The Blog of Becky

Not My Brightest Moment

2012-02-09T09:07:00.000-08:00

"Awr we moving to Portwand?"

"Yes."

"We awr moving to Portwand?"

"Yes."

"Portwand?"

"Yes."

"Is da car moving to Portwand?"

"Yes."

"Is Max moving to Portwand?"

"Yes."

"Portwand?"

"Yes."

"Is da baby moving to Portwand?"

"Yes - Squid goes with us everywhere. He's your brother - you're stuck with him, kid."

"Is my bwankey moving to Portwand?"

"Yes."

"We awr moving to Portwand?"

"YES."

"Portwand?!?"

"YES! WE ARE ALL MOVING TO PORTLAND. BUT NOT UNTIL THIS SUMMER. LET'S TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY, PLEASE JUST TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE."

........

................

...........................

"Portwand? We awr moving to Portwand?"

Dear Internet,

If I ever get the bright idea of repeating the same phrase over and over again to my son in hopes of having him repeat me...

Just shoot me.

Please?

Sincerely,

Becky Bean

....And the Winner Is....

2012-02-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

Alright, alright. I get it.

“Guess That DragonMonkey” was a total flop. I only managed to get two videos of him – one from two months ago where he’s mumbling halfheartedly while burying his face in his dad’s neck….

And then there was Saturday morning’s video, where he looks straight at the camera and enunciates so clearly that it looks like I turned off the camera right before he launched into a rousing rendition of the Gettysburg Address.

Seriously, kid… you had to pick that ONE time to enunciate clearly? I gave you free reign to mumble as much as you want, and all of a sudden you’ve developed the magical ability to say your “R”s and your “L”s, as well as every consonant in between?

You just wait. I’ll get you back for this. One day soon you’ll be in high school, innocently trying to fit in with all the cool kids. You’ll be standing there, awkwardly posing and doing your best to be part of the crowd… and suddenly you’ll see me. I’m going to dash onto campus and run up to you and all of your friends in the lunch area and hand you the lunch you forgot at home. It will be a delicious, nutritional lunch. And I will pack it in a pink My Little Ponies lunchbox.

Also, I will be wearing a large sombrero.

You know – to shield my eyes from the sun.

What, sombreros aren’t "in"? Sweetie, Mama doesn’t like the sun in her eyes. Here’s your lunch, lovebug. I packed it extra special for you. What’s that? You don’t want to give me a kiss in front of your friends? Awwww, hi guys! I’m DragonMonkey’s mama! I love my little boy so much… you guys be nice to him, okay? Love you, DragonMonkey! Have a great day at school. Oh, here, wait…. Let me lick my thumb and try to dab at the imaginary spot of dirt on your cheek. Okay, got it. Love you! Adios! Ai-yi-yi-yi!

Revenge is a dish best served with a heaping side of humiliation. Just you wait.

Wait, where was I?

Oh, yeah, that’s right.

We’re moving!

If you remember, staying forever in California was never the plan. I wrote about it here , and we meant it. The Bean and I even made a trip or two out to the Phoenix area to look at where we would want to live, and we finally settled on Queen Creek. The homes were a great price, it was a very horse-friendly community, and we both immediately felt at home beneath the wide-open blue skies and sun-baked desert earth. There’s something about that desert that calls to both of us. It seemed like the perfect fit.

So, naturally, we’re moving here:

Because, you know, Phoenix and Portland are practically the same place.

They’re, like, both in the United States.

They’re even on the same western half.

And they both begin with the letter "P".

Can you believe it?

The similarities are almost eerie. It kinda makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up, doesn’t it?

The Bean and I realize this is a big decision, and a huge departure from what we originally had planned. Sure, he might have received a fantastic job offer from a really great accounting firm. And yes, the move satisfies my number one requirement, which is that it’s out of California. Nevertheless, while The Bean has been to Portland many times, with the exception of a few summer weeks spent in Montana, I've never been further north than Santa Rosa, California. Oregon is a complete mystery to me.

Well, okay. It's not a complete mystery. I know it rains a lot there. And, uh, it’s green, which is something I’ll have to get used to. I’ve never lived anywhere green before.

Umm… let’s see. What else do I know?

Rain? Check.

Green? Check.

Lack of sun? Check. What else? Oh, yeah! It’s been rumored that they have good coffee. That’ll be nice.

Oh, and apparently they also have a thing called “hipsters” there, which I am looking forward to seeing. It’ll be like bird watching, but instead of looking for brightly colored wings and differently-shaped beaks, I’ll be on the lookout for slouching 20 year olds with eyebrow rings and strange outfits.

With all of my deep wells of knowledge about the Portland area, The Bean and I immediately did what any sane couple would do when moving to an unknown area:

We bought a house.

We spent about two weeks shopping on the internet, and then once we had it narrowed down The Bean flew up there one weekend and we bought a house in a little town outside of Portland. Since he is by far pickier than I am, I knew I could rely on his judgment. Nevertheless, I asked him to take a lot pictures. Ever considerate, The Bean took tons of pictures of both the inside and outside of the house.

Naturally, the camera had a severe malfunction and erased all but two of them. Thank heavens for the pictures on the listing, or I'd be going kind of crazy.

So, there you have it. If you’ll notice, I have a little countdown clock on the right sidebar (not that I’m excited or anything.) On June 1st, at way-too-early in the morning, The Bean and I will load up the kids, the cats, and the dog and start the eighteen hour journey to the Pacific Northwest.

To move to the state I’ve never visited.

To the town I’d never heard of before.

And into the home I’ve never seen.

Well. At the very least, this should be an adventure! Batten down your hatches, Portland, because here we come!

*********

(PS: Congratulations, Poniegirle! Since we had so many correct guesses I assigned you all numbers, had The Bean choose at random, and you are the winner! Shoot me a mailing address and I will get this box in the mail to you... Although, if I'm being honest, it's probably going to be a week or so before I make it to the post office.)

Guess That DragonMonkey: Part Two

2012-02-04T10:18:00.000-08:00

Kids.

Sometimes they're sweet.

Sometimes they're adorable.

Sometimes you wish you were a Velociraptor so you could grab them with your big angry toe claw, flip them into your mouth, and eat them.

I was so excited to play Guess That DragonMonkey. "It's going to be a blast, Bean!" I said excitedly. "Every single day, I'll post a new clue. Having a new post every day will generate excitement, and I'll get a lot of response. Then, after a week of counting down, I'll do the big reveal!"

"That'll be fun," said the Bean in a distracted fashion, nose-deep in an accounting textbook.

"No, really, it's going to be awesome!"

"I'm sure it will be."

"Can't you just see him? He'll be grinning at the camera, showing off all his cuteness.... Maybe I'll have him wear his cute fedora hat for each of the videos.... I wonder what I should have him say? Maybe a new word every day? Maybe I can have him hold a sign with a clue? Maybe I can get him to talk a little about the secret, and give clues that way? Maybe..."

And so on, and so on. I had the best of plans. The first clue would come out on Monday. I'd post a clue a day, with the grand finale on Friday, choose through all the winners over the weekend, and make the big announcement on the 6th.

Monday came.

And went.

Without a post.

Whoops.

On Tuesday everyone in the house was sick. I figured nobody needed to see dripping, snotty noses so I used a practice video that I made about two months ago and did my post.

I actually got a lot of responses - it was a lot of fun.

In fact, the responses were so fun, that now I'm actually a little bit disappointed by what my news actually is. Here is your one and only clue:

We're not getting a pony. :(

Trust me: The day I get back into owning horses instead of borrowing other people's horses, you will all know about it. I won't bother with secret little videos and guessing games. It will probably just be a picture of a horse, followed by a bunch of "WHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! HORSE!!!!!!!!!!!! HORSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!", and maybe another picture of the horse.

Anyways, Wednesday night rolled around and I pulled out my phone, ready to video tape the next installment.

"DragonMonkey, say 'blahblah'." (< -- Hah. You thought I was going to make a mistake and accidentally spill the beans, didn't you?)

"NO."

"DragonMonkey, seriously, quit messing around. Here, look at the camera."

"Wanna see! Give me! Wanna see!" He twisted up from the couch, lunging for my phone.

"NO. Don't touch. Just look at it. Say 'blahblah'."

He stared at me moodily. "No."

"Look, I've had a really long day. I know you're in a bad mood, but so am I. Let's just get this over with. Just say 'blahblah', and I'll go finish dinner."

"NO."

"DragonMonkey," I snapped, "I"m not asking. I'm telling you. SAY 'BLAHBLAH'." I glared at him, camera waiting, ready to capture the cuteness.

"NO."

"YES."

"NO!!! NO!!!! NO!!!!" He threw himself down melodramatically on the couch., thrashing in anguish.

"Sit up right now, young man! You sit up, face this camera, and you say 'blahblah!"

"NO! I hate blahblah! HATE BLAHBLAH! HATE BLAHBLAH!" He burst into hysterical tears, flopping about on the couch like a dying fish.

"FINE." I shoved the phone in my pocket, annoyed at myself for the way I handled the situation. The post could just wait until tomorrow.

The next day:

"DragonMonkey! Gotcha!" I swooped him up, tickling him as he twisted about, squealing with laughter. Once again I'd come home from work to find him in a terrible mood. I'd been chasing after him for the last thirty minutes, trying to tickle it out of him.

"Hahahahahahahahaahaha! More tickle! More! You can't get me, Mama!" He wiggled out of my grasp and danced impatiently, just out of my reach.

I leaned on the couch, panting. This was exhausting. "Hold on a second, DM. Mama's out of breath."

The smile slipped from his face immediately, and his eyebrows lowered ominously. "No. No 'hold on'. Come get me," he demanded.

"DragonMonkey, wait."

And that's all it took.

"Noooo!" he screeched, throwing himself onto the floor. "Nooo wait! NOOOOO! Heeeeelp! HEEEELP ME!!! HEEEEEELP MEEEEEEE!!!!!"

I stepped over his prone, shrieking body with a grimace, heading over to close the living room windows. It sounded like I was skinning him alive.

"Nooo! NOOO! HELP! HELP! HELPHELPHELPHEEEEEEELP MEEEEEE.... NO!!!!!"

Seriously, I have no idea why the neighbors haven't called Child Protective Services on me yet.

Needless to say, we didn't get the cute video that night, either.

Or the next.

The little booger's been in a grumpy, uncooperative mood all week. So, finally, I resorted to everyone's favorite parenting method:

Bribery.

Last night we went to the used video store and bought a copy of The Polar Express, a film he's seen only once and has been clamoring to watch again every since.

About thirty minutes ago I laid him down on the couch, turned on about three minutes of it (just enough to get him excited about it), and then put it on pause. I took out my camera and stood in front of him.

"No, Mama! More! More movie!" He squirmed on the couch, trying to see around me.

"Do you want me to turn the movie back on?"

"YES! MORE MOVIE!"

"Young man, you do not demand, and you do not talk to adults in that tone of voice. When you want something, you ask. Politely."

"Please! Please! Please, more movie, Mama!" He twisted in anticipation.

"Then say "blahblah"."

"I can't! I can't say 'blahblah'..."

"YES, you can. Look, if you want to see this movie ever again," I said, feeling a little bit like a hostage taker, "They you will look at this camera, and you will say it."

And miracle of miracles, he actually said it:

So, there you go. The final clue. I hope you guys appreciate what I had to go through to get it for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go enjoy the last thirty minutes of relaxation before the movie ends and Angry the DragonMonkey goes on the rampage again.

Remember: Guesses to the email (blogofbecky@gmail.com)

Guess That DragonMonkey!

2012-01-31T21:26:00.000-08:00

Boy, I've been quiet lately on this blog.

On the other hand, the house is clean, the fridge is full of groceries (Woohoo! real groceries! and they're not rotten, old, and spoiled, either!), the dog is getting walked regularly, the DragonMonkey is nearly potty trained, and I'm keeping up with the laundry.

I know, right? I'm impressed, too.

At any rate, one of the reasons I've been so quiet is that January has been a busy month.

It's been a VERY busy month. In fact, I have some fun news to share.

NO, I'M NOT PREGNANT.

Good Lord, why is it that everyone always thinks I'm pregnant whenever I say I have some news? Yeesh. The Squidgelet's not even a year old - give my uterus a breather, won't you?

Anyways, I'm not vain enough to think that my news is as interesting to me as it is to you.

So, you know what? I'm going to make it interesting to you. I'm going to turn it into a game.

Here's how it will go down: I'm going to videotape DragonMonkey flat out telling you what my happy secret is.

That's it. That's the game.

The trick is, you just have to understand what the heck he's saying.

I don't want to hear any whining, either. If I have learned how to understand this kid's lazy, incoherent mumbling, you can too. (For the record, he is getting more intelligible. We just have to push him to enunciate, which I'm obviously not doing for the sake of this game.)

If you think you know the answer, you can email me: blogofbecky@gmail.com You can make more than one guess throughout the week (I'll reveal the answer next Monday), but you can only have one "final answer".

Anyways, here's your first clue:

If you guess right, you win:

~~A brand new car~~ !

~~Fifty thousand dollars~~ !

~~Anne Hathaway in a bikini~~ (Sorry, Bean.)

~~An Andalusian stallion~~ !

A cardboard box full of weird stuff that I find around the house! Yaaaaay!

*** If for some reason you already know what my news is, shoot me an email if you still want to participate in the game and I'll come up with an alternate "Guess That DragonMonkey" set of clues for you.

Conversations With My Dog

2012-01-20T11:44:00.000-08:00

"C'mon, Max. Time to come out of your kennel."

Tick Tick TICK! TICKTICKTICK! TICKETYTICKTICKTICK! TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK...

"Max, no running in the house. Settle down, you're going to wake up the babies. Here, go outside and go potty."

TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK -

"MAX! Get back here. Max, COME. Good boy. Now go outside."

Tick. :( Tick. :( Tick. :( Tick. :(

Silence.

"Max, you actually need to pee before you can come back inside."

Silence.

"I am completely unmoved by the big, sad, "I'm-so-abused" look you're giving me. GO. Go potty, Max. Good boy. There, see, was that so hard? You can come inside now."

TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK! TICKETY! TICKETY! TICKETY! TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKETY!

"Max! No running in the house - relax, dog. You're going to wake up the DragonMonkey."

TICKETYTICKETY! TICKETYTICKETY! TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK---

"LAY DOWN, MAX. Good boy. Geez, didn't we just trim your nails?"

Tick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick. WHUMP. Sigh.

"Good boy."

Tick? :D Tick? :D Tick? :D Ticktick :D?

"I said 'Good boy', not come here. Go lay down."

Tick :( Tick :( TickTick :( :(

"Okay, fine. C'mere."

TICK :D :D !!!! Tickticktick!!!! :D :D :D :) :) :) TICKTICKTICKTICKTICK!

"Yes, you're a good boy. Good dog. Here, let me get the eye crumblies out of the corner of your eye. Ewww. There. All better? Good boy, yes you are. You're a good boy. Now lay down, right here."

WHUMP. Sigh.

.....

.........

................

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Tick, tick, tick -

"Maaaaaax!"

Tickticktick?

"You better not be going down that hallway to drink out of the toilet."

Ticktickticktick :( WHUMP. Sigh.

"That's right. You stay out out of there. Good boy."

......

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................

tickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick

"Hi, Max! Mama, Max open doowr! Hi, Max. Up? Up on da bed? Sweep wif Max?"

"Max, get out of there! Quit sneaking down the hall and waking him up! No, DragonMonkey, you can't sleep with Max. Max, GO. And you - go back to sleep, DM."

"Pwease? PWEASE? PWEASE SWEEP WIF MAX? PWEASE?"

"No. He'll go pee in your room in the middle of the night. Max sleeps in his bed. Now go back to sleep. Max, GO. Go lay down"

Tick :( Tick :( Tick :( Tick :(

WHUMP. Sigh.

.........

.................

...........................

tickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick

"Max, come here. I see you sneaking down the hallway. Come lay by me so I can keep you out of mischief. The DragonMonkey's fine. Quit trying to check on him - you're just waking him up."

Tick :( Tick :( Tick :( Tick :(

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

"Max, you're stuck on circle mode. Just lay down and relax, dog. Your nails are driving me crazy."

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick. WHUMP. Sigh.

"Good boy, Max."

Tick? :D Tick? :D Ticktick? :) :) :) :)

"No, I didn't call you. Just lay down, Max. You're a good boy, but just lay down."

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Tickticktick. Tickticktick. Tickticktick.

Ticktick---

I swear the next place I live is going to have floor to ceiling carpet.

Either Really Complain or Quit Complaining

2012-01-18T12:22:00.000-08:00

Look, it boils down to this:

You can't just complain about SOPA and PIPA.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, just google the terms. The internet is on fire over these issues, and you'll learn more than you ever wanted with a few clicks of your mouse. The over-simplified explanation is that they are legislation to censor the internet that are being hidden beneath the guise of "protecting copyright infringement".

You'll have to go somewhere other than Wikipedia to learn about them though. Today, Wikipedia is down.

So is Craigslist.

And Wordpress.

And Mozilla.

In fact, there are quite a few hugely popular sites that have gone dark today in order to raise awareness. It's kind of neat to see the unity.

Here's the thing, though. You can't just complain about it. If you just sit there and get outraged, discuss it with your friends and family, "rally" behind all the sites going dark, and dedicate your Facebook for a day by making a meaningful post about it...

You've done diddly squat. You're about as effective at preventing the legislation as if you were in complete support of it.

Talking and complaining about stuff accomplishes nothing.

You actually have to DO something about it.

So go here.

Write Congress.

Tell them how you really feel about it.

You know, if you don't want to, you don't actually have to write Congress. I understand. Life is busy. There are kids to run after, and the car needs an oil change, and the never-ending stacks of laundry don't wash themselves.

But here's the thing: if you do nothing, and this thing passes, then I don't want to hear you complaining about it.

Email from My Mom

2012-01-13T10:12:00.000-08:00

Here is a little background information you need to know:

We are deep in the throes of potty training the DragonMonkey, a process that has good days, bad days, and oh-wow-is-this-kid-really-my-responsibility days.

Apparently he is shy when it comes to using the toilet, because as soon as you put him on the toilet he immediately begins waving you away with his hand. It's almost a ritual at this point.

"Go away, Mama. GO AWAY!" he orders rudely.

"You do NOT talk to adults in that tone of voice, young man. You apologize this instant."

"Sowwy, Mama."

Pause.

"Pwease go away, Mama? Pwease? Shut da doowr? Pwease go away?"

I am mollified by his polite tone, and leave him behind, shutting the door behind me and standing outside for what seems like hours, awaiting his demanding bellow of, "Awww done, Mama! Awwwl done!". At that point I am graciously allowed to enter the bathroom again where I have the unbelievable priviledge of wiping his heiny for him.

It's the little joys in life that make it all worth it.

The other bit of information you need to know is that the DragonMonkey is the proud owner of a cute little purple octopus bath toy. It's a cheap plastic toy that floats in the water. It's made up of three parts: the top part (the body) the bottom part (the legs) and and a string you pull on which causes the the legs to spin around like a boat propeller, causing the toy to move sluggishly through the water.

Okay, now onto the email from my mom:

*****

Dear Becky,

When the DragonMonkey goes to use the toilet, we shall no longer let him have his privacy anymore,

After pooing a truckload in the toilet, he then took his little purple octopus, pulled the string, put it on top of the poop, and then had a blending party in the toilet. After he was done with the blending he tossed it in the tub and proceeded to further his fun and games.

Your stepfather was not very happy.

At the time, I was in my studio blending for real with a real blender, making baby food for the Squidgelet. I came in and saw a face on your stepdad that I do not ever want to see again, and the little DragonMonkey taking a much-needed bath.

Have a good day,

The Nanny

*******

Come on. Admit it. Aren't you glad he's not yours?

Maybe She's Born With It

2012-01-12T06:42:00.000-08:00

I love everything about this video - enjoy :)

Fotoshop by Adobé from Jesse Rosten on Vimeo.

Rooster Pinata: The Best Sport in the World

2012-01-06T18:44:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don’t know, I love chickens. Seriously – they’reawesome. I love them. Read this post if you don’t believe me.

Okay, now that I’ve cleared my good name I can tell you about Evil.

Back when I was living in the Kern County area I used to board my horse at alittle stables off the main highway. The stalls were fantastic, the rentwas incredibly cheap, and even though it was in a small town the stablesthemselves seemed to have less drama than most barns I’ve been at. All inall it was a really great place.

The only downside to the barn was the location – as it was situated off of amain highway, most people could see it from the road. I don’t know whatyour experience has been, but when normal, non-horsey people see a stables theydon’t think, “Hey, look! A stables! I bet they keep horsesthere. Neat.”

They seem to think, “Hey, look! Horse Stables! That’s where mylatest unwanted puppy/cat/dog/kitten/chicken needs to be abandoned!”

I’m sure they mean well, even if what they're doing is incredibly selfish, lazy, and rather cruel. They probably havethis nice idea of their animal living a comfortable, happy lifestyle,surrounded by laughing people and sweet-smelling hay bales. “The kittensare playful! They can eat mice, and run around, and live a goodlife! All barns need a cat, right?”

Look,I don't know about the rest of you, but we had a term for abandoned kittens at a horsebarn. We called them “Coyote Candy”.

Maybe it was the area we lived in, but the animals which were constantly abandonedat our barn never really lived all that long. It was a race against time,trying to find them homes before they were eaten. Someone would drop off a litter ofkittens. By Tuesday, there would only be three little fluffballs. On Friday there would only be one. By Monday the barns would once againbe cat-free, and someone would drop off an abandoned puppy.

Cats, kittens, puppies, chickens…. None of them seemed to last. Thecoyotes in the area seemed to consider our barn their own personal buffet, andnone of the abandoned animals seemed to live very long.

That is, except for Evil. Evil was a ratty, ragged, ill-temperedrooster. He was a mottled red, had two or three drooping, pathetic tailfeathers, and evil, beady little eyes.

I have no idea who dropped Evil off, but for all I know they knew all about ourcoyote issue and thought they were assigning Evil to a very deserved death. To be honest, I wouldn't blame them.

From the day he arrived Evil took over the stables. He went wherever he wanted to go.... and heaven help you if you tried to make him leave before he was ready.

He was fine as long as you approached him directly. If you walkedtowards him he’d stand up and saunter off, bobbing slowly away. He alwaysmanaged to make it look like it was his idea, too.

What’s that? Oh, I just felt like getting up and walking overhere. See how I’m not meeting your eye? You’re not making me dothis at all. I *want* to go over here.

Yeah, getting him to move away from your stall/barn/hay stack wasn’t a problem.

The problem was when you turned your back.

I still remember the first time I saw him. “Oh, hey! Arooster! Someone dropped off some chickens. Cool!” I squatteddown, waggling my fingers at him. “Heeeeeere, chook,chook, chook. Heeeeere, chook, chook, chook.”

Evil stared at me silently, ignoring my outstretched hand.

“Tcht, tcht…heeeeeere, chook, chook.”

“Bakwaaaaaaaaak….” Evil growled ominously, and sauntered off.

I stood up, dusting my pants in disappointment, then turned around to headback to Jubilee’s stall.

“BCKWAAAAAAK!” With a triumphant scream of rage, Evil launched himselfat my back in a furious scrabble of flapping wings, scratching legs, andpointy, stabby little pecks of his beak.

Naturally, I did what any sane person would do when ambushed by an evil,attacking rooster bent on world domination:

I dropped my car keys, screamed like a little girl, and bolted about10 feet in the opposite direction before turning around to see what was afterme.

Evil stood in a cloud of dust, glaring at me, then smugly scratched theground twice before sauntering off. He’d showed me.

I stared at him, mouth agape. Had I…. had I just been beaten up by achicken?

Why, yes. Yes I had. And it wasn’t the last time, either.

If Evil had just come at me fairly, I would have shown him who was boss, andthat would have been that. The problem was that Evil was smart. Heknew his only hope lay in ambush, so he never attacked you face-to-face.

He was oddly stealthy for a chicken, and would creep up on you silently while you weredistracted. One second I’d be calmly cleaning Jubilee’s stall,lulled into a peaceful state through the steady scooping and sifting of theclean shavings through the tines of the manure fork…

And the next second I’d have a giant rooster stabbing me with his claws,screaming his rage into my ear as he scrabbled and clawed at my back.

I’d scream and bolt every time, and every time I’d turn around and see thatstupid chicken standing there, smugly eyeballing me before he sauntered out ofthe pen.

No matter how vigilant I remained, he always managed to wait until my guardwas down before attacking. He bothered other people at the stables, butfor some reason he took a particular aversion to me. I swear that roosterwas hunting me.

I hated that rooster. I felt a little guilty, but to be honest, Icouldn't wait for the coyotes to get him.

For once, the coyotes failed to do their job. That stupid rooster refused to be eaten. I think even the coyotesrealized he was a little too evil for them to mess with.

Within a few weeks I was twitchy and spooky, jumping at the slightest noiseand doing my best to look over my shoulder every thirty seconds. It’s notlike I didn’t try to fight back. I remember the time he spooked me sohard I jumped into the barn wall, scraping my nose. I completely lost it. That was IT. Love of chickens or not, I’d had enough. Evil therooster was going DOWN.

I flew out the front of the stall, manure fork carried over my head like anangry villager’s torch. Evil tried sauntering away from me for a fewsteps, but once he realized I meant business he took off. I don't know ifyou know this or not, but chickens are FAST when they want to be.

Unfortunately for evil roosters, so are Beckys.

That stupid rooster and I tore up one row of stalls and down the other in aneerie silence. He didn’t make a singlesound as he ran, and the only sound coming from me was a steady, determinedbreathing.

He fluttered through stalls, doubled back through the manure spreader,scurried over pipes, dashed through the round pen…. All with me hot on hisheels. We were spooking every horse we went past, but I didn’t care.

I’m not sure how the situation would have resolved itself if the barnmanager hadn’t come by to feed her horse. She pulled in front of her stall just in time to see me round a corner,red-faced and sweaty, four steps behind that stupid rooster, manure fork cockedand loaded against my shoulder like a bat.

“Becky! What are you doing?!”

“Killing him,” I huffed as I sprinted past her, spooking her horse.

It didn’t do to spook the barn manager’s horse.

“BECKY! KNOCK IT OFF. LEAVE THAT CHICKEN ALONE!” For such a short woman, she had animpressively loud voice.

I slid to stop and watched angrily as Evil immediately slowed down to asaunter. He wasn’t running away. He was just out for an evening stroll... although foronce I did catch him looking directly at me as he panted as heavily as I did.

“I’m sick of that rooster, Diane.”

“Then leave it alone, Becky.” Ananimal lover to her core, I could see that Diane wasn’t going to see my side ofthe equation. I was just an evil, chicken-chasing animal hater. She shook her head indisappointment.

“Fine,” I snapped, stalking back to my barn to fume.

Life continued along the same lines for a couple of weeks. I did my best to ignore the idiot, evilrooster, hoping the coyotes would finally man up and do their job. They didn't, and Evilcontinued to ambush and scare the living crap out of me every time he got a chance.

That is, until that one, beautiful, magical day.

