Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Squeaky clean!

Ahhh, the last-ish day of February!  Can you smell spring?  Even though I had a burrito from a taco truck for dinner, I can smell green in the air!  Every cell in my body feels like it's waking up and for that I'm thankful.

When spring comes a dutiful housewife throws some old tshirts in a bucket full of Pine-sol and gets to spring cleaning.  When not just a dutiful housewife but The Absent Minded Housewife, you reserve the last day of February as Naked Housework Day!

I see you, you bored and listless stay at home domestic engineers, in your sweat pants and ten year old concert Tshirts.  Tomorrow you tie blindfolds on the children, pull down the blinds, take off that scrounge-wear and get to scrubbing!

When you are dusting ceiling fans, shining silverware, changing your shelf liners, vacuuming under your couch cushions, waxing on and waxing off, no one will care that your cellulite is in full view.  Everyone will be in awe of your sparkling welcoming home and you will feel fresh and liberated!

Oh c'mon, you can clean naked.  Just do it.  Turn up your thermostat and be free.

...and be glad I haven't declared the last day of April as Naked Gardening Day.

ETA:  Why didn't I think of this before?  You're all Facebook invited!  Please say you're attending Naked Housework Day!  Invite your friends!  Take pictures!  Cleverly edit them and post them!

Monday, February 27, 2012

I can see your Spanx line

I sat down to write all about Oscar fashion as I do every year...who looked dazzling and who looked dreadful...and then I realized that I just don't care.

Not that any Academy Award attendee looked dazzling or dreadful last night.  Everyone looked appropriate.  We saw leg.  We saw high boob, low boob, side boob and a near nip slip.  We saw jewels and velvets and chiffon.  We saw tuxedos.  We saw entertainment news reporters act like what they wore mattered.

Then we were bored, even with the lack of taupe evening gowns, and turned it to Real Time with Bill Maher.  Rerun.  Suze Orman was a guest.  I don't know Suze's political leanings but those earrings of hers are definitely Republicans.

Being a seamstress, red carpet fashion is something I used to care about.  Oooh look, that gown has got some kick ass boning under the armscyes.  Check out that sequining...wonder if that was hand sewn or done with a tambour.  My god, can you believe her hem?  A half inch too short!  If that very famous and somewhat talented actress cinches that dress any tighter, she's going to fart and rip it.

Who are you wearing?  Zach Galifianakis is wearing Garanimals.  I'm wearing a Martha Stewart queen sized flat sheet.
Admittedly, it would be a hoot if Kate Winslet showed up at my house and begged me to dress her.  I'd load her ass up into my fabulous mini-van and we'd take a ride up to Home Fabrics.  Then after choosing a nice damask, we could have lunch served on a garbage can lid at Famous Dave's barbecue. 

Or it could be fun if I were nominated for an Oscar myself so I could design and sew my own dress.  I'm thinking a faux suede wrap skirt and a latex bodypaint top.  That's after I borrow money against my Oscar hopes for a tummy tuck and tasteful yet massive breast augmentation.

This may or may not be what I'm wearing to my 20th high school reunion in the fall.

Alright...I'll go ahead and let on with a best and worst dressed.

Mila Jovovich looked great:

Kristen Wiig did not:

Here's a tambour beading tutorial:

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Watch...not make.

Today is my oldest son's 18th birthday. 

Yay, he's eighteen!

Can you hear the exhaustion in the tone of that sentence?

My husband and I have raised that boy to legal adulthood.  It gets easier from here on out, doesn't it?  Shuddup.  Don't answer that.

He asked me what he was allowed to do that was different this morning.  I told him that he was now responsible for any illegal behaviors he engages in.  He can vote.  He can marry. He can enter into contracts.

"I can watch porn!" he exclaims.


Dare to dream. 

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Freedom of Speech sure can be slippery.

I am a communist.

...and an atheist.

...a fascist.


....ungrateful to those who have fought for all the freedoms we have today.

Or so I'm told.  Because I'm of the opinion that it's a bad idea to legislate forced recitation of  The Pledge of Allegiance in public schools.  When you leave a comment to that effect on a local news story about the topic, you get the residents of the reddest state in the union all riled up.

Let me quote myself.  "It's not really a pledge of anything if it's forced. Forcing loyalty is only tyranny."

I know, I know.  We all did it as kids.  We all stood up in the mornings facing an American flag printed on nylon fabric and glued to a dowel to pledge to be invisible.  All part of a good education. 

