Meth Sister Wives

I've been a bit neglectful of the blog this week because I have been a Meth Sister Wife. This is a lot like regular Sister Wives but without the religion, and plus the methamphetemine, which means you get the work of four Sister Wives from just one monogamous wife. Everyone wins.

NOTE TO THE 17 MANDATORY REPORTERS WHO READ THIS BLOG: I don't actually use meth. I like the concept of meth without the actual addiction and the hair falling out and the teeth rotting, because meth addicts seem to get SO DAMN MUCH done.

Last weekend, Current Husband took The Son to Iowa State for basketball camp. If you'll recall, I stalked Head Coach Fred Hoiberg a few weeks back, and got dimed out by my local newspaper when they printed a picture on the front of the Sports section of me talking to Fred at a casino when I was supposed to be at work, and my boss put the paper on my desk the next morning and said something to the effect of "Have a nice time at the casino yesterday, Julie?" When The Son saw Coach Hoiberg at camp, he said, "My mom was in a sorority with your wife!" and The Mayor said, "Oh, you must be [Insert Name Here]! Tell your mother to quit harrassing me."

Honestly, this would freak some kids out, but not mine. They usually just smile and say, "Okay, I'll tell her" and they understand that this is yet another person who has a restraining order out against their mom.  I should note here that The Son has replaced a picture of his mother with a picture of Coach Hoiberg, and should The Mayor ever decide to overthrow the government, The Son will be his willing minion. 

CH and The Son were gone for two days. CH tries very hard not to leave home without me, because as soon as he pulls out of the driveway, he knows all hell breaks loose. In the days leading up to his departure, I walk around the house and quietly plot my strategy for what major home improvements I've been meaning to make but can't because he's around to stop me. I stockpile supplies in various hidey-holes around the house, and get extra sleep. As soon as he leaves, I am overcome with giddy joy as I break out the paint cans and power tools. Last weekend was no exception.

I started the day by putting in a new flower bed on the East side of the house. Before, it was a bunch of hard packed dirt and a few scraggly weeds, but I bought brick edgers and four bags of mulch, an azalea bush and six perennial plans and went crazy. At about 1 p.m., I broke open a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio, because I was hot, and it was delicious. When the flower bed was installed, I moved the crazy train inside.

We finished our basement over the winter, and I will tell you that it went from being a sexual deviant cellar (we found a pornography letter written in the late 1950's in the ceiling - and let me tell you, it was hardcore) to this lovely, kick-ass family space. There is a full bath down there that we put in, but it stalled a few months ago, and it needed to get finished, so on Sunday and Monday I painted the walls and trim, tiled and grouted the shower, and put in a towel hook thingy and the toilet paper holder and that sort of thing.

Youngest Daughter had a friend over for a sleepover, and at 11 p.m. as the girls were putting in Grease to watch while they went to sleep, her little friend looked at me in the bathroom and said, "Do you ever sleep?" Then YD came into the bathroom and saw my empty bottle of pinot and said, "Mom, did you drink that whole bottle of wine?" I looked at the empty bottle, and immediately lied. "No, of course not. It was in the downstairs fridge already open." But in my mind I was like, "Holy shit, I did polish off an entire bottle of wine. Do I have some kind of problem?" After doing the math, I realized I drank a bottle of wine over 10 hours, so it's not like I was all crockered up, but still. I will say, however, that it was delicious, and paired with the sounds of The Black Keys made grouting over my head much more tolerable.

Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 of Meth Sister Wives, where I build and install a 10 foot window box before CH gets home.

CH, You Were Right

You were right, Current Husband.

Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.

I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right?  Because I just don't see how that's possible."

Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion.  How did this happen?  How did I sink so far?  Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me.  I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't.  I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes?  Right?  Schnell, schnell!  Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!

It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant.  While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.

Poison!  It's poison, I tell you! 

Beautiful, delicious poison.

So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.

