the judgement of smothers

If Clumsy was a sport I would be the most famous, richest one. I am a clumsy person, which is funny because I have had years of training as a dancer. Dancing is so elegant and purposeful and uses muscles you do not even know you have. But here’s the thing if my steps are not choreographed and I am left to my own devices, Bitch is Clumsy.

For example, the other day I was in the shower……okay stop laughing you don’t even know what a clumsy person can even do in a shower the surfaces are all smooth and soaped up and slippery as fuck…so you don’t even know. I was in the shower and using bar soap because I am clearly from the times when Pa bought the farm by simply staking it and claiming it as his…You know aka the Prairie. I was soaping up in the shower like I’m some ancient being that has come back to warn us all, and the soap slipped down my chest under my boob and out from my armpit and then ricocheted off of the shower wall and proceeded to knock down every shampoo, conditioner and shaving gel bottle in the entire shower area. Now if this was a sport I would have won. I would collect my millions and go home. People would be all like…”Let’s see a replay on that, Jim.” People would be tweeting, Becki is a God! No one can do it like Becki does. And other tweets that sports stars get to be the noun in.

Another example is, I was driving down the road with my youngest daughter in the car and as we are casually talking a fucking spider comes dipping down on it’s web right in front of me. I grab the web and went to shoo it out the window, but the window wasn’t open and I was the driver and one hand was busy steering and the other one was being the hero and so I flung it into the closed window and lost it. I instantly begin my decent into full on anxiety as I am trying to drive to the nearest exit. I get to a parking lot and look for the spider. I grab a napkin and find the spider and go in to scoop the spider up into the napkin, you know like you do. I don’t want to kill the spider I just want to evict it from my car. I put my fear forward and grab the spider in a “Don’t hurt it” type of way and the next thing I know the fucking spider is crawling out and it touched my finger. Before I say another word I would like to tell you all that my daughter calls this story “Remember the time when you threw that spider at me?” I didn’t throw it at her….I threw it at NOT ME! There is a Humongous difference. Then I jumped out of my car because again I have lost the spider and all my nerve. As I jumped out of my car I accidentally hit my car door into the car next to me. I was all like “Oops, I’m sorry about that, would you like to trade cars as payment?” which would solve both the ding in their car and the spider is lost problem in mine all at the same time. But no one was there for the trade and my car door didn’t even leave a mark…so now I have to go back in my car and get the spider out…but this time that motherfucker has to fucking die. I’m so sorry spider, but thems is the rules. You evaded my two attempts to save your life…I mean if being thrown from a car going 55mph down a highway didn’t kill you that is…and now it is either you or me. I grab the wad of napkins and search for the spider with death in my heart and I just murder the poor fucking thing…to the point that I had legs in one part of the napkin and body parts on the carpet of my car and maybe the head part on my shoe because I stomped it after I squished it and then I rubbed it ferociously with my shoe and again with the wadded up napkins. I mean I certainly would have won some money for that clumsy clusterfuckery for sure. There would be movies on that shit. There would be all the days I have trained leading up to the great clumsy of 2019 involving the other team “the spider” and it looked like the spider had won, but no “She is tired. She is beaten, but here she comes back against all odds and really murders the actual fuck out of that spider. What a victory folks! You hardly ever see such a terrific win like these! That is why she is so rich and famous, not everyone can do it quite like Becki.”

Then there was that one time I was carrying my son who was a baby, on my hip. I just dropped my daughter off at preschool and I was herp derping over to the Post office to grab the mail and some stamps….but that is not the only thing I got. As I was leaving I was talking to my son and giggling and I stepped in a hole and twisted my ankle so bad that I heard it snap. MY face went white and I passed out from the sheer pain of the tendons ripping off of my anklebone. Luckily my sister was there and she scooped my son up and then me and when I came to, my shoe was next to my foot and I was like “OH MY FUCKING FUCK, MY FOOT BROKE CLEAN OFF!” and it felt like it too. She drove me to the hospital because, Duh, my foot broke off. I get to the hospital and they asked me about a hundred times if my husband did this to me because they completely underestimated my clumsiness and didn’t believe that some asshole can rip all of the tendons off of their ankle by stepping in a hole and twisting their ankle. But, I don’t mean to brag, I am that kind of asshole. I had X-rays, my sister had to use the payphone to call my husband at work because I am from the olden times, and when he got there he also had to answer some spouse abuse questions as well. I mean I am not even mad that they did that because they should, it’s just that I am that clumsy. I am so clumsy that they think I am lying about how I am getting hurt. I know, my husband is so lucky to have me.

Another example, and I’m not even sure if this is clumsiness, but I think Yes, because it is like mental clumsiness, which I am going to say is a thing. I was sitting at my parents’ kitchen table doing my math homework and the phone rang, and on the prairie we answered the phones when they rang because otherwise you could not tell who they were, so I ran over to answer the phone before they hung up and we never knew who it was calling us on a random Tuesday at around 6ish pm in the eighties, we can’t have it, those kinds of mysteries could never be solved. I grab the big handle on the phone that is on the wall with the rotary dial and I urgently say my greeting and it is one that we all say but then mental clumsiness sets in and I shout urgently “HELEVEN!” because the answer to my math problem was eleven and I was thinking it through trying to multitask and all and heleven was the word I urgently and breathlessly shouted to the stranger that called on some random Tuesday at 6ish pm in the eighties. If you remember calling my house on some random Tuesday at 6ish pm in the eighties and got some chipmunk that answered your call by shouting “HELEVEN!” and then hanging up on you abruptly….now you know the truth. It wasn’t a riddle you had to solve before calling us back. It wasn’t some sort of spy ring we were running at our house that was the color of a school bus at the top of the hill, I mean we always did have cars parked all over the lawn and shit and people were always coming and going at all hours day and night, but that was just us. We weren’t spies. We were just regular people who lived in a tiny school bus yellow colored house on the top of the hill that used bar soap in the shower, but don’t you worry about that little “HELEVEN” shouting Becki because she is about to be a sports star of which we have never seen before. She is going to be famous for her clumsiness. She’s going to win the Clumsy Gold medal in the Olympics. Sure she is going to have injuries that she is going to have to come back from, the ankle injury of 1996 was particularly bad. Sure she is going to get into some troubling situations when she may believe that she is going to lose like with the spider, but she is always going to come back and win. Why? Because she is Becki and she is a clumsy legend and You know what, that isn’t taught, that is just pure, natural born talent. She is a treasure, someone please wrap her in bubblewrap and don’t let her near the stairs.

Moral of my story: Do you have something that is not considered not such a great attribute, such as clumsiness? Don’t let it get you down. We all have something and just think about it, what if that particular thing studdering, lisping, can’t solve simple math problems without a calculator, or clumsiness was an attribute? What if our social construct valued that, you would be feeling pretty good about it then, right? So change the way you think about it. Don’t think of it as a bad thing. Accept it and let yourself know that it is what makes you special. I mean we can’t all be graceful, some of us have to be the type to fall off of curbs because you stood too close to the edge of it. *yes I have done that. Some of us are endearingly clumsy and we have to accept it and say hey besides the injuries it is what makes me interesting. I challenge you today to accept that one thing or maybe you have many, accept it and ask yourself can I live with this? Can I love this about myself? If you can’t accept it then try and change it, if you can’t change it try and accept it.

