When my children were babies my husband and I decided that I would take care of everyone’s stocking but he would take care of mine. One year in particular it was a very busy time for him around the holidays. He took the kids out on what my kids call “Christmas Eve Eve” because the holidays should honestly last longer. Christmas Eve we bake and play games and always read “Twas the night before Christmas”. We will do it again this year and my children are in college now. After the story is finished we track Santa and then read another story because clearly I don’t learn my lesson and get them all jacked up before bedtime of hopes of Saint Nicholas and we saw how good that worked for that guy, he was up all night and Santa put him to work.

Once they were in bed and asleep and confirmed that they are asleep actually sleeping and not just giggling under the covers, we begin the “Santa duties” building things and stuffing stockings and the whole nine. I filled all of the stockings that I was “in charge of” while my husband was building a bicycle for my youngest. I said to him, “I will let you finish up down here and I will get up with the kids in the morning.” Because anyone with children know that they wake up “Ass O’clock” looking for gifts and candy.

Our Christmas morning ritual is that they are not allowed to wake mom up before seven in the morning on, however, They are allowed to start with their stockings first without us. I hear the kids standing outside my door this particular Christmas morning and my children sound nervous. I look at the clock and it is “Ass O’clock”, this had better be some great fucking emergency if they are going to come in my room and wake me up.

There is a little knock on my bedroom door and I say “Merry Christmas!” to my little angels, because I’m not an asshole.

“Mom, You must have been very bad this year!” my son starts. (maybe I am an asshole!)

I open my eyes because what exactly am I being accused of here.

“Why? What happened?” I sit up in bed and now sleep is not that important.

“Your stocking didn’t have anything in it.” my oldest said and all three children look like they are going to cry.

“Nothing?” I say passively aggressively toward my husband while my foot aggressive aggressively looks to pull out some ball hair.

“It’s because you said the F-word!” my youngest has solved the problem. She’s helpful like that.

“I think it’s because she told my friend that if she is just going to cry the whole time she can just go home.” my oldest said. (Ugh, I stand by my decision there! That kid was the worst!)

“I think it’s because she keeps making us eat vegetables and yucky stuff.” My son suggests. (That’s definitely not it, I’ve read the parenting books.)

In case you are all wondering, this is what the day of judgement is going to look like, it’s just going to be your kids guessing why you probably aren’t going to get into heaven and then if you sit through it without yelling at them, the bouncer angels are going to say, “She’s cool, let her in!” or at least I think that’s the way it will be.

So there I am trying to quietly route out some ball hair from my husband’s scrotum with my foot under the blankest while trying to look all innocent and shit.

He looks at me and I know he thinks this is both bad and hilarious all at the same time.
But mostly he thinks it’s hilarious. I sit through my judgement day and I say nothing. The kids are both sad for me and shameful of me, because their mom was clearly on the “naughty list” and they are appalled really.

I say to my kids “It’s fine, I will be better this year I promise. I sure did learn my lesson.”

My children hug me and say how sorry they are for me. What they should be was afraid for their father. That son of a bitch!!!!

I am sitting there trying to get the kids out of the room so I can whisper-yell at their father.

He, on the other hand, needs their protection and so he convinces them to go and get his stocking and bring it to him. The two older ones run down stairs to get his huge and completely filled stocking and they bring my empty one up too, so I can see, in fact, that it is bare. The little one shows her father all of the great things Santa brought her.

“He knows me so well. I really love Santa!” then she looks at me as an after thought and says, “I’m sorry Mommy!”

Ugh! Are you fucking kidding me? Now they are treating their father as if he is superior to me because he got a whole stocking full of really cool things. I sit there with my most supporting actress face on. The whole time I’m pissed because I didn’t care that I didn’t get anything, I cared that he just sat there and let them think I was “BAD”. He was then gloating about how he was such a good boy and Santa knew how good he was. I sit there and try not to act smug.

“Shall we go open presents?” I ask because I have to get the kids out of my room. My husband is going to really hear it (at a rather low volume because I don’t want my yelling at him to ruin Christmas, well I want to ruin his Christmas but not anyone else’s). I could let it go, but I’m pissed so that’s doubtful.

“Do you kids want Daddy to cook breakfast?” He asks. All of the kids chime in together “Yeah!” because he has never cooked for them before and they don’t know that he is horrible at it.

My youngest one wants to stay with mommy while she gets dressed. I look at those sweet blue eyes and I realize that I’m being petty. I pick her up and I say “Did you like what you got in your stocking?”

“Mmmmhmmm!” she replies. She then digs in her little stocking and says “I think Santa meant for you to have this.” she says. She pulls out a hairbrush that Santa put in her stocking. “I think he put it in mine by accident.” she wraps her little arms around my neck and says “Because you aren’t bad, you just need to watch your mouth!”

I hug her with tears in my eyes and I chuckle as she scolds me again for saying the “F word” so often. We go downstairs because my husband’s fine cooking ability has set off the smoke detector.

“Mom’s bacon never sets off the fire alarm!” my son announces as he is standing by the open door waving the smoke outside.

“Bacon always smokes like this!” my husband tries again.

“Can mom just cook our breakfast?” my oldest asks.

“I sure can.” I smile I give my husband a kiss on his cheek and say “Thank you for trying.”

“I’m so sorry!” He looks me in the eyes and I know that he is.

I carried on with my holiday without causing him great peril and that was a win in and of itself. But here is the thing, my kids were shocked that my stocking was empty and they were simply trying to justify what it was I had done so horrible to have pissed Santa off. Later, as they got older, we were able to laugh about it. My oldest said “We were all shit scared because if Mom could get put on the naughty list than anyone could.”

It was the nicest thing they have ever said to me.

Moral of the story: Make sure to put a handful of candy in your own stocking too because sometimes your husband forgets and then you are trying to watch your mouth for a whole year. Like a whole year with no cursing, It’s not like I haven’t done it before but I was a stay at home mom with no breaks because my husband traveled all of the time. The F word was what kept me sane. If I could scream FUCK, when an entire bottle of juice spilled on a just mopped floor then it saved me from going completely crazy. Also cold feet to the balls hurt too, or at least made my husband squirm away, just in case you need that information!!!

Until next time 🙂

Even writing that made me puke a bit in my mouth. You see I don’t think of myself as a middle-aged woman, I think of myself as a young childlike little ageless sprite, because I’m me and I always put a positive spin on everything. Unless I hate something, then that’s complete bullshit and has no place in this world. Which is what aging is soon becoming to me. I know, I know we need to embrace our age and become the wise women that others seek out for council. I think it’s clear that I’m not that kind of woman!

When I had my first child she had to go to the eye doctor because she couldn’t see anything. Okay that’s another story soon to come. Needless to say I thought she was an imaginative child, she was Not, she just couldn’t see. Now back to me. I decided that I should also get my eyes checked, and yes I had astigmatism and needed glasses. I was nearsighted meaning that I only needed my glasses for distance. I would wear them if I was going to be in the dark and without other people around me, like if I was driving or in the movie theater…but not the movie theater because that was public, but in my house watching tv sometimes. Well now I can’t even! Like I cannot fucking see at ALL. I have to wear my glasses out places where everyone can see me in them. I get compliments and shit, but I look old and I know it. But who cares whatever!

So I love to read, as you all know! The problem now faced before me is that when I read books, actual books (which I love because my kindle ran out of batteries at the most crucial part in the story, stupid kindle) and I tried to scroll in to see better, in a paper book, which didn’t work obviously. Which had a double whammy because first you don’t feel smart when you do something like that and second What the fuck is happening to my eyeballs? I mean, not being able to see far away is bad enough, but now I am not just nearsighted I’m no sighted. I mean I can make out blobs and things and sure I can still read without glasses but I squint and that’s not great for my crow’s-feet, Ugh! You see someone told me that having kids makes you young…and I was like well I was a young mom so I have an edge on all y’all! I have been an empty-nester for four months and I now need bifocals. Hurry someone get me some kids stat. Snow White’s stepmom is beginning to make sense to me now. Ugh I am relating to the bad guy in a horror movie now, thanks middle-aged!

So now I have to make an eye appointment and probably have to get bifocals or lasik and you know what? That’s bullshit. Why aren’t our eyes made to last longer? Maybe all of that reading put extra mileage on my eyes. If I had known this I would have rested them more. I wouldn’t have looked at things I had no interest in out of curiosity. Like that book with the deformities, that fucking thing gave me nightmares for weeks. I would have treated my eyes better. Eyes are the windows to the soul and like my actual windows in my house (the contractor put in some sketchy, now out of business windows that have now begun to grow mold in the middle of the panes of glass. I really should have those replaced now that I’m thinking of it) are cloudy and you can’t see the beauty within.

You see if I am going to be living for another forty-odd years I am going to need to see. I can’t live without books. I love learning. I love being able to see and I know that this seems very selfish of me because there are people out there who are actually blind. I will say this, those people are strong and courageous. Those people are heroic. I don’t have that in me. I don’t have that inner-strength that it takes to be handi-capable. I don’t even have it in me to be middle-aged, ugh please no! I want to be a young ageless sprite that people feel comfortable with and also that makes them laugh. Laughter is the best sound I have ever heard….Oh Crap my hearing isn’t going to go too is it?

I better go lie down!

Moral of my story, you’re only as old as you feel and when you can’t see you feel pretty God damned old.  Nothing about the word ‘bifocals’ says young and vibrant. Its ok I have other things going for me and I will focus on that. I live a very blessed life. I live a very blessed life. I live a very blessed life. Now head between your knees and breathe.

