Friday, December 24, 2010

Silent Night, Holy Night.

It's 12 minutes to Christmas day and I'm taking these moments after wrapping presents in the midst of three cats to wish you and yours joy.

I found early this month that I needed a break from pushing myself to be so creative.  That sounds worse than it really is doesn't it?  There are parts of my brain that needed to slow way down and with the holidays approaching the blog got the shaft.  So did the audio advent.  Meh...wasn't as good as last year's selections anyway.

We've all been there, haven't we?  Santa needed help doing Santa's job.

I will be back to posting in the new year because I've missed the place.  Lemon Squeezins!

Insert fart joke here.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Dust Betties

The experts say that most of what makes up dust in a house is dead skin cells.

If that's the case, I'm sure I've wiped a full corpse off my furniture and knick-knacks today.  I wonder if CSI could find a fingerprint in my house with all the wiping down I've done.

You know, it never looks that dusty until you get down to dusting, really.  You only dust minimally, day to day, then suddenly you're living in a litter box.  No wonder my cats thought that the treat fairy might be summoned from the top of the fridge when I was wiping up there.  Down below the treats were already used.

Speaking of dead skin cells and corpses, enjoy Feliz Navidad sung by a Bette Davis impersonator.  Day six of my audio advent calendar is a drag.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Danger danger!

Day five of my audio advent calendar. 

If you went on this Sleigh Ride, by Dangerwoman, expect to become motion sick.

McDonald's free wifi sucks burgers.

Saturday, December 04, 2010

I can smell Stephanie Meyer from here.

I'm sitting on the floor in a Barnes and Noble, here in the science fiction paper back section, where it's just me and a short fat kid wearing a black hoody, soaking up free wifi and the smell of literary superiority.

Yeah, all the tables in the attached Starbucks are taken up. 

I feel like I fit in just a little bit because I'm wearing loafers and a denim button down shirt.

Whoops, gotta move my feet for the people with the Cadillac sized stroller.


Anyhow, today's Christmas shopping has gone very well.  We ate and then tipped the waitress fifty percent.  No one deserved it more than she did.  Today, Orem Utah is NUTS.

Because I'm in a Utah County bookstore there is nothing more appropriate for day four of my audio advent calendar than Three Kings Rap

I got my sweet spirit on, yo.

Friday, December 03, 2010

Frickin Fracken garble Not a Fingah!

Well...I just finished typing up 30 pages of my Dad's memoirs...

(It's amazing he lived to have children at all, that toad)

...and then promptly accidentally deleted the WHOLE thing.  All that remains is the title page and a case of bench butt.

Share my frustration with this event with day 3 of my audio advent calendar, a dreary version of Silent Night by Eilert Pilarm.


Thursday, December 02, 2010


Yesterday my eleven year old son asked me what an orgasm is.

He asks all kinds of questions, that kid.  Just an hour ago he asked me what a prophet is.  The look of confusion on his face in reaction to the answers of both questions was priceless.  Bodily functions and having God yak away at you...whatchoo talkin'bout Willis?

Even more confusing is the pathways in my brain that reminded me to talk about my son's timely questions.

I was watching clips of "That's Incredible!" on YouTube.  I had planned to write a post about the wonderment that is John Davidson because he sings Santa Claus is Coming to Town for day 2 of my audio advent calendar.  Clips of "Hollywood Squares" wasn't cutting it.

You remember "That's Incredible!" don't you?

Oh, you weren't born yet.  Fine.

John Davidson, at least in the 80's, was a beautiful man with perfectly feathered hair and a smile so white you could only assume he was right with the lord.

....and there's the orgasm.  BLAMMO!  You are so welcome.

My son asked me, while watching clips, if I used to watch that.  I admitted I did.  He looked at me confused again.

Oh well.  Those dimples are a miracle aren't they?

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

You've got to know your chicken.

I don't know how I'm going to mix the concept of Karma and Hanukkah in one post but I'm going to attempt it.  Seeing that I grew up Mormon in the Utahiest location in Utah (I'm a Mo no mo') my education in the religions of the world was a bit lacking.  Hopefully I've made up for it somewhat in my 12 years of living in Nevada.

I'd like to wish the very few people I know who are Jewish a lovely Hanukkah.  I'm making note of the first day of Hanukkah and of my audio advent calendar for 2010 with a schmaltzy version of the dreidl song performed by a chicken.  All the songs on my calendar are following the same cheesy themes as last year, including any songs that may be Christian in origin.  So stay tuned.

I'd also like to wish  the very few people I know who are experiencing what went around coming around a lovely Karma.  How's that working for ya?  It's hard not to enjoy this so much but it's got my sense of justice and playground "it's not fair!" perked up right proper.  You try to live your life honest and when those who aren't playing nice get put in time out it's good to have the slide to yourself.

I'm making note of this blissful experience, which I won't detail in any way whatsoever for the curious because it's bound to come around my way, with this schmaltzy YouTube of "Bump of Chicken" by Karma.

I have no idea what the lyrics say but the titles are real convenient considering the theme I've got going here.

So, Karma and Hanukkah, it's got poultry in common.

Yeah, mixed concept fail.  Enjoy the music anyway.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Easygoing. Carefree.

There is a big pile of ugly knit fabric on my table.  I intend to sew myself pajamas out of this.  I'm not one of those people who venture out of my house wearing my pajamas and using this inherited fabric for jammies will only strengthen my resolve.  I at least change into a pair of jeans and cover up the pajama top with a jacket.

Especially since I tend to go braless while wearing jammies.  Flashing evidence of this whilst loading gallons of milk into your cart is uncouth no matter how many people may appreciate the sight.

Don't get me started on what goes on in the produce section.

This pajama fabric was manufactured in the 80's and I'm going to get my Flashdance on.  One length is rainbow striped.  Rainbow Brite will be jealous, that fruity little twit.

The point of this post though is not my pajamas or my shopping habits.  The point is that I'm going to attempt to sew the newest trendy home fashion item with some of the shorter lengths of knits from the 80's.

I'm gonna sew my own panties.

To follow the trend I'm supposed to be sewing underpants out of my old t-shirts.  My two oldest t-shirts have my nephew's faces on them and I think that would be uncouth as well.  I love my sister's kids but love has limits.

Have a tutorial.  Learn how to cover your ass.

There is my Chris Isaak there's a thought...

Ooh, I tingled.

But no, I'm going to attempt to cover my butt then my body in rainbow print.  That ought to make me downright insouciant.

The thesaurus gave me that word when I looked up gay.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Two below.

Last year my little family didn't travel into Utah to eat roast meats and other carbs with family because we all had flu. 

This year it's been decided that we aren't travelling into Utah because Mother Nature has the flu.  When Mama ain't happy ain't no one happy.

There isn't any need to worry about body scans or pat downs at any international airport in this vicinity because more likely than not, you aren't going anywhere.  The blizzard, even if there won't be a disgusting amount of snow, is going to render everyone blind and flash frozen like Dippin' Dots.

I know, you were looking forward to your body cavity search. 

Seeing that we were going to be driving instead of flying, any body cavity searches that I was likely to be involved with were going to be performed in house.  Perhaps we would have donned rubber gloves for the authenticity factor.  Spreading whilst standing in front of the microwave while it's on.  Then we would have surrendered any bottles of liquids and pairs of tiny scissors we might have been carrying.

Since we're staying home we'll have to find other ways to entertain ourselves, I guess.

Oh, the storm ruined that too.  They've cancelled school today.

Thursday, November 18, 2010's sticky.

I thought I was fairly internet savvy.

