This is because I attempted to take down my fifteen year old son in a wrestling match wherein he broke from the rules of propriety and elbowed me sharply in the thigh causing a bruise roughly the same size and color as an eggplant.
It was his only defense. He's a pipsqueak. He won't let me cuddle and hug on him anymore, because only wusses cuddle with their mommies, so wrestling it is.
He gets affection Andre the Giant style.
After taunting the boy, I lifted him above my head, twirled him about, and threw him into a row of folding chairs. He pretended to act dazed.
Then I ripped my t-shirt into shreds, struck a glorious pose showing off my well defined biceps, and smiled through a grimace because my wrestling panties had crammed themselves snugly between my butt cheeks.
He took that uncannily scripted opportunity to tiptoe quietly behind me, despite the roaring rows of nacho chucking rednecks and mouthbreathers, to suddenly jam his elbow into my thigh, flipping me over, and putting his boot on my face.
As I futiley clawed at his foot I managed to make it quite clear through my hand motions and kicking that he was grounded until he was thirty five but I still loved him anyway.
Duped, he let me up in the spirit of family peace and good will, which is when I pinned him down, as all of sudden he was exhausted besides being unrecognizeable by the masses. I win!
And after all that, I was required to also wrestle my ten year old and my three year old because fair is fair.
I heard through the grapevine that a male relative of mine disbelieves that women are affected negatively by their ever fluctuating levels of hormones and that it's only an excuse for poor behavior. That it's something they made up to lord themselves over men.
I can concede that for some women this is true.
But for me, this morning, this week before my body begrudgingly has a period, this entire blog span of being absent-minded, I think I can freely tell anyone that thinks this way that I have a full carton of soy milk and it wouldn't bother me to pour the entire contents of it over your head.
It's either that or stick the contents of a Sam's Club size box of mini-pads on your car.
When I began watching the red carpet coverage on last night's Oscars I didn't expect to be so stunned. The imagery has stayed with me up until this morning. In fact, I haven't been able to keep my mind on anything else.
I have hyper-focus and I've targeted Mickey Rourke.
Mickey, I can clearly see that you are the man and I suddenly love you.
Give me a moment. I'm besotted.
Ahem. Alright, I'm finished.
Otherwise, it's my pretense and my pleasure to bestow upon Hollywood the Absent Minded Oscars Best Dressed and Worst Dressed awards.
Again we've got fitting issues this year. This time it wasn't so much around the boob area but instead female attendees insisted on cinching in their waists to the point where if they had farted it would have made such a noise that the entire Oscar audience would have dropped to the floor and covered their heads.
On a less uptight note, I thought there were three standouts to our best dressed, barring the men and Mickey Rourke. After getting misty over gorgeous new comers Taraji P. Henson and Frida Pinto, no one even came close to an ethereal Anne Hathaway.
Sigh, it's sparkly, but yet it doesn't upstage her perfect skin. Classic, classic, classic.
With that vision out of the way, time to pucker up again and get onto the worst dressed. I wasn't able to find found a photo of a dumpy Whoopi Goldberg, Tilda Swinton trash bagged it yet again, and I'm forgiving the parade float look of Miley Cyrus because of her age. The worst dressed this year goes to Sophia Loren.
Oh Sophia, what's your excuse? At your age (74) you have such a lovely body and damn if I wouldn't show it off too, but this dress makes me need to pee. Had the toilet paper ruffles been reduced by 50% we might have had something that didn't make us desperately cross our legs.
Good thing we ended with Sophia crosslegged or I might be tempted to go back fawning over Mickey.
I have no idea, because lately I've only gotten out as far as Salt Lake City, if what I'm writing about is a fad from the redwood forest to the gulf-stream waters. Around my neck of the woods it's not a rare sight. Then again, around my neck of the woods, people wearing their underwear over their regular clothing is not a rare sight.
Seems to be a rare sight on google image search however. It's embarrassing to admit how much time I spent trying to find a photo of today's topic so I won't. I'm taking that secret to the grave.
Seriously, what would you call this? That weird deformation at the back of her head? I finally had to resort to a screen shot on a hairstyling tutorial vid. Even if I see hairstyles like this all over my town apparently no one is comfortable enough to take a still photo of themselves sporting the do. I thought I could look through Myspace too but that turned out to be a wash. Add a seven minute badly filmed admittance to time wastage.
