Friday, December 23, 2011

Fa La La La La! Part V

Ode to Soy Nog

Soy to the world! the Nog is come;
Let earth receive it's treat;
Let every cup prepare it room,
and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink,
and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink,
and vegans, and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink.

Parts 1,  2,  3 and 4.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Let's make cookies!

Today I looked at the grout in my kitchen and became depressed.

Three years ago I looked at my kitchen floor, which was then covered in impractical white linoleum, became depressed, and then I did this to it:

That's a banana sticker to the lower left.  I left it on my floor because it had personality.

Two years ago, after slowly removing all my impractical white linoleum and living on a concrete floor, I put down tile all by myself and it was beautiful and I was proud:

That's grout dust left on the floor.  I chose grout the same color as the tile and sealed the grout like a good handywoman should.  Grout sealing smells lovely and after sniffing it for as long as the directions suggested I should leave it to dry, I felt an urge to invite transgendered unicorns to tea and bake sugar cookies shaped like genitalia.

So, today, my grout looked like the wrong end of a Tijuana donkey show, which struck me as sad.  Not sad because I've never seen a donkey show but sad because my kitchen floor, as much as I cared for it, looks like what I'm assuming the cheap seats at a donkey show would reveal.

I mean, one day you have a new floor.  A shiny floor.  A floor you could roll sugar cookie dough on it if you were inclined to.  The next day you've got sticky greasy donkey residue all lurking in the cracks.  Nothing stays the same.  What you put value into doesn't last.

The novelty of new wears off.  That's when you're on your hands and knees with an industrial sized toothbrush and a can of cleanser with bleach which also has a delightful scent.  Do you have a pony?  Does it like chamomile?  If you have a donkey it's not invited.  I'm making snickerdoodles.

It's after the tea cools that you remember that you're lucky to live in a house with a roof and a floor.  Lucky to have access to household cleaners.  Lucky for fresh water coming right out of the tap on a whim.  Lucky to have the two dollars to purchase a brush which is only used to scrub grout.  Lucky to have a body that can do the work.

My grout is beautiful now.

...and a thankless chore, which ultimately no one will notice, has cleared my head, which isn't lucky...

It's wonderful.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Santa is going down your chimney.

Since the gods of the internets have debuted the new xxx domain designation, all the world's movers and shakers have bought up their names with a porny ending.  This is because when you own your own porn site no one else can besmirch your good name with it.  Instead you can besmirch your name yourself without abandon because you own the right to.

After all, protecting your interests is a good idea for anyone and just about anyone can purchase a domain name.  I purchased this one for way less than it would cost to sponsor a child in a third world country.  XXX domains cost much more than the plain old dot com kind but that kind of puts it all in perspective doesn't it?  I could buy up my pervy domain name for my own protection or I could buy a few bags of wheat and some canned goods.

It might be nice to spring for some xxx domain names for my friends and family for Christmas.  There is no use buying them any more useless appliances or trays of baked goods.  Gonna buy them a gift that keeps on giving.  Many names are still swinging around untaken. 

Doesn't everyone want their own adult domain?  Especially one in which you could cater to people just like you?

Some of my friends are into running marathons barefoot.  Imagine the possibilities of an xxx domain based on that.  Close up photos of bare naked feet on just warming blacktop early in the morning or pictorials of hot chicks running and sucking down that nasty glucose energy goo, running down the corners of their mouths and dripping on their irritated nipples.

Some of my friends are into secondhand shopping.  There are whole realms of fetishes we could delve into on  Refurbished furniture, collections of mismatched glassware, crafts for old jeans and wool sweaters.  Donated crutches and walkers...oh god yes!

A lot of my friends are geeky sorts with pasty skin. There simply aren't enough sites on the internets catering to that demographic.  I could think of hundreds of combinations of programming languages and body parts to add an xxx to.  Play hide and seek with your thumb drive.

My mother enjoys vacuuming.  She really enjoys vacuuming.  Here ya go mom -

My Dad is restoring a 1955 Buick Special Convertible - or

My sisters have all manner of hobbies and I think I could lump their domain together.  I'm sure there are some that would be interested in a group of sisters and their hobbies.  Groups of sisters bowling, or playing softball, or gardening or baking cookies together.

My husband is into poetry.  I dunno.  I'm unsure if anyone goes into the xxx realm looking for a nasty simile or prurient alliteration in iambic pentameter.  Sorry Justin.

Could buy a couple for myself to in some acceptable xxx vernacular.  It'll be a good investment.  Buy a bunch of housewife-y sounding domains and sell them later for moooolaahhhh.

My heart is turgid with Christmas spirit!!

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

I can't find my bedazzler and I need it desperately.

You think if I removed any constraining underwear and poked my tongue between my teeth I could get across the idea that it was foggy in my town today?

Honestly I've started writing about the fog that shows up here every winter around ten times.

Shows up in my head too.

Like wads of cotton in aspirin bottles.  Keeps anything worthwhile from shaking loose before you break a nail prying off the cap.

I'm creative in short nervous bursts.  I spent five days sewing a new bathmat for my master bathroom.  It's still not finished.  It needs a non-slip backing.  That detail is something I remember every time I step out of my shower.  There isn't a danger of falling and cracking my skull necessarily, I just might forget how to step out of my shower in the first place.  A non-slip backing may save me from myself.

Pin It

Lookit that...I added a Pinterest button to the post because I got my crafty recycling on.  What was previously stretched across the butts of my family has been made useful again on my bathroom floor.  Oooh.  Ahhh.

I'm also sewing strips of denim for another rug, squares of denim for a quilt, and there is a pile of old jeans in a cat chewed box waiting to be cut up into some sort of utility.  Then there is the series of drawings coming in licks and spits, which I'm long overdue in completing for a friend and at least four costumes under construction.

Then the blog with ten unpublished posts with only a very poorly constructed first line written...

...And Christmas.

This fog could last weeks or could be done tomorrow.  Both the weather and in my head.  It comes and goes.  It's always better in warm weather.

No matter how foggy it is tomorrow I'm going out to get some sunlight.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I wish my husband hadn't have eaten those smoked oysters an hour ago.

This month I've been particularly frisky.  I could go ahead and blame my ever fluctuating hormones for this so I could save myself some sort of embarrassment, but that's not the cause of my perkiness.

Today is the last day of Movember and the month of men growing facial hair ends tomorrow.  All about the internets men have posted photos of their scraggles upwards to their Grizzly Adams and I've been lusting in my heart for most every one of them.

Beards are sexy.  Yes ladies, they are.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with a soft beard making contact with every outside inch of skin on your body.  Slow, close and lingering contact.  My husband calls this the gift of beard and you can only imagine the thank you notes I've written and hand delivered afterwards.

This whiskered joy ended prematurely for my husband last week because he shaved off his beard for a funeral.  I admit I've liked kissing him without his beard thrusting itself up my nostrils but I'd gladly suffer a sneeze or two when he grows it back.

Justin keeps the hair on his face tidy.  (Except for that time in college where we couldn't afford to trim his beard which helped with his radical poet image.) Check our bathroom sink on any given weekday morning and you'll see just how tidy he keeps it.  Since I'm the one wiping out the sink later in the day, I think I deserve some say in some new and exciting styles for his beard.

Our love will last forever and a band about the finger...or about the head...symbolizes this:

With our mutual Utah heritage, where down the line I can prove my husband and I are cousins, nothing is more attractive to any saint than this example of cleanliness next to godliness:

An excellent summer beard, for when corn in the cob is in season or when sweating under your boobs makes you itch:

A beard for the conversationalist:

There is a beard in this photo.  Really, there is:

Lastly, my husband is the entire package.  He's brains and bod.  A reflection of his character in beard:

All that image searching and photo posting has me tingly.

