Typical Halloween

Halloween with my family is a blessed, crazy affair steeped in tradition and loads of candy.  The basic framework is always the same:  soup, cornbread, and cider at my mom's, followed with endless amounts of lunatic behavior.  

The day started horribly for me since today happened to be the day I went back into the gym after my summer hiatus.

This is exactly how I feel about being back in the boring gym.  Notice I have not combed my hair.  I feel the same about personal hygiene during workouts as I do during camping; it's pointless.  I'm going to shower and comb my hair after my workout so there's no sense in wasting time or water prior to strenuous exercise.  I'm sure there's plenty of folks who have been impacted by my behavior that would like to weigh in on this issue, but as usual, I just don't care.

I was worried my crummy exercise would put a damper on the rest of my day, but fortunately, Bubba gave me a wonderful surprise on the way to grandma's...

That's right.  She's disgusting.  I told her 10 times to knock it off, but the only reason she finally gave it up was when I threatened to take away her trick or treating privileges.

I shouldn't have worried too much about my day improving because once we arrived at the folks, I calmed right down and began to enjoy myself as usual.  My favorite Halloween traditions revolve around my dad, the freak, and his three tiered treat system:

  1 - full sized candy bars for all the kids he likes.

  2 - mini candy bars for kids he knows but doesn't like

  3 - cheap nasty candy like Smarties for everyone else.  

That old man is committed to his system.  No one else is allowed to answer the door or distribute his wealth.  Dad's neighborhood is really busy and he spends a small fortune and hours of meticulous planning to ensure proper candy coverage.  He's nuts.  This year, dad forgot his mini candy bars and didn't have a reasonable excuse.  I personally believe he was distracted by Dexter, since it's the first Halloween he's been with us.  Dad was so worried about that dumb cat escaping, that I don't think he could concentrate on anything else.  Here was his solution until the doorbell stopped ringing:

Dad literally stands by his front door almost constantly for about five hours.  He peeks through the glass at the top of the door so he knows what candy to hand out based on who's coming up the stairs.  It's lunacy and I love it.

Besides the yummy soup, I also get pretty excited about this important family tradition:

These stupid plastic arms show up every year and someone invariably spends time picking their nose with them, scratching their crotch with them, scratching someone else's bum with them, or eating dinner with them.  EVERY YEAR.  And yes, sometimes that someone is me.  I make a mental note every Halloween to wash them given the promiscuous activities they are involved in each year, but I always forget. I hope bum germs die when boxed up between holidays.

Another favorite tradition is the costume picture we used to take on the porch.  The babies keep coming so now we shoot it on the lawn.  I used to have more of my siblings living nearby so the pic used to be larger.  However, it's still pretty special watching everyone's kids growing through the years and knowing you can always count on your family to show you a good time as long as you stop by to hang out with them.

Happy Halloween everyone.  Hope your day was as great as mine! 

Duck Rape

Warning!  This post involves some graphic nature videos.  If you are offended by duck boobies or turtle genitals, now is the time to look away!  I believe, as usual, I may continue... 

I have already established numerous times that I am an individual devoid of couth or boundaries.  Strangely enough, anyone who works around a labor and delivery unit in any capacity tends to develop a keen appreciation for anything slightly off color as well.  For instance, one of the labor nurses had stumbled onto animal copulation of some sort with one of her children and had to have an impromptu discussion about human sexual relations with the unfortunate youngster.  Not wanting to be outdone, I recalled a time when Jared and I had stumbled upon animal copulation in a park when we still lived in Utah.  Specifically, it was duck mating.  I outlined for this nurse how violent duck sex is.  The first time I saw nature's gang rape I was appalled.  I described how I futilely kept trying to chase the drakes off of the poor battered hen and Jared told me to leave nature alone.  I was disturbed for weeks, and still to this day wish ducks would start their own feminist movement to stop such nasty and insulting behavior.  The nurse almost didn't believe me, until one of the physicians backed up my story with facts of his own.  Namely, a drake he owns named Billy that has broken the necks of several of his chickens because he doesn't have a duck hen to maul.  As Watson put it, "chicken necks just can't take the rape!"  In case there are some Thomases that doubt me, check it Yo...

