We're heading to Utah. Everyone have a safe and happy holiday!
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Which is why we are grateful when the temperature spiked a few degrees above freezing yesterday, the control valve to our lawn sprinkling system blew then, causing our snow covered lawn to burst into fountains, rather than blowing while the temperature was that much freeze-my-ass-off-ish.
Wait....it wouldn't have blown at all would it? If it had just stayed freezy? Dammit.
We did think we had turned it off. You unhook your hoses and turn the knobs off to your system and unplug then electricals and it shouldn't function. There should be no fountains. There should be no icicles hanging off your rose bushes. It's a stinkin' conspiracy! It's close to MLM!
My husband spent a few hours in some very cold mud yesterday removing the old valve and capping off the system until spring. There was a hacksaw involved. That's always entertaining. Anytime there is home maintenance to be done and it involves a hacksaw you know it may also be time to take off your shirt from under your overalls, put some bacon on the backyard grill, get out the shotguns, fire them into the air or toward neighborhood cats, and whoop. Hacksaws are just so earthy.
While repairs were underway the water was shut off which meant stern warnings to the kiddies that while they could sit down and introduce new substances into the toilet, they must not flush it. No water. We have ONE flush each toilet and there will be no wasting of the flushes!
Each kid took this to heart. They don't remember to flush half the time anyway, even when we haven't had winter fountains in the yard. My kids...they support hacksaw parties.
Just in case, when we get in our fabulous minivan tomorrow and drive ourselves into Utah to visit with our families, we'll be turning off the water right after that last long car ride flush. We absolutely don't need to put on a winter water show for our neighbors while we are gone.
Good thing I have never attempted to toilet train my cat. He never listens.
Day 24 of my audio advent calendar is 80 proof! This crazy drunk lady manages a jolly rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas.
Grandma? Is that you?
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
It's not mine. It's Justin's. Anyone else admit to owning Christmas in the Stars: The Star Wars Christmas Album? Used copies go from 65 to 130 on Amazon!
Use the force and try to enjoy R2-D2 We Wish You a Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
That is NOT the spirit of Christmas. For shame!
Buying any of the following will result in Santa Claus leaving you a lump of coal:
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sure, that sort of thing is hilarious in Dumb and Dumber but in real life it's just a pain in the butt.
So, day 21, have your music. Carol of the Bells by Laffy. Control yourself there buddy.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Trying to make puns out of Eminem lyrics for this post is a horrifying experience that I won't be repeating again.
Hands off my latkes shorty.
Friday, December 18, 2009
I'm ten years old, in fifth grade, and I'd been cast as the Mom in Goshen Elementary School's Christmas play and the boy I'd had a crush on since I was six was cast as the Dad. A kiss between us had been written into the second act. A kiss! A real peck on the lips kiss!
This had to be shortly after my older teen-aged sister cut my long little girl hair into a long mullet. With enough curl I could pass myself off as a adolescent Carol Brady. Lord knows there wasn't any other value in that haircut. It brought an aspect of realism to the part.
I was proud of my little onstage home and the homemaking skills I was scripted to perform there. We had a sad looking stage couch, a pathetic floor lamp, a sorry dinette set set with a bowl of plastic fruit, and a sagging Christmas tree at the back decorated by the rest of the fifth graders. In the middle of all this playing house domesticity, while pressing my dainties with my toy prop ironing board and iron, under the spotlight, I was to lay one on my Mike Brady in the quickest and least germ transferring way possible.
In first grade I gave this boy a construction paper covered and Elmer's glue scented shoebox containing 100's of paper hearts for Valentine's Day. I loved him.
With all the rehearsals over and the moment now mattering because it was in front of an audience of parents and peers, we leaned into each other, focused our eyes on each other's noses and mushed our tightened lips together.
The audience whooped.
That sealed it. When I grew up, I was going to marry this boy. Marry him, have perfect children with him, and live in my parent's camper in the backyard.
Did he feel the same way? Of course he did! I could tell because he wouldn't talk to me at recess.
Five months later I moved away. Sharing years of marital Christmases with him in front of a tree decorated with paper snowflakes was never to be. Even though I was only 27 miles away calling him would make me die from embarrassment and it was long distance anyway.
Getting over first love hurts.
The point of this story? Don't let your older sister cut your hair into a mullet. It wrecks the rest of your entire life.
Treat yourself this Christmas! Fix yourself some eggnog, take off the utilitarian cotton knits and put on some slinky satin and hose! Day 18 of my audio advent calendar, Walking Around in Women's Underwear by Bob Rivers.
Please don't send me your photos. Thanks.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Slim Sphincter blows his way through an uncoventional rendition of Come All Ye Faithful on day 17 of my audio advent calendar.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
My preschool aged kid knows about the super awesome ultimate Spider Man themed toy I've hidden up in the high shelf of my closet near the back, behind a box of illegal fireworks, a package of pantyliners and a stack of towels.
That's what I get for hiding leftover halloween candy up there and not thinking that my kid has climbing skills.
Spiderman likes feeling fresh.
For the next nine days I have to come up with excuses as to why I'm not sharing Spiderman with him. I could tell him the truth, that it's a Christmas present and now you've gone and ruined it. God hates snoopers.
Or I could get creative with my excuses and offer to pay for therapy when this child gets into his 30s.
- Spiderman is hiding from you. You tried to flush him down the toilet last week! You don't flush the solids that are supposed to be flushed down the toilet and yet you think Spiderman needs a spa treatment!
- That's Mommy's adult Spiderman toy which requires two D batteries and thorough cleaning.
- That's where Spiderman drinks Jager Bombs. He's stressed.
- Shhhhh...don't bother Spiderman while he's dressing in Mommy's clothing. What's so hard to believe about that? He already wears that skintight spandex. No harm in a little Fruit of the Loom bikini cut.
- If Spiderman has to listen to a reading of Fox in Socks one more time, he's going to explode!
- Spiderman's an atheist. No Christmas for you.
- Leave him alone. He's avoiding that naggy witch Mary Jane. Great power, great responsibility, her ass.
- If we leave Spiderman up there long enough he'll begin to go moldy and turn into Venom.
