Monday, September 26, 2011

If you make a hard bed, you have to lay in it.

It's insane to buy a mattress sight unseen.

...and I'm insane.

But I'm also sure that the big dips on either side of our old pillow top mattress are doing my back and joints no favors.  It's molded the shape of my hip and butt right proper.  Size dainty.  Not to mention that our bed frame has begun to squeak during marital maintenance. 

Sam's Club online has lulled me with memory foam, the assurance of thirteen 5 star reviews and $24 shipping.  They are throwing in the bed frame and the dust ruffle too.

Hopefully, instead of squeaking , the new frame moans or, better yet, makes encouraging commentary.  Commentary like, "You're a snorting wild stallion, you beast you." and "When you lay in that come hither position nothing looks droopy."  I think everyone needs a bedstead that actively improves their confidence.

I won't push it by praying that ten to twenty pounds of our collective body fat will melt away while we sleep.

Next comes the hard part.  Since I live in Nevada Casino Hell, what kind of white trash use can I put the old mattress and box springs to?

We don't own a trampoline.  The way my backyard is situated a trampoline would serve as a launching pad to propel my children up onto my roof or impaled on my gate.  A mattress on the ground would be far safer to jump on, that is until one of them impales themselves on a loose bed spring.  If my children do this thing right and if I can make a good enough excuse to my home owner's insurance, one of the neighbor's kids will poke themselves in a painful yet satisfactory way.

Maybe we'll strap the thing on the roof of our fabulous mini-van, driving around the fountain by the golf course, playing Huck Finn and Jim up there.  It'll be my way of supporting the Tea Partiers and their views on Planned Parenthood.

Crossbow practice...with my homemade medieval style crossbow and bolts made out of soup cans.  Or maybe with those ninja stars I bought in bulk off Home Shopping.  My ninja skillz make grandma cry.

Community theater reenactment of "The Burning Bed".  We'll invite a nearby neighbor to play the Farrah Fawcett part because he keeps walking around with his tshirt tucked under his moobs. 

I'm turning the box spring over, tearing off the scrim, filling it up with soil and I'm planting petunias in it.  Then I'll get my flamingo on. 

Shields for our illegal fireworks show.  Quick, chuck the cherry bomb before you shred your fingers into potted meat.

In all likelihood we'll just take the old set to the dump after spray painting, "Got asked, Got told!" across it.  Hopefully the second letter G will be placed on my bum divot.  It'll fit in there nicely.


***


Yes, my dumb gay cat Booger is still missing.  Thanks to everyone that has shared my worry.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Missing Cat...answers to "Dammit!"

My cat is still missing.  We've done some searching and some calling and some desperate shaking of bags of cat treats and he's nowhere to be found.

I'm hoping he took a detour from his daily outside hour about the backyard, maybe to the strip club just a short walk away.  Yes, I live near a strip club.  I live a short walk away from everything in my border casino town.  I can walk to the grocery store, the baptist church, the Pizza Hut, a store that sells frilly underpants and the liquor store.  (Ever wonder why the bulk of our tourists come from Utah?)  Hear's to hoping my cat made a stop at the Arby's and is having trouble carrying back a sack of Arby's melts for the family.

Sob...Arby's meat is one of Booger's favorite treats!

Booger is near 12 years old.  He's getting old, thin, and cranky.  One of his eyeballs doesn't work properly.  He hurls a lot.  He's begun to spray my garage door which I clean off with bleach.  He kicks a pile of litter outside of the box and then poops on top of it, but before that, he meows loudly to announce he has to take a dump.  His breath smells fishy and he sticks his butt in my face when he wants me to scratch above his tail.

I may cry now. 

This animal loves me and I love him and I don't know where he is!

You know it's bad because I've turned down a free ticket to go see Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert tomorrow because I won't be good company.

No one needs me to break into sobs during Free Bird.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Lost Cat

My dumb gay cat, Booger, has come up missing today.


I'm a wreck.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Nipple Mark

Tonight I'm at my sister's house.  My sister is not home.  My sister's husband IS home. 