I'll let you all leave me to my own devices now.  There isn't enough beard to counteract the smell of the smoked oysters my husband ate with soda crackers. 

His flavor saver is gone, thank Moses.

Friday, November 25, 2011

A brief interlude on Black Friday

I'm a bit miffed that someone upstairs at Google Inc. and all it's subsidiaries will no longer allow me to write posts on my phone anymore. 

Not that I did much before.  It's the principle of the thing.  My phone is not any way associated with Apple or Android and as such I cannot update you on my goings on during Thanksgiving away from home visiting family in the Utahiest location in Utah.

Left my laptop home.  Shuddup.

Ain't buying a smarter smartphone.  Shuddup about that too.  I happen to like my AT&T calling plan, a plan they no longer offer to all you texting and data-planning smart phone users.  My plan is minuscule and fits a lifestyle where I do not have my phone charged half the time.  It makes more sense to me to use the money I could have used on an Iphone on cat toys.

So, here I sit on my sister's computer, logged into my brother in law's account, cursing at their keyboard.  It makes loud clicking noises. 

My children are planning on sleeping over here this evening and this is fine by me.

However, my husband and I cannot take advantage of this because my parent's guest bed squeaks and my period started on Wednesday morning.

Aren't you glad I got on my sister's computer to post that?

Yeah, me too.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Grow moss on the crotch.

I don't know what's wrong with you people willing to go out the moment it is no longer Thanksgiving day to stampede through large retail establishments to buy products manufactured in China.

After eating that much food I have no plans to do any such thing.  There was that one year my little sister and I ventured out to some of the less busy stores and I embarrassed her with my stomach upset the entire trip.  In the end though, digesting all that rich food proved to serve me well.

That was also the year I learned a lesson.  Besides those deals at the insane hours of the day that only a very few of you are going to actually get, there is nothing worth buying on Black Friday.

Put down the Snuggie and the Pillow Pet and walk away.  If you buy a cha-cha-chia pet you are a cha-cha-chump.

Fine.  Your five year old wanted a Chia sheep so badly that he slipped an ad for it in your Look magazine.  Tell him that Santa Claus ran out and get him a BB gun instead.  He can grow moss on the stock. 

Last Christmas season I challenged all my readers and other hangers on to not purchase any presents that require electricity...especially batteries...with the exception of the kind of toys they make for very happy ladies.  This Christmas season I challenge you all to not buy anything that you could buy in a clearance bin in two to three years.

No Pajama Jeans.

No copies of "The Help" or "Like Water for Elephants" in any format.

No tins of stale popcorn.

No foot baths or battery powered exfoliators or men's manicure kits or emergency car kits or appliances that only cook one type of food.

NO STINKIN' CHRISTMAS THEMED APPAREL!!  Not even Grinch boxer shorts.  Your husband will not think those are cute as you think they are and you know it.

I'm getting my husband a Kindle Fire.  Shuddup.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Pocket full of Pulitzers

After some consideration I decided to skip Nanowrimo again this year and good thing too...I can barely get this sentence out of my brain and into the text box.

Never mind that I've never participated in Nanowrimo before and I don't expect that I could write the great American novel in 30 days (with the end third of the novel being sludgy because of Thanksgiving and Black Friday), but I do expect that I could write a perfectly fluffy novel that will make women get all fluttery in their pants.

A blog is the proper venue for the phrase, "fluttery in their pants".  If I was writing that type of novel, however, I'd be more likely to use the phrases, "We met in the soft spot where dreams begin." or "I spent the night lost in his earnest brown eyes and his raspy baritone laugh." 

Dayum.  Not bad for starting this post wordless. 

I hear that Twilight movie premiered tonight.  Bella gets herself knocked up with sexy undead spawn.  If there is anything to make a gal fluttery in her pants it's Bram Stoker's bastard half brother in competition with Teen Wolf - Bedazzler Edition and someone ending up with a baby bump.

The end of the series and the movies have only primed the pump on the type of drippy novel I could unleash on the world. 

Of utmost importance giving the lead character, a stunningly beautiful confident woman who is yet vulnerable and awkward, a name that will carry the reader's hopes. 

Lexton St. Madison.  Powerful and businesslike, but you can see peeks of her lacy camisole under her crisply pressed button down blouse.  She's into dry red wines and flavored lube.

Carolinea Munraux.  Not spelled Monroe.  Tiny, graceful and birdlike, but when she gets angry she'll rip you a new one.  She's into creme brulee' and is sexually attracted to shoes.

Eva Naomi Cristino.  She doesn't answer to Eve or just Eva, please address this torrid redhead by her full name.  Once you tame this one she's yours forever!  She's into vintage paste jewelry and gay bear porn.

All these women, they all fall in love with stock broker turned lumberjack/veterinarian Liam Luke Devro.  Not spelled Deveraux.  His chiseled good looks and perfectly hairless body only complement his intellect, manners and love for his mother.  He's into whittling penny whistles and bathroom stalls with peek-a-boo holes.

Plot?  Girl meets boy, girl is unsure she should even be attracted to boy because she has baggage, boy sets out to win her heart, girl allows herself to fall in love after she sleeps with him on the second date because doing so on the first date doesn't allow for enough literary anticipation, boy admits to carrying his own baggage which makes him adorable yet pathetic, girl gets angry, girl softens because she's also terribly flawed, one of them gets into an accident, they make up in the hospital professing eternal love, girl marries boy and they breed undead babies.

Dayum!  Fluttery in my pants!

High time I get me a literary agent.  I'm gonna make more than two bucks with this.

Monday, November 14, 2011

The holiday spirit is in a friendly face.

My husband and I took off to the busy beehive that is Utah County over Veterans Day weekend to do what every patriotic American was expected to do when we first got into our economic  We were hoping to make a dent in Christmas.  Instead we made a dent in our patience.

We barely escaped with our lives travelling not only on the freeways but in the stores as well.  I was rammed by shopping carts in Walmart, Toys R Us, at the Deseret Industries (a Mormon church run thrift store) and in the grocery store when I attempting to buy fresh bratwursts at the meat counter.

The Christmas spirit has not hit "Happy Valley" yet.  It will eventually, in it's own sweet spirited way, but until then don't dare be in front of a display of fur lined slippers when someone else comes along and desperately needs a pair.  There is a time limit to deciding between the tan faux suede pair and the velvet zebra print.  Don't overstay your consumer welcome.

There are some that live in the Utahiest place in Utah who think that the armpit of casino hell I live in is one of the most uncivilized places on the planet but all I've got to say about that is that I can drive across my town at 20mph and not have one person cut me off or tailgate me along the way.  There is the possibility that another driver could flash me the finger but that's only because the Utah tourists dislike my Obama bumper sticker.

I snagged this at the Lord's thrift store:

I'm not the kind of girly girl that would know if this is a real Kate Spade bag.  It's sort of a fluke that I even know what a Kate Spade bag is.  Fake or not, it was worth the ten bucks I paid for it.  I've been looking for a purse that doesn't look like you could smuggle a twenty pound turkey in it.  This purse could only smuggle a cornish game hen.

About when I was getting pissy at the shopping cart behaviors of other thrift shoppers, I snagged this, next to a framed print of Jesus:

This is Adam.  Adam is a Lot Technician.  Adam probably does not know that when he left his position at the car dealership they'd donate his beautifully framed and matted photo to the thrift.  Adam, Lot Technician, instantly pulled me out of the funk of busy beehive retail hell and the two dollars I paid for him was a bargain.  Every time I look at Adam I laugh and then I find some glimmer of hope in humanity. 

Adam, Lot Technician, now hangs above my computer by my cork board. 

Adam, Lot Technician, makes me smile.

Thanks Adam.

Lot Technician.