Until next time. 🙂

I just got back from a business trip with my husband to Vegas. My husband goes to conferences and trade shows and on occasion I am allowed to go. I think it is how I behave at these shows that determines whether or not I am invited to another one. On these trips the majority of the people I meet are customers and peers of my husband. I used to be on my very best behavior because I didn’t want to embarrass him. However, I am finding out by my own personal growth and determining  my own value that having someone like me at these stuffy affairs is valuable. They need someone to liven things up a bit. That is the role I play. I am a “laugh at a funeral” type of person.

Not on this last trip, but a few years back, there was a hospitality party that we went to. My husband had to work the event and I was left to wander around by myself. There was a young girl dressed like Marie Antoinette with part of her skirt in the front that was actually a table with glasses of champagne on them. You literally had to reach out at her skirt region to grab a glass of bubbly. I stood there and watched as these grown men, typical beer drinkers, would go in all smiles and grab at this poor girl’s “Skirt Area”. There I was trying to behave and finding myself bored out of my mind, with nothing to do. I walk over to the young miss I reach out and grab a glass and I say loudly, while all of these men were standing around to watch the girl on girl skirt grabbing action, “Excuse me Miss, Is this from the Cooter Region?” My husband sees me and then hears me and he jauntily sprints over and says “She means Cotes Du Rhone, the Cotes du Rhone region.” as all of the people around were roaring with laughter at my joke. I leaned in to my husband and I said “No I mean cooter because who made that stupid skirt table in the first place.”  He shakes his head and says “you need to behave.” I mean he hissed this.

Ugh! Do I have to though, because I made everyone laugh and if I am going to get high on something it is having an audience. These trade shows come with an attentive audience filled with bored and drunk men. It’s my wheelhouse right here. Inappropriate one-liners are my go to and I have nothing else to do.

Now back to the trade show in Vegas. On two separate occasions we went out to dinner. I spent the days cooped up in my hotel room studying for my finals, so by the time we were out to dinner, I was looking for some entertainment. Or to be the entertainment which is my all time favorite thing in the world. There we are sitting and politely talking about business, but then my husband had to pee. The first time he came back he saw the men at the table laughing and wiping their eyes and he rushed over with concern on his face. “Do you think she takes coupons?” I ask. “Maybe she is the inventor of the groupon.” My husband tries to act like he is amused all the while giving me some serious side-eye. The other attendees at our dinner say “Your wife is hilarious. That woman at the bar we have deduced to being a working girl and your wife was wondering if she takes coupons.” the laughter sparks up and my husband chuckles a bit. He thinks I’m funny but not ruin his career funny.

The next dinner the guys were a little more drunk than the first batch and there I am drinking my water. I wait until my husband heads off to the “head” as he calls it and it is as if a spot light turns on me. I’m sitting there basking in the glow of my imaginary spotlight. But as I am doing my set I hardly know the progression of things until he comes back and I usually can tell I’ve gone too far by the glare he gives me. This time when he came back I was saying “My safe word is” *insert choking sound “Because you never know if you’re going to be able to speak!” Everyone is laughing and my husband looks at me and I now know this is too far. I know that I am in trouble and that he is going to insist on taking me on potty breaks from now on. We get in the room at the hotel before he says “What the hell was that, Becki?”

I look at him perplexed mostly because I know what he’s talking about, it’s just I don’t want to talk about it. “I don’t know, it seemed relevant to the conversation.”

“How?”

Ugh, like now I have to be specific? “I don’t fucking know, the conversation got away from me.” I say.

“How?”

“I don’t know, they asked me what I do for fun?”

“And you ended up talking about a fucking safe word?” he glares at me. “A Safe word? What do you do for fun, little lady? My safe word is a choking sound? Is that how it went?”

“No! I didn’t start that with that part. I said that I go for walks and I am taking some classes online. Then….” I try to run the conversation in my head and seriously how did we end up talking about safe words any how?

“You do realize that I have to work with these people, Becki.”

Not a scolding! Anything but a scolding. I nod my head.

“But, I was just trying to make them laugh.” I smile and I say “And it worked. They thought I was hilarious.” I grin.

“That’s not the point.”

“You laugh with them.” I point out.

“Becki, you just take things too far.”

“But that’s the funny part, I am little and feminine and they don’t expect it, it’s the whole package that makes them laugh.”

The next day my husband comes in and says “Everyone said they had a great time with you last night. They were all talking about how funny you were.”

I’m ready for my comedy act to go on tour. See my funny and over the top conversation is exactly what these poor guys need at these conferences. I am like a tiny drink of water that they didn’t even ask for but probably needed because Vegas is dry AF and the smokey air burns your eyes. I mean I know you are allowed to smoke in the casinos but you don’t have to. It’s not like it’s a requirement.

Also I won like a hundred bucks there the first five minutes we were there. Our room wasn’t ready when we got there so we had to wait. We sat down and had some water to replenish because I was down about a quart already. My husband put twenty bucks into the machine and says why don’t you play a game. I won forty dollars on my first twenty and I cashed out immediately. My husband comes back from his phone call and he says “Done already? It doesn’t take much to lose on these things.”

“I won. I was up and so I cashed out.”

“Put it back in and see if you win again.”

“Not with this though. These are my winnings. I need a new twenty because I don’t want to lose my winnings. That’s how they get ya.”

“That’s most definitely not how they get you. You would lose twenty bucks and that’s all.”

“Now it is sixty and I am not losing sixty on this stupid video game. I need another twenty bucks.” I should point out that I got a new purse for my trip and it fits everything I need in it but if I put my big clunky inhaler in there, I can’t also carry cash. So I have no money in it.

I put the next twenty bucks in and I won again. This time I was up to ninety-eight dollars. I cashed out again.

My husband looks at me and says “What are you doing? You just got started, let it ride.”

“Nope, let’s go cash out.” I get my winnings in my purse and make my husband carry my inhaler because that’s my money now and I have been hoarding it ever since. I am so proud of myself. I am the worst, most nervous, gambler there is. Who knows how much I could have won, but my luck was about to change and I was not going to let the casino take my hard-earned winnings.

You definitely need an inhaler in Vegas though because the air smells like stale beer, stale cigarettes and stale dreamss. That shit will cause an asthma attack even on a healthy person.

Now I am home and so glad except I am still on Vegas time and can’t get up at an appropriate morning time. This morning it was almost nine when I dragged myself out of bed. My dog was crossing her legs and whining. But I am getting there. I should be studying for my last final but I missed you guys. I didn’t want you all to forget about me. Plus I wanted to tell you all about my trip and my comedy show success. They should really consider hiring me to work these damn things, I’m a treasure.

Until next time!

So whether you are a glass is half full or half empty type of person Probably benign could mean one of two things (You don’t have cancer yet and probably won’t so don’t worry about the complex cyst in your breast!) or (You probably have cancer and are going to die!) I mean the second one is more of a glass is fucking empty scenario but you get my drift. I alternate these two states of mind just to keep myself on edge.

Today I had a follow-up with my surgeon and she is actually really great. I wouldn’t trust my magnificent boobs to anyone else. I really trust her immensely. Today I got up and my appointment wasn’t until 10:45am which is practically 11:00am and that is basically noon, except when you are running the math in your head this way, “You are going to be late, BECKI!” I was sitting and enjoying my handcrafted caramel macchiato that I made in my own home with my own hands, which tastes just as good as Starbucks, but not as good because I had to make it myself, I looked at the clock and I was like it is 7:30am and I have until 9:00am until I have to even think about getting ready for my appointment. I watched clips from Seth Meyer’s show and before I knew it, the fucking bitch of a clock is like “YO! Dumbass its quarter after 9, Y’all might want to think about showering soon.”

I jumped in the shower and because I can shower and stress at the same time, I multitasked with anxiety of what to wear to my appointment and washed my hair. So when you go to the boob doctor you’re only going to be wearing pants with your melons hanging out. However, you have to take your shirt off and you don’t want a shirt that you have to pull over your head to mess up your hair, so that means a button up and well my boobs and button ups have a love hate relationship. For the most part the button up is big on me everywhere except the second and third button over my breast. These buttons strain to hold down the fort and my boobs are apparently destined to be free. But away I go with my buttons straining because I am not going to be wearing this shirt in the appointment anyway. So I get in my car and I start driving. I then have a mild anxiety attack and am thinking shit I can’t remember how to get there. I go to pull it up on my GPS and that little jerk (her name is Helga, you must always name your GPS because you will need to yell at her and you must use her full name, so Helga Von Voyage for those of you who must know her full name) Helga has no memory of ever going here, or anywhere else in her life, her memory has been wiped clean. This is the second time this has happened. My husband had to reset her to factory setting and it is all coming back to me as I am driving Probably the speed limit if the speed limit is 75. So I am now hoping for a red light so that I can pull up the address on my cell phone. I get my phone to pull it up and now technology really is not my friend because it is asking me to update my app…No thank you! I get a green light and I put my phone down. I stop at a red light and I try my phone again. Light was fast. I then decide that I generally know where I am going so I head in that direction hoping that my memory is better than Helga’s is. I finally get to a red light and pull my maps up on my phone the only problem is that my bluetooth is on and there is no sound coming out of my iPhone and I haven’t named it yet and now I have no one to yell at. So I yell at Helga some more because where is she when I need her the most. Finally I get a chance to turn off the bluetooth and magically the sound of directions in a soothing voice begins. Thank My Lord and Savior. Finally something is going right.

