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.

Monday, July 19, 2010

I'm just hot. I am not telekinetic.

My central air?  Yeah, it's not working so good.  Something inside that large fan type unit in my backyard is making a clunking noise.

It's only going to be around 100 degrees for the next week.  It's probably going to be that hot for the next month and a half.  It's OK though.  I live in Nevada and it's a dry heat.

...a dry, dehydrating, wrinkled prune and too sweet teriyaki jerky type of heat.

What humidity there is in the air has come from my sweat glands.  Breathe that in deep my friends.  I'm currently drenching my easy chair.  My family has already drenched their bedding and the couch.  My house has the piquant undertones of a junior high school gym class.  We've not yet gotten to the folk dancing section of the curriculum but I'm anticipating it! 

You didn't study folk dancing in gym class?  Golly I sure did!  Smack in between the badminton section and the Hersheys track meet stuff.  Boys and girls classes were embarrassingly combined for a month.  Embarrassing because the required gym uniform included Nair short polyester shorts with striped knee socks and we were forced to hold hands with one another.  Then came exposure to the kinetic arts and John Denver.  If you were lucky you got paired with the boy who you didn't have any extreme feelings for, either erotic or disgusted, and the do-si-do didn't cause you to run smack into each other risking the breaking of any facial bones.

If you were especially unlucky you got paired with the male student teacher in the front of the gym to teach everyone in your class the steps.  He didn't think, being fresh out of the frat and all, that he'd get stuck teaching the dancing unit.  He was belligerent as everyone else about it.

Which how my toes got bruised and I know that the man palms were swampy despite the gym being the coldest location in the school.  The only reason I was chosen to pair with Bucky Lacrosse was because I was the tallest girl in the class.  All the other young ladies would have found it unseemly to be on about the same level as his crotch.

Which I'm sure was also glandularly moist.

The man was drippy. 

Have I mentioned that at the same naive teenybopper age I went to the roller skating rink in the summer and didn't know how to turn down the 30 year old man who had asked me to pair skate?  Drippy I tell you, drippy.

See what this heat does to one's head?  I'm baked and I haven't had more than a cold cup of coffee and a look-see though one of our financial statements.

Unfortunately the clunking in my head can't be relieved by a call to an electrician.

Thursday, July 15, 2010


I've programmed a new number into the speed dial on my cell phone.

Do you realize how amazing that statement is?  I learned how to run my cell phone!  I learned how to text!  Everyday I can text random people in my life with pithy questions like, "how ru?" and "wazzup?" and feel superior and in the know!  It's fabulous!

In return I get photo texts from my sister's husband featuring naked men and naked horses with amazingly similar parts of their anatomies.  It's the thought that counts.

This new number?  Only the most satisfying number I've ever called that doesn't begin with a 900 prefix or include any equine species.

I got called to jury duty for a fourth time earlier this month and yet again I've called the jury duty hotline for my county and learned that the trial was taken off calendar.  There is no need for me to drive 120 miles to the courthouse.  There is no need for me to tell the judge that I'm ready to serve but I must at some point OK my judgement with the little man that lives in my pants...hiccup.  Everyone's been excused!

It's not like I didn't spend enough time in Elko for the entirety of June.  At one point I attempted to feed my kids in an Elko bar but decided against it because of a Biker festival being held in the parking lot across the street.  For all I know the trial I was being called to decide on was a consequence of trying to feed bikers and then I might have been biased in a way.

The "family style" restaurant was located in the back of the bar.  My kids like nuts and pretzels to be sure but I wasn't feeding them in the bar part of the bar. They grilled meats and other sustenance.  No need to put Child Protective Services on speed dial too.

I seriously believe that this repetitive jury duty summoning is the direct reaction of my county's heavily republican government to my registering as a democrat.  This urge I had to participate in the electoral process was on par with some urges I've had after I've eaten particularly spicy chili.  Vote in the primary then wipe off with a prepackaged wet-nap.  Refreshing and lemony.

Someone up at the hallowed halls of the county courthouse is wringing their hands because the accused are making deals and I get to stay home.  They will get me here eventually and then...oh yes...then we can tea party her up real fancy!  Give her a flea dip too.

Until then, maybe I can forward that naked horse text to my local elected officials and prove that I might not be so impartial after all.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Spiderpig Spiderpig does whatever a Spiderpig does.

Decisions are difficult.

Deciding on which laptop to buy, that wasn't particularly difficult.  My husband surprised me with a trip to one of the castles in Sam Walton's kingdom to purchase a toy for his favorite wife.  I chose a model with a textured mousepad.  Those slippery ones make me want to keep rubbing my hands across the front of my chest to remove the ick feeling.  This one is textural.  It makes my fingers happy.  I can't play that damned Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook with any speed on this thing yet, but I'm working on it.

