Thursday, September 23, 2010

Let's get ready to rumble.

No matter where you are in my town, it only takes about a five minute drive, at 35mph, to get to any other location in my town.  My little corner of rural casino hell is just that small.  From my house to the grocery store is about a minute.  My house to the school is three minutes.  My house to the liquor store is three minutes too.   One side of town to the other, five minutes tops.

This is why it's positively absurd that there is a traffic jam in my town every weekday at 3 pm.

That's when school gets out.

And that's when every parent in the school parking lot, except for me, wants out of that parking lot at 3:05.  So they can get home five minutes later.  Maybe they don't want to miss ten minutes worth of Judge Judy or Dr. Pheel.  I don't know.

What I do know is that picking your kids up at school is a competitive and aggressive sport.  Getting your vehicle maneuvered around the other vehicles so you can get up to the school exit at 4 minutes after the hour requires a helmet, a mouth guard and a cup.

I've seen women come to blows right in the parking lot over whose nose was mere inches further out than the other's.  I'm not joking.  Screaming and closed fists.  Crass names for female parts.  Educational.

Driving in a way that is mindful of not running over small children?  Whoever heard of such a thing!  Just Let. Me. OUTTA HERE!

The school has organized the parking lot and exits the best it can.  There is always a teacher who directs the flow of kids and cars and two others on crossing guard duty.  I hope those teachers are getting hazard pay.  I hope they get funding for their own helmets and mouth guards.

So, after waiting for the school to empty of traffic, middle fingers, and children, I start my engine and leave without any dents in my bumper at 3:10. 

I wonder what all those other parents do with the five minutes they save.

They probably spit shine their cups. 

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Stick Figures

I spent some time today trying to nudge my brain toward right thinking rather than left.  Meaning toward being creative and emotional rather than logical and systematic.  Not toward the tea party and Sarah Palin instead of repealing don't ask don't tell instead that awful socialism called health care reform. 

I do this logical and systematic thing pretty good for a girl.  I've found all this stay at home stuff pretty much logical and systematic.  Get hungry, shop for food, cook food, eat food, wash dishes, put dishes away...all to have it start all over again.  That's a system.  It's logical.  It's predictable.  Same with laundry.  Wear it, dirty it, wash it, dry it, fold it, wear it.  Cleaning the toilet too.  If you don't mind we'll skip those steps.

Left brain.  It likes to keep it orderly n shit.

My left brain would prefer that I not take out my sketch book and attempt to describe my thoughts in pictures rather than words.  How do you draw health care reform, woman?  How are you going to draw gay rights?  You wanna caricature Sarah Palin, huh?   You can't do that!  So you aren't going to!

Instead, for practice, I set up a still life and drew an oil lamp and a tea cup.  My withered right brain sort of quivered and then collapsed.

Teacup and lamp, wow, that's emotional subject matter right there.  Just a half degree past apathetic.  People can look at my pencil sketch of the mundane and think, "I wonder if I need to stop at the store and get milk."  Maybe I'll convince people through my sketch to replace their toothbrushes and dust behind their refrigerators.

At least the sketch looks very much like an oil lamp and a tea cup.  Proportioned and shaded.  It does not look like a mutated blob here and a melted blob there.  Though it was crosshatched and that's all linear and geometric.  Quiver.  Collapse.

Even my costume making is suffering from this logical housewifery and these last two years of real estate asshattery.  The last project made was a very logical and 90 degrees square nine block denim quilt top cut from cast off jeans.  Sewing in straight lines made sense.

Friday I looked through my old artist portfolio and wondered where all those bright colors and ideas went?

Didn't snort them up my nose at least...so there's the upside.  It all went toward logical causes.

But the downside is that I can't blow my nose and recapture the magic.

Maybe I'll draw that. 

Green oil pastel is in my future, if that's OK with Andy Warhol.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Red state, red state, red state.

Today I've been more homesick than I have been for a long time.

Not that I'm away from home.  I'm still here.  In Bendover.  This teeny little corner of casino hell I moved to nearly 12 years ago.  I'm sitting on this comfortable couch I chose on top of the new carpet which I love enjoying the breezes from the new air conditioning unit and wishing that I were back where I grew up in Utah, in a chicken coop if needs be.

I've been gnawing on this fantasy where I win the Pillsbury Bakeoff and then I could return to where my family lives with the ability to afford to live there too.  Needless to say, they won't pay my public school teacher husband a salary in that state that would cover a family's rent.  Or, you could pay a mortgage and be forced to go about naked for lack of a clothing allowance, which the neighbors may or may not appreciate.

