Tuesday, April 29, 2008


I'm trying to watch Medium online.

I'm maybe 25 minutes into the episode.

It's sponsored by that new Patrick Dempsey movie. The show is broken into little chapters with a movie ad in between. That's why I can watch it online for free and stuff. I don't mind watching a dumb 30 second ad every so often. It's better than 5 minutes of 30 second ads, especially when it's an election year.

It's better unless the movie ad isn't loading properly which means I can't get the show to run at all which means I can't watch the ending which means my pants are gathering painfully at my crotch making me angry and full of angst.

It's been offline for fifteen minutes. Argh!

McDreamy, McFoamy, McBastard...Actor, heal thyself, and get my show back up and running!

Ahhhh...it's on now.

Post writing karma.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Eat your pickles...and think of me.

We like pickles at Casa Absentminded. We like our pickles huge and sour. We buy our pickles in gallon jars. Pickles are bargain priced at Sam's Club.

Because we like gargantuan pickles, and because I feel guilty throwing the jars away, I have six dill scented gallon glass jars floating about. I wash the jars, but so far I haven't been able to rid them of their scent. Pickle B.O. It's a sexy smell.

I keep one jar for aquarium cleaning. Dill scented goldfish. Sexy.
Another is serving as an ant farm in the backyard. Dill scented ants. Sexy ants.
Two are serving as containers for coins. One for dill scented pennies and another for dill scented silver change.

Do you know how much all that change adds up to when the jars are full? Over a thousand bucks. That's how much. You can't lift the jars. You know your pickles have been fresh because those jars can hold 100 lbs worth of change and not bust.

The local casino is more than happy to count up our change and give us big bills in return. They don't charge us for this service, but sometimes giving them a tip for putting up with money that smells like a McDonalds is in good taste. Ronald McDonald is not sexy. I know some of you fruity folks think he is. It's Grimace that looks like a marital aid people. Dill scented marital aids...sexy.

Change has bought my family a lot of little luxuries over the years. My vacuum? Bought with pennies. A VCR purchased with nickels back when VCRs were a neato thing to have...and the same with a DVD player that actually had the ability to play MP3s. I purchased one of my two sewing machines with change. Once, when we were especially poor, raiding the change jar purchased a dress to attend a wedding in. I'd just given birth and none of my old dresses fit.

...and now we are funding our next Disneyland vacation entirely with change collected in pickle jars. The youngest is almost three. We figure we've got a couple more years of change collecting and pickle jar collecting. We want him to remember the trip.

Two years will give me time to reconcile myself to the fact that there are no dill scented marital aid shaped characters at Disneyland...

and to sufficiently pickle my brain in yet another jar .

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Girl...duh duh duh...you'll be a woman soon...

(This post was meant for yesterday, but all of my words were coming out of my head in such a tangle that one would suspect that I was writing in adolescent netspeak. OMG IDK ROTHFLMFAO! Meh, it was ironical. On with the new improved adult version.)


Instead of my alarm clock waking me up this morning, a loud blast of "The Golden Girls" from the TV did the job nicely.

My toddler is trying to figure out how the remote control works.

It's supposed to be empowering that this group of independent, older, self actualized women are now called "girls". They've been through marriages, divorces, being widowed, raising children...but now they are free to be girls! Sistas doing it for themselves!

(The episode that woke me featured Blanche and Dorothy pretending to be lesbians on a TV talk show, as some sort of favor to Rose. I missed the first parts of the storyline so I don't know why this was a favor but I the part I saw wasn't a great big surprise.)

I'm not as self actualized as Dorothy, Blanche or even Rose, but I hope when I grow old enough to start drawing whatever Social Security is still left that I've earned the title of "woman" rather than "girl".

I work on this woman stuff. I want to be seen as a woman based on what I know, on my talents, my values, my decisions, and my word being my bond.

I am practiced in knowing exactly what my remote control does and does not do.

