Bad Mood Underwear

I’m not in a good mood any more.

All that stuff I said before about liking your new hair cut and your sassy personality–I was lying, and now that I’m in a bad mood, I no longer have the decency to lie.

Yup. It’s like that.

Hey, Beckey, what gives? Why are you a giant bitch all the time?

Because people, I’m over it.

I have less than 8 weeks to gestate, and I’m ready to be done.

I never sleep, but I’m always tired.

I feel like a 90 year old woman all rickety, and slow-moving.

And then there’s the ridiculous amount of liquid hot magma living inside my esophagus, just sloshing around, making me breathe fire, and constantly vomit hot hot chunks into my mouth.

People always ask me how I’m feeling, and up until now I’ve tried to be upbeat and positive, but I can’t find positive things to say anymore. And the fact that this will all end with a tiny screaming baby who is going to scare the shit out of me, isn’t helping.

So yeah, that’s how I’m really feeling.

Be careful next time you ask me, because I might tell you the truth, and and no one really likes hearing the truth, because it’s awkward and uncomfortable, kinda like these underwear I’m wearing.

So the lesson learned today is:

The truth is like my underwear?

10 Year Reunion

It was my 10 year reunion this past weekend.

Need I remind you that I am a waddling 8 month-pregnant lady?

So, yeah, I was a bit puffy, rounded at the edges, and wearing gigantic and unsexy undergarments.


But you know what? It actually worked out, because I didn’t obsess over myself: I didn’t have to consider going on the master cleanse diet, I didn’t shave my legs, and any debate over anti-aging treatments ended in a nay.

This is what I looked like in highschool, pretty rad huh?

cheer arrow

singing arrow

10 years later not a whole lot has changed, except, I’ve learned to pose for photos with my mouth shut.



Pat had to wear this awesome name tag, and I liked it so much that I’m making him wear it to all future social engagements.


These are some of the amazing friends that I made over 10 years ago, and by the grace of God we’re all still stellar people, and therefore, we’re all still friends.

El Dorado Class of ’99; thanks for the awkward/fun night.

Can’t wait to see how hot everyone will look in 10 more years.


I never see famous people.

I had this wacky dream once that Jessica Simpson wanted to go shopping with me, and I had to tell her no becauase she dressed too skanky, and I didn’t want to be her friend anymore.

That was the extent of my celebrity encounters.

Until last night.

I saw Kate Hudson.


Whatever no big deal. Celebrities need to go shopping with their baseball playing boyfriends in Newport Beach just as much as I do.

Except it was a big deal.

I forgot what I should be doing with my hands.

There I was in the tiny Ever store at Fashion Island with pit stains on my shirt and chocolate sauce smeared on my lips from the Mc Donald’s hot fudge sundae I just devoured. And when she walked in I suddenly became so aware of how dowdy and ratty I look.

I tried to look like I was shopping, but all I could do is gawk. I mean, it’s frickin Kate Hudson, she’s kind of a big deal. And apparently Alex Rodriguez was with her, but since I don’t give a rat’s ass about baseball, I couldn’t have cared less.

A few hours later I was in Bloomingdale’s, and there she was again. And then I kept seeing her.

I’m sure she was stalking me.

Gosh, some people.

After that I was bored.

And if a Kate Hudson sighting wasn’t cool enough for this blog post. I also saw Laurie from the Real Housewives from Orange County at Saks today.


And it can be confirmed that she bought a new sparkle tank top.

These things I know.

I know I’m pregnant.

I know that my belly is swollen with a tiny adorable fetus/sea creature.

These things I know.

So, please refrain from telling me I’m huge.

It hurts my feelings.

And I might cut you.

Making us both hurt.

Misery loves company.

Today I was getting the mail, and my next door neighbor says, “Wow! I haven’t seen you in a while (I’ve only been living next to her for 2 weeks) You’re so big!”

My response, “Yeah, I’m carrying around a child in my uterus, it’s to be expected.” I thought we were done, so I turned to walk home.

But then she starts up again, “I know, but it’s like you just popped.”

Me, “Yeah, I have less than 10 weeks to go.”

Her, “Well in that case, you look good.”

Me, “Listen, lady, I’m trying to be nice, and entertain this trite conversation, but all I want to do is punch you in the boob.”

Okay, so I didn’t actually tell her I wanted to punch her in the boob, but I think she read it all over my face, and then I showed my teeth, and the set of brass knuckles I carry around for such instances, and she left me alone.

