A conversation with my husband:

Me: Berlyn and I went to Petco today, and it was like a free trip to the zoo for her. She got to see chinchillas, gerbils, fish, snakes, dogs, mice, and rats. She especially liked the rats.

Pat: Rats? Really?

Me: Yeah, they’re really friendly and cuddly. They make excellent pets, when they’re not gnawing through your dry-wall or rummaging around in your trash cans.

Pat: Rats? Really?

Me: My friend had one as a pet when I was in Jr. High. I used to let him hang out on my shoulder and we’d watch the always inappropriate, Days of Our Lives together. This rat was really sweet. I think we should get one for Berlyn, she’d love it.

Pat: Are you serious right now? Because I think you’re kidding. You’re kidding, right?

Me: No, I’m totally serious. They’re really cheap, and you can get one of those plastic balls for them to roam around in. We can name him Bernard.

Pat: Are you talking about the same rats that live in the sewer and hang out with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

Me: Yeah, they’re cute, let’s get one.

Pat: No.

Me: Damn.

Will Someone Please Give This Woman A Mylar Balloon?

The other night Pat had to work for another hour or so, so I went to sleep. About 45 minutes later I saw his silhouette cross the room and he was holding a mylar balloon. He brought it over to his side of the bed to “hide” it from me, and then went back to work for a couple of minutes. He came to bed a little later and this was our exchange:

Me: Where’s my balloon?

Him: What?

Me: My balloon. Where is it?!

Him: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me: No, I saw you come in 15 minutes ago carrying a mylar balloon and you put it over there by your side of the bed, where did it go? It was for me, wasn’t it?

Him: Beckey, seriously? I don’t have a balloon, and you’re kinda scaring me a little bit.

Me: Fine. Whatever, but I still want my balloon.

HOLY SHIT!! People I’m hallucinating!!
I could have sworn I saw Pat carrying a balloon for me, what’s scary was that I was totally awake when I was demanding it. I can’t even blame my delusion on being in that weird dream-state where coffee pot hats totally sound like the next great idea. No, I was 100% awake, sitting up and irrationally asking for my balloon.

A tip for my husband: tonight before I fall asleep, please give me a mylar balloon, I’ll really appreciate it.


Blimey and Bloke

Raise your hand if you saw the Bachelor: London Calling last night!! Anyone? No one? Just me then? Well then I’ll have to catch you up on what happened. Matt, the Bachelor, had it narrowed down to just two women, and last night he proposed to one of them. Oh the suspense!! And he picked the one with swoopy bangs and a fake tan. I would have picked her too, she was cute.


I got so sucked in to this one, which is weird because I stopped watching the Bachelor years ago, but there’s just something about Matt from London. And I think if I didn’t have a baby, and a husband, and if I weighed 7 pounds less, and had hair extensions, and was a nanny or worked in retail, and tried out for the Bachelor, and got cast, then maybe, just maybe, Matt from London would have picked me…maybe?

Every Monday night, I would get home from school and throw my self down on the couch, excited for the newest installment. And my husband would begrudgingly accept and hand over the remote while secretly wiping his snot on the buttons. I don’t have any idea why he doesn’t want to watch the Bachelor with me, maybe it has something to do with the massive crush I have on Matt from London. It’s the British accent.

Now I don’t know what I’m going to do with my Monday nights. Perhaps my husband and I will work on acquiring British accents, we can be all like, “oh, eh, cheerio, and blimey, and bloke, and tea, and the likes.”



There’s this website that takes the photos of the mother, father, and baby, and then tells you who your baby more closely resembles.

Before I reveal the outcome of the results, I must tell you that I am naturally a very competitive person. I enjoy feeling triumphant and victorious, and the thought that I am more superior in all ways occasionally finds its way into my mind. Needless to say, there was a lot riding on the results.

So, I submitted this picture of Pat and me:


and this picture of Berlyn:


The website did this neat-o scanning thing, and I felt like I was uploading Top Secret documents for the FBI.

The results were: (Drum roll please.) Berlyn looks 13% more like HER FATHER!!

So, if you want to make my day, casually let me know that Berlyn has my tenacity, passion, or amazing fashion sense.

This post is brought to you by: stacks of unfolded laundry, crusty dishes in the sink, make-up stains on the bathroom counter, Clorox Disinfectant, dust mites, and the loss of my sanity.


