Monday, February 28, 2011

Shining up my stretch marks.

On the day after the Oscars I usually present my own best and worst dressed picks.  None of the other "red carpet" events matter.  I like the Oscars.  Lady Gaga in an egg at the Grammys only gets a passing nod in my subconcious.

...And, on the last day of February I usually declare it "Naked Housework Day!" and encourage my readers and other hangers on to remove their clothing and scrub something dirty.  Dust your ceiling fan in the buff.  Wipe your baseboards in the nude.  Shine your mirrors and enjoy the view.

So how does one merge Oscar fashion with industrious nudity?

One can't.  The Oscar post will have to wait until later.  I'mma gonna let my freak dishrag fly.

Yeah, I'm turning up my heat and  I'm not answering my doorbell until approximately 2:50 PM.


UPDATE @11:07 AM:  I've decluttered my bedroom.  My cat barfed on my bedspread so that's in the washer.  I've decluttered my bathroom.  And I've organized some of my art supplies.  Not recommended, going into the garage to put things away on shelves.  The cold made my butt clench.

UPDATE @1:03 PM:  Salami and cheese sandwich for lunch along with a small bowlful of cheesy puffs.  No sleeves or hems of shirts to wipe off cheesy fingers.  Really inconvenient.

UPDATE @2:44 PM:  Dressed after naked document shredding.  This is for those of you at work, where nakedness isn't appropriate, invited or encouraged.  Time to get the kiddies from school.  I may do this naked thing again tomorrow if I have no reason to venture into my garage.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

When I was 17, it was a very good year...

Yesterday the oldest of my three sons turned 17 years old.

Yesterday twenty five percent more of my hairs went gray, including the menopause whiskers on my chin and the treasure trail that didn't appear until after pregnancy number two.  I'm streaked like Pepe La'Pew and I'm only 36.

Yes, I had him young.  I saw you thinking about that and counting on your fingers.  And yes I'm young for this damned menopause too.  Let's clone three more of me, put me in a Buick and declare it all ironic.  From teenager to matron in seventeen short years...it's been my life's dream.

By the time he's 21 my uterus is going to fall out and land on the floor and I probably would be grateful for it.  Any one of you could call dibs on it.  Fun at parties.

In a year he'll be an adult. 

By tomorrow he could fall wildly in love or lust with someone who has her own ripe and healthy uterus and experience the miracle, or the horror, of conception.  Some ditsy girl will find illogical and impetuous reasons to find my manchild sexy and allow him to perform an act that gets many a boy before him invited to be a guest on Maury Povich.  The thought of that has just whitened ten percent more of my hair.

I gave away my virginity at 17, not that I've told the boy this, and I'm assuming that he is also capable of that much stupid. 

Really, at his age, all that needs to happen is for a girl in the school hallway to slip on a banana peel just the right way in front of him and bam, I have a grandbaby. 

Last week I related how banana peel accidents happen and told this child of mine not to have sex.  Just don't.  No sex until you at least have a job.  No sex unless you can spell gonorrhea without using spellcheck or confuse it's definition with diarrhea.  No sex until you can walk right up to a pharmacist with your head held high and say, "I want you to sell me a condom, in fact today I think I'll have a French Tickler..."

Bathroom condom vending machines are there for adolescents to giggle over.  Be a man, get yours over the counter.  In the right size.  No, that's not extra large for most of you.

Son, please, for the love of all that is holy and good in this world, don't make me a grandmother even though I may look like one, alright?  Please wait until I can spare to have a total of sixty percent of my hairs grey or three years after my uterus falls out, whatever comes first.

Thinking again are we?  How do I know that the boy hasn't already had sex, right?

Observe my son, photo taken yesterday:


Those are the Rubik's type puzzle cubes he got for his birthday. Even if they are impressive, these will not get him laid.  Do I need to mention where he developed the dexterity in his hands to solve these?

That's right, he spends date nights playing video games.

Yeah, YOU think too much.

Monday, February 14, 2011

SmoochSmoochSmooch

If your five year old gave you a heart shaped ring that contained orange flavored glittery lip gloss, then waited for you to put said lip gloss on because it would make you very beautiful, wouldn't you cover that kid in smooshy sparkly kisses too?

Way way nicer than the gifts he used to give me before he was potty trained.

