Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Acting my age...12.

In two weeks my husband, Justin, turns 40.

Being 40 is the official mark of adulthood. It's the time in life that you cannot possibly pretend to be a frat boy or a sorority sister anymore. People stop finding it cute when you lift your shirt and expose your chest like you could freely before. Not just at large crowd events, but at smaller venues, like the grocery store or Carl's Jr.

Forty is the age where you have to stop wearing your ball-cap backwards. It's law.

I'm not yet forty. I'm 34. This is a precarious age even when you consider my early menopause symptoms. This is MILF age. Young enough to still giggle but old enough to take no crap.

I find I've been presented with a dilemma concerning my maturity.

No, I'm not concerned over my enjoyment of fart jokes. No question there. Fart jokes are still funny.

I'm concerned over the implications of a song I heard over casino loud speakers in Vegas. A song I really liked. A song I made a point to remember some of the lyrics to so when I got home I could look it up and then stream capture it off of YouTube. A song I've listened to repeatedly since I've gotten home. I've moved my butt and hips to it.

The song? Performed by teeny-boppers. Youngsters. Minors. Children who cannot yet walk into a bar and order a long island iced tea.

Listen to my concern.

What's even more stupid about this...or maybe it's a consolation...this song is TWO years old. Yes, the duh factor is obvious. I did not catch it.

Why, I may hitch my mom jeans up to my boobs and go chasing after The Jonas Brothers at this point!

Do The Jonas Brothers have first names? I have no idea.

When I was a teeny bopper it was all New Kids on the Block. I'm sure they had names. I didn't know them then. I don't know them now. Every pubescent girl in 1989 loved them. I had sense enough then to observe their antics and become nauseated. Even their zits were scripted.

Twenty years later I've lost all the sense I was so blessed with as a teen.

Only six years to rectify the situation before it becomes hopeless. Certainly there is hope. I've never seen any High School Musical and I'm damned proud of that.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

My apron has a hole in it.

Hi. I'm Becky. I'm a housewife. A real housewife of Elko County.

Today I'm actually in Elko signing official documents lowering my house payments to a ridiculously low amount. You see, my community saw up-side-down house values back in 2002 when one of our largest employers declared bankruptcy and was forced to sell out. We've spent the last seven years becoming equitably pear shaped again. Happily our inflatable clown is staying upright when we punch it in the nose of these days of a collapsing housing market. It could have been different. Now we can really pay off some principle. Take that Bozo, you jackass.

I was fixin' to make fun of all them housewives in those high-fallutin' places they show on the television but then I recall that I never did watch any of those shows past three or four minutes worth.

It seemed to me that a housewife with no housework wasn't really a housewife at all. Wife, sure, house?...McMansion?...gift wrapping rooms?...hmmm not so much.

Certainly none of those women have gone to a bare bones title office, next door to a feed store, wearing twenty dollar jeans and a souvenir T-shirt from Branson! Missouri.

I didn't go to Branson. My parents did. They've been twice. They party.

I'm not suggesting that they come live my life. Wife Swap isn't on my TV watching schedule either and it's questionable that my housework would ever get done to my rural standards. I'm suggesting they get new titles. They are tarnishing mine. There isn't enough jewelry hanging off their spray tanned liposuctioned bodies to make up for it. Either "real" or "housewife" has to go.

Then, I may feign fascination in their show.

First episode of the real housewives of Elko County? Becky puts on some old sweatpants and sprays around the perimeter of her home for ants, and then, after washing her hands, knocks out an amazing meatloaf and some creamed peas.

I'm gonna get me an Emmy.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Spit and Hiss

I so want to complain about this teenager in my home. This child who thinks schoolwork is arbitrary, hygiene is unnecessary and any language heavily laden in sarcasm is a joy to all that hear it.

But...in an effort to count my blessings...I'm going to try my damndest to restrain myself.

Instead, lets discuss kittens.

Adorable kittens.

Fuzzy kittens.

Bouncy playful rumbly tumbly kittens.

Licky biteful battful milky kittens.

Sleepy yawny tawny kittens.

Kittens with mitts and spots and tufts and fluff.

Sweet smelling grass and sunshine kittens.

Kittens with new sharp baby kitten claws and new sharp baby kitten teeth.

Kittens who yowl incessantly in the early morning hours.

Kittens who piddle on the carpet.

And poop outside of the litter box.

Kittens that hack up half eaten rodents.

