Thursday, July 31, 2008

Who peed in your Cheerios?

No one did. Pee in my cheerios that is. I have a bowl of yogurt with bran flakes which no one has peed in. The yogurt seems to be useful in counteracting my heartburn, as well as other digestive processes.

This grim face I'm wearing is the result of pee in my coffee.

I'm back from vacation by the way. Woo summer vacation...woo...whewww. School starts in eighteen days. I can unclench my hands then.

Anyway, pee in my coffee. Despite the usefulness of yogurt it's not MY pee in my coffee. I don't think it's necessarily preferable to have your own pee in your coffee, that is, if you HAD to have some pee in your coffee. Generally, any pee in coffee is unacceptable. I wanted to reiterate that I'm not all that irresponsible with the placement of my bodily fluids.

This coffee urine belongs to my three year old, who brought me the bowl from his little training potty to show me that he had peed. He placed this bowl full of pee, on my knee, when I had my bowl of yogurty bran flakes in one hand and my fresh cup o'joe in the other...and he expected me to grow a third arm to catch the bowl when he let it go.

Pee all over the carpet, on a couch pillow and a wee splash landed in my coffee...just because it could. Murphy's law.

A nice hot cup of coffee ruined. Housewife smash!

Justin and I have discouraged our newly continent son from removing the bowl from his little potty. He's slowly learning that removing the bowl himself is an irresponsible placement of bodily fluids. After the coffee incident, I'd hoped he'd got the lesson.

But then, he pooped on the floor.

At least he didn't aim any of that in my replacement cup of coffee.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Lazy Vacation post #4

Repost from July 5, 2006, "Musty and Electric".

What a glorious storm blowing right now!

Justin's gone outside to save our neighbor's garbage cans. He's a noble sort.

The wind is blowing so hard that my fences are shaking. I see lightning but I can't hear the thunder yet. Raindrops are coming down in a slant. I've opened my sliding glass door to let in the air. It smells musty and electric.

When Justin and I were first married we spent a night running about naked in a thunderstorm. Justin was walking dead from both college finals and a medication he'd been taking for Desert Storm related headaches. (Justin is a Desert Storm vet.) I had just begun working a nowhere job again after maternity leave after having our first.

The storm came on just as strong as this one. The rain poured and the gutters were rushing. Justin and I stepped outside our basement apartment to look at the lightning while our baby slept. It wasn't long before our bodies needed to rush much like the water in the gutters. We shed our clothing right in smalltown Utah suburbia and ran naked into the street, splashing each other in mud puddles, dancing with the lightning strikes in the dark.

The young man that was dating our landlady's daughter came outside their apartment to see what we were doing. I attended highschool with him. He'd always thought I was so frigid. He got an eyeful of our mud covered bodies and asked if we were high. If we could have shot up that thunderstorm we would have.

When much of the storm had blown itself out and so had we, we went inside and showered together. We felt alive again. We felt alive for a long while after that.

Even though I won't run about naked in this storm it brings the feeling of alive. That's just fine by me.

I can hear the thunder now.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Lazy Vacation post #3

Repost from June 29, 2007, "Masturs and Johnson".

I feel compelled to do my part in defending the English speaking world against a scourge. This atrocity is breaking down communication across our great land. It may even be silently effecting you!

Masturbation is not spelled with an E. There is only one E in masturbate and it's right at the end, where it's most satisfying. U masturbate. YOU masturbate. I don't masturbate, but U does.

Have you been spelling this most important term "masterbate"? I understand there is some mastery in performing this act properly. Many people practice diligently and become experts. Many people don't practice this at all and are the masters of their domains.

I have practiced and have mastered both writing the letter U manually and typing it on my keyboard. It's right there between the Y key and the I key.... a more convenient placement than the E key in my opinion. I use my right index finger to ever so gently tap on the U key, over and over and ovur.

Go forth and E no more.

End public service announcement.

Saturday, July 26, 2008


It's the weekend. I'm taking a break from scheduled repostings, heh. I'll repost again Monday.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Lazy Vacation post #2

Repost from December 4, 2005, "Ants in my Pants".

When my oldest was seven or eight years old (he's now 11) we had some problems with him getting the idea that it was bedtime and therefore, in the interest of actually sleeping, one must stay in their bed.

