Thursday, September 29, 2011

It's Taxidermy Thursday!
Issue 1

In 2007, my then 12-year-old sister-in-law completed a taxidermy project for her school.  After expressing my attraction and awe for this misshapen squirrel, my mother-in-law gladly gave him to me in a grocery bag at Christmas.  He became Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein.  Taxidermy Thursday is dedicated to Todd and all of the animals who posed before him.

Today's stuffins - Theatrical Taxidermy

As with many things that appear on this blog, I found today's little gem through the comments section on The Bloggess.  There are some badass people who comment on The Bloggess, and they have the links to all the crazy shit on the Internets.  One of the commenters posted a link to a site called "Ravishing Beasts".  You have to go to this site to see all the info on these pictures, but just seeing them is something.

Rabbit Schoolroom by Walter Potter, 1890's

The kitten tea party, Walter Potter

Kitten wedding, Walter Potter

Wow.  Here's a guy who thinks outside of the box, and has a massive OCD issue.  Are these whimsical?  Cute?  Perhaps.  Until you realize they are made out of DEAD STUFFED KITTENS AND BUNNIES!  Did Walter just happen upon a litter of freshly dead kittens? 


Methinks Walter was breeding kittens for art.  Which makes Walter suddenly seem a little more living-in-Mothers-basement-serial-killer-ish.  Can you picture Walter in his "special art clothes" carefully dressing the dead kittens under one bare swinging lightbulb at a rough wooden worktable, with a pile of undressed dead kittens next to him, whistling a little tune?  I can.  Hey Walter!  I have something for you:

There are at least 20 cats who gather at 4 p.m. across the street from me, and they would make an awesome bar mitzvah scene.  Or a stagecoach robbery.  Or a disco.

There are a couple of other photos on the Ravishing Beast site I find interesting, and of course they deal with squirrels.  Because there is something about a squirrel that makes you think they can actually *do* things, like boxing or suicide.

Boxing squirrels.  Kind of awesome. 
I'd actually like to own one of these.

Squirrel suicide.  I know, it's disturbing. 
But I think it's a little funny.  Don't judge me.

Thus concludes our first issue of Taxidermy Thursday.  Discuss amongst yourselves. I'll be back over the weekend to report on Oldest Daughter's first Homecoming!  Aaah!

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

The Case of the Disappearing Graphics

So yesterday, I pull up the blog, and ...Hey....where is my banner?  My signature and coffee cup were also missing.  I clicked on the icon for the person who designed my stuff, and it says "No longer exists". 

(What would Nancy Drew do?)

I'm going to tell you what Nancy would do. She would put on her sensible pumps and march right over to the web designer's house and rap on the door and tell the housekeeper that she would like to call on said designer, and then politely but firmly inquire as to the whereabouts of her graphics.  She would have some tea, check her slim gold watch her father, locally prominent attorney Carson Drew, gave her, and move on to her next appointment, which happens to be a date with Ned, where she would dance and flirt with him all night and then send him home with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes.  Problem solved.

However, this is 2011, so I put on my sturdy but practical Dansko clogs and used my paid time at work to investigate my personal issues online.  I probably contracted a virus for my company's server, and minimized my screen anytime anyone walked by my cubicle.  I checked my cell phone for the time, blogged about my problem, and then am going home to cook and bitch at Current Husband about how my graphics have disappeared on the blog and send him to bed with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes.

It's weird, but I actually saved this post and did some actual work at my hooker job, and when I came back, my "A Day In The Wife" graphics were back after being gone for a day.  Now I'm back to suspecting Blogger for the problems.  Or caged zoo monkeys.  You can always count on those fuckers to mess with you.

