Friday, May 29, 2009

Don't get me started on the English teachers...


Well, today is the last day of school.

It's the last day for months that I can run to the laundry room naked to find the taupe bra I laundered over the weekend. When wearing a white blouse it behooves a person (I'm not getting gender specific here.) to wear a brassiere that matches the skin tone. If you wear a white bra under your white shirt you are only highlighting that your white bra is as utilitarian as possible.

My bra won't match my legs however. I've responsibly fake baked.

Losing the ability to prance about nude in the coming summer months makes me sad. I have to pre-plan my wardrobe choices and dress in secret, with the door closed, and the curtains pulled tight. The neighbor children also have the summer off and they will all end up in my yard, smashing their noses against my windows anytime from 6 am to 10 at night.

That means their parents won't have to pre-plan their own wardrobe choices. Sneaky bastards.

On the upside, tonight I get to put on clothing that is not flannel pants, go to high school graduation, then afterwards enjoy the company of my teacher husband's colleagues at a backyard get together hosted by the former principal.

You haven't partied until you've partied with sloppy drunk social studies teachers. Nine months of explaining the chief exports of Zimbabwe to drooling zit monkeys makes mixing gallons of Michelob and Clamato awful attractive. As far as I know, both Michelob and Clamato are made right here, in the good old USA, and though I can be as patriotic as the next guy, I'm not drinking either of those substances.

If you really want to get blitzed, make your way to the biology teachers corner, behind the yew bushes. Toad lickers, all of 'em. Do they have toads in Zimbabwe? Remind me to ask.

And just when I thought I'd leave my nude prancing talk bound up in this post, associating with the P.E. teachers will make all that sadness burst forth in a lewd taupe-y rush. They won't notice anyway. They're high from breathing air that doesn't smell like overly Axed B.O. and they've spent too long with their knee socks pulled up over their eyebrows.

Knee socks made out of cotton from Zimbabwe? Maybe...yup...maybe.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Great Vengeance and Furious Anger

I've got to tell you all...these high fiber breakfasts of mine...they really get the job done. The hard hat is on, the safety glasses are on, we're ready to weld Flashdance.

So I head on into my master bathroom this morning, because If I'm going to weld it's going to be where the welding is comfortable, and I find my three year old son in my bedroom. He's cuddled with his blanky on my bed watching "Pulp Fiction" on my TV, enraptured.

There is no way you couldn't consider the whole scene as precious.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Cherish one another.

With all this rigmarole going on with the Gosselin's, that is Mr. and Mrs. Jon and Kate Plus 8, I'd like to throw my two cents into the huge TV family ring.

Two cents isn't coming out of my uterus mind you, it's coming from my heart.

And my posterior.

I'm not a fan of Jon and Kate plus 8. The show drives me up a wall. I don't find their life interesting, nor do I have much commiseration for their struggles with that many toddlers. The tolerance I have for the snipe and whine fest they put on TV only lasts for the time it takes you to get to the end of this sentence.

I say just put the kids on TV and leave the adults out of it. At least the kids know not what they do.

It's because I do not care what goes on in their marriage that I say that. I might care if they were kinder to one another. The sniping between them makes me uncomfortable. And though my two pennies are now lost with the others in this piggy bank, the Gosselin's being so closely followed by eejit media makes me angry.

Oh, they found unrest in their marriage? Reallllly? You don't say!

Duh. Leave 'em alone.

This reminds me of a news story some years back that predicted the success of a couple's marriage based on how often they rolled their eyes at one another. Just sayin'.

Let's compare their eyerolls to the pinnacle of large family TV, the Duggars. Think about this. Have you ever seen Ma and Pa Duggar roll their eyes at one another...or talk over one another...or share their disagreements with the world? Doesn't their kindness first mantra show when you look at their herd?

Some would say such a thing is unnatural between spouses, or in families, but I counter with why? Why is treating your spouse unkindly, even out of understandable frustration, seen as an OK or natural thing to do today? Why is stopping yourself, using discretion, being deliberate in your interactions seen as weird or sugary? That's real life don't you know...we aren't The Brady's don't you know.