I get to my doctor’s office via a new and quicker and much better way, thanks to my iPhone that has not been named yet, but she definitely deserves a name because she is a genius. I am in the elevator and I am trying to remember what floor I go to and some lady is trying to talk to me about my book that I am carrying and I am like “Shhhhh! I am trying to find my boob doctor!” and then I realize that it wasn’t in my head. I smile at her and said “I’m sorry, it’s John Grisham, I just bought it. I think you would enjoy it.”

She wants none of my bullshit now and I don’t blame her. I’m sorry lady I’m having a….bing my floor time to get off the elevator in which I pushed all of the buttons in because I didn’t know which floor I was going to need so I chose all of them. I get off like some eccentric busty lady and head off to the end of the hallway. I walk in and they smile at me. “Hello Rebecca, fill out the paper about how you are feeling and then we will take you back.”

I feel great and  the paperwork was simple because there is nothing to report. In the breast surgeon’s office there are older women and me all sitting there and they have this “pity” look on their faces for me. Oh no ladies I am probably benign! I want to tell them but they call me back first. I sit down and they take my blood pressure and my weight. It was just Thanksgiving and well I am not even sure that damn scale was measuring weight or turkey but either way I have too much of it. Next I am told to take off everything from the top and put on the gown facing the front. It’s the right size for me thank goodness because I wore that huge one for my mammogram and ultrasound. Now I wait and read. My doctor comes in and immediately she and I start talking like old friends. We talk about the kids and the holidays. She and I have been through so much together and she feels me up because that is the reason I am there. Then we look at the ultrasound pictures.

When your doctor starts talking out loud about her plan as if you are not in the room it is a little unnerving. My doctor is not usually this distracted and so I get a little shaken. I do something that my old me would never do, I ask her a question. “Is everything okay?”

She turns and she smiles her beautiful warm smile and she says “Yes, You see here, this is the one that worries me the most and let me tell you why.” She starts to tell me that it is where the old cyst was and it is deeper and has debris and she just wants to get a better look at it. Also I was last there with one complicated cyst and that one seemed to have resolved and now there is two complicated cysts to look at. I go in January for another ultrasound and she wants me to come back in six months after yet another set of imaging done in July. If there is anything at all that comes up she wants me in her office immediately. Also if she doesn’t like the results of the ultrasound and mammograms she will send me in for another MRI. She tells me that she likes having the MRI as a plan C. So now I leave her office with all of my paperwork and the plan to be back there in the summer. Before I leave she says “Don’t worry about this, let me worry about it, that’s my job!” That’s why I love her. She is great and I know that she is going to do everything in her power to relieve my anxiety over this. As I drove home, which was incredibly easy to find my way after my stress level went down, I thought about things. What it means to be doing this still. Honestly the last time I was there she and I thought I wouldn’t be back in her office. The fact that I am going back again in six months is both comforting and alarming.

Probably benign is just that, a wait and see diagnosis. I thought about why God would have me in such a situation and I am pointed to my impetuous personality. Patience is something that I work on daily. Waiting on Jesus is not my strong suit and yet it is the state I often find myself in. Trusting the Lord to hold my hand through it all is a little easier but do I need him to hold it? The answer is yes. He has this and me and all of us in his mighty hands and I never have to worry. Because when my doctor says, don’t worry about this let me worry for you that’s my job, that to me is God speaking through her. As sure I am that my doctor will worry so will my God work through her worry too.

Whatever is growing in my breast whether it be a cyst, a lesion, a mass or all of the above, I trust that God will be there to guide me, my doctor and my family through it all. My appointment is made for January and like I said a few months back, they give me results before I leave to reduce anxiety, I am thankful for that. Thank you all for being with me on my journey. If you are going through your own please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. I have been doing this little dance for twenty years now. Sure I have anxiety, but mostly I have peace in knowing that I have little control in the outcome, but I have a great doctor and my creator on my side, what more could I ask for.

Until next time 🙂

You would all be very proud of me. I have done it! I got my turkey it is a small fresh beauty and I couldn’t be happier. It’s so small in fact, it looks like a chicken, but it says turkey on it because I checked several times.

Now onto the real reason I am here.

When we were children my parents would leave us together alone in the house with my oldest brother babysitting. He was babysitting age, which is what every parent waits for, and it was going to be in those moments that the best games known to mankind will be invented. The first game that comes to mind is:

Whoever makes you laugh is ‘IT’!!!

How do you play? First you have a room full of imaginative kids. Then you designate the first person to be “It”. It usually goes something like this. “Becki, you be it!”

“I don’t want to be it. Have someone else be It!”

“But you hate it when we turn off the lights the first time.”

“I do Not!” standing there knowing full well that I am afraid of the dark. Being ‘It’ is very similar to being ‘whoever smelt it dealt it’ and no one ever wants to be either.

“Okay fine I will be it first.” my brother would say. “Are you ready for me to turn off the lights?”

everyone in unison “Yup!” me standing there unsure but I just made the case that I was perfectly okay with the lights being out.

Lights go out and I immediately regret all of my decisions in my short life. When the lights go on we have to be doing something to make the ‘It’ laugh. Except when the lights are off I am having a panic attack and an existential crisis because Is being possessed enough to help me win this game? Because I sure as shit am going to be unless someone turns the lights back on because everyone knows that satan is the Becki opposite and he’s afraid of the light.

The lights turn on and there I am in the middle of the room having a full on mental breakdown which everyone thinks is funny and now I am ‘It’ and I have control of the light. This helped me to have a overinflated sense of my own power at comedy and the pure joy of making someone else laugh. If I make you laugh then I control the light ergo I am the hero in this game and in life, really!!

This game is how our Raggedy Ann curtains got ripped, which totally made me laugh, won my brother the game and made us wrap the ripped curtain around the curtain rod as if it was Not ripped almost in two. We were like “Mom and Dad will never know.” Right! Because we always just ball up the curtain on the rod. That’s how it’s done. Mothers know!!! We always know. Plus it wasn’t that clever it looked like a large Raggedy Ann q-tip placed above our window. That’s a lovely window treatment you have there, is it French?

The next game was take everyone’s sheets and blankets off the bed and tack them up and create the worlds largest blanket fort. There was six beds in our house…our fort was massive. We started it in the kitchen and brought it into the living room and sometimes take it up the stairs or down the hallway. My parents would ask where the little holes in the walls came from. We always tried to use the existing holes the next time we played this game because we already got in trouble for those.

The next game involved the stairs. One person would stand at the bottom of the stairs and would have a ball. The ones at the top of the stairs would have to run across and try not get hit by the ball…but then this game began to morph into a cross between the gong show and dodgeball. Entertain the judge or get pelted in the face with the dodgeball. If you were hit by the ball you were ‘It’. Then of course came the accusations of favoritism. “That’s not fair, he’s your favorite. He wasn’t even funny!”

“Becki, you’re still it!” which I hated because I couldn’t throw the ball all the way up the stairs. One time I threw it and my brother dodged and then it landed in the toilet. That ended the game for the night and the new rule, of close the bathroom door before we played, was born.

The next game we played also involved the stairs, I’m not going to lie, we played a lot of things on the stairs. Our stairs was a bus, a car, a jail, a bank, a store…and slide. This game started with my mom promising that anyone who helped clean the house would get twenty dollars….which was the equivalent of a hundred dollars today. I wanted that twenty dollars so much that I cleaned every inch of that house. I even polished all of the wood, the cabinets, the stairs and the wood railing!!! Nothing says accident like slippery stairs and rail to hold onto. My brother almost died, or if you watched soaps, had a miscarriage. But we decided to not let a good thing go to waste. We played a game that should never, ever be played….like ever…and so it was AWESOME!!!! It was no die in the dingle though…so by my kids’ standards this was light fare. We would take our mother’s laundry basket, put a pillow in the bottom, wrap the rider up in a blanket so that they couldn’t see where they were going, and send them sailing down the slippery stairs. Don’t worry the door would stop us at the bottom. The worst was when the basket would tip sideways because you would still go down the stairs but you were suffocating in the blanket and hitting your head all the way down the stairs.

So whenever my parents would leave we knew that some hellacious good fun was at the ready. We played these games until someone puked…now that I think of it, the puker may have been concussed. But somehow someone would get hurt, or sick, or my brother’s girlfriend would call and we would all have to be quiet and try to listen in, all the while trying to pretend to be watching the muppet show. We always had a great time. Except that one time when someone puked in my hair. My hair was so long that I had to wear it up so that I didn’t sit on it…I  was super tiny and couldn’t wash it myself. My brother had to help me and he was gagging and getting annoyed because I was “blatting”. He also used dish detergent and that shit is not great for hair. I had snarls for a month after that. I should have conditioned it with some skin-so-soft.

I am not sure if any of you played games like these, or made up your very own….but we had a fun time together. I watched my kids do these things too. When left to their imaginations, kids will invent games and possibly end up concussed.

Moral of my story: Not sure there is one, we had a great time being little shits together. We loved it when our parents would leave, unless they left us with the babysitter. Our oldest brother probably didn’t love it, because sometimes we had to go on dates with him. But I was the fifth child and I didn’t have to take anyone on a date with me, so I loved it.

Happy Thanksgiving all! I am very Thankful for all of you!

