Thursday, January 27, 2011

I think I married Mr. Collins.

Don't talk to me.  I'm pissy.

You make one simple request of your husband.  ONE.   And his answer to this is no.  You say please and he says there is no discussing it.  You make appeals to his kindness, his compassion, his sense of loyalty and marital duty, but it's still a big fat no.

Great poo on a stick, he's muleheaded.

He does not care in the least, not even a little bit, that this gigantic pimple behind my ear hurts, he will NOT squeeze it for me.

I can't see it dammit, even when I rig several mirrors.  Someone has to squeeze it.  My earlobe is throbbing!

Doesn't this fall under in sickness and in health?  Love, cherish, honor and pop the zits I can't reach?  I do, I do, man and wife, kissy kissy.  I didn't even throw an obey in there.

Because if he'd vowed to obey we wouldn't have this problem, now would we?

Fine.  I'm going to take my Kindle into the bath with me, hope the pimple spontaneously bursts in the hot water, while I get my soak on with Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy would pop Elizabeth Bennet's pimples.  Humph.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

If my cats could talk they'd be asking me where I put the cheetos.

After asking for suggestions from anyone who happened to see my status on Facebook, our family decided on a state of the union menu for this evening.  Could have been Kenyan.  Could have been Hawaiian.  We wimped out with Chicago style pizza and oreos.

Hey, it's what my kids would eat.  Kenyans eat goats people.  I'm sure goats are delicious animals but I didn't have time to procure and butcher a goat.  I did not have time to pound out any poi.  I did have time to procure and butcher a couple frozen pizzas and clumsily open a bag of oreos.

Oh, I'm so American, ain't I?  If it doesn't come brightly packaged and frozen, or passed from a pimply teenager in a drive thru line, I ain't eating it.  Goat?  Supersize me.

I thought the state of the union went rather well.  Everyone in the place seemed on their best behavior.  No one fidgeted, farted, whined, spoke out of turn, cried for their mommies or got put in time out.

Ever notice that McCain has dainty fingers?  If he had given the rebuttal I may have just focused on his dainty fingers and not the words coming out of his mouth.

Not that it matters to anyone, but I'd like to write about the state of the absent minded.

My Roku quit allowing us to connect it to the internet and finding a fix for this is driving me bonkers.  It has something to do with my wireless router which means that performing my usual computer voodoo is not working.

The new vacuum cleaner is working better than expected.  So well in fact that when I was using it to dust I accidentally sucked up my hair.  Both hair and vacuum are fine.

I made the mistake of purchasing only one catnip filled cat toy and I have three cats.  This necessitated an emergency catnip run for two more toys and now my feline herd is stumbling about glassy eyed.  My old dumb gay cat Booger made love to his toy most thoroughly.  It was a bit embarrassing for everyone.

My grocery store bakery has been selling whoopie pies for 99 cents each.  A dollar's worth of sin is still a sin.  I'm licking sin off my fingers.

Ten best picture nominations and none of them was Tron?  WTF?

I did our taxes today.  It was a pleasant experience.

That's all I got.  The state of absent minded must be strong because if it were weak I would be as glassy eyed as my cats after all this food and politics.  At least I didn't attempt to make thorough love to any screenshots of John Boehner.

Yeah, I said Boehner, heh heh heh heh.

Monday, January 24, 2011

We all need control.

This morning I told my five year old to keep a secret.

I was very serious about this secret and how important it was to not tell anyone until it was time to tell.  No telling your teacher.  No telling your best friend.  No overly wet whispering in anyone's ear any part of this secret.

Of course, it couldn't have been too good of a secret if the five year old is aware of it.  It's just family stuff that isn't set in stone yet.  Along with a five year old's imagination, lord knows what mundane stuff can turn into.

Spiderman would feature a starring role in any sort of retelling, I hope.  My kid loves Spiderman to the point of obsession and mentions of Spidey limits my kid's credibility.

You know how kids talk though.  They go to school and soon enough their teachers know how often that kid's parents have sex and the exact pitch and timbre of their vocalizations or bed squeaks during the act.  This along with how Daddy's farts smell like potato salad and Mommy's underpants have big holes in the bum parts.

Even my more mature 11 year old son took some delight in telling Grandma how I once found a mystery poop nugget on the family room floor.  Don't know where the poop nugget came from, don't know who it belonged to, don't know how it got there and didn't know that it was poop until I sniffed it.  No, didn't come out of any one of my three cats.  So...so...so human.

