Diary of a SubUrban Housewife

Please Sir, I Want Some More

While Zoe happily played with the animals last night I checked over her homework. I discovered she had a couple of errors and had missed answering a question on her sheet of math. She was called into the diningroom to do what would have amounted to five minutes of work. Up to this point she'd been laughing, playing, happy, and otherwise a joy to be around. The moment her ass hit the diningroom chair the tears started.

I'm done with the "for no reason whatsoever" tears. She claimed she'd banged her arm on the way to the table and was in dire pain. I had been there the entire time and had some injury befallen her worthy of such copious tears I would have noticed. Not to mention the fact that this is the same kid who has done major face plants and other falls and gotten up, brushed herself off, and pronounced herself just fine.

For the crocodile tears and other assorted drama we had a talk about The Boy Who Cried Wolf. She then tearfully assured me that she was not lying. I then sternly sent her to her room, where she could remain until she was finished with the crying.

I then proceeded to putter in the kitchen.

A few minutes later she is out of her room. I ask her what she's doing out of her room. She then informs me of two things:

1. She's finished crying; and

2. She's got to pack.

Pack? OK, I'll bite. I ask her what she's packing for. As serious as a heart attack she informed me that she's moving to an orphanage.

Do you know how hard it was not to laugh?

It Sucks to Be Me.

It's 3:40 on a Thursday afternoon. I left for lunch at 11:45 this morning and returned to the office a scant 40 minutes ago. I had lunch with my carpet vendor and project manager on the build-out I'm working on. Three ladies doing lunch.

Lunch involved cocktails. Not a lot of cocktails, but it doesn't take a lot to make me toasted--particularly mid-day. And toasted means one other thing--horny.

So i'm at the office. It's 3:40. I'm drunk. I'm horny. My husband is in fucking Arksansas.

It sucks to be me right now.

Boob-A-Thon

I am pleased and proud to announce that I am in a participant in the 2003 Blogger Boobie Thon, with proceeds going to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.

Go and have a look. Enjoy yourself.

And while you're at it, make a donation to this very worthwhile cause. Breast cancer has touched the life of nearly every person I know, in one way or another. Make a difference; I'm hoping my boobs will.

And I'll gladly share mine with you if they can help to spare someone elses.

P.S. Go here and click to help give free mammograms.

I'm One Too

Please go have a look at my breasts at the 2003 Blogger Boobie Thon. If you think you know which lovely pair are mine, feel free to drop me a line. I'll let you know if you're right.

But then go read this. This is me too. Go Sara.

Monday's Regular Feature

Coat:: Pea
Allowance:: reponsibilities
Mist:: Foam
Disorder:: ly Conduct
Scheme:: Plan
Dick:: Wad
Homework:: arg
Milton:: Byron
Shampoo:: rinse, repeat
Z:: Z Top

And, as always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.

My Boyfriend's Back

My husband sent me this little tidbit. Lovely news to start the day with.

New motivation for my stalking efforts?

Civic Duty

Well we Atkins' performed our Civic Duty tonight and voted in the stupidest election we Californian's have come up with yet. To sum up my general feeling about this whole recall thing: I think it's stupid.

I don't think we on the left coast need to do much more for the rest of the country to think we're totally psycho. Voting in Ahhnold, The Govenator, might very well be the last straw. I will have to hang my head in shame if (I dare say when) this comes to pass.

While doing my civic duty (at what could only be described as the most disorganized voting place in the entire world), I took the opportunity to do a little informal survey.

We still use punchcards here (with the infamous chads) and I looked at the little punch holes in the ballot. Based on the highly scientific "Where There Were the Most Scratch Marks on the Ballot Method (WTWTMSMONBM)" at the polling place I went to, it seemed that more people voted against the recall, and Ahhnold and Bustamante are tied in their bid to rule the world, oops, I mean the state. I had Chuck check out his ballot and he came up with the same results. (Mercifully, there didn't seem to be a lot of votes for Gary Coleman.)

My highly scientific WTWTMSMONBM has an error margin of only about 85%, so we'll see how I did tomorrow. Film at eleven.

Oh Canada

OK, the results are basically in. The Govenator. Oy.

I'm so moving to Canada. Tomorrow.

An Eye Full

Much to the chagrin of my husband I have a tendency to walk around the house naked. If not totally naked, then in various states of undress. This is particularly the case when I'm in the process of getting dressed.

You see, the washer/dryer and place where I hang things to air dry is on one side of the house, my bedroom on the opposite. So, if I need to go get a freshly washed bra, or a t-shirt or sweater that I've hung to dry, I sashay across the house in whatever I'm wearing or not, to get it.

(You should also maybe know that the entire back of my house is windows and glass doors, and I have a huge window in the front of my house and the blinds are usually open.)

