Thursday, May 31, 2012

Is that a hot dog in your cart or are you happy to see me?

If New York City's mayor gets sodas larger than 16 oz banned, can I still buy a bottle of cheap wine, wrap it in a paper bag, and drink it with a very long straw right on the street?

I hope so.  I've never been to New York City and when I go I want the experience to be authentic if not fattening.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Fair and balanced?

I adore my hormones.

That is, I adore the bio-identical hormones that I purchase and apply to my skin and not the poor levels of hormones that my ovaries produce on their own.  Lack of hormonal support is what had me feeling so down this last winter.

According to the check off your symptoms tests online I'm estrogen dominant and progesterone deficient.  I take this self diagnosis with a grain of salt because the website that supplied the questionnaire wanted me to confirm this with a saliva test they would be happy to sell me for $265.  For best results you may want to test every three months.  It's a damned shame that this company isn't paying ME to spit all into their test tubes.  I'm excellent at spitting.

Besides, I don't need no steenkeeng tests.  All I need to know is that when I used 20 to 30mg of progesterone I don't feel like I'm being sucked into a spiralling black hole or feel like I want to deep fry live kittens or feel consumed by a special brand of happy go lucky anxiety.  Withing ten minutes of application I'm calm and still able to operate heavy machinery.

It's also been good for thickening the hair on my head and thinning the whiskers on my chin.  And for pimples too...and cramping...and gas...and water retention.  And gas.  Did I mention the gas?

According to the directions on my bottle of progesterone I'm supposed to leave of dosing for a few days in my cycle so I can menstruate.  Those few days started yesterday.  They ended quite suddenly today.  I broke down and applied my 30 to my shins in a moment of desperation.

I was going quite insane.  As in, I have a new gallon of vegetable oil, two cats, and a big stock pot sort of insane.  Still, that wasn't the point where I thought it would be a good idea to screw the directions on the packaging.  I had my aha moment when I actually felt bad that Donald Trump couldn't convince Mitt Romney that Obama faked his birth certificate.  Weepy even.

It was THAT bad.

There are many reasons to feel badly for Donald Trump.  Merry go round marriages to increasingly younger and perkier women.  His fluffy hairdo.  Orangey fake-bake.  He cuddled with Rudy Guiliani in drag.  All of that deserves a melancholy moment or two.  The birth certificate?  What the hell?

Those birther movement conspiracy whack-a-doos do not deserve any of the tears I shed.

After all, they wouldn't take my burst of emotion as a call for hormonal help but a confirmation of how right they are and how screwed this country will be if we elect Obama again.

Wish I could give all of them some progesterone.  It would be great for the economy.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Tossing my Mortarboard

Today it was confirmed that my oldest son has passed all his classes and will indeed be graduating from high school this Friday.

Throughout his entire school career I have pushed that boy to not only do his homework but to complete the process by actually turning it in.  I've checked assignments, kept constant contact with teachers, provided extra tutoring and allowed him to face the consequences for failure for 13 years.  This has not been awesome.  It's been frustrating for many people because he is incredibly intelligent, a little bit ADD, and feels a lot entitled to not have to prove himself.  As parents we've pushed him to learn and relearn good work habits not just for scholarship but for life. 

He's hated this but then again, his senior year has been his most successful school year to date.

So when I was asked if I wanted to know his final grades today or wait until report cards come out, I said I didn't.  I really really really don't want to know.  I don't want to ever see that report card.

My son is a graduate.

This part of my life is over.

Now it's up to him.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Good Humor? I've got your steenking joke right here.

This might be some kind of crime against childhood and nostalgia, but I'm really beginning to hate the local ice cream truck.

It's a sunshine yellow truck.  It's driven by Satan's minions and sells kid crack in frozen dairy form.

Every single stinking afternoon since early April this truck has made it's way into my neighborhood, blaring nursery rhymes, and promising children that if they whined at their parents in just the right tone, they too could enjoy bubble gum flavored ice cream in the shape of Spongebob Squarepants. 

Spongebob LactoseSugarMilkfatArtificialFlavoringPants is priced at $1.50.  I have three children.  Not saying no to ice cream out of a truck will cost me over $600 for as long as the warm weather lasts.

I've suggested an alternative to my kids which I think will provide all of the novelty and none of the parental annoyance.  They, of course, pooh-poohed the idea.  I just don't see why I can't line up my kids on the sidewalk, slowly drive by them in my fabulous mini-van,  blare Justin Bieber or that "I'm sexy and I know it" song, and throw Otter Pops at their heads.

Ahh summer!  Waking up late, barbecue and pasta salad, running through the sprinklers in your underpants and Mom barely missing your eye with a festive otter named Poncho Punch.

Bonus!  If I refuse to allow them to eat their Otter Pops I can just refreeze them and we can do the whole thing over again the next day!  HUGE SAVINGS!

Oooh, I am so looking forward to having my kids home now!

Monday, May 21, 2012

It's all right.

Despite the clouds, we were in an excellent location to see the eclipse yesterday.  My son took this photo through two of our fabulous mini-van's tinted windows.  The light was strange and we stood in the moon's shadow.