Until next time.  🙂

I apologize to all of my readers for not being here in a while. I was having a bit of a hard time trying to do my homework, helping a friend out and having a bit of writer’s block.  Nonetheless I want to thank you all for your support it truly means a lot to me. I have been proud of my little blog and I hope it entertains you as well.

What inspired me today? Thanksgiving, more importantly the Turkey. I have been cooking Thanksgiving Turkeys for more than Fifteen years and every year I have a mild panic attack as if it were my first time. First it starts as soon as the last trick or treater, who is approximately nineteen years old with a case of the munchies, rings my bell, collects his bounty of the last of my Halloween candy and closes the door. *sound of my front door closing and the light being turned out. ‘I wonder if I should order a live turkey this year?’ Let the over thinking begin!!!!

I ponder such questions as “Should I order a fresh turkey or do I just get a frozen one?” Then the real drama begins with “Who is coming to my house?” I stopped inviting people to my home because I just got tired of being rejected. The sad thing is I am an amazing cook…don’t let that quiche fool you, she was a fucking bitch and she knows it! Trying to make me look bad in front of my new husband. I am an amazing cook and I always have too much food.

Next after I realized that my indecisiveness has led me directly to the only option of just getting a fresh turkey rather than a live turkey I start in with ‘Is it time to buy the turkey?’ This starts two weeks before Thanksgiving or whenever it is that they start putting the turkeys out at the grocery store. Why yes I do buy my turkey at the grocery store because I am too lazy and indecisive to be a turkey snob. I would love to be a true turkey snob but that takes effort and also someone who doesn’t have mild anxiety about leaving the house. So I start seeing the turkeys in the grocery store and I over think it. Should I buy it now? Will it be too soon? I want a fresh turkey rather than a frozen one but then I would have to freeze it and that would defeat the purpose. This little dilemma consumes my waking hours right up until I have realized that “Oh great, Thanksgiving is next week?” What happens if I missed out on all of the good turkeys? I look at my fridge and it is not even ready to have a turkey shoved in there.

Now I have to eat all of the food in my fridge before I can shop for my turkey. Then I start looking at my calendar and think “Is seven days too soon to buy a fresh turkey?” “Is five days too soon?” Before I know it I am standing in the grocery store Turkey-eve and trying to find a fresh not frozen turkey for five people.

My options are usually the reasonable frozen thirteen pound turkey or the fresh twenty five pound turkey. This happens every year. EVERY fucking year!! I am sorry that I don’t have my thanksgiving shit together, but guys I have a life too. I have to overthink the turkey for a solid fucking month first and find myself at the grocery store the night before with this exact dilemma every year. You have your traditions and I have mine. Sometimes I have my husband with me and he always says something like “Get the big one. Turkeys are supposed to be big!”

Now that I have this monster pterodactyl to bring home I search on line to see when I should stuff it and get it in the oven. You see when I was a child my parents would get up at some insane time in the morning to “dress the bird!” and get it in the oven. That is ludicrous  and I am not getting up at ass o’clock to cook thanksgiving. We will simply eat when the thing is done. So what we have eaten Thanksgiving dinner at nine o’clock at night before, like I’ve said, You have your traditions and I have mine. I get this gigantic turkey into my fridge and I start on the breads. You have to have breads for breakfast. I make some banana bread and some cranberry bread, this is what my mom did and so I do it too. Don’t worry we usually eat half of this when it is fresh out of the oven because we know that tomorrow at Thanksgiving we are going to wish to have our stomachs pumped because of our gluttony that we are not accustomed to.

It is time to go to bed because I have to get up and overthink this damn bird tomorrow too and that means I have to be well rested. I stay up all night checking the math to make sure that atillatheturkey gets in the oven in time. I fall asleep around three or so, because I always force myself to go to sleep around three or so because I saw a movie trailer about some lady being possessed and she was awake at three fifty five every morning and I am connecting some supernatural dots and that fucking shit can’t happen to me on Thanksgiving. Could you imagine being possessed and trying to cook a thanksgiving meal? What the hell would that even look like? No thank you, Ma’am!

Now it is morning and I hear everyone meandering and I look at the clock. Nine o’clock in the morning? Are you kidding me? Every day I get up and out of bed before eight but the day that my rising on time saves my family from trichinosis and I fail. I bound out of bed and run downstairs to make my stuffing. It’s a secret recipe and I am going to share it here with all of you now. I start with portabella mushrooms sautéed in oil and garlic, then I throw in some diced celery, then I take the box of stovetop and follow the directions because that shit is delicious. I made it one time because I was pregnant and cheating at my stuffing and it turns out that I love stovetop stuffing. I am sharing this all with you so  that you can enjoy your holiday. Now I get the giblets out of the bird, unless I bought the frozen one, because if I bought the frozen one then that son of a bitch hasn’t thawed yet and I immediately try to become a molecular physicist for the day and try to find a new way to thaw the bird. I also get it as thawed as possible then have to stick my poor little virgin hand up the turkey’s ass and pull out the frozen giblets that apparently have taken up a pact to never leave the womb. Like the worst gynecologist in the world I grab any tool I can to pry this plastic amniotic sack out of the poor turkey. My hand is all cut up from the shards of ice, The bag is ripped and I a worry about plastic remnants in the cavity. This is why I always go with the gargantuan fresh bird. I know what I’m doing wrong, shut up!

I finally get my bird stuffed and in the oven. But wait the damn thing doesn’t fit right. So now I am some sort of oven mechanic and I have to remove parts to fit the pan of enormous turkey into my oven. I know there is a better way and I dream about the days after Halloween when I was going to pick out a live turkey. Also, I could never meat my meal first. I would have a pet turkey and for thanksgiving we would be having pizza. Don’t worry the turkey would probably die of natural causes by christmas because how do you even take care of a turkey. I don’t fucking know. Me standing outside trying to feed my turkey captain crunch sounds about right. So, no we must do it this way. There are too many problems with the live turkey scenario.

I get the turkey wedge in the oven and hope for the best. Now we wait! My children are patient people until the turkey starts to smell like dinner, then the question that must be answered a thousand times over is “When is dinner going to be done?”

(so here’s the thing, i don’t actually know because i started to do the turkey math and ended my night doing possession math because i was like i better get to sleep in an hour before the devil takes over my body, forty-five minutes until i am possessed, thirty minutes and it is doomsday for me, twenty minutes ‘Oh God please have mercy on my soul!’ and now that math is fresh in my mind and the turkey math is not)

“Oh I think it should be ready about six thirty!” I baste my turkey because I have seen it on tv. I don’t actually know how to baste a turkey but it keeps me busy and my turkey is always delicious and moist so I must be doing it right. Plus nothing says actively cooking more than opening the oven every few minutes and running liquid over your half frozen bird.

Sometimes we have to eat dessert at six thirty because the pie is done. Then we are usually super full by the time the turkey hits the table. I always take a picture of it. My pictures of my turkeys all look the same and turkeys in my pictures look like the before makeup version of any movie star. Your like “So that’s what she really looks like!” But my turkey tastes delicious. It is always juicy and flavorful. I really am an awesome cook, it’s just this is how insecure people cook. We doubt ourselves and have trouble making decisions. But hey Thanksgiving turkey at nine pm is amazing.

Moral of my story: Accept your traditions even if they look like mine. Remember that it is a holiday to spend with family and friends and the turkey doesn’t always have to be the star. I mean I make a fabulous banana bread and that’s usually the first thing we eat on Thanksgiving. The cranberry bread is sort of the bread that everyone is like “I don’t like cranberry bread!” until the banana bread is all gone then all of a sudden cranberry bread is not that bad. I feel you cranberry bread, I am cranberry bread. Just enjoy your holiday with those you love and if they get on your nerves, go to the store because you forgot something. Stores are open on Thanksgiving just for that purpose.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Until next time:)

My husband travels for work and for most of the time I was resentful because it seemed awesome. There have been a few times when I was like “Oh man you couldn’t pay me enough to deal with that!” I enjoy being home in the comfort of my house when the shit hits the fan. I can crawl into my bed and go into denial easier that way. There is no crowed to have to act like a well put together adult in front of.

One time he called me and said “There are no restaurants here, anywhere. I haven’t eaten anything all day. I saw that they had a vending machine I’m going to go and see what they have.”

He calls me later, “There was a dead rat sitting next to the vending machine. I didn’t get anything to eat. I’m just going to go to bed.”

You know times like that were far and few between but it was the chance you took when traveling for work. You just never knew what type of trip it was until you are on it and thinking “Yup this sucks.” and the wives at home do a little bit of a rejoicing dance and celebration, because we are up to our elbows in diapers and laundry because all of the children have gotten the stomach bug at once which means mom is next. I don’t really need to hear about the perfect creme brûlée that you just had with dinner. I ate cold kraft mac and cheese off of your daughter’s plate. So fuck off. So, Where was I? Oh yeah my husband’s bad trip. Insert slight curve at the corner of my lip as I think about my husband’s misery.

So this particular trip that I am writing about was when the children were much older. There was no reason for me to be a tiny bit satisfied and I truly could empathize with my husband. He was flying out to Oklahoma city and as he was on the plane, they were rerouted to Tulsa because there was an incident at the Oklahoma airport. He was trying to keep me abreast the situation and also trying to get to his hotel for his meeting the next day. He decided that he was tired of waiting around and he got a rental car and drove the rest of the way. He called me from the car and he said “I don’t know where my luggage ended up, but I’ll figure that out when I get to the hotel.”