I had just finished cleaning pens and was on my way to go dump the manure inthe manure pile, when I saw him. I knowyou probably won’t believe me, but the stupid rooster was sneaking around the corner of my barn so he could lay in wait andattack me the moment I walked past him to put my manure fork away.

Ha. Gotcha, Evil.

I did my best to pretend I didn’t know he was there. Casually, I dumped the load of manure andwent to go replace the wheelbarrow in its spot by the barn. Even more casually I turned to head back on my usual path to Jubilee's stall.

As I walked past the corner where he was hidden, I just happened to raisethe manure fork and rest it on my shovel. I wasn’t doing it on purpose… it was just a casual thing. I had a manure fork.. why not rest it on myshoulder? It had nothing to do with thefact I was getting ready to take a swing. Nope. I was Casual Becky. I was Unaware Becky. I was Victim Becky, just continuing alongwith my chores. La, la, la, laaaa, laaa……

About three steps after I passed his hiding spot, I saw him make his move outof the corner of my eyes. Head low andlimp tail feathers spread, he rushed forward, preparing to leap for his attack.

Tightning my grip on the handle, I pivoted on my left foot, straightened myelbows and started a downhill golf swing with the manure fork, driving throughwith the force of my hips and the experience of too many mornings practicing atthe driving range with my dad…

And I connected.

The second I felt the back of that manure fork connect with that idiotic,evil bird, I knew it was a good shot.

THWAAAACK!!!! The sound of that solid,square, perfectly on-target hit resonating through the evening air was one of the sweetest things I’ve everheard. I can’t even begin to describehow good it felt. It was a cool drink ona really hot day. It was the first taste of icecream. It was stepping into a Jacuzzi aftergetting chilled spending too many hours in the pool. It was all thosethings… but better.

It was incredible.

“BAKWAAAAK!” Evil sounded genuinely surprised as the rush of his charge metwith the swing of the manure fork.

“BAKWAAAK!” He complained. “BAKWAAAAAAK!” He said, as he flew anincredibly satisfying distance, landing about 15 or 20 feet away in adisheveled heap in a cloud of dust.

“HA!” I shouted in my most mature, intelligent fashion. “HA! Take that, you stupid, evil rooster. Who’s the man, now? Huh? Who’s the one who won that bout? ME, that’s who! What’s that?”

I may or may not have stomped threateningly in his direction.

“What’s that? You want some more ofthis?” It’s possible I may have throw myarms wide at this point – not that I’d ever to admit to such childish,infantile behavior.

Evil stared me, and for a brief second it I saw a brief flash of respect,bordering on fear in his eyes.

I met his look, squaring my shoulders and facing him defiantly, trustymanure fork by my side.

“Bakwawk,” he muttered disdainfully, turning around to saunter off in theopposite direction.

He never attacked me again.

New Year's From Thailand: Guest Post

2012-01-04T10:08:00.000-08:00

What do you get when you cross:

A week long cold with whiny babies and snotty noses…

Followed by two babies with a week long stomach flu….

Followed by everyone getting some kind of Death flu bronchitis thingie that makes the babies cough hard enough to start the puking again….

Followed by 3 days of hurried preparations for Christmas…..

Followed by a lovely 2 days riding horses in Bakersfield for the New Year?

Well, what do you get?

You get a guest post from my dad.

*******************************************************

Thailand New Year, 2012

I just thought I would write and let you know how my New Year’s Eve went.

I was kind of obligated to go to Nong’s parent’s house for the occasion – Oh boy. Another Thai party. I have been to quite a few of them and some were kind of fun… That is, if you can have fun being the only English speaking person in the room.

Usually what will happen is beer and Thai whiskey is bought, a bottle is opened, and then magically ALL of the relatives show up within a short period of time. Imagine a party with 30 people drinking beer, eating and talking really loud in order to be heard over all the other people that are talking loud for the same exact reason. Now, all of this loud talking is done in the standard Thai as well as the different northern Thai dialect, which (of course) is actually a completely different language. In the middle of all of this loud, multi-language sits Stevw, muttering to myself “It is only one night...it is only one night…"

Out the door I head for some fresh air. This is where everyone goes to have their cigarettes, so inevitably a conversation is attempted.

“You go Christmas America?"

OK, now I know the tenses of the verbs are always messed up during these attempts at conversing in English, so I mentally try to figure out exactly what was said. "You go Christmas America" …?

Hmmm.

This could mean “Did you go to America for Christmas?” or it could be an attempt at “Do you like Christmas in America?” which would translate to “Do you prefer spending Christmas in Thailand or America?” or even “Do they celebrate Christmas in America?”

It’s important to note that conversation = they talk and stop and then I talk…. So now it’s my turn.

How do I answer that? I haven't even deciphered it yet, but he is waiting.

OK, it’s time to fall back to the standard, "I don't understand him, so don't let him understand me” defense....just make it something with Christmas and America in it.

"Yes, we celebrate Christmas in America in many different ways, some religious, some not. Almost everyone gets a Christmas tree. Not all of the trees are real. Some are made out of plastic and can be used year after year…. Do they sell plastic trees here in Thailand?" Ha! Now he has to answer.

I wait. I can see the wheels turning in his head, the thoughts forming and then he says, "I have sister spoken."

Oh Jesus, does this mean his sister speaks English, or does she live in Spokane, Washington?

“I am sorry. I need to go back inside now. I am sure someone needs to talk to me......” I get a blank smile and a nod, and I return inside.

Once inside, Nong approaches, "Why were you talking to that guy outside? What were you talking about?"

I admit, “I don't really know what we were talking about. I was confused.”

"Well, he isn't a relative. He just shows up at people's houses trying to get free drinks. He has been insane for years."

I give up! You try to be nice and have a conversation and suddenly you are the foreigner on the front porch talking to the crazy neighbor that no one wants there.

Anyway, New Year’s Eve…. That is what I expected, so I bought a box of wine to take to the party. No, not a box of wine as in bottles, but an actual box of wine – the kind with the spigot built into the box. That should liven things up! If I get everyone drunk I might have a slim chance of actually fitting in and being part of the crowd.

We arrive for the New Year's Eve party, but no one there. This doesn’t bother me - I will use the never-fail method of opening a beer to attract the hidden crowd that is always just steps away. I pour myself a glass and offer one to Nong's father...

"No thanks, I already drank a beer earlier."

"Nong...want a beer?”

"Not now, maybe later.”

I know! I will give the wine box a chance! This will start things. I hand it to her father, and ZOOM! It is gone - put away for another occasion.

I sit down, beer in hand, and watch a kid watching Thai cartoons on the TV.

After a few moments I have to ask, so I approach "them" in the kitchen.

“I thought we were having a party for New Year’s?”

“Oh, no, the village chief has asked everyone not to get drunk this year. There is a singing contest at the village center later that we can go to and of course there is the count down to the New Year.”

Gee, let me think. I can wait 2 or 3 hours to go to a village square to watch someone I don't know sing songs I don't understand, until at the right time I can count “3...2...1...”

….. or I could have another beer and watch foreign cartoons with an eight year old.

So there I was, the only one drinking anything on New Year’s Eve, sitting with an eight year old kid watching Thai cartoons. It wasn’t much better than talking to crazy unwanted neighbors on the porch. I was asleep by nine. How was your New Year?

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T21:03:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Eve, the kids are asleep, and the elves brought The Bean and I a pair of matching monkey pajamas. We even got three out of four Beans looking at the camera to document the moment, too. Go, us.

Merry Christmas!

Mmm... Apple Pie!

2011-12-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

We’d long since abandoned the confines of the dining room table, and we were all scattered around the living room in a post-Thanksgiving haze. The majority of the dishes had found their way into the fridge, but a few choice entrees still graced the table and the kitchen countertops – rolls and leftover biscuits, yams with a disappearing blanket of toasted marshmallows, and pies.

Apple pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate pie, two different varieties of pecan pie….

Even if you were so stuffed you couldn’t take another bite, there was always room for pie.

With bellies straining against shirts and the top button of pants discreetly undone, we lingered over our food, joking occasionally, trying not to laugh too hard – with bellies that full, who knew what might happen? A food coma is a delicious illness to have, and nobody did it better than my dad’s side of the family.

The only movement in the room, aside from the occasional heavy sigh, muffled belch, or lazy stretch, was from the younger children. Too young to have learned how to stuff themselves beyond measure, they were still wriggly and energetic. I had trapped one of my nephews between my knees, trying to contain his three year old energy long enough to help him finish his own small slice of pie. When I realized more of it was ending up on his hands and his face than it was in his mouth, I decided he’d had enough.

“C’mon, Kyle. Let’s go wash up.” I grabbed his dirty little hand and walked him over to the sink, hoisting him up with a groan and propping him up with my knee while I tried to do some damage control. He had apple pie everywhere – crumbs down the front of his shirt, sticky cinnamon goodness smeared over his soft cheek, and even a piece of crust lodged in his hair. He looked like a magazine ad, with his big blue eyes and golden curls, and he was sticky beyond belief.

By the time I’d finished cleaning him up there was water everywhere, and he was squirming and laughing. With a grunt I plopped him to the ground, grabbing his hand to lead him back into living room.

As his soft hand curled up in mine I felt a little something – glancing down, I realized that a teensy crumb from the apple pie had escaped my washing. Too lazy to walk over to the trash can to throw it away, I gave a shrug and popped it in my mouth.

Salty.

What the heck? Since when was apple pie salty? I gave a cough, grabbed a napkin and spit the piece into it.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, my nephew burst into frantic tears. It was a genuine cry – and within seconds he had fat tears pouring down the sides of his cheek as he blindly tore out of my grasp and ran back into the living room. He was a sturdy, happy little boy who rarely cried, so I knew something must genuinely be wrong.

Concerned, I wadded the napkin up in my hand and chased after him.

“Becky, what happened?” A roomful of adults all stared at me.

“I don’t know,” I stammered, raising my voice to be heard over the grief-stricken, desolate howls. “I was just coming back from washing his hands, and he just started crying.”

My sister hugged Kyle close in concern, making soothing noises. “Shhh, Kyle. Shhhh, What’s wrong?”

Kyle buried his face into my sister’s arms, refusing to look at me. “Aunt Becky….” He sobbed.

“I didn’t do anything!” I insisted.

“Kyle…shhh… shhh…. What happened?”

“Aunt Beck-y-y-y-y….”

“Shhh, shhh…. What? Stop crying and tell us. What happened? Why are you crying?”

“Aunt Becky ate my booger I was saving!” His huge blue eyes looked up at me in red-rimmed, three-year old fury. It was his booger – HIS to eat. Not mine. I was a cruel, evil, booger-stealing harpy of an aunt, and not to be trusted.

My mind flashed back to the salty bit I now held in my napkin, and I gagged.

And now you all know why I don’t really like apple pie all that much.

Becky the Arctic Snow Fox

2011-11-30T09:21:00.001-08:00

The first time I met my stepdad I was an arctic snow fox.

At the time, he wasn’t my stepdad. He was just a friend of my mom’s that she was inviting to dinner. At six years old I was oblivious the fact that single, divorced women don’t have male “friends” that they invite over for a meet-the-children dinner. If my mom wanted to have a friend over for dinner, what was it to me?

I had other, more important things to do.

During our lunch break, my best friends and I had sat down and seriously discussed the merits of “being” different animals. Jackie, Alana and I had been best friends since the first day of kindergarten. We were inseparable. Jackie was, in a word, adorable. She was small, pudgy, and two little crooked pigtails and a sweet little lisp that went perfectly with the scattered freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose. Shorter by more than a head by the rest of our class, everyone loved Jackie. It was impossible not to. She was the class clown a, class favorite, and class mascot, all rolled into one witty, huggable package.

Alana was the class beauty – she had silky blond hair that went down to the middle of her back and large, impossibly blue eyes. When she wore a blue headband, within a week half the girls in the class would all be sporting blue headbands. When she started parting her hair on the side, for weeks afterwards other girls would run around the playground with disobedient hair falling into their eyes as they retrained their hair to part on the side, too. Alana was quiet, cool, and beautiful. Even her name fit her. The rest of us were Beckies, or Sarahs, or Jackies. Alana – it just rolled off the tongue with a cool, crisp, classiness.

Me? I was the zany one. A tomboy to my core, I disdained Barbies and dress-up. I loved horses, and hunting, and animals, and the Discovery Channel, and above all else – I loved foxes. Foxes were the perfect hybrid of everything that fascinated me – they had long, slender legs built for running – something that occasionally eluded me depending on whether my Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis was acting up that week. They were a predator, which made for much better role-playing games – who wants to play “we’re a bunch of deer, watch us eat grass” for recess? Foxes could pounce, and snarl, and snap, and chase frightened field mice and savage rabbits….. and yet they were also cute. They had large fluffy tails, and pointed, inquisitive little faces…and they also happened to be one of the main characters in the world’s greatest movie of all time – The Fox and the Hound. I’m sure it was just a coincidence.

Earlier that week I had watched a documentary on arctic snow foxes and had found myself fascinated with their coloring and eating habits. For those of you who don’t know, an arctic snow fox will listen for the sounds of mice beneath the surface of the snow, tilting its head quizzically left and right, until at the very right moment they spring about three feet in the air, brace their front legs, and crash through the surface of the ice, pouncing on their unsuspecting prey.

As an adult, it’s fascinating to watch.

As a child – it was even more fascinating to act out. I never tired of it. Tilt head, dramatic pause, then FWAM! Leap into the air and crash down, stiff-legged in a display of predator glory.

It makes me knees hurt just remembering it.

