Thankful and stuff

Oh crap. I have to write about something nice, because the last 9 posts were covered in proverbial fish guts, and I’m pretty sure you all get that I’m a massive bitch right now, and you know that want nothing more than to complain about it and make you buy me a slushy, and a hostess sno-ball from the AM-PM down the street, and while you’re there can you get me some flowers too? Because flowers are like a hug wrapped in beautiful colors.


AM-PM doesn’t have fresh flowers, but those silk roses they sell individually with the dew drops made of hot glue will do. Thanks.

So perhaps because Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I’m feeling all cliché and gooey inside, I should write about what I am thankful for.

Here it goes:

  • I’m thankful for my daily nap.
  • I’m thankful for my arsenal of antacids that I’ve just stocked up on so I can have some delicious turkey and gravy tomorrow. My doctor just gave me the okay to mix and match, so if my eyes roll back into my head and I end up foaming at the mouth, leave me alone, it’s just me enjoying the thanksgiving stuffing, I don’t bother you while you’re trying to enjoy your stuffing.
  • I’m thankful that that rouge, dark nipple hair decided to stop growing, because it was starting to freak me out, especially when I thought about nursing my newborn. I envisioned that he’d choke on it (It was really thick– like Russian-man thick) and I forgot to take those infant CPR classes, and shit, I just killed my baby because of my ridiculously long nipple hair. And although that would be regretfully sad, it would also be really embarrassing.

So to recap, because recapping helps retain valuable information. And everything about this post is really really valuable, but valuable in the same way your toddler might give you a cigarette butt off the ground and say, this is for you, mama, and then you cry a little inside because gift receiving is your love language, but then you think, oh sick son of a bitch, that person could have herpes! And you launch the cigarette butt into the bushes when she isn’t looking and you’re all, I love you, honey. Thanks for hand herpes, can you get herpes of the hand? And your daughter is all, I donno. And then you both bathe in Purell.


Beckey likes sno-balls and is okay with the silk flowers from the gas station convenience store if that’s the only place you can find flowers.

Maalox coupled with Tums equals happiness, and maybe a little foaming

Nipple hair may cause infant death

The end.

Bad Mommy.

When I think about being a good mom, images of me in a hooped skirt and apron pop into my head. I think of myself blissfully pulling something out of the oven, preferably something covered in chocolate, but wait, because I’m a good mom, it’s probably soy-based meatloaf or spinach pie, I don’t even know what spinach pie is, but I’m sure it tastes delicious, because hello? I’m a good mom.


Oh, and when I think about being a good mom, I never loose my temper. I’m patient, and abundant with love.

And I never raise my voice at my daughter because Berlyn doesn’t have a hearing problem, and my mom yelled.

A lot.

And I never really liked that much.

But lately?

Lately, I’ve become a yeller. A ferocious beastly yeller lady who is not a good mom at all. I don’t even pull stuff out of the oven. And you can forget about the skirt and apron, because I’m in sweatpants all day long.

Cozy, angry, sweatpants.

Take this morning for instance, I just got mad at Berlyn for needing my help while she ate her squeezie yogurt.

And then she got mad, and started flinging the stuff all over the place, and that’s when I lost my shit.

What kind of deranged, messed up person yells at a toddler for eating yogurt?

Me. That’s who.

I’m nomimating myself for a vacation.

But that’s just depressing. Because I can’t take a vacation. I’m having a baby soon, and believe me, no one wants to see all this lovin’ squeezed into a bathing suit.

I don’t know what to do.


**And that lady, in the picture above? Yeah, I’m pretty sure her spanich pie is on fire.

Pregnancy complaining.

Whatever. I’m complaining.

I don’t sleep at night any more.

I try to be positive, but when I don’t get my 10 hours of sleep at night, I get really angry and I want to punch your grandma in the face. And will someone please explain this extra layer of fat I’ve accumulated around my lady parts? What the crap is that about?

Sleeping at night is for sissies and for people who want to be productive during the day. it’s not for me.

But because I have to pretend that I am going to sleep at night, I get all ready for bed, and then turn the light off,

and then lay…awake.

It’s super fun. You should all try it.

No, it’s not insomnia. It’s a fate worse than insomnia.