Do you think the Duggar children have ever seen a Brady? I don't. They saw Kirk Cameron's "Fireproof" but Johnny Bravo isn't on their radar. Alan Thicke has an angular head. I'm going to watch his Canadian TV program, "jPod" on Hulu.

In closing, Mean People Suck. Being mean to your spouse, double the suck points. Being consistently mean to your spouse on national TV? Don't be surprised when the media finds something, real or imaginary, to expound upon that theme. They are only crashing the loud party you started.

I do hope for the best for the Gosselin's. Certainly I have no desire to be in their shoes, from their slippers to their platform boots. I hope they come to understand why it is that no one is actively looking for a misstep in Kirk Cameron's or Ma and Pa Duggar's marriage.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Tingly Udders

Tonight...oh sigh...I get to go listen to Lyle Lovett sing down at our little concert hall. He sounds perty.

I'm not a huge fan of the country music scene. Certainly I've never gone to a country western concert that I've paid for myself up until now. On the whole the only aspect of modern country music I enjoy is Wrangler camel toe.

Lyle Lovett will probably not be wearing jeans.

You know who wears western jeans? This guy does.

Trace Adkins...and that is my little sister Jill putting her front parts near his belt buckle. Trace came round to our little concert hall a couple weeks ago. She had special person passes.

Now, Jill ain't short. Trace is just large. Trace is the man. Trace causes women to spontaneously ovulate.

Even I couldn't help myself upon seeing this photo and I didn't know who Trace Adkins was until Jill explained it to me. Trace had a guest spot on Real Time with Bill Maher where he asked, "When did cows stop fuckin?" when it came to the subject of cloning livestock. Sexy and and to the point. I've seen cows do that a time or two. Politically, I support an increase in cheeseburgers.

Which is why Trace is in demand at every stockyard in North America.

You think the smooth crooning of Lyle Lovett have an effect on my reproductive system?

I don't need my tubal ligation miraculously reversed, ya know?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

I found my fanny pack and I'm rarin' to use it!

Next month there are plans in the works to take me out of my domesticity and place me firmly in the middle of the Las Vegas strip for a few days.

If you're stalking me, I'll be the oatmeal scented woman in the polar fleece pajama pants and the wrinkled Chris Isaak concert tour T-shirt.

Justin, my school teacher husband, has been told he's going to a teacher's conference in Vegas, because that's where Nevada teachers go to conferences, and I get to tag along. Nevada teachers never go to Winnemucca for conferences. There isn't enough neon to prepare lesson plans by there.

Since my husband is going to be detained with hundreds of other teacher types during the day I have hours to spend by myself in Sin City. I cannot be emphatic enough about stating how much I am looking forward to this. Being alone. Maybe NOT dressed in housewife clothing. Seeing the things I want to see and doing things I decide to do. Showering without a three year old at the bathroom door commanding me to reattach Spider Man's missing leg.

If Spiderman can't grow his own leg back why should I bother?

Oh the possibilities to half day debauchery!

I'm going to start my day with at least four plates of breakfast meats at the dirtiest buffet I can find. Breakfast meat tastes rebellious when the grease is fine aged. The cholesterol in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Then I'm going to hop on over to the Liberace Museum. This is where I will attempt to lick sequins and molest rhinestones. I've dropped the museum an email so they know when to expect me. Those nose prints on the glass? Those are mine.

I might spend some time people watching at the Bellagio. I'll wear my bunny slippers and a touristy yet almost classy foam hat. And I'll mutter to myself.

Ooooh, likker me up before 9 AM! THEN eat breakfast meats!

Wherein I plan to hurl in the hotel lobby of Caesar's Palace. I've had a little alcohol here and there but I've never been really inebriated and certainly I've never be so drunk as to vomit. Didn't those Romans have vomitoriums? Do as the Romans do and when you vomit in Vegas it definitely stays in Vegas.