CH:  "You didn't."
ME:  "I did."
CH:  "You were so good!  Don't do it!"
ME:  "Oh quit being such a ninny!  I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH:  "Yes it will."
ME:  "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH:  "You're going to hate yourself."
ME:  "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."

And I took a big drink just to show him I could.  He shook his head sadly and walked away.  I was fine.  I conquered this.  I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke.  Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!

Until today.  When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again.  But CH didn't need to know about that.  Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells?  Is that you, George?"

"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."

Grr.  "Yes, it's George."   CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face.  "I told you," he said softly.  But not so softly that I couldn't hear it.  Or that he wouldn't pay.

Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom.  It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".

Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.

CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that!  It's the Diet Coke, you know."  Mother.Effer.  Does he have to rub it in?  So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there.  So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat.  But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. 

"JULIE!  DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"

"Um, no.  George must've done it."

"Seriously?  Must I get blamed for everything? 

There'd better be a treat in this for me."

The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters).  I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers.  It's like you were with me the whole time.  I blame the Coca-Cola company.  Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.

I hate it that he was right.  Mondays.

Orange You Glad Your Walls Are White?

See all of the junk piled up on the left?  That's my next project.  There is a reason for the butt-ass ugly chair to the left as well - that is George the Superpet's chair.  You do NOT mess with George's chair.  I reliquished that to him years ago.  He likes to lay in it and look out the patio door next to it and stare at the feral cats and dream about killing them.  I won't take that away from him.

So very orange.  Just as orange as some of the paint on my Dad's tin ferris wheel.  Yay!  We live in the Fun House!  Now I just need a creepy clown painting on velvet.  Tempting.

You can see the trim I need to paint white now.  I can't take it that there are two different tones.   I think I'm also going to have to build a white mantel/fireplace surround for this room.  CH doesn't really agree, but I know what's coming. It will be something I do when I have other, more important things to get done, and then I will panic and cry because "There just isn't enough time!"  But no.  Not this year.  This is the Shake It Out/Paint it Orange year.  I shall make a margarita and say "C'est La Vie!"

Right?

Just Shake It Out

Holy moly, I just had the most productive weekend ever!  About a year and a half ago now, my people downsized.  Our house is cozy.  Intimate.  Small.  At times stifling, even.  Since we moved in, our plan has been to finish the basement and to make the back room into less of a storage room and more of a library. 

Believe me when I say downsizing is not for sissies.  You have to make some hard choices about what stays and what goes, and when you're going smaller, the what goes column has to be bigger.  Needless to say, I'm still all full of clutter, but I've moved out of pre-Hoarder stage and back into somewhat normal levels.  This weekend, I finally made some headway on the back room, and now it is ORANGE.  I still can't find my Blackberry cord, but I'll take a real picture and post tomorrow.

Hopefully it's a little more on the Butternut Squash side than Creamsicle side, but still.  Now that it's done, I've come to the realization that I'm going to have to paint all the trim white.  Because who doesn't love detail painting?  WHO?

But now I love this room.  Current Husband and I have sat in this room with a drink for a bit the last two nights, and it is lovely and peaceful and warm and inviting.  It's a great feeling to use 48 hours to take something that was unused and drab and turn it into something special - it's that whole cliched New Year's/get organized malarkey.  So, I couldn't just let it be a nice freshly painted room, I had to go and turn it into a metaphor for my life.  Let's DO this.

The past year and a half has been pretty damn strange.  There has been some sadness in moving, having to go back to work full time, someone close to me was diagnosed with a chronic illness, divorces, friends you don't see anymore. But some really wonderful things have happened as well, like finding I love my new little house, that I enjoy being a hooker, that things change but not necessarily for the worse, and meeting new people.  My kids are growing up and doing really fun, wonderful things in their lives right now (I'm going to have a braggy moment here and say The Son is getting a big award at school today that he doesn't know about yet), and I'm loving the people they are turning into.  And CH?  As I've said before, even though there are times I want to hold the pillow over his face until he stops kicking, he's a good egg, and he *gets* me.  That's right...

