Friday, July 31, 2009

The money shot.

I find myself in a wildly fluctuating demographic when it comes to my internet use.

It's a demographic called "Female".

What's amazing about this demographic is that there is some invisible sisterhood that is supposed to bind me to every other female's beliefs, values, aspirations and behaviors no matter how much we fluctuate. Stick together, like a long line of chain linked vaginas, no matter what part of your cycle you're in.

Ya ya sisterhood? Baa baa sisterhood.

This thought brings me to my subject.

Porn.

Or PRon for you filter savvy types. Stop eyeing your asterisk key like that.

As in, I should have a strong negative opinion against pornography because my DNA and any outward physical manifestations of my gender says I should. Men will look. Because they think with their wangs. They'll all get hooked. Plagues will descend upon us. And then any woman without breast implants will feel horrible about themselves.

Don't get me wrong here. Porn can certainly be destructive. However, it ain't a landmine fated to blow just because you stepped on it. It's use is only as healthy as the user, of either sex. If you can't get through your day without several hours of porn perusal, at home, at work, on your smartphone, at the public library, you might suspect that there is something wrong with your head along with any chaffing of any other body part you might possess. Put down the mouse and that bag of cheetos.

They say that the recession will be over sooner before later and there is one reason I believe this. The porny search terms that somehow bring up this blog. In the last few months the list of boob, booty, boner and boinking related terms showing up in my traffic information has dwindled, right along with reports that marital sex is lagging because of the economy. Only last week my terms have picked up. Much to my entertainment and amazement.

Either it's the economy or it's just damned hot outside.

Should I be horrified and disgusted that someone found my corner of the internets looking for a "vagina shaped biscuit recipe"? Or searching for new variations in preparing cucumbers? Or Boobing? Should I feel soiled?

Recently it was suggested that as a woman I should feel outraged about pornography and this person cited that it was because, according to a well known divorce website which sells divorce related products, the internet was a significant factor in 2 out of 3 modern divorces.

66% percent. Wow. That's something to think about while I play World of Warcraft, engage in anonymous cyber and web chat, email old boyfriends letting feelings of nostalgia carry me away, place my profile on married but looking websites and max out my credit card playing online craps. Oh, throw Craigslist in there too. And Ebay.

You don't like pRon? Don't want it in your home? Hey, I can support that. My support of that has nothing to do with my gender or my lack of breast implants. There is room for well thought out, logical, value systems for the stuff.

Just don't lump me in with you when it comes to your irrational and unfounded assumptions sister. I don't compare myself negatively to adult actresses because we just don't compare, even with my drooping lopsided breasts and patches of weird hairs. I'm not angry that someone I love and have a commitment with may want to engage in an occasional private chaffing session apart from me. A two dimensional image isn't adultery. PRon doesn't have power until I give it power.

I once wondered why my blog was filtered from the school servers where my husband teaches. I'm leaving little doubt today.

Oh well. Boobs.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

An open letter to Glenn Beck.

Glenn,

When I was discussing a new running gag for this blog two weeks ago with my husband I never thought I'd be led in your direction. If there was anything or anyone leading me in your direction I expected that to happen with a great deal of kicking and screaming. Yet, here I be, willingly writing to you, with my legs crossed and nary a sound past the comforting drone of Jon Stewart.

I see you and your haircut in the media quite a lot lately. A couple whines, a patriotic ejaculation or two, a few tears, and my home state of Utah is in like Flint. My people love you! There is something to be said about that. My people don't love me. They kicked my family out of the state because my school teacher husband didn't feel qualified to coach a high school sport. Even Model U.N. Interview after interview questioned his masculinity and purpose in life. We bought some sunscreen and some huarache sandals and moved across the border where life is considerably more booster club free.

The open container law is quite liberal in my little corner of Nevada. Ask anyone in Salt Lake City.

Last I was in Utah I visited a beautiful shrine to capitalism called "Sam's Club". Stores like that don't exist in my town. Our shrines are called "casinos". It was in this non-neon retail establishment that I was able to buy a five gallon container of sliced dill pickles and drive over 100 miles to get it home. (I have hobbies. Don't ask.) Between pallets of detergent, socks in bulk, foam mattresses and family size packages of incontinence pants, I happened upon a full section of books written by you! Or written by your haircut. Benefit of the doubt.

Now, I've never written a book. Certainly if I had I wouldn't want someone doing to my book what I considered doing to yours. We aren't talking anything destructive here. That would be rude and just possibly illegal. It was only a little playful and reversible mislabeling.

Unfortunately my husband (who does write books, including this fabulous tome) didn't have any post-it notes in his pockets. His profession requires that he keep office supplies of some sort conveniently stashed on his person. Needless to say, I was a little bit bummed to have not passively aggressively renamed every copy of your "Glenn Beck's Common Sense" on the shelf.

