Monday, April 29, 2013

What do you think of my new cullottes?

Now that my part of the world is warming up it'll soon be shorts weather and once again I can introduce everyone to my cellulite.

When I was all of nineteen years old I gave birth to my first baby.  Before pregnancy I weighed a sprightly 110 pounds.  At the end I'd gained a rough fifty pounds all on my backside.  My pregnancy cravings provided a counter-weight to keep me from falling over on my face.   I lost all the weight easily enough afterwards...because, hello, I was nineteen!... but I'd earned lovely deep purple stretch marks on most of my body and my first ripply swaths of cellulite on the backs of my thighs.

Since then I've had two more babies who aren't babies anymore.  They are old enough to spell and pronounce the word cellulite.  One is still young enough to not realize he shouldn't point it out when he sees it or to ask why my skin looks like cold oatmeal.

I'm not saying what I weigh now.  Shuddup.



What I am saying is that when you've got cellulite, you might as well admit it, because wearing long pants in Nevada desert heat is bound to cause uncomfortable girl issues.  Issues I won't be pointing out for you even though I really want to. 

I really really want to post photo examples.

Instead, I'll curb that urge and research self tanning lotions on Amazon.

Because, while my thighs may have dimples, they are that unsightly shade of bright white that can cause cataracts.

I pick my beauty battles and fashion choices on rashes and public safety.  No matter how orange I get, at least I won't itch or blind anyone.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

A Family Antispasmodic

When I woke up this morning, it was with a nagging headache, a bulging right sinus cavity, and my neck frozen at a angle that made my husband ask, "Did you bend your wookie?"

Today I've mostly sat in my grey sweatpants watching reruns of Star Trek Voyager on Netflix and not being able to turn the upper half of my body.  When I did have to get up and move around, my upper back and neck burned and crackled like bacon in a pan.  What's coming out of my nose resembles soft scrambled eggs.  I don't know which menu item from the grand slam could describe how my head feels.  Hearty wheat pancakes?  Shrug.  Coffee has not been served and that's probably for the best.

When my husband got home from work he offered me one of his muscle relaxers.

That's a loaded offer.  One I have had to think about.

It's loaded because my muscles are indeed very tense and it's been very painful even with ibuprofen, so I'm tempted to ease that pain with something stronger.  It's loaded because I'm sensitive to medications of that sort and if I take one, or even half of one, I'm probably going to either sleep for the next 24 hours or vomit like I had actually eaten at a Denny's at 2 a.m. after bar hopping.

Not that I've ever been bar hopping or at a Dennys past 1:30 in the morning, it's just that either way, when I get to that fork in the road, I'll be so very very high without the ten dollar Jager bombs.

Half hour after I take half a pill it'll be all unicorns.  Glitter.  Cotton Candy.  Oooh, wonder if I can buy pizza scented scratch and sniff stickers on Amazon?  Goddamn my husband has great thighs.  Where can I buy one of these bastards:

 
...and then Zzzzzzzzz....
 
or...
 
....Blurrrggghhhhhh.
 
Check with my Facebook page tomorrow to see how it went.
 
Seriously, I want a Muffin Monster Grinder.  That guy in the red shirt in the video, his thighs ain't bad.
 

Monday, April 22, 2013

We need to rethink our strategy of antibiotic use.

Now that my son is officially a sailor and therefore a man, I have to break a bad habit and stop mothering him like I used to do.

I can't help myself though.  Asking him if he's done his laundry or wiped the dribbles off the toilet is as ingrained in me as yellow on a smoker's fingernails. That's only two in the list of all the mommy questions I've asked for nineteen years of his life. You probably have kids or you've been exposed to children at some point, so you know how talking to them goes.  Holding real conversations that don't involve the phrase, "Did you finish your vegetables?" with the manchild makes my brain stutter and then freeze. 

Skype has proven an almost adequate playground to my maternal queries...

What did you have for dinner?  Did you even eat?
Did you cash your tax return check yet?  You need to do that.
Would you get a Facebook please?
Can I send you this link to an article about incurable gonorrhea?
What kind of phone are you thinking of getting?  You know where you can get a good deal on a phone...

Did I not raise the kid?  I'm sure he's perfectly capable of making his way to a store that sells cellular phones.  He knows how to buy that phone and then he can use that phone in a responsible manner.

And even if he doesn't use his phone responsibly, so?  It ain't MY phone.  It's his.  He legally earned the money to buy himself a device that requires a monthly contract.  His name is on the dotted line.  My name is still safely at home.

This leaves me wondering how to put the brakes on my instinct to chide or guide him like a toddler. 

A toddler I'd love to send gonorrhea info to.

Don't touch that!

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Portholed


I came upon this photo today while searching Pinterest for sewing inspiration.

This look, it was indeed inspiring, but not in a handicrafts sort of way.  I was inspired to share this with my Navy enlisted son.  This is the kind of thing that would be fabulous on his skinny body when he got the chance to go out on liberty.  It sure would set him apart from all the other sailors at all the venues that young single sailors patronize!

Unfortunately, this bit of emo fashion is out of stock.

Doesn't matter.  He couldn't pull off the look anyhow.  Not with his current haircut.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Shine a light upon your filth...

There is a great list of evils on this planet.  Some parts of this list is up for moral debate and engaging in that debate makes us all greater human beings. 

Some parts of that list requires no debate.  The evil is evident.

It was evident yesterday in Boston.  We can debate (without much evidence as of yet) if it was a act of terrorism or not, but the intent itself was evil.

It is evident today with the announcement that the Westboro Baptist Church plans on picketing the funerals of the victims of the bombing in their effort to urge the government to reinstate the death penalty for homosexuality.

Today many folks on the Facebooks have posted this graphic in response.