It’s reflux.

How sick is that?

While I’m trying really hard just to close my eyeballs and get some damn sleep, hot chunky liquid rises up into my mouth. It’s like the liquid is saying, oh, you don’t need sleep right now, what you need is something sour and tangy to chew on. Here you go!

Except, it’s really not very delicious to chew on your stomach acid and bits of half processed food. It reminds me of a tuna cassarole I once had as a kid.

Oh and then there is the burning. The holy-shit-my-throat-is-on-fire burning.

So no, I don’t sleep. Instead, I wander my halls, and pop Tums into my mouth like they were candy. Chalky, disgusting candy.

And I make sure the house isn’t on fire, because I need a project at 3:16 am.

I find it’s a much better use of my time.

Since this is a place of sharing, sometime over sharing, does any one else have some nasty pregnancy symptoms that you’d like to share?

Five years of Zoey

Today Zoey is 5.


Okay, whatever, I’m not one of those freaky people who celebrate their dog’s birthday with a party and a cupcake, and then let their dog get all strung out on fruit punch, and they end up humping the neighborhood cat because she’s easy, and then 4 months later (I don’t know how long cats gestate, sheesh), congratulations you are now the proud owner of 6 pug/cats! But wait, my dog is a girl, and she’s spayed. It’s not possible. Turns out it is possible and we can blame it all on the fruit punch.

Damn punch.

Anyways, I’m not one of those people. But for some reason I have to celebrate her in a special way, because I love her and can’t envision my life with out her, even though she’s stinky, stainy, itchy, and licky, and eats my underwear, which is totally disgusting, but you know what? She doesn’t eat my husband’s underwear, and I think it’s her way of telling me she loves me the most.

We took her to the dog park yesterday to, you know, show her a good time. But all she did was look at other dogs and sit by our feet. Sometimes she can be such a turd.

So in honor of Zo-Zo, I will give her a bath today, I won’t call her a fat whore, and I’ll try to scratch all her itchy spots.





Happy Birthday Zoey, you’re one hot pug.

Facebook Dump

Raise your hand if you look at Facebook while taking a massive dump!!

I know I do.

Nope, it’s not gross it’s necessary. How else am I supposed to keep up with your boring minutia every day? Tammy O’ Foster Just got a peppermint mocha from Starbucks. That’s some important shit, and I need to read about it…on the toilet.


Don’t look at me like that.

You do it too.

It’s called multitasking. And it just makes good sense.

And see? I’m not the only one, Bridget over at Yellaphant texts her friends while pooping.

Truth of the matter is, you can get a lot done while sitting on the toilet. Not me, per se, because I’m a quick crapper, I like to get in and out and on with my day. Just a quick glance at FB, and I move on. But most of the population likes to sit, relax, and email, text, twitter, and I’m totally fine with it because, shhh no one knows your pooping.

My mom on the other hand will call me. Oh, Beck, she’ll start, this gay couple just moved in next-door and they have the most fabulous garden. I have to know their secret.

And then she’ll ramble on about the sale at Kohl’s and I’ll kindly remind her that I will never ever shop at Kohl’s. And then she’ll reprimand me for not calling my grandma enough. Then the next thing I hear is a BAWW-WHOOSH!


MOOOOMMMMM! Did you just poo while on the phone with me??!

No dear, I just peed. Don’t worry Beck, I’ll use Lysol.

See where I get my smarts from? That woman is always thinking.

So a word to all you facebook crappers, there’s no shame in multitasking. Just use Lysol and wash your hands afterwards, because if my mom does it, it’s gotta be okay.

A room of his own

We’re going to have a baby here soon, but we haven’t done anything with the baby’s room.

See? I’m not lying:



What’s the hold up, you ask?

Other than sheer laziness?

And denial?


Well it’s the fact that we don’t have a theme picked out, silly.

Babies’ rooms need themes people.

Wildly adorable themes, and that crap they peddle at Babies R Us isn’t cutting it.


That? Up there, with the basketballs and footballs? No way, I’d rather eat dog food for an entire year.

So we had to start brainstorming.

