Yo Soy Enferma

What adult gets fevers?

I thought fevers were only for babies and old fragile women with bone loss and a penchant for whacking people with their walking stick. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with their inferior DNA.

My DNA, on the other hand, kicks mahja ass. It’s all, I never get sick, go on try me.

See that crusty band-aid on the playground? I’ll eat that as an afternoon snack.

That hospital door knob? (lick::lick::lick)

Elevator buttons? I’ll press them all and then rub my fingers all over my face.

That’s just how awesome my immune system is. I’d like to attribute my supersonic health to all the hours I logged in at day care centers as a child, eating mud and licking other kid’s sandwiches.

But then something strange happened this week, I felt all hot, then cold, then hot, then cold, then OH MY GAWD! GET THESE CLOTHES OFF MEEE! Are there tiny heaters inside my pants? What the hell is going on?! Why am I all clammy? Why is the floor wobbly? Why is everyone talking so loud? Why are my pants still on? Are my boobs sweating?

In other words: I got sick.

Turns out, I don’t do ‘sick’ well. I’m all crabby, and cranky, and then there’s all my kids I still have to take care of.

All two of them.

But why does it feel like I have 12 when I’m sick? Thankfully my husband took care of Berlyn, we even shipped her off to her grandparent’s house twice.

Stay-at-home-moms aren’t allowed to get sick.

We don’t get time off so we can just lay around and watch the Montel Williams show all day and stew in our own sick-stink.

I remember when I was in grade school and I would get sick, my mom still had to work, so she’d drop me off at her BFF, Rosemary’s house. Rosemary had much older kids, and they didn’t live with her, so there were never any toys, or fruit snacks, or Judy Blume books at her house. Just a lot of fake plants and an old pin ball machine that didn’t work. All there was to do was lay on the couch and stare at their tiny T.V.

It was there I learned about daytime television: Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake, Judge Judy and telenovelas.

That’s a lot of bitch-slapping for an 8-year-old to handle.

Although it was a good vocabulary lesson. I learned what the words paternity test, transsexual, and nudist colony meant.

As an adult, when I get sick, I’m nostalgic for a time when I can just curl up on the couch with a blanket, a bowl of soup, and some vulgar television. But that’s not the case anymore. My household doesn’t stop needing me. I still have to keep on mommying.

I love my job; please don’t think I’m complaining (well, I am a little bit). There are so many awesome things about being a mom that make up for this. It’s just that being sick is a giant inconvenience.

And it’s something I became painfully aware of as I was stirring my own homemade chicken soup.

I made myself chicken soup, while I had a 103 degree fever.

I’m almost positive my sweat droplets made it’s way into the soup.

My husband later asked, “what’s that flavor? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it cumin?”

It’s human sweat.



“It really is quite delicious.”

My ears are cold.

I think something might be wrong with me.


Because my ears get really cold when a draft rushes past them, and then they start to sting and cause my brain to hurt.

Here are times this has happened:

  • While riding a bike
  • When I’m jogging
  • When it’s windy
  • When I’m on the Dumbo ride at Disneyland and the temperature is less than 72 degrees fahrenheit.
  • And when I’m streaking past your mamma’s house at 2 a.m.

I’ve never talked to a doctor about it, but I’m pretty sure it’s my body’s way of making sure my brain doesn’t leak out of my ears when the wind kicks up. Because wind can totally blow the brains out of some one’s ears if it’s strong enough. I saw it once on a Youtube video, and Youtube videos don’t lie.

But instead of running indoors where the wind can’t get my precious brain, I hide my ears under various pieces of clothing.

Most times I look quite fetching, wouldn’t you agree?

um, yikes. I look freaky. But at least my ears are safe and warm.

Olivia Newton John video? Nope, just chilly ears.

You’d think I’d get smart and buy myself a pair of ear muffs.

But I can’t commit, because I haven’t seen any that I really like.

Until I saw these bad boys:

Man, I’ll bet her ears never get cold, and her brain stays in her head, right where it belongs.

The end of an era.

I think I’m done having babies. At least that’s what I keep telling my lady parts.

I’m all, “Listen here ovaries, fallopian tubes, and you too uterus! No more babies, ya hear?”

Don’t you wish it was that easy? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about your sheets smelling like a condom or those beastly birth control mood swings.

