The Absent Minded Housewife

Minute Minutia

2013-06-19T11:09:00.003-06:00

Short post today.

McDonald's wifi is just as high quality as the coffee...glurg.

My mom is being released from the hospital today. She had emergency surgery on parts not worth mentioning and a long stay, but she is doing much better.

Today is also my youngest son's eighth birthday. We are getting him an ice cream cake. Best cake ever.

I pick vacation spots by euphemism.

2013-06-14T08:27:00.001-06:00

It's always good to try new things.

In this case it's braised breaded beef tongue in tomato with pimento at a Basque restaurant called Epi's in Meridian, Idaho last night for dinner.

On a related note, I also had ham balls as an appetizer and ended the meal with apple bread pudding drenched in caramel and whipped cream.

New experiences are sexy. Eating tongue for the first time is sexy.

Oh shush...let me have my moment.

On another related note, speaking of moments, right now I'm sitting at the finest Denny's that Boise has to offer. Bacon is bacon anywhere but I'm wondering if I should ask the waiter if he has ham balls.

He looks accommodating.

Again, shush.

The smell from the backseat was terrible...I know that smell.

2013-06-11T22:23:00.001-06:00

There is something about the end of the school year that prompts a well meaning mother and housewife to get out to the driveway and clean out her fabulous mini-van. Since last summer's clean out, the contents of my family truckster have reached proportions that aren't just embarrassing but plain disturbing. We got to a van cleaning today. Everything should be shoveled out in the sweet temperatures of June before something you ate half of and stuffed between the seats back in January gets stinky in July.

This always inspires the rhetorical question, "What the hell did I just put my hand in?"

It's best not to think too much about the answer because it could be anything from a wad of sucked on Starburst candies to a rubbery mass that used to be someone's sneaker and sweatsock.

There was this one time, when one of my kids was still in a car seat, that they unscrewed and upended an entire bottle of milk onto the floor of the backseat. Though we tried our best to clean it up, there were those mighty warm August days in which I cursed the lives of Holstein cows when I had to make a quick run to the grocery store.

Since then, milk in the car has been banned.

Those kinds of odors are also why I made sure there are enough bags and containers for each passenger of the vehicle to vomit into, if the need arises.

If you ignore the van mess, you can see that I've learned a lot about the art of transporting offspring. There might be a day where we become stranded and I know we could make it in our van for at least a week if we had to. My home may not be fully prepared for a zombie Armageddon but my van is preparedness pimped, yo.

Here is what you need in your family truckster:

Plastic shoebox style container, or bucket, something with a lid. like mine in my photo, pre-vacuuming. Fill this box with:

A roll of toilet paper

A stick of deodorant

Toothpaste and toothbrush

Gum

Mints

A small sewing kit with scissors

Maxi pads

Several plastic shopping bags

Packing tape

A small grooming kit with nail clippers, tweezers, comb and brush

A pencil and a pen and a pad of paper

Twenty four dollars (that's how much change was in mine...)

Sunscreen

Bug spray

Wet wipes and hand sanitizer

Granola bars

A lighter

When you are 60 miles from any public restroom that bucket or shoebox can be vomited into easily when you dump your emergency items on the floor. Do NOT pull over and empty your vomit shoebox into the wind.

I also have two felt blankets in that van, one under the seats, and another in the trunk area which I use to cover things I wish to hide from my children. I also have bottles of water which get replaced fairly often because one of my kids thinks that water from faucets is not nearly as special as sneaking water from the van and drinking that.

Then there is also a makeup bag in the door in which I keep over the counter medications. You want to stop any diarrhea with chemicals before you're forced to poop in your shoebox, because you might need that shoebox to vomit into, and then you want to remember not to empty any of that into the wind.

In case you do though, you've got wet naps and TP to clean yourself with.

The kinds of lessons that stick with a kid for life...

2013-06-07T14:37:00.002-06:00

Today is the last day of school.

This is a day full of warm promise for my children. When I was a kid I knew I could expect hours of summer fun on the farm. These hours were mostly comprised of horse manure. You scooped it up daily, you left it in a pile, the pile dried, and then you and your little sister sat on top of it and played king of the hill for hours.

This, my readers and other hangers on, is why I have a work ethic and values. Spend long enough in poop and something is bound to grow out of it.

My kids don't have ready access to a farm or large pile of poop, so I have to come up with alternative methods to teach them work ethics and values. Or at least keep them somewhat entertained and out of each other's hair.

