What the Hell Is in Your Purse?

brown leather crossbody bag with eyeglasses
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The question shouldn’t be “What’s in your wallet?” I get it, it’s a slogan for a credit card. The real question is “What the Hell is in your Purse?” because My purse is a dumping ground for as long as I use that purse. If it is large enough I can use that purse for years and continue to shove shit in it as it’s intended for. I’m surprised by the garbage, literal garbage, I keep in my purse. So here are the contents of my purse today:

3 used tissues, 1 package of unused tissues, a candy bar wrapper (that I found outside in the parking lot and I was all “tsk tsk no littering people”…then I shoved that fucker right in my purse for safe keeping), an empty tin of mints, a million free-flowing mints and mint bits because they spilled, receipts for every grocery I have ever bought EVER, Two Million Four Hundred Thousand Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars and seventy-nine cents of change, lipstick with no cover, clumps of lipstick that has hair stuck in it, a tube of lip gloss that is almost empty, 3 tubes of closed lipstick all similar shades of rose, Chapstick that may have come with the purse, a panty liner in a package that is barely hanging on, my wallet that is neatly organized because that is the true hero in this story, a bookmark, eye drops, my inhaler, eyeglasses from the last prescription in case my new ones don’t work out (still, from about eight months ago), a plane ticket from a trip long past forgotten, eyeglass cleaners, eyeglass wipes (yes they are different things entirely), a hotel room key (could be from the same trip, Probably not), a used Starbucks gift card with a couple of dollars on it that I keep forgetting to use, Earrings (hoops that don’t close all the way anymore), my car keys, sunglasses, bobby pins of various colors and sizes, lotion, and sunscreen (both travel size and definitely NOT from the last trip I took) and my identification card (in case I get stolen or my purse does).

This purse weighs a thousand pounds, could be from all the change, but I will never know because I will probably not clean it out until I find a new purse. Which is a solid lie because I just grab my wallet out and move into the new purse and move on with my life. The only truthful time that I clean my purse is when I want to use it again for something. Then I grab a trash can and pick through the garbage to find “Oh that’s where that necklace went!”

My husband laughed at me when we first married and moved and I found a purse with a wad of cash in it. And by laughing I mean Not Laughing. “Becki, you had that money all this time?”

“I guess so!”

“How long have you had this money?”

“Hmmm? I used that purse before we met. So that’s my money from my paycheck from two jobs ago!”

“You are so careless!”

“I’m fucking magical. I found money, like a God damned leprechaun and you’re going to be all judgey about it? Fine, give me my wad of cash and I will use it for people who appreciate me!”

That was a lucky find. The bag of melted M&M’s was not great to find. They obviously melt in your purse in the trunk of your car as well.

Why does my purse become a dumping ground you ask? BECAUSE I’m busy, BARBARA! I grab and go! GRAB and GO! and eventually I have so many receipts and chauchkies in my purse that I can no longer shove more things in. Then I have to get a new purse. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking I will be different if I had a smaller purse. But that is when I am a fucking liar. I then buy a big purse and I shove my little purse into my big one. That’s better. Little purse! Psshhht, what the fuck was I thinking? I do this at least once a year!

When I had babies it was the diaper bag. Although diaper bags collect way worse things, like empty dirty baby bottles. Fuck me! What smells like HOT Fucking vomit? I mean besides me! Oh that’s it, the baby bottle! That wasn’t my fault, I breast-fed. Where did that bottle even come from? I mean I know where it came from but, you know what, breast-feeding was not accepted in public as it is now. *smirking because I know it’s not accepted now either which is super fucking weird because it’s literally what boobs were designed for. 

Why don’t you just clean out your purse? you ask! Because I’m Busy, SUSAN! But you are literally taking time to sit here and label each thing in your purse when you could be cleaning it!

I’m doing this for you, Jennifer! I am letting you know that it is okay to be a little or even a lot disorganized. I am still a good person! Hold my purse and be helpful would ya, Judge Judy?

Moral of my story: My purse is like a junk drawer. I don’t actually have a junk drawer because my husband is exceptionally organized. He has more than one label maker. I use it to write obnoxious labels. He uses it for organizing his life. How did we end up together? I am a magical leprechaun! Also it is okay to be disorganized. I promise that I am not really a train wreck, it’s just that my purse is a mess. It is my personal space and it is a mess. But, I got you, if you need a bobby pin with a bit of lipstick stuck to it! That could come in handy for something, you never know. I am like a lady MacGyver! A Magical Leprechaun Lady MacGyver!!!!

Until Next Time 🙂

Low Self-Esteem and Insecurities

adult black and white darkness face
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My personal story on these two topics is something that I try to joke about. I try to be light-hearted and then I close doors and I cry deeply and soundlessly. I try to not measure myself by my mistakes and failures, but try as I might sometimes it is all that I can see and believe of myself. This isn’t what this blog is about. This blog is about funny and joking and laughing and what the fuck Becki you are going to drag us all down with your own self loathing? Why? We don’t need it.

That’s right! We All don’t need it. We don’t need to gauge ourselves by how many mistakes we make. We don’t need to sit back and ask ourselves why we are so stupid to make these failures. So then what? I am no expert, I mean I do study psychology and I hope to one day be in that field, but I am no expert. All I can say is that when I write down on paper all of my mistakes, I have a list. That list can grow and grow and so won’t my heartache and tireless self-hatred. My insecurities get bigger and I hope that when I am with people they will like me. But truth be told, I am not looking for their approval nor am I looking for mine, because I have said before I am looking for my failure. If you look for failure you will find it. We are not meant to be perfect. We are not meant to be without mistakes. We are meant to be human. We are meant to lean on God.

Now the challenge I give to myself, and hopefully to all of you, is for today, look for your success and your good qualities. Once you begin to make this list you will find a new way of looking at yourself. Not only that, you will begin to do things to add to your list. You will open doors for people with their arms full of groceries or children. You will give a penny, quarter or dime to the person in front of you at the checkout. You will start to understand what it is like to be confident in your actions. Sure, you will not stop making mistakes, but you will start to measure those in a healthier way. You will be putting mistakes on the “oopsy daisy list” instead of “Oh God How Fucking Stupid Could You Possibly BE list”. Also maybe change the name of your mistake list. Because I am going to be honest the “Becki you Fucking Moron list” is really hard to walk away with a good self-esteem.

I was never really happy when I only looked at my bad qualities. Those qualities mad me feel less of a person. I hated that list of failures. I hated myself for making them. I sat and tried to play them over and over again so that I could somehow learn from them and change. *changing the past without a time machine is impossible

When I balance that out with my success, I see that sometimes my mistakes are not so bad. They are livable. They are non perfect and that is okay. Sometimes my failures are not even failures or mistakes at all, they are just occurrences that are reminding me to slow down and be present. Sure I may say something flippant and curt to my loved ones. Sure I may forget a word that is easy to remember and I stand there in silence as people are trying to help me find it. But without these moments, I wouldn’t get the opportunity to say I’m sorry that was out of line. I will do better. I am humbly flawed and that is how I was made to be. I wouldn’t get the opportunity of the comradery of searching for Becki’s missing word. *It’s usually an ordinary word like fork and instead I say something like pokey eaty thing! I mean even Ariel, the little mermaid, had a hard time with this one, but she also used it to comb her hair so she clearly wasn’t an expert.

I was also made to be loving, kind, funny and at times sure inappropriate. I was made to be quirky and comfortable for others to be around. I was made to be a mother who reminds kids that they don’t have to be perfect to be loved. I am giving and thoughtful. I love to sing, dance, read, cook and to laugh. Boy do I love to laugh. I love to be with my husband and my children doing absolutely nothing but enjoying them being there.

We all make mistakes. As I tell my kids “You are going to make mistakes and you are the only one who has to answer for those mistakes. So make the mistakes that you can face yourself in the morning.” Mistakes are personal and they belong to no one but you. My mistakes do not get to hold me hostage. They do not get to suck the life out of me. I am not doing anything so terrible that I have to weigh myself down with this anchor of doom. I can apologize and I can ask for forgiveness but then I have to move on.

