My Mom and Me

I’ve always thought my mother and I are very different. For starters she has to pack a snack every where she goes, but she never eats it, she’s totally okay with wearing mom jeans, and I’m pretty sure she has a crush on Phil Collins. 

But  I was rummaging through old photos and found one that shocked the shit out of me:


Turns out my mom was a hot piece of ass, just like me. 

I’m already envisioning myself in a pair of mom jeans, I think I’ll have a crush on Josh Groban, and my snack de jour shall be a bag of lightly salted almonds.

Beckey is a Cosmetologist.

So it’s official. I’m a professional. I passed my test on Monday and I’ve been recuperating ever since. I mean really, talk about a horrifying experience. I narrowly escaped my own death with the constant heart palpitations, nausea with explosive poo, and my lactating toe.  But I made it through the day with a passing grade and a death grip on my new and beautiful cosmetology license.


You’re proud of me aren’t you? You’re beaming with delight and majesty, like a pleased mama.”But Beckey,” you wonder. “What are you going to do now?”

Well, I started hair school before I got pregnant, which was three long years ago. I had a different path in front of me. But after I got pregnant, I stopped school, and shoved my face in a hole in the ground for 9 months. Then I waited another 9 months, and I thought: I should go back to school and finish what I started. So that’s what this license is, it’s a completion; an end to something I started.

And then you stop and think, “Wait… you hair always looks so scraggly and in desperate need of a deep conditioning treatment, how on earth can you say you’re a hairstylist??” 

While I can’t argue that point, I can tell you to suck it, and remind you that hairstylists are pretty cool and slightly intimidating, and you’re just jealous.

I’m Taking a Week Off

A letter to my loyal throng of readers:

I’m sad to report that for the following week, I will not be updating my blog. But don’t despair because I’ve composed a list of things that you can do instead, that take up exactly the same amount of time and brain space as reading my blog:

  • you can do the maze on the back of your Coco Puffs box
  • you can apply 13 coats of chapstick 
  • you can read a Marmaduke comic
  • you can giggle at the word throng because it looks and sounds like thong. Hee hee -thong.
  • or, you can play MASH with your bestie

The reason for my week long hiatus? I’m studying for a huge test that is so monumentally stressful that all my hair is falling out and my toe nails are beginning to lactate. But after I pick up the pieces, pass my test, celebrate with 16 beers, and drunk dial your mom, I’ll be back, and ready fill your head with nonsense, and fig jelly. 

Wish me LUCK!!



The Perfect Blog Post

I’ve been blogging for about a year and a half and while I don’t claim to be any good at it, I still have picked up some pointers along the way to construct what I think is the perfect blog post:  

  • Make sure you have at least two run on sentences: It all started when I was in third grade and Mrs. Jackson  was teaching us about diction and proper sentence structure, I immediately scoffed at the idea of containing my thoughts in compartmentalized sentences; to me it’s like roping the wind, and if we’re being honest, I just don’t have the time to put little periods at the end of a thoughts, and then capitalize the next letter of the new sentence, I mean who has the time for that??  … and I have been running- on ever since.
  • Flirt with danger, and by danger, I mean cuss. Using the f-word should only be reserved for very special moments, like the birth of a child or when there’s a really good sale at Fred Segal. But shit, damn, hot dog, and crap should be used liberally.
  • Toilet humor always insures a good time.
  • A little self deprecation is necessary to convey to the folks that you are still vulnerable and a fragile flower. This also helps you look less like of a punk-ass bitch, and more like a relatable friend.
  • Lie. Or do what I like to call, gentle exaggeration.  If for instance, someone gave you a dirty look at the grocery store when they saw your child throwing a tantrum, and you retaliated with an over dramatic eye-roll/loud sigh combo, that translates into BOR-ING. Instead say that you beat her over the head with a trashy gossip magazine,  made her pay for your groceries, and then stole her shoes. It makes for a far more interesting read. Trust me.
  • Oh, and don’t forget to add an offensive, yet intriguing photo



And HOT DOG! You got your self a pretty amazingly perfect blog post, courtesy of your pals at Hippo Brigade. You’re Welcome.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs are Ruining my Life


I have a problem, it’s called Reese’s Peanut butter eggs, and I think they’re ruining my life. 

Here’s proof via a conversation I had with my husband last night:


Me: Do you think if I joined the Mexican Circus, and they made me take hormones to grow facial hair, you’d still love me? We’d both have beards, how cute would we be?

Pat: Matching beards, eh? I guess it’s better than matching Crocs. So, yeah, I’d still love you. 

Me: But what if they made me wear Crocs too?

Pat: What are you talking about? Are you considering joining the circus?

Me: No.

Pat: Good. We need to talk about something serious now. Sit down. 

Me: Okay…

Pat: We bought 2 packs of 6 Reese’s eggs 4 days ago and you ate 10. 

Me: WOAH! That’s a lot of math. Are you just showing off for me again?

Pat: What I’m trying to say is, we had 12 eggs, and you ate 10.

Me: …and?