Who IS Adam, Lot Technician? What's his story? Best story (likes will be considered) will be awarded a Thongwiser! What's Thongwiser? A pair of stringy thong panties packaged in a recycled beer bottle. Thong goggles! You know you want to put a Thongwiser in someone's stocking.
 Post your stories to Absent Minded Housewife on Facebook in the photo comments.  Do EET!

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

Body hair powered by hissy fit.

So...Michelle Duggar...who is my knocked up again.

I'm not knocked up again.  Michelle's glorious capacity for fertility is not why she's my hero.  If Michelle Duggar wants to take my uterus and use it much like she uses a series of washing machines for all her laundry, she's welcome to it.  I don't need it.  She can't have my ovaries, as much good as those are doing me, because I still have some hope of producing female hormones but I'll be a giver and she can enjoy the gift of my menstrual cycle.

Michelle and my mother in law, they could be seething and they will never lose their cool.  They'll talk about it.  They'll work it through.  They'll rely on their laurels and morals.  They do not have screaming bitch fits.

I lost my cool yesterday.  No need to say why.  At least it wasn't in public and that's only because I didn't go out yesterday, but color me embarrassed.

Part of it is hormone bullshit.  Hormones up.  Hormones down.  Let's grow more body hair.

Part of it is the change of the seasons.  Winter sucks.  It just does.

We can say that this makes up about 25% of my tantrum.  That's all I get to justify.

So, I lost it and not under the couch cushions where it's easily retrievable.  It bolted out the door, ran down the street, stopped to sniff the fire hydrant and lift it's own leg, and then ran off towards the golf course where there is a flock of geese pooping all over the driving range.

I am ashamed.

But then there is Michelle Duggar, who has been pregnant all of her adult life with all her hormones all over the place, and the seasons changing as they will, and Jim Bob using up all the hair spray, and she's walking around not screaming at her family members.

Sure, she's high on Jesus but that doesn't mean anything, does it Oral Roberts?  You can see that Michelle made a choice to never straddle that broom and she's worked at it.  Not everything is peachy keen but there isn't no reason to get loud about it.  Just chill...the world is still turning.

I wish I were more that way.  Not that it's drama drama drama with me all the time but there is a point where I'm going to start yelling.

Michelle Duggar's boiling point is so high.

...and that's why her organs have not plopped mushily onto her feet after a sneeze.  Number 20 is possible because of her demeanor alone.

We could all learn from her.  Be nice goddammit.

Sunday, November 06, 2011

The extra hour of sleep was nice too.

I've turned 37 years old today.

My family drove over to see me.  My mom baked me an oatmeal cake.  I cut and served it before any mention of candles was made.  I've learned a thing or two in my old age.

I got the nicest note in a card from my mother in law.  Couldn't ask for a better present.  I love her. 

My husband ordered me blue shoes.

It's been a wonderful day.

Friday, November 04, 2011

I only took a half dose.

I feel pretty good.

I mean, I felt pretty lousy this morning, that is until I showered and a large garden slug oozed out of my right nostril.

If you could compare this relief on some sort of scale, I'd put my sense of relief just below the feeling of relief you have when you've pushed your last push and that baby has popped out of the birth canal.  You feel SO much better.  Where childbirth wins is that the baby is kinda cute and it smells good.  The nose slug was not cute nor did it smell good and I smooshed it down the tub drain with my toe.

But then there is that whole postpartum, healing episiotomy, hemmorhoid and engorgement thing.  And diapers.  Maybe we're even.

Doctor Google recommends that I use over the counter decongestants and breathe in plenty of steam.  Doctor Google never asks you when your last pap smear was.  It already knows.

Now I'm out of the bath and I am SO HIGH.

My husband has fed me a burrito.  You need to know this.

Later tonight I'm going to get good and intimate with my neti pot. 

Check with me and see if I remember it tomorrow.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

You shouldn't make mimosas with orange flavored mouthwash.

My face feels like a week old lump of play dough in a preschool classroom.  Pummelled, half dry and full of hairs and boogers.

What I thought was a sinus infection is probably an abscess in my back molar.  Yeah, it hurts and I get to call the dentist tomorrow morning.  Let him have his turn rolling my face out on the table and then punching it with his fist.  At the very least he might be mold something other than turd shapes and he'll prescribe me pain medication.

I'm calling a new dentist instead of my old dentist so we can accomplish root canal craft hour sedated.  My old dentist has a hair replacement scar and tsks at me when I admit I don't floss as much as I should.  He gives out no sleeping pills.  New dentist will.  During the whole ordeal I'd like to blissfully retire to happy land, where the chocolate covered cinnamon bears roam free and no one gets tartar. 

I hate flossing.  It's a feeling much like the sound of the whole preschool class running their boogery nails on the chalkboard.  My Waterpik arrives next week. 

That's about all the post I have in me.

I need antibiotics.

Monday, October 31, 2011

In another ten minutes, I'm turning off my porch light and hiding my miniature bags of pretzels.

Several folks about my real life and the internets have asked me what I'm dressing as this Halloween.  It's a fair question considering I sew a lot of halloween costumes all year long.  I'm my best advertisement, right?

Well, I'm foolish.

I have a toothache.

...and something going on with my sinuses.

I barely got my own children dressed today.

Otherwise I'm staying home, drinking tea, and watching PBS.

What I want to say is that I went trick or treating, and not with my kids but on my own, as every costume that a person will not find on the racks of political correctness.  At least on my bottom half.  From the waist down I'm incredibly offensive.  My knees are knobby with cliches.

From the waist up I'm not just skanky, I'm topless.  Halloween?  It's the time of year to scare folks with my cleavage.  Which I've glittered up all Twilight like.

It's 52 degrees out there tonight.  Why not?


Tuesday, October 25, 2011

What I want to do they avoid ingrown hairs?

I'm enjoying the irony of watching the Duggars on TV while I describe how raunchy watching a male strip show in a casino located on the Nevada border is.

The whole ordeal...I've never seen anything like it in my life which is saying quite a lot as I'm as fresh as a newborn calf in the spring sunshine.  Just like Ma Duggar.  I'm going to imagine this retelling with Michelle sitting on one side of me shooting back syringes full of blue jello and vodka.

One of the gals managed to get our tickets comped and front center which is all the trouble you need right there.  No ducking behind the middle aged ladies in front of you.  No hiding in the back.  No jumping up and down smack in the middle trying to get some attention paid to you.  Front.  Closest to this guy:

Which is extra special because he wore several different pair of snazzily decorated underpants that look like this:

To which he took the opportunity to flop around in some very intrusive ways with a whole lot of ladies, including introducing my face down front into the cave of wonders.  This act cost me a dollar and some of my dignity.  I cannot believe I'm even admitting this to everyone and sundry.  Just call me Jezebel.  Jezebel was not allowed to take any photos.

All the girls, me and imaginary Michelle Duggar, we got pounded, hounded, felt up, laid down, used and abused.  Altogether they got six of my dollars and my fingerprints.  As in, my fingers were placed far down the back of this guy's underoos:

Then the audience...that was a show in and of itself.  I watched drunken ladies perform some sort of mating ritual where they cavorted and bounced on each other, acting like poodles in heat, completely ignoring anyone near naked and glistening on the stage.  Clothes were ripped, buttons were lost, seats were wet and psychological tests were ordered.  They do not teach this stuff at charm school.

Imaginary Michelle Duggar absolutely lost her shit. 

When we left all we wanted were plates of deep fried food and pitchers of water.  None of us had much to say.  Hang your head in shame and walk toward the door.

...And dig your hand sanitizer out of your purse.  Three squirts at least.


The Absent Minded Housewife is on Facebook.  This is where I advise my readership in the naming of kittens.  I think Tits McQueen is an excellent name for a cat.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Check out her smile.

My husband is a tolerant open minded man. 

