The best part of waking up

They say (and by they I mean the folks at Folgers), say that the best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup…I beg to differ.

This morning I sauntered downstairs with just enough prowess to avoid the giant pink car positioned right at shin-mega-hurt height. I rubbed the sleep and the tiny specks of day-old mascara out of my eyes, and peered into the empty coffee canister. I flipped the metal jar upside down and watched only wisps of tasty coffee grounds fall to the counter.


Oh no! This is bad. We’re out of coffee! I thought to myself, don’t panic, there are worse things going on in the world, and a day without coffee is totally do-able. Although it’s something I don’t feel comfortable doing.
I am vaguely resourceful and somewhat of a problem solver, so I threw open cupboards and knocked over boxes of crackers and cans of soup with my clumsy, uncaffeinated hands, in search of some coffee we might have stashed for such desperate occasions. Instead, I found decaf coffee, tea, and Folgers instant coffee crystals I bought for a cookie recipe. Decaf is shit, and I might as well have a cup of water, warm it up and add brown food dye. Tea is for old people and wussies, so I was stuck with the Folgers by process of elimination.


I thought, how bad can it be? It’s coffee, and coffee is always good. So I set my electric water kettle on boil and added a heaping scoop of instant coffee crystals to my cup. I added the water, a dash of hopeful expectations, and stirred vigorously. When the water had cooled off enough, I took a hearty swig, and spit it right back into the cup. UGH! It was burnt, dry, and tasted like a dusting of toenails had been added without my approval. All things I try to avoid in a cup of coffee.

Because I was still missing my caffeine buzz, I had to drink something, so I brewed some tea. While it was both sweet and mild, I still wasn’t satisfied. And sadly I was out of options.


After sucking out yesterday’s coffee filter and licking the empty canister, I realized that I have a problem. I heard the front gate open, and I knew my husband was home from his coffee shop meeting. I eagerly greeted him with an overly gratuitous kiss just to get the taste of more coffee, and realized that he was holding a cup of joe, all for me!!


Dreams do come true.


Enie Meeny Miney Mo

How do families decide how many kids to bring into this world? You know what would be easier then deciding? If one day you opened your mailbox and found an especially official letter among the stacks of mattress ads. It would be the type of letter that you opened even before you got back into your home, because you were so intrigued with it. And inside it had a number. That’s all, just a printed number. 3. “Oh, honey we got our child quota today, I guess we can start trying.” BOOM, done, easy.

You know what is not easy? Trying to figure out if one is enough. I spent all weekend envisioning myself, our lives, and our family as just the three of us. And then I tried to envision adding more babies, and it made me a little swirly in the head. The hard part is, is that when I look ahead at my life in 10 years, I think of having 2 or 3 kids, but when I really see our lives now, and how it’s playing out right in front of me, I think, us and Berlyn is perfection. But there are so many pros and cons to this, almost to the point where I am split right down the middle. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about this too much, because I still have plenty of time to have more babies if we decided that is what we want. But wait– I don’t have that much time, because my eggs get older with each passing day. OH GOD, I don’t want to make a baby with old eggs! I wouldn’t even bake a cake with old eggs! I don’t have much time at all. When my mom was my age, she had two babies, ages 3 and 4 and was working on divorcing my father (the divorcing part is irrelevant to my point, but I just wanted to give you a little more background into my life). Crap. Maybe I should just get pregnant today, and say the hell with it.

Almost as Fun as a Cup of Dirt

I didn’t know what to write about today, so instead of coming up with something vaguely clever, I decided to spend 45 minutes of my life taking on-line quizzes. I hope you learn something about me, because those are 45 minutes of my day that I’m never going to see again.

I took a personality quiz at this site, and got a D-.
This was disappointing.
I never got good grades in school, but I always managed to get higher than a D-. Crap, I got an A in Literary Theory (very hard class), but a D-in personalty–damn. Sorry folks for being such a lame ass–I’ll try harder next time. Here are the results:
Your score on this personality test was 61%

Others see you as fresh, lively, charming, amusing, practical, and always interesting; someone who’s constantly in the center of attention, but sufficiently well-balanced not to let it go to their head. They also see you as kind, considerate, and understanding; someone who’ll always cheer them up and help them out.

After the anguish and distress wore off from being as fun to hang out with as a cup of dirt, I took an IQ test, under the moniker, Beatrix. Here are the results:

Congratulations, Beatrix!
Your IQ score is 131
This number is based on a scientific formula that compares how many questions you answered correctly on the Classic IQ Test relative to others.