Until next time 😉

When I was young my favorite movie was Grease and my favorite character was Sandy. *I now know this movie is highly inappropriate. Nobody’s child should be singing about the “Chicks creaming” over a car. But luckily for me I heard it as “Chicks will DREEEAAAM!” in John Travolta’s voice….so I was good.

I was so excited to grow up and be Sandra Dee, that I told my mother that I wanted to cut my hair to look just like Sandy. Now here’s a little backstory about my hair, it was long, so long that I accidentally peed on it more than once. It was very dark, almost black and it was wavy with ringlets. When I say I wanted to look like Sandy, I meant cute blonde with bangs that could be worn up or down and maybe I can slut it up for the one song I sing with the leather pants. My mother finally agreed….and by agreed I mean got tired of my whining little ass behind her begging to get my haircut. She takes me to the salon….you know the one, in the mall that is sinking because they built it on a swamp… the mall that you referred to as “no not the good mall, the other one.” The salon has walk-ins only and the one that “Tammy with the perm and bright blue eyeshadow” works at. She had so many hickies that I thought that neck burns was a hazard of her job. There were the plastic chairs that farted when you sat in them. And sitting there waiting for them to call your name was like waiting on death row.

Tammy comes out with her permed hair and hicky neck and chewing gum and looks at my mom, “What are you looking for hun?” I look at Tammy and I am already not a fan of her demeanor because don’t ask my mom she doesn’t know, up until now she cut my hair with the kitchen shears.

“I want to look like Sandy!” I chimed in.

Tammy looks at me and says “Oh, is that a girl in your class?” *fucking Tammy!

“No!” I say and I look right at her and say “Sandra Dee! From Grease? Have you seen it?” She may have gone to the movie but unlike the respectable Sandy, Tammy let her boyfriend get to “Titty” base. I’m sorry I don’t know what the bases are. Im like first base they talk to me, second base I go out with them….I mean Titty grab is not until like thirty-nineth base and because I also don’t know baseball this plays out. (what’s that you say? My husband is one lucky guy? I’ll let him know that you think so, thanks!) But either way Tammy does not know who Sandy is and I am eight years old and I did not have the fortitude to abort mission.

“Oh, Yeah I’ve seen it!” Tammy lies. “What do you like about Sandy’s hair? What do you want in particular?” she asks *because she has not seen only the best fucking movie in my lifetime up until that point.

“I wan’t to be Sandy! I want to break out in song whenever I can’t contain my feelings. I want the boy to race his car for me. I want him to not look at Cha Cha DiGregorio and only have eyes for me. I want to eventually lose all moral codes and slut it up at the fair and sing some salacious song to some greased up pig of a man. You know but with bangs.”

Tammy begins cutting my hair and I am excited because with that one swoop I felt lighter. I look at the long strands of hair on the floor and I begin to panic because I now realize that Tammy hadn’t, probably watched the film. When she is finished cutting, I am wearing what I can only describe as a mushroom bowl cut, with bangs. My eyes well up and I am sitting trying to smile and pretend that I wasn’t disappointed. I mean I fucking asked for this…I mean I begged for this…I really had so much hope for this that I hadn’t realized that when she was finished I would still be a tiny kid with pale skin and dark circles around my eyes. I looked like the worst version of myself and what was even more tragic, I couldn’t wear it in a ponytail…which was basically Sandy’s whole fucking look….she is a Damned cheerleader for fuck’s sake. I looked like some character in Wario World that was going to make the hero grow. What the hell have I done?

Tammy looks super satisfied with herself and says “Should we go show mom?”

no! no, we should not ever show this to people. I know that I want to cry but I fucking begged my mother for this atrocity that I have got to wish grows out before school on Monday. I nod my little mushroom head and go to the row of farting plastic chairs and I try not to bust out into tears. I slap on a smile and I feel the lump in my throat that I won’t be able to talk around. I look at my mother and she smiles. She doesn’t look horrified, she buys that I love this new hair.

“Do you like it?” my mother asked

“mmhmm!” I say around the rather large lump in my throat. I am beginning to realize that without my long hair I’m just an ugly kid that is too small to both sit in a chair and have my feet touch the ground. *I am still too little to have my feet touch while sitting in a chair. But I have a much better hair dresser now. She’s magical. She is a hair wizard actually and she would have steered me away from this bowl mushroom.

“I bet it is lighter!” my mother encourages me to see the bright side.

“mmmhmmm!” I respond because I wasn’t look to lose heft….I have been blown off the doorstep with the door MORE THAN ONCE!

“Now we can see your face.” This! This was when I Lost MY SHIT! I cried, I mean eight year old, got a super bad hair cut, snot cried. I did not know how ugly my face was until I cut my hair to frame the fucking thing. Oh God, now people can see my fucking face. I would look at my upside down reflection in my spoon and be so utterly ashamed of my absolute ugliness. My face was the worst part about me. Don’t worry folks this haircut came two years before the back brace sooo, I didn’t know what was coming at me.

I got home and I cried and I tried barrettes. I tried pony tails. I tried headbands. I spent the next six months trying to hide my hideous hair. But don’t worry I logically got my “Sandy” haircut just before school pictures so there is actually photographic evidence of this poor judgement. I have never asked to look like another person again. I learned the disappointing fact that a haircut is not going to change my whole look. I had many haircuts since, and some I will say were not perfect. But my mushroom bowl cut was my absolute worst hair. AND I one time only permed the front of my hair…and it was hideous. I also learned that my hair was my best feature and I would cherish it.

Moral of my story: Tammy with the perm and the bright blue eye shadow and hickied neck did not know who Sandy from Grease was. Instead of looking like Sandra Dee I looked like the beauty school drop out! Oh my God guys, Tammy thought I wanted to Frenchy….that was the fucking hair. I just realized that now. Fucking Tammy.

Okay better moral to my story: Be happy with who you are. Love yourself and really see that you are more than just good hair, or beauty, or make-up. You are a beating heart and a loving soul and isn’t that what is important? I mean do it with good hair, but isn’t that what’s important?

Until next time 🙂

I have been inspired by others online to provide some form of entertainment for all of you new shut ins. I know that times are tough and uncertain and I am definitely doing my part by staying in and keeping my place a safe and healthy zone for myself and my family.

Funny thing about me is that I am not particularly social. I honestly am comfortable in most situations and that’s because I have a big sense of acceptance and most things are an adventure to me. I have always had a wild imagination. I have recently been quoted by my youngest daughter, “Who needs friends when you have books?” I have found reading to be a magical escape. I also haven’t always had an abundance of friends unless you count my three cats and two dogs, which honestly I do, then I am rich with friends. So I have plenty of quarantine games that I have played my entire life because of my social awkwardness. I will make a short list for you.

