Thursday, February 25, 2010

From humble beginnnings...

I am talented.

I'm serious. I. Am. Awesome. I have skillz. There are traits and inclinations that were bestowed upon me when I was pooped upon this planet that I can exercise much better than alot of other people who were pooped on this planet.

If I entered contests utilizing these skillz I'd get a steenkin' prize.

And if I didn't get the top prize because judges can't or won't recognize my brilliance, well hell, I'd declare my own top prize. A superior prize. The platinum prize. Because I'm Awesome.

For instance, I am a marvelous stitcher on of sequins. My sequins are sparkly and well placed. My sequins are never gaudy unless I mean them to be. My sequins are superior. Therefore I declare myself the recipient of the Platinum Sequin Stitcher Award, podium and speech not necessary.

I am a keeper of the best pancake recipe the world has known and when I make them I include the dedication and love that makes pancakes a delicacy. Light, fluffy, a quickbread where syrup can only enhance the fineness of the crumb. I flip superior flapjacks and so I offer myself the Platinum Pancake Medal. Thank you.

If there is something you have trouble finding on the internets, I can Google any subject better than any other computer nerd out there. I can sift through information better than any other housewife on the planet. I can find a singular grain of sand on the digital beach. My typing skillz are sharpened by the ability to determine perfect and specific search terms. It's my pleasure to accept the Platinum Googling Guru Plaque. I'm going to hang it in my bathroom.

Also I am the past recipient and ongoing champ of:
-The Platinum Packing Peanut Round-Up Prize
-The Platinum Passive Project Runway Watching Award
-The Platinum Unstick the Garbage Disposal with the Handle of a Plunger Trophy
-The Socks Not Matching the Rest of my Outfit Platinum Cup

You may look at all my accolades but don't touch.

Wouldn't want my greatness to rub off on you if you are unprepared for it.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Gimme a few years and I won't look old enough to be someone's grandmother either.

Today is my oldest son's 16th birthday.

While I was gone last week an old acquaintance told me that I didn't look old enough to have a 16 year old son.

She's my new best friend, God love her.

Monday, February 22, 2010

I get the little blue car in the game of Life.

I spent a portion last week travelling out of state for the funeral of a girl I grew up with, the older sister of my best friend and then next door neighbor.

She was 37 years old. There won't be a clear explanation to her death for another four weeks.

I spent my life at their farm until I was 11 years old. That's when I moved away and kept my best friend by phone until I could drive. My childhood was spent throwing manure in every form at each other at every opportunity, because throwing manure at one another was free and fun. We threw eggs too, fresh and rotten, because they had free range chickens before they were politically correct. We threw potatoes at each other when it was potato digging time which broke up the monotony of acres of such dirty work.

We tied each other up with bailing twine. We built clubhouses out of a stack of odd sized 2x4s and mud...mixed with more manure of course. One year we even fashioned a toilet and sink with running water. We played a sorry version of softball with whatever implements would serve as bat and ball. We soaked for hours in an irrigation ditch. We got the hell bit out of us by mosquitoes moving sprinkler pipe. We caught toads and tortured tomato worms. We chewed on fresh asparagus and rhubarb, pulled carrots right out of the ground in the garden.

In our cleaner moments we'd play with Barbie dolls under the lilac or sour cherry trees. Every single one of them dated my permanently castrated Michael Jackson doll. So much cooler than having a mud bath with Ken.

The old town has changed. Would it be snobby of me to declare that I once lived in the largest house in a rural town with far more cows than people? I did. Six bedrooms. Three and a half baths. A cellar room just to store potatoes in. The first thing I see when driving in last week was a McMansion in a collection of other newly built McMansions with a barn nearby that a horse wouldn't dare poop in. My old house was dwarfed by not only new consumerism but a large aluminum shed twice as tall and wide as the house in the first place, directly off the back door. They painted the front door an ugly black. I felt violated.

The playground equipment I used to scrape my knees on at the nearby park and rodeo grounds looks shabby, replaced by a series of safety enhanced brightly colored modern plastic tubes, ladders and swings. The tiny corner store, where I could get tootsie pops for a nickel, has long been mowed down. The spanish olive tree at the back of our alfalfa field is gone. My fourth grade teacher wears hearing aids and uses a cane.

True to form though, there was no cell phone service. The town is still that little. There are still plenty of cows. The smell is the same.

I sat for the funeral in the chapel of the church, in a new pantsuit that I swore I'd never own, aware that I had grey hairs showing and emerging crow's feet, and knew that there would never be an existence like the one I had ever again.

It was years of golden moments. Rotten egg splattered wonderful moments.

Ironically, my own Dad is feeling much the same way. Only a short time prior to the death of my friend a childhood friend of his passed away just as suddenly in an accident. His moments can't be shared anymore. Only remembered. My Dad is taking the time now to write down the moments so we can have a glimpse because they will never exist again.

It was my Dad returning to the existence he grew up with when we moved when I was 11.