“Okay! Drive safe!” I told him. I was worried because the incident at the airport was national news and I was concerned for his safety.

He calls me “Hey, I am being detoured around the security so it’s taking me longer than I expected. I should be there in an hour or so.”

He calls me again, “So I’m lost and the GPS in the car just fucking died so I am going to have to use my phone, don’t call me.”

He calls me again, “I got the GPS working so it looks like I missed a turn, I am going to be there in an hour.”

An hour goes by and I try calling him and it goes directly to voicemail. I call again an hour and a half later and again directly to voicemail. Two hours later and I’m getting worried. Two and a half hours later he calls “Hey, sorry I just got to the hotel. My phone died and I was waiting in the lobby for my room and I charged my phone. I got here and they didn’t have a room ready.”

“Isn’t it like five-thirty there?” I ask.

“Yup! I guess they are booked solid. Oh wait they are waving at me. I gotta go!”

“Okay!”

“I’ll call you when I get to my room!”

“Okay!”

I am now hanging with my girls and watching something on tv. I look at the clock and it has been a substantial amount of time, more time than expected. I wonder if they got him a room yet. I text him and ask “Did they have a room for you?”

The text goes unanswered. I look at my girls and they were laughing about something on the tv show. I keep my eye on the time and I start to get a little frantic because this trip has been an absolute shit show from the beginning.

I text again. “Are you in your room yet?”

No response.

I start looking for things to do like mop the floor to keep me busy. I am pace-cleaning and trying not to get too upset. Finally my phone gets a text and it says “I’ll call you in a bit.”

I wait anxiously for the phone call.

“Hey, sorry! You would NOT believe what happened to me.”

“Why? What happened?”

“So they call me over and tell me that my room is ready. My phone was dead as soon as I took it off the charger. I take the elevator up to the floor. I get off of the elevator and I get down to my room. All I wanted to do was to go to the bathroom. I unlock the door and I am walking through with my briefcase and there was some guy sitting on the bed eating pizza.”

The phone buzzes.

“Oh hold on. This is the airport calling me back about my luggage. I got go!” click.

I look at the phone in my hand and I’m like ‘Wait? What about the man with the pizza? Are you best friends now? Do the kids get to call him Uncle Pizza Guy? I need answers, damnit!’

My oldest looks at me and says “Are you okay?”

“Yes, so dad has had a rough day and he just got to his room and some guy was sitting on the bed eating pizza and then dad had to go.”

My youngest “He probably didn’t want the pizza to get cold!”

“Probably!” I say and we laugh and laugh. “No he is trying to locate his luggage. You know your father he never checks his luggage and every time they make him check it, they lose it!” we laugh again. One time they lost his luggage in Ireland and when he came home he had no car keys. We had to meet him at the airport to bring him his spare set.

The phone rings again. “Hey, so you’ll never fucking believe it! They lost my luggage. I’m going to go and do some shopping and probably grab a bite to eat.”

“What about the pizza? Did your roommate not share?”

“What?” he asks. In his world the pizza guy was so long ago. To me it just happened.

“You know, your roommate?” I ask

“Oh, yeah, that! Look I got to go and see if I can’t find a suit for tomorrow and the shoppes are probably going to be closing soon. Can I call you when I get back from dinner?”

“Okay!” I say so disappointed because I just want to hear the story of his day. Normally we have the same conversation:

“How was your flight?”

“Uneventful. The best kind of flight!”

Yes he says this every time. But TODAY it was eventful and he doesn’t have any time to talk about it. I need to know your story, it sounds like a doozy and I love a doozy of a story. They are my favorite kind. But My husband is not theatric and so his doozy stories have no panache. It’s sort of a pet peeve of mine. If you are going to tell a story make it suspenseful. I mean it’s life and that’s pretty exciting any way but you could tell it like it is a fine novel.

My husband lets me go and I sit there with my girls and we make up our own story about Dad’s trip.

“Maybe the guy was a fugitive hiding in dad’s room!”

“Maybe he was there to fix the tv and it was also his dinner break!”

“Maybe he’s going to help Dad find a suit.”

This goes on for hours until finally the phone rings again. “Hey, you never guess what?”

I’m so excited because this day gets better and better. I am going to one day write about it in my blog that I will get a few years from now. It’s all very blog worthy, don’t you think, narrator pans over and looks at the audience with mirth!

“What?” I ask with my spine tingling waiting for the next mishap in my husband’s trip. I mean with great concern.

“I bought a suit right off the rack!”

I wanted to hang up right there. Don’t fucking tell me this story. What about the man? What about the pizza? Where are the main characters in your story? The suit shouldn’t be your main fucking character.

He’s still talking to me about his suit. Right off the rack and it fits. It’s not too bad! I bought a tie and underwear. I had to get toothbrush and toiletries, because they lost my luggage you know.

If I didn’t want to know about the pizza guy so badly I would have hung up on him. I don’t care about your underwear and shaving cream, what about the pizza guy?

I interrupt, “Tell me about the pizza guy!” I may or may not have shouted.

“What pizza guy?” he asks.

“The fucking guy with the pizza sitting on your bed? Tell me about him. I have to know. We ALL have to know!”

“Oh!” he laughs. “Turns out they gave me that guys room and I had to go down to the desk and that’s all settled now.”

I am very disappointed in my husband at this moment. Why? Why can’t you tell a story? Why do you just say things and not tell stories as they are intended? I don’t really get to go very many places and I am living vicariously through you and your story telling, Sir, is absolute fucking garbage, I think politely.

“That’s it?” I say and I almost hang up on him.

“Well, no!” he says and he knows that I am me and I enjoy a good story. “So I open the door and he was sitting on the bed eating pizza. He was like, ‘Hey!’ I was like “Whoops! Sorry man, they gave me the wrong room!” He laughs “Then I go down and they give me a new room.”

Me fuming because I could have told this story so much better. I  breathe because I am being an asshole and I totally know it. This man has had a very stressful day and I am frustrated because he is not entertaining me well enough with his stressful day tale.

“Tell me about your suit.” I say because he seemed very excited about it.

“It’s not that bad. It’s dark blue and it has pinstripes. I think you would like it. Then I had to find a shirt and tie. I went with a white shirt because white goes with everything…..”

He talks about his clothes for like a solid half hour. This man walked into a hotel room with his key and found a Man eating pizza while sitting on his bed and he talks about that for like a millisecond, but his Off the rack suit that he purchased gets a full thirty minutes. That’s who I married. That’s who I love. He is a terrible story teller and yet he makes me happy. He saved money on his suit and he is happy about that. And because there are no other suits to compare it to he thinks it is just like the ones he has tailored. Until he gets the suit home and it is wrinkled and he puts it next to his other suits. This glorious suit hangs in his closet to remind him of the great find in his off the rack suit at some department store that saved the day for him.

It reminds me of the time my husband walked in on some guy eating pizza in his hotel room. That off the rack suit means so many things to us. That off the rack, “pizza guy” suit as I call it whenever I see him wearing it, is a legend around these parts. He seems so proud of himself at finding a suit that quickly. That suit is going to be passed down from generation to generation and we will tell the story as it’s intended because I have been learning about genetics and I’m certain that story telling is selected over suit buying and so it will choose my genes to carry on. As well as the tale of the guy sitting on the bed eating pizza, you sir will go down in infamy for generations and generations.

The important part was that my husband made it home safely and he lives to tell the tale…although his delivery needs some polish. But I am glad he was safe. Also he got his luggage back so he traveled home with it. Also I am able to add some polish to his story and carry it on for years to come. I still ask him about the details about the pizza guy.

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t know!”

“What did he look like?”

“He looked like a dude eating pizza!”

“What was his name?”

“I didn’t ask. Why do you need to know his name?”

“Why don’t you need to know his name? I mean you practically spent the night together, you would think that you would get to know his name!”

“I was never going to stay in that room! That was never going to happen.”

“Did he share a slice of pizza with you?”

“Becki, don’t be all ridiculous about this. I walked in and was like ‘Whoops!’ and I left. I wasn’t about to have a conversation with the guy.”

I’m very disappointed, I would have had a conversation with the guy. Heck I talked to a lady at the grocery store for an hour because she was buying key lime pie yogurt. That shit is delicious. Shout out to my girl Marie, you are a great yogurt connoisseur and a true friend, I was going to just go with raspberry. She saved my life.

Moral of my story: If you ever walk in on a guy eating pizza while sitting on a hotel bed, get some details and tell the story with great flare. No one wants to hear about how great your suit fits without being tailored….that is a snoozy story and we only like doozy stories.

Until next time 🙂

So this morning I have to tell you all what kind of dramatic theatrics happen in my kitchen. I had my one cat and she is lavender and white and she is gorgeous laying on the center island, my black dog following me around. I always listen to music in the morning to get me going. So I literally had two dance partners at the ready, which is every prom queens dream. I was listening to “Broken Things” by Mathew West…go listen to it, it will make you feel amazing and ready for the day. This morning (and many other mornings too just to be honest) I was dancing around my kitchen doing a mini-broadway production with me in my kimono and my cat and dog as my costars. It was pretty awesome. I’m impressed really, mostly because my animals are so used to my crazy that they are now willing and grateful participants.

