Oh The Swing Set Games That We Played

woman wearing grey long sleeved top photography
Photo by Artem Bali on Pexels.com

When I was young we had a swing set in our yard. Our Yard was built on a hill and we had very little flat places to put the swing set. So our swing set was on the lower plot of land that my parents owned. It was also near the tree line behind our house. We all had our “self appointed” swing that we used. I don’t ever remember our older brothers using the swing set. There was four little ones and we four used the swing set. My brother, we will call him number three, used one of the single swings, my sister used the other single swings and my youngest brother and I used the see-saw swing, or as we called it the space ship.

One day I went out to the swings, which was not unusual, because I both loved to be outside and I loved to swing. I was out there using one of the single swings because the swing rules were fast and loose that way. I was there swinging and probably singing some made up songs about clouds and birds, because I was cool like that, when number three came out and said to me “Hey, try to kick me in the face.”

Yes you read that correctly, one of our made up games was “Try to kick me in the face!” I was swinging and swinging. I was pumping my legs harder and harder. I was kicking my legs forward and reaching further with my toes trying to stretch so far so that I could kick my brother in the face. I didn’t want to kick him in the face but it was the object of the game. I don’t know what I was going to win, I mean probably an ass beating, but thems are the rules and I play by the rules. So as I was pumping and stretching and reaching and doing my best to kick my brother in the face, as he was standing out of my reach, I didn’t realize that the puny fucking swing set was giving up or maybe it was trying to help because that bitch of a swing set was humping up out of the ground. Finally the swing set tipped over and there I was on the ground. My brother did not get kicked in the face and as far as I know he didn’t even get hurt. BUT the aluminum slide did. That slide bent in half. So when my brother and I put the swing set upright the slide had this ninety degree angle in it. We both looked at it with wide eyes and decided that we had better fix it. I mean how the hell could we burn our asses on a hot slide if we couldn’t even use it. So we bent it back and now there was the hope of tetanus too. So if you rode our slide you had to wear long pants or else you were risking lockjaw.

Another game we played on the swing set was try to flip over the top bar. Also ended with the swing set tipping over. My youngest brother and I, as I had mentioned, rode the space ship swing and man did we go on some lovely adventures with that thing. WE saw aliens and walked on the moon. There was the time we all piled on it to see if we could swing if all the neighborhood children were on it all together. Also tipping the swing over. I got a fat lip with that one because I was horse laughing as we were all trying to swing and I’m pretty sure my jagged ass buck teeth took a chunk out of  someone’s skull.

As we grew older we didn’t use the swings as much and one day it was gone. That was probably a sad day for that tired, old bent up swing set. We kids all growing up and not using it anymore. The aluminum slide heated up in the hot sun but there were no asses to burn. No legs to stick to it as they were trying to make it to the bottom and no kid not quite down the slide to be ejected off by the momentum of the impatient kid behind them. To my recollection we never played “try to kick me in the face” on the slide. That would have been too easy. But we have all tried to ride down the hot aluminum slide all together and I got stuck and the weight of all the kids behind me pushed me forward while my shorts rode all the way up my asshole and crotch so far that I had to floss them out of my teeth that night at bed time. Yes a swing set is filled with so many possibilities.

My children played push the ice down the slide to the other one who would try to catch it. That one ended with a new pair of glasses and a bloody nose. My children had a high tech swing set with a bumpy plastic slide and as far as I know nobody got wedgies or burned asses from that one. But they did all try to ride down it together and catapulted their little sister off the first hump and she came running in for a band aid. When I finally saw what she needed a band aid for I was so impressed because she cut herself but good. But like the true medical specialist that she was at eight the wound was band aided without cleaning. She trapped the dirt in the wound. But what she really wanted to do is get back outside to play because her brother and sister were finally playing with her.

Moral of my story: Swing sets are a good time. Kids may get a little bumped and bruised, but that is okay. We used our imaginations and we got fresh air. My swing set gave me many good memories. My children’s swing set gave me even more. A swing set is the perfect toy. Also they make slides out of plastic because I am sure some one got stuck and got some two degree burns from the old aluminum ones. Those got hot and sticky sweaty kids trying to slide down them didn’t exactly go as planned.

Until next time 🙂

Meeting people in elevators

gold colored chandelier
Photo by Michael Morse on Pexels.com

Elevators are such a strange social arrangement. How are we supposed to behave here? I mean we are all shoved into a metal box similar to the tube I send my demands for money at the bank in. *some people call this a withdrawal slip. 

As we are all standing there shoulder to shoulder what is the appropriate way to behave? Whatever the appropriate way is, you can bet your sweet ass I am not going to do it. I have this social nervousness that brings a stand-up comedian out of me. I see those poor trapped souls as an audience for my shenanigans.

Typical people on the elevator. Press the button once. Wait for the elevator. Check to see which elevator is opening by indicator lights. Step onto the elevator. Politely nod and smile as the elevator glides down to your stop. Should the door open and someone gets on or off, you shift to make room for a more comfortable space for all others in the elevator. As you exit you may say something, you probably won’t.