During recess I would gather Alana and Jackie to my side and assign them their parts. Jackie would be a rabbit I could chase – but one I would always allow to get away, simply based upon the fact that Fox Becky would never be able to actually bite such an innocent, adorable creature as Rabbit Jackie. Alana would insist upon being a cat, regally ignoring my spluttered, angry explanations that cats couldn’t possibly survive in the wild, much less the arctic tundra. We finally compromised on her being a black panther - an animal much more suitable to the epic wilderness of my imagination than a plain, tabby housecat. The three of us would dash about the playground, Jackie hopping about with her hands drawn up to her chest like tiny little forepaws and wiggling her nose intermittently, Alana slinking about with a cool, feline grace, and me dashing and pouncing with high pitched snarls and agile leaps.

The day I met my stepdad recess seemed shorter than usual. We had barely begun our game when the bell was ringing and the three of us were forced to run and stand in our class line, miserable at being cooped up again. It was during our reading session that we came up with a plan – why did we have to stop just because recess was over? Couldn’t we continue on during the evening, and report back to each other in the morning the stories of our escapades? We could be animals all. Night. LONG!

The plans were made – our animals were chosen (although I highly suspect Alana was NOT the black panther I assigned her but rather a plain, drab, tabby housecat), and our pact was sealed.

That afternoon, when my mom picked me up from after-school care, I silently crawled into the backseat of her brown 80s Datsun, fumbling the intricacies of the seatbelt my awkward fox paws.

“Hurry up, Becky. We need to get home.”

I tried to hurry up, but the seat belt was proving impossible without the use of my thumbs – and as we all know, foxes don’t have thumbs.

“Becky, here, I’ll get it.” I smiled up at her in a way that I hope displayed the fact that I no longer had flat, human teeth but rather sharp little jaggedy canines. Beside me, my sister rolled her eyes and buried herself in a book as my mom stared at me, before sighing. “Oh. I get it. Are you a dog again?”

I yipped a high-pitched, insulted negative. A dog? A big, lumbering, slow dog? I shook my head, then yipped twice again.

“Oh,” my mom said with another sigh, pulling out into traffic. “A fox.”

I yipped again. Smart mommy.

Preparing for dinner was hectic, between my mom trying to help us with our homework, do her makeup, and produce a delicious meal all at the same time. The fact that I refused to sit at the table (have you ever seen a fox sitting at a dinner table? Don’t be ridiculous.) probably didn’t help her stress level. Of course, she knew better than to argue with me. When I “pretended”, I pretended hard.

Math took twice as long, cupping a pencil with a tiny, white paw, but I was a smart fox and I figured out a way to use my furry chin to stabilize the pencil. Whether or not it was legible, I’ll never know.

By the time my soon-to-be-dad came in, I was in full gear, pleasantly warm from the excitement of knowing that halfway across the city, a bunny hopped around her living room and a black panther (not a tabby housecat!) snarled angry responses to any questions from her captors-in-the-form-of-parents. When our dogs exploded into a volley of barking and excited twisting at a knock on the door, I scrabbled over on hands and knees and joined them, squirming and sitting up to scrabble at the door with my pack.

“Hi. My name’s Dave.” He was a man of medium height and broad shoulders, with a trim beard and kind eyes. My sister stood up to shake his hand. I yipped at him and sat up, offering him a paw.

Dave took my paw, glancing over at my mother. “She’s a fox,” she explained wearily.

Introductions were made, and Dave sat down to try and charm us. My sister was friendly but obviously more interested in her book than him, and I only yipped or snarled in response, depending on whether the answer was affirmative or negative. In retrospect, I actually feel a little sorry for him.

When it came time for dinner, I refused to sit at the table. My mom insisted. I shook my head. She insisted again. I shook my head harder, ears flat against my skull in irritation.

“Becky, seriously, enough. Sit at the table like your sister.”

I snarled, and backed under the table legs, glaring. I was a fox, darnit. Foxes did not eat at tables, with utensils. Not only did they lack thumbs as well as an interest in using human plates and forks, they also lacked the necessary balance to remain sitting up for that long – they ate on all fours. Everybody knew that.

“Becky, enough. Time to eat.”

I whined, and shook my head.

“Becky, enough. Quit pretending.”

I snarled back at her, and felt the thick fur at the ruff of my neck begin to bristle. Who was pretending?

With a desperate look, my mom had to make a quick choice. Which was worse to show her date? The strange child or the stubborn battle she knew she was about to lose?

“Fine. Foxes can eat on the floor, but only – ONLY – if they finish everything on their plate.”

I yipped back at her, opening my mouth in a wide grin, my tongue lolling over my sharp canines. I gave her a small wag of my tail--- but only a small one. It wasn’t like I was domesticated. Still, she should be rewarded.

The plate slid beneath the table, and I crawled out from beneath the chair legs to hunch over it. The green beans and picadillo wavered, then became a slice of raw caribou. I squatted down and picked it up with my teeth, chewing the meat and growling slightly as my sister’s legs came too close to my “kill”. It was dark, and oddly comforting beneath the table. The legs around me looked like trees, and without any real effort they wavered slightly, and then became trees. I was in a forest – a cool, green forest, full of shadows and unexplored places. I was eating the caribou I’d brought down, occasionally snarling at the smaller scavengers that crept timidly forward to eat from my kill.

“So, Dave, ” my mother said, raising her voice to be heard over my territorial snarls. “Would you like some more potatoes?”

Bugs, Beer, and Lizards: Part Two

2011-11-18T11:13:00.001-08:00

Hey Becky,

I was just reading the comments again and I would really like to answer some of them, but my lack of computer skills won't let me. Translation: I don't know how.

First: the small lizards here in thailand are over populated, to say the least. I have had them fall on my head from opening doors. I have found them in the refrigerator, dead from the cold. How did they get through the air tight seal? I know they chew their way through the screens in the windows - I see the holes they make, so I imagine they are ruining the seal to the refrigerator.

I agree - it is very nice and helpful of them to eat the bugs I have in the house.... however, after eating the bugs they digest them..... and you can imagine the step after digestion. Well, they have not had a decent upbringing as far as I can tell - they just let it go anywhere they feel like. It's kind of like having a herd of mini horses living all over your walls and ceiling.

Lizards, I believe, also like water, and since there are two rooms that are known to have water in the house that is where they mostly live. The bathroom I can take. I don't really like the fact that little 'wall-horses" are staring at me while I do my business but I can live with it.

Then there is the kitchen, where the food and the clean dishes are kept. If the dishes aren't washed and put away this will cause the local bug population to congregate in the kitchen...and what likes to eat bugs? We're back to lizards again - and the eating, and the digesting, and.... I think you get the picture.

There are three permanent lizard-residents in my bathroom (known residents) and another four in the kitchen. There are at least two in the living room. The light is left on all night in the carport, for security reasons. This attracts at least nine lizards, so if you total the known lizards inside and outside, they number eighteen. When scared the outside lizards run to the eaves and into the attic. I can only guess there are more there.

So to round off how many lizards I have, a very conservative guess would be thirty. On the block where I live there are only four houses, so that makes at least 120 known lizards. In a one mile radius I am going to guess there are approximately 128 houses. With four houses per block and eight blocks per mile, in all four directions this is 3,840 lizards per square mile. Keep in mind these are only the known or seen lizards.

Now, without wanting to step on anyone's toes, every lizard within 20 miles would be 76,800 lizards. Now, I do have a cat that helps me control the population, but these are only the seen lizards. I think the number can be at least doubled, because only one other cat lives near by. I know this because of the mating season, but that is a whole other story I don't want to get into.

Okay, back to the little digesting machines. We are now at about 153,000 of them, if you want invite every lizard (seen and unseen) from a 20 mile radius into your house. I honestly think this would chase the cat away - there would be just too many. They would be everywhere. With the mess and (as I have mentioned) the midnight chirping, it would drive you insane. I am not sure a human could endure this.

Now, what would follow the little lizards here? Well, bigger lizards for the food, and also, I believe snakes like an occasional lizard or two. Since I have already had to kill a snake in my living room and, while lying on the couch watching t.v., I watched one raise its head to look in, and the before mentioned king cobra encounter (Becky in: I'll post this story later), I am just not ready for that much nature in my yard or house.

As for the one commenter who lectures her cats, maybe she could teach my lizards to use the bathroom in a designated area. I would be more than happy to have a lizard bathroom installed. Until then I will treat them just like I would a human. If a house guest was seen pooping in my kitchen or if they roamed the house in the middle of the night yelling very loud "I WANT SEX" then they too would have to go If they refused, then I would probably look for another pointed stick.

Anyway, life here is a little more interesting. I am looking forward to seeing the DragonMonkey again and teaching him some more tricks. To paraphrase an old saying, revenge is a dish best served after your kid grows up and has kids of her own.

Guest Post from My Dad

2011-11-15T21:49:00.001-08:00

In the interest of keeping my typing wordcount up for NaNoWriMo (ha, ha. I'm so behind it's pathetic), today's post is going to be a guest post.

For those that don't know - which is pretty much everyone - my dad lives over in Thailand.

Why does he live over in Thailand?

Well, to be honest, after reading his emails over the past couple of years, I'm not really sure.

At any rate, here are some of the funnier excerpts about life in Thailand. Oh, and for reference, here is a Tokay lizard (it's actually a gecko):

He refers to them, so I thought you might want to see what they look like.

And here is what they sound like:

The Tokay geckos live in the wall and during mating season they make that noise from 10pm to 2am.

And now onto his emails:

*******************************************

I was doing my nightly flashlight-in-hand-careful-of-snakes search of the eaves of the house for Tokay lizards. I found some small white globes under the eave next to the front porch......eggs.

I got a long stick and broke two of the three, but the last was hard to get to. While going after number three the mama lizard showed up. Of course I poked her with the pointed stick to either kill her or get her to move. She came out of the eave and came toward me, so I slapped at her over my right shoulder while doing the macho thing of dropping the stick and running to the other side of the porch.

I'm glad I was alone. (<--Becky in: BWAHAHAHAHA. But now it's on the Internet!)

I eventually replaced the stick in my manly hand and got close enough to pop the egg.

The next day a Karin guy came by and I asked him about getting rid of the mama lizard.He did what all of the Thais do - shrug their shoulders and say, "Let them stay, they are good luck."

Well, I don't need several two pound good luck lizards running up the kitchen wall when I turn on the light or lurking in the bathroom when I go there at night, so "live and let live" to me has become "live somewhere else or die".

Over here, in addition to a regular fishing pole with a rod and reel, you can buy a "fishing pole" that looks like a wooden rifle, but with just the wooden part. On this there is a very large rubber band and a six inch long piece of sharpened metal that you can attach string to - it's kind of like a cross bow for shooting fish.

Are you getting the picture yet? Can you envision Hunter Dad lurking the eaves of his domain with his tokay killing crossbow in hand?

YES!

.....Except they cost around $21 and I only have one lizard left.... so to make a long story short I have a six foot piece of metal with two of the before-mentioned projectiles welded to the end for stabbing. Hey, it beats a pointed stick. Oh yeah, I found out that if the lizard is nesting it will attack and can jump up to three feet. They are nicknamed the bulldog lizard because when they bite they don't let go.

So last night I went outside and looked several times for my adversary, but she not there....Anyway that is why I am late wishing you a happy birthday, I didn't forget, I was just trying to fight my way through blood-thirsty lizards to reach the keyboard. Hope you have a good birthday and I'll see you when I can.

*******************************************

You asked about how life here is going? Well, it is all bugs, beer and lizards right now.

Bugs: All kinds all shapes and colors. They have bugs so small they can fit through the screens in the windows. I believe these are the ones that bite the ankles, all the time. There is a bug repellent that works but you can't put it on all of the time. The next best thing is a fan - the circulating air keeps them away. My morning ritual is to get up, turn the computer on and make coffee as fast as possible. The reason for this is the "ankle biters " are hungry in the morning and they attack. I sit at the computer, but before I do I turn the fan on and aim it towards my feet to keep them away.

Beer: What can I say? It relieves the boredom. I don't sit around and drink beer all of the time, but once or sometimes twice a week we will go into town (30 kilometers round trip) and see what the tourists are doing. There's not a lot of tourists right now, so mostly we just sit and watch the cars go by.

Lizards: what can I say that I haven't already said?

A lot.

I am tired of them and have declared all out war on anything lizard-like. Why? The reasons are many right now. A week ago it was mating season for the house lizards, so they "chirp"ed. I didn't know lizards did that until I moved over here.

"chiik,ckiik,chiik,chiik" most of the night.

I had four living in my kitchen - they started getting together and having babies.

I'd open the refrigerator and one falls off the door and runs away.

Throw something in the trash and one runs out of the trash.

Go to the bathroom and lizards are on the wall.

Now, outside I don't mind, but just give me some space. So against whatever Christian upbringing I have had, and trying not to let the Buddhist people around me know, I stomp, swat, drown and otherwise destroy the little pests in any way that I can. "DEATH TO ALL LIZARDS".

When the boredom kicks in there is TV. Not much help - the programs here are really bad. They're mostly revenge/kung fu or monster shows. Every vampire movie ever made is on here on a regular basis. The advertisements for the next month on HBO are mostly second rate hits from years ago...."Guns of Navarone" with David Nivens (20 plus years old), "Inner Space" (10-15 years old), "Brian Stoker's Dracula" ...... you get the picture, I am sure. Anyway, all the shows are worthless. Today I watched "The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lava Girl" and "Earth versus Spider". Not a good day for TV.

*******************************************

The Lizards:

It is an on going battle. I have killed two more of the bigger ones and two or three of their babies. Now the house is crawling with the smaller, everyday type of "house lizard". I am constantly killing the baby ones.

It is funny how the attitude changes.

When I first got here I remember seeing a baby lizard in the bathroom and thinking it was a good thing - it will keep all of the mosquitoes away, so I kind of watched it grow up.

Now? A baby lizard? Get the flyswatter and kill the little bastard before it can grow up and have more babies.