We have the kind of marriage where we can point out exceptional examples of the opposite sex to one another without jealousy.  We're human.  We like to look and then tease each other for being old and lecherous.  I keep a drool towel in my grandma purse.

Take last weekend for example.  It was time for our bimonthly trip to Sam's Club to stock up on carbs in bulk and afterwards, dinner at any one of the fine chain restaurants nearby instead of filling up on samples like the rest of the sheep.  Did you hear about that sample hawker who mixed in his semen with the tiny cups of yogurt he was offering to people?  This is not the ingredient that makes Jamie Lee Curtis regular though it might be how Christopher Guest avoids prostate trouble.  I'd rather my appetizer be a blooming onion, thanks.

Anyhow, we were told by our hostess that our waiter had a good shot at the winter Olympics.  We chatted with him a bit and left him a good tip.   I won't out him by his sport, but this type of athlete wears tight catsuits and has to have an ass of steel to compete.

...and was steel.

I enjoyed my meal very very much.

What's more, Justin had a good laugh at my expense for checking out what was on the dessert menu.  When you bake good pies at home you can look at the pies elsewhere but you don't feel compelled to actually eat them.  Everyone likes pie, ya know?  So look good and hard at a well baked pie.  Appreciate the fruit fillings.

This weekend I'm going to look at more pie.

My husband's female coworkers asked him if I'd like to go see a male dance revue for Deer Widow's Weekend.  Nothing to hide.  Nothing to get upset over.  No reason to ask me in person.  Justin's right there at work and he knows me better than anyone, so just ask him.  "Justin, would your wife like to go with us to watch undulating oily beefy men wearing eye patches over their ticklish bits?"

He replied that I would indeed like such a thing and though I haven't been to anything like this since attending a coworker's 40th birthday party when I was all of 17, I think I would too.  Why not?  It's my birthday early next month.

There is the worry of what to wear and what to bring with you.  Skirt?  Push up bra?  My knee length high heeled black boots?  Do I shave my goatee off?  Do male lap dancers care if you have a goatee if you have enough dollar bills?  How many dollar bills does one keep accessible?  Will I need hand sanitizer?  If I have a hot flash do they mind if I bring a cold pack?

What if they sweat on me?  Either the dancers or the other women?  What if I have to kick someone's ass for getting to pushy and shove-y?  Again, either the dancers or the other women?  Where do I buy pepper spray?

Maybe I'll need to take Justin with me considering my concerns.  It'll be a bonding experience.

He's declined though.  I can't imagine why he'd want to miss this.

His call.

To return the favor maybe I'll find a joint who has hired a Girls Gone Wild participant.  It's not the Olympics but it's the best I can do.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Sooey Baby

I've been sewing today.  Mostly pattern drafting but at one point I did mend one side of a well used and slightly wet burlap bag of catnip.

Since I still have to draw in the bumpy pokey jodhpur bits on the pants of an Oompa Loompa you get my annual edition of farm amore.

Have some pig porn.

You're welcome.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Twenty one anchor babies jumping on the bed.

Today's weather was absolutely why am I ending my daylight hours by watching the GOP presidential debate?

The rhetoric is making every muscle in my whole body sore. 

What's funny about this whole thing is that the passing of the buck, blame and flame is not unlike any other reality program on TV.  I once was forced to watch an episode of Survivor, after Thanksgiving dinner which seemed kind of ironic to me, and I'm not seeing much difference in the snarky process of voting someone off the island. 

I think there is more sexual tension between the candidates than between contestants though.  Just sayin'.

Tonight alliances are forming against Pretty Witty Mitty.  Eventually they are all going to tie their party provided red bandannas around their schlongs and start measuring.  This includes Michelle Bachman.  I dislike her politics but that woman has got balls and a wide stance.

Insert 9-9-9 joke here.

I wish our modern day political debates ran more like the reality TV royalty, The Duggar Family.  Perhaps the whole tone of politicians talking over one another would be more palatable if they utilized the same rules as a family raising 21 homogeneous children.

1. Always use soft words, even when you don’t feel well.

2. Always display kind actions and joyful attitudes, even if you have been mistreated. Have the right response by quickly forgiving others in your heart even before they ask.

3. Always be enthusiastic and look for opportunities to praise others' character.

4. Always deflect praise and be grateful to God and others for the ways they have benefited your life.

5. Always use manners and be respectful of others and their belongings.

6. Always do what is right, even when others may not, or when no one is looking.

7. Thank God for how He made you, for what He has given you and everything He allows you to go through. (Romans 8:28)

8. Don’t mock or put others down. Develop compassion and pray for others.

9. Never argue, complain, or blame. Quickly admit when you have done wrong and ask for forgiveness (even if you were only 10% at fault). Don't wait till you’re caught. Be sure your sins will find you out. He who covers his sin will not prosper, but he that confesses and forsakes it shall find mercy.

10. Have a tough accountability/prayer partner to daily share your heart with and to keep you in line (your parents, spouse). The power of sin is in secrecy.

11. Be attentive and look for ways to serve others with sincere motives and no thought of self-gain.

12. Think pure thoughts (Philippians 4:8, Romans 13:14).

13. Always give a good report of others. Don't gossip! Never tale-bear unless physical harm will come to someone. (Use Matthew 18.) 14. Never raise a hand to hit.

14. Never raise a foot to kick.

15. Never raise an object to throw.

16. Never raise a voice to yell.

17. Never raise an eye to scowl.

18. Use one toy/activity at a time. Share!

19. Do your best to keep your surroundings neat, clean and organized.

20. Never let the sun go down on your wrath. (Don’t go to bed angry or guilty)

21. Amendment J.O.Y. - Put Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last.

I admit, I'm a registered middle of the road Democrat, but oh, if I could vote for conservative Jim Bob Duggar for President, I would. 

We may not agree on gay marriage or evolution Jim Bob, but you've got my support. 

Here's your bandanna.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011


I love Basia Bulat.  Have a listen.  You could have a look but it's just a static image.  Just close your eyes, take off 90% of your clothing and let her voice move over you.

Now, take a shower.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Perhaps a box of tissues is decoration enough.

Ahhh, it's about time to decorate my porch and yard for Halloween.  It's the happiest time of the year!

Except that I'm not decorating my porch or yard because I know, KNOW, deep down in my ghoulish little heart that all my awesome decorations will come up missing.

Check out Fred the Head.  I have a yearly infatuation with Fred that's bordering on obscene.  Fred likes it when I nestle him in a velvet lined box or place him ever so gently in my freezer.

Someone has rendered Fred portable which is convenient for the little miscreants that live nearby. 

Also in my Halloween box:

Face cutlet.  A necessary ingredient in the cultivation of budding petty thief.

And this:

My little zombie baby cutie pie...actual baby sized which seems to foster the idea that it's adoptable.

And these:

Which are more hideous than any of my other decorations.  I wouldn't actually mind if these got stolen except for the principle of it. 

Perhaps if I get my teenaged son in on the fun, we can decorate, hand out stale candy by the handful, and still keep all my spooky stuff on my porch and not stuffed under their poorly constructed Walmart skank costumes or in their pillow cases.

Observe a relevant YouTube:

This is excellent.  Teach you to try to take off with Fred the Head!  The psycho woman down the street with all the disgusting Halloween props WILL take you down if you get light fingered.  Muahahahahaha!

Chances are though, instead of stealing my best decorations. miscreants will spray pee or vomit on them in the midst of their fright.

Back to the drawing board.  Cleaning up my kids puke or piss is one thing.  Cleaning up anyone else's is out of the question.

Thursday, October 06, 2011

Colonel Mustard on the monkey bars with a jumprope.

I'm raising a homicidal maniac.

Sure, he's only six, but you can tell these types of things real early.  He's all violent.