Glenn Beck's Guide to Prostate Examination

Glenn Beck's One Position Kama Sutra

Glenn Beck's Wonder Bread Cookbook

Glenn Beck's Scrapbooking Extravaganza!


My husband and I once hid all the Barney toys in Kids-R-Us, back in 1994, during those financially pleasant Clinton years. There was a principle involved with Barney. With your book it just seemed so sensible at the time to remove common sense entirely. I love you...you love me...right? Right!

I admit I haven't put forth the effort to read the book I wanted to temporarily edit. My apologies for my ignorance. Someone back in my 'hood will have a copy I can borrow and then a proper review can be done. A friend did just lend me a David Sedaris book that I found most enlightening. There is a story in it entitled "Dinah the Christmas Whore" that didn't need any editing whatsoever. Genius.

So, my apologies for my intentions Glenn. Please forgive me. I've lusted in my heart.

Love,

Becky..The Absent Minded Housewife

Monday, July 27, 2009

Pluck You

I am in a state of panic.

Excuse me while I take a break to scream a little bit and maybe moan some. However will I go on?

Oh be my psychic friends and...


PLEASE TELL ME WHERE I PUT MY TWEEZERS!!!!

As I sit I can feel my whiskers weedling themselves out of my chin, growing in the direction of the sun coming through my sliding glass door.



And even before I'm done sipping my coffee and writing this post I'm gonna get all Khomeini.



So, please, for the love of all things buttery smooth and feminine, give me a clue to where my tweezers are. Consult your 8 balls and your fortune cookies. Use your MSG powers. I'm pleading. I'm begging. I'm moaning! I NEED MY TWEEZERS!

Or this'll happen by dinnertime. I just know it.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Absolutely no smoking!

I didn't tell you...and I almost feel bad about it...I didn't tell you that I risked my very life earlier this month on our family "stay-cation". What that means we drove 360 miles from our rural Nevada life to experience more rural Nevada life instead of driving further and experiencing rural life in other states.

No, I didn't nearly die of boredom. We took along a stick to beat lizards with.

What happened was Justin and I wore these T-shirts:



...inside of a store that displayed dusty shrines to this one:



...and this one:



...along with moving display honoring Vietnam veterans and several examples of taxidermy gone wrong. I didn't know a cat could look so used. Sweet widdle Cuddles will be with us forever though.



Now, I'm not saying that this obviously republican store proprietor would have killed and stuffed us for wearing Obama t-shirts in his store. He did ask what our shirts meant afterall and then offered to sell us a "Where's the birth certificate?" bumper sticker.

He would have taken us out for saying something about his charging us for the bumper sticker even though we politely declined to purchase one.

What kind of classy store was this? A store you would have stopped at too if you had the opportunity. A three generation family owned fireworks store, selling items that make big booms which are highly illegal in most of the country. I have, right at this very moment, enough roman candles in my garage to hail Caesar in all his incarnations, from pizza to dog food. We are gonna sneak off somewhere, light them, and then run away real quick.

This store was third generation piled to the rafters with boxes of gunpowder, which, when lit with indignation, would have blown us all, stuffed badgers and baby alligators included, up to right wing inbred creationist conservative heaven.

The thought of which wouldn't really be too bad because I know I'd gal pal it up with Tammy Faye right away. She's my sister from another mother. Hmmm...not as pithy. Anyhow, eventually we'd find Cuddles and become our own little family without a need for revamping the health care system or civil marriage.

Had I mentioned that Justin was a war veteran I think the store owner might have pooped himself...then lit the inventory.

Next time we pass through this town we're going to the other fireworks retailer because we like variety. I'll have custom shirts made up for the trip. Bright yellow ones that declare, "We didn't start the fire!"

Or, "We didn't fart the blue dart!"

I voted for Bob Dole I'll have you know.

Yeah, too little, too late.

You can buy your own "That One" T-shirt HERE. I don't care where you wear it.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Post-pubescence.

I don't know how to reconcile myself with this new truth in my life.

This new identity.

My new self can be found on this hormone roller coaster I've been on for a while now. Pre-medicated this has had all the craptacular symptoms that one would associate with spit roasting a leg of lamb. Post-medicated I've left the coaster for a 3 day mexican cruise. This cruise ship has recently developed a symptom I've found a bit of wonder in.

I have breasts.

In my old life, unless I was pregnant or breastfeeding, I had no bumps under my shirt that weren't produced by a padded bra. There was no choice but to accept, nay love, my lack of anatomy. Didn't want a boob job. Didn't need one.

All things to those that wait? I guess. These puppies are getting in my way while I type. Watch reaching for that backspace key. Chestquake!

I now require a bra that can claim functionality.