But I do not reserve my nudist tendencies for when I'm getting dressed. Sometimes I'm just naked (or nearly so) and that's just the way it is.

Anyway....

Today is Wednesday. And on Wednesdays the gardeners come.

I'm usually mindful of putting something on to walk around the house on Wednesdays. It's not that I could really care less if I flashed the gardeners, but I know that Chuck would probably mind, and I'm not sure it would set the best example for my daughter. So on Wednesdays I wear a bathrobe to sashay across the house. And I close the blinds in the bathroom and close the curtains on the big sliding glass doors and bay window in my bedroom.

Well, apparently I'm not as efficient as I should be.

This morning I was standing topless checking out the bottom half of my ensemble (a fawn colored suede skirt and black boots) in the full length mirror, admiring myself, when I glanced up in the mirror. Seems I hadn't closed the curtains all the way and one of the gardeners was in the backyard--about 20 feet from the glass doors.

Looking in.

Oopsie.

Maybe I'll get a discount on next month's service.

Maybe for Next Time My Old Man is Out of Town?

OK, this is brilliant.

Maybe if I get really desperate next time my old man goes out of town I'll figure out how to add it to my site.

It's Amazing

When I'm driving in my car with the windows and sunroof wide open and the music blasting, I sound just like Michelle Branch, Aretha, Norah Jones, Etta James, Natalie Maines, Nina Simone, or Gwen Stefani. Elsewhere, not so much.

Monday's Regular Feature

Timeshare:: Aviara
Accounts:: Payable
Temptation:: Island
Hack:: Tarrentino
Shadow:: Boxing
Infection:: Control
800:: Number
Infidelity:: Temptation
Springfield:: Rick
Gardener:: Flashing

As always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.

Simple Pleasures

I'm meeting my sister tonight for one of our semi-monthly trips to the Olympic Spa. I'm all about spas. I haven't met a spa treatment I haven't loved.

But the Olympic Spa is no Burke Williams or Golden Door.

Don't get me wrong. Burke Williams and the Golden Door may be two of my favorite places on the face of this planet, but for a regular indulgence, they're a little pricey, not to mention impractical (in the case of the Golden Door).

Meet the Olympic Spa. Located in the heart of Koreatown, the Olympic Spa is a communal experience. No quiet private rooms filled with aromatherpy candles and attendants in smart white smocks.

Imagine if you will a huge room. At one end are a sauna and steam room. In the middle of the room off to one side are the showers. Then there are a mugwort tub, jacuzzi, communal scrub area, and a cold tub. At the other end of the room are open areas with vinyl-covered tables, in clusters of 6, where uniformed attendants (the uniform being black bra and panties) scrub and pummel you into silky submission.

I'm all about the Olympic Spa.

My treatment of choice tonight: Simple Pleasures. It will be 90 minutes of intensive exfoliation, so quaintly called a full body scrub, followed by a scalp treatment, facial, and finally an intense shiatsu massage.

It's a funny place the Olympic Spa. One of my Korean girlfriends says it's very typical. And while I like nothing better then a nice private treatment in a luxe room, there's nothing quite like it. Because it's as private as you make it. As you lay on the treatment table getting rubbed, scrubbed, and pummeled (and I mean that in the most divine way humanly possible) you're surrouned by these naked and underwear clad women who all speak to each other in Korean. So it's easy to get into your own zone and melt into the moment.

I'll be smooth as silk and as loose as jello by the time my attendant is finished with me.

The end of my work day cannot come soon enough.

Happy Ending

I'm just home from the spa. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

Tonight, I was in the Spa Zone. That's the place right next door to my uber-happy place. The place of total relaxation and peace. It's a place that is, unfortunately, really hard for me to get to usually.

Generally speaking, my life is all about me running from one thing to the next. Enjoying what I'm doing generally, but checking my watch to make sure there is still enough time to deal with all the other things on my mental list for the day. A lot of time is spent worrying about what is not getting done, thus making it diffiult for me to really relax.

When my head hits the pillow at night, typically, though tired, I will spend a fair amount of time going through my mental checklist of items outstanding. This list ranges from the list of bills that need to get paid, to the myriad items on my desk waiting to be dealt with, to what is the best choice for middle school for my daughter, to my ever-growing list of unfinished projects, to dealing with world hunger. As you can see, it's difficult for me to unwind.

But apparently not tonight.

For the first time since I can't think when, I was able to clear my head completely. Any thoughts that made it through were pleasant, sensual, relaxing, and calming. I was in the Spa Zone.

I was finsihed with my treatments before my sister was tonight and I headed over to the heated floor to relax for a little while. I laid on one of the floor mats and covered myself with a blanket. She found me there, fast asleep, about 20 minutes later.

I woke up feeling relaxed and refreshed, and at the same time invigorated and starving.

We dressed and headed down to Little Tokyo for a late bite of dinner. I was still in the Zone.

