Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Raise them up in the way they should go.

Last Thursday my boys and I had some time to kill in Elko before picking up my husband from his class so I took my boys to the Northeastern Nevada Museum.

This museum has a two story room full of taxidermied wildlife.  Just like a zoo...just with less poop throwing.  I didn't say the poop throwing was eliminated entirely just that the animals weren't responsible for any of it.

Along one wall there was a large display of turn of the century wild west weapons.  Pistols, shotguns and the like.  My five year old was quick to notice the large sword on display.  The sword was cool.  He said so.

So I asked my boy what you'd do with a sword like that?

He replied, "Kill zombies."


Monday, June 28, 2010

Matching the drapes.

I delivered my husband to Elko again yesterday for his last week of skoolun. 

This means that I've had to come up with ways to entertain my chilldruns all by my lonesome.  Doing deep cleaning isn't entertaining enough for them.  Oh no.  Removing furniture from our family home in preparation for our sainted carpet laying professional wasn't on their list of summer shenanigans.

They cannot see why new carpet is a necessity.  They think that rolling around on our cement flooring is preferable.  Afterall, carpet impedes any speed you may work up on the skateboard that's sat unused for two years in the bedroom corner.  Plus the echo through the house has been most enjoyable when bickering.

I'm more than pleased to get carpet that isn't the color of Crisco.  This means that I can actually hold my housewife head up high and declare some semblance of hygiene in my home because the new carpet is dark brown.  That hides spilled Kool-ade.  Maybe not grape. 

I will hurt my children if they spill anything on the carpet. 

As it is, I have decimated carpet padding and dust all over my rear end and that's enough to put a person in a foul mood.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Green Acres

If anyone follows me on Facebook, you will have seen that my status update yesterday read, "I just took a giant mental laxative and jeezum do I feel good!"

Let's discuss this while I have a couple large cups of coffee, shall we? 

Because, I have been ready to discuss this for over a year.  Even to the point of writing a badly spelled post full of not so subtle references to a scourge in my life.

I was nominated and took the job as a board member in my HOA in  September of 2008. No vote necessary.  No one else wanted to take the job and no one else opposed my "I guess I will." agreement to my nomination. I figured it was my turn when someone put me up as a suggestion.  Yesterday I resigned.  Two months short of election time.  I just can't do it anymore.

It's been possibly the worst non-paid, thankless, bowl of pure unadulterated bullshit I've ever experienced.  Period.

There are plenty of folk out there in Internets-Land who believe that HOAs are a slimy PVC sided mold on the planet.  For some associations I agree.  Lord knows I did enough research on how to run an HOA simply to cover my own ass and I came upon some real doozies.  Our rules were pretty simple.  We didn't measure the length of grass or hue check the color of the perennials or limit cooking of anything garlicky.  We didn't fund projects to give pets places to poop or back any local basket-weaving teams or demand only libertarian political signage.

Nevada, in the wisdom of the boom, built whole new cities of deed restricted real estate in a whole variety of HOAs, very little of which required much funding at the time.  Put a few rules on paper to get around local laws and get those overpriced cracker boxes sold!  That's why the real estate collapse is such a hoot here.

So a few state laws were voted into place.  State laws that trump local and association laws.  By a few I mean from around 20 pages of state HOA law to 60 and the introduction of an ombudsman's office to handle all the fallout.  One of those laws increased dues or assessments for most every member of a unfunded or underfunded Nevada HOA.

Since I agreed with my signature on a piece of paper to uphold NV state HOA law, to enforce the CCRs whether I like them or not, and had to raise dues and tell people to stop parking like idiots whether they were the most sparkling unicorn and heart neighbors or not, it all went downhill from there. 

We had to employ an expert to explain the dues increase to folks.  The ones that needed the most explaining to either didn't show or plugged their ears with their fingers.

Oh the tattling and the tantrums!  If I went to a university and applied for a degree based on real world experiences, I could get a young child education BA for sure!  Everyone hold onto their loops one the rope while we cross the street...get your finger out of your nose.

They think I did this for the power.


Yes, because telling you to mow down your four foot tall garden of sticker weeds fills me with lightning bolts.  Arranging the repair of broken siding, leaking roofs and drooping fences gives me a Hilary Clinton complex.  Developing 100s of hours of under-structure to be in compliance with new HOA law gave me elephantitis of the balls.  Having the ear plugging neighbors watch your comings and goings intently gives me a great big head.

Just getting across the idea that they agreed to the rules and regs, and the consequences, when they signed their mortgage papers was an effort in swimming in warm salt water taffy.  The peppermint kind no one likes to eat.  I understood what I moved into when I bought this house...why did all this useful information bypass you?

