Thursday, January 31, 2008

Mine is bigger than yours.

All you women who have had babies in your bodies, I want you to get out a ruler or measuring tape. I'll wait.

Got one? Good. Now what I want you all to do is to measure whatever childbirth scars you've got. C-section scars, episiotomies, stretch marks. Measure your most prolific scar. Get a mirror for that episiotomy scar if you need one...go ahead...measure it.

Whoever has the biggest most impressive scar loves their kid more.

What? That's not the case? Well, silly me!

A few weeks back another typically anonymous email landed in my inbox which inferred that I couldn't see my children as precious because I didn't struggle much to have children. I didn't have terribly difficult conceptions, births (birth stories in my sidebar) or horribly uncomfortable pregnancies and therefore couldn't know how sweet it is to enter into motherhood under the threat of the tragedies that befall other mothers in waiting. My children weren't the biggest most brightly wrapped boxes under the Christmas tree, they were only socks in recycled wrapping paper from your weird Aunt...the Aunt that smells like cat chow and needs a shave.

Normally I would have just ignored this silliness without much comment, but this is the second typically anonymous email I've received that's inferred such a thing, the first being sent years ago when I first wrote a birth story on this blog.

No hen party is complete without the comparing of the births don'tcha know.

When I was expecting my first, when I was 19 and I was hoping beyond hope that my big pregnancy boobs wouldn't go away, I was the victim of kindly ladies educating me in the ways of birthing. The two worst offenders were a pair of young mothers, from my church, who were fond of visiting my new home in the guise of being friendly but really they wanted to tell me their horrendous birthing stories filled with blood, and pain, and blood, and more pain, and I think there was poop in there too. Each story ended on how it was all worth it in the end to have that sweet little baby in their arms. I would have told them that they were fine sado-masochists if I thought they would have understood the term.

These ladies asked about my birth plan and I made the faux pas of announcing that I intended to give birth without pain relief medication. Is there anything wrong with pain relief medication for a painful experience? Sheesh no. By all means get some. That's why it was invented. For me, I didn't want that damned huge needle anywhere near my spine. I'd rather go through labor than know about that needle. I was fully prepared for that baby to come out of me sideways and for it to hurt like a sunuvabitch.

These women dismissed my intentions loudly. Of course they would. I knoweth not what I was attempting to do.

After my son was born and I was back home, they were the first to knock on my door with a casserole. A nanosecond passed before they asked me to relay my own birth story. I told them it went well. They pressed. I told them labor was 22 hours. They pressed. I told them that I gave birth as planned, medication free and doing my lamaze breathing like a locomotive. I came out of it with a small episiotomy and size DD rock hard nursing boobs. Woohoo!

They paled. It was awesome.

But, you know what? No one, least of all those women, gave me a trophy for being such a trooper. I didn't get a ribbon, or any prize money or a call from Willard Scott. I got hemorrhoids and a sweet baby boy born with a wiry black hair right in the middle of his chest.

I've lost the contest and that's fine by me.

I like reading birth stories of all sorts. The process of birth is one I find interesting and unique. What I don't find interesting is comparing our value as women and mothers by competing with our stories. I love my kids because they are my kids. I don't love them because I had stitches in my hoo-ha.

Those hoo-ha stitches? HUGE...thousands of 'em. Let me tell you, my vulva was KNITTED back together.

At the end of my post I realize I have ignored men and fathers. If you guys want to get out a ruler and measure something, don't let me stop you.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

E-bay E-smhay

I am peeved, nay, pee in my cheerios perturbed, about Ebay's new feedback policy, just announced today. Here is the bit that has my panties in a crusty painful wad.

Feedback Changes
Significant changes coming soon will increase buyer confidence and showcase good sellers.
-Buyers will only be able to receive positive Feedback.
-Positive repeat customer Feedback will count and Feedback more than 12 months old won't.

-Negative and neutral Feedback left by the buyer will be removed for transactions in which a buyer doesn't respond to the Unpaid Item (UPI) or if the member is suspended.

I'm a seasonal Ebay seller. I am not a power seller. I am not the super, eat cheetos all day and sell photos of Wii's and Ipods while I giggle seller. I sell severed heads and fairy wings heavily for two to three months out of the year. Most of my buyers are those with limited Ebay experience who figure that's one of the best places to buy halloween props and costumes...and therefore they are a bit more likely to experience buyer's remorse which means that sometimes you end up with a transaction that also leaves your panties in a crusty painful wad.