One particular night he'd been up to:

Go potty
Go potty again
Get a drink
Check a loose tooth
Go potty
Beg for a snack
Get an extra blanket
Brush his teeth...

Needless to say, I was annoyed. I told him to go to bed, stay in bed, or else the duct tape was coming out. He sighs and goes back to his room.

Fifteen minutes later he emerges doing another potty dance. I declare, duct tape in hand, that he does NOT need to go to the bathroom. I didn't care if he exploded, he was going back to bed! He tells me his penis hurts. I roll my eyes. Anyone that handles it that much going potty in lieu of going to bed is going to have a sore penis.

My son dials up the intensity of the potty dance and his eyes well up in tears. I relent. I tell him I'm going to have to look at the penis so I can see what's wrong with it. He's embarrassed, I'm embarrassed. The pain becomes unbearable and he lets me look.

There is an ant on his penis...

And it's biting the hell out of it.

Don't insects have bedtimes? I brush the ant away and tell him to go to bed. I manage to save my guffawing until after he shuts his door.

The next day I venture into his room to clean up whatever food he'd snuck in there to cause the ants.


At the beginning of this school year my oldest son declared he was too old to wear underwear. I was picking him up from school and this revelation brought him to wracking sobs.

I told him that even I wasn't too old to wear underwear and that not wearing underwear wasn't going to be an option...ever...not even when he's 40.

It took another few minutes of wracking sobs to reveal that he didn't want to go commando but that he felt he was too old for tighty whities. Tighty whities are for babies. He wanted to now wear manly boxer shorts.

I told him his style of underwear was up to him (afterall, I wasn't wearing his underwear) but he'd have to wait for a trip to the store to buy some boxers.

It was at this point I made a "mom" mistake.

I had the bright idea, since I'm a seamstress and all, that I could pull some fabric out of my stash and sew him some boxers! He looked at me like I was insane. I'm not really insane, just randomly dumb...

Whose mother sews their UNDERWEAR for them?

Obviously, my son's mother. I'm going to be a great mother in law someday.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Lazy Vacation post #1

Repost from January 8, 2007, "I am that I am".


1. Thou shalt not pee anywhere but in the toilet bowl.

2. Thou shalt not clean up dribbled pee with the clean towels or the bathroom rugs.

3. Thou shalt not wad up toilet paper, wet it and then throw it upon the bathroom ceiling.

4. Thou shalt not forget to spray air freshener when thou has caused a foul odor.

5. Thou shalt not forget to thoroughly wipe thou's posterior, therefore staving off undesireable brown streaks in thy underwear.

6. Thou shalt not take excessively long showers when hot water is required by other members of the family.

7. Thou shalt not blow snot rockets in the sink and bathtub and not clean it up.

8. Thou shalt not forget to flush, especially after thy huge dump.

9. Thou shalt not touch every fixture in the bathroom with thy muddy hands in search of the bathroom sink.

10. Thou shalt not mistake spray bathroom cleaners, or spray personal hygiene products, for water pistols and stage a duel.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Watch the bouncing ball...


I have to do laundry.

Before I involve myself in starch and stains, I must announce the winnah of the Gert story!

After much consultation with a cup of coffee and my three year old, I've decided the prize must go to Debra from Debrapants. Here is her story:

Gertie grew up in a small Georgia town, falling in love with her gym teacher and getting knocked up by him. She wanted to keep the baby, but he talked her into giving it up. She never recovered emotionally from that grevious loss and decided when under the influence that she would give "it" up- and often. She became a Madame for an overpriced brothel in the middle of Kansas where her highest paying customer is a man with 6 teeth named Timmy and her best money-maker is, believe it or not, a red-headed, 3-balled talent named Kenny. I cannot confirm nor deny that it is the same Kenny in your other photo, but Gertie might be able to if you catch her on one of her good days after bribing her with Angel Food Cake topped with mixed berries and a can of Natty Ice.

I scored entries on a variety of factors. Extra points were given for referring back to Kenny. Kenny is just that awesome.

For Deb's efforts I've promised a fabulous prize, which is neither a paperweight or a Wii. If Debra would be so kind as to use the nifty little contact link in the left sidebar and provide me with a mailing address, which I will not share with anyone, even under torture, I will be sending her a pair of....