1. You can practice your Oscar award speech. What you need: a round hairbrush microphone, a soft chair to sit on, *yes toilet counts especially when you can see yourself in the mirror, and a great speech. “I would like to Thank all of you that have supported me through my career, I know that it wasn’t easy always having me sleep on your couch, but now I am a huge star so I can buy you a new one. To my parents for always believing me. And Always the Lord for watching over me, and my husband *fill in current handsome star or crush or actual husband.” you know great speeches like that.
2. Practice being on a talk show. What you need: a comfy seat or kitchen counter and that is all. You can be host. You can be a guest. You can be cooking segment guest. “I am going to make a family recipe that reminds me of my latchkey days. Nothing but a package of wonder bread and a huge tub of peanut butter and a little bit of General Hospital “Luke and Laura edition” to wash it all down. First you want to skip the heel of the bread, you don’t want this piece because it is for the future when the entire loaf is gone but the heels and then it has to be used with the other one. You open the fresh tub of the peanut butter and you scoop out the belly button so that your brothers and sister can’t have it. Then you swipe it on your bread. Then you fold bread in half and eat. Thank you for watching my cooking segment “latchkey recipes, I’m *fill in blank here, back to you *Luke”
3. Solitaire is the game of champions. There are several ways to play. What you need: a deck of cards. Check them first because an entire deck of cards is apparently rare. Usually there are some missing. Sometimes there are the packs that have been reworked so that all of the cards are there but these have dogs and those three have beach scenes and this one has the traditional red design on the back.
4. Chinese jump rope, this can be played with three but not with social distancing. What you need: Large rubber band *or chinese jump rope if they are still a thing (I’m old so they may not exist anymore) and two chairs. Then be careful because sometimes the chairs snap shut with the rope and you have to move quickly so  you don’t get hit in the teeth while you are laughing with your chair friends because you are having so much fun. Remember its outside, inside, side, side, on, and then diamond and this takes some skill because those chairs are not going to stand up and you may be hurt. So much fun.
5. A tea party with your stuffed animals. What you need: a tea set ; or pitcher and cups; or larger cup and smaller cups; Heck you can even use pretend tea set and cups and one or more stuffed animals. The trick is to have polite conversation with your stuffed animals “Oh so how is your Aunt doing? The last time I saw her she was going to marry Luke. Did your Aunt Laura marry Luke? *because again it was the show that I watched when I was supposed to be vacuuming the house. The house got vacuumed two minutes before my mom came home. She witnessed me with the vacuum so it happened.
6. Draw or color. What you need: a full coloring book that you have already did and some scrap paper to trace or draw *if you are talented enough, and pencil and coloring utensils.
7. IF you have a new box of crayons you can have a fine wedding first before coloring. What you need: a fresh box of crayons, a tissue, an elastic band and an imagination. The white crayon bride will wear the tissue wedding dress held on with her elastic band corset. She will be the envy of all of the other crayon ladies such as Pink, Purple, Red and Orange. The groom, we will call him Luke, *black crayon will be so happy that he is marrying white crayon *Laura. Game pieces can also be married.

These are just some fine suggestions from a person who has practiced social distancing for a long time.

Moral of my story: I think this time is an opportunity to connect with ourselves and truly see how we are doing. We can remain peaceful and happy even if we are a little bit scared. We can also tap into our inner child and remember what it was like when we were young and could make rockets out of laundry baskets. I wish you all well and hope you are safe and healthy.

Until next time. 🙂

There are things that children say that we, as parents, kind of think “Kids say the darnedest things!” This particular story comes from that part of my parenting. My oldest was two and I was very pregnant with my son. Her Aunt, from her father’s side, brought her out to get a new pair of shoes, which was a very kind gesture because I was not going to do this with my gigantic belly. She can go barefoot like me. *Yes I was barefoot and pregnant because my feet looked like Miss Piggy’s.

My daughter comes home with her new shoes and takes the bag and literally chucks the fucking thing into the corner of her room. She walks out to me and says to me “Can I have a snack?”

“Yes, but first say thank you to your Auntie for the shoes!” I tell her.

“Thank you for the shoes. Can I have a snack?” the two year old says because she is all about this snack and not at all about the shoes. I mean what girl is not excited about a new pair of shoes…. I know that’s sexist but what boy is not excited about a new pair of shoes….see it works for both genders.

I also thank my sister in law for the shoes and for taking her and I help my two year old get her string cheese opened. My sister in law leaves and my daughter looks directly in my eyes and says “I am not wearing those shoes!” Which was alarming, because what the actual fuck man?

“What do you mean? What happened?” I ask because this is bizarre by any standards I can fathom. Has there been an argument? Was she wanting another pair they didn’t have her size in? My Sister in law is kind and thoughtful so I am unsure what has transpired here.

“Nothing happened.” the two year old states.

“Are you sure?” I ask. *Again keep in mind this is a two year old who doesn’t break it down for me at all, so I am just sitting there watching her eat her string cheese trying to guess what the problem is.

“Yes! Are we going to go for a walk today?” she asks.

“No because it is raining. Would you like to pick a game and we can play?” I ask her.

This child walks into her bedroom looks at the bag of shoes and kicks it as she walks by. She opens her closet that houses her games and chooses the game she wants, then as she walks out kicks the bag again. I am still wondering what is up with her and her Auntie.

“Did you have fun with Auntie?” I ask

“Yup! We had ice cream after lunch.”

“That sounds nice. What flavor did you get?” I ask

“I had a twisty cone!” she said

“Your favorite!” I said.

“Are you going to keep asking me questions or are we gonna play a game?” she asks like she’s a dealer at a casino.

“Okay! Let’s play some Candy Land!” * this was before she threw it in the trash because she lost.

We play our game and the subject of the shopping trip has been dropped.

That evening when her father gets home he asks how our day was.

“Your little angel went shopping with your sister today.”

My oldest little girl looks at her dad and smiles.

“Oh you lucky girl, what did you get?”

“I got a stupid pair of shoes that I am never going to wear!” there it is again, that hostility.

“You don’t like your new shoes?” my husband asks like the better detective than me. I am more about the relationships, he is all like honing in on the real fucking problem, the shoes.

“No.” she says.

“Why not?” he asks

“Because they have rocks in them.” she announces.

He looks at her puzzled and says “How did they get rocks in them?”

“They are just in there.” she says matter of factly and carries on with her life. *again she is two. She talks like a thirty year old but she is only two.

He walks into her room and picks up the bag with the shoes and takes them out of the box. They look like a perfectly new pair of shoes. He pulls them out and says “These are nice, sweet pea, do you want to try them on?”

“They have rocks in them, they have rocks in them! Them futting things have rocks in them!” she begins to sing.

“Hey, hey, hey! Watch your language young lady!” I announce.

“Oh I didn’t mean that kind of fut its the other kind!” because there had recently been a conversation about the curse word “Jesus” and how, if said properly, it was actually a good thing and now my little shit believes that there are really good curse words and that, when said with the right intentions, fuck is okay to say.

“It is not okay for you to say that one.” I said “That is a very bad word.”

“You say it! And dad says it all of the time.” she looks right at him and he is still holding the shoes. She walks over and knocks the box right out of his hands.

“Easy!” He says to her. He looks inside of the shoes and sees nothing in there. “I don’t know what you are talking about, I don’t see any rocks in there.”

