Wednesday, June 29, 2011

I'd rather eat wood.

For dinner this evening my family will experience sad disappointment.

Or, at least, with part of the meal.  The primary part of the meal will consist of some sort of animal charred on my husband's new grill.  It will be delicious.

The other part of the meal, the part that will help move all that meat through our colons, the part of the meal which my children will start to sniffle over, will be lentils slow cooked in my crock pot.  Not just lentils, but lentils with garlic and tomatoes and celery and onions and peppers.  Lentils ala MyAssIsFat.

Yes, my ass, it's not getting smaller these days.

Proof of this is evidenced by a photo my husband took of me and my kids from behind, waiting in some line, at Disneyland, with all the other happy fun seeking family types.  Don't ask to see this photo.  Instead, I will describe this photo for you from the top down so you get the gist.  Tiny head, long thin neck, slim shoulders, long back, thickening waist, ASS, HIPS, THIGHS, long thin legs, cute sandals.  Thank you capslock key.

No sir, I do not plan on putting it up on the internets in any shape or form and you will not be having any Krispy Kremes while you're looking at it.  While you may not be shocked, considering what other body parts are openly displayed on the internets, this photo proved a shock to me.  I felt matronly at Disneyland and I looked it too.  No need to wear mommy jeans...my body makes ALL my jeans into mommy jeans.

Don't get me wrong here.  I'm not overweight.  Like my forebears, I have inherited a tendency to be pear shaped.  My mother's mother, who we never knew and who I take after a great deal in appearance, was pear orchard shaped.  This tendency to put all one's weight on one's once shapely hips and ass comes as natural as the lentil dish I plan to torture my family with above.

Ten pounds should do it, maybe fifteen.  Weight loss...and pounds of lentils.  Exercise too...something to turn that part of my anatomy into muscle instead of custard. 

Custard filled donuts.  Drool.   I'm getting jowel-ly just thinking about that.

Can you make a donut out of lentils?   Can you make custard out of lentils?  I'm going to have a bowl of oatmeal and a good poo while I think about it.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Disneyland - day 4, 5, more, huh - I'm exhausted

I'm home.  Home's good.

Disneyland is also good.  I love Disneyland.  I love that my kids love Disneyland.  My six year old loved Space Mountain and Thunder Mountain, of all things. 

But, you can't live like that for long.  Eventually churros attack.  You cannot tell the difference between the World of Color show and the hallucinations.

Again, we stopped on the way home for a night in Vegas.  There was some sort of concert rave thing going on which had a multitude of young people at our hotel all dressed in tu-tus and furry muppet type socks (and had nothing to do with why our room smelled like a hookah exploded.)  None of the young men wore shirts.

And again, I felt matronly. 

Last night I looked at our Disneyland photos and I was not at all proven wrong about this.

Sure, I can ride Hollywood Tower of Terror like a rock star but now I know why the twenty somethings in the row next to me looked at me like "Aww, she's riding this.  How cute!"


No one else would go on this with me.  Pussies.

Fine.  It's just my spreading hips, my middle age and me. 

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Disneyland - days 3 and 4 - Yes, someone did, in the Finding Nemo submarine ride.

Yesterday I spent ninety very hot minutes waiting in line for Star Tours not knowing until I was good and locked into the line that it was going to be that long.  I got a headache.  I skipped the 3D glasses so I wouldn't hurl in the ride.  Then we went back to the hotel and I slept the headache off for an hour.  The ride was worth it.

Today I rode everything I wanted to ride in short order, my son got to be part of the street entertainment, we had a lot of ice cream, my feet feel pretty good, I got drenched and that kept me cool, people were pleasant and I saw many peacefully sleeping babies and toddlers.

I love Disneyland.




Donald is jabbing my son Ryan in the tummy because his TShirt reads, "Did somebody step on a duck?"   Donald did not seem amused.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Disneyland - day 2 - We ordered in Pizza.

Happy Father's Day to all to whom it applies!  I'm blaming Father's Day Sunday on the mostly pleasant freeway driving that was to be had coming into Los Angeles.  Most everyone kept to the speed limit, kept to their own lanes, and I only saw one person on their phone.  This is in stark contrast to the last time we drove through Utah County where every busy bee in the hive was buzzing about enraged with cell phones permanently attached to the sides of their heads, causing them to swerve to and fro in the most anxiety producing way possible.  I barely survived.

Utah is a red state and California a blue one.  Take what you will from that.

