Wednesday, December 24, 2008

My chimney is HAWT.

Here's to wishing you all the optimism of the season...

It's clean coal, not that nasty dirty kind. You were really naughty if you're getting THAT in your stocking. Ponzi scheme naughty.

Joyous midwinter overshopped festival-like celebrations to you.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Fa La La La La! Part IV

I want a trojan virus for Christmas
Only a trojan virus will do
Don't want a Wii, no beepy handheld toy
I want a trojan virus to seek out and destroy

I want a trojan virus for Christmas
I don't think Santa Woz will mind, do you?
He won't have to use our dirty chimney flue
Just download it despite the firewall,
that's the easy thing to do

I can see me now on Christmas morning,
clicking on the comp
Oh what joy and what surprise
when I open up my eyes
to see a porny icon blinking there

I want a trojan virus for Christmas
Only a trojan virus will do
No McAfee, no Nortonusses
I only like trojan viruses
And trojan viruses like me too

Mom says the virus would eat me up, but then
Teacher says a virus is a egalitarian

There's lots of room for it in our dual core processes
I'd find it there and mind it there and whine about it's transgresses

I can see me now on Christmas morning,
clicking on the comp
Oh what joy and what surprise
when I open up my eyes
to see a porny icon blinking there

I want a trojan virus for Christmas
Only a trojan virus will do
No McAffee, no Nortonusses
I only like trojan viruses
And trojan viruses like me too!

Parts 1, 2 and 3.

Monday, December 22, 2008


This is a quick little note to say...

Merry Christmas.

And a plea to the spirit of the season...

To give me the grace to not beat my teenaged son to a pulp...

For sneakily downloading unapproved and unscanned programs to our computer...

Which has only resulted in a virus that doesn't play nice with Explorer and is wreaking intermittent havoc with Firefox. I've been cleansing away the layers of my computer for over six hours.

Yes, I have Norton's and AVG Anti-spyware.

I'm going to make egg-nog and it's way before noon.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

It took me two hours to write this post because sex causes babies and babies grow into demanding three year olds.

I was thinking about clitorissussusses yesterday. (Clitori?)

Anyway, I was thinking about how them little buggers have no other reason for being other than to make happy time. No functionality. You can still digest food, breathe, move about, and procreate without one. Maybe a woman would do all that digesting and breathing more cranky, but still, isn't it awful nice to have a clitoris?

My little sister gave me an interesting book over the Thanksgiving vacation. It's out of print now and it should be, even though it has given me a good laugh.

She gave me the 1965 sixty-fourth reprinting of "The Modern Sex Manual" by Edward Poldosky, M.D., copyrighted 1942. Apparently my copy is worth as much as 16 bucks. Thanks Jill!

Though old Ed might have been highly educated, being a doctor of some sort, his writings lead me to believe that he's never had sex with the lights on or even with a real live woman at all. He tells me that I'm sexually frigid or immature if my clitoris doesn't change it's position to contact a man's winky during intercourse and that making contact with a clitoris in any other way leads to abnormal nerve stimulation and nervous conditions.

Oh, and he says that since I'm flatchested, it's readily apparent that I cannot have a satisfying sexual relationship because I'm sexually stunted and would have difficult pregnancies.

Ain't I glad I've got much better information available to me today! I do not have to remain a blushing unschooled bride when there is the internets with it's millions charts and graphics explaining my anatomy and the act to me.

Much better than this graphic from the book.

Mmmm, he looks vigorous. Me likey.

I'm trusting that you can educate yourself on the clitoris using Google. Find your own badly shot, badly dubbed, silicone filled and airbrushed charts.

In thinking about clitorussessesss this morning I'm wondering if I could assign another function to it and what that might be? Not that I'm disappointed with it's current, not at all...I'm estatic about it. Men's happy bits have more than one function and I'm all about equality you know.

Perhaps it could produce some sort of signal that would let us women know if in fact we do look fat in our pants.

Maybe it could glandularly emit a soothing lavender sachet scent all the time, for even extra stress relief.

Or, it could light up or beep on the fertile days of your cycle so family planning becomes a cinch.

But then again, maybe us women would be better off to learn from example and we didn't multi-task so much.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Time to buy a new box of tampons...

But I wanted to throw my shoes at President Bush!

Though, it's never occurred to me to throw anything at President Bush before. Not my shoes. Not my underpants. Not my husband's military or veteran's records.

Throwing something at him just strikes me as infinitely sensible.

I'm not throwing my leather Chuck Taylors at the man. I have my limits.

Now that the election is over and our Dubya will be leaving office, I'm at a loss to who I can openly declare a "twat". Those are huge shoes to fill, the title of Twat, since George Bush's terms are over. A replacement should not be considered lightly.

(And I hope to God it doesn't take two years of campaigning and discussion and debating to find a new twat. My heart couldn't take it.)

I've got to give President Bush his dues though. He's speedy! He's got reflexes! Not only has he dodged shoes, he's admirably withstood millions of people around the world calling him a twat for eight years without so much as a whine or a whimper.

And that takes a pretty hefty set of boxers my friends.

If you, my readers and other hangers on, have any candidates for a new twat in chief, feel free to nominate that person here. Party lines are unimportant. The new twat doesn't even have to be involved in politics at all.

To be fair the new twat must be living and must not be a serial killer or just any Joe Sixpack.

Throw your on.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Fruitcakes for everyone!

Saturday my husband and I packed the kiddos in our fabulous mini-van and trudged into the big city, through ice and snow and idiots, to go Christmas shopping.

We didn't do too badly in our retail efforts. It's not like we got our hands on a Wii, but we did manage to shake hands with some people who said they saw a Wii once. It was exhilarating.

Because we intended to be righteous and faithful consumers the parking gods blessed us with parking spots right at the front of the store. Usually we just park as far away as possible to avoid soul wrenching parking disappointments and the appearance of sin. This trip providence was with us, angels sang in multitudes, and parking spots opened up before us. And we were all amazed before the Target.

Ultimately our preferred parking led to disappointment in others. Justin and I have a Christmas shopping system in that we split up, fight about who watches which kid while we are apart, and then we shop without the prying eyes of the other. It's much like practicing military maneuvers, posting status reports on our rarely used cell phones while either of us stealthily run back and forth to the van to stow our purchases away under a blanket. This is when disappointment happens. No one waits to suck up your spot when you are loading things in your van parked a mile away from the store entrance. Parking suckers only pounce when you are close and then look at you in digust while you violate the Christmas spirit by leaving your van in that divine spot and walking back into the store.

It was not the peace sign I was flashed in this season of joy.

Even more of a miracle, at the end of our day, we settled on "eatin' good in the neighborhood" and the food was actually very tasty and no one wanted to share the bathroom stall with me. Hallelujah, Guitar Hero be praised.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Got rubbers?

This is my husband's collection of rubber bouncy balls.

Quit snickering.

I put them in the sink because it was really the only high place they couldn't escape out of and you could really see how many he has. My husband's balls are usually stored in one of those large tins that used to have Christmas popcorn in them. You know that's the stuff you buy for the last people on your list when you are cranky from holiday gift shopping and just want to go home and suck down Everclear. It's styrofoam but delicious, the popcorn...not the Everclear. My husband has so many balls this tin is filled to the brim.

My three year old found this bouncy ball collection yesterday.

And now you know what I've been doing all morning long.

Quit snickering dammit.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Grab a shovel...

As part of my new HOA duties, I've offered up my fourteen year old son and his un-work-challenged body for the cause of general maintenance.

Which means the HOA is willing to pay him ten bucks an hour to pick up trash, rake leaves, and weed around the fences. It's the kind of labor that God created 14 year old boys for.

Naturally he's thrilled about his new income and that one hour of work will buy him ten Burger King cheeseburgers. I've threatened that if he attempts to do the job half assed that I won't report his hours and he'll have to do the work anyway. No cheeseburgers for nosepickers.

Yesterday afternoon my son and I took a tour of the block so we could make a list of what could be done in the winter months only to find that some of my community partners have forgotten that their mothers aren't around to pick up after them...

