May 29, 2009
We went to the zoo.
We saw some monkeys.
We ate a hamburger.
We saw a lemur with man boobs.
We fed some goats.
We had a good day.
We had friends over this weekend and played a trivia game, I mean, we played beer pong and then turned up the Pandora Radio and started gyrating to re-mixed Moby songs, and then we went on the porch and smoked slender cigarettes while discussing philosophy. That’s a more accurate recount of what really happened, but for time’s sake, we’ll just say that we played a trivia game. And I got asked the question ‘what is the word Blog short for?’
“Um, Blog…Beckey’s Log?”
“Come on Beckey, you have a blog and you don’t even know what ‘blog’ means? Your blogger friends will be so disappointed with you.”
“I don’t know,” I finally stammered.
“What was that? We couldn’t hear you.”
“I DON’T KNOW!!” And then I ran upstairs to my bedroom, slammed my door, and cried on my bed.
I felt like such a poser. Such a fraud. And then I thought of a comment I received a few weeks ago. Someone anonymous wrote, “OMG, You’re so gay.”
I rose from my bed and victoriously reclaimed my seat at the table, because I knew I wasn’t a fraud or a poser. I wiped my tears dry with the back of my hand and proclaimed, ” I am a real blogger, because someone thinks I’m gay.”
I had my first mean comment and I was sure that that made me a real blogger. And I assume it was derogatory, because I don’t write much about things of the homosexual persuasion.
So in conclusion, I may not know what ‘blog’ is short for, but I am legit because someone out there thinks I’m gay and cares enough to take time out of their busy highschool career, and stop texting for a minuite, and stop dry humping their pillow, and actually write it on my web-log. I feel so loved.
Wearing maternity pants is like wearing a hug, wrapped in cotton candy, while eating a sandwich, and stabbing Heidi and Spencer in the neck with a pair of rusty tweezers just used to pluck a few rouge pubes.
Because the moment I found out I was pregnant, I decided to eat only cheeseburgers, I’ve packed on a few pregnancy lbs, and thusly no longer fit into my regular jeans, which means I had to find my maternity clothes from the last pregnancy. And I discovered that all of it is truly ugly, except for one pair of cute Chip and Pepper jeans with a sassy spandex band at the top.
And here’s what I want to know: why didn’t I wear maternity pants everyday of my God-given life regardless of if I am growing a tiny fetus in my uterus or not?
Let me give you a scope of awesomeness that is maternity pants:
Stretchy waist equals good for all sorts of things like,
Why do pregnant women get all the cozy stuff? Just because they’re growing a baby inside them makes them suddenly in need for cozy pants? Dude, I needed cozy pants, you need cozy pants, that chick over there looks like she could use some cozy pants.
And the great thing is, no one knows you’re cozy. Instead everyone thinks you’re just as uncomfortable as they are with your tight jeans poking you in the abdomen…and you get to smile to yourself, and think, HA! My pants have a secret. And they’re not telling.
Then the chick next to you says, “You look like your pants have a secret. My pants have a secret too…”
And you say,”Oh, noo. Did I accidentally say that my pants have a secret out loud? I’m not sexually attracted to you. I like men, thank you though. I might have considered it back in college, but now that I’m older and… you look like a very nice lady.”
And then she says again, “no, my pants…they too have a secret,” and she lifts up her shirt and shows you this:
Just be careful when you wear your maternity pants. Things could get out of hand.
We just completed our first year as a family with Disneyland passes. Berlyn made some lasting friends made out of fiberglass including, but not limited to: the caterpillar on the creepy and psychedelic Alice in Wonderland ride, Dumbo, but only the purple one, and all the horses with the slightest bit of purple on them at the carousel. And I made some good friends too…especially the ice cream shoppe on Main Street with the fresh waffle cones and then all the dipping, and the chocolate and peanuts… Oh the peanuts. And the pretzel shaped like Mickey’s head, with a healthy portion of nacho cheese sauce, AND, the frozen bananas and–Hold on people, I need a minute. Please excuse.
We always met up with our favorite Disney friends, Dena and Jax.
And then Berlyn and Jax would share a sideways hug and a bag of frozen grapes.
And after an exhausting afternoon of circular rides and the gentle contemplation of nausea, Dena and I would sedate our children with a lollypop, so we could talk about more important things… like our kids.