This isn't the first time I've had an impromptu afterschool meeting with any of my sons schoolteachers.  Concerns have to be addressed sometimes.  Worked on in both the school and home environment.  Nipped in the bud.  As the parent I'm the first one responsible for my children's idiot habits.  My son's first grade teacher may have him eight hours a day but I've got that kid for life.

With a very long face and the most serious of demeanors, she wanted me to know that at recess today my son killed a butterfly.

I did not ask how.  It seemed this crime was beyond the details.  Butterflies are beautiful and we don't make grease spots of them.

Besides, I know how many ways there are to kill butterflies.  When I was his age I killed plenty of bugs.  Butterflies, moths, bees, bumblebees, caterpillars, tomato worms, spiders, slugs, potato bugs and millions of earwigs.  That's life growing up on the farm.  Tame the feral cats, roll about in horse manure, play in the irrigation ditch, and then lift up a rock and make mincemeat of anything squirming around underneath it.

What is the difference between killing earwigs and killing butterflies?   If butterflies had giant pincers on their butts no one would have any mercy on them.  You'd swat them and their pokey asses like mosquitoes. 

Or you'd enslave them and use them like carrier pigeons.  For when your cell phone is low on batteries.

Looking at the teacher through the window of my van, I commiserated with her on the butterfly issue.  I get it.  You don't go to school to practice your baser instincts.  You go to school for abstinence education in sex ed.

Then I asked where my son's glasses were.  He wasn't wearing them.

He'd lost them at lunch.  She hadn't noticed.

She didn't grow pincers and I didn't swat her.  Sigh.

Monday, October 03, 2011

I'm listening to Foster the People on Spotify and I like it so don't push it, dammit.


I'm cranky.

Let's get through this post without using an expletive describing a close and physical act between two people who love each other very very much.  I'm trying to have some dignity here or at least a PG rating for when my 7th grader discovers my blog on the school's internet and shows his widdle friends.


It's not the new drop off/pick up/parking system they implemented today at the elementary school parking lot either.  Finally they designed one that might serve to keep parents from running over other people's children.  It's a goddamned good thing and I flippin' appreciate it.

And this hell hole I call a house is clean.  My new mattress is soft and comfortable.  Sleeping in it is fetchin' delightful.  It's a stinkin' foot taller than my last bed and I feel like a damned queen.

This crank is brought to you by my hormones.

The progesterone cream I rubbed into my shins and calves this morning has worn off, at least two hours ago, when I rolled my eyes at the news program I was watching because they were giving away an 11/11/11 wedding package.  All the trimmings.  Parade float dress and a chicken dinner for every great aunt still living.

I am really really really farkin' tired of these cutesy fortuitous wedding dates since the turn of the millennium.  Oooh, you got married on 1/1/1 or 2/2/2 or 7/7/7 or are planning to get married on 10/11/12.  How speshul are you!  That's a story you'll tell to your grandchildren if someone doesn't run over them in their own elementary school parking lots.  Bet your fancy wedding date won't help you then.  Better guarantee one of them nosepickers is born on 4/4/40 or you are a failure.

You know what?  I furkin' love my husband and we got married on a Wednesday in 1993.  That's not a good round even number is it?  It's awkward and inconvenient.  None of the numbers in my dates are matchy matchy.  My anniversary is one black nylon dress sock and one pink argyle sock but my feet are flubbin' warm  WARM.  If you don't quit staring at my ankles I'm going to pop you in the kneecap.

I made fakkin' good spaghetti tonight for dinner, alrighty? 


Hand me that tube of hormones. 

Monday, September 26, 2011

If you make a hard bed, you have to lay in it.

It's insane to buy a mattress sight unseen.

...and I'm insane.

But I'm also sure that the big dips on either side of our old pillow top mattress are doing my back and joints no favors.  It's molded the shape of my hip and butt right proper.  Size dainty.  Not to mention that our bed frame has begun to squeak during marital maintenance. 

Sam's Club online has lulled me with memory foam, the assurance of thirteen 5 star reviews and $24 shipping.  They are throwing in the bed frame and the dust ruffle too.

Hopefully, instead of squeaking , the new frame moans or, better yet, makes encouraging commentary.  Commentary like, "You're a snorting wild stallion, you beast you." and "When you lay in that come hither position nothing looks droopy."  I think everyone needs a bedstead that actively improves their confidence.

I won't push it by praying that ten to twenty pounds of our collective body fat will melt away while we sleep.

Next comes the hard part.  Since I live in Nevada Casino Hell, what kind of white trash use can I put the old mattress and box springs to?

We don't own a trampoline.  The way my backyard is situated a trampoline would serve as a launching pad to propel my children up onto my roof or impaled on my gate.  A mattress on the ground would be far safer to jump on, that is until one of them impales themselves on a loose bed spring.  If my children do this thing right and if I can make a good enough excuse to my home owner's insurance, one of the neighbor's kids will poke themselves in a painful yet satisfactory way.

Maybe we'll strap the thing on the roof of our fabulous mini-van, driving around the fountain by the golf course, playing Huck Finn and Jim up there.  It'll be my way of supporting the Tea Partiers and their views on Planned Parenthood.

Crossbow practice...with my homemade medieval style crossbow and bolts made out of soup cans.  Or maybe with those ninja stars I bought in bulk off Home Shopping.  My ninja skillz make grandma cry.

Community theater reenactment of "The Burning Bed".  We'll invite a nearby neighbor to play the Farrah Fawcett part because he keeps walking around with his tshirt tucked under his moobs. 

I'm turning the box spring over, tearing off the scrim, filling it up with soil and I'm planting petunias in it.  Then I'll get my flamingo on. 

Shields for our illegal fireworks show.  Quick, chuck the cherry bomb before you shred your fingers into potted meat.

In all likelihood we'll just take the old set to the dump after spray painting, "Got asked, Got told!" across it.  Hopefully the second letter G will be placed on my bum divot.  It'll fit in there nicely.


Yes, my dumb gay cat Booger is still missing.  Thanks to everyone that has shared my worry.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Missing Cat...answers to "Dammit!"

My cat is still missing.  We've done some searching and some calling and some desperate shaking of bags of cat treats and he's nowhere to be found.

I'm hoping he took a detour from his daily outside hour about the backyard, maybe to the strip club just a short walk away.  Yes, I live near a strip club.  I live a short walk away from everything in my border casino town.  I can walk to the grocery store, the baptist church, the Pizza Hut, a store that sells frilly underpants and the liquor store.  (Ever wonder why the bulk of our tourists come from Utah?)  Hear's to hoping my cat made a stop at the Arby's and is having trouble carrying back a sack of Arby's melts for the family.

Sob...Arby's meat is one of Booger's favorite treats!

Booger is near 12 years old.  He's getting old, thin, and cranky.  One of his eyeballs doesn't work properly.  He hurls a lot.  He's begun to spray my garage door which I clean off with bleach.  He kicks a pile of litter outside of the box and then poops on top of it, but before that, he meows loudly to announce he has to take a dump.  His breath smells fishy and he sticks his butt in my face when he wants me to scratch above his tail.

I may cry now. 

This animal loves me and I love him and I don't know where he is!

You know it's bad because I've turned down a free ticket to go see Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert tomorrow because I won't be good company.

No one needs me to break into sobs during Free Bird.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Lost Cat

My dumb gay cat, Booger, has come up missing today.

I'm a wreck.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Nipple Mark

Tonight I'm at my sister's house.  My sister is not home.  My sister's husband IS home. 

He keeps talking about embarrassing and noisy bodily functions and offering to let me touch his pants.  He's retarded, but my sister seems to like him, except on Bunco night.

I shouldn't say such things or read them out loud in his direction.  Afterall, they are allowing me to stay in their home for the weekend so I can attend my high school color guard reunion.

