Friday, December 28, 2012

Cheeseballs and Crackers

Christmas is about spending time with family and friends...as I always do this time of year, here is a glimpse into the delusions and dementia that run rampant in my DNA and psyche, provided by the people I surround myself with.

Onto the quotes

"Stay down bitch!"
- Justin, my husband and co-DNA donor to our kids, whispered in my ear after our 7 year old KO'ed his opponent in Wii boxing.

"Shake it if you want to use it, Alec."
- Kaelan, my Navy bound son, dispersing Wii playing advice to his little brother in a "That's what she said." fashion.

"Jesus."
- Tonya, my sister Lisa's partner in life and evil, in nauseated response to my asking my nephew, Seth, if I could sniff his beard. There has to be history in that fur.  His answer was no.



Excuse the grainy phone pic.  Can't you just imagine the scent though?
 


"We'll have to have baloney on the barbecurr!"
- Brian, my brother in law, upon learning that we'd forgotten to pack up and bring the new york loin steaks we'd bought him. 

"I made the blog. Bout time I was more important than tits on a bulldog."
- Brian, again, happy about his bologna crack making the cut.

"Is that mayans or mormons?"
- Justin, still my husband, answering the question of if the Mayans are full of shit, with their apocalypse and all.

"I cant, Mom said I shouldn't touch."
Tonya again, when asked if she wanted to play with Kaelan's new complicated rubiks cube style puzzle.

"There's dog crap stuck on the ceiling."
- Jill, my little sister, wife of Brian, who knows what to do with a white elephant joke novelty gift.  Makes us wish we all had rubber dog turds to stick to our ceilings.

"Dangit Mom and Wiener on that side of the table.  I'm staying over here."
- Alec, my thirteen year old son, during a game of chicken foot dominoes, in which my awesome plays earn a "dangit Mom!" from him and my 70 year old dad blocks good plays and gets called a "wiener".  My dad won the game.

"I got nothing boring this Christmas."
- Ryan, my 7 year old son, who found his holiday satisfactory.


I hope my readers and other hangers on have also had satisfactory holidays.  Much love from me to you.

...and congratulations to my best friend, who was blessed with a baby girl on Christmas Eve.  She came exactly when she was meant to.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Fa La La La La! Part VI

 
 
Here Comes Apocalypse

Here comes Apocalypse,
Here comes Apocalypse,
Right down End of World Lane,
Itzamna and Cum Hau and all their Chicchan*
Pullin' all our chains!
Sirens wailing, carnage hailing,
All is destruction and blight.
So hunker down and say your prayers,
'Cause Apocalypse comes tonight.

Here comes Apocalypse,
Here comes Apocalypse,
Right down End of World Lane,
It's got a bang that's full of noise 
That will liquify your brain.
Hear those alarm bells banging clanging,
Oh what a dreadful sight,
So jump in bed, and cover your head,
'Cause Apocalypse comes tonight.
 
 
Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5.
 
 
 
Seriously though, I'm glad all my readers and other hangers on are still on the planet.
 
Happy Holidays to everyone!

* Mayan gods and shizz

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Tasks for the day before the world ends.

*  Remembered to pack up the laptop battery I recently bought and will be returning because it's just a crappy battery.  The UPS man will be here shortly.  I want my money back.

*  One of my damned cats clawed a hole in my pretty new cornflower blue sheets.  We've barely broken in those sheets.  Going to patch that up before I throw them in the wash.  Then we'll break in the patch job.

*  Went ahead and set up paperless billing with the new cell phones.  I don't need several physical pages telling me how often my husband's friend sent him his filthy "Draw Something" masterpieces.

*  Quick shower, because I can't miss the arrival of the UPS man, in which I did not exfoliate.

*  Might as well do some dusting.  The world can end and my television screen will be pristine.

*  Took some fiber.  But I took it at the wrong time of day.  Now I have to wait to take my vitamin lest it asks Metamucil for a ride outta here.

*  Picked up my son after school and took him to the local five and dime to buy a pair of pajamas.  I don't why they insist on pajama days at school.  He usually just sleeps in his underwear and one does not show up to school so under dressed.

*  Watched this (turn it up real loud for the best effect):



*  Counted down the days to Downton Abbey on PBS.  Seventeen days.  Hugh Bonneville makes me warm.

*    Completely forgot that I was going to go see "The Hobbit".  It started seven minutes ago and in my town we're blessed to have only one preview.  One.  That's it.  I've missed the whole beginning of the movie and the freshest layer of popcorn.

*  Gave in to a craving for Chef Boyardee ravioli. 

*  Gave into a craving for a dozen butter cookies.

*  Gonna give in to a craving for my husband later.


So, bring it on Mayans.  I'm prepared.

At the very least I'm regular.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Rethunkit Possible

For Christmas my husband and I treated each other to new cell phones, which we already have received and have activated immediately.  We got each other the same cell phone, not because they were a good deal, but because Snookums and I like to match.  Nothing says love like doing everything together, wearing the same clothing, and sporting the exact same French manicure.

It makes for an interesting sex life.  Let's talk later.

I'm enjoying my new phone.  It does things my old phone was too constipated to do.  For instance, I'm speaking this post right into my phone.  It's fabulous!  I yak, it writes.  My phone is interpreting my Utah accent right proper too.  Chester draws.  I was barn in a born where we melk cows. 

For some reason this particular upgrade in phone technology makes me giddy.  It's an Android so it's not like I'm asking Siri what Marsellus Wallace looks like, but I like asking it questions.  Phone does what I ask.  It listens. It commiserates.

Since it has a vibrate mode, all this open communication isn't a bad deal at all.  Maybe I can give it a French manicure too.

The downside is I had to cancel my old service with AT&T and I felt guilty.  The customer service lady was so nice!  It was like I broke her heart!  Don't leave me, big eyeballs, we have signal boost extenders!

Sadly, I'd already ported the numbers.  What can you do besides shed a tear and walk away?

The best thing about writing this post in voice is that you can imagine me all husky and sultry.

Or you can imagine me talking like Morgan Freeman.

Easy Reader was so cool.

Monday, December 17, 2012

If by grace.

I have several thoughts about the recent horror in Newtown Connecticut, all of them incomplete and muddled.  In some part blame for that can be placed squarely on my fickle hormone levels...that is, I also have incomplete and muddled thoughts about what to have for lunch everyday.  However, another part is the incomplete and muddled thoughts most everyone is having after following the story...thoughts that can't ever make sense because it is all so senseless.

Our nation has cried out in this same incomplete and muddled way.

Gun control.  Mental health care.  Effective parenting.  Parenting guilt and isolation.  Spanking.  God in schools.  God's presence anywhere.  The Media.   Living in a sinful society...an angry society...a lazy society...a depressed society.

I want to touch on all of this but I get lost in all the tenets of it. 

My husband, who has taught high school for the last fifteen years, had this to say:

I have seen too many of these days as a teacher. Don't talk to me about taking away all of the guns and don't talk to me about arming teachers or talking about how we just need to enforce existing gun laws. Any realistic answer is going to take a lot of work from all of us, which means compromise. For those of you who have forgotten, compromise is characterized by nobody getting everything he or she wants and being required to give up some of the things he or she believes necessary. 
 