I know what a Rick-Roll is by golly.  I've been on the you-tubes and the facebooks and the tweets and the and the chat roulette.  Chat Roulette lasted all of two minutes before I determined that people sure are bored these days.  Good lord.  Keep those antacids and a bucket nearby.

Yup, savvy, that is until I heard the term "blue waffles" today.  As in, if you are texted or emailed some blue waffles, well, that means that someone thinks that you are a giant douche-canoe.

When you look up the term "blue waffles" be sure to not look at the results at work or in front of your children.

Because your children probably already know how charming such an endearment is and you don't want to embarrass yourself in front of them for being so out of touch.

Grab a bucket too, just in case.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

He bleeped me with science...

PineSol is not sexy.   It's just not.  Any antiseptic is not sexy.  Fighting germs makes no one tingle.

Well...maybe except my Mom.  She has her cleaning rituals right down pat.  This is why we call her the Empress of Electrolux.  Vacuuming makes my Mom a happy happy woman.

But that's besides the point.  When most people think of their mothers or sanitizing anything they don't think about sex.

This is why I had a confusing moment watching the news this morning.  I mean, morning is not usually a time a day I'm thinking about sex either.  I just woke up and I have fuzz on my teeth.  Give me a moment and some coffee to work myself into boinking mood. 

You want to really kill my drive wake me up early and tell me that one of my boys completely missed the toilet.  Boom.  Libido out for approximately 12 hours.

See, Bill Nye the Science Guy was billed on my news this morning.

...and Bill Nye can recite his curriculum vitae, not laying a single finger on me and I'd be a happy happy woman.

However, Bill ain't laying a finger on anyone without sanitizing his hands.  This was the point of his appearance on the news.  Observe:

Sorry about the ad...and no this isn't my local news. It was just a convenient video to embed.

Bill, my bunsen burner ain't heating up proper!

Must counteract this effect by picking my nose.  Ahhhh.

Oh Bill Nye, you science geek bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's matter how big a mess you make doing all your little science experiments your lab coat remains clean and pressed.

The Empress of Electrolux would approve.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Pink plastic light up Jesus

Seeing that it's ten days before Thanksgiving and eleven days before Christmas retail diarrhea, considering what to gift each other for the holiday season is going to be at the forefront of the budgets of many people.

I was just discussing the subject with my little sister on the phone today.  People be shoppin'.  Most likely for the same crap they bought people last year, or the year before.  Let's buy each other Snuggies and sip hot cocoa in front of DVD that plays a blazing yuletide fire.

Like last year I'm frustrated at the avalanche of gift offerings available to me, none of it meaningful, most of it overpriced, a good portion of it lacking quality construction in that it might last to the next Christmas.  Especially children's toys.  Crappity crap crap crap.  Overpriced, overhyped, overly noisy, crap.

Whatever happened to simplicity?   Whatever happened to wanting a dolly or a stuffed horse's head on a stick?

In the Little House books, little Laura Ingalls was thrilled with a tin cup, a pair of home knitted mittens and a single piece of grandma candy for Christmas.  What would she have done with a Playstation 3 or a Zsu Zsu Pet?  A fat load of nothing.  That's what.  She had a cup in which to stick underneath a cow and drink fresh squeezed milk from.   Hours of fun right there.

This is why I'm going to challenge my readers and other hangers on.  Let's call this the  "Unpasteurized Milk in a Tin Cup Challenge" or "The Happiness is a Warm Snuggie Challenge".

When it comes to Christmas this year, let's buy nothing that requires a battery or electricity.  This includes accessories to all your miscellaneous ownings that have an on/off switch. 

AND...yes, there is an and...

Let's buy at least one present for someone that we've never given a present to before.  Not necessarily charity but someone in your life who might not expect it.  Of course, give to charity, give a lot.  Just buy off a new friend in an effort to get them to like you.

(You thought I'd say handmake your gifts, didn't you?  You can if you want.  However, I know that blogs like Regretsy and Cakewrecks exist for a reason.)

(No, you don't have to buy me a present.)

I know that my kids do not need any more beeping idiocy in their grubby little hands.   I do not make this declaration lightly either.  My five year old son wants a Nintendo DS so badly he could kill and eat a real hamster to get one.  A battery-less Christmas will not be what he expects at all.

And now the guilt...dammit.

Really though, my goal this season is less glitz, less moving parts, less of that insane twisty tie packaging, more creativity, more imagination. 

Even crayon oriented toys require batteries these days and that's a damned shame.  Crayons weren't good enough on their own?  Now they've got to light up like slot machines?  Good lord, it's a crayon, all you need is a couple and a freshly painted blank wall and you've got happiness!

(No stuffing stockings with vibrators either.  For your significant others.  Not the kids.  Shame I had to make that distinction.)

To give my kids some credit they've not really asked for anything for Christmas except the kindergartner wanting a DS.  That's pretty decent of them to not have a case of the gimmes.  Or it could be that everything they want they know Mom and Dad won't buy because it requires selling a kidney.  The reality is that I'm getting too old to sell my eggs these days.

So, let's try it.  Let's skip the big old battery display this year.  Let's spread love to new people.  I double dog dare you...

(I said no vibrators dammit.)

Thursday, November 11, 2010

I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK!

Have you hugged a veteran today?

If you haven't, my husband, an Army veteran of Operation Desert Storm, is accepting hugs all day.  He's not discriminatory either.  You could look like this and he will still accept your hug: long as you are wearing pants.

If you are female and you look like that, well, I'd get that checked by an endocrinologist. 

This morning I hugged my husband at his insistence.  My hormones seem to be in order so this event worked out pretty good all in all.

Since then I've been gorging on a marathon of Degrassi: The Next Generation.  Which is Canadian.  In that case it's Rememberance Day and you should attempt to hug my husband coated in maple syrup wearing just a pair of Mountie pants.

Thanks for your service Sweetie.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The toilet will still work but beware a frosty seat.

My family woke up this morning to a blanket of snow which everyone was thrilled with except me and my dumb gay cat Booger.

I have to refer to that cat by name now that I have three cats.  My first cat is the Dumb Gay one named Booger.  The other two are made up of a fat Asshole named Chumlee and a harping Diva named Beulah.  The Asshole and the Diva take turns kneading my butt like dough in the early morning hours.  I only mention that as an aside.  My readers and other hangers can take comfort in the knowledge that my butt has been well massaged. 

Another aside, Chumlee drools when he's feeling affectionate.  Just another detail to add to your butt kneading imagery.

Anyhow, I dislike snow.  It's evil and wrong.  You will never catch me skiing or shredding or sledding or whatever you abnormal people like to do in the snow.  There was a time, before puberty, where I enjoyed playing in the snow, but I've since matured. 

What's particularly evil and wrong about this weather is that my power company is having a planned outage today for four hours, starting and 1 pm and hopefully ending at 5. 

What you also need to know about the scope of this evil is that my entire town basically runs on electricity.  Not just the casinos, which I'm sure are going to flip the switch on some generators, but most everyone has electric heat and cooking facilities.  There are no gas lines in my corner of rural Nevada casino hell.  I don't have a fireplace. 

Thirdly, school is being released early for the power outage. 

So you tell me, what the hell am I supposed to do with the bulk of my day with no electricity, no heat, all this damned snow, a kneaded butt and my kids at home?

Maybe I'll run to the liquor store before it closes.

I'm kidding.


Monday, November 08, 2010

Blink...I'm awake.

Peek?  Hello?

Yeah, I'm here.  A little brainless still but here.

Hold on a minute.  I need to trim my fingernails if I'm going to type more than a Facebook status update.  Talk amongst yourselves.  I'll give you a topic.  Tea Baggers are neither into tea or bags or teabagging.  Discuss.