Me on the elevator. Press button for elevator. wait a hot second. Press button again in case the button doesn’t know its job. Stand and try to guess which one will open. Put bets on which one. “It’s going to be the last one on the right. I think this middle one is broken. I never took the middle one. If it is the middle one do I get on it? I mean now in my mind that fucking thing is a death trap.” I press the button again because it is obviously broken. Doesn’t anything in this hotel work? Stand and hope that it isn’t the middle one that opens. I hear a ding and I now look to see which door opens. I walk over and that elevator has a few too many people in it for my comfort level. I smile and say “I’ll get the next one.” The elevator door closes and I push the button again. The same elevator door opens. They all looked super annoyed I shrug and say “Still waiting for the next one, but thanks for circling back.” I now wait a beat and press the button again. As I am standing there waiting for the elevator I am now really hoping that it isn’t this hunk of junk middle one, because now that I think of it I am pretty certain I heard someone died in it once. It’s haunted and only goes to the thirteenth floor. Okay maybe I didn’t hear it, maybe I saw it on a commercial for a movie that I was never going to watch. The next ding indicates the middle one and there, in the middle one, is a young couple and I step in. I step in and say “Good Morning!” with  a large smile. They both smile and then begin to look at their phones. “What’s on your agenda today?” I ask because I mean if we are going to be forced to fight demons together we might as well get to know each other first. They both smile and say “Oh we are going to go out to the pool!” The elevator makes a noise and I look at them and say “Sounds like this thing is being operated by monkeys.” They laugh politely! “I actually thought this one was broken because I haven’t actually used it yet!” That’s usually when the elevator starts to work more as a prop and is in on the joke. Now I’ve made them nervous and they begin to really look at their phones. The door opens and a business man gets on with his badge. “Hello, Mark!” He looks at me and looks confused. “Are you here for the convention?” Mark asks. “No!” I say. He looks even more confused. “I was just telling these two lovely people who I thought this elevator was broken. Well to be honest I actually thought it may have been one that was possessed and would only stop on the thirteenth floor and we would all die. But I know that can’t happen because,” I point to the number panel “There isn’t a thirteenth floor. How super scary would that be if the door opened and there was some old timey bell hop there and was all ‘welcome to the thirteenth floor’ I would totally shit myself.” Everyone in the elevator now a little more jumpy chuckles nervously. The door opens and everyone jumps a bit. “I step aside to let the new member of the audience on. “Good morning, How are you today?” I ask. This person smiles and stands a little further away from me. “Oh Mark, I think Joan over here is going to the same conference as you.” I nudge Mark. He looks at Joan and says “Oh are you here for the ass scratchers convention?” She smiles and says “No I am here for the ingrown toenail convention.” *these aren’t real conventions that I am aware of. They both kind of grimace and I think ‘that was super fucking awkward. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, because that was brutal to watch.’ The elevator makes a strange motion and I say “Hey guys we are almost to the thirteenth floor.” and I laugh. They all look at me with this strange look on their faces. I guess they don’t think that I am that funny. The doors open on the pool floor and I step aside so that the young couple can get out. When Mark and Joan get out I am a little surprised because they aren’t even wearing swim clothes, unless they are going to the pool in their suits, which I doubt. A nice woman steps on and we ride the elevator down to the lobby together and as she is stepping out I say “Have a nice day!” Which is premature because now she and I have to walk all the way to the coffee shop together in weird silence.

Now that is just an ordinary elevator ride for me. In Vegas I can do a better bit because of the audience, it’s typically drunk or tipsy adults and I can turn up my material. My sister and a friend of hers and I were in Vegas with our husbands. Us ladies were in an elevator together with a small group of people. There was a young couple and another man with us. There was a floor 23 and it was a rather large button on the panel in the elevators obviously a big frigging deal. Someone in the elevator asked “I wonder what floor 23 is!” We all start guessing and I am thinking ‘Oh this is a delightful crowd that came to see my show.’ So the young guy in the back said “I heard it was a sex club.” I was all like ‘fucking awesome! These folks are in for a treat.” So I look straight at this guy and his wife and I say “Well if that is the case my safe word is *insert choking sound* because you never know if you’ll even be able to speak. It’s hard to enunciate the word POTATO with a gag in your mouth.” The other man hits a button for the next floor and immediately exits the elevator. I look at my sister and her friend and honestly ask “Too far?” because sometimes that’s the case. Some people know that I’m joking and Other people do not. The young girl, with the culprit who egged me on, was staring at her phone. I was sitting in silence as I listened to everyone else ring out with laughter. My job here has been done. I said “I’m here all week folks. I am typically playing through floors twenty to thirty!”

So I honestly don’t know what you’re supposed to do on an elevator. All I know is that if you are in Vegas and I have embarrassed you, I truly apologize. I honestly was just trying to entertain you. If I made you laugh, then you’re welcome.

Moral of my story: I am still not sure how to behave in an elevator. I just think that if we are all going to be standing that close to each other maybe we can strike up a conversation. Also be safe talking to strangers, they may not think you’re funny at all and that hurts. And if the elevator does open on a mysterious thirteenth floor with some old timey bell hop to greet you, maybe hit that close door button and see if that saves you. Otherwise it was really nice knowing you.

Until next time 🙂


What the Hell Is in Your Purse?

brown leather crossbody bag with eyeglasses
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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
Photo by Juan Pablo Arenas on Pexels.com

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
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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:


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.


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!”


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
Photo by Nick Demou on Pexels.com

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!


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!


“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! 🙂