And I'm stealing hotel ashtrays.

The only thing left to do is to go topless at some point.

That's Freemont street for ya.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

An open letter to Judge George Wu.

Judge Wu,

You were only right to ask for more time, until July, to consider the sentencing of convicted cyber bully Lori Drew, who harrassed a 13 year old child through Myspace by posing as a teenaged boy, ultimately suggesting that the world would be a better place without this child in it and subsequently this child hung herself.

You are making precedent, not just for cyberbullying, but any act of anonymous, harrassing, injurious, sexually abusive and fraudulent behavior on the internet. This is important.

Prosecutors are seeking the maximum penalty for her conviction, three years in jail and a $300,000 fine. The probation board recommends probation and a $5,000 fine. I wouldn't be writing this open letter if I was leaning toward the latter. I am asking you, as a mother, as a voice on the internet, as one person who refuses to be anonymous because if I have something to say I want my name and reputation to stand next to it, that you help Lori Drew understand what it is to behave like an adult.

I understand there are some sticky legalities. There is plenty here that shouldn't be or is ridiculous to consider as illegal, but considering her actions as a whole? What Lori Drew did was wrong. Plain wrong. The motivations behind Lori Drew's actions were malicious and evil. The consequences to her actions were horrendous. Every parent's nightmare is told in the story of Megan Meier.

There is a protection of innocence that rests with your discretion.

Frankly, I don't give a flip about a fine. It's the jail time that works for me. Bet it works for most who have been following this story since 2006. Not that Lori Drew hasn't had time to think about her actions these past three years but more thought, more confined thought, might do those of us who use the internet honestly, and who know how to act like adults, a great service.


Becky Lee Evans
The Absent Minded Housewife

Updated July 2, 2009, 4:58 pm mountain.

Needless to say, I'm disappointed about the wimpy ruling handed out today.

I've had quite a lot of traffic directed at my blog since the news story broke an hour and a half ago. Much of it is looking for information on how to contact Hon. George H. Wu. His United States District Court, Central District of California Schedules and Procedures page can be found HERE.

I will be watching where the legalities of this will go from here. Do your part. Contact your lawmakers and ask for the law to catch up with technology.

Afterall, if Lori Drew had asked Megan Meier for money instead of violating terms of service, this may have been more prosecutable.


Monday, May 18, 2009

Mairzy Doats.

Finally I received the results of my blood tests, which apparently indicate nothing on the hormone front, which doesn't mean anything, because their nothing could definitely mean something to my particular body chemistry. It's all mysterious and subjective.

All I know is that the hormone pills make me feel human again. Human as far as mentally human. Physically I'm still quite hairy and my beard is more lustrous than ever.

What those tests did indicate is that I should eat more fiber because my cholesterol was 200.

I asked the nurse practitioner if this meant that I should smoosh prunes into my Twinkies because damned if I was giving them up and she didn't respond. Silence means consent.

I do like prunes though. I like most foods that are chock full of fiber. Oatmeal is delicious. Microwaving a big bowl of the stuff takes me a minute in the morning. None of that instant crap either but real, honest to god, stick to your ribs, grandma ate it growing up and so should you, oatmeal. With a dab of honey.

To my husband's delight I've added more beans to my diet too.

Beans do not replace a Burger King Cheesy Bacon Tendercrisp® chicken sandwich. Sigh, smoosh a prune into it.

Not that my diet was terrible before. It could be by far worse. My diet apparently is not a good diet for my particular 34 year old body chemistry. When I was 22 it was an outstanding diet. It was a diet full of adventure. It had mojo.

Oatmeal has no mojo. It's textural dementia even if I do like it. Alas, a person can not get a bowl of oatmeal at a drive thru window with a squawking movie themed toy or without.

The other downside to oatmeal is that it does not add to feeling human. After eating a big bowl I feel like a horse. Follow me with a pitchfork. Good for the garden.

Now, lets say I eat a bowl of oatmeal every morning for the next 40 years of my life. My flimsy math reveals that I will have eaten nearly 3000 pounds of dry oats.