I don't want to return to my old town though. Seeing the changes is enough.

I'll just write my moments down. I'll blog about it. We can all have a glimpse.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

There is a prize in my box of cereal, yay!

My four year old son heard me peeing from the other side of the bathroom door and ever so politely inquired, "Did you grow a penis yet?"

I replied that girls don't have penises. They have vulvas and vulvas have a hole where the pee comes out.

Disappointed with that answer he asked, "Why don't you want a penis?"

It's a valid question. I'm told that having a penis is a life changing experience. They are fun to show off at parties. Nothing is ever boring when you have a little pirate in the crows nest over your poop deck.

I told him that I didn't want a penis because they were just too damned expensive. He's lucky he got his for free.

Then my son asked to watch cartoons.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Wrapped in cellophane, touched by an angel.

In part because of guilt, and in part because of my aging anatomy, and lastly in part of Dr. Oz's and Oh-pur's influence, I've been trying to incorporate more raw foods into my diet.

This isn't a new year's resolution. I just like a timely poo.

Which means one of my favorite raw foods, a nice crunchy wedge of cabbage, times these poos in even two hour increments from about 1 pm to bedtime.

There have also been carrots, apples, raw sweet potato and oatmeal. Sexy foods.

You can't imagine how clear headed a person feels after all that elimination. It's liberating in a way. Like spring cleaning and deep tissue massage all wrapped up in one fiber filled package. I've been bouncing out of the bathroom like it was Christmas morning.

...and then Justin brought home a box of Twinkies.

If I had the time to make a glittering Twinkie GIF I would. Golden auras of beautiful delicious cake calling all toward it guaranteeing spiritual epiphanies and two bites of bliss.

Justin doesn't eat Twinkies. He got himself a box of Ding Dongs. He loves me and he brought me home a box of cuddles. Cabbages are not cuddly.

So I ate these Twinkies.

Not all in one sitting...but close enough.

Which caused me to lose any motivation to move any part of my body not related to my right hand moving toward my mouth.

And then my brain shut off.

All I was left with until my balking digestive system worked through all that shortening was a bland sense having once been happy and a film in my mouth.

Christmas was over. My toys ran out of battery power.

If we stuff Dr. Oz full of Twinkie cream will the man ever die? He won't be the perky man we love but he'll live forever. If we stuff Oh-pur full of Twinkie cream will the woman ever....meh, nevermind.

I apologize to the Hostess company for limiting my Twinkie consumption to once or twice a year. I'm more sorry than you know. Middle age has found me and I can't eat like that anymore.

I'm switching to crumb Donettes. The crumb part has fiber I'm sure.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

This ain't no Pam or Paris tape, so quit throwing popcorn.

I'm funny lookin' and so is my husband.

I did ask him if I could open the post this way. He agreed to his part. He's funny lookin'. He's got Andy Rooney eyebrows.

When we go out in public I know that people look at the two of us together and wonder how we get along in bed. I know that because I wonder the same thing about the people I see and the people that see us and think that way...well they smirk. There's some interesting imagery. It's easy to imagine Barbie and Ken making the beast with two backs but it's more of an exercise in mental gymnastics to imagine Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum bringing sexy back.

We amaze ourselves everyday that we've had handsome children. They very well could have been overly skinny dangly things with fat noses and eyebrows that could leave home and rent their own apartments.

Justin is the one that described his nose as fat. I would have termed it as more bulbous. Not quite Karl Malden...it's way cuter. Adds to his appeal.

I'm the dangly spastic one in our marital maintenance equation. Justin doesn't think I look funny and he's seen me naked a time or two. He lies and that's sweet.

Yeah, I'm adding to your imagery. Take away my stretch marks in your head would ya?

The point is that this imagining how other funny looking people manage to get 'er dun is not a hobby that's going to make me any money or save my soul so I should quit all this mental exercising I'm doing, shouldn't I? Someone already cornered the market with Awkward Family Photos and People of Walmart. That gravy train whizzed right by my knobby knees. Left a bunch of diesel exhaust behind.

Oooh, I'm lightheaded!

I can't be bitter though. I've been thinking of Andy Rooney and Karl Malden in the back of a Buick for a half hour. It's kept me cheerful and optimistic. It's only a matter of time before someone pays me for my brain processes.

You don't have to pay me for the Andy Karl rendezvous image, of course. That was a freebie.

Don't say I never gave ya nothin'.

Monday, February 08, 2010

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y hey!

My 11 year old son misspelled "anvil".

It certainly wasn't one of the words we practiced. We skipped the five letter words and went right to the biggies. He could blaze through words like pasteurize, and orthodontia, and theocracy. Five letter words were below us.

But nerves and not even knowing what an anvil was had him out the first round of the county spelling bee.

The thrill of out-spelling every fifth grader in his school had been replaced with the realities of defeat. Alec let go when we got back to the van. He'd always done so well at anything he'd tried to do and to mess up so early into the bee was heart wrenching.