He keeps talking about embarrassing and noisy bodily functions and offering to let me touch his pants.  He's retarded, but my sister seems to like him, except on Bunco night.

I shouldn't say such things or read them out loud in his direction.  Afterall, they are allowing me to stay in their home for the weekend so I can attend my high school color guard reunion.

In high school I was so unbelievably cool.  It's hard to imagine that level of awesome.  When you sit in the back of the band bus drinking lemon/lime gatorade and sticking your hands on the tuba player's pants, there is no other way to put it.  It was Glee before there was Glee, dammit.

Did I mention that I was also in The Future Farmers of America and heavy into art classes?  

I know.  It's amazing I was never homecoming queen.

It's been twenty years since I've seen some of the people that I will be seeing tomorrow.  In addition to asking them to forgive me for bringing bags of chips to the potluck, I'd like them to only gently pry about any of the following.

-   Yes, I grew boobs and yes, those things have become somewhat fond of gravity.
-   The silver mini-van outside?  All mine and completely paid for.  Punk. Rock.
-   No, I didn't become a famous artist.  However, the photo of my tubal ligation is being used without my permission on several medical sites.
-  Sure, I talk sex just as much as I used to but now I know what I'm talking about.
-   Yes, I'm still with that guy I married when I was 18. 
-   And we still do it.  At least twice a month whether we want to or not.
-   Don't touch my goatee...or my hormone pooch belly...perimenopause is not fascinating.  (I just asked my brother in law if I could borrow a razor.  I forgot one.  He replied, "You're going to need a lot more than a razor if you want to look like you did in high school.  PooHead.)

They can, of course, mention this blog.  Hello flag sisters!  If you know my sister's husband you can ask him about the title of this post. 

Just don't mention this to my sister.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Rattle is for Me

I ate veal last night but that's not what has me feeling pukey today. 

I've felt a little bit pukey for the last three-four weeks.  That on top of sore boobs, some soupy downstairs symptoms and an abnormally light week early period, I thought that buying a pregnancy test would be an intelligent idea.

Thing is, as many of you have seen the photo evidence of, I've had a tubal ligation. 

After three pregnancies and three births, all spaced around five years apart, I've had my fill of childbearing.  The pregnancy part ain't bad.  I like being pregnant.  My body bursts forth with all this creative baby-making energy and I feel sexy as all hell despite all my new body hair.   Not enough room for actual penetrative sex after five months, but growl, cougar time!

Unfortunately raising small children in middle age kills the cougar dead.  Nine lives all snuffed out when sperm meets egg.  Rice baby cereal is probably the least sexy substance on the planet and for several months a mother swims in the stuff.  Then for the next 18 years she keeps trying to scrub dried remnants of it off the kitchen counters.

Did you know that the rate of tubal ligation failure at my point in life is 13 in 1000 women? 

Lucky 13.  Luck runs my way too.  I've conceived whilst properly using a condom and I've conceived whilst properly using the birth control pill.  Conceiving after having my fallopian tubes hacked and burnt would line up right proper.

Before we insert any appropriate expletives, let's go back a couple hours to when I was collecting pee in a cup.  There are far less mistakes if you plop the test into a cup rather than hold it in your urine stream.  Less splashing and less urine needed in general.  In the spirit of the moment I chose an old sippy cup that I hadn't thrown away yet and forced myself to pee.

Wait...no...let's go back one hour past that when I told my husband at the grocery store that we should buy a pregnancy test to at least rule that out as the cause of my symptoms. 

Hoo boy.

That went over pretty well, right after he held himself back from vomiting in a dump table full of purse size bottles of hand sanitizer.

What's more is that in a small town, where everyone knows everyone else and there is only one store to purchase such things, buying a pregnancy test is not an anonymous experience.  Any moment now I'm expecting a congratulations on Facebook.

...and in reply to that I'd have to say....

I'M NOT PREGNANT!

I feel bloaty and sore and headachey and hungry and horny and pissy and pukey, which probably means that I've got something new and fun going on with my ever fluctuating hormones, and that I should go to the vagina doctor again, but I can rule out kid number four.