Ahhh...that's better.  I'm stubby fingered.  There is a pile of long nails on the desk.  Bye-bye manicure.  That's ok.  I'll sacrifice my amazing nails so I can show up here again.

Anyhow, in recent news, I turned 36 years old on Saturday.  Unlike my 35th birthday, which is a good even type number, I've taken this birthday kind of hard.  You'd think that I'd have another four years to have a midlife thing turn up but's gotta be this birthday.  This damned birthday stuck it's finger in my cake.

I don't know that it's important that I detail everything that has hit me hard about my age.  I'm in a life transition.  That ain't nothing new.  Life changes.

What's different now is that this transition doesn't have a list of bullet points I can follow.  Graduating high school and entering the adult world?  That's easy.  Go to school, get a job, pay your own bills.   Begin a family life?  No problem.  Fall in love, commit, procure babies, pets and a cabinetful of cleaning products.  Deal with poop and vomit and whining and boogers wiped on the walls and meltdowns and giggles.

Transition from several of the good old traditional roles to include a new role without a gameplan?  Confusing as hell.  I feel so behind.

This leaves me all quiet and pondery...and isolated...and has my energy levels sludging along like tar.  I'm forging something new in all things that make me ME and there isn't enough Dr. Pheel generalizations to form a mold to smoosh myself into.  Oh-pur doesn't have a powerpoint for me.

Yet, and we're still in recent news, my husband and I have worked together to find me a gameplan.  Some of the materials to sculpt my own mold.  Hopefully.  We'll know for sure shortly.

Messy materials.  Another good reason to clip my fingernails.

Thanks be to Jeebus and my tubal ligation that one of those materials is not poop.  It's been under my fingernails before and let me tell you, if my life is in transition, there's the silver lining.

I can live my life just fine without ever having to change another diaper.

Gonna go stick my finger in some leftover cake though.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Acts of God

Looks like fall is officially here.  The weather turned craptacular over the weekend.  The winds blew.  The rains rained.  It got cold.  I wore flannel.

It rained so hard in the night that there was some damage.  Not to anything I care about thankfully. 

No...Mother Nature rocked the vote and removed political signs from peoples yards and businesses.  You shouldn't mess with Mother Nature. 

Most of the signs for the highly contentious race for city council seats got blown out to the desert which is where they are going to end up anyway after election day.  That's where they burn the town's garbage.  A little tax money saved in waste removal for the little guy since those damned things are grouped by the dozens on every street corner and vacant lot. 

You would think that since I live in Nevada that I would care about the upcoming elections.  I do to a point.  The point is that everyone's gone crazy and I'm in agreement with an act of God. 

In the nationally covered Senate race I could vote for this brand of crazy:

Harry Reid has years of experience in wackadoo.

...Or I could vote for this brand of crazy:

Sharron Angle is fairly new to the institution but she looks promising.

It's difficult for me to decide who to vote for in these trying political times.  Mostly because the news stations I receive come out of Utah and they don't give a flip about Nevada candidates even though one is a Mormon and the other is fresh off the set of Big Love.

What I know about their crazy has come from the internets and YouTubes.

You look sort of Asian to me.

No, wait, I've also been educated by political phone calls.  Sharron Angle's posse called to invite me to attend some sort of shindig at the county seat.  When I politely declined on the basis that I live 120 miles away the caller said, "Oh, you're out there!  I didn't know you were so far!" to which I retorted, "Harry Reid's been to my town.  Does Sharron Angle even know where I live?  We're the only casino based town to turn a profit this year."

"Uh uh..."

Truthfully I don't think either of these crazies can find their own nostrils with their fingers when whistling in their noses gets too loud.

That's why I consider it an act of patriotism to wipe a booger on every campaign sign that's still standing.  Yeah, I'll perform my civic duty and cast an informed vote but I'll also keep my nose clean.

It's the least I can do in the age of reason.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Nanny nanny boo boo

I've been sewing today...

And trying to convince cats to not nap on anything I've sewn.

Since I've been very busy, have some goat porn.

You're welcome.

Monday, October 18, 2010

I like 'em green and the size of dinner plates.

I've mentioned here a time or two that the good Lord above did not bless me with large breasts, or even medium breasts.  The good Lord above bequeathed me with a small chest.  And one side is way smaller than the other.

In other words, my boobs are normal boobs.  Funny looking.  Really spectacular breasts are a human anomaly or human invention, molded from silicone.  Most of us ladies have boobs that we think look like lumps of play-dough after a day at the daycare.  Including the hairs.

So when I heard a gaggle of ten year boys just a giggling over "how they like 'em" after school today, I almost felt proud.  Maybe these boys are getting over the hump of over advertised and airbrushed overt sexuality just right after discovering this stuff even exists.  A mother could hope.  I certainly don't want my own sons to think that the women they should chase after are plastic and have no preferences, even if they have perfect chests.

These boys?  They know.  When one says he likes 'em "crooked" and the other one likes 'em "like donuts" and then they all burst into gales of laughter, I figure that maybe normal will prevail instead or something more porny.

Not that I've ever been exposed to anything so lurid.  No no no no no.  I'm telling the judge I'm innocent.

Just the idea of human variety, even if it does produce giggles, that's a big idea.  A big flat crooked glazed idea.  We'll get past the joking eventually.

Ahh the days of staring at National Geographics...maybe not over.  And that's perfectly well and good. 

Now, let's see what's been recorded on my keylogger lately.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

A short post that does not rhyme.

I'm sitting on my third floor room at the Red Lion Hotel and Casino in Elko.  It has a balcony.

All the rooms have balconies though.  Even the first floor rooms.  I imagine that you could jump off my balcony and do a fair amount of damage to yourself but the first floor rooms are a little useless in that department.

My five year old has just looked into the bureau drawer, because all things in a hotel room are fascinating because it's not home, and exclaimed "Books!" at the discovery of the yellow pages and the Gideon Bible.  All light switches have been turned on and off multiple times and we have all removed the plastic wrap from the drinking glasses and had a sip of softened water.  I have not allowed them to use the coffee maker or the wall mounted blow dryer.

I have a fine view of Idaho Street and all the 35 mph traffic therein.  I'm within walking distance of a McDonalds, a Wendy's, a grocery store with a decent selection of hard liquor and a lemonade stand offering pamphlets on how a responsible citizen of this country can impeach Obama and vote for "anyone butt Harry Reid."

I got hit on at the registration desk.  Bonus.

Well...time to go.  We came here to listen to a poet and I have to keep moving so the republicans don't get a whiff of it. 

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Bibbitty Bobbity Boo Hoo Hoo

I swear I didn't purposely rub my nose over asphalt.

My nose only looks like raw meat because I removed a wart.

Yes, you Halloween fun-haters, you no trick or treat on a Sunday weenies, I had a wart on my nose.  Keep your witchy quips to yourself.  Besides my nose being sore you'll hurt my feelings.

Sniff.  My ancestors are mostly English and pale.  We all run the risk of lumps on our faces.  I cannot help it.

What really happened is that I burned off my wart with the use of bandages and apple cider vinegar.  Since this wart was on the tip of my nostril, the bandage had to be bigger and the vinegar also burned off most of my skin on the right side.  Sure, I could have burned it off using an over the counter method but that would require I shell out money when I already have vinegar and bandages in my pantry.  I also have a glass jar full of oats and another full of cornmeal in my pantry too.  Not good for wart removal though.

Last week I recommended this form of wart removal to a likewise wart infested individual and then realised that I was a big old warty hypocrite.  I've removed another wart using vinegar but I'd put off the one on my nose.   It was once cute.  Maybe even personable.  However, it started to grow.  It started demanding snacks.  It got ugly. 

