Tuesday, May 31, 2011

The All Weather Marriage

This weekend I travelled into Utah County, where the construction on the freeways causes a person to wonder if they've truly lived their lives to the fullest, to help my parents celebrate their 50th anniversary at a party held in their honor.

Gourmet cupcakes were served. This almost made getting squished between a gargantuan motorhome and a semi truck carrying livestock worth the drive. I wish someone would get around to inventing a teleporter already because maybe texting whilst teleporting won't cause the person teleporting alongside you to scream like a little girl in fear for their lives.  The Utah freeway construction plans temporarily cut a foot width off the lanes...GET OFF YOUR DAMNED PHONE YOU TWIT.

This photo was included in a "This is your Life!" style DVD shown at the party. I'm adorable.

Thirty-six years of their marriage included me!  Awesome for everyone!

Fifty years though. Wow. That's a lot of time coming to grips with becoming saggier as you raise your kids, they raise their kids, and their kids start having their own kids.  And greyer.  And blinder.

What do you think it takes to be married to one person for that long?

Mutual stubbornness? Not that stubbornness is an altogether awful trait to possess. To put a positive spin on it you could call it "stick-to-it-tiveness." That's a word much like a two year old child with a wad of cotton candy in each chubby fist. Cute and in need of a bath.  Mutual bathing for sticky situations...yeah, that could be it.

Maybe it's a high tolerance level to each other's more annoying habits. My dad snores like a boar in heat. My mom is addicted to Aqua Net and her vacuum. These along with all the dumb stuff we all do which none of us would do in public...it all adds up you know.  Maybe their tolerance equation is a lot longer with more variables than other people's equations.  Maybe another woman would take her love of Aqua Net too far.  Maybe the Aqua Net has killed off brain cells that would foster intolerance.

Maybe it's shared interests.  They both like playing board games, like Triominos.  Neither will play Scrabble with me anymore.  Neither of them enjoy having their ass handed to them by their progeny.  They've stood up to my vocabulary and word placement skillz and said, "No more!"

Maybe it's the ability to communicate their feelings and needs using "I" statements.

No, that's not it.

Could be all the stuff they do that I'm not privy to.  Not just the stuff that any self respecting child doesn't want to think about their parents doing (but used to hear them doing anyway) but all the stuff that is their marriage and no one else's marriage.  Their methods and their madness.  Marriage as they've made it.  Every day.

Yup, that's probably it.

Couldn't replicate that if I tried, what the two of them are together.  I have to make it to fifty years in my own marriage on our own steam in our own way.

That and maybe I'll buy a can of Aqua Net just for insurance.

Thursday, May 26, 2011


My mood IS better. Thank you for asking. You may take off your helmet. The only person I'm smacking around today is my husband and that is because he's taken to liking it. He's naughty.

I still feel a little lost though. A little off kilter.

Oh-pur. There was no more Oh-pur today.

On my local news yesterday, the male anchor asked the female what she thought of Oprah and her last episode. It was her job to watch it afterall...she's got the ovaries amongst her other qualifications. She said something to the effect of, "It was like attending the church of Oprah."

Lord yes.

Not that attending the church of Oh-pur is an altogether horrible thing. Of all the directions she could have taken her show, with all her influence, and income, and that big booming voice, she could have molded the world any way she saw fit. Instead of gratitude journals and a-ha moments we could have had heavily hinted at hit lists and live fart contests. Whole months of KKK kingpins, skinheads and Mary Kay consultants. A very special episode of morbidly obese pets. A segment about drinking out of a funnel and then twirling until you vomit.

Sarah Palin would have been vice president for sure.

Nothing wrong with being told to contribute something positive to the world. For the love of God and Oprah, be a dynamic energy, choose better and then own it.

I admit, I teared up a bit.

