Monday, June 30, 2008

Fire fire heh fire heh heh fire fire fire

Do not be surprised if in the next week my husband sadly announces in my blog that I have met my demise by way of spontaneous human combustion.



I have suffered horrendous heartburn for the past week. My whole esophagus feels like I've chugged lava. It's painful and nauseating.

When I went to the doc to have him prescribe me horse pill antibiotics for a UTI I also complained about some reflux that was bothering me. I got a nice script for Bactrim and another for Prilosec. One of those is tearing up my stomach, probably the Bactrim, which I'm done taking, thank the lord.

Didn't I say I wanted my antibiotic to make me pee blue? Well, the pee's normal...the pills have just barbecued my vitals. I'm a churning, burning, burp and fart machine. If you buy me now we'll send you, at no extra charge, a package of handy super soak chamois cloths, great for many household uses, just pay shipping and handling.

I'm drinking a lot of water. It seems to help.

So, I still pee a lot.

If you'll excuse me...ahem.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Morning Minutia...wait...afternoon minutia...IX

I shouldn't keep telling myself that the reason my gallon of ant spray remains unused is because ants are my friends.

Scramble (Boggle) on Facebook...type fast, type hard, kick ass.

I am noticing just how much my bathrooms need painting. I drink that much water. I use that much TP.

Crosby, Stills and Nash concert on Saturday at 8 pm. Crosby stalking begins at 10 pm and lasts until Sunday afternoon.

Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckerandtits...and meatcake.

Gotta pee again.

Update: The bathroom needs painting and new flooring would be nice.

Recession? What recession? There is no recession anywhere I can afford to drive to.

If I told my ornery next door neighbor that I intended on exploring my destiny in becoming a chicken farmer and she could have all the fresh eggs she could eat, do you think she'd move? Neither city law or my HOA prohibit it...heh.

Gotta pee again.

Update: Paint, new flooring and a new light fixture. Something victorian looking. Maybe trim the towels and re-stain the vanity...

I asked my doctor to prescribe me a yeast infection treatment along with my horse pill antibiotics. He said, "Oh yeah, that'll probably be good." And it is good, one pill that cost me $2.31 plus tax. How clean! How oozeless!

Check out the pirate ship we got for Ryan's third birthday. None of us can keep our hands off it. It's the perfect toy.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

I have good aim.

I get to pee in a cup today.

I suppose I could pee in a cup everyday if I wanted to. Let me revise. Today I get to pee in a cup and have a medical professional look at my urine through a microscope to determine which antibiotic they'll prescribe to me.

I hope I get huge ass horse pills. I want the kind of antibiotic that turns my already stinky pee into a more piquant scent. It would be a total plus if I peed blue too.

Years ago I went to the local doctor for neck pain after a Buick rear-ended me coming out of the elementary school parking lot. The regular doctor had taken a vacation and I was seen by a visiting physician. I allowed this man to examine my neck and shoulders thoroughly.

You wouldn't believe what our visiting doctor suggested to relieve my neck pain...




...A pap smear.




????????




I understand that I am not a doctor. I did not go to medical school. I did not dice up cadavers or highlight medical texts with an endless supply of pink markers. I do not own scrubs with different patterns printed on them for every holiday. I went to a doctor because I was reasonably sure he was well read in all things diagnostic yet I'm still befuddled on how he come to the conclusion that whiplash and cervical cancers were related.

Shudder...creepy.

I politely declined his offer to inspect my vagina and cervix. My neck was feeling better anyway.

No...I didn't report the man in any official capacity. His offer was worded in such a way that there would have had to been at least 100 women reporting untoward offers of pap smears for there to be any action taken. I know, I know, I could have been the first of 100. I wish I remembered that doctor's name.

If I think of it, I'd be willing to share my horse pills with him, right up where the sun don't shine.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Cranberry Juice

Bright and early last Thursday morning I was on a yellow schoolbus, second seat back from the driver, sitting with a little girl who was throwing me vague "you're a stranger, don't you dare offer me candy" looks.

I had meant to sit with my own son in the middle of the bus but his little friend stole my seat. This same friend also attempted to spray his entire suitcase of clothing with bugspray in my tent. We were on an overnight trip...why did he bring four shirts and two more pair of pants, all of which he wanted thoroughly coated with DEET? I made him stop after one shirt which I refused to allow him to hang in the tent to dry.