It was a perfectly happy ending.

Fresh Hell

Welcome to Los Angeles, California. The home of my nightmares:

1. It's fucking hot. This weekend, the mercury has topped out in triple digits. Yes, 100+ in the middle of October.

2. The MTA is on strike. OK, so there's no public transportation so traffic is even worse then usual. And we thought it couldn't get any worse!!! Ha!!!! And when I do manage to get someplace, all the parking spots I seem to find are heading right into the sun. See item #1 for why this sucks worse than usual.

3. Grocery workers are either on strike or are being locked out. So this means that if I want groceries I need to either go to 3 or 4 small stores or Costco and the supermarket too, or go to Gelsons and pay 30% more for my groceries. I've been opting for Gelsons but after walking out $200 lighter today with hardly anything in my cart, I may be rethinking this option.

4. Halloween is coming. I hate Halloween. I've hated it since I was a kid. It has not improved with age for me. My daughter loves Halloween. So does my husband. I've been bamboozled by my daughter into throwing a Halloween party. As if that's not bad enough, it is sort of incumbent upon me, as hostess, to dress up. I loathe dressing up for Halloween.

As usual, it sucks to be me right about now.

Another Place

When I was about to turn 30 I quit my job of eight years, sublet my apartment, gave my sister my cats, and moved to Spain. To a little village called Cadaques. Just so you know, it really looks like this picture.

Cadaques is in the northeast corner of Spain. A two hour drive northeast from Barcelona, on the Costa Brava.

I bring this up today because one of my coworkers just returned from two weeks in Spain. At my urging, he and his friends went for a day trip to Cadaques. We talked about it at lunch today.

I sat at the table and closed my eyes. I could see blue sea, white buildings, red tile roofs. I saw Jean Pierre, the man I loved. I saw friends. I was sitting in the Maratim drinking cafe con leche in the morning, drinking beer in the afternoon, watching the fishing boats moored nearby. I was 30 again.

The year I spent in Cadques was one of the most incredible years of my life. I would still be there, I'm certain, had I not run out of money. Alas. I have been back there, but not for many years. A big part of my heart is there.

I miss Cadaques. And I miss the me that I was there.

High Beams

This entry is going to be about breasts, including my own personal pair. If this offends you, you've been warned and you can move on.

Men love breasts. I can understand that. What's not to love? But it seems what men really like about breasts in an accessible, daily life, free/cheap thrill kind of way are erect nipples showing through a t-shirt or blouse.

There are lots of names for erect nipples. High beams and titty hard ons (or t.h. for short) seem to be the most common. Feel free to share your favorites.

Jennifer Aniston's nipples are quite popular with my husband. It seems you can always see them.

Thing is, when a woman's nipples are showing through her clothes she knows about it. I've gone out making a conscious decision to show mine. When shopping at the hardware store, it's almost a necessity, for example.

Generally though, for work, I make other choices. I have several bras, specifically for work that, while not "padded" (cuz I don't really need that) are sort of "fiber-filled". You get a nice smooth line under a t-shirt, or frankly whatever you're wearing. It's more "professional".

Today however, I made a different bra choice. Bra choice: a cute little item from Victoria's Secret that's made out of a jersey/t-shirt material. It's super comfy with a fair amount of support. But it's made out jersey/t-shirt material, so when there's a chill in the air, everyone things I'm glad to see them. This bra is a fine choice under a sweater, or under several layers of clothes. But, considering it's 90+ degrees here, I didn't go that route. Instead I wore a tight fitting white button down shirt made out of some kind of vaguely stretchy material. It clung in all the right places, and enhanced my bustline quite nicely. It's a damned cute shirt.

So today I wore a damned cute shirt to work, and my damned cute nipples paraded themselves all around our very air conditioned office.

Perhaps I was just happy to be there?

Going Topless

I’m having a hankering for a new car. Consistent with what appears to be my mid-life crisis, I want a convertible. Before I bought my Volvo (which is candy apple red, naturally) I briefly entertained a sporty car. I test drove the Z3. It was cute and peppy. Then I looked in what they called the trunk. I couldn’t fit two gallons of milk in it, and as I was not in the market for a second car, but a primary mode of transportation, I decided this was probably not the best way to go.

This hankering has been building up. About a year ago I wanted a Vespa. I could toodle around town on it. Light green maybe, certainly with a leopard seat. But alas, I don’t have much room in my life for toodling. I couldn’t use it, even in an emergency, to go to work, so I shelved that plan.

Then was the Mini. How cute are they? And you can get one for like $25000, fully loaded. I even made an appointment to test drive one. Then I saw one in a parking lot and fully examined it, without the pressure of a car salesman breathing down my neck. Well, I couldn’t fit my dry cleaning in one of those. Another one down the drain.