Since this is a lame post lamenting something that has already been solved, I'd like to direct you to another blog with something funny to say, because I'm a marketing genius.  "Hey, MY blog isn't funny today, let me send you somewhere else!!" Do you see that, McDonalds?  Hire me to do your marketing and Burger King's sales will go up by 10%.  No wonder nobody is picking up rug hooking right now.  But?  This blog post made me laugh today,and the author is really brave, because I would be terrified that the other mothers would find out I blogged about it.  Some of the moms at YD's school eat other moms for brunch for lesser transgressions than this, trust me.  I'm missing three fingers and a kidney.  Enjoy!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

The Baffling Case of the Oprah Moment

Today I'm going to go all Nancy Drew on your asses and go undercover on an investigation into the secret self inside us all.  I have a little friend love I want to share with y'all, and I'm sure it will embarrass my friends, but welcome to the world of CH and my children, dears.

Friday I was going to a hooker show, and en route I picked up a friend of mine from college.  I won't embarrass her here, (ANGIE), but I walked in her house and my jaw dropped.  Not only is she gorgeous, inside and out, but so is her house - and she does all of her decorating and makes a lot of her accessories.  Right in the front door was this kick-ass lamp that had a burlappy-linen shade, and there was a big letter "P" painted on it (last name).  She made it.  Right around the corner was a big framed print that had all of the addresses at which her family had lived in the past 20 years (she moves as much as I do!), and it was cool and edgy and sentimental.  Yep, she made it.  Beautiful photo arrangements and art and accessories, all made by her.  She is an undiscovered treasure, and I hope she either opens a store or starts selling on etsy or begins decorating people's houses, starting with mine.  Talent, talent, talent.  In the words of Vince Vaughn, She's money and she doesn't even know it.

I have a great posse of friends in my previous town of Mount Vernon, Iowa.  Some of them I talk with regularly, and some of them I don't talk to nearly enough and am WAY overdue for some time with them, but everyone gets tied up with kids and lives and such, so I know it will happen eventually.  Today I was missing Mount Vernon and all of the creative people I know there who always bring the funk.  My friend Tommie is an amazing photographer, and she has a show at Cornell College in Mount Vernon, so I loaded up The Son and we drove to see it.

 She is too legit to quit.

The show was amazing - an abandoned warehouse in Burlington from (I think?) the 30's and 40's that still has cans of pineapple and toilet bowl cleaner ("Also works on automotive radiators!") and coffee beans on the floor, and she took photographs of the place with its natural light.  Amazing.  The pics I took of the pics are crappy because A) I am not a photographer, and B) there was a glare on the glass, so you'll have to take my word for it, they are fantastic.  Then I went to her store, where she had these lovely baubles that she made:

I know, right?
You can like her store site on facebook at " and espresso"
Remember when I talked about making spaces for yourself in your house or wherever to feed that creative side?  I had Tommie take pics of her studio a while ago for your viewing pleasure.  She has an incredible eye, as you can see from these pics.  This is a room behind her garage.  I shall live here:
A bed in the studio.  Because you just never know.
But if I stay out here I might steal all of her stuff.

I left her house and drove to her store, where I walked out with a cappucino, a homemade cookie as big as my head, a bag of coffee beans, a kickass bracelet, and a smile. 

I drove to my friend Jana's house, and saw her new bathroom and some things she's done in her house to change things up, and I wish I'd taken a pic of her mantel.  The entire fireplace area is painted ruby red with a mantel she had made by an ironworking dude in town, and then had a large yellow pear sculpture that is the twin to my pomegranate, made by a local MV artist, on said mantel.  It is very dramatic.  This woman is amazing - she has a Biology degree, has a published science textbook in Spanish that she wrote, she can knit amazing socks and mittens and sweaters, makes funky screenprinted sachets, is an amazing cook (she HATES it when I rave about her cooking, but really, it is the shizzle) and worked for a taxidermist. 

While I was there, another friend of ours, Elizabeth, who lives down the street, came over to borrow cumin.  She is a photographer and adventurer and made a documentary on the Lincoln Highway and has taken her children to India and Turkey and has her junior doing a semester in Germany right now.