You complete me.

Now please start taking out the

garbage before I have to tell you.

But what have I focused on in the past 18 months?  The negative.  Because I'm a frigging whiner from hell.  And it's so EASY to let self-doubt creep in.  It brings liquor and comfort food, so I always make room on my couch for it.  But I finally listened to the new Florence + The Machine CD, and there is a song on it that is my anthem for 2012.  It is hard to dance with the devil on your back, so self-doubt and stress?  Take a hike.  If the Mayans are right and this is the end of time, I'm going to live this year with joy.  And if it isn't, then this is the beginning of Seizing the Day.  Self-doubt, you can just F right off.  This is MY year. And I'm going to paint my whole life orange.

Here it is, Flo singing "Shake It Out" for your listening pleasure:

The Asylum is Empty

Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.

A few months ago, Oldest Daughter was told by her cello instructor that she should go to a music camp at a private college in northern Iowa.  After I got over the tuition stroke, I said, "Sure, great" because it all works into my theory that there aren't many pregnant or meth-addled teen cellists.  Then I had a crazy thought.  Current Husband's parents live in northern Iowa.  Perhaps they could be talked into taking the other two children during the same week.  CH and I could have the week ALONE.

By some small miracle, it worked.  This morning, we drove nearly four hours to take OD to her camp.  We checked her into registration, and took her things up to her DORM ROOM, and as we climbed the stairs my throat started constricting and a whisper in my brain started chanting, "Four more years! Four more years!" It didn't help matters that on the drive up I read an article in Parade magazine about teen binge drinking on college campuses, which all parents who want to panic can read here.  http://www.parade.com/health/caregiving/index.html

Then I started thinking about me in college, and I kept thinking, "She's not ready!  She's just a baby!"  But the baby bird pushed the mama bird out of the nest and made me leave her and pray that there is no hanky panky at orchestra camps.

We then drove The Son and Youngest Daughter to CH's mom and stepdad's house, where they will stay until mid-week, and then they will be switched to CH's dad and stepmom's house, where they will stay until we drive back up next Saturday to collect OD.  All of the kids will have a fun-filled week.  I thought I would as well, until I Aunt Flo dropped in a week early this morning, so no Brown Chicken Brown Cow as previously planned.

We got home, and the house is so....quiet.  I can think in complete sentences.  I can eat ice cream without anyone asking for a bite, or better, for me to please get them some.  It's weird.  It's 9:30 p.m. now, and normally I would be on my last nerve trying to get them to finally go to bed, but the only thing I can hear is the dryer running and CH playing Modern Warfare on XBOX 360 without The Son telling him how to play.  Is this what the empty nest holds in store for me?  I'm not completely sure I like it.

But while I'm trying to figure that out, I'm going to cut this blog short and get in bed, early, and try to finish the book Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan.  I highly recommend it so far.

Happy Monday, and have a great week!

I Want To Be A Crappy Housewife

First I'd like to address how craptastic Blogger is - apparently very few people can actually comment on my blog, and I get e-mails all day from people who are like, "What the hell?  I had something really funny to say and I lost it!" and then I'm all "What the hell?  I want to read some funny comments and Blogger ruined it!" and oddly enough I'm tracing the latest issue with commenting back to when I took off the word verification. 

Then I started noticing the ads for the dating sites and Hot Mormons Who Want to Do You, and I realized that I no longer really control my own damn blog.   I notice that some days I have hundreds of page views, and no comments, which doesn't really add up.  If it's any consolation, there are days I can't comment on my own blog.  I'm looking for a new host site, so I can crash the whole thing and start over with just my mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers reading it.

Before we go any farther here, you really need to see this to make sense of it all:



Oh yes.  This is the kind of thing that just makes my day.
Thank God for Norwegian pop-star-wannabes.