“You can’t see them.” she announces to us.

I am exhausted and pregnant and honestly frustrated with the entire new shoe subject so I state that it is bath time.

“Do you want me to give her a bath?” My husband offers.

“Yes, that would be very helpful.” I go to the couch and sit down. I was asleep before they were finished filling up the tub.

The next weekend we were heading out to a birthday party and I say “Do you want to wear your new shoes?” I ask hoping she had forgot her hatred of them.

“They have rocks in them!” she tells me and then walks over and grabs a pair of shoes I know do not fit her any more. She struggles to get them on and I honestly am just dumbfounded.

I finally decide it is time to put my hand in her new shoes to see what the actual fuck she is talking about and sure as shit there are what feel like sharp rocks in her shoes. I give them to my husband and say “feel this!”

“Holy shit!” he says “There are rocks in her shoes.” he looks at her and grimaces. “Did you tell Auntie that there were rocks in them?”

She says “Yes, and she called me silly!”

Well, to be fair to her Auntie, we didn’t believe her either. That was when I realized that sometimes I wasn’t a good listener to my child. After that I would really try to understand what she was trying to say. She was a strong willed two year old and now she is a strong willed twenty-seven year old and that strength has been a great value to us both.

Moral of my story: Sure kids say the darnedest things but they have something to tell you so try to listen, try to understand and try to have an open mind. Also if your kid says those shoes have rocks in them, take those fuckers back because she is never going to wear them.

Until next time.

My daughter-in-law got me a very thoughtful gift. It is a book in which I can record old family recipes in. I love to cook and this gift is so wonderful. On each page there are little boxes to explain where the recipes came from and to explain why it is a family favorite. As I was filling it out there are some very Becki things going on in this book. Mostly my humor and at time my attempt to censor my language. I don’t know if one day my future ancestors are going to read it and they will be like “Nona Becki was a foulmouthed old lady but, man, could she cook!” So lets look at my cook book so far;

First of all, I do not measure anything when I cook. I have not measured in a real long time. So I am writing the ingredients that I put in my cooking but no actual measurements. I cook by smell, taste and sight. Does it look good, does it smell good, and does it taste good. I mean it is the three senses of eating. I suppose texture is in there as well and so touch is a factor, but I don’t feel the food. Wait, I feel the potatoes to see if they are done, I poke it with a fork. I just don’t listen to my food. At least I don’t think I do. But I’m weird, so I probably do. So let’s just say there are four to five senses to cooking, on the off chance that we listen to our food.

Second of all there is an old family honey ginger chicken wing recipe that my mom made for us when we all lived at home. The only thing is, It wasn’t her old family that created it. She got it from a woman she worked with. Her name was Wong and I call them “is it wong to steal a family recipe chicken wings”. I mean she didn’t technically steal the recipe, it was given to her. I wrote this in the source of the cookbook…recipe stolen from an old family. Because I think it’s funny. Now I decide that it is going to be a funny cookbook with my real recipes. So immediately it is growing into a true Becki cookbook.

Third of all one of the recipes is one that I made for my husband when we were dating. I told him that I didn’t like to cook…I was nineteen and it was sort of true. I finally decided that I would cook for him. I brought my nephew with me to the grocery store and we went shopping for ingredients. I remember my nephew was with me because it was pouring rain out and when we got outside after paying he was still holding the can of tomatoes in his hand. I was like ‘do I just buckle him in his carseat and pretend we didn’t just steal a can of tomatoes?’ NO, that would be wrong, I mean even more wrong then claiming the Wong family recipe as my own. I walked all the way back in to the register that we came from and said “oh gosh, we didn’t pay for these.” She smiled at me and said “You came in for that, you are better than I am.” I smiled at my nephew because he was there when this lady confirmed that I was good for doing this in front of him. I paid for my tomatoes and left again. I get home and start cooking. My husband comes to my parent’s house (where I also lived at the time) and I have made lasagna. It looks and smells amazing. *I chose lasagna because in school I took a cooking class and got an A+ on it. I knew I could do it well. 

After dinner was done he looked at my mother and thanked her for a lovely meal. I said “I cooked it.” He said “Yeah right!” I then looked at my mother and she said “No, Becki made dinner.” He said “You told me that you don’t know how to cook.” I said “I told you that I don’t like to cook. I know how to cook.” Turns out I like to cook as well. He decided to marry me after this, like a year or so after this. But definitely I believe that my ability to cook was a huge factor in his decision.

Fourth of all I have a recipe that I make because my husband talked about his Dad making “Chinese Pie”. I didn’t know what the fuck Chinese Pie even was. I also thought it was strange because his Dad was not a fan of Chinese Food. I couldn’t imagine him eating a whole pie of it. I pictured a pie with fried rice at the bottom with chicken fingers and maybe teriyaki steak on top with a crust holding in all that Chinese goodness. Maybe more like one huge pie sized egg roll or wonton. Man, was I so wrong, or maybe I was just Wong. I learned what it was when we went to my friends house and she made Shephard’s Pie. My husband looks at me and says “Oh my Gosh, I haven’t had Chinese Pie in forever.”

So Chinese Pie is actually Shephard’s Pie and I had to learn how to make it for him. I didn’t ask for any directions because I was like “I’ve fucking got this!” My mother made a meal called “Hamburg Gravy” and it was basically that but put together with some veggies and baked for extra measure so that you can call it pie.

As I was writing in this cookbook, I realized one thing, I believe that cooking is a real language of love. We put our hearts and souls into the food that we cook for our families. Maybe not every time…..sometimes I cook like Mrs Cunningham when she’s pissed at Howard on “Happy Days” when she throws ingredients on the table and basically tells him to fuck off. If you don’t know what I am talking about try to find it on the internet, It’s hilarious. It honestly was the most relatable thing I have ever seen on tv. Sometimes when we are cooking we are like, “What? What do you want?” the say they don’t know but then you put it in front of them they are instantly insulted by the meal you are clearly trying to infuriate them with. “Not this! I don’t want meatloaf! I hate meatloaf!” Crying ensues and you are now making them pour their own bowl of cereal and they are all limp noodle and spaghetti arms from all of the energy they wasted on crying about the meatloaf. Or you just make them a sandwich so that the noise stops. But Then there are those other times when they come in and say “What are you cooking mom? That smells delicious!” This mostly happens when they go to college and have to survive on Ramen. But eventually your language of love is pure and they accept it as it is.

Moral of my story: I want to take this time to Thank my sweet, beautiful and lovely daughter-in-law for the most thoughtful gift. She reminded me that the meals that I cooked out of love was really a part of my family’s story. For those of you that get frustrated with cooking meals for your kids to not eat, one day they will see your love in every bite. They will cherish it and will one day try to recreate it. I am proud to cook for my family. I hope that they know that. I now want to write this book to completion and duplicate it for all of my children to have. It has been a lovely journey and it is a road map of my heart. I will add a lot of Becki in it so that my future ancestors (I keep calling them this not really sure that is the correct term) will read it and think “wow that Nona Becki she was a real firecracker!” Now time for me to go and figure out what I am going to cook while they are all home for Christmas…It will be a real Becki Smorgasbord Feast of all of their favorites.