I’m still fairly stuck on the Infiniti G35. The sedan. They’re sexy and sporty.

But, I need to feel the wind in my hair.

So my latest two choices are a BMW 3-series convertible, and a Chrylser Sebring. Thing is, I have Chrysler issues. Beyond the obvious Celine Dion issues, I’ve never driven an American-made car.

Here’s the thing you should know about me and my car choices: it’s all about the cup holders and how cute I look. (I will report that I've noticed in finding all these links that manufacturers love to show their cars in silver. I will not get silver. I will likely get black. Unless I go with the Infiniti, then I will go with dark navy, so take that into consideration in voicing your opinion. Because your opinion counts!)

I have spent the better part of the last hour attempting to trim a picture of me down and putting it in the car so you could tell me which one I look cuter in, but alas, as the old man is not here to assist me with this, and I’m Photoshop-challenged, I ask you dear readers to use your imagination.

This is me.

This is the BMW:

This is the Chrysler:

Which one will I look cuter in?

Please advise.

George Is Here!!!!

A while ago, Chuck wrote about www.wheresgeorge.com. I would link the entry, but not sure I can be bothered to go through his archives. If you'd like to do so, knock yourself out.

Anyway, we're all about wheresgeorge. I went so far as to have a little stamp made that I put on all my bills, religiously, for a while. I would dutifully enter them in my personal bills database. Then I'd go and spend them. Then I'd go and check back. I've entered several hundreds of dollars into their system and have not had one hit.

Well today I go to pay for lunch and notice that one of my bills has www.wheresgeorge.com on it. I got soooo excited. The people I was lunching with thought I was insane, but I don't really care.

Anyway, I just entered my bill into wheresgeorge. It was originally entered in Witchia, Kansas on February of this year. It's been waiting to be found for 245 days and 59 minutes, and it traveled a distance of 1,195 miles (for an average of 4.9 miles per day).

The person who entered the bill will now get an e-mail from the system.

OK, I'm probably the only person who thinks this is vaguely cool, but I do, so there.

Shameless Plea

OK, so the old man is once again riding in the Love Ride. He's out to raise $600. I've kicked down. Won't you????

Here's the deal: if he makes his goal I will ride with him....in a black leather halter top. And if you kick down you will get a picture of me in said black leather halter. How's that for motivation? You just have to prove to me that you kicked down.

Come on. It's for a very worthy cause. Let's show the love folks.

Opportunism

On my commute this morning I was listening to news radio coverage of the fire storms. I was listening until I heard a commercial that really pissed me off.

Catholic Mortuaries was offering all good Catholic families an emergency papers organizer. Keep your will, insurance policies, baptismal certificates, etc. all in one handy place, courtesy of Catholic Mortuaries.

Here's the thing: I listen to news radio often enough that I'm vaguely familiar with their commercial rotation. I've never heard this commercial before. Had it run at any other time it I couldn't have cared less. I just thought the timing was in really poor taste.

OK, at least they weren't offering discount cremation services.

Post-Apolcolyptic

This is a picture taken outside my house at 3:30 this afternoon. The fires are about 10 miles away. The sky is murky. The sun is glowing orange. The picture doesn't do it justice, but it's a taste. It's eerie.

10 Reasons Why My Maids are Stupider than Dirt

1. They have no concept of what a drainboard is for. If/when there are dishes, they stack them up in the sink.

2. They hide my pots and pans, instead of putting them on the pot-rack hanging in the middle of my kitchen.

3. They put the lids in a completely different cupboard.

4. The commingle bowls and pots/pans, all in the wrong spot.

(OK, those probably could have been one item.)

5. They have no concept of putting a pair of shoes together in the closet. One shoe can be on one shelf, the other on another, or even in a completely unrelated third location.

6. Their idea of tidying is to pile things up and cover it with a towel or blanket.

7. They washed my favorite pair of wool trousers. Good thing I found them before they made it to the dryer, though they've never been quite the same.

8. We use toothpaste in those nifty stand-up types of tubes. They insist on leaving the toothpaste laying on its side, thus reducing squeezability.

9. Instead of putting loose change they find in the big bin of loose change, they will take any cup, saucer, or other dish and pile coins in there. They have been known to do it with three cups in the same room.

10. They make little displays of salt shakers on the coffee table in the family room. The concept of the kitchen has obviously not been made clear.

Yes, I know, I need new maids. I'll just add that to the list.

Gross Enough

Well, because this (scroll down to gross head door decoration) wasn't gross enough in it's stickiness, it has now morphed to a new level of disgustingness.

Some of the juicier bits:

(Clicking on this one will make it bigger.)

Notice the lovely dead bugs and bug parts stuck to the tongue. Yummy. (This is full size.)

OK there's a really gross red bug stuck to the eyeball (not to mention more bug body parts). (Also full size.)