Ok, now that you are familiar with my state of mind, today I am going to write about a cooking fiasco that happened when I was pregnant with my first child. Now when I was pregnant I am pretty certain that my children were draining my brain cells through the placenta. I am normally a pretty decent cook. I was young and pregnant when I got married (gasp, the horror) but yes one little dirty secret slipping out at a time through blog. Unfortunately many of you have not stuck around to learn all of my little secrets, so the rest of us are in on it and that makes all of you my favorites. (Don’t tell the others, we can all be cool and wear matching sweaters and have inside jokes) I’m kidding….come back readers you are dearly missed. I apologize for being petty. Where was I? Oh right! THE QUICHE!!!!!!!!!!

So when I got married I got cookbooks, because no one can ever eat that much spaghetti! One of the dishes in my cookbook was Quiche. I decided that quiche was the fanciest food I had ever eaten (I was young and ate a lot of McDs then). I looked at this perfect dish in the picture and I was like it’s basically an omelet pie and I can do this. I write down all the things I need and run to the grocery store. Now the ingredients for omelet pie…I mean fancy Quiche, is pie crust, spinach, eggs, cheese (montery jack, swiss, and cheddar) and onions. So this is a pretty inexpensive and yet FANCY meal. I mean come on I’m not even french and I am going to make quiche for dinner (because I didn’t know it was breakfast food) (Also haven’t you ever heard of breakfast for dinner?) You feel me!!!

So I am home and I am cutting and stirring and pouring and I made so much that it fits into two pie crusts. That’s how good I am!!! (This should have been my first warning that something was  very wrong, because I could have also made a third quiche but no one ever needs three quiches) But I am pregnant and tired and I also want to show my new husband that he made a good choice by marrying me. (Another thing I had to learn was to stop relying on others for my worth) (If you are reading this…or even if you’re not….YOU ARE SO VALUABLE don’t ever doubt that) Ok So I get my two omelet pies….I mean quiches in the oven. They should be cooked and cooled by the time this beautiful blonde haired, blue-eyed, brilliant man who I adore gets home from working so hard to provide for me. (Please like me! Please be glad that you married me! I know how to cook fancy things like quiche!!!!!) It has been the appropriate amount of time for the quiche to cook and I open the oven and they look like two little puddle pies. Wait! What? Why? Well maybe my oven works different from the one “Betty Crocker” used. I keep it in the oven and I turn it up a smidge just in case. I have to wait and do nothing until the pie is done, I mean quiche.

I go and do some light housework and I go back to the oven and yup, puddle pie. Ok! Quiche, What the Fuck! So I put my hand in the oven to make sure that it actually is working. It is and I am determined to carry on with my FANCY dish. I see my husband pull into the drive way and I am so excited about tonight’s meal that I greet him at the door. He walks in and looks miserable!

“Hey I have a big surprise for you!” I smile

“Oh Yeah! What’s that?” he isn’t even a little amused. To be fair the last Big surprise I had for him was ‘You’re going to be a father!’ So maybe Big surprises aren’t his thing. I don’t know. But I was just as excited about the baby as I was about this quiche. Babies are so adorable and I get to have my own. My very own baby that loves me and I can be its mom. And the Quiche……Its FAAAANNNNCCCYYYYYY! So yeah I’m pretty excited about my life at this particular moment in time. What could possibly go wrong?

“Becki?”

“What?”

“What’s the big surprise?” He is standing in the kitchen looking annoyed.

I walk over to the oven and open it up…he looks in and then looks at me with this look of ‘what the fuck is this supposed to even be?’

“I made quiche!” I smile. I look at it and I agree that it doesn’t look great because it looks like cheese puddle pie….but its quiche and I think you need a french restaurant oven and all I have to work with is this American apartment oven. So it will be quiche once the conversion of French cooking time meets up with American cooking time….I don’t know currently it is two to one….any way it will work out in the end when we are eating quiche for dinner. (because I didn’t know it was breakfast food)

“You made quiche!” he says and smiles a little because he knows that I am so excited about it. “When will it be done?”

“It was supposed to be done like thirty minutes ago but I think I have the wrong type of oven!” I look at him and smile. “But it should be ready in like half an hour!”

He says “I’m going to go and change, then!” He walks away and I turn the oven up a little more because obviously french ovens are way hotter than american ones. I do the dishes and I eagerly set the table. I see my husband go into the fridge to get a snack. He makes himself a sandwich.

“What are you doing?” I ask, “We are going to be eating dinner soon!”

“I’m starving!” He said.

We are new to marriage and sort of two separate people who do their own thing because we don’t know how much it hurts Becki’s feelings after she had slaved all day over quiche and now having a sandwich because we are hungry and also because we don’t know that this is breaking some sort of wedding vow of thou shalt not eat sandwiches when quiche is cooking! But don’t worry we will never truly get the hang of it so it’s okay.

He eats his sandwich and I peek in the oven and a very strange thing has happened the pie crust is done, or over done as I call it, but the omelet part is still liquid. I am baffled. I then remember that my cooking teacher from high school told us that you should put tin foil on the crust so it doesn’t burn. I take the quiche out and I put foil on the crust and put it back in. I then go about my business. My business is apparently looking busy and not trying to worry about dinner that should have been done over an hour ago!  I think it’s been long enough the quiche should be done by now, it cooked long past the directions. I open the oven and WHAT THE ACTUALLY FUCK QUICHE? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME HERE? I am trying to prove my worth as a wife and I am better than cheese goop in a pie crust. I am a grade A+++ wife. But according to this fucking bitch of a quiche I’m more of an F+ because I still got points for putting my name on the top of the page.

My husband looks in the oven and announces “Yeah! That doesn’t even look good! Are you sure you did it right?”

I turn and look at him and burst into tears. “I think so!” I walk over to the cookbook and I read it aloud and say yes after each ingredient. “Pie crust, yes. Eggs, yes. Onion, yes. Spinach, yup. Two cups of montery jack cheese, two cups of swiss cheese and two cups of cheddar cheese, yes, yes and YES!”

“Umm, Becki?” he points in the cookbook at the dumbest fucking two lettered word in all of the english language “It says or”

I look down at the book! WHAT?

“You were only supposed to put in two cups of cheese and you put in six. Honey, that’s never going to cook. You made it wrong.” He doesn’t even know what he is doing to me right now. I can’t handle being wrong yet. I can’t be wrong in public like this. I don’t make mistakes this erroneous this soon in our marriage. Who the fuck do I think I am? I’m not a super model that can just rely on her looks…especially being pregnant…to keep her husband.

I’m not going to lie I wanted to get a divorce that night. Not because he was pointing out my error, but because I made one. I didn’t want to be the type of wife that made mistakes. I wanted to be the type of wife that was RIGHT! PERFECT! and RIGHT! So what I actually made instead of quiche (fancy omelet pie) was queso pie, except I didn’t know about queso so instead I made garbage pie that had a very burnt ring of pie crust around it. If I hadn’t been so mortified that my husband would drive me out to a nice farm and leave me there to live off of the land…I would have laughed and taken a picture. Because I would have loved to really have photographic proof of how ridiculous I was then. Trying to win some invisible cooking contest with one contestant and still coming in last place. Oh humility would be hard for this poor wife. She was so used to humiliation that being humble and laughing at herself would be tough for her.

As I am certain that you have all noticed, I got over not being able to laugh at myself. I mean I had to start laughing because I used up all of my tears on that fucking quiche. I made quiche a few years later and it came out perfectly. My husband said “I don’t really like quiche!” That was the last time I made it.

I think I’ll make it again for Christmas morning though. I have learned that if I want my husband to eat it I am going to have to lace it with meats….like bacon and sausage.

Moral of my story: Unless you are a mail ordered bride don’t act like one. You don’t have to earn your husband’s love and respect, you should already have that. If you don’t respect yourself, that’s something you need to work on. I would have to say that my biggest problems have been self-made. But my biggest problems stemmed from me not knowing my own value. So if this rings true to you, I want to take this opportunity to say that you are loved and valued. You are so worth loving yourself. What makes you happy? Do that. I got to the point that I didn’t know what made me happy because I so focused  on other people’s happiness. You can never make another person happy. That isn’t how it works. Focus on your own happiness and allow that person to find their happiness too, then and only then, can you ever truly be happy together. Also make quiche with only two cups of cheese unless you are trying to make a spinach queso pie in which case you are going to need the full six cups of cheese. I also want to point out that I do cook really well now, just in case I share some of my favorite recipes with you. (on an unrelated note my brothers and sister called me two cups for another kitchen mishap involving cream of wheat….but I promise I really am a terrific cook)

until next time 🙂

Happy Halloween to all of my lovely readers! So this is the last of my Halloween themed stories of this season. I hope you have been enjoying them. I thought of doing this one last because of all of my time of being scared this was probably the most profound thing I have ever been a part of. So let’s get started.

When I was a teenager I was asked to babysit the most precious babies of all time. He was small and he had a little head of blonde baby hair. He was an easy baby to watch and I adored him. He was quiet and content, a perfect little cherub. His mother was such a kind woman and she truly treated me well. She would invite me to her home early and she and I would talk. One day when I arrived she was getting ready and her husband was waiting for her. They had an important night ahead of them. Her husband was presenting their home to be registered as a historical treasure. He was standing over the plans of their home when I walked in. He smiled at me and said “Come here I want to show you something!”

I smiled and followed directions because I wanted to see what it was he was looking at, but also I am one to follow directions.

“Do you see this?” He asked and he pointed to the blueprint of his house. “That right there was a closet that they used for the underground railroad! In fact they had several in this house.”