In high school I was so unbelievably cool.  It's hard to imagine that level of awesome.  When you sit in the back of the band bus drinking lemon/lime gatorade and sticking your hands on the tuba player's pants, there is no other way to put it.  It was Glee before there was Glee, dammit.

Did I mention that I was also in The Future Farmers of America and heavy into art classes?  

I know.  It's amazing I was never homecoming queen.

It's been twenty years since I've seen some of the people that I will be seeing tomorrow.  In addition to asking them to forgive me for bringing bags of chips to the potluck, I'd like them to only gently pry about any of the following.

-   Yes, I grew boobs and yes, those things have become somewhat fond of gravity.
-   The silver mini-van outside?  All mine and completely paid for.  Punk. Rock.
-   No, I didn't become a famous artist.  However, the photo of my tubal ligation is being used without my permission on several medical sites.
-  Sure, I talk sex just as much as I used to but now I know what I'm talking about.
-   Yes, I'm still with that guy I married when I was 18. 
-   And we still do it.  At least twice a month whether we want to or not.
-   Don't touch my goatee...or my hormone pooch belly...perimenopause is not fascinating.  (I just asked my brother in law if I could borrow a razor.  I forgot one.  He replied, "You're going to need a lot more than a razor if you want to look like you did in high school.  PooHead.)

They can, of course, mention this blog.  Hello flag sisters!  If you know my sister's husband you can ask him about the title of this post. 

Just don't mention this to my sister.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Rattle is for Me

I ate veal last night but that's not what has me feeling pukey today. 

I've felt a little bit pukey for the last three-four weeks.  That on top of sore boobs, some soupy downstairs symptoms and an abnormally light week early period, I thought that buying a pregnancy test would be an intelligent idea.

Thing is, as many of you have seen the photo evidence of, I've had a tubal ligation. 

After three pregnancies and three births, all spaced around five years apart, I've had my fill of childbearing.  The pregnancy part ain't bad.  I like being pregnant.  My body bursts forth with all this creative baby-making energy and I feel sexy as all hell despite all my new body hair.   Not enough room for actual penetrative sex after five months, but growl, cougar time!

Unfortunately raising small children in middle age kills the cougar dead.  Nine lives all snuffed out when sperm meets egg.  Rice baby cereal is probably the least sexy substance on the planet and for several months a mother swims in the stuff.  Then for the next 18 years she keeps trying to scrub dried remnants of it off the kitchen counters.

Did you know that the rate of tubal ligation failure at my point in life is 13 in 1000 women? 

Lucky 13.  Luck runs my way too.  I've conceived whilst properly using a condom and I've conceived whilst properly using the birth control pill.  Conceiving after having my fallopian tubes hacked and burnt would line up right proper.

Before we insert any appropriate expletives, let's go back a couple hours to when I was collecting pee in a cup.  There are far less mistakes if you plop the test into a cup rather than hold it in your urine stream.  Less splashing and less urine needed in general.  In the spirit of the moment I chose an old sippy cup that I hadn't thrown away yet and forced myself to pee.'s go back one hour past that when I told my husband at the grocery store that we should buy a pregnancy test to at least rule that out as the cause of my symptoms. 

Hoo boy.

That went over pretty well, right after he held himself back from vomiting in a dump table full of purse size bottles of hand sanitizer.

What's more is that in a small town, where everyone knows everyone else and there is only one store to purchase such things, buying a pregnancy test is not an anonymous experience.  Any moment now I'm expecting a congratulations on Facebook.

...and in reply to that I'd have to say....


I feel bloaty and sore and headachey and hungry and horny and pissy and pukey, which probably means that I've got something new and fun going on with my ever fluctuating hormones, and that I should go to the vagina doctor again, but I can rule out kid number four.

Gonna go throw away that sippy cup now.  No one's gonna be using that thing for any reason now.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Judging a book by it's cover...quit wiping your boogers under the dustjacket.

Some years back, when there was some natural disaster or another, where people were suffering and it was being well covered by the media, I was asked why I never wrote about such things.  Didn't I care that people were suffering? the subtext as I remember your life so charmed that you think you can get away with such a thing, not sharing in the national or international grief that the rest of the blogosphere is covering?  You must never have any problems.  Who do you think you are?

Then, some weeks back, I was asked something similar in reaction to tragedy.  I figured I'd just let it go much like I'd let the first question go. 

Much more often I get complimented on my little corner of the internets being a place where one can get a giggle away from the rest of the world's worries and bullshit.  I feel that way too.  I write that way.  There is always something you can find to laugh about.  Parts of the world are far too awful without a laugh.

But then the tenth anniversary of 9/11 made it's way around the media and internets and had me thinking about the question.  We retold our stories, revisited our shock and anger, and relived our sadness.  My story is no different from anyone else so far outside of what went on that day.  I woke, I turned on the news, I saw the second plane hit and I knew we were at war.   Nothing would be different in my day to day life in practice other than the instinctual reaction of my veteran husband to get on a plane and walk into the nearest Army base to report to duty.  I'm glad he didn't do that. 

Before I explain myself,  here's where I could stomp and say this is my blog and my content.  Dare you complain about my content!  If I want to write about boobs and farts, then I'm gonna write about boobs and farts.  Go elsewhere if you want different content.  I hear the fart jokes are better on The Huffington Post anyway.

That's not the point I want to make at all.  Criticize if you like.  I don't mind.  That I don't write much about the grief or tragedy of others or base my writing in my own painful moments isn't because I don't care but because I don't come by it naturally.  It's not the way I am made.

I'm not the sort that processes grief and sadness out loud.  If I'm sad, hurting, facing problems, or confused I will turn to my husband first but then most of the time I rely on myself to work it out.  And most of the time I can.  I like working things out on my own and feel great satisfaction and peace when I do.  It's a source of strength and a base in weakness.

Now, imagine what 9/11 would have been if everyone internalized like me, trying to muddle through on their own.  That would have been the tragedy.  Thankfully it takes all kinds and the world is all the more beautiful for it. 

What I think about our American life post 9/11 can, strangely enough, be summed up by yesterday's This American Life: Chapter Two: In  the Garden of the Unknown Unknowns.  Widow Marian Fontana says what I've thought with far more validity than I could ever pretend to have.

Otherwise, I'm going to keep on laughing.  That's also the way I'm made.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

The Gee OH Pee!

Like others, I also completely blew off last night's Republican presidential debate.  Not on purpose.  We meant to watch and for no other reason than to raise our blood pressures, but we forgot and since it wasn't on network TV, our remote didn't make it towards the higher numbered news channels.

I apologize for my civic irresponsibility...was playing Sims Social.

Today I pieced together the best parts from news stories, video clips and satirical YouTubes and got the jist.  I can break this down for you.

Taxes bad.
Obama bad.
The other candidates bad.
Obamacare bad.
No jobs bad.
I created more jobs than you.
My skin's too dry and I need to apply more tanning oil.

If I were going to vote Republican in the next election no doubt I'd ponder on the issues with due diligence but I can't say that part of the consideration for my vote is which candidate might have the dorkiest "O" face.  These are the tangents that make our political processes interesting.

We'll start with the two homegrown candidates my local news is fond of pitting against one another.  I could see them together in the manliest wide stance sort of way, heh.

Oooh Mitt Romney!  Oooh!

Fetchin' Jon Huntsman Jr.  Cock that eyebrow, cock it!

Now let's lump the rest of the males together in one big bundle of American values.

Way to go Rick Perry!

You too Rick Santorum!

Herman Cain exaggerates.

Wake up Newt Gingrich!

Ron Paul's got vim and vigor.

Finally, the only source of estrogen a'runnin....

Michelle Bachmann is NOT exaggerating.