I’m going to miss it, and I’m reconsidering a new pass. But what I’m not going to miss is the hot, ass-crack sweat when I tried to corral Berlyn onto the tram while folding the stroller and trying not to swing my diaper bag into her face. Oh, and I’m not going to miss that one time when I decided to wear my MBT shoes, and almost fell down the escalator because Berlyn at the last minute insisted that I had to hold her because the escalator was scary, and I was already holding about 9 other things. Thank God for the sweet lady in front of me–she felt my wavering balance, and offered to help me. She was already holding her 3 month old baby in a sling…bless her heart. And you’re damn straight I let her help me. You can take this, this and this. Thanks random stranger, who’s already holding a baby! I appreciate you.
Just look at my tiny baby. She was barely a year old when we first took her to Disneyland.
So yeah, maybe we’ll renew our pass, because Disneyland is fun. And we’re not the type of people that are opposed to fun.
Although we are the type of people opposed to pin trading.
My parents gave me a nice enough name: Rebecca. Although they never call me that, instead they call me Beckey. No, I don’t think you heard me right, it’s BeckEy. There’s an extra vowel thrown, and I’m pretty sure they added it to give the 6 year old version of myself a panic attack every time a teacher, my friends, or my grandma spelled it incorrectly (and my grandma still spells it wrong–WTF Grams?).
I remember spinning the big keychain display at Disneyland and seeing “Becky” but not “Beckey”. Don’t the fine people who make keychains for Disneyland know that I have AN EXTRA E!? Frick. That whole Disneyland trip was pure shit after that. My brother, Jason, had no trouble finding his stupid, generic name, and twirled his fancy keychain around his finger as I coveted a more simply spelled name. Why couldn’t my name be Anna, Mary, or Sarah? There were always an abundance of Sarah keychains.
So, I figured it was my duty, as a parent, to pass on the frustration to my daughter. She will probably not find her name among the gold cursive necklaces at Sea World, she will probably not find it in the spin- display of keychains at Disneyland, but dammit, it’s a nice name, and any girl would be lucky to have it.
And I’m sure it’s a character builder, or something. Yeah, yeah… that sounds good–I named her Berlyn because it builds charcter. That’s right. That’s exactally why I did that. I don’t want her to think life is perfect and theme parks always have her name on a mug, because LIFE’S JUST NOT FAIR.
Yup, I’m still upset about not getting a “Beckey” Keychain…maybe someday. Someday.
So I’m pregnant.
It’s true. I swear. I wouldn’t lie about this.
I was planning on waiting the obligatory 12 weeks to tell you, but you need to know.
Because I can’t keep it a secret anymore.
Because I’ve already gained 5 pounds.
And you’re smart, you’d figure it out anyways. You’d be all like, Beckey, wow. You either went off the Atkins or your pregnant. And I’d say, I was never on the Atkins. And then you’d be all, PREGNANT!! And jump around and point your sinewy finger at me.
But I’m only 8 weeks along.
I was at the doctor’s office today, and I was reading this chart thing, and it said to gain between 3-4 pounds in your first trimester. It said it is the healthy thing to do. It said that you should also eat a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables. I said fuck that. I said, I need a crunchy taco from the Del.
And a red burrito.
And a cherry Pepsi.
I have 4 more weeks until my first trimester is over.
So I’m trying to eat healther. And do more yoga. And enjoy what it’s like to just have Berlyn. Because things are going to get a whole lot more chaotic.
And aside from being pretty scary, it’s also pretty grand.
And we’re really hoping,
if it’s a boy…
because the baby is coming at Christmas time…
to name him Jesus.
Here is a screen shot of my readership in America:
See that white square in the middle? Yup, that’s Wyoming. It’s white because no one reads the Hippo over there. What gives?
Wyoming looks like a beautiful place to go. Maybe Wyoming is mad because I’ve never visited.
Hey Wyomingites, Wyomingtons? Wyomings? I’ll totally visit, promise. Yellowstone National Park is there and they have geysers. Which is like the equivalent of giving the ground below us a bazooka.
And this guy’s in charge,
and he looks like a pretty sweet dude.
Perhaps I should blog about my extensive Native American jewelry collection I acquired from QVC designed by Heidi Klum.
Or maybe I should blog about my new pet bison? Yup, it’s true. I got a new pet, his name is Baxter and he’s an 800 pound beautiful American Bison. I keep him in my backyard and he mainly eats grass and the occasional house cat. He likes when I rub behind his ears and he poops mounds the size of Toyota Corollas.