Tonight I discovered an ants' nest between the toilet and the wall. I saw one of the big black ants go behind the upper part of the toilet, so I sprayed water and washed out 20 or 30 ants with eggs. I spent about 5 minutes killing them.

Things were finally things back to normal until I looked on the living room floor, and there was a different kind of ant, maybe 50 of them..... So again with the killing spree of God's little creatures. It seems like that is all I do anymore - run around trying to keep Thai nature at bay.......I hate environmentalists.

*******************************************

I have upset the ecological balance. About a month ago I killed one of the large Tokay lizards. I recently learned that they eat the other smaller lizards and I believe the baby Tokays.

I have been trying to come up with a way to rectify this and have devised a plan. I will paint myself green and yellow and live in the attic for a week yelling "TO KAY" between the hours of 10 pm and around 2 am. If it comes to it I may have to eat a few lizards just to convince them I am serious.

I hope it doesn't come to that.

My only problem is I don't know if the female or the male is the one that yells. If it's the male, no problem, I don't think I will be attractive enough to worry about it. If, on the other hand, the female is the one that does the mating yell...well, I worry about the aggressiveness of the lizard and the cramped space of the attic. I will let you know how my experiment works out.....life in the jungle gets weird.

*******************************************

It's All Worth It

2011-11-13T07:51:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was an...err... "trying" day with the DragonMonkey.

From the moment he woke up he knew exactly what he wanted out of life - he wanted whatever it was we, the parents, didn't want.

Don't jump on the couch? What's that we just said? He'd look slyly over at us from over his shoulder and then..... Jump. JUMP. JUMP JUMP JUMPJUMPJUMPJUMPJUMPJUMPJU---

When he is accidentally bad, he gets a stern talking to. When he is just plain bad, he gets time in the corner. When he's really bad, he gets time out in his crib until he is finished with whatever tantrum he's currently throwing.

When he looks at us with that angry little smirk and deliberately does whatever it is we just told him not to do, he gets three spanks (sorry, Internet, but them's the breaks - I hate people who hit children, but I do believe in spanking. If you don't understand the difference, then you should probably stick with time outs.) followed by time out in his crib until he's in a better mood.

Yesterday was chock-full of spank-then-cribs.

He fed the fish a big bowl of peanut butter.

He deliberately jumped on every piece of furniture we had - even going so far as to holler out, "Mama! Yook! Yook at me! Yook!" when I didn't notice he was being bad.

He colored on furniture.

He smeared food on the ground.

He screamed and chased and hit at the dog with his blankie, until we finally locked poor Bad Max up in the kennel to save him from the monstrosity that is my three year old.

He ripped apart his train table and scattered the pieces around the living room.

When we bought the train table the pieces were all screwed down into the board to prevent him from destroying the track. He has managed to do it anyways. The buildings are lopsided and threadbare from his rough handling, and the tracks are misaligned and missing sections from where he spent days on end using his fingertips to pry them up from the table. Instead of the cheerful, happy train table we had when we bought it,the whole thing has a desolate, desperate, half-abandoned air. The Bean calls it Chernobyl Station.

He threw fits every time we denied him anything.

No, DragonMonkey, you may not touch the kitchen butcher knife.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

No, Dragonmonkey, you leave poor Bad Max alone!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

No, DragonMonkey, you be nice to your brother! Don't you dare rip that toy out of his hands!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

No, DragonMonkey, stay out of the toilet! No, DragonMonkey, get off the kitchen table! No, DragonMonkey, no coloring on the furniture! Quit kicking the cats! Don't pinch the dog! Don't throw your toys! Leave the DVD player alone! Get off the furniture! No hitting your dad! Don't jump on me!

Etc, etc, ad nauseum.

When I took him out to go splash in rain puddles and play along the riverbed in hopes of improving his mood, he threw a fit when I took Max's leash from him for a brief moment.

I don't know if I mention this before, but about once a week he throws a pass-out kind of a fit. He'll silently cry/scream until he runs out of breath and turns blue. Then, before he can suck in a huge lungful of air to turn his silent crying into a loud shriek, he'll completely run out of air and crash to the ground and pass out.

It scared the crap out of me the first few times it happened. Then, on the third time, I decided to employ my grandma's technique. Apparently I used to do something similar - whenever I would get angry enough, I would deliberately hold my breath until I passed out, simply because I knew it bothered my mom.

Yes, yes, I know. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Anyways, the next time the Dragonmonkey initiated his pass-out-tantrum mode, I did what my Grandma did to cure me: I gave him a firm, no-nonsense swat on the behind, designed to startle him into a normal crying sequence.

It worked on me.

Unfortunately, it did not work on the DragonMonkey. Instead of startling him into breathing, the air whooshed out of him in surprised shock, turning him from kind a purplish-blue to a completely brilliant shade of cyan, and he dropped like a stone and stayed unconscious for about 10 full seconds.

When someone suggested I try water (spraying him with a water bottle), I got the same extremely stressful reaction.

Needless to say, when he wants to cry-to-passing-out nowadays, I just kind of let him do his thing. I stay close by to so I can catch him and lower him to the ground when his legs give out, but I just kind of ignore the theatrics in hopes he'll grow out of it.

So, yesterday, when I took Max's leash from him as we passed a jogger, to make sure Max didn't escape and go make a new friend, the DragonMonkey threw a fit. Once I lowered him to the ground and watched him begin waking up, I decided I might as well capture it on film, so I can torture him when he gets older. Man, I just really can't wait until he's a teenager.

The day didn't go much better from there. While I escaped off to the library to see if I could catch up a bit on my NaNoWriMo wordcount, The Bean accidentally grabbed the baby snacks (I bought some wheat puffed snacks to test The Squid's allergies...looks like he might be okay! Woohoo!) and fed them to the DragonMonkey. Oh, boy. GLUTEN. And loads of it.

By the time I came home, I no longer had a three year old child running around the house - I had a skittery, screamy, anger-filled, gluten-infested monstrosity of a child.

Unfortunately for me, The Bean had some work he had to catch up on, so I was on my own. Moping about the house by myself, I decided to head out to the local mall to let the DragonMonkey run around and burn off some of his gluteny energy. Frustrated, lonely, and vaguely depressed, I decided to try and curl my hair in hopes of making myself a little better before heading out into the world of carefree teenagers and gorgeous young 20-somethings. The end result was really pretty, but the fact that I had nobody around to show off to just made me feel even worse. I couldn't get grumpy at The Bean - the poor guy was working on a Saturday night.

Still. Poor me. Poor, poor Becky. All alone. Again. Nobody to share things with. Again. All by herself.... with only two whiny, angry babies to keep her company. Again. Poor, poor Becky.

With a trample of toddler hooves, the DragonMonkey screeched around the corner, and skidded to a halt in front of me. He stared at me for a moment, with wide eyes, pointed at my hair, and then petted his own head for emphasis, so I could know exactly what he was talking about.

"Mama!" he sounded breathlessly surprised, and he smiled widely. "You yook so cute!" It came out clear as day - this entire sentence from a kid who still speaks mostly in mumbles and two or three word sentences.

I stared at him in amazement.... had I just heard what I thought I heard?

"What'd you say?"

He pet his head, and then pointed at my hair. "Mama. You yook so cute!" He smiled at me in admiration for a moment longer then tore down the hallway and skittered around the corner.

So worth it. All of it. All the screaming, and the tantrums, and the stretch marks, and the bigger hips, and the sleepless nights, and the projectile puking, and the diaper blowouts and the lack of freedom, and the toys I step on in the middle of the night - all of it so worth it, just for that one moment.

Sexual Harassment

2011-11-11T13:57:00.001-08:00

Hey, do you all remember my poor coworker from this post?

Yeah.

You know - the one I basically called a hooker?

Well, she has her own office in the building, just like me.

Unfortunately for her, unlike me my fancy-schmancy office, she does not have her own personal thermostat.

When I walk into my office early in the morning, I crank up the heater, and five minutes later I'm nice and toasty.

Because, you know, it's just absolutely frigid down here in Southern California. I mean, sometimes I actually have to hold my Starbucks without the insulated coffee sleeve to warm my hands.

Can I hear an Amen out there?

It's okay, don't feel sorry for me. I'm a survivor.

Anyways, on those chilly mornings, while I am in my nice, toasty office with my personal heater, my poor coworker is freezing. I have no idea why her office is a good twenty degrees colder than the rest of the office, but it is. Maybe her heater vent is shut off. Maybe it faces on the wrong side of the building. Maybe it's haunted by an ice spirit. Like I said, I don't know what it's so cold, but it is cold. Very cold. As in, I'm-not-actually-being-a-weenie-it's-legitimately-cold COLD.

Yes. THAT cold.

To make matters worse, while I have accumulated a nice, thick, totally attractive layer of ~~pregnancy~~ ..... ~~post baby~~ .... ~~fashionably curvy~~ ....winter fat to keep me warm, my coworker is a tiny little thing. She's all bones, and sinew, and lean muscle.... which doesn't help her stay warm at all.

Anyways, earlier this week I walked in to hand her some mail and saw her huddled miserably in front of her computer, rubbing her hands briskly together in an effort to stave off hypothermia.

I had just finished a brisk walk around the office, and coupled with the fact that I had worn a sweater and had accidentally set my personal thermostat too high, I was warm. As in, hot.

"Wow, you look cold."

She nodded miserably, chafing her hands together a little faster before reaching out to grab the mail.

Our hands touched briefly - or rather, I should say my hand met her tiny little ice blocks she carried on the ends of her wrist. I've touched snowballs with more heat in them.

"Oh, WOW. You are really cold." I reached forward and grabbed her hands in mine, trying to share some of my warmth with her.

"Oh, wow..." She breathed. "You feel so good."

I couldn't help myself. I mean, you would have done the same, right?

"That's what she said!" I boomed, without thinking.

We both stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment, unsure what to say next, both feeling incredibly awkward about the fact that I was standing there, intimately cupping her hands in my own.

"Well, yeah, uh, I've got, uh... work. Ha. You know?" I dropped her hands and raced back to my office.

Who signed off on letting me out in public?

Seriously, whoever was manning quality control on that particular day really needs to be fired.

Excerpt from NaNoWriMo-land

2011-11-05T22:18:00.000-07:00

“Ellie, I’m afraid your services are no longer required by this company. You are not a good fit for our team, and the synergy you bring to this team is not cohesive. We are looking for team players here, team members who want to bring this company into the next threshold of productivity, not tear it apart.”

Ellie was breathing hard in anger, but somehow managed to keep herself composed. “Allen, are you even listening to yourself? Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Please, I think we can remain professional enough not to engage in more name calling,” Allen raised a conciliatory hand, trying to calm her down, but Ellie wasn’t going to have any part of it.

“No, I will not remain professional, not if being professional is being like the two of you. Allen, you’re speaking complete dribble,” Ellie raised her voice, speaking over the beginning of Allen trying to cut her off. “You sit there and speak about synergy and team cohesiveness, but you’re completely ignoring the fact that we’re not speaking about stupid ideas you learned in business school - we’re speaking about the law. What Carrie did was wrong. This isn’t a difficult concept. It’s illegal, and if you put this company’s name on it you’ll be an even bigger idiot than she is.” Allen's mustache twitched as his mouth tightened in anger, but Ellie was far from finished.

She whirled around, pointing her finger at Carrie. “And Carrie - seriously. Do you have any redeeming qualities other than a big rack?” Carrie spluttered in anger, but Ellie just raised her voice, speaking over her. It worked well enough on Allen, after all. “Well, do you? Because as far as I can tell, your main contribution to this company consists of mincing around in skirts, passing off other people's work as your own, and trying to see how much attention you can get by forcing us all to stare at your cleavage. If you’ve got something worthwhile to bring to the table, I think we’d all be happy to hear it.” Carrie sat there, the picture of delicate shock, covering her mouth with a well-manicured hand as her eyes began filling with tears. Ellie had to hand it to her – she had never met anyone who could cry on command better than Carrie.

Allen slammed both hands down on the table, standing suddenly. “Enough!” he roared. “Ellie, I will not tolerate you speaking to us like that.”

“Speaking like what, Allen? Honestly? What, are you so used to having people just spit your own ideas back to you that you get confused when someone actually bothers tells you the truth?”

“I said that is enough, Ellie! If there were an issue with the legality of her work, don’t you think I would have heard about it previously? What, do you have some kind of law degree that you didn’t’ divulge on your resume?”

The two of them stared at each other fuming in silence for a few heartbeats. In the chair beside her Carrie smirked, her crocodile tears from moments before completely vanished in her undisguised glee at the scene unfolding before her.

“No, I am not a lawyer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the education necessary to be able to tell right from wrong,” Ellie took a step forward, pointing at the proposal in front of her. “The proposal is a fraud. And you know as well as I do that if you decide to go through with submitting that proposal you’re just as guilty as she is.”

“So, refresh my memory. You have, what, a bachelor’s degree? In what - environmental sciences?” Allen shook his head with a derisive laugh. “I have a Masters in Business Administration - I am quite familiar with the legalities surrounding copyright infringement, and I don’t need a temporary employee to come in here and try to give me lessons on what I can and can’t do with my company.”

That was it. “Congratulations on your master’s degree, Allen. We’re all very proud of you. I’m glad to see your education isn’t getting in the way of your stupidity.” Ellie reached up to her name tag, unclipping it and tossing it on the desk. “I quit. No need to call security. I can find my own way out of here.”

Halloween and Allergies

2011-10-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

I'm a huge fan of Halloween.

It's kind of strange, and almost hypocritical. I really don't care for the actual holiday, as there is some really bad stuff that goes on during that holiday.