Couldn't hush him in time.  Sigh.

I know this has happened at your house too.  Don't you look at me like that.  You too have set your children down to review how best to wipe one's backside after a movement after vigorously washing your hands.  I did not throw away the first stray poop nugget in human existence.

And you would have sniffed it too, c'mon.

The kids were threatened with bodily harm, which may or may not included any sort of disembowelment, that they should not repeat the poop nugget story at school at the very least.

Because that's blog topic material dammit.

My five year old is sure carrying a heavy burden though.  Not the secret itself but the idea that it's a secret and he cannot tell yet.  That's a huge responsibility at five.

Maybe I'll strengthen his resolve by supplying him with candy bars.

I'll buy new underwear for myself too.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I shoulda learned to play the guitar.

I'm in the middle of watching MTV.

I'm only 36, so MTV isn't a foreign concept to me.  Back in my college days I lived to watch The Real World and Road Rules and Daria.  Whoever rented the apartment we lived in before us illegally hooked up the cable and we weren't complaining.  That's when MTV still played music videos, before there was a Napster, and cable amounted to around 30 channels.

Now I'm watching "I Used to be Fat".  18 year olds are given the summer after their high school graduations to work off some major weight.

This show ain't too bad.  There is a lot less whining than other shows on MTV.

CoughCoughSweetSixteenCough.

CoughCough16andPregnantCough.

Speaking of "16 and Pregnant", I was asked today what I thought of that program, since I was also a coughcoughteenmother.

I found myself knocked up at age 18 mere moments after my high school graduation. Doesn't feel as good as finding your keys after you've misplaced them or finding a twenty dollar bill you didn't know you'd left in your pocket. When the movie Juno appeared in theaters I suddenly found myself an ambassadress of teen motherhood and was asked to tell my story.  You can find it on my right sidebar, entitled "The Condom Broke", or I can be a sweetie and hyperlink part one HERE.

In my defense I like to think that my two years of maturity puts me over on the subjects of 16 and Pregnant...but the truth is that even at 16 I had more sense than what I've seen in my limited viewing of the program and I still managed to find myself in the family way.

Condoms, they ain't foolproof, yo.  Neither is the pill.  Had the pill baby when I was 30.  Yes, with the same daddy.  Sex causes babies.  Had it with him before marriage because I loved him, still having it with him because I love him.  Lucky guy.

...and yes, I went to college as mentioned above.  I have a decent life.  I am not currently on welfare or meth.

So, what do I think of the show?

I think it's overproduced, overpriced and overhyped.  That makes for a backwards journey into adulthood for these teen parents.  The more convoluted it gets the more camera time a kid that still needs so much growth and guidance gets.  This is not "keeping it real."  This is keeping a crappy situation marketable.

Had they filmed my entry into teen motherhood and marriage, they might have keeled over in post production boredom.  How do you edit in something compelling?  I guess they could have filmed my struggle with my postpartum hemorrhoids or finding myself amazed when my infant suddenly projectile vomited six feet across the room or trying to fix my new vacuum when I'd sucked up a pair of underwear.  Maybe they could have done a study in how we budgeted down the to penny, did without gadgetry and paid our bills on time.

This begs the question.  Would I rather have had to lose 100 pounds over the summer after my highschool graduation or go through morning sickness, stretchmarks and drug free labor?

Neither.  I wish I'd gotten myself a pony.

C'est la vie.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

that you meet...each...DAY!

So, I live in a pretty small town.  You would think that small would mean that everyone would know everyone, and in a sense that's true, but my town is different in that there are racial/cultural divides and it's transitory.  My town is a stop along many people's roads.

Sometimes those roads aren't real straight and sure don't point north.

Having lived here a whopping 12 years, you get to recognizing the people in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neigh-bor-hood.  Oh who are the people....since these folks aren't easily recognizable as butchers, bakers or candlestick makers you give them other nicknames when they pass you in the grocery store.  That's how we pass the time when there is nothing else to do and tourists have bought up all the cheap liquor.

I've got a population of 7000 to name and this is just a start.

For the life of me I cannot remember our doctor's name, even though he's given me a pap schmear, but I've christened him Dr. Huggiepants.  He's got such a widdle baby face.  He's adorable! 