Now it's real ugly.  The other wart came off clean and didn't include people asking me "What happened?"

But, cross fingers, it's gone.

Hopefully the person I recommended this to hasn't burnt off whole appendages trying to remove their own wart.

If you are reading this, and you have, send me a bill.

Monday, October 04, 2010

If this doesn't work, I'm resorting to electric shock dog collars.

My yard's gone all to heck.  That's Utah-ese for "hell".

Part of that is my fault.  My sprinkling system burst into lovely and unwelcome fountains at some point and we have not fixed it yet with all the other projects we've had going on around this money pit.  I tried watering grass in the desert with a hose and sprinkler but this summer was hot and any plant that was not a weed died.

The other part of that is that my house seems to be the house of choice for every annoying child in the neighborhood to hang.  To chill.  To skulk under my windows making spacey pew pew pew sound effects and shrill shrieks.

All the constant foot traffic means I cannot have a lawn worthy of Better Homes and Gardens even if I did have sprinklers that weren't impotent.

All this juvenile foot traffic also means that when my family sits down to, say, eat a meal, or watch Big Bang Theory, we are bothered by incessant doorbell ringing and door knocking by yardapes wondering if we're "done yet."

On a Saturday I can expect intrusions onto my porch no less than a dozen times during non-meal hours until sundown asking if my kids can play.

One child I've successfully trained to knock in the first place so his skills are being put to good use.  I was even less polite to him when he just opened the front door and walked in.  He smells like pee most of the time.

Still, little dude, we are eating and my kid will be out when he's done.  Now GO HOME and play with matches while you wait, mmmkay?

I'm glad that kid isn't my kid and I'm not required to love it.  There's another kid who my husband swears lacks a soul.  I don't agree that this kid lacks a soul.  I think this kid has just been fed too many chicken nuggets and is in a preservative induced stupor.

I'm not just going to sit here and just complain to the blogosphere about kids that aren't mine.  Oh no.  I have a plan.  Lucky for humanity it doesn't include sharp objects or mickeys slipped into drinkable yogurt.  Instead it's constructive.  Muahahaha, it just might work!  Even for the illiterate!

A green placard hanging off the doorknob means "Go!" and it's OK to knock.  Knock ONCE and wait and don't just walk into my house.

A red placard hanging off the doorknob means "STOP!" and DON'T KNOCK you little turd because we are having family time and my kids cannot play right now.  If you so much as tap on my door or poke your little heads near my son's bedroom windows while red means stop, you will not be allowed to play over here for a week or more.

You would think that since winter is coming that all this knocking would slow down, but you would be wrong.   All winter does is guarantee that there won't be as many flies coming into my house when the door opens yet again and my dead yard gets a pass.  Project "Knock Block" starts today, as soon as I laminate those signs.

God, if that pee kid is color blind, I just don't know what I'd be driven to.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Let's get ready to rumble.

No matter where you are in my town, it only takes about a five minute drive, at 35mph, to get to any other location in my town.  My little corner of rural casino hell is just that small.  From my house to the grocery store is about a minute.  My house to the school is three minutes.  My house to the liquor store is three minutes too.   One side of town to the other, five minutes tops.

This is why it's positively absurd that there is a traffic jam in my town every weekday at 3 pm.

That's when school gets out.

And that's when every parent in the school parking lot, except for me, wants out of that parking lot at 3:05.  So they can get home five minutes later.  Maybe they don't want to miss ten minutes worth of Judge Judy or Dr. Pheel.  I don't know.

What I do know is that picking your kids up at school is a competitive and aggressive sport.  Getting your vehicle maneuvered around the other vehicles so you can get up to the school exit at 4 minutes after the hour requires a helmet, a mouth guard and a cup.

I've seen women come to blows right in the parking lot over whose nose was mere inches further out than the other's.  I'm not joking.  Screaming and closed fists.  Crass names for female parts.  Educational.

Driving in a way that is mindful of not running over small children?  Whoever heard of such a thing!  Just Let. Me. OUTTA HERE!

The school has organized the parking lot and exits the best it can.  There is always a teacher who directs the flow of kids and cars and two others on crossing guard duty.  I hope those teachers are getting hazard pay.  I hope they get funding for their own helmets and mouth guards.

So, after waiting for the school to empty of traffic, middle fingers, and children, I start my engine and leave without any dents in my bumper at 3:10. 

I wonder what all those other parents do with the five minutes they save.

They probably spit shine their cups. 

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Stick Figures

I spent some time today trying to nudge my brain toward right thinking rather than left.  Meaning toward being creative and emotional rather than logical and systematic.  Not toward the tea party and Sarah Palin instead of repealing don't ask don't tell instead that awful socialism called health care reform. 

I do this logical and systematic thing pretty good for a girl.  I've found all this stay at home stuff pretty much logical and systematic.  Get hungry, shop for food, cook food, eat food, wash dishes, put dishes away...all to have it start all over again.  That's a system.  It's logical.  It's predictable.  Same with laundry.  Wear it, dirty it, wash it, dry it, fold it, wear it.  Cleaning the toilet too.  If you don't mind we'll skip those steps.

Left brain.  It likes to keep it orderly n shit.

My left brain would prefer that I not take out my sketch book and attempt to describe my thoughts in pictures rather than words.  How do you draw health care reform, woman?  How are you going to draw gay rights?  You wanna caricature Sarah Palin, huh?   You can't do that!  So you aren't going to!

Instead, for practice, I set up a still life and drew an oil lamp and a tea cup.  My withered right brain sort of quivered and then collapsed.

Teacup and lamp, wow, that's emotional subject matter right there.  Just a half degree past apathetic.  People can look at my pencil sketch of the mundane and think, "I wonder if I need to stop at the store and get milk."  Maybe I'll convince people through my sketch to replace their toothbrushes and dust behind their refrigerators.

At least the sketch looks very much like an oil lamp and a tea cup.  Proportioned and shaded.  It does not look like a mutated blob here and a melted blob there.  Though it was crosshatched and that's all linear and geometric.  Quiver.  Collapse.

Even my costume making is suffering from this logical housewifery and these last two years of real estate asshattery.  The last project made was a very logical and 90 degrees square nine block denim quilt top cut from cast off jeans.  Sewing in straight lines made sense.

Friday I looked through my old artist portfolio and wondered where all those bright colors and ideas went?

Didn't snort them up my nose at there's the upside.  It all went toward logical causes.

But the downside is that I can't blow my nose and recapture the magic.

Maybe I'll draw that. 

Green oil pastel is in my future, if that's OK with Andy Warhol.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Red state, red state, red state.

Today I've been more homesick than I have been for a long time.

Not that I'm away from home.  I'm still here.  In Bendover.  This teeny little corner of casino hell I moved to nearly 12 years ago.  I'm sitting on this comfortable couch I chose on top of the new carpet which I love enjoying the breezes from the new air conditioning unit and wishing that I were back where I grew up in Utah, in a chicken coop if needs be.

I've been gnawing on this fantasy where I win the Pillsbury Bakeoff and then I could return to where my family lives with the ability to afford to live there too.  Needless to say, they won't pay my public school teacher husband a salary in that state that would cover a family's rent.  Or, you could pay a mortgage and be forced to go about naked for lack of a clothing allowance, which the neighbors may or may not appreciate.

At least here we have an income at all.  Many don't.  I'm grateful.