...because they are just tossing their trash over the fences into areas that aren't so easily visible from the street, including their dog's doodies, which has resulted in no small mountain of festering post Alpo goodness.

Good lord...

On top of this, because of a new state law, we're required to raise HOA dues. In these times of economic difficulties no one will be especially happy about this. I will get complaints. It's easier to complain to me than to write a formal letter to a state senator in the big city. You can't explain or document enough that the law was made to protect their home owning association asses.

So, I am tempted to blame the increase in fees on doodie removal. It's a bio-hazardous job.

To which my son, after performing, won't want to eat the Burger King cheeseburgers he's so honestly earned, alrighty Fido McFidoson?

It's good for his character regardless.

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Cleanliness is next to Bill Gates-liness

It's that time of year again.

That is, time to take apart the computer and clean all the grunge out of it. It's not dirty enough to threaten it with the hose, but it's dusty for sure.

I'm also going to upend my keyboard, give it a few thumps, and have enough crumbs avalanche out of it to serve Shake N Bake pork chops for dinner.

Waste not, want not.

It's important for the tech savvy housewife to keep her computer clean inside and out. I think they should market air in a can to Mommy Bloggers much like packages of douche. Put a contented and refreshed woman in a white shirt standing casually in the sunshine on the front of the can with a slash that proclaims it's "Guava Scented". It'll sell.

As God is my witness, I'll never blow a power supply again!

Time to clean out programming and files too. Those are full of spicy little crumbs.

Those pictures of me wearing the Halloween themed saran wrap and the witchy hat? Gone.

Those pictures of my husband wearing the Halloween themed saran wrap and the witchy hat?, keep...nah, they go.

I'm getting rid of this photo too:


My WAV file collection of belches has outlived it's usefulness. It seems a well timed pre-recorded belch is so last year.

Does anyone play Duke Nukem anymore?

Seems you can't get rid of all the free AOL trial software installed at the factory and hidden all over this comp. No, I don't gots mail. I don't wants your mail. I don't wants your evil Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan conspiracies.

Windows 98. Sigh, I loved ye. I'll set you free and if it's meant to be you'll come back.

If all goes smoothly, I'll have time to take new photos to fill up my dust free spaces. I have Christmas themed saran and a santa hat, uh huh.

Monday, December 08, 2008

Hanky Panky

Something is going on with my nose.

It could be just the normal winter dry sinuses or I've accidentally snorted my dumb gay cat in my sleep. I swear there is something up there. It keeps shifting around at inconvenient moments. I'd have to go at least past the second knuckle to try to push back this hernia in my head.

At home lobotomies are frowned upon in intellectual circles.

So, I'm feeling abnormally off kilter instead of my usual lovable off kilter. Since the cat is whining to go out, maybe I snorted the set of five pound hand weights next to the bed. They are rubber coated for comfort.

I'll take a shower later and crack my tub when the steam causes ten pounds of weights to slip out of my right nostril. That's OK. I hate my tub insert. A nasal accident gives me the excuse to replace it with something less motel chic.

Only half of my legs will get shaved today if that's the case.

But lord I'm swollen up in my head. If I didn't know better I'd claim I am nose pregnant. No, I don't know how that happens.

You're all invited to the miracle of the birth.

Thursday, December 04, 2008


Your regularly scheduled blog post has been interrupted by a juice drunk three year old, a cat covered in bird feathers, flying raisin bran, a nasty skin condition and a whiffle ball to the head.

Your patience is appreciated because my patience is floundering.

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Hot, hairy and fluffy.

Some of these celebrities just ain't funny.

I've needled my husband for the last fifteen minutes for names of celebrities he thinks are hot, so I can make fun of them and through that make fun of him. Justin has given me the names of two very attractive celebrities which I've nixed because there is nothing to make fun of. They are decidedly dull. Talented and lovely, but dull.

Even his eyes glaze over when talking about their upper body anatomies.

I've threatened to pick one out for him. He's threatened in turn to fart in bed and throw the covers over my head.

Funny, his eyes started to sparkle at that notion. Justin tells me that if I ever am on the receiving end of a dutch oven that the honeymoon is over. Then, as if to emphasize the point, he put a movie in the DVD player and began to watch little men with hairy feet battling cave trolls and orcs.

It was in watching Frodo's impending doom when Justin offered up a celebrity I can work with. Hopefully she won't mind being referenced with hairy feet. She doesn't seem very hairy to me but you never know. The rich and famous have access to hair removal and photoshopping that I only dare dream of someday.

My husband thinks Julia Stiles is hot.

My husband would never fluff the covers over Julia...ever...not even if she begged.

He's not yet done such a thing to me but that's not really the point is it?

You know Julia Stiles. She's that deep thinking artsy girl in all those deep thinking artsy girl movies. She has a quizzical brow and no use for upper body undergarments.

I also found this photo of Julia, which I sort of prefer in light of my husband's wizard induced crushy poo.

Here is Julia starring in "The Omen 666", dangling her petite hairy toesies off a ledge. That large white scarf covers her up a hell of a lot better than that teeny red one. I don't see a belly button anywhere.

Oh Julia Stiles, you badly rhymed sonnet spouting tart! Why do you attract my husband so? Sorry, dumb question, I don't find you dull so it's only logical that Justin wouldn't find you dull either.

Those Jason Bourne movies are kinda awesome even if they do make me a little motion sick.

And if Justin can't choose a tart next time, I'm choosing Matt Damon, Lord of the Rings or not. Matt's worth a little fluff.

Tuesday, December 02, 2008


Psst...don't look now, but I've got p0rn on this site.

I said don't look! You're incorrigible.

Justin, my history teaching husband, is finding that he cannot read my site during the day because the all powerful school filters have determined I'm filthy.

Filthy? Me?

My site is not safe for work. It's not safe for children. It's not safe for the elderly and it's certainly not safe for anyone with heart troubles. You must be at least four feet tall to read my site. You may not read my site while on heavy medication or inebriated. You shouldn't read my site if you are pregnant, plan on getting pregnant or nursing.

My site causes dry mouth.

What I figure is that the school filters honed right in on my offer to sell you my boobs. You should not be even thinking of buying strap on polyester boobs while at school. You should be thinking on how to be a better citizen.

My site causes an inability to diagram sentences.

What's funny is that my older sister's work computer filters out every other image on my site except for the offer to buy my boobs. Not one of her coworkers have purchased any strap on boobs so the highlighting of my offer cannot be all that titillating. Maybe they already own strap on boobs and don't need any more. You can only own so many pair before it starts to look suspect.

My site causes deviancy, promiscuity and shoplifting.

Here is your warning, you readers and other hangers on. I'm bad for you. Elko County School District has deemed it so. You may very well be reading at your own risk but for goodness sake, don't sue me if small animals begin to look so very attractive.

My site causes erectile dysfunction?

Meh...I wouldn't go that far.


Saturday, November 29, 2008

Fam-damn-ily - A thought for Sunday

In attending a post Thanksgiving poker night with my three sisters and their significant others, sitting around two large platters of taco bean dip, it's logical that your's truly is going to be nicknamed "Flappy".

It's the musical fruit, dammit.

Friday, November 28, 2008

Methane Madness

I am not shopping today.

I do not need stuff. I may need to eat a great deal of fiber today after yesterday's double duty Thanksgiving, but I don't need stuff. My colon is petulant after the serving of strawberry cheesecake and the serving of blackberry pie and the pistachio torte and the pecan pie and of course the pumpkin. Top that with heaping shovelfuls of thick foamy whipping cream chock full of lactose and saturated fats.

I can't imagine that anyone else out to get stuff, roaming in those early god foresaken hours, had less pie than I did. Run, shove, grunt and toot. I noticed that the Walmart had taken up their flooring and polished the cement to a slippery shine. Some tooting grunting shopper is going to fall on their face and their overextended turkey filled bottom halves are going to promptly exlode.

People won't care about the mess either. Theys gots to get 'um a ten dollar MP3 player and free hotdogs and Coke products. They won't notice being covered in Thanksgiving goo. Laptops ahoy!