Because I was prepared to be a mindful chaperone, I did my part in making sure every one of them cute screaming buggers had gone to the restroom before we'd gotten on the bus. We weren't stopping for a potty break for two hours and no one had broken into their snacks yet to supply empty bottles. Even I went because I like to set a good example for the young folks. We all boarded the bus with empty bladders and dry armpits.

After thirty miles of the wheels on the bus going round and round in the Nevada desert, I was sweating and I had to go.

Ten more miles of bumpiness and I really had to go.

Another ten and my eyeballs were yellowing.

When we passed the road sign declaring that our potty stop was a mere 60 miles away I started to sing "99 bottles of beer" silently in my head.

I have a 33 year old, thrice pregnant, woman's bladder...alrighty folks? It has it's limitations and I discovered that a schoolbus is one of them.

I could have asked the bus driver to stop and he would have too. No one would have been upset since I had taken the prerequisite squat before we left...however...we hadn't passed a tree for sixty miles. Not a tree, not a big rock, not an abandoned house or a shed or a car or a bush or even a larger than average roadsign. There was nothing at all to crouch behind to relieve my bladder until we got to our destination. On the salt flats you can see for miles and miles and miles because they are the salt FLATS.

I debated in my mind, between bottles 84 and 46 how truely embarrassing it would be to have my son's teachers and my husband's colleagues hold a blanket up by the side of the road so I could pee behind it. Not only did I consider my embarrassment, but that of my 9 year old son's. Hey, isn't that the kid whose Mom took a piss by the bus tire? Heh, yeah, what a dork!

Had it been just me and family, I would have just pulled over and wet the sagebrush.

Debate over. I'd just have to hold it. Legs crossed, fingernails digging into my palms. 45 bottles of beer....

I have never been so glad to see the town of Ely, Nevada in my life. I was also never so glad to be sitting in the second seat behind the driver on the bus. Preparing myself as the bus parked, I steeled my will so I could stand and then walk the twenty feet to the gas station without wetting myself. There was no point in holding it in that long if I was going to fail at the last moment.

When I finally sat on that gas station toilet I felt triumphant. 16 bottes of beer.

Then I spent the next few moments convincing my bladder that it could relax. I did manage it though, through a loud sigh and bottles 15 through 6.

Now it's Monday and the field trip was a sweaty success, but between straining my bladder and the bleeding hot bus dehydration, I've developed a urinary tract infection. Either that or the bus ride has knocked yet another one of my kidney stones loose. Both are such a hoot.

TGI-Monday.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

I relish using campground pit toilets.

Since I've given birth to children, I've sort of obligated myself to doing certain things for them, like volunteering to chaperone school sponsored summer camping trips. Trips like these are supposed to help broaden their wee little minds as well as get them absolutely filthy. Much too early tomorrow morning, I get to climb aboard a yellow schoolbus and ride 400 miles to see a cave with one kid that is mine and 40 zillion other kids that aren't mine.

I've just returned home from a tent pitching test run. Guess who owns the biggest damned tent in the whole damned town? Yes, my readers and other hangers on, I do. We bought a tent that is bigger than my house. It has two large rooms and sleeps 40 zillion. One of those rooms is just for me and my air mattress dammit. I think I lost two kids in the other room on the test run. I figure they'll be ok. I hear their voices echoing so that means they are alive.

When I get home my parents will be here visiting for the weekend.

Tonight we celebrate my youngest son's third birthday, which is really tomorrow. He doesn't know the difference anyway. We'll throw some cake at him and a couple toys and call it good.

So, no posts until Monday. Expect that post to be a bit on the frantic side and to smell like bug spray.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

New lows.

I'm being offered pre-sucked on fruit snacks by my three year old. He tells me they are delicious.

The sad thing is, I didn't just take his word for it.

Monday, June 16, 2008

I'm not a Granny yet.

Look at my panties.


I spent the morning googling images of panties to use today's post. That was a mistake. Did you know that there are a lot of photos of women wearing panties on the internets? Oh. You did. Of course you did. You didn't fall off the Google truck yesterday. You've been there and you've seen that and you share my indignation and disgust.

I remembered I had taken my own photo some time ago. God bless me, search over. You can only look at so many strange butts over the course of a morning.

I was thinking about my panties this weekend. I bought them at Walmart. Fruit of the Loom, size coughcoughmumblecough, bikini cut, cotton, 10 pack, reinforced crotch, white and flowers and stripes and solids in similar colors. And I was thinking...how many people roaming the planet are wearing the exact same panties as I am at any given time? (I was about to type women instead of people, but in my google search I came upon men wearing panties too. That's fine. Underpants are for everyone.)

