that the wish is fulfilled simply in the act of wearing it. It doesn't have to fall off on it's own to realize blessings. They are there, in every way, full of possibility and endurance. They are tied to me.

I have so much faith.

And I am so blessed.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Bah Humbug

Have you ever seen a version of "A Christmas Carol" which didn't have an incredibly annoying Tiny Tim? I admit to never have read Dickens' written version (to which I'll get to shortly) but every film version I've seen features a Tiny Tim that you wish was more like the Flick character in "A Christmas Story".

You wish Tiny Tim would freeze his tongue onto a pole.

I understand that Dickens wanted to personalize Scrooge's experience with the Spirit of Christmas. Tiny Tim is supposed to be sweet. He's supposed to inspire charity and good will towards men with his ever enduring spirit in the face of adversity. Couldn't a film director capture that and not make him so saccharine-y that you want to bitchslap the kid?

"God bless us, every one!" would be extra satisfying if followed by Mr. Crachit admonishing Tim to "Shut your piehole for once!" Bob Crachit is tired, he's poor, and dammit, he's not going to take it any more.

That being said, here is a top ten list of celebrities who film-makers should cast because they'd make fabulous Tiny Tims.

10. Paris Hilton
9. Woody Allen
8. Alec Baldwin
7. Michael Jackson
6. Courtney Love
5. Tom Cruise
4. Jack Black
3. Arnold Schwarzenegger
2. Britney Spears
1. Rosie O'Donnell

I've also been giggling all morning thinking about if Tiny Tim lived today, what crap would he put on his MySpace page? I'm thinking pics of kittens.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Spit please.

Not to flood my blog with any innuendos concerning my visit with the dentist, but my mouth sure is numb and my dental deductible has been met.


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Open Wide

I have a cavity!

I know, no big deal right? Except that I've never had a filling. Ever. I'm 33 years old and except for the removal of my wisdom teeth, my smile has been unmarked and pristine.

I'm going to lie prostrate for a dentist tomorrow morning and get drilled for the very first time.

And then I will give the man money.

It's all very sordid.

This last summer I went through a bout of acid reflux which left my esophagus achy and petulant. I feel better now but I ascribe the hole in my very back molar to it. My Beta style choppers couldn't withstand the onslaught of VHS format stomach acid.

That being said, kids, don't do meth.

Monday, December 10, 2007

My Fair Laddy

It occurs to me that I have not written about one of the most hunkiest hunks of hot pulsing meat byproducts when it comes to my bowhunk list.

I've had a crush on this particular bowhunk since the '80s when he first started appearing on television.

No, it's not Kirk Cameron. God sends you to hell for coveting Kirk Cameron.

It's not Magnum P.I. He's got hawaiian camel toe. Sally the camel's got two humps.

Though, the man has spectacular thighs.

Shuddup. I did not even hear you think Scott Baio. What is wrong with you?

This bowhunk is better in every single way. He's tough, he's muscular, he wears a skirt....

He's Groundskeeper Willie, The Simpson's cantankerous school janitor.

Willie is sexy. That's all there is to it.

Do I care if the man is a two dimensional animated drawing? Of course I do. It's incredibly inconvenient in the grand scheme of things. Oh well. It's not Willie's fault that he only exists on celluloid and was given this man's voice.

That's Dan Castellaneta, in case you're wondering. Dan doesn't have nearly the pecs.

Oh Groundskeeper Willie, you haggis voiced bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's's because I know exactly what you don't wear under that kilt.

No wonder Willie is the running champion of the Scotch-toberfest caber toss.

Edited to add...yes I know Willie didn't appear until season two, 1990. That date screwed with my searching for Tom Selleck camel toe photos. Don't you take this joy from me.

Thursday, December 06, 2007


I'm a clean adult.

What I mean is that I positively absolutely enjoy bathing. A bathtub is the clitoris of a house in my opinion.

My bathtub isn't fancy. It's only one of those plastic insert jobbies. It works, it's ok, it keeps the water warm and it has an acceptable recline angle. I can't use cleanser on it but I can shine it up nicely with a little Greased Lightning.

A few Christmasses back my husband gave me a nifty thingabob that hooks over the edge of my tub, you plug it in, and then it provides two powerful jets of hot tub wannabe. The manufacturer of this thingabob tells me that it's not a good idea to use bubblebath while enjoying the jets, but I rebel and create mounds of bubbles. They shouldn't poo-poo on my bath experience.

More and more I am thinking that I should treat myself to the ultimate bathtub. Something deep, with it's own jets, with a nice place to sit and shave body parts. Something with enough room to place hundreds of bottles of bath goop.