I had almost forgotten about Billy the rapist duck until this weekend.  Several of the nurses and I had gotten on the subject of how nasty human genitals are. Several alternative designs were presented until Dr Hymas, one of the pediatricians, told us humans have nothing on turtles.  Since he is one of the BIGGEST squares I know, I like to believe he gleaned this information from his children's pets, since I don't think that prude even knows where babies come from!  I tried to shock him with my duck rape story, but he insisted the turtle penis would shock me since it "looks like an alien or something..."  Because YouTube can prove whether or not you are a liar in exactly one second, we all searched the topic together.  You know what?  Hymas was right!  Check out the creepy music with this video.  None of us could breathe!

I couldn't wait to show this video to Jared when I got home!  He not only thought there was nothing weird or abnormal with nature's design of the tortoise penis, he insinuated I was weird and abnormal for being interested in it!  This guy backs Mother Nature all the way apparently!  He further ruined my day when he mentioned the suicide smocks they use in the jail are called "turtle suits."  I got all excited about the blogging potential he was in possession of, but he condescendingly refused to go get one from the jail and model it for me.

You know what buddy?  You and all the rapist drakes and alien tortoise penises can hang out together in your "turtle suits" from now on if you think you're so cool.  I'll just wallow in the muck and filth with all my Labor and Delivery friends where I belong...  Well, everyone but Hymas that is.  He's still trying to figure out where babies come from... 

All I need is a Good Suit

My sexy lover is in need of a new suit.  I wasn't really paying attention to how ratty he looks since he only wears the thing on Sundays.  In my defense, it's easy to overlook his dress up attire because every other day of the week, he is either in his deputy uniform, or in jeans and a t-shirt.  I attempted to change his fashion sense during the first several years of our marriage, but was unable to upscale anything about him other than convincing him to don a pair of Dockers and dressier shoes when we go out to the theater.  His other major fashion crime is his love of sweatpants.  For years he wore them anytime he was physically inside our house and would change into and remain in them for as long as he reasonably could.  I know there is a lot of good rationale out there for why sweatpants are a horrible fashion choice.  I myself HATE them on dudes for only one reason:  I don't enjoy looking at sweatpant penis bulges.  I will admit I have stolen some bulge glances through other fabrics, but sweatpants make the bulge hang funny and I don't like it.  Pass judgement all you like - I will never change.

Given that Jared has zero fashion finesse, I often turn to my father to help me select nice men's clothing when the need arises.  My dad is the complete opposite of Jared because he is a diva.  A HORRIBLE DIVA.  His closet can put most fashionistas to shame, especially because he believes that the more expensive an item is, the more it belongs buttoned to his body.  My mother and I spend countless hours ridiculing his wacky habits, but I will admit the man is always put together very nicely, and he always smells good.  As such, I called him today to ask him what brand of suit he prefers to buy - Hart Schaffner Marx apparently.  Turns out these suits are very nice and rather pricey as well.  Anxious to keep me from being deterred by the price tag, my dad suggested I try driving to ZCMI in Salt Lake City because they have a bigger selection and slightly better pricing.  He then took it one step further:  "besides, you can meet the midget salesman they have there."

Let me take a minute to explain that I was not surprised for one instant to hear such a comment escape my father's lips.  Nearly every member of my immediate family (except me because I am refined) has a weird fettish with red-headed individuals and little people.  I have been unable to understand the fascination and am trying to help my children stop gawking like slack jawed idiots when they come across someone who is different from them.  I'm working hard on my girls' behavior, but unfortunately, I have had zero impact on my crazy family.  Just as a test, I texted my brother Sam (the biggest offender) to determine if he was in possession of any little people pics.  He not only had one, but two!  Check it out.

I guess this was really my fault.  Why in the world should I expect to have a normal conversation with my dad when I asked about something so inflammatory as a suit brand?  I had it coming really. Don't worry, I've learned my lesson.  When I talk to dad tomorrow, I'm going to discuss a topic he couldn't possibly offend anyone with.  I think I'll ask him what he thinks about race relations, same-sex marriage, and democrats...