But I still want to go back to what I know.  Utahns.  Bizzy bees.  Ignoring the prevalent religion.  Ignoring the red leaning ways.  Chain pasta restaurants.  Overworked mothers.  Layered Tshirts and bumpits.  MLMs.  The upwardly mobile in cheap suits.  SUVs.  Kool-ade.  Velveeta.

When we moved to our current armpit we felt like we'd hit the lottery.  We had 200 dollars in our pockets and nothing coming in when Justin was hired.  Being able to procure food and heat was compelling at the time.  Utah didn't want Justin and his 3.9 college history teaching degree if he didn't feel qualified to teach a sport.  Bendover wanted Justin to teach actual readin' and writin' and 'rithmatic.

But today I feel stifled with this place.  This land of not a whole lot going on.  Living 120 miles from a Walmart.


Do I read "The Secret" and put my wish out there into the universe so I can find myself transported somehow to the Land of Mo?

With my coffee pot at least?  Because I need my coffee pot.

I'm unsure of how to end this post.  There is nothing satisfying to close it with.

Maybe shit...or get off the pot....I guess.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Streaming internal video...

I had to perform a really unpleasant chore today.  Nothing that includes any fragrant bodily fluids though, and for that I'm grateful, but something I'd been avoiding for a year because doing this chore is much like giving yourself a colonoscopy.

Then I felt better, because it was done, and I'm never ever going to have to do this again.

Though in ten to fifteen years I may just get a real colonoscopy.  Woo nothing like a shiny colon.

A half hour ago the UPS man came and brought me a Roku.

Zero to multiples baby, zero to multiples.

Just goes to show it doesn't take much to turn a crappy day around.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I was disappointed that I got this sweater...I wanted a moaner or a screamer instead.

There has been a time or two in my life that I've been asked, and trust me there is an acceptable context to being asked such a thing, what I tend to behave like when I've reached the pinnacle of amorous excitement.

You know, when I Sally upon meeting Harry.  That sort of thing.  Pastrami on rye induced YES YES YES YES!

With the exception of my husband and maybe my cats it's no one's business what I do during that moment so I've pithily answered, "I belt out The Star Spangled Banner!"

I'm patriotic dammit.

Sarah Palin and the Tea Party folks ain't got nothin' on me.

Of course, if I really did belt out The Star Spangled Banner my husband would roll over defeated and disappointed because he'd know I'd faked it. 

Apparently, 80% of women have

My question about all this is where do we learn this skill, us women, and the men that do it too?  The article above cites that bored female monkeys fake it, trying to get Mr. Monkey off their backs in time to flip on Leno.  But how do us humans come by the skill...or at least believably?

(I started this post an hour ago...coincidentally my 16 year old son wanted to know about herpes.  He hasn't got herpes as far as I know.  He hasn't even held hands with a girl yet.  So into the wonderland that is how herpes is transferred.  Ain't I a responsible parent type!)

So...Star Spangled Banner....

Why not fake it with a song that holds deep feeling for most Americans?  We've given God his dues, how about country?

Are the fake moans and signs and ejaculations all the more believable because everyone is naked?  Or the important parts are naked?  Because there aren't too many of us that could make a career out of acting.  Do you have to wiggle all during?  Or fake an O face?

Besides getting it all over with, are some of us trying to impress our neighbors with our expressions of joy?  Neener neener, I can practice this procreation business with the best of them?  My lawn is so damned green and weed free!

Now, if you had more control or wherewithal during the real moment to express yourself exactly as you are feeling, what would happen really?

No, it wouldn't be The Star Spangled Banner for me.  Sorry Sarah.  I think I'd shoot rainbows out of my....

Yeah, still private....neener.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Goodbye Oh-pur. Goodbye Oh-pur's upper arms.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

That...and today is the first day of Oprah's last season.  It's all downhill from this point on.

Not that I'm going to watch this show.  Instead the network that hosts Oh-pur in my TV viewing area is showing the US Open.  At this moment I'm enjoying the gruntings of Nadal and Djokovic.  I have the feeling that the two formats aren't all that much different.  Grunt, love, cheer, wipe off the sweat, serve again.

Oh-pur's website has filled me in on the gist of what's going on.

John Travolta is flying Oh-pur and her audience to Australia.  Then before that they drove some unsuspecting tourists right onto the set.

And there was much shrieking.

Which sort of makes me glad I've already been sterilized because noise at that decibel level is bound to make your ovaries wither.

Nadal's and Djokovic's grunting has the opposite effect, by the way.

Oh Oprah, what will 4 PM be without you?

They'd just better not throw "The View" in your time slot.  That's all I have to say about that.

Friday, September 03, 2010

Lynn Wilson Tamales are gone too.

Added March 21, 2012: I found Lynn Wilson tamales at the grocery store today. Apparently they've been back for a while but just not in my grocery store. I love Lynn Wilson tamales with Nalley chili served on top. Yum.  Now, read the post...go it.

Added August 14, 2012:  Welcome readers from Uncle Phaedrus and The Hungry Browser!  Lynn Wilson tamales are delicious aren't they?  I found them in the one grocery store in my tiny Nevada town, Smith's, which is owned by Kroger.  Speaking of lost foodstuffs, one of you even pointed out that Postum is now back.  This is delightful news even at $12 a jar!

Come with me to the kitchen.  Let's make ourselves a steaming mug of Postum.  Heartburn has held me hostage this week so I've gone off anything that tastes good.  Instead of delicious and acidic coffee I'm drinking what's left over in the container of Postum I bought in 2005.   That's the other time I went off coffee.  I was pregnant and my stomach did flip flops at even the smell of coffee.  Postum stays fresh for eternity.

Did you know that the manufacturers of Postum discontinued making it in 2007?  I know it shocked the hell right out me when I found out earlier this year.  Growing up in Utah, where it's a sin to drink coffee and tea, everyone drank gallons of virtuous Postum.  Lucky for dry Utahns the secondary effect of Postum is the same as coffee.  It makes you poop. 

I'm also having a fiber cookie.  They really help soak up the acid and book it on through.  They are surprisingly tasty and so stopping at one serving is difficult.  That's a lot of bulk and sittin' down time.

I considered baking my own fiber cookies but how to I keep the kids from eating dozens?  That's dangerous territory right there.  There is still some goings on about how often or well my five year old wipes his bum.  Hundreds of grams of fiber per kid is going to stop up my plumbing.  At least the packaging on store bought fiber cookies looks like something boring people would eat and my kids don't touch them.

...And what do I do when this last bit of Postum is gone from my pantry?  There is no time machine that can take me back to 2007 so I can buy more.  There are recipes for that too but, meh, preparing my own snacks is so gauche.

Postum gone.  That's a little bit of my heritage gone.

Now give me five minutes.  My heartburn has been mollified and my heritage needs remembering.

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Thought I'd change things up a bit and write a post in my bathroom.  I have a laptop now.  I can whisk my internets from room to room whenever I like.  That means that when two of my three kids are home from school early because the teachers drink liquor do some teacher training type stuff until three, I can manage some privacy while I type.

...And look at all my bottles of lotion.  I have a bottle of five year old baby lotion.  I cannot throw it away.  That would be wasteful.  Yet, I don't use it.  What in the world do you do with a bottle of lotion you originally bought for a child who is now in kindergarten?  I don't think I'll type the suggestion that was my first thought.

Excuse me, Anthony Michael Hall just told me to hit the switch on the fan.  A little later we're going to put on some Oingo Boingo and huff Aqua Net.

