The Absent Minded Housewife

Lazy Vacation post #1

2008-07-24T09:00:00.000-06:00

Repost from January 8, 2007, "I am that I am".

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF BATHROOM USE AS IT PERTAINS TO THE BOY CHILDREN LIVING IN MY HOME.

1. Thou shalt not pee anywhere but in the toilet bowl.

2. Thou shalt not clean up dribbled pee with the clean towels or the bathroom rugs.

3. Thou shalt not wad up toilet paper, wet it and then throw it upon the bathroom ceiling.

4. Thou shalt not forget to spray air freshener when thou has caused a foul odor.

5. Thou shalt not forget to thoroughly wipe thou's posterior, therefore staving off undesireable brown streaks in thy underwear.

6. Thou shalt not take excessively long showers when hot water is required by other members of the family.

7. Thou shalt not blow snot rockets in the sink and bathtub and not clean it up.

8. Thou shalt not forget to flush, especially after thy huge dump.

9. Thou shalt not touch every fixture in the bathroom with thy muddy hands in search of the bathroom sink.

10. Thou shalt not mistake spray bathroom cleaners, or spray personal hygiene products, for water pistols and stage a duel.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Watch the bouncing ball...

2008-07-23T10:24:00.002-06:00

Hi.

I have to do laundry.

Before I involve myself in starch and stains, I must announce the winnah of the Gert story!

After much consultation with a cup of coffee and my three year old, I've decided the prize must go to Debra from Debrapants. Here is her story:

Gertie grew up in a small Georgia town, falling in love with her gym teacher and getting knocked up by him. She wanted to keep the baby, but he talked her into giving it up. She never recovered emotionally from that grevious loss and decided when under the influence that she would give "it" up- and often. She became a Madame for an overpriced brothel in the middle of Kansas where her highest paying customer is a man with 6 teeth named Timmy and her best money-maker is, believe it or not, a red-headed, 3-balled talent named Kenny. I cannot confirm nor deny that it is the same Kenny in your other photo, but Gertie might be able to if you catch her on one of her good days after bribing her with Angel Food Cake topped with mixed berries and a can of Natty Ice.

I scored entries on a variety of factors. Extra points were given for referring back to Kenny. Kenny is just that awesome.

For Deb's efforts I've promised a fabulous prize, which is neither a paperweight or a Wii. If Debra would be so kind as to use the nifty little contact link in the left sidebar and provide me with a mailing address, which I will not share with anyone, even under torture, I will be sending her a pair of....

Boobs. The bouncy kind. As seen in my embarrassing YouTube above.

Don't worry Deb, they will be new and still sealed in their original packaging. I wouldn't feign to send you a pair that had already been sitting on my chest. You might not consider preworn boobs much of a prize...or would you? That's got to be against some kind of health codes or postal regulations.

Sexy.

Honorable mention goes to Practically Joe from Practically Wisdom for supplying a Kenny story. Kenny, again, is just that awesome.

***

Again, my husband and I are shoving the hoard into our fabulous minivan and taking a jaunt away from home. We are obliged every once in a while to prove to our extended families that we are not dead. Unlike our last trip into Happy Valley, in which I posted interviews with my mom and my dad, we are not taking a computer with us. Camping is on the itinerary. There will be no emailing whilst sitting on a campground pit toilet.

Just so things around here won't be sparse, I will be reposting a few of my past entries that I think are notable...or at least sorta well written. Until I get back next week I'll thank you now for placating me when it concerns my literary genius.

Now...onto the laundry. No one placates me when it comes to my laundry.

I gots my rocks off

2008-07-21T00:41:00.003-06:00

Yes, I'm back. I've been back since Friday evening, but you know, we didn't want to violate the no posts on the weekend rule, now did we? Weekends are for communicating with intermittent grunts instead of full sentences. Constructing a compound sentence on a weekend causes indigestion, constipation and gas.

To refresh your memories, as well as my own sunbaked brain, my husband and I shoved our hoard into our fabulous minivan and drove 600 miles to Virgin Valley, NV. We thought it would be fun to sit on a large mound of white dirt and rake through it's contents to find shiny things.

...and it was fun. A bug has bitten me. I need to buy overalls.

We found several small opals that aren't worth a whole lot except that they are neat to look at. I found the best rock of the day, an almost fully opalized bit of twig. I like to think that some mammoth ate my twig and pooped it out shortly after breakfast the next day. It's shiny, but you can't see it's fire in the photos very well.

Other highlights of the trip include:

- Blackening the soles of our feet on the carpet of our motel room in Winnemucca. Motel looked nice on the outside. Filthy on the inside.

- Eating Basque food at $25 dollars a plate, again in Winnemucca. I had an inch and a half thick slab of bleeding ribeye steak, bisque soup, salad, paella, garlic potatoes and beans. Money wasn't the only price we paid for that meal.

- Petting at least a dozen large dogs belonging to bar regulars next to our motel room at Denio Junction. What do you do in Denio? Drink outside of the bar, smoke outside of the bar, bullshit with your unleashed dogs outside of the bar. Then, if you are an opal mine shareholder, you lay down the stickiest layer of alcohol fueled bullshit on naive tourists...outside of the bar.