I'm sitting in my parent's living room enjoying coffee and the quiet.

There is fiber of all sorts in their cupboards. Delicious fibery fiber.

So, if you too are sitting around today, digesting, kudos. Have a roll of Charmin' on me. There is joy in the only stuff you've got being utilized for comfortable cleansing.

UPDATE: I hit the post button, go back to Yahoo, and find that a Walmart worker was trampled and has died in this morning's madness. Christ.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Check out my giblets.

Wishing everyone, at least to those whom it applies, a happy Thanksgiving.

Sexy...and delicious.

Monday, November 24, 2008

It's lucky I don't own a dog.

I know my grumpy neighbor is hating the fact that I'm ever so delicately chucking my kitchen scraps onto the non-lawn portions of my yard. I am hoping that in the spring I will be able to plant some sort of vegetables in this white Nevada dirt of mine. The carrot peelings and tomato ends look colorful and festive.

She's of very delicate sensibilities, my neighbor. My cat can't lay under my tree in the view from her yard. My kids should not make yard noise. Don't ever bang against our shared fence or hang rugs to dry from it.

(However, she's allowed to smoke in her yard, by our shared fence, which is right near my sliding glass door, forcing me to close my windows when it's warm.)

So, I also know that my grumpy neighbor is hating the birds that my spur of the moment composting attracts, including the pair of doves that have been cooing in my backyard since yesterday.

I hope they poop on her patio set.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Happy Pants

I had two goals when travelling to Elko earlier this month.

The first was to renew my driver's license. That was successfully done after waiting for two hours in a hard plastic chair with my spastic, fresh out of the carseat from a two hour drive, three year old son.

When I was seeing the light at the end of the DMV tunnel a man walked in announcing he had driven the same two hour drive and demanded special treatment by way of butting to the front of the line. The dominatrix behind the DMV counter told him to take a number. He demanded again. The dominatrix reiterated that he should take a number. Sir Special-ness did not care for having to wait his turn, had a tantrum which the dominatrix ignored, and then announced that he was "fucking leaving!"

Noting that he did not drag a three year old along to a four hour DMV adventure, I barely held back from physically accosting him.

That's why the bottom half of my face on my new license looks like this:

My second goal in driving to Elko was to procure new jeans.

Seeing that I live out in the middle of nowhere, the two teeny places that sell pants in any form in my town only stock pairs that fit normal average folk and not a walking tree like me. My neighbors have stopped allowing me to walk freely around my town anyway since most of my jeans look like this:

It's not the hole that's offensive. It's the peek of stripey underwear.

Elko has more choice in the way of pants. At least I thought they did. I dug through mounds of jeans only to find two pair that would cover most of my leg parts and all of my bum parts. These I refused to buy because they had those damned kitten whiskers bleached at the groin. I'm 34 dammit.

I drove home pantless. (With a 20 piece bucket of chicken in the passenger seat and a sleeping three year old in the carseat.)

Crossing my fingers, I ordered jolly green giantess pants online. It used to be that jeans for women in tall sizes ended at a 34" inch too short for me...but I've found miracles in jeans manufacturing up to 37" for less than $30 a pair on the internets.

My jeans arrived Monday.

The first day of the rest of my warm ankled life arrived Monday. Blessed be, they fit. THEY FIT! ALL THREE PAIR FIT!!!

I have never in my full grown life worn a pair of jeans that fit so exactly RIGHT. Long enough, down to my heels without being too baggy and sliding down my hips. Can you tell what color of socks I'm wearing when I sit? NO YOU CAN'T!

This thrills me so that I may go find Sir Special-ness and accost him in a more affectionate way.

He won't see my stripey underpants so he shouldn't be all that offended.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

When I grow up, I want to open a Discotheque.'s Xanadu watching day!

(Instant watch it on Netflix with me. Revel in the silky polyester goodness.)

Next...The WIZ!

Monday, November 17, 2008


In making my post coffee trip to my bathroom this morning I unexpectedly found a spider hanging out in the toilet bowl.

This caused me to have a debate of conscience. Do I compassionately fish the spider out of the toilet and save it's wee little life or do I pay it no mind and just get my business done?

I realized that fishing Charlotte out of the bowl may prove difficult. The spider could end up in the water anyway and die. If I did manage to catch the spider I'd have to put it outside, where it's cold, and it would die. I could have used the other bathroom and eventually the spider would have left the toilet only to be found by my cat and it would die.

Or, I could leave it there and spidey would grow by apocalyptic proportions, completely taking over my bathroom, using up all my expensive bubble bath and leaving questionable stains on everything porcelain. Eight legged biatch ain't doing way no how.

So...I flushed and uncharitably thought, "Sucks to be you."

Karma is coming my way now. I just know it.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Has anyone done a study on how long it takes polar fleece fabrics to break down in a landfill?

I'm throwing away the polar fleece pajama pants I'm wearing. They're baby blue printed with polar bears on purple sleds and several inches too short for my long legs. They're my sexy pants.

Alrighty, obviously I did not buy these pants at Victoria's Secret. Hell, I don't buy anything at Victoria's Secret. I'm not spending $30 dollars on a scant strip of fabric that rests right against the most unhygenic part of my body. If I wanted to place something right back there on purpose it better either be disposable or free.

Anyway, out to the trash they go. I keep pulling out hairs that have worked themselves into the fleece. It's a charming trait with this type of fabric.

And the last hair I pulled? From the inside of these sexy pants? It wasn't mine. At the very least I know whose it was and where it was shed from. It's not a suspicious mystery hair. Still, gah, gross.

I can't be the only one who is deceived by new plushy soft polar fleece pants and ends up having to throw them away because it starts looking like the fourth member of ZZ Top. At the local landfill there is a pile of metal appliances, another pile of car batteries and oil cans and then there must be a large pile of hair ridden polar fleece.

This leaves me with having to replace my sexy pants. I've pulled some blue flannel out of my stash, printed with rubber ducks and soap bubbles, and I'm going to sew up a pair of the proper length.

I can go to the grocery store in my rubber duck pants, hair free, and enjoy my newfound sense of dignity.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Beany Weeny

I was going to write an amusing anecdote about marital maintenance, ya know...doin' it, but I forgot what it was. I made a mental note to remember but I knew I'd forget right before I drifted off to blissful sleep.

It had something to do with the burritos we'd had for dinner and the implications of that when you get naked afterwards.

Perhaps we should all be grateful about my forgetfulness.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

No longer living in a glass house.

My dumb gay cat is angry with me.

Which is fine and dandy because I'm angry with my cat.

Household discord is...heh...a bitch kitty.

My cat has boundary issues. My neighbor owns a large orange cat that violates my cat's boundaries at least once a week by sitting near our sliding glass door and casing our home in the middle of the night. This causes my cat to screech at the hated orange cat and the hated orange cat to screech back through the glass, at ungodly hours, waking us all.

A couple nights ago my cat was engaged in this behavior, waking me up at 3 A.M. I moved him away from the glass, screeching and spitting, and shooed that bastard orange cat off so we could get some sleep. When I reached to calm my dumb gay cat afterwards he screeched at me and nearly succeeded in shredding apart my right hand.

So, in the sleepiest way possible, I made it known to my dumb gay cat that biting the hand that feeds you at 3 in the morning is not acceptable in my home. Housewife angry.

I finally had the bright idea last night to put a sheet of cardboard over the sliding glass door when we go to bed. It looks trashy but trashy is fine when you can't see through it and your cat can't see through it. It might look classier if I decorate it with macaroni and glitter.

This make dumb gay cat angry.

How dare I, the mistress of this house, the deliverer of canned cat food and scraps of dinner meat, block his view of the backyard and keep him from his dutiful screechy posturings in the wee hours?

He expressed his displeasure by woefully yowling.


That little fuc poohead.

Boundary issues? I'll show him boundary issues. Better not yowl tonight, I tell you whut. No one is going to care if my cat mysteriously comes up missing. I brought you here you whiny feline twit and I will take you out!

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Justin Wurst

School's out for Veteran's Day, which means my veteran husband is home and the civil war fought by my children has now resumed. I plan on staying the course.