Better get a BIG pitchfork.

Friday, May 15, 2009

They don't make enough tissues for this.

Say you've had the flu.

And say you've been staggering along, suffering from this flu for over a week.

And say that one of your kids also has flu and so does the husband.

And say that you are all hacking, coughing and miserably waiting for your scenes in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers III: Mentholatum Screams".

Never ever ever try to write a funny post about it and try to include a photo to illustrate your points using the image search "phlegm".


Not one of my brighter moments.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Quit hoarding the ketchup packets.

My three year old son, who smells suspiciously like my fifteen year old's deodorant, drew my portrait.

No, he's never seen me do a sit-up.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Making up for hemorrhoids.

Now I know for sure that my husband hasn't bought me enough jewelry. I'm long overdue on at least three impressive pieces of jewelry with acceptable but not ostentatious carat weights.

By the way, happy Mother's Day. Did your significant other spring for two million dollar engraved earrings upon the birth of his children like Marc Anthony did for J-Lo?

Mine either. I didn't know he was supposed to. I've been gypped. Sure, I received a crying pooping miracle but I didn't get anything that could be appraised.

This new fad, apparently not started by a diamond marketer, is called a Push Present. As in, you give excruciating and body disfiguring birth and by gum, you deserve a big rock with the proper sentiment attached. A rock that shows that your body has served one of it's biological functions in a grand and sacrificing fashion. A rock that lasts longer than your container of Tucks pads.

Because, you've been through a life changing event and need consolation. Frankly, I just needed sleep.

I want to take this jewelry gifting fad a bit further. I want to be given a little shiny every month, when I manage to menstruate, especially when I'm not trying to conceive babies. Of course, menstruating doesn't warrant a two mil a month, but maybe an add a pearl strand would be appropriate to celebrate riding cotton, or a theme appropriate charm bracelet.

Or at the very least some glitter stickers on a chart.

Since I've been sterilized there should be jewelry marking that occasion. A lapel pin or a dinner ring. Something you could spot from across a dark smoky room.

Menopause too. I'm ending my fertility. I need a gold watch.

Step it up Justin. My jewelry box doesn't weigh enough.

Justin? Well what about Justin? He doesn't get a present for performing his reproductive biological functions and to be fair, I think he should. He wouldn't get excited about an add a pearl necklace but I might be able to build his self esteem with his own sticker chart. Every time he offers up his genes I can pop a smiley face sticker. Get enough stickers and then he gets his choice of movie in the full price DVD rack and not the discount bin!

Oh, and the present for having a vasectomy even if I am sterilized? Kick ass tiger eye pinkie ring. Manly.

You know what I asked my husband to buy me after the birth of our children not knowing I was supposed to ask for jewelry?

Stool softeners.

And them babies are shiny for sure.

Monday, May 11, 2009

I stuck a quarter in a candy machine.

It's about time that this husband I've been married to do something incredibly stupid, horrendous, embarrassing and more likely than not against our vows. It's been nearly 16 years.

I need some earrings.

They're free when you buy the apology ring.

Click to enlarge. Read it.

Justin spotted this ad in an aviation themed magazine and told me all about it. I pulled this photo from a person who scanned it out of a science themed magazine. Scientists, pilots and geeks. They've sure been known to screw up in their relationships. Always off philandering, wearing speedos and heavy colognes, manscaping.

I thought I might edit out the contact details in the ad and then I decided against it. Sometimes you've just got point out who is responsible.

The finger of responsibility is also pointing at Kobe Bryant, Chris Brown and David Beckham. Kobe's indiscretions cost him a 4 million 8 carat purple diamond ring while cheapskate Chris Brown thought his behavior was only worth 50K.

Our advertised ring and earring set will knock you back $129 plus shipping and handling. I spent more than that buying paint, flooring and new fixtures for my bathroom and no one got cheated on or assaulted.

