Thursday, April 30, 2009

My overalls have given me a wedgie.

Spring is here!

Time to play with poop! That is, it's time to get the garden going and nothing is better for the garden than wheelbarrows full of poo.

Growing up on a horse farm there was always ample opportunity to play with poop in all states of steaming freshness. Poop was produced by the ton. You had to get creative with the places you stored this poop. Eventually you run out of space throwing it willy nilly behind the barn so you have to put some in the gardens, spread it in the fields, package it in a gingham lined basket and give it to the neighbors.

They call it farmer's perfume. Though I can't imagine that scent getting as pretentious and whispery as a Chanel No.5 advert.

Or maybe I can.

Opening shot, a claustrophobic entry to a perfect and quaint red barn in the spring sunshine. Music over is classic, delicately picked on a banjo. Farmer John is centered, leaning over his pitchfork, his chin resting on the end of the handle, chewing straw, his hat slightly askew and his overalls a new denim shade of blue.

He's wistful, thinking about his old gray mare.

Cut to a close shot of Old Gray in a lush pasture, her haunches rippling as she twitches her tail, panning up her back to her ears and then eyes, mirroring the same wistful expression as Farmer John's as she also chews on straw.

Cut back to Farmer John, a close up of his weather grizzled face, as he whispers the words "Share the fantasy..." and blinks slowly.

Cut back to Old Gray running through the pasture, tail and mane streaming, towards the barn, as the banjo picking reaches a crescendo.

Then cut to medium shot a gingham lined basket, Farmer John voices over, now with a slight French accent in a sighing lilt, "Farmer's Perfume".

My pitchfork arm is just a'itchin'.

Have I mentioned that I live 120 miles from a mall?

Big old surprise there, huh...

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Ground Control to Major Tom

I like it when my internet connection is connecting.

It makes it far easier to lurk, look at naked people, anonymously flame eejits, send spam email, illegally download music, shill bid on ebay, post lewd ads on Craigslist, write blog posts.

Now, if only I can convince myself that having the internet connected will make it easier to paint my bathroom.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Little, yellow, different, better.

Hi. I'm Becky. I'm 34. I'm menopausal.

For the last 28 days my breasts, or those lumps on the front of my body that are supposed to be breasts, have been gorgeously and wonderfully not sore. Thanks to horse urine in pill form I am now feeling quite perky.

Yes, you needed to know this.

I didn't take these all at once just so you know.

Progestin did not just provide relief from perpetually sore boobies, but relief from hot flashes, mood swings, skin eruptions, seizing libido, fuzzy thinking, ants in my pants and the fear that at any time I'd suddenly turn into a pillar of salt.

April fresh? Yes Ma'am.

The pills are the 26 dollar a month miracle that has restored my ability to put on a super underwired, cleavage starting at your neck, completely impractical, won't be on long anyway, bra as a favor to my husband.

Which he appreciates.

Now, if only I could give him a pill that would persuade him to wear this:

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Work that room...

Today is not my birthday.

So, no need to buy me any presents or anything. Your well wishes for today being a plain old Thursday is enough. Happy Thursday!

No need to buy Christopher Lowell any presents either. It's not his birthday. Neither of our birthdays happen until November 6th. Make a note of that on your PDA's because our shared birthday falls on a Friday this year. Happy Friday! Par-tay.

I cannot express just how giddy I am about the discovery that I share a birthday with Christopher Lowell. I have been watching this man use uplighting to enhance rooms for ten years, since I was in college. Par-tay.

You don't know what I'm talking about?

Well, uplighting is a light source that sits on the floor to cast light upward. "Placed behind furniture or under a tree, uplights produce fabulous effects and are the best tool for casting shadow. Here's a tip, remember, as much lighting should come from the floor as from the ceiling."

I've failed in supplying my floor with any lighting. It becomes a source of fire for my impulsive sons and confuses my dumb gay cat. Guilt is not warranted here.

Oh, you don't know who Christopher Lowell is...

Christopher Lowell is an interior designer well known for his educational TV programs and books. He tells every housewife that "You can do it!" and we believe him because he's so darn enthusiastic about it. He supplies free online demos to inspire creativity in all of us.

I'm gonna make a planter out of a chair. See if I don't!