- Order milkshakes inside of that same bar because the sign outside of the bar implied we were bad parents if we did not order any milkshakes. Turns out they were out of ice cream.

- Giggling over a conversation that mine shareholders were having, not at the bar but actually at the mine, on why it's a bad idea to lick rocks. I know getting a rock wet gives you a better idea of what the rock is but it never occured to me to lick rocks for identification. I'm not a horse, I don't need minerals that badly, much less lead and arsenic poisoning. I'm a rockhounding noob and I knew that.

- Oohing and ahhing over the wild burros all over Virgin Valley. Groaning and grunting when those wild burros brayed all night long at our campground near the mine. What a bunch of noisy asses.

- Peeing in a porta potty provided by the mine. I should have just walked down the road a bit and squatted there. Porta potty...out in the middle of nowhere...sitting there day after day in Nevada heat? Yeah, that's ambience baby.

- Slipping into a naturally warm and kinda green swimming hole at our campground after a day in the sun. When you wiggled your toes in the ooze at the bottom all the bubbles came rushing up, tickling your bits. Or the little fishies were tickling my bits. It was refreshing. The keepers of the campground built a nice shower facility using that same warm green water. God will remember that act of kindness in their afterlives.

- Not shredding your tires over all the obsidian laying everywhere. The signs that told you to stay on the dirt roads were all posted after we passed the one business in a thirty mile radius of the mines, Earl's Tire Repair.

So...there you have it. Shiny rocks. Family vacation accomplished. Sunburn avoided.

Happy to be back.

Leaving Sodom and Gomorrah

2008-07-14T10:17:00.000-06:00

I hope you readers and other hangers on like blue. I needed a change. I've only changed my pants with this blue. Eventually I plan on changing my entire outfit. Maybe I'll wear something daring enough to be dry clean only instead of the usual, "I'm preparing for my kids to throw food and mud on me" templates.

Or maybe not. I'm still potty training.

***

Tomorrow Justin and I pack up the hoard and drive to a more in the middle of nowhere place than we already live for some sort of vacation.

We are going to dig in the dirt. Woohoo! Why go to Disneyland when there are thousands of acres of dirt just waiting to be dug into? They don't let you dig in the dirt at Disneyland. They don't even let you splash water on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. We want to cover ourselves in twelve layers of dust. We want to breathe it and eat it and spread it all over our tent. We want to be the dust. BE THE DUST!

We're going rockhounding and opal mining. Manicures be damned. Mouse ears be damned.

We'll be home in a few days. Gert winnah announced then.

Don't shirk the Gert

2008-07-11T10:51:00.002-06:00

One last chance to get in your Gertie story.

For only the price of a cup of coffee a day, (Not Starbucks coffee, but lava hot, extra burnt, vending machine coffee.) Gertie can enjoy a fascinating life history. Please. Help. It's so little to give and such a big reward...

Hey you lurkers, I'm lookin' at YOU.

I have a prize for the winnah!

It's not a Wii though. It's not even useful. It's a major award? Muahahaha!

Cindy Lauper can kiss my bum.

2008-07-10T09:39:00.004-06:00

There are certain things around Casa Absentminded which fulfill the family status quo. For instance, dirty boy's underwear left on the bathroom floor...or constant noise from Nick Jr...or the smell of feet. These thing are comforting.

Yesterday I became uncomfortable. The status quo was interrupted.

What I'm used to is being the sole source of estrogen in my home. There is my husband and his powerful brand of hairy adult male testosterone. There is my fourteen year old son and his raging pubescent testosterone. There is my nine year old son and his bugs and lizards testosterone. There is my three year old son and his giggle over fart noises testosterone. Then me...all things female in this house even though I dig the lizards and laugh at farts myself. Estro-queen.

Yesterday afternoon my pubescent child, this teen-aged boy of mine, brought a teen-aged GIRL into my home and proceeded to allow her to play Playstation. In my home. Playstation.

The moment she took her first estrogen loaded exhale I had an instinct to guard my sewing machines and my crock pot all while baring my teeth. Me...alpha female...grunt.

Hormones are funny.

Funny for my kid too. He didn't understand why I requested his door be open while they were in his room. It wasn't just for his protection but for hers as well. She may not be used to the smell of boys and feet. She didn't need a barrage of fourteen year old testosterone flooding her nostrils. I didn't want her to touch my stuff and I didn't want her to go all swoony either.

My first experiences being with a boy, in a go over to a boy's house on my own sort of sense, happened when I was 14. He lived up the street. I used to ride my ten speed to his house and then he'd offer to ride tandem with me to the gas station to play Super Mario Brothers and eat frozen yogurt. He'd pump the pedals the whole way and I'd hold onto his waist. It was sweet.

One bright day, as we were sitting on his front lawn, I told him about my mild scoliosis and the S curve in my spine. I wasn't curved enough to warrant a brace but I had been exercising and swimming to correct the curve for a year. He asked to see my curve, and since my blouse buttoned down the back I figured there was no harm. He unbuttoned and ran his fingers down my bare back while I held my shirt to my chest, tracing my curve, then he buttoned me back up. That too was sweet.