On the other hand... it's a holiday in autumn, which is kind of my favorite time of the year. There are pumpkins, and decorations in reds, and yellows, and oranges, which are my favorite colors. The air is crisp, and has a hint of winter in it. (Well, actually, it doesn't. I live in Southern California, so the air has a hint of 70-72 degree weather in it, instead of 72-74 degree weather. I just buy a Pumpkin Spice latte, put on a sweater, sweat slightly and pretend the air feels cool and seasonal.)

It's a holiday that revolves around dressing up in silly costumes, which is kind of one of my favorite things to do. I like silly costumes, even if I'm not terribly creative. I usually wear a great big Lion-From-the-Wizard-of-Oz costume. When I'm not feeling fat I throw on my chaps over my jeans and boots and go as a cowgirl. One year I went dressed up as Octomom. Another year I went as a cow.

In exchange for celebrating a holiday in autumn and getting to dress up in silly costumes, people give you candy. Why?

Because it's a holiday. In autumn. And you're wearing a costume.

It's like a great, big, happy circle of sugar-laden happiness. Halloween makes me happy.

This is why it makes me sad that the DragonMonkey can't participate in Halloween.

The DragonMonkey is allergic to gluten.

The DragonMonkey is allergic to dairy.

The DragonMonkey is allergic to all food dyes.

If you can find me a tasty candy that has no gluten, dairy or food dyes in it, I'm all ears.

Even if there is a good candy out there that meets the criteria, I seriously doubt the houses in our neighborhood will be giving it out. They'd probably get egged if they tried.

I've thought of dragging him with me from door to door to get the candy, but it just feels kind of mean. "Happy Halloween, DragonMonkey! Look at all the yummy candy! Now give it all to me. You can't have any. Go eat an apple."

See what I mean? I love the idea of trick-or-treating with my son, but it just seems cruel.

This why I was absolutely THRILLED when Sensitive Sweets offered a solution to my dilemma.

Sensitive Sweets is a new bakery that opened up down the street from us in Fountain Valley. It specialises in custom cakes and desserts for people with allergies. Everything they serve is gluten, dairy, nut, soy, and egg free. They'll also make it dye-free, upon request.

To be honest, after listing everything their food doesn't have, I'm not really sure what they ARE making their desserts out of. Sugar and unicorns? Happiness and rice flour? Special wishes from a trapped leprechaun?

I mean, I'm lucky if I can successfully bake brownies from a box. These cakes are gorgeous - and the fact that they're completely allergen-free is just mind blowing to me.

For the record, this is not a paid advertisement - they don't even know I'm writing about them. I'm just that grateful to them. Not only is it actually tasty stuff, but it really is gluten-free. I know, because DragonMonkey can sniff out a speck of gluten from five miles away. Sometimes it feels like he can get a rash if he just thinks about bread often enough. He has eaten several cupcakes from Sensitive Sweets over the past few months and never once had a speck of a reaction. I know they're careful about cross-contamination because the owner understands. She's a mom, she has kids with allergies, and she just plain gets it.

So, like I was saying, Sensitive Sweets recently posted a solution to my "Halloween vs. the Allergic DragonMonkey" scenario I've been facing, and it totally made my day. I thought I'd share it with the rest of you, in case there is anyone else out there who is facing the same issues.

Halloween Candy and Allergies: Trick or Treating with Allergic Children

Becky the Big Name Trainer

2011-10-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

His name was Boss.

Ever since I’d sent Jubilee off to be “trained” and he’d come back a couple hundred pounds lighter and sporting a wonderful set of spur scars, he’d had on again/off again issues with his back. It wasn’t a constant issue, and it wasn’t anything a quick trip to the chiropractor couldn’t fix, but it always seemed to crop up at the worst moment. Right now we were in the middle of the busiest season up at the ranch. With three rides heading out daily before noon and a long waiting list, we didn’t have time for Jubilee to be hurting. We also couldn’t afford for me to keep borrowing one of the ranch horses.

“I’ve got a horse you can borrow.” My farrier was like something straight out of a cliché western film. Don had a long, handlebar mustache, weathered hat, and deep, quiet eyes. He spoke with a slight drawl and had a quietness that drew people to him. He was the local horse-whisperer, or as close as we had to him. Out-of-control studs, “people-killers” ,half-crazed abuse cases… after a couple of months with him they all came up to you from the pasture in a big, friendly herd, vying for attention with good-natured respectfulness. Even today, years later, I've never met anyone like him.

I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of relying on a completely unknown horse, but I trusted Ron's opinion. If he said the horse was a "good-un", then he was. Apparently someone had dropped "Boss" off at his house in hopes of finding him a new home. I could ride him until he found him a home. It sounded like a great plan.

When Don came up the next day, it looked like he was dragging an empty horse trailer. I looked through the windows for a pair of ears, but couldn’t see a thing.

“Where’s the horse?” I asked, as he got out of the car.

As if he heard me, from inside the trailer came a long, deep, impressively masculine trumpet of a neigh. The other horses all sounded like soprano choir girls when they answered back.

“What do you have in there… Invisahorse?”

In response, Don walked around the back and dropped the back of the trailer….

...and out backed the world’s SHORTEST, FATTEST dark bay Arabian gelding. He looked like a claymation horse straight off a children's show – He was just a big ball of dough, with four little stick legs, a square little neck, and a a pleasant, albeit slightly long face.

“Don, what on earth…?”

Boss stared around, and trumpeted again. It sounded like the whinny of a 3,000 pound Percheron Stallion….. except Boss was MAYBE 14 hands, and about 1,000 pounds. He should have been closer to 750. I’d seen Shetland ponies that looked like skinny supermodels next to him.

“Don, that’s not a horse, that’s a pony.”

“He’s a good horse, Becky.”

“He’s short.”

“You like them short.”

“Yeah, but there's short and then there's SHORT. I don’t want my feet dragging along as training wheels.”

“He’s too fat to worry about that. Your legs are going to stick straight out, not down.”

I snorted. Don had a point.

I threw on a saddle and headed right over to the round pen and climbed on, walking him around for a few moments to settle him down. He was alert, a little overly responsive, but he seemed nice. We did a couple of figure eights in the round pen, testing how much he respected the snaffle bit and making sure his breaks still worked. After a few more laps I asked for a trot. With a slight squeeze of my calves he broke out into the world’s fastest, smoothest trot. We were covering ground at an incredible rate, and I didn't even have to post. I grinned over at Don, and gave him a thumb’s up. What a cool little horse.

Maybe Boss was a little short, but I didn’t care. I liked him.

When I crawled down, Don helped me untack. “You looked good up there, Becky – looked like he had a nice trot.”

“He was smooth! I really liked....” My brain caught up as I processed what Don said. “Wait, haven’t you ridden him?”

“No, he’s been in someone’s back yard for the past couple of years. They just dropped him off. I could tell he’d be a good horse though – he has an honest eye.”

“Don! You let me just crawl up there! How did you know he wasn’t going to bolt and run into a wall?”

“Well, he didn’t, did he?’

“DON! You’re supposed to warn me that he hadn’t been ridden in years! He could have bucked me off!”

“Naw, he’s not that kind of a horse. You can tell. Besides, if I told you he hadn’t been ridden it would have made you nervous. Since you expected him to be nice, he was. Don’t you like him?”

“Well, yeah…..”

“Well, then what are you complaining about?” He looked at me, eyes twinkling.

Boss was fun to ride. He was short, but he was fun He had just enough peppy alertness to keep me from going to sleep on our endless trail rides, but I never once felt nervous on him.

Of course, he was also pretty fat. Trail rides with him went at a very leisurely pace, as we had to stop at the top of every teensy hill and let him gasp and blowto get his heart rate back down. It felt like a last-chance workout scene from the Biggest Loser.

It took a couple of weeks before I started to see an improvement, but when we did, I realized he was an awesome little horse. He never complained, he approached everything with a willing, happy attitude, and he had that wonderful little ground-eating trot.

One day, when coming back to the barn after clearing trail, my boss and I got into a bit of a trotting race. My boss road a large, roan, 16 hand thoroughbred mule that could outtrot anything on the place..and probably off of it.. I felt a little silly riding alongside him, as from a distance Boss looked short enough to be a yearling. I’m not sure what set it off, but one minute we were both jogging along… and the next moment we were racing at a trot. Even the horses seemed to sense it. The boss’ mule had legs a mile long, and she swung out easily, eating up the terrain.

Boss lengthened his stride and kept up.

The mule went faster.

So did Boss.

Back and forth, back and forth…

Fast enough that I started posting…..

Fast enough that I started laughing....

Fast enough that I realized I didn’t even know it was POSSIBLE to trot this fast…..

and the next thing you know, Boss and I weren't just keeping up, we were pulling away into the front.

A head… a neck… nearly a length… a full length….

With a laugh, I reined the little guy in, patting his neck and cheering. “Take THAT, mule! Beaten by a dwarf!” I laughed, leaning down to give him a hug. He was the little engine that could.

Boss taught me that, sometimes, it’s okay to meet a horse on their level. You don’t always have to win.

The first time I rode him up to a stream, he acted like I was trying to asking him to travel through lava. He danced, he jigged, he tried to spin… he did it all so smoothly that I never actually felt frightened. He snorted, he blew, he raised his head up high and stared down at the tiny streambed with dramatic rolls of his eyes…. But he never actually crashed into the trees on either side of us. And he never tripped over the logs and rocks that he was dancing over. And he never threatened to bolt.

Basically, the whole thing felt like a big, gigantic, dramatic act… So I pushed on. It was just water, after all. And he stubbornly refused to go. And I stubbornly refused to give in. Eventually he soared over the stream with an undignified scramble of a leap. It was anything but pretty.

It was the same the next time, and the time after that. I was tired of being launched forty feet in the air every time I led a trail ride, so the next time Don was up to shoe a horse, I asked him about it.

Wordlessly, he motioned for me to follow him over to a muddy rivulet where a water trough had overflowed.

"Pretend that's a stream, and you're a horse. Cross it."

I shrugged, but obeyed willingly, and stepped over the stream.

"No, I said cross the stream."

I stepped back over it, the other direction.

"I said CROSS IT!" he snapped at me angrily, and I froze. What the heck? "Just cross the stream, and we can continue on with the lesson!"

I lifted a foot to hop back across.

"NO!" Don snarled. "Not like that."

"Well, what the heck do you want me to do, Don?" I stared at him, foot frozen in the air, frustrated and more than a little hurt. "I am crossing the stream."

"No you're not. I wanted you to put your foot down in the mud. You stepped over it."

"Well, why didn't you just ask me..." I'm not the brightest crayon in the box when it comes to horse training, but I am not completely hopeless. "Ooooh." Now I got it.

"Boss is doing what you want, Becky. You told him to cross the stream, and he crossed it. He just didn't cross it like you wanted. Maybe he can't tell how deep it is and he's scared. Maybe he doesn't want to get his feet wet and is jumping it, just the same way you hopped over this mud puddle. Who knows? You need to take a step back and realize he's doing what you asked, and not get both you worked up."

There's a reason horses liked Don.

The next day I saddled up Boss and headed out to the creek, eager to breach the communication barrier between us. . I was steady and confident, armed with new intelligence and a clean outlook on how to approach this issue. I was calm. I was quietly assured. I was alpha.

Fifteen minutes later, both Boss and I were sweaty, grumpy, totally pissed at each other, and still on the wrong side of the creek. I took a pause and let us both catch our breaths, insisting that he face the stream and not back up any further, both of us fuming.

I had no idea how to make him understand what I wanted, and it was irritating both of us. The problem was I wasn't fluent enough in horse. It sucked not being able to tell him what I wanted.

But what if.... what if I showed him, much the same way Don showed me?

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I got off, tucking the rein over my arm.

I walked straight into the stream, and splashed about, soaking my boots. “Boss, LOOK. It’s water. Water, water, water. You've been drinking in it practically your whole life. Remember that stuff you splash with your nose? It’s a million degrees today, so I'm not going to take that whole 'it's cold' excuse. It feels good. See?” I splashed some more, walking back and forth, soaking my jeans. “You don’t die, there are no alligators, there's no hidden pack of wolves in here.... nothing. Nada. Zip, zero, zilch. Nothing bad happens. You just get in, walk through, and walk out the other side. Get it?”

Boss stood there, head cranked up high, eyes rolling in anticipation of continuing our fight…. Watching me.

Intently.

I splashed a few more times, then brought him closer. Trembling, he reached down and flipped the water a couple of times with his mouth.

“See? It’s water. It doesn’t eat horses. It makes you wet. And then you get over it, you big ninny.”

I climbed up and urged him forward, half-expecting to jump right back into the fight we just had.

Nope.

Boss hesitated slightly, and then walked straight through the water, as if he’d done it a thousand times.

I was both elated and ashamed – why hadn’t I tried it earlier and saved us both a lot of trouble?

When we came to the next stream, after a minute or two of trying to force him to cross, I did the same thing. I got off, I splashed around and showed him that it wasn't a bottomless horse-eating cavern of death.

Boss watched, and then I crawled back up and we crossed.

After that, he seemed to trust my judgement. Something about the way I got off and led the way on the ground in front of him clicked with his brain, and I no longer had to get off to show him.

I felt like such a horse trainer. Screw Monty Roberts and his join up system. Pat Parelli and his seven games could kiss my dirty saddle blankets. They had nothing on me. I was Becky, Horse Trainer Extraordinaire.

A couple of weeks later, one of the other wranglers and I were out on trail again. He was on his own horse, and I was working with Chip, one of the string horses.

We came to a new streambed that neither horse had seen before, and for some reason both horses balked . After a couple of moments of both horses jigging at the water's edge, refusing to take another step forward, I knew what had to be done.

"Here, this works like a charm. Watch this."