I drove home from this soul-replenishing visit and thought about all of the amazing women I know.  Women who are brilliant and creative and edgy and fan-fucking-tastic, all the while being humble and truly good and kind people.  Just, wow.  They are inspirational, and make me strive to be better.  And I'm not the only person who knows women like this - we all do.

Oh my God, I'm having an Oprah moment.

Sweet baby Jesus, that was scary.  Let's get Julie back to normal - um, they all have great racks, too.  Except Elizabeth, but she has a huge personality.

So go forth, Wifers!  Create your space in your home, even if it's just under a couch where you secretly eat Oreos and listen to ABBA.  Find your happy place - but not in public, you may get arrested.  It is contagious.  Well, hopefully not what you find in your happy place, but if it is, contact your physician. 

UPDATE on Monday a.m. - I'm wanting to respond to Peruby's comment, lest anyone get the wrong impression from this post....I'm not saying people need to DO more - Good Lord, there are days when I'm not able to use the bathroom for 12 hours - but more about making sure you take a little time for yourself, and carve out a little space for you.  Because joy comes out of that space you make for yourself, whatever that may be.  And out of the four women featured, only one of them is making money from those things they love. I work an average of 45 hours a week and travel a lot in the fall, but I make time for the blog, which usually takes about 5 hours a week, and I don't make a dime from it.  But it's MINE.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Mystery of the Freshly Brewed Pee

Before you say anything, let me just admit now that after my month of daily blogging, I readily admit that I have become a huge slacker.  Glub glub, I've been busy.  (Not really, but I've been wanting to work "Glub glub" into a blog for a while.)

On Friday, I was going to do a Whoreticulture Friday post on going to the bathroom, as in "Maybe I should drink more water because every time I pee it smells like someone just brewed a pot of coffee."  But then I remembered that Oldest Daughter is going to Homecoming with an actual boy in a week, and locals keep finding out about the blog and I don't want her to get dumped BEFORE the dance because I have to keep those Shutterfly books full so the kids think they had a full and rich stable of childhood experiences.  So, mother of Homecoming Date, if you have stumbled across this blog, my pee does not smell, nor would I even think of blogging about it if it did.

I've had a bad headache all day, and I already took an Aleve and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and it's not going away.  Oldest Daughter is at a birthday party overnight, Youngest Daughter is at a friend's house overnight, and The Son and Current Husband went to a movie.  I stayed home and watched George the Superpet and the GD Dog tear the shit out of my yard (pics later this week) and thought about doing something fun, but my head kept pounding out the rhythym of a Sex Pistols song and I polyurethaned something, which oddly did not make my headache go away.

The Son and CH got home, and I sat at the dining room table and asked The Son to rub my neck to make my headache go away, and he balked and said, "Did you eat ham?" and I said no, and he said, "I'm going to wash my hands and get gloves if I'm doing it."  I looked at CH and said, "What the hell?" and CH shrugged his shoulders apologetically and said, "Cowboys and Aliens was out of the theater, I took him to see Contagion."  Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow eats some ham, gets a headache, and dies a horrible death, and spreads it to everyone whom she touches.  SO not only does GP get to travel the world, be skinny, and bone Chris Martin, she is now preventing me from getting massages.  WTF, GP?

I'm going to sell these and raise ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.

So here is The Status of The Wife in a nutshell:
  • I have a headache.
  • The Son thinks I am the Contagion.
  • My yard has been destroyed by the GD Dog.
  • My pee smells like coffee.  Or it doesn't, depending on who you are.
That is all.  Have a lovely weekend, Wifers.
And?  Read the latest post on The Bloggess.  Honestly, people.  She has created some sort of alternate, bizarre, comedic universe where I want to live.  "Knock, Knock, Motherfucker" towels are now on my Lifetime Gift Registry.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Case of the Piles of Dog Vomit

So about two hours ago I'm all "it's time to blog!" and then Youngest Daughter said, "Hey, we didn't walk Shiloh (the GD Dog) and you said we would!" and so I took the GD Dog out for a walk with YD, and the GD Dog pulled me all over the neighborhood for about two blocks, and when I have to jog it makes my belly roll flop and it's super unattractive.  That makes me cranky.

