The Absent Minded Housewife

Tampon crafts, no, just, no.

2012-02-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

Some of us loathe Valentine's Day. Some of us really get off on it. I'm right in the middle. It's nice to eat overpriced chocolate. I like to do nice things for my husband. I like being naked.

This is pretty much what my husband expects.  Sugary food and some attention paid to his boo-boo. Happy Valentine's Day!

After 18 years of marriage this formula for the holiday has not let us down. Then when one of us gets a wild hair and does something more than this, we both feel cherished and loved.

There are bad Valentine's gifts that women give to their men though. Some of us sisters think that if the gift is elaborate, cute and creative, our men will swoon. I have learned not to do this. Truth is, our men will not care. What you women think is just the most adorable pink and red themed gift ever is just a step in a multi-level romantic gesture process for men to get their boo-boo touched.

Then women get disappointed because it wasn't the thought that counts apparently.

Then they get angry.

Then he knows his boo-boo might be in danger.

In general, asking your husband for what he'd like for Valentine's is a good plan. He's the expert on himself.  His answers may not be romantic but they will be honest. Likewise, you can plainly tell him what you'd like. Asking other women what your husband might like for Valentine's is not a good plan.  Women think up ideas for other women and then your husband has to fake gratitude and other smooshy feelings when you spring any of this on him.

These are gifts you should not give, lest you should be so inconsiderate:

The Valentine's Coupon Book: It is thoughtful to give written and redeemable confirmation for hugs, kisses, steak dinners, backrubs and a night out with the boys...but what are the chances he's actually going redeem any of them past February 15th after you tell him that "hug" is not code for "sex" unless the coupon specifically mentions sex? Yeah, nil. How about you give the man a case of beer and then throughout the year voluntarily give him more hugs, kisses, special dinners, backrubs, boys nights and wild monkey sex? The coupon book is going to sit in a drawer gathering dust. Don't let your bodies gather dust.

A Trip to Build a Bear: Might as well right? You're already at the mall to get that glitter encrusted singing Hallmark card, which is another drawer dust gatherer. He'd love writing a special message on a heart to put in your bear and you know exactly what to write to put in his bear, right? Then the bears can live and love on your marital bed, dressed as cupids, on top of all the decorative pillows looking out beyond the duvet, a symbol of your forever love. Except, he'd rather Cupid shoot an arrow right through his left eyeball and up into his brain. Plushies are for children and fetishists.

A Valentine Themed Treasure Hunt: Which had better end in something good....like electronics, a chain saw, or a car. Do not make your man chase about the house, or your town, or go full on Amazing Race, only to get to the end to find a plate of spaghetti and some cheap wine served near a dripping candle. You might be forgiven for wasting all his time if at the end you are at a cheap hotel wearing the kind of cheap negligee you can rip.   Never ever have your mother with you at the end to see his reaction.

Chocolate: He knows this isn't for him. It's for you. Buy him candy he likes and keep your mitts off. Do not attach tags made from scrapbooking paper and stamping crap or wired bows or pink fluff to his candy.   It only confuses him to whether he should open and eat it or not. Don't poo poo the idea that he might rather have a bag of Doritoes or some beef jerkey.

The Experimental Special Homecooked Meal: This means you don't add several drops of red food coloring to his favorite white foods to create the blush of love. This is not the time to buy hundreds of dollars worth of truffles because they are the secret ingredient that will make his favorite meatloaf an occasion.   Don't decide that you're going to learn how to prepare a boeuf wellington that day. Stick with tried and true, serve a romantic straightforward beverage, and then save the simple dessert for after the boo-boo touching.

Heed me well ladies. Valentine's Day is a cooperative event that takes much communication and understanding. No one loved each other better because the gesture had more foil, glitter, rose petals or pink plush fabrics. Hold the man, look into his eyes, tell him that he's a good man and that you love him, then appreciate his boo-boo.

After that, make him a sandwich.

The images in this post brought to you by SOPA and PIPA

2012-01-31T22:20:00.000-07:00

From what I've read, those folks who live in the Primary states are getting awful tired of the barrage of negative campaign ads coming at them from every angle. Computer, television, phone and print ads...more often than not a male voice is telling you why you are a giant turd for even considering voting for one ridiculous candidate or another.

If you say "Newt Gingrich" in front of a mirror three times, what do you think will happen?

Before long it will be coming to my neck of the woods and then I have a kind of reprieve because my television news comes out of Utah instead of my home state of Nevada. The whole of Utah will be declaring Mitt Romney as their candidate. It's a given. Nevada will be a good even playing field full of whackadoodle caucus attendees for Newt, Mitty and Ron Paul. They'll toss Santorum.

Since I'm a democrat I'm not showing up to the primary, so whatever.

As this race goes on I'm thinking that this race could take a cue from reruns of Sesame Street from the 70's. Today's Sesame Street isn't useful. They've politicized it. They want to introduce characters for every new social injustice. Just recently a group petitioned to introduce a breastfeeding storyline on the show, you know, so kids won't think boobs are for filling with silicone. Back in the 70's there was breastfeeding on Sesame Street and it was educational in an earth mama sort of way. This is how you feed babies. Today showing a breastfeeding mother is no longer about providing sustenance to an infant but showing the political prowess of a whole new group of earth mamas. This is how you feed babies and YOU MUST ACCEPT IT.

Yes, I'm recommending that our political parties take cues from Sesame Street before Elmo.

Imagine that some of the characters of our golden youth were political advisors. What advise would they give today's candidates?

