handflapping

Going . . .

going . . .

GONE.

Now THAT was a good banana.

Many thanks to Alice for the pictures!

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I just shaved my legs, which required a closer observation of my legs than I usually give them (I mean, I don’t sit around looking at my legs and obsessing about them all the time–well, yes, I obsess about them, what woman doesn’t? but I don’t look at them while I do it because that would be way too depressing) and I noticed that from about the hips down, I look like I have been dragged behind a car down a bumpy road. Maybe for a short distance, and not at a terribly high speed. My skin is not in tatters or anything. But there are a lot of bruises and scrapes and scratches and scabs for which I have no explanation. A few of the bruises and scratches look fairly recent. Maybe I acquired them while I was attempting to brush the dog yesterday?

My husband and I paid $300 for this dog, or roughly $100 per brain cell among the three of us.

Hellbaby helped, although I don’t know how much good she did with a paintbrush. That dog was pretty tangly. He’s fairly cooperative about being groomed, even when he went to the professional groomer for the first time a couple of months ago, where they spent approximately eleventy hundred hours shaving, washing, and brushing him. Professional grooming did something to his attitude. He thinks he has been elevated somehow, because now he insists on sleeping on the bed with us, which he never did before, and he also thinks he’s supposed to travel with us in the car wherever we go. Whereas before to take him to the vet or the park or what have you, it took at least two fit adults to wrestle/shove him into the car, now we have to drag him out of the driver’s seat because as soon we leave the house, he hops the backyard fence and bolts into the car, no matter if the car door is open only a few inches. So far his being kicked off the bed every night and dragged out of car every day for two months has not discouraged him.

Yep, I bet that’s how I got some of these bruises and scrapes, either from the goddamn dog squirming around trying to direct my brushing to his throat and chest, the only places that, in his opinion, require any attention, or from goddamn Hellbaby stepping on my lap as she attempted to get in prime paintbrushing position.

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My 13-year-old nephew is spending the weekend with us. He used to spend EVERY weekend with us. He used to live with us, in fact, but the past couple of years his dad has deemed him and his older brother old enough to stay home alone while he works. So far they’ve managed not to kill each other or burn the house down (notice I didn’t say “set the house on fire”), but I figure it’s only a matter of time.

Anyway, it’s hard for me to remember he’s a teenager. He’s the youngest in the family, and I have him fixed in my mind as, well, little. Right now he’s watching South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. I’m vacillating between horror and resignation–horror because as foul-mouthed as I may be myself, I never talk like that in front of him and his brother and I don’t let them talk like that around me, and resignation because  as familiar as he is with the dialogue, it’s obvious he’s watched it a few times already.

Well, he’s not familiar with ALL of the dialogue. My husband is sort of listening to the movie from the kitchen where he’s making bread. (Yes, he’s making bread. Kneading dough and all that shit. Shut up.) He just yelled, “WHAT did he say???”

Nephew:  He asked her “What’s the clutious or something like that.”

Me:  WHAT??? [I was only half-listening myself. This movie is stupid.]

Nephew:  That’s what it sounded like.

Me:  So. . . I’m guessing you don’t know what it is, either?

Nephew:  No. But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with female parts.

Um, yeah. And how. 

Then the word was repeated onscreen, and he was paying closer attention this time or something, because he yelled, “Clitoris! That’s what it is!”

Me:  What is?

Nephew:  Clitoris.

Me:  Oh. What is it?

Nephew:  Oh, I still don’t know. Something to do with woman parts.

Then he yelled up at my husband:  What’s a clitoris???

And my husband, predictably, pretended to be deaf.

Nephew:  I’m going to text my dad and ask him what a clitoris is.

Me:  Uh huh. You do that. Then he’ll know you’re watching South Park at my house.

Nephew:  Whatever. He watched it with us the other night and laughed his ass off.

Yes, this family is chock full of responsible adults providing all the moral guidance any child could wish for. 

But he didn’t text his dad; he Googled it on his iPhone, because that’s where all kids should get their information.

Nephew:  Ooh! Gross! [This does not bode well for his future girlfriends.] THERE’S A DIAGRAM! Here, look!

Me:  No, thanks. *I* know what a clitoris is.

He also didn’t know who Brian Boitano is, which has me really concerned about the state of public education in this area. What the fuck are they teaching kids these days if it’s not the clitoris and Brian Boitano?

