Tuesday, August 30, 2011

If you peek in my windows, I'm going to spray floor cleaner at you.

As of yesterday I've had my children in a state run educational institution from 8 am to 4 pm every day for a week and I have been home, alone, with my thoughts and with the blissful quiet.

Ahhh!  God yes!  My space is mine!  I do not miss the whiny protestations and tattling of the last three months, the constant requests for some kind of snack, and  I do not miss those stupid noises from cartoons or other adolescent programming. 

Except for maybe ICarly.  I am entertained by ICarly.  If Miranda Cosgrove wants to come over and make goo-goo eyes at my teenaged son, I'd at first wonder if she was sane, and then I'd wonder if she had a sense of smell, but third I'd wonder if she'd accept the payment of my soul for the service.  Please, Miranda, be my daughter in law.  I'll share the family pancake recipe with you.

However, no one else is allowed to come over during the day.  If the doorbell rings I will not be answering it.  I am now unencumbered by the stifling summer months and I've found a necessary part of this has been to go about naked as a jaybird.

No joke.  Newd.  Naturism.  Going back to my Darwinian roots short of throwing my poo.

I'm finally in control of all of my senses and that includes the delicious feeling of forced air conditioning all over my body while I perform matronly tasks, like loading the dishwasher and trying to figure if the Swiffer Mop my husband bought me is a conspiracy. 

I've blown through all four seasons of Mad Men in all my pasty glory.

Now, I've got to stop you here.  Do not hit that instant message button with a webcam request.  Just because I'm sharing this happiness and freedom with you does not mean I'm share sharing with you.  That defeats the whole purpose of just being myself for a little while.  You can use your imagination.

Just don't imagine anything unseemly about me with any of the many nouns I've mentioned in this post and if you just did, no need to tell me about it.

I don't want to hear it and no, you can't have any more chips.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Four Insects and a Funeral

When we were visiting The Happiest Place on Earth, I was fascinated to find a very large cockroach going for an evening stroll in our hotel parking lot.  So fascinated that I caught this cockroach so I could look at it closely.  Bugs do not freak me out and where I live, cockroaches aren't a fact of life.  Some other places a person could live, like around a major family theme park destination or Texas, you're going to have roaches.  You cannot have sticky faced wailing vomiting children dropping churros and cartoon shaped ice cream bars all over and not get some massive cockroaches.  Where I live the only way you get cockroaches is if you do everything in your power to welcome them over short of entering into a contract with Six Flags.

Where I live we also have no fleas.  Something about our climate and elevation.  So that's kickass.

Anyway, there I was, in an underground parking lot near Disneyland, looking at the ass end of a cockroach so I could determine if I had a girl roach or a boy roach.   Gynecological entomologists aren't much respected in the insect world and it flew off before I could tell.  Shucks.

Female bugs typically have little pincer type bits on their back ends.  Excellent to grasp dollar bills with when they pole dance.  The more you know.

More evidence that bugs do not freak me out.  Shortly before bed last week, two of my three cats were acting ku-ku-nuts, running about the house, growling, pouncing and upon inspection I found that they had been torturing a largish scorpion.



Not many roaches around here.  Plenty of scorpions.  Not many churros.  Plenty of desert.  In twelve years of Nevada living I'm surprised that I haven't had a scorpion in my house up until now.  Don't worry, this variety is not poisonous.

Poor scorpion.  It had been crunched on and so I flushed it down the toilet.  Then I regretted doing so because I could have looked at it more!  I do not know how to tell if this is a girl scorpion or a boy scorpion but based on size alone, probably a girl. 

I also found this bug ambling along the center of my family room after a late night summer thunderstorm some time ago.


House centipedes are also common. harmless and not any way affiliated with the sex industry.   Adorable!

A time or two I've mentioned the tarantula hawk wasps that gather in my flowering trees in the spring.




Get one of those in the bug zapper and it's like the Fourth of July.

So, the point is, I like bugs. 

Yesterday, though, I did not like a bug I found...and I found it quite dead, thank the lord.