You know what I’m talking about ladies, those crazy fits of rage where you flip over the table, stand on the rubble, and then do a lewd hand gesture to your neighbor out the window as he walks his dog. And then seconds later you let out a meek, “sorry”, and nonchalantly shrug your shoulders to your husband, as if to say, What? Now who’s gonna clean this mess and apologize to Mr Sheldon?

Yeah, I’m not so down with that.

Yoo-hoo! Hello?

Back to me being done having babies.

Hudson is such a precious little nugget, that I’m cherishing every part of his baby-ness, because I know it’s the last time.

He’s been sleeping beside me in a co-sleeper since he was born.

You know, those crib thingies that attach to your bed? So you can caress their soft head while they sleep, OR jostle them rigidly while you’re half awake to make sure they’re still breathing?

Ya, those things.

This is what they look like:

I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. This is what they look like if you’re incredibly hip, and modern, and you live in Tokyo, or some awesome Scandinavian town. Mine just looks like this:

About two months ago (when he was 3 months old), I did his night time routine and laid him down in his co-sleeper, and he usually rolls over and goes right to sleep as if to say, okay mama see ya on the flip side. Which really means, see ya in 6.5 hours where I’ll desperately cry out for some leche, then fall asleep half way through the feeding and leave your left boob all lopsided. SUCKA!

But this night was different. He cried.

A lot.

And after trying many things, I stuck him in his crib. In his room. Really, really far down the hall. Which is at least 20 steps away.

He fell right asleep.

But when it was time for me to go to bed, I grabbed him out of his crib and stuck him back into his co-sleeper, next to me. Who’s the sucka now, huh Hudson?

All was fine for a few weeks, then he cried out again. And again. So finally I acquiesced, and let him sleep in his crib all night.

What kind of baby tells you he’s ready to sleep in his own room?

A crazy baby named Hudson, that’s who.

That night was fun. I paced the halls, stared at his video monitor, and contemplated laying with him in his crib.

It’s been a few weeks, and he’s doing swell in his own room. But his co-sleeper is still attached to my bed.

It’s empty, waiting for him to come back.

But he’s not going to.

It’s kinda sad, really.

But it’s not totally empty. It’s become my new night stand. Because the co-sleeper blocks my actual night stand. So I have my chapstick in there, my mouthguard, my bottle of water, my monitor. I think I might even stick one of Berlyn’s dolls in there to make me feel less weird about this whole thing.

Because putting a fake baby in the co-sleeper would make the whole thing less weird.


I would not consider myself crafty.

Creative? Sure.

Crafty? Not so much.

But after looking around for a chalkboard for my kitchen and finding pure crap, I decided to make one myself.

First stop: Thrift store.

Where I found the perfect frame.

I got rid of the art work and started priming the frame.

What? Oh I’m sorry, did you want the canvas? It would go nicely next to your velvet Elvis panting.

Ahhh, it looks better already.

Then we headed to the hardware store to buy chalkboard paint and a piece of particle board to fit inside the frame. They even cut the board for free.

But, it still needed to be sanded to fit perfectly. I found myself a sexy man to do the sanding for me.

Berlyn helped me paint the chalkboard.

I chose a jaunty turquoise color for the frame because I have grey walls, and I think they pair nicely with bright, bold colors.

And voilà.

Pop Tarts for dinner


This is an untouched photo.

I am a slob.

I like to cook dinner every night and then not clean up after myself.

I’d like to think that someone else is going to do it. Or that the mess is going to magically disappear when I wake up in the morning.

But it doesn’t. Instead it gets worse.

I don’t usually like to clean until the mess starts to disturb me on a very deep level.

And by deep level I mean hearing a burnt piece of halibut softly humming The Safety Dance in my head.

You can clean if you want to

you can clean your own behind


I’ll clean you, you bitch-ass punk.

(I find it helps to get angry)

More aggression = more scrubbing

It’s basic science.

So after I put on my fancy-lady cleaning gloves, and do a gangster sideways peace sign to my homies, I’m ready to get down to business…

…with my steam cleaner.


How cool is this thing? I got it for my birthday.

Happy Birthday Beckey!

Now clean some shit.

I’ve never used it before, and it seems like the right time to break it in.

Weeeee! Steam is fun!

Pieces of tomatoes and sausage went flying everywhere!