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Today my husband burned a bunch of trash, cleaned the kitchen, made potpourri, bathed the dogs, kept the Hellbaby while Alice and I went shopping, cleaned the bathroom including mopping the floor, fixed the bathroom ceiling that was falling down for some reason (old house, that’s the best reason I can think of), cleaned and swept the living room, washed four loads of laundry, made a simple syrup and then made lemonade from that syrup, and is currently making dough for a homemade pizza for our dinner. Oh—he also made these from the plastic seals he cut off of jar lids for a project I’ve been working on.

Today I wrapped two birthday gifts for Alice’s niece, went to Target with her to buy a new car seat for Hellbaby, went out to lunch (while Husband was keeping Hellbaby) with Alice (thanks for lunch, Alice!), helped Alice get the new car seat adjusted to fit Hellbaby and get it in Alice’s car, and finished my upcycling project with the Yankee candle jars I rescued from my monster-in-law’s house.

I also drank some delicious lemonade. Oh, and I took a shower, and I even remembered to put on moisturizer, which I found while half-ass organizing the bathroom since I had all those new canisters to put shit in.

The point is, I obviously suck as a human being and my husband is some kind of goddamn superman and he better cut that shit out because I’m tired of him making me look so fucking bad.

PS  Just kidding, honey. You’re awesome and I love you and when is that pizza going to be ready? I’m STARVING.

UPDATE  Here’s the pizza. And no, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s CUSTOM MADE. Younger Son, the weirdo, doesn’t like melted cheese (I know, I KNOW, I did the best I could but sometimes they still turn out wrong), so he eats only crust and sauce. My part of the pizza has tons of veggies and husband’s is piled with sausage and pepperoni.

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I should still be cleaning stuff. I spent the weekend at Alice and Shrek’s house tending Hellbaby there because despite our best efforts, the fleas continue to rule unabated here. They don’t bite us for some reason, but they eat her alive. Yuck. Damn global climate change.

So, while I was away, the terrorists (aka the people I live with and all these motherfucking dogs) were winning. Or losing. BECAUSE THEY LET A GODDAMN SKUNK UNDER THE HOUSE. Seriously, four dogs couldn’t deter a skunk? Skunks are ballsy little bastards. I guess they have the right to be. I mean, here I sit, sweaty and smelly and I am loathe to go into my own bathroom and shower because it reeks of eau de Pepe le Pew.

The house is a little cleaner. I got the kitchen back under control from Younger Son’s latest cooking venture. He made chili. He makes excellent chili. He also makes a godawful mess. I don’t bitch too much at him or at the Husband, who is also messy, because after all, they pay the bills around here. I’m just the freeloading tenant. My contribution to the household shall be bitch-free cleaning. I think it’s a good trade.

I should also be working on my guest post for Whacamole Mom. Best no more said about that here. You’ll understand later.

I’m feeling tired, not so much from the herculean task of kitchen cleaning, but from remembering that tomorrow I will be riding in a moving truck for six to seven hours. After packing up Elder Son and Mrs. Elder Son to move six to seven hours away (MapQuest say six hours, but Elder Son, who has actually driven the distance, says seven hours). It’s not even the work involved that’s making me feel tired. It’s the feelings that are making me tired. I’m already missing them, which is silly, seeing as how I don’t see them but once a month or so anyway. But knowing they’re around, less than an hour’s drive away. . . It makes a difference somehow. And it’s more than geography that makes me miss them. It’s like they are starting their real grown up lives now, which is also ridiculous, because they’ve both been independent living-on-their-own-paying-their-own-bills young persons for years now. My son has been to war, for sonofabitch politicians’ sake.

Maybe it is the geography. You would think I would have had this feeling when they got married. But even then I still had the sense of being “mama,” knowing that if my boy needed something he could call me and I could be right there. Or his dad. Or his other dad. Or his other mom. Or any of the other many family members that live in the vicinity. Now they’re going to be out of the vicinity. Anyone‘s vicinity. Six to seven hours away from family and friends.

They’ll make new friends. They might even extend their family. I’m not worried about them. I’m not worried about them at all. They are smart and hard-working and sensible and in love. I’m proud of and excited for both of them. They’re ready for this. I’m just not sure I am.

They look ready, don’t they?

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I am already tired of the Olympics. Specifically, I am tired of the Olympics commentators. From what I read on Twitter Friday night, a lot of people were tired of the commentators before the Olympics even got started. I didn’t pay much attention to the opening ceremonies, but the consensus was that Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira needed to shut the fuck up. And seriously? Can everybody just get off Michael Phelps’ ass??? Now, I’m not all rah-rah about Michael Phelps, and I certainly do not find him attractive (I won’t even lecture y’all on all the lusting you’ve been doing over the swimmers, but Ryan Lochte is young enough to be my son, ewww), but shit, so he’s not going to win a medal in every goddamn swimming event this Olympics. Has he not done enough for a lifetime already?