I looked and it was a closet with another deeper closet within. He then pointed to all of the other closets and they all had secret compartments. Then he pointed to the basement and it was made into a secret passageway, which he traced with his finger.

“This house and it’s owners were responsible for saving thousands of lives.” He looked at me and I could tell that he was proud of the house.

“Are there tunnels under the house?” I ask and I am certain that I looked shit scared.

“No, no we moved the building to this property because they were going to tear it down for some big development project.” He told me. “In fact many of the doors within the closets won’t even open because they have been sealed. He showed me the basement door and it was locked with a skeleton key….there is nothing creepier than a skeleton key. He grabbed the key that was on the door jamb and he opened the door and sure enough the door was sealed off with sheet rock. It was just a decoy door now that at one time led to a basement back in the day of freeing slaves. He then closed the door and locked it up with the skeleton key. He then slipped the key back up on its perch above the door. He then showed me the closet in the living room.

When he opened the closet door it looked like your typical closet. They had their vacuum cleaner in there and some shoes and coats. There was a laundry basket filled with baby toys. However when you moved the vacuum, toys and pushed aside the coats, there was a small panel on the back wall of the closet. It was small and it is hard to believe that grown people were able to crawl within such a small door. It measured about three feet by two and a half feet. “The panel was hinged from the other side and it was pushed open from this side, like this!” the husband showed me how the door worked and of course it opened but there was only a small space inside. “The slaves were locked in from their side and would only be let out when it was safe to move them.” He explained. “Isn’t that cool?” The door closed with springs and it was utterly fascinating. He locked this door with an eye hook latch.

“Yep!” I said, because it was cool and super fascinating. It was also broad daylight and there were adults in the house with me. So I was more curious than anything else.

The wife descended the staircase and she looked beautiful in her lovely black gown. Her husband looked at her the way only a girl could dream of being looked at. She smiled at him because she knew that he was complimenting her without saying a word. The mother went into mom mode, telling the babysitter where everything is. The phone number where you can reach them (there was no such thing as cell phones then, you had to call the establishment that they patronise and hope for the best) I saw where she kept the snacks for the baby and the good snacks for the babysitter. Then it wasn’t long before the baby was up from his nap.

I went upstairs with the mother and we got the baby up and changed his diaper. “He already has had his bath, so you should have a pretty easy night.”

The baby was in his high chair having a bit to eat when the parents left for their night out. I wished them luck and they were gone. It was just me and the baby and the people who were forgotten for hundreds of years in the house. I played peekaboo with the baby when we heard a strange creak. I left the baby in his high chair to see where the noise was coming from. I walked into the parlor where the locked basement door was and I heard it slam shut. I look at the door and there was the skeleton key in the lock. I thought the husband had put it on top of the door jamb. I walked over to the door and sure enough it was unlocked. I thought that maybe I wasn’t remembering correctly and so I locked the door and I put the key on a key hook next to the door because I was too short to reach the doorjamb. I write a note on a slip of paper and I placed it on the desk in the parlor telling them that I hung the key on the hook. The baby was talking and cooing in the other room. I went back in to get him and clean up his face. We went into the living room to play with his toys that were in the closet. I open the closet door with my free hand as I held the baby in the other. The small panel door was opened in there too. I think this is strange because it closed with a spring when the husband opened it. He had to hold it open because the springs were putting resistance onto the hinges to close. I put the baby down on the floor to go and close the panel door when that too slams shut. I jump back startled with a little scream and I scare the poor baby.

I pick up the baby and I hold him close to me to quiet him down. “I’m sorry little one, That surprised me! I didn’t mean to scare you.” I get him to quiet down and I decide that I will take him outside to go for a swing before it gets too dark out. It is the end of summer and the sun stays up until around eight or so. I take him inside at around six thirty and feed him his dinner. He and I have forgotten all about being afraid in this nightmare of a house. I get him cleaned up and take him upstairs to change him into his pajamas. His mother had laid out his clothes before she left. I get him all dressed into his little pjs and take him into the playroom next to his bedroom. He and I played in there until he began to rub his eyes. I get him his bottle and I rock him until he is good and tired. I lay him down in his crib and say “Goodnight little guy!” I tiptoe out of his bedroom and I close the door just until it is only opened a crack. I want to be able to hear him if he cries.

I venture downstairs to clean up. When I get down stairs I see that the front door had blown open. I think to myself, didn’t I close that when we came in? This house is old and the husband refurbished it to be historically accurate, so these doors are super heavy. How did he wind blow it open? I close the door and I lock it for good measure. I start doing dishes and I can hear the baby begin to fuss. I run upstairs and I call out to him “I’m coming, it’s okay!” I go directly into his room with a flourish because I thought he was still awake, except when I look at him he is out cold. I take the blankets and cover him up thinking maybe he got a little chilly and that was why he was crying in his sleep.

I tiptoe back out of his room and go downstairs to finish the dishes. I walk into the kitchen and I see the pantry door close quietly. Now I’m creeped out because I think that someone has snuck into the house while I was upstairs and that was why I found the front door open. I open the pantry door slowly with absolutely no plan whatsoever and there is no one there. Thank God because what would I have done? I now hear a storm brewing outside. That’s why all of the doors are blowing around there has to be some sort of cross breeze coming through the house. I set out on my mission to find the source of the cross breeze. I found that the bathroom window was open and I close that. Then in the hallway there is a clacking and I go to see what the hell that noise is and in the hallway is an enormous window and outside there are working shutters that are blowing in the wind. I don’t want the noise to wake the baby so I open the window and I close and latch the shutters. Then I close the window.

All of this excitement has got my nerves on end. I needed to check on the baby just to see that he was safe. He was in his little crib with his soft breath whistling through his nose. I walked down stairs and I hear voices. I think that the parents must be home. I walk over to the kitchen and I have to go through the parlor to get to the kitchen and there was that fucking basement door open again with the skeleton key in the lock. I look at it and I am immediately terrified. I close the door and I lock the door and I put the key on the hook. I walk over to the desk and I was going to write a note, thinking I had only imagined it before and there it was, the note I had written earlier explaining that I had hung the basement key on the hook by the door. I look over at the door and the key and I start to cry. Like legitimately crying. I now have realized that the house is fucking with me and I don’t know what to do. Do I call my family and ask them to come here and save me from the ghosts? Do I call a friend and ask them to come and save me from this house? Do I sit in fear and hope that the parents come home early because of the storm? That’s when the lightning cracks and the lights flicker. Fucking great we are going to lose power in this haunted nightmare of a house.

I hear the baby cry and I go upstairs quickly because he is another person at least. I grab him and he is wailing because of the thunder. I pick him up and hold him close to me. He cuddled his head against my shoulder and I decide that he and I will be alright. The lights flicker again and the power is out for good now. I stumble around looking for a flashlight. Its strange when you don’t live in a house and you have to guess where they keep their things. I found one in the playroom in the end table drawer. I turn the flashlight on and it lights up a circle of light that is projected ahead of me and the baby that I am holding tightly now because he is the only person there. This circle of light is casting shadows on the walls and floor around me and I know that I am going to have to fix this.

I learned that if you make the flashlight stand upright it creates a better light pattern that lights up the entire room. It works more like a lamp that way and casts no shadows that I imagine have lurking monsters and ghosts. In the playroom there are toys, a television set, that won’t work because the power is out, a rocking chair, a small couch and a radio. I look at the radio and I check to see if it has batteries. It doesn’t it is just plugged in. I look at the baby who is smiling at me because he thinks that this is a good time. I smile back and decide to talk to him. I ask him “Do you know if your mommy has a portable radio?”

He looks at me and coos. He is sitting on the floor and I know that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I know that he is probably ok sitting in the dark in this haunted house but I am completely freaked out and sure could use a distraction like tv or music. I decide that I would sing to the baby. I start to sing little kid songs like “Mary had a Little lamb” and “The ants go marching”. It doesn’t take me long to run out of lullabies because I am in high school and unprepared for moments like these. I then start singing pop hits from the eighties and I see that the baby looks tired. He starts to cry and I think that he needs a bottle. The problem is, that the bottles are downstairs, I have to walk down the stairs past the closet in the living room with the hidden panel and through the parlor, with the basement door that keeps unlocking itself, into the kitchen where someone may or may not be hiding and into the fridge. I then have to find a way to warm up the bottle…with no electricity and then walk back past the pantry, the parlor and the basement door and into the living room with the closet and up the stairs all while holding a baby and with my back to the ghosts. I pick up the baby and I start to rock him, hoping that this works. I rock him until his screams make me care less about ghosts and more about peace and quiet.

I take the baby downstairs into the kitchen and as I opened the refrigerator door the power came back on. Which jolts me because all of the lights are on and the tv in the upstairs playroom all turn on. I look at the baby and he is exhausted. I get his bottle ready and he and I venture the trek back through the maze of ghostly booby traps. I go into the living room and there is the closet door wide open and all of the contents are lying on the floor and there is a strange glowing light coming from inside. I am completely fucking done with this night. I walk quickly past the closet up the stairs when I see the shutters on the hallway window burst open. I take the baby and I close he and I into the playroom and I lock the door. I turn on the tv and I rock the baby to sleep and I hold him until his parents come home.

They knock on the door and call my name. I open the door and there they are all wonderful and lovely and alive. The mother asks “So how did it go?”

I look at her and I say “Good, he is such a good baby.”