Ernie thinks all this debating is much too serious and would recommend that one of them put a pot on their head when they play maverick. They'd for sure strengthen their position. At the very least they'd support blue collar american pot manufacturers. And every substance that could possibly go in that pot. From Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Dinners to kitchy upcycled planters filled with good old American Manure. Ernie would also advise much squeezing of one's rubber ducky instead of multiple marriages.

Bert thinks that the tone of the debates are not serious enough, what with ten thousand dollar bets and the precisely sculpted and hairsprayed man-dos. The studious voter is not impressed with pithy soundbites and interrupting one another. Bert wants to know what you are going to do and how you are going to do it, step by step, without sounding crazy. It doesn't matter if you're the candidate that might be able to beat Barack Obama but that you be the candidate that can stick to an opinion like oatmeal without sacrificing the pigeons.

Count Von Count wants to know what it's all going to cost him. He pays the mortgage on his castle and the taxes on his monocles. If his friends on Sesame Street need a bailout before they get occupied by the puppets from other children's programs he's happy to help, but don't pass the buck to that out of work Harry Monster. If you can come up with a fair way of distributing the tax burden without cronyism, insider trading, lobbying, Count Von Count will count it, muahaha!

Cookie Monster want candidate that isn't full of hot air. Cookie Monster want to feel dignity about voting. Cookie Monster doesn't want to hear candidate blame one another or blame President Obama. Cookie Monster wonders who the hell is fronting all that Superpack money and why it isn't being used to create jobs. Cookie Monster knows what it's like to be fisted and Cookie Monster knows about the left hand not knowing what the right is doing, so don't bullpuppet a bullpuppeteer.

Finally. Be nice. Share. Use your imagination.

(Oh, the occupiers from Yo Gabba Gabba want to add, "Don't bite your friends.")

Stop the politickin' and just feed the baby already.

Squeeze it already!

2012-01-30T21:30:00.002-07:00

No, I'm not dead. Or, I'm not physically dead. My brain has been in a bumbling deathlike stupor. That once useful organ has knitted it's own shroud out of dryer lint and cat hair. No...knit is too strong a word...any part of my brain that could once claim to be creative has turned it's back, dropped it's drawers, and shown me exactly where I could kiss it.

I don't think I've been this depressed since I was 14 years old. That was a low year. People then knew that I was sad and eventually I worked it through. People today probably can guess that I've been sad and I think I'm working it through. Unfortunately that means I've laid low for a month.

It also may mean that I need to make an appointment with a doctor that doesn't practice in my tiny town. Something is wrong with my body and it is nothing I can point a finger on exactly. As is usual my hormones are all over the place with all the associated symptoms. It's an evil cycle...the hormones make me sad and anxious and then I grow a beard...then the hormones ease up and I'm sad and anxious because I've grown a beard...then I shave the beard and I'm sad and anxious because I get ingrown beard hairs...then hello PMS!

I'm unsure of why it's all bubbled up at this particular time in my life but right at this moment I'm working through the sad, anxious beard growing by stuffing my gob with white chocolate truffles. As long as I don't eat the whole package I don't have to layer guilt onto my anxiety. I stopped at my serving size and I won't be too full to take my B vitamins and my probiotic. Acidophilus is an excellent poop enhancer. Constipation would make this whole mess only that much worse.

Part of how I worked through being sad in my teen years was just to throw myself in things to do. Last night I was compelled to look through boxes of family photos for my son's high school graduation slide show and found my teenaged albums. It looks like most of what I found to do was groping boys but there were also photos of activities that didn't require saliva. I scanned a bunch of those, posted them to my Facebook and I was happy.

Memories are nice.

But then I found something to do in watching zit popping videos on YouTube and my happy descended into this weird ecstatic nausea.

That feeling is better than sad and anxious. I'll take it.

Raspeduch, strudel!

2012-01-05T20:00:00.001-07:00

Before I met my husband, and fed my husband all kinds of good food which has expanded his figure, Justin was a grunt in the US Army. He's a Desert Storm veteran. He wore sand colored BDU's and a wine colored beret which he didn't earn but bought at an Army surplus store because he liked it. When you meet a man wearing a beret, a Bob Dylan Tshirt, and combat boots, you know that your dates will be filled with intellectual movie rentals and saliva.

Check out this photo of Justin taking a whiz on a bush in Bad Kissingen Germany, near where he was stationed.

One of his platoon-mates took this photo. They must have liked each other a lot. I don't ask questions.

Someday Justin would like to take me back to Germany so he can repeat the pose, pee in a bush and I can watch...I kid...He wants to take me back so I can see buildings and eat food.

Until then, I've ordered Justin a just because present. Just because I needed to round up my order for Mirabell MozartKugeln Chocolate up over $25.

Check out Justin's sausages:

Premium German wursts...as premium as unmentionable minced and aged pig parts gets...made with German love.

Ich lieben Pepto Bismol.

You skipped the meat parts because I mentioned chocolate didn't you? It's been difficult to find the specific Mozart Kugel I used to buy at a department store that's long gone out of business. I used to pay a dollar a piece for these chocolates back when I could buy a gallon of milk for a buck thirty.

I don't know why they photo shopped the center to be that baby-poop green. Sure, it's pistachio marzipan in the middle but in real life it looks edible. Anyhow, BEST CHOCOLATE EVER.

Rest assured that German grill fest night will consist of plenty of meat, mustard, cabbage, excellent chocolate, a copy of Doctor Strangelove and saliva.

Justin lost his beret at a VA hospital...sigh.

I'm voting for the best candidate in the Swinger's Party.

2012-01-03T20:23:00.001-07:00

Never ever EVER go googling for a photo of Ron Jeremy to illustrate a post on the Iowa Caucus.