It’s okay, Michael. Everyone has a bad Olympics. Wait. What? Everyone doesn’t have a bad Olympics? Oh, that’s right. BECAUSE MOST OF US WILL NEVER EVEN BE AT AN OLYMPICS AS A SPECTATOR, MUCH LESS A COMPETITOR.

THIS IS SOMEBODY’S LITTLE BOY, YOU PERVERTS! Somebody’s luscious, hard-bodied, scrumptious little boy. . . STOP IT.

And what the fuck have you ever done, Dan Hicks? Dan Hicks gets on my last damn nerve, anyway. Every time I hear his voice, I think, How the hell did John Tesh get to commentate on the Olympics? And then, I’m all, oh, Dan Hicks, you motherfucker, you sound just like John Tesh. But if Ryan Seacrest can do it, why not John Tesh? (because Ryan Seacrest is secretly the anti-Christ, but you didn’t hear it from me)

Okay, gentlemen, we don’t need both of you on this planet, and Mr. Tesh can at least play the piano. Dan Hicks, please step off Earth immediately.

All the commentating makes me want to punch the TV. Jordyn Weiber didn’t make the all-around. Let’s lock her in the Tower! Off with her head! Toss her corpse in the Thames! A lot of these athletes are children, people. Crazily talented, amazingly disciplined and mature children under a shit-ton of pressure and world-wide scrutiny. Back the fuck off and let them have a goddamn moment to compose themselves in their disappointments. And quit acting like a bunch of goddamn communists in your comments. It’s really making me worry what’s happening to these kids off camera.

She really was robbed. Did y’all see Bela Karolyi’s rant about the two entrants-per-team to the all-around rule? He was PISSED, let me tell you.

I had lunch with my nephew today. The 13-year-old. Stuff annoys him, too.

“The Walking Dead is really stupid. A zombie apocalypse has to start with one zombie. Who can’t kill just one zombie? Apocalypse over.”

He spends as much time mulling over the zombie apocalypse as anyone else, apparently, because a few minutes later he added, “Unless it was a kid. A kid might not be able to kill a zombie, and then there’d be two zombies, and then that kid’s parents wouldn’t want to kill him, and then there’d be two more. . . ” Yep, that’s how I’ve always imagined it will start.

[MAJOR SPOILER ALERT IF YOU'RE BEHIND ON YOUR THE WALKING DEAD VIEWING] Now who could blast this adorable child’s head to smithereens? Oh, that’s right. Sheriff Rick could. About damn time he grew a pair.

Nephew and his brother, Older Nephew, are forbidden to read my blog and my twitter, but today I learned they’ve found a way around that. They have a friend who follows me and reads this garbage. He reports to them that I’m hilarious. Great. I’ve finally found my target audience.

UPDATE  Well, fuck me on a balance balance beam! It’s Al Trautwig who sounds just like John Tesh, NOT Dan Hicks. Not that that makes me like Dan Hicks any better. And NOT ONLY THAT, AL TRAUTWIG TOOK OVER COMMENTATING WOMEN’S GYMNASTICS FROM JOHN TESH IN 2000.  Huh. I guess none of you knew that, either. Or maybe you were just too polite to point it out. But still, why would John Tesh ever be commentating on women’s gymnastics? He’s not even a woman. I don’t think. But obviously I’m not very in the know about these things.

Al Trautwig. Passing himself off as John Tesh since 2000.

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Younger Son, as he’s driving us down a back road on the way home from the liquor store: I know about fifty ways to get home now. You know about 65th to Arch?

Me: Oh, yeah. That gas station there at the 65th Street exit is where Joe [the Husband] and I made out for the first time. He was driving me home–well, to Gege’s house–after our–well, not a date. The first time we hooked up. And he stopped there to get gas. And we made out a little in the parking lot. But it wasn’t a total hookup, because I wouldn’t have sex with him, although he sure tried. I kept saying, Get OFF of me!

Younger Son: You know I can never unhear that.

Me: Son, you know I’ve had sex a few times other than the two occasions you and your brother were conceived. I’ve had sex with you in the house, even. In fact, I had sex just the other night, when you were asleep right across the hall. We were quiet, though. We try to be considerate, seeing how you have to get up so early to go to work.

He: [turns up stereo to eardrum shattering decibels]

Me: [screaming to be heard over Warren Zevon] Okay! I’m finished!