I was 21 or 22 when the difference between woman and girl was apparent to me. Being a nontraditional freshman student in college, I had a couple years of age on my peers, as well as a couple years of marriage and motherhood. I was sharing a table at the crowded cafeteria with two girls who I recognized from my 100+ student math class. To be polite they included me in their conversation, asking me if I had a date for the upcoming homecoming dance. I replied that I was married. (I don't usually wear my rings because I often have my hands in substances that would ruin my rings.) The girls got excited at this point because being married meant that I had rolled the dice well and won Mystery Date...so what was I planning to wear?

No matter how I explained it, I couldn't get across the idea that a dance, a momentary event, a blip in the long term, wasn't one of my priorities any more. Here are my values, here is what is important, this is what I'm trying to accomplish and off the shoulder taffeta ain't got no part in any of it.

Dry cleaning can kiss my bullocks. There is no dry cleaning button on my remote control.

I knew I was "woman" because I could back up what I had to say with more than my whims and caprices and untested ideologies. My remote contol has a logical practicality button. When I'm faced with fears, or with struggles, or with whims and wants and cravings, I push the button...I see what it does. This button gets brighter the more I use it.

My remote control also has a fart joke button and a sequins and feathers button, just in case you thought this post was getting too serious. These buttons are on either side of the logical practicality button. When I'm not paying attention, sometimes I get the vapors instead of self actualization.

(Now, if only I could find a good logical reason behind getting my friends to pretend to be lesbians on TV.)

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

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

You'll poke your eye out.

I sewed these. Any guesses to what they are and what they are for?

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

I stand all amazed...

Awe. Simple awe.

...and astonishment.

...and amazement.

...and WOW, isn't that spectacular and super and HUGE and ever so clean!

Now that I've been through my thesaurus, I'd like to clarify that none of the above would describe my reaction to having a strange man on the internet send me unsolicited photos of his erection.

I do understand some of motivations behind sending a housewife on the internet an example of your amateur photography. Apparently there is exhibitionism, but there is also a sort of "See, I like you! Ain't you lucky!" message attached to it.

The title of housewife has it's own insinuations which makes it seem I'm welcome to such gifts in my email. I'm MILF-y. I have nothing to do all day long. I'm horny. I need regular hot beef injections or else I'll wither and DIE.

I admit, all of that might be true, but there is only one man on the planet who has signed the proper release forms in which allow him to keep me from withering or dying.

Being sent a digital present isn't a new experience for me. It's not even a novel experience. When you are female and out there on the internets, blogging and chatting and writing too much on forums, it would be naive expect to never have that happen. Some presumptive male with poor lighting will show you his best side.

I either delete it or I photoshop it and spread it around.

So, here is my admonition for anyone else who thinks I need to see them naked:

1. I'm not sending you naked photos because you sent me one.
2. I'm not instantly aroused by the surprise of Mr. Wiggly. I am not Pavlov's dog.
3. Very very few of you escaped being funny looking.
4. I am not impressed by your hygiene or your piercing(s).
5. It's amazing what I found out about you on Google.

From now on, if anyone wants to send me photos, they can only be photos of puppies and kittens. Anything else with fur is out.

Monday, April 21, 2008

I'd like to buy the world a Coke.

Oh Spring! The earth awakens and a housewife's fancy turns to love. All this green in the air makes me feel so mushy.

C'mere, gimme a hug.

None of that side to side, avoid touching anything meaningful hugs. Gimme a hug with substance. Gimme a hug that just stops short of wrapping your legs around me.

Today I'm more than willing to spread around the physical contact, despite the germs. Here's a list of the folks I think need a hug.

Condoleezza Rice
Wilford Brimley
Mrs. Crazy, who I often see in the grocery store
This lady
This dude (Thanks Dick, have a hug!)
Tom Colicchio
DJ Lance Rock
Jocelyn Wildenstein
Michelle Duggar
The Pope, because he looks like he's a giggler.
and Juan Valdez.

It's a good thing I've been properly sterilized because, ooooh, wouldn't I be in trouble!

I just want to hug Condoleezza, not have her baby.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Pull life from the land with your capable hands...

It's sunny, it's lovely, and I'm going to take advantage of it today.

This last week I've been celebrating my own personal Lilith Fair. I'm not quite to the point where my vagina is monologue-ing, but my femaleness has been reinforced in the music I've been listening to lately.