- You can't have Spiderman, we're giving him to starving children in Africa. That's what happens when you don't eat your broccoli.
Fine. I'll just move the damned thing. I'm going to stick it in the laundry room. The kids never venture in there.
...and Spiderman can try on my bras undisturbed.
O Holy horror! I can't tell if it's Christmas or Halloween with this uncredited version of O Holy Night on day 15 of my audio advent calendar. Chainsaws are more melodic.
Monday, December 14, 2009
It's five years old. That's ancient in cell phone terms. It doesn't text. It doesn't take photos. It doesn't play MP3s. It won't access my email. It can't grill paninis or whip up smoothies.
My landline phone has been ringing off the hook all morning. Do I really need another ringtone in addition? Are there any ringtones which don't annoy the living hell out of everyone?
I'm drawn to those superphones for the sheer nifty doodad value. Who needs a crusty and torn magazine while waiting at the doctor's office when you can whip out your phone and update your Twitter and Facebook with, "I'm waiting to see the Dr. I hate waiting!" With that covered you can move on to Farmville or Mobsters, take a picture of the woman sitting across from you sneaking peeks into her tissue and send that to everyone, then go ahead and pay your copay by punching a couple buttons.
I barely use my phone now, do I really want to pay for doodads? How much do you pay for doodads anyway? If I got a crackberry on Amazon for a penny and sign up for a two year contract, how much am I really paying if I add all the extras that you buy a crackberry for?
My husband's phone is dying too. Is a happy marriage one where we both own a crackberry?
Maybe I should just cancel phone service altogether and get one of them "as seen on TV" internet phones for all my long distance needs. That's all I use my cell phone for now.
Well, there was that one time I called the number on a "How's my driving?" bumper sticker, because the driving was indeed unskilled and dangerous, and got hung up on. Customer service at it's finest.
If I get a phone with doodads I can Twitter or Facebook about the dangerous driver, look up his plates, find out his home address, look that up on google maps, then decide exactly the sneakiest course to go toilet paper his house...and then lurk on his wife's blog.
Danke Schein? Day 14 of my audio advent calendar is Wayne Newton styling Jingle Bell Hustle.
I'd do the bump with Wayne, yes I would.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Because after you've invested 160 bucks for all the motorized hamster accessories they show on the commercials you expect a little more bang for your buck. They'd better play with the damned things until they are a junior in college or they do indeed kill 'em.
I'm frustrated with the quality of toys this season in balance with most people's budget.
Don't get me wrong here. I'm more than grateful to have a budget at all. The ability to buy my kids even one present is more than many have, much less a present that has absolutely no purpose other than to provide joy. It just seems to me, this year more than any other, that to provide quality toys under a fake or dying tree takes selling off the first born.
Fattens the budget for the rest of the brood. Think about it. Also reduces milk consumption and mess around the toilet hinges.
BB guns, which are good Christmas presents, are 30 to 60 bucks. Footballs, which aren't very good Christmas presents, are around 15. Those toys might last a while if they made them like they used to. Chances are they don't. Kids will take an eye out. Once you verify that nothing will kill your child by way of poisonous metals you have to worry about the toy you can afford breaking shortly after the three month return period.
This has made my shopping experience more frustrating than the usual holiday frustrating shopping experience...and I don't do Black Friday. What the hell do I put into my cart when everything is crap?
On top of this, holiday advertising for the really cool toys, the toys we can't afford, is as smothering as that dumb blanket with sleeves. Sorry kiddo...Santa Claus doesn't like you enough to leave the as seen on TV $300 life sized interactive dinosaur by the tree. Swear to Cletus, if he did, and if that thing ever ended up outside, my kid would be in traction.
That's why my kid has been watching PBS when it comes to TV. Not much toy licensing there, right?
Lumps of coal just might be more useful in these times. At least coal is shiny.
I'm consoled with day 11 of my audio advent calendar. I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas by Yogi Yorgesson. When he sang this classic there was no RockBand for the PS3.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
The point of this gathering was to shed off the pre-Christmas teaching idiot teens doldrums and get completely plastered. Such events are a novelty to me. I grew up in the Utahiest location in Utah, which means Kool-aid was the beverage of choice, and I was too married with kid in college to manage any sort of partying.
Growing up the culture I grew up in, it was unimaginable that teachers partied like it was 1999. Everyone knew that teachers went home at the end of the day, ate bricks of government cheese, spot cleaned their twenty year old ties, and had one position sex with their spouses. Teachers did not do jello-o shots.
As a suspected one position sex spouse, shedding such an image at this event became important to me. I wasn't planning to get knackered but I did want to change my daily wardrobe from any fabric that could be described as a fleece, including my slippers. What this meant was taking out the ironing board, pulling my favorite black cotton blouse out of the laundry and spiffing it up a bit.
Turns out that ironing wasn't the only way I was going to spiff up the shirt. That was accomplished in a fabulous way already.
There was silver micro glitter sort of collected in the armpits of my non-housewife blouse. In over a decade of housewifing I have never in my life pulled a clean shirt out of the basket in the laundry room to find that fairies had magically inspected my laundry but in no way attempted to finish, fold or iron it for me. Little twits.
Turns out that disco ball pits are the result using extra deodorant because of hot flashes and then washing my blouse with the halloween costumes.
What's the point of this story? I had to wear a sweater and I took a photo of the social studies teacher's buttcrack after she'd downed a large amount of tequila and white russians. I may be glittery but at least I wasn't vertically smiling.
Or mixing those two. Yark.
If you are hungover, don't listen to day 8 of my audio advent calendar. Tastee Christmas, which is logically uncredited.
What are you doing being hungover on a Tuesday anyway?
Monday, December 07, 2009
That's right. Fed right up. I am seriously tired of doing everything for them and I get nothing but mess in return. Enough with the entitled attitude too. Enough with the gimmes.
Without much ado at 6:30 this morning I shoved them out the door.
In a plastic baggie.
With some of their tank water.
Those fishy orange bastards will live the rest of their long and useless lives in our highschool's science classroom, pooping and begging to be fed. They'd eat to the point of explosion and I just wasn't into being that cruel. Fishfood...it's wafer thin. Better to expose them to hoardes of pubescents.