Then we get home and The Son is still in the shower, but YD needs to take a bath, so I wander in the kitchen and see that my children haven't unloaded or loaded the dishwasher as per their rental agreement, Section 1 Page 2 Clause 6.  I yell a little bit and then think "Oh to hell with it" because The Son is in the shower and can't hear me and Oldest Daughter's eyes are glazed over and she is doing Algebra and it's already late so I just do it because I am getting my mother's martyr complex, which is apparently hereditary.  That makes me cranky.

Then I finally get YD in the bath and I let her take 40 small toys in there, and just as I am preparing to wash her hair, I hear Current Husband in the other room say, "You have GOT to be kidding me!" and not in a "I just heard the funniest joke!" kind of way.  I run into the living room and there are not one, but THREE fresh steaming piles of dog puke.  The GD Dog is sitting behind them, looking sheepish, and George the Superpet is around the corner saying, "I told you that GD Dog was going to be nothing but trouble."  Since it is my mother's dog, I felt compelled to clean it up.  CH felt compelled to head out the door to meet someone for a beer.  Everyone else felt compelled to go to bed.  This all reminded me of my favorite story.

"Not I," said the kid.
"Not I," said the husband.
"Not I," said the GD Dog.
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen.
And then she ate a whole fucking cake and was bitter for the rest of the night.

The End.
Goodnight, Wifers!

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Secret of the Cookoff Chili

What a perfectly lovely fall weekend!  So much fun best time ever.  It was exactly the kind of weekend I like to have. 

Friday night, we ordered taco pizza and stayed in.  We were supposed to go to a high school football game, but Oldest Daughter wasn't feeling well, and Youngest Daughter had a sleepover friend, and I had a People magazine and the GD dog and George the Superpet, so I was perfectly happy to park it on the couch in my comfy pants.  Throw in some Whitey's Moosetracks ice cream and call it a win.

Saturday, slept in.  Yee-effing-haw.  Took sleepover friend home, got some overdue cleaning done around the house, and tried a new Starbucks flavor - Salted Caramel Mocha.

It's crack in a cup, people.

Then I put some chicken in a pot and got my game face on - it was time to get to a chili cookoff.  I made my white chicken chili, got some Leinenkugels, and Current Husband and I went to meet the competition.  There were eight pots of chili, tons of corn bread, gallons of cold beverages, a bonfire, games of bags, and a houseful of really lovely people.  Back to the food:

My chili was #1 (in label only) and the other white chicken chili, which was delicious, was #2 and we were in crock pots.  Above is chili #3 on the right, which had no beans, amazing shredded beef straight off the bone, and was fire engine hot.  Chili #4 and chili #5 are the other pots pictured here, but were delicious as well.  The plot thickened.
Photo taken after second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

Chili #6 is not pictured, and had a secret ingredient of peanut butter.  Yum.  Chili #7 was on the bottom, and had polish sausage in it, and was awesome. Chili #8 is on top, and got my vote for the winner.  It was so damn good.  But it was hard to vote for #8 because ALL of the chili was so damn good.  It was one of those times when you want to keep eating and eating and eating. With sour cream and shredded cheese and little mini corn muffins...

...and coolers of beer!

...and dessert!

The winners were happy (yes, there was a trophy, complete with flames).

The 8th place runners up were happy! 
(You're still a hot dish to me, #8)

It was a perfect fall night.  The bonfire was warm and smelled like fall, and we played bags, which I've never played before (and that was oh so obvious!) and everyone just hung out and talked into the night.  The hosts were terrific, and it made me realize how nice it would be to put a party like this together at my house sometime - just have everyone bring a dish around a theme and some beer.  I'm always so worried about not having enough room in my house, but people WANT to get together, and no one is afraid to sit on other people if the conversation is good.