I feel dirty.

Like greasy dirty.

A little intrigued but still, dirty, and somewhat nauseated.

I can guess that every single citizen in Iowa feels similarly today. Greasy. Put upon. Harangued. Sick and tired. In need of a towel to wipe off with or a long shower. What with all the ads upon ads upon ads and more unwanted phone calls and door to door solicitors than they can count. Iowans probably woke up in this morning, stumbled to their bathrooms to pee, and found ads printed on their rolls of toilet paper.

After all that, why would any reasonable person go out and vote? Politicos have harassed people into a stupor.

Keyword is reasonable. Unreasonable people will still go vote. Whackadoodles are hitting the polling places this very second and happily tapping the screen* to vote for Newt, Michelle, Dr. Paul or Pretty Witty Mitty. This whole GOP presidential run has been whackadoodle. It's only going to continue in this great tornado of crazy until it goes full out Wizard of Oz in November.

...and I just thought about dressing Ron Jeremy as a representative of the Lollipop Guild.

Happy to share that image with you.

Happy to share my bottle of Maalox too.

* Reader A.R. tells me that Iowans aren't caucusing with any sort of touch screen involved. They are caucusing in their schools and homes and whatnot, trying to lure each other into groups for their preferred candidate. I replied that this only helps with my Ron Jeremy imagery.

My astronomer needs an enema.

2012-01-02T19:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not in the practice of making New Years resolutions at this time of year. For me the resolutions are usually made in late August and failed at by September. Goes along with the start of the school year when my husband and kids go back to the grind and I get to poop with my bathroom door open once again. Once I resolved to find inner peace by the way of yoga. DO I SEEM PEACEFUL TO YOU, DAMMIT? Yeah, yoga fail even as much as openly pooping may improve my mood.

For 2012, however, along with the presidential election, I'm also facing my 20 year high school reunion around September. That's the reunion where all the dentists gather in one corner, lawyers in another, investment bankers in a third, computer programmers in the fourth and housewives in the far back behind the caterer's table next to the spent Sterno cans and we all discuss who went bald and who got fat.

It's not just a party though. It's tradition at my high school that the class in it's 20th year plan a bunch of events for homecoming. The class of 1993, old fogies smelling like teen spirit, has to spend a week entertaining the class of 2013 with their Katy Perry teenaged dreams. We walked to school uphill both ways WITHOUT texting anyone on the way. Hours upon hours of not being able reach out to your friends with the random auto corrected greeting.

Shoot me for thinking it, but I'd like to attend my reunion without my saddle bags. I can let my hair go grey and show off my new crow's feet, but my new and unimproved pear shape has got to go. Even if the extra weight has provided me with the boobs I never had in high school. I don't care at all about showing off my knockers but to be accused of stuffing my pants...the horror!

To help me in not embarrassing myself at the reunion, which I really am excited to go to, Yahoo has provided me with a horoscope for the next year:

Scorpio, 2012 is your year of reckoning! You worked yourself to the bone in 2011, and now you've hit a major impasse. You've got until October to continue experimenting with what you want out of life; after that, big decisions must be made. Saturn is about to take up residence in your constellation for the first time in nearly 30 years. This planet rules karma, time and integrity, so each of these will be key themes throughout the year. Your values will be tested during the last quarter of the year, so get all your ducks in a row by then to avoid the stress of Saturn's inquisition. The good news is that a weight is about to be lifted from your consciousness, and all the background melancholy you may have felt over the past few years should lighten up.

A major eclipse pattern takes hold of your stars in autumn 2012. November's total solar eclipse in Scorpio is sure to rock the very foundation of your life, so get ready for some major shifts in your relationships. Your life will definitely not be the same by the time 2013 rolls around. You're a butterfly and a phoenix - expect to shed some major skin this year.

This could also be one of the most socially driven years you've ever seen. With Mars activating your house of friendship and goals in the sign of Virgo, expect a majority of your energy to be engaged with a barrage of social situations. It's all for a good cause, however, and will translate into your bigger life goals; in fact, a good portion of the parties you attend will have some sort of work component behind them. And with glamorous Neptune moving back into your pleasure sector in February, life will suddenly become very art-house cinema for you.

Saturn up in my business? Major eclipse pattern? Glamorous Neptune art-house social situations?

...and here I thought they discontinued selling Zima in the United States.

Okay...I can get with all this change but I admit I'm disappointed. This fortune cookie is telling me that I'm not getting rid of my saddle bags until after the reunion!

I ate fish and salad for dinner for nothing.

I want a donut.

2011 - We hardly knew ye

2012-01-01T16:37:00.000-07:00

Happy New Year folks. Here's to hoping the world won't be ending in 2012 but if it does, I will not be wearing underwear, clean or otherwise. Underwear is so 2011. If the world goes I go taking out exactly what I took in...my bare butt and a sense of humor.

As is usual for my first post in the year, quotes uttered by my family during the Christmas visit, or as close as I can remember. I wrote a bunch down and the paper got misplaced putting everything away at home. If I misquote anyone, I apologize. It wasn't intentional and if it was, it was only to make me appear smarter than I am.

Here we go:

"You people..."
"Those people..."
"These people..."
"You idiots..."
- How my family addresses each other and refers to our quirks on Christmas day.

"I'm full of durp."
- Ben, my niece Jenni's husband, explaining why he could never solve a simple rubik's cube much less the more complicated puzzle cubes my son was solving at the table. Check out my son's lastest YouTube solving some cube I don't remember the name of. You see me in the background briefly.