My kids asked where the goldfish went. I shrugged. They asked what I was going to do with the tank. I told them I was going to clean it and put it away for a very very long time.
So...in memoriam...all my fish over the years. You'll be remembered Thor, Jussy, Scumbag, Redeye, Oprah, Dr. Phil, Jon Stewart, Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, The Gert Jonnys, and The Village People.
Let the requests for a box turtle begin.
They say sugar won't over stimulate you but I beg to differ. Day 7 of my audio advent calendar is Christmas Cookies and Holiday Hearts by The Caroleer Singers.
Put down that candy cane and step away from the gingerbread.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
The birth of our savior kicks ass.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Day 5 of my audio advent calendar brings you Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer enthusiastically sung by Regis Philbin and Donald Trump.
If I had antlers, they'd be tingling.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Because, you people with female offspring can't have possibly experienced what I experienced last night. Girls don't pull those kinds of shenanigans. It doesn't even occur to them. They'd rather die than do what my fifteen year old son did to my ten year old son.
Keep in mind that my ten year old is a gentle kid. He's a boy sure. He likes to blow things up too, but when he expresses his desire to do so he wants to make sure everyone has a blanket and hot chocolate first.
The fifteen year old would stand there with lit explosives in his hands wondering how big the boom will be when it does go off.
So while my older boy doesn't have sense enough to remove himself from possible danger he does possess enough logic to know that if your stomach is a wee bit upset from eating all the crap teenagers are compelled to eat and you're passing foul winds that passing said winds in your brother's room keeps the smell out of your own room. If your brother is in there quietly playing video games when the bomb hits, well, all the better.
And if your mother walks into the quiet son's room to put something away and has to run back out gagging? Cha. Ching!
When I regained my senses and discovered that the reek was just the result of a SBD and not a clandestine dead pet I demanded my oldest spray disinfectant, change his clothing and chug some Pepto. He was warned that farting in such a way again would result in assault charges. As in, charges on me, because I'd beat him.
(Oh shush...I know what you've read here before. Do as I say, not as I do.)
How I fear for my oldest son's future spouse! The apologies start now. I'm so sorry. I am so so so sorry. Know that I did try to instill a little couth into the boy.
You parents of girls, this doesn't happen in your house, does it?
Yeah, don't ask MY parents that question. They have four daughters.
If the above didn't make you sorry enough, day 4 of my audio advent calendar brings this lovely rendition of Little Drummer Boy sung by Marlene Dietrich.
Put the drumsticks down.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Rockin Disco Santa from the American Song Poem Archives.
Bummer, I got a polyester rash....
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Besides, that stuff is funny. Matches my decor.
One can't be funny all the time. Between the farts I have deep thoughts and a couple of brain cells to rub together.
There have been places on the internets where I could go to express myself in more adult and less lewd ways, to the chagrin of many. Places where I can use my great big vocabulary and cultivate a part of me that gets underutilized in the daily raising of my rug apes. It's natural that some of these spots in my online world come and go. A few have run their course and I miss them terribly. A few have stopped meshing well with my personality and life views. Some are too anonymous and others aren't anonymous enough.
Though all my meanderings in front of this screen and under my mouse there has been one constant. I've grown there in ways that I'm beyond grateful for. Yet, in all my years and participation in this particular forum, it never occurred to me that I was a likely choice to step into the role of moderator when a woman I respect and have quite a lot of appreciation for stepped down.
My silly fart joke loving self is now moderator of About.com's Marriage Forum.
Oh lordy, do they know what they're in for? Do I? Where is Scut Farkus when you need him? Who says this stuff isn't real life?
In any case, I'm truly honored. The Gas-X is in my desk drawer and I'll do my best.
December 1st? Time for caroling!
For your listening pleasure, day 1 of my audio advent calendar, Dominick the Christmas Donkey by Lou Monte. Enjoy.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Don't I always tell you when I have to go pee in a cup? That's how much I love and trust all of you, my readers and other hangers on. This flu which I'm finally getting over has resulted in my immunities taking a spa cruise and now whenever I pee my eyes water.
So I went to see my town's new doctor this morning.
When the hell did I get old enough to start seeing doctors who are younger than I am? He's feeling up my kidneys and explaining everything he knows about urinary tract infections and I'm the old crotch telling him that this isn't my first ride on the pony, just give me a damned prescription already! Is that a stethoscope or a pacifier?
He's forgiven though. New doc is CUTE. He's now christened Doctor HuggiePants for being so adorable. I had an urge to lick my fingers to paste down his cowlick and then make him a fluffer-nutter sandwich.
Of course the old Pap Schmear question arose.
When was your last Pap? What were the results? Did they use a swab or a spatula? Would you classify yourself as republican, democrat, independent or other? Who do you intend to vote for in the next election? Better buy ammo because they are gonna take away our guns!
I may schedule my next Pap with Dr. HuggiePants just so I can see if a Fisher Price gynecology set is molded out of pink plastic.
When I'm done in the stirrups I want a sticker.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Oh, you're not. You're just enthusiastically agreeing with me. Sharing my pain. Thanks. This is why I blog. Share my pain, not my flu.
Having my Thanksgiving here in Nevada means everything I do to my turkey in Nevada stays here in Nevada.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Could that statement be an effective pick up line in a bar? One of you try it out and get back to me.
Maybe it's swine flu. I didn't get a vaccination. Not that I didn't think I needed one but in my small community and because of limited supply, other people needed theirs a hell of a lot more than me.
I just sneezed and now every time I breathe in through my nose it does smell kinda porky.
Better than mouthbreathing and having it taste like bacon.
Friday, November 20, 2009
the public called her "THE OPRAH!"
and Oprah said "HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT?"
so she signed a syndication deal and began a diet.
That very night in Oprah's room an empire grew.
And when she came to the place where the housewives are
they cheered their adoring cheers and smiled their adoring smiles
and jumped up on their adoring feet and clapped their adoring hands
till Oprah said "AHA MOMENT!"
and tamed them with a giveaway
and they were estatic and called her the most influential TV personality of all
and made her queen of all housewives
"And now," cried Oprah, "My favorite things!"
