The Absent Minded Housewife

My rocks are shinier than your rocks.

2009-07-08T00:12:00.000-06:00

For the next few days my family will attempt to engage in quality bonding type fun.

Have you folks watching the treasure hunting shows on The Travel Channel? We caught the bug last year. WE'VE GOTS TO GO OPAL MINING!

This requires a couple days of rolling around in the dust, listening to wild burros bray at 2 second intervals every hour of the day, and sleeping in a tent with boys who have yet to discover how nifty foot powder really can be.

I'm leaving my makeup and my designer clothing at home. Wearing Jimmy Choo heels in the middle of nowhere is so gauche. I might get donkey poo on them.

Choo poo...heh, that rhymes.

Price Check

2009-07-06T10:40:00.000-06:00

The Price is Right is on.

Have I mentioned that I'd like to have a cuddle with Drew Carey? I would. It's on my bucket list. #3...grope Drew Carey. Grope him hard.

If that's #3, I don't think I'll share #1 or #2. Lord knows what you'd think of me then.

It's a lovely thing to consider groping Drew Carey during The Price is Right until we must take a commercial break between pricing games. Visualization is still possible during the geriatric scooter commercials but Vagisil commercials are fantasy downers. Especially when two of your three growing and curious sons ask why women aren't allowed to scratch their itches in public.

...and what IS vaginal odor?

The woman currently bouncing and cuddling Drew in front of the showcase wheel? No doubt in my mind she's experienced vaginal odor a time or two or three. She overbid on her showcase.

Why aren't I allowed to scratch my itches in public? You men scratch your itches. If I have a random itch, depending on my location and the location of that itch, I have to endure it. Or duck behind something and stealthily scratch. Or find a bathroom and get real itch relief.

What's proper is that I apply a cream before I go out in public to avoid rude behavior?

Screw that. I'm going to scratch out of spite.

On the Vagisil website there is information on how to explain such matters from mother to daughter. How useful. There are no tips on how to explain "down there" to my sons.

There are also no tips on how to explain why I find Drew Carey attractive and no creams to relieve it.

Dammit, if you touch that hose again I'm going to eat one of you!

2009-07-02T10:37:00.001-06:00

As usual, summer vacation has me off kilter.

Have you noticed? No? Aww you're sweet for telling me the stories I want to hear.

In between "Yes you did! No I didn't!" and "Don't eat that hairy banana you rubbed on the cat!" and "Don't spray inside your open window with the hose!" and "Don't even TOUCH the hose!" and "Quit eating sugar right out of the canister!"...it's taken me two hours to write this post.

Now that I'm done having children, and that my youngest child will be in kindergarten sooner than later, the purpose of my life is going to shift. This thing which I have been doing for the last 13 years will develop a gaping kid free hole in it's middle.

Which I can fill with just about anything I guess. The possibilities have me excited.

Conversely, the possibilities also have me as blocked up as government cheese. The idea is just so BIG.

Tell me more stories.

For all that is good and holy, tell me stories without the phrase, "Can I play Playstation?" in them.

Acting my age...12.

2009-06-30T10:03:00.000-06:00

In two weeks my husband, Justin, turns 40.

Being 40 is the official mark of adulthood. It's the time in life that you cannot possibly pretend to be a frat boy or a sorority sister anymore. People stop finding it cute when you lift your shirt and expose your chest like you could freely before. Not just at large crowd events, but at smaller venues, like the grocery store or Carl's Jr.

Forty is the age where you have to stop wearing your ball-cap backwards. It's law.

I'm not yet forty. I'm 34. This is a precarious age even when you consider my early menopause symptoms. This is MILF age. Young enough to still giggle but old enough to take no crap.

I find I've been presented with a dilemma concerning my maturity.

No, I'm not concerned over my enjoyment of fart jokes. No question there. Fart jokes are still funny.

I'm concerned over the implications of a song I heard over casino loud speakers in Vegas. A song I really liked. A song I made a point to remember some of the lyrics to so when I got home I could look it up and then stream capture it off of YouTube. A song I've listened to repeatedly since I've gotten home. I've moved my butt and hips to it.