Boobs. The bouncy kind. As seen in my embarrassing YouTube above.

Don't worry Deb, they will be new and still sealed in their original packaging. I wouldn't feign to send you a pair that had already been sitting on my chest. You might not consider preworn boobs much of a prize...or would you? That's got to be against some kind of health codes or postal regulations.


Honorable mention goes to Practically Joe from Practically Wisdom for supplying a Kenny story. Kenny, again, is just that awesome.


Again, my husband and I are shoving the hoard into our fabulous minivan and taking a jaunt away from home. We are obliged every once in a while to prove to our extended families that we are not dead. Unlike our last trip into Happy Valley, in which I posted interviews with my mom and my dad, we are not taking a computer with us. Camping is on the itinerary. There will be no emailing whilst sitting on a campground pit toilet.

Just so things around here won't be sparse, I will be reposting a few of my past entries that I think are notable...or at least sorta well written. Until I get back next week I'll thank you now for placating me when it concerns my literary genius.

Now...onto the laundry. No one placates me when it comes to my laundry.

Monday, July 21, 2008

I gots my rocks off

Yes, I'm back. I've been back since Friday evening, but you know, we didn't want to violate the no posts on the weekend rule, now did we? Weekends are for communicating with intermittent grunts instead of full sentences. Constructing a compound sentence on a weekend causes indigestion, constipation and gas.

To refresh your memories, as well as my own sunbaked brain, my husband and I shoved our hoard into our fabulous minivan and drove 600 miles to Virgin Valley, NV. We thought it would be fun to sit on a large mound of white dirt and rake through it's contents to find shiny things.

...and it was fun. A bug has bitten me. I need to buy overalls.

We found several small opals that aren't worth a whole lot except that they are neat to look at. I found the best rock of the day, an almost fully opalized bit of twig. I like to think that some mammoth ate my twig and pooped it out shortly after breakfast the next day. It's shiny, but you can't see it's fire in the photos very well.

Other highlights of the trip include:

- Blackening the soles of our feet on the carpet of our motel room in Winnemucca. Motel looked nice on the outside. Filthy on the inside.

- Eating Basque food at $25 dollars a plate, again in Winnemucca. I had an inch and a half thick slab of bleeding ribeye steak, bisque soup, salad, paella, garlic potatoes and beans. Money wasn't the only price we paid for that meal.

- Petting at least a dozen large dogs belonging to bar regulars next to our motel room at Denio Junction. What do you do in Denio? Drink outside of the bar, smoke outside of the bar, bullshit with your unleashed dogs outside of the bar. Then, if you are an opal mine shareholder, you lay down the stickiest layer of alcohol fueled bullshit on naive tourists...outside of the bar.

- Order milkshakes inside of that same bar because the sign outside of the bar implied we were bad parents if we did not order any milkshakes. Turns out they were out of ice cream.

- Giggling over a conversation that mine shareholders were having, not at the bar but actually at the mine, on why it's a bad idea to lick rocks. I know getting a rock wet gives you a better idea of what the rock is but it never occured to me to lick rocks for identification. I'm not a horse, I don't need minerals that badly, much less lead and arsenic poisoning. I'm a rockhounding noob and I knew that.

- Oohing and ahhing over the wild burros all over Virgin Valley. Groaning and grunting when those wild burros brayed all night long at our campground near the mine. What a bunch of noisy asses.

- Peeing in a porta potty provided by the mine. I should have just walked down the road a bit and squatted there. Porta potty...out in the middle of nowhere...sitting there day after day in Nevada heat? Yeah, that's ambience baby.

- Slipping into a naturally warm and kinda green swimming hole at our campground after a day in the sun. When you wiggled your toes in the ooze at the bottom all the bubbles came rushing up, tickling your bits. Or the little fishies were tickling my bits. It was refreshing. The keepers of the campground built a nice shower facility using that same warm green water. God will remember that act of kindness in their afterlives.

- Not shredding your tires over all the obsidian laying everywhere. The signs that told you to stay on the dirt roads were all posted after we passed the one business in a thirty mile radius of the mines, Earl's Tire Repair.

