Friday, January 30, 2009

No one pays me for being awesome.

Where in the hell is my bonus?

I did the math, which is apparently difficult for many people, and I found that 18 billion dollars will buy outright 90,000 moderately sized homes in my town.

My town's population is around 6000, so that means every person currently schlepping it in my corner of casino hell could own 15 houses each. That's 60 houses just in my family.

And all I wanted was a basement rumpus room which could be cleaned by hosing it down.

Maybe a spare house to keep my ego in.

Because, lord knows, there ain't enough places for people to stash their egos these days.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Pew

Hold onto your hats folks. This is exciting news. Awesome news. News that changes lives.

THE COUCH DELIVERY MAN IS COMING TO MY HOUSE TODAY!

Sit down and think on that a while and you'll come to know why my couch changes your life.

Perhaps I was foolish in purchasing a couch online, sight unseen, posterior untested, but compared to the pathetic blue thing that's already dominating my family room this new and umarred couch will define my worth as keeper of this house. New couch smell is preferable to old couch smell.

Besides, Target was offering a 15% furniture sale with free shipping. This has saved me nearly 200 bucks.

I'm going to blame my nagging butt itch on anticipation. Yeah, that's it, anticipation.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

When my kid grows up, I want him to be a drag queen.

From time to time, a little less often than I get requests to sew darling flannel baby outfits for full grown men, I get requests to whip up darling sequin encrusted outfits for other adults to dress their small children in when they shove their progeny into beauty pageants.

My answer is always no. Straight up, I know I can make a lot of money sewing up those mounds of fluff, no.

Not that the little dresses and talent outfits wouldn't be fun. They are fun. It's like creating and wearing Disneyland, Lego-land and Universal Studios all wrapped into one. Disneyland doesn't show Captain EO anymore though, I'm sad to say.

It's a no because it's damned creepy.

I once entered my oldest child in my hometown's annual town celebration baby contest. If you had a baby, and lived in the town, it was just the thing you did and the script you followed. I didn't know I had to present my spawn like a Christmas present, in glittering paper with a giant curly bow. The other parents knew this. Those babies drooled on Baby Gap, spit up on Baby Jordan's, leaked on Baby Vera Wang and gnawed on little Baby Kate Spade handbags. I dressed my kid in hand me down overalls without a label. Baby Podunk...and please kid, whatever you do, don't projectile vomit.

My kid...yeah, he WON.

Which means he won because his genetics happened to merge well when he was an infant. There was no talent portion because that might have been his ability to heed my warning and keep the contents of his stomach hidden from public view.

What kind of skill is there, what kind of pride is there, when you have to cover your child in so much fluff and stuff and hair extensions and mascara that little remains of the child at all?

Where is the dignity in it?

I haven't entered any of my other children in contests of that sort since. I "lost" that script. Happily, the town contest now only allows it's entrants to wear plain, boring, white onesies to the judging. There ain't a sequin or a lettuce edge in sight. If my kid is cute, if my kid is well behaved, if my kid is speshul, my kid will still have all those qualities covered in mud and wrapped in a dignified tarp.

And if Mommy is lovely and well behaved and equally dignified she won't insist the kid put Vaseline on their teeth whilst wearing the tarp. There might even be a college fund later.

I'll make a muddy tarp for your kid for thirty bucks plus shipping and handling. All income will be put into my kid's college fund.

If he's still projectile vomiting in college you can have a refund.

Monday, January 26, 2009

This donkey's been reined in...thank God.

The night before last I had a profound and exciting idea for my writings today. Profound may be putting it too strongely, but definitely somewhat entertaining and something to read between coffee refills if you folks are determined to procrastinate.

However, this idea required my husband's go ahead because I like to give him a heads up when I write posts about him. And he nixed it. That's OK even if I thought this would be the funniest idea I've ever had and depriving my audience of this idea is almost like depriving you all of oxygen or American Idol. If he doesn't take the trouble to check me now and then you'd all know ten percent more about Justin than you really needed to, oxygen deprived or not. Justin dislikes extortion. Most people tend to. You can't blame the man.

There are a lot of subjects that I won't touch here on my own accord.