That should get some readers in Wyoming. Fingers crossed.
I’m pretty sure Boy George is going to bust through my door any minute and light his fingers on fire and then do the drill team dance he learned in his sexually displaced and emotionally bankrupt 8th grade year. Because I need NEED him to. Because I’m broke and I have nothing to write about. AND DAMMIT BOY GEORGE you’re my last hope!!
So, come on, bust through the door! But hey, please don’t break the door, because I really hate to replace it. I’ll just slide my key under the mat for you, k? And I’ll be waiting on the other side with a fire extinguisher and a camera. Oh, but you know what? It might just be easier if you just knock, and I’ll meet you outside, because of all the flames. I’m just not 100% comfortable with you lighting your fingers on fire in my house. but I’m really looking forward to you pulling me out of my blog-block. YEAH! Oh, and afterwards I’ll let you in for a drink and weepy rendition of, “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me”.
After what I’ve been through I would think I was dead. But if I was actually dead, I probably wouldn’t be doing much thinking, or I might be thinking but it would be less labored and I wouldn’t have to take a nap afterwards, AND I would probably be thinking about much cooler things, and NOT be thinking about how I died.
So raise your hands if you want to hear about my brush with death! Yea! I count at least 6 people.
Okay here it is:
My friend got married this weekend. So Pat and I grabbed our tiny car and loaded two more folks into it, and headed up a gigantic hill known as the Southern California mountains. We made a lot of twists and turns and then drove on dirt roads, passed 7 bait and tackle shops, rented a canoe, and then hang glided the rest of the way to the hotel where the wedding was at. Finally we got there and it was fabulous, there was dancing, lobster bisque, and one beautiful bride.
Crap-tastic, I forgot my camera, but here is a photo of a beautiful bride, just picture her but with a different dress on.
It was late, we were sleepy and had a 2 hour drive ahead of us, so we left. I drove because hello? I’m a control freak, plus being in the back of a tiny car down a twisty mountain would make me want to vomit on my sexy lady dress, and that would suck a lot. So we all piled into the clown car and set off! I was driving down a tiny one-lane highway, twisting and turning:
And then we drove into a humungous cloud and visibility went from a 80 to a 0 in one second. There was nothing! NOTHING. Here’s what it looked like in case you have a hard time picturing what nothing looks like:
I slowed to a 2 mph crawl and only saw one lane reflector at a time. ONE. AT. A. TIME. Can you imagine driving like that? Down a spiraling one lane highway of death? With a car full of people you love? One wrong turn and you’re driving off a cliff. Or you could hit a deer. Or a hitchhiker. Or the Abominable Snowman.
The good news is, we survived. And I only veered off the road and lost control once. But that only resluted in a dismembered yeti, and since we didn’t know the guy we don’t really consider it a loss.
I think I deserve some kind of special driver’s licence or something. Like one that says “I kick ass driving in zero visibility” or” I only slightly mutilated a yeti, but hey everyone’s alive!” Or something, I don’t know, just a thought.
It’s cheesy delicious and therapeudic for my back.
We bought a mattress when we got married, and it was fine enough. It held us while we slept and that’s all we really asked for out of a mattress. I came from a long and heinous sleeping history that involved sleeping in a water bed (my parents are hippies), and my husband would be find with a nice assortment of wood chips and pine needles, so our expectations were pretty low when purchasing our first marital mattress. Did the springs squeak when we had sex? No. Done!
But after a few years, we started to become bed gluttons. We began to collect 800 thread count sheets, fancy duvets, and plush down comforters and pillows. But our mattress began to sag, and it made both of us really, really sore when we’d emerge in the morning. I practically rolled out of bed in a tightly formed ball and stayed that way on the floor until the morning sun thawed me out.
So we got ourselves a really expensive piece of space foam! That’s right. We sleep on foam made in space by aliens who genuinely care about the well being of our back. Aww how sweet, just warms your little heart, doesn’t it?
But apparently it takes a few weeks for the foam to soften up a bit and right now it feels like we’re sleeping on a giant piece of cold firm, cheesecake. Or tofu. But I’d like to think of it as cheesecake, because that’s way more appetizing, and when I sleep I’d like to dream of delicious sweet treats. And I told my husband that if I start gnawing at the mattress, just let me go, because I’m probably having a deliciously good dream.