He: [as he turns down stereo] You know, I shouldn’t be hearing about your irresponsible behavior.

Me: Irresponsible behavior? I told you, I wouldn’t do the sex with him!

He: I know. It’s terribly irresponsible of women to hook up with guys and not come through with the sex.

Me: Oh. I do see your point.

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The Husband and I have been cleaning his mother’s house for the past two days. I won’t go into that adventure in great detail at this time, but suffice it to say, we are no where even close to being finished.

And I have had to get in the shower and scrub myself vigorously, including my hair, as soon as I get home every day, which annoys the shit out of me because I fucking hate to wash my hair. Seriously, I’m like a little kid about washing my hair. It’s long and thick and takes forever and a day to dry and ordinarily I can go two, three, even four days without washing it and it doesn’t look, smell, or feel dirty at all. One of the few perks of getting aged. Who knew? Your hair never gets dirty when you get old. Unless you have roaches and roach detritus falling in it all day.

I just made myself throw up and it wasn’t just a little.

So anyway, I was in the shower, because I couldn’t talk Husband into bathing me like I was at a fancy spa and he was a fancy spa worker (he claims to be even more tired than I. Fucking lightweight). Usually I do some of my best thinking in the shower, but this evening I was thinking things like this:

This particular shave gel is specified “for bikini area.” Huh. Do people really buy shave gel to use just for their bikini area? I use this on my legs. Is that wrong? Am I going to be fined by the shaving police? WHO BUYS DIFFERENT SHAVE GELS FOR THEIR LEGS AND THEIR BIKINI AREA? Or could the legs be considered part of the bikini area? It is visible when one wears a bikini, after all. Do I even know what the bikini area is? Maybe I’m thinking bikini line. Because, seriously? If I used this stuff just on my bikini line, it’d last me, like, ten years. It’d probably evaporate before I could use it all shaving my bikini line. I have maybe three hairs there. But probably bikini area and bikini line are different. Somebody please explain this to me. I’m thinking the bikini area could include the hoo-ha region? In that case, this would last me seven years. Yeah, I have about thirty hairs in that region. Don’t hate. The hairs on my face more than make up for my good fortune in the lack of hair on my snatch. No kidding, I have my retirement plans set. Sideshow worker as the bearded lady. Lots of people travel when they retire, right? I’ll be traveling AND entertaining the masses. Win-win. 

So this is not a post. It’s an informal survey, if you will. Does anybody use different shave products for different parts of their bodies? And what do YOU consider the bikini area?

Thanks.

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Me:  So, I looked at a bunch of a bunch of uncircumcised penises on the internet last night.

He:  ???

Me:  Is your erection ever uncomfortable because you had too much foreskin removed?

He:  Uh, no.

Me:  Does your glans ever become irritated from being exposed all the time?

He:  Nooooooo.

Me:  Huh.

He:  So. . . why were you looking at penises on the internet?

Me:  Well, there’s been a bunch of discussion lately on the interwebs about circumcision versus uncircumcision. I’ve read two blogs [read these, even if there's no pictures or illustrations, they're good: Lahikmajoe: Getting a Baby's Consent Is No Easy Matter and Sprocket Ink: To Snip or Not to Snip] about the topic in the last few days. People are now saying that it’s a completely unnecessary procedure, painful and mutilating, even. And I haven’t even seen an uncircumcised penis. Well, except that one time in college, and it was dark, and I don’t think that guy was a very good representation, because seriously? His penis was the size of a pencil. If he’d been circumcised, there probably wouldn’t have been anything left of it.

He:  . . .

Me:  So I was curious.

He:  Well, I am in favor of the circumcised penis.

Me:  You are???

He:  Yes. I cannot even imagine going camping, or to war, or being in the desert, anywhere where there was a limited water supply and you would be getting all sweaty and gunkified and not have anything to clean that stuff off with except pee. There would be nastiness, and infection, and it would be just gross.

Me:  Pee is supposedly sterile.

He:  Yeah, but I just have a problem with the idea of rubbing pee all over myself to get clean.

Me:  So for you, circumcision is a necessary hygienic measure.

He:  Oh, for sure.

Me:  Hey, I moved the hamper to the front of the closet so that it would be more convenient for you get to and therefore would perhaps encourage you to take the few extra steps to put your dirty clothes in it. That does not seem to be happening.

He:  I know, I have my faults. But, really? You shouldn’t flip out about my dirty socks on the floor since I don’t flip out about you looking at a bunch of penises.

Touche, sir, touche.

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