Have you hugged a veteran today? If you can't find one I'll force my husband on you. No lingering hugs even if his thighs inspire a swelling sense of patriotism.

Justin is allowing me to scan a photo from his Army days. This was taken when he was stationed in Schweinfurt, Germany, after he'd served in Desert Storm. He and his buddies decided to barbecue german processed meat products in a quaint Bavarian wooded area. Even though Justin does not drink beer he still felt compelled to pipi in the wald.

Thank you for your service and sacrifice Justin. Peace out.

Because we have the whole day free we've invited my husband's co-worker and his wife over to eat food. Potstickers. Sadly, there will be no food on the menu with "furter" or "schnitzel" in it's name. And if anyone pees in my bushes I'm going to make them clean the head with a toothbrush.

This particular co-worker just happens to be our son's freshman English teacher.

Ever want to spend your day off from school at home with your English teacher diagramming sentences and dangling your participles? Heh, we are the most awesome parents.

We've offered my son ten dollars to hug his English teacher despite him not being a veteran and he's refused. We upped it to twenty. He still refused. We offered him a car. He told us that we, his everloving parents, "suck".

Suck is not an adjective, son, gimme twenty.

Saturday, November 08, 2008

Darling Corey

Since it's the weekend past my birthday, I have hoards of family members descending upon Casa Absentminded. They should want to bask in the awesomeness that is me in my mid thirties. It rubs off in the most familial way.

The female version of my husband, my sister in law Corey, is here this morning. Hers and Justin's physical similarities freak me out a little bit. But, she is forgiven for looking what she looks like because she brought me ground coffee from the big city.

They feather and bleach their hairs the exact same way.

Let's interview Corey.

Becky: I'm trying to figure out how to open this interview and where to lead you.
Corey: Will you lead me astray?

Becky: Can I lead YOU astray?
Corey: That would be a neat trick.

Becky: So you know about tricks?
Corey: Yup. There are kids in the room.

Justin: There is this guy, in New York, he does these parlor tricks...
Becky: Justin, you're disrupting the flow of this interview.

Corey: OMG, is Kaelan (my 14 year old son) getting facial hair?
Kaelan: Yes...

Becky: So have you treated your ADD Corey?
Corey: How did you know about my ADD?

Becky: Did you develop ADD before or after you lived in New Jersey?
Corey: Before, but no one in New Jersey noticed.

Becky: Is that a commentary on the smallness of my town?
Corey: What does that mean?

Justin: I had this student in my class and he...
Becky: Justin, I'm not done yet!
Justin gives me a raised eyebrow...

Becky: Now I can't figure out which question I should ask next...
Corey: Why the hell don't you know what the questions are?

Because I haven't had any big city coffee yet. I think I need it on many levels.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Save the date...

Today is my 34th birthday.

I feel so good today, but I think I'll leave the wild drunken behavior for my next birthday. Being unseemly only works for anniversaries divisible by five. Show up in my town next year and you might see me streaking past our town's neon cowboy planted right in the center of our main street.

He's pointing at my floppy bits.

And if it's just as cold next year as it is today, my neon friend will also be pointing at bits.

Floppy and pointy. Don't come within five feet of me without eye protection.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

I voted...was it good for you?

Have you voted yet? Have ya? Have ya?

You readers and other hanger's on get another pre-scheduled post today. I've planned to be off voting at the time I usually write quality potty worded posts for you.

I scheduled yesterday's post as well because I was at the DMV getting my fill of Bureaucracy for Dummies. My new driver's license photo was not enhanced by a two hour wait with my three year old child or listening to a angry petulant man, who drove just as far as I did, complain that no one would allow him to get in the front of the line.

Since I'm writing this post the night before, I figure y'all can help me go over my sample ballot. It's 18 pages of pure democracy that I'm holding in my trembling touch screen ready fingers.

The first two pages instruct me on how to use a touch screen. They tell me to INSERT the voter cared, TOUCH anywhere on the box that contains my preferred candidate and then to CONTINUE to the next page by touching the arrow. The emphasis is theirs. Nevada state wants me, a moral upright citizen, to go into a private voting booth to INSERT, TOUCH and CONTINUE. I'm beginning to think that the government should provide me with a sanitary sheet to vote on. Voting is lurid.

Now the candidates (suckas!)

My first vote is for President and Vice President. Right to the point. My vote counts.

My next votes are for state offices...which I don't give a flip about. There is not a campaign notice for any of these people in my town. Not in the papers, no signs in the yards, no news...nada. The opinion of the citizens residing my town doesn't matter. In fact, our town barely exists to the likes of Vegas, Reno and Carson City. So, I'm skipping it.

My next votes are for county offices. A similar dynamic to above. They don't campaign here. I'm not voting blind. Skip skip and skip.

Next are city offices. I'm voting for my buddies. They give me candy. They promised that all my wildest dreams will come true.

Now onto the amendments to the Nevada Constitution, a document which I have never read. However, my husband was required to take a test on this document for Nevada school teaching certification and he tells me that it reads much like our national constitution. I trust the man. He wouldn't fudge on a document that's so present in the life of every Nevada resident, snort. So...Yes on redefining residential voting definitions. Why not on high appraising public use property values. Sounds good on redefining tax exemptions, and a HELL NO on allowing the legislature rights to appeal taxes without a public vote on certain aircraft components.

(Stinkin' aircraft component lobbyists...always got their chubby fingers in our jars of peanut butter.)

I sure hope I get a sticker after I vote. I got one last time and I put it on my chore chart. Good job! Gold star!

One more thought on touch screen voting. Resist the urge to wipe a booger on the screen over the name of the candidate you dislike. It's a passive aggressive way to get votes for your side, mmmkay?

Monday, November 03, 2008

I promise not to lie about my weight.

Thanks to Blogger's post scheduling feature, you get a nice new Monday post whilst I jaunt 120 miles away from my desk. I'm at the DMV. I have to renew my driver's license. It's the law that I have to show up in person every 8 years.

You could ask why in the hell the powers that be don't build a closer DMV but that's like asking why dogs eat their own turds. It's long, and complicated and by now only having one DMV in the county is a filthy habit.

You can also ask why I put this off to around the time of the month that I'm prone to get a juicy pre-menstrual pimple.

I want to give the camera my best blue steel look, but I know I'll just come off looking annoyed. Since they won't let me wear my second place award winning cow costume I'll have to settle for one of three distinctive looks which will minimize the size and redness of my pimple.

Lunchtime? Ooooh nummy time!

Woo, boy, that double bacon chili cheeseburger sure does repeat on ya.

Toilet...need toilet...shouldn't have eaten that cheeseburger, no sir.

Notice any pimples in those facial expressions? I know I don't. Works like magic!

I just hope that if I ever get pulled over my ID doesn't make me look guilty.

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Lactose Tolerant

I went out in public last night, halloween night, wearing this:

And I paraded about with a bunch of strangely dressed people, my cowbell just a tinklin'.

And I won this:

Which was the prize for second place in the contest. Then they took my photo for the town paper.

After that, I didn't mind if strangers grabbed my teats.

Friday, October 31, 2008

This is my everyday makeup...

You know it's Halloween when you get kisses from your kids and they taste and smell like artificial grape flavoring and peanut butter.

Now, go squeeze into something slutty and get me some candy.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

The Absent Minded Tease

Hi. I'm Becky, The Absent Minded Housewife.

For the record, I am not Becky, The Absent Minded Prostitute. Or, Becky, The Absent Minded Swinger. Or, Becky, The Absent Minded Small Town Dominatrix. (Even if my previous post hinted at such notions. I lied to all of you.)

For those readers and other hangers on who live in my general area, you well know that my little town of Bendover, NV has a reputation as being a DEN OF SIN. It's a blight on the Utah horizon. It's a place where you can drink wine out of a box right on the streets. It's a place where you can wallow in filthy lucre. It's hedonism in it's most trailer park form. If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, it really sticks like a booger on your finger in Bendover.

So what happens when you use the above photo in your social networking profiles and you admit that you live in what's someone else's perceived DEN OF SIN?

