Friday, October 31, 2008

This is my everyday makeup...

You know it's Halloween when you get kisses from your kids and they taste and smell like artificial grape flavoring and peanut butter.



Now, go squeeze into something slutty and get me some candy.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

The Absent Minded Tease

Hi. I'm Becky, The Absent Minded Housewife.

For the record, I am not Becky, The Absent Minded Prostitute. Or, Becky, The Absent Minded Swinger. Or, Becky, The Absent Minded Small Town Dominatrix. (Even if my previous post hinted at such notions. I lied to all of you.)

For those readers and other hangers on who live in my general area, you well know that my little town of Bendover, NV has a reputation as being a DEN OF SIN. It's a blight on the Utah horizon. It's a place where you can drink wine out of a box right on the streets. It's a place where you can wallow in filthy lucre. It's hedonism in it's most trailer park form. If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, it really sticks like a booger on your finger in Bendover.

So what happens when you use the above photo in your social networking profiles and you admit that you live in what's someone else's perceived DEN OF SIN?

You get offers.

There are unseemly men and women out there who think that if they sauntered into my town to visit our fine casinos that I would be free and willing to perform all manner of disgusting activities. In exchange for such services I'm offered anything between fulfillment of what they tell me is every housewife's fantasy to money orders filled out for large amounts. Liquor is optional.

I'm flattered...sorta. I do like the above photo. It makes the most of not showing any of my stretchmarks and gives me the illusion of having breasts.

Declining offers is loads of fun sometimes. The last offer asked if I was really that hot and then asked if I was cool about "chatting" with him. I replied that I was lukewarm. Perfectly and monogamously lukewarm. Other times I'll be asked if I'm interested in some disease passing activity and I'll just reply "Nope."

More often than not the follow up I receive after declining advances is, "Have you always lived in Bendover?" Which only means, "I thought you lived in Bendover and you know what kind of folks choose to live in that DEN OF SIN, so why won't you boink me you silly pantyhosed woman?"

I just love boinking random backwards strangers. Bah...eejits.

There has got to be some way to make money out of this while keeping my skirt in it's proper place.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

It could be worse. It could have been Necco wafers.

Tonight is my first super duper official meeting with the rest of the big wigs on the block as a homeowner's association officer.

Vote AMHW 2020 y'all. I'll lower your taxes and raise your roofs, wootwoot!

I'm unsure what issues we are going to cover in this meeting. I have a list of possible topics which are sure to be discussed with the seriousness in which they are offered.


1. I wish to sell illegal substances and badly lit and edited homemade "movies" out of my abode. How much will that raise my homeowner's fees and insurance premiums? The economy is crap and I need to watch my cash flow carefully.

2. Is spraying my hose on the neighbor's children when they act stupid (which is a different, less quality type of stupid than my own children display) against HOA rules? My squirt finger is itchin'.

3. If I can't get my cat to poop in my neighbor's flowerbed, is there a better way to annoy her?

4. So it's a no on the 12 foot hot pink "marital aid" displayed on my roof for Valentine's Day? What if I got matching decorations for everyone? We could put them on motion sensors.

5. Let's put a lien on the abandoned property next door so I can buy it for 100ths of cents on the dollar. In addendum to the movie biz, brothels are legal in my county and I'm going to make it worth everyone's while. I do indeed own black leather boots.

6. Don't worry about the smoke coming from my house...the fire is my husband and I making sweet sweet love. Ignore the piglike grunting as well.

7. I move that we interrupt this meeting for a Hot Cheetos run.

8. And finally...if I have a big bowl of candy left over from Halloween, I'm applying to the HOA for a refund of the cost of said candy. I bought dum-dums and tootsie rolls and they don't go as fast as Twix bars you know.



My leadership abilities are excellent. I'm looking forward to serving my block in this capacity.

And I hope no one leaves a flaming bag of cat poo on my porch.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Get pumped.