Buying a wireless router was also not difficult.  That's the little doohickey that makes the laptop go zoom.

Naming your wireless network?  Hard.

Almost as difficult as naming your children.  But then, I didn't name my children.  Justin and I had a deal.  He'd name any boys.  I'd name any girls.  Then that man of mine inseminated me with a preponderance of male sperm and all my baby naming hopes were dashed. 

All the pressure lay on my naming a network.  I had to bequeath it with a name that said we were cool, we were secure, we had hopes, dreams, a sense of humor. We were technologically advanced with this internets and stuff.  It had to be a name that spoke out to all that could attempt to steal our bandwidth that we would not tolerate such unseemly behavior.

...then I wimped out and named it with Justin's favorite Simpson's quotes.  "You don't make friends with salad."

It's true though.  You don't.  No one bonds over bowls of lettuce except in salad dressing commercials.  People may bond over salad dressing...but those kinds of activities are illegal in most of the southern states.  That's as far as it goes when we do the rabbit thing.

Couldn't I have just named the network "Absent Minded Network" and be done with it?  How about "Carl"?  Carl's an excellent name for wireless.  Or named it after my favorite sexually transmitted disease, "Herpes"?  Or even "Twilight Sucks...ass."

Yes, you've cursed me after that last one.  My ass isn't all that bad though.

Any number of brilliant quotes from this very blog would have sufficed.  Including my favorite curse word since we're on that subject.

"Don't be a twat and steal my bandwidth."
"Wireless Twats"
"The Twat Network"
"Viral Twats"
"The password is not Twat so don't even try it."

Instead...salad.  You don't make friends with salad.

The summer heat is getting to me.

If you're reading this still and your name is "Carl", you've got rather quick download speed.  You might want to see a doctor about that.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

Feels like the first time.

My husband had to have a Blu-Ray player.  We got one last Christmas at a price that wasn't too bad.  Did I hyphenate that right?  I'm not sure.  I don't understand why we needed one.  I haven't noticed a spectacular increase in picture quality or sound.  I'm glad that it plays my DVDs and we didn't have to upgrade our movie library, most of which are also items Justin had to have.

A weird thing happened on the way to the discount movie bin however.  We've not purchased a single Blu-Ray disc in all the time we've owned this fancy new gadget with it's HDMI umbilicus.  There hasn't been a movie we wanted to replace bad enough .

That is...until today.

Pride and Prejudice with this bit of deliciousness...

...went on sale in all it's Blu-Ray widescreen drooling glory on Amazon with free super saver shipping.

This is the point in this post where I delicately remove all my clothing and lie on the floor in the fetal position willing the spasms to stop.  (Soiling my new carpet.  I have a little green clean machine.)

Yeah, we could have replaced our Lord of the Rings, our Saving Private Ryan, our Gone With The Wind, our Lawrence of Arabia...but no...none of that would do.  It had to be the one...the first.  We had to replace the DVD dull Mr. Darcy with bright and well defined gorgeous hairy male decollatage.

Spasms.  Please excuse me a moment. 

God, I'm happy to be a woman.

Now, for those ladies, and those men who are so inclined, who are debating over this Twilight Edward vs Jacob silliness?  You can all suck it.  Those pansies don't even compare.  Blu-Ray won't increase any of their amiable qualities.

If we're staying pure until marriage I'm staying pure for Fitzwilliam and his button up breeches and his knee length linen underclothes.



Monday, July 05, 2010

Why my kids are no longer allowed to ride their skateboards in the house.

On Friday, this beautiful and glowing personage visited me upon my empty and bare floored home and thus laid down new and pristine wall to wall carpeting.

I'm still getting used to the feeling of ahhh under my feet. 

I chose a lovely chocolate brown color which highlights most crumbs and bits of dead grass from the backyard but will hide the following:

Spilled grape Koolaid.
Spilled rootbeer.
Spilled tomato sauce.
Anything spilled containing red food coloring which we know stays for life.
Kid vomit.
Cat vomit.
Chocolate syrup.
Chocolate syrup vomit.
Signs of infanticide, though my kids are hardly infants.
Fluids from taxidermy, for fun and profit.

Maybe it would hide sex fluids too.  I dunno yet.  Don't expect updates.

In any case this two year flooring escapade of mine, going from tearing up disgusting white lineoleum and installing lovely taupe tile and tearing up disgusting beige carpeting and installing brown berber is almost over.  I have two small areas that still need tiling and then the barn feel of my home will only be evidenced by the udder qualities of my frontal anatomy and my urge to moo.

I won't have to muck up anymore dirty straw either.

Thursday, July 01, 2010

I asked Justin what I should title this and he doesn't know.

We're driving back home from Justin's last day of his four week class in Elko. Weeks without my husband home has had me lonesome.

He just burped in the van. It smells like the meatballs we had at lunch.

God I missed him.

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