There are so many layers of wrong here, but I'm going to tell you Tonje, from watching that video, I'm thinking your only three career options in life right now are:

1)  Badly kept and bitter mistress.
2)  Customer Service Rep
3)  Crappy Housewife

I can see that instead of being a crappy housewife, you prefer to be a crappy lip-syncher.  I particularly love the two douchebags who get out of the Corvette (when is the last time you saw a Corvette in a music video???) in their work boots and stainless steel chains and Fresh Prince hats, they are mouthing something no one can hear, and then give the worst rap ever recorded on You Tube in front of six of their closest friends.

Before you go getting all judgemental, I have news for you Tonje:

Being a crappy housewife is the
BEST. GIG. IN. THE. WORLD. 

Since long sentences are hard for you, let's bullet this one out:

• You don't have to show up at a crappy job.
• You don't have to shower that often.
• Fuzzy bathrobe and rollers, standard.
• Scotch on the rocks for breakfast.
• Dog shit on the floor? Leave it.
• Chicken pot pie is the best you can do.
• People EXPECT you to swear.
• Those dishes might actually wash themselves. 

It's my understanding that the expectation level of a crappy housewife is pretty low, but the rewards are very high.  I'm going to tell you right now that when Breaking Dawn came out, I spent two solid days drinking merlot, ordering pizza and shushing people, and it was among some of the best 48-hour periods of my life.

So Tonje, as your American friend, let me ask you to reconsider.  Being a crappy housewife might be just the ticket.  You are one unplanned pregnancy away from your dream job.

Foreplay in the Cellar

The basement waterproofers are coming tomorrow, and nothing.  I mean NOTHING. keeps the magic alive in your marriage like getting a basement ready for waterproofing.

I saunter down the stairs in my stained yoga pants.  These are the sexy ones that give me camel toe.  I pair that with a t-shirt that is just short enough that whenever I lift my arms, it slides up over my muffin top like a pat of hot dairy butter.  Current Husband is wearing a ripped t-shirt over his fast food physique with a pair of gray sweats.  One of the legs of said sweats is tucked into the top of his tube sock.  We look at each other with that knowing glance that says, "WHAT!?!?"

We begin to work.  The basement is all dank and dusty, probably the same conditions in which 90% of all porn films are made.  We take apart the ping pong table, gazing at each other in that loving way couples do when they've been together for 20 years and have moved all kinds of heavy furniture.  He looks at me as Edward would gaze at Bella, and says, "There's no fucking way this is going up the stairs."   I flutter my eyelids and say, "Turn it upside down, LIKE I TOLD YOU THE FIRST TIME!"  He pushes the base of the table back down the stairs and says, "I hate this piece of shit."  My voice goes up an octave as I exclaim, "Don't break it!"  It's one of those moments when you know you are going to make sweet, sweet basement moving love.

He unhooks the washer and dryer, and yells "Goddammit!" and I rush to his sexy side and I immediately get wet.  Wet because he hasn't turned the water all the way off and there is cold water spraying all over us.  We fight against the surge of passion we are both feeling, and start beating the faucet mercilessly, likely picturing the others' face on the knob as we hit it over and over and over again.  Finally, the water stops, just before we decide to make another baby.  Thank GOD the water stopped.

We lovingly speak to the children, saying things like, "Where do you think YOU'RE going?  This isn't done yet!" and "That's enough attitude young lady!" and "Is the ironing board going to walk itself upstairs?"  We form a joyous line of family love, marching back and forth to the garage, carrying our treasures, like a broken Kinectx set, a broken Nerf gun, an old Sega Genesis, Christmas decorations, and meaningful future family heirloom metal shelving units.

George the Superpet, never one to be left out, has apparently vomited up a lump of grass on the rug.  Of course, there is only one rug in a basement that is otherwise tiled, but the rug seemed like the obvious place to puke.  I'm sure he stood in the basement for five solid minutes, dry heaving and working that bale of grass up, and said to himself (in dog language) "The rug.  It's clearly the optimum puking spot down here."  I clean the puke, thinking warm thoughts about George, and how lucky I am to own this particular 106 pound omnivore.