Confidently, I dismounted and walked forward into the stream bed, making it about knee deep before I ran out of rein. "See? It's just water." I kicked and splashed for a moment, waiting for the light to click on in both horse's heads like it did with Boss.

"See? It's just water You'll be fine." I clucked a couple of times, pulling slightly on the reins, trying to coax the spooky little bay gelding forward.

Without any warning Chip obeyed - launching himself forward - right on top of me. I managed to stagger back at the last second as he landed where I'd been a second before, falling on my butt in the water as he blew past me. Somehow I managed to hold onto his rein, and as when he hit the end of it he spun around, snorting and dancing at the edge of the other bank as I tried to regain my feet. The current was stronger than it looked, and wet jeans and boots filled with water didn't exactly make me nimble.

Finally, finally, I stood up. I sludged my way over to the dry bank, leaning on the saddle as I struggled to empty my boots.

"Oh, yeah, Becky. You're right." With Chip on the opposite bank the other wrangler's horse suddenly remembered how to cross a stream, and was striding through calmly. "That worked like a charm. Great method. You thinking of marketing it?"

"Shut up," I said, as I started the difficult process of trying to remount in wet jeans.

Saturday Night Fun

2011-10-22T20:58:00.001-07:00

I've spent the last hour looking at this lady's pictures:

The Mare's Tales - Gypsy Mare Studios

Drool.

Shhhh. Don't interrupt me. I'm drooling over horses.

DROOOOOOOOL.

Camp Spooky

2011-10-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

Congratulations! You've been selected by GigaSavvy as a VIP member to attend...

Those weren't the exact words, but still.

Spam. UGH. I hated getting all excited when my phone told me I had an email on the weekend,only to find out it was just junk mail. I slipped my phone back up on themantel and went back to herding the boys.

Monday morning was busy, so it was almost noon before I had a break to checkmy emaill. A little bored, I decided to actually read the email beforecompletely deleting it.

Boy, am I glad I chose to do that.

It wasn't spam. It was a legitimate email from a marketing company, inviting me and my family to Knott's Berry Farm's Camp Snoopy.

It took a moment to sink in but when it did……Holy crap. My writing just got us into Knott’s BerryFarm for FREE. There would be breakfast with The Peanuts Gang. There would be rides. There would be costumes and candy.

Did I mention there would be rides? And that it was free? And that they chose me because of this blog? And that it was free?

Did I mention that I have a slight obsession with free stuff? I'd probably line up to get my head chopped off if someone advertised it as a "Free Guillotine Ride!"

After ~~bouncing around and squealing in excitement for the better part of a day~~ calmly sharing the news with friends and family, I didwhat any good parent would do:

I immediately set about hand sewing two adorable, classylittle costumes made out of organic dye-free hemp.

Ha. Haha. Ha.

No, I didn’t. I procrastinated about getting the boys' costumes all week long, waiting until the last possible moment on Friday evening after a long day of work. I decided to ignore the fact that it was dinner time and that we were all cranky and chose instead to drag two tired, hungry children to a Halloween Superstore.

The flickering lights, demonic masks, lifesize blood-covereddummies and soundtrack of anguished screams were all a REAL hit with theDragonMonkey.

Not.

About fifteen seconds after we entered the store, he beganpulling at my pants leg. “No yike. No yike dis. No yike.”

“Shhhh. It’sokay. We’ll be out of here soon".

“NO YIKE.”

“Here, it’s okay. Oooh, look at this!”

“No Yike. Outside. Pease.”

“This is a cute costume. Your baby brothercould be a fishie! And look, it’s onsale. What do you think, should TheSquid be a fishie? Seems kind ofappropriate, right?”

“NO! NO FISHIE! OUTSIDE!” He stared in horror at the wiggling skeleton above him.

“DragonMonkey, don’t look at that. It’s just… it’s fake. It’s silly. We’ll be out of here soon. Don’tbe scared.

"OUTSIDE. OUTSIDE!!!"

“DM, give me thirty more seconds. That’s all I need. Please.” I knew I had about 30 seconds before I had a full-blown meltdown, but ifI could just pick something reasonably priced in the next 30 seconds…

“OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE! NO YIKE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!OUTSIDE!”

His volume was increasing, and he was tugging even more earnestly at my pants, trying to lead me out of the store.

“Baby, it’s okay… Don’t be scared. We, uh… we justneed to find you a costume. Squid willwear the fish, and you will get….” Ireached down and snagged his collar as he tried to bolt. He twisted, whines building up. Uh-oh. I recognized that look. I hadabout two seconds before we had a complete, screeching, red-faced/sweatymeltdown. “Without a costume you can’tride the train tomorrow!” It was mean ofme, but it got him to stop and think.

“No twains?” Hechewed his fingers, shifting his weight nervously.

“No. No trains. Knott's Berry Farm won't let you on without acostume.” I was rifling through thepackages at top speed, trying to find anything…ANYTHING that would fithim. It didn’t matter if it was a fairyPrincess or a clown costume… just please…. something that would fit him…..

The skeleton above us, apparently set to go off at intervals, came to life witha howl, shaking suddenly, eyes flashingred.

“NO TWAINS! NO TWAIN! OUTSIDE! NO YIKE!” He screeched and pressedclose, jostling me, and I dropped thefish costume.

“Fine, DragonMonkey, we’ll leave.” I bent down to pick up the fish costume I'd dropped to return it to the hanger, andby the time I stood up, he was gone.

I was standing in the middle of an empty aisleway, baby onmy hip, fish costume in my hand, and no DragonMonkey to be seen, anywhere.

With a heavy sigh I dropped the costume and trotted to thefront of the store, certain I’d find him there.

Nope.

I checked a nearby aisle.

Nope.

I checked another nearby aisle.

Nope.

Losing your 2 year old in a store is such a fun, calming,totally not-panic-provoking experience.

I found him about a minute later, but oh, what a long minutethat was.

I located him when I finally heard a familiar screech. I bolted over to find him crouching awayfrom a snarling witch mannequin, sweaty, crying, and trembling with terror.

“Aww, baby, come here.” I picked him up with a grunt, ignoring the fact that he was choking mewith his clinging grip and lumbered outside of the store, doing my best to keepSquid from lunging over and pulling his brother’s hair.

I popped them both in the car and headed over tobright, happy, non-ghoulish Target, where to my delight I was able to find apair of pinstriped overalls in the little boys section. One red handkerchief later and we weredone.

He could wear his Thomas the Train hat and be a train conductor.

The Squid could go dressed as an 8 month old baby.

Like a responsible adult, I put off getting everything readyuntil the next morning.

I also failed to set my alarm clock properly..

If being a mom was a job, I’d probably be fired.

Instead of everyone skipping into the car, well-fed, dressed, and in happy moods, 7:15 in themorning found our house in utter chaos. The Squid was howling, DragonMonkey was jumping up and down on thefurniture squealing, “Twains! Twains! Wide Twain! Wide Twain! Twain? Twain? Wide Twain!”The Bean was loading the stroller in the car and I wasslapping together Gluten-free ham and soy cheese (eww) sandwiches and other snacks. Breakfast might have been provided, but theDragonMonkey is apparently allergic to everything except noise so we we always have to bring our own food.

We arrived 45 minutes late and stood at the back of a smallgroup of latecomers. I hadn’t been toKnott’s Berry Farm in years, and neither had The Bean. I think we were both more excited than theDragonMonkey. It was exactly the same asI remembered it – wooden planks and warm western decorations clashing with thebrightly colored roller coaster tracks twisting overhead, promising excitement.

Nothing had changed a bit, not even me.

Ha. Ha, ha, ha.

The last time I was there I wore stretchyjeans and tennis shoes – the better to run in. I had a flat stomach and a smaller butt, and I crowded the gate at opening time and dashed headlong along theaisleways to the best rides so I could be first in line, laughing with friends and reveling in myfreedom. I carried a wallet, and anextra scrunchy around my wrist to hold my hair back (in casethe first one broke.)

This time I had a husband, a baby, a toddler, a doublestroller, a diaper bag, a bigger butt, a bag of lunches, a baby blanket, twobinkies, a nursing cover, an extra pair of pants for the DragonMonkey (just incase), two hats, my purse, my phone, a sippy cup, and, of course, an extrascrunchy to hold my hair back, in case the first one broke.

Ah, well. I guess ifI were feeling optimistic I could add “cleavage” to the list above. There are some benefits to being a nursingmom.

We stood at the back of a group of stragglers as a woman with a badgehanded out flyers, VIP wristbands – and cowboy hats.

“Oooooh!” I brightened as she handed usa stack of four hats. Fun!

I immediately put on one The Squid – it fell around hisears, blocking his view. He beganwhining.

I sighed, took it off, and tried to put it on The DragonMonkey, who ducked and twistedaway. “No. No wide howsies. Wide TWAIN,” he said forcefully. No way. Uh-uh. He wasn’t falling for it –if I put a cowboy hat on him, that meant he would have to ride a horse, and hewas here for the TWAINS.

I sighed again, and put the hat on my own head --- where itperched uncomfortably high, several sizes too small.

And NO, I am not full of hot air – I have a big brain. That's why my head is big. Yeah, that’s it.

With an even bigger sigh, I tried transferring the hat to TheBean – who stood there stoically, staring at me with one eyebrow raised as I placed it on his head.

“You look good!” I said hopefully.

“Are you done yet?” He stood there, waiting for me to take it off.

I snagged the hat off of his head and stuffed the stack of hats grumpily intothe overflowing double stroller. Fine. No hats for anyone. We’d all just be hatless, and get skincancer from the sun. See if I cared.

We followed a volunteer past the front gates and western-themed stores and paraphernalia and up to the restaurant at the entrance to Camp Snoopy--- or rather, since it was Halloween time, Camp Spooky. I'd never been in the park before it opened, so it was kind of exciting. The decorations were light and tasteful - a couple of cobwebs, etc, etc. It had a nice Halloween-ey feel without creeping the kids out.

We parked the stroller in a small herd of strollers and set about unloading. I handed the baby to The Bean and unstrapped the DragonMonkey from the stroller. All around us therewere parents with children in various adorable costumes, all of them smiling politely andclutching their parents’ hands happily.

“Welcome to Camp Snoopy!” said one of the volunteers brightly. “Would you like to follow me?” A group of well-dressed, polite, VIP-type families began calmly ascending the stairs.

“TWAIN!!!!!” shrieked the DragonMonkey, twisting out of mygrasp and bolting in the opposite direction at approximately 37 miles perhour.

I bolted after him, catching up after a couple of steps and grabbing his hand to drag him back to the group. I was blushing. He was not.

“Is this where we get breakfast?” I tried to seem intelligent, mature, and arespectable, good mother, but the DragonMonkey had other plans. Why were we wasting our time here? There were twains to be ridden.

“Twains! TwainsTwainsTWAINS!” He shoutedhappily, twisting out of my grasp again and bolting in the other direction.

This time, when I caught him, he fought me, twisting wildlyand letting his legs buckle out from underneath him. “Twaaains! Twaaaaaaains!” he screamed.

I grabbed him by the back of his overalls and marched backto the restaurant, carrying him beside me like an angry, striped, howling littlebriefcase. He was beyond discipline - all of his little neurons were on sensory overload.

“Is this where we eat?” I gestured with my chin at the restaurant, ignoring theraised eyebrows on the volunteer. Whatever. Judge all you want, lady - let's see you do any better.

“TWAINS!” howled theDragonMonkey.

“Uh, yes. This is breakfast - just head on in.”

“TWWWAAAAIIIINS!!!!!”

“Thanks,” I said, starting up the steps.

“TWAAAII---“ Andthen, suddenly, there was silence, and the thrashing bundle under my arm went still.

There, in the doorway, stood a giant masked figure. The notice had said we would be invited to acomplimentary breakfast with “The Peanuts Gang!” I anticipated Snoopy, or Charlie Brown.

I had no idea who the costumed person in the doorway wassupposed to be, but as far as I could tell, it was “Leprosy Man”.

Look, I’m sorry if that’s not PC, but that’s what he lookedlike.

He was dressed all in black, with a flowing red hood, andhad a giant, misshapen, lumpy face and goggly eyes. Heblocked the doorway, and waved cheerfully – which was at complete odds with his“I’m-Going-To-Kill-You” mask.

(Hello. Welcome to Camp Spooky. Please come closer so I can eat your soul.)

The DragonMonkey instantly went into prey mode – maybe if he was still, Leprosy Man would be distracted and wouldn't see him. He was hangingtense and silent from his overall straps, soI lifted him up to my hip. He buried his face against my shoulder and his hands tightened painfully around myneck.

He wasn’t the only one.

“Daaaadddy!” shrieked the little girl ahead in front of us as she scrambled upinto her father’s arms.. “No! Make him go away!”

“No yike,” TheDragonMonkey whispered in my ear. “Noyike. No.”

“DADDDY! NO! Make him GO!” the little girl shrieked.

“No yike,” DM whispered again.

Hey, Knott’s Berry Farm? When hosting an event for little bitty kids, you may want to rethinkhaving Leprosy Man as the door greeter. It's just a thought.

Breakfast was a short, noisy affair. The Bean and I ate. DragonMonkey screamed “TWAIN!” at regularintervals. Eventually we managed to convincehim that it was too early morning and that the trains were barely waking up andwere off brushing their teeth.

Then, instead of hearing “TWAIN?” screamed every two minutes, we heard “BWUSHTEETH?” It wasn’t much better, but afterhours of “TWAIN?!” hearing anything else was kind of a relief.

Trains are very big on oral hygiene. Didn't you know that?

The Squid smiled placidly from his car seat before falling asleep for the next few hours.