And that's just it...it's time to get down from the pedestals of our egos and our agendas and really look at what we are contributing to the spirit, compassion and kindness of the world.  What we've been before is reflecting back on us, so we close our eyes, and look at what it takes to open them.

I'm guilty of it too.  I try though.  Sometimes I forget but I try.  I could do so much better.

My own children had lockdown and emergency school drills a week before.  I had to explain to my seven year old why such a thing was necessary when he asked.  My kids get it now.

I've not shielded them necessarily.  Yet, they are still innocent.  It's because in that innocence they see.

Please God, grant them the continued gift of sight.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Rendered commonly unintelligent

Don't look now, but I'm about to get kinda naked.

I'm in the middle of reading yet another volume of very bad Jane Austen fanfiction on my Kindle.  Finishing this one requires a hot bath and a couple walls separating me from the noise of my children playing Doom 3.

On the upside, Jane Austen fanfiction for the Kindle is very cheap or even free.

On the downside, you have to ask yourself while reading this stuff, how many coquettish references can you make about the sex life of the newly married Darcy's without it becoming too cat lady crazy?  The Darcy's renewed their vows.  The Darcy's didn't emerge from their chambers until past midmorning.  The Darcy's practiced with hopes of filling Pemberly with a family of their own.  The Darcy's amiably set off for a connubial adventure in Freakyton in their barouche.




I'm embarrassed I read this stuff.  Not that I can't admit this embarrassment to every one of my readers and other hanger's on.  It's the fact that I'm going to have to admit this stuff to my mother.

I got her a Kindle for Christmas.

DON'T YOU TELL HER!  SHE DOESN'T HAVE INTERNET!  SHE DOESN'T READ THIS BLOG!  I KEEL YOU!

Purposely I associated her Kindle with my Amazon account so we can easily share books. You can use six Kindle devices per account and so everything I've already paid for she can read for herself.  Everything is listed in an archived file on her e-reader.

So she can see all my breathless regency readings.

And every marriage related book I read in my effort to be a better marriage forum moderator, all the way from sexual dysfunction to passive aggressive behavior.

And that book Naomi Wolf wrote about her cultural Vagina.

And then a bit of filth entitled, "Wesley Crusher Teenaged F*** Machine".

Okay, I'm definitely deleting that one.

No one should know I read that.  Or it's sequel.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

12 12 12 12 12 12 whatever.

I set this post to publish at 12:12 on 12/12/12.

Go answer my poll on my Facbook page.

And then watch this (probably NSFW, use some headphones):



Ahhh...special.

Friday, December 07, 2012

Sequesturd

Before I gave an account of last Tuesday's jury duty, I wanted to find out how the trial ended.  This one was a biggy and it was some act of divinity that out of a jury pool of 100 people, 70 of us had our names pulled out of the bingo roller and none of those names was mine.

More importantly, the star witnessed helped me break into my own car.

I arrived in Elko after my 120 mile drive an hour early.  This is important.  That time was used to snag one of the rare parking spots near the courthouse entrance.  The Elko County Courthouse is just fine with you parking three blocks away for your jury duty as long as you don't park next door in the bank parking lot.  The Bank of America will tow your vehicle.  And they should, because the ensuing tow tantrum is entertaining for all the legal parkers when they've paid attention to all the printed signs and the verbal warnings.  I've had enough experience with the Justice System to know that the early bird gets to avoid parking in front of the NoTell Motel just down the street.

So I finish up my sausage egg McMuffin and my juice, make eye contact with what turns out to be the defense attorney as he pulls in besides me, and then promptly lock my keys in my van because I have business to conduct in the courthouse restrooms.

I figured if there was any place my fabulous mini-van was safe it was probably there, and if it wasn't I could complain directly to the judge about it.  She was probably way over the bank towing chuckles anyhow.

From there the process is the same as all the other times I've had to show up.  Co-jurors looking at each other, rolling their eyes, crossing their fingers, listlessly drinking coffee.  Men flashing much too much underwear as they take off their belts to pass through the metal detectors. The bailiff ruffling through my purse and pausing over my menstrual cup in it's purple wrapper.  The moans after sinking down into 100 year old wooden chairs which are no stranger to 100 year old bouts with piles.

However, everyone perked up once the charges were read in full.   Dots were connected with what they'd read in the papers.  Co-jurors decided right then if they really wanted to stay or really really really wanted to go.  Six counts of lewd behavior with a child under the age of 14 and the defendant out on a $250,000 bond.  This is what was read by the court clerk six times in quick succession (along with some descriptions of what particular sexual assaults are unlawful, which I'll just leave out):

A person who willfully and lewdly commits any lewd or lascivious act, other than acts constituting the crime of sexual assault, upon or with the body, or any part or member thereof, of a child under the age of 14 years, with the intent of arousing, appealing to, or gratifying the lust or passions or sexual desires of that person or of that child, is guilty of lewdness with a child.

This ain't no meth trial.  This isn't DUI.  It's not even the dork I was presented with last time who couldn't help but go around his town repeatedly committing domestic violence whilst very drunk. This was a defendant with some serious charges against him, charges that could have him in prison for the rest of his life, who was not only very active in helping to pick his jurors but was making eye contact with the judge, the jurors, and the prosecution.

It was fascinating to watch. 

When we were excused for a fifteen minute potty break, I asked the bailiff to help me out with the keys situation and he gave the good word to a uniformed highway patrolman who was waiting to testify.  Seems everyone in that courtroom knew him except for me, and since he gladly broke into my van in the matter of seconds, I professed sudden and undying love for him.  He called me "kiddo" though I'm sure we were the same age.  Yup.  I love him.

By early afternoon the final twelve had been chosen, along with two alternates, and the rest of us got to go on with our lives.  My life at that point consisted of buying myself a burrito and thanking my lucky stars I didn't have to hear that trial, including testimony from a child.

The outcome?  The man was acquitted.  It's quite a story.  You can read the article HERE.

Then I felt pretty awesome about acquiring enough points on my jury service record to remove my name from the jury pool.  That was short lived.  My points expire in February.

Elko might be pretty in March, dammit.

Monday, December 03, 2012

Union Jack Yawn

If Kate Middleton is willing, and I think she just might be considering she'd probably been tossing her cookies three times an hour, I'm proposing to make a trade with her.

Woman to woman...mother to mother.

Kate, I say you attend my jury duty tomorrow and I'll go ahead and take on your morning sickness for a month.

It's a fair trade. It's an excellent trade! Win, win and win!

She gets to experience Elko County justice and perhaps enjoy the only sushi restaurant for several hundred miles in all directions. Mmm that fish is fresh?

I'll get to get out of jury duty and maybe look at Prince William's tushie a little bit, though I wouldn't touch him. If that got back to Kate and my defenses were still hanging over a toilet, she could hurt me bad.

So, deal Kate?  Just keep your eyes closed and nod your head a little bit if you agree.

Now, I've tried to end this post by finding a graphic where Kate has a nauseated look on her face and after an hour I was unable. That woman is amazingly photogenic. She'd probably even look beautiful hurling. Have a photo of Princess Beatrice instead.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Septem Juratis

If the universe is trying to tell me something, couldn't it have done it in a different way than sending me yet another jury duty notice?