So, I've bought several rolls of duct tape.

The thought was that I could have done some sort of crafty housewife type shit with all this duct tape but it occurred to me while my kid was watching me type over my shoulder, that designer duct tape would serve as a creative and novel disciplinary tool in the next three months.

When we tape the kid to the wall for misbehavior, each design will point to a specific offense or lesson. This will save me the lecturing and my voice.

Grass

Stop running around the house and play outside. Stop shouting in the house and shout outside. Stop going out of the house and coming into the house and going out of the house and coming into the house.

Wood

Should have stopped complaining about being bored and then whining and pouting through the chores I gave you to do because you were complaining about being bored.

Steel

Stop fighting over the Playstation. Stop fighting over the Wii. Stop fighting over the computer. Stop fighting over the Nintendo DS. Stop fighting over the TV. Stop fighting over the transistor radio.

Argyle

Should have taken a bath when I told you to. Should have brushed your teeth and put on deodorant and put your clothes in the hamper. For the love of the Lord, put on underwear!

Houndstooth

Quit asking for chips, soda, snacks, juice, candy, snowcones, popsicles, ice cream, fast food, cookies, and Kraft mac n cheese. Eat a vegetable.

Paisley

Quit calling your brother names, especially the following: Poophead, Buttsniffer, Douchecanoe, Fartknocker, Dickcheese, or Rand Paul or any other PG13 or above rated expletive.

Cheetah

This is for my 14 year old son: Quit staring at boobs. Do that in your room.

Stop using up all the hot water.

Pink Polka Dot

This is for my 8 year old: Pee IN THE TOILET. As in, lift up the lid, lift up the seat, aim, and hit the water. If you dribble anywhere, wipe it up!

Skull and Crossbones

Don't bite. Don't spit. Don't kick. Don't sucker punch. Don't hit each other with sticks, bats, pillows, the cats, rocks, books, kitchen implements, toy swords/light sabers/guns. No snapping wet towels at one another. No hair pulling. No pinching, rug burns, noogies, wet willies, purple nurples or wedgies. No threatening one another with knives, scissors, screwdrivers, pins, pens, razor blades or paper cuts and lemon juice. No bloodletting of any sort.

Hopefully that covers the summer, cross fingers. There are other design options if it doesn't...or I could just have a cubic ton of horse apples delivered and let them have at it.

It'll be good for their immune systems if it comes to that.

Uncomplicated Life II

2013-06-04T17:00:00.000-06:00

Since the weather has warmed up my husband and I have taken off to the miles of open desert just west of our front door to hike. Winter was so damned cold and it seems like our souls need to soak in the sun.

Many people think that my part of the world is bland. Nothing to do. Soulless, if you will. I can't agree. I love the desert.

There is plenty of sage and scrub, but not so many cactus plants about. When we passed this cactus rose in bloom, with more buds ready, we had to take a photo.

Just wanted to share.

The Agony of Degrease

2013-06-03T20:13:00.001-06:00

We don't often watch sports in my house, so I'm no expert, but doesn't it seem that sports reporters perform the exact same interview no matter which athlete they're interviewing?

All the same questions have the same answers too. The only difference is how far out of the locker room the athlete is. I prefer the interviews where the athlete is breathless and sweaty with exertion, or nausea, or defeat.

As a woman who has long mastered the sport of housewifery, I long for the chance to be interviewed just like Kobe Bryant or Tim Tebow. Someday someone with a microphone will pull me wet out of my shower, a sponge in one hand and a can of cleanser in the other, and ask me about my performance.

My answers will be deep and moving.

Q: What do you think are the chances you'll put the hurt on that grout today?

A: Well, that grout is tough, real tough, but I know I've got the skills and the desire to win against it. All it takes is hunkering down and getting the job done.

Q: Why do you think you missed that spot on the mirror?

A: I guess I just wasn't feeling it. You'd wipe and when you've got one streak down, another one appears. I've been fighting hard and I guess, sniff, today wasn't my best day. But, ya know, the lord is with me and I'll come back from it.

Q: Do you think you're ready to get up in the attic and clean it out for your yard sale?

A: I've been training for that attic for a long time, putting boxes up there, taking them down, putting them up. The real training is up here though, in my brain. You gotta visualize it. Visualize getting the boxes down, setting up your tables, pitching the sale, getting the payoff. I'm pumped! Woo!