Those gifts rarely glittered.

That's right.  I've had champagne.  Happy Valentine's Day!


Sunday, February 13, 2011

I'm with Stupid.

Things are shakin' in my little corner of rural casino hell.  With the arrival of spring also comes several new restaurants to try, as the casinos are constantly evolving to keep patrons fresh and interesting, and a truck stop is also putting in a Taco Bell.

You cannot know how excited I am for a Taco Bell.  I may need to change clothes.

Friday night, Justin and I decided to support the local industry by taking our date night to the new Italian restaurant in town.  They refashioned a corner of one of the casinos from a poker room, into a high end steakhouse, then downgraded to noodles.  They upgraded the decor though.  The flat screen televisions above each booth used to display sea life when filet mignon was on the menu but now they display quaint European scenes while you eat your ravioli.  I much prefer looking at Venice than looking at a grouper who is looking right back at you.

When not looking at our televisions we had a good view of the couple across the aisle who were busily groping each other throughout the whole meal.

Before we were even seated we got a show from those two.  They spent several minutes off to the side of the hostess' podium testing each other's tongues for strength and agility.  We asked the hostess how long they'd been there, drooling on one another, and she told us that she didn't know.  She'd tuned them out for the sake of her health.

During dinner they put there hands up into each other's shirts and down into each other's laps.

How do we know they love each other?  Because when you are 21, public displays of affection confirm it just as much as pinning giant foil hearts to your chests. 

It's been confirmed that both Justin and I are now considered to old to salivate over each other in restaurants, or movie theaters, or parked in a car in front of the movie theater or parked in a car in front of the Walmart or parked in a car behind the car wash really really late at night.  Our days of looking natural doing more than holding hands are over. 

Our oldest child will be seventeen in nine days and with children that age, our still clothed sexual expressions are now considered gross.  We've aged past putting our hands up each other's shirts and allowing our arousal to cloud our self respect.

What we've aged into is moral clauses on contracts and comfortable elastic waistbands.

I know for a fact the restaurant grouper gropers did not have kids yet.  No one who has ever waded through gallons of spit up and wet diapers feels compelled to have foreplay in front of the maitre'd.

They'll conceive eventually.  Probably while keeping 75% of their clothing on.  It'll all go downhill from there.

Maybe they'll even accomplish conception at the new Taco Bell at the table closest to the restrooms.  One can hope.

They can watch me perform PDA's with a bean burrito and some tater tots.

Tuesday, February 08, 2011

Why I'm raising money for collagen injections.

This last summer my husband and I spent enough money in replacing our entire heating system that we felt vulnerable and a bit sore around our backsides.

This winter we've been patting ourselves in a congratulatory manner on the amount we spent because we are warm.  This is unlike last winter where our nipples threatened to freeze and fall off in a fine powdery dust.  Since the new heater actually functions our nipples are ever so supple.

Supple nipples are not free.  Supple nipples require monthly payments.

Being toasty has a price though, beyond cash or the energy tax credit, and my crusty beef jerky lips are it.

My mouth is so chapped that my husband swears he kissed a pine cone this morning.   His mouth was just as chapped as mine so all was fair in love and war.  Instead of kissing with a sloppy smacking sound we ended up sounding like the crunching of fall leaves, which wasn't as charming or as fashionable as what happens in an Eddie Bauer catalog.  No one craves warmed apple cider after a kiss like that.

By the end of this month I'm expecting to have a gaping hole where my mouth used to be because my lips are going to peel off in long leathery strips which I will promptly make into jewelry to sell on Etsy. 

If I wasn't so dehydrated I'd have issues with containing my drool now.  Gape-mouthed droolers are only good for a couple of professions, neither of which need mentioning here.

The only relief I've had has come from Nivea's "a kiss of moisture" lip balm, which has not given me any sort of recompense for mentioning their product, nor do I expect any.  Especially after the way I've used the word "supple".  I love this stuff and I might keep my lips yet.

Lips might prove more useful than my nipples in the future, ya know?

Friday, February 04, 2011

Beautiful Boy

Tomorrow is my second son's 12th birthday.  Or, since I'm writing this rather late, in an hour and a half, it will be my Boo's 12th birthday.

It doesn't seem possible that he's twelve.  He's such a sweet and gentle boy that I fear the ravages that testosterone will be having on his body.