CH asks me to help him move the refrigerator, but what he is really saying is, "Our love is so powerful that it moves appliances."  We move it, like we move mountains together, and CH stops and yells, "I love you!" No, wait.  He actually yells, "Swing it out to the left, you're hitting the ductwork!  Your OTHER left!" and I stop and gesture to him my appreciation of his directing me.

We look at each other with a sheen of sweat on our foreheads, panting slightly.  Oh yes.  This is what Golden Anniversaries are made of.  Meet me upstairs in the bedroom, my Prince.  I'll be taking an Aleve and figuring how to hold the pillow over your face until you quit kicking.

And then I shall play ping pong.

He said, she said

Current Husband and I have set roles in our household:

CH
TV systems, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Cell phones, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Investing, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Computer systems, usually consisting of...you get the idea.
Directing of yard work.

Bringing in the bulk of our income.
Making suggestive comments about sex, usually in a hopeful tone.

Julie
Everything else.
Instigating the actual sex.

I will say that since I got The Full Time Job Which I Can't Blog About, CH has really stepped up to the plate, and he now gets the younger kids ready for school in the morning, and he is in charge of driving The Son to his 5x a week tackle football practices and his flag football games, while I drive Youngest and Oldest Daughters to their music/dance lessons.  Of course, we no longer have Family Dinner because of said activities, which makes me very sad.  I have always been a big proponent of the Family Dinner.  So how do you say, "I'm sorry kids, you have to give up cello and a potential scholarship so I can see you fight at the table"?


Anyhoo, CH and I had to call in a plumber last week for an emergency leak under the sink, which seems to have happened after our home inspection, and YET, the floor in front of the kitchen sink is somewhat soft even though the plumber, who was awesome, stopped said leak.  Seems like perhaps it would take a long time for a subfloor to become soggy, but what do I know.  Then yesterday, we had an electrician come in because we can't run the vacuum cleaner the same time the air conditioning, or perhaps a toaster, is running, so we had to replace the junction box.  Cha-friggin-ching.  And?  I couldn't do laundry because the dryer had a European outlet.  That's right.  I bought a house in Iowa which accommodates European appliances.  We are THAT classy.  I can hear the sound of laundry drying right now, so it was worth the grand we dropped on it.  As a matter of fact, we have so much money that I am drying about $10,000 in fives in my American dryer plugged into a North American outlet right now.


CH held down the fort while the bunk bed installers came into the house (far and away the best $50 I've spent), so now my son can be disoriented and fall from six feet in the air at night when he needs to use the bathroom, but at least The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About has benefits.  


Now we need phone jacks installed, because this house apparently has two, and one of them is under the phone nook that is Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's new bedroom.  (My Dad, while moving things into my house, said, and I quote, "That fucking rodent had better not be here the next time I visit, or I'm getting a hotel."  He's not a fan of my taxidermied pet.  Todd shall have his revenge.  Oh yes, yes he will. BWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!)  CH has handled all of the other technical stuff in the new house, so I suggested he call the phone people, because CH is...how do I say...completely anal retentive when it comes to his service providers.  Which we change every few years because no one ever really does it up to his standards.  Here is the conversation:


ME:  "Are you calling the phone company or do you want me to do it?" 
translation: 'when are you calling the phone company?'
CH:  "You can call them, they should come this week."
translation: 'you can call them, they should come this week.'
ME:  "Uh, that's fine, I'll call, but you are never happy with it when I do it."
translation:  'I can't believe you are making me do this. It is SO not fine.'
CH:  "What are you talking about?  That never happens!"
translation:  'I am the easiest person to please on the planet. Let's have sex.'
ME:  "You are NEVER happy with any service I schedule.  Something always goes wrong."
translation:  'I am not responsible for what will inevitably go wrong, and I will buy art if you get angry with me in any way.'
CH:  "That is so not true."
translation:  'that is so not true.'
ME:  "We'll see."
translation:  'asshole.'