Instead of reading this, wherever you are, go buy some gasoline.



This week we can give our posteriors a rest.

Friday, October 24, 2008

November Fresh

Only eleven more days until election day. Only thirteen more days to my 34th birthday.

The best birthday present I'm receiving this year is the removal of Dubya from the presidency. I think I'm getting a Keane CD too, but by far ending the war on errorism is the nicest thing and gets a proper handblogged thank you note. If you don't recall, or haven't been here before and so are ignorant of my more than righteous opinions, I think George Bush Jr. is a twat.

I thought he was a twat eight years ago. I thought he was a much bigger twat four years ago. I think he's an enormous drooping drooling twat today. I have many reasons to think he's a twat, none of which would be a surprise to anyone living in such times as these.


Twat is one of my favorite words and now I feel it's lost some of it's cozy warm meaning when I point it at our departing president despite how enormous he is.

As my right to vote descends upon me I'm beginning to feel as fresh and free as a sundress wearing model on a douche box.

Feel me...feels free don't it? You can sniff me too. I'm pina colada scented.

Happy voting people.


***

Speaking of twats, I've guest posted today over at Mental Poo.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

I want a pony.

I'm still pissed about yesterday's Oh-pur.

(Though, technically I don't have to pee. On the way to the bathroom the phone rang, I picked it up, and since it was my husband I felt free to flush. Marriage is awesome.)

Part of my pissiness has been building up because I just finished re-reading the Little House series of books, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

When I need a kick in my 21st century butt I read those books.

What many parents relayed in yesterday's Oh-pur is that they wanted their children to have more than they had growing up. What I don't understand is how that translates to "material possessions" for so many parents in today's world. Maybe in Laura Ingalls world that would have been true, where having more meant having more than two sets of clothing to wear and one pair of shoes...or more education or plentiful more nutritious food...so what's the deal with these parents today? Where are their heads?

Did you see the end of the show where a parent was considering taking out a loan to send her fifth grade son on a field trip to Costa Rica? Good hell...COSTA RICA. C'mere woman, I need to lay a Laura Ingalls on your ass.

I'm a lucky woman. My kids are lucky kids. I have the beautiful opportunity of having this computer to explore the world, a telephone to keep in touch with my husband during the day while he's working a job that doesn't require manual labor and isn't dangerous, and a toilet with running water in my modernly heated home which is clean smelling and sanitary. Certainly we could be worse off and the hell I won't make sure my kids know it.

I suppose attitudes aren't any different than in the time of Aristotle and Socrates...but then again, they didn't have Walmarts or Dancing with the Stars.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I want candy.

I know today's Oprah is going to piss me off.

(From this point on, Oprah will be referred to as "Oh-pur")

I also know that the expensive toilet paper that I don't buy still wouldn't be enough to wipe off with after I've gotten pissed off.

The intro to today's show, The best money lessons that you can teach your child, reads:

When every dollar counts, parents are having to say no…when all they've ever said is yes. How to tell your overindulged kids that the spending has to stop now!


To which Suze Orman earns another paycheck from Oh-pur and tells us how to put our foot down with our spoiled bratty children. Just say no to designer jeans, shoes, video games, phones and MP3 players that cost more than what mexican immigrants make in a year.

Oh-pur got the idea from the NY Times article, The Frugal Teenager, Ready or Not.

Reading the above has pissed me off. I now know why monkeys throw shit at mouthbreathing people in zoos. Where is that expensive toilet paper I don't buy then?

Last week I complained about being frustrated in parenting my oldest son. Today I've had a moment of serenity about him because he's never thrown a screaming tantrum because I've refused to buy him a laptop. I've also refused to buy him a cell phone (because he does not need one) and I've refused to buy him a PS3 (because *I* do not want that expensive mind sucking device in my house along with the other less expensive mind sucking devices.) If he wants either he will have to get a J*O*B.

This show should be an embarrassment to all parents in the USA, whether you've cursed society with a Veruca Salt or not.