On Sunday, I slept in again (yahoo!) and got some other things done, and then had my college roommate and her son over for dinner.  I took my cue from the party the night before and made potato soup, chicken tortilla soup, and had leftover white chicken chili and banana bread, and we had a great time.

Good, simple food, a few cold beverages, great fall weather, catching up with good friends and meeting some new ones.  There is no mystery to how to have a good time.  The mystery here, Nancy Drew, is how to get CH's gland expressed.  Because after all that chili, my house smells like The Secret of Where The Dead Animal Is Hidden.

Friday, September 16, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 71

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or people who represent Carolyn Keene's estate who might sue me for trademark infringement, as we are now in Nancy Drew Month on A Day In The Wife.

Today's Book: The Clue in the Crumbling Wall (again)

Oh people.  I have a real treat for you today.

So Current Husband and I have been getting the basement ready for our big remodel down there so we have a place to send the children with their friends and to play instruments.  This will mean an upswing in the sleepovers again, but I'm okay with that.  I'm ready.  Plus, I will get another full bathroom in my house, which will kick butt.

Here is what the basement looked like a few weeks ago:

Now it is worse.  All the walls are down, all the framing is gone, and all of that white drywall on the ceiling is gone.  We are having the whole ceiling painted white with the exposed beams and ducts and everything, so I guess I am going with the IKEA look, but it will look more open and cheerful and whatnot.  Which this basement needs, along with a good scrubbing with bleach after what I found.

PREFACE:  This is from the files of "Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction".  I swear this is all TRUE.  It is somehow fitting that I have a blog with Whoreticulture Friday and this was in my ceiling.  Carry on.

So the kids and I are cleaning up chunks of drywall from the floor, and I see a letter in the rubble. "Oh, an old letter!" I say to the kids.  "This is like 'If These Walls Could Talk' on the History Channel!"  The kids are only mildly interested, because, as evidenced by our "Chicago: City of the Century" experience, they are repulsed by history.  It turns out that this disinterest is a good thing.

The letter is written on a sheet of paper from a company notepad from the late 50's or, more likely, the early 60's.  I say this because it's from US Steel Corp, which closed it's Moline location some time ago, and it says "Call 4-5616" and the phone company stopped using five digit phone numbers in the Sixties.  The letter was folded into a giant postcard of Marilyn Monroe.  This all fits beautifully into Nancy Drew month, because my letter in the ceiling was written during Nancy Drew's time!  Coincidence?  I think not.

Carson Drew was NOT mailing anything like this.
Or was he?

For only 3 cents, you could spread Marilyn Monroe all over.

I think, "How quaint.  It's in a vintage postcard!  I love vintage."  And then I start reading.

I know it's a little hard to read, so here's what it says:
"This WHIP will help you to come and also punish you for willingly screwing another woman.  It gives me pleasure to whip your ASS - now return to your room - don't forget to kiss me goodbye between my legs - return Charles to his room Sheila.
Good morning, Sheila.  Bring Charles to me in garments #2 - garter belt - hose - long gloves - net blouse - earrings - makeup.

Good morning Charles, here are your things to wear - you will look dainty - all right you may rise and dress - you look lovely - I hope she sucks you off today - I would love to suck you too - come let go (??)
Good morning Charles, you look sweet, you may rise - Sheila you hold him from behind by hugging him and don't let him move - I want to suck him - he needs relief - Glub Glub - you respond quickly Charles"
Um.  Glub Glub?  I'm going to vomit now.  Needless to say, I did not share this lesson in historical porn with my kids.  Whose grandparent wrote this?  It was stuck in my basement ceiling!  Here are the emotions I felt while reading this:  Shock, disbelief, slight revulsion, laughter, and then "Oh Dear God there was a sadistic bipolar rapist killer in my house and I need to bleach the whole thing down."

I also thought of The Bloggess and Copernicus the Homicidal Monkey  - "A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished".