Q: What made the difference today in getting that toilet bowl so sparkling?

A: Yeah, you gotta get away from your bad habits. Try something new. You gotta want it more. I had a coupon for that new fume free cleaner with bleach.

Q: You're hosting the big yearly dinner party. How do you prepare?

A: It pays to have a strategy. Finger foods, main course, drinks. Get all the work done before they get there. Don't let them see you sweat. Take it in stride and have fun.

Q: How are you going to get your housework done when you've been sidelined with an illness this season?

A: Just gotta rest and heal up. Then we'll get back to it. Takes work and patience. Spit.

Q: How do you handle the kids?

A: Move fast. Plenty of interceptions and good blocking.

No more Baby Ruths

2013-05-29T21:10:00.001-06:00

The end of the school year is fast approaching my family and this year, unlike many other years, I'm actually ready for it.

In the past, my joy at being able to stay up all night and attempt to sleep in every morning was overshadowed by children who also eventually woke up. Children who were constantly hungry, bored, gassy, dirty, hyper, and hypnotized by the pied piper effect of the ice cream truck. By August, the facial tics I'd developed in mid-June had grown into people commenting on how much I resembled that wretched actress from Throw Momma from the Train.

If I had bothered in years previous to buy a summer pass to our local community swimming pool, this woman's head would have been coming out of the locker room on my painfully white body in a bright turquoise halter top one piece. Savor that thought for a moment. MILF-y, ain't it?

This summer...well this summer my children are older...one's not even home anymore...and I bought myself an Olympic style racing suit that I can actually swim in.

This suit does not give me a wedgie, nor do I have to suffer any razor burn. Housewife win! Still a MILF fail but housewife win!

The relaxation I will enjoy for the next three months is going to be filled with answers to my children's needs. Hungry? Make yourself a bowl of cereal. Gassy? Go outside and quit drinking so much juice. Dirty? You know where the shower is, use it every single day and then clean it or clean it and then use it, your choice. Hyper? Again, go outside and quit drinking so much juice. Ice cream truck? I have chores, many chores, in which you, yes you, can earn yourselves compensation to spend at mobile food vendors!

...and no one in my house wants to watch the visual vomit of Nick Jr. anymore, thank God and all the angels.

Then there is the matter of the summer family vacation. We haven't decided where to go or what to do yet, but it doesn't matter because my children are old enough to not need diapers or a handy supply of wet naps. We might get a little real vomit on a road trip but it won't be because of a rear facing carseat.

So, summer is welcome. Bring the heat and the 50 spf sunscreen. I'm going to do my thing and remember to buy family swimming pass.

Because this summer I do not have to leave the lap pool to take a little boy into the female dressing room to take a mid swim poop.

Woohoo!

Uncomplicated Life I

2013-05-28T21:19:00.002-06:00

My Navy Manchild sent me magic beans for Mother's Day.

They grew into this plant.

Just wanted to share it.

Lolly actually does get her adverbs here.

2013-05-22T20:02:00.002-06:00

This is actually a post.

In case you were actually questioning it.

Actually, what I'm writing about is the word "actually" and how we actually overuse it.

Though, I don't typically overuse it. I try to use it appropriately. Everyone else actually uses the word "actually" way too much.

And it's actually driving me bonkers.

Overusing "actually" is quickly becoming tops on my list of grammatical pet peeves. It's not yet overtaken the loose/lose confusion that people can't seem to relieve themselves of, but it's actually fast on it's heels. I think using hashtags in a non-Twitter format is also grammatically atrocious and quickly becoming a scourge in our written communications.

Let's explore the definition of actually, shall we?

ac·tu·al·ly

adv.

1. In fact; in reality: That tree is actually a fir, not a pine.

2. Used to express wonder, surprise, or incredulity: I actually won the lottery!

When used properly, "actually" is actually an adequate descriptive! When used improperly, the overemphasis actually makes your speech underwhelming.

Take, for example, the cooking segment I watch on a daily news program. The chef was preparing a chicken salad sandwich with tomatoes on artisan bread. It looked tasty and I might have copied the recipe, except when he cut it on the diagonal and presented it to the camera, he said, "This will actually make an excellent dinner!"

"Will it?" I asked him, annoyed, through the screen, "Will it really?"