The song? Performed by teeny-boppers. Youngsters. Minors. Children who cannot yet walk into a bar and order a long island iced tea.

Listen to my concern.

What's even more stupid about this...or maybe it's a consolation...this song is TWO years old. Yes, the duh factor is obvious. I did not catch it.

Why, I may hitch my mom jeans up to my boobs and go chasing after The Jonas Brothers at this point!

Do The Jonas Brothers have first names? I have no idea.

When I was a teeny bopper it was all New Kids on the Block. I'm sure they had names. I didn't know them then. I don't know them now. Every pubescent girl in 1989 loved them. I had sense enough then to observe their antics and become nauseated. Even their zits were scripted.

Twenty years later I've lost all the sense I was so blessed with as a teen.

Only six years to rectify the situation before it becomes hopeless. Certainly there is hope. I've never seen any High School Musical and I'm damned proud of that.

My apron has a hole in it.

2009-06-25T09:35:00.001-06:00

Hi. I'm Becky. I'm a housewife. A real housewife of Elko County.

Today I'm actually in Elko signing official documents lowering my house payments to a ridiculously low amount. You see, my community saw up-side-down house values back in 2002 when one of our largest employers declared bankruptcy and was forced to sell out. We've spent the last seven years becoming equitably pear shaped again. Happily our inflatable clown is staying upright when we punch it in the nose of these days of a collapsing housing market. It could have been different. Now we can really pay off some principle. Take that Bozo, you jackass.

I was fixin' to make fun of all them housewives in those high-fallutin' places they show on the television but then I recall that I never did watch any of those shows past three or four minutes worth.

It seemed to me that a housewife with no housework wasn't really a housewife at all. Wife, sure, house?...McMansion?...gift wrapping rooms?...hmmm not so much.

Certainly none of those women have gone to a bare bones title office, next door to a feed store, wearing twenty dollar jeans and a souvenir T-shirt from Branson! Missouri.

I didn't go to Branson. My parents did. They've been twice. They party.

I'm not suggesting that they come live my life. Wife Swap isn't on my TV watching schedule either and it's questionable that my housework would ever get done to my rural standards. I'm suggesting they get new titles. They are tarnishing mine. There isn't enough jewelry hanging off their spray tanned liposuctioned bodies to make up for it. Either "real" or "housewife" has to go.

Then, I may feign fascination in their show.

First episode of the real housewives of Elko County? Becky puts on some old sweatpants and sprays around the perimeter of her home for ants, and then, after washing her hands, knocks out an amazing meatloaf and some creamed peas.

I'm gonna get me an Emmy.

Spit and Hiss

2009-06-24T11:24:00.000-06:00

I so want to complain about this teenager in my home. This child who thinks schoolwork is arbitrary, hygiene is unnecessary and any language heavily laden in sarcasm is a joy to all that hear it.

But...in an effort to count my blessings...I'm going to try my damndest to restrain myself.

Instead, lets discuss kittens.

Adorable kittens.

Fuzzy kittens.

Bouncy playful rumbly tumbly kittens.

Licky biteful battful milky kittens.

Sleepy yawny tawny kittens.

Kittens with mitts and spots and tufts and fluff.

Sweet smelling grass and sunshine kittens.

Kittens with new sharp baby kitten claws and new sharp baby kitten teeth.

Kittens who yowl incessantly in the early morning hours.

Kittens who piddle on the carpet.

And poop outside of the litter box.

Kittens that hack up half eaten rodents.

Kittens that find themselves drawn to have loud yet intimate kitten relations right in the middle of your front yard.

Kittens that roll in stinky filth and expect to come into the house and lay on the good upholstery like they some sort of feline royalty.

Dammit.

Get yer red hots!

2009-06-22T10:00:00.002-06:00

Before I get to the smooth creamy Oreo center of my post, happy Fathers Day to all.