It got so anytime I had to perform any of my HOA work, which was often and required by law, I was on the verge of an anxiety attack.  There were times I barely held it together.  Other times I just cried.  It's affected my family and my marriage.

All glory to Ex-Lax, I'm done.

I'm free.

Next up, try to sell the house.  I get new carpet next week!

Monday, June 21, 2010

What I wouldn't do for a short skirt and a cool breeze.

This is the time of year when my blog here begins showing up on search engines under the term, "Is it safe to put a popsicle in my vagina?"

Being the sort of knowledgeable and helpful person that I am, I address such a question HERE.

Weather's getting warm, ain't it?  In most localities women aren't allowed to go fully topless to cool off so other extraordinary measures are required.  Skip the popsicle with the stick.  Just grab a few ice cubes and cop a squat because they'll melt for sure.

To further the public service message and to do my part in the battle against yeasts, I'll go ahead and list other items which should not be used to cool off...ahem...in a personal-like sort of way.

Don't use the hose in the yard. 
Don't use the hose in the yard with any sort of sprinkler attachment.
Don't use the hose in the yard with THIS sprinkler attachment especially.
That's a no on the handheld fan.
Quit standing like that in front of the refrigerator.
Quit sitting like that in your car with the direction of your air conditioning vent pointed like that.
Do not put your McDonald's iced mocha between your legs at the drive-thru.
Do not sit on the grocery store's freezer bins like that.
Sugar cones get mushy that way.
Bottles and/or cans of beer won't get mushy and that's not less filling.
Leg of lamb, seriously?

It's not even July yet.  The warning's got to go out before the weather turns hellish.

Just wait until November when the weather gets chilly...I'm warning you all against corndogs.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Call the narcotics dogs and slash the tires!

My son got batshit high yesterday.  (Yes, batshit is the proper term.)

I did not approve of his drug use.  Not at all.  In fact, I was pretty damned angry and frightened about it.

No, not my 16 year old son.  It was my boy who will be turning five on Saturday!  He got so wasted!  Oooh the day we had yesterday.  It was exhausting.

See, this kid of mine, this logical kid who destroyed his favorite spiderman toys by wrapping chewing gum "webs" around them, thought it would be a good plan to take something for his summer cold.  Except for me, everyone in my family has been suffering with a cough.  The hacking at my house is loud and deep.

So my kid took two chewable carsick tablets out of my purse and medicated himself. 

Motion sickness pills are great for the several long car trips back and forth to Elko in the coming weeks.  Keeps the kids from puking either inside or outside my fabulous mini-van.  Turns out they temper a cough too.

It also turns out that instead of making my five year old son sleepy, two Bonine tablets cause him to hang off ceiling fans, climb on bookshelves, screech, eat like a horse, screech some more and then scream just to top off that last bit of screeching.

I couldn't figure what was up with my kid all morning. 

So when he told me he took "cherry medicine pills for his cough and throat", a nice conversation with poison control was in order.

Thank you Terry at poison control...you are very sweet and I loves you.  You told me that two to four tablets at my child's weight will only make him an obnoxious lush.  Any more than that and I would have had to take him and his lamp hat to a hospital.

...and I've removed all medications from my purse and put them in a highly secure and secret location.

After a day like that I only barely resisted medicating myself with a long island iced tea.

Monday, June 14, 2010

It's a good thing I'm not a CEO at BP.

This blog is nearing it's fifth year of existence. That's impressive right? Five years of absent minded verbalization which may or may not have improved the planet in any way whatsoever.

The question remains. Hey Becky, are you still absent-minded?

Because the postpartum hormones that caused such a daft brain at the beginning of this blog will be five years old on Saturday and the peri-menopause hormones that caused such a daft brain after postpartum seem to be on an even keel lately. Are you still spacey Becky?

Why yes, yes I am. Thank you ever so much for asking.

Friday morning I had to go put gasoline in the fabulous mini-van, which is also five years old and still running fabulously even if it looks like the floor of a Taco Bell at midnight on the inside. I'm not the one who usually puts gasoline in the van. That's one of Justin's many duties towards the well being of this family, besides grilling red meat and replacing bars of soap in the shower. He makes sure the van's got fuel.

But since I have to drive the 120 miles back and forth to Elko to either pick up or deliver Justin, filling the tank is up to me. 

I'm a competent individual.  I can put gasoline in my tank.  Car maintenance is a not a foreign concept to me. Out of the thousands of gallons of gasoline, both cheap and up the butt expensive, that I've purchased, most of it has ended up in the gas tank of a car.  Removing my gas cap and placing a nozzle in the hole is a procedure that's almost intuitive.

However, learning how to use the new gas pumps at my local grocery store, that's not intuitive and I am not competent.