The TV chef left me with two ways to think of his sandwich. That it really is chicken salad and that it actually would be something a person could eat, or, that he's surprised that he could actually prepare a meal at all. Either way, at least it wasn't egg salad, because while it's delicious, it stinks up your fridge if you have any leftover.

What I'm getting at here is that we all should try to say exactly what we actually mean and filling up our speech with hyperbole is a bad habit.

So stop it, ya looser.

Live long and prosper, prosper hardcore.

2013-05-20T18:26:00.003-06:00

I'm going to go see Star Trek.

This will be awesome.

I will wear this shirt. That is, if I can find it in my pile of clean laundry which I neglected to fold today.

I will not tweet during the movie. I do not use my Twitter account but that is not the point. Everyone but me has seen this movie already and there is no need to Tweet about any of it. I might brag on Facebook and the only reason people might care is that they didn't know my little town had a movie theater.

Wil Wheaton is sexy. I wonder if he got a little voice cameo like he did in the last one.

He did too! Google it! That part in the middle where you were just a little aroused and it wasn't Uhura in her underwear, or Kirk blinking those eyes at you, so you didn't exactly know what caused the warm feeling in your bits, that was his cameo.

Spock is also sexy. Leonard Nimoy, Zachary Quinto, doesn't matter. A bowl cut with tapered sideburns and all that split finger action is hot.

Captain Picard is sexy.

Odo, he's sexy, and adaptable.

Chakotay is sexy.

I didn't watch that Star Trek: Enterprise but I'm sure that Scott Bakula is sexy.

Pretty much all I think about when I watch Star Trek.

You can call me Sylvia Browne because all my predictions about today came true.

2013-05-16T20:15:00.000-06:00

God bless elementary school teachers because the dear lord knows that I could never ever be one. A school bus full of second graders for a day long field trip is more than I can handle for long.

I had four boys under my charge. That's a lot of bathroom breaks. A whole lot. Pee everywhere. How do the Duggars manage this with everyone needing to pee all the time? Ma Duggar must have it down to an assembly line. I can't imagine how a children's bathroom assembly line might function. I suppose that if I could, entering the teaching profession probably would have made more sense to me.

Instead I steered away from teaching, had boy children five years apart and stopped at three of them. This made bathroom stops manageable and the size of their bladders proportional. Today's barrage of second grade bladders was terrifying and intimidating.

There were also many fart jokes. To eight year old boys there is nothing funnier than a well cut fart.

The kid I sat next to on the bus kept farting on the way there which he handily blamed on me. This same kid blamed a random odor on me on the way home too.

On the way there at least he was quiet about the blame. Just between us. A shared joke in our new friendship.

On the way back he just stood up and shouted, "Mrs. Evans farted!" Then he asked if he could finish my tube of Pringles. I told him no and gave him a banana instead.

Anyhow, I brought back a nice fossil rock for my garden. Finished off my can of Pringles too.

Big Yellow Bus

2013-05-15T21:02:00.000-06:00

I volunteered to help chaperon my son's 2nd grade field trip tomorrow.

I've volunteered for elementary field trips before. I'm no stranger to a school bus. The fourth seat back on the driver's side is the seat with the heater under it. Figured that one out in my own second grade year. Bus rides are nicer when you haven't wet your pants and you aren't sitting in the freezing front seat if you did.

Speaking of pee, I held my bladder for a hundred miles on one field trip. There was no place to stop and go between here and there. There wasn't even a tree. Luckily it was warm and I didn't wet my pants, but I was sweating yeller by the time we pulled into a truck stop. Three days later, UTI. I always tell you when I pee in a cup. I'm consistent like that.

Anyhow, tomorrow we get on a bus and two hours later we'll get a pit stop (unless I've already peed in the emergency bucket I'm taking) and then we'll go find fossils.

Fossils! That might be worth a bus full of eight year old children! Children who will whine and wipe their boogers on everything and suck back energy drinks and laugh at their own farts and hurl in the bus aisle because they've been told they can bring their cell phones to play games on and they are bound to become motion sick.

My son doesn't have a phone and he's not touching mine. If he hurls, he hurls honestly.

Fossils though. I like fossils. I like digging for rocks. Fossils is worth sucking up a bus trip.

After the fossils a trip to the local park, the one with a giant swirly slide that isn't at all slippery because people, who I assume are teenagers, use it for a urinal. None of them kids is going down the slide if I can at all help it because I'd like to not hold my breath on the bus ride home.