For the record, this is the seventh time I've been called to jury duty.  The last time I had this joy was just in September.  We all sat through hours of jury selection on 100 year old wooden chairs before the defendant decided that his peers were more than likely going to hand his butt to him after deliberation, so they came to an agreement.  We were all sent home with the thanks of the court and the hint of hemorrhoids.

Not finishing jury selection and moving on to the trial is like coitus interruptus.

Is that the message?  If you get started you oughta damn well let everyone finish?

Because, I'm perfectly satisfied with how much civic duty I've accomplished thus far.  I've showered, put on my flannel pants and now I'm ready for a nap.  I'm not interested in the foreplay of driving another 120 miles to the Elko County courthouse and the cuddling of driving it back at the end of the day.

The court clerk does not accept, "Not tonight dear, I have a headache." as an excuse.

There are perks to all this,  which thankfully is not in all the sexual comparisons I've made, but that if the trial doesn't get taken off calendar and I have to appear, I should have racked up enough juror points to be out of the pool for at least five years.

Another perk?  My town doesn't have a Kentucky Fried Chicken and Elko does.

Oooh, it's been too long since I've had some of the Colonel's fine vittles.  Universe is giving me a reason to drive home a bucket of finger lickin' good.

Coitus interruptus turns into lingendo pullus.  Nice.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Prolonging the Torment

Now that my youngest son is in the second grade there is much emphasis on his reading skills.  We have to read every night.  We've quickly moved from picture books right up to chapter books, books of his choosing, which the school thoughtfully sends home with him in his grubby little hands.

We're in the middle of "Flat Stanley".

I hate "Flat Stanley".   Listening to that story drone on in your typical staccato elementary fashion is torturous.  Flat Stanley. Gets.  Mailed.  On vacation.  Flat Stanley.  Fits.  Down a street. Drain.  Flat Stanley.  Disguises himself.  As a painting.

Three dimensional mommy needs a drink.

To whomever has printed off and laminated a Flat Stanley so you can convince people to take photos with him, I think I hate you too.

I'm telling you people now, considering it's the season of giving, do not give my kid any Flat Stanley books or any of the books where Stanley regains a rounder shape.  Just don't.  I will put a hit out on you.  Keep lookin' over your shoulder, that's right, you won't know when it's coming.

No Elf on an Everlovin' Shelf either.

I hate that elf.  I hate him with his Cupie doll face, his pointy hat, and his noodly spastic arms and legs.  He's a creepy thing sent to spy on your kids and report back to Santa, who apparently forgot he had a list and that he was supposed to check this list twice.  At least that's how it used to be.  Now parents have a Red Fred to hide every stinking night.  Not only that, but I've been told there are entire Pinterest boards devoted to how to cleverly hide your elf which will create joyous family memories which your kids will relate to their great grandkids, probably telepathically, because that's gonna be possible in the future.

You know what I'm going to do if I spot that elf in your house?  I'm going to take a sharpie marker out of my purse and draw male genitalia across it's manipulative smile and a raunchy word on his hat.  That's the reason for the season.  Santa doesn't have spies and he don't cotton to snitches.

You may very well ask, "Becky, do you hate everything that mommies kids love?"

Why no, I don't.  Just 95% of it.  If it's an activity that Mommies on Pinterest describe as, "So CUTE!  My kids will LOVE it!"...well, I'm not climbing onto that precious plastic bandwagon.  Stanley on a Shelf can bite me.

My kids read Nietzsche.  They will love it or Santa drops a buttload of coal in their stockings.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Instead of Grey Thursday, Black Friday, and Blue Saturday shopping...

1.  I slept in.  Then I had coffee. 

2.  I neglected to shower, but only because the local handyman was coming over to replace my water heater.  When he asked us why we weren't out shopping we said, "That's crazy talk."

3.  We heated up leftovers for lunch and had pie for dinner.

4.  We watched episodes of Sesame Street from 1974.  They were awesome.  This Bert and Ernie segment had me in tears laughing.  How could you not laugh when Bert says, "Put the hanky right here.  It's coming.  I feel it.  It's a big one!" because he's going to sneeze?  The whole skit went right on downhill from there.



5.  We read news articles about how Black Friday was going and then left comments on those news articles thus validating our choice.

6.  Picked lint out of my toes.

7.  Fed the antelope ground squirrels living in my backyard.  For Thanksgiving the were given two bowls full of harvest style trail mix...harvest style because it had dried cranberries in it instead of off brand M&Ms.  Pictured here are Sheldon Cooper, Amy Farrah Fowler and Penny Penny Penny.



8.  I drank some soy nog.

9.  We tickled the kids.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

That isn't extra butter on the popcorn...

Having been born in Utah and still having close ties to the Utahiest locations in Utah, I've heard and read much disappointment in the presidential election.

I feel badly about all their bad feelings.  They suck.  It's a lot to get over.  Honestly, I'm only being a teensy bit facetious.  Like 5% facetious and the 95% of it is honest to gosh sincerity when it comes to all the frustration.

However, the process of mourning the election will be helped along by a much awaited and very important Utah cultural event. 

Tomorrow night, at exactly 12:00 AM, the first public screenings of the very last Twilight movie will light up big screens in packed theaters across the Beehive State.  I do not remember what this last movie is called exactly except they broke down one book into two movies nor do I know what the movie will be about except that the female lead wrestles with a cougar.

Brigham Young University's mascot is the cougar.  That's an interesting little tidbit for you.  The new expressionless sparkling female vampire tumbles with Provo's beast of choice.  Growrr Freud, growrr.




What this means for election exhausted Utahns is that the women-folk will find their hearts softened by smoldering undead erotica written by one of their own and the men-folk might be the recipients of whatever emotions are to be relieved after the movie.  Especially if the men-folk do the dishes and vacuum while the ladies are away.

Utahns might be up to gettin' their freak on.  Oh yeah. 

This is good because sex releases oxytocin which makes people feel all warm and cuddly.  Sex also releases dopamine which makes people feel relaxed and accomplished.  These hormones will do wonders for the electoral weary.

Nine months from now, all kinds of new tax deductions will be born!

Childbirth also releases oxytocin.  Woohoo!

However, the hormone that causes lactation suppresses libido.  Fiddlesticks.

Sigh.  There will be no more Twilight movies and the highest Mormon in politics is democrat that Harry Reid. 

It was good while it lasted.  (95% facetious.)



Wednesday, November 07, 2012

Close

Scheduled a post today because I'm writing this the night before, as in, election night and what has turned out to be an excellent birthday.  Today I'm in the fabulous mini-van driving my son to his Navy recruiter for his monthly meeting.

My son's enlisted.  He's in.  He'll be called up soon.

...And I am so relieved that he will be serving under this Commander in Chief.  As a citizen.  As the wife of a veteran.  As a mother.


Monday, November 05, 2012

Finally!

I've waited for this day all year!
 
Tomorrow is finally the day!  THE DAY!
 
By the end of the day, it'll be all over.
 
There might be a party.
 
There will be food.  I'm thinking I'll put together a pot roast.  Taters.  Gravy.  Dinner rolls.  Some kind of dessert that has a high goo and sugar quotient.
 
I can't wait!
 
...because...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TOMORROW IS
MY BIRTHDAY!
 
 
 
It's also election day, but whatever.
 