Besides, I've eaten the fudgy cookie outsides. It's all in my teeth. Onwards!

Since testing showed that my cholesterol is slightly elevated, and learning that it's all related to hormones and insulins and this goatee I've been shaving off daily, I've tried to be mindful of eating less and moving more.

I don't wear elastic waist pants but apparently that means exactly nothing and I should still eat proper and not sit around on my butt. This is not fair.

This past couple weeks I've been a bad girl about it food-wise. Vegas is full of delicious butter laden food and gallons of drinks in obnoxious containers. However, I feel I walked most of that off on the trip. The only places to sit to rest in Vegas are in front of slot machines or in front of menus. You stay upright or else.

Walking ain't half bad of a way to move more. I attempted to do some walking yesterday. Headphones got stuffed into my ears, I put on my shorts, I hooked my water bottle around my waist and up I went to a beautiful desert trail system above my town.

A half mile in a thunderstorm came on fast, and since I was the tallest object for miles I thought it was a good idea to turn around and move more in the direction of my vehicle. Lightning doesn't care if you wear fly front pants or not.

Suddenly I want toast. Crispy buttered toast. This oatmeal I'm eating is not toast.

It's when I was safely in my van that my legs ballooned into two long itchy red welts apiece. Something floating around in all that natural desert air I guess. In the three minutes it took me to get home I was in a tearful mess of itchy agony and my legs were the shade of ketchup.

Had I worn long pants I might have avoided a reaction altogether...or I would have split them open Hulk style. Oatmeal smash.

Relief came in the tub with a bar of ivory soap and a vinegar rinse though it took the whole day before the swelling and redness went away. I can't say if the red was any improvement on my usual turkey cold cut pastiness. You can stay with the image of me soaping up. I don't mind.

Suddenly I want cranberry sauce...on stuffing. Hot sagey buttery stuffing. Oatmeal is not stuffing.

What was a real hoot was that my mommy badges, the stretch marks I was ever so lucky to develop high on my thighs, got so swollen that they looked like I should buy a hot dog cart and set up business on the street corner in front of the liquor store.

Even this morning they are still looking a bit Vienna Sausage like.

No, I don't suddenly want a Vienna Sausage.

Because I've finished my oatmeal. I'm full. Time for a walk.

Tenna brand party hats.

2009-06-19T09:33:00.001-06:00

Today is my youngest son's fourth birthday.

In these four years since he burst forth from my body I hope that I've sufficiently made the impression on him that in 50 years he's going to be the one to change my diapers. He's my last hope.

And here he thought he was just getting cake and some toys.

Welcome to my evil plan little man.

Got grass?

2009-06-18T09:47:00.001-06:00

My lawn needs mowing.

Because when it rains about every day for the past two weeks the stuff is bound to grow as fast as Grandpa's nose hairs and look about as inviting.

Why Grandpa, what long nose hairs you have! All the better to eat you with.

That's water in the desert for you. It's like Mark McGwire and a juicy steroid injection.

I wouldn't mind losing a neighbor child or two in my backyard jungle. That's one of the upsides of not maintaining the yard. One of them keeps ringing my doorbell and running off. But then, I waited in the middle of the street until he popped his head out of his hidey-hole and that's when I threatened to cut off his ringing finger with my kitchen scissors. He hasn't ding dong ditched since.

There has got to be a way to make lawn mowing a more exciting event. I'm looking for another upside to maintaining the yard.

I'm not mowing the lawn naked. You were thinking it. Perverts.

At least not top naked. Going pantsless is a consideration. I hate it when I get grass stains on my pants.

You say, "Why don't you have that 15 year old child of yours mow it?"

Pantsless? You gotta be kiddin' me.

Because we've had to use their bathroom while I finish grouting the tile in mine.

2009-06-17T10:27:00.000-06:00

My obnoxious 15 year old child is pouting over having to completely hose down his bathroom because it's infested with a greasy layer of his filth.

Guess what little man...I've been cleaning bathrooms years before I reached your mature age and YOU do not get to tell me how it's done. That's 25-27 years of experience with a can of cleanser and my head in a toilet that you don't have.