As I watch the President's job speech and finish up this post, I realize that I'm not very responsible in my civic duties with this post either, but it was fun wasn't it?  Now, if only someone would give me a job image searching Google, we'd have something.

No, you aren't paying my for photos of my  "O" face.  Besides, I don't take returns and won't provide you a refund.


Like The Absent Minded Housewife?  Like it on Facebook!   It's a patriotic thing to do!

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

But I Totally Can't Help it.


Babe in total control of herself/her life, right?

Beautiful.  Intelligent.  Talented.  Cute.  Honest.

Shrug...I guess. 

This acronym has floated around for some time now. I suppose it's in an effort to turn a patriarchal insult into a positive empowered state of being.   No longer am I less than, a carrier for a vagina which requires all that pedantic foreplay, but desirable and not at all vapid, ignorant or hysterical.  This woman has skills, thoughts, talents and brains.  I take your profane word, sir, and I shove it back into your big fat hairy entitled male face.

Take that!  It's my word now.

Except, my sisters, which one of you decided it was a good idea to own this word to begin with?

Which one of you decided it was okay to be bitchy?

See, I get being feminine and enjoying our female bodies and our own sexualities.  I get wanting to be recognized for our abilities and being considered equal for our works and ideas.  I get that women want to get over the hurdle of our sinful female ways, like showing our ankles and venturing beyond the kitchen, but is this a label we really need to embrace?  Is this how we want to portray ourselves as human beings with value?  Bitch?

Behaving poorly is a trait that does not need tribute, and that's exactly what the word bitch says about you, no matter how much of it's frown you turn upside down.  It's an insult comeback fail.

I am so tired of seeing grown people, in general, behave like whiny self interested tantrummy toddlers.

This is not classy.  It's not beautiful or cute.

It has no dignity.

It displays no integrity.

What's worse is that the word "bitch" is no longer enough of an insult because we've gone ahead and dumbed it down.  Instead of a comparison to an un-spayed female dog we've moved onto a spectacularly crude four letter word for our vaginas that some of us are also claiming as our own.

Personally, I'd be embarrassed to be acting bitchy or to claim I'm a bitch of any sort. 

Don't get me wrong here.  There are times and places in our language where it's perfectly acceptable to express ourselves with colloquial connotative speech.  Words are not off limits.  The power of words should be used.  Shouted.  Penned on rest stop walls with a toll free number.

It's just that when you try to take back your power in this way it just looks silly and doesn't do a whole lot to accomplish that goal.

Take my advice and...

There are better ways to go about it.

Friday, September 02, 2011

Where is Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?

The dream I had last night started out well enough.  Excellent in fact.  Steamy.  My husband and I were not bored at all at the beginning of this dream. 

However, right before the dream would have culminated in any sort of satisfaction it morphed into something else.

I'd gone from this very nice place in my dream and bedroom to having my entire house infested by aggressive and poisonous snakes.  My children were camping out on top of kitchen counters.  My husband was cornering snakes, and I was hacking snakes to death with my kitchen knives, barely  avoiding bites that would kill me.  Scared out of my mind.

Just when I thought the snake slaughter was over, I saw one last snake, the smallest one of the bunch, slither into my laundry to hide.  Gently moving articles of clothing revealed that bastard, coiled, but I was faster and corralled it under a basket.

I held out my knife and moved the basket...

It lunged...

And at that moment, in real time waking life, my dumb gay cat jumped onto my chest...

Which instantly woke me up in the most heart attack sort of way.


I got back to sleep well enough and now that I've had time to think about it, I wonder what Freud would say about such a thing.  How does one go from hot times with the husband to hacking apart  mother-fuggin' snakes in my mother-fuggin' laundry, terrified?   What kind of phallic type inner meaning can we derive from this?

 Is my cat psychic?

If anyone knows the meaning of life while we're at it, that probably figures in there somewhere.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

If you peek in my windows, I'm going to spray floor cleaner at you.

As of yesterday I've had my children in a state run educational institution from 8 am to 4 pm every day for a week and I have been home, alone, with my thoughts and with the blissful quiet.

Ahhh!  God yes!  My space is mine!  I do not miss the whiny protestations and tattling of the last three months, the constant requests for some kind of snack, and  I do not miss those stupid noises from cartoons or other adolescent programming. 

Except for maybe ICarly.  I am entertained by ICarly.  If Miranda Cosgrove wants to come over and make goo-goo eyes at my teenaged son, I'd at first wonder if she was sane, and then I'd wonder if she had a sense of smell, but third I'd wonder if she'd accept the payment of my soul for the service.  Please, Miranda, be my daughter in law.  I'll share the family pancake recipe with you.

However, no one else is allowed to come over during the day.  If the doorbell rings I will not be answering it.  I am now unencumbered by the stifling summer months and I've found a necessary part of this has been to go about naked as a jaybird.

No joke.  Newd.  Naturism.  Going back to my Darwinian roots short of throwing my poo.

I'm finally in control of all of my senses and that includes the delicious feeling of forced air conditioning all over my body while I perform matronly tasks, like loading the dishwasher and trying to figure if the Swiffer Mop my husband bought me is a conspiracy. 

I've blown through all four seasons of Mad Men in all my pasty glory.

Now, I've got to stop you here.  Do not hit that instant message button with a webcam request.  Just because I'm sharing this happiness and freedom with you does not mean I'm share sharing with you.  That defeats the whole purpose of just being myself for a little while.  You can use your imagination.

Just don't imagine anything unseemly about me with any of the many nouns I've mentioned in this post and if you just did, no need to tell me about it.

I don't want to hear it and no, you can't have any more chips.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Four Insects and a Funeral

When we were visiting The Happiest Place on Earth, I was fascinated to find a very large cockroach going for an evening stroll in our hotel parking lot.  So fascinated that I caught this cockroach so I could look at it closely.  Bugs do not freak me out and where I live, cockroaches aren't a fact of life.  Some other places a person could live, like around a major family theme park destination or Texas, you're going to have roaches.  You cannot have sticky faced wailing vomiting children dropping churros and cartoon shaped ice cream bars all over and not get some massive cockroaches.  Where I live the only way you get cockroaches is if you do everything in your power to welcome them over short of entering into a contract with Six Flags.

Where I live we also have no fleas.  Something about our climate and elevation.  So that's kickass.

Anyway, there I was, in an underground parking lot near Disneyland, looking at the ass end of a cockroach so I could determine if I had a girl roach or a boy roach.   Gynecological entomologists aren't much respected in the insect world and it flew off before I could tell.  Shucks.

Female bugs typically have little pincer type bits on their back ends.  Excellent to grasp dollar bills with when they pole dance.  The more you know.

More evidence that bugs do not freak me out.  Shortly before bed last week, two of my three cats were acting ku-ku-nuts, running about the house, growling, pouncing and upon inspection I found that they had been torturing a largish scorpion.

Not many roaches around here.  Plenty of scorpions.  Not many churros.  Plenty of desert.  In twelve years of Nevada living I'm surprised that I haven't had a scorpion in my house up until now.  Don't worry, this variety is not poisonous.

Poor scorpion.  It had been crunched on and so I flushed it down the toilet.  Then I regretted doing so because I could have looked at it more!  I do not know how to tell if this is a girl scorpion or a boy scorpion but based on size alone, probably a girl. 

I also found this bug ambling along the center of my family room after a late night summer thunderstorm some time ago.

House centipedes are also common. harmless and not any way affiliated with the sex industry.   Adorable!

A time or two I've mentioned the tarantula hawk wasps that gather in my flowering trees in the spring.

Get one of those in the bug zapper and it's like the Fourth of July.

So, the point is, I like bugs. 

Yesterday, though, I did not like a bug I found...and I found it quite dead, thank the lord.

It looked like it had been dead a long time but I'm still on the lookout for others just like it and that's what has me freaked out.