Had my mom and dad known that I'd undressed even that much for a boy I would have been stomped down into an unrecognizable goo. There really was no harm in it at the time. Turns out he didn't really like girls that much anyway.

I am both enchanted and utterly terrified about my son and this GIRL in my house, this toxic testosterone and estrogen mixing business. I'm fairly certain my kid likes girls. Danger danger Will Robinson.

It wasn't long when the mother of this GIRL came to my door and got her kid. To ease any fears this other mother might have had I called out a loud farewell when this GIRL bolted out my door. I said "goodbye" but what I meant was, "Your kid was not alone with my kid at any time while they were in my home, hallelujah."

GIRL gone. Status quo leveling off. Sewing machine pristine.

Smell of socks? Still lingering.

Coffee Talk

2008-07-09T11:01:00.002-06:00

So...the coffee's a'brewin' and I'm thinking about orgasms.

Not that one has to do with the other. I mean you probably could have an orgasm caused by coffee, but on the whole coffee and orgasms aren't related entities. I'm just brewing a nice pot of coffee and my mind got to wandering.

Anyway. Orgasms. Those are fun.

They also have their time and their place. A friend of my husband, who works in the mental health field, tells story about a medication which, in a very small percentage of it's users, comes with the side effect of having an orgasm when you sneeze. I don't know if the story is valid, but imagine the places and people you'd have to avoid so you wouldn't have an orgasm in public. You'd have to bring extra changes of clothes with you everywhere!

On the whole I prefer my orgasms to happen in private, on my terms, without a bunch of people watching. I'm sorta shy that way.

However, I do think the occasional surprise orgasm in public would add to the greater good.

I think the state of the union would be far better had somebody had an orgasm in the presence of Dubya. I think it's been a very long time for Georgie.

Having a surprise orgasm would be a good way to get out of speeding and parking tickets. Not that I ever speed or park illegally. I drive like my Grandma...and she's dead. Dead grandmas is another entity we shouldn't relate to orgasms. Yar.

Having one while in the audience for an Oprah taping seems to be par for the course. Everyone loves Oprah. The bantering that goes on between the estro-tards on The View might be improved if there were a couple orgasms. Think about that Barb.

Have one at Walmart, though no one would notice. Therefore, have multiples.

Don't forget the DMV. Anything to liven up those long winding lines is acceptable. Then, when you take your license photo, you'll look like you've been up to something.

Anywhere there is a security camera. Like at the ATM. It will become a YouTube viral video and you will make money. Maybe not Pam Anderson / Tommy Lee money, but a couple of shiny nickels.

On that note, I make very good coffee.

But, I'm kinda sad that I don't have to visit the DMV until November.

The gift of the scraggy

2008-07-07T09:34:00.002-06:00

Yesterday my husband told me he had a present for me.

This man I married...he gives me little gifts often. Usually movies, or baked goods, or cans of iced tea, or hairs on the soap. It's completely sweet especially since I gave birth to his babies after hour upon hour of painful labor, which rendered my bottom half into a floppy deflated balloon, and he sorta owes me...right? Each gift is tallied and then I show my appreciation.

(No, he doesn't owe me. I'm kidding. I'm not going to fault him for not being talented enough to use a uterus.)

Anyway, when my husband told me he had a present for me, I expected some chocolate. I've run out of the lovely Russell Stover triple chocolate mousse wafers he gave me on another occasion.

I did not expect him to hold me hold me down, lift up my shirt, and rub his summer beard all over my balloonish tummy.

(I heard that dejected sigh. Here you thought it was getting good with all the shirt lifting. Well neener neener, you ain't getting free thrills here...buncha perverts.)

He called this, "the gift of beard".

The gift of beard tickles, unlike the "gift of chocolate."

Justin almost got "the gift of wetting my pants" in return. The gift of wet pants isn't as nice as "the gift of hairy soap".

Still, I can appreciate the gift of beard. (I'm not talented enough to grow one as Grizzly Adams as his is.) No one has to get you a present, ya know?

Did you hear me Justin. I'm out of Russell Stover. OUT!

***

Get in your Gertie story. I got a prize for the winnah! It's not a paperweight and it's not "the gift of hairy soap".

Amber waves of grain.

2008-07-04T09:30:00.004-06:00

On this Fourth of July holiday, in our times of four dollar a gallon gasoline and billion dollar a day warfare, I'd like to focus on those parts of American life that are truly and uniquely U.S.A...A.O.K! Why is America so great.

I can begin with the usual inclusions. Apple pie. Baseball. Hot dogs. Frivolous lawsuits. Nascar. Paul Bunyon. Britney Spears and As Sold on TV.

In particular, I'd like to bring attention to something so home of the brave, land of the free, that I believe it encompasses everything it is to live in our great country. What I'm talking about bubbled forth from the great melting pot to be utilized across all races, creeds, religious affiliations, sexual orientations and political sentiments.

The mullet.