I Got This!

This is my baby, Bubba:

Her christian name is Elizabeth Margarete with the Margarete part being shared with the granny sitting next to her in the pic.  In the four plus years I have known this little girl, I think I have called her Elizabeth a total of five times.  The entire family calls her Bubba.  In fact, my nieces and nephews think Bubba Johanson is her actual name.  My brother Jameson has heard her real name so infrequently, he can't ever remember what it is.  (It's Elizabeth you Pasty Bastard).  You know how some parents use first and middle names sometimes when they are mad with a child?  If I'm mad with Bubba, I call her "BUB" instead.

I think it's hilarious this nickname has stuck, since I consider her to be the furthest thing from a Bubba you can possibly get.  When I hear "Bubba," I think of a big, fat, toothless redneck sipping Coors Light from the bottle on his idling motorcycle.  Sometimes, I think of Bubba from Forrest Gump, but either way, it's a far cry from my petite, blonde sweetie.

I have a goal that when Bubba graduates from high school, I want to yell, "way to go Bubba!" from the audience.  Better still, I'd love her future boyfriends and/or hubby to call her Bubba as well.  Since all my other daughters' nicknames have disappeared once school started, I've been wracking my brain for strategies to keep the name going.  Lily suggested I tell her kindergarten teacher her name was Bubba and then the teacher wouldn't know her real name.  I had to politely inform Lil that teachers have a class role for a reason.  Can you imagine how many little turds would make up incredible names or expletives for the teacher to call them if this safeguard wasn't in place?!  

I was really worried about the future of Bubba's moniker until she came home from church today.  She has a program coming up and her part was sent home so she could memorize it.  Check it out...

There it is in black and white!  Despite the church having a role too, her teachers are obviously calling her Bubba, and they are prepared for her to announce her own nickname over the pulpit as well!  Eureka!  It can be done!  It is possible for my daughter to remain Bubba in school!  Now, I just have to figure out why they were willing to ignore the church roles so I can recreate the same outcome at school.  Any one have time to help me start the "Bubba Inquisition?"  Similar to the Spanish Inquistion but without all the torture and death?  I'll consider all applicants...

Sayonara Sucka

I have been driving a five speed, silver, Honda Accord for the last six years.  My whole family are Honda freaks.  Each of my normal siblings has owned at least one, and my parents currently own three.  My motorcycle is even a Honda!  As a side note, my poser sister Chris owns two lesbaru (Subaru) vehicles, but I don't understand 90% of what she does, so I don't count her as a contributing member of society anyway.

I have loved my car, especially because it's paid for.  Additionally, I was the only person who consistently didn't grind into second gear.  Therefore, my sweet ride made me feel like Danica Patrick in that every time I heard a grind, I could disdainfully stare at the driver from the passenger seat and mention how skilled I was at shifting.  I half expected a representative from Nascar to offer me a driving gig, but so far, my Indy 500 dream remains unrealized.

About a month ago, second gear started grinding for me too.  Then I couldn't consistently get it into gear.  Finally, it started popping out of gear.  I tried for a while to pretend only Jared was experiencing these problems, but when he rode shotgun with me one day and I sounded like a student driver trying to grind my transmission into oblivion, I had to admit something might be up with my silver wonder.

I drove it to the tranny guy and when he told me it would be two grand to fix it, I yelled, "damnit!  You're going to have to fix someone else's car today!"  Then I walked right out.  I just couldn't see the wisdom in spending that much on a car that already had 250,000 miles on it.  I decided to cut my losses and donate it to NPR for the tax break.  Despite my stiff upper lip, this is how I felt:

I bought my mommy lunch so she would help me look for a new one since she's a shrewd trader with a keen eye for a bargain.  My dad has a racist term for her talents which I will not repeat here.  Needless to say, I like having her around for just these occasions.  We test drove a Toyota Camry which was clean, tight, and priced to move, but it just didn't feel right somehow.  We finally ended up at a dealer who had a couple of Hondas we had earmarked from the start of our adventure.  When I slid behind the wheel of the 2008 V6 Accord they had, I suddenly felt right at home.  Mom wisely uttered, "feels like a Honda doesn't it."  I had to agree.  We ran her through her paces and I bought her immediately after the test drive.  I've decided to call her "Nicki" after Emma's spider hanging outside her window.  The best part?  The kick ass sunroof!