...and the bras I bought on my spring break roadtrip are a bigger cup size than the old bras I was wearing. That's kinda neato. I'm enjoying cleavage and I'm neither pregnant or breastfeeding!

Listen to my new find, Laura Veirs and her song "Cast a Hook in Me." Savor the estrogen and rejoice!

I'm going to go plant flowers.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

It spreads nicely on toast.

Here's a first in the history of The Absent Minded Housewife.

My husband, Justin, he has these little infatuations with women he sees on TV and in movies. I call them tarts. I have written about these tarts and listed them in my right sidebar in a pull down menu. This amuses me.

Now, Justin wants to mess around with my archiving and remove a tart from the list. She has officially turned him off despite having a couple of assets he admires very much.

I say we put it to a vote. I'll let you decide if this tart gets the axe.

Justin once expressed a wistful desire to bathe with Tyra Banks. Like, in the tub, with Mr. Bubble and Mr. Ducky. Hopefully she bathes naked because that would be a bonus.

Justin caught a segment on Tyra's talk show that now has him questioning his attractions and his idea of what a man should be. I'm not sure where this leaves me...have a clip.

(I'm apologizing for the audio on this clip. It's off. Kinda goes with the theme however.)

There have been times where I've been excited about Vaseline. I adore being greased up on occasion. However, I keep my admiration for the stuff in the private realm. There is no need for anyone to know just how much Vaseline makes me feel like I've just been to Disneyland.

Tyra's Vaseline outburst is unseemly. Justin dislikes outbursts. He likes Disneyland, but dislikes being unseemly.

So, does Tyra get the axe? Does she deserve losing her tart status?

I need a glitzy vaseline jar regardless.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Take this job and shove it

I asked my husband yesterday afternoon if I could write a post that could possibly shatter our marriage. Afterall, I didn't want to be insensitive to the better nature of my husband in my admission below. He's a nice guy. Justin understands that this hurts me more than it hurts him and has given me permission to do what I need to do.

I have feelings I just can't hide anymore. Deep feelings. Deep tingling feelings.

I love you Mike Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs.

I love you, I do!

And here I am Mike, completely vulnerable, naked in the blogosphere, pledging my unwavering love to you. I don't care if you're unshowered, or that you once were a QVC salesman, or if you've got crabs. You make me gooey and that makes me love you.

Let me be your housewife, Mike. I am perfectly willing to hand wash loads upon loads of your soiled laundry, in a freezing mountain stream, using a big rock as washboard, all whilst singing like Snow White and fighting off cutesy cartoon birds. You are worth the cracked bleeding hands that would cause Mike. After that, you'd be amazed at what I can do with a with an old sock, a bottle of vinegar and a teaspoon of baking soda...wink wink.

Oh Mike Rowe, you cow probing bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh that's right, it's because you don't mind putting your back into it when the situation calls for it.

Sigh...unrequited love is a bitch kitty. It feels so freeing to get all of that out though.

Justin, please don't be upset. When you get home, I want you to put your hardhat on and put your back into it. The situation calls for it.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Mutha****ing snakes in a mutha****ing car...

Once upon a time, back when I was a teenager, a classmate of mine thought that putting a water snake in my car, which would be discovered after school, would reduce me to hysterics. This joke should provide hours of chuckles to those waiting and watching in the school parking lot.

He and his friends parked. They waited. They watched. They saw me get in my car and drive away without so much as blinking. I assume after that they scratched themselves, belched, and insulted each other's mothers.

Not content to be quiet about breaking into my car, this boy asked me later if I'd ever found the snake, hoping to inspire a reaction after the fact. No, I hadn't found the snake. Dude, you're an idiot.

This classmate didn't consider that his joke might not work. Obviously, deep thinking wasn't his forte'. He failed on two counts:

One...snakes don't stay where you put them. They will slither off a car seat and into some hidey hole in the car somewhere, or onto the engine block, never to be seen again. PETA does not recommend you abuse snakes in this way.

Two...not all girls are afraid of snakes.