 
Don't worry about getting me anything.
There isn't anything you could buy that I really need.
 
Except for one of these:
 
 
 
Instead, you can get me this:
 
 
 
Which would be fine, but if you vote the other way at least the robocalls will stop.
 
Thanks a bunch!
 

Friday, November 02, 2012

His lips aren't big enough to handle a french horn.

My thirteen year old son, the subject of my last post, has only increased his level of dork by joining junior high band and bringing home a school issued trumpet today.

Don't get me wrong about the dork crack.  I love dorks.  I'm a dork.  My husband is awfully dorky.  Between the two of us we cannot help but produce dorky children with dorky mannerisms and dorky interests.  My middle boy can't get enough Minecraft, draws his own panel comics, and is set to improve his pucker in the brass band.  My oldest son manhandles Rubik's style puzzle cubes and my youngest son makes jokes Thor's butt.  None of us can do a single pull-up.

Music is an excellent occupation for my boy.  I participated in marching band myself.  Some of my best memories stem from carrying around a flag with the rest of the twirlers and hanging my A cup bras off the back of the band bus.  However, I was never all that musically inclined and it makes me happy that my son will learn.  Music supports math and English skills besides being all, like, expressive and stuff.

Yet, it's a trumpet, and that's a misery all it's own.

The first practice blast this afternoon scared my cats and made the squirrels living in my backyard dart back into their holes.

A long toot testing lung capacity made my manchild emerge from his cave and ask if the zombie apocalypse was underway.

Fiddling with the keys made a farting noise which caused my youngest boy giggle, and then run in circles blowing raspberries flapping his hands to fan the "smell" behind his butt.

The spit valve was checked and checked again, without any sort of tissue to blot with, which made rubbing it against the carpet a logical alternative.

The cats were shoved off the open trumpet case because they were sure it was the newest spot to nap.  I'm not paying 500 bucks for a replacement trumpet because the first trumpet has become clogged with cat hair.

Is Wynton Marsalis' mother still alive?  Can I ask her about this?

Our music teacher did give me some warning about impending trumpet doom last Friday night at a costume party, over plates of another teacher's succulent swedish meatballs, so I could plan which part of the house would be relegated to trumpet practice. 

She knows I have a small house.

Then she laughed at me.

Meh.  I'll still drive her to her acupuncturist if she buys me lunch.

Thursday, November 01, 2012

Come play with us Tina Fey...forever and ever and ever.

After some swearing, some duct tape, some heavy squirts of hot glue and a trip to the grocery store, the costume we had to build on Halloween day for my thirteen year old son came together.  He got many compliments and a couple job offers.


I'm a bit disappointed about it however.  My son bears an uncanny resemblance, both in looks and personality, to 30 Rock's Kenneth.  I wanted to make him up as an NBC page. 


It's freaky ain't it?  If anyone knows Tina Fey or anyone else with some sort of power at NBC, will you tell them I'm willing to pimp out my kid for a week after NYC dries out a bit?  Thanks in advance.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Home based "business"

I'm sewing today.  My kids seem to want to wear something for Halloween.  They are always needing stuff.  Like nutritious food and interaction and effective discipline.  Phht.
 
Since I'm busy, have some alpaca porn.
 
 
 
 
You're welcome.
 
 

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Monday, October 22, 2012

Peppermint or cherry? I'm undecided.

So...how's yer debatin? 

Mitt Romney looked ill.  If he wasn't a Mormon I might blame that on his playing a pre-debate drinking game but it really it looks like flu.  He's sweating.  He's flushing.  Then he's pale and green.  His eyes are sunken.  His flag pin is big.



I was half expecting Mittens to hurl and then for the moment to be bigger on the internets than binders full of women.  Desk full of vomit.  Battleship full of vomit.  Highlight of Bob Schieffer's career.

Bush senior pulled off an actual foreign hurl and people pointed and laughed.  It was funny.

Bush junior got a shoe thrown at him.

Apparently Mitt did complain of having a nervous stomach earlier and if that isn't a statement for the end of a contentious campaign I don't know what is.  We're all sick of it.  Let's vote already.

Then we'll all chug Pepto Bismol.


Monday, October 15, 2012

Next week, I recommend my favorite carbonated douche.

Last Wednesday night, the status on my Facebook page read:

My husband has told me that I am not allowed to buy a book about vaginas for my Kindle because it's priced at ten dollars and that's too much to pay for Vagina. This after we paid sixteen dollars to watch Taken 2 tonight. A little vagina might just get that Liam Neeson taste out of my mouth. 

Indeed, I did purchase the book.  The author was on Colbert and I'm highly suggestible when it comes to genitalia and Liam Neeson.

What's more, I'm only 18% into the Kindle version and I'm not even going to wait to finish it before I recommend you read it too. 



Read this if you are a woman.  Read it if you are a man.  Read it if you are unsure or are dabbling genderwise.  Read this if you've had sex, haven't had sex, have hooker amounts of sex.  Read this if you don't want to have sex anymore and you can't figure out why you should, because this book will tell you.  Read this if you understand that vaginas are the most common vehicle for childbirth, because I'm sure the book will get around to covering that.

On Friday night, my Facebook status read:


It's not often I get profane here on FB...but geez, Ann Coulter is such a twat.
 


To which I apologize in light of the subject at hand...er...heh.  There are better expletives to describe that woman.


Saturday, October 13, 2012

Cake of Doom! October 2012

I once wrote a post about cake.  It was a delicious post that earned the comment, "You should bake and post more cakes."  People seem to like to eat cake.  I know I do. 

So I mulled this idea around in my brain, to the point where I had a dream, a dream of a dessert that is so calorie laden that no one should eat it without warning.  A dessert that has nothing to do with Cool Whip.

The dream started with bacon.  Bacon in sweet food is a trend I can support. 


No need to splatter grease everywhere.  When you bake your bacon at 425 degrees for about 15-20 minutes, you'll get good crispy bacon and a house that smells porky for the next 72 hours.

Then I baked butter cake in a spring form pan.  The recipe and the post about the previous cake can be found HERE:



When the cake was cool, I started on the parts of this dessert that render it dangerous.  Butterscotch mousse, pecans in caramel, and crack frosting. 


In the red bowl is the butterscotch custard that is the base for the mousse.  I used a regular old chocolate mousse recipe but replaced the melting chocolate for butterscotch chips.  Butterscotch chips don't melt as  gooily as chocolate but that didn't seem to matter in the final product. 

Since the bacon was cool, I crumbled it with my kitchen scissors.

Then I made caramel sauce, mixed in a bag of pecans and set it aside to cool.  It reminded me of this post I wrote once on making sugaring for at home hair removal.  The thought of body hairs in sugar doesn't ruin my appetite but I apologize if I did yours.  Let's work on getting it back.

Finally, I mixed up the first part of a batch of what I like to call Crack Frosting.  It's seriously the best vanilla frosting you've ever tasted.  It starts with a rue that you have to set aside to cool.  Best part of this frosting?  No chalky powdered sugar.  You get lovely creamy light frosting out of regular granulated sugar.

Folding the butterscotch into whipped cream finished off the mousse and I spooned it on top of the cake still in it's springform pan.  Put that in the fridge for a few hours to set, giving me enough time to watch an entire Bollywood movie.