Yes...the mullet. God Bless America. God Bless the mullet.

As I've admitted to before, I once sported a mullet. It occurs to me only today that I was doing my part in weaving the American fabric. It was an outward display of my patriotism.

As we Americans engage in our democratic duty in our upcoming presidential election, there has been some talk about which candidate is more patriotic. Who is more American and willing engage in a PDA to show it? I'm not going to speculate about that too much except to say that so far, none of our presidents have worn a mullet. Some have worn wigs. Some have had perfect swirling and hairsprayed coifs. None have draped the ape.

Because I have the right, nay the obligation, of free speech, I present here some examples of presidential mullets.

Andrew Jackson.

Theodore Roosevelt.

Herbert Hoover.

Gerald Ford.

That warm feeling in your chest? That's pride.

Now then, we must consider our presidential candidates and their degree of mulletability. In alphabetical order:

John McCain.

Barack Obama.

I dunno about you, but I know where my vote is going!

To those to whom it applies...have a happy 4th...feel free to light an extra illegal firecracker for me.

To those for whom it does not apply...stop laughing at my Photoshop skillz...Have another'n.

Burlesque Baby

2008-07-02T00:41:00.007-06:00

Do we all remember Kenny?

No, I guess we don't. To remind you, this is Kenny.

I found these school photos in a second hand sewing book which I bought for 75 cents. Someone's Grandma used them as a bookmark. The photos are unmarked, which is a shame, so I've named this scary ginger child Kenny. Much speculation ensued as to what happened to Kenny. I'm still leaning toward drag queen.

This isn't the only anonymous and somewhat scary photo I own. The next photo I'm giving you to speculate on is part of my collection of glass paperweights. I'm picky about my paperweights. Most you see in stores are huge, tacky and 75% off. People use them to weigh down the roofs of trailer homes. I like mine small, blobby in shape, and without little glass fishies floating in the middle.

Placate me and look at my favorite paperweights. Look at them dammit.

I know you scrolled through that. That's ok I guess. I won't make you be enthused. The pear is somewhat valuable...anyway...we'll get to the paperweight in question.

Like Kenny, this photo is unmarked. I've named our black and white beauty "Gertrude". Or Gertie. Have a better look.

After inspecting Gert closely for a good thirty seconds, I don't believe I can date the photo. I can assume two things about Gert though. She's a little old lady...or she's dead. Either way, someone died for sure and I got another paperweight at an antique shop estate sale. Woot!

Gert, ahhh Gert. Did you become a chaw spewing lumberjack like you've always dreamed? Did you invest in Aquanet and retire a millionaire in 1985? Was Jonestown all you hoped it would be? How many cats, Gert, how many?

Gimme your Gert stories. I've got a prize for the winnah....

(No, it's not a paperweight.)

We all live in a yeller submarine.

2008-07-01T13:03:00.002-06:00

I'm watching TV. Or rather, Justin is watching TV, desperately clutching the remote, while I catch bits and pieces of programming.

He just whizzed past the Home Shopping Network which was featuring a "purse party" this afternoon.

(Fine...Justin stopped there at my request.)

Needless to say, the purse party was not as perverted as I imagined it would be. There we're no noise makers or male strippers. I was disappointed.

Before Justin clicked off to programming just as useless, I caught a look at one of the monstrosities they invited to the purse party.

My god, I need one of those!

(And it'll be the lightest purse I own because this example of abject beauty costs 375 bucks.)

Justin says it looks like a queer alligator. The description says it's popcorn effect lambskin. So, it's a lamb drag queening as an alligator. Fabulous.

This sure beats my 5 dollar deeply discounted Kmart purse all to hell. I only own one purse. It's black with brown accents, so that goes with all my outfits right? Especially when my outfits consist of jeans and whatever blouse is clean and mostly wrinkle free. Does popcorn effect leather go with wrinkle free? I dunno.

The only downside to this purse is that there are no outside pockets. I like to have a place to keep my chapstick handy. I don't like to riffle through the contents of my purse when I'm having a chapped lips emergency. Chapstick always sinks to the bottom with the lost pennies and the restaurant wrapped toothpicks. It's sordid.

But then, if I'm paying 375 bucks for a purse, it had damned well come with a case of chapstick. I don't like feeling suckered you know.

Fire fire heh fire heh heh fire fire fire

2008-06-30T10:59:00.002-06:00

Do not be surprised if in the next week my husband sadly announces in my blog that I have met my demise by way of spontaneous human combustion.

I have suffered horrendous heartburn for the past week. My whole esophagus feels like I've chugged lava. It's painful and nauseating.

When I went to the doc to have him prescribe me horse pill antibiotics for a UTI I also complained about some reflux that was bothering me. I got a nice script for Bactrim and another for Prilosec. One of those is tearing up my stomach, probably the Bactrim, which I'm done taking, thank the lord.

Didn't I say I wanted my antibiotic to make me pee blue? Well, the pee's normal...the pills have just barbecued my vitals. I'm a churning, burning, burp and fart machine. If you buy me now we'll send you, at no extra charge, a package of handy super soak chamois cloths, great for many household uses, just pay shipping and handling.