It looked like it had been dead a long time but I'm still on the lookout for others just like it and that's what has me freaked out.

You see, I found another cockroach.  A BIG COCKROACH.  In the bag we'd packed our clothes in to go to Disneyland.  A stowaway.  A sneaky bastard.  A bug that had probably made it's way into my stuff IN OUR HOTEL ROOM.  In between our vacation in late June and now, it had lived and it had died and I don't have a date of death for it.  And there might be other stowaways and they might have had lots of babies and those babies had babies and A BIG DEAD COCKROACH!

It calms me down to think that the scorpion may have come into my house to eat the cockroach and left it's exoskeleton for me to find and subsequently for one of my cats to eat.  Yes, my cat saw the dead cockroach and made a quick snack of it.  It also ate two houseflies and a moth.  Then Beulah licked herself and I wondered if she had a fetish.

It also calms me to think that if my house did become infested, my cats would eat pretty damned good in the neighborhood.

But...just eww...ewwwww. 

I slept just fine after scorpion night but until I spray this house down with some kind of poison, I'm bedding down with one eye open.

Lord, please, tell me my cats can just eat ONE.

Monday, August 22, 2011

What's on my syllabus, biatches.

I had all kinds of plans for today.  Fantasies.  Warm fuzzy thoughts about sending all my shiny clean children to school all day long and having hours to myself.  The first day of school.  It's finally here!

To start off the morning, creamy gourmet coffee in an earthenware mug and fruits in season, eaten in my newly landscaped backyard, next to my vegetable garden and under my aspen tree.

Then I thought I'd take a long bubble bath with my Kindle, rejuvenating my mind with moist perfumed air and a pretentious novel.

After leisurely towelling off, I'd pick a perfectly ironed outfit from my closet and do my hair and makeup, taking care to match my lipstick to my bra and panty set.

Then I thought I might take myself out to lunch.  There is a new deli in one of our fine casinos that puts together an admirable hot pastrami on rye.  Side of pickle.  Perrier.  Sophisticated.

Then back home to Facebook and watch Mad Men streaming on Netflix until it was time to pick up the kids.

Ha.  Ha ha ha.

This is what I did instead:

My alarm went off at 7 AM and I told it exactly what I thought of it.  Twenty minutes later, which is forty minutes early, my kids were showered, dressed, fed and ready to go to school.  I had to void two checks trying to write out a payment for lunch money.  It's important to not sign both the signature line and the payment to line.

Back from dropping them off, I notice my garage smells like cat pee because one of my feline herd has dribbled half in and half out of the cat box.  I dump a little litter over it and promptly forget about it until the time of this writing.  Probably scared it with the garage door opening mid pee.

I pour myself my coffee, sans fruit, and take it outside, only to find my next door neighbor has replaced her Virginia Slims habit with Camels.  I can smell her and hear her talking to herself through her open sliding glass door.  Back inside it is.  At least the coffee is a fresh pot and not a reheated one.

Onto the computer where I get lost in playing games on Facebook.  I'm proud to announce that my Facebook Sim avatar person woohoo-ed casually with the hot Sim chick living down the block.  In real life, my dumb gay cat Booger has staked out my lap and sheds all over my pink flannel pajama pants.

A bit after noon I smell myself and head toward the shower where I mistake my son's spiderman body wash for my shampoo.  It smells like a cross between bubble gum and lighter fluid.  High on that kind of steam, I completely ignore every area on my body that needs hair removal.

Dressed in yesterday's jeans and a very thin yellow tshirt that was on the top of the laundry pile, it's off to Arby's because I'm craving fried cheese.  I don't bother to put on shoes or makeup.  The kid at the drive thru window rolls his eyes at me when I request ranch dressing for my cheese and I restrain myself from throwing the little container of unwanted marinara at him.

Back home again.  I enjoy my cheese and ranch while listening to one of my favorite podcasts and yelling at the cats for trying to filch my lunch.  There was a moment there when I considered brewing some green tea but I belched and then it passed.

