Friday, March 29, 2013

The Scale Hates Me, I just know It

It is that time of the morning when I desperately want to go back to bed.  To grab the dog and forcibly snuggle him and wake up at 10:30 even more tired than I am right now.  Lately, I've been indulging in this pass time a little too often.  In fact, its become a real option, like when I get up I say to myself, "well, this is a morning I'm going back to bed." or even the night before I'm all, "Stayed up to watch the Daily Show, should probably go back to bed tomorrow."

I have a lot to do today, though.  I'm going to struggle through.  My eyes want to close, and I could probably still find a warm spot on my bed somewhere, and the house is quiet and all the stars are in alignment, but NO!  I will stay upright!  I will get dressed!  I will do dishes and put away laundry and make the magnetic bed! I will drop the bags off at Goodwill and the expired animal medications off at the vet, and I will pay the Visa bill!

Here's the other reason I want to go back to bed.  I'm supposed to weigh myself this morning, and I reallyreallyreally don't want to.  I had Kentucky Fried Chicken last night.  This is only the third time in my life that I have had KFC, and it really should be the last.  I had one of their bowls.  And a churro.  The churro was sinfully delicious and I wont be able to stop thinking about it all day, but the bowl was regrettable.  I'm afraid to see what the scale says.  If it could talk it would say, "Tsk tsk tsk.  STAY AWAY FROM THE EASTER CANDY, YOU WHORE!"

Have a good weekend everybody!  I hope your weigh in is motivating, and your Visa bill is paid, and you have bounded out of bed today full of vigor and hope and energy! If this is the case, I will try not to hate on you.


The scale does indeed hate me.  I am slogging through this day, and its not getting any better.  I still want to go back to bed, but I've made the bed now, so I'd have to make it twice today if I get back in there.  Why is this house such a mess all the time?

Wednesday, March 27, 2013


I just busted into the Easter candy.  Its like Halloween, but in spring.  The blitz is not going well lately.  I've lost momentum.  I haven't walked in weeks, much to my dog's dismay, and I feel stalled.

Candy is so damn good, too.  When Rob and I went away for his birthday, we went to one of those bulk candy stores where you walk out having spent $20 on candy before you can even think about it.  I got my favorites: Banana salt water taffy (I don't actually like bananas, but I like banana flavored things) and peppermint salt water taffy, salted caramel and fun dip.  The next day I got my crown, and now I can't eat any of those taffies or caramels and I feel like I've been robbed.  It'll be a good two weeks before I can eat them.  I was hoping to be able to just eat them all so they would be gone, but they're just staring at me.

And now there's Easter candy.  I always forget that I only have one kid and I buy so much Easter candy and don't realize it until I'm filling all those plastic eggs.  And I'm the only one who fills them, and now that Leila goes to bed later, I'll probably be sitting up at 11 on Saturday night filling plastic eggs with all this shit, and then getting up at 5 and hiding them all in the back yard, and then stealing them out of Leila's Easter basket because she doesn't get overly excited about candy since there seems to be candy around this place all the time.

Candy.  My nemesis.  Also cake.  And hamburgers.  Help!

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Dream a Little Dream

Its after midnight as I write this and I'm not in the mood to sleep.  Which is not to say that I'm not sleepy, I'm yawning and everything, but its quiet and dark and I'm a little keyed up.

Its Oprah's fault.  After all televisions being tuned to basketball all weekend, I settled in to watch some OWN.  She interviewed the Facebook COO lady, Justice Sotomayor, Beyonce, and Stevie Nicks.  Not all together, although that would be very entertaining.  Then I went to bed and read some more stuff in my Oprah magazine, and now I'm all pumped up on Oprah.

Problem is, all these interviews and articles are meant to be empowering, and motivating, and, honestly, all they make me feel is, "I am such a little chicken shit."

They leave me confused about what I'm supposed to do.  Two of the women interviewed threw themselves into work, and wrote books, and the other two also threw themselves into work, but all the while pursuing their artistic imperatives.  I spend an awful lot of time watching TV and talking to my dog.  I would go out and start being my best self tomorrow, but I have to go to the post office, and we're out of bread and cat litter.