So this morning I am at The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, and I decide to call Qwest and get it over with.  I call the toll-free number, and after five different numeric commands, I am in Hold Hell.  I was on hold for SEVENTEEN MINUTES, no kidding, and the entire time I had to listen to over-enthusiastic jazz with an over-enthusiastic announcer telling me all of the super Qwest deals I have the opportunity to pay them for, and how much they value me as a customer, and how a representative will be with me soon.  If I could have reached out and touched Joe Voice-Over, he would be Soprano Joe.  Darien came on the line, and asked if he could help me, and I said, "Darien, I know you don't control the hold music, but it's really awful and I want to kill someone."  Darien said, without missing a beat, "I have to listen to that hold recording about 10 times a day, and it makes me want to hurt someone too."   Whoa.  I was dealing with a professional here.  Darien and I were going to get along just fine.

He took my order for two additional phone jacks in the house, and while he was scheduling the service he told me about his five kids, one of whom just bought a car in Korea, and how he loves Dancing With The Stars.  I don't, but Darien I could just sop up with a biscuit he was so sweet.  As Darien is giving me my confirmation number for my service order, a message from CH pops up on my computer screen.
"Call me before you call Qwest."  

Too late, M-F'er.  I have a confirmation number.  Unbelievable.  I call CH.

"Well, such and such just told me he can do it and it will be cheaper, but he can't come over until Thursday, so maybe you can get Qwest to delay the service until we find out for sure that this guy can do it....."

I stopped listening at "Well," and started thinking about the rooster painting I really want at Five Star Salon Spa.  Momma's getting some art.  Thank you, Darien.  It was a pleasure.

Heavy Bunkbeds and Lukewarm Showers

I have an announcement - I'm still slacking.

Today was Current Husband's birthday, so we started with donuts and ended with margaritas, with a tackle football game in the middle (The Son's, not us).  I had two freelance projects due tonight, and we spent a large part of the evening looking for the bill holder.  You know, the one thing that while you're moving you say, "We can't lose this, bills are due next week!"  We spent much of the weekend looking for this 8 1/2 x 11 plexiglass object, stuffed with bills, but alas, we cannot pay.  

In the middle of the day, we decided to unload The Son's new bunkbed.  We paid to have it assembled, and felt like we were being extraordinarily clever, but the store made it clear that the bed wouldn't be assembled until it was in the house.  CH and I unloaded the huge 5' x 8' box, and it became clear that my Little Engine blew a gasket and lost a wheel.  OH HELL NO is what my engine was saying, followed by SON-OF-A-BITCHIN' THING and then (*&$#)*&$&@)&@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We tried to push it across the grass, and in the process we plowed a nice furrow in the yard.  On the plus side, the front yard looks more like a Grant Wood painting than it did.  

Our neighbor across the street, husband half of the cat feeding team named, I kid you not, Darryl, was mowing, and he actually stopped his mower to watch us try to manipulate the box across the yard.  Already, we are entertaining the neighbors.  Later, I started fantasizing that the neighborhood is really evil, and maybe the current residents are all possessed and throwing hexes at us, like "Make the box 100 pounds heavier" and "Sic the feral cat pack on their children" or "Start the dripping in the pipes under the sink".

Tonight's curse was on the water heater.  I got in the shower at 10:10 p.m. to take a lovely hot shower before I blogged and got in my warm bed, and instead, my shower never got above the "tepid" mark on the heat index.  I didn't even bother to shave my legs, because they were covered in goosebumps and I would've cut the heck out of them.  I am currently standing at our computer in the kitchen (my laptop is still out of commission from the Vanilla Ice virus), surrounded by cords because we can't find more than two phone jacks in the house to hook up the computer, in my towel and robe, hoping the electric doesn't get shut off from non-payment, shivering, and praying the Prilosec I took an hour ago helps keep me from guppy puking my margarita all night long. Again, I am bringing sexy back.  