Then I piddle about some doing housework but not of the sort that looks like I did housework at all.  Whatever.  I'm sleepy.

Time to get the kids.  As I'm pulling into the school parking lot I realize that again I didn't put on any shoes but I think better of it as I pull into the same spot I've parked in for the last two years.  You would think my kids would be able to find me on habit but since I'm now sporting Nevada desert blacktop burns on the bottoms of my feet, you would be mistaken. 

Home, where dozens of notices and permission slips are signed and tucked into backpacks with the hope that they might be turned in tomorrow, unlike the checks I gave them for lunch this morning.

Ya know, some warm fuzzy thoughts only turn out to be moldy ones.  I try not to beat myself up about it.

Tomorrow I put old shoes in the van and claim a new closer spot in the lot as mine.

Tomorrow I'm going to toss this old yellow tshirt.  I bought a new one.

Tomorrow I hope to accomplish something concrete and useful and maybe classy.

Tonight I still have to clean the cat box before bed.

Whatever.  I'm sleepy.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

At least you can recycle a fig leaf.

When I was in high school I wore the best underwear.  I had better underwear than any of my friends and was often complimented in the least porny way possible on how pretty my underwear was in the locker room. 

My classmates, in the Utahiest part of Utah, had mothers that did not allow them to wear panties like mine for modesty's sake.  They bought their daughters underpants that were the next best thing to chastity belts which provided a vast barrier to germs and other intruders.  Room for a giant maxi pad and a spare.

I wore cute lacy satin confections which would barely make a bump in the front pocket of your jeans if you had to stash them there in an emergency. 

My Mom didn't object.  She insisted on doing my laundry because she's a little OCD in the housewivery department so my tiny underpants were approved.  They didn't add bulk to your average family sized load.

When I became a Mom I discovered the joys of the cotton bikini panty.  Low enough to wear under your mommy gut, cottony enough that they don't bind while you're chasing two year olds, and cute enough to serve as a reminder that you'd had acrobat monkey sex thoughts before you had children.

Then as I aged further, as all my children became potty trained and of the age where they could play outside, I discovered the joys of a pair of underwear that would fully cover my backside and not sneakily creep up into it.  Plenty of elastic.  Excellent stretch.  Lots of breathing room.  Could be used as an emergency blanket in cold weather.  Sturdy.  Dependable.

But those pairs of underwear are such a visual downer.

So when I went to buy myself new underwear while I was visiting in the big city, I decided I wanted the best of all these worlds.  Partially granny breathable cotton panties that were comfortable and not an embarrassment to admit you own.

This is not an impossible task.  At least when your store of choice fully stocks their underwear selections.  My store of choice had a sale on what I wanted, had run out, and because I didn't want to go to another store I just bought what was left within my size parameters.

Size DAINTY.  Don't ruin my delusions.  You don't need to know my size.  You just need to know that I'd already thrown away all my old saggy snaggy pairs of underwear so desperation played it's part.

I settled on four packages of panties made from adolescent fabrics that fit much like this on the front:



Fit somewhat like this on the back:



And have an unpleasant way of crawling up my ass anyway.  Sigh.

That's not the worst of this story.  The worst of it was found as I was unrolling my new packages of teenybopper print underwear into my drawer.  The last package was not what I thought it was at all.

The lady on the package looks much like this from the front, which is no different from the other packages I purchased:



Where are her stretch marks?  Anyhow, I found that the underwear looks like this from the back:



I've been shorted a good quarter of a yard of fabric!

In all my varied and lurid underwear owning history, I have never, ever purposely worn a pair of underwear as ridiculous as teeny bopper stars and hearts print thongs and now I have five stinking useless pair of them that I cannot return to the store.

I have some ideas on what I'm going to do with these thongs but I'm still open to suggestions.  So far they've made lousy collars for my cats and didn't function well at all as pot holders. 

I spend good money on them and can't let them go to waste, even if that waste will barely make a bump in your front pocket. 


Monday, August 15, 2011

Happy New Year!

