Thursday, January 31, 2013

The fact that Frank Sinatra padded his butt for his role as a sailor in On the Town also makes me sad.

Since yesterday, the non-dairy creamer consumption in my house has decreased by two-thirds.  I buy it in bulk because my 18 year old manchild liked a little coffee with his creamer.  And ice.  And sugar.  In the mornings he basically drank a mild coffee flavored lukewarm sweet waxy substance.

Today he wasn't here to share my fresh pot. 

My son swore into the Navy on Tuesday.  Tears were shed and none of them were his.  They mostly belonged to my older sister and my younger sister.  Some of them belonged to me.  My sisters started boo-hooing long before I did and that sort of thing catches like herpes.


All the tears shed yesterday more than likely belonged entirely to me.  He flew a half a country away. 

Then there were some tears today but that was because I re-watched episode 4 of Downton Abbey.  That episode just sucked!  I was not at all expecting what happened and I wonder what will happen in episode 5.  Episode 2 was also excellent.

Sadly, I walked around my house kind of undressed, going to the bathroom with the door open because no one else was here to see it besides the cats.   There was fast food with double the processed cheese and pickle for lunch which should make anyone feel weepy.

The last 19 years of my life have been taken up with this kid in one way or another.  My entire adult life. I don't know what to do.

Other than be proud.  I am so proud.

...I'll probably keep buying the coffee creamer in bulk though.  It's not like it goes bad.  It costs the same as a package half it's size!

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Seaman Yeasty, permission to come aboard?

What do you do when you meet a 6'8", 300 lb. sailor at your son's Navy recruiter's office?  You ask, "How do you do?", shake his hand, and listen to and agree with everything he tells you.

He told us how to navigate the bullet train in Japan.  I figure a man his size can navigate anywhere he damn well pleases.

He told us how to get posted in the location you want instead of the location the Navy wants you to want.  You pick three posts and somehow the Navy picks the one you didn't list at all.  Easy peasy.

He told us how to impress good looking civilian nurses.  Again, I figure a man his size can impress any female he damn well pleases.

That's the piece of advice that comes closest to the nuggets of wisdom I've offered my son now that his life is officially beginning.  As a parent I've imparted much knowledge but if I had to boil it down to one important axiom it would be:  Don't date skanks.

What is a skank you ask?  (You didn't ask, but clarification is important to the likes of my boy.)  Well, Urban Dictionary defines skank as:

A derogatory term directed towards females, usually young, suggesting sluttiness, lack of hygiene, poorness, cruelty, tackiness, or use of drugs/alchohol/cigarettes. Can be used towards any race.


Unfortunately you'll have to do your own image search for skanks...I'm too lightheaded from doing my own search.  Have this photo of a sailor costume from one of my suppliers from my costume business instead.


Ahoy!

All this military sailor stuff, that's beyond where I can guide this young man.  What I've got in spades is how to attract and keep a woman who won't go out without proper undergarments, drinking tequila and clamato until she pukes, and then offers him personal contact that will more than likely pass on the flu germ in return for a ride to her trailer.

Not that women in the Navy, or women who like sailors, are necessarily skanks.  I don't believe that at all.  What I know is that my son doesn't know up from down when it comes to dating or girls and that makes him a prime target for that breed of girl.  He'll get out in the world, out in a uniform, sporting PX privileges, and some skank will tell him he turns her on, and it'll be all downhill from there.

This would be the case even if he himself grew to 6'8" and 300 lbs. 

My son knows his general orders.  He knows his creed.  He's got his order of command down.  Now he's got a week to learn how to spot a skank from 1000 yards and then run like his butt is on fire.

Because if he gets with a skank it might be.

Then you have to get yourself some antibiotics.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Eleven Days

That's how many days it will be until my son begins the end of his growing up in the U.S. Navy. 

I asked him today if it was still his intention to go...because he could still back out at this point...and he told me that if he'd wanted to back out he would have done it before now.  This question was a pleasure to ask him because he did indeed get his brain together and learn by heart his 11 general orders as well as other tidbits a drill sergeant is going to demand of him a half inch from his face.  Just making sure he knew he could step out from the path of a freight train.

Today was his last day schlepping carts and bagging in plastic for our local grocery store.  The job has been good for him.  Everyone should take a job working with the public and cleaning restrooms.  When you're cleaning a strangers smear marks off a toilet seat (or other bathroom fixtures not at all close to the toilet) you vow you'll never be so irresponsible with your bodily functions.  This makes for considerable people and should help my son immensely in his near future.

Tuesday I drive him into the big city to pee into a cup, and maybe take well posed cheesy grinned photos with his recruiter. 

Then the Tuesday after, he's off on an airplane in the middle of the night to one of the coldest places on the planet, so they can learn my baby to be a man.  They'll teach him to dress, to walk, to talk, to swim, to shoot and to sleep on cue. 