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
At 35 years old it is time to grow up. Soon I'll have every kid I've ever given birth to within institutions of book learnun and my days of bon bon eating will be done for. I'm looking forward to not being asked by nonsensical people what I do all day.
In considering a career path it's important it mesh well with your personality and goals. I'd like to have a lot of interaction with people from all walks of life. Make a difference. Do something filled with creativity.
The economy factors in as well. It would be silly of me to decide on a career path that offers little future and a poor retirement package. I don't have to make millions but financial comfort would be nice.
This is why I've decided to become a vampire.
Vampires are AWESOME.
I have the skillz to become a vampire too. I have the hair. I have the teeth. I have the overbearing sensuality. I have the daytime sleeping habits right down. Dad gum, I'm right pale!
All I need is a bustier, some smokey eyeshadow and hypnotic powers. Maybe some work on my backwoods vocabulary.
It's easy to be a vampire in just about any location too. There are no worries about outsourcing or outdated production and technologies. No layoffs. No commute. No office supplies. No TPS reports.
Ultimately no customer complaints either.
Of course, no career is without it's downsides. That whole stake in the heart thing. Can't say I'd look forward to that. I'd miss fruit smoothies too. And chewing gum.
What I don't have is any contacts. Help me network people. Tell me where to send my resume'.
Gotta get in on the ground floor before the market is flooded.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Apparently I'm to assist in the mixing of homemade play dough.
I know. I'm laughing about this too. Once I had a brain that was actually capable of complete thoughts and rational decision making. Now I'll be making play dough with a dozen and a half four year olds, at least two of them smelling like pee and one like vegetable soup. Goody!
After the play dough is made it would be prudent of me to fight the inclination to make inappropriate things out of it. There are so many things you could call a long roll of play dough and all of them hilarious. Average length? Poo. Extra long and skinny? Diarrhea. Twelve inches long and thick? You've eaten your fiber.
Snicker. I know where you went.
I'm dealing with four year olds here. They know and appreciate poop humor. When I volunteer to make play dough with you folks we can act more sophisticated.
Hopefully none of you will smell like pee.
Friday, November 13, 2009
I could use a breakfast burrito. I'm starving.
It was either do this post or watch Dr. Memet Oz show off a pair of cadaver testicles on his show. Hope to Cletus that they came from a cadaver because if they didn't what Dr. Oz is trying to teach us all about testicular health doesn't apply to one unlucky guy.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Wait. I don't have to explain what a marital aid is, do I? I sure hope not. Wouldn't that be an indelicate conversation? It's not kosher for me to explain their varied uses in this venue, both practical and decorative. Just know that they call these convenient devices "marital aids" because if you employ them without the benefit of marriage you'll end up sporting coke bottle glasses.
My parents and two of my three sisters and their respective spouses visited yesterday and it's all they could talk about. Yak yak yak about some doo-dad called "The Thruster" or "Terminator" or "Todd the Rodd". Something of that nature. Along with describing any sounds, smells or tastes associated.
I'm aware my parents were adults long before I was born and were doing adult things that resulted in my presence on the planet...but when did my siblings and I get so non-hushy about "Thor's Hammer" around good old Mom and Pop? All of us siblings got past our twenties and lost all discretion!
Now don't get the idea that I actually own something I'd give testosterone-y sounding names to. I admit nothing.
When I was around 14 or so my Dad took me to the store to buy maxi pads because my mom was unavailable. That was embarrassing for both of us. When I was 30 or so my Dad took me to the store to buy maxi pads and stool softeners and I wasn't in the least bit embarrassed. In fact, I discussed stool softeners with my Dad. It was fascinating.
Moving on to discussing anything made out of vulcanized rubber is only logical.
So my family has either become comfortable or we've all gone a bit nutty.
They make them shaped like squirrels you know...
Friday, November 06, 2009
Today is the day that I stop allowing myself to think I have a future in super-modeling.
Which kind of sucks in a way. I've always wanted to stomp down a runway wearing couture sheer enough to show off my nipples. Girlfriend went right from the office to the club. Flip the jacket, flip it!
I will never have 20 year old nipples again. My nipples are entering middle age. My nipples need support hose. My nipples need fiber.
Now that's disgusting, the way you're thinking that way about rice cakes. Stop that. At least stop before you get to the peanut butter part of your thought. Have a little self control.
Now there is pressure to give up all the adolescent things I have enjoyed up to this point. If turning 30 wasn't officially adulthood, 35 definitely is.
Obviously I'm not catering to that pressure.
Just wait until my nipples turn 40.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I'm regular these days, so I wasn't referring to that. If you aren't regular and you too had a glorious day yesterday, I'm thrilled for you. We've all been there.
Yesterday was thrilling because this four year old child of mine, my last child who has awesome whine on cue powers, was dressed in real clothing complete with socks AND shoes and taken to preschool from 12:15 to 2:45.
I gleefully missed two and a half hours of Dora, Diego and Max and Ruby. Screw you Backpack. Not on MY time. I want no part of whatever you're keeping under that zipper of yours. FREEDOMMMM!
Since all this nasty flu is floating about the lessons this week in preschool are germ and safety oriented. It's important that after you pick your nose and wipe your booger on your playmate that you wash your hands. My son was sent home with brightly illustrated literature in which we can reinforce these lessons at home.
The more you know:
Wear your seatbelt.
Know how to get to safety if there is a fire.
Don't put small things into your mouth while playing...you could choke.
Don't drink poison! Even yummy looking house cleaners.
Play nice on the playground!
Don't swim without supervision!
And most importantly...don't play with guns.
Which I can indeed reinforce at home. We don't keep any guns in our actual home. All the guns my husband likes to play with in the safest way possible are stored at other locations which may or may not be the Buick sized bomb shelter I secretly built under my patio.
Below is the educational cartoon I scanned right out of my son's book. No joke.
Can you put the storyboard in the right order? Boots? Dora?
Because after wiping a booger on your playmate we don't need any retribution.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
However, my husband didn't win. He didn't even place. The judges felt moved to give prize money to three undeserving and unimaginative costumes which caused the crowd to boo.