Oh, there is a twinkle in the dark!  I can see it!  I can see the light at the end of the tunnel of summer vacation!

It is a beautiful twinkle promising rebirth and hope.  I'm going to pack up some myrhh and head on down to the school to deliver it and three of my children next Monday.  Blessed be.  Hallelujah.

I remember a time when my children were infants.  They were cute infants.  They did cute things which I encouraged.  Like making cute noises which I naively parroted back to them.  I goo-goo-ed and ga-ga-ed.  When would they begin to talk?  I laid them on their tummies and scooted their tushies.  When would they walk?   I marveled on how widdle and pweshush those teeny newborn diapers were.  When would they start to do more than lie there and poop? 

Sooner than you think.  Way sooner.  Then the day arrives when the cute has all worn off and all you wish for between the months of June and September is fifteen minutes of quiet.  This walking and talking has gotten way old...though I'll keep them potty trained, thank you very much.

For the love of God why doesn't The Cartoon Network experience some technical difficulties for at least ONE episode of Adventure Time in the coming week?  Please?  For my sanity?

Wouldn't matter anyway.  That stuff is echoing in my brain even after I've turned the TV off.

One week.

Then I can shower on my schedule instead of in between the whims of my teenager. 

Fifteen minutes of quiet, a hot shower and my kids behind desks.  It'll be heaven.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Don't email me for photos. The answer is no.

Ahh, old home days.  Visiting family where no one allows you to steal their wifi.

I spent Wednesday evening in the Utahiest part of Utah with a bunch of old friends, some of whom have seen me quite naked.

If there ever was a bonus to friendship with me it's that I'm willing to go skinnydipping with you and not remark on how funny you look undressed.  Any one of them is free to tell me how I look naked as long as they lie to me.
This picnic was coincidental to that Facebook meme going about where you share memories of, "You know you're from PodunkTown when..."  None of us could get enough of that type of old fart reminiscing, trying to prove to each other that we were cool twenty years ago in our high school years.  Then we went on to compare ourselves to today's kids.  What a worthless lazy generation they are with their cell phones and their tweeting/twitting/twattering, their stupid looking pants and all that Katy Perry worship.  It's obnoxious is what it is.  Why, when we were their age our parents would have kicked our butts upside and down the other if we pulled what they'd pulled.  Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber are not wholesome influences and that's saying something because we had grunge.

Shutup about the skinnydipping in my teenaged years.  I only did that five or six times in mixed company in the dark.  We always kept our hands and lips to ourselves, sort of.  Besides, it was a matter of hygiene and the building of valuable self esteem.  When everyone has seen and not pointed and laughed at your lopsided breasts you have to accept them. 
Though I didn't bother to undress my middle aged and stretchmarked body in front of everyone Wednesday, we did get around to comparing the size of our boobs.  Men and women.  I'm proud to say that I've matured some but they are still wonderfully uneven.  The rest of me is stands at the age we were when we met including making jokes about pee.

Sadly, I didn't get to tell the puke story this time.   Let the others have a turn.


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Monday, August 08, 2011

Noisy, crazy, dirty, lazy, loafers!

I'm not one to say that one's pets are one's children.  Part of the family, sure, but I detest the term, "furbaby."

But what exactly would you compare your cat to in this situation?

Say you crawl into your freshly made bed with your husband to watch a movie and cuddle...

And say you fall asleep all cuddled up and intimate like...

And say at some point in the middle of the night you turn over, and you stretch out, so you don't have to breathe in your husband's exhale...

And you move into your favorite position to sleep in, slipping your feet under the soft warm blanket...

Only to find your toes in something wet, mushy and cold.

Which is wholly unexpected.

Because you do not remember leaving that there.

Did you dream that?

...So you wiggle your toes.

And it's still wet, mushy and cold.

So you sit up, touch your feet, and sniff your fingers in the dark.







That damned cat hurled under my blanket.







And why I love a cat with sneaky digestive upset is anyone's guess.

Won't be the last time I'll step in cat barf I'm sure.  Just wish it had happened on the floor.

Kids.