I'm pretty sure it's illegal to mail unprocessed animal feces no matter how many plastic bags you wrap it in.  Don't do it.  It's bad.

However, that doesn't mean there isn't a whole passel of goodies we can send those Westboro eejits there in Topeka!

- Clean and unpackaged marital aids.  Don't use them first and don't send the naughty graphics on the packaging.  Just send them a nice BOB without the first B.  Make them hunt down their own AA cells.  Or D cells.  Or watch batteries.  Size doesn't matter.

- The complete box set of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" or "Ellen" or "Will and Grace" or "Magnum P.I." 

- Lingerie.  Clean lingerie.  Clean lingerie you picked up at the bargain store.  The itchy lime green tacky variety.



- Your old leaky bong.  Again, clean.  Clean your bong and send it along. 

- Printed materials from other religious affiliations.  I grew up in Utah.  You know how that goes.

- Your office shreddings.  Tax day was yesterday...shred with a happy heart!

- Used clothing of mixed fibers.  You have an old cotton/polyester sweater in the back of your closet?  Wash that bastard and stick it in a box.  Don't send a live lobster.

- Prunes.  In intact store packages.  Prunes are good for you.  Loosens things right up.

- Any books written by the following authors:  Emily Post, Charles Darwin, Stephen Hawking, David Sedaris, Alfred Kinsey, Madonna, G.W.F. Hegel, Walt Whitman.


Actually, I don't expect to send the Westboro Baptists anything really.   Poo or no poo. 

They aren't worth the stamp.

ETA April 17, 2013:  Anonymous hacked Westboro's Facebook Page and left the awesome:

Friday, April 12, 2013

Oasis in the Dessert

It's spring!

It's spring, it's spring, it's spring!

It's the time of year when the middle aged housewife's fancy lightly turns to shoving the kids outside to play until the streetlights come on.

Not to mention all the outdoor decorating I plan on doing.

Because interior decorating doesn't end at one's interior but instead has to spread like herpes to one's outdoor spaces as well.  Those are the plans tomorrow anyhow.  On top of digging some and planting some, I'm going to turn a blue urn into a fabulous umbrella stand that will impress my friends.  Pinterest told me how to do this.  They said it was genius!  Who am I to argue?

What's more, I feel awesome about making my outdoor living spaces livable because the next door neighbor who smoked camels on her back porch moved. 

Check out my new patio cushions (out of stock, have similar) and the new umbrella...


Where is this girl going to enjoy her coffee every morning for the next five months...oh yeah...right here.

Spring!

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

HolymotherofGooooowwwww!

I've entered into another adventure in hair removal.

Every single member of my side of the family is extraordinarily hairy.  Scientists are looking for the missing link, right?  Well, here we are.  Family reunions consist of nit picking in the lousiest sense.  Then we grunt and eat.

I've shaved and plucked and nuked and waxed.  I'd list all the areas on my body where these acts have taken place but I'm posting in the evening before all of you would be going to bed and I won't be blamed for your lack of sleep.  Counting sheep would be less woolly than I am.

The only reason I've stopped short of lasering and more electrolysis is that the first one won't work because my hairs are going gray and both of them are time consuming and expensive. 

Instead I bought an epilator.

Pain?  Yes, I like pain.  I love it.  I want more of it.

So...it's plugged in...shall we get to it?

On my legs.  MY LEGS.  Geez.


Fine, my legs aren't as sasquatch as I've intimated.  Other parts of me are.  Like my face.  If I hadn't have taken a bic razor to my face just today I might have taken a picture of that hot mess.  Let's just say that I am not exaggerating when I say I'd look much like this:

 
My husband wouldn't care if I grew a beard.  He loves me enough to say nothing about me growing out my leg hair all winter.  Besides, when it gets long enough it's sort of soft and silky.
 
Well, here goes.

 

It's loud.  It's louder on the faster speed.  Both speeds hurt like a sunuvabitch!

...and then it felt awesome.

...and then I transcended pain and went right onto ooh, that's smooth!

...and then I fell down into the depths of despair again because my new toy got dirty.


Next I'm doing my belly button!

Shuddup.

Thursday, April 04, 2013

Maybe that's why I like you so much... you don't tempt easy.

It sure is nice to be home.

It's not as nice to leave my son again.  My husband and I spent the day with him after graduation.  He spent his time eating Burger King and using my laptop.  We spent our time looking at the difference that boot camp has made in our son.

Before:



and after:



That's fifteen more pounds of muscle baby.

We asked him if he thought he made the right decision in joining up.  He said, "Absolutely!".  We asked him if he was sad about not joining the Army like his Dad did.  He said, "I ain't the backpackin' Army!"  We asked him if he was looking forward to flying out to Pensacola the next day.  He said, "Girls!"

So, there is that.  He gets to attempt to date girls.  I get to mail him his laptop and occasionally Skype with him when he's not doing Navy business or letting his hormones get the best of him.

Look at him.  Oh, there will be girls.  Girls flocking like seagulls.

Please son, I know you're reading this, I've warned you well to not date skanks.  To prepare ourselves for your graduation we viewed many Navy themed movies and I think we can take our lessons about skanks from the 60's classic, How to Stuff a Wild Bikini.



Don't date floozies and beach bunnies.  Date the modestly attired and wholesome Annette Funicello.  You date her because she is interested in your soul and not just your disposable income.  I mean, income helps when you date girls but you also want one who you can talk to.

Plus, her hair can also be utilized as a floatation device.

While my son was on a plane to Florida and all the opportunities presented there, we decided that since we were at Great Lakes, we might as well see the great lake. 


There I am in the cold Lake Michigan air.  The resemblance to Annette is intentional.

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