Dr. Huggiepants has been upstaged in the examination room by Nurse Hottiepants, a male nurse-practicioner who I wish had given me my pap schmear.  I once went with my husband when he needed a quick pink-eye diagnosis and I got warm and flushed when Nurse Hottiepants touched Justin's eyeball.  All the women I that I do know by name in this town are in agreement with this assessment, not the pinkeye, but that Nurse Hottiepants is a credit to the field of nursing.

Then there is Crazy, a parent of one of Justin's former students, whose eccentricities don't make her the least bit endearing.  Justin must know her name but I don't and I don't think I'll ask him.  I winked at her in the grocery store just to make her think.  Such a familiar gesture kept her going for an hour at least, I know it.

Boots...Boots has since moved...but what do you call a 6 foot 3 inch drag queen/transvestite wearing custom thigh high leather boots with a 4 inch spike heel?  If I had commissioned custom boots like that I'd wear them all the time too.  In all admiration I can say that she had balls...and tucked them well underneath that mini-skirt.

Then there are a bunch of others which I cannot give any context to because one of them will show up to my house and leave me Watchtowers and complain.

So here's a shoutout to McTwat, Klown Kar, Jheri Whirl, Officer Frostbite, the guy I flip off in secret, Bissel, Mr. and Mrs Magoo, Ms. Aquanet, Methalina, Methalotta, Meth Mocha Grande, and Dinky.  This town may not have a Walmart but you make living here entertaining nevertheless.

Is this when I announce my candidacy for city council?  I think not.

No one's going to elect Captain Catlady.

God...I need a pap schmear.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Glandular Issues

I'd like to welcome all my new readers in search of Jennifer Connelly.

Or...new readers in search of Jennifer Connelly's underboob.

Err...side boob.

Anyhow, Yahoo says Jennifer is trending and so thousands of you one handed typists have shown up here because I stole this photo several years ago when I featured Jennifer as one of my husband's tarts.

My husband thinks Jennifer Connelly is attractive.

I do too, but not in such a way that you'd expect some bow chicka bow bow music.  Get that image out of your heads you perverts.  I am NOT buying a matching pair of them wedgie underpants and that's final.

I'm just making my manners here.

Hello people.

Enjoy the show.

Come back again sometime.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

If you enter too, and we both make it, let's meet in the hotel hot-tub to gossip about the other competitors.

As a housewife blogger, I find myself, from time to time, in a position to be of influence to other housewives.

Just today I gave useful and frugal advice on how to outfit yourself for the arrival of a baby.  Buy stuff for baby, but think about if it's ever going to have a secondary use when baby grows into a screaming toddling beelzebub.  Otherwise, what a waste of good money.  Like burp rags.  You can make them out of pastel print flannel, which is adorable, but then what do you do with them after baby stops puking all over?  Or you can invest in some practical kitchen towels which will be useful for cleaning all manner of spills for years and just happen to be more absorbent and will shrink less than cloth diapers.

You do not need a device to individually wrap disposable diapers after they've been soiled.  Really you don't.  Just take out your trash fairly often and wrap the super leaky stinkers in a shopping bag.  Or two.  That thing will just end up sitting at your yard sale unsold even after you've marked it down to 50 cents.  Though I admit that a string of diapers might have some decorative purpose if you are creative.

This is a tangent really.  I'm just expressing that I have this housewife thing right down pat (and I'm not having any more babies.)  There are other ways in which to influence all housewives out there in housewife land. 

Like what I also did just today...I tried out my first experimental recipe to enter the Pillsbury Bake Off on my husband.  My kids wouldn't touch it.

Isn't that the sort of shenanigans housewives are supposed to be involved in?  They have been since Pillsbury has ground high quality flours and then mixed that flour with grease to give us dough in a can.  Convenient.  Makes me pee myself a little in surprise every time that can pops open.

I'm not saying what I made with dough in a can, because if you steal my idea I will hunt you down and shove unbaked dough up your nose, except to say that it was pretty tasty and I've got a little heartburn.  My husband didn't hate it.

Do you think the judges would mark me up or down for the heartburn?  Perhaps if I made one of them pee a little in awe and delight I'd be sure to win the million dollar prize.  Then I could advise them on the best way to dispose of a diaper.  After three boy children I know exactly how far I can throw a balled up disposable across a room and hit the trashcan with accuracy.

Experimental recipes #2 and 3 to be attempted this weekend.  My husband will judge them for accuracy and any peeing he does will not be the result of delight so I know those experiments are no good.