I remember my mom taking sanity breaks in her bathroom.  Despite being a die hard fan of Aqua Net herself it was a mystery why she spent so long in there at the time.  We assumed she had healthy digestion.  She said she read.  This was verified by the square of toilet paper that she used as a bookmark.  Now I know that it was one of the few rooms with a logical lock on the door with a supply of water and a chair.  No one wants to interrupt your constitutional and Mommie Dearest or The Thorn Birds are dicey reads.  We began to call her "ring around the bum".

I wonder what quirks habits of mine my kids will share on the internets? 

My kids must have names for me too.  Any part of my eccentric nature is up for grabs in my family.  That picture of me in the boobs ad on the sidebar alone is worth at least three good monikers.  They already tease me for my attraction to Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs, or any other time a shirtless man appears on the TV, even if that shirtless man is better endowed than I am.  They blame me for every fart heard or smelled  in this house.  My growing a manly beard is good for hours of grunting noises from the peanut gallery.

You know, my mom never cared that we made fun of her toilet seat impressions.  Best seat in the house she'd say.

I won't mind if the kids make fun of mine either.  It's really very sweet, my family and the way it jokes.  However, I'm going to get up now because my rear end is sore and all the lotion is accounted for.  How did my mom manage to perch for so long? 

Besides, Anthony Michael Hall wants to go to the mall now and buy me a leotard and some leg warmers.  If he's shirtless I'm up for it.

Monday, August 30, 2010

My corner of surburbia is the corner that bums pee in.

Alright, this post is late in the day.  I apologize.  Though I don't know why posts earlier in the day are preferable other than I don't have my 11 year old son reading over my shoulder to see if I mention him in my post.

I just asked him what he'd like to tell all you readers and other hangers on and he replied, "I don't know."    It's a good thing he's not writing this post then.

I knew what I was going to write this morning but it got lost in a full day of cutting apart years worth outgrown family jeans into quilt squares and watching Weeds on Netflix.

Why did none of you tell me that such superb entertainment was available to me?  Shame on you.

Oh, you were under a rock with me and haven't watched an episode either.  It's a little moist under this rock.   Smells musty.  There are bugs.  Bugs don't have well developed senses of humor.   A breakdown of the plot from Wiki:

Weeds is an American black comedy-drama television series created by Jenji Kohan, and produced by Lionsgate Television that aired on the Showtime cable television network in 2005. The show revolves around Nancy Botwin (Mary-Louise Parker), a widowed suburbanite mother of two, who turned to selling marijuana to support her family after her husband unexpectedly died...

This is fascinating stuff.  Especially since I barely know where to buy boxed wine.  I wouldn't even begin to know where to buy any form of cannabis much less figure out how to inhale.  I drank half a cocktail glass of rum and coke the Friday before last, before attending a Cyndi Lauper concert with my sisters, and because that's typically all it takes I embarrassed myself with a disgusting story about a hemorrhoid.

Sure, I might tell a story about a hemorrhoid completely sober but it wouldn't include as much giggling or offers to illustrate with visual aids.  Sparing you from that is the least I could do.

And honesty keeps me from faking glaucoma.  The Cyndi Lauper concert was excellent.

What would drive a MILF-y housewife like myself to a sordid life of crime?  If I wasn't cutting jeans into future blankets like a hippie I'd definitely have time on my hands. and you can't help but ask it even if the premise is outlandish.  If Justin kicked the bucket and I blew through his life insurance, would baking some bud in my famous chocolate cake recipe keep me in my accustomed lifestyle and buy me a hybrid vehicle?  I like to think so.  That chocolate cake recipe is the shizznit.

Or, instead of green tinged baked goods, I could delight my audience with tales of other complete opposite life choices.  Housewife becomes hard hittin' pimp.  Housewife becomes smooth international assassin without a hint of cellulite.  Housewife becomes a shill for the banking industry.  Housewife runs as a vice presidential candidate.

It's a mystery why I don't write screenplays.  Terminator Eclipse: Revenge of the Piles.

Meh...I can't become a felon.  It's not a responsible lifestyle to model for my children.  I even had to shoo my 11 year old away so I could type out the word "hemorrhoid".

He knows what a hemmorhoid is.  I told him already.

Friday, August 27, 2010

You've got bad breath.

I've changed my sidebar to include the kittens I stole from my neighbor the kittens that have decided to come live with my family.

Chumlee and Beulah are currently licking themselves on my floor in a frenzy of "there is no place like home". They've already been in the bathroom with me while I've been in less than decorous situations.

I mean, you readers and other hangers on could be as fluffy as these kittens and I'm not allowing any of you to be present while I have my constitutional. Not that you necessarily wanted to. But then again, if you did want to, you get an eyebrow raising from me.

It's what us cat ladies do.

Though I don't know if I have enough cats to qualify for such an honorable title. What I do have is a lack of delicacy, a ticket to the bus to being middle aged and several hours of newly procured free time.

There is only one occupation to fit that bill.

Folks, welcome to my curmudgeon-hood.

Bah...I'm not editing out the citation.

Don't tease my cats. Don't ride your bikes in my driveway. Don't throw your balls into my yard. You get that newspaper directly on the center of my porch.  Don't bring me your plates of sugar cookies at Christmas and don't you dare let your dribbling canine anywhere near my rhododendrons.

Watch out, I'm parking this 1984 Buick Century right in the middle of my blog.

....And you'll listen when I complain about my discomforts and digestive issues because even though the cats watch they cannot deer in the headlights agree with me when I lecture about fiber.

It's high time and a good age to start my career.  I'm old enough to know myself well and to conduct myself without insecurity or apologies and still young enough to give it a solid amount of oomph.  I figure I've got at least 50 more years to get my curmudgeon-ness right down. 

That's at least 20 or more cats to steal from my neighbors to own.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

This is the underwire anniversary.

Seventeen years ago today, which was also a Wednesday, I put on a big dress and the bra of doom and married my husband in my parent's backyard, in front of the four o'clocks in bloom.

That's almost poetry.

The bra was strapless and backless and tight. Back when I got married and the dresses were styled in copious ruffles, beading and glitter, comfort was not a priority. The more you resembled your wedding cake the better.

I tried to pick a dress with some visible satin. I mostly succeeded. It still required torturous underwear. If I were remarrying my husband today I'd probably wrap myself in a bedsheet and call it good.

Since then I've considered many other forms of torturous underwear and have been told by my husband that what I am, all on my own, is beautiful.

I love you Justin.

Only the rest of my life to go.

Monday, August 23, 2010

I see your true colors.

Welcome to the first day of the rest of my life.


...let me reiterate. Wooohooo!

Yes, my children, all three of them little snot nosed cutie pies, started school today. From this day onward I will never have a child NOT old enough to attend a state run educational institute.

I have a junior, a sixth grader, and a kindergartner. Every single one of them away from home from 8 in the morn to 3 in the afternoon.

The only reason I'm not typing this post naked is that today is a short day at kindergarten. They are easing in the littlest ones to a full day. As such I was required to attend class with him today. My kid, he's ready. He's so ready. ABC's, 123's, crayons and wiping boogers on all their surfaces instead of mine. By Wednesday I expect to be enjoying breezes in my home that aren't scented like boxed macaroni and cheez dinner.

Giggle...THIS KID from preschool is in his class.

Justin, my schoolteacher husband who also returned to the grind today, has told me to take a year or two off my previous child raising grind before finding another grind to replace it with. I can go along with this. I've been wiping bums and boogers for sixteen years. Sometimes working, mostly not, but never in a place where I've had the choice. He says "Explore your choices."

This is why my husband is a very sexy man.

No, one of my choices is not to turn on my webcam during those breezy moments. Do you really need a case of nausea that badly? You'll go blind. Then you'll sue.

I definitely have plans now that I have a huge chunk of time to explore myself.