Four PM rolled around today and I had nothing to watch on TV. For months now I've not watched much TV during the day whatsoever. Home improvement got dull. Everyone has been born. I already know how to throw together a home cooked meal in a half hour. Game shows got noisy. The fluff on morning news stopped curbing the crappy feeling of starting your day with the real news. Reality TV ain't real and I stopped watching soap operas before Susan Lucci won her Emmy. Oprah fed me in HD every afternoon unless she was fawning over celebrities and then I turned it to Cash Cab.

Even if she interrupted her guests in her church. Most of the time I still got something interesting out of it.

This Rapture joker got it partially right when it comes to the world ending. His church can't possibly hold my attention after retrieving my kids from school though. Not that he's doing much of anything after October 21st anyway.

Sigh. I miss Oh-pur already.

Ben Bailey on Cash Cab...I'm looking to you for a-ha moments buddy. I have no other TV prophets to lead me.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011


Yes, I have PMS. Thank you for asking. Stand still while I smack you around some.

Actually, I wouldn't smack you around any because it would cause a lot of anxiety and a lot of guilt. As much as smacking anyone around would feel good for the time being the feelings afterward will harsh the mellow.

My hormones have me down. Sludgy. Teary. Hairy. Teary about being hairy and sludgy. And bloated.

Monthly my PMS hormones take on some sort of theme. A central thought that encapsulates all my moodiness and eats at me until day 2 of my menstrual cycle. Usually they have some place in the periphery of whatever is going on in my life at the time. Past themes have included:

- Every breath my husband takes is an annoyance.
- My teenage son's presence is going to cause me to have a seizure.
- For the love of God, why did I ever give birth to these children?
- I'm fat, I'm fat, I'm fat and I'm fat.
- If I don't go back to college and learn myself some fast talking career, I will have nothing to say for myself in my obituary.
- My neighbors are psychopaths.
- Why did I get a tubal ligation? I want to give birth to everyone's babies! I'm not a real woman.

Then my period starts, the first day clot-fest passes, and again I'm a rational human being. It's kind of a miracle that during my PMS I know I'm not rational, so I don't act on my thoughts, and that we all survive it.

This month's theme, which has been influenced by the consumption of greasy food, is "What is wrong with people? Why can't people just. Do. The. Right. Thing? Quit being selfish and slimy you assholes!"

Ironic seeing that PMS is a self interested mope-fest.

The theme has merit though. It's not just me who thinks that we live in a sea of assholes. I've seen other people ask the question about the internets and some of them are male and therefore not subject to a menstrual cycle. Still, does no one self introspect and live with some sort of integrity and dignity anymore? Because the cause of this recession, this muff-punt of an economy, the housing bubble and banks failing is assholes...greedy slimy mindless assholes. What's worse is that the victims of all this crap are assholes too and where do we go from here? The blind leading the blind. The bland leading the bland. Inflammatory for inflammatory's sake.

Yeah, not rational. Fairly ironic.

As premenstrual themes go, the lack of "there, but for the grace of god go I" is one that requires some deep thoughts and the going over of values. It's useful in it's way, in the light of rapture and volcano and tornado. What matters? What doesn't? And where do I find balance between the two when I make my way around the world?

The balance certainly isn't in having two cups of coffee and some salt water taffy for lunch. No wonder I'm bloated.

I wish this month's theme had some sort of satisfying resolution besides getting my period. My period will not provide world peace. Everyone seems frustrated and fragmented. Gets me down.

Maybe my husband will have sex with me in a half hour.

That'll help.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Hookers and Blow

So, you didn't get raptured up either then?

I was kind of hoping I would.  For two reasons.  First, I started in on some PMS yesterday which means my mood today will be beastly, to the point where holding up the Burger King and taking the deep fryer hostage seems reasonable.  Second, that maybe, just maybe, Glenn Beck wouldn't end up rallying himself stupid in Israel, making the rest of us Americans just as dumb for giving him a platform.

Insert GOP presidential race reference here. 

I put some canned tuna, some crackers and some mayo packets between my mattress and box spring just in case.  The crackers probably did not survive Saturday night's scheduled marital maintenance.  They are still edible though.

