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


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


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!
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.

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