You get offers.

There are unseemly men and women out there who think that if they sauntered into my town to visit our fine casinos that I would be free and willing to perform all manner of disgusting activities. In exchange for such services I'm offered anything between fulfillment of what they tell me is every housewife's fantasy to money orders filled out for large amounts. Liquor is optional.

I'm flattered...sorta. I do like the above photo. It makes the most of not showing any of my stretchmarks and gives me the illusion of having breasts.

Declining offers is loads of fun sometimes. The last offer asked if I was really that hot and then asked if I was cool about "chatting" with him. I replied that I was lukewarm. Perfectly and monogamously lukewarm. Other times I'll be asked if I'm interested in some disease passing activity and I'll just reply "Nope."

More often than not the follow up I receive after declining advances is, "Have you always lived in Bendover?" Which only means, "I thought you lived in Bendover and you know what kind of folks choose to live in that DEN OF SIN, so why won't you boink me you silly pantyhosed woman?"

I just love boinking random backwards strangers. Bah...eejits.

There has got to be some way to make money out of this while keeping my skirt in it's proper place.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

It could be worse. It could have been Necco wafers.

Tonight is my first super duper official meeting with the rest of the big wigs on the block as a homeowner's association officer.

Vote AMHW 2020 y'all. I'll lower your taxes and raise your roofs, wootwoot!

I'm unsure what issues we are going to cover in this meeting. I have a list of possible topics which are sure to be discussed with the seriousness in which they are offered.

1. I wish to sell illegal substances and badly lit and edited homemade "movies" out of my abode. How much will that raise my homeowner's fees and insurance premiums? The economy is crap and I need to watch my cash flow carefully.

2. Is spraying my hose on the neighbor's children when they act stupid (which is a different, less quality type of stupid than my own children display) against HOA rules? My squirt finger is itchin'.

3. If I can't get my cat to poop in my neighbor's flowerbed, is there a better way to annoy her?

4. So it's a no on the 12 foot hot pink "marital aid" displayed on my roof for Valentine's Day? What if I got matching decorations for everyone? We could put them on motion sensors.

5. Let's put a lien on the abandoned property next door so I can buy it for 100ths of cents on the dollar. In addendum to the movie biz, brothels are legal in my county and I'm going to make it worth everyone's while. I do indeed own black leather boots.

6. Don't worry about the smoke coming from my house...the fire is my husband and I making sweet sweet love. Ignore the piglike grunting as well.

7. I move that we interrupt this meeting for a Hot Cheetos run.

8. And finally...if I have a big bowl of candy left over from Halloween, I'm applying to the HOA for a refund of the cost of said candy. I bought dum-dums and tootsie rolls and they don't go as fast as Twix bars you know.

My leadership abilities are excellent. I'm looking forward to serving my block in this capacity.

And I hope no one leaves a flaming bag of cat poo on my porch.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Get pumped.

Instead of reading this, wherever you are, go buy some gasoline.

This week we can give our posteriors a rest.

Friday, October 24, 2008

November Fresh

Only eleven more days until election day. Only thirteen more days to my 34th birthday.

The best birthday present I'm receiving this year is the removal of Dubya from the presidency. I think I'm getting a Keane CD too, but by far ending the war on errorism is the nicest thing and gets a proper handblogged thank you note. If you don't recall, or haven't been here before and so are ignorant of my more than righteous opinions, I think George Bush Jr. is a twat.

I thought he was a twat eight years ago. I thought he was a much bigger twat four years ago. I think he's an enormous drooping drooling twat today. I have many reasons to think he's a twat, none of which would be a surprise to anyone living in such times as these.

Twat is one of my favorite words and now I feel it's lost some of it's cozy warm meaning when I point it at our departing president despite how enormous he is.

As my right to vote descends upon me I'm beginning to feel as fresh and free as a sundress wearing model on a douche box.

Feel me...feels free don't it? You can sniff me too. I'm pina colada scented.

Happy voting people.


Speaking of twats, I've guest posted today over at Mental Poo.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

I want a pony.

I'm still pissed about yesterday's Oh-pur.

(Though, technically I don't have to pee. On the way to the bathroom the phone rang, I picked it up, and since it was my husband I felt free to flush. Marriage is awesome.)

Part of my pissiness has been building up because I just finished re-reading the Little House series of books, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

When I need a kick in my 21st century butt I read those books.

What many parents relayed in yesterday's Oh-pur is that they wanted their children to have more than they had growing up. What I don't understand is how that translates to "material possessions" for so many parents in today's world. Maybe in Laura Ingalls world that would have been true, where having more meant having more than two sets of clothing to wear and one pair of shoes...or more education or plentiful more nutritious what's the deal with these parents today? Where are their heads?

Did you see the end of the show where a parent was considering taking out a loan to send her fifth grade son on a field trip to Costa Rica? Good hell...COSTA RICA. C'mere woman, I need to lay a Laura Ingalls on your ass.

I'm a lucky woman. My kids are lucky kids. I have the beautiful opportunity of having this computer to explore the world, a telephone to keep in touch with my husband during the day while he's working a job that doesn't require manual labor and isn't dangerous, and a toilet with running water in my modernly heated home which is clean smelling and sanitary. Certainly we could be worse off and the hell I won't make sure my kids know it.

I suppose attitudes aren't any different than in the time of Aristotle and Socrates...but then again, they didn't have Walmarts or Dancing with the Stars.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I want candy.

I know today's Oprah is going to piss me off.

(From this point on, Oprah will be referred to as "Oh-pur")

I also know that the expensive toilet paper that I don't buy still wouldn't be enough to wipe off with after I've gotten pissed off.

The intro to today's show, The best money lessons that you can teach your child, reads:

When every dollar counts, parents are having to say no…when all they've ever said is yes. How to tell your overindulged kids that the spending has to stop now!

To which Suze Orman earns another paycheck from Oh-pur and tells us how to put our foot down with our spoiled bratty children. Just say no to designer jeans, shoes, video games, phones and MP3 players that cost more than what mexican immigrants make in a year.

Oh-pur got the idea from the NY Times article, The Frugal Teenager, Ready or Not.

Reading the above has pissed me off. I now know why monkeys throw shit at mouthbreathing people in zoos. Where is that expensive toilet paper I don't buy then?

Last week I complained about being frustrated in parenting my oldest son. Today I've had a moment of serenity about him because he's never thrown a screaming tantrum because I've refused to buy him a laptop. I've also refused to buy him a cell phone (because he does not need one) and I've refused to buy him a PS3 (because *I* do not want that expensive mind sucking device in my house along with the other less expensive mind sucking devices.) If he wants either he will have to get a J*O*B.

This show should be an embarrassment to all parents in the USA, whether you've cursed society with a Veruca Salt or not.

Why can't those parents give to ME money dammit!? Hear that, you brat breeders? GIVE ME MONEY. GIVE IT TO ME. I WANT IT. I WANT IT NOW. GIVE IT TO ME OR I'LL CALL CPS! GIVE IT TO ME AND YOUR KIDS WILL FINALLY THINK YOU ARE COOL!

I'm never going to get into an Oh-pur audience on Favorite Things day.

I've talked about this wave of entitlement before...when our houses were still worth what we interest only mortgaged them for and our borrowed against 401k's were still vitamin enriched. HERE I complain about designer degrees and student loan debt and HERE I complain about the freewheeling credit card habits of my generation.

All of this gets my generic ten dollar long inseam jeans in a wad. Pissed. Yup pissed. No other reason to keep using potty words. do you tell your kids no? Put your tongue up against the roof of your mouth, form the "N" sound, move your mouth into a round shape and slide that N into a long "O". Nnnnehhhoooohhhh.

No. Period. Have all the tantrums you like. I'm going to be your parent and not your buddy. I will be your parent and instill in you that your worth has nothing to do with the logo on your clothes or the battery operated devices plugging up your ears. I will be your parent and try to raise you into manhood or womanhood and not into entitle-hood.

So no. Just no.


