Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Cuddles the Master Chief

Today is the first anniversary of my Navy Manchild joining the Navy.

Navyversary.

Navalversary.

Annum SeaDog.

He's still finding his sea legs, though at the moment he's got shore duty across the country.  To offer him congratulations for his first year, I'm posting several photos of cats wearing sailor outfits.


 

 

 

 

 

 
 
Just wait until you see what I got you for your birthday, son.

Monday, January 27, 2014

I need help from the government and I need it bad.

Dear Mike Huckabee,


I think I love you.

Or maybe it's lust.  I lust you. 

Yeah, it's definitely lust.  I don't have a warm fuzzy feeling deep in my heart like all the other times I've been in love.  I have a hot zippy feeling in my special purpose.  It's not a rash.  I checked.

I can't help it, Mike.  I've had a tubal ligation, and no longer require prescribed contraceptive medications, so I'm free to unleash my libido on any unsuspecting male that my husband approves of.

My husband suspects, or he's been susceptible, so my libido has only been unleashed on him for the last twenty years.  This has been mutually beneficial for both of us but now that I'm nearing 40, and my cougar is beginning to purr, I'm wondering if he'll be able to take what I'm about to dish out.

Though he's never approved of any unsuspecting males thus far and only two or three unsuspecting females, it might be worth it to convince him that propositioning you is an outstanding idea.  It's a win for him because he won't become emasculated by any dalliances we might engage in and hey, it's obvious it's a win for me.

No, Uncle Sugar didn't pay for my surgery.  Let's stay on the subject here.

I'm hot for you Mikey.

Hot.

It's not a hot flash, I'm sure of it.

It's pure, adulterated, uncontrollable, breathless, lust for your fine Arkansas form.

 
 
I wet my lips when I look at your smile.
 
The part in your hair makes me shiver.
 
I want to nibble on your wattle.  I need to nibble on your wattle.
 
When you speak in public, and point your finger above the microphone, I imagine that you're pointing at me, and I'm hormonally wooed by your very words and your pasty countenance.  Sometimes I miss half of your sound bites because I have to get up and change my clothes.
 
Let's get together, Mike.
 
...and if I happen to conceive your love child, despite my tubal ligation, we'll call it what it is....God's approval of a beautiful and extremely sexy time in our lives.
 
Who knows what we'll title the sex tape. 
 
If you have any ideas about that, let me know.  I'm desperate to hear from you. 
 
 
With much lust,
 
Becky - The Absent Minded Housewife
P.S.  I promise to shave my armpits before we meet.
 


Wednesday, January 22, 2014

No roaring or wrecking balls necessary.

Do you know what my Mother in Law's 90th birthday and a trip to Ikea have in common?

Nothing.  Other than we accomplished visiting both last weekend.

I'll admit that I have a love of cheap furniture specifically because when my boy children destroy it, I don't regret not forcing them into swaddling blankets until the age of 15.  They've had their way with their mattresses, three couches, several toilet seats and a house full of wall to wall beige carpeting.  Any number of my furnishings have died slow agonizing deaths covered in dirt, crumbs and bodily fluids.

Ikea furniture is booger proofed.  That's entirely useful!

The store itself...un-useful?  I finally made my way out of it gasping and doing the potty dance.  I commented on my Facebook, "I went into Ikea with high hopes. I left with no sense of who I am whatsoever."
...and, "Should have just taken care of business in a Knodd."

The last thing I wanted to do as the exit came into view was to eat a meatball or search for the restroom.  I wanted out.  I needed the freshest air that the Salt Lake valley was capable of delivering at that moment, which was none too fresh, but still better than the pervasive scent of melamine.  Booger proofed Ikea may be but soul suck proofed it definitely was not.

It took me a good half hour and a salty batch of deep fried pickles to feel like my happy go lucky absent minded self again.

As for my Mother in Law, I'll also admit to having a deep love for her.

She's not cheap furniture.  She's all the more wonderful for wear.

Ninety years.  Can you imagine?  From the Jazz age to Big Band in high school, Bob Dylan with the kids, Duran Duran for the grandkids, and Miley Cyrus or Katy Perry for the great greats.  Of course, if I asked her who Miley Cyrus or Katy Perry were, she wouldn't know, and that's why she's a part of the greatest generation. 



She says she doesn't feel ninety years old.  She told me that the moments, the days and the years pass by before you know it.  In one second you're sixteen, waiting for life to begin and in the next you're ninety, still seeing life as that sixteen year old but with a lot more self assurance and a lot less tolerance for all the stuff that doesn't matter.

I'm only next to forty and I can only wish for as much grace in the next fifty years as this woman has between breakfast and lunch.

...and if I stay out of Ikea from this point on, fifty more years is entirely possible.

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