I definitely have plans now that I have a huge chunk of time to develop my skills and talents. Skills and talents. I do have a few. Exploring those has had to reside next to children putting a half eaten cookie on them and leaving a grease stain. Or interrupting them to wipe waste products off toilet seats and handles and light switches. Or just tossing them in the trash because someone drew on them with the magic markers that were once put away up high because they were told not to use them.

One of my plans is to not spend all day trying to beat my brother in law's obscenely high scores in Bejeweled Blitz. That one is futile.

But, some of my other plans, I hope to write about along the way.

I swear to God and a baby duckie that I have not felt this light in years.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids. I am and this housewife has a voice and it's time to shout.


Thursday, August 19, 2010

Morning Minutia XIII

I woke up and my boobs were sore and it was raining. I don't think my boobs are predicting the weather but you never know. I'm just glad I don't lactate anymore.

Two boxes of hair dye and shazzam, my corkscrew grey hairs are still corkscrewed and dark brown!

Cyndi Lauper concert tomorrow with the sisters. If I don't spell "Cyndi" properly one of my sisters will punch me in my sore boob.

School starts Monday. SCHOOL STARTS MONDAY!!! I have some plans and ideas and directions to go in now that all three of the hoard will be in full time. Keep tuned.

It's my 17th anniversary on Wednesday. My sore boobs aren't only predicting the weather. Damn you Crampy McKotex.

Who the hell is Snooki?

My five year old slept in his new school shoes.

I slept in next to little.

When I'm lounging in bed with my laptop I can rest my cup of coffee in the dent in my sternum (Yes, I have a hollow in my sternum which gives my flat chest the illusion of cleavage.) and the warm of the cup soothes my boobs.

The class supply list specified that I send my new kindergartner with three boxes of sixteen count crayons. I bought three boxes of twenty-four count. Overkill? Maybe.

I'm going to go watch Weeds while I do laundry.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Why my town stocks up on thousands of foam coolers this time of year.

It's Speed Week in my town.

Which is not drug related...I think.  Sobriety is important when you want to drive your hot rod at hundreds of miles per hour across the Bonneville Salt flats.  Even drinking an extra ounce of Mountain Dew can have your reflexes stunted.

We are attempting land speed records people.  This is serious business and there are a ton of people barrelling through my town leaving huge chunks of salt all over.  The salt clings to their chassis and I'm not talking machinery.

Have a YouTube:

Have another...this one, at least in my opinion, is more relevant to the times:

Anyhow, what this means is that the hot rods are blowing past the car wash close to my home at all hours and the tourists and motorheads keep asking me where to find all and sundry at the grocery store. The only grocery store in town...basically the only store to buy anything in town. There is no Walmart or Kmart. Really. No, we aren't hiding one from you. No, I'm unsure of where you could go to buy crocs or swimwear or computer parts any closer that 100 miles. Yes I actually live here.

However, you can buy sex toys down by the Pizza Hut. Strap those to your feet. Get the veiny looking ones. There ya go. Crank up those bastards and see how fast they'll go!

Meh, I don't have a point with this post other than the interruption of my normally quiet carbon monoxide free life has me cranky.

Maybe I'll feel better if I hook up my sewing machine to some radials, slam down the pedal and see if I can feel a little wind blowing through my hair.

Might clean the lint off my chassis.

Friday, August 06, 2010

That Lennox guy has a perty mustache.

When I first met the man that promised to sell me the wonderful stuff that is new carpet I fell in love with him instantly.  That's saying something too.  He ran the dustiest business establishment in my little corner of rural Nevada casino hell and he was edging in on eighty-five years old. 

He showed me swatches of berber and I was dazzled by his charm and his talk of mildew resistant carpet padding.  That's how to get to my heart.  Tell me how to shampoo berber, oh God yes!

Today I have the furnace man in my home and even though he's tall, and muscular, and my age, and his work pants fit in a way that's almost obscene, I dislike the furnace man.  I really dislike the furnace man.

That clunking noise that my heat pump was making?  Not a little problem.  Large problem.  Elephantitis of the balls problem.  If you experience erections lasting longer than four hours, go to the ER problem.

A problem that's going to put a severe crunch into every aspect of our finances including trying to get the house ready to sell.

Of course, having functioning heat and cooling will draw buyers in this economy.  Most people are turned off by the thought of suffering from frostbite within their own homes.  Sure, the carpet looks really nice but the broken off pieces of human extremities sticking to it really ruins the ambience. 

New furnace...say buh bye to the fluffiest part of our equity cushion.  Say buh-bye to moving plans anytime soon.

Okay, okay, we have an equity cushion.  That's something to be said right there.  We aren't sitting on an upside down mortgage with elephantitis of the furnace.  In this economy I'm not sure who I can thank for that one.  Congress?  Bushy?  Obama-y?  I'm in Nevada, so Harry Reid specifically?  Myself since I served like a schmuck on my HOA for two years in a quest for property values and bought the kids the expensive popsicles in celebration when I quit?

Oh good, the furnace man is on his phone double checking prices.  Excuse me while I faint dead over.

I think he knows that I'm blogging about him.  He looks clean cut and he's bonded, but still, there is an air of sneaky all about his person except for his pants.

They are really nice pants.

Yet, living on the cheap is nothing new to me.  There was a time where my family functioned pretty decently living on around 10% less than the poverty level.  Those years were some of the best of my life.

Will living cheap while paying off Viagra furnace qualify as some of the best years of my life?

Let's not think about that too much.

Let's just keep looking at the pants.

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

Balls and chains, for everyone, even short people and redheads.

I'm waiting for the California Prop 8 decision.  It should be popping up all over the interwebs in the next two hours.

I'm for gay marriage in case you wondered.  I'm a big old fan of legal marriage in general and if it's legal it should be available to any two unrelated autonomous adult persons who want to enter into that contract.  Yes, marriage.  Not civil unions.  The terms are just semantics. 

The "my union is God's union and yours ain't!" terminology is obnoxious.  Being for gay marriage has me at odds with most of the people where I come from, the Utahiest location in Utah. 

Well...I'll save my commentary on that until after the decision is announced. 

However, I'll put my prayer out into the blogosphere in a concrete way, in a way that can be Googled.  I hope Prop 8 is overturned.  Amen.

It's overturned.  Again...Amen. (3 pm mountain)

Monday, August 02, 2010

Sleeping children can't whine.

This is the time of the year where my family's days run together into one great big sticky mass of sameness.

If my kids had anything less they felt like doing, they'd be unconcious.

I'm pushing for that.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

To whom do I charge rent, utilities and other expenses?

In general, my home is open to just about anyone.  Come over.  I have food.  I have internet.  I have plenty of toilet paper.

This is how my neighbor's kitten, which we have named Chumlee, has ended up living here.  We have kitty dishes filled with Meow Mix and water.  We have shelter.  We have kids to play with.  You people seem to like me so I'm staying. 


My neighbor's, however, are not just guilty of neglecting this kitten alone.  Oh no.  They had two kittens from the same litter apparently and I hadn't seen it about.  This worried me.  Do the other kitty die?  If it did die was it a horrible neglectful death or did my first cat, the militant dumb gay one, eat it?  Or was I just stealing a capricious kitten because we offered better snacks?

None of the above.  The kitten was wary and a bit underweight.  It finally came around when it was assured we had copious amounts of cat kibble and more than enough water to drink.  Since we've come home from camping Chumlee's sister, a cat we used to refer to as "Bumlee" until we learned that it was a girl, has not left my home. 

We've named her Beulah.  Since we've been feeding her she's gained weight.  She keeps an eye on the cat dishes.  So far she's not farted or drooled like her brother.