"We call our softball team 'the straps' because, you know, we're all lesbians."
- Tonya, my sister Lisa's partner in life and evil, with loud whispery emphasis on the word 'lesbians'. It's a community league conspiracy.

"I know why Lori didn't come home. She done got her ass sat down."
- Gary, my sister Lori's husband, who upon missing his wife found her at our parent's house. They all live on the 'family compound' in Utah and everyone knows if you aren't home you have your ass sat down just across the way.

"You really need to brush your teeth."
- Me, The Absent Minded Housewife, during a conversation with my teenager. Not an odd thing to say to the kid but then he tells me that it's not his breath. He'd farted.

"Bone..Bones...Boner....Boners!"
- My twelve year old son Alec, who found these choice words in a family game of boggle. The same board I also found 'weiner' and 'weiners'. He's not related to me at all.

"Your tender timer popped! You're fully cooked and juicy!"
- Me again, to my sister Lisa, who was walking around with one very pronounced erect nipple despite her bra. This is not the first time any of us sisters have said this to one another. Or the first time we've joke about each other's boobs. My boobs are especially jokeworthy.

"I am the God of Meatloaf!"
- Ryan, my six year old son, who really said this during Thanksgiving but since I can't recall any more quotes I'm going to sneak it in. Like I could get this child to eat meatloaf.

Here's to hoping 2012 is good for everyone and if the world ends for you, it ends on a high note, with your underwear off doing something fun or interesting.

Fa La La La La! Part V

2011-12-23T20:34:00.003-07:00

Ode to Soy Nog

Soy to the world! the Nog is come;
Let earth receive it's treat;
Let every cup prepare it room,
and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink,
and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink,
and vegans, and vegans and the lactose intolerant drink.

Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Let's make cookies!

2011-12-22T21:00:00.001-07:00

Today I looked at the grout in my kitchen and became depressed.

Three years ago I looked at my kitchen floor, which was then covered in impractical white linoleum, became depressed, and then I did this to it:

That's a banana sticker to the lower left. I left it on my floor because it had personality.

Two years ago, after slowly removing all my impractical white linoleum and living on a concrete floor, I put down tile all by myself and it was beautiful and I was proud:

That's grout dust left on the floor. I chose grout the same color as the tile and sealed the grout like a good handywoman should. Grout sealing smells lovely and after sniffing it for as long as the directions suggested I should leave it to dry, I felt an urge to invite transgendered unicorns to tea and bake sugar cookies shaped like genitalia.

So, today, my grout looked like the wrong end of a Tijuana donkey show, which struck me as sad. Not sad because I've never seen a donkey show but sad because my kitchen floor, as much as I cared for it, looks like what I'm assuming the cheap seats at a donkey show would reveal.

I mean, one day you have a new floor. A shiny floor. A floor you could roll sugar cookie dough on it if you were inclined to. The next day you've got sticky greasy donkey residue all lurking in the cracks. Nothing stays the same. What you put value into doesn't last.

The novelty of new wears off. That's when you're on your hands and knees with an industrial sized toothbrush and a can of cleanser with bleach which also has a delightful scent. Do you have a pony? Does it like chamomile? If you have a donkey it's not invited. I'm making snickerdoodles.

It's after the tea cools that you remember that you're lucky to live in a house with a roof and a floor. Lucky to have access to household cleaners. Lucky for fresh water coming right out of the tap on a whim. Lucky to have the two dollars to purchase a brush which is only used to scrub grout. Lucky to have a body that can do the work.

My grout is beautiful now.

...and a thankless chore, which ultimately no one will notice, has cleared my head, which isn't lucky...

It's wonderful.

Santa is going down your chimney.

2011-12-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

Since the gods of the internets have debuted the new xxx domain designation, all the world's movers and shakers have bought up their names with a porny ending. This is because when you own your own porn site no one else can besmirch your good name with it. Instead you can besmirch your name yourself without abandon because you own the right to.

After all, protecting your interests is a good idea for anyone and just about anyone can purchase a domain name. I purchased this one for way less than it would cost to sponsor a child in a third world country. XXX domains cost much more than the plain old dot com kind but that kind of puts it all in perspective doesn't it? I could buy up my pervy domain name for my own protection or I could buy a few bags of wheat and some canned goods.

It might be nice to spring for some xxx domain names for my friends and family for Christmas. There is no use buying them any more useless appliances or trays of baked goods. Gonna buy them a gift that keeps on giving. Many names are still swinging around untaken.

Doesn't everyone want their own adult domain? Especially one in which you could cater to people just like you?

Some of my friends are into running marathons barefoot. Imagine the possibilities of an xxx domain based on that. Close up photos of bare naked feet on just warming blacktop early in the morning or pictorials of hot chicks running and sucking down that nasty glucose energy goo, running down the corners of their mouths and dripping on their irritated nipples.

Some of my friends are into secondhand shopping. There are whole realms of fetishes we could delve into on secondhand.xxx. Refurbished furniture, collections of mismatched glassware, crafts for old jeans and wool sweaters. Donated crutches and walkers...oh god yes!

A lot of my friends are geeky sorts with pasty skin. There simply aren't enough sites on the internets catering to that demographic. I could think of hundreds of combinations of programming languages and body parts to add an xxx to. Play hide and seek with your thumb drive.

My mother enjoys vacuuming. She really enjoys vacuuming. Here ya go mom - vacuumlove.xxx.

My Dad is restoring a 1955 Buick Special Convertible - whatsunderyourweldinghelmet.xxx or trunks_n_portholes.xxx

My sisters have all manner of hobbies and I think I could lump their domain together. I'm sure there are some that would be interested in a group of sisters and their hobbies. Groups of sisters bowling, or playing softball, or gardening or baking cookies together. SisterlyAffection.xxx

My husband is into poetry. I dunno. I'm unsure if anyone goes into the xxx realm looking for a nasty simile or prurient alliteration in iambic pentameter. Sorry Justin.