Friday, August 05, 2011

Where I got this dimple on my chin...

My husband took me to dinner this evening.  Buffet.  In a gambling town you can choose between buffet and more buffet and a truck that serves the most extraordinary tacos on the planet.  If the taco truck served crab legs we would have gone there, no question. 

As an aside, I did not bother a local celebrity while he filled his own plate at the buffet even though I find him very attractive. 

Had I bothered him, he might have noticed how freshly shaven and attractive I was myself, but I decided not to bother him on his day off.  I'm telling you, I was lovely and smooth.  In preparation for dinner I shaved all the signs of perimenopause off my face and neck.  Signs too numerous to pluck one by one.  Signs that are becoming more of a problem than they ever have been.  Signs that as I age I am slowly becoming a man and I'm expecting my testicles to drop any moment now.

Anyone know anything about lazer hair removal?  Because I'm seriously considering it.  At the ripe old age of 36, now that I have all my kids in school, I should not have a circus freak beard lady career in my future.  Can't get a 401K in that line of work.  No one calls up the bearded lady to ask for professional advice.

Five o'clock shadow on a woman sucks.  It just does.  So do ingrown whiskers.  I'm at the point in my life where acne is no longer a concern and now all these whiskers go underground to pout and fester.  It's plain rude.

It'll also be plain rude if I get my mother's chin and jowels as I age.  That scourge is already starting and no question about it, when my face starts to descend onto my upper chest, I'm getting some nipping and tucking done.  Now, I love my Mom, I do.  She decorates her family room with chickens, hoards aqua net and adores her vacuum cleaner, but my neck needs freedom from it's genetics.  My mom is 5'2" or about and her jowels fit into her frame.  I'm a foot taller in heels and as I go about in public I do not need strangers directing Tarzan calls at me.

In ten to twenty years if anyone wants to go with me to Brazil on a plastic surgery trip, let me know. 

Justin requests that I get my boobs done too.  Something for him to look forward to in his old age.  A bouncy new place to set my snacks.

If we do it right we can just insert my jowels right into my chest.  Meh.  They'll sag.

I told my husband that this was the reason I was not getting a boob job.


He said I didn't love him.  No I don't, honey.  Not that much.

Wednesday, August 03, 2011

I still don't Twitter

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My sisters make comments about my lopsided boobs.  If that's not reason enough to join up, I don't know what is.

I can't figure out how to ask them how they want fries with that.

Today I pushed my little dumpling seventeen year old son out my front door with specific directions to not go over to his friends houses, like he has every other day this week and last, and to instead take his freshly shaven and showered self into places of business and polietly but assertively inquire about a job.

When I made sure he had a pen, ID, references and could repeat his own social security number and street address, I held myself back from asking him if he wanted me to hold his hand too.  Instead I reminded him that past what we put out for school clothes, which wasn't a whole lot since most of his clothes still fit, that clothing his body was now up to him.  The longer he waits to procure employment, the less impressive his new clothes are going to look to potential bosses.  The bank of Mom and Dad is going to be closing it doors shortly so it's good to be prepared.

One evening last week my son's friends come over here because their parent's likewise kicked them and their jobless BO out of their houses for the day.  They all sat in a sweaty limp haired heap on my couch watching my Monty Python DVDs.  Again I had to hold back what I thought.  I shouldn't tell them that in their efforts to NOT look like Justin Bieber, they all looked more Bieberish than ever.  Instead I tell them, "You boys need showers."  Before they had time to think of a witty teenaged retort, I tagged that with, "...just don't shower together."  That caused them all to giggle like little girls.

Bet you next time they show up to my house they wipe themselves off first. 

Quips like that set a tone you know.  I'm the funny yet responsible parent.  I'm the one you can call if you're drunk and need a ride, but I'm also the one that's going to show up to your house the next day to fake concern and ask a parent how you are feeling.  Or I'd wake up your mother to ask where she stores her cleaning supplies when you hurl in my car.  I'll take you to buy condoms, give you a big lecture on the evils of herpes, but I won't lend you any money.