First we were going to paint a stripe on the ceiling and just do a modern room. We found this room in a Domino Magazine as inspiration:


But then we saw this old subway poster and thought we should do an industrial revolution theme and use the colors black, rust and navy.


But then we saw this old life preserver and captain’s mirror thought we’d do a nautical/pirate’s theme.


But nautical and pirate themed rooms are super cliché and over done.

Which got us thinking, what isn’t cliché?


You never see a rat nursery. And I found this amazing rug that would go super nice with his crib.


Maybe a Jesus theme? Because he’s coming at Christmas time, and we still haven’t ruled out the possibility of naming him Jesus.

We can line a shelf with those fancy Jesus candles they sell at the grocery store in between the ethnic rice and Duraflame logs.


Or, hey! What about an anatomy themed room? We can make a mobile of internal organs, and hang photos of the digestive system.


Clearly I need help, do you guys have any ideas? Cliché or orginal, whatever, I’m desperate.

Caution: Hiring a Cleaning Lady May Induce a Panic Attack

Cleaning people are going to clean my house today.

I feel like a damn celebrity.

No one has ever cleaned my house before. And that’s just fine, because I’m a stay-at-home mom and I really don’t have a whole lot going on in my life that would keep me from making sure a poo residue doesn’t build up in the toilet. I can handle the cleaning of my house, but now that I’m a big pregnant lady whose pelvis clicks every time I move, and my sciatica flairs up every time I get up from my cozy spot on the couch, my mom felt pity for me and offered me her cleaning lady.

YES!! ((I am air-punching the sky with enthusiasm))

But there is all this stuff I have to do before they get here…

Like clean my house.

I have to clean my house before they clean my house. Does that make me normal or neurotic?

And I’ve created a list of demands.

I feel like such a bitch–like a pelvic-clicking bitch.

I think when they get here, I’m going to follow them around the house making sure they clean it to my standards.

I’ll be so bored, and antsy, I’ll have no choice but to follow them.

What the hell are you supposed to do when cleaning people are at your house?

I can’t take a nap because I want them to clean my bedroom.

I can’t go for a walk because Berlyn will be sleeping.

I’d feel like a jackass if i just sat on the couch and watched Bravo. But because I’m such a sweet jackass, I’d probably lift my legs up while they cleaned the floor under me.

What if they use Pledge on my hardwood floors? Or vacuum up my dog? What if they use the same sponge they used on the toilets on my kitchen counters? What if they go through my drawers and find where I keep all my dead turtles, or what if they steal a pair of my shoes?

How do people do this every week?

Excuse me now, I need to have a panic attack.

Arizona is Really Hot, and since we’re talking about random Arizona facts, the bola tie is the official state neckwear, and and coincidentally I’m wearing a bola tie right now.

6 o’ clock is for runners.

It’s for people who like to early start on their day.

It’s for people who pray or do yoga without distractions.

It’s NOT for me.

I prefer 9:30, but since I have a toddler, I’ve adjusted to an 8 o’ clock morning call.

And all was well until the time changed.

What the crap time change? Why do you hate me? Why does the sun come into my window so frickin early? And why is my daughter waking up at 6:00?

You know, in some places they don’t even observe time change? Like Arizona.

Which makes me think Arizona is like a Jehovah Witness.

I remember when I was in second grade my friend Lisa didn’t do the pledge of allegiance. She’d just sit there and pick at her bedazzled jean jacket while all of us were standing and saying the pledge. I asked her once why she didn’t do it, and she said it was because of her religion, she also said she didn’t celebrate holidays or her birthday.

I remember thinking, oh hell no (yes, as a second grader I tossed around the hell word. There was a lot of family distress, which gave me a legit excuse to flirt with quazi-cuss words). Then I tried to tell her what she was missing out on: My Little Pony themed birthday parties, Christmas stockings stuffed with candy, dressing up as a princess at Halloween. I think I even shed a few tears for her because she’s missed out on so much.

Except, I don’t think Arizona is missing out on anything.

I think Arizona has the right idea. They also have a high incidence of heat rash and Buicks full of old people. But they have the right idea nonetheless.

And if we lived in Arizona right now my toddler would be sleeping till 8:00.

But then we’d live in Arizona. Which means I’d probably get a heat rash and drive a Buick.