Monday, March 31, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring break 2008. Vibrating condoms and sweat pants.

My husband has triumphantly returned from the wilds of the land having hunted down and shot some Starbucks. Trophy sized.

I'm gonna get so buzzed. Woohoo!

After drinking this I'm gonna hop into my fabulous minivan and flash truckers on I-80. I expect my buzz to last approximately three hours, so that gives some of you folks enough time to travel out here to goggle at the results of nursing three babies.


Sunday, March 30, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Tuxedo Tshirts and Metamucil

The only reason I'm running about my house showing great portions of my flesh is that I have great piles....of laundry.

My two year old has put crayons in his armpits and is running about the house with purple and yellow crayola "lazers" poking out, making "pew pew pew" sound effects. He's got cocoa pebbles in his diaper.

My nine year old wants to blow things up.

My fourteen year old is having a bath, to which I have reminded him that shampoo, soap, toothpaste and deodorant are not myths.

My husband has just asked me if we can make our own moonshine. I don't know how to make moonshine. I could probably whip up a passable sock wine in a few days using his socks and a can of creamed corn.

Time to go. I've got to finish making a bikini out of fruit roll ups.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Jello shots and oven cleaner.

I gotta fight

for mah right

to partayyyy.

Spring break has officially arrived to our little school district and we are looking forward to having a full work week and two weekends of sleeping in. After considering making plans to go somewhere we finally decided that no plans could reconcile themselves with our desire to engage in the sin of sloth.

My ass is too round. It needs flattening in the worst way.

What you get out of this, my dear readers and other hangers on, is a peek into eleven days of wanton rural household debauchery. This may or may not include rubber clothing, electric clippers and WD-40.

Time to go. I'm going to hold a wet Tshirt contest and the only entrant is my cat.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

This post does not have the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

If you pick up any women's magazine on the stands these days you are given your choice between three different types of articles. These articles seem to sell magazines which in turn sell the products advertised in magazines. I need limited edition, artist sculpted, real to life vinyl newborn dolls with teeny knit booties and more recipes which utilize condensed soup.

Let's summarize:

1. How to avoid/tolerate/ease/work with stress. I'm busy, you're busy, we're all busy busy busy. There are health concerns associated with stress...grey hairs and the inability to poop properly. Take time for yourself. Take a walk. Do yoga. Eat yogurt and drink soy. Read more magazines.

2. How to turn on men, you know, in bed. Particularly your man and not random men. Light a few candles, pour a bath, grill him a steak, wear something transparent. Stop wearing your housecoat all the time. Stop nagging him about household chores while doing the deed. Don't sleep during the deed either. Good sex is good for your health...keeps you pooping properly.

3. Why you should love yourself. You're a unique package! You don't need to look like a supermodel to be a worthy human being on the planet. You have talents and character and inner beauty! Stop that nasty interior dialogue. Stop it right now. It keeps you from pooping properly.

I don't relate much to article #1 and I can't say I have any trouble with article #2, and I don't much cotton to #3 but I can understand why that one subject keeps popping up.

Women are always flying in the nose of what we're supposed to be rather than what we are, or what we want to be. We compare. We compete. We come up short. So many areas to come up short in too, not just in our digestive systems, as all areas of our lives serve as self-dis-esteem fodder. It's a perpetual machine. No one wants to squeeze their own Charmin.

I came upon that realization in my sophomore year of highschool, far earlier than many of my peers. It was related to my realization that I wasn't going to get much bustier than my lopsided A cups and this post. The internal dialogue was exhausting and depressing. I was done.

I do rather like myself.

I love my mind. The way it works sometimes is something I find delightful and entertaining. I like learning. I like taking on challenges that make me think. I really like kicking ass in Scrabble.

I don't entirely love my body, but I like it quite a bit. I like it enough to admit to the entire internets that my breasts are lopsided and I don't care. I like my legs and my fingers. I like my hair. I enjoy being regular.

I find a lot of joy in my talents. I have trouble finding time because of my toddler, but that too shall pass. (Just yesterday he was poking crayons into my sewing machines.) I have fun discovering new abilities. I look forward to aging in that respect.

I'm Becky. I'm a housewife amongst other identities. This is good.

I subscribe to magazines but recently I've decided to let my subscriptions lapse. They are only of so much use after I'm done reading. Self realization is awesome but extra trash is not. You can't even flush the crumpled pages down modern toilets and sewage systems.

I'm going to go put on something transparent now.