You know, they say that if you put 23 people in a room that there is a 50/50 chance that two will share a birthday. What are the chances that two of you bought the same package of panties, not even considering that two pair out of the package were white? Fruit of the Loom has to manufacture millions of pairs of panties every year.

These people, wearing the same panties, do we think the same? I know we can't possibly all look the same (again, underpants are for everyone) but do we have some sort of hive mind going on which sort of directs our panty preferences?

Do they feel sporty when they put on the striped pair?
Do they feel adolescent and dainty when they put on the flowery pair?
Did they feel frugal about buying panties because they came in a ten pack?
Do they hate boy shorts and thongs as much as I do?
Do they look at people in public places and wonder if you're wearing the same underwear?

I wonder and that's why I'll admit that today I'm wearing the blue, pink, yellow and green vertical striped pair. They're comfortable. They don't ride up my crack too much.

Then there are the differences! Small butts and large butts and hairy butts and smelly butts. All of us wearing vertically striped Fruit of the Looms, going about our days, performing every task known to mankind. Can I claim greatness because maybe I'm wearing the same skivvies as Hillary Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, Gloria Steinem, Sandra Day O'Connor and Billy Jean King? I think I can, even if Oprah's posterior is mostly unlike mine.

At least when I watch Oprah, I don't assume that she's wearing a thong, God bless me.

Friday, June 13, 2008

I have my events catered.



Ever have a compelling fantasy where you and your beloved roll around naked as jaybirds in a big vat of cool creamy macaroni salad?




Oh. I see. That's just me.




Can I borrow a Q-tip then?

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Why my hand smells like a cat's bum.

My dumb gay cat insists on perching himself up on my desk, where I put my mousepad, and sitting his butt on my mouse.

(Insert dumb gay cat and mouse joke here.)

(Hey now, that's lewd, perverts.)

What gets me is that this dumb gay cat...in which I feed...in which I pet...in which I allow back in the room to assert his dominance after my husband and I have enjoyed marital maintenance...looks at me like I'm violating HIS precious space when I shove him off the desk.

Dammit, he just parked himself there again, with his back all to me, twitching his tail in my direction.

I'm struggling with my personal space in general as well as at the moment. Not only in my dumb gay cat still sitting on my mouse but my three year old is sitting on my lap. He's going through that inevitable toddler nudist phase which makes this personal space thing ever the more charming. At least his tail is not twitching.

I seem to not be adjusting to having everyone here for summer vacation as well as I usually do. I wasn't looking forward to it like I have before.

I have to give up space that is usually mine. Physical space, the space of sounds, mental space, spiritual space. I'm deluged with motion around me, and questions, and constant eating and noise.

This summer around I don't want to compromise on my space. This summer around I've had violating looks for those who shove me off the desk.

Sigh...

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Bleached Whale

Hi, I'm Becky. I'm melanin deficient.

Or mostly I am. I have moles. I have freckles. I'm a brunette. The other ninety five percent of my outward visage is white. Very white. Mayonnaisey. I walk around in a pair of shorts and folks begin craving turkey cold cuts.

I know I offend many with how virginal my skin appears. I wish I didn't. I wish people would look at my legs (I have a 35" inseam) in all their glowy glory and regard them as highly as they regard Mother Theresa. Instead they throw on a pair sunglasses in disgust. On the upside, if they don't have any sunglasses at the ready, they forget about any mucus spewing aliens they might have seen. Memory erasing isn't a service anyone thinks to thank you for though.

Sunscreen is one of my bestest friends forever XOXOXO.

Mother Theresa may have earned her tan, but yesterday I bought mine in a tube. I'm feeling pressured by society to not be so natural. I blew dry my hair this morning, shaved my legs, applied deodorant and after I write this I'm going to slather my legs with stinky goo and hope beyond hope I don't turn orange.

Orange or bright white, either color could signal emergency help if you find yourself stranded on a deserted island. Orange might be better. You don't need to be craving turkey cold cuts in a situation like that.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Don't fart on my kids.

My brother in law gave me a suppository.

He didn't give me a suppository, rather, he supplied me with a suppository he and my sister keep on hand for their type 1 diabetic children. When two of their three children get stomach flu it's dangerous. Vomitting is bad; makes their sugars and ketones crazy, starts destroying vital organs. This suppository stops hurling on the spot and then puts them to sleep moments later. It keeps their house virtually vomit free.