After dinner it was assembly time.

Cake removed from the pan with the help of a sharp knife around the edges and slid onto a stand, pecans in caramel sauce spooned over the top, crumbled bacon on top of that, piped crack frosting, and then Heath bar crumbles so it looks like I care.

Behold.  Butterscotch Bacon Cake of Doom!


I'm going to go cut a piece.  Then I'm going to eat lettuce and apples for two out of three meals all the next week to make up for it.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

And step and step and twirl!

I missed the best parts of the Presidential debate because instead of watching it I only listened to it on NPR while driving.  Radio gives us no facial expressions.  No posturing.  No clenched butt cheeks.  That's a whole layer of inflammatory rhetoric gone and I feel shafted!

In order to help my readers and other hangers on make an informed decision, I've tried my best to count the more common body language expressed in this debate.  Better than any episode of Dancing with the Stars, let me tell you.  No one cha-chas like Biden.



Smug grins:  Biden 36, Ryan 32 (Though Ryan seemed a continuous grin during all of Biden's responses.)

Condescending head tilts:  Biden 7, Ryan 12

Eyerolls: Biden 4, Ryan 1

Literal finger pointing:  Biden 34, Ryan 32  (Biden moves from one to two fingers often, which is a little bit sexy.)

Giggles:  Biden 10, Ryan 4

Karate chops: Biden 19, Ryan 16

Jazz hands:  Biden 1, Ryan 3

Drink gulps and grunts:  Biden 0, Ryan 18  (Vodka?)

Obsessive blinking:  Biden 8, Ryan 15

Lip licking and cheek tonguing:  Biden 5, Ryan 5

Nods in agreement:  Biden 3, Ryan 5

Nods in disagreement:  Biden 10, Ryan 7

Invisible hand rulers:  Biden 24, Ryan 7  (I love you THIS MUCH!)

Calm down nah:  Biden 4, Ryan 2

Sniffs and scoffs:  Biden 10, Ryan 14

Guffaws: Biden 1, Ryan 0

Counting on fingers Biden 2, Ryan 0  (No fingers skipped!)


In the end I was hoping to see either candidate give this gesture:


Because that would have swayed undecided voters for sure.

Monday, October 08, 2012

The dog kids love to bite.

Last year around this time I was invited by some of the womenfolk in my neighborhood to attend an all male revue for Deer Widow's Weekend.  It was raunchy.  My eye still twitches from time to time.

I thought the mistake I'd made in deciding to attend such filth was to participate sober but it turns out that it was a far worse faux pas telling my mother about the whole thing.

See, I was seeking forgiveness for my sins.  The shame...the greasy greasy shame!  And she offered none. Instead of easing my suffering, or chiding me like she would have when I was a sophomore menstruator, she declared that she wanted to go next time.  She wants me to find out if there is an AARP discount on the tickets.  She wants me to chaperon her and her similarly aged and bouffant hairdo-ed cousin while they heat up their folding chairs and dollar bills in the front row.

She wants to par-tay.

The thought of this has me cycling between dry heaves and catatonia.

This is the woman that didn't talk to me about sex.  The most I got out of my parents, other than advising me that I shouldn't date one boy too much or lots of boys too often, or that I should always stay vertical and dressed, was hearing their mattress squeaking in the middle of the night through our shared wall.

This is the woman who declared, "Tube steak is delicious!" during a family dinner of chili-dogs without the slightest hint that the term did not refer to mild pork sausages.

This is the woman who asked me if I'd ever participated in a certain common sexual act brought up on talk radio and when I admitted I had, she said, "That's nasty!" 

This is the woman who used to shout, "What's your bra size again?" across the Kmart lingerie department in an effort to find me the least sexy most pristine white bra on the rack.

My mother should not want to attend a male strip show.  No one's mother should.  I'm a mother and this is only common sense.

Just to make sure she got a clear picture when she brought up the idea again just recently, I warned her that whether you like it or not, male strippers will be violating your personal space.  About how this oily male person flipped me over on a chair and simulated himself on me and another oily male person placed my hands back down in his Garanimals and another one put his hands on either side of my head and proceeded to invite me to a family dinner.

Okay...

I get it now.

God, I am so screwed.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Gathering No Moss

Two weeks ago today I had to drive 120 miles to Elko to report to jury duty and then I had to drive all the way back.

The weekend before last we had to drive 150 miles to my hometown so I could see people I haven't seen in twenty years and then we drove all the way back.

A week ago I drive 120 miles to Salt Lake City to deliver my kid to the Navy and then I drove all the way back.

Last weekend we drove 150 miles to my hometown so my husband could see people he hasn't seen in twenty five years and then we drove all the way back.

Tomorrow I drive 120 miles to Salt Lake City so the Navy can instill some knowledge and preparedness into my manchild and then we'll drive all the way back.

Next weekend I'm driving nowhere if I can at all help it.

Next week my butt is staying right on my couch where it belongs.

Ya'll can come see me.  It's your turn, dammit.

Monday, October 01, 2012

Reunion Addendum: Be cool, stay in school.

If my 20th high school reunion a week ago wasn't nostalgia enough, we had to attend my husband's 25th reunion from the same high school last Saturday.  Here is what I learned from people who are more mature than I am:

 
Hawt.
 


1.  Even though you've given up on big hair, there is no giving up on living the 80's mantra of "hang loose." 

2.  No one has arthritis yet?  Might as well cuddle!

3.  Count the grandkids.  Count the marriages.  Don't count your trips to the bar.

4.  We ain't got no curfew. 

5.  Compare how high your heels are before you compare how hot the hot flashes.

6.  I have a job, you have a job, let's talk about something else.

7.  What did I attend all that college for?  I can't even see to match my socks anymore.

8.  Do you remember that time we all went out and did that really stupid thing and didn't get caught?  No?  Oh, well, I sorta don't either but it was AWESOME.

9.  Raising teenagers...screw that.

10.  Ferris Beuller never did anything to contribute to my 401K...he can suck it.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Going Along with the Tides

The thing about your kids growing up is that suddenly, they are off, being grown ups and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it.

I mean, I support my eighteen year old son's decision to join the Navy.  In theory anyhow.  The military takes long haired squishy children and turns them into strong jawed men and women with purpose.  What mother wouldn't want such a transformation in her son?  One day he's debating the particulars of Pokemon battles and the next day he's preserving and defending the Union.

In practice, it's coming at me fast.

Today I dropped off my son at the Navy recruiter's office so that an adorable and crisply ironed Petty Officer can take my boy's innocent childhood and squash it through MEPS.

MEPS.  Military Enlistment Processing Station. 

Transformation tangent, courtesy of my hormone brain, this kind of processing is like turning Velveeta into brie?  Like turning Twinkies into tiramisu?  Like turning crude oil into glittering lip gloss?

Anyhow, the government has put my son up in a fine hotel for tonight only to wake him at 4 in the morning, stuff food in his mouth, barrage him with forms, take his blood, collect his pee, and make him twist about in his underwear and out of it.

At the end of this he'll take an oath which declares he's no longer mine.  He's no longer his Dad's.  He's his own man and he's given himself to Uncle Sam.

I was teary on the drive home.