Here is something I've discovered now that I'm getting fleshy. Taking that functional bra off? It's heaven. It's glorious. It's like discovering Jesus at a professional wrestling match. And J-Rock is kickin' ass. The bliss of unwrangling the double hooks and letting the elastic loosen can only be matched by savoring that first bite of excellent chocolate or sipping freshly brewed gourmet coffee. Sliced white bread can't compete.

Here is something else I've discovered now that I'm getting fleshy. You wanna put that bra back on as soon as the bliss is over. Tape 'em up. Use ropes. Something. The puppies begin yapping and whining if they are let loose too long.

Then, the next thing you know, chestquake! Wasn't Shelley Winters in that movie? Google that.

Along with developing chesticles I've also developed a tummy. I am so so so less excited about tummy-quake.

So I've supported it with huge and functional underwear. Thank you hormone pill.

Taking that functional underwear off? Not something I'm going to compare with eating chocolate.

Monday, July 20, 2009

I need a styptic pencil. A big one.

Something is medically wrong with my children's feet.

I haven't noticed any outwards symptoms. There are no rashes. No hives. No funny hairs. No change in skin tone. No swelling. No deformities.

Yet, these children of mine have insisted on putting their feet on one another and then crying when the foot receiver objects. All is relieving when a toe is up another child's nose or a heel is dug firmly in another child's side. All that is comfortable and pleasant tragically ends when the foot is forcibly removed from breeched personal space. Begin wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Something WILL be medically wrong with my children's feet if I cannot emphatically convince them to stop it. Stop it right now. Knock it off. For the love of God keep your feet off your brother! Don't make me get the hose!

That is, I will saw off their feet with the CutCo knife I was given as a Christmas gift a couple years back. Those knives are sharp despite their business model.

Predictably those little gits will put their tongues or eyebrows or earlobes on each other, seeing as they are without feet.

This remaining month of summer is going to be messy.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Apple Cobbler

Shhhhh....

Justin and two out of three kids have gone to see "Harry Potter and the Enchanted Jock Strap".

At least I think that's what it's called. I don't care. Could have been "the Magickal Shower Massager" or "the Cauldron of Vienna Sausages" for all I could be concerned over it. The only reason I can appreciate it's existence is that the noise in my house has decreased by 75%.

Tomorrow morning, when I set this to post, we're all going to be shoved together in our fabulous mini-van again to do things that cannot done in my little corner of rural Nevada casino hell.

What the hell am I still doing here? I have quiet to enjoy!

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Birthdays only come once a year.

Today is my husband's 40th birthday.

Justin doesn't want to do much to mark this occasion. It's an absolute no to coffin themed parties or a last frat boy style trip to the tee-tee bar. That means I've had to cancel the clown and pony show. I'm a little disappointed, but hey, it ain't my birthday.

When I went to Google image search "turning 40" I noticed that many images were of folks who had gotten their first tattoo to commemorate the beginning of their lives. What a unique idea? Get one on your lower back. It'll be hot.

So, Justin, happy birthday. If you would like me to hold your hand while you go under the needle I'm willing. Let me suggest a few tattoos to sport well into your old age.


There is no one living on this planet who doesn't love the magical glittery quality of unicorns. Happy 40th!


When you've been on the planet forty years, having good friends becomes a blessing. Happy 40th!


Hewwo! I'm 40!


It's never too late to have a schoolgirl crush. Happy 40th!


There is nothing wrong with displaying a profound statement about how you live your life right on your forehead. Now, I'm not suggesting to Justin that "Git-R-Dun" or "Psycho" should be it, but the idea of more fitting phrase is worth considering. How about "I like cheese!" or "I teach for the money!" Happy 40th!

Finally, you could fulfill one of MY fantasies for your 40th birthday. You'd get "presents" back in spades...



I love you Justin. Happy Birthday!

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

A basket of goodies.

I've made it back from the land of the wild donkeys. My sun-baked brain tells me that if I had said I'd made it back from the land of the wild asses you would have expected a far more lewd story than the reality of my family vacation. Sorry to let you down "nifty housewife" searchers.

For the second summer in a row my husband and I took the boys to Virgin Valley, NV, to dig in the dirt for opals. We found them. It was almost a telepathic experience. The opals sent out little shimmery "find me" vibes and we couldn't help but to scoop them up. I've adopted them, brought them home, and tucked them into between quilts with a glass of water and a story.

I found these:




Ooh, shiny things.

My husband found this...worth enough to pay for our trip:


The lady digging in the dirt next to us, wearing a dubiously tied string bikini top, found a $4000 opal. Next year I'm wearing tassled pasties to the mine. See if I don't. Give us a twirl darling.

As always, our family demands quality accommodations, so we set up our tent at the free CCC campground near the mines. It features a streamlined lack of trees, a new watertight pit restroom facility, and some new hooks outside of the shower house to hang your towels on.