Moral of my story: Life is a balancing act. It is all about doing our best and sometimes falling short. What we do with our mistakes is how we learn and grow. But we must remind ourselves that we aren’t all bad. If you make your lists and you find out you are all bad with no redeeming qualities maybe seek some help. There are plenty of people out there who are willing to help, that is their job. Therapy is something that is going to be helpful and can even be enjoyable. So, What are you waiting for? Go make those good people lists and see how good it can make you feel.

Until next time 🙂

My Favorite Curse Word

alphabet board game bundle close up
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Now that we have gotten to know each other, and like most people I meet in person I have been doing all of the talking and I haven’t learned anything about you at all, I think it is safe to say that I have a favorite curse word. It is NOT the word that you are thinking it is. It is not the f word. That was just the most adaptable word into speech. The f word s versatile in language and therefore the most useful. The f word is the word you kind of ease into it as a kid.

Easing into the f word as a kid looks a little bit like this: “Oh sugar!” then you wait to see if that gets a rise out of your parents and when that is deemed okay you move on.

“Fiddlesticks!” is a bit more daring and makes your mother’s eyes dart at you.

“Fudging A!” is one that is daring enough to get you punished. *side note as a kid I wanted to open a fudge shop and call it Fudging A selling grade A Fudge. TM don’t be stealing my good ideas guys.

“You Friggin jerk!” which I also would mix together with “Fricken jerk” because I didn’t know which one it was. Both got me in trouble.

“Fooken!” I have tried fooken. Which is the equivalent of sticking your big toe in to see if hell was going to be too hot for you. By the taste of the Zest bar being scraped by my teeth, I would say “yes, hell is going to be too hot for me!”

Finally I have graduated from high school at seventeen and am an adult and could say “Fuck” but not around my mother because she would still grab a bar of soap.

But, to your surprise, fuck is NOT my favorite curse word. My favorite curse word is a bit old-fashioned and I fucking love it. Here it is folks my favorite curse word is:

TOUCH HOLE!

I love this curse word. Because what even is a touch hole. Is it the pooper? Is it your pee hole? Where is the touch hole? My dad would use this curse word when I was a child and I had forgotten about it for a very long time. Then one day I was driving with my kids in the car and some person pulls out in front of me and I almost hit him and I started to rant with all of my road rage that I also got from my father and when I was about to call the guy an asshole I remembered that my little cherubs were in the car. So instead I yelled out “You Blazing Touch Hole!”

Which surprised me for a step because that just came from the recesses of my mind. Where have I been hiding this fantastic word and why? Holy goodness I love this word. It makes me smile. Say it with me “Touch Hole” can you say it without cracking a smile? I can’t.

Also, what ever hole the touch hole is, if it is blazing it may need ointment or cream. This word became my ultimate favorite curse word and I try to not use it until I absolutely have to.

For instance when I am trying to diffuse the tension in a steamy argument with the hubs. I will say touch hole and it catches him off guard and makes him laugh. It is magical like that. I swear guys just yell out “You Touch Hole!” the next time you are in a bitter argument and trust it will get some laughs.

So basically touch hole has become somewhat of a safe word in my marriage and my husband never says it because he isn’t clever or quick or maybe he thinks it’s just stupid. Also I may or may not have told him that he can’t use it. That is my curse word. It’s my favorite and his lips will never taste the sweetness of “Touch Hole” as it exits his mouth.

Well the other night we were having a discussion, not an argument, because we have had couples counseling. If you have been to couples counseling it makes you better at communication. You get to use “I” statements. Such as “I feel as if you are going to do laundry, I suggest that you learn how!” he has shrunk many sweaters.

So anyway, he and I were telling each other what we feel when I said to him “Look, I’m not trying to be a touch hole about this.”

This is usually a good clue that my funny childish side is coming out and that my ADHD has set in and I have lost track of the argument, so my husband starts to laugh.

*you know when you are angry and all super serious and you say something and the other person laughs and you think that they have no other choice but to leave.

That!!!!

To be fair touch hole had always been used for this purpose. I, however, did not intend it for this purpose. I meant “Hey I don’t mean to be an asshole but never fucking do this thing again. Okay?” but using “I” statements and not telling him what to do Like a mature adult.

He heard “I don’t mean to fight, discussion, you. Let’s make up! I’m not even that serious about this topic anyway!”

Wrong!!!!!!!!!

He was so wrong. I literally went over to the computer and looked up dog houses for a hot half hour. Which is stupid because I don’t even know how I would enforce that. Also it’s a saying but has any husband ever had to sleep in a dog house? I mean it is a saying. I have heard of sleep on the couch and on tv the couch is a pull out bed and I am like that is a punishment because pull out couch beds are eighty percent bars going across your back , ten percent flimsy mattress and ten percent where is that blinking light coming from? But “You must sleep in the dog house”, is like some level up shit! You are no longer worthy of inside or the comforts of human habitats. I mean even the dog doesn’t LIVE in the dog house. My dogs live in with me and go in and out twenty times an hour. I don’t have a dog house for them because they have mine. The only time I remember having a dog house was when we were little and I found my frozen dead cat in there. So I know that it isn’t a great protection against the elements. But that is where I was when my husband heard my safe word and he thought I was joking. Shame on me, perhaps, but my husband has a new respect for the word touch hole. Or maybe a new respect for shrinkable fabrics. I am not sure.

Moral of my story: When arguing with your spouse use I statements to turn it into a discussion. Also if you are going to use a word to lighten the brevity of the moment, don’t change the rules. Also Please, if you know why “I’m in the dog house tonight!” became a thing, could you tell me the history on this because I would really like to know. Also if you know which hole is the touch hole please tell me this too. If you having a blazing touch hole ask your doctor if “fill in pharmaceutical name here” is right for you.

Until next time 🙂

Going Into Labor?

pregnant woman holding her tummy standing near green leaf plants
Photo by Leah Kelley on Pexels.com

When I was pregnant with my first child I thought several times that I was going into labor before I actually did. People sometimes talk about this and sometimes there is an article titled “Braxton Hicks?” But for the most part this whole your body is preparing for birth is still wildly under exaggerated! I mean there were times when I was like “this is totally it!” only to find out that “No It is going to hurt a whole lot worse.” Not to mention the times when I sneezed and totally thought my water broke only to find out that I’m incontinent now. That’s a fucking surprise…and guess what, that never goes back to factory reset either. Pissing yourself while laughing or coughing or sneezing is just your body’s way of reminding you that you are a mother.

The real event happened with me on the phone talking to my friend. *it was the early nineties so this wasn’t weird then

I told her that my back hurt and I wasn’t feeling great after dinner. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Isn’t tomorrow your due date?” she asked

“Yes, but babies hardly ever come out when they are supposed to.” *I guess it gets you ready for when they are here and you are trying to get somewhere on time.

“Okay! But call me if you go into labor!” she says and I promised *as I am writing this I realize that I broke this promise. If you are reading this, I had the baby she is a girl and she is at veterinarian school now. Surprise!!!!!!

I looked at my husband, who was young and handsome and practically a baby himself. We both were. I said “I’m not feeling great. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay! I have a meeting in the morning that I am preparing for, so it’s probably going to be a long night!” no truer words had ever been spoken.

“Okay! Good luck! Good night!” I go to bed and getting comfortable was impossible at this point in my pregnancy. I tossed and quarter turned myself to sleep. As I am sleeping I wake up and I feel so super uncomfortable. My husband is lying next to me asleep, he is less handsome because my super sense of smell can help me detect his diet for the past seven weeks. *excuse me sir but have you been living off from tuna, men’s used socks and old cheese for the last few months because close your mouth. Pregnancy is a good time, it’s a rollercoaster that you all can ride together.