Your Intellectual Type is Insightful Linguist. This means you are highly intelligent and have the natural fluency of a writer and the visual and spatial strengths of an artist. Those skills contribute to your creative and expressive mind.

Yeahh!! I’m smart! That totally makes up for scoring a D- in personality.

Common Courtesy

Admit it, We’ve all done it before. Most of us go through our day doing it several times, and not even realizing it. It starts out soft and breathy at first, then it sort of falls out of our mouths, husky, and unconvincing. It’s this clumsy noise we make when we’re uncomfortable or seeking acceptance–it’s the courtesy laugh. Mine sounds low and throaty and most of the time I don’t even open my mouth, it just sneaks out of the corners of my lips, as if to say, “that wasn’t even funny enough for me to move any of my major facial muscles.”

Personally, if I’m not funny, don’t laugh. Just keep a straight face, and watch what I do. I might just get the point and stop trying to be funny. Or I might get really sad and lock myself up in my house for 6 weeks straight. Either way, I’ll get the point, and you won’t have to make that weird noise that sounds like you’re choking and have the hiccups.

Tiny T-Rex

I hate to travel. I like new places, but hate getting there. Flying is the worst. I have a mini panic attack when the plane takes off, and any time the plane makes a noise, or when we’re flying over anything scary, like lots and lots of snow. Snow is scary. I don’t like to talk on the flight either. This is because I don’t like the way my voice sounds at 5,000 feet in the air. I’d prefer not to communicate in any form, I’d rather color in my Disney Princess coloring book, watch the in-flight movie, or take a handful of dramamine and try to fall asleep in a tiny ball. But there are some things about air travel that I like. For one, SkyMall. I love flipping through the catalog and seeing if they sell something would benefit my life. They answer is usually no, and I get disappointed and go back to coloring. But every once in a while the folks over at SkyMall surprise me with their products, like the T-Rex Dinosaur Trophy Wall Sculpture. Because I want my friends and family to think, when they come over to my house, that I not only came across a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but I also killed it, shrunk its head, mounted it, and hung it on my wall for you to enjoy.


Somewhere Between Pause and Fast-Forward

I feel very conflicted as I’m battling two types of feelings. The first is, I am at school–and as much as I love slapping color on hair, I just want to be finished. I keep looking ahead for a time of no school. When I think of being done with school, I envision my horizon filled with unicorns wearing point shoes demi-pleaing in the distance, and hippos with tu-tus awaiting my arrival to the future. But before I can dance with hippos and unicorns, I see the next 7 months of my life as this black smudge on the calendar, and as soon as I am done, the smudge will be wiped clean, and I will finally be able to live my life, i.e., dance with hippos and unicorns.

On the other hand, I still spend 8 hours of Berlyn’s day with her, and I want to cherish every moment that we get to spend together. She will never be this age again, and I want to remember her sweet baby language, her trials of standing alone, and her attempts of getting into her Duplo box.

Part of me wants to press pause, while the other part wants to fast-forward.

I think this struggle serves a purpose; we are always going to have segments of our life that are arduous and we want to speed through, but then hopefully, we have more of the parts that are wonderfully fulfilling that we never want to end. These remind us to be grateful and cherish all the good in our lives.


Is it Mating Season Already?



There are some birds that are sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G, chirping all the time outside my bedroom window. At first it was kind of pretty, and I found their melody to be whimsical and carefree. But after hearing the sugary-sweetness of their call all day AND all night, the whimsy melted off. Yes, those damn birds are gibber-jabbering all night long, which coincidentally makes me think of the Lionel Richie song, “All night loooong, Karamu, fiesta, forever come on and sing along! All night long!” Which in turn makes me think of sitting in a blue carpeted therapist office. My mother used to bring me along to her shrink’s appointment when I was 8, and I would sit quietly in the lobby while I drank a 12oz can of Sprite from the vending machine and listened to soft hits from the 80s. But this one time, I was invited in to her office and my mom said I could ask her anything–anything? ANYTHING. Well, I was a bit low on money, on account of me being eight, and the new Barbie came out the week before, the one where she is a lawyer. So I asked her for twenty dollars. My mom and her laughed, and I was told to wait in the lobby until they were finished with the session. I wasn’t being funny, I really wanted twenty dollars…

Anyways, what were we talking about before? Birds- oh right. I don’t know a lot about birds, but I do know that when my friend Dena puts a sheet over Smokey’s bird cage, she goes to sleep–which would lead me to believe that birds don’t chirp at night. I had to google it to learn more. I found out that birds who call in the night are either protecting their territory, or trying to find a lova. So, I guess I just have to wait until my backyard birds find true love. Which brings me to my next thought: do birds have sexy time? Do they do “it” in the trees? Or while flying? Oh, those birds- such showoffs.