Today is also my youngest son's 6th birthday.  We made a stop in Barstow to pee and pick up groceries and the kid chose some of the most amazing cupcakes for our mini in the hotel room party.  Pizza was delivered.  I ate a lot of both.  Travelling means I'm constipated.  Also take what you will from that.

This hotel room has a much better view.  We have separate bedrooms, kids from adults, with a balcony that faces California Adventure.  In ten minutes the wall separating these two rooms is going to become worth 100 times more than what we actually paid for our stay.  Take what you will, yadda yadda.

I don't know about the rest of California and Los Angeles, but that's some excellent equity right there.

Tomorrow, Tiki Room.  Oh yes.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Disneyland - day 1 - I saw full boob riding on an escalator.

I woke up fresh as a daisy at 4:30 this morning. By 5:15 we were out the door, having left a kiddie pool full of food and the toilet lids up for the cats.
Twelve hours later and I'm pooped. Tonight we're in Vegas. Tomorrow, Father's Day and my youngest son's 6th birthday, we'll be at Disneyland!  (He was born on Father's Day you know.  You wouldn't believe how much I jumped up and down Saturday the 18th, at the end of that pregnancy, to accomplish that.  I wet myself twice in the cause of permanently one-upping my husband.)
Check out the view from my hotel room.


View's impressive ain't it? I could have spent more on a room with a better view and my kids still wouldn't leave the luggage racks and the Gideon Bible alone. 

Since we're all tired, and I got my period upon reaching Vegas, and we've already stopped to look at the lions at the MGM, and we've also looked at several underdressed women on the strip, we're in for the night pretty much.

Oh, the escalator thing?  If you're going to wear ill fitting strapless clothing, don't place yourself in a position where people are standing above you.  Some strange overdressed housewife cannot be helped in thinking that they resemble giant mutant garden slugs.  Put me off my custom mixed bag of M&Ms.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Wetting Down a Commission

Speak of the devil, a Navy recruiter called my home today and asked to speak to my seventeen year old son about his future plans.

...and my son addressed this recruiter as "sir" over the phone.

Holeee Shee-at.

This Navy recruiter who called my house sounded...I dunno...manly.  Masculine.  In UNIFORM.  Ironed and starched underwear manly.  He kept my son on the phone for fifteen minutes which is a longer stretch of time than my son has given anything besides anime cartoons and showering.  He made an appointment to stop by our house tomorrow afternoon.

I'd like to look at this recruiter but I'm taking the younger kids out, mostly so they won't use the recruiter as a jungle gym and so he won't get asked mindless questions, like, "Have you ever seen a gay dolphin?" or "If you fart in a submarine, does it echo?"

Oh, you thought my kids were going to ask those questions.  No, those questions are mine.

I just had a random thought.  I gave away my virginity to a sailor.  Oh god.

I COULD HAVE ASKED HIM THOSE QUESTIONS AND I DIDN'T!

If any of you readers and other hangers on could satisfy my curiosity, I'd appreciate it.



Monday, June 13, 2011

At least my name isn't ironic...

You know, there was a time I thought I would be unfit to run for public office considering my history and some of my photos floating around the internet.

Photos like this:


...and this, which was stolen and used in pantyhose fetish websites:




Let's not forget this one either.



...and somewhere in this blog there is a photo of a good healthy portion of my right boob which I'm not posting or linking to. Can't make things too easy for you people. It's there and it's spectacular.

Now I know that I could indeed run for high level public office and probably get by with enough bullsquat to succeed admirably. Doesn't matter which party I represent either. Either side can pull humiliating stunts and my stunts will pale by comparison. I've gotten this partially nude photo thing out of my system, I hope, and I can move forward with unabashedly admitting that my morning farts sound like a bleats from a dented bugle.

Not that I'm ever going to do such a thing, run for public office. I don't deal well with crazy people. Causes anxiety. Makes previously sane people do nutty things. Makes already crazy people think they are saner than the rest of us.

Plus I don't like pantyhose, pantsuits or lipstick. My dressing up would include a closet full of earth mama broomstick pleated ankle length skirts and my husband's hand me down teacher shirts. No need to shave my legs or my pits.

Maybe I'll just wear the french maid get up.

Only because they'll never let me go ala-cart with the fairy wings.

You're only supposed to go 'round dressed like that on Twitter.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

How my weekend got better.