I get up and go to the bathroom and I am looking at myself in the mirror and I am thinking “Whoa! Is my body having an earth quake or something?” I have a backache and every once in a while I have a front ache too! In my sleepy state I decide that it was whatever I ate for dinner, and maybe my husband’s breath and I go back to bed. In bed I start to fall asleep and there it is again. I try to roll over but that’s where my husband’s face is and I’m trying to avoid that right now. *my husband may not have had bad breath but again pregnancy has brought on this super power of sense of smell. By the way, worst superhero in the world. “My sense of smell is telling me that the bad guy is about to drink bad milk!” I threw things away because, to me, they couldn’t be in the house anymore. My husband once opened a can of tuna fish and I told him that it smelled like it was at least twenty years bad. “It smells fine to me!” almost were his last words, ever!!!!!

I start to fall back to sleep and again my back ache reached all the way around to my front again. I was all “C’mon! What does an overweight girl got to do to get some sleep up in here!” I wasn’t overweight but I felt it. Good Golly I gained forty pounds on my tiny little frame and then I swelled due to the preeclampsia. I had one outfit that I could fit into and it wasn’t my maternity sweat suit. *because You Know what you fucking did!!! I threw that out with the tuna fish!

I start to fall asleep and “HOLY FUCKING MUSCLE SPASM AROUND MY CENTER!!!!” What? What is happening? Why does this keep happening? I just want to go to sleep, please let me just get some rest. I close my eyes and I am all good and ready to drift…..No! It’s back! Wait!!! Wait a fucking solid minute. Am I in labor?

I sit up and I start timing my muscle spasms and yup there is a pattern. The pattern at first was a little disorganized and about 20 to 25 minutes apart roughly. As time goes on the spasms get more organized and a true pattern emerges.

The pattern is exactly this: 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes, 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes, 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes.

“Honey! Honey! Wake up. I think it’s time!” I say it like they do on tv because I’ve only had this experience vicariously through tv characters.

He rolls over and brushes me away.

I would try harder but I am currently having another contraction. I wait until my contraction is over and I say to him again “Honey, honey, I think it’s time!”

He, still trying to keep me from interrupting his sleep, pulls the covers over his head.

I now have to wait for the shorter contraction to be over and I try again “Dear! I think I am in labor!”

This time he looks at me and says “I don’t have time for this Becki, I have a really big meeting in the morning.” *which is fair because this isn’t the first time I was in labor with this one baby

I get up and walk into our tiny living room and pace, trying to figure out what to do, or maybe where to hide the body. *joke!

I then sit in a rocking chair and time my contractions some more. They are the same. I then call my doctor. The answering service tells me that they will have my doctor call me back. I sit in the rocking chair and I know which contraction is coming next and I wait between them. 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes, 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes.

My husband wakes when the phone rings and I answer it.

“Hello, yes I think I am in labor. My contractions are 6 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes.”

“How long have you been having them?”

I look at the clock and I tell her that it has been three and a half hours.

“Do you have someone there that can drive you to the hospital?” she asks

*yes but I am not sure he is going to make it! i think to myself

“My husband is here.”

“Your contractions are very close together and I need you to get to the hospital now! I will meet you there.” she tells me.

“Okay. I am on my way!”

My husband looks at me as I walk into the bedroom all smug and grab my over night bag.

“What did the doctor say?”

“She said to get someone to drive me to the hospital. You can bring me and drop me off, I know that you have that big meeting in the morning!” I say all mean and awful.

“Does she think you are in labor?”

I was going to answer him but I doubled over in pain instead. I was leaning against the bed and breathing when I notice that he had jumped up and got dressed in a single bound.

“Okay. Let’s get you to the hospital.” He guides me out to the car and we had to stop twice because of the contractions. With each labor pain I get more and more smug. The more smug I get the more passive aggressive I become.

“You can just drop me off. I will let them know that I am there to do this alone!”

“I’m sorry but how many times have you gone into labor this pregnancy?” it was a fair question and the total was not important, the important thing is that this time it is the real fucking deal and you will always be remembered as the dick that said “I have an important meeting in the morning.”

So as we are driving to the hospital it is snowing quite bad. When we get there I go in and the doctor comes and checks me and announces that I am fully effaced…meaning that it is going to be a while.

“Normally we would send women home under these circumstances, however the snow is coming down pretty hard out there and I would be more concerned that you wouldn’t be able to make it back here safely. It’s a blizzard have you heard?”

Actually we hadn’t heard that we were getting a blizzard it hadn’t even occurred to us to check the weather. We are going to be garbage parents. Who doesn’t check the weather in January? My Goodness, we weren’t even aware of the snow until we saw it with our own eyes. I have been on bed rest. What have I been doing with my time? Mostly reading. I mean of course I was reading. I am always reading.

My husband was less concerned about his meeting as they set me all up with gauges and an IV and the monitor that kept track of my contractions. The nurse looked at me and asked “Are you in any pain?”

“No! I’m good!” that was at four in the morning. Around noon I was still trying to be brave and suck it up.

“Honey, your contractions are very strong and you have been going like this all day, are you sure you don’t want anything?” the nurse asks

“No, I think I am doing fine.”

The doctor comes in and orders Pitocin. Pitocin is a drug that the devil himself made to make childbirth more painful.

I was in labor until six in the evening and the doctor came in and announced that the baby was in distress and that we needed to get her out via a c-section. I had papers to sign while they shoved an enormous needle in my back.

My daughter was born at 6:05pm. It took five minutes from deciding to have a c-section and meeting my baby.

Turns out my husband did have a very important meeting that day. He was so right! He, to this day, feels regretful for handling that so poorly. I do too. I mean we were about to have a beautiful baby girl and we were acting like babies ourselves. By the time we left the hospital a week later our car was plowed in because we got feet of snow. My husband had to dig it out to go home. We got our baby home and all was wonderful.

moral of my story: When you are in labor or think you are in labor it is exciting and slightly terrifying. It is hard to keep your cool and to know what to do. I can only imagine it is far more so for your partner. Working together will make the experience go smoother. Also, my expectations were based on what I had seen on tv, that is not always going to be your experience. I had to appreciate that my husband was going through his own stuff. I’m older now, and obviously wiser, so I only bring it up when I want him to feel bad about it. *just kidding. I let it go. The most important thing is that I was right! *kidding again. The most important thing was that our baby girl was healthy, happy and loved!

Until next time 🙂

Can I speak to the manager haircut?

several scissors
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This story comes from my desire to switch it up folically speaking. I was tired of the same ole haircut. Every once in a while I get to the point that I want a new me, not a real new me with growth and effort, just a new me that costs a few bucks at a hair salon. *I realize that I am not unique here but just willing to say it in writing!!! In my quest for a New Me I search in Pinterest, as I am assuming we all do, and I find the cutest inverted bob. Now when I bring it to my daughters for approval I realize that perhaps there should be more personally growth involved in the New Me, but what can I say, maybe that will come with the new haircut.

I show my daughter in a screen shot text that writes “I’m thinking of this new hair!”

She responds with “What? The ‘can I speak to the manager haircut?'”

I look at the haircut again and I think “I don’t want to speak to the manager with this haircut!” Do I maybe want to try to speak to the manager with this new haircut? Do I want to appear as if I would want to speak to the manager with this new haircut? Do I want to threaten all managers when I walk into their establishment to give me what I want when I want it with this new haircut?

Okay first lets back the fuck up for a minute. Since when has having a haircut meant that you are a certain type of person. Oh, forever, you say? Remember the long “hippy” style haircuts of the seventies. Or the clean-cut look of the fifties versus the long-haired metal heads of the eighties? We have been judging people by their haircuts for as long as I can remember.

Second of all, my name is Becki, which has been used as your quintessential white lady name…you know even Beyonce herself sang about “Becki with the good hair” *side note Beyonce did she have the inverted bob? I want to know if I can pull it off.  I think I can, but I am not that Becki with the good hair.

Third of all I am never, in my wildest dreams going to ask to talk to the manager. How do I know?? I have refused to return the following foods: a salad with a green worm in it, a burger that was raw…raw in the center, a plate of spaghetti when I ordered salad, and my favorite thing I refused to return was eggplant Parmigiano that was basically, and I kid you not, a hockey puck. In fact when the waitress came over she asked if I was enjoying it and I said yes and fucking smiled.