Why can't those parents give to ME money dammit!? Hear that, you brat breeders? GIVE ME MONEY. GIVE IT TO ME. I WANT IT. I WANT IT NOW. GIVE IT TO ME OR I'LL CALL CPS! GIVE IT TO ME AND YOUR KIDS WILL FINALLY THINK YOU ARE COOL!

I'm never going to get into an Oh-pur audience on Favorite Things day.

I've talked about this wave of entitlement before...when our houses were still worth what we interest only mortgaged them for and our borrowed against 401k's were still vitamin enriched. HERE I complain about designer degrees and student loan debt and HERE I complain about the freewheeling credit card habits of my generation.

All of this gets my generic ten dollar long inseam jeans in a wad. Pissed. Yup pissed. No other reason to keep using potty words.

So...how do you tell your kids no? Put your tongue up against the roof of your mouth, form the "N" sound, move your mouth into a round shape and slide that N into a long "O". Nnnnehhhoooohhhh.

No. Period. Have all the tantrums you like. I'm going to be your parent and not your buddy. I will be your parent and instill in you that your worth has nothing to do with the logo on your clothes or the battery operated devices plugging up your ears. I will be your parent and try to raise you into manhood or womanhood and not into entitle-hood.

So no. Just no.


Oh-pur.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Line Jumping

Saturday, Justin and I jammed our children into our fabulous mini-van and took them on our once a year jaunt to the local amusement park. Local is a relative term as the park is 130 miles away in Utah. That's ok. We like spending time with our children in the mini-van.

The weather was lovely.

Which means the place was jam packed with people. There are two reasons for this. It was Saturday in Utah and not Sunday and tickets in October were fifteen bucks cheaper with a coupon than tickets in summer.

My three year old won some kind of lumpy stuffed velour pillow thing at a ball toss midway game. It's got a suction cup on it which I can't divine a purpose for other than to make it obvious that the prize did indeed suck. We paid twelve bucks for it.

After that we forced my three year old on a ride that was a favorite when I was a little pooper. It took my son an hour to ride the baby boats:


The ride only lasted mere seconds, moments of redundant boaty bell ringing bliss for the kiddies. What took so damned long is that every time parents loaded their kids into their seats the digital cameras popped out. Smile Jayson...Mason..Payson...smile! Look over here...smile! McKennalotta! McKENNNNALOTTTTA! SMILE! The attendant was not allowed to start the ride until the parents got their family fun having butts back behind the fence.

This is why I will never, ever, ever, scrapbook. They sniff glue.

After negotiating our way out of kiddieland, Justin and I spent time people watching, counting foreheads while the older kids rode rides that spin fast. We'd never noticed it before but our good friends and neighbors in the state in which we were born have very large craniums. It's bordering on obscene.


We stopped counting when it became necessary to take off our shoes to keep up. I shouldn't make fun of people with big heads.

It was tiresome and a bit cultish being herded around the park so we left around 8 to get some real food in a real restaurant. Ironically we ended up at Applebee's. The restaurant we wanted to go to, next door, was holding a private function and our small heads warn't invited.

We were seated in a booth next to a couple on a date. The woman kept making complaints about her food. More mayo. More fry sauce. More fries. My toast is too toasted. Check, affirmative on the large forehead. Her large head did nothing to remind her that she was eating at an Applebee's.

Soon enough, my three year old announced to the entire restaurant that he had to poop, so I took him by the hand and led him to the restroom, potty seat in tow. I'm an experienced mother so I know that making use of the larger handicapped stall is important when two of you have to fit in there and the other stalls barely have room for a person's knees. That's where I met the woman in the next booth. She stood, waiting, and sighing, at my stall door, while my son did his business and yakked on about poo-poo this and pee-pee that. When I opened the door she didn't even wait for me or my son to exit the stall. She walked right in with us! The three of us stood there in the stall for a moment. Two of us were not as oblivious as the other one of us.

