HIPPO BRIGADE

The Tampon Story

You asked for it:

It was the summer of 6th to 7th grade. I was socially awkward, and I wish I had a photo to show you the socially awkwardness. Well, I do somewhere but I prefer to leave you in the dark, because ohh the eyebrows, and the frizz, and the matching scrunches.  But for some odd reason, I was popular. People actually liked me despite my crooked teeth and enthusiasm for wearing oversized tee-shirts and rolled up colored denim shorts.

I was liked so much in fact, that I got invited to the pool party of the summer. I was thrilled, and I ran up to my room to try on 6 different bathing suits to find which one matched my orange plastic dangly earrings the best. 

And then the day of the party I got my period. Shoot!  Alright Beckey, it’s no big deal, I tried to calm myself, I’ll just sit this one out. I was still determined to go to the party, but just not swim. I was all about the plushness, bulkiness, and awkward comfort a giant maxi pad nestled down there gave me, and there was no way I was going swimming.  NOPE. No way. 

When I got to the party, everyone was splashing around and I immediatly found a cozy spot under the sun umbrella and sipped a root beer out of the can with a fun straw. I must have looked like a giant looser because every 5 minutes someone would approach me and ask me why I wasn’t swimming. My answers were simple: I forgot my bathing suit, or I can’t get my hair wet because I just got a perm, swimming is against my religion, or I’m scared my earring will get stuck in the drain and pull me into the sewage system, I’ve seen it happen on 20/20, I’m not making this shit up people.

And then the host’s older and way cooler sister came up to me and told me she has some spare bathing suits I could borrow and then she whispered in my ear, “I have tampons in the bathroom too.” And right then my breath caught in my throat. TAMPONS? Oh dear God, the mere mention of the word made my vagina quiver and not in a good way. But my best friend was sitting right beside me and said, “Come on Beckey, I’ll show you how.” I think I choked on my root beer and then cried a little, but after much coaxing, I complied. How bad could it be? I thought, I’ll just get this over with and have a fun time at the party. It’s like I’m in my very own tampon commercial and those things always have a happy ending, right?

So off we went into the bathroom, I locked the door, and then it was time. There was yelling, cursing, uncomfortable bodily positions, and at one point the tampon got a stern talking to.

5 tampons and 28 minutes later and in desperate need of hydration, I emerged victorious. I practically ran to the pool like a fat kid running towards cake. I was so happy and in a fabulous new mood. Then after several hours, it was time to say our goodbyes. My 7th grade boyfriend was giving me an entirely too long and gratuitous hug, and I’m pretty sure he had a boner. He held me close and told me that he had a really good time and that he’d call me tomorrow. I was so excited! And then just as we were we’re going to go our separate ways, he pulled me in closer, and I could have sworn that this was going to be my first kiss. But instead told me he saw everything while I was in the bathroom. 

WHAT THE WHAT?!! How did you see everything? I was furious, and humiliated, and felt so vulnerable. He then showed me the vent that connected into the bathroom. On the other side was the boy that lived there’s room, and he had a bunk bed, and ALL the boys at the party gathered up on that bunk bed and peered into the vent to watch a poor, pathetic girl use a tampon for the first time. 

The end.

Potty Training

Hello I’m potty training. Which means that I am loosing my patience, I’m sick of doing laundry, and stir crazy as hell from staying in my house all. Day. Long.

Berlyn and I have never done anything half-assed. When we transition her into a new phase of her life we go all out. Like when we were getting her to sleep through the entire night, we just took three days and said, deal with it nugget, mamma and daddy need to sleep or else we turn into fire monsters, and when we stopped nursing, wait nope, that was gradual. Oh, but when I started her on a sippy cup it was like BAM! SIPPY CUP TIME! and when it was time for a big girl bed, it was BOOM! BIG GIRL BED. So, we figured this potty thing should be fairly easy, and I could be all POW! POTTY TRAINED! 

