Tuesday, April 27, 2010

When you eat fiber cookies you expect to go like Superman and feel disappointed when you get Jimmy Olsen

See that lovely rosy glow across my collarbone? Yup, my husband played hooky from school today and we made the most of 2.5 hours without children in our home.

This "most" included hot dogs.

We ate them. It was lunchtime.

You are disgusting.

Initially my husband didn't take the day off work to eat nitrate rich meat and put a smile on my face. He scheduled the day off to have a colonoscopy. The rosy glow means that obviously didn't happen today.

Instead our insurance informed us that a colonoscopy requires pre-approving and as of Friday he was so not pre-approved yet. You know how insurance works, so Justin cancelled his appointment for the time being. He cancelled drinking a couple liters of a fluid that twists up your insides and wrings out any substance that you'd normally get rid of in 24 hours and cancelled shoving a camera up his backside. He may or may not have cancelled a sponge bath.

Justin went to the doctor because his backside was sore in the first place. That tells you all you need to know right there. What 40 year old man goes to the doctor with a sore backside unless said man is a raging hypochondriac? Or an Oxycontin addict with a new and desperate story? Otherwise normal guys do not go to doctors to get their bums inspected on a whim. Just doesn't happen. Women go yearly to get bum inspections. We scoff at the thought of being embarrassed or apprehensive about a doctor looking at our bums. Some of us ladies offer up our bums for inspections on a change in the direction of the wind.

You are not my gynecologist and again, that is disgusting.

The reason Justin's bum was sore seems to have cleared, and we think our town's freshly scrubbed new doctor didn't quite know what to do with such a common and uncouth set of symptoms, so Justin went ahead with the recommended colonoscopy even though it doesn't seem warranted now. What could it hurt? You get it done and then you don't have to have it done again for a while. Or you get it done, find tentacles growing up in there, and get them removed before they go full octopus.

Turns out that as of Saturday he was approved. Nothing changed in 24 hours. Some computer beeped on and decided that Justin was camera worthy. Dammit...giggle...yeah, dammit.

Justin is going to reschedule for summer when the heat of the season makes wringing oneself out extra fun.

...and won't there be a neato "what I did during summer vacation" home video for everyone!

Keep your pants on, stay hydrated, eat your fiber and stay tuned.

Friday, April 23, 2010

You took my favorite broadcaster, Paul Harvey.

Dear Lord, This year you took my favorite actor, Patrick Swayzie. You took my favorite actress, Farah Fawcett. You took my favorite singer, Michael Jackson. I just wanted to let you know, my favorite president is Barack Obama. Amen

I quoted that just how I found that floating around the status updates of many on the Facebooks, spelling mistakes and all. Cut and paste is a wonderful tool. I'll get around to posting this one as my update after I get to my bra color, my belief in god and jesus and the bible, healthcare, gay marriage, and some dumb twerp needing a smack upside the head.

People sure are angry. They are so angry that they barely know who or what they are angry about. Any reason to be angry is a reason to feel in the right or justified. I am pissed, therefore I am!

I'll pass this flu around. I'm not sneezing into my political sleeve! Have a viral YouTube:



Yeah yeah, that YouTube is just as inflammatory as the status update. Ain't that the point? If you can't hoot or hollar to it, it ain't truth, by gum. Shades of grey are only in the volume of the rhetoric or the amount of tears.

Dear Lord, my favorite political commentators are that both Glenn Beck and Rachel Maddow? Amen and Hallelujah?

As I write this I have just learned that my favorite governor of Arizona passed that poorly conceived immigration bill into law. I could deliver my thoughts on such a thing calmly and logically but that would only hinder my credibility on this subject. Instead I'll just sarcastically remark that it's good to be in the sunscreen business in the The Grand Canyon State.

If we can pass around Obama graphics heavily laden with Nazi references, we can sew stars of David on the clothing of anyone with an understandable desert tan, right? Righto!

That's how I know I'm right. This news has made me angry and I've added an "o" to the back of the word for emphasis.

Please folks, please tell me that our last election, an election that didn't require recounts or court intervention, didn't kill the age of reason, whether that reason is right, left or parted like a hippie's hair straight down the middle.

Just calm down and take a breath before you tell me.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Raising Lazarus

Have you any of you readers and other hangers on read this?


Me either.  This one is not on my summer reading list.  I will be writing no book reports on an undead Elizabeth Bennet or a dismembered Mr. Collins.

I've read Pride and Prejudice without the zombies.  I've watched movie versions without zombies.  One version I watch whenever my mind is racing.  Something about this part:



...makes my body relax into a warm bowl of buttered Cream of Wheat.  Simple.  Satisfying.  Let's pause here and have a moment.  Ahh.

T'would be a shame if Mr. Darcy went on a brain eating rampage.  It would ruin his appeal entirely.

Would it be presumptuous of me to turn my life and therefore this blog into Absent Minded Housewife....with ZOMBIES?  That seems to be the thing.  There was a point when I thought that becoming a vampire would be a lucrative career move but in the end I didn't have any contacts or any teen angst.

Becoming a zombie could ruin my appeal entirely.

That sort of lifestyle change is as good excuse as any to get out of chores.  Zombies do not care about a clean toilet, preparing budgets, or dieting.  No one asks a zombie which fabric softener they use.  A zombie would be useless when it comes to babysitting children.  Zombies do not exclaim when there is a good sale on Hamburger Helper at the grocery store.

My husband might find my new persona challenging. Marriage to a zombie more likely than not is a practice in patience and compromise.  Anything from choosing what to watch on television to how tubes of toothpaste are shared would have to be weighed with a constant hunger for raw human flesh.  Do female zombies ovulate?  Condom use during those intimate moments seems sensible and hygenic as well as positions where you aren't facing one another. Conversation would go right down the can. 