I'm drinking a lot of water. It seems to help.

So, I still pee a lot.

If you'll excuse me...ahem.

Morning Minutia...wait...afternoon minutia...IX

2008-06-26T00:43:00.000-06:00

I shouldn't keep telling myself that the reason my gallon of ant spray remains unused is because ants are my friends.

Scramble (Boggle) on Facebook...type fast, type hard, kick ass.

I am noticing just how much my bathrooms need painting. I drink that much water. I use that much TP.

Crosby, Stills and Nash concert on Saturday at 8 pm. Crosby stalking begins at 10 pm and lasts until Sunday afternoon.

Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckerandtits...and meatcake.

Gotta pee again.

Update: The bathroom needs painting and new flooring would be nice.

Recession? What recession? There is no recession anywhere I can afford to drive to.

If I told my ornery next door neighbor that I intended on exploring my destiny in becoming a chicken farmer and she could have all the fresh eggs she could eat, do you think she'd move? Neither city law or my HOA prohibit it...heh.

Gotta pee again.

Update: Paint, new flooring and a new light fixture. Something victorian looking. Maybe trim the towels and re-stain the vanity...

I asked my doctor to prescribe me a yeast infection treatment along with my horse pill antibiotics. He said, "Oh yeah, that'll probably be good." And it is good, one pill that cost me $2.31 plus tax. How clean! How oozeless!

Check out the pirate ship we got for Ryan's third birthday. None of us can keep our hands off it. It's the perfect toy.

I have good aim.

2008-06-24T11:57:00.001-06:00

I get to pee in a cup today.

I suppose I could pee in a cup everyday if I wanted to. Let me revise. Today I get to pee in a cup and have a medical professional look at my urine through a microscope to determine which antibiotic they'll prescribe to me.

I hope I get huge ass horse pills. I want the kind of antibiotic that turns my already stinky pee into a more piquant scent. It would be a total plus if I peed blue too.

Years ago I went to the local doctor for neck pain after a Buick rear-ended me coming out of the elementary school parking lot. The regular doctor had taken a vacation and I was seen by a visiting physician. I allowed this man to examine my neck and shoulders thoroughly.

You wouldn't believe what our visiting doctor suggested to relieve my neck pain...

...A pap smear.

????????

I understand that I am not a doctor. I did not go to medical school. I did not dice up cadavers or highlight medical texts with an endless supply of pink markers. I do not own scrubs with different patterns printed on them for every holiday. I went to a doctor because I was reasonably sure he was well read in all things diagnostic yet I'm still befuddled on how he come to the conclusion that whiplash and cervical cancers were related.

Shudder...creepy.

I politely declined his offer to inspect my vagina and cervix. My neck was feeling better anyway.

No...I didn't report the man in any official capacity. His offer was worded in such a way that there would have had to been at least 100 women reporting untoward offers of pap smears for there to be any action taken. I know, I know, I could have been the first of 100. I wish I remembered that doctor's name.

If I think of it, I'd be willing to share my horse pills with him, right up where the sun don't shine.

Cranberry Juice

2008-06-23T13:14:00.004-06:00

Bright and early last Thursday morning I was on a yellow schoolbus, second seat back from the driver, sitting with a little girl who was throwing me vague "you're a stranger, don't you dare offer me candy" looks.

I had meant to sit with my own son in the middle of the bus but his little friend stole my seat. This same friend also attempted to spray his entire suitcase of clothing with bugspray in my tent. We were on an overnight trip...why did he bring four shirts and two more pair of pants, all of which he wanted thoroughly coated with DEET? I made him stop after one shirt which I refused to allow him to hang in the tent to dry.

Because I was prepared to be a mindful chaperone, I did my part in making sure every one of them cute screaming buggers had gone to the restroom before we'd gotten on the bus. We weren't stopping for a potty break for two hours and no one had broken into their snacks yet to supply empty bottles. Even I went because I like to set a good example for the young folks. We all boarded the bus with empty bladders and dry armpits.

After thirty miles of the wheels on the bus going round and round in the Nevada desert, I was sweating and I had to go.

Ten more miles of bumpiness and I really had to go.

Another ten and my eyeballs were yellowing.

When we passed the road sign declaring that our potty stop was a mere 60 miles away I started to sing "99 bottles of beer" silently in my head.

I have a 33 year old, thrice pregnant, woman's bladder...alrighty folks? It has it's limitations and I discovered that a schoolbus is one of them.

I could have asked the bus driver to stop and he would have too. No one would have been upset since I had taken the prerequisite squat before we left...however...we hadn't passed a tree for sixty miles. Not a tree, not a big rock, not an abandoned house or a shed or a car or a bush or even a larger than average roadsign. There was nothing at all to crouch behind to relieve my bladder until we got to our destination. On the salt flats you can see for miles and miles and miles because they are the salt FLATS.

I debated in my mind, between bottles 84 and 46 how truely embarrassing it would be to have my son's teachers and my husband's colleagues hold a blanket up by the side of the road so I could pee behind it. Not only did I consider my embarrassment, but that of my 9 year old son's. Hey, isn't that the kid whose Mom took a piss by the bus tire? Heh, yeah, what a dork!