I've called it pouf and bump and Star Trek hair. The search term "backcombing" turned up results that are scarier than I had anticipated. There are people out there that are willing take photos of some really kinky shit. Ain't that ironic.
Since I've watched the hairdo video I've learned that it's not really required to fill out your head hump with anything besides ratted hair and a handful of mousse to achieve the look. I know there are products you can clip into your hair that will do so, but I still imagine that if you could store things in the hump, what would you store?
Besides pot. You were thinking it. You little miscreants. You little Amy Winehouse fanatics.
I'm thinking snacks. You could shove a 99 cent bag of Funyuns up in there. Or rice cakes. Twinkies, definitely Twinkies.
Condoms for sure. Six pack minimum. You never know when you are going to need protection.
Pepper Spray. Mace. A big loud whistle. An icepick. Small arms. An emergency floatation device.
And, of course, your unconditional love giving accessory purse sized toy dog named "Tinkles".
I am not talented enough to style my own hair that large.
Did you know, before the days of our modern hair styling industry, that women who wanted to achieve large hair used horse urine, or lanolin, or good old grease, to set up their dos? Once you had it set you were good to go for a week.
A handful of mousse and your pot stash, not nearly as fragrant or attractive to insects.
Today I'm going to paint my boys bathroom. It needs it in the worst possible way. The constant wall washing that is necessary because of their filthy habits has left a layer of paint that can't even be considered a layer.
Since school is out today, and all of my children as well as the husband is home, today has been declared "Goonies Day!" instead of "President's Day". The popcorn has been popped and the viewing will commence in moments.
I hate The Goonies.
Yes, I said it.
I HATE THE GOONIES. I hate that movie with the fiery white heat of a thousand suns. The characters talk, no whine, over each other the entire movie. Wah wah wah WAHWAH WAH WAH wah wah! Chunk? He's the kid I'd tell my kids to steal lunch money from and then splash mud puddles on.
Chunk is a entertainment attorney these days. In that light I put forth that this post and the views expressed within do not represent the views of Blogger, Go Daddy, or any other service affiliated with Absent Minded Housewife, in all it's inherently evident awesomeness.
I would like to relay to producer Steven Spielberg that The Goonies compels a need in me to maim small animals.
Admittedly it was me that bought this DVD for my ten year old son for his birthday. I figure it's educational. I mean, the kid hasn't brought home more than ten bucks in stolen lunch money in the last few weeks. It's depleting my wine in a box fund.
Anyway, it's apparent that it's time to leave the room and therefore leave this post. Chunk's molesting a statue and Samwise Gamgee has been kissed goodbye by his mother.
Have you met my elephant? How rude of me not to introduce you all to it since it's lounging about in the middle of my room.
I'll call her Esther.
Esther the Estrogen Elephant.
Or lack thereof.
That is, my funny only comes in fits and spurts because Esther's fat beligerent ass is always in the way. I sit down at my keyboard, stare at my screen, and wonder why everything I read is written by retards and idiots and everything I try to write is no different.
I've talked before about my perimenopause symptoms. Annoying then, to be sure, and worse now. Ugly worse. Mood swing worse. Aching boobs worse. Steaming Satan's balls worse.
My body is either begrudgingly having a period or begrudgingly recovering from a period or begrudgingly preparing to have a period. I am never relieved of being a near six foot weeping bewhiskered pimple.
Let's call my gynecologist, shall we? It'll be fun. He's affectionate. He likes elephants.
Where in the name of all that is holy did I put my phone?
Gah...I need to eat something soaked in fat.
I ain't giving Esther any. She can, in the most libido-less way possible, go screw herself.
I wasn't allowed to have my ears pierced until I was 12 years old. Dad said, "If God had wanted you to have holes in yer ears, he'd uv put'em there!"
Which doesn't explain circumcision or boob jobs for flat-chested chicks like me when other women have got huge bosoms, but I digress.
A millisecond after I turned twelve my oldest sister Lori took my annoying adolescent self to a mall and signed for me to have my ears punched clean through with a piercing gun. I carefully soaked my ears in alcohol to stave away any ugly infections and remembered to fiddle with the studs several times a day so the piercing would heal evenly. Then I displayed those awful 80's earrings with style, along with my crispy critter gelled poodle perm and my purple suspenders.
