I own a bikini but I don't own a razor.

My husband Justin will readily admit to not being your typical guy's guy. Mostly because he writes poetry, doesn't own any power tools and he avoids involving himself in any way in sporting events. There is a distinct lack of beer, Nascar and golf clubs in our home.

If Justin ever shows up at a football game with a team supporting painted chest I would be well within my rights, as a concerned spouse, to Baker Act him. Or exorcise him.

He's not totally out of the man club though. He's hanging on in there by a thread.


...and that thread is tied about the hips of Valerie Bertinelli's new bikini body.

All men are attracted to Valerie Bertinelli. I wish I could cite which man law states this but I've been barred from looking at the most sacred parts of The Man Handbook. Those passages would crumble into dust in my estrogen tainted hands and then men will suddenly find themselves menstruating. So, you will excuse my irresponsible but understandable lack of sources. Menstruating men is a sign of Armageddon.

I've got to give it to Val. The thought of piercing my belly button in any state of weight makes me twinge. If I want my belly button to sparkle in the sunshine I'm gonna get crafty and Elmer's glue a piece of glitter encrusted dry macaroni in there and call it good.

And now I can lounge about assured that Valerie won't eat my decorative pasta. That's still a concern with Kirstie Alley.

Oh Valerie Bertinelli, you TV movie making tart! Why do you attract my husband so? Sorry, dumb question. The woman has perky persistence that we all could learn a lesson from.

Good thing that Valerie is on the cover of people and not Muscle Car Monthly or else my husband might have missed her entirely. What a shame that would have been.

Namaste

I'm mentally preparing myself to perform Yoga.

That is, I'm sitting, breathing restfully, clearing my cluttered mind, and steeling myself in performing awkward poses when my swollen and painful breasts get in the way.

My pelvis is kinda sore too. Damn my misfiring female bits. Damn 'em to hell.

In spite of the ouchies, I read that excercise is good for regulating hormones and female bits and will improve the less than chipper mood I've found myself in for the last month. It had better because the only other reason I perform downward facing dog is when I'm engaged in that other activity which improves my mood. If I don't get happy there is no reason to contort myself that way on purpose.

I'm ever so excited to visit my gynecologist about all this. I'm getting a pap schmear. I've scheduled an ultrasound. Let's hope for an internal one because it's ever so much nicer to have the ultrasound goo down there rather than all over my gut. I could request that the technician use a glow in the dark condom over the ultrasound wand just for the special effects value. I may want to take photos for posterity, especially if downward facing dog is utilized in the procedure.

Yoga's on. Gotta go. Savor that image in the meanwhile.

On the 7th day we rested because there wasn't nothin' else to do.

From time to time it's important to sit back and quietly ponder life.

Usually we just think about piddly details or problems, like the penicillin growing on the dishes in the sink or if your pajama pants matches with your lipstick. You gotta hunker down and think past that from time to time.

Think about the hard stuff. Love, death, taxes. The purpose of life.

The electricity was out for five hours yesterday.

So quiet was forced upon Casa Absentminded, except for the three year old wailing for someone, anyone, to please for the love of GOD fix the TV! SPONGEBOB IS MY HEROIN!

We were all left alone with our thoughts without the aid of electronic sedation.

Not that there wasn't anything to do. My bookshelves are not chock full of wholesome material for looks. Just that the moment you want to let there be light, and attempt to turn on a reading lamp, your brain hiccups and then cannot process the written word at all. We were all rendered stupid by the realization that 75% of our lives were unavailable to us.

In that state, death and taxes make sense.

Even my fish are spoiled by electricity. They get even more stupid than they already are when the bubbler stops bubbling.

The power outage didn't bother the cat however. He slept through it.

And because the heat was also off and I was chilly, I took a cue from the cat and had a nap too.

When I woke, Spongebob had been resurrected. Praises be.

Plastic Menagerie

I swear I live in a zoo and not one of those pleasant ride a pony for a dollar type of zoos either. This is one of those pay thirty bucks a piece so monkeys can throw poop at you sort of zoos.

...and it's always time to feed the animals. Always.

Messin' with the Ecosystem.

If it's at all possible, please, none of you come over to my house to visit this week. It's dishevelled.