It makes me uncomfortable to talk about my body. It makes me think you’re sizing me up, and I don’t like that. So stop it. I’m pregnant, and honestly, I don’t have much control of the size of my belly, or ass.

And I think all this might be stemming from the fact that I don’t fit into my favorite pair of sexy shoes anymore, and how humiliating is that? Shoes should always fit.


So now my shoes are judging me?


I Used to Read.

You can tell when a person reads a lot of books. You can tell from their vocabulary and the way they form a sentence.

You can tell by the way they watch a skirt or a patch of tall grass blowing in the wind. If you watch them closely, you can see them creating a narrative right behind their eyes.

People that read carry around a tiny notebook to scribble down observant thoughts, like, Girls with tight sweaters giggle too much, and always at the wrong times.

I used to read.

I used to write ordinary things in a notebook.


Now, I read catalogs. I’m not even refined enough to read magazines.

And when I do pick up the occasional magazine. I don’t read the articles. I find them too time consuming, and not very effective at holding my attention.

On a whole, I’ve stopped reading. Just stopped. My mind has become dumb.

I suppose I should remedy the situation and pick up a book. Maybe something classic, or post-modern.

But then again the mail just came and there’s a new Anthropologie catalog waiting for me not to read it.


I Have a Sea Creature Growing Inside Me

My Bradley Instructor told us it was important to figure out where our baby is inside our bodies.

Whooa, Beckey, back the frick up, what the hell is a Bradley instructor?

Um, it’s a lady who teaches us how to birth a baby naturally using the Bradley method. We learn about coping with pain and we learn fancy and advanced kegel exercises. Jealous?

Anyways, she said it would be a good idea if we knew where our baby’s head was and then we could figure out what body part was poking us in the rib. I grabbed my pen and drew a quick depiction of what my baby feels like inside of me:

my baby

Then, I raised my hand and said, “but what if my baby looks like this, and doesn’t have a head, but instead has 7 tentacles and a pair of claspers like a hammer head shark? And I’m pretty sure this kid has a tail like one of those giant iguanas that weird guys with long hair have in an aquarium next to their Van Halen poster and bass guitar. And wings, but not sissy wings like a pretty butterfly, but big meaty-dinosaur wings like a frickin pterodactyl? What should I expect during delivery? Those claspers are going to hurt coming out. And what if the claspers grab something on the way down? Like a couple feet of intestines? Or one of my ovaries? I’m scared.”

Then my instructor said, “I’m pretty sure your baby looks like a normal human baby. You have nothing to worry about.”

I said, “Pretty sure? You’re only pretty sure? That’s not enough reassurance, what about that tail? What if the tail whaps me unconscious after he’s born?”

Then she said, “why don’t you tell me what you thought Berlyn felt like when you were pregnant with her?”

“Berlyn felt like a llama with 8 hooves, and a really big nose, and I was almost positive she had an adult hand with press on nails coming out of her stomach.”

Then my instructor said, “You’ll be fine Beckey. Besides, claspers don’t usually grab anything coming out.”

Happy Birthday To MEEEE!


It’s my birthday people.

No, no, don’t worry about it. You can always send your gifts late. I don’t mind.


Toady I have every intention of doing some major shoe shopping at Fred Segal.


Perhaps eat a few of these guys.


Spend time with my adorable family.


Maybe do a little of this…


And find a place to hang this in my home.

It’s going to be a good day.

Moving is fun!

I’ve finally found my computer power cable in box with 13 spatulas and last year’s copies of Real Simple. So that means, YAY I can blog again. But this time it’s better, because I’m in my new home, but shoot, because now I have a fresh view of all the things I still have to do, like organize stuff, and figure out what the crap to do with a set of fancy crystal salt and pepper shakers. Any takers?

We ripped up the tile floors, and when I say ‘we’ I mean my husband. And I’m pretty sure he had a lot of fun doing it, Wheew-iee! That looks like a good time, am I right Pat?



(No, we did not keep the compass that does not point North, however we did preserve it, and we are considering using it as a fancy wall art instillation)


Perhaps we should hang it above the mantle?


Here’s what we replaced the tile with, even though my husband would have been fine with concrete.


Here’s a mountian of stuff staring at me. It’s scary, right?


Believe it or not this room has not been unpacked, but I have a feeling it will always look like this.


So if i don’t answer the phone it’s not because I don’t like you, it’s because I’m buried under an avalanche of half open boxes, and you should call an ambulance, because my toaster over could have killed me, because toaster ovens are totally capable of killing people,  but make sure the ambulance boys are hot, because I’m not about to be resuscitated by a bunch of un-hot EMT guys.