The men who read this think it's a woman who wrote it.  The women think it's a man.  My vote is definite man.  The handwriting looks more man-like, women had nice writing back then, and this letter has no emotion, all S&M bipolar multiple-partner role-playing stuff - HELLO!  That's a man.

If Blogger will let you comment, send in your vote - Is the author of this 1960's S&M porn a man, or a woman?  We'll leave it up to the people.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Suprise Puppy Caper

Hello friends!  Thanks for your sweet comments in the past week about me Mum, who is slightly unhappy about breaking her pelvis.

Let me just say that it is very worrisome to find out your parent has broken something major.  It's very odd to see your parent looking vulnerable and scared, and it freaks you out a bit.  Here are some things I learned from this experience:
  1. Have a sibling who is a First Responder.
  2. Don't make jokes in the hospital room, not usually a very receptive audience.
  3. If your father speaks of loading people up with sedatives and a catheter, make sure your doctor knows NOT to release you to his care.
  4. Having an audience to use the bathroom isn't fun for ANYONE.
  5. I'm still allergic to Nebraska.
In The Secret Bungalow Mystery, Nancy finds out that trusty Hannah Gruen twisted her ankle while caring for the Drews' home and personal effects.  Nancy runs home to care for Hannah, which means making her a light lunch of delicious chicken salad on a croissant and mandarin oranges, and excusing her from the day's housekeeping duties.  Nowhere in that book does it mention that Nancy helps Hannah get her pants off or go to the bathroom, because that would be a little uncomfortable in the Mad Men era.

Fortunately, Mom is on the road to recovery.  Youngest Daughter and I both got sick in Nebraska, I think because we are both allergic to Goldenrod, the state flower, and cottonwood trees.  We came home on Sunday night and we brought this:

Meet Shiloh.  She's a 6 month old Labradoodle.
She is Mom's dog, now our foster dog for the month.

Shiloh and YD play.  And Shiloh ate Harry Potter the Lego.

 Shiloh and George the Superpet play. George is a bit fat and out of shape.

The only mystery this week is how long will George the Superpet be able to last.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

The Mystery of the Broken Pelvis

I was so obsessed with YD's ice cream the other day that I didn't even bother to put a Nancy Drew reference up.  Total slacker.  So that post is now "The Case of the Missing Nancy Drew Reference."

I actually thought about our favorite ginger bitch yesterday, because I got a call on my cell phone at work from my sister in Nebraska, who was driving to my mom's house because she got a call on her cell from my dad in Texas, who got a call on his cell phone from my mom, who had just tripped over a dog leash holder in her yard and broke her pelvis. 

Youngest Daughter and I are reading "The Bungalow Mystery", and in it, Nancy and her friend Helen Corning, who is engaged to Jim, were in a small boat when a storm hit and their boat crashed into some rocks and they went in the drink and had to kick off their sensible shoes and swim in their dresses to the shore, and then find help.  I was thinking about how resourceful you needed to be before cell phones.  Instead of blowing up Carson Drew or Mother Figure Housekeeper Hannah Gruen's respective cells, Nancy had to hike around and then break into a bungalow for hot chocolate and blankets and then take Helen Corning home (so she could write a letter to Jim about the incident) and drive home before anyone knew she almost died.  Whoa.

So.  Yesterday.  My mom broke her pelvis and it is extremely painful and of course I am terribly worried about her.  But in my family of origin, you deal with a crisis in one of three ways:
  1. Get into a yelling match with another family member.
  2. Drink heavily.
  3. Make inappropriate jokes.
I usually go with #3, followed by #2, then #1.  Dad usually starts with #2, then #1, then #3. It's unfortunate, but something my family accepts about ourselves.  In the spirit of #3, allow me to recap yesterday's communications with my family.

THE SCENE:  Julie in Iowa, Natalie in Nebraska with Mom, Dad in Texas.  You should know that my parents are married, but occasionally live in different states.  It's for the best, really.