I wish I could stick him in a pickle jar and preserve the little boy-ness he still has.  The parts of him that are naive and innocent.  The parts of him that finds joy in uncomplicated things.  The parts of him that laughs out loud at the thoughts in his own head.

Sigh.

I got him some Axe deodorant as a joke.  He'll think it's funny, but he doesn't know that it's because the joke's on me.

Wednesday, February 02, 2011

Dethpsicable

How's yer snow?

There is no snow in Bendover Nevada.  It's as cold as a pair of penguin testicles though.  I hate snow so this works for me.  I'd rather have parts of me freeze and crumble off in an environment without that shit on the ground if I can at all help it.

So I really feel for you folks snowed in to the east.  That's my concept of hell.

Maybe you'll feel for me too when I tell you what we have here on the ground in Bendover in abundance.  It's getting so thick that shovels may be necessary before long.

This whole town, congested residents and tourists alike, are hocking up loogies and spitting them all over the damned place.  Since it's so cold they don't dry up, flake off, and blow away in the wind like one would expect.  (Which is NOT an excuse for spitting a loogie anywhere where people walk in warm weather.)  They FREEZE on contact in slimy yellow splats wherever they land.

When out and about doing my errands today I had to take special care in walking just about anywhere so I wouldn't step in someone's expectorated flu bombs, zigging and zagging about like a drunkard which didn't get me any extra notice since open containers on the streets are legal here.  There were splats all over the grocery store parking lot.  Splats all over the casino parking lot when I went in to get a tax form.  Splats dotting the elementary school parking lot like macaroni art.  Splats whetting my appetite all over the restaurant parking lot when we went to dinner, one of which my husband rudely contributed and he was admonished for.

Snot rockets ahoy.

Why snow and not this nastiness is my version of hell is a question that has no reasonable response.  Maybe if I had to dig my fabulous minivan out of snot my version of hell would shift a bit.

Didn't our mothers teach us better?  This is why we are told to keep tissues or hankies in our pockets.  Hocking loogies willy nilly is not a behavior that Miss Manners would approve of. 

LOUDLY expectorating is worse.  If you must spit please don't rev it up with that rumbling in your chest, throat and nose and then gagging in public.  Get thee to a bathroom.  Hack up with wild abandon and rapture in there.  Bonus, there is usually toilet paper to help with the clearing of your sinuses and running water to wash your bodily fluids away.  Or hack away in your vehicle and quietly dispose of your loogie in your cup holder or under your floor mat.

Can't spit there eh?  Yeah, it's much more acceptable to spit where other people have to clean up after you.  I can totally have a valid opinion on this since suffering the worst flu of my life after Christmas and it's only now that my congestion has really cleared up.

You don't feel for me do you?

Well, quit spitting Daffy, it's gross.

Tuesday, February 01, 2011

Morning Minutia XIV

Reading through my previous Morning Minutia posts, I seem to post only when my boobs are sore.  Today is no exception. You readers and other hangers on see a Minutia post and you know to give me and my PMS a wide berth.

I wish that Gas X "you have a phone call on line toot" commercial would just go away.  Bring back the commercials where the contents of a Gas X liqui-gel pill squirted into a vial full of insidious soap bubbles makes the bubbles pop.  Gas X gets your farts unstuck. That slogan will sell pills.

If there was roller derby near me, I'd join up.  Kick ass.  Get pummelled by the woman three times my size with boobs as big as microwaves.  No need to pay me for that image.

If you use the word "sassy" in any context except for sarcasm, I'm going to barely restrain myself from punching you in the girl nards.  Heterosexual men don't seem to use that word and gay men are forgiven.

Speaking of my boobs, my husband and I went out to dinner the other night and I wore a new sweater, and I swear to God people were checking them out all night.  That usually never happens.  This is either because my lopsidedness was especially noticeable or because I was sporting some tasty decolletage.  I'm siding with tasty.

Long ago I was asked permission to allow a screenshot of my blog to be put in a documentary.  This documentary is called Peep Culture and will air on Canada's CBC News Network on February 16th.  So, will some of you Canadian readers and other hangers on watch this and tell me if my half a second of screen time has been edited out or not?

This post has been full of boobs hasn't it?  How...sassy.

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