If I say it's disgusting in there, it's disgusting in there, and you can spend an hour of your precious media laden time to dazzle me with how non-urine-y it can smell like.

Bonus, maybe, just maybe, the your fingernails might become clean in the process.

We were not the ones that broke the safety rail in the shower...it was already coming loose from the wall.

2009-06-15T10:34:00.004-06:00

So, did I survive a 14th and top floor room in one tower of Caesar's Palace, featuring a huge marble shower in the bathroom with two huge shower heads, which looked out to a view of Marie Osmond's teeth and the Eiffel Tower, that a grant to Elko County School District kindly paid for?

Why yes, yes I did.

How much would you pay to get the room behind Marie Osmond's teeth? Wonder if it has a good shower.

While Justin was attending a teacher's conference for at risk students, I was out and about in the city, doing exactly whatever I felt like doing, making my feet sore. Developing a bunion was worth it because I also had a view of these:

Ooh.

Ooh!

Yes...YES YES!!

...and at this point I fell onto the floor and convulsed in a fit of ecstasy. I obviously was not the first to have done so because the museum guides went right on with their tour lectures oblivious.

In addition to my ride on a free shuttle to the Liberace Museum and a mile and a half walk to consume a greasy 2 buck foot long hot dog, I also did some Liberace viewing at Madame Tussuad's museum of creepy wax figures at The Venetian. This is the only sculpture that mattered.

I am a gay man born in a woman's body.

Not to outdo the thrill of sequins I also got a good looky-loo at this bit of wonderment:

Tall McBalderson here decided to push his way in front of me for a better view of the volcano show in front of The Mirage. Also being a tall sort of person, I had a good view over the three deep row of people in front of me because they were short. No big deal to let them be closer. Baldy had no such inclinations. Therefore, he gets his hair loss featured on my blog.

To round out my views, I got plenty of exposure to women displaying their boob jobs on the strip...and no, these weren't the women featured on those little business cards which are offered to you on the sidewalks. I felt like a Sin City underachiever.

Lastly, I listened to a conversation in Planet Hollywood between a younger couple, the next chaise lounge chair over from where I was resting my grumpy feet and probably snoring off and on, who were expounding on the notion that families with more than two children are using up the planet's resources.

What a retarded discussion to have in Vegas.

Enjoy.

2009-06-08T09:45:00.002-06:00

You feel that tingling in your nipples?

That's me. I'm in Vegas and I'm channeling blinking neon dreams your direction.

You're welcome.

Neon Signs

Check...Love.

2009-06-05T08:41:00.006-06:00

When one's computer is malfunctioning naturally the internet spoon fed brain has thoughts that are completely foreign to it's normal patterns.

For instance, during a brighter moment in my day last week, I suggested to my rotund husband that "we should take up tennis!"

For clarification, I asked Justin to supply a descriptive for his body type. He also offered fat, chubby and portly while gnawing away at a McDonald's breakfast burrito. I'm eating oatmeal and considering tackling him for a bite.

He declined. Tennis that is.

To soothe Justin when it came the suggestion of sport I allowed that he could probably kick my ass. It's the truth. That man may describe himself as rotund but he's also fast and coordinated. I am not coordinated. I am spastic. My long limbs dart out in strange stringy positions, sort of jellyfish like. Out of all the sports that I have embarrassed myself trying to play, racquet sports are those which I find myself most successful at. Give me a racquet and a birdie and I can whip that sucker right past your ear while you stand in amazement at my moves.

Give me a bat and a baseball and I can succeed in swinging myself around and landing on my face.

When Justin didn't respond to my entreaty I reiterated the idea with, "Wouldn't it feel good to kick my ass?"

"No." he says.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd be playing tennis."

Fine.

Online poker is working again. Justin will play that...and I'll whip birdies past his ears when he folds.

A nice set of USB ports.