Also reasons why I KNOW I wouldn’t ask to talk to the manager is because I have had a waitress drop a bowl of hot soup in my lap and she still charged me for it. She didn’t even get me a new bowl of soup. She said “Oops! I’m sorry!” and walked away. I simply went to the bathroom and washed my blisters and paid my check and left…I even left her a tip because waitresses don’t get paid enough.

So needless to say, I can barely pull off the name Becki. Can I pull off the call a manager haircut on top of it? Will I be admired and maybe even feared with the Becki and call the manager haircut combo? Do I even want to wield such great powers as this? Does the full Becki with the good hair vibe come once I have the GOOD HAIR? Do I need this call the manager haircut to finally receive my full potential? Fuck guys am I at the cusp of greatness and all I need to do is go and get this inverted bob to be BECKI WITH THE GOOD HAIR?

Ummm? No! I got the haircut and my hair dresser is an absolute genius and she does great and powerful things, but her wizarding ways are not transferred during the haircut. I was still a mortal with a great haircut until I washed it and then it was just a shorter version of my frizzy mess. What’s worse is the sleek inverted bob when it is done right takes skill and time and my arms get tired blow drying it and I’m like “Good enough” and the Beyonce sure as hell isn’t singing about Becki with the good enough hair! That Becki bitch isn’t even worth some fucking lemonade.

For my hair dresser, if you are reading, You are a wizard of no comparison and I always love how you do my hair. I sometimes feel bad because I am lazy and it never looks the same when I do it. Sometimes I go out and I will put the effort in. But I don’t go all out to go to the grocery store. I am not worthy of all of your talent, but I do appreciate it.

As for the call the manager haircut and the name Becki combo maybe I am not responsible enough to have great powers as these. Maybe it is why my name is Becki with an i and not an y? *or as my Starbucks cup once said Bicky which is starbucks barista language for Becki with an i. 

Moral of my story: Get the haircut and see what magical powers you get. Or maybe it is stop judging others by their haircut, get to know the person instead. Unless it’s a mullet because we all know what a mullet means. Business in the front and party in the back and douche all the way around. I’m sorry that was mean….Joe Dirt you are a wonderful person, I am guessing.

Until next time 🙂

Christmas Trees and Hospital trips!

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When my youngest was very little she would get incredibly ill at Christmas time. It always started a few weeks after Thanksgiving. At Thanksgiving we would be around all of those people. There were the holiday shows and concerts that we would attend to support the other children on their endeavors as a singer, or actor, or concert saxophonist. *hot cross buns on a recorder sounds like ass, hot cross buns on a saxophone played by a child with an expander makes your ears and eyes bleed. 

So naturally, I would be all pissy because some inconsiderate asshole has made my child sick. I would try to remember who she was around so that I could take a mental note of it. *this is the worst thing that we do as humans. We all get sick but somehow or another we want to blame someone for our illnesses. Fucking Debra with her snotty kid, why did you even come to support your child any way? Keep in mind I had vomited on my way to my son’s play and still attended. That’s right I was patient zero that year!!!! I wasn’t going to miss his play. He had speaking lines and everything.

So here it was Christmas eve and my daughter was three or four years old and we were visiting my parents for the Holiday. We woke up in the middle of the night to our poor little angel wheezing and she could barely open her eyes. She had a fever and she was so sick. On Christmas eve you have little choice on where to go for healthcare. So we headed off to the emergency room. If you have ever been to the emergency room early in the morning on the Holidays it is a sight to behold. I had to cover my poor baby’s eyes because the guy sitting next to us had a fork sticking out of his face. He had a dish towel wrapped around the fork and he sat there with his mother who was still yelling at him, “I told you not to upset your father! I knew this would happen!” *I don’t want to know what kind of dysfunction you need to have where you can accurately predict fork to the face. But here we are! I find people curious and so I did want to talk with them but at the same time keep my distance because I had my baby.

I get my baby into the doctor and they hook her up to the nebulizer and we get her all checked out. They believe it was pneumonia and we are sent on our way with her prescription that they filled for us at the hospital because there was no pharmacy open. We get back to my parents house and carry on with our holiday.

Next year, at Christmas again, my daughter wakes up and is wheezing can barely open her eyes. She has a slight fever. I take her into the emergency room…but at the children’s hospital this time, there is no family caused casualties here. Apparently forking is left for adult children, I mean seriously what could have been said to fork your own child in the face? I get her in to see the doctor and he thinks it is the flu this time. No meds, just a nebulizer treatment and we were sent home. We have a nebulizer at home and I have to keep treatments going at home. We get through Christmas and she gets better.

The following year she is sick again and this time it is the week before Christmas and I get her in to her regular doctor. She looks at me and asks “This happens every year?”

I say “Yes! It usually starts a little after Thanksgiving!”

“Do you have a real Christmas tree?”

Now I am thinking this is just small talk “Yes. We picked it out as a family and made a day of it.”

“Have you ever used an artificial tree?”

“Only when we are traveling for the Holidays. I don’t want the tree to dry out while we are gone.”

“Does she get sick the years you use an artificial tree?”

I think. “Yes. But only when we get up to my parents….Is it the tree?” I ask because now that someone is pointing it out to me it seems so perfectly obvious. My parents get a real tree every year. Some people think it is blasphemous to get an artificial tree, my parents are of this sort.

“I think it could be. Go home and get rid of your tree and see if she gets better right away.” the doctor says.

I am thrilled to hear this. I call my husband and he says “So we have to throw away our Christmas tree that we just bought?”

“Yes. But we can put up the artificial tree in its place!” I say. I am a problem solver that’s why.

“Becki, I threw out that tree years ago.”

“Why did you do that?” I ask

“Because the lights were burnt out on half of the tree don’t you remember?”

“Oh that’s right. Well we have to get rid of this tree. Maybe we can buy an artificial tree.”

“I will take down the tree when I get home. We can go out and try to find a reasonably priced artificial tree.”

It’s not that my husband doesn’t care about our daughter’s health, I am not saying that it’s just that we don’t know how to Christmas without the tree. We don’t know how to Christmas without spending every last penny on gifts…mostly because we were living on one income. *oh you’re a stay at home mom? How can you even afford that? We can’t!!! But I wouldn’t have changed it for all of the world. Coupons and sales are the way to do this by the way, If you want to know that information. My husband makes a good salary now and we made it through! 

My children and I undecorated the tree while my youngest was sleeping. My husband got home and took the tree outside. We talk to the children about why we needed to do this and say “But we have a babysitter coming over and we are going to go buy an artificial tree.” We didn’t tell them that this tree was going to be a budget tree that may be a little sad.

As we were out shopping for our artificial Christmas tree we found out that even the fucking pink ones are over our budget. “Excuse me could you point out which Christmas trees cost under twenty bucks, please?”

Finally we found a display model at Kmart with a sign that said “store model only”

My husband rolls up his sleeves and asks to see a manager. I walk away because haggling is not my favorite thing in the world. I get too uncomfortable with the back and forth and the silence. The silence kills me. Are you kidding me….I will give you one million dollars to fill the void of this never-ending silence. Which is strange because I am a stay at home mom and you would think that I would pay a million to get some silence. I once paid sticker price for a car and then they added a security system as an extra add on that I paid for…just to let you know how I haggle.

My husband talked that guy down and we get the tree, with no box, out to the car and load it up. We paid a decent price and we got a fairly decent tree. We get it home and get to decorate our new tree. We also couldn’t afford new ornaments and to this day we laugh about the things we would hang on our tree.