When I was 18 with the 80's finally over and I could sign for myself, I had my ears pierced a second time, because I was rebel like that.
My mother in law, who has resisted having her ears pierced in her over 80 years on the planet, once asked me how I could put in earrings without a mirror, how did I know where my ear holes were? I replied that it wasn't unlike knowing where your nose holes were without a mirror and that made her laugh.
My husband's students, the 18 year olds of today, are getting themselves in my costume supplies and going rebel like this:
Which is nothing new in the history of the world though these holes must reduce annoying wind drag in our modern times.
Every time I see these ear modifications I want to stick my finger in them and sort of whirl it around. Emo wet willy. I manage to keep myself to myself and instead just stare rudely.
I've earned my right to stare rudely. I'm an under-pierced old fart now.
This morning the TV is OFF. I've hidden the remote in the laundry room. No one will think of looking for it there.
The TV will remain off until 4 PM for that is when Oh-Pur is on. Oh-Pur is going to instruct me on how to realize my frugal and thrifty dreams today. It's how the other half lives don'tcha know. I'm going to watch Oh-Pur on my new pristine couch that does not smell like feet.
Until then, the TV will remain blissfully quiet. There will be no high pitched, squeaking, squeeling or stupid noises from any programming on Nickolodeon, The Cartoon Network or HGTV. No matter how much my three year old son whines I am not going to turn it to Discovery Health to watch a woman give grunting juicy birth to anyone.
I'm not turning it on to see a man give grunting juicy birth to anyone either. Fair is fair.
Apologies to Drew Carey...I love you man, but I've had one too many "come on downs" this week and it's only Tuesday. Don't worry, our love was meant to be and I'll come back.
I'm media saturated. I'm media inebriated.
Fine, I'm turning off the computer too. See if I don't.
No, I did not watch the Superbowl. Thanks for asking. I had some passing awareness that the Steelers were playing but I had no clue against whom. When I learned it was the Cardinals, I wondered, just like Jon Stewart, when the NFL got some Cardinals. I was under some misconception that those birds played Baseball. Meh, don't watch that sport either.
The last time I watched any professional championship sporting event was the NBA championship games in 1998. The Jazz vs the Bulls. It goes beyond my memory to why Justin and I were compelled to watch. We were probably channel surfing and got sucked in because those games were competitive and interesting. There may have been nothing on A&E.
Instead of playing couch potato we took the family to the big city to enjoy the emptiness of the retail environment.
We chose a mom and pop bohemian dive for lunch. It was not empty. It was stuffed full of folks who also couldn't give a rat's ass about football. There was such atmosphere to the place and it reminded me of my life in my early twenties. The smell of heavy burnt coffee, the stylishly sloppy second hand clothing, hair dyed unnatural colors, and carrying around books with artistically rendered covers which became accessory to your outfit as much as that interesting scarf you'd placed ever so carelessly about your person. Long past poetry slam hung in the air...
I stuck out like a sore thumb.
It wasn't my lack of visible tattoos either. I admired some truly beautiful ink while eating black beans and salmon. I don't plan on getting any tattoos of my own but well done tattoos make me smile.
And it wasn't the evidence that I'd spawned and was now wallowing in domesticity and unnatural fibers.
No...it was my old lady purse.
I bought this purse last month. I don't especially dislike the purse but I don't really like it either. My old purse wore out. This new purse cost me 8 dollars and has features that I like. It has plenty of pockets, a small outside pocket for chapstick, a built in wallet and doesn't look like a glorified fanny pack.
So what if it's about twice the size that I usually look for in a purse? I can now fit my jumbo sized old lady menstrual pads in it. And a box of tissues.
What happened to me? I used to carry around a wallet...a man's wallet. I would put this man's wallet into a small square shaving kit bag which held all my colored pencils and other artistic sundries. That bag had deeper meaning and purpose. It had character. It had passion.
What part of my being matured since the new year and decided it was a good plan to heft about ibuprofen, motion sickness medication, bandaids, a hairbrush, hand sanitizer and all my financial records? What part of my brain thought I should brandish about my belongings, in a dive that serves a delicious vegan burger, with a purse that declares "I love Metamucil!"