I like snakes. I like bugs. I like rodents. I am not frightenend by creepy crawlies. If there is a spider in my house it's my job to remove it.

What am I frightened of?

Besides this:

I have two other strong fears.

I don't like heights. Specifically I don't like edges located in high spots. I thought once that bungee jumping might cure me of this fear but I was mistaken. You will never catch me enjoying this ride at the local amusement park and I will not be skydiving. Luckily, this fear is easily avoided.

Needles...blech. Once the needle is in I'm OK, but watching the poke through the skin makes my heart race. I've had to get over this fear. When you are a woman in your childbearing years, doctors are always wanting to poke needles into you. I'm not a good blood draw either as my veins are tiny and roly poly. I usually get nurses who think I'm an ignoramus when I tell them to use a child sized needle either in my hands or in my feet. They grab my arms and proceed to poke away. They don't get free rein to poke at me anymore.

I've had to get over myself real fast when babysitting my nephews. Two of the three boys my little sister gave birth to are type 1 diabetics. Babysitting those monsters of hers means shooting them full of insulin. I close one eye and pop 'em.

Her oldest son probably is thinking, "Dude, you're an idiot."

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

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Rocketman...Story part 2.

Just like in part one of the story, here is your warning.

I'm warning you queasy folks the following story belongs in a bio-hazard waste container. If you don't want to read anything of that nature, then click HERE.

Here we go.

Early into my marriage and motherhood, after a short misguided stint living in San Diego, we returned to Utah needing employment.

I knew that at any time I was welcome to return to my job at Jim Beam's but I was determined to use my smarts and talents to find stimulating employment elsewhere. I was successful. The local costume rental hired me to manage the costume department. I got to play dress up all day! I got to brush wigs and spray Lysol in the hats and cater to all the local drag queens and transvestites.

(Drag queens and transvestites...that wasn't unlike my stay in San Diego!)

This particular costume rental was a only a portion of a larger beauty supply/salon business. As such, I was required to also learn about all the fascinating traits of shampoo, acrylic nails and perms. I was trained to pierce ears with a gun.

Because I made stellar marks in my tanning bed training, and also because the tanning bed just happened to be located next to my costume area, I was put in charge of the tanning bed appointments and maintaining the bed. I didn't use the bed myself even though I could have if I desired and for free. I'm just very white. I almost sparkle. I would have burnt to a crisp within minutes, my moles would mutate, and suddenly I'd grow a Jeff Goldblum off my left shoulder.

...and Jeff wouldn't stop yakkin' either. Yak yak yak. Just shut up about The Big Chill already!

If I saw a tanning bed customer turning into The Fly I was allowed to ask that they lay off our bed for a while. That didn't stop them from laying on other tanning beds, but at least if they microwaved their own brains it wasn't my fault. Two of the three people I asked to stop using the bed were of this leathery variety. Here, have a free tube of no-orange fake bake, come back when you aren't a handbag and have a lovely day!

The third person did not get a tube of fake bake. She was simply asked to never return.

See, she broke the rules. The rules were simple too. The staff programs the time into the bed, don't ask for more. Use eye covers or else you'll go blind. Only one person in the tanning bed room at a time.

You know where this is going...

She brought her husband with her. She snuck him into the room. They locked the door. They then proceeded to demoralize the tanning bed.

We all know that sex performed properly is gooey, and that sex has a scent. The scent of sex multiplies significantly when all that goo is left to fry crispy on a hot tanning bed that has been programmed to run a half hour.

Did I mind cleaning and disinfecting the tanning bed before and after use? Well, gee, not normally. Do I mind cleaning evidence of your husband's joy off the tanning bed? Yes, I mind. I mind that very much.


After the nausea had abated somewhat but before we'd fanned all of that smell out of the store, my boss offered to call these tanning bed abusers to ban them indefinitely. I told her I'd do it but she should stay nearby in case hissy fits ensued.

Conversations like these are never very comfortable but I performed admirably. A hissy fit loomed but was stopped in it's tracks when I said the word "scraping". She felt sufficiently ashamed. They did not return.