Pat: That’s a lot. Plus, I only had two. 

Me: Well, you should have written your name on them, although I don’t know what good that would have done, because when I want some peanut butter eggs, you better get the fuck out of my way, and your stupid name written on the wrapper won’t slow me down. Mmmm, I think I need a peanut butter egg right now. 

Pat: See? It’s that kind of talk that makes me think you might have a problem. 

Me: Seriously Pat, I can stop at anytime. I just choose not to. I have self control. 

Pat: I think for the duration of this holiday season we should not buy anymore Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs.

Me: But Pat! That’s how I choose to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection! I don’t judge you for celebrating in prayer, so don’t judge me for celebrating with a sweet delicious treat. 

Pat: Oh, my God, woman! You’re worse than I thought. You need help.

Me: No Pat, what I need is a EFFIN’ PEANUT BUTTER EGG!

Oh dear! Please hold me. I do have a problem. 


And so, now I’m on the road to recovery. If you have a Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg, keep it to yourself, I’m far too weak and fragile right now to be tempted.

I bruise like a summer peach

At any given moment, doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I have a bruise on my leg. Most often they’re on my shins. And most often there are more than one. I can’t ever remember what caused the bruise, and it always bums me out when I go to put on my favorite pair of  nylon dolphin shorts only to find that my legs are graffitied with brown bruises. Darn, guess I’ll just have to wear sweatpants. 

If people ask me why I have bruises on my legs I will answer with one of these responses:


  • I play the drums while asleep, only the drums are my bed frame, and the drum sticks are my shins. I’m starting to get really good.


  • I joined the mexican circus. 


  • We just got a tennis ball gun, and every night as foreplay, I let my husband launch tennis balls at me. It really gets us in the mood. 


  • I bruise easily


  • Your mom

Is Fart a Bad Word?

As I trek deeper into the world of mommy-hood, I always seem to find myself facing a new challenge. One week it’s wondering what to do when all my daughter wants to eat is waffles, and the next week it’s realizing that she has developed a fiery addiction to anything involving Disney Princesses. She is currently in Disney Princess rehab where she is learning that not everything embossed with Cinderella’s face on it needs to belong to her. 

My newest challenge is trying to figure out what are acceptable words to teach Berlyn. Her vocabulary is growing exponentially. and she repeats everything I say. She’s so curious about things and what they mean, and I want to give her the correct word. 

Take for instance this morning when she pushed out a loud, bumpy, kinda awesome fart, and declared, “Mama, I pooped!”

“No, dear that was a fart. You farted.”

“Mama, I farted!”

“Yup, that’s right.”

Oh, but it felt so wrong. Isn’t fart a bad word? What should I have called it instead? Toot? Should I have said, honey, you had flatulence? You broke wind. I can’t even get the words out without wanting to do a phony british accent. 

“No, dear, you merely broke wind, now hand mummy a crumpet, and then I have to change your nappy. Cherri-o then”

Marie Antoinette Heels by Louboutin


Christian Louboutin just debuted these bad boys. 



He only made 36, and they sold for a mere $6,000 each.



I totally would have bought a pair in pale pink, but shoot, they sold out, plus I don’t have anything that would match the tiny porcelain face that dangles from the ankle strap.



I got a blog award, and ordinarily I’d be all, whoo-fucking-who because I’m crabby and my thong is riding up in places it shouldn’t, but it’s from Yellaphant. And I’m pretty sure in a past life Bridget and I sipped Coors Light and swapped embarrassing gynecological stories, which is why when she gave me an award in Spanish I thought, RIGHT ON!  How cool am I? Or should I say, ¿Cuán estelar soy yo? And  then I started craving some empanadas, por favor. 

My husband designed this site, and when I started it, he wouldn’t let me put badges and stuff on it. He compared it to a Mercedes with a bumper sticker, or a hot girl with a tramp stamp. And then he remembered that I have a tramp stamp… Let’s just say the discussion after that was super awkard, and now he’ll allow me to put whatever I want on my site, which includes, but is not limited to blog awards in Spanish. Olé!

Ahhh, I remember fondly the last time I got an award in Spanish. It was in my freshman clase de Espanol. I got the Senorita Simpatica award. Which basically means I was a quiet bitch who only appeared nice because I didn’t say much, and people appreciated that.

But now I can add this award:


It’s for those who invest and believe in proximity and aim to find and be friends with other bloggers. Which basically means I’m nice to people and I like it when people are nice to me. Or it means you live close to me, or it means I want you to live close to me so that we can share a soda and get a pedicure and then go shopping at Trader Jo’s together. At lease that’s what I interpret it to mean. 

Oh, one more thing, I have to share the love with 8 other ladies that are fantastic and who I think would really appreciate an award in Spanish with a wire butterfly and an empty toilet paper roll on it.

My Island Nights

Gorilla Buns

Sunny Side Up



Fitz-Fam Happenings

Spilt Milk

Vintage Thirty

Enjoy your special award ladies. I know I’m enjoying mine. I printed it off, framed it, and now I look at it every time I poop.