Nevertheless, the high point of the evening was when a man wearing something like this:
...offered his services to Justin.
Results? Them's balloons.
Justin received many fine compliments on his carriage and manners.
So, Robyn, throw me an email through my profile and you'll find a lovely pair of sterling silver vampire fangs in your mailbox shortly!
Friday, October 30, 2009
There is 250 bucks on the line!
If I can convince my unshaven husband to dress in my blue velvet befeathered Mae West costume tomorrow evening, complete with blond wig, much lipstick and huge feathered hat, I'm sure he'll win the top cash prize.
Of course we'll have to rig him up some bosoms. I have balloons and duct tape.
Justin's on the fence.
He's not a dress up kind of guy. Yet, the money has him tempted.
Last year, I won second place, got my udders in the paper. It was an honor.
Please, help me convince him that it's his turn to be honored! Best argument may win a prize!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Caramels and apples were on sale. Popsicle sticks were free.
In other words...a sloppy sticky mess and second degree burns were on sale. The sugar mania is free.
I had this vision in my head, fed by mail order clothing catalogs where the square jawed models wear layers of geometric design sweaters in warm tones, that my little family will gather around a shimmering tablescape to dip gleaming crisp apples into warm melty autumn. We'll give our treats time to cool while we all pile into a horse drawn wagon, sitting on golden bales of straw sprinkled with emberlike maple leaves whilst sipping hot chocolate that didn't originate from a paper packet.
Did I just use the term "tablescape"?
That'll smack ya right back into reality.
My expectations are right where they should be. Afterall I'm working with a kid who's got yet another jar of ants in his room, another kid that thinks that "pull my finger" is the funniest joke ever, and the last kid who spent yesterday snacking on a hidden bag of cap'n crunch knockoff cereal and putting the portions that aren't crunch berries, which he'd already sucked on, back into the package because they don't contain as much artificial coloring.
The horse that draws the wagon has to lift it's tail to poop sometimes. That's probably what our caramel apples are going to look like once we're done.
That's OK. My family makes it's memories around the manure. Wouldn't have it any other way.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
What I feel today is an overwhelming sense of relief. What I felt yesterday was an irrational apprehension and a hairy sense of guilt. This relationship had gone on for far too long. It had to end. I'd led them on.
Instead of sitting with such silly feelings I spurned myself into action and started tearing up my hall carpeting. That also had to be done. We bought a house with impractical white linoleum and more impractical beige carpeting. Beige carpet + three boy children + hurling cat = gross.
After a year or more I finally told the nice and pleasant smelling 80 year old JW lady that I didn't want any more visits to my door. She didn't take it well.
I've never had a problem telling other people no. Watch your kids? No. Bake six dozen cupcakes for the 5th grade power yoga team fundraiser? No. Sew you a rubber pony suit? No. Would you like some beautifully illustrated religious literature? Um...uh...I guess...sure...um...thanks. Come back soon.
Spineless is me.
Really, I'm not going to sew that pony suit. Quit whining to me about it. Whinnying? Whatever. The answer is no.
What upset me is the idea that this woman pities me for ultimately deciding that my spiritual path was my own and by her belief I wouldn't be "saved". As if coming to my door from time to time gave her a clear view into my heart, as floppy as it's been when it concerns receiving a brochure.
I may be worldly and want to commit sins but she wears orthopedic shoes.
Besides, I'll be cleansed with new carpet and paint by spring. Hallelujah.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Anyone who is a parent type knows that hurling commences from 3 to 6 in the morning and that a portion of this hurl must either land on the floor or on the wall.
If you are really lucky your nauseated child comes into the parental bedroom before he or she has hurled in their own beds, complains of impending hurl, and then hurls a split second after the complaint. Being half awake the closest parent is compelled to try to catch the hurl in their hands, like a zoo gorilla, which only results in hurl being splattered on them as well as on the floor and the wall.
Hitting the hurl lottery includes the impending hurl scenario above and the child losing his or her bladder or bowel control whilst hurling. Hurl on the parent, on the floor, on the wall and nether fluids finding themselves in the same locations depending on what the child wore to bed.
I'm happy to announce that I'm not lucky and I didn't hit the lottery. The kid hurled once on his sheets. No complaints and no catching. Minimal odor. Only a singular drop hit the floor. No diarrhea. The sheets and blanket have been washed and dried.
But then the cat hurled something green and foul all over my new kitchen floor and the dream was lost.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A request to procure a "housewife costume" does not include a pair of my unwashed underwear in any of the styles below:
White cotton briefs
Tent sized briefs
Sailboat sized briefs
Slippery nylon godzilla sized briefs
Or any style NOT mentioned. Thanks for asking.
I may be behind on the laundry but you don't have to constantly remind me of the fact!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
I'm amazed that I'm so chipper this morning considering my cat had an announcement to make every hour on the hour. It only goes to show that my progesterone cream is working because if it wasn't my cat would be a grease smear on the wall this morning.
That my husband didn't make grease smear out of the cat can only be attributed to a miracle.
One of the kids gets up in the night to use the bathroom? Meow. Meow meow meow. Meeaaaaooowwww.
The cat has to go take a crap in his litter box in the night? Meow meow meow meow MEOW MEOW!
It's raining outside? Meowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowdammitmeow.
I farted in bed? Meow um meow um meow um meow.
It's dark? MEOW. MEOW. MEOW. MEOW.
From what I read around the internets the cause of all this feline asshattery is boredom. My cat cannot figure out how to keep himself entertained all night long. He figures out how to keep himself entertained during the day well enough. He sleeps. During the night he wants everyone to know that he can't do a stinking crossword puzzle or surf the internet for porn.
Since my cat suffered a large abscess in his paw I've kept him inside. This accounts for the boredom. He's no longer allowed to go out and rub himself against shrubbery or poorly attempt to put the beat down on other cats or poorly attempt to mate with any cat that happens into area, in heat or not. I accept the blame.
So it's up to me to help with the cure and apparently this cure is to play with my cat during the day.