Monday, October 20, 2008

Line Jumping

Saturday, Justin and I jammed our children into our fabulous mini-van and took them on our once a year jaunt to the local amusement park. Local is a relative term as the park is 130 miles away in Utah. That's ok. We like spending time with our children in the mini-van.

The weather was lovely.

Which means the place was jam packed with people. There are two reasons for this. It was Saturday in Utah and not Sunday and tickets in October were fifteen bucks cheaper with a coupon than tickets in summer.

My three year old won some kind of lumpy stuffed velour pillow thing at a ball toss midway game. It's got a suction cup on it which I can't divine a purpose for other than to make it obvious that the prize did indeed suck. We paid twelve bucks for it.

After that we forced my three year old on a ride that was a favorite when I was a little pooper. It took my son an hour to ride the baby boats:

The ride only lasted mere seconds, moments of redundant boaty bell ringing bliss for the kiddies. What took so damned long is that every time parents loaded their kids into their seats the digital cameras popped out. Smile! Look over! McKennalotta! McKENNNNALOTTTTA! SMILE! The attendant was not allowed to start the ride until the parents got their family fun having butts back behind the fence.

This is why I will never, ever, ever, scrapbook. They sniff glue.

After negotiating our way out of kiddieland, Justin and I spent time people watching, counting foreheads while the older kids rode rides that spin fast. We'd never noticed it before but our good friends and neighbors in the state in which we were born have very large craniums. It's bordering on obscene.

We stopped counting when it became necessary to take off our shoes to keep up. I shouldn't make fun of people with big heads.

It was tiresome and a bit cultish being herded around the park so we left around 8 to get some real food in a real restaurant. Ironically we ended up at Applebee's. The restaurant we wanted to go to, next door, was holding a private function and our small heads warn't invited.

We were seated in a booth next to a couple on a date. The woman kept making complaints about her food. More mayo. More fry sauce. More fries. My toast is too toasted. Check, affirmative on the large forehead. Her large head did nothing to remind her that she was eating at an Applebee's.

Soon enough, my three year old announced to the entire restaurant that he had to poop, so I took him by the hand and led him to the restroom, potty seat in tow. I'm an experienced mother so I know that making use of the larger handicapped stall is important when two of you have to fit in there and the other stalls barely have room for a person's knees. That's where I met the woman in the next booth. She stood, waiting, and sighing, at my stall door, while my son did his business and yakked on about poo-poo this and pee-pee that. When I opened the door she didn't even wait for me or my son to exit the stall. She walked right in with us! The three of us stood there in the stall for a moment. Two of us were not as oblivious as the other one of us.

By the way, this is not why women go to the restroom in groups.

Looking at the date's male counterpart on the way back to our table, you could tell that the evening was not going well. He was sort of slumped over, his hands over his eyes, resting his head, and stifling sobs. He had a normal forehead.

I should have given him the lumpy suction cup pillow prize for effort. I think he'd probably earned it.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

I cannot believe Leanne won...

My...warn't the debate feisty!

You know how I know that this final debate was important? It was on at the same time of the final episode of season five of Project Runway and I found I'd much rather stare at McCain's and Obama's split-screened faces than collections of custom sewn clothing.

Tim Gunn, you know I love you, but dude, you had scheduling issues.

It's tempting to photoshop McCain and Obama's heads to Victoria's Secret angel models so I can get my runway fix. Joe the Plumber might appreciate such a thing. That sort of visual would ease the pinch of taxes and healthcare and negative campaigning. A vote for seamless cup construction in bras is a vote against terrorism.

Obligatory Proposition 8 mention here.

I can't wait to vote because someone's seams just ain't straight.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

A 9x12 pan, not an 8x8 pan.

Anyone want a fourteen year old boy child? His appetite hasn't hit it's stride yet.

He's free. Absolutely FREE!

I'll give you twenty bucks and a pan of brownies too. Just take him for 24 hours.

Aren't fairy tales full of deals where some curmudgeonly character whisks away your firstborn in return for superpowers or wealth? I am tempted to check out to Neverland and I could use an ability to belch gift cards to Applebee's. Eatin' good in the neighborhood.

Let's not put on a freshly laundered and starched housewife apron and pretend I'm not frustrated with parenting this child. I'm frustrated as hell and today I'm tired. He's got an ever enduring pervasive character trait which won't serve him well as he goes forth into the world, for which I apologize in advance. We're trying, Lord knows, to drive better sense into his head. He'll finally get it and all this heartburn will have been worth it...or he won't and he'll be in charge when we're all in rest homes.

To put a positive spin on my frustration, he might have been born a girl and in addition to being such a joy in the ways he is already, he could also be in the weepy raging throes of estrogen.

Meh. I thought the estrogen thing would make me feel better. It didn't.

Yesterday I had him in his room with a bucket of soapy water, freshening the place. His room needed freshening for sure but the purpose was to make sure he had something useful to do after we'd done some work on this character trait of his. Might as well. I took away his MP3 player, and a bunch of CD-roms and an interesting array of foodstuffs which were abandoned between his mattress and bedsprings. These next few weeks he's going to be given a lot of useful things to do so he really doesn't have time to think.

So, I'm going to sit back a minute today, while he's at school, and just blink for a while.

And I'll try not to drink hard likker.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Blanket Hogs

Justin, my ever decreasing husband, and I, sleep butt to butt.

He's ever decreasing because at this point he's lost 34 pounds. His losing weight has nothing whatsoever to do with why we sleep butt to butt. We've almost always slept that way. The night of the State of the Union address is an amusing circus under the sheets.

When we were first married we tried to sleep in each other's arms, you know, like how happily married folk are supposed to sleep. Little wistful smiles pasted on our betrothed faces, perfectly pressed linens, sharing one pair of pajamas and a remarkable lack of bedhead. Ahh, the picture of bliss.

What we found is that one of us was always breathing in the other's exhale, which resulted in lightheadedness, and that even though you appear thin, when you are asleep you weigh as much as shetland pony. Wistful smiles are not comfortable smiles.

Though Justin and I have been married long enough to make us an example to others, I still wonder if we are going about this properly and even more interesting, what other people are doing in their marriages.

This is sort of a backwards thought to put into writing on my blog. I once wrote about an emailer who asked why, as a housewife, I didn't go on more about my marriage. To sum up, I told that emailer to quit being a Nosey Nosepicker. No one invited you to the special and sacred intimacy that is the sheet circus.

It's not that I want to be invited to other people's sheet circuses. That's how we pass along communicable diseases. Just that every great once in a while I want to know if my marriage is not terribly abnormal by comparing it with every one else's marriage. I'm staying away from the word "normal" because there are enough norms to make what Justin and I have normal. The ego stick gets another notch if I can compare favorably in my own head.

So, give your own ego stick a notch if you can manage to sleep in each other's arms. Or, notch it if you sleep butt to butt and agree with me. Or notch it if you sleep in separate rooms because you snore like a rhino in heat and you find living together much more pleasant when you both get a full 8 hours. Or give yourself a notch if you both manage to stay dry throughout the night.

Good. I don't feel so backwards anymore.

Now quit trying to sneak peaks at my ego stick, Nosey Nosepicker.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Dressing in layers.

Would it be considered halloween decorating if I admit that my cat has upchucked on my porch and I just want to leave it there?

It's cold!

And the upchuck is most likely frozen. It snowed Saturday morning. I hate snow. I hate Hitler and baby bunny rabbits and I hate snow.

Because it's cold I made my three year old put on a sweatshirt over his normal clothing this morning. This was a long sleeved affront to his person. He wept...and he screamed...he threatened to call CFS...and I wasn't budging. My kid is ugly and his mother dresses him funny. Warm, but funny.

He hates broccoli and baby bunny rabbits and he hates wearing clothing.

When I was in kindergarten my Mom used to make me wear this sweater with a clown on it. (Not unlike Wil Wheaton's clown sweater.) She thought it was adorable. I knew it was atrocious. It was a long sleeved pink affront to my person. How could any forward thinking sand table regular wear anything cat barfy? I had a reputation to keep intact and that knitted horror wouldn't do!