Go to Found

Crazy Candy Lady

I was hungry this morning, so I grabbed the first thing I saw, which was a queen-sized handful of Peanut M&Ms to satisfy my rabid hunger. Mom: if you’re reading this, I did not have M&Ms for breakfast, instead I ate whole wheat toast, scrambled egg whites, and an 8 oz glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.

I suppose I could have eaten something more sensible, like the other half of Berlyn’s waffle and banana, but noooo, I had to have peanut M&Ms, because the damn things were taunting me with their shiny, pastel, spring colors: aka, the bunny mix. I guess no one’s calling it Easter anymore, because that is too blatant, but that’s a different rant all together. So the M&Ms I ate were a part of this shipment of Easter Spring candy I bought for Berlyn’s party because I wanted to be all cute and Martha Stewart-like, and put the egg shaped candy into tall hurricane vases and stick branches in there and hot glue gun a very realistic bird to the branches, and set them out on tables for all to oohh and ahh and say things like, “Oh, Beckey, how very adorable that is.” And I would bashfully smile and be all, “oh, that? That was nothing.”

But since it is February, and in February we celebrate Valentine’s Day, there was no Easter candy on any of the shelves. So I had to special order it all. The shipment was all set to come the day before her party, and that Friday I waited anxiously for my box of candy to arrive. I French braided my hair, I bit off my big and middle toe nails, and I kept looking out the window for a massive brown truck to bring me my sweet box of goodness. But it never came that Friday. Nope. It came Monday. So the tables were not adorned with beautiful branch/bird/candy-egg creations, I was not able to exhibit my bashful smile, that I worked so hard on perfecting, and I think Berlyn might just hold it over my head later in life.

So, now I have a box full of Easter candy, and you better believe I’m going to eat it all. Maybe after I finish all the candy, I’ll be finally ready to let go and move on…maybe.

I’m Stumped

cereal.jpgApparently the people at the General Mills labs are also MENSA members, because the puzzles on the back of the cereal boxes are HARD.
I mean, come on! Kids are expected to solve these puzzles? I can’t even get through the first level. What happened to a good ‘ol maze? Or matching, I’m good at matching. So in a last ditch effort to prove I am in fact smart, I took an IQ test online. I answered the questions with confidence and enthusiasm: finger is to hand as leaf is to: EASY. Which does not belong in the sequence: Poem, Novel, Statue, Painting, Flower? SIMPLE. The test was a breeze, but when I went to submit my answers, the stupid thing made me sign up for all this stupid stuff. I gave a fake address and phone number, but never actually signed up for anything, so the website kept shooting me back to the page to pick some crappy “incentive gift.” I don’t want a purple iphone, I want my IQ score. Finally I had to close the window, and move away from the computer. And then I had to hide that cereal box–both sordid reminders of the fact that I’m not very bright.

Always Buy The Red One

There should be some sort of quota for being sick. Like you can only be sick once a year, or something. But I guess if you could control the amount you get sick, then you would probably choose not get sick at all.

The point of all that, is I am sick–AGAIN. I got a cold the first time around at Christmas, just like everyone else, because secretly I want to be like everyone else. And if that means being sick, then please pass me the Kleenex and Ricola.

This time I have a dry, scratchy sore throat, a runny nose, and glands that are so swollen that my husband was poking my neck because he thought I had a goiter.
I was in bed all day yesterday, which worked out well because it was raining all day, and even if I was perfectly healthy I would have spent my day the same exact way. And before I ended my day of sleeping with a good night’s sleep, I took a shot of green Ny-Quil–this was a mistake. It tasted like a brown paper bag of licorice got wet and then sat out for 45 days, fermenting and getting all moldy, and then a dog peed on it, and an old man squeezed his arm-pit juice on it, and then someone grinded down the remains, dyed it green, and then put it in a Ny-Quil bottle for me to drink before getting into bed. YUCK!
Don’t make the same mistake I did thinking green Ny-Quil would taste like daffodils and lollipops–it doesn’t. Next time I’ll buy the red one, from now on I’ll always buy the red one.

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