However, you cat advice givers, my cat has never been all that playful. He hurled on that page of his cat manual. He has his moments but otherwise if you attempt to play with him in a manner that would be acceptable to other members of his species he just looks at you like he pities the fool.
This leaves me with two methods to help relieve my cat of cabin fever so we all can get some sleep. Either my cat finds a indoor substitute to relieve sexual frustration or I can beat him.
And no...you don't get a vote in this decision.
Neither does my cat. Thank Bast.
Monday, October 19, 2009
News about Dancing with the Stars or The Biggest Loser or American Idol or Wife Swap or America's Got Talent or Amazing Race or The Real Housewives of Wherever goes right over my head. Does that British nanny lady still go into people's houses to make the parents actually parent? I don't know but I have a naughty chair...yes I do.
However, I love Top Chef and Project Runway. Do not bother me on Thursday nights. I will eat your first born.
Since launching a large, shiny and life threatening mylar balloon has already been done, there are many things I'd do to make an appearance on Project Runway. Ooh, what it would be to compete! Don't want the prize though. I have no use for 100K to put a collection on the runway. The goal would be to make it to the final four and then sew up a Farrah Fawcett Charlie's Angels style polyester leisure suit so Heidi Klum can declare me out.
Sure, it was an evening gown challenge but I was just trying to think outside of the box!
What would I do to sew for Tim Gunn?
-Well, eat your first born. I already said so. Rare. With mustard.
-Have my eggs harvested to conceive Tim Gunn's fabulous baby. His firstborn, which I might also eat rare with mustard.
-I'd compete naked in an Emperor's new clothes sort of way. Find me a horse because I'm taking a ride through da village.
-I'd clone Farrah.
-I'd attend more than one Amway seminar depending on who the featured speaker was.
-I'd listen to hours upon hours of inane cartoon chattering on any number of cartoon and kid networks, up to and including Ed, Edd and Eddie and the episodes of Blues Clues hosted by Joe instead of Steve.
-I'd read every one of them Twilight novels. Some Dan Brown crap too. And some romance novels featuring heroines that knit.
This is my level of dedication folks. Gimme a dressmaker's dummy and an industrial sewing machine and I will give Tim Gunn a reason to live.
Because we don't want Mr. Gunn to hide in a box in his attic ever.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Or I try to have ethics and standards.
Shuddup about the boob ad to the side.
Anyhow, this time of year I'm always asked to come up with witty and unique costume ideas and how to put together such witty ideas for less than five bucks. I enjoy this challenge. Makes me feel like MacGyver. Virile.
But...I'm not going to make your Halloween costume contest dreams come true by recommending you go as any of the following:
- Kate Gosselin, Jon Gosselin, conjoined Gosselin twins or conjoined Gosselin sextuplets. Though a half man/half woman costume made up of Jon and Kate would be amusing.
- Thriller style Michael Jackson. That's just morbid! Especially when you tote around an IV.
- Glenn Beck...or any other costume that is so mucousy. I know it's Halloween and all but lay off the constant teary oozing which can be created with unflavored gelatin. It's germy. Speaking of germy, lay off any costume with porcine qualities which represents the swine flu. You are ruining bacon's good name.
- Anything not traditionally slutty. Forget it. If you want to show T or A, or anything else Britney Spears would show, do it in an expected way. I will not engage in slutting up Dopey the Dwarf or Barbara Bush or the Dalai Lama or any of the characters on Yo Gabba Gabba (except one.)
- I know vampires are really really really popular. Let's not mix vampire traits with costumes that aren't traditionally vampire-ish. It causes cognitive dissonance. Dress as a cute kitty...don't dress as a cute kitty vampire. Dress as a pirate...don't dress as a pirate vampire. This includes all the slutty costume no-no's above.
- David Letterman...specifically, don't dress in a long double breasted overcoat with nothing underneath except cutouts of David Letterman's face over your bits. The man's sorry enough for his crude behavior, alrighty?
If you planned to go out on Halloween in any of the above, I'm sorry I couldn't help you with the design.
Me? I'm putting the usual sheet over my head and calling it good.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Why not? It's not greasy enough in here.
The progesterone cream that was recommeded to me has not come in the mail yet. Knowing that this would be the case, when we were in the big city on Sunday we made it a point to stop at a Walmart to buy this:
There was enough space between the contents of the container and the lid of the jar to collect the sanity that was oozing out of my ears and return it to me with a great big, "You go girl. Sister get your normal on."
I feel gorgeously and wondrously clear headed!
Do you know of another way of becoming clear headed for around twelve dollars that doesn't involve a truck stop? Think about that and get back to me. I'm interested.
No latex though. I'm allergic.
Friday, October 09, 2009
I hate this...I really hate this. The physical symptoms of hormonal upheaval that I've complained of before are nothing compared to what it's recently done to my brain...my moods...my entire sense of self. Happened quick too. Last month the water's fine. This month someone's peed in it and it's obvious that they've binged on asparagus. Lightly sauteed in butter with garlic.
Is the asparagus thing funny? I dunno. My funny bits have locked themselves into a panic room and they won't come out. Fart jokes don't even amuse me anymore.
That's exactly how bad it is.
Cross fingers, relief should be coming to my mailbox soon.
And Sunday we'll be trooping to the closest amusement park, a trip I need desperately.
My thoughts keep returning to my paternal Grandmother. To put it politely she had more less than sane moments than sane ones. Her less than sane moments, the paranoia, the racing thinking, the depression, the hoarding, began in her 30's. Eventually she suffered from an alzheimer's like condition which compassionately took her life at age 75.
If this DMV line that is my brain is not my hormones being off, am I going to start compulsively storing ketchup packets and 100's of skeins of yarn? Am I going to nail shut my windows and accuse the meter reader of stealing my Christmas ornaments? Will agoraphobia become a delightful and persistent hobby? Is that what my next forty years is going to consist of?
No...of course not...but my estrogen dominant, progesterone low, brain is SURE of it.
I enjoy being a girl?
Sometimes. Perimenopause is SHIT though.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
My hormones are off again.
Have you noticed?
I SAID, HAVE YOU NOTICED???
Dammit. That's not directed at you. Of course not. It couldn't be because my reactions to things have no basis in anything rational until approximately 4 PM. That's when Oh-pur is on.