So...there you have it. Shiny rocks. Family vacation accomplished. Sunburn avoided.

Happy to be back.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Leaving Sodom and Gomorrah

I hope you readers and other hangers on like blue. I needed a change. I've only changed my pants with this blue. Eventually I plan on changing my entire outfit. Maybe I'll wear something daring enough to be dry clean only instead of the usual, "I'm preparing for my kids to throw food and mud on me" templates.

Or maybe not. I'm still potty training.


Tomorrow Justin and I pack up the hoard and drive to a more in the middle of nowhere place than we already live for some sort of vacation.

We are going to dig in the dirt. Woohoo! Why go to Disneyland when there are thousands of acres of dirt just waiting to be dug into? They don't let you dig in the dirt at Disneyland. They don't even let you splash water on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. We want to cover ourselves in twelve layers of dust. We want to breathe it and eat it and spread it all over our tent. We want to be the dust. BE THE DUST!

We're going rockhounding and opal mining. Manicures be damned. Mouse ears be damned.

We'll be home in a few days. Gert winnah announced then.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Don't shirk the Gert

One last chance to get in your Gertie story.

For only the price of a cup of coffee a day, (Not Starbucks coffee, but lava hot, extra burnt, vending machine coffee.) Gertie can enjoy a fascinating life history. Please. Help. It's so little to give and such a big reward...

Hey you lurkers, I'm lookin' at YOU.

I have a prize for the winnah!

It's not a Wii though. It's not even useful. It's a major award? Muahahaha!

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Cyndi Lauper can kiss my bum.

There are certain things around Casa Absentminded which fulfill the family status quo. For instance, dirty boy's underwear left on the bathroom floor...or constant noise from Nick Jr...or the smell of feet. These thing are comforting.

Yesterday I became uncomfortable. The status quo was interrupted.

What I'm used to is being the sole source of estrogen in my home. There is my husband and his powerful brand of hairy adult male testosterone. There is my fourteen year old son and his raging pubescent testosterone. There is my nine year old son and his bugs and lizards testosterone. There is my three year old son and his giggle over fart noises testosterone. Then me...all things female in this house even though I dig the lizards and laugh at farts myself. Estro-queen.

Yesterday afternoon my pubescent child, this teen-aged boy of mine, brought a teen-aged GIRL into my home and proceeded to allow her to play Playstation. In my home. Playstation.

The moment she took her first estrogen loaded exhale I had an instinct to guard my sewing machines and my crock pot all while baring my teeth. Me...alpha female...grunt.

Hormones are funny.

Funny for my kid too. He didn't understand why I requested his door be open while they were in his room. It wasn't just for his protection but for hers as well. She may not be used to the smell of boys and feet. She didn't need a barrage of fourteen year old testosterone flooding her nostrils. I didn't want her to touch my stuff and I didn't want her to go all swoony either.

My first experiences being with a boy, in a go over to a boy's house on my own sort of sense, happened when I was 14. He lived up the street. I used to ride my ten speed to his house and then he'd offer to ride tandem with me to the gas station to play Super Mario Brothers and eat frozen yogurt. He'd pump the pedals the whole way and I'd hold onto his waist. It was sweet.

One bright day, as we were sitting on his front lawn, I told him about my mild scoliosis and the S curve in my spine. I wasn't curved enough to warrant a brace but I had been exercising and swimming to correct the curve for a year. He asked to see my curve, and since my blouse buttoned down the back I figured there was no harm. He unbuttoned and ran his fingers down my bare back while I held my shirt to my chest, tracing my curve, then he buttoned me back up. That too was sweet.

Had my mom and dad known that I'd undressed even that much for a boy I would have been stomped down into an unrecognizable goo. There really was no harm in it at the time. Turns out he didn't really like girls that much anyway.

I am both enchanted and utterly terrified about my son and this GIRL in my house, this toxic testosterone and estrogen mixing business. I'm fairly certain my kid likes girls. Danger danger Will Robinson.

It wasn't long when the mother of this GIRL came to my door and got her kid. To ease any fears this other mother might have had I called out a loud farewell when this GIRL bolted out my door. I said "goodbye" but what I meant was, "Your kid was not alone with my kid at any time while they were in my home, hallelujah."