Take trying to enter your shopper's card information so you can take advantage of discount that ended up totalling an entire fifty cents out of a thirty dollar purchase.  I attempt to enter my shopper number on the little keypad...then it asks for my phone number...then my shopper number again...then for kicks I wrote a blog post and entered that into the pump....none of my info would take.  This prompted the gas attendant to leave his warm little kiosk and scan my card, an operation that took about a quarter second.

No, I did not see the scanner.  There was no neon arrow pointing to it.

At that point the pump asked me for payment which I'm only able to locate after a light next to it started to blink.  After four attempts I manage to insert my debit card in the correct direction, push the debit key, and correctly key in my pin number.  My pin number is much shorter than my shoppers card number.

Now, here's the difficult part, the part where diligence and good decision making skills are required. 

Choose a grade of gasoline.

Noticing more lights blinking on my gas choices, I lift the nozzle, tap the button for the cheap stuff which is clearly marked due to federal law, and attempt put that nozzle in the nozzle putting place.

Only...it doesn't fit. 

Which prompts the man in his warm little kiosk to blare across his speaker, "Ma'am, did you choose diesel?"

No, I did not choose diesel.  I poked the button that said I was choosing low grade cheap skate gas and that's the kind of fuel I need to come out of the nozzle if I could just get that nozzle to go...into...my...tank!

So kiosk man, who has at least two more brain cells than I've got, again leaves his kiosk to instruct me on the difference between the nozzle that is marked "unleaded" and the nozzle that is marked "diesel".  Clearly marked.  Big letters.

...then he rescans my shopper's card.

...and supervises resubmitting my payment information.

...and he lifts the proper nozzle for me, pokes the cheapo unleaded fuel button for me, hands me the nozzle and tells me that I'm ready to fuel.

To reclaim any sex appeal I might have I decided to go ahead and pump the gas myself.

Twenty nine dollars and fifty cents later I pull sheepishly out of the gas station having properly secured the nozzle, my gas cap, the gas cap cover and my seat belt.  Gas make car go zoom.

Ask me how to replace a starter motor on 78 Mustang 2, just ask, because I could tell you all about that.  Ask me how to replace a tire or change the oil or flush out my radiator.  Ask me. 

Now, ask me if I'm still absent minded.

Without that smirk on your face.

Oh, bite me.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Sleeping Alone

I haven't slept well since Justin's been away.  It's hard to not share a bed.

There isn't enough bed joustling to fall asleep to.  It's too still.  There isn't enough snoring to fall asleep to.  It's too quiet.

Or it's quiet in all the wrong ways and noisy in all the wrong ways.

Because when you finally get to sleep at two in the morning and then you are awakened at four to the thumping of both the cat and the sixteen year old child chasing a mouse through the house, it makes a bedtime lonely mother a wee bit cranky.

It makes a lot of sense that my cat would chase a mouse through the house.  That's a good snack.

I have no idea why my son thought that such shenanigans at that time of the morning were necessary when the cat was doing a fine job all by itself, despite being dumb and gay.  The kid may need a snack, he's a skinny little turd, but I doubt a mouse is going to do much appetite wise.

Tonight I don't care if there is a four ton rhino in my house.  No one is chasing it.  That's final.

However, the beasty can get into my bed with me and wiggle it so I can fall asleep.

Monday, June 07, 2010

The Order of Balls and Shaft

I did college a little backwards when I attended.  I never got the dorm experience because when I enrolled I was already married and I had already spawned.  Non-trads R us.  Most dorms don't let you move in your husband and your potty training toddler.  They don't match well with the beer fridge or the old twister mat used as a room divider.  My freshman year included the impressive feat of being able to live off campus in an apartment with a private shower.

I did get asked out a lot in college though.  I'm convinced that when I had to decline offers, anywhere as benign as coffee to as lurid as backseats, that I did so in such a way that my suitors were impressed with my aura of academia.  Dude, I'm non-traditional.  Check out my stretch marks.  Yes, I know I put out once but that doesn't increase your odds.

My dorm experiences thus far have been limited to dropping off my husband to a four week college class in Elko yesterday.  He's being comped fine campus accommodations in between semesters.  The room was clean, the bed was comfortable, and the penis and balls drawn on the outside of the door in magic marker had been nearly cleaned off completely.

It was not my comprehensive off campus college education which provided me with the ability to see this faint work of art when my husband and teenaged son bypassed it completely.  I've always had that talent.  Put that on my resume'.

I even got to check out the men's showers in these dorms.  They were clean and shower puffs were neatly lined on nearby shelves.  The showers were the only place to fill up the bathroom garbage can full of water so I could rinse off the sidewalk where my carsick middle son puked. 

Now it dawns on me.  Clean male dorms, clean showers, shower puffs, and a penis and balls drawn on the door...I've left my husband at an audition for Glee Club instead of a six credit hour writing seminar.  Fabulous.