Our first ornaments I ever had in our home I made out of red fabric and stuffing (fiber fill not, stove top) and white ribbon. They were my husband’s and my son’s favorite ones because they could throw them on. They simply were cloth balls that you threw in the tree they didn’t hang, they sat on the branches. Then I had these Disney ornaments that were the shapes of the characters, but the children played with them and they were in rough shape. We had one arm Donald Duck. We had the head of Simba. We had just a sword that belonged to somebody but it still had the arm attached to it. Our Christmas ornaments were all dismembered and a little creepy, I’m sure to other people. “They hang body parts on their tree! It’s so fucking weird.”

We also hung the ornaments that the kids made. My youngest daughter just told me last night that she hates it when we hang “that start ornament that I made” on the tree. This star is huge and it has a picture of her….but she made it at school so it’s the school picture and it is not a fine piece of photography. She had her hair braided all nice for school but then they handed her a comb and so she used it. It looks like she is wearing a stuffed animal on her head. I love that ornament because it reminds me of how independent she always was. She hates it because “Why did they even hand me a comb if I wasn’t supposed to use it?”

We have nice ornaments for our trees now but I can’t put them on because our cat, my little naughty nunu climbs the tree. Yes I have tried squirting him with a bottle…and shaking a can of pennies, all that does is makes him go further into the tree to hide. We still have to use artificial trees because my youngest is allergic. She may not be any more she may have grown out of it…but I am never going to take that chance. She would get so sick I never want to go through that again.

Moral of my story: Do we even really NEED Christmas trees? I mean, the answer is yes, but why? If your child seems to get wheezy at Christmas time maybe try an artificial Christmas tree instead. Also the dust on the ornaments could be the culprit. If you have any old ornaments you laugh about every year I would love to hear about it. At my parent’s home my brother made an apple and cloves ornament one year….we hung that thing on our tree every year. It looked like an apple the first year and every year after that it looked like a lump of dog shit! We would laugh about it when we got older. I hope my mom still hangs the turd on the tree because it is tradition. WE still hang the arm with the sword on our tree for that same reason. I mean is it even Christmas if we don’t hang dismembered Disney characters on our tree? I doubt it!

Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Until next time 🙂

Santa secrets gone awry

When I was a little girl I was number five of six children. The idea of Santa was a beautiful thing. He was like a rich uncle that didn’t have time to stay for dinner but he brought some great gifts for us to let us know he was thinking of us. I loved my rich uncle Santa that I didn’t have to talk to. My brother #3, we will call him, was four years older than me. I was home sick *legitimately sick, from school and my brother also caught *cough cough, what I had and stayed home with me. My mother had to go to work so my older brother being home was free babysitting for her.

I’m sick in bed with tissues shoved under my pillow, because I was gross *I don’t do this anymore, and laying in bed trying to breathe! My older brother who is home sick *illegitimately so, comes in with his Cheshire Cat grin and asks me “Do you want to help me with something?”

I, being me, always wants to help people say yes before finding out what it was. I get out of bed wearing my Holly Hobby nightgown and my brother says “Whoa! You’re going to need pants for this!”

I still don’t ask what’s up, because be fucking cool will ya Becki, he wants to play with ya!

I get pants on and follow him up to the haunted room of our house! Why is it haunted it’s a long story but mostly because it has the fucking attic in it. I venture in behind him and then into the very haunted closet! I’m still agreeable and slightly terrified. This closet always smelled like pine and model paint. I am standing behind my brother, whom I admired so much. He was kind to me and he always protected me. He treated me like I was there! So naturally I would follow his lead anywhere! *this has led me to some very interesting places, I never learned my lesson. I am standing behind him and he turns to me and says “I’m going to hoist you up and you’re going to go in the attic.”

What did he just say? Does he know the actual devil lives up there?

“I can’t!” I say

“Why not?”

“Because the devil lives up there!”

He gives me this look that I can only describe as the “Becki look” because I’ve only seen people give it to me. It’s a I’m totally amused by you, and baffled, and also what the actual fuck are talking about? Look!

“What?”

“The devil lives up there. So I am not going!”

“Becki, the devil doesn’t live in our attic, he lives in hell!”

“Where is Hell?” I ask

“I don’t know but it’s not in our attic!”

“How do you know?” I ask

“Because I’ve been up there!”

“And?” I ask

“And it’s just an attic!”

“Where the devil lives!” I say “our attic is where the devil lives and I’m not going up there?”

“Becki you are being ridiculous. The devil does not live in our attic!”

“Well maybe he vacations there!” I always with a logical explanation

“You think he comes to our attic for vacation?”

“It’s probably nice because it’s better than hell.” I say

“It’s not!” My brother replies

Apparently I lost the argument and am now being hoisted into the devil’s vacation home in our attic! I get up there and it’s dark and hard to see.

“Do you see a bag full of Christmas presents?” He asks

“Yeah!” I say back.

“Get it and lower it down to me gently!” He says

I reach out to grab the bag certain that the devil is going to grab my arm and pull me into the dark abyss. I snag the bag quickly and drop the fucking thing because this is a trap and I know it! The sneaky bastard is just trying to tempt me into his lair and I am going to be trapped up here forever.

“Hey, I said gently some of the things I asked for is breakable!” My brother scolds me.

I don’t fucking care because I am running from satan himself and I jump down on top of my brother.

“Holy shit Becki, you almost broke my neck what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m running from the devil before he grabs me!”

“You’re such a weird little kid!” He laughs and then he looks at something and he looks a little alarmed. “Becki do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“Yes! Why?” I ask hesitantly

“Because he’s not real!”

“Santa’s not real?” I ask with a lump in my throat

“No! It’s just mom and dad getting us things and signing his name. Santa is pretend and mom and dad are lying to us!”

I stand there looking at him with disbelief in my eyes! He then picks up a present and shows it to me. I nod my head and then wonder where this day is taking me!

“We are now going to snoop!” #3 says “Snooping is the best part of Christmas!”

“I don’t want to snoop!” I say quietly to my super cool brother “I like to be surprised”

“Surprise, there is no Santa! Now you can snoop with me!” He then puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eyes and says “you are going to be the best snooping partner I can tell.” I am so complimented by this because in my family I’m not the best anything. I want to be the best something. I am going to work extra hard at being the best snooping partner ever!

“Go grab me an exacto knife and be careful they are very sharp! #2 keeps them in his model kit.” I go over and find the exacto knife and I bring it to my brother.

“Now when you are carrying a sharp knife to someone you turn it around so you don’t accidentally stab them with it.” He carefully takes it from me by the handle and shows me the proper way to hand someone a knife! I was so happy to be learning from my big brother. I was all ears and big doe eyes soaking in all the criminal ways of my brother. *he wasn’t really a criminal he just had a sneaky way about him. He definitely had the finesse to go into petty crime if he so chose!

He, with surgical precision, sliced the tape and unwraps the gifts. He looks at all of his gifts and then he looks through what the other boys got and he switches some of the tags so that he gets the best stuff. Then he looks at me and says “Mom never remembers what she got. Plus those guys do the same thing.” *this is why mothers get Dementia it’s from thinking we know what’s going on and then turns out name tag swapping on gifts is a thing!

We rewrap the gifts and then he says “Do you want to see what you got?”

I shake my head no!

“You sure? You could switch the names if #4 got something better than you?” #4 is my only sister.

I shake my head no again.

“Alright! It probably is why you make the best snooping partner!” He gets all the gifts back into the bag and he says “Now I’m going to hoist you back up there to put the bag back!

FUCK! The devil is going to be waiting for me this time for sure! I bravely take the bag up and I try to put it where I found it or I just dump it and run. Either way the bag of gifts is back in the devil’s pit and I can go rest! I am sweating because of the excitement or the fever and I go back to bed.

A few years later my mom tells me “Becki I need to tell you something!” She’s a little concerned because I still believe in Santa and I never questioned his existence like a normal kid would. “Honey, Santa isn’t real. I buy and wrap the gifts and I just say they are from Santa!”

Now I can’t say ‘No shit Sherlock!’ Which was a popular phrase then. I have been the best snooping partner since 1976. How do I play it cool. I pretend to burst into tears and ran to my room. Because I’m not sure how a normal kid would react to being told there was no Santa at the age of thirteen.