Not a damned thing I can do about that either.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Mr. Magoo's Motorboats

One of the joys of having a thirteen year old son is the realization that the fart jokes of his puppy dog tailed childhood have started to merge with his Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue puberty.

Boobs.
 
...are fascinating objects and worth thinking about and giggling over.

Breasts are always inserting themselves into daily life. For a thirteen year old boy this provides a smorgasbord of tasty funnies.  At any point, or several points, throughout the day, my boy can be trusted to provide some sort of red faced allusion to knockers.  We used to find  this amusing, like the first time your toddler repeats a particularly raunchy swear word, and now as he's nearing his 14th birthday he's earning eye rolls.



But then, if boobs weren't funny, the enormity of the subject may cause my son to faint dead away.



That can't happen.



 Not if he hopes to actually experience some someday.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Twenty things you come to learn whilst attending your 20th high school reunion.


 


1.  The hair dye ain't foolin' anyone.

2.  The padded push up bra ain't foolin' anyone.

3.  Comparing stretch marks is a bonding experience for any gender.

4.  That boy you had a crush on back then isn't going to show up.  That boy that had the crush on you isn't going to show up either.

5.  One's expletives are better timed and more to the point than when we were 17.

6.  We all claim to love green salad and broccoli.  There wasn't a ranch Dorito anywhere in sight.  Fiber.

7.  The betting pool for who will get hair plugs or silicone breasts by the 30th reunion is large and competitive.

8.  When asked if you have children, if you include your cats or other pets in that answer, people's eyes just glaze right on over.

9.  How and to whom you lost your virginity?  Still fascinating.

10.  Only discuss politics in whispers, secret handshakes and knowing nods.

11.  Lawyers and dentists and IT professionals, Oh my!

12.  Like on graduation night, the class kegger was not listed on the official invitations or referenced in the town newspaper.

13.  No one will remember your adolescent gaffs, like that one time you walked into gym class wearing just your t-shirt having forgotten to put on your gym shorts.

14.  Turns out, you're the only one going through perimenopause, so your hot flash just looks like nerves.

15.  When that Deee-Lite song comes on over the event speakers, everyone in the reception hall will start jiggling to the beat.  Today's teenybopper music sucks though.

16.  If you are greeting someone you haven't seen for two decades, "Mmm, you smell good!" is sort of an odd compliment to bestow.

17.  There is a tangible tingling sense of relief when you know you're out of the running for the "Octomom Award".

18.  Next time around, one of the raffle baskets has to include an assortment of dishwasher safe marital aids.

19.  Attending with a stack of business cards or repeating the phrase, "I should put you in touch with my financial advisor." makes the dinner tickets tax deductible.

20.  Female classmates still go to the restroom in gaggles to giggle.


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Don't pee on my leg part 2 - What goes on under the robe stays under the robe.

Jury Duty Blotter - September 18th 2012, Elko County Nevada


6:00 AM - Utah Time - I wake up an hour before I usually do.  This is a rude thing to do to my body.  Especially since neither my husband or I have felt well, having had sore throats and sinus issues.  Whilst in the shower I clear my head of everything disgusting and unmentionable and squash it down the drain with my toe.

6:10 - My husband heads out the door to drive 120 miles to the VA hospital in Salt Lake City.  I don't think I have to pay back the coworker who lent Justin his truck for the trip as Justin did some errands in SLC for the guy, but some sort of baked goods or over the clothes sexual favor isn't entirely off the table.  He saved us 60 bucks! 

7:10 - Full of coffee and packing an overnight bag, I'm on my way.  Strict instructions were given to my 18 year old manchild on how to get his two younger brothers off to school and where and when to pick up the youngest brother after school.  Otherwise, the manchild has the entire house to himself the whole day which probably has it's own avenues of disgusting and unmentionable.

6:30 - Nevada Time - I'm stuck behind a semi truck hauling two trailers full of hot black top.  Through the ten miles of one lane construction zone the speed limit is 55.  This semi is chuggin' along at a hot 35 mph.  The truck behind me is weaving all over to get a view of when exactly he can gun it and pass us both.  The semi finally pulls off at the end of the road work zone and the truck behind me hits the gas and surprisingly misses his testicles with his foot, as big as he thinks the are.

7:30 - More construction.  Thirty miles of one lane 55mph orange coned idiocy.  I'm not sharing the freeway with anyone close though and I wave back at the friendly orange hat who waved at me first.

8:30 - Hello Elko.  I can either grab some breakfast or go directly to the courthouse and grab one of the few parking spots before the 9:00 AM report time.  Turns out going directly to the courthouse was a smooth move.  I nab the last and furthest spot in the courthouse lot.  Other jurors are parking up to two blocks away.

8:50 - The bailiff announces to the assembling jurors that if they have parked in the bank parking lot next door that the bank will tow their vehicles.  A quarter of them leave.  Then they break out coffee and pastries to improve our moods.  I skip the food.  It looks like cardboard.  The bank parkers don't get first pick at the bear claws.  Across the lobby I spot a neighbor of mine.  Dammit, she could have given me a ride!

9:00 - We file in one by one through a metal detector and the bailiff's handheld.  He looks through my purse and pauses at the sight of my menstrual cup in it's Barney purple wrapper.  The silicon cover on my phone is also barney purple.  Precious ain't it?

10:00 - Finally we've all been scanned and seated.  The seats in the courthouse are 100 years old and my butt can testify to exactly how old that is.  I sit in the front row next to an old woman with thighs bigger around than my entire body.  She tells me the history of geothermic heat in Elko.  It's surprisingly interesting.

10:30 - We've risen for the judge, a tall woman with fluffy hair, and the clerk reads the charges.   We've are greeted by a DA that shares the same name and approximately the same looks as a celebrity I could name but I won't.  I'm smitten.  The court appointed defense lawyer is just as perky, but it's annoying because she's also female and has a giant silk scarf tied around her neck that matches the color coded post-its she's using on her giant jury box seating chart.  The clerk starts pulling names out of a bingo spinner and calls 23, none of them mine.  I have a scare when she calls some guy named Benjamin because she paused at the B sound, but Benjamin is not Becky and for that I am grateful.  My parents were going to name me Brian if I was a boy but that is neither here nor there.

10:50 - Jurors are asked if they know the lawyers, or the defendant, or anyone the defendant or the witnesses know, if they have prior commitments or experiences with the charges.  Turns out many of the women do and one man.  Jurors are being excused left and right and still my name was not pulled out of the bingo spinner.  I consider this the good karma I earned for waving at a construction worker and holding in a fart.

11:30 - Another juror is excuse and another called, but since he went off to the bathroom, the judge takes that as a cue and gives us a fifteen minute recess.  Those dry pastries are looking delicious now so I snag half a blueberry bagel.  The defendant is visibly shaken.  All the folks being dismissed for having experiences with what he was accused of doing isn't sitting well at all with the guy.  Fifteen minutes turns into a half hour and a whispered meeting between lawyers before we are called back in.  The celebrity DA is packing up which got all of our hopes up but the judge tells us to be back at 2:30.  The whole room sighed.