I remember throwing a big snotty fit when she tried to dress me in that sweater.

Yet, my Mom was probably showing the good sense in warm clothing that I pretend to possess today. I think she knew that I was the little girl who crawled to the top of the monkey bars in a dress so the little boys could look at my underpants.

Even in kindergarten, everyone knew I got around.

I guess I'd better put on a sweater and go clean the frozen upchuck now.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Mission highly probable.

Period came early.


Must find

and devour

obscenely greasy bacon cheeseburger.


Hiss hiss.


Wednesday, October 08, 2008

That one. Those two.

Debate! Debate, debate, debate, debate, debate, debate and debate!

Ahhh, got that out of my system.

Now let's discuss something else.

Like boobs.

I said I had a post on boobs in me months ago, but I was restrained because my home internet was on the fritz and the computer I was borrowing at Justin's school disallowed me to search for and post photos of boobies. All good things to those that wait...and besides, our school district doesn't disillusion itself with abstinence only education.


I have them. I think. There are definitely odd protrusions on my chest. This is a recent, in my thirties, development. I thought I'd go back to my usual protrusionless state after my third child was born but amazingly I've kept some cleavage this time around. I like it, sort of. It doesn't chaff.

I'm still quite lopsided though.

It's only the rare woman whose protrusions aren't odd. Bras misdirect us into thinking that it's not ok to look like National Geographic models. They must be round, they must be firm, they must not sit under our armpits and they must not have unfashionable nipples. On top of this you must wear the right bra, which can't be built like an armored tank, but must be an expression of your personality at all times.

I'm here to tell you, as a self appointed mammary ambassador, that your boobs are ok. Unless you are growing an evil twin out of one of them, your boobs are normal. Too big and they drag on the floor? Normal. Too small and the nipples point towards your ribcage? Normal. You have what looks like a hedgehog around each nipple? Normal. One points east and the other points west? Normal. Swirling purple stretchmarks? Normal. You have a great expanse of valley between your mountains. Normal.

There are practical improvements on normal of course, like breast reductions or the removal of your evil twin, but otherwise I find getting wrapped up in whether or not our boobs look good is silly. Here I am submitting proof of my non-silliness, admitting forever and ever, on the interwebs, that I have near flat, somewhat saggy, uneven, hairy boobs...which are wonderfully sensitive and somewhat practical. I have a dent in my sternum too. It's sexy.

And if you think you've got great tits? Good on ya.

I know, I've preached the word about boobs with nary a photo to illustrate my point.

Blue feet on your boobs. Normal.

Reform! Taxes taxes taxes and terrorists. Main street, wall street, healthcare, Joe Six Pack, BUY MY MORTGAGE, BUY IT! BUYYYYYY ITTTTT!

Sorry. Slipped out.

No. I'm not posting a photo of my sternum dent. Deal.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

I'll take the whole bolt.

Jeff Goldblum...

In a fabric store...


I suddenly wish I hadn't gotten a tubal ligation.


Monday, October 06, 2008

Put this on your stick and roast it.

I got caught up in talking about "personal responsibilty" this morning.

And "integrity" too, if "personal responsibility" warn't heavy enough for you on a Monday.

In the light of the bailout, and the stock market, and the presidential election, and the war, and whatever is going on with O.J. Simpson, talking about personal responsibilty and integrity makes our communal marshmallow roast a little less fluffy.

Just as delicious on s'mores though.

While I digest it all, this YouTube of a Japanese game show.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

You, sir, are no Jack Kennedy.

Ohhhhhhh I wanna write about politics...

It's vice presidential debate night. No, I didn't just make that up. Biden and Palin really are going to attempt to debate today. Because of this I have a compelling urge to write a post which merges Robert's Rules with some hot political cyber lovin'.

Get out your disinfecting cleaners.

I move that you pretend that you are a 7 foot tall 96FFFF blond wearing a bikini made out of the Wall Street Journal, who is blessed with both a raging case of nymphomania and foreign policy experience. Hawt.

I also move that I pretend I'm a herculean mastiff warrior possessing a huge, long and intimidating senate committee roster and a cute little tushy. Yum yum gimme sum.

Mmmmmm, yes, seconded on all points.

The floor is open to discussion before the vote. Let's get our debate on.



I don't think I've got much talent for this anyway. Typing on about economic theory and national security with one hand isn't easy and it ends up indecipherable.

I guess I'll just end this post frustrated.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

The future will be better tomorrow.

Election 2020...I'm running for Vice President. Or maybe even 2016 if I get my butt in gear.

Last night I was voted into my homeowner's association presidency. I got my choice of actually being the big cheese or just the vice president and I chose the lesser of two evils. You may call me Madame HOA Vice President. Or Mistress Lilith for you naughty little boys.

When I was a little girl I remember dreaming those pink fuzzy little girl dreams about growing up, getting married, having lots of babies, living in a cute little house with a cute little fence and then putting myself in a position where I have to listen to my neighbor's parking disputes.

There is also some dramatic quarrelling about whose trash can goes where and what not. I can't wait to get elbows deep into that one.

I figure if I play my cards right that I can move from a leadership role in my HOA to the city council...then onto mayor of my town, population 5000...then governor of Nevada...Then Vice President of these United States baby!

And I won't have any of those nagging doubts about my fertility because I voluntarily ended it. No silly placenta fueled scandals and my sons can't get pregnant!

What I'm finding unfair about Sarah Palin's press coverage lately is the splashing about of that photo of her in pageant swimwear. Do any of you really care about this? The woman wore a swimsuit that covered what it needed to cover. (Google that. I ain't linking it.) I'm sure that at some point Barack and Joe and John have worn swimwear that covered their bits and no one is getting themselves worked up about that. None of them got into water and melted.

When I get nominated for Vice President of the United States of America I sure hope people see me wearing this:

And this:

And this:

Because that's my stand on the issues.

And my opinion about parking.

And that's the covering of my bits.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The Burning Bush


1. After dipping your fingers in the jar and applying the miracle under thy nose and onto thy throat, thou shalt wash your hands. It is in this way you will not mistakenly apply the miracle to your eyes, your no-no parts or onto the cat.

2. The holy manufacturers of the miracle were not kidding when they warned you that the miracle was not meant for internal use. That means the jar too and not just the ointment.

3. Thou shalt not complain about the distinctive aroma of the miracle in front of the user of the miracle especially when that user has been rendered far less cranky by it's use.

4. Thou shalt not suggest that "smoking mentholated cigarettes has the same lung clearing effect as the miracle, so get thee down to the convenience store to buy a pack, wheezy."

5. Applying the miracle to the inside of someone else's underpants or jock strap or brassiere is displeasing to the lord and not nearly as funny as you think it is.

6. After applying a thick layer of the miracle to one's chest and throat, thou shalt not insist on giving topless bearhugs to those who do not require the use of the miracle.

7. Thou shall put the miracle to use in humidifiers designed for that purpose. Though shall not place smudges of the miracle on lightbulbs, in the microwave, or on any heating elements. Thou's house will explode in flames.

8. Thou shalt not remove the jar of mentholatum from the household so you can take it to the neighbor's house and use it on their dog...because their dog has a runny nose too.

9. Thou shalt not mistake the miracle for diaper cream, hemorrhoid ointments or margarine.

10. Thou shalt not use the last little bit of the miracle in the jar and then sneakily place the empty jar back into the medicine cabinet. Thou shall get your mentholated posterior out to the store to replace the jar.

That'll clear your idolaters.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Head of State

I'm waging a war on snot. At this point I have no timetable for pulling out of my sinuses. I must stay the course.

I woke up around 2 a.m. Sunday morning, completely clogged and miserable, and stumbled to the kitchen to find some sort of relief in the recycled ice cream bucket in which I keep all the cold remedies in. Miraculously, right on top sat a box of night time Alka Seltzer cold. That'll do, pig, that'll I gagged down the recommended dose.

...Which punched me square and hard in my snot swollen face and knocked me out for the next 24 hours.

Do not drive or operate heavy equipment. Don't operate light equipment either. Hell, do not even attempt to push buttons on your remote control. Using any gadget requiring batteries is out.