Kittens that find themselves drawn to have loud yet intimate kitten relations right in the middle of your front yard.

Kittens that roll in stinky filth and expect to come into the house and lay on the good upholstery like they some sort of feline royalty.


Monday, June 22, 2009

Get yer red hots!

Before I get to the smooth creamy Oreo center of my post, happy Fathers Day to all.

Besides, I've eaten the fudgy cookie outsides. It's all in my teeth. Onwards!

Since testing showed that my cholesterol is slightly elevated, and learning that it's all related to hormones and insulins and this goatee I've been shaving off daily, I've tried to be mindful of eating less and moving more.

I don't wear elastic waist pants but apparently that means exactly nothing and I should still eat proper and not sit around on my butt. This is not fair.

This past couple weeks I've been a bad girl about it food-wise. Vegas is full of delicious butter laden food and gallons of drinks in obnoxious containers. However, I feel I walked most of that off on the trip. The only places to sit to rest in Vegas are in front of slot machines or in front of menus. You stay upright or else.

Walking ain't half bad of a way to move more. I attempted to do some walking yesterday. Headphones got stuffed into my ears, I put on my shorts, I hooked my water bottle around my waist and up I went to a beautiful desert trail system above my town.

A half mile in a thunderstorm came on fast, and since I was the tallest object for miles I thought it was a good idea to turn around and move more in the direction of my vehicle. Lightning doesn't care if you wear fly front pants or not.

Suddenly I want toast. Crispy buttered toast. This oatmeal I'm eating is not toast.

It's when I was safely in my van that my legs ballooned into two long itchy red welts apiece. Something floating around in all that natural desert air I guess. In the three minutes it took me to get home I was in a tearful mess of itchy agony and my legs were the shade of ketchup.

Had I worn long pants I might have avoided a reaction altogether...or I would have split them open Hulk style. Oatmeal smash.

Relief came in the tub with a bar of ivory soap and a vinegar rinse though it took the whole day before the swelling and redness went away. I can't say if the red was any improvement on my usual turkey cold cut pastiness. You can stay with the image of me soaping up. I don't mind.

Suddenly I want cranberry sauce...on stuffing. Hot sagey buttery stuffing. Oatmeal is not stuffing.

What was a real hoot was that my mommy badges, the stretch marks I was ever so lucky to develop high on my thighs, got so swollen that they looked like I should buy a hot dog cart and set up business on the street corner in front of the liquor store.

Even this morning they are still looking a bit Vienna Sausage like.

No, I don't suddenly want a Vienna Sausage.

Because I've finished my oatmeal. I'm full. Time for a walk.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Tenna brand party hats.

Today is my youngest son's fourth birthday.

In these four years since he burst forth from my body I hope that I've sufficiently made the impression on him that in 50 years he's going to be the one to change my diapers. He's my last hope.

And here he thought he was just getting cake and some toys.

Welcome to my evil plan little man.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Got grass?

My lawn needs mowing.

Because when it rains about every day for the past two weeks the stuff is bound to grow as fast as Grandpa's nose hairs and look about as inviting.

Why Grandpa, what long nose hairs you have! All the better to eat you with.

That's water in the desert for you. It's like Mark McGwire and a juicy steroid injection.

I wouldn't mind losing a neighbor child or two in my backyard jungle. That's one of the upsides of not maintaining the yard. One of them keeps ringing my doorbell and running off. But then, I waited in the middle of the street until he popped his head out of his hidey-hole and that's when I threatened to cut off his ringing finger with my kitchen scissors. He hasn't ding dong ditched since.

There has got to be a way to make lawn mowing a more exciting event. I'm looking for another upside to maintaining the yard.

I'm not mowing the lawn naked. You were thinking it. Perverts.

At least not top naked. Going pantsless is a consideration. I hate it when I get grass stains on my pants.

You say, "Why don't you have that 15 year old child of yours mow it?"

Pantsless? You gotta be kiddin' me.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Because we've had to use their bathroom while I finish grouting the tile in mine.

My obnoxious 15 year old child is pouting over having to completely hose down his bathroom because it's infested with a greasy layer of his filth.

Guess what little man...I've been cleaning bathrooms years before I reached your mature age and YOU do not get to tell me how it's done. That's 25-27 years of experience with a can of cleanser and my head in a toilet that you don't have.