I potty trained the kid.  Without that he'd have never made it in the grown up world.

OK...now I'm tearing up.

Monday, January 14, 2013

What do you do when your nose goes on strike? Pick it.

I'm sorry all y'all are suffering from flu. 

Flu sucks.  That's if you could breathe through your nose.  The achiness and the grumpiness and spurting of fluids out of your orifices.  It's a rude interruption to winter, especially a winter that's been so frigid.  My thermometer tells me it's 9 degrees.

Flu hasn't hit Casa AbsentMinded yet.  None of us have had flu shots either.  What an irresponsible thing for the likes of a housewife to not pay much mind to.  Tomorrow I'm going to drag my kids to the pharmacy and demand they shoot us up.  I've partied with the pharmacist's assistant.  She knows how I like it. 

What has hit Casa AbsentMinded is lingering colds and therefore it's the season of the wiped booger.

Just moments ago I caught my seven year old son wiping his booger on our couch and I screeched.  Screeched in such a tone that my cats scrambled under my bed and my oldest son actually poked his head out of his room.  My husband jumped.  My middle son yelped...and my seven year old begin to whimper.

Because I saw that kid pull his thumb and his forefinger apart to stretch that booger before he tried to wipe it where I'm sitting right now...I saw what color it was...and I knew what color it would crust into, either on the cushion or on the back of my jeans.

Does this flu-shot negligent parent buy paper products which make booger disposal effective?  YES!  There are rolls upon rolls of the stuff in both of my bathrooms!  There are even trash receptacles in those bathrooms in which to dispose a booger tissues.

Don't you dare leave your snot rag laying around or I'll screech again!


Saturday, January 12, 2013

Speaking of Kindle...

You can now subscribe to The Absent Minded Housewife through Amazon Kindle. Which is awesome and high tech and everything. I'm going to send it to my mother. Along with some cheesy erotica and a copy of The Feminine Mystique.
 
 

 
It'll cost you 99 cents a month. Just do it.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

To sleep perchance to increase the incidence of tumors in white mice.

Since Christmas vacation ended on Monday, my night owl body has been petulant about getting up in the wee hours to see my kiddos off to school.  During the holidays I just let my body clock set itself and it was wonderful.  If my body had things it's way all the time, it would stay up until 1 or 2 and sleep until 9 or 10.  However, the rest of the world says that my body must be sleeping by 10 and up at 6, hopefully doing something productive, like remembering to pull down my pajama pants before I take my first morning pee. 

To help my body accept it's earlier bedtime a little better, I've been taking melatonin this week.  If I take it with my multivitamin around half past nine, I can drift off by 10ish.  Melatonin is my sleep aid of choice because with the right dose I rarely wake up feeling drugged.  Doesn't mean there aren't side effects though.  Me and melatonin, it means I have weird vivid dreams the first few nights of use. 

This week my body has certainly taken it's revenge and has dug cat poop out of the sandbox of my psyche.  Cat is the subject anyhow, and if you'd like to play armchair psychologist, I invite you to dissect the nugget I dreamt a couple nights ago.


~~~Wavy Dream Lines Wavy Dream Lines Wavy Dream Lines~~~


I'm in my home.  I'm relaxing in my family room, reading or playing Words with Friends, or whatever.  Then I hear loud yowls outside and turning my head toward my sliding glass door, I find my old cat Booger, the one that went missing over a year ago.

He's desperate to get in and I'm thrilled to see he's back.  When I open the door and scoop him up, he yowls again.  Poor kitty must be hurt!  I check his body all around but find nothing actually injured.  Instead I find that he has sprouted a painful mass of several testicles resembling a bunch of grapes.  Lemon sized grapes.  They had all swollen to such a large size because his furry scrotum had become twisted and cut off any sort of blood flow. 

Knowing in my dream that I'm an expert on testicles, I was confident that I could fix the problem.

Deftly, I untwist my poor cat's scrotum and immediately the cat sighs and purrs in relief.  One by one the extra testicles shrink and disappear except for the normal amount of testicles that don't look any worse for wear.

Happily my Booger makes his way to the cat dish.  Just as happy, I return to my spot on the couch and place a killer bingo word in my game of Words with Friends.  Everyone feels awesome.


~~~Wavy Dream Lines Wavy Dream Lines Wavy Dream Lines~~~


So, lay it on me, whatever can that dream mean?

And don't you dare tell me it means I'm pregnant because or want to be pregnant, because that would be incredibly wrong.  The pregnant thing is reserved for the dream where all your teeth fall out.

Monday, January 07, 2013

Twenty-two Days

Oh these growing pains. They ache.

Just finished with a rather large argument with my eighteen year old son on how much it would behoove him to learn The Eleven General Orders of a Sentry, since his Navy recruiter has strongly recommended he know them before he arrives for boot camp.