Now I have no recourse about bad sales. I can't warn other sellers about Customer Krazee Pants unless I do it in the guise that it's positive....and if I do, I can't do anything if they give me a negative feedback for any teeny reason that enters their heads.

I also can't rely on my overall 100% positive feedback rating, over the course of several Halloween seasons, to show my buyers that I'm trustworthy. I have to renew my 100% from season to season. This means that one negative given by Customer Krazee Pants has the possibility of ruining my sales for that year if Mr/Ms Krazee finds me early enough in the season.

As years go by I've been more and more dissatisfied with my Ebay selling experience. I feel as if Big Brother is watching me and making sure their cut is ever larger and that the simplicity of it is ever more mired in complications. No sir, I do not like it. The online yard sale seems to have gone the way of the 8 track tape.

I'm on the verge of switching my regular website from Paypal to another shopping cart provider and paying fees to use my own credit card merchant account. That service is getting worse too. least the timing of the announcement has given me a little room to figure this out for next Halloween. I would be in trouble for sure if this was announced in August.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Full Bean Ahead

It's traditional here at Casa Absentminded to watch the State of the Union address behind a large plate of mexican food. There is no shortage of spectacular authentic mexican food where we live, but Dubya's last State of the Union didn't merit anything so delicious. We settled on frozen burritoes and tortilla chips with canned refried beans and Ortega queso dip.

The quality of the speech was indeed right on par with the quality of the food. Both caused gas within an hour.

Just in case you didn't listen to the speech, I'll provide some highlights for you.

1. No child is being left behind.
2. No vetoes will be left behind.
3. No young experimental democracies left behind.
4. No clone left behind.
5. No terrorists left behind.
6. No tax increase or tax cut left behind.
7. No fully funded military left behind.
8. No veterans benefits left behind.
9. No border control agent or immigrant left behind.
10. No defining ideological struggles left behind.

Finally, no lame duck presidential legacies left behind.

I don't know what aspect of last night's meal to blame my heartburn on. Dick Cheney's smirking could be responsible for that for all I know.

With the election forthcoming, should we consider a new style of victuals to go along with a new president? If Huckabee gets elected I'm thinking we're going to have to switch off to just gnawing on Velveeta straight out of it's foil wrapper.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Here's Becky

My computer works. Hooray! Sweet sweet heroin internets! How I love you...

What's odd is that I had forgotten how to pay my bills without my computer. It did not occur to me that I could drive to our local electric company and actually hand real money to an real live breathing person in a geographic location.

But then again, it's not so simple when you have to renew your subscription to That site's a priority even if I don't have internet access at home.

I have a huge glue gun because size matters.


It's snowing. I hate snow.

Driving my kid to school this morning felt much like I was Dick Halloran driving the snowcat up to the Overlook Hotel expecting to see crazy ghosties, especially that naked rotting bathtub lady. Bathtub lady...naked...that'll warm a person right up...oh yeah.

I hate snow. I hate blizzards. Redrum.

I like the blood pouring from my walls though. That's awesome.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008


My computer made a funny smell. It wasn't ha-ha funny. It was smoke and die peculiar funny.

Until the new power supply that I ordered shortly before my computer went poof comes to my door via UPS, you'll have to gush about how much you miss me in the meanwhile.

I miss you too.

Friday, January 18, 2008

Pig Waller

My children are home from school today (and the husband is not, it's "learn me to how to be a betterer teacher day.")

Today I put on my mommy pants (which happen to be made out of flannel) and make my children thoroughly clean their rooms and their bathroom. This forced labor includes buckets and plenty of disinfectant cleaner.

I'm mean.

Now, all of you, my readers and other hangers on, go clean your rooms. RIGHT NOW! Don't you give me that look!

Thursday, January 17, 2008


Two possible posts abandoned, is the third post a charm?

While those other posts were certainly decent posts, they weren't right for today. It's so cold today that my fingers aren't in the least bit literary minded...and my nipples are in agreement.

I shouldn't complain about the leftover overcooked oatmeal feeling of winter. I'm not California dreaming by any means, but oh I dislike being cold! I swear my body is going to react by growing a silky fur coat just like Lassie's. I've already got a wet nose and an urge to lift my leg to pee.

At least there isn't much snow where I live. It's bad enough being cold. It's worse being cold in the snow. I used to like snow but I've settled into my cantankerous ways and nowadays I'd rather lick the inner glass of my aquarium than go out in the winter elements much less go snow skiing or sledding. Snow sucks and I will not apologize for saying so. It sucks and it sucks and one more thing, it sucks.