This post is an assignment associated with the blogs in the Thank You Notes in my sidebar. Check 'em out.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Seamstress in the Dell

Since I've been busy sewing alterations yesterday and this morning:

Have some chicken porn.

You're welcome.

Sheep porn.
Cow porn.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Here's the trick where I pull a rabbit out of my pants.

Easter came and went at Casa Absentminded in a flurry of marshmallowy sugar.

We skipped the eggs though, a first around here. It's not my first Easter omission though. For years I've refused to buy that damned Easter grass. You live with that Easter grass for months after you've tucked it into baskets. It hides and then it attacks. You're in the shower in mid-August and suddenly plastic grass pops out of nooks and crannies you didn't know were parts of your body. It's disturbing.

This year the eggs didn't get put on the back burner, literally. Usually eggs would be dyed but that's all that would happen to them. I couldn't convince anyone to eat them after. They would sit, moldering and lonesome in the fridge, wondering why the Easter grass of years gone by was getting all the action.

I also skipped the plastic eggs. Teeny little portals to Hell they are.

What we did instead, since we are in the midst of potty training, was use Sharpies to decorate my toddler's new tighty whities. No cartoon dainties for my kid, oh no! I'm fostering a unique sense of self which is so important when it comes to learning how to take a whiz.

My son would tell me what to draw and I'd oblige him. By the time a six pack of underwear was done I was quite buzzed on Sharpie fumes.

Enjoy the fashion show:

My son likes spiders. Spidey is happy because he's got a belly button. Then my son instructed me to draw "other buttons" because he didn't know the word for nipples. I said nipples and he repeated back, "hippies". I was instructed to dot the spider with a series of belly buttons and hippies. There is one green hippie. That's the one with the peculiar itchy rash.

This pair started with a command to draw his older brother. I'm keeping this pair forever to remind my middle son that he was ever so admired. Brother has two noses, one with a prominent hippie.

What else is also admired by my toddler? Monkeys and little Lego action figures. No hippies on them.

This pair started with a happy little tree. Bob Ross neglected to put belly buttons and hippies on his trees and therefore my underpants tree is far more happy than his ever were. The blush of ecstacy was supplied by my son as well as the suspicious green dot below.

When you think about nature and hippies, you naturally think of television. You would think the TV is covered in belly buttons and hippies, but no, those are functional television controls. The picture in picture function doesn't work in this one either.

Not to deprive my child of a super hero theme, here's SUPER-PICKLE!

Super Pickle asks you to pull his finger and prepare for your doom.

I also wrote a dirty limerick on my husband's boxer shorts. It's quite festive and celebrates the awakening of the Earth in spring. Happy Easter!

Thursday, March 20, 2008

I ate fajitas last night...

...and this morning I'm indisposed.

I barely made it home from taking my son to school.

Afterwards I lit a few matches and my bathroom promptly exploded.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008


Yesterday I was pleasantly surprised by a visit from an old highschool chum and old makeout partner. He was passing through town after making a business trip.

No, the visit wasn't pleasant because we resumed making out the same way we did in highschool. Everyone kept their lips and hands to themselves. It's just been a while since we'd laid eyes on each other.

It's funny to see him wearing his age. It's not so funny to see me wearing my age. My age requires underwire and hair dye and fiber supplements.

When we were makeout buddies he was fond of wearing black clothing, had long stringy hair, and I took him to get his first piercing. Everything was combat boots and Nitzer Ebb. Yesterday he was sporting a pressed plaid shirt, Dockers and a crewcut.

This old makeout buddy introduced me to my husband, after we got done making out with each other. My husband also wore combat boots but didn't pick them up at a testosterone musty military supply store. Justin's boots were valid. They smelled of testosterone because he'd drenched them in the hormone doing forced marches. Those boots were oily from sheer manliness, hoo-ah!

Even wearing the boots Justin's shorter than I am.

Now Justin and I have three children, and a mortgage, and a fabulous minivan, and the combat boots are in a box up in the attic.

Now my old makeout buddy has three children with another on the way, a mortgage, his own kid friendly conveyances and his combat boots were nowhere in sight.

God...we're thirtysomethings...

At least at our ages the making out doesn't have to result in blue balls. We can go all the way now...with our own respective spouses in or own mortgaged bedrooms.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Zit Remedy is Here

I depend on my readers and other hangers out there in blogland. I write for you folks...I bare my ever-loving soul for you folks. You share your stories back with me. Even you lurkers...I can smell your stories. Smells sorta like canned potted meat products and grape flavored cough syrup.'ve failed me.