You see, I found another cockroach.  A BIG COCKROACH.  In the bag we'd packed our clothes in to go to Disneyland.  A stowaway.  A sneaky bastard.  A bug that had probably made it's way into my stuff IN OUR HOTEL ROOM.  In between our vacation in late June and now, it had lived and it had died and I don't have a date of death for it.  And there might be other stowaways and they might have had lots of babies and those babies had babies and A BIG DEAD COCKROACH!

It calms me down to think that the scorpion may have come into my house to eat the cockroach and left it's exoskeleton for me to find and subsequently for one of my cats to eat.  Yes, my cat saw the dead cockroach and made a quick snack of it.  It also ate two houseflies and a moth.  Then Beulah licked herself and I wondered if she had a fetish.

It also calms me to think that if my house did become infested, my cats would eat pretty damned good in the neighborhood.

But...just eww...ewwwww. 

I slept just fine after scorpion night but until I spray this house down with some kind of poison, I'm bedding down with one eye open.

Lord, please, tell me my cats can just eat ONE.

Monday, August 22, 2011

What's on my syllabus, biatches.

I had all kinds of plans for today.  Fantasies.  Warm fuzzy thoughts about sending all my shiny clean children to school all day long and having hours to myself.  The first day of school.  It's finally here!

To start off the morning, creamy gourmet coffee in an earthenware mug and fruits in season, eaten in my newly landscaped backyard, next to my vegetable garden and under my aspen tree.

Then I thought I'd take a long bubble bath with my Kindle, rejuvenating my mind with moist perfumed air and a pretentious novel.

After leisurely towelling off, I'd pick a perfectly ironed outfit from my closet and do my hair and makeup, taking care to match my lipstick to my bra and panty set.

Then I thought I might take myself out to lunch.  There is a new deli in one of our fine casinos that puts together an admirable hot pastrami on rye.  Side of pickle.  Perrier.  Sophisticated.

Then back home to Facebook and watch Mad Men streaming on Netflix until it was time to pick up the kids.

Ha.  Ha ha ha.

This is what I did instead:

My alarm went off at 7 AM and I told it exactly what I thought of it.  Twenty minutes later, which is forty minutes early, my kids were showered, dressed, fed and ready to go to school.  I had to void two checks trying to write out a payment for lunch money.  It's important to not sign both the signature line and the payment to line.

Back from dropping them off, I notice my garage smells like cat pee because one of my feline herd has dribbled half in and half out of the cat box.  I dump a little litter over it and promptly forget about it until the time of this writing.  Probably scared it with the garage door opening mid pee.

I pour myself my coffee, sans fruit, and take it outside, only to find my next door neighbor has replaced her Virginia Slims habit with Camels.  I can smell her and hear her talking to herself through her open sliding glass door.  Back inside it is.  At least the coffee is a fresh pot and not a reheated one.

Onto the computer where I get lost in playing games on Facebook.  I'm proud to announce that my Facebook Sim avatar person woohoo-ed casually with the hot Sim chick living down the block.  In real life, my dumb gay cat Booger has staked out my lap and sheds all over my pink flannel pajama pants.

A bit after noon I smell myself and head toward the shower where I mistake my son's spiderman body wash for my shampoo.  It smells like a cross between bubble gum and lighter fluid.  High on that kind of steam, I completely ignore every area on my body that needs hair removal.

Dressed in yesterday's jeans and a very thin yellow tshirt that was on the top of the laundry pile, it's off to Arby's because I'm craving fried cheese.  I don't bother to put on shoes or makeup.  The kid at the drive thru window rolls his eyes at me when I request ranch dressing for my cheese and I restrain myself from throwing the little container of unwanted marinara at him.

Back home again.  I enjoy my cheese and ranch while listening to one of my favorite podcasts and yelling at the cats for trying to filch my lunch.  There was a moment there when I considered brewing some green tea but I belched and then it passed.

Then I piddle about some doing housework but not of the sort that looks like I did housework at all.  Whatever.  I'm sleepy.

Time to get the kids.  As I'm pulling into the school parking lot I realize that again I didn't put on any shoes but I think better of it as I pull into the same spot I've parked in for the last two years.  You would think my kids would be able to find me on habit but since I'm now sporting Nevada desert blacktop burns on the bottoms of my feet, you would be mistaken. 

Home, where dozens of notices and permission slips are signed and tucked into backpacks with the hope that they might be turned in tomorrow, unlike the checks I gave them for lunch this morning.

Ya know, some warm fuzzy thoughts only turn out to be moldy ones.  I try not to beat myself up about it.

Tomorrow I put old shoes in the van and claim a new closer spot in the lot as mine.

Tomorrow I'm going to toss this old yellow tshirt.  I bought a new one.

Tomorrow I hope to accomplish something concrete and useful and maybe classy.

Tonight I still have to clean the cat box before bed.

Whatever.  I'm sleepy.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

At least you can recycle a fig leaf.

When I was in high school I wore the best underwear.  I had better underwear than any of my friends and was often complimented in the least porny way possible on how pretty my underwear was in the locker room. 

My classmates, in the Utahiest part of Utah, had mothers that did not allow them to wear panties like mine for modesty's sake.  They bought their daughters underpants that were the next best thing to chastity belts which provided a vast barrier to germs and other intruders.  Room for a giant maxi pad and a spare.

I wore cute lacy satin confections which would barely make a bump in the front pocket of your jeans if you had to stash them there in an emergency. 

My Mom didn't object.  She insisted on doing my laundry because she's a little OCD in the housewivery department so my tiny underpants were approved.  They didn't add bulk to your average family sized load.

When I became a Mom I discovered the joys of the cotton bikini panty.  Low enough to wear under your mommy gut, cottony enough that they don't bind while you're chasing two year olds, and cute enough to serve as a reminder that you'd had acrobat monkey sex thoughts before you had children.

Then as I aged further, as all my children became potty trained and of the age where they could play outside, I discovered the joys of a pair of underwear that would fully cover my backside and not sneakily creep up into it.  Plenty of elastic.  Excellent stretch.  Lots of breathing room.  Could be used as an emergency blanket in cold weather.  Sturdy.  Dependable.

But those pairs of underwear are such a visual downer.

So when I went to buy myself new underwear while I was visiting in the big city, I decided I wanted the best of all these worlds.  Partially granny breathable cotton panties that were comfortable and not an embarrassment to admit you own.

This is not an impossible task.  At least when your store of choice fully stocks their underwear selections.  My store of choice had a sale on what I wanted, had run out, and because I didn't want to go to another store I just bought what was left within my size parameters.

Size DAINTY.  Don't ruin my delusions.  You don't need to know my size.  You just need to know that I'd already thrown away all my old saggy snaggy pairs of underwear so desperation played it's part.

I settled on four packages of panties made from adolescent fabrics that fit much like this on the front:

Fit somewhat like this on the back:

And have an unpleasant way of crawling up my ass anyway.  Sigh.

That's not the worst of this story.  The worst of it was found as I was unrolling my new packages of teenybopper print underwear into my drawer.  The last package was not what I thought it was at all.

The lady on the package looks much like this from the front, which is no different from the other packages I purchased:

Where are her stretch marks?  Anyhow, I found that the underwear looks like this from the back:

I've been shorted a good quarter of a yard of fabric!

In all my varied and lurid underwear owning history, I have never, ever purposely worn a pair of underwear as ridiculous as teeny bopper stars and hearts print thongs and now I have five stinking useless pair of them that I cannot return to the store.

I have some ideas on what I'm going to do with these thongs but I'm still open to suggestions.  So far they've made lousy collars for my cats and didn't function well at all as pot holders. 

I spend good money on them and can't let them go to waste, even if that waste will barely make a bump in your front pocket. 

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