At least here we have an income at all.  Many don't.  I'm grateful.

But I still want to go back to what I know.  Utahns.  Bizzy bees.  Ignoring the prevalent religion.  Ignoring the red leaning ways.  Chain pasta restaurants.  Overworked mothers.  Layered Tshirts and bumpits.  MLMs.  The upwardly mobile in cheap suits.  SUVs.  Kool-ade.  Velveeta.

When we moved to our current armpit we felt like we'd hit the lottery.  We had 200 dollars in our pockets and nothing coming in when Justin was hired.  Being able to procure food and heat was compelling at the time.  Utah didn't want Justin and his 3.9 college history teaching degree if he didn't feel qualified to teach a sport.  Bendover wanted Justin to teach actual readin' and writin' and 'rithmatic.

But today I feel stifled with this place.  This land of not a whole lot going on.  Living 120 miles from a Walmart.

Sigh.

Do I read "The Secret" and put my wish out there into the universe so I can find myself transported somehow to the Land of Mo?

With my coffee pot at least?  Because I need my coffee pot.

I'm unsure of how to end this post.  There is nothing satisfying to close it with.

Maybe shit...or get off the pot....I guess.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Streaming internal video...

I had to perform a really unpleasant chore today.  Nothing that includes any fragrant bodily fluids though, and for that I'm grateful, but something I'd been avoiding for a year because doing this chore is much like giving yourself a colonoscopy.

Then I felt better, because it was done, and I'm never ever going to have to do this again.

Though in ten to fifteen years I may just get a real colonoscopy.  Woo nothing like a shiny colon.

A half hour ago the UPS man came and brought me a Roku.

Zero to multiples baby, zero to multiples.

Just goes to show it doesn't take much to turn a crappy day around.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I was disappointed that I got this sweater...I wanted a moaner or a screamer instead.

There has been a time or two in my life that I've been asked, and trust me there is an acceptable context to being asked such a thing, what I tend to behave like when I've reached the pinnacle of amorous excitement.

You know, when I Sally upon meeting Harry.  That sort of thing.  Pastrami on rye induced YES YES YES YES!

With the exception of my husband and maybe my cats it's no one's business what I do during that moment so I've pithily answered, "I belt out The Star Spangled Banner!"

I'm patriotic dammit.

Sarah Palin and the Tea Party folks ain't got nothin' on me.

Of course, if I really did belt out The Star Spangled Banner my husband would roll over defeated and disappointed because he'd know I'd faked it. 

Apparently, 80% of women have

My question about all this is where do we learn this skill, us women, and the men that do it too?  The article above cites that bored female monkeys fake it, trying to get Mr. Monkey off their backs in time to flip on Leno.  But how do us humans come by the skill...or at least believably?

(I started this post an hour ago...coincidentally my 16 year old son wanted to know about herpes.  He hasn't got herpes as far as I know.  He hasn't even held hands with a girl yet.  So into the wonderland that is how herpes is transferred.  Ain't I a responsible parent type!)

So...Star Spangled Banner....

Why not fake it with a song that holds deep feeling for most Americans?  We've given God his dues, how about country?

Are the fake moans and signs and ejaculations all the more believable because everyone is naked?  Or the important parts are naked?  Because there aren't too many of us that could make a career out of acting.  Do you have to wiggle all during?  Or fake an O face?

Besides getting it all over with, are some of us trying to impress our neighbors with our expressions of joy?  Neener neener, I can practice this procreation business with the best of them?  My lawn is so damned green and weed free!

Now, if you had more control or wherewithal during the real moment to express yourself exactly as you are feeling, what would happen really?

No, it wouldn't be The Star Spangled Banner for me.  Sorry Sarah.  I think I'd shoot rainbows out of my....

Yeah, still private....neener.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Goodbye Oh-pur. Goodbye Oh-pur's upper arms.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

That...and today is the first day of Oprah's last season.  It's all downhill from this point on.

Not that I'm going to watch this show.  Instead the network that hosts Oh-pur in my TV viewing area is showing the US Open.  At this moment I'm enjoying the gruntings of Nadal and Djokovic.  I have the feeling that the two formats aren't all that much different.  Grunt, love, cheer, wipe off the sweat, serve again.

Oh-pur's website has filled me in on the gist of what's going on.

John Travolta is flying Oh-pur and her audience to Australia.  Then before that they drove some unsuspecting tourists right onto the set.

And there was much shrieking.

Which sort of makes me glad I've already been sterilized because noise at that decibel level is bound to make your ovaries wither.