He's had months to learn these statements by heart. He really hasn't bothered.  He leaves on January 29th.  Not knowing his orders on command, amongst other trivia found in a book the Navy printed all glossy for new recruits, is going to make him a target for his drill instructor.  He will be doing so many push ups that he may actually develop biceps.

The argument probably wasn't about learning his orders.  It was probably about being so ready to leave home and so not ready to leave home.  It was about both him making sure I knew how adult he thinks he is and how much of a child he wants to remain.

You know, I didn't drop him off at the Navy offices against his will.  He joined up.  He has Navy paraphernalia about his person and belongings.  He likes his recruiter.  He wants the job the Navy wants to train him for. 

He also wants to stay home, the only person in this house who has his own room, he wants to create heaps of clothes and garbage in that space, eat junk, suck up bandwidth, spend his money on geek toys and fap in the shower.

He claims his memory is poor.  That's why he can't do it.  He has a million excuses.

His ever-lovin' parents reminded him that he remembers the origin of every single meme posted on the internet, how to code miles of custom format Linerider tracks, all the algorithms for solving complicated Rubiks style puzzles, and the words to his favorite songs.

His ever-lovin' drill instructor will not give a shit if he claims his memory is poor.  He will learn by the numbers.  The drill instructor will teach you.

It's my turn to be done with all the teaching.  It's my son's turn to sink or swim.

This is just crap.  It really is.

Thursday, January 03, 2013

Come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!

The best part of gift giving, at least for the likes of me, is to see the reaction of the recipient.  Some gifts inspire gratitude, some surprise, some a fit of giggles and others a look of confused wonderment mixed with terror.

My mother's big eyed response to my giving her a Kindle loaded with lots of books for Christmas?

"Does this have 'Fifty Shades of Grey' on it?"

I had to disappoint her.  I've never read it much less purchased it.  How do I give such filth a place next to my terrible Jane Austen fanfiction?  I read an excerpt once though.  It was bad.  I was not turned on.  Instead I felt queasy.

You could read an excerpt too or you could watch this.  Use your headphones in case you're at work or you have impressionable children about.



Ahh...that tingled.

Lucky for Mom, my oldest sister was given a copy of Fifty in her stocking.  They live next door to each other.  After my sister reads it, my Mom can have her turn and they can engage in all the bonding that is appropriate for a middle aged woman and one that has aged into a discount at Sizzler.

And here I was worried that my Mom might object to the raunchy story I have since deleted off our shared files!  It seems I've been thinking about this all the wrong way.  Maybe what I need to do is send my Mom's Kindle the worst erotica ever e-printed! 

Imagine the look of delight when she suddenly discovers these gems:

Fornicating Frida:  Frida is fat, grey, and well over forty and with an outmoded taste in underwear, but this wasn't going to stop Freda from enjoying the wild carnal pleasures...and paintshop.

Lap DanceCat’s last task in the Extreme Challenge is to give a lap dance to a stranger. Simple—until she landed on Grant Evanston’s lap. Now she’s a pulsating wreck each time she rubs against him.  Yakkity yakkity...surprise, he's a gargoyle!

Shapeshifter's CravingKate, shapeshifter and royal princess, has fallen in love with her bodyguard, Aidan, a man with the perfect body built to defend and love her at any cost.  How...malleable.  If he lays on her arm wrong, you don't have to completely rearrange yourselves.  No interrupting the rhythm.

Her Very Special RobotTrace, a movie stuntman, will do anything—anything at all—for his best friend’s widow. He sets out to give Allie what she asked for, a vacation at the House of a Thousand Pleasures, complete with a very lifelike robot who is going to make her wildest sexual dreams come true.  It's Rosie from The Jetson's, isn't it!  I smell lemon dusting spray already.

Touch of an IncubusFrom the moment they met, Claire wanted Leon. The tall, dark incubus has more than his share of sex appeal. The thing is, Claire isn’t looking for the best night of her life; she’s looking for a relationship.  Communication is the key, even for incubi.  It's OK to talk about our feelings.  Don't bottle it in.

Spanked by the VetInstead of thanking her long-time crush Cayce Gerard after he rescues her from a truly disastrous date, Ashley Phillips wants to read him the riot act. When the gentle veterinarian uncharacteristically turns her over his knee and starts spanking her spoiled butt, Ashley's protests turn to moans and her secret is finally out.  She's a hoarder?  She's got herpes?  Her father is Darth Vader?  What is it!


I'm even thinking of giving my Mom the ultimate handmade gift in writing my own naughty story.  It starts with a woman living alone with her twelve cats and a dead end career as a bouncer in a strip bar meeting a meek and bald accountant type stiffing dancers for dollars, and then discovering latex and dryer lint together.  I'll call it, "Sophie and the Maytag Man".

My Mom gets it for free.  The rest of you will have to pay 99 cents to share her delight.

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