My family joked and picked on me for years about this. “Remember when I told Becki there was no Santa and she ran away crying?” *laughter ensues at my expense, which I was used to. I look at my brother #3 and he is smirking and no one was the wiser because I was the ABSOLUTE BEST SNOOPING PARTNER AROUND!

Finally well into my forties I got tired of being a mockery for my family and I said “I knew!”

“What dear?”

“I knew that there was no Santa! I had known since I was in first grade.”

“No you didn’t! You cried so hard when I told you”

“I was pretending because #3 told me that I couldn’t let on that I knew. That’s why I never questioned it.”

“Why did he tell you?”

“Because I was the Best Snooping partner around! I now think it’s safe to let you know because we are adults and no one can get into trouble.”

Moral of my story: If you have a child who still believes in Santa and doesn’t question it, don’t pick on them. They just might know something you don’t! Also I still, to this day, think the devil vacations in that attic. So it is fair to think that I still believed in Santa! Also my big brother #3 was always my hero and probably always will be. He and I got into some great trouble together and they were some of my fondest memories. Happy Holidays!

Until next time!😉

You got in trouble at recess for WHAT???

abandoned grass light merry go round
Photo by Levi Damasceno on Pexels.com

When I was a child I both wanted to be invisible and also I wanted to be famously paid attention to in a “OMG isn’t she fabulous and beautiful and don’t you just want to be her friend!” sort of way!!! There came a time in my life when we came back from summer and all of these kids had silver mouths. They all admired each other’s braces and there I was with my stupid back brace that mostly made me look as if I had a stick up my ass. Also I didn’t actually want anyone to know that I had the fucking thing. But these braces everybody had them. Damn me and my straight teeth and crooked spine. It wasn’t until I went to my friend’s house and saw her headgear that I got tremendously jealous. Here was this poor girl with pulleys and belts and a horse-drawn carriage connected to her teeth trying to pull them straight, which probably hurt like hell, and there I was thinking “Where can I get me one of these attention seeking contraptions? Holy fucking wow! That thing is massive and so hard to ignore.”

I have said it before and I will say it again being an attention whore is sort of a gateway to other types of whore and so I should have been wiser about not falling into “You can dance on this shiny pole and people will give you money!” type of bogus claim. But I was so super jealous of all of these kids walking around with their braces and smiling at one another. I was buying it. I needed braces so that I could fit in.

They were all so cool and had so much to talk about with each other. They even had their own language:

“I can’t even chew gum anymore!”

“I’m not supposed to have chips but I do!”

“Do you use the wax?”

What? What are you talking about? I want to fit in. I want to be a part of the “can’t chew gum and chips and waxing something” club! Instead I am in the “back brace is digging into my skin and I have developed bed sores from the fucking thing” club for one. Yup! One member of my stupid club or at least the only one I knew of. Crooked teeth is more socially acceptable than crooked spine so there may have been more but we didn’t go around flashing back braces and talking about things. “I had to learn to breathe again because my rib cage doesn’t move in and out anymore!”

“I can only sleep on my back!”

“I am allowed to take mine off for one hour a day!” Yeah, no! No one was walking around talking about their scoliosis with great gusto and detail.

I eagerly tried to fit in. Here I was listening and not knowing what to say because I didn’t have braces. I actually didn’t fit in before this but I definitely did not fit in after everyone came back with their tinsel smiles. I was sitting at my desk in class and I was looking at the paper clip that my teacher had dropped on the floor.

Kids if you are reading this, just know that this may have been the absolutely dumbest fucking thing I have ever done. Ugh, I can’t believe I am telling this. Okay I picked up that paper clip off of the school floor. (If you want to know what a school floor is made of I think it is 60% dirt, 10% disinfectant and 30% salmonella) I unwound the paper clip and I put it in my mouth to make it look like I had braces.

I wore that thing outside and I was talking to my friend who didn’t always have to wear her headgear. She said “Oh My God Becki what is in your mouth?”

“I got braces!” I said while swinging

“You didn’t have them this morning.” she said, *which was true but God Damnit be cool for like one fucking second okay?

“I don’t always have to wear them.” I lied.

“When did you get them?” other kids trying to poke holes into my already implausible story. No, not that thread bitches, this is going to unravel rather quickly.

“I’ve had them for a while.” I say and look away with my best Farah Fawcett face. Because she was the coolest of all the Angels.

I walk away quickly before they can ask me anything more and also I was choking a little bit on the paper clip I was trying to pass off as braces. I went over to the merry-go-round and the lady who yells at everyone at recess was heading my way. Fuck me! What do I do? I can’t take the paperclip out now because the nosy girls are looking right at me.

“Becki, What do you have in your mouth?”

“Nothing!” I say through pursed lips.

“Are you picking on the girls with braces?” She asks

“No! I am not picking on them….” I started to explain when my ‘braces’ decided to go shooting out of my mouth and hit the yelling lady in the stomach.

“What is this?” she asks. She picks it up and loudly asks “Did you have a paperclip in your mouth this whole time? Do you know how dangerous this is?” She yelled at me all the way into the principle’s office. There I was waiting to get yelled at some more when one of the boys that also was in waiting for the principle looked at me and asked what I was doing there.

I was about to tell him some cool story about being a badass when Miss Recess Yeller said “She was pretending to have braces by putting a paper clip in her mouth.”

Where the fuck did she come from? Goodness lady be fucking cool would ya? I don’t really want everyone in the school to know how lame I am. The boy looked at me and started laughing.

As if that wasn’t bad enough we had to have an assembly about not putting sharp objects that we could choke on….because one of our students had been on the playground with a paperclip in her mouth…..fucking come on I just wanted good attention. Never mind invisible would be good right now.

Moral of my story: Sometimes you get what you wish for! I wanted people at the school to notice me…and they did. But I also wanted to fit in….and I didn’t! I now know and understand that the recess lady was really looking out for my safety. I just wish that public mocking wasn’t the way that she taught me my lesson. A quiet, “you are beautiful as you are!” would have done wonders. As an adult, I try to be more encouraging to others and especially young ones because I remember how humiliated I felt. A lesson doesn’t have to be humiliating to be effective. I learned that lesson the hard way so You don’t have to. For anyone out there that needs this today, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL JUST AS YOU ARE. YOU ARE SO LOVELY AND WORTHY!

Until next time! 🙂

We Had Crunch For Breakfast

chocolate pieces on aluminum foil
Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

When my children were little I was exhausted ninety percent of the time. My husband may have been exhausted too, I don’t really know because I didn’t see him much. He was working and going for his master’s in engineering. I would try to be perfect, perfect mother, perfect daughter, perfect wife….as perfect as one could be in yesterday’s sweatpants and cornflakes in your hair. We had little extra money so date night typically happened in our home after the kids went to bed. My husband would grab a movie on the way home from school and I would get the children fed, bathed and read to. I normally would sleep read to the children at bedtime.

“Mom, you are reading it wrong!” my oldest would say. Now that I mention it all of my children learned to read rather quickly because of my inadvertently adding my nightmares into their story time.

“I’m sorry! You’re right Pooh bear was not bleeding from his mouth! He was eating from the honey tree.” I would say while rubbing my eyes awake.

My husband came home and the kids were all tucked into bed. He brought home dinner that was not chicken nuggets and we were going to have date night. My husband showed me that he also brought home the movie and some candy like we were in a real theater. (again we couldn’t afford a night out and a babysitter so this was a big deal to me)

We ate our adult meal, not chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese. We cuddled on the couch and settled in to watch our movie. Again I was exhausted and I didn’t make it. I fell asleep! My husband leans over and says “Becki, Honey, do you want to go to bed?”

I wake up and look at him. “What time is it?”

“It’s one in the morning!”

“Oh No! Was the movie good?”

“I don’t know I fell asleep too!” He offers to carry me to bed which is nice but I am worried that he will realize that I have put on a few pounds.