The pond was developed over a warm spring. The swimming is a little mossy at the bottom and a little minnow-y at the top. No doubt, since I was swimming with a bunch of Bud Light drinkers, the pond was a little urine-y in the middle. Beer is yucky.


The showers run continuously, pumped in from the warm pond water. That means that on the day we left I may have rinsed off in recycled beer.

That's ok I guess. I didn't party at all in college. Time to catch up.

There is one bodily fluid I am THRILLED to have not had any contact with...at least I think I didn't. Stop that. I told you this wasn't going to be lewd. No, I'm not linking to any nifty housewife sites for your convenience. This fluid will be slightly gross however. You'll read from this point forward if I know anything about my readers and other hangers on.

See, one of those slightly drunk co-swimmers and pond urinators had an enormous pulsing pimple on his back. It's those kind of blemishes that make you wish you did have back hair. A thick curly crop of it. I tried to ignore this pimple but it had it's own telepathy and was screaming, "What big eyes you have Grandma!" Could have glued a tassled pasty to it. Give us a twirl sweetie.

It wasn't long until the man got out of the pond and dragged his pimple with him. A Bud Light shortage causes any self respecting pond dweller to move his donkey. The minnows even felt the relief not having to avert their eyes.

When pimple man returned with a freshened cooler and the moss untangled from his toes, the silence from "What big teeth you have Grandma!" was textural. Someone back at his camp had attacked Big Red.

I thought I'd heard screaming. That wasn't in my head. Mrs. Pimple must have taken care of the thing. God bless the woman. She's only doing her job. If it had burst in the pond someone would have had an eye out.

Hey...I couldn't help the pimple spotting. I'd been looking for red flashes all day. My eyes are highly trained!

In some ways it's a plus he returned to swimming. Ducking down to the middle easily sterilizes the wound.

And with that thought, I got out and had a nap.

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

My rocks are shinier than your rocks.

For the next few days my family will attempt to engage in quality bonding type fun.

Have you folks watching the treasure hunting shows on The Travel Channel? We caught the bug last year. WE'VE GOTS TO GO OPAL MINING!

This requires a couple days of rolling around in the dust, listening to wild burros bray at 2 second intervals every hour of the day, and sleeping in a tent with boys who have yet to discover how nifty foot powder really can be.

I'm leaving my makeup and my designer clothing at home. Wearing Jimmy Choo heels in the middle of nowhere is so gauche. I might get donkey poo on them.

Choo poo...heh, that rhymes.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Price Check

The Price is Right is on.

Have I mentioned that I'd like to have a cuddle with Drew Carey? I would. It's on my bucket list. #3...grope Drew Carey. Grope him hard.

If that's #3, I don't think I'll share #1 or #2. Lord knows what you'd think of me then.

It's a lovely thing to consider groping Drew Carey during The Price is Right until we must take a commercial break between pricing games. Visualization is still possible during the geriatric scooter commercials but Vagisil commercials are fantasy downers. Especially when two of your three growing and curious sons ask why women aren't allowed to scratch their itches in public.

...and what IS vaginal odor?

The woman currently bouncing and cuddling Drew in front of the showcase wheel? No doubt in my mind she's experienced vaginal odor a time or two or three. She overbid on her showcase.

Why aren't I allowed to scratch my itches in public? You men scratch your itches. If I have a random itch, depending on my location and the location of that itch, I have to endure it. Or duck behind something and stealthily scratch. Or find a bathroom and get real itch relief.

What's proper is that I apply a cream before I go out in public to avoid rude behavior?

Screw that. I'm going to scratch out of spite.

On the Vagisil website there is information on how to explain such matters from mother to daughter. How useful. There are no tips on how to explain "down there" to my sons.

There are also no tips on how to explain why I find Drew Carey attractive and no creams to relieve it.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Dammit, if you touch that hose again I'm going to eat one of you!

As usual, summer vacation has me off kilter.



Have you noticed? No? Aww you're sweet for telling me the stories I want to hear.

In between "Yes you did! No I didn't!" and "Don't eat that hairy banana you rubbed on the cat!" and "Don't spray inside your open window with the hose!" and "Don't even TOUCH the hose!" and "Quit eating sugar right out of the canister!"...it's taken me two hours to write this post.

Now that I'm done having children, and that my youngest child will be in kindergarten sooner than later, the purpose of my life is going to shift. This thing which I have been doing for the last 13 years will develop a gaping kid free hole in it's middle.

Which I can fill with just about anything I guess. The possibilities have me excited.

Conversely, the possibilities also have me as blocked up as government cheese. The idea is just so BIG.

Tell me more stories.

For all that is good and holy, tell me stories without the phrase, "Can I play Playstation?" in them.

Absent Minded Archives