By the way, this is not why women go to the restroom in groups.

Looking at the date's male counterpart on the way back to our table, you could tell that the evening was not going well. He was sort of slumped over, his hands over his eyes, resting his head, and stifling sobs. He had a normal forehead.

I should have given him the lumpy suction cup pillow prize for effort. I think he'd probably earned it.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

I cannot believe Leanne won...

My...warn't the debate feisty!

You know how I know that this final debate was important? It was on at the same time of the final episode of season five of Project Runway and I found I'd much rather stare at McCain's and Obama's split-screened faces than collections of custom sewn clothing.

Tim Gunn, you know I love you, but dude, you had scheduling issues.

It's tempting to photoshop McCain and Obama's heads to Victoria's Secret angel models so I can get my runway fix. Joe the Plumber might appreciate such a thing. That sort of visual would ease the pinch of taxes and healthcare and negative campaigning. A vote for seamless cup construction in bras is a vote against terrorism.

Obligatory Proposition 8 mention here.

I can't wait to vote because someone's seams just ain't straight.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

A 9x12 pan, not an 8x8 pan.

Anyone want a fourteen year old boy child? His appetite hasn't hit it's stride yet.

He's free. Absolutely FREE!

I'll give you twenty bucks and a pan of brownies too. Just take him for 24 hours.

Aren't fairy tales full of deals where some curmudgeonly character whisks away your firstborn in return for superpowers or wealth? I am tempted to check out to Neverland and I could use an ability to belch gift cards to Applebee's. Eatin' good in the neighborhood.

Let's not put on a freshly laundered and starched housewife apron and pretend I'm not frustrated with parenting this child. I'm frustrated as hell and today I'm tired. He's got an ever enduring pervasive character trait which won't serve him well as he goes forth into the world, for which I apologize in advance. We're trying, Lord knows, to drive better sense into his head. He'll finally get it and all this heartburn will have been worth it...or he won't and he'll be in charge when we're all in rest homes.

To put a positive spin on my frustration, he might have been born a girl and in addition to being such a joy in the ways he is already, he could also be in the weepy raging throes of estrogen.

Meh. I thought the estrogen thing would make me feel better. It didn't.

Yesterday I had him in his room with a bucket of soapy water, freshening the place. His room needed freshening for sure but the purpose was to make sure he had something useful to do after we'd done some work on this character trait of his. Might as well. I took away his MP3 player, and a bunch of CD-roms and an interesting array of foodstuffs which were abandoned between his mattress and bedsprings. These next few weeks he's going to be given a lot of useful things to do so he really doesn't have time to think.

So, I'm going to sit back a minute today, while he's at school, and just blink for a while.

And I'll try not to drink hard likker.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Blanket Hogs

Justin, my ever decreasing husband, and I, sleep butt to butt.

He's ever decreasing because at this point he's lost 34 pounds. His losing weight has nothing whatsoever to do with why we sleep butt to butt. We've almost always slept that way. The night of the State of the Union address is an amusing circus under the sheets.

When we were first married we tried to sleep in each other's arms, you know, like how happily married folk are supposed to sleep. Little wistful smiles pasted on our betrothed faces, perfectly pressed linens, sharing one pair of pajamas and a remarkable lack of bedhead. Ahh, the picture of bliss.

What we found is that one of us was always breathing in the other's exhale, which resulted in lightheadedness, and that even though you appear thin, when you are asleep you weigh as much as shetland pony. Wistful smiles are not comfortable smiles.

Though Justin and I have been married long enough to make us an example to others, I still wonder if we are going about this properly and even more interesting, what other people are doing in their marriages.

This is sort of a backwards thought to put into writing on my blog. I once wrote about an emailer who asked why, as a housewife, I didn't go on more about my marriage. To sum up, I told that emailer to quit being a Nosey Nosepicker. No one invited you to the special and sacred intimacy that is the sheet circus.