Seeing how the world isn't on it's way to ending, now is a good a time as any to think about all my sins, make resolutions about them, and then let them go free into the universe to find new homes with unsuspecting people.

Sin distributing could be done much in the same way as when you leave high school and you bequeath your most endearing traits and possessions to underclassmen.  I left a year old locker sandwich to some pissant kid and he'd better have kept that sucker.  He better have bequeathed it himself.  That sandwich should still be in that same locker today dammit.

Singling out people to unburden my sins on has been a picky task.  Who do you give away your enthusiasm for Bollywood to?  Enthusiasm for this dance sequence in particular?

The love of disco does not mean you will contract a venereal disease.

Who do you foist your love of Degrassi Junior High on, or greasy double bacon cheeseburgers, or my use of the word "twat", or my cat collecting? You happy vegetarians don't want sudden cravings for carcinogenic pork products or Degrassi and those of you who do want them already have them.

I guess my sins are mine no matter when this world ends.

At least I'm not on some Jersey based reality show, trying to unload my sins in that context. Can't fight this sudden urge to wear heavy black eyeliner for much longer.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

At least we're past potty training....

I have a very important announcement.

So pay attention.

My twelve year old son is entering puberty!

(I know, shocker.)

How do I know my twelve year old son is standing at the precipice of mood, hair and pimple-hood?  Besides the fact that he is twelve years old and I have my own puberty behind me as experience?  He makes it a point to tell me this.  Several times a day.

"Hey Mom, I must have eaten more meat at dinner because I'm starting puberty."

"Hey Mom, I need more deodorant because I'm starting puberty."

"Hey Mom, I'm sleeping more because I'm starting puberty."

"Hey Mom, I'm staring at this Lady Gaga video on TV, you know the one where she prances about in underpants, with my hands in my front pockets, because I'm starting puberty."

Don't hold me to that last one as a true quote.  It is factual though.  I witnessed that bit of puppy love today.  Kind of makes you raise your eyebrows a little, doesn't it?   My eyebrows hike themselves up and his lower lip droops on down.

But then, most anyone prancing about in a thong might be fascinating at that age.  Stay away from my boy's disco stick until he's 35.  Whores of Babylon, all of ya.

The moment this kid sprouts an armpit hair he's going to want to take a photo and put it up on this blog because that will be a momentous occasion requiring commemoration.  And I will try to discourage such oversharing.  Instead will post a photo of the cake we baked in celebration.  "Happy Pube Day Son!"

Lord help me on the days he discovers all the other wonderments of his newly emerging manliness.  Thats a lot of cake.

My seventeen year old son takes hour long showers.

I need to drink.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The ice cream truck is coming. It's coming! It's coming!

You know the weather is turning for the warmer at Casa Absentminded when the search terms start trickling in concerning putting popsicles in one's vagina...or in someone else's vagina. 

About whether or not it's safe to put a sweet frozen treat all up in there.

I addressed this long ago and as far as I know the biology of putting sugar in a vagina has not changed in that time.  Stick sugary food in your vagina and you'll start brewing beer up there.  Skunky beer.  Then you'll itch.  Then you'll wear embarrassing loose elastic pants to the grocery store.

I understand that it's patriotic to celebrate the fourth of July, but really now.  The fireworks will be a letdown.

As of yesterday a search term popped up that brings a whole new dimension to the question.  Our little lost Googler queried, "Will putting a popsicle in your vagina stop your period?"

Hmmm...let's ponder this.

No, not the answer to the question.  Of course it won't stop your period. Bill Cosby might just pop you one in the nose just for asking.

Instead, let's ponder context of the question and the age of the asker.

I'm thinking female, around 15, living in one of those abstinence only sex education states wearing a totally meaningless abstinence ring.  She was told by her boyfriend or some equally brainless BFF via text that popsicles might be effective contraception.  Especially if you use the green flavor.  No one eats those anyway.  The spermies can't swim because their tails are frozen and gummed up with high fructose corn syrup.