The day after interviewing my tolerant parents, which was the day before my nephew's wedding, (which is why we ventured into the beehive in the first place) I started hurling in the morning and by late evening I hadn't stopped. I got to thinking that if I hurled once more I'd land myself in an emergency room, which isn't convenient when you think about it, so it was suppository time. My sister and her husband offer me one every time I'm at their house, healthy or no. They're generous people.

Happiness is a warm....uh...nevermind.

Family is nice that way. My sister's partner in life and evil even offered to help with the next suppository, should I need one, or even if I don't. Various methods of application were described, along with all the appropriate sound effects.

My family is becoming more and more aware of this blog, offering up all kinds of funny things to write about. When I come home from Christmas it's been my habit to quote the funnier things that come out of their Utah County backwoods mouths. This visit around they would spout off something untoward, appear blank for a moment, and then exclaim, "Becky, you should write that on your blog!"

What? And really scare my readers and other hangers on? If they start vomitting as a result, are we going to supply all of them with suppositories too?

Now that I'm home, feeling back up to par, the only quote I remember is the same brother in law warning my older sister to not be so uncouth as to pass wind on his progeny. I don't even remember the context for it.

"Don't fart on my kids."

Sage advice.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Spay or neuter your pets, but drown your cats.

In the interest of fairness, I asked my dad if I could interview him this morning. He was agreeable.

Becky: I asked Mom personal questions. Can I ask you personal questions?
Becky's Dad: I don't have to answer nothin'. They don't know who I am.

Becky: What do you think of Mom's cat?
Becky's Dad: Damn cat.

Becky: That's some foul language Dad...
Becky's Dad: I guess you're probably right. The situation warrants it.

Becky: So you dislike cats?
Becky's Dad: They are a pain in the butt.

Becky: So it's butt and not ass?
Becky's Dad: Yup.

Becky: What don't you like about Mom's cat?
Becky's Dad: You mean cats in general?

Becky: Sure.
Becky's Dad: They're very demanding.

Becky: Do they ask for your money?
Becky's Dad: Won't eat nothin' but expensive cat food.

Becky: Is that you're eating cereal this morning instead of pancakes?
Becky's Dad: Took all my money.

Becky: Mom's cat is real old though, huh?
Becky's Dad: Uh-huh.

Becky: Do you have any thoughts you want to leave my readers and other hangers on with?
Becky's Dad: About?
Becky: Anything.
Becky's Dad: I made a mistake allowing cats in this house. Don't do it.

Becky: Because they take up your money?
Becky's Dad: Because they mess in the flower bed, and yowl at the door, and they won't get up off Ma's lap so she can make me something to eat.

Becky: You know, if the cat was outside all the time it would mess in your flower beds all the more.
Becky's Dad: That's true.


Becky's Dad: ...But then there's the cat hair.


Becky's Dad: ...Cats belong outside.....


Becky's Dad: .....I think I'd rather choose the lesser of two evils and have him outside crappin' in the flower beds more.


Becky's Dad: ...I ain't a cat person....



Dad's immune to the power of kitten. I wouldn't stare long if I were you.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

I hate this laptop keyboard. It's a pain in my ass.

Here I sit, on Justin's work laptop, at my parent's home in Utah County, stealing internet on someone's unsecured wireless. I don't even know whose internet it is. They've named their wireless, "Linksys". Is it fair game? Meh. I'm evil.

I asked my mom what I should write about this morning and she replied that I should write about pancakes. I figure I could ask her several questions on the subject.

Becky: Where's my colon? (I'm searching for punctuation on the laptop keyboard.)
Becky's Mom: Your colon! Heh.

Becky: What do you think about pancakes Mom?
Becky's Mom: I like homemade ones, not the ones out of packages that bounce like rubber balls.

Becky: So you dislike balls?
Becky's Mom: Depends on the balls.

Becky: I see. You're a ball discriminator?
Becky Mom: I could say something but it might not be nice.

Becky: I ain't writing what you were going to say...
Becky Mom: It's just as well.

Becky: So, pancakes. How do you make pancakes?
Becky's Mom: You put in flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, mix with mixer, then eggs, buttermilk, oil and vanilla. Mix well. (Ma B's Pancake Recipe)

Becky: What, no love?
Becky's Mom: There's love, but there is also a little bit of spit.

Becky: So you like bodily fluids?
Becky's Mom: Mmmm good.

Becky: Is there any thoughts that you'd like to leave my readers and other hangers on with?
Becky's Mom: My pancakes have made you what you are today, my darling daughter! (I wonder if that's why you're absent minded?)

Becky: I thought it was the bodily fluids.


Genetics. Ahh, genetics.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Emerging from my clam shell.