Abortion is one. There has never been a civilized or rational discussion about abortion in the history of the internets. Nor can one write a funny abortion post. It just doesn't work that way. I expect some of you to get riled up just because I typed the word. I may even say it out loud and then happily await an assault on my person.

Religion is generally out past surface talk, except for the wonders of Scientology. I do not care what you believe or practice. I don't know that you care what I believe or practice. Let's not convert each other towards anything. Let's not drink any Kool-aid. Let's not put on those Nikes. I'd like to buy the world a Coke.

Though it's juicily tempting, I've decided to not write anything more about my position as HOA Vice President in my neighborhood. That's a good two dozen posts wasted I'm sure but instead I am taking a peace making high road. Or at least the road a couple inches up higher than the gutter. Boy, couldn't the gutter use some cleaning too. We must be vigilant about our property values.

Then there are the subjects that are so incredibly taboo, so nauseating, so personal, that even mentioning them isn't worth mentioning. I hope this makes me an intriguing woman, shrouded in sexy mystery and stealthy sensuality even if I do write quite a lot about farts. Just nod your head and agree with me here.

Obviously Justin didn't nix a mysterious silent but deadly fart story. Not that he finds those kinds of stories as hilarious as I do. We cannot account for taste.

He nixed a story about _________!

Yeah, I know, now I can't believe I was even considering writing such a thing. Shame on me.

Friday, January 23, 2009

I'd rather ask, "Would you like fries with that?"

Would YOU like to take charge of your financial future and make more money than YOU EVER HAVE BEFORE?

Would YOU like to change your life and fulfill your dreams?

Would YOU like to have every possibility open up to you?

Would YOU like to have all your friends and neighbors wonder how you became such a personal success?


Well, my readers and other hangers on, it's this simple, send your money to an MLM representative today and you will receive THE SYSTEM! Guaranteed success and a preferable lifestyle is only a CAPSLOCK, bold, or an highlight away!

It doesn't half matter which product you agree to try to sell. Everyone uses detergent, we could all use engine conditioning gasoline additives, herbs and vitamins are good for us right? Knives, I need more KNIVES! AND INSURANCE!!!

Hell, they won't even tell you what you are supposed to sell until you've signed a check and pledged your firstborn.

Gah...since the economy tanked have you seen an increase in people interested in fulfilling your dreams for you too? Ponzi be damned?

What if my dream is to sit in my pajamas pants until noon, sipping reheated coffee and farting at will? How can I know if I have the mindset to fulfill that dream or maybe I'm really overqualified to fulfill that dream? I know, I'll fill out your contact form and will discuss it at length and with a lot of buzzwords!

After you sign on up you have to attend at least three symposiums with at least three hours of exposure to a inspirational speaker to begin living the dream. And you need to buy a three ring binder with at least a hundred pages of highlighted bolded material to read through complete with pay by the photo graphics.

Has working, really working, honestly manufacturing a product and putting a price next to that product without talk of "the dream" gone out of style?

I hope not.

Because, I don't give a flip about your dreams. Unless your dream is to be useful in some capacity. Someone has to explain to me how MLM businesses are useful to anyone. You can highlight all the words you want but they are still highlighted sow's ears. I don't want to be shown the money...I want to be shown something you've accomplished without the spin.

Someone has to manufacture the boring shit we all use everyday. No one dreams of laying asphalt, or powder coating toilets, or being a paper clip quality control technician. Those poor chumps who make the highlighter markers that you're using to further highlight business useless philosophical passages in your three ring binder, they must have no idea that they are missing out on the dream.

Snake oil is snake oil.

And, for Ponzi's sake, I am NOT INTERESTED. Now get your butt off my porch before I highlight you with my hose.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Monday, January 19, 2009

Get Broomed

Today is garage cleaning day.


And no, that is not a euphimism for some sort of intimate personal hygiene, thank you very much.

Do you live in that gutter or do you just rent it?

Friday, January 16, 2009

Sit down in my thinkun' chair and thunk and thunk and thunk

I am looking into stimulating the economy by buying a new sofa.

Because, my old sofa, which 6 years ago was my new sofa, looks like this after being exposed to my three boys.


Comfy.

I want a utilitarian couch. Something with low arms, which you can vacuum under, and has no pieces that will disconnect to be used to make a fort. I want it to be water, milk, soda, juice, pee, poop and vomit resistant. I want it to not smell like feet.