Had it been just me and family, I would have just pulled over and wet the sagebrush.

Debate over. I'd just have to hold it. Legs crossed, fingernails digging into my palms. 45 bottles of beer....

I have never been so glad to see the town of Ely, Nevada in my life. I was also never so glad to be sitting in the second seat behind the driver on the bus. Preparing myself as the bus parked, I steeled my will so I could stand and then walk the twenty feet to the gas station without wetting myself. There was no point in holding it in that long if I was going to fail at the last moment.

When I finally sat on that gas station toilet I felt triumphant. 16 bottes of beer.

Then I spent the next few moments convincing my bladder that it could relax. I did manage it though, through a loud sigh and bottles 15 through 6.

Now it's Monday and the field trip was a sweaty success, but between straining my bladder and the bleeding hot bus dehydration, I've developed a urinary tract infection. Either that or the bus ride has knocked yet another one of my kidney stones loose. Both are such a hoot.

TGI-Monday.

I relish using campground pit toilets.

2008-06-18T14:46:00.001-06:00

Since I've given birth to children, I've sort of obligated myself to doing certain things for them, like volunteering to chaperone school sponsored summer camping trips. Trips like these are supposed to help broaden their wee little minds as well as get them absolutely filthy. Much too early tomorrow morning, I get to climb aboard a yellow schoolbus and ride 400 miles to see a cave with one kid that is mine and 40 zillion other kids that aren't mine.

I've just returned home from a tent pitching test run. Guess who owns the biggest damned tent in the whole damned town? Yes, my readers and other hangers on, I do. We bought a tent that is bigger than my house. It has two large rooms and sleeps 40 zillion. One of those rooms is just for me and my air mattress dammit. I think I lost two kids in the other room on the test run. I figure they'll be ok. I hear their voices echoing so that means they are alive.

When I get home my parents will be here visiting for the weekend.

Tonight we celebrate my youngest son's third birthday, which is really tomorrow. He doesn't know the difference anyway. We'll throw some cake at him and a couple toys and call it good.

So, no posts until Monday. Expect that post to be a bit on the frantic side and to smell like bug spray.

New lows.

2008-06-17T13:12:00.000-06:00

I'm being offered pre-sucked on fruit snacks by my three year old. He tells me they are delicious.

The sad thing is, I didn't just take his word for it.

I'm not a Granny yet.

2008-06-16T11:09:00.003-06:00

Look at my panties.

I spent the morning googling images of panties to use today's post. That was a mistake. Did you know that there are a lot of photos of women wearing panties on the internets? Oh. You did. Of course you did. You didn't fall off the Google truck yesterday. You've been there and you've seen that and you share my indignation and disgust.

I remembered I had taken my own photo some time ago. God bless me, search over. You can only look at so many strange butts over the course of a morning.

I was thinking about my panties this weekend. I bought them at Walmart. Fruit of the Loom, size coughcoughmumblecough, bikini cut, cotton, 10 pack, reinforced crotch, white and flowers and stripes and solids in similar colors. And I was thinking...how many people roaming the planet are wearing the exact same panties as I am at any given time? (I was about to type women instead of people, but in my google search I came upon men wearing panties too. That's fine. Underpants are for everyone.)

You know, they say that if you put 23 people in a room that there is a 50/50 chance that two will share a birthday. What are the chances that two of you bought the same package of panties, not even considering that two pair out of the package were white? Fruit of the Loom has to manufacture millions of pairs of panties every year.

These people, wearing the same panties, do we think the same? I know we can't possibly all look the same (again, underpants are for everyone) but do we have some sort of hive mind going on which sort of directs our panty preferences?

Do they feel sporty when they put on the striped pair?
Do they feel adolescent and dainty when they put on the flowery pair?
Did they feel frugal about buying panties because they came in a ten pack?
Do they hate boy shorts and thongs as much as I do?
Do they look at people in public places and wonder if you're wearing the same underwear?

I wonder and that's why I'll admit that today I'm wearing the blue, pink, yellow and green vertical striped pair. They're comfortable. They don't ride up my crack too much.

Then there are the differences! Small butts and large butts and hairy butts and smelly butts. All of us wearing vertically striped Fruit of the Looms, going about our days, performing every task known to mankind. Can I claim greatness because maybe I'm wearing the same skivvies as Hillary Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, Gloria Steinem, Sandra Day O'Connor and Billy Jean King? I think I can, even if Oprah's posterior is mostly unlike mine.

At least when I watch Oprah, I don't assume that she's wearing a thong, God bless me.

I have my events catered.

2008-06-13T11:56:00.004-06:00

Ever have a compelling fantasy where you and your beloved roll around naked as jaybirds in a big vat of cool creamy macaroni salad?

Oh. I see. That's just me.

Can I borrow a Q-tip then?

Why my hand smells like a cat's bum.

2008-06-12T11:20:00.000-06:00

My dumb gay cat insists on perching himself up on my desk, where I put my mousepad, and sitting his butt on my mouse.