Just when I think I'm done grumbling about school being out and summer vacation beginning, I find yet another reason that is grumble worthy.

Tell me what you think of this:




Are you offended? Are you disgusted? Are you slightly bemused yet subtly aroused?

I'm wondering why I can't traipse around like this at the community pool. Why do I have to skillfully secret away this particular secondary sex trait? Men don't. Men are allowed to be as chimpanzee as they are capable of. We might point at the back hair and laugh, but still, it's acceptable.

I want to wear a proper swimsuit. At least at the community pool I want to swim while wearing a swimsuit. They don't let you get in the pool without one.

But...

I don't wanna shave it. I don't wanna wax it. I don't want to spread a stinking, burning depilatory on it. I want to avoid pain and itching and general discomfort around my sensitive girly bits. If that means swim-fro, so be it. I'm liberating my follicles!

Who made up these rules about femininity? Women, if you're hairy, you're nasty. Don't you dare leave one single hair growing in the wrong spot. If you do you'll be accused of all manner of terrible behavior unrelated to the growth of hair. Anything from sampling grapes at the grocery store right down to decades of tax evasion. Lordy, who knows what you're capable of if you've got pokeys.

I also want to know why I should buy the razors and shaving cream marketed to women? Do disposable razors made out of pink plastic do a more thorough job on the 'fro than the ones made out of blue plastic? If you give the razor the name of Roman goddess, will hair removal be transcendent and hair regrowth be miraculously slow? What is wrong with regular 88 cent a can shaving cream? It smells fine, works fine. Why do I have to assert my womanhood by buying shaving cream that costs two to three times as much and smells like cucumber/watermelon/chai-tea/peppermints? If I wanted to smell like a cucumber after my bath, I'd take an honest to God actual cucumber into my bath, alrighty?

I don't need an at home spa experience to make me feel womanly or pampered. I need to not have my chain yanked.

You readers and other hangers on of the male persuasion...Don't you go and tell me some nonsense about clean being sexy and/or preferable. I do not care what state you think about my sensitive girly bits should be in. You do not count. Nope, you don't! If I do not want to get rid of the swim-fro then you will tolerate that...nay, you will love it. Or else. It's hair. It's not going to bite you. Don't you look at me like that. Roar.

Sisters, unite with me. Join the movement. Sacrifice your razors to the cause! Let's wear short shorts and cry out, "My follicles are mad as hell and they won't take it anymore!" Revolution!



Ladies?




Sisters?




Fine.

I'll get rid of the swim-fro before I go to the pool.

But I'm not happy about it.

Monday, June 02, 2008

More fiber, less Doritoes.

It's Monday. It's summer vacation. My teacher husband is home. All three of my children are home. As usual, I'm home. We're all here...home.........home.............hommmmmmmeeeeeeeahhhh.

This means whatever schedule I usually have is off.

My days are simple during the school year. Observe:


- Wake up before I want to. I am not a morning person. Pee. Drive the kid to school in my pajamas.
- Brew coffee.
- Make the three year old cereal. Peel him a banana. Refuse his requests for candy, cookies and doritoes. Deal with ensuing tantrum.
- Turn on computer. Write witty blog post. Write witty blog comments. Drink coffee.
- Poop. Thank you coffee.
- Listen to Backyardigans. Feel dumb because I find myself bopping to the music.
- Housework.
- Kid takes nap. I check out my stretchmarks and grey hairs in the mirror before I shower.
- Kids come home from school. Refuse requests for candy, cookies and doritoes. Deal with ensuing tantrums.
- Husband comes home from school. Disable housewife mode, turn on sex kitten mode.

See? Simple. Regular.

On the upside, I now get to wake up when I want to. The downside is that I'm no longer regular. I'm as bound up as a rodeo bull and just as perky about it. The day long droning requests for Doritoes from three growing boys is so distracting. The coffee isn't even helping me along.

Constipation disables sex kitten mode.

Not to mention all the extra housework. My fourteen year old son has begun to shave. This means that by the time he's done swiping fuzz off his upper lip with a single blade razor that the bathroom and the hallway leading to the bathroom is splattered with water and lime scented shaving cream. I make him clean it. I make him repeat cleaning it until it's really clean and not his version of clean. I have to make them all clean up after themselves beyond their versions of clean.

Then the hot water is gone and I have to put off my shower until after Katie Couric muffles through the news.

I expect my lower colon to have it's own tantrum in about a month...and boy, won't they be sorry then...

Sex kitten mode my ass.

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