I like my life.  I like it a lot, TV and all, but I wonder if one day I'll look back and gawk at all the time I've wasted.  Or maybe all this wasted time will culminate in something amazing.  Maybe I'm just biding my time waiting around for my a-ha moment and after that, things will really get rolling.  We're not all going to be supreme court justices, or run internet companies, or be rock stars (although I think I still have a shot at that last one, what with the bangs) but what kind of dreams do you dream when you're 42 and you haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up?  I dream that there will be a block of really good decorating shows on my DVR tomorrow when I get home.  I dream that I will have an inspiration about what to make for dinner, and I will bliss out cooking it while listening to music.  I dream that my cat will go a day without puking on my rug.  I dream that I make it through the day without consuming more than my allotment of 1533 calories.  That I will have remembered to put a coke in the fridge before I'm ready to drink a cold one.  That the prices on round trips from Seattle come down this week.  I dream that, some day, I will get a new garage door, and find the right rug for my bedroom.  I dream that my foot will get better and that I'll be able to wear high heels again.  Is that enough?  The women in these interviews said to "aim high" and that they were proof that you could make your dreams come true.  What if your dreams are little instead of big? 

My mom dreamed of seeing the world and she did.  Right now, I am dreaming of seeing the inside of my eyelids, and of getting my permanent crown so I can stop clenching my teeth.  That's enough, right?

Monday, March 25, 2013

I Got Banged

I may have mentioned a few weeks ago, in my post about the baby chicks, that I got bangs.  Not banged, you Ukrainian perv, bangs.  I had been thinking I needed to do something new with my hair having worn it the same way, more or less, for fifteen years, and then I saw this movie called Side Effects with Roony Mara, and at the end my friend asked me, "So, what'd you think?" and I said, "I think I should get bangs."  See, Roony Mara, who is so watchable its a little unsettling, had bangs in this movie and they were all I could think about.  Her hair-do wasn't particularly stylish or anything, but there was just something about it.

I made the mistake of asking my husband, my daughter, and my mom if they thought I should get bangs.  They all said no way.  The only person that seemed in favor of it was the woman who cuts my hair, and she is very stylish and relevant, and she said she thought it was a great idea.  This also happens to be the same woman with the baby chickens.  After we took care of the baby chicks and set them off on their journey to become food, we talked about the possibility of me getting bangs, and I showed her movie stills of Roony Mara, and she was all, "How about now?"

I washed my hair in her kitchen sink, and then she lopped off the hair in front of my face.  She asked if I could feel it yet, that I had bangs, and I couldn't.  So she kept shaping, and cutting, and layering, snipping around my head like she always does when she cuts my hair, and suddenly I looked in the mirror and - whoa - I had bangs, man.

I know this seems like I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill here, but these bangs have been a freakin' revelation.

I went to a school fundraiser the other night, mostly attended by women and some uncomfortable men, and my bangs were the talk of the night.  (Well, except for by the 98% of attendees who don't know me, or give two shits about my hair.)  Every person I talked to went nuts over my bangs.  I finally found my friend, White Pants, and tales of my bangs had made their way to her and she commented on them before she even got a good look at them; like, "Everyone is talking about your bangs!"

What an ego boost!  Seems I can't leave the house without talking about my bangs! 

If you look around, I would say that roughly 40% of all the women you look at have bangs.  Its not, like, a big deal, and if you're reading this and you have bangs, you probably think I'm nuts.  But I now believe I was meant to have bangs, and it just took me this long to get here.

Of course, my bangs have a mind of their own.  One part really wants to go sideways instead of down, and if I don't blowdry them right away they look very Flock-of-Seaguls.  When my hair is wet from the shower I look like The Fonze, and sometimes, even after the most aggressive of blowdries, they feather backwards like the 80s.  I call them my Carly Rae Jepsen bangs, and Rob hates this.  Michelle Obama bangs isn't the correct title either, so we'll just call them my mid-life, rock'n roll bangs.

Stay tuned a year from now when I start writing about what a pain in the ass it is to grow out bangs...

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Was the Repairman Cute at Least?

I just looked at my stats for this blog and saw that my readership was way up.  Then, I dug a little deeper, and, as suspected, at least half of my "readership" is from Russia, Ukraine, Latvia and India, and the entry sites are porn sites.  Awesome.  Then I looked at the search terms for this blog, and most of them were just Bored Housewife, so I have no one to blame but myself for giving this place a porno name.  There was one search term that was "Bored Housewife fuck repairman" which was a little more creative, and there was also "Ass cheese" but, to be fair, I have written a post with those exact words. 

So, Hello, former soviets!  I'm not a porn site!  As you've probably already noticed!  I'm definitely not posting pics of my kid anymore, either. 

Also, I have heard that some people are having trouble leaving comments.  If you are one of those people, leave me a comment.  Ha Ha.  Or, go onto my facebook fan page and let me know.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

The Queen is Crowned

I had to get a crown on my molar the other day.  I've been dreading this since my dentist told me I would need a crown, like, two years ago.  It ruined my Sunday, knowing that I'd have to have two hours of dental work.  It still makes me make a disgusted face, even though its over now. 