Could buy a couple for myself to in some acceptable xxx vernacular. It'll be a good investment. Buy a bunch of housewife-y sounding domains and sell them later for moooolaahhhh.

My heart is turgid with Christmas spirit!

MerryChristmas.xxx!

I can't find my bedazzler and I need it desperately.

2011-12-14T21:32:00.000-07:00

You think if I removed any constraining underwear and poked my tongue between my teeth I could get across the idea that it was foggy in my town today?

Honestly I've started writing about the fog that shows up here every winter around ten times.

Shows up in my head too.

Like wads of cotton in aspirin bottles. Keeps anything worthwhile from shaking loose before you break a nail prying off the cap.

I'm creative in short nervous bursts. I spent five days sewing a new bathmat for my master bathroom. It's still not finished. It needs a non-slip backing. That detail is something I remember every time I step out of my shower. There isn't a danger of falling and cracking my skull necessarily, I just might forget how to step out of my shower in the first place. A non-slip backing may save me from myself.

Pin It

Lookit that...I added a Pinterest button to the post because I got my crafty recycling on. What was previously stretched across the butts of my family has been made useful again on my bathroom floor. Oooh. Ahhh.

I'm also sewing strips of denim for another rug, squares of denim for a quilt, and there is a pile of old jeans in a cat chewed box waiting to be cut up into some sort of utility. Then there is the series of drawings coming in licks and spits, which I'm long overdue in completing for a friend and at least four costumes under construction.

Then the blog with ten unpublished posts with only a very poorly constructed first line written...

...And Christmas.

This fog could last weeks or could be done tomorrow. Both the weather and in my head. It comes and goes. It's always better in warm weather.

No matter how foggy it is tomorrow I'm going out to get some sunlight.

Screw it. Where is the vodka?

2011-12-05T19:55:00.001-07:00

I wish my husband hadn't have eaten those smoked oysters an hour ago.

2011-11-30T19:14:00.001-07:00

This month I've been particularly frisky. I could go ahead and blame my ever fluctuating hormones for this so I could save myself some sort of embarrassment, but that's not the cause of my perkiness.

Today is the last day of Movember and the month of men growing facial hair ends tomorrow. All about the internets men have posted photos of their scraggles upwards to their Grizzly Adams and I've been lusting in my heart for most every one of them.

Beards are sexy. Yes ladies, they are. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a soft beard making contact with every outside inch of skin on your body. Slow, close and lingering contact. My husband calls this the gift of beard and you can only imagine the thank you notes I've written and hand delivered afterwards.

This whiskered joy ended prematurely for my husband last week because he shaved off his beard for a funeral. I admit I've liked kissing him without his beard thrusting itself up my nostrils but I'd gladly suffer a sneeze or two when he grows it back.

Justin keeps the hair on his face tidy. (Except for that time in college where we couldn't afford to trim his beard which helped with his radical poet image.) Check our bathroom sink on any given weekday morning and you'll see just how tidy he keeps it. Since I'm the one wiping out the sink later in the day, I think I deserve some say in some new and exciting styles for his beard.

Our love will last forever and a band about the finger...or about the head...symbolizes this:

With our mutual Utah heritage, where down the line I can prove my husband and I are cousins, nothing is more attractive to any saint than this example of cleanliness next to godliness:

An excellent summer beard, for when corn in the cob is in season or when sweating under your boobs makes you itch:

A beard for the conversationalist:

There is a beard in this photo. Really, there is:

Lastly, my husband is the entire package. He's brains and bod. A reflection of his character in beard:

All that image searching and photo posting has me tingly.

I'll let you all leave me to my own devices now. There isn't enough beard to counteract the smell of the smoked oysters my husband ate with soda crackers.

His flavor saver is gone, thank Moses.

A brief interlude on Black Friday

2011-11-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit miffed that someone upstairs at Google Inc. and all it's subsidiaries will no longer allow me to write posts on my phone anymore.

Not that I did much before. It's the principle of the thing. My phone is not any way associated with Apple or Android and as such I cannot update you on my goings on during Thanksgiving away from home visiting family in the Utahiest location in Utah.

Left my laptop home. Shuddup.

Ain't buying a smarter smartphone. Shuddup about that too. I happen to like my AT&T calling plan, a plan they no longer offer to all you texting and data-planning smart phone users. My plan is minuscule and fits a lifestyle where I do not have my phone charged half the time. It makes more sense to me to use the money I could have used on an Iphone on cat toys.

So, here I sit on my sister's computer, logged into my brother in law's account, cursing at their keyboard. It makes loud clicking noises.

My children are planning on sleeping over here this evening and this is fine by me.

However, my husband and I cannot take advantage of this because my parent's guest bed squeaks and my period started on Wednesday morning.

Aren't you glad I got on my sister's computer to post that?

Yeah, me too.

Grow moss on the crotch.

2011-11-21T19:52:00.001-07:00

I don't know what's wrong with you people willing to go out the moment it is no longer Thanksgiving day to stampede through large retail establishments to buy products manufactured in China.

After eating that much food I have no plans to do any such thing. There was that one year my little sister and I ventured out to some of the less busy stores and I embarrassed her with my stomach upset the entire trip. In the end though, digesting all that rich food proved to serve me well.

That was also the year I learned a lesson. Besides those deals at the insane hours of the day that only a very few of you are going to actually get, there is nothing worth buying on Black Friday.