This time around I'm not only sporting a lucious beard but I'm enjoying abrupt fits of anxiety. What, me worry? Yes, me worry, about things that only marginally matter and about people who are obvously suffering from chronic and debilitating nipple high constipation. Doom and gloom racing amusement park ride worry.
No offense to those who actually suffer from constipation. If I could take away your condition and bestow it upon those who are so miserably and figuratively backed up I would. Ultimately that may make my anxiety worse in the end but it would feel pretty good at the time.
Ohhhh...I'm holding myself back from making a tangent-y David Carradine joke. Guilt on top of anxiety. Not good. Not good at all.
Now I feel guilty about even mentioning I am holding myself back.
Bracket, slash, strike, bracket. There. Now you can forget that little bit of being off. More apologies.
Because Oh-pur and Suzanne Somers told me to I've been doing some research into upping my level of hormones via bio-identical creams and lotions. What a confusing mess that industry is! On purpose too. It's easy to sell to those mired in guilt ridden constipation and David Carradine mea culpas by using a few highlighted testimonials.
One woman proclaimed that such and such hormone cream, made from plants and not horse urine, made her feel like she was in her 30's again!
Well...poop, lady, I'm nearly 35. If this is what my 30's are supposed to feel like I want no part of it! If the point you're making is that this hormone cream takes you back twenty years I don't want any part of that either! Are you constipated? Gah!
So...I bought some.
Bring on the cougar years.
Monday, October 05, 2009
He drinks all the milk almost daily. He snarfs down food, grunts, pours huge tumblers of milk and ingests it in one giant gulp.
Next week I expect to have him attempt to go to school dressed about like this:
It was suggested that he just hook himself up straight to a teat and suck away. More likely than not a willing teat will be bovine instead of human and thank god for that.
The upside of all this milk drinking? It's building brain cells. He needs those.
...and I'm not nursing this child anymore. Double plus.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
That is, my long day yesterday kept running through my brain all night long. Not even putting my well used copy of "Pride and Prejudice" in the DVD player at 2 a.m. curbed all this messy thinking.
Damn you Mr. Darcy. Why have you failed me this time? I needed you!
The vote is to either to push through the day, on my one cup of morning coffee, and more than likely fall asleep at a decent hour later or have a nap and risk staying up all night again.
My vote might just be written in for rum.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The one monkey hogging the rope swing that keeps puking and throwing the chunks at the tourists is not my responsibility. You have to step back before a slobbery half chewed apple hits you because it's useless to get riled about it. It's only in the monkey's nature.
Jane Goodall knows the drill.
Someday I hope to move into the giraffe pen. Their poop takes much longer to fall to the ground.
Friday, September 25, 2009
There, I said it, I love that gorgeous time suck. It makes it real easy to see how all my old high school classmates are aging. They are amusing people. They post YouTubes like this:
I'm not aging however. No need to look at my grey hairs and the crows stamping around my face when I have this photo to display. It was taken 7 years ago. I really was something before electricity.
Once upon a time I sewed this costume and auctioned it off on Ebay. It made good profit. Since then, this photo has attracted a lot of attention to my skillz.
And my legs.
Which is why a new Facebook buddy, who I haven't yakked at for fifteen years at least, was pleased to inform me that my photo has been previously featured on a pantyhose fetish website.
Well...how awesome for me!
Out of legal interests I have to disclose at this point that I did not sew the pantyhose. I bought a pair of queen sized, control top, black pantyhose at the grocery store. Then I layered fishnets over these, which I also did not sew. For me, wearing pantyhose in this photo is important, otherwise the emphasis would be off the costume and on how fluorescent white I am.
Out of non-legal interests I have to disclose that at this moment only one of my legs is shaved. I was interrupted in the tub...four days ago or so...and I haven't gotten back to the razor. One of my legs is sasquatch and the other is only a bit prickly. If you see me walking with a lean, now you know why.
What other fetish sites have I been an ignorant participant to you think? "Hairy housewife" is a given. That search term pops up on my sitemeter daily, along with "shiny panties" and "thong sniffing". Smells like chicken. The thongs do that is. Is chicken sniffing a fetish? No surprise if it is.
After I get my leg shaved, I'll get right on a chicken sniffing photo.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
To which I replied that I knew for a fact that there were no storks involved whatsoever. That would be perverted and besides, I did not get stitches down in my no-no areas because some damned bird didn't do it's job.
My four year old, who feels compelled to offer his view in any conversation, pipes up with "Yeah, dorks!" because he couldn't pronounce "storks". To emphasize that dorks do in fact exist he points to the driving range we pass every morning, populated with men wearing pastels and handling their clubs, and yells, "There's dorks over there!"
Hey, HE said it...I didn't!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Because of pigs. Dirty pigs. Flu mongers.
The public service announcements are full in force. Don't spread germs. Wash your hands. Don't share cutlery or drinking glasses or chewing gum. Buy gallons of hand sanitizer and use it. Buy some for your friends. Make your children bathe in it.
What I like best? The recommendation that you cough or sneeze into the crook of your elbow.
And now, at every public place I go, I'm inspecting the crooks of everyone's elbows for fluids and crusts. Much like you'd feign to shake hands with a person who has just wiped off their nose with the backs of their hands you don't want to hug a person who has just violently sneezed into their elbow and has a large yellow swipe drying there.
Our president is even recommending that we cough or sneeze in this fashion and now I can't keep my eyes off his sleeves. I'd hug the president if he'd let me. He looks more cuddly than either Bush and less germy than Clinton even with congestion.
I understand that you don't open doors, or use the remote, or type at your keyboard with the crook of your elbow, therefore limiting the spread of germs with the hands you used to sneeze into, but I'm unconvinced that the crook of your elbow is any better. I touch a lot of things every day with the crook of my elbow.
Namely my kids. My kids are always lounging around in the crooks of my elbows. My husband likes to get in there too. And the cat, who never wears clothes and has sneezed on me more than once, loves to snuggle in my elbows. Laundry, dishes, cooking, taxidermy, all things I do with my inner arms.