Gonna go throw away that sippy cup now.  No one's gonna be using that thing for any reason now.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Judging a book by it's cover...quit wiping your boogers under the dustjacket.

Some years back, when there was some natural disaster or another, where people were suffering and it was being well covered by the media, I was asked why I never wrote about such things.  Didn't I care that people were suffering? 

Or...in the subtext as I remember it...is your life so charmed that you think you can get away with such a thing, not sharing in the national or international grief that the rest of the blogosphere is covering?  You must never have any problems.  Who do you think you are?

Then, some weeks back, I was asked something similar in reaction to tragedy.  I figured I'd just let it go much like I'd let the first question go. 

Much more often I get complimented on my little corner of the internets being a place where one can get a giggle away from the rest of the world's worries and bullshit.  I feel that way too.  I write that way.  There is always something you can find to laugh about.  Parts of the world are far too awful without a laugh.

But then the tenth anniversary of 9/11 made it's way around the media and internets and had me thinking about the question.  We retold our stories, revisited our shock and anger, and relived our sadness.  My story is no different from anyone else so far outside of what went on that day.  I woke, I turned on the news, I saw the second plane hit and I knew we were at war.   Nothing would be different in my day to day life in practice other than the instinctual reaction of my veteran husband to get on a plane and walk into the nearest Army base to report to duty.  I'm glad he didn't do that. 

Before I explain myself,  here's where I could stomp and say this is my blog and my content.  Dare you complain about my content!  If I want to write about boobs and farts, then I'm gonna write about boobs and farts.  Go elsewhere if you want different content.  I hear the fart jokes are better on The Huffington Post anyway.

That's not the point I want to make at all.  Criticize if you like.  I don't mind.  That I don't write much about the grief or tragedy of others or base my writing in my own painful moments isn't because I don't care but because I don't come by it naturally.  It's not the way I am made.

I'm not the sort that processes grief and sadness out loud.  If I'm sad, hurting, facing problems, or confused I will turn to my husband first but then most of the time I rely on myself to work it out.  And most of the time I can.  I like working things out on my own and feel great satisfaction and peace when I do.  It's a source of strength and a base in weakness.

Now, imagine what 9/11 would have been if everyone internalized like me, trying to muddle through on their own.  That would have been the tragedy.  Thankfully it takes all kinds and the world is all the more beautiful for it. 

What I think about our American life post 9/11 can, strangely enough, be summed up by yesterday's This American Life: Chapter Two: In  the Garden of the Unknown Unknowns.  Widow Marian Fontana says what I've thought with far more validity than I could ever pretend to have.

Otherwise, I'm going to keep on laughing.  That's also the way I'm made.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

The Gee OH Pee!

Like others, I also completely blew off last night's Republican presidential debate.  Not on purpose.  We meant to watch and for no other reason than to raise our blood pressures, but we forgot and since it wasn't on network TV, our remote didn't make it towards the higher numbered news channels.

I apologize for my civic irresponsibility...was playing Sims Social.

Today I pieced together the best parts from news stories, video clips and satirical YouTubes and got the jist.  I can break this down for you.

Taxes bad.
Obama bad.
The other candidates bad.
Obamacare bad.
No jobs bad.
I created more jobs than you.
My skin's too dry and I need to apply more tanning oil.

If I were going to vote Republican in the next election no doubt I'd ponder on the issues with due diligence but I can't say that part of the consideration for my vote is which candidate might have the dorkiest "O" face.  These are the tangents that make our political processes interesting.

We'll start with the two homegrown candidates my local news is fond of pitting against one another.  I could see them together in the manliest wide stance sort of way, heh.



Oooh Mitt Romney!  Oooh!


Fetchin' Jon Huntsman Jr.  Cock that eyebrow, cock it!


Now let's lump the rest of the males together in one big bundle of American values.




Way to go Rick Perry!


You too Rick Santorum!


Herman Cain exaggerates.


Wake up Newt Gingrich!