Until next time.

One of the things that plagued me as a human was this overwhelming sense of insecurity. I didn’t value myself and thought that everyone else had a rule book that I somehow missed while they were handing them out. *I was probably daydreaming about being a big star one day, which was usually the case. Others seem to know what society expected of them and there I was herpderping around just saying things like “Hi, I like your dress it looks old timey. Do you want to be friends?” I couldn’t navigate social norms well. *remember as a way to fit in I fashioned braces out of a paper clip. I didn’t know how to fit in and I wished that I understood what people expected of me. All I knew was that, whatever it was, I certainly was not doing it.

As a mother this insecurity doubled down and I was aware that I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to human, adulting was really hard and then Mothering was the hardest thing of all. I had a very hard time to keep clothes on my first child. She was always wearing some sort of shirt with no pants combo. She was basically Winnie-the-Pooh. I honestly was trying to keep her clothes on, she was an unwilling participant.  When the time came for me to have to bring this child into the mainstream of society I thought I was ready. Sure she is naked half of the time but come on other kids do this too, right?

Her first day of preschool I was asked by one of the other moms *and apparent nanny poacher “How much do they pay you to be their nanny? You are great with the kids.” This question broke me. I was not believable as the mom. I was twenty five and could have passed for twelve. I was already young and I didn’t have the swagger of “They must think I’m too young to have children.” or “I have lost all the baby weight and that is why they think these are not mine.” I was devastated. My sister worked in the school and as I was leaving one of her students asked if I was her mom. **fuck you little bastard, If I’m a mom it’s to an adult in her twenties. Sure it was not being called the nanny, but I’m her younger sister. I was feeling both too old and too young all at the same time. How does this even happen?

One day I was talking to one of the mothers and she had all of her shit together, so naturally I wanted to be her. She was telling me about how to raise my children. I being young, naive and totally wanting to fit in, grabbed my pen and pad of paper to write it all down. *we didn’t have cell phones then. “You have to raise your daughters to be confident and your sons to be sensitive and you have to make sure they know who’s in charge.” I’m not even saying that these things are wrong, but she was just pointing out the wish list. She wasn’t tell me how to accomplish these things, mostly because she wasn’t trying to control my mothering, she was just talking as mom’s do. I, however, did not know this because I was desperate to do the right thing. I wanted my children to fit in better than I ever had.

Nothing made me question myself more than the time I was out grocery shopping with my child sitting in the grocery cart. My child asks to hold the yogurt. I am okay with her holding the cups of yogurt especially when we go through the checkouts. That way she won’t throw in six candy bars and twelve packs of Hubba Bubba. The way I shop is produce, deli, dry goods, meat, household items, health and beauty, frozen foods, dairy and breads. So yogurt is basically the last thing on my list. My child is holding it and then decides that she would prefer the kind with the fucking cows on it. She takes the yogurt and throws it out of the cart and the yogurt containers, that are not built for such force and action, totally splits open. The trajectory was a downward motion causing the contents of the container to follow basic physics to then splatter in an upward fashion all over the mother standing there trying to hold her shit together. Where’s my list? Am I teaching what I need to? Fucking lists!!!!

Now that I am older and wiser I can honestly say that the reason I could feel both too old and too young all in the same morning is because I didn’t have any grasp as to who I was.  I was an empty canvas for everyone to paint. The only problem is that when you let everyone else paint your canvas it looks more like graffiti. And not the cool graffiti that actually looks like art, it is more like the kind of graffiti that you find in the gas station unisex bathroom. You know the kind that says things like “Jenny sucks balls for free” and under that it says “this is Jenny and it was a buy one get one deal. You have to pay for the first one still” There is always the Pam + Bob and then someone crosses out Bob and writes Ted and then someone crosses out Pam and writes George and then someone else writes Ted definitely likes women ask your mom.

That was me and my canvas for a very long time. This led to a very unhealthy way for me to see myself and the way I approached parenting. I was like “You will listen to me because I’m your mom!” and also me “Ice-cream for everyone who spells their name correctly on the brand new living room wall I’ve specifically told you not to write on.” The judgement of myself was so caustic that I just felt so inadequate and then I became inadequate. My rules as a parent were all emotional based and depending on the mood I was in. So in other words, inconsistent and incredibly confusing for my children.

When we moved to a new state I was liberated. I didn’t have to wear that old filthy bathroom graffiti canvas around. I gave it a fresh coat of paint. I started to paint my own picture of who I was. I was the mom that was going to listen to my children. I was going to set boundaries that were livable. I was going to learn with my children and remind them that I didn’t know everything but I would help them find the answers that they needed. I believed more in the journey of getting to know myself and my children. My children and I went on tremendous adventures together. We explored nature and we learned new things like how to ride a horse. I didn’t become wise like I thought was expected of me. I simply accepted myself as I was, and I tried to become the person that I wanted to be. Then I tried to teach that to my children. You don’t have to fit in, you can be a stand out as long as you accept yourself and others and be kind to all.

As a parent we think we have to know everything. We think that somehow we should be like everyone else, that apparently knows what they are doing. Here’s a little secret, we are all struggling. We are all doing our best. We are all standing there with a toddler who has dropped yogurt on the floor in the grocery store and it has splattered up the front of us. Guess what? You can still go to the checkout and pay for your groceries even if you are wearing yogurt. They still accept your money just the same. They still tell you to have a nice day. People are mostly concerned with themselves as long there is no real threat to another. They may laugh at the yogurt, because to be honest, it’s a little funny. Other than that, your day can go on as it was going to go on. You’re just going to have to change when you get home.

Moral of my story: Don’t be so hard on yourself, you have the capability to do this. Parenting is a tough job, but it is not an impossible job, and trust me you got this. Also, stop worrying about what everyone else thinks of you, it’s more important what you think of yourself. You get to repaint the canvas. Get rid of all those awful, hateful things other people wrote on your wall and rewrite your story. As the Nanny said to the little girl in The Help “You is kind, you is smart, you is important.” A little self-love goes a long way.

Until next time. 🙂

So here we are again, my least favorite time of year. Some of you are like, wait, what, she doesn’t like free candy? I don’t mind free candy but I’m neither trick or treating age nor mom of trick or treaters age. I’m old and so Halloween is a gigantic reminder that scary dolls name Annabelle and Poltergeists that suck you into the television, are going to be around for the fucking entire month. Oh sure, you like a good scare once in a while to remind you that you are alive. But come on, that’s what rollercoasters and almost choking to death is for. This stupid holiday is not a reminder to me that I should be thankful to alive, it is more of “Fucking Assholes Wanting to Scare me are around every corner!”

When did this madness begin, you are probably wondering? Let me tell you, it was childhood. My brothers and their friends may have taken this God for saken holiday too far. They would be out (its the seventies and eighties so that means hanging out at the mall) and I would be home alone hanging out with the dog, my only faithful companion. My sister may have been home or she may have been cooler than me and had friends and things to do *you decide which! I am in my living room choreographing the electric slide (you don’t know, I could have) and all of a sudden someone would knock on our front door. No one used our front door, which is hilarious because I’m a grown ass adult and SAME, a different front door, but yeah no one uses it, so basically its the pizza door!