12:00 - Sitting in a filthy Mexican restaurant without walking distance from the courthouse.  Walking distance is important because I'm not giving up that parking space for love, money or the house flies buzzing around the salsa bar.  The refried beans were good, the fish tacos were depressing and the horchata which I had to go behind the counter and halfway into the kitchen to serve myself was delicious.  Next table over were three young male professionals engaging in a loud discussion on the best way to shave your own ass.  I got a couple pointers.

12:15 - Pouring over books for sale for a quarter at the Elko Public Library.  Why didn't I bring anything to read with me?  I have a Kindle.  I put The Hunger Games on it.  Dammit.  While the librarians are chasing someone's overly friendly pit bull out of the building I snap a photo with my phone:


Hmmm.  Appropriate.

12:30 - I availed myself to a big rack of free magazines at the library and brought back fluffy reading to everyone sitting in the courthouse lobby.  Their gratitude up my karma by several experience points. 

1:30 - Managed to poop in a public bathroom.  Didn't have to squash anything with my toe.  When I get back there is a tall woman in a wild skirt and a bright blue tight ruffled top.  This woman is profoundly talented all up in the front of her chest area and the talent shows.  I recognize her but I can't place where I've seen her before.  Even though our subpoenas instruct us to wear court attire I figure that there is a lot of leeway because what are they going to do, send you home?

2:30 -  You know why no one sits in 100 years old chairs anymore?  Because these chairs deny the existence of cheeseburgers and fries.  Again I sit next to Geothermic Thighs.  She's full of Elko history and tells me that she came to my town to see Engelbert Humperdinck in concert. It all goes together I suppose.  Then we rise for the judge and now I can place where I've seen that woman before...she's sitting on the bench with the gavel in her hand.

After a long speech about civic duty the judge tells us that the parties have reached an agreement and we are excused with thanks.  The celebrity DA turns and winks at us.  I'm sure this is a source of geothermic heat...oh yes.  Him and a chair with a cushion and I could be happy for at least an hour.

3:00 - Before going home I make stops at several clothing stores in search of a skirt.  A young clerk at one store offers me a pair of slacks instead so I ask if they stock them in long lengths.  She asks how long and I tell her I need a 36" inseam.  She says, "How long is that exactly?" 

Should have called her for jury duty.  I bet she votes.



Thursday, September 06, 2012

Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining.

I've been called to jury duty.

Again.

For the sixth time.

I thought that calling and giving my excuses would mollify the court.

Snort.

See, my husband and I have one vehicle. On the day I'm called my husband will be taking our one vehicle 120 miles east, to the nearest VA hospital, to enjoy a fun filled day of neurology appointments and ultrasounds. Because of this, it's terribly difficult to drive 120 miles to the west, to the county seat, to fulfill my jury duty obligation.

Not that I mind going at all. I've been before. After that, all the other trials I've been called for have been cancelled.

But, try to tell the court clerk this. Not that she's bent on believing any of the excuses she receives every single working day of her life. If anyone has a crap job, she does and I feel for her.   She must have a wall of fame of bad excuses pinned up behind her desk.

She told me to find a ride with another juror.

I asked her how in the world I'm supposed to find these other jurors, much less get familiar enough with them to beg a ride?

She said she didn't know.

She told me to cancel or reschedule my husband's VA appointments.

I told her that these appointments were made three months ago.  We're talking the VA here.  We're talking neurology here.  We're talking lucky that we could schedule three different doctors for different exams on the same day here.  I did not ask her to reschedule the trial for me though I was tempted. 

She told me to call the day before, see if the jury pool is still large enough and beg off then.  I just grunted.

She told me she has to go by the statutes.  I told her to read me the statute.  She left off the part about being dismissed because of hardship.  I called her on it.  She said it was at the court's discretion.  My hardship is not enough a hardship.

Tomorrow I get to call the one car rental place in town, if they are still in business, and ask for a day rate.  Then I get to research taking a stinking Greyhound bus. 

If all that's prohibitive, I'm calling the court clerk back and I'm bursting into tears.

Seriously, I'd LOVE to serve.  Sign me up.  My schedule is usually so wide open that it's downright slutty...I JUST CAN'T GO ON THE DAY YOU'VE CALLED ME!

Maybe they'll work something out and cancel this one too.

Yeah.

Snort.

Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Tremors, anxiety, nausea, vomiting, sweating

You might have thought that God had cut off our oxygen the way my family reacted to having the internet down all weekend.

I mean, how can any of us go on from moment to moment without scores of memes like this one in our lives?

 
It's funny because it's true...and because I pinned this on Pinterest for later reference because I think cat trees are ugly. 

But what use is later reference when you have no connectivity?  Yesterday evening I was so starved for news and discourse that I willingly watched Storage Wars with my husband.  That show drives me up a wall.  I realized in watching those noisy whiny people competing over the stuff people should have yard saled ages ago that this is the closest thing to what my internet use amounts to.

The Democratic National Convention is beginning and I NEED to blast down the rhetoric of friends of friends on Facebook!  They're wrong or right or ignorant or all of the above all at once which is confusing for everyone especially when it's also delivered with big words and sarcasm.

I've been aching for juicy celebrity news on Yahoo.  Tom Cruise and Scientology contracts out wives and girlfriends you say?  Why, what a logical arrangement for everyone!  Work that brand Tom, work it.  Heidi Klum and Seal are all a bicker?  Oooh!  I need to eulogize that sexy Michael Clarke Duncan...now I'll never have a chance to check out his butt in person.

My local police department made a traffic stop and interrupted a roadtrip three people were making from Iowa with their 40 large bags of pot.  I need to share this news with people I do not know! 

Ducks crossing a four lane freeway in Toronto.  Ack!


Check Snopes.  Check Politifact.  Check FactCheck.org.  Check the Pinocchio Tracker.

How do I decide if this product I see on TV is worth buying until after I've checked the reviews on Amazon?  Is it a ShamWow or a ShamWhy the hell did I buy this?

What if someone challenges me to a game of Words with Friends?

....Netflix streaming is gone.  GONE!

And Skype...no Skype for my 18 year old manchild in the wee hours of the night.  He was gasping for he had not uttered one "dude" towards his nerdy online friends for three days!

Around noon today the internet blinked back on and hosannas were sung.  In the afternoon, after I'd been fully satiated in scrolling and clicking, I had to go to my storage unit to pick up some of my books on my way to get my kid from school.  It turns out that watching Storage Wars wasn't time wasted after all.  There is no other way I would have come to the realization that I should Ebay off some of my shit.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Like when we used to climb the rope in gym class.

Just moments ago I wrote a check which confirms my membership in the "irrelevant" club.  I addressed this check to SHS Class of 1993 Reunion Commitee.

I'll wait while you count on your fingers.

Yes, that's how many years I've aged past cool.  Is cool still a thing?  What is the thing?  That's the thing?  Who thought that idiotic thing up?  Asphinctersayswhat?

High school was a pleasant enough time for me that I'm willing to show up in a banquet hall, maybe wearing pantyhose, probably wearing these shoes, and see and talk to all those people again. 




The point is, we've all changed. We've grown up.  Some of us in ways that are positive and all of us in ways that are wrinkling and sagging.  I know I have. 

Many of us might try to create the illusion that we haven't changed at all.  That we still have it...and our "its" are still relevant, if not attractive.  There will have been a rash of diets to tame our paunches. Clothing will be worn that will pull us in, thrust us out or push us up. Hair will be combed over, under, dyed, sprayed, fluffed or shaved off entirely. 