FAST FOOD BREAKFAST


so much depends
upon


a sausage egg
McMuffin


topped with cheese
coffee


beside the hash
browns.




More poetry spoofs...mostly about my boobs.

Thursday, June 09, 2011

Maybe he'll buy the right lottery ticket someday.

Hi, I'm Becky.  I'm a housewife.  I have a seventeen year old son.  Despite being a good natured and happy baby, his terrible twos kicked in at one year old and they've never gone away.  This upsets me.

He's the wall that my head is constantly banging against...one of the biggest reasons I do not work.  He needs constant supervision and god, I am just tired.

(My cat Booger feels my frustration.  At the moment he's come up to block my screen, rub his head all over my face, and turn around to show me his bumhole like that's some sort of honor I'm due, seeing that I'm the top cat in this house.  This is an allegory to how my whole day with my son has gone.)

I don't get it.  I don't know what else his Dad and I can do to get through to him just what he needs to do to get out of this sixteen year rut.  These traits of his are not traits his little brothers share.  They aren't traits we have in any way rewarded or encouraged.  They aren't traits that have made him any friends or given him anything but the most temporary and sneaky goodies.  These are traits that have caused him quite a lot of loss and discomfort.

He well knows his own traits and figures that he can't fix them because fixing them requires effort...it's hard...or boring...or doesn't result in immediate goodies...this is just the way he is...maybe there is a medication that can fix me...or cuts into time thinking about something else...why bother.

Excellent thinking for today's economy and job prospects.

Yet, this kid o'mine, feels compelled to tell everyone else what they need to do, how to do it, when and with what skills.  Especially his five year old brother, who he socked in the gut today while I was in my bathroom and Dad had gone to the grocery store, to reinforce how, in his opinion, one should be cleaning their room even though his own room was itself filthy.

Tonight my teenager is laying in a room with a sparse few of his belongings in it, feeling sorry for himself for getting punished, because if he feels sorry for himself then no other effort on his part can wiggle it's way through.  Oh, and a good dose of blaming everyone else for his problems too. 

Dear God, grant me the power of The Matrix, where I can just plug an html cord into his neck and program in an a-ha moment....please? 

Otherwise, if he indeed joins the Navy like he intends to after he (cross fingers) graduates from high school, he'll fall right on his naive know-it-all face which might be very useful for him but not at all useful to the Navy or for national security.  They will not take, "It's too hard." or "I don't know." or I didn't hand in weeks of homework because, "There was a sub." or "I have asthma." when he in fact only had breathing issues with a bout of strep at 10 years old.  My son will stumble, down he'll go, he will land hard, and he will feel the pain of this acutely.  I'm both thrilled about this life lesson and it breaks my heart, it shatters my heart.

The rub of all this is that he's so smart.  He's so damned smart.  He's got this amazing brain in his head that he cannot be bothered to use to prove himself up. Kid scored an 85% on his ASVAB...then blew off his college placement tests.  Their results recommended he start with remedial courses, you know, the courses you get no credit for in college because they are at an 7th grade level so you can work your way to actual college level courses, that you still have to pay good money for.

Sixteen years of a long road and it's just getting longer.

After this next school year there isn't a damned thing I can do about it either.

Dammit.

(Cat, get your ass out of my way.)

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

Justin's Secret

This morning I gave my husband a thrill.  Not a thrill in the usual sense.  That may or may not have happened and I wouldn't give you any details if it did.  No...this morning I commanded my husband to measure my chest so I'd know what size bra to buy after I drove 120 miles to the nearest Walmart.

To recap...my hormones are wonky and this has caused my breasts to dramatically change size and shape, to the point where none of my bras have fit well for a while.  My hormones have also caused me to grow a goatee.  The goatee does not need underwire.

To recap again...I live in the middle of nowhere and the only bras available here are the skanky itchy lingerie rejects the dollar store stocks.  If I want bras or books or shoes or chain restaurants, I have to grab ten gallons of gas and drive over the salt flats and around a large salt water lake.

I asked my husband to help out with the measuring for two logical reasons.  A gal shouldn't measure herself for foundation garments and he is the only other person in the house available for the task..  It's a good recommendation that a woman not measure herself for any garments.  The change in posture and the position of the arms while trying to measure your own person can redistribute flesh and cause measurements to be off by several inches.  Several inches difference might be a measurement that makes a woman feel very good until she tries on the wrong sized clothes or it might be one that causes her to vow to Tai Bo for two hours a day. 