(Insert dumb gay cat and mouse joke here.)

(Hey now, that's lewd, perverts.)

What gets me is that this dumb gay cat...in which I feed...in which I pet...in which I allow back in the room to assert his dominance after my husband and I have enjoyed marital maintenance...looks at me like I'm violating HIS precious space when I shove him off the desk.

Dammit, he just parked himself there again, with his back all to me, twitching his tail in my direction.

I'm struggling with my personal space in general as well as at the moment. Not only in my dumb gay cat still sitting on my mouse but my three year old is sitting on my lap. He's going through that inevitable toddler nudist phase which makes this personal space thing ever the more charming. At least his tail is not twitching.

I seem to not be adjusting to having everyone here for summer vacation as well as I usually do. I wasn't looking forward to it like I have before.

I have to give up space that is usually mine. Physical space, the space of sounds, mental space, spiritual space. I'm deluged with motion around me, and questions, and constant eating and noise.

This summer around I don't want to compromise on my space. This summer around I've had violating looks for those who shove me off the desk.

Sigh...

Bleached Whale

2008-06-10T11:33:00.001-06:00

Hi, I'm Becky. I'm melanin deficient.

Or mostly I am. I have moles. I have freckles. I'm a brunette. The other ninety five percent of my outward visage is white. Very white. Mayonnaisey. I walk around in a pair of shorts and folks begin craving turkey cold cuts.

I know I offend many with how virginal my skin appears. I wish I didn't. I wish people would look at my legs (I have a 35" inseam) in all their glowy glory and regard them as highly as they regard Mother Theresa. Instead they throw on a pair sunglasses in disgust. On the upside, if they don't have any sunglasses at the ready, they forget about any mucus spewing aliens they might have seen. Memory erasing isn't a service anyone thinks to thank you for though.

Sunscreen is one of my bestest friends forever XOXOXO.

Mother Theresa may have earned her tan, but yesterday I bought mine in a tube. I'm feeling pressured by society to not be so natural. I blew dry my hair this morning, shaved my legs, applied deodorant and after I write this I'm going to slather my legs with stinky goo and hope beyond hope I don't turn orange.

Orange or bright white, either color could signal emergency help if you find yourself stranded on a deserted island. Orange might be better. You don't need to be craving turkey cold cuts in a situation like that.

Don't fart on my kids.

2008-06-09T08:36:00.001-06:00

My brother in law gave me a suppository.

He didn't give me a suppository, rather, he supplied me with a suppository he and my sister keep on hand for their type 1 diabetic children. When two of their three children get stomach flu it's dangerous. Vomitting is bad; makes their sugars and ketones crazy, starts destroying vital organs. This suppository stops hurling on the spot and then puts them to sleep moments later. It keeps their house virtually vomit free.

The day after interviewing my tolerant parents, which was the day before my nephew's wedding, (which is why we ventured into the beehive in the first place) I started hurling in the morning and by late evening I hadn't stopped. I got to thinking that if I hurled once more I'd land myself in an emergency room, which isn't convenient when you think about it, so it was suppository time. My sister and her husband offer me one every time I'm at their house, healthy or no. They're generous people.

Happiness is a warm....uh...nevermind.

Family is nice that way. My sister's partner in life and evil even offered to help with the next suppository, should I need one, or even if I don't. Various methods of application were described, along with all the appropriate sound effects.

My family is becoming more and more aware of this blog, offering up all kinds of funny things to write about. When I come home from Christmas it's been my habit to quote the funnier things that come out of their Utah County backwoods mouths. This visit around they would spout off something untoward, appear blank for a moment, and then exclaim, "Becky, you should write that on your blog!"

What? And really scare my readers and other hangers on? If they start vomitting as a result, are we going to supply all of them with suppositories too?

Now that I'm home, feeling back up to par, the only quote I remember is the same brother in law warning my older sister to not be so uncouth as to pass wind on his progeny. I don't even remember the context for it.

"Don't fart on my kids."

Sage advice.

Spay or neuter your pets, but drown your cats.

2008-06-05T09:39:00.001-06:00

In the interest of fairness, I asked my dad if I could interview him this morning. He was agreeable.

Becky: I asked Mom personal questions. Can I ask you personal questions?
Becky's Dad: I don't have to answer nothin'. They don't know who I am.

Becky: What do you think of Mom's cat?
Becky's Dad: Damn cat.

Becky: That's some foul language Dad...
Becky's Dad: I guess you're probably right. The situation warrants it.

Becky: So you dislike cats?
Becky's Dad: They are a pain in the butt.

Becky: So it's butt and not ass?
Becky's Dad: Yup.

Becky: What don't you like about Mom's cat?
Becky's Dad: You mean cats in general?

Becky: Sure.
Becky's Dad: They're very demanding.

Becky: Do they ask for your money?
Becky's Dad: Won't eat nothin' but expensive cat food.

Becky: Is that you're eating cereal this morning instead of pancakes?
Becky's Dad: Took all my money.

Becky: Mom's cat is real old though, huh?
Becky's Dad: Uh-huh.