Emma told me she wants the car after I die and both the teenagers want it when they leave for college.  I guess I made a good choice.  So long silver bullet.  Thanks for your years of service.  Hope you can make someone at NPR as happy as you've made me.  Don't worry about me, I'm gonna be just fine.

When Your Mommy's a Midwife...

In the majority of this world, sex sells.  In my world, sex pays.  I make my living talking about sex, helping people have better sex, preventing babies showing up from all the sex I talk about, and catching babies that show up after even more sex I haven't talked about.

Unfortunately for my daughters, they can't escape my role in the sex trade even when I'm home.  Given all the after hours call I do, they have been exposed to my odd vocabulary during phone conversations instead of what I imagine your average homemaker discusses.  Those words include, but are not limited to:  vaginal discharge, vaginal bleeding, nipples, breasts, intercourse, semen...  the list is endless really.  They also get to hear me rant about vaginal health and genital grooming habits on nearly a daily basis.  My 16 year old has apparently lectured other teens about her favorite mommy quote, "the vagina is a self cleaning oven...  leave it alone," Her second favorite?  "Your vagina is supposed to smell like a vagina, not roses...  leave it alone."  It probably wouldn't be quite so weird if my daughters' friends weren't also exposed to my vernacular and genital soapboxes during their frequent visits to mi casa.  Kayley's friend Bryna spent the entire summer spreading the anti-genital grooming gospel and begged her drum and bugle corp friends to stop shaving their biz-iz-nays.  She was disappointed that her inherited pearls of wisdom were not well received by the teen band geek crowd.

Despite the fact that I have a very odd career, I feel that my daughters benefit from my total lack of embarrassment or boundaries.  My lack of couth allows me to discuss human anatomy and sexual reproduction in any situation and with any audience without discomfort.  It also ensures that my kiddos know facts about sexual relationships instead of heresay gleaned from bathroom stall walls.  Because I am rarely embarrassed, my girlies are pretty unhindered when addressing their issues with me.  This makes for some darn interesting and downright hilarious interactions.  For instance, my younger babies have a brisk trade in back alley Cesarean Sections.  They are constantly delivering each other's "babies" in their closets.  Don't get excited, they just cram a stuffed animal under their shirts, then take turns ripping it out and announcing that another baby has arrived.  If you need another example of how awesome my kids are, take this beauty Kayley left on my dresser when she was about 12:

Under normal circumstances, I frown on using "baby hole" when discussing the vagina, but at least my pre-teen knew she HAD more than one hole!  Plus, that daisy she drew with an obvious painful vaginitis made me pee my drawers.  Kayley detests the fact that I have saved this priceless work of art, but I have derived so much happiness from this stupid piece of paper that I refuse to let it go now!  Yep, being a midwife is pretty fantastic, but having a mommy that's a midwife?  Well that's better than cream for your itchy baby hole!

Aww, Don't Cry Little Unicorn

This is my nurse midwifery student, Marie:

I have actually known her for years because she is one of the labor nurses up at the hospital.  I have always enjoyed working with her and knew that she would be a good CNM if only she wanted to grow into one someday.  I'm sure I probably told her that a lot through the years, but now that she is almost done, I just spend all my time telling her she's a big fat dumbass for wanting to become a midwife.  It's just the long hours, the lack of sleep, and the fact that I haven't had a partner for a LONG time to help me that makes me spout these horrible things.  Unfortunately, now that I'm her preceptor, I also feel it is my duty to ride her like a tick on a dog so that she will be fantastic like me someday.  This has been a very uncomfortable role change for Marie because she is the complete opposite of me for the following reasons:

1. She is soft spoken and quiet
2. She likes sissy things like unicorns
3. She likes to workout and is thin
4. She likes Diet Coke

My personality on the other hand, can be described using a single line from a song by Joan Jett:  "I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation."  I am harsh, opinionated, have zero filter, and am rarely affected by weird behavior like leaking water from ones eyes.  I believe the term is called "crying" in English.  Oh, and let's be very clear about the exercise point - I only participate to be less fat - I do not enjoy it!