This couch doesn't need to make a statement about my entire identity and my belief in God by way of upholstery. All my family needs is a new and less destroyed place to park their butts.

I am seriously considering buying futons. Which can be WASHED. The mattresses can be taken into the backyard and sprayed down with a hose. Hell, if I buy the right model, I can take that bastard whole to the car wash and get it real clean. And waxed.

Futons have downsides though. The biggest one is that they are FUTONS. Eff You Tons.

Cheaping out is an option past a futon. I could go dorm room chic and just cover my existing monstrosity with a king sized fleece blanket printed with a fantasy motif. Fairies and rainbows. It'll be cuddly and precious.

And if it's precious, my boys might stay the hell away from it.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Feeling a draft

Since receiving my new longlegged jeans in the mail I have been riding high on a wave of denim bliss. It's an impressive thing to walk around in pants that fully cover one's lily white ankle skin.

Before Christmas I ripped a hole in the bum of one of my new pair. That is what happens when you scoot across the floor while you are installing a lower closet rod and run into the sharp corner of your level. You also rip a hole right into your bum, which mars your lily white bum skin with a purple scar.

I patched my bum and my jeans, but obviously you can't wear that pair to tea parties anymore. And you certainly can't go pantless. It's uncouth.

I asked my brother in law, who graduated from denim university and now works in clothing retail, to pick me up a pair of the longlegged jeans in the brand he sells even though they cost a bit more. He's loathe to look at my ankles.

What I didn't know was that these jeans were of a cut that would highlight my lily white asscrack.

Not that I have a huge asscrack. It's a perfectly average sized asscrack. I keep it clean and moisturized. I'm just not used to wearing low rise low waisted jeans or brandishing about my bum despite what you might have heard. I've made quite a show thus far of wearing jeans that are kinda Mom jeans but not quite Mom jeans since I was 12 years old even if they were too short. That's when I grew baby making hips.

When I wear these jeans I feel liberated? I feel ten years younger?

I know...I FEEL LIKE I'VE NEVER GOTTEN A STRETCHMARK IN MY LIFE!




Shuddup and let me sit with this fantasy a minute.




Alrighty, I'm done. Quit looking at my bum you bum looker.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Decaff is for wussies.

Why is it, on some mornings, that I can't just relax and enjoy my coffee?




Quit staring...really now!

Monday, January 12, 2009

Gots my pearls on.

This weekend's horde of new visitors 'round these parts has been by way of the search term "nifty housewife stories."

Hello. I'm Becky. I'm a housewife. I'll be your nifty housewife cruise director.

Dictionary.com tells us that nifty is defined as:

–adjective
1. attractively stylish or smart: a nifty new dress for Easter.
2. very good; fine; excellent: a nifty idea.
3. substantial; sizable: We sold the car for a nifty profit.
–noun
4. something nifty, as a clever remark or joke
.

Why yes, that is me. How wonderful it is that Google should recognize my nifty status! I am attractively stylish, smart, fine and clever. My hygiene is spectacular.

I'm not substantial though. I'm working on that.

To see what kind of Google company I'm keeping I did my own nifty housewife search. It seems I'm sharing my nifty accolades with more than one site containing thousands of sexually-explicit erotic stories involving alternative sexualities.

Like these people do stuff with fruit or power tools? I'm confused. I'm angry too. Why didn't anyone tell me there was a new and ever so clever definition for "nifty"?

Nifty is all about June Cleaver sensible shoe wearing and cookie baking goodness. It's not about germy sordid activities with Brigitte Nielsen and small caged animals. One wears a nice new dress for Easter and one does not, alrighty? Who got into Funk and/or Wagnalls underdrawers and pervert-ified "nifty"? C'mon, fess up! One of you searchers has to at least know somebody who knows somebody who would know who did it.

This world is going to heck in a hand-basket, let me tell you.

Admittedly I have more in common with Brigitte than I do with June, but c'mon, I thought I'd finally shed that terrible reputation. I wear slipper socks for goodness sake. I eat oatmeal. I hung drapes this weekend!

Sigh...done bun can't be undone.

It's best to face this revelation with some resolve.

I'm Becky. I'm a housewife. And I'm nifty.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Watch Out!