I am a mother of a 14 month old, and I go to school at night, and I’m expected to keep a clean house?? What is that about? In between play dates, park and pool excursions, watching Bravo, and going on walks, I have lost sight of how messy my house has gotten. I am naturally a slob, and I work really hard not to let my husband know the full scope of my sloth-like nature. So actually when I throw my clothing on top of the dresser, instead of leaving it on the floor, I think that I am being neat. And when I soak the pan in water overnight, in my mind, it’s as good as clean.



I really want to pay someone to pick up my collection of bags (yes, there are three of my bags all on the kitchen table), scrub my toilets, and dust my baseboards, but Pat thinks that is a load of crap. So today, I’ll be cleaning. And I’ll be extra-surly–because it is hard to bleach your sink while trying to dissuade your daughter not stick the Windex nozzle up her nose.

Please Don’t Whistle While You Work

Pat works upstairs. It’s like a little cave up there. He keeps it so cold and dark, and periodically precipitation drips from the stalagmites. Because he is tucked into the far left-quadrant of the house, I think he thinks his office is soundproof. But it’s not. Nope, not even a little bit. The thing of if is, Berlyn’s room is right next door, and when she is sleeping I go a bit nutty with any little noise. So if he takes a phone call, and his voice is too loud, I shush him, with my best librarian impression. He, of course hates this, and becomes deeply offended with my efforts to keep my baby sleeping soundly.

Oh, but then there’s the whistling– the stick bamboo shoots under your fingernails, whistling. I can’t blame my hatred of whistling on my husband, noo, I have reserved that bitter resentment for my brother, Jason. He has whistled ever since he was a wee lad, and I have hated it ever since. I don’t quite know what it is about the noise, but I can’t stand it. I don’t know, you’d think a breathy, high pitched, off key noise would be lovely, but no. It’s not. So, when Pat does it, I want to pluck out my leg hairs, and hand them over to him in a gravy boat.

Me: How do I say, “please close the door or stop whistling” without hurting your feelers?
Pat: Don’t say it at all; then no hurt feelings. Put on your headphones.
Me: But my feelings are hurt, because your whistling pierces me so deeply, I can feel it actually scratching my vena cava
Pat: Headphones, or earmuffs-your choice.
Me: But what about my vena cava?
Pat: It’ll be fine. Mental toughness.
Me: I don’t have any of that. I had it removed along with my unsightly mole.
Pat: Not true

Beach Day

We went to the beach this weekend, for two reasons: 1, it was bloody-hot, and 2, I got a new bathing suit. But really, if we’re being honest…the main reason we went to the beach was because I got a new bathing suit.







Ma-ma and Da-da’s Night Out

We celebrated our anniversary last night. We went to Laguna Beach and ate at Hush, a restaurant where there is always a Bentley and a Rolls Royce parked in the front. We thought it for sure had to be good, because why else would ridiculously rich people always want eat there?




I’m showing off my cute new dress.


We got this chocolate dome thing. I wanted to cup it in my hands and cuddle with it, but I ate it instead–it was good.

Iceland Ain’t for Sissies

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My husband wants to go to Iceland by the time he’s thirty…and he wants me to come with him. This could be problematic for a few reasons, let me list them in no particular order of importance, as they are all equally important:

  • Iceland is cold. I hate the cold. I know, I know, Iceland is supposedly very green and lush, while Greenland is cold and frigid, but it is in the fringes of the ARTIC CIRCLE. Once Pat took me to NYC in October, it was 42 degrees, and I thought I was going to die of frost-bite. I wore a pair of tights under my jeans, a long sleeved wool shirt, a thick sweater, and a jacket–all this puff deeply constricted my mobility and made me even more uncomfortable. But on the upswing, I didn’t die.
  • Iceland has the most beautiful women in the world. This is bad for my ego. I already am going to be wearing several layers of clothes that will make me appear even more short and squatty than usual, and my face will be blotchy and blistered from the wind, and I have to compete with beautiful Nordic women named Isla? Crap.
  • Iceland has some scary natural wonders.

An excerpt taken from the official Iceland Travel Guide:

“Where else can you witness such marvels of Mother Nature as a tremendous icecap and several glaciers, and volcanoes (hopefully dormant)?”

Ha, ha…that’s funny Iceland Travel Guide, hopefully I won’t be melted into the liquid, hot magma. ha ha….