I lie! Or I just don’t tell the whole story about their haunted fucking house terrifying me. I walk downstairs and there the husband was putting the key back up on the door jamb. He looks at me and he says “How did you get that back panel outside open?”

I look at him and I have no clue what he’s even talking about. He can tell that I am confused. He then takes me outside and there in the back of the house is some sort of passageway that was leading out the back. It was wide open.

“I guess it must have been the storm. I have tried to get that door to open for months now.” I look at him and he looks at me and I can tell that he doesn’t even buy this bullshit he is trying to sell.

“There was some very creepy things that went on here tonight!” I say with my eyes bulging out. “The doors were all opening and closing and the power went out. And the only light I could find was coming from within the closet panel.” I started to cry because it feels good to finally tell someone.

He looks at me and he says, “let’s go inside and get you some ice cream.” I follow him into the house and he sees the basement door open with the skeleton key in the lock. He looks back at me and he looks bewildered. I swallowed hard because this is still happening after the adults are home. I was hoping it was just my imagination. The husband closes the door and locks it and puts the key back up.

“How about that ice cream now?” he asks me.

“I think your house is haunted!” I say as he hands me a scoop of ice cream in a bowl.

“Yup!” He responds.

His wife comes downstairs in some sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt. “Are you still here?” she asks

“She had a rough night in the house.” he explains.

The wife smiles and says “I told him that the ghosts do not want him to tell about their hiding place. This was a very protected secret and it meant life and death for many involved. Now we are talking openly about it and ever since we started the petition they have been upset.”

I look at the wife and it was in that moment that I decided that if I were to ever babysit for them again it would be at my home. Because I am not signing on to be a part of the haunting of the underground railroad. I never saw them again and I never heard from them again. I think they realized that I was fucking terrified by their creepy house. I was also fascinated by the history of it all. I wanted them to get their registry and keep the history alive….but that history was busting out at the seams with ghosts. I missed that little baby immensely because he was truly such a dear. I think about that night often especially when it is storming out. I think about how I tried to just get through the night and to wait for the parents to get home. They were really nice people. If they are reading this story please know that I think of you all very fondly.

Moral of my story: I honestly don’t have one. I just ask that you learn about history and what people did to gain their freedoms. And learn about those that helped them without thinking of the cost to themselves because they understood what was right and just. The history of the world has many moments when certain people of many different colors and creeds were treated unfairly. We must learn from those moments so that we may never repeat them. Also enjoy your night with candy and dressing up and scaring each other (if that is your thing) But whatever you do stay safe! Check your candy for razor blades because it is a time-honored tradition. Wear light colors and reflective surfaces and remember to carry your flashlights.   Happy Halloween!!!!

Until next time 🙂

Don’t worry the games I played weren’t ever in a grave yard or destructive. I mean I wouldn’t be caught dead in a grave yard….Like EVER, like don’t even fucking bury me in one!!!! Grave yards freak me the fuck out and in every way. So which games did I play?Well the first one was run past the grave yard as fast as you can before you get haunted for life. The second one involves an old wives tale and I am not sure whose wife told the tale but she was a genius because it kept children quiet on car rides.When I was young and in a car with my four brothers and one sister we played a game. So I don’t know who actually told me to do this, all I can remember is that we did it every single time we drove past a grave yard, ANY grave yard.

So the back story goes something like this, when you drive past a grave yard everyone in the car has to hold their breath or else one of the ghosts in the grave yard will possess you. It is all becoming very clear to me now why I was always afraid of demon possession. I have been playing this game religiously since I can remember. Also the stupid and hideous movie “the exorcist” just confirmed my irrational fears is all.

We would all pile into the car and we would head out on our trip to wherever we were going. The way we sat in the car was also incredibly horrifying….in fact probably more so considering that we were a family of eight traveling in a car built for five. I grew up in the seventies and there were no seatbelt laws. We would all pile in and that meant that we were all squished together and getting elbowed. We would solve our own spatial problems by being super ingenious. I would either lay in the rear window, until I got yelled at by my father that he couldn’t see behind him. I never understood why he needed to… you are going forward…you should just watch where you are going. When I would get yelled at I would then sit on the hump. The hump was the place in between but under the seats and it curved up and created two little pockets for the feet of those sitting in the back seat. I would sit there. It was front seat adjacent and that was awesome until I would get kicked a thousand times, accidentally on-purpose.

When I was sitting up in the rear window I could see when we were approaching a cemetery. I could see those jagged stones sticking up from the earth like jutting rotten teeth. I would begin to panic because I didn’t know how far of a reach these ghosts had. Like what if I didn’t hold my breath soon enough or long enough. What a horrible scenario, you did what you could and the price you pay is possession. I would breathe in and I would hold my breath until the cemetery has long passed, then I would exhale and carry on with my life possession free. Sometimes my heart would beat weird, because of the murmur and I would think “This is it! I’m possessed!” I would say something out loud just to see if I was possessed or not.

“I really do Love Jesus! How about you guys?” I would exclaim loudly.

Yeah I am going to say there was a reason they all said that I was a weird little kid. But hey I didn’t know how to test a possible possession. So I would shout out odd christian sentiments…which was strange because we never went to church, or read the bible, or anything religious. The closest thing to religion we got was Christmas, my parents yelling “Jesus H Christ!” and holding our breath as we passed the grave yard. So for a child with no formal training I would say these types of things at odd times to test whether I was possessed or not.

So one time we were with my father and his friend and we were heading to a place called the alpine slide. This was a slippery concrete slide that you got into a little sled and go hurling down the length and slope of a mountain at speeds that seemed to be around fifty plus miles an hour. EVERYONE I know had scars from the Alpine Slide. It was a right of passage. You would show up with smiles and good intentions and leave with crying, sadness, missing skin, concussions and regret. It was a good time had by all.

On our way to have some old-fashioned skin removing fun we pass a graveyard. Don’t worry we told the new kids in the car what needs to happen. You are going to see the jutting grave stones and you are going to take a deep breath, you will hold that breath until we a past the grave yard. The other kids get the gist and thank the fuck they did because I am not going to the alpine slide with some possessed person pressed against my back as I am screaming down the mountain at top speeds. What if you flip? Will they help me or eat my brains? I don’t know what possessed people do. What if they throw me over the side of the slide? No, we must be super careful here and take extra precautions. You don’t fuck around when it comes to the alpine slide. As we approach the cemetery we all take a deep breath and there we are holding our breath and its going well. Until my father has to stop at a red light. Wait! What? When did they put that red light here? Why would they even put a red light by a fucking cemetery any way? What are they thinking? It seems highly irresponsible if you ask me! What about all of the ghosts trying to possess people? Are there just a shit ton of  possessed people roaming the earth? I am sitting there turning blue and trying to not pass out. I am horrified because I know that I need to breathe but if I do I am going to suck in some horrible ghost and I will be possessed forever. What am I going to do? This is worst than Sophie’s choice. Die of asphyxiation or be possessed? Finally I gasp for air. I decided that I would take my chances with alive and possessed.

That entire day I felt strange. I just knew that I was possessed. It was a nice little ghost that was quiet and trying not to insult anyone. She went down the mountain terrified that she was going to do something wrong. She tried to enjoy herself but she was just a little worry wart. Even when she flipped with her friend in the cart, she was super careful to pull her friend off of the tracks so that the people behind her didn’t run her down. Thank God I was possessed by a very compatible ghost. She was a lot like me with the one very big difference she was sad. Sad because she was possessed now. Me and my new ghost that I was now a bodily host to went home and as I was trying to fall asleep I said my prayers. My ghost girl allowed me to say them. She was alright, for a ghost girl who has possessed me.

It took me a couple of weeks before I forgot that I was possessed. I’m pretty certain that the girl moved on because she was forced to live my life and she was all like “Mmmmm! No thanks! I’ll take my chances with the afterlife. I’m going to see what they have to offer!”

Years later I asked my mother, when I was learning to drive, “What about when you pass a cemetery and have to hold your breath? Is that a little dangerous?”

My mother laughed at me and then said “Do you still do that?”

She didn’t know that one time I was possessed. I looked at her and she could tell that I was being one hundred percent serious. She continued to chuckle until she could get some composure.

“Becki that’s just an old wives tale!” she said

It was that day that I didn’t really fucking like old wives, because they were brutally mean with all of their tales. Maybe you wives should sit around and talk about unicorns and butterflies and angels and rainbows and happy things that don’t scare young children until they are too old to believe such things, like when they are learning to drive. Why do you all have to be such bitches?

Now that I am a young to moderate wife I will only tell tales such as these to change the image of old wives and the tales that they tell. When you hear of old wives and their tales you won’t piss the bed….unless it’s from laughter, which is what old wives do because Kegels are hard to remember. (every woman reading this story just started to do Kegels. Don’t worry! I won’t tell! Your secret is safe with me!)

Moral of my story: You don’t have to hold your breath when you pass a cemetery, it apparently was on old wives tale. Also let’s tell tales of good things and laughy things to change the image of the old wife. She has had a bad rap for all of these years. Whenever I would think of the old wives that were sitting around telling these tales they looked like the wicked witch of the west without her green makeup on….when she rode the bike and was awful to Dorothy and Toto. That movie gave me many a nightmare let me tell you! Also do Kegels so you don’t pee a little when you are laughing…I once thought my water broke because of such a situation. It was embarrassing because it was the hospital that told me that I simply wet myself.

Until next time 🙂