GIRL gone. Status quo leveling off. Sewing machine pristine.

Smell of socks? Still lingering.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Coffee Talk

So...the coffee's a'brewin' and I'm thinking about orgasms.

Not that one has to do with the other. I mean you probably could have an orgasm caused by coffee, but on the whole coffee and orgasms aren't related entities. I'm just brewing a nice pot of coffee and my mind got to wandering.

Anyway. Orgasms. Those are fun.

They also have their time and their place. A friend of my husband, who works in the mental health field, tells story about a medication which, in a very small percentage of it's users, comes with the side effect of having an orgasm when you sneeze. I don't know if the story is valid, but imagine the places and people you'd have to avoid so you wouldn't have an orgasm in public. You'd have to bring extra changes of clothes with you everywhere!

On the whole I prefer my orgasms to happen in private, on my terms, without a bunch of people watching. I'm sorta shy that way.

However, I do think the occasional surprise orgasm in public would add to the greater good.

I think the state of the union would be far better had somebody had an orgasm in the presence of Dubya. I think it's been a very long time for Georgie.

Having a surprise orgasm would be a good way to get out of speeding and parking tickets. Not that I ever speed or park illegally. I drive like my Grandma...and she's dead. Dead grandmas is another entity we shouldn't relate to orgasms. Yar.

Having one while in the audience for an Oprah taping seems to be par for the course. Everyone loves Oprah. The bantering that goes on between the estro-tards on The View might be improved if there were a couple orgasms. Think about that Barb.

Have one at Walmart, though no one would notice. Therefore, have multiples.

Don't forget the DMV. Anything to liven up those long winding lines is acceptable. Then, when you take your license photo, you'll look like you've been up to something.

Anywhere there is a security camera. Like at the ATM. It will become a YouTube viral video and you will make money. Maybe not Pam Anderson / Tommy Lee money, but a couple of shiny nickels.

On that note, I make very good coffee.

But, I'm kinda sad that I don't have to visit the DMV until November.

Monday, July 07, 2008

The gift of the scraggy

Yesterday my husband told me he had a present for me.

This man I married...he gives me little gifts often. Usually movies, or baked goods, or cans of iced tea, or hairs on the soap. It's completely sweet especially since I gave birth to his babies after hour upon hour of painful labor, which rendered my bottom half into a floppy deflated balloon, and he sorta owes me...right? Each gift is tallied and then I show my appreciation.

(No, he doesn't owe me. I'm kidding. I'm not going to fault him for not being talented enough to use a uterus.)

Anyway, when my husband told me he had a present for me, I expected some chocolate. I've run out of the lovely Russell Stover triple chocolate mousse wafers he gave me on another occasion.

I did not expect him to hold me hold me down, lift up my shirt, and rub his summer beard all over my balloonish tummy.

(I heard that dejected sigh. Here you thought it was getting good with all the shirt lifting. Well neener neener, you ain't getting free thrills here...buncha perverts.)

He called this, "the gift of beard".

The gift of beard tickles, unlike the "gift of chocolate."

Justin almost got "the gift of wetting my pants" in return. The gift of wet pants isn't as nice as "the gift of hairy soap".

Still, I can appreciate the gift of beard. (I'm not talented enough to grow one as Grizzly Adams as his is.) No one has to get you a present, ya know?

Did you hear me Justin. I'm out of Russell Stover. OUT!


Get in your Gertie story. I got a prize for the winnah! It's not a paperweight and it's not "the gift of hairy soap".

Friday, July 04, 2008

Amber waves of grain.

On this Fourth of July holiday, in our times of four dollar a gallon gasoline and billion dollar a day warfare, I'd like to focus on those parts of American life that are truly and uniquely U.S.A...A.O.K! Why is America so great.

I can begin with the usual inclusions. Apple pie. Baseball. Hot dogs. Frivolous lawsuits. Nascar. Paul Bunyon. Britney Spears and As Sold on TV.

In particular, I'd like to bring attention to something so home of the brave, land of the free, that I believe it encompasses everything it is to live in our great country. What I'm talking about bubbled forth from the great melting pot to be utilized across all races, creeds, religious affiliations, sexual orientations and political sentiments.

The mullet.