My house has been infested...

...by Spiderman.

Dirty little superhero, always leaving his wet superhero towels on the floor, red and blue streaks in the loo.

It's understandable that my three year old son idolizes Spiderman. I idolize Spiderman. He's got tight buns. He shoots sticky stuff from his wrists. He flings himself between buildings all willy nilly. He doesn't have a fruity cape to get in the way.

Santa Claus came to my house and crapped Spiderman all over.

There are blinking Spiderman shoes and Spiderman jammies and Spiderman slippers and a Spiderman scooter and Spiderman food storage containers and Spiderman digital time pieces and Spiderman sports equipment and a Spiderman that sings and will give table dances for extra.

When I was three it was Holly Hobbie, being that I was a girl and not a boy. I don't know what it would have been if I were a boy. Tight bunned Lou Ferrigno Hulk maybe? Anyway, I remember Holly Hobbie crapped all over the room my little sister and I shared. Green and yellow gingham bedspreads and ruffly curtains. Our cousin Debbie had pink gingham Holly Hobbie in her room. That's ok I guess. Our green Holly Hobbie matched the rest of my parents 70's avocado green home, including the guacamole fridge and stove. We must not go against the color scheme.

I wasn't crazy over Holly Hobbie. I don't recall being enamoured in that way over any cartoony character. My Mom chose Holly Hobbie for me. My three year old chooses Spiderman for himself.

It's my fault that I support his choice.

I did not have to buy the blinking Spiderman shoes. Of course, I wouldn't have if they had been out of our budget. My three year old who rarely wears shoes doesn't need 30 dollar sneakers just because they have Spiderman on them. These shoes were 8 dollars on sale. It used to be a concern of mine to buy character clothing as they'd become hand-me-downs for sure and those fads pass so fast, but since he's my last I feel more inclined to allow images of Spiderman's tight buns on everything.

It's better than the image of Lou Ferrigno Hulk and Holly Hobbie's love child all over everything.



Adorable lovechild smash!

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

I envy penguins.

If any of you readers and other hangers on out there in internets land feels achy, and feverish, or are suffering from annoying hot flashes, have I got the solution for you! I have relief!

(And I'm only offering this solution because we are just that friendly and I like you.)

Let me put my icy cold winter feet on you. They're clean. I promise.

I'm quite dexterous with my feet. My toes are long and I can use them to grasp objects. I'm flexible in general. I can put both ankles behind my neck.

Wouldn't a cold toe-sy massage feel great on those toasty temples? Wouldn't it feel lovely on an aching back? Couldn't I whisk away a hot flash in mere seconds?

Don't let the purple hue to my appendages scare you. The color indicates it's working.

Best of all, this offer is mostly free. You gotta pay to come to me. I ain't going to you. I'm not feeding you either.

Act soon! This is only a limited time offer. Eventually spring will be here and my feet will lose their healing effects until the next December. Don't wait until it's too late! Feel pampered and get your chill on today!




Yeah, my husband didn't fall for it either.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Forever Young

As I look back to the past mid-winter festival like holiday pastime, there is one gift that stands out as the most meaningful. I'm sure my husband would agree as it was a gift given to him, from Santa himself, placed ever so carefully in Justin's stocking.

Fine, I shoved a bottle of Brut cologne in a quilted sock at 2 in the morning.

I paid seven dollars for the Brut. 1.3 ounces.

I was trying to purchase a bottle of Elsha for my husband. He likes Elsha. I like Elsha. It's $38 for an 8 ounce bottle. If you are a math whiz that's $4.75 an ounce which by the ounce is less than the Brut. That's if you can find it. I could not. I found aisles full of Polo. Shelves upon shelves of Tim McGraw's new signature scent. I found Stetson and Ralph Lauren and all kinds of other sporting brands of cologne. No Elsha anywhere.

I smelled them all too. I whiffed. I snorted. I got a little buzzed. Brut smelled best so that's what I bought. It didn't smell like musky flowery cheese.

Brut smells like puberty.

Remember going to Jr. High dances? Age 14, pimply, bepuffed hair, wearing flowery dresses with giant sleeves and bows at the back. You entered the gym and a wall of BO masked with Brut cologne met you and you knew it was boy hunting time.