Nadal's and Djokovic's grunting has the opposite effect, by the way.

Oh Oprah, what will 4 PM be without you?

They'd just better not throw "The View" in your time slot.  That's all I have to say about that.

Friday, September 03, 2010

Lynn Wilson Tamales are gone too.

Added March 21, 2012: I found Lynn Wilson tamales at the grocery store today. Apparently they've been back for a while but just not in my grocery store. I love Lynn Wilson tamales with Nalley chili served on top. Yum.  Now, read the post...go on...read it.

Added August 14, 2012:  Welcome readers from Uncle Phaedrus and The Hungry Browser!  Lynn Wilson tamales are delicious aren't they?  I found them in the one grocery store in my tiny Nevada town, Smith's, which is owned by Kroger.  Speaking of lost foodstuffs, one of you even pointed out that Postum is now back.  This is delightful news even at $12 a jar!

Come with me to the kitchen.  Let's make ourselves a steaming mug of Postum.  Heartburn has held me hostage this week so I've gone off anything that tastes good.  Instead of delicious and acidic coffee I'm drinking what's left over in the container of Postum I bought in 2005.   That's the other time I went off coffee.  I was pregnant and my stomach did flip flops at even the smell of coffee.  Postum stays fresh for eternity.

Did you know that the manufacturers of Postum discontinued making it in 2007?  I know it shocked the hell right out me when I found out earlier this year.  Growing up in Utah, where it's a sin to drink coffee and tea, everyone drank gallons of virtuous Postum.  Lucky for dry Utahns the secondary effect of Postum is the same as coffee.  It makes you poop. 

I'm also having a fiber cookie.  They really help soak up the acid and book it on through.  They are surprisingly tasty and so stopping at one serving is difficult.  That's a lot of bulk and sittin' down time.

I considered baking my own fiber cookies but how to I keep the kids from eating dozens?  That's dangerous territory right there.  There is still some goings on about how often or well my five year old wipes his bum.  Hundreds of grams of fiber per kid is going to stop up my plumbing.  At least the packaging on store bought fiber cookies looks like something boring people would eat and my kids don't touch them.

...And what do I do when this last bit of Postum is gone from my pantry?  There is no time machine that can take me back to 2007 so I can buy more.  There are recipes for that too but, meh, preparing my own snacks is so gauche.

Postum gone.  That's a little bit of my heritage gone.

Now give me five minutes.  My heartburn has been mollified and my heritage needs remembering.

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Thought I'd change things up a bit and write a post in my bathroom.  I have a laptop now.  I can whisk my internets from room to room whenever I like.  That means that when two of my three kids are home from school early because the teachers drink liquor do some teacher training type stuff until three, I can manage some privacy while I type.

...And look at all my bottles of lotion.  I have a bottle of five year old baby lotion.  I cannot throw it away.  That would be wasteful.  Yet, I don't use it.  What in the world do you do with a bottle of lotion you originally bought for a child who is now in kindergarten?  I don't think I'll type the suggestion that was my first thought.

Excuse me, Anthony Michael Hall just told me to hit the switch on the fan.  A little later we're going to put on some Oingo Boingo and huff Aqua Net.

I remember my mom taking sanity breaks in her bathroom.  Despite being a die hard fan of Aqua Net herself it was a mystery why she spent so long in there at the time.  We assumed she had healthy digestion.  She said she read.  This was verified by the square of toilet paper that she used as a bookmark.  Now I know that it was one of the few rooms with a logical lock on the door with a supply of water and a chair.  No one wants to interrupt your constitutional and Mommie Dearest or The Thorn Birds are dicey reads.  We began to call her "ring around the bum".

I wonder what quirks habits of mine my kids will share on the internets? 

My kids must have names for me too.  Any part of my eccentric nature is up for grabs in my family.  That picture of me in the boobs ad on the sidebar alone is worth at least three good monikers.  They already tease me for my attraction to Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs, or any other time a shirtless man appears on the TV, even if that shirtless man is better endowed than I am.  They blame me for every fart heard or smelled  in this house.  My growing a manly beard is good for hours of grunting noises from the peanut gallery.

You know, my mom never cared that we made fun of her toilet seat impressions.  Best seat in the house she'd say.

I won't mind if the kids make fun of mine either.  It's really very sweet, my family and the way it jokes.  However, I'm going to get up now because my rear end is sore and all the lotion is accounted for.  How did my mom manage to perch for so long? 

Besides, Anthony Michael Hall wants to go to the mall now and buy me a leotard and some leg warmers.  If he's shirtless I'm up for it.

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