If I say it's disgusting in there, it's disgusting in there, and you can spend an hour of your precious media laden time to dazzle me with how non-urine-y it can smell like.

Bonus, maybe, just maybe, the your fingernails might become clean in the process.

Monday, June 15, 2009

We were not the ones that broke the safety rail in the shower...it was already coming loose from the wall.

So, did I survive a 14th and top floor room in one tower of Caesar's Palace, featuring a huge marble shower in the bathroom with two huge shower heads, which looked out to a view of Marie Osmond's teeth and the Eiffel Tower, that a grant to Elko County School District kindly paid for?

Why yes, yes I did.

How much would you pay to get the room behind Marie Osmond's teeth? Wonder if it has a good shower.

While Justin was attending a teacher's conference for at risk students, I was out and about in the city, doing exactly whatever I felt like doing, making my feet sore. Developing a bunion was worth it because I also had a view of these:



Yes...YES YES!!

...and at this point I fell onto the floor and convulsed in a fit of ecstasy. I obviously was not the first to have done so because the museum guides went right on with their tour lectures oblivious.

In addition to my ride on a free shuttle to the Liberace Museum and a mile and a half walk to consume a greasy 2 buck foot long hot dog, I also did some Liberace viewing at Madame Tussuad's museum of creepy wax figures at The Venetian. This is the only sculpture that mattered.

I am a gay man born in a woman's body.

Not to outdo the thrill of sequins I also got a good looky-loo at this bit of wonderment:

Tall McBalderson here decided to push his way in front of me for a better view of the volcano show in front of The Mirage. Also being a tall sort of person, I had a good view over the three deep row of people in front of me because they were short. No big deal to let them be closer. Baldy had no such inclinations. Therefore, he gets his hair loss featured on my blog.

To round out my views, I got plenty of exposure to women displaying their boob jobs on the strip...and no, these weren't the women featured on those little business cards which are offered to you on the sidewalks. I felt like a Sin City underachiever.

Lastly, I listened to a conversation in Planet Hollywood between a younger couple, the next chaise lounge chair over from where I was resting my grumpy feet and probably snoring off and on, who were expounding on the notion that families with more than two children are using up the planet's resources.

What a retarded discussion to have in Vegas.

Monday, June 08, 2009


You feel that tingling in your nipples?

That's me. I'm in Vegas and I'm channeling blinking neon dreams your direction.

You're welcome.

Neon Signs

Friday, June 05, 2009


When one's computer is malfunctioning naturally the internet spoon fed brain has thoughts that are completely foreign to it's normal patterns.

For instance, during a brighter moment in my day last week, I suggested to my rotund husband that "we should take up tennis!"

For clarification, I asked Justin to supply a descriptive for his body type. He also offered fat, chubby and portly while gnawing away at a McDonald's breakfast burrito. I'm eating oatmeal and considering tackling him for a bite.

He declined. Tennis that is.

To soothe Justin when it came the suggestion of sport I allowed that he could probably kick my ass. It's the truth. That man may describe himself as rotund but he's also fast and coordinated. I am not coordinated. I am spastic. My long limbs dart out in strange stringy positions, sort of jellyfish like. Out of all the sports that I have embarrassed myself trying to play, racquet sports are those which I find myself most successful at. Give me a racquet and a birdie and I can whip that sucker right past your ear while you stand in amazement at my moves.

Give me a bat and a baseball and I can succeed in swinging myself around and landing on my face.

When Justin didn't respond to my entreaty I reiterated the idea with, "Wouldn't it feel good to kick my ass?"

"No." he says.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd be playing tennis."


Online poker is working again. Justin will play that...and I'll whip birdies past his ears when he folds.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

A nice set of USB ports.

I nearly offered to perform unladylike acts with the UPS man yesterday. He's the angel in tight brown shorts who delivered a new desktop computer to my door.

New computers function better than older computers with sudden power supply issues. I could have replaced the impotent parts on the old model but instead I traded in for a new model with chiseled pectorals and a melty latin accent. I need to shave my legs. I am not worthy.

If I were stranded on a desert island I'd want a leatherman tool...and a coconut powered laptop...maybe the UPS man.

You'll excuse me now. I've been deprived of my usual round of sites and I've been experiencing the worst internet DTs. Eventually I'll shower.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Before my comp self destructs in 30 seconds.

700th post.

Comp went boom. Comp no worky.

New comp arrives tomorrow.

I need internets.

Absent Minded Archives