Hunting boys was a careful procedure. You couldn't be too forward, lest you incur embarrassment, and you couldn't be to shy, lest you won't get asked to dance. You sat with your friends on the bleachers on one side of the gym, giggling, until one sex or the other would cross the great divide, to take your sweaty glitter polished hand and ask you to join them for five minutes of agony.

If it was a fast song you showed off your clutzy running man. It's Hammer time.

If it was a slow song you got the worry of where to put your hands, or wondering if you were breathing too loud, or trying not to step on his foot with your heel.

And if you were me, and it was a slow song, you were a foot taller than your partner and his eyes met squarely with your padded bra.

At the end of the night, a sleepy ten o'clock, hopefully you had danced a few and avoided too much hormone fueled drama. A parent picked you up and you carried the scent of Brut and hair gel home with you.

Justin is two inches shorter than I am, by the way.

I see now that I can purchase Elsha online since it's past the holidays. I don't know if I will though. Instead I'm going to put on a calico dress, some black hose, paint on some purple mascara and I'm going to ask my Brut scented husband to dance.

And he'd better not get too excited about it.

That's gross.


***


Speaking of excited, it's new template time. Do you like it? You can just tell me. No need to ask me to dance to let me know.

Friday, January 02, 2009

I made it through the wilderness...

Oh my boobs have been sore. Not just a little sore, but stick straight out pointy Madonna bra sore.

And I've been nauseated.

And constipated.

And headachey.

Thank God I'm not pregnant. I have been voluntarily and permanently sterilized because I do not want to naturally conceive or bear any more children. Enough of my genetics have been thrust into the world. That kind of snip snip has a failure rate though. Minuscule, but a failure rate all the same. I had to wait but I finally got the proof of my impending non-motherhood.

For a while there I was thinking it though. A woman my age, who would otherwise be very very very fertile, has to.

The thought made me depressed. Along with the sore boobs and being backed up I was a sorry sight.

Right before Christmas we dis-assembled the crib which my father built for me an age ago and moved my youngest into a real bed. All three of my children have used this crib, as well as my sister, and four of my other sibling's children. This crib will hold no more babies. It's also a sorry sight. I'm turning it's parts into a drawing desk.

My house is too small for another screaming poop machine.

I do not want to nurse again.

I loathe the idea of that much more laundry.

I like using my bathroom without a little observer asking if I'm going "poo-poo or pee-pee Mommy? Huh, poo-poo pee-pee!"

But those are just the downsides of procreating. The positives I really don't want either even if those positives make all the poop wiping worth it. It sounds wrong to say that you don't want to experience that first toothless smile again, those first steps, those sticky Elmer's glued mother's day cards, the hugs and kisses motivated by nothing other that the most simple and unconditional kinds of love.

Yeah, I don't want that. I'm done. My plate is full. I've salted it and buttered it. When I'm done consuming it I'll be more than happy to sit back, undo my pants and my pointy Madonna bra, and belch loudly with satisfaction.

No, I don't want a little girl.

Others can do more. I can't. I won't. I got fixed. Blessed be I have that choice.

Next week my boobs will deflate back down to their usual non perkiness and that will be such a relief.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

Comfort fit waistband...

It was a rather subdued holiday trip into Utah County. Christmas with the family was more like something to persevere rather than the usual bits of silliness. Could have been the economy. Could have been that huge nasty snowstorm. Could have been that everyone either had colds or felt up-chucky or down-trotty.

On the first day of the year it's been my habit to quote my friends and family members because the things that come out of their mouths seem noteworthy if not a little bit readable. With this combo going on there wasn't much to note. There was some talk about warm bums and which movies Tom Cruise didn't run or look like a girl in, but otherwise everyone sat in a glazed ham induced glaze.

Even playing my sister's Wii couldn't cure our mouthbreathing ways.

However, there is one quote, one noteworthy quote, that saves us from a blank New Years Day post. It's going down in Absent Minded family legend.



"But we don't have a Blue Ray player!"
- Unknowingly justified by my 14 year old son Kaelan, when he was teased about only being allowed to get himself BVDs when out shopping with his Grandma for his Christmas present.



Because when your Grandma buys you underwear and socks, it's out of love.


Quotes 1, 2 and 3

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