Luckily, because my dentist does not want to get beat up by me again, he prescribed me xanax before my appointment.  He also has noise cancelling headphones, and he encouraged me to bring my iPod and listen to whatever I wanted.  I love him.  It doesn't hurt that he's cute as a button, but its mostly the prescription drugs.

I wore my comfy yoga pants, I made a special playlist called "Crown" and I took my little pills and into the chamber of horrors I went.  I sat on my hands while he gave me the Novocaine shots, and that was the worst part.  I listened to my music, I turned it up when the drilling got loud, and was high as a kite. 

My mom picked me up and drove me home, and I got into bed and slept for four hours.  It was glorious. 

I have this temporary plastic crown now, and the permanent one wont come for three weeks.  I don't know if I'm going to have to take xanax again when they put the permanent one on, but I'm already getting the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.  My jaw is a little bit sore, and that's not that big a deal, but I bit down on the crown yesterday, and it was soft food, and it hurt.  Is this normal?  Should I call my dentist and tell him my molar hurts?  I'm going on vacation in in two weeks, before my permanent crown, and I'm scared to be away from my cute, understanding, drug-precscribing dentist. 


Monday, March 18, 2013

More Birds

Today is Rob's 44th birthday.  He's getting old.  Only has half the amount of hair he did when I met him, has wrinkles, and his butt is getting awfully flat.  His jeans look like Dad Jeans, but its all because of his pancake ass.  I'd say its time to trade him in for a younger model, but few are the women who can pull that off, and, let's face it, I'm no Jennifer Lopez.

Last week I went to an art gallery in San Francisco with a friend.  We've decided that we are both  bored and uninspired, so we are going to try to do something we've never done before, like go to a new neighborhood, or galleries, or museums, once a week.  We hope it will be once a week, but who the hell knows.  So, last week was our first outing and it was totally successful.  She read about this gallery that was having an exhibition called "For the Birds" and as I am becoming a crazy bird lady, I was totally excited.  It was a small gallery with different interpretations of birds, and in the back of the gallery was a large two-level studio, bright and sunny, covered with artwork of all kinds, and full of artists hard at work.  The twist is that all these artists are developmentally disabled.  Most were very concentrated on their work, some said "Hi!" with great enthusiasm, and one, named Loren, was very proud to show us his work that was up on the wall. 

There was a small painting in the main gallery that I fell in love with, of a bird, of course.  I was debating buying it, and then I remembered Rob's birthday!  He doesn't need another sweater or whatever, what he really needs is more bird art.  So I bought the painting, and in the process we met the director of the program and then the artist himself, Henry.  Henry had no teeth, but had somehow just eaten fritos.  He was very old, and pretty disabled, and was far more concerned with how he was going to get his cut of the sale then the fact that someone had bought his painting.  But I love that the painting has a story, and I'll remember Henry, and I will absolutely go back to that gallery for their next exhibit. 

Then!  We went across town to a thrift store that sells only old kitchen items.  I didn't buy anything, but I loved the store.  Afterwards we wanted to have lunch, so we went to the first restaurant that looked decent.  Perusing the menu, we realized it was vegan.  Since it was Adventure Day, we decided to try a vegan lunch. I had a baked falafel.  It was very good, but I couldn't be a vegan.  I would just spend far too much time feeling unsatisfied. 

So, the first Adventure Day was a success on many levels, but as I write this I realize it was not successful on a funny level.  Sorry.  I'll try to do something funnier or make a fool of myself next time.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Sleep, little Face-Eater, Sleep...

I'm still having sleep issues, so the other night I decided to try some soothing sleep sounds.  Rob was already asleep since his head had hit the pillow one minute earlier, but I used my phone to find an app that would put me to sleep.  (I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but it eludes me.) I filtered through the apps that said they had soothing sounds; one just plain didn't work, which was annoying.  Another was for babies and had lullabies and the only nature sounds it had were jungle birds and junk like that, but the last one seemed to have the ocean sounds that I was looking for. 

I set it to run for a half hour, and turned it on.  It did not work.  I listened to these ocean sounds for the whole half hour, forcing myself to give it a chance, and I was still awake when it turned itself off. 

I kept hearing freeway sounds.  If you are ever in a hotel unfortunately situated next to a freeway, think of the car sounds as the ocean: they sound exactly the same.  But in this case, there was this bumpy sound along with the waves, and all I could think was that someone was standing under a freeway bridge and cars tires were thunk-thunking over the seams in the cement.  Then I started to think about that bridge in Florida where that guy ate that other guy's face.  Then I started to wonder whether the sounds I was listening to were an actual recording of the ocean, or whether someone had just created them on a Casio.  Then I wondered, if it was an actual body of water, was it the same body of water that was under the bridge in Florida? Then I started wondering, what if it was recorded at the same time that guy's face was being eaten?  And I started waiting for the sounds of screaming or sirens.  They never came. They were probably edited out before the app was released. 