In fact our front doo, from my childhood, involved moving things out of the way to answer it. There I am in my leotard, which is weird because I am home alone and not going to dance, moving things out of the way to answer the door. The Front Door, the scariest of all doors, because no one uses it. I finally get whatever was in front of the door out of the way and open the wooden door but leaving the glass door barrier locked in case it is someone nefarious. But I look out and there is not a soul to be seen. I go back to my choreographing Thriller….(again you don’t know, I may have been brilliant and there were no cell phones to capture my amazing choreographing talents) and there is a knock on the door, the front door. I look at the dog and the dog could give two shits about someone knocking on my front door. I take that as a sign that all is well. I walk over to the door and again no one is there. I go back to choreographing footloose (haha, I was literally not choreographing footloose, our living room was not that big) this is when I hear someone rustling in the bushes. I turn off the lights to pretend I’m not home. I know its too late for this but maybe they think I ran out to buy some milk, as a child and in my leotard. As I am sitting in the dark with the dog I decide I should check on what was rustling in the bushes, it could be my cat. I look out and there is some fucking creep sitting in my bushes. I am sickened with fear. I crawl over to the door to make certain that it is locked. It was. I then crawl to the kitchen to the back door to make sure it was locked, it wasn’t, because it never was. There were a hundred people that lived in our house, a locked door would have been mayhem. I reach up to the handle and lock it. As I do there was some sort of zombie ghoul peeking in the top window.

Just as I was crawling to the safety of my bedroom to hide and hyperventilate and piss my pants probably, I had to go past the basement door to get there. The basement door flings open and there is the most terrifying face I have ever seen. He reaches out and grabs my stocking feet. I pull my foot all the way in my tights, certain that I can Houdini my way out of them, when I hear laughter. Not just any laughter, but asshole brother and friends laughter. They reach up to take off their Halloween masks and that is the most single terrifying motion a person can do to me to this day, I was certain that this was going to be the day that I finally learn the true identity of my brothers and they were going to be even more horrible underneath the halloween masks that they were wearing. But nope just their naturally beautiful faces with their gorgeous blue eyes and their wonderful laughter ringing out.

I stand up and leave go to put real clothes on because I am suddenly aware that I am being weird and I don’t want to be caught in the act of weirdness. I am changing in my room and I hear my brothers and their friends laughing at how scared I was. I am crying in my room and changing. I finally get some composure and I go out and try to act as if all is well. However this is when the worst of it happened. They were all doing the choreography (the electric slide probably, haha) and mocking my weirdness. My, home alone, weirdness! UMMMMM! Excuse me, that was not ready for the stage yet, you cannot pick on me for my unrefined choreography. So needless to say Halloween is not my favorite holiday. I don’t need your free candy, I know where they sell it. Also Santa brings a new batch at Christmas anyway.

Moral of my story: I don’t blame my brothers for my fear that was all on me. My imagination was way more terrifying than anything they were ever going to do to me. I dabbled with the idea of putting my imaginations in a horror book but I would be more afraid with people mocking that it wasn’t that terrifying. My imagination has been frightening me for years, I couldn’t handle the idea that someone reading my book and thinking that unicorn was not that scary even if it had red eyes and a lion’s mouth. Any way, I guess what I am saying is that I am most afraid of judgement and not being accepted. I am also afraid of many other things but they aren’t real. Trick or Treat? I chose Treat, Always the Treat!

So readers I recently went to Paris. It first started with the flight (the intent is you’re going to sleep on the eight hour plan ride and you’re going to land in the morning well rested because you’re going to be required to function) the reality is I stayed up all night. In fact at one point I looked over at my husband and asked him to slip me a mickey. I’m not really sure what a mickey is but I was desperate and needed sleep. My husband, who isn’t a 1940’s gangster, did not have a mickey so I went back to pretending that I was asleep. When we landed we had to go through customs and I had to pee really bad. I was like “How am I going to go through customs while I am doing the pee pee dance? They are going to think I’m smuggling things into their beautiful country via my coochie!” Plus anytime that authority figures are involved I immediately feel guilty like I have inadvertently committed a crime unbeknownst to me! Like I’m some sort of fucking blackout criminal and could be wanted for all I know! I definitely have to find a toilet before I go through customs. Finally a sign that says “Toilette” and I’m like cool. But when I get to the fucking toilette I realize that I don’t know enough french not to piss in the men’s room. Luckily their french toilette lady wears a dress too. Thank goodness. As I walk into the toilette I was secretly hoping they didn’t have those water shooters things to clean my asshole because is that even sanitary? Nope they didn’t have that so I didn’t have to worry about getting syphilis shot up my bumhole.

Finally we get through customs and I guess I am not a blackout criminal or perhaps they haven’t heard about me because I made it in. Now we get into the cab and head to our hotel. I’m exhausted because of all the energy I wasted trying to “Be Cool” through customs that I have no actual energy for anything else. We arrive at our hotel and as I get out there are armed guards approaching the car. What the Fuck did I actually do? Is this why my husband didn’t have any mickey left? Did he use it on me to get me to go on some blackout crime spree. My husband sees me trying to breath and he said “Oh I guess I should have told you that they have armed guards patrolling the streets here!”  I, trying to do what a normal person does, and not really sure what that would be, I smile and wave at them…the fucking armed guards. My husband slapped my hand out of the air and says “Don’t do that!”

“Okay!” was my response.

We get all checked into our first hotel and we are in a typical Hilton for my husband’s business meeting. My mother had asked me to send her pictures but so far everything was so typically American that I was finding it difficult to send her pictures. I open the curtains in the Hotel and I see a Sephora across the walkway. I was like well that’s not going to do it. Also I am dirt tired and I’m sweating, why is it so hot here? It was in the seventies and all the french folks are wearing jackets. The heat was on in the hotel room. I like it a nice sixty-eight degrees at all times. My husband told me he already took care of it. I think mostly because he’s concerned that I am one of those people that might spontaneously combust. *It was something we saw on television when we first got married and it stuck with both of us. I climb into the bed and I fall asleep.

When we wake up we decided that we need to eat. We decide to go across to the mall to grab a bite. The mall is the “American Mall” and so we find this “American Steak House” to eat at. They gave use the English menu, but we got the French speaking waitress and so we struggled to get our order in. We ordered the cheese plate and I ordered the chicken with cauliflower my husband ordered the steak with baked potato. When our cheese plate came out, the cheese was deep fried. But this cheese had no business being deep fried. There was goat cheese and some oozing puss cheese that stuck to my chin when I tried to wipe it off, and there were other kinds that I didn’t try. Then when our food came over we both got steak with mashed potatoes. We both chuckled and just ate our food because it was easier then trying to french our way through it. The whole time we were texting our kids to have them translate for us. All three of my kids have taken several years of French so they are pretty fluent. Like “what is Pamplemousse?” turns out it’s grapefruit. Certainly more than me, who knows the song “Frere Jacques” and what Miss Piggy has taught me on the Muppet show, but that’s about it. We get back to the hotel and I brush my teeth and get in my pajamas and I go to bed. Up until this point I have not once looked at the room clock because I had my watch and my phone. So Imagine my surprise when I wake in the middle of the night and roll over to find that it is 00:23 o’clock! Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say to me? What time is it? 00:23 is not a time on a clock it’s how much time you have left on the fucking roast you are cooking. I am trying to math it out and I’m like I don’t even know what time that is supposed to be. Am I stupid? Why can’t I even figure this out?