Yes, I want a geriatric walk-in bathtub. Want. Bad.

Of course, it might suck not being able to get out of the tub until it drains, but I'm fully willing to take that as a matter of course.

A walk in bathtub, that's the John Holmes of bathtubs. My current bathtub is Masters and Johnson average. It works, it's ok, it has an acceptable recline angle.

I'm going to be forthcoming enough to admit here that I keep typing bathtub as "bathrub". I'm going to go fix a cup of hot chocolate now.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007


I was a filthy child.

Though my Mom very fond of cleanliness and has an ongoing unrequited romance with an Electrolux vacuum, she couldn't stop me or my little sister from coming into her house covered in all manner questionable substances.

I'm unaware of any brain damage I may have caused myself. I am not a doctor.

As I've mentioned before, I grew up on a horse farm. That alone presents opportunities for filth that other locations don't. When you live on a horse farm there is horse poop, and when there is horse poop there is an opportunity to shovel that poop daily. Everything in it's place and so the horse poop was dumped out of the wheelbarrow into a huge pile at the back of the paddock area.

This, logically, makes me:


It's best to not play king of the hill, on the manure pile, in the dead heat of summer. I'll let you think that one out for yourselves. My sister and I had simple rules for the game. You had to sit on your bottom, you could move your legs and arms, and even pull hair, but your butt had to stay put. Victory was in throwing your sister off and have her tumbling to the bottom with at least three dried horse apples clinging in her hair.

In addition to the manure in the backyard, we had a running irrigation ditch in the front yard. At most it was a foot deep and perfectly fine to play in all summer. You're right in thinking that it was a never-ending source of mud. We built houses for our Barbies out of mud. We built houses for the feral farmcats out of mud. We built houses for the toads found in our window wells out of mud. The toads were the only new house owners to ever pee on us. They just don't appreciate fine architechture. There were mud pies and cookies and cakes. Occasionally it was mixed with the manure and slung.

The neighboring farm was home to cows, pigs and chickens. Cow manure doesn't pile up well so at least we left that alone. The chickens on the other hand, they not only left free range poop all over but free range eggs too. Either was excellent for picking up and throwing at your unsuspecting playmates. Typically the eggs were unfertilized and you became thankful if you were hit with a fresh one. What was better was to find a nest of eggs that had ripened somewhat. In addition to the surprise of odor, the splash of green contents was always exciting.

No wonder my Mom never let me wear better looking clothing outside to play. More often than not she stuck me in the green polyester hand me down bell bottoms my older sister had worn. Green the same shade as those ripe eggs. When they became too short as pants, they were cut off. The butt parts were still good.

There were times when we were clean. Mom kept us combed up for school and she never let us run around with crusty noses. We learned what it meant to use the hose. Hair washing with cold hose water is not pleasant. But hey, my playmate nextdoor, she had good aim.

My kids need to play in more mud.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Ode to a Menstrual Cramp

Once upon a midmonth dreary, while I p-m-s-ed, tiffed and teary,
Over many a red and swollen volume of infected pore,
While I prodded, pimple zapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my bathroom door.
"'Tis the children," I muttered, "tapping at my bathroom door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Back into the bedroom moody, all my soul within me broody,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"The hell?" said I, "I'm gonna kill whoever's making that racket!;
Come on out, whoever you are, and this mystery explore
-Dammit, come on out and this mystery explore;
-'But the kids were quiet and nothing more.'

Closed here I slammed the door, and flinging open my undies drawer,
Out popped a belted kotex, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least of a warning made it; not a minute stopped or stayed it;
But with tact of boor or brutus, fell down to my chamber floor.
Lounged upon a patch of carpet, just upon my chamber floor,
Lounged, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this cottony wad a-beaming my sad fancy into screaming,
By the sterile and april fresh-ness of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy purpose be clean and monthly," I said, "aren't ya a bit early?,
Fluffy, white, and ancient kotex, wandering from my undies drawer.
Tell me what the hell you're doing on my beige carpeted floor?"
Quoth the kotex, "Cramps make ya sore!."

"Kotex!" said I, "thing of evil!--kotex still, if pad or devil!
Whether nature sent, or whether hormones tossed thee here afloor,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this beige carpet not flaunted--
In this home that midol haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Can't I--can't I put this off until next week?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the kotex, "Cramps make ya sore."

Thus I sat engaged in cussing, but no syllable expressing
To the pad, whose fiery aches now burned into my pelvic core;
This and more I sat complaining, my gut squeezing, menstruating
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Five days and this will be o'er;
on the weekend this will be over, as it's always done before."
Dammit all to hell, cramps make ya sore!

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