My cell phone rings at work.  I answer.
ME:  Hi!
NATALIE:  Hi.   Mom fell and probably broke something.  I'm driving over there now.
ME:  Did she call you?
NATALIE:  No.  She dragged herself into the house, and called Dad on his cell phone.  Then Dad called me on my cell phone, and then I called 911 and am driving over there now.

ME:  Why did she call Dad first?  He's in Texas!
NATALIE:  I'm not sure.  And I don't exactly know the address out there (it's a cabin on a river in the boonies) so I'm meeting the ambulance to lead them in.
ME:  Well don't call Dad to call Mom to call you to call me when you find out some info.  Call me directly.
NATALIE:  Okay.  911 hung up on me.  I think I made them mad.  Or they know Dad.
ME: Keep me updated.

*call ends*
(I'm guessing they know Dad.)

phone rings 20 minutes later
ME:  Hi.
NATALIE:  Okay, so I walk in the house, and all I see are her tennis shoes and the ends of her jeans on the floor. 
ME:  Oh my God.  Like the witch in The Wizard of Oz under the house?
NATALIE:  Yes.  And then I walk around the corner and she is curled on her side, smoking like crazy.
ME:  How did she get to her cigarettes?
NATALIE:  I'm guessing she dragged herself in the house, got her smokes, then called Dad.
ME:  Because she has priorities.  And she knew she couldn't smoke in the ambulance or the hospital, so she was smoking what was left in the pack as fast as she could?
NATALIE:  Exactly.
ME:  Okay, call me back from the hospital.
*call ends*

I call my Dad.
DAD:  What.
ME:  So what happened?
DAD:  She let out that Goddamned Dog and then tripped over the spike the leash is hooked on.
ME:  So it wasn't actually the dog.
DAD:  I knew that Goddamned Dog would break her hip.
ME:  But it's her pelvis.  And it wasn't the dog.
DAD:  I'm getting rid of that Goddamned Dog.
ME:  What is your plan?
DAD:  I guess I'm going to drive up there and get the Goddamned Dog and bring her back here. 
ME:  I meant regarding Mom.
DAD:  Well, I'm going to see if they can give her as much pain medication as possible, have them put a catheter in her, and put her in the back of the car to drive back to Texas.
*pause while I let this horrible plan sink in*
ME:  Um, Dad, I don't think they will release her with a broken pelvis to take a 20-hour car trip.
DAD:  Plus I will have to have that Goddamed Dog in the car. 
ME:  But I think it will be bad for her to take a 20-hour car trip with a BROKEN PELVIS.
DAD:  Someone has to take care of her, and I can't stay in Omaha for 4 weeks.
ME:  We'll figure something out.
DAD:  That Goddamned Dog.
Dad hangs up.

ME:  Coming on Friday. Will take GD dog back with me.
NATALIE:  I go to Vegas Sat a.m. for work, can't change it. Dad says he's taking GD dog to kennel. He's pissed and told me to shoot her.
ME:  Who?
NATALIE:  The dog, not mom.
ME:  You never know.  Did u know he wants to fill her w/painkillers, catheter, drive her back to TX?
ME:  Mom, not the dog.
NATALIE:  He always has great ideas.  Mom wants him to stay in TX.
ME:  He's probably already to Dallas.  Restraining order?
NATALIE:  Mom would have to file it.
ME:  Shit.

I'm pretty sure Nancy Drew would not have these issues with Carson Drew.  Mom is okay, but in pain.  They can't do surgery or a brace or screws or any of that, we are on the painkillers and patience program.  I am driving to Nebraska on Friday, because I am totally out of vacation at work, and I'm spending the weekend with her to convince her that staying in a Skilled Care Facility for one week does not mean we are having her committed.  I'm calling it "The Elvis Presley Resort and Spa for Pelvis Rehabilitation."    I keep saying, "Mom, if I had a broken pelvis, and someone offered to cook and clean for me in a place where I have the remote and can read books all day, I would totally take it.  Plus, you should take a deck of cards.  You could make a killing over there.  Probably pay for your whole hospital stay."