“No, I can walk, it’s fine.” I go upstairs and brush my teeth, check on the kids and marvel at their sweet little sleepy faces in the moonlight. Is there anything more beautiful than your sleeping babies in the moonlight. They look so angelic sleeping there. I finally crawl into bed and go to sleep for the night.

The next morning comes quickly because I count last night as staying up until one in the morning. I understand that I was sleeping through most of it, but give me a break, I had to wake up enough to brush my teeth so it counts. I rub my eyes and yawn and I see that my husband is still sleeping too. Weird because who is downstairs getting the children breakfast?

I roll over in my dreamy state and check the clock and it is seven-thirty in the morning. I haven’t slept this late in……Wait, who the fuck IS downstairs getting the children breakfast? I jump up out of bed and run downstairs.

I walk into the living room first and there are candy wrappers all over the floor. I walk into the kitchen and there are both of my children sitting ON the table and covered in chocolate.

My son, always the honest one, shouts “WE HAD CWUNCH FOR BREAKFAST!”

“I see that.” I announce.

My daughter who was less likely to tell the truth looks at me with sheer panic in her eyes. Now I don’t know what the scene looked like prior to this, that I am seeing with my own eyes, now. But let me tell you how mornings usually would go in my house:

I am sleeping peacefully with a corner of blanket that I would call my butt flap. I would have one elbow in my eye socket and a foot trying to use my rectum as a slipper. Then some one, probably the boy would wake up demanding juice. I would have to take them downstairs and give them juice and decide if I was sweating in my sleep or did someone piss the bed. This morning I woke up to plenty of blankets, no sleeping ninjas and the children getting their own chocolate bars for breakfast. Which leads me to believe that these little fuckers smelled that chocolate in their sleep. My children clearly are gifted in the fact that they can root out candy regardless the situation. I am not certain if the Justice League could use them, but they are truly gifted just the same.

“I saw him with the candy and I said Mom wouldn’t be happy if he ate it without asking!” says the little girl with the fucking chocolate mustache, beard and eyebrows

“You didn’t have any?” I ask, not because I don’t know the answer, she clearly has, but because I cannot believe the audacity of this little five-year old who is wearing a chocolate. Literally the evidence is all over your face, sweetie!

She looks at me and shakes her head no. “Because I told him….” I stop her and give her another chance to tell me the truth.

“You did not eat any chocolate?” I ask her again.

She says “MOM, I told him that you would be very disappointed with him….” I hold my hand up and I stop her from lying to me mostly because I can’t hear it.

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you did not eat any chocolate this morning.” I say giving her the opportunity to redeem herself.

She looked me in the eye and then she closed her eyes and she shook her head no. Well kid, you got the right idea, you should never look your mother in the eye and lie to her.

“You have chocolate all over your face.” I say.

“I do?” she asks

“You do! So I know that you ate the chocolate too.” I tell her.

“Well, I came downstairs with my brother and he was really hungry. I saw the candy and I said to him, mom would be very disappointed if we ate this before we had a sensible breakfast. But I don’t know how to cook so I tried to think of a sensible breakfast without cooking. When I was doing my best thinking he started to eat the candy.” she says in her most bullshitting voice. “I said bud you can’t have that it isn’t a sensible meal. He said that it was nutritious and I said it is? Because I am only five I tasted it to see if it was good for breakfast and it was tasty.”

“Oh Honey that is not how nutritious works!” I burst out laughing because here is this five-year old, a child whom I have lost “conversations about life lessons with” explaining to me that candy may be good for breakfast because it is fucking tasty. Because I am laughing the kids start laughing but that nervous laughing children do when they don’t know if they may have driven their mother over the edge.

My husband comes downstairs and sees the evidence and the kids and I laughing and he too starts laughing nervously because he has gotten the phone calls at work “The children gave the dog a Crisco bath and she shit in the car!” “The children spread mud all over the neighbor’s car!” and so on and so forth. So yeah, he sees the scene and while looking at the large amount of whites in my eyes and asks “What’s going on down here? Is everything okay?”

“We left the candy out last night and the kids ate it for breakfast.” I say without even a hint of blame.

“We had Cwunch for breakfast!” my son announces like a chocolate addled child would.

“You had crunch for breakfast huh? What did mom say about it?” he asks trying to get on the same page as me.

“She thinks it’s funny!” Count Chocula announces in his pure sugar high voice.

“She does huh?” my husband is trying to read my face but I am laughing so hard that he is terrified because what he has been able to read is not good. His wife looks like she has legit snapped. I am laughing harder and harder because honestly what can we do? The children have already ate the candy. They got up by themselves and got their own tasty but definitely not nutritious breakfast. I got the best night of sleep in my life. I would trade candy breakfast for one good night’s sleep. That is my price. I now know as a parent my price is one crunch bar for one night of unadulterated undisturbed slumber. Perfection be damned. I am not going to do it again but it is nice to now know what my price is. The question shouldn’t be what would you do for a klondike bar? Turns out klondike bar is the fucking answer. I will give you a moment for you to pull your cerebral cortex back together because yeh your mind is blown. My house is the matrix where the question becomes the answer.

I get the kids all washed up and tell them that candy is not for breakfast EVER! Then I cook a nutritious breakfast that the children did not eat because they were “Too Full!” and maybe a little bit sick because they ate quite a large amount of chocolate.

Moral of my story: Perfection is a myth that can only be shattered by years of working on yourself and it starts with your children eating candy for breakfast. Also if your children do eat candy for breakfast once or twice in their life, you both learn from it. My son once ate an entire bag of peanut butter cups for breakfast on Easter because he didn’t want to share. He got sick and that was the last time he did that. My oldest daughter learned that sometimes her brother has bad ideas….it didn’t stop them from making their death trap though, but to be fair they still think that one is a solid idea and they are adults now. So you know, you win some and some you get to pull your children out of the dingle.

until next time 🙂

My Husband and I went Camping Once

relaxation forest break camping
Photo by Raj Tatavarthy on Pexels.com

This story actually was when we were dating. I met my husband when I was nineteen years old. Early in our relationship, He showed up at my place of work and said, “Do you like road trips?” *I am much like a dog and when a car is leaving I fucking want to be in it. I am not picky where the destination is. So “Ummmm Yes, I love road trips!” was my answer.

He then says “I have everything we are going to need in my truck, so let’s just go!”

It is very clear to me that my boyfriend is unaware that I am no fucking Beyoncé I did not just wake up like this. Unless you have my fifty pound bag of makeup and hair care products in that duffel, you do not have everything *WE need! I need a little more than you! But because I am nineteen and afraid to disagree I smile and say “Okay!”

I hop into the truck and we head off. This was the days before cell phones so taking a nineteen year old off into the woods was easier then. As we are driving I literally have no idea where he is taking me. He promised me a road trip and being the dog that I am I was happily sticking my face out the window watching the scenery go by.  As we get further up a mountain I start to worry that the reason he has all *We need, is because only one of us is getting out. I worriedly look around his truck and notice all of the things he keeps in it. The knife in his console. The ball of twine. The tarp and the shovel. That weird scratchy army issue green wool blanket. “he has never been in the army. why do you need the army blanket sir….if that even is your name?” I am thinking. I might die and I just hope that he doesn’t bury me alive.

“I want to be cremated!” I tell him. “When I die, I want to be cremated.”

He looks at me and says “Okay!” because we just met a few months ago and still trying to get to know each other. Death plans don’t typically come up this early in the relationship.

My boyfriend then stops at a gas station, which was also the meeting place for all of the other people invited on this “road trip”. I get out and collect with the other girls, because that is what we do. The one girl said “Are you excited to go CAMPING!”

But it was in slow motion and the word was all drawn out “CCCCAAAAAMMMMMPPPIIINNNGGGGGGG!”

Mosquitos biting my ass all night? Oh fucking sure sign me the hell up to be on the all you can eat Becki Buffet. I honestly want to go back to when I thought he was going to murder me than now knowing it’s going to be fucking camping. How do I tell this really adorable man that camping is not my thing? I grimace and look at this girl who is sizing me up and I am all like “Oh Yay! Camping. Fun! I love camping!” I look down at my outfit and only clothes for this trip and it is my work clothes and heels. Yup this is sure to be a good time.