The thrill of measuring was a bonus prize for everyone involved.  You ladies, I suggest the next time you need brassieres to set aside an hour or two so your husband can take measurements for you.  Getting a fitter at a department store to measure you is more efficient, true, but your bond with your fitter is only temporary and polite.  Grab a man and bond.  Measuring for everyone!

At Walmart, I picked up two bras in my shiny new size to try on.   I chose the same cup style that I've worn since I was a teenager.  Old habits.  The lady at the fitting room desk removed my hangers, unlocked the door, and gave me an item count number to display, in case I forgot to take one of the new bras off.  It's those thoughtful touches that keeps me as a faithful Walmart customer...those associates are always thinkin'.   What they didn't think to tell me is that it's really pathetic for a 36 year old woman to wear a teenybopper bra.  Those bras don't heft middle-aged breasts into proper alignment...they only cause detached looking lump things on your front.

It's back into the racks where I pick up bras with different cup angles and fuller cups.  When I presented four more bras to the fitting room associate, she sighed heavily and asked me if I even knew what my size was.  I told her that my husband measured me thoroughly that morning and I was trying on a different style because my girls weren't 18 anymore, which is something I only noticed a moment ago.

She shut up.  Two of those bras made the cut.  Four more in the same style in different colors also made it into my cart.  Then an old codger fingering panties leered at me.

Come to think of it, I was pregnant when I was 18 and my breasts had issues then too.  My nipples have never recovered.

Anyhow, It was a satisfying day shopping by myself.  I got out of the house.  I got to spend as much time as I wanted in the second hand store and the fabric store.  I got to stop and sniff the scented candles.  I got to eat a bacon, egg, hash brown cheeseburger at Denny's.  I got to not nag at my children.  It was a nice start to the summer vacation.

As I write, my boobs are WAY comfortable and pointing happily and proportionately forward.

Bonus prize or booby prize...your call.

Sunday, June 05, 2011

Snooze Button

So this summer vacation BS has begun....

...with six loads of laundry.

What's worse than that is that I had run out of non-dairy creamer and I put milk into my coffee instead, resulting in a hot milk taste that ruined an entire morning.  Some of you silly people prefer milk in your coffee and good on ya, but I want the real fake creamer in mine. 

I've lost all control of the TV remote.  I had to watch Bob Ross on non-cable PBS today.

Someone left only a small handful out of the entire bag of my sour cream and cheddar flavored chips.  MY chips.  Martians came and ate them apparently.

Two dishwasher loads done and one to go.

One of my cats broke my lamp trying to balance between it and an open window on the first day this spring where opening the windows was a damned fine idea.

None of my bras fit anymore.  This is not the fault of any of my cats.  My breasts can't figure out what size they are these days.

But...

I get to sleep in tomorrow morning. 

I win.

Thursday, June 02, 2011

Cold cold warmer warmer hot hot hot ON FIRE

I was just at the grocery store.  It's one of the places I tend to go when we run low on milk and snacks with a high level of sugar and fat.  Snacks that aren't represented on the new dinner plate shaped graph that replaced the food pyramid. The way my teenager smells lately we might also be running low on personal hygiene products...either that or he's used them all up in one of his hour long showers.

Before any of these items were in my cart giving away my station in life, while I was browsing for graduation cards in the greeting card aisle, a shy, handsome and impressively tattooed man introduced himself and asked me out for a drink.  He'd already decided on a Father's Day card and that's a good enough reason to imbibe as any.

Being asked out has not happened to me in a while.  Not out of the blue like that anyway.  Took me a moment to shift gears because I'd spent the evening telling my five year old to stop karate chopping the furniture and to put back on his shirt.  Nice and unexpected.

My mom jeans must have looked all perky.

Sometimes it's the hair.  When my long hair is loose it has a hypnotic effect on many of the male sex.

Or maybe it was because I ventured out braless and it was kinda chilly.

Or because I left my wedding rings at my parent's house last weekend.  I took them off to do the dishes.

Anyhow, I had to turn him down.  That's marriage for you.  Casual dating sucks after you vow to honor and cherish.

Did I mention that this guy was not at all bad to look at?   And muscular?   Uh-huh.

The satisfied fuzzy feeling of being asked out had lasted all of fifteen minutes when I had a hot flash in the store and it all melted away whatever attracted him in a rush of perimenopausal sweat.

Now I just feel matronly and damp.

Mother Nature stole my thunder, that cow.

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