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.

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