Then, after the pledge and before attendance, at least until I was in the second grade, the teacher led all of us in prayer.  We stopped that year (1981-1982) because everyone was confused on which God we were supposed to pray to in government run education.  It was decided it was OK to not pray at all.  Pray on your own time.  Yes, even you.   Right about the same time Nutrasweet was released to the public.  Coincidence?  I think not.

The Pledge became somewhat more of a muddy matter when we all got to the seventh grade and instead of putting hands to hearts, there was always a few girls and some boys who would use the opportunity to cup one of their boobs.  I'll admit it.  I did it once or twice.  Training bras are such a novelty even if they all come with pink bows in the center.

Point is, there is no one way to breed or express love of country and it should never become a matter of propoganda.  When you force a pledge the pledge becomes meaningless.  It requires the freedom to not say a thing, to protest, to not pledge, a freedom protected by the constitution, for it to have any dignity or grace.

Am I communist?  No.  I don't think human beings are any good at being square pegs.  We will always find some thing or someone that matters more to us in context.  Not everyone deserves to not be given a trophy any more than we all deserve one.

Am I an atheist?  No.  But there are plenty of folks out there who think that what I believe to be God is as good of a reason as any to damn me to hell or at least tell me I should move out of country.  But, you know what?  Even if I didn't believe in a higher power of some sort I'd still pay my taxes.

Am I a fascist.  Yes.  Wait.  No.  Does that even mean what it used to?   

Unpatriotic?  No.  I stand for the flag every Fourth of July parade no matter how much the local scouting troop lets it droop.  I do not cup my boob while it passes.

Ungrateful when it comes to our troops?  I'm the wife of a disabled Desert Storm veteran (Army, 3rd Infantry Division) and I'm about to send my wet behind the ears high school senior son into the Navy.  You want to thank him for their service?  Then thank them.  They fought for you and not necessarily a symbol for you.

What is that old saying?  I may not agree with what you have to say but I'd fight to the death for your right to say it?

Or not say it.

Have a collage of Rick Santorum made entirely out of gay porn.

Made ya look.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Uterus Angry

This is a photo of five men, testifying at a GOP led committee meeting on the insurance coverage of contraception, who are NOT experts in contraception, telling me the proper way to use it.

Which is, not to use it at all, unless I pay for it myself, and then I'd better feel ashamed about it.

You know who IS an expert on MY contraception use?  ME.  I am...The owner of MY ovaries and MY uterus and MY vagina and MY sexuality and MY limited capacity to rear children on public schoolteacher's income.

I'm tired of being told that providing insurance for birth control, or even access to it at all, is the floodgates to licentiousness.  Before I'd had my tubal ligation I'd utilized much birth control to prevent pregnancies while I had perfectly moral missionary style sex with my husband. 

After my tubal ligation, I utilized birth control to calm down my misfiring hormones so I wouldn't go about pissy and overly heated.

You know how far I had to drive to obtain birth control because at one time my town only had one pharmacy and a pharmacist who wouldn't dispense it because it went against his personal beliefs?  120 miles one way.  That was both the next closest pharmacy and the nearest Planned Parenthood location.  So I'd drive, buy three months worth from PP or Sam's Club, drive back, and still spend less than what my insurance wanted me to pay for it mail order.

That doesn't include a Nascar style pelvic exam either.

Then, before I was married, at the bright, shiny and legal voting age of 18, I didn't have private or anonymous access to birth control at all.   Abstinence only sex education was the only moral choice and access to BC would make girls into accessable sluts thus ensuring the downfall of society.  The condoms we used failed.  That kid is 18 in a week and apparently he wants to become a sailor.  You'd better believe I've taught him better sex education than to sew up his zipper and stick his fingers in his ears.

What's more...and here's the showstopper...I ENJOY SEX.  I like to have orgasms.  With my husband.  Who also enjoys sex.  We like to have sex without the fear of conceiving every time Tab A even approaches Slot B.  We like having the ability to not be slaves to my ovaries and his sperm.  We like having a full sexual experience when we choose to.  If I wasn't married?  Or sterilized?  Maybe I'd want to have sex anyway, because I'm a normal sexual being.