I'm also lucky in that while this spectacular event was happening, I could also turn to the east and see the curve of the earth because I live in one of the few places on the planet where you can do this on land.  You could see the shadow for forty miles across a flat white treeless plane.

Oh, to have such awe.  

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

It's not a cage. It's only underwire.

When I was a teenager, back when I was flatchested, didn't need a bra and wore one anyway, it was considered the height of uncouth to allow those bra straps to slip or show.  Especially if said bra was a color other than white.  The only reason to buy a colorful bra is to show that bra off to boys and showing off your bras to boys is an awfully trampy thing to do.  Thou shalt maintain secrecy about your undergarments.

Back then I had a A cup turquoise demi cup bra which I liked a lot.  Used to take that thing off from under my shirt and hook it to the radio antennae of my high school car on Big Gulp runs.  That's not just showing off your bra to boys...that's convenient equal opportunity bra display. 

For some reason I cannot begin to fathom, going about with most of your bra showing under your summer clothing is now considered A-OK.  It's more important to maintain perky wonderbreasts than to hide your underclothing when you are hot.  If you are like me and you outgrew the gravity resistant breasts of your younger years, keeping your bra on most of the time maintains your dignity too.  No one wants to see your old lady brassiere flapping off your mini-van no matter how badly that bra needs an airing.

But, if on the off chance you do, I'll be taking my van down to the McDonald's tomorrow around noon mountain time for an iced coffee.

When it's this hot this early in the year, dignity be damned.  All I need is a drive-thru and a cool breeze.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Hump Day Eve

For the last week Mother Nature has had her way with me and we all know what that means for tonight...I plan on seducing the husband whether he likes it or not.

There are techniques to doing this in the middle of the week.  Weekend sex is far different than Tuesday night sex afterall.  You've already given up on Leno and Letterman so getting into the mood is far easier.

Leg shaving is a little less expected midweek.  Tuesday is when you spend your day folding the laundry you did on Sunday.  You shave your legs on Wednesday because you deep clean your tub and shower on Thursday.  You make up for the prickles on your legs by promising to warm up your ice cold feet before you jump into bed.  You still have clean underwear on your body which is considered sexy.

Tuesday dinner is whatever was leftover from the weekend with enough vegetables to make it stretch into a full sized meal.  Nothing too heavy.  This keeps everyone a little less sleepy.

There are no pressing chores this early in the week because you've already resigned to get to them next weekend.  Installing cove molding in the kitchen?  Next weekend!  Planting petunias in the front flower beds?  Next weekend!  Replacing the top to your patio table because the old one shattered two years ago?  Next weekend!  Tonight we can relax.

But then you remember that everyone has to get up early so expediency, precision and efficiency is important.  There shall be no hemming and hawing in the marital den on a Tuesday.  Luckily you've been married almost 19 years and all the hot buttons are clearly marked.  It's like watching The Shawshank Redemption for the thousandth time.  You know Andy is going to tunnel through the prison wall but the movie is always a satisfying watch.

Marital maintenance is important.  These matters must be a priority you know.  What else have you got going for you on Tuesday night?  Might as well have a tingle or two.
So, get off Words with Friends and Draw Something and go live the dream you old married farts.

I am.  Or, shortly I will be.

Colbert ends in twenty minutes.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Wonderful Spring

Scene:  My xeriscaped backyard...that means we took up all our grass in favor of a good layer of decorative gravel and a few planter boxes.  I live in Nevada.  God was not fooled by my lawn. 

It really is lovely back here.  I've planted vegetables in my planter box.  Petunias in my planters.  Marigolds in twenty feet of vinyl gutter on my ledge.  The spanish olive trees I just allowed to grow, because God is also not fooled by oaks on the slat flats, smell wonderful.

Swallows are diving and a pair of ring necked doves are in the middle of PDA.  Birds poop while they make out with each other.  Romantic eh?  Kissy kissy coo coo dump kissy coo.  Can't do that on a first date.
The kids have gone to bed.  The sun is setting.  The patio is still hot under my bare and happy feet.

Contrast this peace with earlier in my day.
Scene:  Elementary school parking lot nearing the end of the school day.  I am parked in my fabulous mini-van in the second spot north of the crosswalk in front of the school trying to read.  Another mother is parked in her fabulous mini-van in the first spot and her friend is lounging into the open driver's side window simultaneously gossiping in person and on her cell phone.

Their gossip is loud and angry.

They complain in several directions.  Into and out of the van.  Toward the school.  Into their cell phones. Up into the clear blue sky.

At the pinnacle of this gossip, when there is no kissing or cooing but dumping instead, the driver fortifies her opinions by exclaiming in a serious self righteous tone:

"I am NOT mental.  Just ask my kids!"

To which I could not help myself...I laughed...I laughed long and I laughed hard...and they noticed.


I AM mental.  No need to ask my kids one way or the other.  It's why I need a beautiful space to sit in the evenings.


Tuesday, May 08, 2012

Chopping them up. Chopping them down.