Creativity is sexy. Planter chairs inspire romance. Makes your bum all flowery.

Oh Christopher Lowell, you seven layered bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's right, you can effortlessly do things with a pair of tassels with stunning results.

Come November, I'm sending you a card.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I be pimpin'

Have you got money?

I have some money. Not a whole lot. Certainly my family could be doing a whole lot worse. Many are. Currently we're able to pay our bills and afford to keep our dumb gay cat.

I could always use more money though. A lifestyle change might be refreshing.

That's why I've decided to become a rapper. Yo.

Have you seen MTV's Cribs? Dayum! Homie's got granite counter tops.

Oh, you don't watch MTV? Me neither. I only scrolled past that channel to get to Bill Maher on HBO. I couldn't help but notice that those rappers had lots of stuff that I do not have and they seem satisfied about that.

I don't see any reason why I couldn't become a rapper and make a crapload of cash too. I like bling just as much as the next guy.


Wouldn't you listen to and enjoy a profanity laden rap beat about stretch marks and grey hairs? How much would you pay to watch me bust a rhyme surrounded by barely dressed booty jiggling women? Or barely dressed droopy drawered men? Take your choice with that one. Stretch marks aren't reserved to the fairer sex.

Check these rhymes, forshizzle...

Yo yo yo my skin's gots markies
Don't %##*ing look at my gut and get snarky
I don't need no %@@*ing tummy tuck
Just yank off my mom jeans and....

Well, never mind....

I'm going to make millions.

And then I'd buy a pony.

Put it in a stall outfitted with granite counter tops.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Is it a urine culture or armageddon?

I'm on hold.

I've heard the explanation of what this company I'm on hold with does do and what they don't do at least a dozen times. Such a hypnotic baritone voice. Suddenly I want to eat Oreos and sacrifice goats to the gods.

I've dealt with this company before over the years. Calling to straighten out this bill or dispute that bill. If I had a way to not do business with this company I would, but I don't, as it's a medical service which is used by just about every medical facility within a 500 mile proximity. They once referred a bill that we'd paid on time a year previous to collections. It took another year and a registered letter with a threat to give them all wedgies up to the eyebrows to get them to stop harrassing us. WE PAID THE STINKIN' BILL. HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO FAX YOU EEJITS PROOF? GAH, DID YOUR MOTHER HAVE ANY CHILDREN THAT LIVED!

Don't mess with my credit score. I get testy.

This phone call has gone well however. The professional billing service keyboard artist spoke English with the best of them, exchanged pleasantries with me and actually called me back within seconds of disconnecting because she found another discrepancy in my bill.

Should I have hope? Should I sacrifice another goat?

Maybe this current economy has convinced companies still in business to cut out the corporate bloat. That being so big as to not know what the hell is going on will eventually be the stone that fells Goliath.

Or maybe not. We'll see.

I have to go to the store and buy some Oreos now.

Monday, April 20, 2009


Apparently everyone, their dog, and their dead grandmothers, is Twittering.

Unless you don't know what Twitter is and by the sound of it you wouldn't want to be involved in those kinds of shenanigans anyway. You tweet? Spray some air freshener for the love of God.

My 80+ year old mother in law wanted to know what Twitter is. She doesn't do computers or cell phones so the best explanation I could come up with is that she'd be sitting at her leisure, watching television, and then a ticker comes across the screen announcing that her widowed neighbor down the street "is eating pudding" or some inane thing. Then she could tweet back, "I got a perm today!" People post what they are doing and hope other people are interested.

Which I think is just silly...ahem.

I don't Twitter. I have never Tweeted. I only signed up so I could look at the thing and see how it works. This had absolutely nothing to do with CNN or Ashton Kutcher. He has a million twits behind him. Neato. I have a picture of a pony.

One reason I don't is because I'm woefully behind when it comes to a few particular hand held electronic devices. I own the most utilitarian cell phone on the planet without it resembling a brick. It doesn't text. It doesn't take photos. It's not hooked up to the interwebs. I cannot get stock quotes on it, or directions, or adult entertainment. In the past two weeks I've only used the under charged thing once to call my sister and then the connection was lousy. I'm not going to keep up with anyone's tweets...really, air freshener, now.