Blogging as a zombie could get messy on my end and redundant on yours:

oashyf brains bousiausf brains oudshaobbpy brains brains  wousdf;dsaf   brains brains brains
Ooph ooph brains brains djsfhasdu brains
Mommy blog brains bouasodfh brains.

The only similarity is that my diatribes would still be absentminded.  With a little practice no one would be able to tell the difference.

Sigh...life is for the living.

...and there is better reading to be had.  Quality stuff. 

I'm thinking The Bible...WITH ZOMBIES!

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

So NOT an episode of Sex in the City, which I never watched, sorry.

Unless you've already got your hands down there already, and since you're reading my blog who could blame you, I want you all put your hands down your pants and feel around your groin area. Go ahead. Do it.

Hey not, let's not get that enthusiastic about the idea. Slow down. Contemplate.

Get a little weepy about it if you like.

If I'm channeling you correctly you should start feeling a wistful ache.

Which shouldn't feel anything like the sensation climbing the rope in gym class. While I like my readers and other hangers on, I don't like you well enough to provide that cheap of a thrill. If that's what you are feeling, you are doing it wrong and you should try again.

I'm talking about the ache of once vibrant baby making anatomy never being used for baby making again, about another phase of life gone with the winds of time, about entering middle age, about my body figuring that it's high time to start drooping.

I registered my third and last child for kindergarten today.

That's the ache you feel in your groin. It's my mortality. My ovaries are withering.

The last child.

Last.

Yesterday I took his carseat out of my fabulous mini vin, tossed that in a dumpster, and installed a manlier looking booster seat. We're down to the last sippy cup in the cabinet. His clothes are big enough to be hung on adult sized hangers. Yo Gabba Gabba hasn't been watched for months. He has been commenting on The Huffington Post.

In two school years the first child will graduate high school.

First.

He walks about and leaves curly hairs and splatters of testosterone wherever he goes. It's frightening. None of that will prepare him for the world.

I don't even feel prepared for the world and there my kids go off and grow up on me. Little turds.

None of you are reading any of this are you? You're all stuck on your climbing the rope in gym class sensations.

You can take your hands out of your pants now.

Go wash them.

...and under your nails too.

See you on chat roulette all next school year.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Don't tweak and drive.

I've been touched by the hand of God.

Which has not improved the weather any but has caused the county clerk's office to post notice that my services as a loud, outspoken, uncouth and poorly dressed juror are not needed.

Our accused probably relented, softened his heart, maybe found Jesus, and the trial was taken off calendar. This is fine by me. I can support most anyone in their search for Jesus as long as that search doesn't conclude at my front doorstep with an offer to save me from my evil ways.

I'm a badass music downloader, yo.

Not having to go tomorrow is a relief because they don't allow a potential juror to blog from their smartphones while court is in session. They don't care WHO you need to contact. Even if it's your mother. Nor is it charming in any way to try to blog while you are driving 120 miles to the county seat to serve.

Speaking of...despite Oh-pur's efforts and Utah law, do you know how many wieners I saw talking/texting without a useful bluetooth type device whilst driving with their knees in 75 mph traffic over my spring break? Less than I used to...but still far too many.

In a state where the worst curse word you can utter in public is "crap", I felt it would be my duty as a former resident to start displaying signage on my vehicle that would state, "GET OFF YOUR GODDAMNED PHONE!"

Then, to reiterate the point, more signage displayed explaining, "Offended by my language? I'm offended you are endangering my life with your phone use. My language ain't two tons of steel."

Maybe a less literary finger would get across my opinion on that sort of behavior.

My signs alone would be doing how much of the lord's work in the saving of innocent lives? Could I act as a modern hand of God in this portable drive-thru windowable world with simple sheets of magnetized editorial? Goddamn right I could!

At least in this way maybe I won't be called to jury duty for a fourth time for a cell phone related offense.

When I get call a fourth time I'll stay with meth trials, thank you very much and hallelujah.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Jury of my beers.

I received my third jury summons last week.

Grumble grumble dammit all to hell.

This joy by mail makes it easy to also be moody about tapping out this post on my phone instead of my beloved desktop computer with it's sufficiently large screen because I am in Utah.

Utah...where dreams go to put on modest clothing and dip their fries in a mixture of mayonnaise and Miracle Whip.

The county clerk will not let me out of this on this occasion. Can't link. Go ahead and search this blog for "summons" and "meth" and "macaroni and cheese" and you'll understand how I already put in my time as a cog in the wheels of justice.

Because I vote and I openly compared our last president to female genitalia, the powers in my county seat subject me to my just deserves. A 240 mile round trip drive and possibly a stay at a motel which might have oatmeal packets with it's continental breakfast.

My best excuse to get out of this? Jury duty falls on the same day as my son's snack day at preschool. If I'm not around to purchase and serve apple juice and crackers will the preschool class descend into the depths of anarchy? Will coloring outside of the lines become an act of low sugar rebellion? Playdough molded into projectiles? Every surface of that tiny furniture covered in Elmers glue.

Judge...I can't serve...I have to be a warrior for democracy with the nosepicking set.

Think they'll buy it?

Yeah...better just to show up inebriated.

Monday, April 05, 2010

A for effort.

I tapped out an entire post on my cell pnone, using a tire gauge as a stylus, fighting an urge to flash truckers while my husband drives across the salt flats, and I pushed the wrong button on this doohickey and lost the entire thing.

Well...happy spring break...dammit.

I wrote something about it being so cold my nipples are puckering inwards too. Sorry you missed that.

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