Have a YouTube of the idiocy I've allowed to live in my house.  Chumlee is the further kitten with tabby markings and Beulah is the closer with sable markings. 

You know these cats will fit right into my household because the moment I started to film one sticks it's face into the other's butt.

So now the question is, "Becky, why haven't you gone to the neighbor and given them the good word about their kittens?"

Well, I'll answer that.  They never seem to be home.  I've never even heard them call for their cats.  I'd hear it too.  My air conditioner's still out and my windows and doors are open all the time.  Unless my kids are screaming the call of "Here kitty kitty kitty!" should carry.

So, I'll take on these defecting kittens until I get tired of them and flush them down the toilet.

Or until I start smelling like a cat lady. 

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Camping and dirt...a report of failures and successes.

We're back from our new yearly family tradition of opal mining.  This is where we get away from electrical connectivity of any kind and proceed to char food over a campfire and roll around in large mounds of dirt. 

Success:  The broken tent pole stayed together through high winds and rain by the sheer force of will and nothing else.  We did not have to sleep in our fabulous and dirty mini-van.

Fail:  I forgot every single day to take my multivitamins which keep my absent-minded head clear.  That means that we grilled meats on doohickeys and took potty trips to the thing-a-ma-bob.

Success:  A variety basket of deep fried food at the Model T cafe in a Winnemucca casino.  Deep fried mushroom and deep fried cheese, both dipped in ranch, in the same mouthful?  Heavenly!

Fail:  Not being able to poop in the thing-a-ma-bob in a timely way.  This is because I'm a bit dehydrated and the seat in the thing-a-ma-bob is set a foot higher than a normal toilet and you just can't get any leverage.  The basket of deep fried heaven couldn't have helped either.

Success:  Not buying the cheap pair of Miley Cyrus brand zebra skin print canvas shoes and instead finding a normal blue pair of canvas shoes at the Walmart hidden in a corner.  All my other shoes had open toes, even the canvas shoes I already owned, and that's not proper when you are going to be trekking up and down hills of mine tailings.

Fail:  Realizing that I was expecting a period about 100 miles past any sort of retail establishment that would sell me any hygiene product.  Why in the world would I remember to pack my menstrual cup?  You don't use that to dig for opals.

Success:  Discovering that my tubal ligation is still effective at the campground the day we are to leave.

Fail:  Cutting the edge off one of my bath towels because I was not about to put a layer of Scooby Doo print napkins or industrial thing-a-ma-bob toilet paper in my underpants.  Scooby Doo doesn't deserve that.

Success:  Despite it raining the night before, mining day starts off sunny and the weather cool.  It's hard to dig for opals if it's overcast.

Fail:  Leaving the mine too early in the afternoon, not having had as much luck as we hoped, because it's not only overcast but there was all kinds of thunder. Call me kooky, but I dislike being out in a lightning storm in the middle of an area with no trees.

Success:  Our tent is not leaky.

Fail:  Not getting in as much swimming in the green and fishy warm springs as we had hoped because of the storms.

Success:  No one got scarred by looking at my pasty white thighs.

Fail:  My 16 year old son spent 30-40 minutes in the thing-a-ma-bob doing lord knows what.  Luckily no one else appeared to need to use the thing-a-ma-bob.

Success:  My husband and I took a shower in the fishy warm spring water in the dark together and managed to get clean in the process.

Fail:  Sharing a tent with the family makes the shower the only romantic venue possible.  Even then you can't because other campers look at you all suspect.

Success:  Super large campfire breakfasts.

Fail:  Leftover campfire food stinking up the cooler.  The bottled water tastes like sausage.

Success:  My 11 year old son Alec finding a champion opal with lots of really nice color play.

Fail:  I found some sparkly mud and my oldest son found a mummified snake.

Success:  There were enough digging tools to go around!

Fail:  I bent my hammer. 

Success:  Not leaking in that embarrassing female way on the long drive back to Winnemucca where I found menstrual cups on sale at the Raley's.  When I asked the menopausal checker to direct me to a bathroom she looked at me like my biological functions should not be part of her job.

Fail:  Finding a suspect liquid brown substance all up my arm in the Raley's restroom after throwing away my trash.  I was tempted to smell it to verify what it was and I resisted.  I knew what it was and sniffing it would only have served to cause dry heaves.  I can still smell the antibacterial handsoap I scrubbed down with.  Somebody's biological functions and the cleaning up of said functions SHOULD be someone's job at the Raley's.

Success:  Making it home without a sunburn and a minimal amount of bugbites.

Fail:  Making it home and learning that my neighbor's other kitten, which we have named Beulah, has also decided to move in.

Ahhh...good family fun.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Opening soon: Absent Minded Chop Suey Restaurant

My husband and I have discussed perhaps bringing home a new family member for a couple years now.   Just for context these conversations usually happen when we find ourselves at the PetSmart and not anywhere near a Babies R Us.  We've talked about bringing home a kitten to cuddle and wuv.

These conversations go something like this:

Becky:  Let's go to PetSmart.
Justin:  No.
Becky:  Let's go look at the kitties.
Our kids:  Let's go look at KITTIES!!!!
Justin:  OK.
Becky:  Maybe we will find a kitten instead of an adult cat because maybe our current dumb, gay cat won't trying competing with or diddling with a kitten.  Maybe we could train him to love a wee furball instead of eat him.
Our kids:  Let's get a kitten!
Justin:  No.
Becky:  We're naming the new cat "Buttsteak."

Then, like tools, we find ourselves in the adoptions section of the store manhandling pussies through the bars.

Yet, what's kept me from adopting a kitten in the last two years is the inability of finding a kitten that looks and acts like a "Buttsteak."  You just can't name a kitten that's got adorable fluff coming out of it's ears such a charming name.  Doesn't go.  When you have a name chosen with such promise you need a cat that will fill such large shoes.

For those of you who are unawares, my dumb gay cat is named "Booger" and the name fits him perfectly.

Nowadays the newest reason for not bringing home a Buttsteak is that my neighbor's kitten has decided to take up a semi-permanent residence in my home.  We didn't choose him.  The neighbor chose him.  It seems this cat doesn't choose the neighbor and has instead chosen us. 

Because, we have snacks.  Most everyday for a month this kitten has come into my home to nap and to mooch off me. 

What's more, this kitten doesn't seem to like me.  I like him.  What's not to like about a kitten who flops down like it's body is made out of jello and naps like this?

This cat, it seems, prefers my husband over me.  This cat also drools and farts, so he can have him.

Justin has named this cat Chumlee.  Justin loves this kitten.  Justin gets just as floppy as this kitten when they are both in the house.

Let's not accuse me of kitten-napping.  Chumlee is not being held prisoner.  Chumlee can come and go as he pleases.  Chumlee enjoys napping underneath my master bathroom toilet.  Chumlee gets mildly irritated when you flush.

Booger, who prefers me, has for the most part given Chumlee a wide berth.  Booger does not understand why this kitten is eating out of his dish or gets to go outside at night when he does not.  Booger goes outside at night and wakes the neighborhood with his caterwauling.  So far Chumlee only meows to alert us that it is time to let him through the screen door so he can get to the cat bowl.  Booger has only attempted to eat Chumlee three or four times.

I assume that Chumlee goes home from time to time to eat and fart with his real owners.  I wonder what they call this lump of fur?

Conversations in my home now go like this:

Becky:  Is Chumlee in?
Justin:  I don't know.
Our kids:  Chum bum!  Chum BUM!  Tabby kitty!
Justin:  Don't bug the cat.
Becky:  I have to pee.

Becky:  Found him.

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