But I’m not really in the mood any more and I’m only a day and a quarter into it. Yesterday was officially day 1. and we got rid of all her diapers and stocked up on Ariel and Cinderella undies. But before her nap she had 8 accidents and I was all ready to slap a diaper back on her and go to the mall to buy something shiny for myself for giving it a good college try. But the second half of the day went much better, and this morning she stayed dry for 2 and a half hours, so perhaps it’s working. Except the part that isn’t working is the fact that I have to pay attention and actually do stuff. I’m so used to convenience of a diaper catching all her business, now I have to! And there’s pee on my carpet, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when she has to take a dump, what if she decides to play with it? And smears it on the dog?

 Is 10:30 in the morning too early to start drinking?

…and then my pug barfed.

Right as I was going to write this terribly amusing blog post about a lemonade stand, a rhinoceros, and a lady named Marge, my dog decided to hurl. I was just about to pop open the lid to my lap top when she looked over at me with her sad glossy black eyes and then proceeded to barf all over my rug. Afterwards she stood over it for a second or two, and I could tell by her posture that she really wanted to sniff it and possibly eat it. Well, no siree, sister, we are not a family of barf-eaters! So get your furry little behind outside, while I try to salvage what’s left of our sad, sad rug. 

As I was cleaning her vomit piles, I wondered, what the heck made her sick? She eats the same exact thing everyday. EVERYDAY. SAME. THING. Oh, and not only that, but she does the same thing EVERYDAY. It’s always: wake up, scratch, lick stuff, go on a walk, eat, lay down for 6 hours, scratch, lick stuff, go on another walk, and then lay down. My first thought was that she’s hungover, but then I was like, when does she have time for drinking binges? She has a pretty ridged, and hectic schedule as is, she can’t possibly fit that in. Then I thought Oh, shit, she’s preggy. That little tramp. But double no. Because she’s a virgin, and she’s fixed. Then I started to feel like a bad mom. Poor pug never gets to experience life. She’s stuck in my home, no sex, no alcohol. No wonder why she threw up on my rug, she’s sick of it, and I don’t blame her, I’d be sick of it too if all I did was lay around on a stack of pillows all day with interruptions for licking stuff and eating. Wait, no. I take it back. No, Zoey, you pretty much have my dream job.

I’m so Embarrassed

Embarrassment has always seemed to find me. Like that time when a pack of 7th grader boys voyeuristically watched me use a tampon for the first time, or when I fell down a flight of stairs at college, and my skirt flipped over my head and everyone saw my laundry-day thong, or when I feverishly yelled out, “GRETCHEN!!” GRETCHEN, I miss you so much, where have you been!?” Only to find out that it wasn’t Gretchen, but an incredibly tiny man with long hair. 

Ahh, yes, embarrassment, we were once good friends, we found ourselves together often; at parties, in public speaking classes, and in whole-school assemblies, but now that I’ve grown up, embarrassment and I have grown apart.  

Either I’ve adapted because of the whole survival of the fittest thing, or I’ve matured, and farting in front of the lady giving me a pedicure is not embarrassing, but a natural part of life. But don’t fret, because I increased her tip by five dollars due to the proximity of my fart to her face.  But truth be told, I don’t embarrass much these days. Except for lately I’m worried that my daughter might hold the key to my embarrassment, and I have a very strong feeling that she’ll be really good at mortifying me. 

Here are a few excerpts of recent conversations I’ve had with Berlyn. Thankfully we were alone each time, but you never know when an unsuspecting ear will be lurking, waiting to hear all about Berlyn’s observations:

BERLYN: I’m two!

ME: That’s right Berlyn, you’re two!

BERLYN: Momma’s 37!

ME: No. Momma’s not 37. And now we’re heading to the mall to buy some La Mer. 

Really, Berlyn? I look 37? 

BERLYN: Noooo! You don’t look 37. 

ME: Thanks sweetie, I appreciate that, but I’m still getting the La Mer.

And while driving…

BERLYN: Momma’s Naked!

ME: No child, Momma’s not naked right now, she has pants, and a shirt on. But if I were naked I’d probably get a special visit from Mr. Police Officer who would take me to a place called jail, and then take you off to child protective services. And that would make mommy really, really sad. 