I held him while he sobbed.

Then, to get him to grin, asked him why none of the words offered for spelling referred to any words that you'd more than likely find written on an elementary school bathroom wall.

You know, nothing shockingly profane, just those words that'll make any 11 year old in his right mind giggle.

Like bum. Spell bum. Over-emphasize B-U-M. Bum.

Or poop. Not pewp. Poop. Pronunciation is important.

Pewp did it. My happy boy, my sweet son, knew that we were in no way disappointed with him. He'd done his best. Next year he'd compete and do better.

My son also knew that you could add all manner of prefixes and suffixes to the word "poop" and all in all be in spelling heaven.

Pooptacular.

Poopariffic.

Poopitude.

Poopilation.

Prepoopilation.

Dyspoopia.

Poopendectomy.

Poopify.

Poopitations!


See...you smiled too...didn't you? You were having a crappy day and yet you were trying to add to my list in your head. I is the poop-meister.

We made up poop words all day and strengthening our family and our entries into the dork hall of fame.

What cemented our entries was putting four dollars in quarters into a sticker vending machine trying to get the sticker displayed on the front of the facebook logo misspelled as "facepoop" before we had to drive home. Didn't get one dammit. Got one that said "Taco Hell". Bleh.

Best coincidence ever though.

Anvil my ass.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Puppy Dog Tails

My middle boy...the least Jan Brady of any of my three boys...is eleven years old today.

He is not my baby anymore. None of them are. None of them are going to need me as much as they did yesterday or the day before.

That's OK.

But please God, let me keep my 11 year old a kid for at least the next year. Don't let this go too fast.

I'm still enjoying it.

Thursday, February 04, 2010

Ring...pause...hello? Hello?

If my phone rings once more with another one of them damned computer automated messages, I'm going to start sending slightly terse e-mails to the offenders IN ALL CAPS.

(That's instead of throwing my phone out into the snow or spray painting the word "poophead" on any of their facilities in neon orange.)

My child's school has called no less than three times today with an automated message of some sort or another. I cannot blame schools for using this service. If a note pinned to your child's chest won't make it home a phone call might make it to a listener who is interested. When technology catches up to fantasy, someday a hologram of a school administrator is going to beam right into my living room and tell me that my child owes lunch money.

Sure, call for lunches, but I am NOT interested in joining my local parent/teacher organization or association. Tonight, when I go to bed, I'll be supporting a teacher in the most personal of ways, in ways that may or may not be the definition of my first name on urbandictionary.com. Any other support of any other teacher is rendered cheap past that. The teachers know I love them.

Check out what computer automated invites to your child's parent/teacher conference has compelled one parent to do:



Don't attempt that at home.

I also do not need computerized invites to GOP meetings. So far the Democrats have invited me and my husband with a real unpaid volunteer on the other end of the line. My Republican friends have droned over Memorex. I'm not attending either meetings.

Here is what computer automated invites compell senators to do:



The dentist's computer called me with a reminder that it's yet again time to look at his hairline.



I'm wearing my offensive Mom jeans, see if I don't.

You didn't watch any of my YouTubes did you? You're still laughing over the definition of my name on Urban Dictionary aren't you?

Fine.

May the automated computer calling gods smite you by spray painting "poophead" on your domiciles.

No one supports a teacher as well as I do dammit.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Crunchy little snacks...

I spent parts of my morning doing housework.

Surprise surprise there. A housewife doing housework. Did you watch Dr. Pheel too Mrs. Butterworth, did you?

Well yes, he's on, it's background noise. I'm not really watching. That's beyond the point. The point is that I spent some time washing my walls. It's about time too. Three boys means I have Van Gogh's forming about four feet high down the hall.

Would Van Gogh be offended by my comparison when I admit that my son's medium of choice is snot?

Boogers. My kids wipe their boogers on the walls.

What the hell?

I explicitly remember that these children of mine were not born in barns.

Hold that thought. I've got to turn off Dr. Pheel's train wreck, it's getting whiny, and turn on Dr. Oz's guilt trip. I had raw food for lunch and now I'm gassy, you hear that Dr. Oz? Gassy. You have pointy ears.

Boogers...right. Why in the world am I the one washing dried snot off my walls? I didn't put the snot there. I am not the lazy one that can't move my body three more steps into the hall bathroom to wipe a booger off my finger the proper way. In my thirty five years on the planet I have learned to not place my boogers any place considered eye level.

Here's irony. Dr. Oz is doing a segment on frostbite. A cold person might find that their extremities freeze off and then booger picking and wiping is a difficult procedure.

I'm gonna chop by kids fingers off if I'm forced to chisel nose monuments off the walls again. Yup. Chop chop.

Then, wouldn't you know it, the kids would just wipe their noses directly onto the wall just to spite me.

Noses get frostbitten too don't they?

Chop chop has a limit. Meh. Less mess just to clean the walls I suppose.

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