Today I took myself to lunch.

I could take myself to lunch just about every day if I wanted to.  My lunch schedule is so free but I usually just stay home.  If I had the motivation I could put on clothing that is appropriate in public and eat food that someone else has prepared. 

The employees at Subway really are sandwich artists. 

Motivation came in the form of a truly frustrating parenting day yesterday.  How my sons can be so aggressive with any number of their bodily fluids is beyond reason.  I declined condiments on my cold cut combo.

Further motivation is my new bra which arranges my breasts in such a way that I cannot look down at my own toes without bending over.  My sandwich artist did not notice.

Because no one sneezed on the fixin's or wiped their boogers anywhere while I was in the queue, I left a tip.

Tomorrow I wish I could take myself to lunch again because this entire day past lunchtime has exceeded yesterday's frustrating experience by far.

There will be no cold cut combos, wearing more than sweats over my spectacular new bra or leaving any tips.  There will only be the punishment of my 18 year old son at home because he's been suspended for fighting at school less than a month before graduation.

He didn't start the fight apparently.  He was pushed from behind, knocked to the ground and then he used his fists to say what every other kid in that school wanted our pusher to know.  That's what is saving his butt when it comes to being eligible to walk.  The other kid has an attitude and he deserved it.

However, my boy could have just as easily gotten up, dusted himself off, and walked away.

What I don't get is what I did to deserve Sir Hormoansalot home until next Monday.  This child of mine needs his own attitude adjustment.  Here he's been the pusher.  He's been belligerent.  He's been snappy and rude.  Now is not the time to give him a high five for not starting the fight but certainly ending the fight. 

I get to be the yeller.  Again.  Lay down the law.  Instruct him.

My son is contrite.  When he got home today he completed all of his homework and without prompting did his laundry.

Tomorrow he gets to do yardwork.  We also get to take yard trash to the dump.

Meh.  I might buy him a Coke on the way.

Friday, May 04, 2012

I don't actually know who I am by birth.

I just asked my husband, because the subject was mentioned while we were watching "The Importance of being Earnest", if I had become like my mother.

He held up his hand and gestured that I had, a little bit.

I considered this for a moment and said, "Well, that must be the sexy part of me." and winked at him.

...thus ensuring that my husband will not want to sleep with me ever again.

I really must stop being self destructive.

Wednesday, May 02, 2012

I deserve a break today?

I just sent my kids to bed.

It's adult time now, right?  It's the time of day where you are free to break out all the snacks you have hidden from your children in the laundry room.  It's the time of day where you can chew those treats slowly, savoring every calorie that you do not have to share.

Now, what if the snack you are craving is a McDonald's old fashioned twisty ice cream cone?  Just the type of snack which doesn't keep well behind your Costco sized box of Tide.

If you go out to get some cones, and bring them back like your husband suggests, because he does not want to get up out of his chair and interrupt the watching of Jon Stewart, won't the kids sense that the usual snack eating cycle that they are only peripherally aware of is amiss?

Won't they wake and proceed to Children of the Corn you into giving up your delicious cones?

They would!

They'd go McZombie!

This is torture.

Tuesday, May 01, 2012

Pass over the Vaseline. I need the grease.

When Justin and I married the agreement to how to split household chores was easy.  Basically, that I would be thrilled to do most to all of the chores if, for the love of gawd, Justin would do the dishes until we got a dishwasher.

I hate doing the dishes.  I'd rather shove my entire fist up my left nostril than wash a dish.

This arrangement worked out nicely.  He got clean underwear and clean toilets.  I got to avoid flappy nostrils.

When we moved into an apartment with a dishwasher I was thrilled.  Justin was also thrilled.  He supported the family and I spent hours upon hours every day loading the dishwasher and surfing Yahoo adult chat.  My dishes, repartee and marriage all sparkled.  It was a blissful era.

As eras do, it all ended.  My dishwasher is a useless appliance.  The algae population is booming.  That is, the phosphates in detergents are a fertilizer and when they end up in the groundwater, all those algae suffer from obesity and turbo libido.  The fix for this is to not feed the animals and remove the phosphate in the soap.

Dishwasher detergents without phosphates are useless.  The dishes coming out of my dishwasher look about the same as when I put them in the dishwasher, maybe minus a stuck on Cheerio or two, and this is unacceptable. 

It's not like any algae will come along and hand wash my dishes to ensure that they are truly clean so I asked my husband if we could go back to our original agreement.  He washes the dishes.  I talk dirty to him.  Win win.

He cut off my question mid-ask with, "The crux of the agreement is that we have a dishwasher."

At the period on the end of his statement he raised his eyebrows at me and I knew the argument was over.

It's not his fault that phosphates are of the devil.  He has provided a home with an adequate dish washing appliance.  His part of the deal is did.  My part of the deal is to utilize that appliance, or not, and turn dirty dishes into clean ones.

You know what trick I'm going to mystify Justin with next?  Not dirty to clean dishes.  No.  It will be turning perfectly lovely blue striped ceramic dinnerware into these:


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