Needless to say, this was not at all soothing, and I have since deleted the app.  I didn't need to listen to the crickets or the birds or the waterfall to know that this was not going to work for me.  So instead, I just lay there, waiting for sleep.  Sometimes it comes, sometimes it takes its damned time, but either way I still want to stay in bed in the morning.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


So I'm all better now.  I had strep throat and was in bed for four days.  I took my temperature every five minutes, and I drank sips of cool water, and I watched Say Yes to the Dress about a dozen times.  Now I'm on antibiotics and trying to stave off the accompanying yeast infection.  Rob and I are going away overnight for a romantic get away, and I'm afraid the fact that its period week, and I have a yeast infection might get in the way of the sexy time.  Oh well.  At least there will be wine. 

I did weigh myself during my sick time, and I have lost 11 lbs.  This should thrill me, but sick weight is inherently faulty since it will come back.  To win the blitz, I have to keep the weight off for two weeks and only then I can be declared victorious.  I can feel the difference in my clothes, and I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and was shocked at the difference. 

I'm still a lardass, though, no question.  I have a long way to go.  But I'm going to eat deliciously during my evening away, and on the way home I'm stopping at Red Lobster for lunch and I don't care who knows it.  Cheddar biscuits, here I come!

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Chicks, Man.

Recently I went to a friend's house who lives a few towns over.  A few towns over is like another universe when you live in a place where everyone seems to know everyone, and you cannot go get a gallon of milk at the supermarket without running in to three people that you know.  I needed to get away from this for a day, so I hit up a friend who shops at a completely different supermarket.

She lives on this pseudo farm, where vegetables are grown, and chickens lay eggs, and there's a cranky pig, and a couple of goats named Fern and Francine.  In addition to laying hens, they also raise chickens for slaughter, and they do their own slaughtering.  I know.

My friend and I were supposed to go on a walk, but she got a call that the chicks were in.  This meant that a box of two day-old chicks was waiting at the local post office.  They are put in a box in Iowa soon after they hatch and are shipped VIA MAIL across the country.  They can survive in this box with no food or water for three days, but you can't just let them hang around a post office while you take a walk, so we scratched our walk and drove into town to pick up the chicks. 

I got to hold them on my lap in the car.  25 little chicks, peeping and crawling all over each other.  When we got back to the farm, our job was to take them one by one out of the box, teach them to drink by putting their little beaks in the water and making sure they make swallowing signals, and then let them explore their new environment.  There was a heat lamp, but they all snuggled in a sunbeam on one side of their enclosure.  They're pretty irresistible, and it was so nice to pick one up and snuggle it under my chin and give it little kisses. 

They shat in my hand, and I didn't care.  Little sweet chicks. 
Chick shit.

In four months or so, my sweet little babies will be taken to an upside down traffic cone where their heads will be chopped off.  Makes you want some nuggets, doesn't it?

The babies have grown!
Then we went inside and my friend cut my hair and gave me bangs.  But that's a whole other thing. 

Thursday, March 7, 2013


I'm still sick.  Fever, sweating, and the throat is still on fire.  I'm going to go back to bed now.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013


I'm sick in bed.  My throat is raging, and I'm tired.  Its 3 p.m. and I'm in bed in my pjs, which would be awesome if I felt better.  And you know what?  I really love having animals when I'm sick, because they keep me company, and they don't care if I stay in bed all day, and they don't care if I'm smelly and gross, they just snuggle with me and look at me lovingly.  But: they are total bed hogs.  I'm in a queen sized bed, and I have maybe 16 inches of space on one side of the bed while they are curled up against my leg, and the rest of the bed is empty.  If I get up, they scooch over to the warm spot that my butt left, and then I have to move them over, making my hands like a spatula, and they look at me from their sleep like, "hey.  what?  oh."  And I try to move them way over so I can have some room, but they just migrate back over next to my legs again.  Its MY BED, you animals!

My cat (pictured below) has a cold, too.  Maybe he got me sick.  Is it possible to catch a cold from a cat?  And you know what else?  My dog (whose butt is pictured below) hasn't been out all day.  I love this kind of dog.  Eventually, he has to pee, right?  I mean, I assume my bladder is bigger, and I've peed three times today. 

And you know what else?  There's nothing on TV.  Nothing.  All that's on the DVR is all the Disney garbage that Leila records.  She's clogging up the whole thing with Shake it Up and Austin and Ally.  Lame. 

Orange cat with a cold, and my dog's butt
So, to recap: throat on fire, no room in the bed, dog butt, TV wasteland.  The End.