Yes, that includes my toothbrush.

Now I know how President Bush feels.

Friday, September 26, 2008


I'm ready to get my presidential debate on.

That's if McCain doesn't pull a Letterman on it. Hearing the candidates speak is as much a part of solving this financial bru-ha-ha as anything behind closed doors.

(Ah, just in, McCain's going to be attending this prom...corsages for everyone!)

I wish I could ask the some debate questions. I think I'd be a fine debate moderator. I would even put on a bra and some pants for the event.

1. So...the economy...Senators, what gives?

2. Should we be comparing either of you to Reagan?

3. What is your favorite expletive?

4. I'm the wife of a lowly public school English and history teacher. Diagram my previous sentence.

5. What color is your running mate's underwear today? Did you know I put on a bra to ask you questions? You should feel honored.

I'm a registered voter. Doesn't that make you feel warm and fuzzy?

If Justin and I weren't taking friends out to dinner this evening, before the debate, I'd be serving a vat of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Dinner for the occasion. It's the cheesiest.

Don't worry, I'll be putting on pants and a bra no matter what I eat.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Squeal like a pig

I'm going to do some costumey type sewing things today.

And some lineolum reduction type things today.

So, have some piggy porn.

You're welcome.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

He puts the lotion in the basket

Changing eating habits is sexy, don't you think? Cabbage is sexy. Lentils are sexy. Grams upon grams of fiber is downright pornographic.

My husband has lost 25* pounds in the last six weeks and 32 inches all about his body. He's got droopy pants and firmer jowels. He's still as hairy as he ever was. Fifteen more pounds to reach his goal.

My goal is just to remain regular.

...and only somewhat hairy.

Since beginning this "lifestyle change" we've found the BBC program You Are What You Eat to be informative and interesting. Host Gillian McKeith gathers up all the crap these people eat in a week and piles it on a table, showing her victims just how much delicious grease and sugar they are consuming. Then she looks at their poop for signs of ill health and gives them a colonic. After that, she makes them eat food that are other colors besides brown or white. At the end of the show these people dance about after losing stones of weight.

I've learned that a stone equals fourteen pounds. Sure, you English types are all for the metric system unless it's to describe how much ye merry olde selves weigh. Saying you weigh 20 stone is so much nicer sounding than blurting out 128 kilograms or 280 pounds.

My quest to remain regular definitely has no place for a colonic in it. Have you seen the size of that hose? And what do you call the person administering the colonic? Bowel health technician? Digestional plumber? Hose artist? Go on Gillian McKeith's diet and you lose a stone every time you poop anyway. Lentils, yup.

I'm very proud of my husband. He tells me he doesn't like lentils though.

I tell him to eat the lentils or he gets the hose.

*Justin just called. He weighed on the official school scale, the one they use to weigh all the wrestlers, and he's lost a total of 30 pounds...or 2 some odd stone for you Brits.

Monday, September 22, 2008

My Blue Heaven

You readers and other hangers on had better appreciate my post writing today. I had to type the whole thing and I usually type a damned sight faster than my brain thinks. Typing is much slower today because I jammed my wrist crowbarring up the impractical white lineoleum in my kitchen. Yes Mom, I took something for it.

This home improvement stuff is awesome.

I have bathroom renovation dreams. Red, gold and gold and green. Seriously, the loo will be in shades of blue. You must excuse my Boy George moment and my rhyming. My wrist hurts.

Anyhow, the bathroom should be a relaxing oasis. It should be a place where one can sit, and sigh, and grunt with both satisfaction and delight.

I had that for a while. I once renovated my toilet seat.


But, Christopher Walken just doesn't stay fresh long and eventually he had to go. Here is my bathroom as it is now:

It's...sterile. You can decide for yourself if the framed black and white photo of Jeff Goldblum displayed on my wall cabinet adds or detracts from the sterility.

When I'm done renovating my bathroom it should look something like this:

That's a framed photo of the entire Big Chill cast in case you're wondering. Can't you see yourself having a satisfying constitutional in this magical fertile fairyworld?

I sense that you can't.

Fine. I told you my wrist hurts.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Ahhh push it...push it good.

We're only a month into the school year, not even really into Autumn yet, and germy coughing and snot has descended upon Casa Absentminded.

Justin has been coughing. My three year old woke up this morning, sneezed, and unleashed a professional wrestler sized gob of yellow snot across his chest. I complained yesterday, and I'll reiterate this complaint this morning, that my tonsils are the size of 1990 cell phones.

To prove the point, I give you a Radio Shack commercial about a 1990 cell phone. Enjoy.

Dude, you've got a HUGE cell phone. If I had a cell phone that huge I'd show it off every chance I got.

I notice that there are sixteen evenly spaced, same color buttons on the archaic cell phone. My own phone, which is very small yet still wimpy because it does not text or take photos, has 19 buttons. I understand what most of them do. My husband has his own cell phone, the exact same free model that came with our plan, which has the same 19 buttons.

And just when I was feeling technologically superior to our 1990 Radio Shack cell phone user and Tandy computer enthusiast, I began to think about how many buttons I have around me, begging to be pushed.

The four remotes that run my family room entertainment system? 101 buttons.
That isn't counting the buttons on the actual units themselves: 19 buttons.
And the buttons on the remotes and the units to the TV in the bedroom: 86
Then the buttons on our alarm clocks: 20.
Not to mention the buttons on the brain of this house, our computer, not counting all the plug ins and drives. 132.
Then the kitchen buttons on the appliances I use everyday...because counting the appliances I don't use that much would be silly: 46. (Just to clarify, my coffeepot only has 1 button.)
And landline phone buttons: 39
Then the buttons in the van including the buttons on the garage door opener and our keys: 87
Then all the light switches in the house: 14
And last but not least: 2 toilet levers.

I did not count the TV and DVD player in my son's room or any other of their electronics, including the Playstation. I also did not count the buttons on my sewing machines or my other equipment used for the making of the crafts. I'm sure I missed a bunch of stuff too, like my vacuum and my washer and dryer.

Just let me add up my buttons on my computer calculator so I don't have to count handheld calculator buttons...mmm carry the 2...mmm yes yes...Grand total, 565 buttons that run most of my daily life.

And I know what a majority of these buttons do. I'm still trying to decipher the toilet levers.

My tonsils being huge is not what is making that number hard to choke down...and what gets me especially is that my number is relatively low compared to the average American consumer. I mean, seriously, I don't have a DVD player in my fabulous mini van.

I think if my coffee pot can run on one button, certainly I can get myself a button which would keep my three year old from producing wrestler sized gobs of snot. Or maybe a button that would make it possible to aim and shoot my toddler's snot on command.

That could be useful when shopping for new improved buttons on electronics during the Christmas season.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

There is no wool over my eyes.

I could be in Elko today.

I know, it's everyone's dream to go to Elko. The wide open spaces, the newly renovated Walmart, the sheep...ahhhh heaven in Nevada!

However, I wanted drive the 120 miles to Elko because today Barack Obama will be speaking in Elko. A chipper woman working for his campaign informed me of this whistle-stop over the phone last night. She tempted me.

The sheep are tempting too, I admit it.

I went over in my mind the reasons to go. Obama would be quite something to see in person. The speech was being held at a park which was convenient because I'd have to take my three year old and there would be swings. (There is also a giant curly slide which I won't allow him to attempt to "slide" down because the whole thing is a huge urinal.) I could buy an Obama Tshirt. Elko has a Taco Bell.

Then, there are reasons not to go. Two to three hours to get everyone through security before Obama would speak. 240 miles worth of four dollar a gallon gasoline. I would have to take my three year old...

And by the time I'd made up my mind to sacrifice the gas money and go last night, I remembered, my older children get out of school early today. If I took off to Elko no one would be home midday to make sure they didn't burn down the house. It's one thing to let my oldest do some babysitting while we go out to dinner in's quite another when I'm 120 miles away with our sole source of transportation.


Barack Obama cannot possibly advocate the destruction of my house or my love of sheep.

I hope he's on LIVE today.

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