That's my final answer.

I'm about to slip into a hot bath to read a book and relieve my writer's blocked nipples. My fingers are in agreement.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Why I am not an interior decorator.

While watching television yesterday evening, I became smitten with a product on a commercial.

I want a Fathead.

What is a Fathead? They are high pixel lifesize vinyl posters of sports players and logos that you can stick and restick to your wall.

I want a Fathead. I want to paste all my heroes and obsessions onto my walls but I don't want any of the images this website offers. I don't really give a flying fig about athletes. I could take or leave most sports. A giant Dale Earnhardt Jr. on my wall isn't going to validate my existence.

I'm asking the Fathead company to fulfill my requests for these posters. I'll pay extra.

I think a 6 foot tall Truman Capote displayed at a focal point in my home is sure to add an air of sophistication. Air of something anyway.

I love me some Oingo Boingo and I further love me some Danny Elfman. I'm hanging this one on my ceiling above my bed. Bridget Fonda, I'm lookin' for you...

...and finally, my hero, Nancy Zieman of Sewing with Nancy. This validates my existence.

Watching Sewing with Nancy, hooting and wearing a beer hat with an "N" painted across my bare chest also validates my existence. Though, it does seem to disturb the neighbors. They know better than to knock on my door Saturday mornings.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Hold Please

Sit down. Have a cup of coffee with me. (That is unless you don't drink coffee, which is perfectly ok, I'll make you a smoothie if you want one.)

Ahhhh silence.

Why is it so quiet? Because the political telephone surveys don't start ringing my phone off the hook until past 7 pm around here.

I'm a lucky girl in the fact that it's not very often that I get a cold call telemarketer calling my home, especially since I never signed my name on the national do not call list. No one wants to sell anyone in my house goods or services over the phone because I live out in the middle of nowhere. No one calls offering to repair my windshield, or refinance my mortgage, or nuke the insects in my yard. I cannot stress how disappointed I am about this.

(I don't get much junk mail either for that matter.)

I do get the occasional call from many of the scam police force and veterans agencies asking me to donate money to the cause. I like to mess with the veterans scammers. My husband is a Desert Storm vet you see. I tell these callers this little factoid and then ask why my war disabled husband has yet to see a dime from them? This causes a lot of "ums" and "uhs" and sometimes they hang up on me.

I get calls from Highlights Magazine for Children. I like Highlights Magazine for Children. My kids like it. I'm just never subscribing to it again. The magazine in itself is inexpensive...but the calls to buy supplemental material...ugh! I cannot refuse their books about math, or geography, or at-home taxidermy without them insinuating that I simply do not care about educating my children. They call more often than all the others and it's tiresome. I've told them for years that I am absolutely uninterested in buying anything unseen over my phone, so back off, stop calling my home and have a lovely evening! It doesn't work.

Yesterday I received a computer generated political survey to which I could just reply yes or no to the questions rather than press buttons on my phone. I yessed and no-ed my way through the terribly pointed republican poll questions, stating my stance on gun control and illegal immigration. (But not on education, or the war! They didn't ask.) When it became obvious that this poll was pimping out Huckabee, and asked why I would be voting for him in the republican caucus, I couldn't help but give my explanation...

"I won't be voting for him because Huckabee's a twat."

Is Huckabee a twat? I don't know. I just like the word "twat". It rolls off the tongue so nicely. The opportunity to use it and have it recorded for posterity was overwhelming.

I'm going to be saying "twat" a lot until November, methinks.

Thursday, January 10, 2008


I keep bouncing around ideas for a new running gag to replace my Bestest Housewifely Doodads (Pull down menu in the right sidebar.)

I thought I'd write about the goofy housewifely view of sex but that's turned out to bust. It's gone down a hole. It's falls asleep right after and doesn't want to cuddle.

It's not like I don't mention sex around here pretty consistently. It's not like I don't mention sex anywhere I happen to be pretty consistently. Only recently I joked with a buddy that I was determining who to vote for in the upcoming presidential election by imagining which candidate had the most dignified "O" face. Huckabee is running last with that one.

Chuck Norris apparently doesn't vote like I vote.

Anyhow, besides posting more photos of politicians and their potential "la petite mort" faces, the ideas have been running thick at times and thin at others. Nothing has kept my interest so far past one post.

Here, have an Obama.

Some of my more quickly tossed ideas get tossed because they are whiny in nature. I had thought that I could feature a monthly post entitled, "Hey Asshat!" to which I complain about, well, people who are asshats...but that's not what I need to project as an image. There is nothing new about asshats or negativity.