Another reason is that I can't just leave myself at saying what I'm really doing throughout the day. I'm cleaning dried cereal off the counter. I'm vacuuming dubious hairs off the floor in my boy's bathroom. I'm watching my goldfish poop. The pressure would be on to come up with profound thoughts on the hour so as to not appear un-fabulous. I already do that once a day on Facebook in the third person. Can't stretch my brain any more than:

"Becky thinks that strawberry milkshake whoppers are a miracle...right up there with new babies and walking on water."

"Becky is channeling the nearly dead spirit of Diana Ross."

"Becky has eaten heavily peppered meat in a was liberating."

Those all have a context, I swear.

Instead of Twitter I believe I'll invest in one of these:

...a scrolling LCD belt buckle. It'll post a message 110 characters longer than the 140 character limit on Twitter. Kick ass.

Afterall, when you declare to the world that you are eating pudding or you've gotten a perm, having it sit at your waist gives it a whole new context.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

When I buy Clearasil, I buy it in gallon jars.

My ten year old son has two pimples on his chin.

I already have a fifteen year old son with pimples and an attitude and I thought I had another two years before I had to drudge through puberty again. Shit.

The question I have about all this new hormonal upheaval in my home is a chicken and egg one. We've been discussing the birds and the bees at length...My boy knows what a cervix is by are these pimples a manifestation of our birds-ing and bees-ing or are these pimples just here right on time and the sex-ed talks a manifestation of his impending manhood?

There is something so precious about the look on your son's face when you explain what HIS part in reproduction is. That's a big old idea isn't it? The mysterious thought that the parts of our body that we cover up with boxer shorts will pull double duty. My what does what? Seriously? You've got to be joking...

When I explained menstruation to him that seemed more plausible to him than what his body will do. His body will never menstruate after all. Yet, now, there are all these other fluids. There is just no escape. Run, it's The Blob.

On top of that there will be armpit hairs. Awesome manly armpit hairs.

Alec asked to use his older brother's deodorant this morning. After turning a shade of chartreuse, I told him I'd buy him some of his own. Sharing deodorant is icky. Sharing deodorant with a fifteen year old boy is just plain dangerous. Flesh eating diseases are bred that way.

Can't I just seal up my sweet little boy in a canning jar and keep him the way he is? Pimple, hormone and hair-free? I'm not ready!

I console myself with the thought that I could be a grandmother in as little as three years...


Wednesday, April 15, 2009



I've had my return sitting in my bank account for two months. It'll sit there until December. That's when Justin and I put on our ceremonial capes and withdraw it, Stanley Kubrick style, for Christmas.

I've said too much about that. Distract yourself with this image of Tom Cruise running.

No one blames you for not being entertained by doing your taxes. Here are some suggestions to help the drudgery pass a little bit quicker.

1. Eat Cheetos while doing your addition and then highlight any number you are disgruntled with on the paper copy of your return with the cheese spooge on your fingers. Let The Man know that it's not easy being cheesy.

2. Sign your return with the nickname you always wish you had. John "Sex Machine" Doe. John "Women Love my WOW Skillz" Doe. Jane "I Knit for Sex" Doe. Stand out from the rest of the tax paying chumps.

3. After you've itemized all your deductions take an obligatory victory lap around your block...naked. Extra points if you write "I'm the tax man!" across your chest in bubble gum pink lipstick.

4. Take your laptop to Barnes and Noble and do your taxes on the floor near the pregnancy books. Anytime a customer picks up a pregnancy book mutter something about child tax credits, two to three years of wiping poopy butts each, and that no one told this was hazard pay.

5. If you are getting that new home buying credit, wire some of that to my checking account and then enjoy the warm and fuzzy feelings of sharing your gains with others.

6. Email your Senator, tell him or her you've just paid your portion of their salary, and now you'd like a free toaster or a buy one get one free entree' coupon from Olive Garden. Oh, and by the way, there is a pothole on your street. When can you come out to fix that?

7. File for an extension and cite as reasoning, "Digestional Upset - details upon request."

8. Instead of filing your return with standard methods, video your return in the form of expressive dance. Extra points if you have a wardrobe malfunction.

Happy taxing folks...don't spend it all in one place.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Rabbit fur makes a lovely coat.

I do it every Easter.

(Not that "it". people are nasty.)