So I wouldn’t say that I am not outdoorsy. Some people who know me might say that, but I wouldn’t. I like to hike and I love looking at the stars. I absolutely love being out in nature. But I am an asthmatic with scoliosis and at the time,  just a year and a half ago got out of my back brace, so sleeping amongst the mold spores and allergens on the hard earth is not my idea of a good time. I like to be outdoors when there is a nice hypoallergenic bed I can go to sleep in. But how do I say this to the guy I just met. I mean I was still going along with him when I thought he might murder me. I am obviously not going to say “Yo, I am not really the camping type.” Seriously if you are signing on as victim of homicide is it okay to go back and say “I draw the line at camping?” I am asking for a friend.

Now that I know what  the hell I am signed up for, I start to tell myself it won’t be that bad. I buy an industrial size bottle of bug spray and off we go. This is the last stop before we get to the camping area. We get to the top of the mountain, hill or whatever the structure we were on and we pitch our tents. The girls get all ready to cook dinner over the wide grated grille that the camping place provided. The funny thing is these camping girls are just as prepared as I am. They even knew where we were going. They have no pans, or tin foil, or even a fucking spatula to flip the burgers. I stand there looking at this monstrosity as they are flipping dripping meat with a stick. My boyfriend comes over and he is really trying to act like he has done this before and he crouches by the fire and is doing his best to stick flip the burgers. He steps back to admire his work when I lean over and whisper “Your foot is on fire.”

He panics a bit and starts to stamp his foot.

“Stop, Drop and Roll!” one of the camping girls yells out to him.

Oh for fuck’s sake….these assholes have never ever been camping before. What the hell? The only camping expert is me and I fucking hate camping. I look at my boyfriend and I say to him “We need to go back to that gas station.”

“Okay! Did you forget something?”

“Yes. We have to go back.” We let the rest of the campers know that we are heading out, my boyfriend and the rest of these folks are twenty-one and old enough to drink. So now we are on a beer run as well.

I go into the store and I grab tin foil, a spatula, another can of bug spray, some aspirin, a pot, bottled water, more food and my boyfriend went to another store to get beer. When we get back to camp I get the food on the tin foil on the grill and I cook dinner. My boyfriend looks at me and smiles because now he is thinking “I knew this camping trip was a good idea. She likes camping. She knows so much about it.”

I am mumbling about how a nice hot bath and clean sheets would be perfect about now. I finally get the meal cooked and everyone had their fill. We stay up laughing and joking around the campfire. Then some fucking asshole decides it is time for ghost stories. NO! Stop that! Bad person! Very very bad person now you go into your tent and think about what you have done. Except I can’t say that because I am new in this relationship and I have to be sweet and agreeable.

“Hey, did you know that there was a mass murder around here about ten years back?” it started.

“NO, I heard that was just a myth. There wasn’t a murder. There was a happy birthday party and someone exaggerated the details a bit!” I say because I really don’t need to be creeped out on top of camping. Sleeping in the woods is enough they don’t have to be haunted to make the experience less desirable and more terrifying.

“No! There was a mass murder and the guy was never caught.”

“Oh I believe that he would have gotten caught, they have the best law enforcement around up here. They have to because of the isolation and shhhiit!” oh for the love of all things holy I just played into this fuckery, well then get on with it. Tell your fucking ghost story.

The story is told and now I am jumpy, mosquito bitten. I look at the bottle of bug spray to be certain that I am not spraying legit mosquito feed onto my precious skin. Everyone else seems fine and they have no bug spray on them. Where is that skin so soft when you need it? I mean for all the baths I have had in that shit I should have mosquito repellent as one of my super powers by now. I should be the super hero “Avon Girl” with the skin so soft greasy hair and mosquito repellent skin. But that is not how it goes for me. I bought some tea while I was at the store so I make a pot of hot water and ask if anyone else wants tea with me? They do not because of the beer.

Time for bed and when we crawl into our tent it is facing downhill and pitched on a gigantic jagged rock. My boyfriend has had some beers and is able to sleep. I am up all night because of the stupid ghost story and the scratching and also the fact that the blood is rushing to my head and did I even get the decaf tea. I put my head to the other end and eventually go to sleep. Next morning I wake up early and go to take a shower before my boyfriend wakes up and sees that I am not Beyoncé. I hike all the way to the ladies room and there they all are. All of the women that do not want their men to see what they actually look like. By the time I get into the shower there is only cold water. I take my ice shower and I realize that I don’t have shampoo, conditioner or soap. I holler out “Excuse me, does anyone have any shampoo and conditioner I can borrow?”

This nice lady hands over some Prell. If you don’t know Prell then let me explain it to you. It smells amazing. It has shampoo and conditioner in one. I use this stuff as a third wonder as well because it is also my soap. I get out of the shower and yup, no fucking towel. Another nice girl offers me hers. I towel off and put on my clothes from yesterday, which was my work clothes because I didn’t know that I was going camping. An older woman looks at me and offers me twenty bucks because she thinks I am a runaway. I don’t blame her, I have no makeup on and I look very young for my age. So to her I am around twelve-years old.

“Call your folks I am sure they are worried about you!” she tells me and gives me a hug. I don’t disagree because it seemed like sage advice. I take the hug because I could use the warmth after my ice shower.

I get back to the camp and it is hot and humid and my hair is going to grow. I have magically growing hair when it is humid. Remember the episode when Monica was in the Bahamas? Friends? You know I am old….just humor me. Well that is me. I find a piece of twine in my boyfriend’s murder mobile and I make a make shift pony tail.

Everyone starts to rise and I have the pot of hot water and instant coffee going. I hand styrofoam cups to everyone who wants it. Yes styrofoam cups…we didn’t know about global warming then. They all smile and say “Are you ready to go hiking?”

I look down at my heels….from work….and my dress slacks that are covered in soot and my pressed shirt that is filthy and I am like “I didn’t bring anything to hike in.”

My boyfriend smiles because he thinks he is smart. “Don’t worry I brought you these!”

He pulls out his mother’s sneakers as if women are one size fits all. I am about to tell him that they are not going to fit…when I remember that we are still pretending that we are perfect. I put on the gargantuan shoes *because my shoe size is 4 in women and actually a 2 in children. I am now clomping around in his mother’s size 7.5 shoes on a hike. I don’t have deodorant on and I am certain that I am the one who’s going to attract bears. I smell like an actual pig, that has bathed in Prell.

We stop off at a place to eat and I look at the menu. On there is Belgian Waffles with berries and whipped cream. I am all over that shit. I chose wrong and I now realize it because I look like a small child with no make up, my make shift pony tail and these shoes that are far too big for me. Why did I order the child breakfast? The waitress even put a smiley face on the plate. Clever. Very Clever waitress. She tells my boyfriend that it was really nice of him to take his “little sister” out for breakfast.

He doesn’t know what to say because its weird now. What is he supposed to say? Oh no I am dating the child? So he smiles. For the rest of the day we got “Does your little sister want anything?” “How is your little sister doing?” and “Do you kiss your little sister with that mouth?”

The camping trip finally came to an end. My boyfriend asked me on our drive back “So do you like camping?”

“No! I actually never want to do that again.” I admitted. He and I both laugh and decided that camping wasn’t for us.

My now husband and I take many adventures together but we have never camped again. My children have only heard tales of camping and they are pretty certain it’s not for them either. I feel bad for tainting them but camping for me is just one big mosquito buffet of Becki blood and sleeping on rocks. I know some people know what they are doing and that is great. I just don’t enjoy it.

Moral of my story: If you are going to go camping, make sure you are prepared. Also don’t surprise someone with a camping trip that is a horrible idea. Camping is something that should be planned, especially if all you have to wear is your work clothes and heels. If you do surprise a person with a camping trip give them an opportunity to pack a bag and tell them that they will be needing essentials like clothes, deodorant and a way to back out!

Until next time 🙂