Here's to hoping I won't have to break out any kitchen towels.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Me want Leg o'Lamb

Some months back my 16 year old son found some motivation hiding in his room under his pile of filthy socks and used it to draw a poster for a contest sponsored by Shop with a Cop, in which he won the $250 first place gift card to Kmart/Sears.

That's first place for our entire school district here in rural northern Nevada.  That's around 100 kids and a good 1000 head of sheep.  And a couple of blackjack dealers.  Maybe some hobos.

Still, it's an accomplishment to be proud of.  Especially since the kid owed me $75 dollars.  I was willing to take trade in merchandise.  He got his photo in the paper and a free gunlock too.  We don't have any guns but his school backpack is secure.

My son made some responsible purchases for himself.  He bought a winter coat because the one his loving parents purchased for him was considered dumb looking by all the sheep even if it was warm.  He bought a set of speakers and some school supplies.  He purchased a desk lamp of the lava variety.

...and for 59 cents on clearance he purchased a shirt to cover his nakedness.

I'd pay at least a buck for such subtlety.

In trade, I purchased a new sheet set to cover my nakedness in a very high thread count.  Blue.  The old sheets turned out to be one of the most worthless purchases I've ever made.  There is a very wealthy domestic maven who might get her product returned to her in the mail because I've never had crappier bedding.  The only reason I didn't replace them sooner was because I didn't want to waste the money I'd already spent on those wrinkled catastrophes and the sheep had left lanolin stains.

These new shop with a cop sheets got put on my bed yesterday...and oooh...if they ain't fancy to lay upon! They are like covering my mattress in a thick tarp of crisp cotton love!

My husband slid between them last night, got wide eyed, and declared, "Me want woman!"

So I acquiesced.

...and the sheep got shooed away.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Shopping with a scalpel.

I'm a person on the tall side.  I wore high heeled boots Christmas day only to find that my mother and my mother in law only came nipple high to me standing straight.  Wearing a proper bra that day ensured that the view was fantastic not that my female relatives appreciated it much.  Over the river and through the woods shouldn't be a double entendre.

Part of my Christmas to myself was the opportunity to buy clothing that has never been worn by another human being.  This can be a pleasant experience after the holidays because all the leftovers on the rack are marked down. 

For instance, my brother in law, who deals in clothing retail, was able to get me some 37" inseam jeans on discount.  Legal discount, not the five finger discount.  These jeans are not purposely torn and do not have those awful kitten whiskers painted on the crotch.

If I were really really tall those whiskers could be a roadmap of over the river and through the woods.  All roads lead to Rome, Grandma.

Usually jeans are the hard part.  This has been a difficult realty of my life since I was 11 years old.  Jeans were a breeze despite nixing the pairs my sister insisted I'd like with rhinestones on them.  No whiskers, no glittering buttcheeks.

Shirts that were long enough to cover parts of my body roadmapped by stretchmarks became an issue this shopping trip.  On average women, stretch marks are well tucked away and no one notices that wad of unsightly belly button lint.  On me these same shirts showed everyone that the glow of pregnancy certainly does NOT last.

This is not to say that I didn't find any shirts.  Most of what I found that would fit lengthwise featured collars that looked like elderly foreskins.

Look at this silly little model trying to look sexy in a cowl necked sweater.  If you clean under your collar you can keep smegma from building up which causes itching and foul odors.

...and then there's Maude.  She knew about foreskin hygiene.  She was an expert.

Like I should talk.  I grow a beard and shave it daily.

After shopping at eight higher end clothing establishments I found three acceptable V-necked sweaters.  After shopping at Walmart I found three more. 

Difference in quality?  Not much.

Yes, I prefer my sweaters circumcised because I find them aesthetically pleasing.  Don't get militant on me about that.  My sweaters look like their father and that's final.

Monday, January 03, 2011

Booger Fever

I'd take a victory lap around my kitchen but I'm too pooped.  All I've done is loaded the dishwasher.

After a week of flu that had my muscles feeling like lead weights, my head feeling like a wrecking ball had hit it, glands which framed my face and created an extra set of boobs in my armpits and phlegm like congealed gravy, loading the dishwasher deserves a medal.

My family's been battling this flu since the second day after Christmas when my husband woke up with chills and fever.  The next morning he woke with Andre the Giant chills and fever, to the point where he lost conciousness for a minute or two and took a faceplant on the floor.  That evening I loaded up on the chills and fever.  The next night I took two tablets of Alka Seltzer flu formula and discovered that I can indeed time travel just by thinking about it, faceplant not necessary.