I'm in the middle of Feng Shui, which isn't nearly as arousing as I thought it would be. Improve energy flows? My ass. Scooting around furniture to achieve some sort of functional yet pleasing arrangement is just as unkind to one's posterior as childbirth.

All this because I bought a TV stand, marked down from 1000 to 200 bucks, which was fated to be delivered while I was in a sodden state of undress. You have to wax philosophical after that sort of embarrassment.

To help me out I googled some Feng Shui basics.

1. Clear Out Your Clutter.
I just stimulated the economy with my two hundred dollars and you want me to spring another ten bucks for a shovel too? I didn't stinkin' get no AIG bonus.

I am not taking my Joanie Loves Chachi poster off the wall and that's final.

2. Have Good Quality Air and Good Quality Light.
I put a new bulb in the fish tank and have recently washed the family's pile of dirty socks. Fish happy. Family happy. Cat box still needs cleaning.

3. Define the Ba-Gua.
Um, excuse me?

I'm going to the gynecologist on the 30th. He can define the Ba-Gua. I'm hardly trained to do that. I'll have to call my insurance and ask if that's covered.

4. Study the Five Elements Feng Shui Theory.
Did I not Google Feng Shui basics? I want Cliff's Notes, not a surprise pop quiz.

Study reveals that the five elements are wood, fire, earth, metal and water. Hey, those are all covered in my Joanie Loves Chachi poster! Awesome! Homework is done. Now I can totally go hack my XBF's Myspace now and change his default pic to this:


Element? Wood.

5. Find Out Your Feng Shui Birth Element.
No. My ovaries have gone out of business. The unions are still protesting however.

6. Find Your Kua Number.
After I find it will I get those damned computers calling it offering me warranties on my vehicles? I haven't gotten a prank call since 2006. You know, I never felt I had a reason to ever use caller ID. Someone could totally call me to heavy breathe and I would be none the wiser to the source.

7. Always Be Mindful of the State of Your Home.
Because no one else around here does my dishes or vacuums my floor dammit. No need to screw in that point Confucious. That point's been on my mind for the last fifteen years. Every. Single. Day. As soon as you wipe up a layer of dirt you find that another layer is underneath just a waitin'. You either mind it or it grows fur and eats the children.


Eventually I'll get this furniture arranging arranged. It may take a tube of grease and a donut pillow, but it'll get done.

Hopefully sooner than later because who knows what excuse I'll have to give my gynecologist.

Scratchy Underpants

Exactly.


Edited to add:



...because this has improved my mood considerably.

Morning Minutia XI

My son's fish jumped ship...errr jumped tank. The poor thing must have popped out in the space between the lid and the filter. She was found on the carpet this morning in full crusty rigor mortis. I thought my son would be sad but instead he's happy because now he gets a new fish.

It's March and just when I thought my family had escaped a winter cold the snot and sore throats have invaded my house. Yellow snot can be considering fancy party snot. Get out the favors and the hats.

The three year old is going through cartoon DT's. How dare I turn off the TV.

I want to mention this thing I have to do today which concerns this thing I said I'd quit mentioning because I thought that those mentioned probably wouldn't appreciate it all that much. Let's just say that some people must wear some pretty scratchy underpants.

Is it wrong to feel so very excited that Sam's Club now offers my favorite fabric softener in gallon containers for not much more in cost than the container a third of it's size that is offered in the grocery store? I'm in raptures!

I need new bras. The molded cups in my old bras are denting inwards even if I have enough boob to fill up the cup. The extra boob is just coming out of the side. Woohoo, I have extra boob to come out of the side!

If March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, does that mean I get to keep my wooly coat?

I love lamp.

I don't love Bernie Madoff.

I'm tiring of all the articles and press that being frugal is getting during these unfortunate times. This is stuff I've always done. This is stuff that I've had to do at some points in my life to be able to afford a gallon of milk. This is stuff most of the rest of the world has been doing. Starbucks will make it through. Rice and beans baby, rice and beans.




More Minutia: Tastes great...just as filling.

On this episode of Soap...

Generalized male MILF fantasy #398 almost fulfilled this morning at my house.

Two buff furniture delivery-men showed up at my door the moment I was rinsing my hair in the shower. I answered the doorbell, dripping, haphazardly wrapped in a man's bathrobe, somewhat grateful I was wearing that instead of the flannel pajama bottoms and the overstretched T-shirt that I'd slept in.