2009-06-04T09:59:00.000-06:00

I nearly offered to perform unladylike acts with the UPS man yesterday. He's the angel in tight brown shorts who delivered a new desktop computer to my door.

New computers function better than older computers with sudden power supply issues. I could have replaced the impotent parts on the old model but instead I traded in for a new model with chiseled pectorals and a melty latin accent. I need to shave my legs. I am not worthy.

If I were stranded on a desert island I'd want a leatherman tool...and a coconut powered laptop...maybe the UPS man.

You'll excuse me now. I've been deprived of my usual round of sites and I've been experiencing the worst internet DTs. Eventually I'll shower.

Before my comp self destructs in 30 seconds.

2009-06-02T20:35:00.000-06:00

700th post.

Comp went boom. Comp no worky.

New comp arrives tomorrow.

I need internets.

Don't get me started on the English teachers...

2009-05-29T09:33:00.000-06:00

Today...

Well, today is the last day of school.

It's the last day for months that I can run to the laundry room naked to find the taupe bra I laundered over the weekend. When wearing a white blouse it behooves a person (I'm not getting gender specific here.) to wear a brassiere that matches the skin tone. If you wear a white bra under your white shirt you are only highlighting that your white bra is as utilitarian as possible.

My bra won't match my legs however. I've responsibly fake baked.

Losing the ability to prance about nude in the coming summer months makes me sad. I have to pre-plan my wardrobe choices and dress in secret, with the door closed, and the curtains pulled tight. The neighbor children also have the summer off and they will all end up in my yard, smashing their noses against my windows anytime from 6 am to 10 at night.

That means their parents won't have to pre-plan their own wardrobe choices. Sneaky bastards.

On the upside, tonight I get to put on clothing that is not flannel pants, go to high school graduation, then afterwards enjoy the company of my teacher husband's colleagues at a backyard get together hosted by the former principal.

You haven't partied until you've partied with sloppy drunk social studies teachers. Nine months of explaining the chief exports of Zimbabwe to drooling zit monkeys makes mixing gallons of Michelob and Clamato awful attractive. As far as I know, both Michelob and Clamato are made right here, in the good old USA, and though I can be as patriotic as the next guy, I'm not drinking either of those substances.

If you really want to get blitzed, make your way to the biology teachers corner, behind the yew bushes. Toad lickers, all of 'em. Do they have toads in Zimbabwe? Remind me to ask.

And just when I thought I'd leave my nude prancing talk bound up in this post, associating with the P.E. teachers will make all that sadness burst forth in a lewd taupe-y rush. They won't notice anyway. They're high from breathing air that doesn't smell like overly Axed B.O. and they've spent too long with their knee socks pulled up over their eyebrows.

Knee socks made out of cotton from Zimbabwe? Maybe...yup...maybe.

Great Vengeance and Furious Anger

2009-05-27T09:28:00.000-06:00

I've got to tell you all...these high fiber breakfasts of mine...they really get the job done. The hard hat is on, the safety glasses are on, we're ready to weld Flashdance.

So I head on into my master bathroom this morning, because If I'm going to weld it's going to be where the welding is comfortable, and I find my three year old son in my bedroom. He's cuddled with his blanky on my bed watching "Pulp Fiction" on my TV, enraptured.

There is no way you couldn't consider the whole scene as precious.

Cherish one another.

2009-05-26T09:51:00.004-06:00

With all this rigmarole going on with the Gosselin's, that is Mr. and Mrs. Jon and Kate Plus 8, I'd like to throw my two cents into the huge TV family ring.

Two cents isn't coming out of my uterus mind you, it's coming from my heart.

And my posterior.

I'm not a fan of Jon and Kate plus 8. The show drives me up a wall. I don't find their life interesting, nor do I have much commiseration for their struggles with that many toddlers. The tolerance I have for the snipe and whine fest they put on TV only lasts for the time it takes you to get to the end of this sentence.

I say just put the kids on TV and leave the adults out of it. At least the kids know not what they do.