When I was 15 the opposite story was going around.  That is, if you had sex in a hot tub, you'd boil the spermies like shrimp and cooked spermies keep your monthlies coming right on schedule.  And they sort of float on top of the hottub water.  Don't ask me how I know this.

Above all, remember, spermies will find a way.  You may ask me how I know this.

I keep trying to come up with other scenarios that might explain this question and I just can't.  I cannot conceptualize a person in the USA who is old enough to menstruate to NOT know that a popsicle doesn't carry such mystical powers.  This is why I'm so hardcore about teaching sex ed to my kids.  I will have really screwed the pooch at parenting if any one of my boys brought home a girl with a baby bump trying to explain to me that the popsicle failed.

If that ever happens I'm shoving one right up someone's ass to make a point.  That oughta cool 'em off.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

My mission...if I choose to accept it.

The thing about taking baths, besides risking injuring your breasts when they flop down toward your sides, is that you also risk nasty bacteria taking up residence in your urinary tract. This is especially true when you try out a new bubble bath. Infection up the pee hole and skin about the same texture as rice krispy treats. No ring in the tub though.

God, ain't I sexy.

The thing that excites me about being one of those girls with a delicate urethra is that I can go to my local clinic and hand my cup of pee to a person of above average attractiveness.  That fact alone makes paying a forty dollar copay and then subsequently dickering with my insurance company when the bill comes in worth the discomfort and odor.  There are two doctors and a male nurse practitioner that near make my tubal ligation grow back and start shooting out ovum like machine guns.

This time around I did not see Doctor Huggiepants.   Instead I saw the hot east Indian doctor who asked to feel up my pelvis and then he put a stethoscope on my boob.  Breathing in deeply wasn't a stretch.  Stethoscope was even warm.  Sigh.  He asked if I was sexually active and I told him that yes I was, active, very active, enthusiastic and ready dammit.

At the end of that appointment I left with a prescription for an antibiotic, a medication that will coat my bladder and turn my urine a neon orange color, a pill that will cure me of any yeasts afterward, and a premonition that my husband was going to get lucky that night.

The perky feeling of visiting my doctor didn't last though.  He prescribed me some lovely Ciprofloxacin and it caused me to cycle though feeling nauseated, to wondering if I really did regrow my fallopian tubes and conceive, to making my teeth ache and causing me real chest pains.  It's no surprise this stuff will kill off single celled organisms.  It'll kill off nuclear cockroaches.  It'll kill off Cher.  Needless to say, I didn't finish off my pills. 

I'd rather risk the UTI returning and watching Chaz Bono on Oprah, thank you very much.

Those bladder coating neon orange pee producing pills are kinda awesome though. Makes peeing a party. That is, until you are in a crowded public bathroom and your tankless automatic flushing toilet refuses to flush.  That's a whole new level of panic.  You flap your arms in front of the sensor and nothing.  Deep orange pee, wad of stained tissue, and ladies waiting for your stall.  So you sit...and pause...then get up...look down...wait.  Nothing.  So you sit and halfway to standing back up the damned thing flushes but only in the wimpiest sort of way, leaving at least half of your pee of doom still in the bowl.

It took three stand up sit downs to flush that bowl clean.  Put your right foot in, put your right foot out, right foot in, and you shake it all about.

Had the bathroom been empty I might have just left it.

Then someone would have taken a picture of it and posted it on Facebook.

I still have some of those pills left too.  Heh.

Thursday, May 05, 2011

Doctor's visit unnecessary...

When you are repeatedly experiencing a sharp pain shooting across your chest while you are trying to relax in the bathtub, DON'T PANIC, just calmly check to see if you're squishing your boob between your arm and your ribcage.

Lesson learned.

Monday, May 02, 2011


Today I've seen several references around the internets to the size of the President's balls.

And I'm sitting here trying to make some joke about why Michelle is a very lucky woman...

But, nah, I'll stick to the quiet satisfaction in knowing that this president has a set.  Not even an appearance on Oh-pur can diminish that.

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