While I was in the bathroom…

BERLYN: Momma’s wiping her butt!

ME: Yup. 

Because that time it was true. 

Your turn. I’ve told you like 6 embarrising things about me, now tell me some embarrising things that have happened to you so I don’t feel so bad.

Free City Sweats

I love sweatpants, and my day just really isn’t complete until my jeans are tugged off by a pack of rabid rocwillers, and my jeans are replaced with a sturdy pair of sweatpants that are snapped into place with a sturdy elastic waist, can I get an AMEN? Oh, the joys of pants with elastic waists. Makes me all teary-eyed just thinking about it. 

But a vast majority of people (and by vast majority I mean, like 7) are coming to my site in hopes that I have some information on where to buy Free City Sweats, because you’re fancy, and Target sweatpants just won’t do. Because Jessica Simpson and Marc Jacobs are NEVER photographed wearing Target sweatpants. Gawd!  

I wrote about sweatpants a really long time ago, and since then the Free City sweats have become as elusive to find as the Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat. But I will tell you this: 

If you live near L.A. you’re in luck, because Free City is sold at Fred Segal and Ron Herman. If you don’t live in L.A., then no sweatpants for you!! Just kidding, I’m not the sweatpant nazi, instead I give you this: the Free City Website. I know, I know,  I’m a total genius to be pointing you towards the company’s website. But that’s like the only place they sell those suckers. Talk about exclusive. 

Nightstick Grandma

Um, hello? I totally know that Easter was two days ago, and I know you’re all OVER it. And you’re surly because your hoard of Cadbury Eggs were eaten by your pet rooster, and now you have to wait a whole year to eat them again. AND now your rooster has the runs and is crapping foil puddles everywhere. BUT- I have to show you something so delicious that I think you’ll find it amusing enough to pull you right back into the Easter spirit again. 

Instead of the kids in our family doing an Easter egg hunt, my brother, aka the genius, decided the adults should do the Easter egg hunt this year! My daughter is the only ‘child’ in the family right now, and it’s kinda boring watching her scuttle around the lawn in search of eggs filled with candy that I won’t let her eat anyway. Because I’m mean. And I want it all for myself. And I’m trying to divert her from an unhealthy and cationic relationship with sugar, because Lord knows I’ve been there. 

So we sent them off on their hunt with well wishes and the hopes that they would return victorous. 

Awwh, look at them, they’re all so proud and delighted!

But wait. You ask, what is the elderly one on the end doing with a nightstick and a bullet proof vest on?

Well half way through the egg hunt, we hit a lull, and the crowd was getting restless. In attempts to boost moral, my security gaurd cousin dipped into his trunk and pulled out a snappy outfit for Grandma. 

And with her new found confidence she got from holding the nightstick, and her knowledge her lady parts were adequately protected, she went on to win the hunt! She was so emphatic and thirsty for eggs, however, that she banged down neighbors’ doors and stole candy and eggs from sweet little innocent children. We had to give her a tranquilizer and have her locked up for the remainder of the afternoon. But after we removed the vest and took away her nightstick, she returned into the sweet little grandma we all know and love.

Yup, just a typical holiday gathering with my family.

a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance

Gorillabuns just lost her 4 month old son yesterday. My heart aches for her and her family. 

In a act to remember her precious son Thalon, hug your babies, your spouse, or your dog extra long and hard today, and know that they are all precious gifts from God. 

My harp is tuned to mourning, and my flute to the sound of wailing. Job 30:31

Lahiem

I went to a Passover Seder Dinner Wednesday night. It put me in touch with my inner Jewishness. All the talk of lahiem and matzo, got me wanting to not only to partake in a Seder dinner every Passover, but also to crash a few Bar Mitzvahs and join in on spinning the dradle every now and again.

I am a Christian, and going to a Seder dinner brings into sharper focus what this holiday represents, and helps me to remember that this whole Easter season is bigger than a giant marshmallow peep, and it’s even bigger than Reese’s peanut butter eggs. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not going to eat this sucker for breakfast:

GO JESUS!