It's because I do not care what goes on in their marriage that I say that. I might care if they were kinder to one another. The sniping between them makes me uncomfortable. And though my two pennies are now lost with the others in this piggy bank, the Gosselin's being so closely followed by eejit media makes me angry.

Oh, they found unrest in their marriage? Reallllly? You don't say!

Duh. Leave 'em alone.

This reminds me of a news story some years back that predicted the success of a couple's marriage based on how often they rolled their eyes at one another. Just sayin'.

Let's compare their eyerolls to the pinnacle of large family TV, the Duggars. Think about this. Have you ever seen Ma and Pa Duggar roll their eyes at one another...or talk over one another...or share their disagreements with the world? Doesn't their kindness first mantra show when you look at their herd?

Some would say such a thing is unnatural between spouses, or in families, but I counter with why? Why is treating your spouse unkindly, even out of understandable frustration, seen as an OK or natural thing to do today? Why is stopping yourself, using discretion, being deliberate in your interactions seen as weird or sugary? That's real life don't you know...we aren't The Brady's don't you know.

Do you think the Duggar children have ever seen a Brady? I don't. They saw Kirk Cameron's "Fireproof" but Johnny Bravo isn't on their radar. Alan Thicke has an angular head. I'm going to watch his Canadian TV program, "jPod" on Hulu.

In closing, Mean People Suck. Being mean to your spouse, double the suck points. Being consistently mean to your spouse on national TV? Don't be surprised when the media finds something, real or imaginary, to expound upon that theme. They are only crashing the loud party you started.

I do hope for the best for the Gosselin's. Certainly I have no desire to be in their shoes, from their slippers to their platform boots. I hope they come to understand why it is that no one is actively looking for a misstep in Kirk Cameron's or Ma and Pa Duggar's marriage.

Tingly Udders

2009-05-22T10:08:00.000-06:00

Tonight...oh sigh...I get to go listen to Lyle Lovett sing down at our little concert hall. He sounds perty.

I'm not a huge fan of the country music scene. Certainly I've never gone to a country western concert that I've paid for myself up until now. On the whole the only aspect of modern country music I enjoy is Wrangler camel toe.

Lyle Lovett will probably not be wearing jeans.

You know who wears western jeans? This guy does.

Trace Adkins...and that is my little sister Jill putting her front parts near his belt buckle. Trace came round to our little concert hall a couple weeks ago. She had special person passes.

Now, Jill ain't short. Trace is just large. Trace is the man. Trace causes women to spontaneously ovulate.

Even I couldn't help myself upon seeing this photo and I didn't know who Trace Adkins was until Jill explained it to me. Trace had a guest spot on Real Time with Bill Maher where he asked, "When did cows stop fuckin?" when it came to the subject of cloning livestock. Sexy and and to the point. I've seen cows do that a time or two. Politically, I support an increase in cheeseburgers.

Which is why Trace is in demand at every stockyard in North America.

You think the smooth crooning of Lyle Lovett have an effect on my reproductive system?

I don't need my tubal ligation miraculously reversed, ya know?

I found my fanny pack and I'm rarin' to use it!

2009-05-21T10:29:00.005-06:00

Next month there are plans in the works to take me out of my domesticity and place me firmly in the middle of the Las Vegas strip for a few days.

If you're stalking me, I'll be the oatmeal scented woman in the polar fleece pajama pants and the wrinkled Chris Isaak concert tour T-shirt.

Justin, my school teacher husband, has been told he's going to a teacher's conference in Vegas, because that's where Nevada teachers go to conferences, and I get to tag along. Nevada teachers never go to Winnemucca for conferences. There isn't enough neon to prepare lesson plans by there.

Since my husband is going to be detained with hundreds of other teacher types during the day I have hours to spend by myself in Sin City. I cannot be emphatic enough about stating how much I am looking forward to this. Being alone. Maybe NOT dressed in housewife clothing. Seeing the things I want to see and doing things I decide to do. Showering without a three year old at the bathroom door commanding me to reattach Spider Man's missing leg.

If Spiderman can't grow his own leg back why should I bother?