The consequence of our natural dichotomy is that I make Marie feel bad a lot.  In fact, I made her leak water from her eyes today, or as I established earlier, I made her cry.  It was deplorable and ugly and I actually felt bad about it for 30 minutes while driving home today, and that is a record for me.  Poor Marie is struggling with keeping her family afloat financially, dealing with the rigors of obtaining her Master's degree, and on top of that, she has me for an instructor.  I feel terrible for her.  Not terrible enough to change mind you, but I do sympathize with her plight.  I just can't help myself really.  I come from a family that observes Mafia Love.  What's Mafia Love?  You know, when someone is in the mafia they will kiss your cheek as they stab you in the gut with a shank?  We are merciless in my family.  Rude, crude, vocal, and of course RIGHT about everything.  Our way or the highway man!  We really do love each other, we just have a different way to express that love.  Like when my mom sent me this selfie.

I told her it looked like she was having a stroke and I was worried about having to feed her once I plopped her in the rest home.  Or how about a few weeks ago when my sis Patty and I were having a disagreement about something.  We started with this: 

And we ended with this:

See what I mean?  It's just natural for me.  I don't mean anything by it, it's just Mafia Love.  So in case Marie is reading this post, I want to say:  don't worry little unicorn - it's gonna be A OK.  Just look at this selfie we took if you don't believe me:

If it would make you feel better, I can give you the contact information for loads of people that I bully and belittle on a daily basis.  You can ask them if you wish, but I'm pretty sure they all still like me.  I have considered that they may be operating under a different Joan Jett lyric, "I hate myself for loving you," but I can't let doubt and worry seep in now.  Life's too short for that nonsense! 

 

Pinhead

My husband acts like a freak during Halloween season because he loves hats and masks.  When Zurchers moved to town a couple of years ago, he had an excuse to act like an idiot 365 days a year.  Given that Hannah wants a real costume this year instead of concocting one from my Halloween box, and knowing I would never pay full price for such a ridiculous luxury, she dragged me to Zurchers so she could spend her babysitting cash.  This was yet another opportunity for Jared to perform his costume freak show.

In the thirty minutes we were there, he pestered me with a clown mask, a pirate wig, a masquerade mask, and this beauty to name a few:  

Because Jared is Swedish, EVERY time he sees a Viking hat he throws one on.  Since I find him strangely attractive in them, I asked for a selfie:

If you recall my anniversary post, I mentioned how his face never changes in pictures.  I forgot about what happens in costume stores.  It's like he's a totally different person and its darn weird!  As if Jared's shenanigans weren't annoying enough, Lily offered this to me...

I freaked!  Especially when I saw the price tag.  I lectured her about how I am a beekeeper and wouldn't need to spend 32 bucks on a stupid imitation costume!  Only then did I hear Jared giggle from a different aisle.

The most intriguing thing about Jared's obsession with hats and masks is that he's a pinhead.  I'm not kidding.  He has to special order his ball caps because his head is so small, the adjustable kind look stupid cranked down on his tiny cabbage.  However, his handicap has never held him back, because he likes squeezing into oddball get ups that most adults can't fit into.  If you doubt me, check out Bubba:

Now me for reference...

And my lover, in the same hat:

You'd never know that was a baby hat with him wandering around.  Jared's brother Zane had seizures for many years and the neurologist told his mom his brain was too big for his skull.  Jared's response was of course related to how tiny his own skull is and yet he's seizure free...

Thankfully, Hannah finally made her choice so we could get the heck outta there and get Jared back to adult mentality.  I had to admit she looks pretty classy and it almost made me want to spend money on a real costume myself.  Check it out:

I wish I could say the freak show is over for the year.  Unfortunately, I was in Zurchers two days ago, and I can guarantee I'll be back before the month is out to watch Jared act like a moron all over again.  At least tonight wasn't a total loss because apparently, the King lives...