And the only proposition they got was from my three year old, stripped down to the underwear he was wearing backwards in preparation of his own shower, to play Spiderman with him.

Now they can laugh about that all day.

The Little Mermaid.

Yesterday, while watching a breast cancer story on the news, my ten year old son asked how dangerous breast cancers are. Recently he's been interested in how women's bodies work, because of the age, and because his teacher is pregnant. We've talked about uterussusses and cervixsusses and how maxi pads aren't like diapers.

To answer his question, I talked about some aspects of breast cancers, lymph nodes and what not, and how those cancers can spread because of bodily geography.

Then we discussed mastectomy. I tried to relay how most women don't much care to have one or both of their breasts removed if they can help it. To illustrate how funny that may look and/or feel I told him it would be like removing one or both of his ears. It would stand out wouldn't it?

In response to this, my ever logical son, made the conclusion that women are not jellyfish. If we remove a body part from a woman those parts just don't regenerate on their own.

Well, what if we did regenerate?


Stop looking at her ears.

Guess I'll just buy a Snugglie.

I spent the bulk of the night, even with it's one less hour of sleep, dreaming that I was having monkey style acrobat sex with my second husband.

I've only been married once and I've never been divorced...

Apparently, in this dream, I was still married to my first husband in addition to this Energizer Rabbit of a second husband. Both of them seemed okay with this. I know I was okay with it.

It snowed last night and my dream kept me warm. Bonus.

Being from Utah I come by my polygamous heritage naturally. My great great great Grandpappy also enjoyed warm snowy nights. They had to do something. Even at that time Utah had "The greatest snow on Earth" but did not yet have the greatest forced air furnaces on Earth. It was practical.

Having two husbands at the same time might be practical if they got along well. You know, sharing, taking turns, engaging in plenty of home improvement activities together, installing hot tubs and such.

But then, I think about the laundry a situation like that would cause, and the lingering warm fuzzies from my dream melt away.

Unlike the snow. It's still snowing dammit.

If I can't be Captain Kirk, I'm not playing.

How many of you are normal?

Yeah, me neither....

Have you noticed that it seems we are inundated with people asking about normal? The question of normal was asked no less than four times while engaging in my morning news regimen, from radio to television to internet. People sure seem worried about keeping up with an unquoted status quo.

Is it normal that...or is it normal if...or is it normal to...and then fill in the blank with your feelings, status, situation or the location of any body hair.

Most of the time this question can be answered with, "Get over yourself, you and your situations are exceptionally normal. Or at least, what's going on with you isn't so assbackwards that we expect to see you as a guest on Dr. Phil." Then everyone can feel better.

Just now, swear to God, the morning show on TV asked if it was normal that a three year old child was still potty training.

YES, THAT IS NORMAL! Your kid is not a genius if they've potty trained at six months old or destined to become the smelly kid in third grade if they finally get around to it at age three. You know what's abnormal? Pulling over and interrupting driving lessons to change your sixteen year old child's diaper and to give him his binky. That's really screwed up and you know it.

Driving lessons for your six month old child is abnormal as well. Impractical too. They can't reach the pedals. They gum the steering wheel instead of put their hands in the 9 and 3 o'clock positions.

I think that the "Is it normal" line of questions should be reserved for folks who know beyond a doubt that their situations are Maury or Jerry material. In this age of forced frugality most of us "normal" folk really appreciate the "abnormal" folk putting their crap out there for cheap entertainment. We must all do our part.

"Is it normal that I have a third arm growing out of my forehead and that I get acrylic nails done on this third arm?" No. Show us anyway. Oooh shiny.

"Is it normal that my mistress dresses me up like a leather pony, whips me while moaning 'Flicka! Flicka!', and then expects me to tell my wife that the marks resulted from repeatedly bumping into a door?" No. You are a freak. Take photos and post them on the Internet anyway, Mr. Ed.

"Is it normal that I learned and can speak the entire Klingon language fluently even though I've had my ears surgically modified so I can play a Vulcan in my cosplay group? I figure my skills make me useful as an operative in the Federation." No, that is not normal. Do you date much? No, I'm not asking you out. toDSaH!