Oh the possibilities to half day debauchery!

I'm going to start my day with at least four plates of breakfast meats at the dirtiest buffet I can find. Breakfast meat tastes rebellious when the grease is fine aged. The cholesterol in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Then I'm going to hop on over to the Liberace Museum. This is where I will attempt to lick sequins and molest rhinestones. I've dropped the museum an email so they know when to expect me. Those nose prints on the glass? Those are mine.

I might spend some time people watching at the Bellagio. I'll wear my bunny slippers and a touristy yet almost classy foam hat. And I'll mutter to myself.

Ooooh, likker me up before 9 AM! THEN eat breakfast meats!

Wherein I plan to hurl in the hotel lobby of Caesar's Palace. I've had a little alcohol here and there but I've never been really inebriated and certainly I've never be so drunk as to vomit. Didn't those Romans have vomitoriums? Do as the Romans do and when you vomit in Vegas it definitely stays in Vegas.

And I'm stealing hotel ashtrays.

The only thing left to do is to go topless at some point.

That's Freemont street for ya.

An open letter to Judge George Wu.

2009-05-19T10:16:00.002-06:00

Judge Wu,

You were only right to ask for more time, until July, to consider the sentencing of convicted cyber bully Lori Drew, who harrassed a 13 year old child through Myspace by posing as a teenaged boy, ultimately suggesting that the world would be a better place without this child in it and subsequently this child hung herself.

You are making precedent, not just for cyberbullying, but any act of anonymous, harrassing, injurious, sexually abusive and fraudulent behavior on the internet. This is important.

Prosecutors are seeking the maximum penalty for her conviction, three years in jail and a $300,000 fine. The probation board recommends probation and a $5,000 fine. I wouldn't be writing this open letter if I was leaning toward the latter. I am asking you, as a mother, as a voice on the internet, as one person who refuses to be anonymous because if I have something to say I want my name and reputation to stand next to it, that you help Lori Drew understand what it is to behave like an adult.

I understand there are some sticky legalities. There is plenty here that shouldn't be or is ridiculous to consider as illegal, but considering her actions as a whole? What Lori Drew did was wrong. Plain wrong. The motivations behind Lori Drew's actions were malicious and evil. The consequences to her actions were horrendous. Every parent's nightmare is told in the story of Megan Meier.

There is a protection of innocence that rests with your discretion.

Frankly, I don't give a flip about a fine. It's the jail time that works for me. Bet it works for most who have been following this story since 2006. Not that Lori Drew hasn't had time to think about her actions these past three years but more thought, more confined thought, might do those of us who use the internet honestly, and who know how to act like adults, a great service.

Sincerely,

Becky Lee Evans
The Absent Minded Housewife

Updated July 2, 2009, 4:58 pm mountain.

Needless to say, I'm disappointed about the wimpy ruling handed out today.

I've had quite a lot of traffic directed at my blog since the news story broke an hour and a half ago. Much of it is looking for information on how to contact Hon. George H. Wu. His United States District Court, Central District of California Schedules and Procedures page can be found HERE.

I will be watching where the legalities of this will go from here. Do your part. Contact your lawmakers and ask for the law to catch up with technology.

Afterall, if Lori Drew had asked Megan Meier for money instead of violating terms of service, this may have been more prosecutable.

-Becky

Mairzy Doats.

2009-05-18T10:06:00.004-06:00

Finally I received the results of my blood tests, which apparently indicate nothing on the hormone front, which doesn't mean anything, because their nothing could definitely mean something to my particular body chemistry. It's all mysterious and subjective.

All I know is that the hormone pills make me feel human again. Human as far as mentally human. Physically I'm still quite hairy and my beard is more lustrous than ever.

What those tests did indicate is that I should eat more fiber because my cholesterol was 200.

I asked the nurse practitioner if this meant that I should smoosh prunes into my Twinkies because damned if I was giving them up and she didn't respond. Silence means consent.