Put down the Snuggie and the Pillow Pet and walk away. If you buy a cha-cha-chia pet you are a cha-cha-chump.

Fine. Your five year old wanted a Chia sheep so badly that he slipped an ad for it in your Look magazine. Tell him that Santa Claus ran out and get him a BB gun instead. He can grow moss on the stock.

Last Christmas season I challenged all my readers and other hangers on to not purchase any presents that require electricity...especially batteries...with the exception of the kind of toys they make for very happy ladies. This Christmas season I challenge you all to not buy anything that you could buy in a clearance bin in two to three years.

No Pajama Jeans.

No copies of "The Help" or "Like Water for Elephants" in any format.

No tins of stale popcorn.

No foot baths or battery powered exfoliators or men's manicure kits or emergency car kits or appliances that only cook one type of food.

NO STINKIN' CHRISTMAS THEMED APPAREL!! Not even Grinch boxer shorts. Your husband will not think those are cute as you think they are and you know it.

I'm getting my husband a Kindle Fire. Shuddup.

Pocket full of Pulitzers

2011-11-17T19:16:00.001-07:00

After some consideration I decided to skip Nanowrimo again this year and good thing too...I can barely get this sentence out of my brain and into the text box.

Never mind that I've never participated in Nanowrimo before and I don't expect that I could write the great American novel in 30 days (with the end third of the novel being sludgy because of Thanksgiving and Black Friday), but I do expect that I could write a perfectly fluffy novel that will make women get all fluttery in their pants.

A blog is the proper venue for the phrase, "fluttery in their pants". If I was writing that type of novel, however, I'd be more likely to use the phrases, "We met in the soft spot where dreams begin." or "I spent the night lost in his earnest brown eyes and his raspy baritone laugh."

Dayum. Not bad for starting this post wordless.

I hear that Twilight movie premiered tonight. Bella gets herself knocked up with sexy undead spawn. If there is anything to make a gal fluttery in her pants it's Bram Stoker's bastard half brother in competition with Teen Wolf - Bedazzler Edition and someone ending up with a baby bump.

The end of the series and the movies have only primed the pump on the type of drippy novel I could unleash on the world.

Of utmost importance giving the lead character, a stunningly beautiful confident woman who is yet vulnerable and awkward, a name that will carry the reader's hopes.

Lexton St. Madison. Powerful and businesslike, but you can see peeks of her lacy camisole under her crisply pressed button down blouse. She's into dry red wines and flavored lube.

Carolinea Munraux. Not spelled Monroe. Tiny, graceful and birdlike, but when she gets angry she'll rip you a new one. She's into creme brulee' and is sexually attracted to shoes.

Eva Naomi Cristino. She doesn't answer to Eve or just Eva, please address this torrid redhead by her full name. Once you tame this one she's yours forever! She's into vintage paste jewelry and gay bear porn.

All these women, they all fall in love with stock broker turned lumberjack/veterinarian Liam Luke Devro. Not spelled Deveraux. His chiseled good looks and perfectly hairless body only complement his intellect, manners and love for his mother. He's into whittling penny whistles and bathroom stalls with peek-a-boo holes.

Plot? Girl meets boy, girl is unsure she should even be attracted to boy because she has baggage, boy sets out to win her heart, girl allows herself to fall in love after she sleeps with him on the second date because doing so on the first date doesn't allow for enough literary anticipation, boy admits to carrying his own baggage which makes him adorable yet pathetic, girl gets angry, girl softens because she's also terribly flawed, one of them gets into an accident, they make up in the hospital professing eternal love, girl marries boy and they breed undead babies.

Dayum! Fluttery in my pants!

High time I get me a literary agent. I'm gonna make more than two bucks with this.

The holiday spirit is in a friendly face.

2011-11-14T20:04:00.001-07:00

My husband and I took off to the busy beehive that is Utah County over Veterans Day weekend to do what every patriotic American was expected to do when we first got into our economic mess...shop. We were hoping to make a dent in Christmas. Instead we made a dent in our patience.

We barely escaped with our lives travelling not only on the freeways but in the stores as well. I was rammed by shopping carts in Walmart, Toys R Us, at the Deseret Industries (a Mormon church run thrift store) and in the grocery store when I attempting to buy fresh bratwursts at the meat counter.

The Christmas spirit has not hit "Happy Valley" yet. It will eventually, in it's own sweet spirited way, but until then don't dare be in front of a display of fur lined slippers when someone else comes along and desperately needs a pair. There is a time limit to deciding between the tan faux suede pair and the velvet zebra print. Don't overstay your consumer welcome.

There are some that live in the Utahiest place in Utah who think that the armpit of casino hell I live in is one of the most uncivilized places on the planet but all I've got to say about that is that I can drive across my town at 20mph and not have one person cut me off or tailgate me along the way. There is the possibility that another driver could flash me the finger but that's only because the Utah tourists dislike my Obama bumper sticker.

I snagged this at the Lord's thrift store:

I'm not the kind of girly girl that would know if this is a real Kate Spade bag. It's sort of a fluke that I even know what a Kate Spade bag is. Fake or not, it was worth the ten bucks I paid for it. I've been looking for a purse that doesn't look like you could smuggle a twenty pound turkey in it. This purse could only smuggle a cornish game hen.

About when I was getting pissy at the shopping cart behaviors of other thrift shoppers, I snagged this, next to a framed print of Jesus:

This is Adam. Adam is a Lot Technician. Adam probably does not know that when he left his position at the car dealership they'd donate his beautifully framed and matted photo to the thrift. Adam, Lot Technician, instantly pulled me out of the funk of busy beehive retail hell and the two dollars I paid for him was a bargain. Every time I look at Adam I laugh and then I find some glimmer of hope in humanity.