You hear that you old and celibate family values and religious freedom eejits?  I'm a human with a brain perfectly capable of making my own health and family decisions and YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING IN MY PANTS.  Unless you are invited and you've bought me a nacho cheese chalupa and an empanada without a coupon at the Taco Hell drive through.  Otherwise, get out.  You do not get to tell me which consenting adult to have sex with, when, how and whether or not I should bear children.  You do not get to tell me that a medication that is essential to my quality of life is against your moral code and therefore should be extranneous when it comes to health.  You do not get to tell a government that is not supposed to espouse religion, who you take funding from and don't pay taxes to, what God will and will not tolerate in his budget.

Sit on my middle finger and spin.

...and don't you dare get excited about that prospect.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Tampon crafts, no, just, no.

Some of us loathe Valentine's Day.  Some of us really get off on it.  I'm right in the middle.  It's nice to eat overpriced chocolate.  I like to do nice things for my husband.  I like being naked.

This is pretty much what my husband expects.  Sugary food and some attention paid to his boo-boo.  Happy Valentine's Day!

After 18 years of marriage this formula for the holiday has not let us down.  Then when one of us gets a wild hair and does something more than this, we both feel cherished and loved.

There are bad Valentine's gifts that women give to their men though.  Some of us sisters think that if the gift is elaborate, cute and creative, our men will swoon.  I have learned not to do this.  Truth is, our men will not care.  What you women think is just the most adorable pink and red themed gift ever is just a step in a multi-level romantic gesture process for men to get their boo-boo touched.

Then women get disappointed because it wasn't the thought that counts apparently.

Then they get angry.

Then he knows his boo-boo might be in danger.

In general, asking your husband for what he'd like for Valentine's is a good plan.  He's the expert on himself.  His answers may not be romantic but they will be honest.  Likewise, you can plainly tell him what you'd like.  Asking other women what your husband might like for Valentine's is not a good plan.  Women think up ideas for other women and then your husband has to fake gratitude and other smooshy feelings when you spring any of this on him.

These are gifts you should not give, lest you should be so inconsiderate:

The Valentine's Coupon Book:  It is thoughtful to give written and redeemable confirmation for hugs, kisses, steak dinners, backrubs and a night out with the boys...but what are the chances he's actually going redeem any of them past February 15th after you tell him that "hug" is not code for "sex" unless the coupon specifically mentions sex?  Yeah, nil.  How about you give the man a case of beer and then throughout the year voluntarily give him more hugs, kisses, special dinners, backrubs,  boys nights and wild monkey sex?  The coupon book is going to sit in a drawer gathering dust.  Don't let your bodies gather dust. 

A Trip to Build a Bear:  Might as well right?  You're already at the mall to get that glitter encrusted singing Hallmark card, which is another drawer dust gatherer.  He'd love writing a special message on a heart to put in your bear and you know exactly what to write to put in his bear, right?  Then the bears can live and love on your marital bed, dressed as cupids, on top of all the decorative pillows looking out beyond the duvet, a symbol of your forever love.  Except, he'd rather Cupid shoot an arrow right through his left eyeball and up into his brain.  Plushies are for children and fetishists.

A Valentine Themed Treasure Hunt:  Which had better end in something good....like electronics, a chain saw, or a car.  Do not make your man chase about the house, or your town, or go full on Amazing Race, only to get to the end to find a plate of spaghetti and some cheap wine served near a dripping candle.  You might be forgiven for wasting all his time if at the end you are at a cheap hotel wearing the kind of cheap negligee you can rip.   Never ever have your mother with you at the end to see his reaction.

Chocolate:  He knows this isn't for him.  It's for you.  Buy him candy he likes and keep your mitts off.  Do not attach tags made from scrapbooking paper and stamping crap or wired bows or pink fluff to his candy.   It only confuses him to whether he should open and eat it or not.  Don't poo poo the idea that he might rather have a bag of Doritoes or some beef jerkey.

The Experimental Special Homecooked Meal:  This means you don't add several drops of red food coloring to his favorite white foods to create the blush of love.  This is not the time to buy hundreds of dollars worth of truffles because they are the secret ingredient that will make his favorite meatloaf an occasion.   Don't decide that you're going to learn how to prepare a boeuf wellington that day.  Stick with tried and true, serve a romantic straightforward beverage, and then save the simple dessert for after the boo-boo touching.

Heed me well ladies.  Valentine's Day is a cooperative event that takes much communication and understanding.  No one loved each other better because the gesture had more foil, glitter, rose petals or pink plush fabrics.  Hold the man, look into his eyes, tell him that he's a good man and that you love him, then appreciate his boo-boo. 

After that, make him a sandwich.

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