I was hoping to keep things positive around here.

And now, Hillary.

...and another Hillary, because Hillary's a girl.

I'll come up with something eventually if I don't push it too hard. You can't stop genius like mine when my hormones cooperate.

Have a Mitt Romney.

It's time to log-off and change a diaper. I'd better before I get to posting a photo of Giuliani. No one wants that.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Doin' it for themselves.

Because I spent two hours this morning engaged in lewd and bodily fluid emphasized conversation with my sister, you readers and other hangers on get some YouTubes.

Inmates performing "I Will Follow Him" from "Sister Act".

Sister Sledge appearing on "Solid Gold", 1979.

Twisted Sister.

And a phone call from Britney to sister Jamie Lynn. (Which mirrored my phone conversation this morning so closely it's a little Twilight Zone.)

Monday, January 07, 2008

Is that a screwdriver in your pocket...

My husband claims that he knows how to use power tools, that he can use them very well indeed, but he just prefers not to. He's full of it.

This is why he brought this book home to me as a present today.

I sense ulterior motives.

It's true that I am the owner of every tool in my household. (And no, they aren't girly pink tools...hack hack spit spit.) I'm super duper excited to venture out to my garage this week and fix the chain on the automatic garage door opener. I happen to like it when my garage door opens and closes as it should. It gets me hot.

I also have plans to redo the bathrooms, rip up the impractical white vinyl in my kitchen and put in new flooring, build shelving in the garage, put custom shelving in my pantry, texture and paint the walls in my laundry room and install a heavy duty swing in the bedroom.

This is all very well and good since I am growing a Bob Vila beard. If Ty Pennington and I were in a hairy bear contest, I'd win, no matter how loud Ty is. My ovaries keep me sweaty, furry and grunting these days.

Justin does have his place in all this home improvement. He holds my level, snaps my chalk line, and offers up witty responses to all of my curse words.

...And I will take him to the hospital when he gets a home improvement helper boo boo, like a sandpaper cut, or when he nail guns his palm to the wall. It's only what a good wife would do.

Friday, January 04, 2008

Belated Post...a post you can ponder about all weekend long.

I have lovely hair. It's long. It's very long. It's getting near my waist.

When I woke up this morning my very long hair was caught underneath one of my boobs. I don't think I need to get any more detailed than this.

Tonight Justin and I are going to go see Louie Anderson.

What do you think my chances are of my very long hair ending up underneath one of Louie Anderson's boobs?

Shaddup. A girl can dream.

Thursday, January 03, 2008

In the valley of the shadow of death

I've committed a sin.

For those readers and other hangers on that don't know me from Eve, all you need to know about me at the moment you're reading this is that I am from Utah. I now live in Nevada but originally I'm from one of the most Utah-iest locations in Utah. The sin I've committed violates almost every aspect of my good Utah upbringing. I'm in league with Satan, so watch me close if you expose me to your children.

I prepared and cooked an inedible pan of funeral potatoes yesterday. My ancestors are ashamed of me.

Funeral potatoes (Satan told me you'd ask) are scalloped or shredded potatoes served in au-gratin sauce. Typically this casserole is prepared by church ladies and is then served at a luncheon held immediately after a funeral. (Along with ham and green Jello salad.) There is some debate to how best to prepare this dish. Do you shred, cube or scallop the potatoes? Cream of mushroom soup or cream of chicken? Velveeta or real cheddar...and the most important you throw crushed corn flakes on top or crushed potato chips?

While a person can bring up religion and politics in conversation in Utah, it's bad form to bring up your recipe for funeral potatoes and expect talk to not get heated. Some sweet little old Utah lady will call you a doody head if you insist on using sour cream instead of cream cheese in the sauce, and then she'll split your lip.

Look at my potatoes. Look at my sin.

Don't get the wrong idea here. To date I have made hundreds of perfectly delicious and visually pleasing casserole dishes of funeral potatoes. I'm a good cook and my husband has the tummy that makes my kitchen skills evident. Now, there was this one time, thirteen years ago, that I didn't make a good pan of funeral potatoes and I have not lived it down. I changed my proven recipe with the potatoes above, so I know what I did wrong, but it's a mystery to why that thirteen years gone pan was so horrid. Those potatoes tasted like underpants.

I don't know what yesterday's potatoes tasted like. No one wanted to volunteer their lives to find out.

May the funeral potatoes rest in peace.

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