I did experience other body fluid cleanup at the costume shop. People who intend to get very drunk on Halloween night return their costumes with interesting laundry stains on them. At least most of them tried to clean up after themselves because damned if they are going to lose their deposit.

Leave a deposit, lose your deposit, ya know.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

I'm the rocketman...Story part 1

I have no idea why these two stories relating to the same theme have been bouncing about my head recently. I've made references to them in comments at StupidTom and Slick Sumbich. You are free to give your best guesses to why I'm so consumed.

This is the part of this post where I warn you queasy folks the following two stories belong in bio-hazard waste containers. If you don't want to read anything of that nature, then click HERE.

When you are young and new to the working world you take jobs without much responsibility which don't require wearing a suit. My first real job was checking groceries at a store I call Jim Beam's. Sometimes the job drove you to drinking even if Utah law prohibited the sale of any alcohol besides watered down beer. I worked at Jim Beam's for four years, through high school and beyond.

I didn't mind doing more than my fair share of work at Jim Beam's. I got to paint cutesy holiday motifs on the windows. I got to draw up and then judge the children's coloring contests. I got to go to aisle two and keep the italian dressing properly shaken. I volunteered to clean the restrooms.

Unlike the other tasks, I didn't volunteer to clean bathrooms because it was fun. (Shaking dressing, woot!) I volunteered to clean the bathrooms because when you have 16 year old bagboys responsible for the task things begin looking like a two months gone used Pamper in a landfill in a matter of moments. I knew that if the women's restroom was in need of a hose down then the men's restroom required cleansing by fire.

Not to mention that people visiting public restrooms are just plain nasty. The general public may not be that filthy at home because, hopefully, they have to clean up after themselves, but in public places their bathroom manners go right out the window...

..and onto the bathroom walls...and sink...and mirror...

So, I took it upon myself to make the one toilet/no stalls bathrooms presentable from time to time.

Presentable required rubber gloves, a body covering apron and a jug of bleach fresh off the shelf. A heavy duty scrub brush was also required because the bathroom walls were constructed out of painted cinder block. Cinder block has a pitted surface. All manner of substances stay in those pits. Hjork.

One evening, after meeting one of the bagboys leaving the men's room on my way in to clean it (He was my age and attending my school), I was presented with an entirely new bodily fluid on the wall, a male specific bodily fluid, about six feet up from the floor clinging to the cinder block pits. Still...uh...fresh.



I have never been so appreciative of a drain in a bathroom floor in all my life. The bathroom literally did get hosed down. I was not touching any part of it with even my gloved hand or my scrub brush. I knew exactly where that had been.

Holy schmoly, that was some work break buddy! I hadn't realized that bagging groceries was such a stressful occupation. Couldn't you have aimed just a little bit higher? Wanna go to prom with me?

When I was done with the trauma of cleaning the restrooms I made no comment to any of my coworkers, much less the Six Foot Bandit. He knew I knew he knew I knew. At least from that point on there was no evidence of any repeat crimes.

Restroom cleaning was the usual experience after that. Just the expected substances on the walls, which were disgusting enough on their own.

Story 2 tomorrow...

Monday, April 07, 2008

Join the love train, the love train.

I like to fancy myself a frugalite. It was a necessary habit in my college days. In those days if milk dipped to 1.50 a gallon, my husband and I bought extra and froze it because saving a dollar meant another half gallon of milk could be purchased down the road. It's a comfortable habit now. I have a big freezer and lots of interesting items frozen in it.

Some years back I made the prodigious purchase of a sorority sized box of pantyliners. Three bucks and I had pantyliners well into the next millennia...and when you need a pantyliner you need a pantyliner, right ladies? Pantyliners don't require freezing to keep them fresh, which is a considerable bonus.

When I was showering this morning my pantyliners were removed from my bathroom cabinet by my two year old and placed in a long railroad track pattern across my family room floor.

Relief...he had not removed the backing and exposed the stickers. My son had not turned into maxi pad boy, which I would link to, but I'm sure we've all had that photo passed into our e-mail boxes. I considered posting it and found the photo using Google, so I know you can find it too. I also found a site detailing how men can use feminine hygiene products which was somewhat disturbing.