Becky: Do you have any thoughts you want to leave my readers and other hangers on with?
Becky's Dad: About?
Becky: Anything.
Becky's Dad: I made a mistake allowing cats in this house. Don't do it.

Becky: Because they take up your money?
Becky's Dad: Because they mess in the flower bed, and yowl at the door, and they won't get up off Ma's lap so she can make me something to eat.

Becky: You know, if the cat was outside all the time it would mess in your flower beds all the more.
Becky's Dad: That's true.

Becky's Dad: ...But then there's the cat hair.

Becky's Dad: ...Cats belong outside.....

Becky's Dad: .....I think I'd rather choose the lesser of two evils and have him outside crappin' in the flower beds more.

Becky's Dad: ...I ain't a cat person....

Dad's immune to the power of kitten. I wouldn't stare long if I were you.

I hate this laptop keyboard. It's a pain in my ass.

2008-06-04T10:26:00.001-06:00

Here I sit, on Justin's work laptop, at my parent's home in Utah County, stealing internet on someone's unsecured wireless. I don't even know whose internet it is. They've named their wireless, "Linksys". Is it fair game? Meh. I'm evil.

I asked my mom what I should write about this morning and she replied that I should write about pancakes. I figure I could ask her several questions on the subject.

Becky: Where's my colon? (I'm searching for punctuation on the laptop keyboard.)
Becky's Mom: Your colon! Heh.

Becky: What do you think about pancakes Mom?
Becky's Mom: I like homemade ones, not the ones out of packages that bounce like rubber balls.

Becky: So you dislike balls?
Becky's Mom: Depends on the balls.

Becky: I see. You're a ball discriminator?
Becky Mom: I could say something but it might not be nice.

Becky: I ain't writing what you were going to say...
Becky Mom: It's just as well.

Becky: So, pancakes. How do you make pancakes?
Becky's Mom: You put in flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, mix with mixer, then eggs, buttermilk, oil and vanilla. Mix well. (Ma B's Pancake Recipe)

Becky: What, no love?
Becky's Mom: There's love, but there is also a little bit of spit.

Becky: So you like bodily fluids?
Becky's Mom: Mmmm good.

Becky: Is there any thoughts that you'd like to leave my readers and other hangers on with?
Becky's Mom: My pancakes have made you what you are today, my darling daughter! (I wonder if that's why you're absent minded?)

Becky: I thought it was the bodily fluids.

Genetics. Ahh, genetics.

Emerging from my clam shell.

2008-06-03T09:00:00.008-06:00

Just when I think I'm done grumbling about school being out and summer vacation beginning, I find yet another reason that is grumble worthy.

Tell me what you think of this:

Are you offended? Are you disgusted? Are you slightly bemused yet subtly aroused?

I'm wondering why I can't traipse around like this at the community pool. Why do I have to skillfully secret away this particular secondary sex trait? Men don't. Men are allowed to be as chimpanzee as they are capable of. We might point at the back hair and laugh, but still, it's acceptable.

I want to wear a proper swimsuit. At least at the community pool I want to swim while wearing a swimsuit. They don't let you get in the pool without one.

But...

I don't wanna shave it. I don't wanna wax it. I don't want to spread a stinking, burning depilatory on it. I want to avoid pain and itching and general discomfort around my sensitive girly bits. If that means swim-fro, so be it. I'm liberating my follicles!

Who made up these rules about femininity? Women, if you're hairy, you're nasty. Don't you dare leave one single hair growing in the wrong spot. If you do you'll be accused of all manner of terrible behavior unrelated to the growth of hair. Anything from sampling grapes at the grocery store right down to decades of tax evasion. Lordy, who knows what you're capable of if you've got pokeys.

I also want to know why I should buy the razors and shaving cream marketed to women? Do disposable razors made out of pink plastic do a more thorough job on the 'fro than the ones made out of blue plastic? If you give the razor the name of Roman goddess, will hair removal be transcendent and hair regrowth be miraculously slow? What is wrong with regular 88 cent a can shaving cream? It smells fine, works fine. Why do I have to assert my womanhood by buying shaving cream that costs two to three times as much and smells like cucumber/watermelon/chai-tea/peppermints? If I wanted to smell like a cucumber after my bath, I'd take an honest to God actual cucumber into my bath, alrighty?

I don't need an at home spa experience to make me feel womanly or pampered. I need to not have my chain yanked.

You readers and other hangers on of the male persuasion...Don't you go and tell me some nonsense about clean being sexy and/or preferable. I do not care what state you think about my sensitive girly bits should be in. You do not count. Nope, you don't! If I do not want to get rid of the swim-fro then you will tolerate that...nay, you will love it. Or else. It's hair. It's not going to bite you. Don't you look at me like that. Roar.

Sisters, unite with me. Join the movement. Sacrifice your razors to the cause! Let's wear short shorts and cry out, "My follicles are mad as hell and they won't take it anymore!" Revolution!

Ladies?

Sisters?

Fine.

I'll get rid of the swim-fro before I go to the pool.

But I'm not happy about it.