Not to mention the things I that go on with the crooks of my elbows during sex. Holy guacamole! It'll blow you away.
To answer this crook messiness, companies are now making sleeves out of tissue which you pull up over your elbow. This works much like putting that awkward piece of paper over a public toilet seat before you sit your butt down where other butts have been. The germs stay on the tissue, which you can throw away, and you don't end up with crabs up your nose.
The thing is...don't you have to remove this tissue sleeve with your hands after you blow your fluids into it to throw it away?
Sigh. Use your hand santizer then give up.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Kill kill kill...die die die.
A year of living on a cement slab later, I has the beautiful. Still dusty in this photo, but beautiful. Thanks Ma, I did it myself.
Yesterday, in a fit rage and a feeling of constipation, I began tearing up my impractical beige carpet.
Which was an experience in nasty that I hadn't expected.
You think you've got clean carpeting. You vacuum regularly. You wash it. You take your little green clean machine to it when the cat hurls on it. What you find out as you knife the hell out of it is that you've been living on an infestation of dust, must and dead ants.
My whole family rolls around on the floor on top of that. Charming.
Near the other end of the room where I haven't removed the carpet yet is a spot, that for a reason that is currently indiscernible to me, my cat loves. He rubs himself on this spot with a look on his face that must be censored in front of the children. A well placed end table has discouraged my cat's little carpet fetish and has left him frustrated. What's under that bit of carpet you think? I'll let you know.
Besides that, what's under the spot of carpet that sounds crinkly? It used to sound crunchy but we've been living in this house for near nine years and traffic has reduced the sound effects. Is it super-ant? We'll find out.
I'm sexier when I wear a dust mask.
Chocolate brown carpet, here I come.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I'm going to squish grout between my toes later because I'll be tiling my kitchen floor this morning. Yeah, I only started this project a year ago. Cement slab living has it's perks. That's why I'll be tearing up my impractical beige carpeting soon.
Since I've moved the fridge to the living room, because you should tile under your appliances too, my children haven't been able to stay out of the thing.
I took my youngest for a check up with the new doctor in town. McDreamy has moved to McBendover. McSigh. Next week I'm going in for an ear infection that I'm not even suffering from yet.
I'm homesick for Utah. The previous mullet has nothing to do with it.
It's tiresome to be told, since my husband is a war veteran, that we should listen and support conservative media or conservatism as it is now. Inflammatory is inflammatory and military service doesn't make a person more susceptible to that asshattery. Especially since most people who tell me this never served.
Justin brewed me a lovely pot of a new brand of coffee before he left for work. I've peed at least six times since having a cup.
My oldest son wants a drum set. Cue laughing now.
More minutia, less thinking.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
When you and your spouse have shoved all the kids into their beds for the night...
Clothing is completely removed, even the socks...
A game of "warm warm cold warm warmer" is getting to the very warm point...
And you suddenly notice that the feathers inside your down comforter are escaping en-masse, like lemmings off a cliff, and sticking to any body part above the temperature of lukewarm.
That's what's awesome.
Photo requests are denied.
Monday, September 14, 2009
It was my dentist's idea. Then I wrote him a check. When your dentist makes a recommendation on anything, from gum to interior decoration, you must consider if he's the leftover dentist from the 9 out of 10 and if he's not you go for it.
He says my enamel is thinning. He told me this after I got a good gawk at the back of his head and the hair replacement scar he's got running from ear to ear. Now I know he's not the leftover dentist. He's a thinning expert.
I left the office with package of GC MI Paste Plus. I put on my hard hat, rub this cement on my teeth with my finger and let it sit on my teeth for ten minutes. Eventually I'll develop diamond hard superhero or anchorman teeth. Or, at least, those dreams I have where my teeth crumble into dust and I run around my life sucking on my gums will abate somewhat.
The package directions say the product is activated with saliva and so as you let it sit on your teeth your mouth fills up within seconds. Hello Pavlov, I'm home!
Does this look like a man who sits around with goo on his teeth, trying not to swallow his saliva, for ten to fifteen minutes?
Pavlov doesn't even look like he's got thinning hair.
I'm sure he's a hit with the ladies. Thick hair, thick beard, and an obsession with drooling dogs.
At least my dentist is clean shaven...all down his neck...but he misses the gorilla coming up out of his collar.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
That is, I sent them to school and I'm allowing them to listen to our legally elected president speak about being responsible for actually doing homework and subsequently turning that homework into a teacher type person to be graded. Attend school and learn to read/write/cipher.
If I had to rephrase President Obama's speech it would go something like this:
Hey, you, kid! Quit scratching "fuk u" on state property with the tip of your safety scissors and sniffing the white board markers. Read a book dammit. Learn how to find South America on a map. What if all the calculators stopped workin'? Huh? What would happen then! No one is going to give you a job programming "Rock Band 47 - Boy Band Edition" right out of high school.
Of course, it ain't MY kid misspelling vulgar words on the desks. Everyone else's kid is. My kid knows it's you and not u.
This weekend, I chanced upon a teen that could use thirty minutes of sitting still and contemplating her future. In the three minutes I was exposed to her eye rolling in the checkout line at the store it took most of my composure to not smack her around some.
Her much older sister was with her and I could tell she'd had enough of her too.
Our debutante was complaining to sis that "Mom and Dad had better grow a pair and let me drive the car up the canyon so I don't have to get a ride to the party!" Hair twirl, hair twirl, gnaw on the acrylic nail, pull the Nair shorts out of the butt crack, smack gum, eye roll.
Older sister didn't say anything. Debutante then took a sharpie pen out of the display near the checkstand and proceeded to try to misspell vulgarities on the store fixtures. Older sister smacked her hand and the sharpie was returned to it's spot.
Grow a pair? I hope to the good lord above that they've got a pair because we need them to save us from you for another five years at least. How you can drive up canyon roads while twirling your hair, gnawing on your nails, pulling your clothes out of your nooks and crannies, and smacking your gum is beyond me.
Barack Obama has a message about the importance of education to the text generation? Lay it on me. Lay it on my kids. Lay it on Debutante before she breeds.
If you disagree with it you are free to misspell vulgarities all you like.
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