This is why youngsters need jobs.

Did I just make a reference to my little dumpling manchild ever engaging in sex as a minor and dependent?  Like back when I was seventeen almost eighteen?  Oh good lord.  Where the hell did I put my cleaning supplies?  I'm gonna be sick.

But then, when I was sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, etc, I was gainfully employed.  I had bills.  I worked for money and then used that money to make car payments, insurance payments, to fill my gas tank, to buy myself jeans that were much too short, to buy cinnamon Trident gum and to pay my own way on dates.  I'm still using the pots and pans I purchased back then to prepare myself for when I'd be a rent paying adult.  For cheapo pans, 18 years of use is not at all bad.  Those pans are older than my firstborn and more useful.

Can my manchild get to the sex part without having had a date yet?  Possibly.  Maybe not, considering the amount of grease and sweat that spurts off that kid.  Slippery.  We may be safe.

His senior year of high school starts in a little less than three weeks. 

Wasting 19 days of job searching time will not behoove him.

Monday, August 01, 2011

Iron Rich

My juice fast ended not a moment too soon, right after my body told me that if I didn't get some salt in my diet my insides would begin to ferment like beer and right before I took a blow to the head that caused an inch and a half long gash and much bleeding.

Day three of juice-a-poo-looza started off with my feeling pretty decent.  Cleaner than I'd felt in a long time.  That's not because I gave my colon overtime on day one and then two days off but because my blood stream was not busy pumping through any trans fats or excess sugars.  My brain felt sharp.  My kidneys felt effervescent.  My stomach felt calm and weirdly satiated.  I was farting like a motorboat but there was absolutely no odor whatsoever.  It's an odd superpower to find yourself with but I'll take it.  The grumpiness caused by the lack of solid food seemed to have passed and I thought that smooth sailing would commence.

Uh-huh.

By three in the afternoon I felt compelled to swallow pickles whole.  Compelled to lick rocks.  Desperate to purchase and consume a gallon jar of pigs feet.  Not hungry or empty feeling but intensely craving.  Needing salt and protein and unsure of whether or not my juicer could handle a can of Hormel chili.

...and I'd lost six pounds in two days.

That might be something you would congratulate a person on but for me that kind of weight loss is just too fast.  All it meant is that despite drinking my meals and peeing all my waste every half hour, my body had become dehydrated. 

I rectified this craving with a tall glass of water and some nitrate and iron rich processed pork with a lot of mustard.  It was a deliciousness that I cannot describe other than to say it was total nirvana and ultimate conciousness.  Bliss.  Rapture.  The meaning of life.

When I was pregnant with my first I had similar cravings.  Bologna or hotdogs served with enough mustard to hide the meat entirely.  Enough mustard to have to eat my sandwich with a fork.  Enough mustard to offend church going types.  Hallellujah hosannah.

In hindsight, quitting my juice fast was a pretty good plan because on what would have been day four of that ridiculousness I was bonked on the crown of my head by steal shelf support while I was working.  Because I had enough well rounded nutrition in my body I was able to shake off the dizziness but unfortunately, it wasn't enough to keep me from bleeding all down the back of my neck.

Justin called our EMT neighbors over for an unofficial visit and they were nice enough to declare my pupils normal, determine that my gash was not deep enough for stitches, spray it with disinfectant, and jerry rig a bandage to it that didn't require me shaving my head.  They told me that I should be woken up on the hour and that I'd have a headache for sure, oh, and don't wash your hair for at least a day.

Blood and guts in your hair-do is quite the look.  Something to match your belt and handbag with.

Today I'm fine and healing well but the scab on my scalp is driving me bonkers.  Ooooh I want to peel it off!  It's so, so, so three dimensional!  It's sooooo crispy!!

But I won't.  Good thing I'm over those salt and protein cravings, right?

I'm not against repeating my juice fast again, someday, when I'm feeling sludgy or when my bladder is acting obstinate. Next time though I'm going to juice Slim Jims and Grey Poupon along with my kale.  Just for flavor.

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