I do like prunes though. I like most foods that are chock full of fiber. Oatmeal is delicious. Microwaving a big bowl of the stuff takes me a minute in the morning. None of that instant crap either but real, honest to god, stick to your ribs, grandma ate it growing up and so should you, oatmeal. With a dab of honey.

To my husband's delight I've added more beans to my diet too.

Beans do not replace a Burger King Cheesy Bacon Tendercrisp® chicken sandwich. Sigh, smoosh a prune into it.

Not that my diet was terrible before. It could be by far worse. My diet apparently is not a good diet for my particular 34 year old body chemistry. When I was 22 it was an outstanding diet. It was a diet full of adventure. It had mojo.

Oatmeal has no mojo. It's textural dementia even if I do like it. Alas, a person can not get a bowl of oatmeal at a drive thru window with a squawking movie themed toy or without.

The other downside to oatmeal is that it does not add to feeling human. After eating a big bowl I feel like a horse. Follow me with a pitchfork. Good for the garden.

Now, lets say I eat a bowl of oatmeal every morning for the next 40 years of my life. My flimsy math reveals that I will have eaten nearly 3000 pounds of dry oats.

Better get a BIG pitchfork.

They don't make enough tissues for this.

2009-05-15T09:12:00.000-06:00

Say you've had the flu.

And say you've been staggering along, suffering from this flu for over a week.

And say that one of your kids also has flu and so does the husband.

And say that you are all hacking, coughing and miserably waiting for your scenes in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers III: Mentholatum Screams".

Never ever ever try to write a funny post about it and try to include a photo to illustrate your points using the image search "phlegm".

Gag.

Not one of my brighter moments.

Quit hoarding the ketchup packets.

2009-05-14T10:15:00.004-06:00

My three year old son, who smells suspiciously like my fifteen year old's deodorant, drew my portrait.

No, he's never seen me do a sit-up.

Making up for hemorrhoids.

2009-05-12T09:03:00.002-06:00

Now I know for sure that my husband hasn't bought me enough jewelry. I'm long overdue on at least three impressive pieces of jewelry with acceptable but not ostentatious carat weights.

By the way, happy Mother's Day. Did your significant other spring for two million dollar engraved earrings upon the birth of his children like Marc Anthony did for J-Lo?

Mine either. I didn't know he was supposed to. I've been gypped. Sure, I received a crying pooping miracle but I didn't get anything that could be appraised.

This new fad, apparently not started by a diamond marketer, is called a Push Present. As in, you give excruciating and body disfiguring birth and by gum, you deserve a big rock with the proper sentiment attached. A rock that shows that your body has served one of it's biological functions in a grand and sacrificing fashion. A rock that lasts longer than your container of Tucks pads.

Because, you've been through a life changing event and need consolation. Frankly, I just needed sleep.

I want to take this jewelry gifting fad a bit further. I want to be given a little shiny every month, when I manage to menstruate, especially when I'm not trying to conceive babies. Of course, menstruating doesn't warrant a two mil a month, but maybe an add a pearl strand would be appropriate to celebrate riding cotton, or a theme appropriate charm bracelet.

Or at the very least some glitter stickers on a chart.

Since I've been sterilized there should be jewelry marking that occasion. A lapel pin or a dinner ring. Something you could spot from across a dark smoky room.

Menopause too. I'm ending my fertility. I need a gold watch.

Step it up Justin. My jewelry box doesn't weigh enough.

Justin? Well what about Justin? He doesn't get a present for performing his reproductive biological functions and to be fair, I think he should. He wouldn't get excited about an add a pearl necklace but I might be able to build his self esteem with his own sticker chart. Every time he offers up his genes I can pop a smiley face sticker. Get enough stickers and then he gets his choice of movie in the full price DVD rack and not the discount bin!

Oh, and the present for having a vasectomy even if I am sterilized? Kick ass tiger eye pinkie ring. Manly.

You know what I asked my husband to buy me after the birth of our children not knowing I was supposed to ask for jewelry?

Stool softeners.

And them babies are shiny for sure.