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.

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