$129 sort of limits my husband's indiscretions unless Justin wants to spend it like Beckham. That amount of apology fits if he farted in the car or didn't put away the Miracle Whip or left his wet towel on the bed. It would take quite a lot more for me to kick Justin out of our mutual bed necessitating the mail order purchase of a pink sparkly. We are talking cubic tons of saltines here, more crumbs than mattress. I'm not even sure there is jewelry worth that amount that will convince me to unbench a benched husband. Hell, I don't think an overpriced bauble priced at any amount would convince me to unbench a benched husband.

In other words, why in the hell is there advertising saying that women and wives should and can be bought, that I can be bought, with ugly paste cosmetic fluff? I thought the practice of selling indulgences ended when Martin Luther tacked his indignation to a door. I didn't know I should soften and melt when I should be angry when presented with a shiny thing.

Or flowers. Or lighting candles. You know, making up with anything that's not the meat and potatoes of what's needing apologizing for in the first place. That's like smearing paint over that crack in the wall of my bathroom without properly fixing what is causing the crack in the first place. The crack will reappear in the shiny new blue paint dammit. I love my new bathroom, I do.

But then, there are enough of my female contemporaries that are perfectly OK with this.

So out comes the finger of responsibility again. Sister? Knock it off. No doubt you are entitled to your anger, your betrayal, but you make us all look shallow. Which I resent. When you apologize for putting womanhood in that position, buying us anything, anything at all, is not necessary.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Suck it up.

The Empress of Electrolux, my mother, is coming over this evening.

Wherein I will cause her death.

Don't act so shocked. I'm not nursing violent tendencies toward my mother. I'm not nursing any violent tendencies now that Dubya is out of office. Those years were getting dicey there for a while. My mother going to keel over from shock and indignation from something I did.

No, I didn't pierce or tattoo anything. Or sleep with a senator.

I vacuumed my lawn.

And not with an industrial vacuum either. I vacuumed it with my 12 amp, carpet height adjustable, upright Kenmore. For a woman who loves vacuuming, who actively persues a relationship with her vacuum several times a day, who has beautiful pristine carpet, the thought of that is going to end existence as my mother knows it.

I feel bad about it but I don't know that there was anything else to be done. I don't normally vacuum my lawn. There were extenuating circumstances.

Wednesday's weather was lovely and my muscles were achy from whine flu. It seemed like a good idea to go out in my backyard and read in the sunshine, letting nature work heat into my bones instead of sucking down 90 proof flu medication. Sobriety is awesome. So I moved my patio set into the patch of sun the lawn, sat back in the chair, put my feet up on the other chair, laid my book on the table and worked my way into the plot.

Right as I got to the climax of the euphemism laden sex scene a sudden burst of violent heaving wind swept into my backyard and inexplicably caused the glass top of my table to burst into a zillion razor sharp shards.

That's how turgid my table was...dayum.

Freaky, right? It's a good thing that my feet were up because otherwise I'd be writing this post with shredded Hamburger Helper feet.

Getting up most of the glass with a hand shovel took a while but it wasn't working for the bits that had worked their way into my lawn. The danger of Hamburger Helper feet was still imminent.

So I consulted my little sister, who is also showing up this evening, and she told me that a good way to get myself a new vacuum would be to vacuum up glass and lawn clippings with the old one. Do you know that she was a hardcore Christmas snoop growing up? She knows how to get the goods.

The Kenmore was sturdy enough, and I might have to spring for a vacuum anyway, so why not? Out it went. Within minutes I'd sucked up the rest of the glass with hose attachment, carefully gleaning between each blade and dandelion.

My grass is beautiful and pristine.

The Kenmore is also beautiful and pristine. No worse for wear.

Which is a shame because when my Mom reads this post later and gives up the ghost, her Electrolux, and her title, will go to a member of the family that needs a vacuum and not me.

I call her last dozen cans of Aquanet.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Potty break from reality.

44fy[r[[w[ e4[e[e[[g

I went to the bathroom and I came back to this alien communique on my screen.