I buy those damned plastic easter eggs thinking, oh, it won't be as bad this year. This year they'll stay nestled ever so artistically in their baskets instead of halved and strewn about my floor, waiting to be stepped on and broken into razor sharp shards.

My barefoot never-again-pregnant feet are fine. I've been conscientious about picking up egg halves.

However, there are still at least 8 plastic eggs in my house, hidden by my husband in an effort to engage our apathetic fifteen year old, which were never found, waiting to pounce on my feet and turn them into hamburger.

Hold me. I'm scared.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Tuna Helper is better because you don't have to brown tuna.

Everyone these days is putting on their frugal hats. It's become fashionable for some and necessary for others.

My frugal hat has fruit on it. I get compliments.

In an effort to save money there has been return to home cookin' home...and not at Applebee's. Those who had no kitchen skills previously are learning how to concoct dishes that didn't come from nearly fully prepared out of a can or the freezer. Afterall, the staff at Applebee's doesn't let you back into the kitchen to make your own overboiled noodles the way you like them. Something about health codes. You didn't wash your hands after you used the restroom, did you?

Visiting the grocery store is becoming a mission rather than rendezvous. No longer are we filling our carts with impulse cases of Twinkies and Doritoes. We are looking for a bargain in nutritious commodities.

Like tuna. Cases upon cases of tuna. I bought a case of albacore just last week. Less than a dollar a can.

Tuna is nutritious because it's fish, which every talk show tells us will perk up our sludgy Twinkie bodies with lovely proteins and healthy oils, and it still comes in that familiar can. There isn't the unfamiliar shock of cooking and preparing fresh tuna. We remain aluminum encased comfortable.

Yet, it's not frugal if you buy the case of tuna and you don't open and eat the tuna.

I feel frugal buying albacore. There is more meat packed into the can compared to regular tuna, which packs the can with tuna juice instead, and the quality is better. But then I feel foolish buying albacore. I want to hoard it away because it's not just tuna...its special tuna. We can't use the special tuna for for just any ordinary, pedestrian sandwich, hold those nasty sweet pickles. We must make a celebration of special tuna because it's not ordinary tuna.

Which had me questioning if I should make tuna salad for lunch this weekend. Blink.

I have to repeat the mantra, "It's OK to open the special tuna and use it as sandwich filling. It ain't filet mignon."

Since when was there a celebration that featured canned tuna fish in the menu, even albacore? No one comes to the table on Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter and exclaims, "Yay, it's canned special tuna! You are the best Mom on the planet! I'm going to eat well of this tuna, feed this healthy protein to my brain, get straight A's, sail through college on millions of dollars in scholarships, and then win a Nobel Prize in a complicated subject by the age of 30!"

Besides, I know no one is going to give me a compliment if I wear a frugal tuna hat.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Passing the pencil test.

I'm a little laggy today.

Saggy too, but I can't fix the sagginess like I fixed the lagginess.

The lagginess was fixed by dusting out my computer thoroughly, inside and out. When it groans I know it's time.

Because I dislike risking electrocution, I had to unplug the computer to perform this task. No power to the computer makes it difficult to log into this blog to write a post. I'm not God with the ability to beam a post from my brain directly to the internets. I'm working on that.

I'm unsure to what caused the sagginess. God won't tell me and when my sagginess groans I just have to live with it.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

The Duggars ain't got nothin' on me.

Unknowingly, my family size has increased by an estimated 200 members.

My son has installed a gallon jar full of pestulence in his room. He did not ask for permission to dig up a mound of red desert ants for household use. He snuck 'em in, all quiet like.

If these little twits get mouthy they are out of here.

At least I'm not personally responsible for increasing my family size by that number. Oh the horrors of breastfeeding then.

Monday, April 06, 2009

I'm back in the saddle again.

But I'm only half on this morning. It's just too sunny. This has left me with a leg cramp and the saddle horn jammed somewhere painful.

So, here, have a YouTube.

This is the REAL Brokeback Mountain.

Friday, April 03, 2009

I need a new drug.

I like sex.

There, I said it. No use being demure about it. I'm gonna throw on some pasties and declare to the world that I enjoy a good poke. With my husband. I'm not open for poking to anyone else. You were thinking it.