Adam, Lot Technician, now hangs above my computer by my cork board.

Adam, Lot Technician, makes me smile.

Thanks Adam.

Lot Technician.

UPDATED: LETS GIVE AWAY SOMETHING!

Who IS Adam, Lot Technician? What's his story? Best story (likes will be considered) will be awarded a Thongwiser! What's Thongwiser? A pair of stringy thong panties packaged in a recycled beer bottle. Thong goggles! You know you want to put a Thongwiser in someone's stocking.

Post your stories to Absent Minded Housewife on Facebook in the photo comments. Do EET!

Body hair powered by hissy fit.

2011-11-08T21:16:00.001-07:00

So...Michelle Duggar...who is my hero...is knocked up again.

I'm not knocked up again. Michelle's glorious capacity for fertility is not why she's my hero. If Michelle Duggar wants to take my uterus and use it much like she uses a series of washing machines for all her laundry, she's welcome to it. I don't need it. She can't have my ovaries, as much good as those are doing me, because I still have some hope of producing female hormones but I'll be a giver and she can enjoy the gift of my menstrual cycle.

Michelle and my mother in law, they could be seething and they will never lose their cool. They'll talk about it. They'll work it through. They'll rely on their laurels and morals. They do not have screaming bitch fits.

I lost my cool yesterday. No need to say why. At least it wasn't in public and that's only because I didn't go out yesterday, but color me embarrassed.

Part of it is hormone bullshit. Hormones up. Hormones down. Let's grow more body hair.

Part of it is the change of the seasons. Winter sucks. It just does.

We can say that this makes up about 25% of my tantrum. That's all I get to justify.

So, I lost it and not under the couch cushions where it's easily retrievable. It bolted out the door, ran down the street, stopped to sniff the fire hydrant and lift it's own leg, and then ran off towards the golf course where there is a flock of geese pooping all over the driving range.

I am ashamed.

But then there is Michelle Duggar, who has been pregnant all of her adult life with all her hormones all over the place, and the seasons changing as they will, and Jim Bob using up all the hair spray, and she's walking around not screaming at her family members.

Sure, she's high on Jesus but that doesn't mean anything, does it Oral Roberts? You can see that Michelle made a choice to never straddle that broom and she's worked at it. Not everything is peachy keen but there isn't no reason to get loud about it. Just chill...the world is still turning.

I wish I were more that way. Not that it's drama drama drama with me all the time but there is a point where I'm going to start yelling.

Michelle Duggar's boiling point is so high.

...and that's why her organs have not plopped mushily onto her feet after a sneeze. Number 20 is possible because of her demeanor alone.

We could all learn from her. Be nice goddammit.

The extra hour of sleep was nice too.

2011-11-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

I've turned 37 years old today.

My family drove over to see me. My mom baked me an oatmeal cake. I cut and served it before any mention of candles was made. I've learned a thing or two in my old age.

I got the nicest note in a card from my mother in law. Couldn't ask for a better present. I love her.

My husband ordered me blue shoes.

It's been a wonderful day.

I only took a half dose.

2011-11-04T18:46:00.001-06:00

I feel pretty good.

I mean, I felt pretty lousy this morning, that is until I showered and a large garden slug oozed out of my right nostril.

If you could compare this relief on some sort of scale, I'd put my sense of relief just below the feeling of relief you have when you've pushed your last push and that baby has popped out of the birth canal. You feel SO much better. Where childbirth wins is that the baby is kinda cute and it smells good. The nose slug was not cute nor did it smell good and I smooshed it down the tub drain with my toe.

But then there is that whole postpartum, healing episiotomy, hemmorhoid and engorgement thing. And diapers. Maybe we're even.

Doctor Google recommends that I use over the counter decongestants and breathe in plenty of steam. Doctor Google never asks you when your last pap smear was. It already knows.

Now I'm out of the bath and I am SO HIGH.

My husband has fed me a burrito. You need to know this.

Later tonight I'm going to get good and intimate with my neti pot.

Check with me and see if I remember it tomorrow.

You shouldn't make mimosas with orange flavored mouthwash.

2011-11-02T20:59:00.000-06:00

My face feels like a week old lump of play dough in a preschool classroom. Pummelled, half dry and full of hairs and boogers.

What I thought was a sinus infection is probably an abscess in my back molar. Yeah, it hurts and I get to call the dentist tomorrow morning. Let him have his turn rolling my face out on the table and then punching it with his fist. At the very least he might be mold something other than turd shapes and he'll prescribe me pain medication.

I'm calling a new dentist instead of my old dentist so we can accomplish root canal craft hour sedated. My old dentist has a hair replacement scar and tsks at me when I admit I don't floss as much as I should. He gives out no sleeping pills. New dentist will. During the whole ordeal I'd like to blissfully retire to happy land, where the chocolate covered cinnamon bears roam free and no one gets tartar.

I hate flossing. It's a feeling much like the sound of the whole preschool class running their boogery nails on the chalkboard. My Waterpik arrives next week.

That's about all the post I have in me.

I need antibiotics.

In another ten minutes, I'm turning off my porch light and hiding my miniature bags of pretzels.

2011-10-31T20:18:00.000-06:00

Several folks about my real life and the internets have asked me what I'm dressing as this Halloween. It's a fair question considering I sew a lot of halloween costumes all year long. I'm my best advertisement, right?

Well, I'm foolish.

I have a toothache.

...and something going on with my sinuses.