It's not that I want to be invited to other people's sheet circuses. That's how we pass along communicable diseases. Just that every great once in a while I want to know if my marriage is not terribly abnormal by comparing it with every one else's marriage. I'm staying away from the word "normal" because there are enough norms to make what Justin and I have normal. The ego stick gets another notch if I can compare favorably in my own head.

So, give your own ego stick a notch if you can manage to sleep in each other's arms. Or, notch it if you sleep butt to butt and agree with me. Or notch it if you sleep in separate rooms because you snore like a rhino in heat and you find living together much more pleasant when you both get a full 8 hours. Or give yourself a notch if you both manage to stay dry throughout the night.

Good. I don't feel so backwards anymore.

Now quit trying to sneak peaks at my ego stick, Nosey Nosepicker.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Dressing in layers.

Would it be considered halloween decorating if I admit that my cat has upchucked on my porch and I just want to leave it there?

It's cold!

And the upchuck is most likely frozen. It snowed Saturday morning. I hate snow. I hate Hitler and baby bunny rabbits and I hate snow.

Because it's cold I made my three year old put on a sweatshirt over his normal clothing this morning. This was a long sleeved affront to his person. He wept...and he screamed...he threatened to call CFS...and I wasn't budging. My kid is ugly and his mother dresses him funny. Warm, but funny.

He hates broccoli and baby bunny rabbits and he hates wearing clothing.

When I was in kindergarten my Mom used to make me wear this sweater with a clown on it. (Not unlike Wil Wheaton's clown sweater.) She thought it was adorable. I knew it was atrocious. It was a long sleeved pink affront to my person. How could any forward thinking sand table regular wear anything so...so...frozen cat barfy? I had a reputation to keep intact and that knitted horror wouldn't do!

I remember throwing a big snotty fit when she tried to dress me in that sweater.

Yet, my Mom was probably showing the good sense in warm clothing that I pretend to possess today. I think she knew that I was the little girl who crawled to the top of the monkey bars in a dress so the little boys could look at my underpants.

Even in kindergarten, everyone knew I got around.

I guess I'd better put on a sweater and go clean the frozen upchuck now.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Mission highly probable.

Period came early.



Dammit.



Must find

and devour

obscenely greasy bacon cheeseburger.


Growl.

Hiss hiss.

Spit.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

That one. Those two.

Debate! Debate, debate, debate, debate, debate, debate and debate!

Ahhh, got that out of my system.



Now let's discuss something else.

Like boobs.

I said I had a post on boobs in me months ago, but I was restrained because my home internet was on the fritz and the computer I was borrowing at Justin's school disallowed me to search for and post photos of boobies. All good things to those that wait...and besides, our school district doesn't disillusion itself with abstinence only education.

So...boobs.

I have them. I think. There are definitely odd protrusions on my chest. This is a recent, in my thirties, development. I thought I'd go back to my usual protrusionless state after my third child was born but amazingly I've kept some cleavage this time around. I like it, sort of. It doesn't chaff.

I'm still quite lopsided though.

It's only the rare woman whose protrusions aren't odd. Bras misdirect us into thinking that it's not ok to look like National Geographic models. They must be round, they must be firm, they must not sit under our armpits and they must not have unfashionable nipples. On top of this you must wear the right bra, which can't be built like an armored tank, but must be an expression of your personality at all times.

I'm here to tell you, as a self appointed mammary ambassador, that your boobs are ok. Unless you are growing an evil twin out of one of them, your boobs are normal. Too big and they drag on the floor? Normal. Too small and the nipples point towards your ribcage? Normal. You have what looks like a hedgehog around each nipple? Normal. One points east and the other points west? Normal. Swirling purple stretchmarks? Normal. You have a great expanse of valley between your mountains. Normal.