Yes...the mullet. God Bless America. God Bless the mullet.

As I've admitted to before, I once sported a mullet. It occurs to me only today that I was doing my part in weaving the American fabric. It was an outward display of my patriotism.

As we Americans engage in our democratic duty in our upcoming presidential election, there has been some talk about which candidate is more patriotic. Who is more American and willing engage in a PDA to show it? I'm not going to speculate about that too much except to say that so far, none of our presidents have worn a mullet. Some have worn wigs. Some have had perfect swirling and hairsprayed coifs. None have draped the ape.

Because I have the right, nay the obligation, of free speech, I present here some examples of presidential mullets.

Andrew Jackson.

Theodore Roosevelt.

Herbert Hoover.

Gerald Ford.

That warm feeling in your chest? That's pride.

Now then, we must consider our presidential candidates and their degree of mulletability. In alphabetical order:

John McCain.

Barack Obama.

I dunno about you, but I know where my vote is going!

To those to whom it applies...have a happy 4th...feel free to light an extra illegal firecracker for me.

To those for whom it does not apply...stop laughing at my Photoshop skillz...Have another'n.

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Burlesque Baby

Do we all remember Kenny?

No, I guess we don't. To remind you, this is Kenny.

I found these school photos in a second hand sewing book which I bought for 75 cents. Someone's Grandma used them as a bookmark. The photos are unmarked, which is a shame, so I've named this scary ginger child Kenny. Much speculation ensued as to what happened to Kenny. I'm still leaning toward drag queen.

This isn't the only anonymous and somewhat scary photo I own. The next photo I'm giving you to speculate on is part of my collection of glass paperweights. I'm picky about my paperweights. Most you see in stores are huge, tacky and 75% off. People use them to weigh down the roofs of trailer homes. I like mine small, blobby in shape, and without little glass fishies floating in the middle.

Placate me and look at my favorite paperweights. Look at them dammit.

I know you scrolled through that. That's ok I guess. I won't make you be enthused. The pear is somewhat valuable...anyway...we'll get to the paperweight in question.

Like Kenny, this photo is unmarked. I've named our black and white beauty "Gertrude". Or Gertie. Have a better look.

After inspecting Gert closely for a good thirty seconds, I don't believe I can date the photo. I can assume two things about Gert though. She's a little old lady...or she's dead. Either way, someone died for sure and I got another paperweight at an antique shop estate sale. Woot!

Gert, ahhh Gert. Did you become a chaw spewing lumberjack like you've always dreamed? Did you invest in Aquanet and retire a millionaire in 1985? Was Jonestown all you hoped it would be? How many cats, Gert, how many?

Gimme your Gert stories. I've got a prize for the winnah....

(No, it's not a paperweight.)

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

We all live in a yeller submarine.

I'm watching TV. Or rather, Justin is watching TV, desperately clutching the remote, while I catch bits and pieces of programming.

He just whizzed past the Home Shopping Network which was featuring a "purse party" this afternoon.

(Fine...Justin stopped there at my request.)

Needless to say, the purse party was not as perverted as I imagined it would be. There we're no noise makers or male strippers. I was disappointed.

Before Justin clicked off to programming just as useless, I caught a look at one of the monstrosities they invited to the purse party.

My god, I need one of those!

(And it'll be the lightest purse I own because this example of abject beauty costs 375 bucks.)

Justin says it looks like a queer alligator. The description says it's popcorn effect lambskin. So, it's a lamb drag queening as an alligator. Fabulous.

This sure beats my 5 dollar deeply discounted Kmart purse all to hell. I only own one purse. It's black with brown accents, so that goes with all my outfits right? Especially when my outfits consist of jeans and whatever blouse is clean and mostly wrinkle free. Does popcorn effect leather go with wrinkle free? I dunno.

The only downside to this purse is that there are no outside pockets. I like to have a place to keep my chapstick handy. I don't like to riffle through the contents of my purse when I'm having a chapped lips emergency. Chapstick always sinks to the bottom with the lost pennies and the restaurant wrapped toothpicks. It's sordid.

But then, if I'm paying 375 bucks for a purse, it had damned well come with a case of chapstick. I don't like feeling suckered you know.

Absent Minded Archives