My husband rolls over in bed *because he can hear me whispering numbers probably. “What time is it?”

“I don’t fucking know, the clock’s broke!” I say to which he replies “Oh!” and goes back to sleep.

It was then that I decide he was right, it doesn’t matter what time it is because I’m in Paris and that is all I need to know. The next day we went back to the mall and got Starbucks coffee. I love how things are mostly the exactly same. Mostly everyone speaks english and I had a great day shopping with my husband. I don’t know how French money works but it makes my husband more angry so I’m guess things are more expensive in French.

The next day I am on my own and it’s raining. I don’t have an umbrella but the hotel has a shopping plaza inside. I go there and decide to buy an umbrella. I walk into the store and the woman Frenches it up and I look at her, shrug and say “English?” She ignored me, so I guess not. I am looking for an umbrella and I don’t speak the language and its a little early for me to text my children to ask them if “Bumber Shoot” is umbrella in French? Because of the six hour time difference they don’t need my ridiculousness in the wee hours. I followed a British guy and he found them. So I grabbed one and waited in line at the register behind him, like a fucking stalker. The same non-english girl rang me up and I gave her money and she gave me a fistful of coins. I have no idea if she gave the proper change because I didn’t count it.

I have to face the restaurant in the hotel by myself. My husband had been to France many times and his mother and grandmother both spoke french as their native tongue. He can navigate the menu pretty well. I now have to trust my instincts and you all know what my instincts are like. I look at the menu and for three days in a row I ordered Latte Macchiato and croque monsieur (which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich that they call Mr. Crock). At night I have my husband to help with the menu and I became pretty good at making things out.

When my husband’s business was done we were able to go to Paris Proper to do the tourist stuff. My husband booked the most beautiful hotel room in this gorgeous Parisian boutique hotel. The room had a terrace where we could see the Eiffel Tower. *that’s an actual picture of our view in the article. It was such a gorgeous room with tapestry on the wall and so luxuriously decorated. The only problem was that at night it was haunted as fuck. The ghost lady spent the whole night rattling the doorhandles every time I was about to fall asleep. My husband tried to convince me that it was the air conditioner. “Doing what exactly? Trying to get in the room?” ask the crazy lady digging into his back. I’m sure he was hoping he had some mickey now. Instead he had to sleep with the woman he is certain is going to spontaneously combust pressed up against him. He sure as hell doesn’t want to go out that way. Here he is strapped with a bomb and I’m like then I can join this ghost lady and keep her company. I mean if I’m going to spend eternity this place is exactly the type of place I want to do it. Did you get a good look at that view?

I left Paris just as exhausted as I had arrived. I loved being there and I am hoping to go back. I would even stay in that same haunted room if I had to. I think I figured her out. I think she must have worked nights when she was alive because there was zero activity during the day. I think I could have gotten to know her better if I had stayed longer. But she sure had me terrified every night that I slept at her haunted fucking mansion. Next time I’m going to order her a Mr. Crock sandwich and leave it out in the parlor for her. That’ll make her happy. *I had my cholesterol checked when I got back to the states, it was high. Mr. Crock is high in cholesterol I guess.

Moral of my story: I guess I don’t have one, but if you ever get a chance to travel to Paris do it. The people are super nice and welcoming and they mostly spoke english. I do plan on trying to learn some French in case I go back though. If you do go and need some food ideas order the Mr. Crock sandwich its super good. Another thing, don’t do mickeys they are bad for you.

Until next time. 🙂

Welcome to my blog, I’m assuming there will be a new flux of people flocking here due to the title. Technology savvy folks coming to read up on new technology and all they get is the anxious riddled ramblings of a neurotic middle-aged empty-nester. Don’t go, though! Stay! You might learn something new. Damn it! Lost some new readers by the droves, perhaps I should not have over shared in the first paragraph. Well, I’m pretty true to  my nature. So I did promise to talk about technology in the title, I guess I should start.

First I have in my possession a particular brand of products as if I have some sort of affiliation with them, I do not, I just know how to use them. Not to their full capacity, mind you, I use my watch as an actual watch that I can text from. Funny observation from my youngest little angel, “Mom leaves her phone everywhere now because she has her watch. I found her phone sitting outside the other day and mom was nowhere to be found.” So anyway, I find the products super easy to use, as common ordinary things with a twist.

How have we gone too far with technology, you ask? The other day I mentioned that I wanted to go to Greece, using my mouth talking to another human being in person (like the old lady that I am) and then my social media page shows up with Greece advertisements for me. I mean I checked it out because I’m serious that I want to go, but super fucking creepy, Right? People own those devices that they can just shout “Order me more toilet paper!” I mean first of all, have  Y’all tried talk to text? You are definitely not getting toilet paper. You’re going to get a case of some foreign candy from Sweden or Norway. What happens if you are just in the bathroom and you’re like “Fucking A, I am out of toilet paper!” But you just mean on the roll and then your device doesn’t know that because its a fucking robot and next thing you know you have six cases of Norwegian candy and you’re like “Who the fuck keeps sending me this?” and you don’t mind because you have developed a taste for it and you can’t find anything in the US that even comes close to it. Second of all, have you not seen any of those movies when we have fucking robots? Name one that doesn’t end poorly for humans, I’ll wait!

Also, I have read a study on the socialization of younger generations. They are finding it more difficult to socialize in person because on Social media society is very harsh and judgmental. People on social media try to be funny and sarcastic and perhaps just come off as dickish. Why would anyone want to talk to people in the real world when they are calling you a “fucking snowflake” because you care about the environment? And that’s on us, isn’t it? We can blame technology but we have to realize that we are representing ourselves every time we type into social media.

I, as a parent, gave my children cell phones if they were going to be out at their after school activities without me. New technology makes old technology obsolete, such as pay phones, the emergency phone of my day. That way they can reach out to me if they needed me to come pick them up or if there was an emergency. However, once you get them their first emergency phone they are not just using it as a phone.

My oldest daughter, when she got her first cell phone that was all that it could be used for. She could make phone calls and that was it. They also charged you by the minute so it was definitely only used for emergencies. But, before we knew it texting became a thing and shit a whole new language emerged because they charged you by the character. It wasn’t long before your cell phone became a tiny computer that you could obsess about and be insulted anywhere you go. You can be out to dinner with your family while on vacation and be insulted by a relative that you have not had any human contact with in over thirty years. That wasn’t the intent of social media, but that is the reality. Younger people may not realize that we don’t just walk up to a person and go at them for their beliefs and how they voted. They do not realize that in true civilization we are not quite so flagrant with our thoughts and behavior towards others. Then, why are we behaving like that on the internet. Again, that is on us.