Anyway, isn't it genius that my two year old interpreted the use of pantyliners in such a way? He gets those smarts from me! Frugality too...because when you don't already have a toy train to play with you build one with what you've got laying around.

Hopefully he won't discover how to remove the backing because the next time I need to buy a sorority sized box of pantyliners my kid should be around 25. He can buy his own milk and all the feminine hygiene products he requires then.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Tube tops and zinc oxide.

Ahhhh...this week of debauchery has come to a close. My head hurts. My back hurts. When I bend my arm a certain way it hurts. I'm covered in all manner of kissable boo-boos.

Yet, I can claim this week as a success because:

- I did not become impregnated.
- I did not completely shave my head and I still have eyebrows.
- I didn't pierce any unconventional parts of my body.
- My lower back is tattoo free.
- I didn't form an advantageous relationship with a pimp.
- I did not expose my body to any gelatin desserts.
- I did not endanger any gerbils.
- My saran wrap has remained in it's drawer in the kitchen.
- I didn't pick up any colon destroying parasites.
- and I still don't know what a police car looks like from the inside.

The goal for this entire week was to flatten my posterior and I managed that spectacularly. My butt is now a flapping curtain of flesh hanging down to the backs of my knees.

My coccyx hurts.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Amyl nitrate and soap on a rope.

I woke up with a hangover.

I couldn't help myself. I had to imbibe Jane Austen and Merchant Ivory movies all night. None of those watered down movies for me. I drank up quality Victorian and Regency era hooch.

I fell off the wagon about here:

A fine nose, sage and citrus undertones.

And I became a stumbling, lampshade wearing, lush about here:

I have such a headache! Whatever shall be done?

Ah...the cure.

Harry and Lloyd are exceedingly amiable. Hic.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Pole dancing and corned beef hash.

The preparations are on for the apex of my absent minded Spring Break. There will be wild guests, much food, and drink, and the irresponsible spending of money, and a concert. I'm itching to ball up my underpants and then savor the breezes.

(Fine fine...my parents and little sister are coming to visit my little corner of casino hell tomorrow. We will be seeing Bill Cosby put on a show at the local concert hall. It's a sold out show, neener neener. I'll try to convince my Mom to pitch her panties.)

Since the Queen of Clean, the Empress of the Electrolux, my Mom, is coming, today's plans include wiping crayon marks off the walls and detoxing toilet seat hinges.

...then, the at home brazilian bikini wax. For The Cos.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Tramp stamps and cold cream.

Her name was Sara.

By the way she was acting you could tell that she wanted my husband. She was giving him come hither looks. She was practically rubbing up against him.

...and I found I wanted her too. Desperately. She was soft. She was beautiful.

I just couldn't bring myself to pay the $65 adoption fee.

Justin should not take me to PetSmart. He's always tempting me with warm welcome additions to our life by way of cats. He's a purr pimper.

I would have brought home Sara too if I wasn't so sure that my current dumb gay cat wouldn't beat the living hell out of her. Either that or he'd begin to pee on my possesions. It pisses me off to have my things peed on. I haven't got the schedule this summer to teach my cat how to play well with others.

What we ended up taking home is six cold wet goldfish and a white loach. They do not want my husband to cuddle them.

The goldfish have been named "The Village People". I don't want to know what the Village People have practically rubbed up against.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Housewife Gone Wild: Spring Break 2008. Redbulls and panty girdles.

Roadddddd Trrrrripppp!

If I were still a Utah resident this might refer to a short jaunt up to the Wyoming border where likker and fireworks might be had. Since I now live on the Nevada border, where all sins abound, this means we are jaunting off to Utah where there are Barnes and Nobles and Home Depots, and all manner of chain restaurants to be had.

Do they allow table dancing at Olive Garden? If they don't now they will around six pm, chicka chicka bow bow!

I'll take tips in coins. It all adds up. In this economy nickel and diming is encouraged beeyatch. I'm hoping to clear enough cold hard cash to cover a gallon of gas.

The only question is whether I buy my much needed new underwear before we eat dinner, or after?

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