There are practical improvements on normal of course, like breast reductions or the removal of your evil twin, but otherwise I find getting wrapped up in whether or not our boobs look good is silly. Here I am submitting proof of my non-silliness, admitting forever and ever, on the interwebs, that I have near flat, somewhat saggy, uneven, hairy boobs...which are wonderfully sensitive and somewhat practical. I have a dent in my sternum too. It's sexy.

And if you think you've got great tits? Good on ya.

I know, I've preached the word about boobs with nary a photo to illustrate my point.


Blue feet on your boobs. Normal.

Reform! Taxes taxes taxes and terrorists. Main street, wall street, healthcare, Joe Six Pack, BUY MY MORTGAGE, BUY IT! BUYYYYYY ITTTTT!

Sorry. Slipped out.

No. I'm not posting a photo of my sternum dent. Deal.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

I'll take the whole bolt.



Jeff Goldblum...

In a fabric store...

Topless...


I suddenly wish I hadn't gotten a tubal ligation.

Sigh....

Monday, October 06, 2008

Put this on your stick and roast it.

I got caught up in talking about "personal responsibilty" this morning.

And "integrity" too, if "personal responsibility" warn't heavy enough for you on a Monday.

In the light of the bailout, and the stock market, and the presidential election, and the war, and whatever is going on with O.J. Simpson, talking about personal responsibilty and integrity makes our communal marshmallow roast a little less fluffy.

Just as delicious on s'mores though.

While I digest it all, this YouTube of a Japanese game show.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

You, sir, are no Jack Kennedy.

Ohhhhhhh I wanna write about politics...

It's vice presidential debate night. No, I didn't just make that up. Biden and Palin really are going to attempt to debate today. Because of this I have a compelling urge to write a post which merges Robert's Rules with some hot political cyber lovin'.

Get out your disinfecting cleaners.

I move that you pretend that you are a 7 foot tall 96FFFF blond wearing a bikini made out of the Wall Street Journal, who is blessed with both a raging case of nymphomania and foreign policy experience. Hawt.

I also move that I pretend I'm a herculean mastiff warrior possessing a huge, long and intimidating senate committee roster and a cute little tushy. Yum yum gimme sum.

Mmmmmm, yes, seconded on all points.

The floor is open to discussion before the vote. Let's get our debate on.




Anyone?



Fine.




I don't think I've got much talent for this anyway. Typing on about economic theory and national security with one hand isn't easy and it ends up indecipherable.

I guess I'll just end this post frustrated.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

The future will be better tomorrow.

Election 2020...I'm running for Vice President. Or maybe even 2016 if I get my butt in gear.

Last night I was voted into my homeowner's association presidency. I got my choice of actually being the big cheese or just the vice president and I chose the lesser of two evils. You may call me Madame HOA Vice President. Or Mistress Lilith for you naughty little boys.

When I was a little girl I remember dreaming those pink fuzzy little girl dreams about growing up, getting married, having lots of babies, living in a cute little house with a cute little fence and then putting myself in a position where I have to listen to my neighbor's parking disputes.

There is also some dramatic quarrelling about whose trash can goes where and what not. I can't wait to get elbows deep into that one.

I figure if I play my cards right that I can move from a leadership role in my HOA to the city council...then onto mayor of my town, population 5000...then governor of Nevada...Then Vice President of these United States baby!

And I won't have any of those nagging doubts about my fertility because I voluntarily ended it. No silly placenta fueled scandals and my sons can't get pregnant!

What I'm finding unfair about Sarah Palin's press coverage lately is the splashing about of that photo of her in pageant swimwear. Do any of you really care about this? The woman wore a swimsuit that covered what it needed to cover. (Google that. I ain't linking it.) I'm sure that at some point Barack and Joe and John have worn swimwear that covered their bits and no one is getting themselves worked up about that. None of them got into water and melted.

When I get nominated for Vice President of the United States of America I sure hope people see me wearing this:



And this:



And this:



Because that's my stand on the issues.

And my opinion about parking.

And that's the covering of my bits.

Absent Minded Archives