So far, she is not buying what I'm selling.  Wish me luck!

Monday, September 5, 2011

Freezer Rules

An Open Letter to My Family:

It has come to my attention that we need a remider on Freezer Rules and Fridge Rules.  As the purchaser and main preparer of the food, I now declare myself the Mommy Tse Tung of all things in the refrigerator or freezer.

"Woe to the child who defies the rules of the fridge."

  1. If you open a Gatorade or juice box, it must be finished in one sitting.  There shall be no open containers of dyed drinks in the refrigerator, or one shall wear the consequences.
  2. If there are but three grapes left on the bunch, or three strawberries left in the box, the eater shall eat them and throw away the container.
  3. Do not leave a tablespoon of milk in the container so as to not have to be the one who rinses out the gallon.
  4. Prison rules apply to any ice cream treats left in the freezer.  If one has any leftovers from Dairy Queen, Whitey's, Coldstone, or Maggie Moos, consider it abandoned once it hits the freezer.  At that time, any homesteader may lay claim to the treat.
As I did tonight to your leftover Peanut Butter Galaxy from Maggie Moos, Youngest Daughter.  If Darwin were an ice cream barista, he would totally side with me that after two days in the freezer, this bad boy belongs to me.  And if you ask about your ice cream that you abandoned, I will inform you that I throw away ice cream after two days because it goes bad.  The fact that I throw it away in my stomach does not need to be revealed.

I think this clears up the World According to The Wife.  Please let me know if there are any questions or concerns.


Thursday, September 1, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 70

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or people who represent Carolyn Keene's estate who might sue me for trademark infringement, as we are now in Nancy Drew Month on A Day In The Wife.

 Today's Book:  The Clue in the Crumbling Wall

Seeing Nancy and Bess and George crouching in the bush, next to the metaphorical Crumbling Wall, makes me realize that I'm worried about Kim Kardashian's vagina.

As a matter of fact, I'm worried about a number of Hollywood vaginas that are attached to small women who are married to big dudes.  I don't watch Kardashian shows, or read Kardashian articles, and I care so little about or for her that I didn't buy this:

It takes a lot to get me to pass on this week's People magazine.  But this ridonkulousness?  Did Kim marry Kim?  There are gowns, guests, glamour, and a wedding album...was there a groom?  Does anyone care?  Kim might not be having second thoughts, but her vagina is.

Rudimentary anatomy tells me that his penis is bigger than her head.
Where is he packing that thing? Is she carrying it in her purse? 
With her now-defunct uterus?

Kim and Kris aren't the only ones with this problem.  Just look at the probable penis size and compare it to the corresponding hidey-hole.  Remember Sesame Street?  "Which of these things is not like the other..."

Eva and Tony...she finally said "Back that truck up and
No, you don't get your security deposit back."

Shaq and Shawnie, she got him to quit breaking her backboard.

Will and Jada. 
Still gettin' jiggy wit it, but she is standing awkwardly. 
 Probably because her vagina hurts.

I know that some of you will say "I would be getting all over that bull penis" (you know I'm thinking about YOU, Wall of Pain!), but really?  Would you?  Because I'm thinking I might be smiling in the moment, but then be walking like Yosemite Sam for a week, and be just as pissed.  Or pissing myself.  It depends on how much the wall actually crumbles.

Nancy Drew would be scandalized.  She would consult with her father, Carson Drew, and then have a five course meal with fruit salad in compotes for dessert, and then discuss it with Hannah, the maternal housekeeper for the Drews.  But that would all be for naught, because only Ned could help her crack this case, and then Nancy would know that her walls were crumbling because of Ned's leaning chimney.

Happy Weekend Wifers!  I hope your walls get some crumbling, if you want them to.  I'm personally going to solve The Mystery of The Silent Alarm Clock.