I promise I did not squeeze the Charmin. Not even a little bit. Wasn't even tempted. I am Mr. Whimple's love child.

Let's put on our tin foil hats and decode. Oh that's cute, you twisted yours to look like a swan. I put viking horns on mine.

Gots our paranoia on.

The aliens are telling me to:

- Go back to bed, because I'm achy and phlegmy. The swine flu is a martian conspiracy, payback for Tom Cruise in War of the Worlds. The martians don't want to kill us. They just want to dominate our media and annoy us with diarrhea.

- Shampoo my carpet. It's filthy. Aren't you a housewife? Geez woman, what do you do all day?

- Kill clowns.

- Call my mother.

- Start listening to Glenn Beck. Or at least start drinking more.

- Run of president of the local PTA. I'm pro #2 pencils and cursive handwriting, against in school cell phone usage and sniffing whiteboard markers.

Maybe I will go squeeze my Charmin. Just a little bit. Just until the voices stop.

Turns out the communique is from my three year old. It very well may be that an alien is possessing his body. He screams often enough. Asks for soda for breakfast and mismatches his clothes.

I asked him to read me what he typed. He points at it and sunnily says, "Blue!"

Makes sense.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Get clipped.

I bought a corded electric lawnmower.

Yes, I know, that's wussy. I am such a girl.

It's taking it's maiden voyage today. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, I've run over the cord or my cat. Take bets.

Monday, May 04, 2009

Guess where I'm going to shove this blender?

Now that my coffee is finally cool enough to taste, I feel able to string two words together and form a sentence.

Hopefully I get to use this new morning ability. Doesn't look great though. My "internet service provider" has gone down again. (I got the Blogger window open just in time.) Every morning for the last week they have been nonfunctioning and yesterday those computer-y bastards were no go for most of the day.

I'm going to call and gently recommend a remedy for constipation.

I called a month ago and gently reminded my ISP that I paid for a certain upload/download speed and that only receiving a fourth of said speed, which wasn't speedy enough to consistently watch Will it Blend? vids on YouTube, was a disappointing, even depressing, experience.

Our local High Speed Technician wanted to know what the hell I was downloading. Has he never been tempted to blend golfballs or a Rubik's cube? Blendtec's Tom Dickson is a sexy man. I have hobbies.

Then he fiddled on his computer some (Not Tom Dickson, my ISP Jockey) and told me I could check my speed on this website. I asked him if he would like me to read my speed test history as I'd already been such a fan of the site previously. He declined.

My speed has been much better since then...when the internets actually works. Will it Blend? You bet your donkey it will. It'll blend so hard. Don't bother me now. He's set it to puree'.

Oh looky, I'm connected again.

...and now I'm not.

And obviously now I am again because you're seeing this. That was a blessed ten seconds of connectivity.

Time for a prune smoothie dammit.

Friday, May 01, 2009

I get to ride the carpet shampooer.

I'm thrilling my kids this weekend with a family activity.

I'm so excited!


They can help. It's the least they can do since their everloving parents allowed them to put that giant plastic container of cheese doodles in the cart at Sam's Club. We don't just shop there for tasty free samples. Delicious jalapeno poppers...just one is enough to cause rectal burning.

The home appraiser is coming on Tuesday. Lowering our house payments is good. We finally found a company with a decent reputation willing to do this for us even though we have a regular old mortgage without a sliding interest rate. This will save us a bazillion dollars a month.

To which I will use to stimulate the economy by purchasing more processed cheese and jalapeno products. Call me kinky but the burn is good.

Now the pressure is on. Our house can't be upside down, either in worth or state of cleanliness. The smell of boy has to be annihilated. Especially the smell of fifteen year old boy. Any well meaning appraiser wouldn't even enter the house with that wall of stink greeting him.

So I have buckets...and rags...and a Mr. Clean smirk...and the kids haven't got a choice. Time to muck the barn.

We'll break out the cheese doodles again on Wednesday. Unless I have to use them as a real estate bribe.

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