My lips look like those packages of dried fish on the shelf underneath the cans of La Choy at the grocery store no matter how much vaseline I slather on them. 

My husband and I have been near useless.  Our New Year's Eve party ended promptly at 12:01 after bowls of soup and three tablets of ibuprofen each.

The kids have had their turn but none of them suffered nearly as much as their parents.  I have two of the three missing the first day back to school because of fevers last night.  Today they are bright eyed and bored.  Best to make sure they're clear for takeoff though.

I'd hate to give flu to the kid that keeps eating the glue sticks in class.

This morning I woke up and created modern art in a tissue, that and fatigue being the last of the flu symptoms.  We're all on the mend.  Eyes sunken into the backs of our skulls, but feeling more human every day.

...and being human requires we eat using dishes and utensils.  Preferably clean ones.  Woo, I loaded the dishwasher!

Saturday, January 01, 2011

I didn't have to sell my body to pay for my new vacuum.

If you'll wait a moment, while I go get myself coffee, we can get on with a cozy chat about the end of this year.  It needed to end.  In many ways it was going stale.

Excuse me...you take cream in yours?  Sure, I'll get you a cup.

(Yes, I know you're Mormon and sneaking.  I won't say anything.)

As many of you know I live in a charming little hamlet in Nevada on the Utah border.  Prime rib dinners can be eaten here for as little as ten dollars a plate.  We don't have a Walmart but we do have big shiny buildings without clocks or windows.  At any time of the year a person just like you could enter one of these buildings and come out richer than you were the day before.  Or poorer, more likely.  In any circumstance you'd smell like Marlboros as a bonus.  If you enter those shiny buildings enough it's possible to get your Marlboros comped if that's the bad habit you're into.

Some think that my husband and I spend all our free time just lounging around our casinos doing God knows what, because it's convenient, and what else is there to do in my town?  We don't lounge lizard...but then again...every great once in a while...sometimes we do.

Like, the Monday before Christmas, after spending the day shopping with the kids, when Justin puts on his Miss Cleo hat and claims he's had a premonition that if we went lounging we'd win.  He said it in the same way you'd say, "My farts smell funny." or "That Brett Favre sure looks like he's got a lot of talent."  You know, obvious, self evident.  If we go, we'll win, period.

We had 100 dollars of our Christmas budget left after battery-less gifting and some charity.  Why not see what happens?




So we sit down in a row of this type of slot machine.  This is not our video.  It's just an example.

...and we both hit a bonus round at the same time.

....and each of our bonuses totalled over 1000 dollars.  My husband's topped off at $1150 and mine at $1206. 

...and we made much ruckus.  My husband's farts smell funny!  Yes indeedy they do!


If this is how 2011 is going to be, I'll take it.  Like I said, 2010 was getting stale.


***


As always, my jaunt into Utah County to visit family over Christmas resulted in hilarity and awkward moments.  On the first day of the new year, quotes from the people who share my DNA.

"He always does the top!"
- My sister Lisa, describing the method in which our sister Jill and her husband Brian painted their kitchen.

"Because men like smelling their balls."
- Jill, explaining why manufacturing scented bowling balls, then giving those balls as gifts, makes any sort of sense.

"Is that a one pumper?"
- My Dad, said when my nephew was inspecting his new BB gun.  He might not shoot his eye out.  Dad followed this with, "The more you pump the further it goes!"  Good to know.

"I'd nominate her all night long."
- Justin, my husband, sharing an opinion on Angelina Jolie's Golden Globe nomination with Lisa, who is gay.  Lisa agreed wholeheartedly.  So did her partner Tanya.  Then everyone had a warm fuzzy type moment.

"He gave me these dangly ones."
- Me, describing which pair of earrings in my twice pierced ears Justin gave me for Christmas.

"They get dirty quicker!"
- My sister Jill's grandmother in law, giving her opinion on why men prefer blonds.

"Put the booger back."
- Justin.  I'd spent the car ride over the hills and through the woods with my hair up in hot rollers.  While removing the curlers Justin said I had a nose hanger which I removed.  Before I combed out the Nellie Oleson style ringlets this was his commentary on how my hair had turned out.

"It's a good thing I shaved or that would have hurt."
- Jill, upon removing the large bow that her husband placed squarely in the middle of the underside of her butt in her new western style rhinestoned jeans.


So, there it is.  Happy New Year.

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