However, my body hasn't wanted to cooperate. My body figures that as long as I'm not going to conceive, due to getting myself spayed, that the fun might as well be over. What do you need ovaries for? They sure don't need YOU. You've betrayed them.

But now...I have...HORMONES. Prescribed by a doctor no less.

They make it possible to not have to approach sex in the cerebral manner that I have been these past months. Would sex be nice? Yes, I THINK sex would be nice. I remember it being very nice. I remember something about a lasso and some spurs. The pony made a mess.

I'm perking up my withering ovaries with a pill that's so tiny it appears to be a little foolish. True, I've only been on the pill for a few days but the difference's like Christmas compared to September 3rd.

The problem I'm facing now is that my cerebral approach has become habitual and I can't come on to my husband without sounding like Twiggy on Buck Rogers.

Justin has been so patient with my poor approaches with tonight being THE night. He has managed despite them. Such a trooper.

For instance, don't be kneeling, scouring stains out of your toilet bowl and come out with, "You know what this repetitive motion reminds me of?" That's not sexy. It's not kosher. (Don't do that with vacuuming either, even if suck euphemisms abound.)

"I got a half hour doin' nothin'" isn't romantic either.

Nor is, "It's Wednesday Justin."

I'm back now.

It's a new dawn...a new day...a new life for me. Goodbye Twiggy. Hello Erin Gray.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Why I walk funny.

I have returned triumphant from my gynecologist's office.

Or, at least, the ratcheting speculum didn't get stuck and I'm not dragging my butt across the carpet anymore.

My doctor follows the Henry Ford model of gynecology. Systematic. I was disappointed in that I had to put on my own gown and hoist myself on the table without help, but after that each poking and prodding had it's own station and I was moved about in a most efficient fashion. Almost like Disneyland.

First I went to the Henry Ford trans-vaginal ultrasound station. That's inside zapping rather than outside zapping for you Chevy people. They found a cupholder but no cysts. This made me happy.

Next I was moved to the Henry Ford female fluid checking station. That is, I peed in a cup and then got weighed. A nurse ticked off my symptoms on a chart and pronounced that I was most likely not pregnant and complimented the thickness of my beard.

Now onto the Henry Ford pelvic exam, pap schmear and breast exam station. This is where I'm placed on a rotary, that ratcheting doohickey is used on my chassis and the doctor checks my headlights. The doctor agrees with the nurse that I am most likely not pregnant and compliments my beard.

Then the Henry Ford female quality control check. This is where I whine to my doctor about having hot flashes, sore boobs most of the month, pimples, an apathetic libido, foggy brain, a dwindling sense of humor and a lush silky beard. The doctor reiterates that, indeed, it is a handsome beard and I moodily give him the finger.

It's determined at this point that I could use some progesterone in my life. Doctor Ratchet suggests I use the Depo-Provera shot to this end. I suggest that the Doc, in more polite terms, go bite it and reiterate giving him the finger. Depo-Provera? Oh hell no. I'm never allowing that tool of Satan into my body. But my doc is a good man, an understanding man, and instead prescribes me the mini-pill which has the benefit of not being in my system for months on end if something goes horribly wrong, which it will, because no one uses that stuff and likes it.

Down the line we get to the Henry Ford sado-masochistic poke me with a needle station where three vials of blood were to be drawn. Girl hormones need to be checked, and boy hormones, and thyroid and my cholesterol. I am not a good blood draw. I tell the nurse this. In an effort to find a willing vein I've had blood drawn from my hands, my wrists and my feet. The nurse compliments my beard and proceeds to poke my inner arm and gets one on the first try, with nary a bruise or nerve damage to speak of. This rarely happens with me so I compliment her on her poking skills. We are best friends now. Sisters for the cause.

At the end of the line is the Henry Ford pay up and get the hell out of the office station. I pay up and on the way out I show the receptionist my Scooby Doo bandaid. She compliments my beard. Twat.

It's encouraging that it seems to be only menopause yet discouraging that I'm 34 and it seems to be only menopause. I'm not done with my sexy years.

I have taken my progesterone pills for two days and I have not had a hot flash.

I HAVE NOT HAD A HOT FLASH! God bless Henry Ford!

I still have the beard though.

Shuddup about that.

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