When you're a jet you're a jet all the way...

Even more suspect.  My husband has grown a full beard and hasn't manscaped in ages.  Uh.  Oh. 

It's worrisome but I'm sure he'll find it all a learning experience.  We have phones that text now.  He can keep me updated.

On the way out of Elko we parked next to the slick and shiny tour bus of a lady politician running for some sort of federal level office.  I'm not naming names here.  All I know is that I didn't know who in the hell she was because these kinds of politicians, who are supposed to be representing me, don't ever campaign in my town in their 500K travelling dorms.

For that reason alone I considered drawing a faint penis and balls next to the "trust me" pose of herself in her pantsuit on the side of her bus.  Right near her head.  You know.

She doesn't support same sex marriage.  I looked it up.

Non-trad R that.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Now used on the space shuttle...

When winter lasts much longer than it should, and there is never a time when you want to uncover your body for fear of freezing parts of it off, you procrastinate shaving your legs until June.

My legs had a passing resemblance to Oscar the Grouch until today.  This blog post has been sponsored by the number 4 and the letter P.  P is for pasty...as in without my carpet I'm damned pale.

4 is for four...I don't have anything pithy in choosing that number.  Maybe there is something Freudian about it that I'm missing.  You can expound on that if you like.

Justin, my oblivious husband, has also become lazy with personal body hair removal.

That is, he started his summer beard in December.

I know what you were thinking.  I'll play into that a little bit. 

It's amazing I was able to remove his velcro like hold off me this morning.  We usually sleep butt to butt.   I was forced to shave today because pulling ourselves apart resulted in epilated spots causing glaring contrast blindness and embarrassment.   It was the rip heard around the world.  We weren't even sleeping naked.

Following that little admission, on the theme of body hair, my sixteen year old son is carefully grooming his goatee so it closely resembles the letter W sprawling across his chin.  This is an improvement on the letter U goatee he'd been sporting up to this point.   He says his friends think his facial hair is dark and awesome.  I say his friends are retarded.

That son of mine, the hair gene certainly didn't skip him.  This is one of the reasons why I make him vacuum his bathroom before he mops it down with disinfectant.

If I'd been thinking I could have started a family business making toupees.  Absent Minded Hairpieces. 

Imagine the sidebar ad I could post on that'un.

Wednesday, June 02, 2010

I'd spend 40 bucks in gas to get a 40 cent pastry.

Oh how I loathe those IHOP commericals featuring their cheesecake pancake stackers.

Why must those ad agents tempt me with that fluffy buttermilk goodness, layered with whipped cream cheese filling and sugary glazed strawberries or blueberries?

Why must my thighs tighten at the thought of the delicious calorie count my tongue move against the roof of my mouth in anticipation of all that cholesterol?

Why must my husband look at that stack with lust, mouthbreathing and shuddering?

It's cruel.

It's dehumanizing.

I'd like a side of sausage please.

Wish I was getting paid for this little spot, but I ain't.

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Do not pick your nose and then wipe it on your mortarboard.

Tonight is my youngest son's preschool graduation.

Wait for it.  Now listen.

Awwww....collective awwwww.  That's so cute!

Except it really isn't.  At least I don't think so.  My kid still hasn't processed the concept that preschool ever has to end.  As far as he's concerned we're going to go back to preschool tomorrow to play with his friends, especially the friend with the pointy stump.  My little boy's thoughts are a perpetual snack day.

I got pressured into bringing a green salad to this event. 

Friday is the last day of real school.  Friday is high school graduation.  I usually go to that event as my husband has tried to prepare these youths to function in society.  Afterwards we take some sort of food to a party where the intent is to get the social studies teachers as drunk as you can possibly get them.  If anyone has a recommendation for a dish that will go with clamato, screwdrivers and Michelob, lay it on me.  I'm thinking frozen meatballs warmed in bottled teriyaki speared with toothpicks.  English and science teachers are not picky.

What's backwards about this whole deal is that I usually lose my poop around the time the high school slide show is presented and they show baby pictures of all the graduates, who aren't my kids, and I won't lose my poop at this preschool graduation because I think the whole deal is too precious to function.  Every year they turn back on the gym lights and because a graduation is a mascara worthy event for my otherwise fresh faced existence, half of it will be running down my face.

I'll bring my camera to tonight's cuteness because I'll stand out if I don't.

I'll skip the camera for high school graduation because I'll be tempted to take candid photos of attendees wearing tube tops or daisy dukes.  You know me well enough to know I'm not joking about that one.

Though I have to admit that if I owned a tube top and a pair of daisy dukes I'd wear that outfit tonight and Friday.  The gym gets awful hot.  There will be no collective aww about my choice of attire.

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