Some of us went off and became Democrats or Glenn Beck drones, of all things.

I have three weeks to sew a dress to wear.  I have three weeks to invent Post-it notes.  I have three weeks to prepare my life for the scrutiny of my peers.

Oh screw it.  They've probably read all about it here anyway.  Type "virginity" into the search line on the right sidebar.  Just do it.

After that, we'll have no reason to point out each other's love handles and bald spots.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

From Becky, with love...and indigestion.


Dear Politifact,
 
What is the secret ingredient in your website that makes it so delicious?  So addicting?  Is anyone on your staff related to Colonel Sanders?  Paula Dean?  Jimmy Dean?

Every time I’m on Facebook and I’m reading the discourse of my peers, I suddenly find myself craving the gooey chocolate, crispy bacon, cool butter notes of your fact checking.  Especially last night and more than likely tonight too, when all this harrumphing is happening in Tampa.  The hyperbole filled chorus of yeas or nays keeps me hungry and what you deliver is blessedly fat free so I can partake as much as I like.
 
 
Is Obamacare the largest tax increase in the world?  No! 

Is Obama gunnin' for our guns?  No! 

Does Mitt Romney want to outlaw all abortions for any conceivable reason?  No!

Is Barack Obama a liar liar pants on fire? 

Is Mitt Romney a liar liar pants on fire?

Is Ron Paul the one with all the sense and just none of that hot pepper sex appeal? 

Between now and November I'm sure you're going to add all kinds of tasty treats to your menu.  We've had strong Republican aperitifs.  Next a greasy garlicky Democrat appetizer.  Soup, salad and entrees with the debates.  Then to outdo last election cycle's baked alaska for dessert, you'll serve up reality so sweet and gooey, you'd think it would cause arterial blockages.

I've undone my pants.  Feed me Politifact.  Feed me until I burst.

Then I'll post links so everyone can get a taste.


Love,

Becky...The Absent Minded Housewife

Monday, August 27, 2012

Time to sharpen my pencil. Sharpen it good.

Yeah, I haven't written much in the past two, three, weeks or months.  I apologize.  Summer is my season of reduced space.  Everyone is home.  Everyone needs something.  People I have given birth to need feeding, picking up aftering and entertaining.  Usually I attempt to not do any of the three in an effort to learn them those skills for their own good and what results is constant requests for all of them with constant refusals on my part.

No, you may not eat just the yellow and red popsicles and leave all the green ones.

No, you may not watch more than twelve hours of cat videos on YouTube at a time.

No, you may not play with the kid that keeps pushing you off your scooter, keeping your knees in a constant scabby or bleeding state.

No, you can't go to the community pool at 6 AM, which is way before I plan on being awake.

No, you can't build a Rube Goldberg machine on your brother's bed out of all my tupperware containers, dried pasta and masking tape.

No, you can't stay in the shower that long.

No, you can't read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I'm not even going to read that crap.  Who told you about that anyway?

By the end of the day, when they've finally consented to sleep, the mental capacity it takes to tap more than a sentence or two is gone.  By the end of summer vacation I've had all the vacation I can take.

Today is the first day of school.  Today I get to clear out all that claustrophobia.  I get to enjoy sitting in my backyard, the hummingbirds dive bombing at my head, drink my coffee, and not hear one single neighborhood child scream until 3 PM.

Ahh!

I'm gonna go buy me a Happy Meal!

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Promoting Upward Mobility

With Mitt Romney's announcement of Paul Ryan as his running mate, the internets has turned into a frenzy of policy debate.  Real and interesting policy debate which is quite unlike the frenzy that presented itself when Sarah Palin was announced.

You can't get much back and forth out of "You can actually see Russia, from land, here in Alaska."

Yes, I suppose you can.  Can't refudiate that one.

Paul Ryan is just as polarizing a choice however.  Either you really like the guy and his record or you really don't, that is, except on one important issue...

...In my readings around the internets, there has been much oversharing on both sides of the aisle from women who've had sex dreams about Romney's next president of the United States.  Sex dreams involving many scenarios, positions, fluids and kitchen appliances.

Which I find disturbing.


Granted, I tend to lean to the liberal side and having a sex dream about someone who sees all black and white and no grey areas when it comes to my uterus isn't something I wish for.  My uterus is complicated.

No, what's disturbing is that the announcement is only three days old and already throngs of women are getting it on in dreamland with Mr. Laffer Curve. 

Paul Ryan IS a handsome guy.  He looks...rugged. Lean. Passionate.  He looks like he smells delicious.  Musky with citrus notes.  He looks like he wears boxer briefs and undershirts that never have armpit stains.  He looks like he knows that office desks can be used for more than just paperwork...

Uh....

I think I need a nap.

All this feeling disturbed, it's made me sooooo sleepy.

Monday, August 06, 2012

All is meow. All is meow.

When I listed "cat lady" as my religious affiliation on Facebook, I wasn't being all that facetious.  Cats are awesome.  Since I was born in Utah, I could have listed the religious affiliation popular in that state but that set of thou shalt nots hasn't been on my radar for some time.  Instead, owning and babying my cats seems a much more satisfying practice.

Behold, tidings of cat joy!



When you find this bit of wanton destruction on your bedroom floor first thing in the morning, you thank the lord that you slept through all of it.  Or blame Republicans for the mess.  Or both.

What might surprise all my Utah readers and other hanger ons who know of my love of cats, my love of drinking hot morning beverages, my love of using certain expletives from time to time, my love of going shopping on a Sunday, my love of talking about sex every moment of the day, my love of teh gayz and teh gay marriage, and my love of my liberal leaning non-red state ways is that I also love inviting Mormon missionaries over to my home so I can cook them food.

Yup, I actually invite them in.  I do not shut the door on their faces.  I bake them cupcakes and tonight when I fed a pair of those nice young men, I frosted those cupcakes with pink icing.

Which begs the question...why, why would you do this thing?

(Or, I wouldn't cook for them, they are religious nutjobs, can't you see it?)

(Or, I would cook for them, but I'm a believer and why would you offer meals when you're such an apostate?)

The answer is...because it's nice.  It's a nice thing to do.  These boys are away from home, from their families,  away from their little girlfriends and their hobbies and the free media and their own pets, thrust into a world full of social pressure from all sides, testing faith or building faith or losing faith, wearing cheap wool suits and other clothing that just doesn't breathe well in this heat, and doing a crap job that only pays in brownie points from above. 

These boys were once the boys I grew up with.

Because I am the mother of boys.

Having these kids at my home and filling their bellies fills my heart even though I'm not interested in why they were sent in permanent press pants and stain protected ties to my house.  Too many people just aren't very nice even if they disagree and these boys are too young to feel badly about those kinds of experiences out in the world

Plus, my cats try to get in on the belly action and try to get theirs rubbed by new people.

A long time ago I said I wasn't going to be writing about the Mormon church and I think I've stepped lightly here.  No need to go into all the drama drama drama involved with that... just that I can separate my experiences with a turn in kindness. 



However, Ceiling Cat does not approve of that porny fifty shades of South Park narrative you've had in your head since the fifth paragraph.  You're filthy.  Or you're a republican.  Or both.

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