I barely got my own children dressed today.

Otherwise I'm staying home, drinking tea, and watching PBS.

What I want to say is that I went trick or treating, and not with my kids but on my own, as every costume that a person will not find on the racks of political correctness. At least on my bottom half. From the waist down I'm incredibly offensive. My knees are knobby with cliches.

From the waist up I'm not just skanky, I'm topless. Halloween? It's the time of year to scare folks with my cleavage. Which I've glittered up all Twilight like.

It's 52 degrees out there tonight. Why not?

Boo.

What I want to know...how do they avoid ingrown hairs?

2011-10-25T20:16:00.000-06:00

I'm enjoying the irony of watching the Duggars on TV while I describe how raunchy watching a male strip show in a casino located on the Nevada border is.

The whole ordeal...I've never seen anything like it in my life which is saying quite a lot as I'm as fresh as a newborn calf in the spring sunshine. Just like Ma Duggar. I'm going to imagine this retelling with Michelle sitting on one side of me shooting back syringes full of blue jello and vodka.

One of the gals managed to get our tickets comped and front center which is all the trouble you need right there. No ducking behind the middle aged ladies in front of you. No hiding in the back. No jumping up and down smack in the middle trying to get some attention paid to you. Front. Closest to this guy:

Which is extra special because he wore several different pair of snazzily decorated underpants that look like this:

To which he took the opportunity to flop around in some very intrusive ways with a whole lot of ladies, including introducing my face down front into the cave of wonders. This act cost me a dollar and some of my dignity. I cannot believe I'm even admitting this to everyone and sundry. Just call me Jezebel. Jezebel was not allowed to take any photos.

All the girls, me and imaginary Michelle Duggar, we got pounded, hounded, felt up, laid down, used and abused. Altogether they got six of my dollars and my fingerprints. As in, my fingers were placed far down the back of this guy's underoos:

Then the audience...that was a show in and of itself. I watched drunken ladies perform some sort of mating ritual where they cavorted and bounced on each other, acting like poodles in heat, completely ignoring anyone near naked and glistening on the stage. Clothes were ripped, buttons were lost, seats were wet and psychological tests were ordered. They do not teach this stuff at charm school.

Imaginary Michelle Duggar absolutely lost her shit.

When we left all we wanted were plates of deep fried food and pitchers of water. None of us had much to say. Hang your head in shame and walk toward the door.

...And dig your hand sanitizer out of your purse. Three squirts at least.

***

The Absent Minded Housewife is on Facebook. This is where I advise my readership in the naming of kittens. I think Tits McQueen is an excellent name for a cat.

Check out her smile.

2011-10-21T20:21:00.002-06:00

My husband is a tolerant open minded man.

We have the kind of marriage where we can point out exceptional examples of the opposite sex to one another without jealousy. We're human. We like to look and then tease each other for being old and lecherous. I keep a drool towel in my grandma purse.

Take last weekend for example. It was time for our bimonthly trip to Sam's Club to stock up on carbs in bulk and afterwards, dinner at any one of the fine chain restaurants nearby instead of filling up on samples like the rest of the sheep. Did you hear about that sample hawker who mixed in his semen with the tiny cups of yogurt he was offering to people? This is not the ingredient that makes Jamie Lee Curtis regular though it might be how Christopher Guest avoids prostate trouble. I'd rather my appetizer be a blooming onion, thanks.

Anyhow, we were told by our hostess that our waiter had a good shot at the winter Olympics. We chatted with him a bit and left him a good tip. I won't out him by his sport, but this type of athlete wears tight catsuits and has to have an ass of steel to compete.

...and yes...it was steel.

I enjoyed my meal very very much.

What's more, Justin had a good laugh at my expense for checking out what was on the dessert menu. When you bake good pies at home you can look at the pies elsewhere but you don't feel compelled to actually eat them. Everyone likes pie, ya know? So look good and hard at a well baked pie. Appreciate the fruit fillings.

This weekend I'm going to look at more pie.

My husband's female coworkers asked him if I'd like to go see a male dance revue for Deer Widow's Weekend. Nothing to hide. Nothing to get upset over. No reason to ask me in person. Justin's right there at work and he knows me better than anyone, so just ask him. "Justin, would your wife like to go with us to watch undulating oily beefy men wearing eye patches over their ticklish bits?"

He replied that I would indeed like such a thing and though I haven't been to anything like this since attending a coworker's 40th birthday party when I was all of 17, I think I would too. Why not? It's my birthday early next month.

There is the worry of what to wear and what to bring with you. Skirt? Push up bra? My knee length high heeled black boots? Do I shave my goatee off? Do male lap dancers care if you have a goatee if you have enough dollar bills? How many dollar bills does one keep accessible? Will I need hand sanitizer? If I have a hot flash do they mind if I bring a cold pack?

What if they sweat on me? Either the dancers or the other women? What if I have to kick someone's ass for getting to pushy and shove-y? Again, either the dancers or the other women? Where do I buy pepper spray?

Maybe I'll need to take Justin with me considering my concerns. It'll be a bonding experience.

He's declined though. I can't imagine why he'd want to miss this.

His call.

To return the favor maybe I'll find a joint who has hired a Girls Gone Wild participant. It's not the Olympics but it's the best I can do.

Sooey Baby

2011-10-20T21:45:00.002-06:00

I've been sewing today. Mostly pattern drafting but at one point I did mend one side of a well used and slightly wet burlap bag of catnip.

Since I still have to draw in the bumpy pokey jodhpur bits on the pants of an Oompa Loompa you get my annual edition of farm amore.

Have some pig porn.

You're welcome.