I don't know about you, but I'm entertained.

But, me being entertained by a mutant klingon speaking horse fetishist, that's normal.

With great power comes great responsibility.

I can't blog right now.

My three year old is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, displaying a resolved quiet that I didn't know he was capable of, wearing his Spiderman jammies and Spiderman slippers, holding his Spiderman action figure, being hypnotized by the Spiderman cartoons we have only recently discovered are airing on TV.

I have a full hour to pee by myself and I'm not wasting it.

For a small fee, I can name your pets too!

There is something wrong with my dumb gay cat.

I don't know what's changed in him exactly. Whenever I go into the kitchen he still throws a spastic meowing "feed me FOOOOOOOD" fit. When he's not meowing he's sleeping as usual. When he's not meowing or sleeping, his dumb gay butt is outside rolling around in the dirt and rubbing himself on my shrubberies.

Booger protects my yard, hell, the entire street, from the presence of rogue cats. Any cat in the neighborhood fears having Booger kick the crap out of it. When my cat isn't meowing, napping, rolling, or rubbing he's actually quite vigilant.

And that's what's wrong. This long haired black kitty has been showing up in my yard for a week and my cat has done nothing. She's a sweet little thing...at least I imagine she's a she...because I haven't tried to get beneath all that long fur to find out what sex she is. How does that cat manage to poop? Never mind. I caught her napping on my yard furniture in a strange fluffy position. She was allowed in my yard long enough to nap unfettered.

Hello McFly? When did my cat become such a pussy? Is my cat depressed? What does that say about ME?

No matter. It gives me hope despite my cat's moods. We've been considering adding a second cat to the family for some time now. I have these cat lady goals though I've been hesitant to cat up before because first cat is...well was...such a badass. I knew that any other cat I tried to add to the household would shortly become a bleeding fur shredded kitty treat. I couldn't, in good conscience, let that be the fate of any of my pets. Apparently that's changed.

Last month I considered adding a dog. More like, my soul and bones wanted to take home this precious and docile pit bull I loved up on at PetSmart on animal rescue day. Our lifestyle prevents us from keeping a dog at this time, cats just need less care and less poop picking upping, but that didn't matter. Her squinty yet beautiful pit bull eyes told me in might be worth it to just make it work. It broke my heart a little bit to leave her behind.

I would have named that poor puppy something irreverent.

As it is, when I find a cat that will fit in with our family instead of stealing that long haired usurper who belongs to my neighbor, I'm naming it Buttsteak.

Not just any cat will do for a name like that.

One in the hand is worth two in the bush.

As it was only slightly above frosty on Saturday, and sunny, Justin and I took off to the hills above town to walk the trail systems and breathe air that hadn't been cycled through our furnace.

It's a lovely system of trails. Because there are no trees in Bendover, and we lie on the edge of the salt flats whose air only contains the smell of recycled casino beer and no other contaminants, you can see up to 40 miles all around you. That includes a view of the curve of the earth. It puts you right in your place.

We started our hike with the steep uphill portion of the trail. The calves killing portion. We ended our hike with the long winding downhill portion which would have been the long uphill portion had we started that direction. It was the poop gallery portion.

As much as I LOVE looking at poop while I'm taking a leisurely walk, there shouldn't have been a reason to look at poop at all. The powers that created and maintain the hiking trails were thoughtful enough to supply bags and trash receptacles for things that your leashed dog...or your unleashed human...might leave behind otherwise. Start the trail, grab a poop baggie, pick up the poop, super easy and considerate too.

Not just inconsiderate but something that would really would piss off Mother Nature was the grand entry into this turd gallery. The jury prize if you will.

Someone had left poop, which I was not going to get close enough to determine if it was dog or human, sort of artistically skewered on top of a bush by the side of the trail. In the middle of 40 mile radius of no trees, poop left on a bush is obvious. You can't not notice the poop.

Since the bush was maybe three feet high I tend to think the poop leaver was human and had a sudden hike induced urge to bend over and leave a masterpiece not knowing that he or she should have procured a bag.

Or, it was a dog, who is unfortunate to have a human owner who would be considered an asshat.

I mean, how awkward is it to hold a dog large enough to poop that big over a three foot bush while it does it's business? Seriously!