You have! All of you. You've failed me!

How could none of you tell me that Degrassi High has been released on DVD in the states and it's now available on Netflix?

I've been agitated about this since September of 2006. I had finished the three glorious seasons of Degrassi Junior High but as the gang moved onto high school there were no more DVD's to be had. I've been suffering the constipation of the cliffhanger for a year and a half. It's been incapacitating.

You, my readers and other hangers on, did not spell relief.

Oh, I know you were out there living your lives. You were tending to your jobs, having relationships, raising your kids, paying your bills and performing whatever other piddly little tasks that add profundity to your existences. Was it too much for you to think of me and Degrassi in all this? Really, was it too much?

The salve of Joey Jeremiah and Caitlyn Ryan will reach my mailbox in a couple weeks. The jitters are easing as I type.

Don't worry. I'll be OK. You're forgiven.

Just don't do it again.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Damn You Tony the Tiger, Damn You

I have approximately a dozen ideas for posts.

None of them are getting written today. Didn't get written yesterday. Didn't get written the day before either.

I am slave to a two year old child that has cereal issues.

He wants cereal.
He wants cereal in that one bowl.
No, not that bowl, this bowl.
NO MOTHER, not that bowl, not the bowl I just handed you.
He wants me to be his psychic bowl friend.
He wants Raisin Bran.
I say no to Raisin Bran because he eats the raisins and dumps the bran on the floor.
He wants Cracklin' OatBran.
Cracklin' OatBran is my cereal.
I don't want to share.
Cracklin' Oat Bran is expensive.
But I give in and pour some in the wrong bowl.
I haven't poured enough cereal in the wrong bowl.
So he throws his dry cereal on the floor.
I put him in his crib.
Where he throws a tantrum.
After calming himself, he picks up all MY Cracklin' Oat Bran off the floor.
He eats his floor cereal quietly.
He then wants more cereal.
I pour him a half cup more.
He wants more cereal than that.
I tell him no, fearing the effects of bran on his digestive system.
He throws his dry cereal on the floor.
I put him in his crib.
Where he throws another tantrum.
I'm not sharing any more of my Cracklin' OatBran.
He calms himself down.
He eats his floor cereal.
He wants more cereal.
I tell him no.
No Raisin Bran. No Corn Flakes. No Cheerios.
I offer him a banana or an apple.
He throws himself to the crumb crunchy floor, banging his forehead.
His forehead has been in a state of bruise for the last two weeks.
He cries "Ow!" because banging his forehead is always a surprise.
I let him lay there.
Hopefully he'll nap at one.




This too shall pass.
Both the cereal and the terrible twos.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

I choose you Pikachu

Because I was on the verge to terrible twos caused breakdown in my sanity, I took myself to our little movie theater last night to watch The Eye, even though I'd seen the Japanese version it was based on.

I was still as distracted as my last post indicated and sat down in the wrong theater. Fortunately I was with it enough to know that I did not want to watch Step Up 2, breakdancing boogaloo, and managed to make my way to the proper theater without getting lost and without missing any portion of the movie I paid to see. Even with only three screens, yesterday it would have been entirely possible that I'd still get stuck in a corner of the lobby without the ability to find my way out.

When my oldest started in on the terrible twos I used to restore my sanity at the public library. The Cedar City library was home to a tweedy orange couch that was worn in all the right spots and wasn't too dirty. I sat with my feet tucked under me and read all the magazines and newspapers that I could not afford at the time, all alone, away from any corners. It was blissful.

I miss that library. I like the public library in my current location, but it just doesn't feel as cozy. It lacks an orange couch and an old soul. The theater in my town. It's cozy even if it's not free, and there are cupholders for my convenience.

Japanese horror films are cozy too. At the very least they confirm I'm not as insane as I felt yesterday.

Today I shall complete my taxes. Hopefully tax forms will numb my brain enough that I won't be forced to go to the theater again to watch that breakdancing movie. If it does get that bad I might just stand in the corner of the theater's lobby instead. I'll still buy some nachos.

Monday, March 10, 2008


My brain is not under the couch cushions.

Friday, March 07, 2008

One word about your future...plastics.

I like to think that my teen-aged son and his little school friend were in their junior high level Theoretical Physics class when they decided to visit my blog yesterday. They, of course, were looking for more inspiration than Einstein and Stephen Hawking could provide combined with the bonus of way better hair. I can provide this in nano-spades.