If my parental participation must have a theme, urine is a good of one as any.

Some gay will get some rights, or something like that.

2013-05-13T18:41:00.000-06:00

Because I'm a blogger and not a reporter, I don't have to maintain the same level of public trust as the real press and therefore I can pass along this completely false story because it confirms my biases:

Michele Bachmann Threatens to Leave Minnesota Over Marriage Equality

Considering that Minnesota is likely going to be the 12th state in the union to legalize gay marriage, Michele Bachmann not feeling very positive about the whole thing is a given. Whether or not she'll leave the state is debatable. After all, wouldn't the new law finally make her marriage legal?

Just in case she does decide to relocate, I'm in the mood to extend a welcome to her. Michele, come on over to Nevada! We're allowed to drink foot long margaritas right on our public streets, and we have a brothel or two, but we still don't have the morally corrupt institution of gay marriage.

You and resident crazy pants Sharron Angle would get along famously, I'm sure. Share makeup tips and whatnot.

However, if you do show up here, I recommend you stay clear of Nevada state senator Kelvin Atkinson:

Hey Kelvin? If Michelle moves into the silver state, please don't move to Minnesota, okay? I invited Michelle to our state in general. YOU are invited to my house for pancakes anytime.

If my thumb is green, what does that make my middle finger?

2013-05-08T20:10:00.002-06:00

That Kmart commercial about shipping my pants was the deciding factor in shopping last weekend. Since I was in the big city I could shop at any bargain store and Kmart won out with witty advertising. That and it was located next to where we decided to have lunch.

Didn't buy or ship pants at Kmart though. I bought flats of petunias and some tomato plants. Today I pranced about my yard with dreams of greenery, a hoe, and an un-kinked garden hose.

Pruning my rose bushes resulted in a huge blister on my middle finger.

Tomorrow I'm going to finish pruning my other two huge rose bushes down using my oscillating power tool. Maybe this time I won't catch any part of my body on a thorn, like my earlobe, which has stopped bleeding. Any way I manage to trim my bushes, there will be grunting.

How I'm going to prune my rose bushes doesn't really concern me though. The obsessive thought running through my head right now, right as I'm typing, is whether or not I should pop my blister.

Popping stuff...it's so so so satisfying, isn't it?

But, if I pop the blister, my finger will probably be sore.

The blister on my finger feels pillowy, like bubble wrap. I keep rubbing it against my thumb.

The blister on my finger feels weird, bumpy and alien and it's fun to pop bubble wrap.

Should I pop it?

Shouldn't I?

Gah!

SHIP!

He Stomped Upon the Terra

2013-05-06T20:48:00.003-06:00

This weekend was a sad one. We drove into our hometown to attend the funeral of a man that served as mentor, friend and father to my husband. His death was unexpected. It was the kind of parting that left you wishing that you'd had just one more conversation and one more hug.

When my husband and I were dating, he took me to meet this man. This was the test. This man's perception of me mattered more than anyone else's and he wouldn't hesitate to tell you what he thought. The girl Justin dated before me didn't pass this test. She was pulled aside and told, "I've checked up on you and I know exactly who you are. If you hurt Justin in any way you will be sorry."

My husband ended up breaking it off with her. I was never pulled aside. Instead, when we were expecting our first child, this man used to reach out and scratch my itchy pregnant belly just to see me twitch my leg in ecstasy like a dog. Then he grinned because he knew that even his scratching my belly was a lesson that he was teaching his bonus son. He taught Justin many lessons in the more than thirty years they knew one another.

This man, as wise as he was, was also a sin eater. I think his capacity to take on and absolve others of their sins is what ultimately took him.

If you've never heard the term, a sin eater is a person who takes into themselves the sins of another so that a person can go into the next life free of the weights they carried in this life.

This man was always taking in people like lost puppies and doing what he could to hold them, help them, comfort them and then, when it was necessary, telling them to cut the shit. He had good friends in the highest of places and better friends in the low, and it mattered very little to him why you'd found yourself in either walk of life. He was always happy to see you and to be your friend.

But, as it is with sin eaters, eventually the sins become heavy and destructive. People begin to treat you as if you are unclean and it's also the way you treat yourself. Friends from high places and low places drop away. People watch and gossip from afar, speculating, and taking delight in your fall. They forget all the good you'd brought to the world and poison what's left, all the while trying to find someone else, a replacement, to comfort them by eating their sins. Someone whose glass house hasn't shattered.