And then I took a break, to watch Kendra and eat a Pop Tart.

Strawberry. With frosting, and sprinkles.

And half way through cleaning it looked like this.

Which was an improvement. And I was ready to call it a day.

But then the halibut was all, You can clean if you want to. You can leave your cares behind.

So I cleaned the rest.


What a pain in the ass.

But now look at it!

It’s so preedy.

I will probably never cook on this sucker again. So my family better get used to eating stuff from the microwave…

and eating Pop Tarts for dinner.

Balloons and their general suckiness

I hate balloons.

Yeah, I’m that person.

I might as well say that I don’t like ice cream and getting punched in the junk is my idea of a good time.

I mean, who doesn’t like balloons?

They’re a sign that every one’s having a good time.

Parties? Balloons.

Zoo? Balloons.

A sale at the mall? Balloons.

High school Winter Formal? Balloons.

Carnival? Balloons.

Buying a new car? Balloons.

Grocery store? Fucking balloons.

I’ve been to three different grocery stores in the last 2 weeks, and have somehow accumulated like 58 balloons.

The employees just automatically give them to Berlyn.

Like she’s wearing a sign that says, “Look how cute and adorable I am, now give me a damn BALLOON already!”

Then I have to be all, thank you Mr. Green Smock, I appreciate you. But I don’t. Instead I want to flick pennies at your eyeballs.

First of all, getting a balloon home is no easy feat.

Berlyn MUST hold it while we drive. Except when she goes to grab something else, she lets go of the balloon, then the damn thing starts bobbing around the car, all loopy and swirly-like. It will migrate over to Hudson, who gets freaked out, and starts waiving his drool-soaked fists in the air. Then it travels up to the front seat, and blocks my view, and then I can’t text and drive as efficiently.

I say a bunch of nasty words under my breath, and stuff the sucker under the dash until we get home.

Once home, she lets go of it every 16 seconds, and starts whining, so I’m constantly retrieving it.

And then after 12 hours the thing gets all sad and deflated and joins the others in the balloon graveyard.

6 days pass.

And on the 7th day, I go all ballistic on those balloons’ asses.

I round up all the saggy suckers, and let the air out of them with my gigantic scissors, and my menacing cackle.

Meanwhile, Berlyn is rolling around on the floor, screaming.

“Berlyn, the purpose of the balloon has been fulfilled. Now we have to throw it away,” I tell her this while I pop another balloon.


“Would you like to help me pop them?”


“Isn’t that fun?”

Apparently it proved to be a little too fun.

Now she just wants to pop stuff.

My bag of Cheetos?

My exercise ball?

My water bra?

Nothing is safe anymore.

Cheers to Grams!

Grandma Francis is 85!

Let me tell you a little about her:

She loves cats.

No, I mean, LOVES cats.

She thinks my pug, Zoey is a cat, and squeezes her too tight, and then she tries to smuggle Zoey home in her cat themed purse.

She loves talking about sex, hookers, balls, and her gigantic boobs.

And if you’re not careful my grandma might boob honk you.


She’s boob honked me at least 6 times.

I’d like to think it’s her way of saying, “I love you.”

But really, she’s just fixated on boobs.

She lives and breathes for sparkly stuff

and gambling.

and fried chicken.

and talking about incredibly inappropriate things.

But that’s the perk of being 85, right?

When I’m 85, you’re damn right I’m going to talk about dicks, and farts, and gray pubic hair, and old people kama sutra. It will be my grandma’s legacy passed down to me. And I’ll be sure to tell my dirty jokes with a sense of pride, because I know that I’ll be passing this honor down to my grandchildren.

So we celebrated her being alive for 85 years by eating heaps of pasta at the Spaghetti Factory.

And my mom was in charge of hiring the entertainment.

Way to go, mom!

She hired strippers.


Because, hello? Like I said, my grams appreciates a nice looking breast.

But those chicks never took their clothes off.

Not once.

Instead they sang old songs and danced the box step.

But that was fine, because my daughter was there.

After the strippers who did not strip, but just sang left, we looked at old photos of what a fine piece of ass my grams was.

And this was my grandpa, who looks like a Cuban Dictator, but in reality he was in a staring contest with the cat.

The cat won.

And here they are looking fabulous.

Cheers grandma.

You don’t look a day over 29.