In all reality they were probably at the back of the room in their
"Life Skills for...uh...ya know...Life" class, picking their noses and checking to see if the old bag did anything during the day instead of learning how to balance their hypothetical checkbooks.

As I now have new hormone enhanced readers, this is my opportunity to welcome them to grown up land. (I heard that snort...shup!) I would like to impart some wisdom on these naive youths and post it for all posterity.

1. Sure, girls smell nice...and they are curvy and stuff...but it's a ruse. They are after your souls. Girls snatch your souls crumb by crumb. By the time you are 40 you realize that you are an empty shell of a man and that you should have just stayed celibate. Girls trade your souls for designer handbags and the perfect shade of not-too-sticky but yet not-too-matte department store lipstick, and they use both to impress one another. You've been warned.

2. Beer isn't as awesome as you think it is. It makes you fart. Those farts smell like death. Drink beer out of a funnel and the odor of your beer farts hangs off you for at least a week no matter how much Brut cologne you use.

3. Whatever happens on the Playstation, or the Sega, or the's not real. At least, it's not as real as Tron or Atari was real. You kids just don't know what's cool. This is why studying history is important. Read a book once in a while.

4. You're asked to take out the trash simply because I don't want to do it. I admit it. True, I am teaching you family responsibility in the process, but there are so many other ways I could be doing that. Realize that starting at the bottom rung of the ladder is the best way to ascend to the top rung, which is dusting the family's collection of state thimbles in the curio cabinet. For now I really do want you to be the bestest garbage taker outer in the history of garbage taker outers.

5. Washing your hands after you use the bathroom keeps the bathroom doorknob from getting crusty. No one likes a crusty doorknob. It's just considerate for others to not build up a half inch layer of knob crust.

6. Emo is just today's brand of teen blah. Back when I was a munchkin it was goth, and back before that it was punk, and back before that it was the militant hippie, and back before that it was beatniks, and back before that it was those damned followers of Tommy Dorsey and all that sex sex sex on the dance floor. Things are different today, but it's all the same and that black trench coat has been worn for more than a century. As long as you approach your teen angst with honesty rather than as an affectation, I'm good. Puberty sucks, I know. I'm barely out of it.

There it is...wisdom. Take what I've given you and use it in the vein it was intended. If you have any questions you know where to find me later.

Have a nice day at school pumpkin.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

A rubber chicken, a ball peen hammer and a Tai-Bo VHS tape.

Part of the stereotype of housewife that I find interesting is the idea that I know a lot about appliances.

I'm not talking about blenders and waffle makers here. I'm talking about...ahem...other appliances. Personal appliances. Private appliances. Appliances that won't make you a smoothie.

You decide to become a housewife and you are mailed an in depth instructional brochure about how to best utilize your time at home. It's required by the union.

This is why in my meanderings about the internets that I'm never surprised that I get asked what my favorite marital aids are by curious libidinous individuals. If I were the author of the housewife time management brochure, I'd include a few lines on how to misdirect the casual outside observer when it comes to replying about mundane housewifely activities...if you're inclined to reply at all.

(Time to get creative, wee!)

Items you might find hidden deep in the black depths of AMHW's nightstand:
  • A curry comb, a magic marker and a dozen mini snickers bars.
  • A large barbecue spatula, a joy buzzer and some bacon flavored cheese spread in a can.
  • A wetsuit, a length of industrial iron chain and a dainty chintz tea service.
  • Nerf balls. Yellow ones.
  • Adrian Brody.
  • A pair of Mickey Mouse ears, a five gallon restaurant sized bucket of sliced pickles and a strobe light.

Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?

Coming up with new and intriguing combinations amuses me to no end. The mysterious aura these answers create is just gravy on the taters.

Time to go whip up a smoothie.

Monday, March 03, 2008

Happiness is a warm carrot*

My toddler has fallen asleep on the couch after having a tantrum.

He had a screaming fit after I obstinately refused his demand to "open" a carrot the way I'd open a banana.

I was a deprived child myself. No one bothered to open my carrots. I was forced to eat them unopened. Then I had to walk to five miles to school through blizzards, uphill both ways.

Sometimes life is tough.

*The original title of this post was "Closed...indefinitely" which I was told was confusing. No, I'm not closing the blog. I was rather speaking of the closed nature of carrots, as in, it's impossible to open a carrot. At least, I think it is. Anyhow, carrots are good warm.

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