Happy Birthday, CH.  You are clearly one lucky man.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 43

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. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Pussy Galore


So I've been bitching a lot about the move, and in particular, about the pack of feral cats roaming the hood.  Lest you think I'm exaggerating, I'm posting pictures, so you doubters can just stick that in your litter box and scoop it.

  Where's Waldo?  He was eaten by one of the 

eight cats in this picture, taken of my neighbor's patio.

Another pic of neighbor patio - there are 11 cats in this photo, 

and one statue of a rabbit, all nestled in the fake spring 

flowers.  Mind you, my neighbor does not 

OWN a cat, but feeds 20 a day. 

 Youngest Daughter looks at the three cats under my van, 

while George the Superpet thinks, "Will I eat it under the van?  

Can I eat it from a can?  I would not, should not eat the cat, 

but will anyway, Dog I Am"

"But Julie, What does all of this have to do with Whoreticulture Friday?" you might ask.  I'm glad you brought that up.  

  Most cats.

 My cats.  

Most cats sing, "Memory."

My cats sing, "Me So Horny."

My cats are whores.  While most cats will meow, mine are Bangkok prostitutes in cat suits rubbing up against my van purring, "Me love you long time!"  Apparently it started when one non-neutered male cat moved into the neighborhood with a family who believes their un-neutered pets should run free.  Then two other neighbors with non-spayed female cats, also the freedom types, met Puff Kitty, and they had two litters of non-fixed cats, who inbred with each other, and so on, and so on, and so on....

One of my neighbors, who is a lovely sweet woman with a minor QVC problem, told me that she has given away over 60 kittens in the last year.  You heard me.  SIXTY. KITTENS.  The woman across the street, while shooting dirty looks at the neighbor's house who brought in the male, tells me that she feeds them because she can't let them starve, but that she is going to start trapping them to send to the pound because she can't afford to feed 20 cats a day.  That's right.  It's open season on pussy in my hood.  And this is why I'm going back on the pill.  Because I am starting to worry that I will end up pregnant and drop a litter of tabbies.

So there you have it.  My house was full of beagle hair, but my neighborhood is full of Pussy Galore.  And it's forcing me to down my martinis shaken, not stirred.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

I'm Almost Back...

Hi People!

Long time no see!  It's been a completely hellish week or so, complete with non-sexual hip bruises, a bedspring that won't fit up a stairwell, two dozen feral cats, six bales of Beagle fur, and an emergency plumbing problem.  George the Superpet is panic-stricken and confused, and we've eaten so much Taco Bell that we don't even like it anymore.  And THAT, my friends, is something I thought I'd never say.  I haven't been drinking much because I can't find my liquor, and while I've never had a Xanax, this seems like the time to start.  People at work, thinking I'm tired, are commenting on the dark circles under my eyes, which are actually just there because it's how I look.  It's akin to saying, "Wow, you are just not attractive."  But they mean well, and I'm taking it as a hint to use more foundation.  When I find it.

So it's late and I have to move the boxes off of my bed, and we still haven't found the alarm clock, so I'm going to try to sleep.  Last night I had a dream that I was with a friend from college (hi Sue!) and her military hubby was really happy and everyone talked about how nurturing she is, and I was in charge of a bunch of guys who have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and they were all cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.  Then I dreamed that CH asked me for a divorce, and I couldn't tell in the dream if I was upset about it or not.  My attitude was sort of like, "Take a number, buddy, nobody is happy with me right now."

And I can't blog about my job.

I hope all has been well in the Life of the Wifers, and I have missed you all.  I have a project to finish tomorrow night, but I will have something for Whoreticulture Friday.  George and Todd say hi, and winners of the Bloggyversary prizes?  I'll send your stuff as soon as I find it.

Love and inappropriate personal space invasion,