My husband's friend, mentor, father...he grew tired, the people who loved him tried to eat his sins, and now I pray to God that he rests well.

My husband is a better man because of you.

Please, touch my snake, touch it...

2013-05-01T20:39:00.002-06:00

I hadn't been married very long when I declared to my husband that I liked tools and that I liked fixing things.

This pleased my husband. He does not like tools. He does not like fixing things. His handyman talents are limited to singing, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the mornin'!" and even then, his voice could use fixing up with duct tape.

Since the early days of my marriage, I have fixed many things about the house and collected many tools that make loud noises. I've tiled my floors. I've replaced faucets and lighting fixtures. I've designed and built furniture, planter boxes, and my backyard gate. I've removed objects from our toilets, our garbage disposal and our dryer vent. I've sanded, painted and sealed. I've stared down clueless hardware store employees when I remind them that I'm the one that asked the question so would you please direct your answer to me instead of my husband?

Every time I've performed a handyman task, I've felt accomplished and sort of burly. My husband compliments my skills and tells me how very sexy I am wearing my protective goggles. Then we share a touchy feely type moment, sometimes even before I wash the grease from my hands.

Today though, there was no touchy feely. There was only washing and nausea and regret. Today's project left me with the more than distinct impression that I should have never taken over all the fix-it jobs around here.

See, if Cousin It and Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo got together and had a baby, today I found it abandoned in the trap of my slow draining master bathroom sink. Congratulations! It's a slimy hair wad the size of a soda can!

But then, there was, the, smell.

I've attempted to tastefully describe this odor several times. I even laid down for an hour to rest my head between attempts, and there is no way to describe how overcoming the smell was except to say that I was absolutely not sticking my head in the same bucket I'd drained Baby Hairball into in case my gagging got serious.

I have never touched anything so disgusting in all my life and I've changed babies diapers after they've eaten Froot Loops and caught their puke in my hands.

It was as I was disposing of the clog in the outside trash can that I wondered what the hell I was thinking, so young and so newlywedded, for volunteering as Mrs. Handyman? Sure, it's awful fun to go around grunting with your oscillating tool but if that means I always get the clogged sinks and backed up toilets, I really should demand that my husband do more than hold my level and drool when I put my screwdrivers in the back pockets of my jeans.

There was that one time that my garbage disposal suddenly backed up and sprayed sink vomit on nearly every surface of my kitchen, including the ceiling, and Justin helped me clean that up and then he used his muscles to plunge the hell out of it so I wouldn't have to get under that sink....

Oooh, I think I got my touchy feely back.

What do you think of my new cullottes?

2013-04-29T19:28:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

I really really want to post photo examples.

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

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

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

A Family Antispasmodic

2013-04-25T20:38:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...and then Zzzzzzzzz....

or...

....Blurrrggghhhhhh.

Check with my Facebook page tomorrow to see how it went.

Seriously, I want a Muffin Monster Grinder. That guy in the red shirt in the video, his thighs ain't bad.

Pizza scratch and sniff stickers.

We need to rethink our strategy of antibiotic use.

2013-04-22T21:21:00.002-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't touch that!

Portholed

2013-04-18T20:25:00.002-06:00

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

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

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

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

Shine a light upon your filth...

2013-04-16T20:32:00.002-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They aren't worth the stamp.

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

Oasis in the Dessert

2013-04-12T20:35:00.000-06:00

It's spring!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring!

HolymotherofGooooowwwww!

2013-04-09T20:49:00.001-06:00

I've entered into another adventure in hair removal.

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

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

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

Instead I bought an epilator.

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

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

On my legs. MY LEGS. Geez.

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

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

Well, here goes.

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

...and then it felt awesome.

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

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

Next I'm doing my belly button!

Shuddup.

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

2013-04-04T21:20:00.000-06:00

It sure is nice to be home.

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

Before:

and after:

That's fifteen more pounds of muscle baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My son, my grown man, my sailor.

2013-03-29T19:43:00.000-06:00

This morning I was privileged to attend my son's Pass in Review. I'm happy to share these photos with you all...

Special flags and performing division.

My son's division, Div 133. I've placed a star on my son's shoulder.

Awards ceremony, Pass in Review.

My airman recruit manchild!

Me and my son.