Next, think of how many movies you have seen in your lifetime about computers and robots rising up and eliminating humans? I know that I have seen at least six. When I heard that they were creating robots to mimic humans, I was like “Well, this is it!” Robots could be learning our behavior from the worst of it “What we put on our social media pages” and think they know us. No  wonder they want to take us out in the future. We are assholes. I have read that they have created sex robots and that the sex robot has a virus that makes them murder. I mean humans do too, but what the actual fuck?

Has technology gone too far? Maybe, but we have too. We have gone and put our agendas out on our various and assorted social media pages and it has gotten a little out of hand. I’m not scolding you! I found myself doing this too. I have decided that my social media page doesn’t have to be about my worst fears and getting the last word in. I made the change toward lighthearted and positive messages because that’s who I want to be in real life too. I don’t need people to understand what I feel every minute of every day, because my feelings are on me. If I am having a bad day I have to figure that shit out on my own. I don’t have to get various members of society to come to champion me and give me a false sense of reality. If I have a bad day I have to look at my own viewpoint. The truth is a day can’t be neither good nor bad, it is what I am choosing to reflect upon that makes the day such. Sure there are plenty of things in our life that could happen that will impact us negatively. Truth is social media doesn’t change those things. A sense of camaraderie and community is good and we can definitely get that from social media. But it doesn’t replace a human hug. It doesn’t replace good old fashioned self discovery. It doesn’t replace sitting around the table playing a game of cards. It doesn’t replace laughing around a campfire.

What should we do? What can we do? I personally have chosen to put out uplifting messages for others to enjoy or scroll past. I have chose to put my best self out there. Some parents have come up with some really great ideas, such as on game night put your cell phones in a bowl. Some people have decided upon Limiting cell phone usage and screen time. Inviting friends over and getting the children engaged in games and play without their phones is also an option. Teaching etiquette is a “do as I do” situation. Sure seeing some of those memes can get you fired up, the truth is, they are supposed to. What would you do if someone antagonized you out in the real world? I know that I would walk past them. I would try not to make eye contact (which is my husband’s advice) and I would try my best not to engage. If you are passionate about something, that is great. If you would be the type of person that tells everyone you come in contact with, then go on and be yourself. But if you find yourself being someone you don’t recognize on the internet, perhaps take a step back and really do some self reflection.

Moral of my story: Has technology gone too far? The truth is we can utilize technology to be our best selves or we can allow it to run us into a completely uncharted territory of complete savagery. We are humans and what makes humans human? Some scientists would say it is our compassion. Some scientists would say it is our language skills. Some scientists would say that it is our large brains and what we create with it.

I think what makes us human is the hope that working together for a better community brings. Humans when they became bipedal began to make fires and sit around eating together. It brought protection. It brought socialization. It brought communication. Why sit around the blue lights of our computers trying to force others to see things our way? When instead we can be our best selves and offer our protection, socialization and communication in a more positive way. The way we would if we were face to face. Yes, and even take the time to be face to face with some of those people. I hope I didn’t scare you, but instead opened your eyes to the us we can become.

Until next time 🙂

So sorry I haven’t written in a while readers. My writing hand is currently in a splint because I have been diagnosed with De Quervain’s tenosynovitis which is a really large for “Owe! My hand hurts when I do things!” So typing is sort of tricky and so is other things like “ANYTHING I FUCKING DO WITH MY RIGHT HAND!!!!!” So needless to say I haven’t been able to log in to my blog and joke about how much I hate being injured.

I’m not a baby when I am hurt…..I’m quite the opposite of baby, I want to say that the opposite of baby is adult, BUT that’s not what I am. I’m more “I can do it and ignore the pain and also diagnose myself with the internet.” This, that I am describing, isn’t really an adult because an adult would say “Oh my right hand sort of hurts every time I use it” and go to the doctors. This is not what I did. What I did was “Owe, this hurts maybe I should see what WebMD says I am dying of.” I take my phone out and type in ‘Wrist and thumb pain” and see all the things that come up. The most common diagnosis was tendonitis and de Quervain’s disease and then there was the ‘It could be bone cancer?!’ and I was like nope not bone cancer because it said I would be losing weight and my extra chins disagree. De Quervain’s has a simple test you can try to do to diagnose yourself called the “Finklestein Test” in which you tuck your thumb into your fingers and try to bend your wrist down. “Mother fucker, does that hurt! Yup, this is definitely what I have.”

I then see what the treatment for my tendonitis/ de Quervain’s disease is and I do that. Here’s the thing, it got to be so unbearable that I had to go to the real doctor. The real doctor says “Oh, you have tendonitis and shows me the same fucking picture I used to diagnose myself with.” But what he does do is send me to a hand specialist that gives me an injection and a doctor approved splint, unlike the one that I bought off the internet.

“When can I take this off?”

“You have to wear it for three months and when you come back we will talk more.” doctor says

“Can I take it off to chop vegetables?”

“You can take it off to shower.”

“Can I take it off to work out?”

“No! You can ONLY take it off to shower.”

“Can I still use my elliptical machine?”

“Do you use your thumb and wrist to use your elliptical machine?”

“No!” I lie

“You don’t do this?” doctor mimics the hand motions of using an elliptical machine

“I don’t have to!” I smile

“You can work out, but only lower body and you have to wear the splint. You are going to have to buy sleeves to wear under the splint to absorb the sweat. You can get those off of the internet.”

I already know this because I have been a doctor for like four months now….I mean not a real doctor but a “WebMD doctor”.

“I can do that.” I say.

“Can you take your splint off to chop vegetables and to write and to work out?” doctor asks trying to trick me.

“No!” I answer sadly.

“The best thing for your wrist and thumb is rest.”

“Rest is my least favorite word. Physical therapy and working myself into shape is my favorite prescription.” I say smiling.

“That’s not what you are going to do though. You will rest your hand and when you come back we will see if you need surgery, which will be more resting. So when can you take your splint off?”

“For showers and in three months.”

“Now you may be in the splint closer to six months.”

“My fucking lower body is going to be jacked!” I exclaimed.

He laughs because he knows that I am not an adult…LOL! “Rest that wrist and thumb and  I will see you in six weeks.”

“Not three months?”

“I think I am going to check on you sooner.”

Well played doctor, well played! I have been resting my wrist and thumb and wearing my splint, mostly all of the time. I have been working out with my splint on. I have been washing my splint because I have been working out in it and that’s gross. I have my other splint that I bought on the internet that I wear when I am not wearing the doctor one. I have the tan lines to prove that I have been wearing it and so that’s funny.

I have school starting in August and I’m not sure what I am going to do in my art class but the professor said we could use whatever medium we want, so I may be using finger paints. Hey wait maybe I’m not the opposite of a baby after all.

Moral of my story: When you are injured, go to the doctors and stop trying to work through it. Also if you need to rest, you should probably do that. I don’t really know I’m the worst when it comes to injuries, I don’t like to rest and heal. So I guess don’t be Becki. I typed this blog with my splint on and mostly with my left hand. I may not blog every week but when I come back I hope to have more ideas to write about. Please let me know what you have all been up to in my absence. I would love to hear from you all.

Until next time. 🙂