Friday, October 30, 2009

A hard man is good to find.

I need your help.

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

I'm gonna put some whiskey in my swiss miss.

Like every mother out there...or any mother with good intentions anyway...I try to create sweet family moments that my children can look back on when they finally grow into self sustaining adults.

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

Shagged and Bagged

I broke things off with someone yesterday.

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 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

Stomach Bug

Woke up early to a hurling child this morning.

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.

That bastard.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Go to Wally and buy a housecoat already, dammit.

Attention anonymous halloween type web searchers!

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

Skinning Cats

My dumb gay cat meowed all night long.

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 don't get a vote in this decision.

Neither does my cat. Thank Bast.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Will sew for some semblance of dignity...

I can't say I'm a huge fan of reality TV. If the choice came down to watching Survivor or attempting to put my entire fist up my nose the choice would be the fist, hands down. Or hand up. Whatever.

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

Costumes I refuse to tell you how to make this Halloween season...

Because I have ethics and standards.

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

Snake Oil

Should I lay another hormone drenched post on you?

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

Don't worry, I didn't leave a stain.

That worn place on the carpet is where I've been dragging my ass.

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 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

Growl Hiss Spit



My hormones are off again.

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


My almost sixteen year old son has drank all of our milk.

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:

Moloko Villocet.

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.

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