Ron Paul's got vim and vigor.


Finally, the only source of estrogen a'runnin....



Michelle Bachmann is NOT exaggerating.


As I watch the President's job speech and finish up this post, I realize that I'm not very responsible in my civic duties with this post either, but it was fun wasn't it?  Now, if only someone would give me a job image searching Google, we'd have something.


No, you aren't paying my for photos of my  "O" face.  Besides, I don't take returns and won't provide you a refund.


***


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Tuesday, September 06, 2011

But I Totally Can't Help it.

B.I.T.C.H.

Babe in total control of herself/her life, right?

Beautiful.  Intelligent.  Talented.  Cute.  Honest.

Shrug...I guess. 

This acronym has floated around for some time now. I suppose it's in an effort to turn a patriarchal insult into a positive empowered state of being.   No longer am I less than, a carrier for a vagina which requires all that pedantic foreplay, but desirable and not at all vapid, ignorant or hysterical.  This woman has skills, thoughts, talents and brains.  I take your profane word, sir, and I shove it back into your big fat hairy entitled male face.

Take that!  It's my word now.

Except, my sisters, which one of you decided it was a good idea to own this word to begin with?

Which one of you decided it was okay to be bitchy?

See, I get being feminine and enjoying our female bodies and our own sexualities.  I get wanting to be recognized for our abilities and being considered equal for our works and ideas.  I get that women want to get over the hurdle of our sinful female ways, like showing our ankles and venturing beyond the kitchen, but is this a label we really need to embrace?  Is this how we want to portray ourselves as human beings with value?  Bitch?

Behaving poorly is a trait that does not need tribute, and that's exactly what the word bitch says about you, no matter how much of it's frown you turn upside down.  It's an insult comeback fail.

I am so tired of seeing grown people, in general, behave like whiny self interested tantrummy toddlers.

This is not classy.  It's not beautiful or cute.

It has no dignity.

It displays no integrity.

What's worse is that the word "bitch" is no longer enough of an insult because we've gone ahead and dumbed it down.  Instead of a comparison to an un-spayed female dog we've moved onto a spectacularly crude four letter word for our vaginas that some of us are also claiming as our own.

Personally, I'd be embarrassed to be acting bitchy or to claim I'm a bitch of any sort. 

Don't get me wrong here.  There are times and places in our language where it's perfectly acceptable to express ourselves with colloquial connotative speech.  Words are not off limits.  The power of words should be used.  Shouted.  Penned on rest stop walls with a toll free number.

It's just that when you try to take back your power in this way it just looks silly and doesn't do a whole lot to accomplish that goal.

Take my advice and...

















There are better ways to go about it.








Friday, September 02, 2011

Where is Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?

The dream I had last night started out well enough.  Excellent in fact.  Steamy.  My husband and I were not bored at all at the beginning of this dream. 

However, right before the dream would have culminated in any sort of satisfaction it morphed into something else.

I'd gone from this very nice place in my dream and bedroom to having my entire house infested by aggressive and poisonous snakes.  My children were camping out on top of kitchen counters.  My husband was cornering snakes, and I was hacking snakes to death with my kitchen knives, barely  avoiding bites that would kill me.  Scared out of my mind.

Just when I thought the snake slaughter was over, I saw one last snake, the smallest one of the bunch, slither into my laundry to hide.  Gently moving articles of clothing revealed that bastard, coiled, but I was faster and corralled it under a basket.

I held out my knife and moved the basket...

It lunged...

And at that moment, in real time waking life, my dumb gay cat jumped onto my chest...

Which instantly woke me up in the most heart attack sort of way.

Um.  FREAK. OUT.

I got back to sleep well enough and now that I've had time to think about it, I wonder what Freud would say about such a thing.  How does one go from hot times with the husband to hacking apart  mother-fuggin' snakes in my mother-fuggin' laundry, terrified?   What kind of phallic type inner meaning can we derive from this?

 Is my cat psychic?

If anyone knows the meaning of life while we're at it, that probably figures in there somewhere.

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