Snoopy came by to say hi, but after his encounter withLeprosy Man the DragonMonkey wanted nothing to do with him. Snoopy did an admirable job trying to seemfriendly and approachable – he knelt down, waved, pretended to be sad that the DM found him scary, and otherwisedid everything possible to seem sweet and adorable. I bought into it.

"Awww, DragonMonkey, look! Snoopy likes you! Look, that other kid likes him!"

“No yike,” The DragonMonkey whispered tensely, poised to either bolt or scream. No way. He wasn't going to fall for the nice act. Snoopy obviously liked to suck children's brains out of their heads with a giant straw.

"You'll be fine, little man. Come on. I'll hold you. We can go together."

Okay, fine. No picturewith Snoopy.

Breakfast was tasty but not terribly memorable, Being theincredibly observant parents that we were, The Bean and I never realized thatDragonMonkey’s breakfast was served in an adorable little lunchbox. We thoughtit was just a piece of red plastic and we threw it away when we were finished withour meal. We didn’t realize our mistakeuntil about an hour later.

“Do you think… uh…. Do you think they’ve emptied the trash cans where we tossed it?” I glanced atThe Bean. What I was really asking waswhether he would be extremely embarrassed to be seen with me if I starteddigging through the trash in public.

“YES. The trash canshave DEFINITELY been emptied.” Translation: If you go dumpsterdiving I’m drawing up divorce papers.

I moped about for a few minutes before I had the bright ideaof begging a new lunchbox off of the kitchen crew.

They were incredibly gracious and gave us another one.

Yaaaay!

I was annoyed when The DragonMonkey saw me with it andclaimed it for his own. Being the adultsucks sometimes. I’m still waiting forhim to get tired of it so I can steal it back.

After that, the day kind of blurred. Chasing two kids around a theme park is exhausting, but worth it. The rides were pretty incredible. Going out in public with TheDragonMonkey is usually a chancy affair at best, but this time we. HAD. A. BLAST.

We had the park practically to ourselves for the first bit. It was pretty cool. The DragonMonkey went on all the rides.

He jumped on the bouncy house.

He flew the airplanes.

He rode in the little cars and smiled the whole time.

He rode in the little semi trucks with the annoyingly loud horns and smiled the whole time.

He pushed the kid ahead of him on the little go-cart ride and smiled the whole time.

He smiled the entire time we were at Camp Snoopy. I didn't even know that was possible. I knew he had that many teeth, but that's only because we're used to seeing them while he's in the middle of a meltdown.

Even The Bean had fun. At one point the Squid got hungry, so we took a break in the shade while The Bean snuck off to ride one of the big roller coasters. When he came back he was smiling and relaxed. If you look, you can see him waving happily to us, swinging his feet like a little kid.

I don't think I've seen him that happily relaxed in months.

After the rest of the park opened we left Camp Snoopy and went to visit the trains.

Yook! A twain! Yook! Yook! Yook! YOOKYOOOKYOOKYOOK!

Once we boarded the the train, the DragonMonkey became very quiet and very still.

Apparently riding in a train is something to be taken very seriously.

Hey, DragonMonkey. Psst... Over here.

No, over HERE.

How do you feel about being here at Knott's Berry Farm on a train - an actual, moving, chuffing, train? Are you enjoying yourself? How do you feel about Camp Spooky?

Yeah. Me too.

As far as I can tell, Knott's Berry Farm sprinkles Kid Crack on their streets every morning. You know what? I'm cool with that. Sprinkle away - if it can produce happy, relaxed DragonMonkeys, I'm all for it.

I mean, last night (in a fit of spite after I told him he couldn't jump on the couch anymore) the DragonMonkey snuck into the bathroom and got the toilet brush - oh, yeah. THAT toilet brush. The one that makes your skin crawl at the thought of touching it? The one I keep meaning to sanitize after I scrub our toilets?

When I heard the ruckus in the kitchen I thought he was playing drums with the kitchen utensils. Silly me. He was actually systematically "washing" all of pots and pans with the toilet brush.

When I took too long noticing how "bad" he was being he came over, grabbed me by the hand, led me into the kitchen, pointed at the disaster and said, "UH-OH. Bad." You know, just in case I couldn't realize on my own how horrified I was supposed to be.

If I'm really nice, maybe Knott's Berry Farm will give me some Kid Crack to sprinkle in my house, too? Pretty please? With sugar on top?

They May Take Our Lives, But They'll Never Take Our Beans!

2011-10-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish we still lived in a more romantic time... a time with horses, and knights, and honor.

I know, I know. If I was alive back then I'd either be dead or a really old lady. I'd crippled by work and arthritis, and I'd probably be toothless from mild scurvy and a lack of calcium. I would have married at 15, and with my fertility I would have 14-15 children instead of the two I have now. I might even have a grandchild or two.

Yes, yes, I know all that. I just choose to forget about that.

In my daydream, despite the fact that I'm female, I'm a totally cool warrior chick - like Paksennarion from the Elizabeth Moon series. I kind of imagine a world where women are equal to men and we can serve alongside them. Since it's my daydream, I'm in perfect shape, can run for miles and hit a target with my bow at 300 yards. Basically, I just run around, riding horses, defending justice, and kicking ass. I have a coat of arms, a family sigil, and a battle cry that I cry out to the heavens as I raise my sword and charge into battle.

It's a good daydream.

And then reality sets in, and I start thinking about how stupid I'd look wearing a coat of arms with the insignia of a piddling cocker spaniel.

And, you know, crying out "Beeeaaaaaans!" wouldn't exactly strike fear into the heart of the enemy. I'd just sound hungry, or like I was complaining about being gassy.

Oh, well. I guess it's for the best.

Regret

2011-10-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

When I was 22 I bought my first horse.

She wasn’t the first horse I owned – and in fact I still owned Jubilee at the time.

On the other hand, this was the first horse I had ever seen on my own, evaluated, decided to purchase and bought with my own saved money, no help from the parents.

A friend of mine had picked her up at the auction a few months before. She was a leggy chestnut, probably 15.2 or 15.3, maybe two or three years old, although she looked much younger. She didn’t have any papers, but she had long, long, thoroughbred legs and a dishy little arab face with absurdly big, sweet, warm eyes. Something about the way that she was built let you know she still had a lot of growing to do, and that when she was done she was going to be something.

Everything she did was dainty, feminine, and well thought out. She moved like a ballerina, never setting a hoof wrong. She was graceful, and beautiful.

Most importantly, she had a brain. You could actively see her thinking. There was something almost eerily human about her expressions.

From the moment my friend brought her back from auction, I suffered from a deep sense of jealousy. I wanted that filly. I NEEDED that filly. She was perfect – if you overlooked the fact that she was a little lame. It was hard to say exactly what it was – some days she was sound, and other days she was completely off in her front.

After watching my friend grow increasingly frustrated for a month or two, I made my move.

Two hundred and fifty dollars later, she was mine.

MINE.

I borrowed a friend’s trailer to go pick her up. When I saw the trailer, I was less than amused. It was a ridiculously tiny, two horse trailer. Rusted and short, it looked like it was built for ponies. Still, it was a trailer, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. I knew it was dangerously too-tiny, but I did it anyways. I figured it would take us quite a bit of training to get her to go in something that small, but she seemed like she might be willing. I set aside an entire afternoon to work with her and drove down to pick her up.

She walked right in.

I couldn’t believe it. I put on her halter, walked her to the trailer to let her sniff it, and she just ducked her head and wandered right in. Disbelieving, I snapped the chain and closed the gate behind her. I didn't tie her head, because it was a long trip and I wanted her to be comfortable. Smiling, I went to pay the money. I chatted for about 5-10 minutes beside the trailer before shaking hands and turning to head out. On a whim (and because she was MINE, finally MINE) I went to go check on her.

I hadn't anticipated her being so thin or so flexible. In her curiosity to know what was going on outside the trailer she had twisted her head around to look over her back, and was promptly stuck. The divider kept her from being able to straighten and the height of the trailer kept her from flipping it up and straightening it.

She was bent double like a pretzel, with her chin resting securely in the center of her back, her neck doubled completely in two. I tried to keep calm, but inwardly, I was freaking out - at any second, I knew she would explode and would snap her neck. I held my breath.

She stared at me with a pleasant, amiable expression. Hello. Can you give me a hand?

Moving quietly and quickly, I unhooked the butt rope and opened the trailer doors, fully expecting her to explode backwards.

She stared at me, eyeballing the exit. May I?

I walked into the empty stall beside her, and applied a bit of pressure to her chest, clucking twice.

She took two steps back, enough so her neck had the room to straighten out. She heaved a big sigh and gave a big shake, like a dog drying off.

She was half in, half out of the trailer, and standing there calmly. It was unreal. I gave a gentle tug to her halter, clucked twice…. And she stepped quietly back in. It was crazy. How could she be that smart? I tied her VERY well and took her home.

Personality-wise, I’ve never met a sweeter horse. You could tell someone had taken the time with her. She had a little bit of issues with boundaries that needed to be reinforced, but that was it. Even her ill behavior was endearing. I would sit in her stall reading books, and she would stand by me, sniffing, licking, whuffling my hair. Once, as I was engrossed in a particularly exciting section of a book, I completely lost track of what was going on around me. Lost in the world of words, the book sucked me in, the world fading into oblivion as the hero…

Disappeared.

There was a hoof on my book, right where I was reading.

I jerked up in surprise – and there she was, one leg lifted, hoof covering the book carefully, feather light, like a cat placing its paw on your arm for attention.

I laughed and shooed her off, then went over to groom her. Maybe I had to discipline her for her behavior, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t earned a little love.

The problem is she never got better - she was always lame in her front. First it was her front right knee, then both knees…. The vet said that she grew too much, too fast. Severe osteochondrosis lesions. There was nothing I could do. Something about excessive growth and poor nutrition as a foal... to be honest, I didn’t really pay attention. The only thing I heard was that she would never be sound. Surgery might make her more comfortable, but it wouldn’t ever heal. She’d never be rideable. She’d never be sound. At most she’d be comfortable and a really sweet pasture pet.

I gave her a couple of months, hoping for a miracle, but it never got better.

I was 22 years old and making $8 an hour. I already owned one horse. I tried to find her a home as a pasture pet, but no luck.

I should have put her down. But she was just, SO sweet.

I think every person has those moments in life where they would give anything, everything, to be able to turn back time and change a decision. You could go back to that pivotal moment and make the right choice, and change what you did, and be a better person.

You wouldn’t know the burning, secret shame of bad decisions.

I wish I had put her down.

Instead, I took her to auction.

I knew way less about auctions than I know nowadays, but I knew enough. I wasn’t fixing a problem. I was passing it onto someone else… or worse.

It was an absurdly hot day. By ten o'clock I was sticky with sweat. The auction yards didn’t have any watering troughs, so I let her drink out of my McDonald’s cup.

I couldn’t meet her eyes.

She was one of the last horses to go through. She went for $125. I didn't check with her new owners, because I didn't want to know.

I left without saying goodbye.

I really, really should have had the balls to put her down.

Communication

2011-10-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

The Bean is a stereotypical guy - he doesn't pick up on hints and he takes things pretty literally.

If I were to say to him in a pitiful tone, "I...I.... <siiiiiiigh>.....I don't want to talk about it right now...." He would take me at face value and change the subject.

Girly, emotional games are lost on him, which is fine, because I've never been very good at those kinds of games anyways.

Despite his lack of emotional intuition, I find that The Bean and I have developed an incredible, intuitive ability to know how the other is feeling.

When he's happy, I know it. I can hear it in his voice, and I can see it in his posture when he enters the room, before he's even spoken a word.

When I'm feeling down, or am grumpy, he picks up on it almost instantly.

It's almost eerie how he knows my moods, without me having to say a single word.

They say that good communication is the key to a good marriage.

I agree.

Ransom Note: I'm Sorry It Has Come To This

2011-10-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday! Drool

2011-09-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Mustang Diaries: Cascade Horse Fair

2011-09-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

Hey, check it out: If I am succesful with this new "link to" button I just tried out for the first time, you should get a link back to Mustang Diaries' post about the upcoming Cascade Horse Fair. I recommend checking it out---there's a picture of someone sitting comfortably on a cutting horse as it does its dance in front of a bull.

Mustang Diaries: Cascade Horse Fair

Now, you didn't hear it from me, but Tracey actually photoshopped that guy's head onto my body. That's actually ME sitting all relaxed and comfortable in that saddle.

....

.......

............

Dang. Nobody believed me, did they? Oh well. If you did, I was going to try to find a picture of "Olympic gold medal jumper" and see if I could convince you that was me, too.

Someday I'll be able to ride a horse like that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the DragonMonkey just ran past me, completely naked (two minutes ago he was completely clothed), opened the cabinet door where we keep the baggies to pick up Bad Max's poo, grabbed one, and then skittered out in the back yard, giggling.

This can't be good.

Mom Fanfiction

2011-09-23T12:46:00.000-07:00

The ~~lean young warrior stood poised~~ fat mom leaned in exhaustion, ~~muscles taut as she surveyed the path alertly~~ lower back aching from pushing the heavy tandem stroller.

She ~~slung the bow and arrow over her back, squaring her shoulders with a fierce determination.~~ reminded her toddler for the millionth time to quit picking his nose - no, don't you dare wipe it on the baby! Gross!

It was time to embrace her destiny. She was born for this, for something bigger than the banal trivialities of every day life. She'd known this since she was young, and spent years training and preparing for this very moment. She was a leader, a warrior, and even if she were to lose her life in this struggle, she would fight passionately against the darkness until the very moment of death. do some laundry. Boy, she had a lot of laundry to do - there was just no way she could put it off for another day. She'd have to start on it as soon as they got home. Hmm. Should she do the whites first, or the towels? Decisions, decisions.

~~A fierce joy swept through her body, and with a shout she leapt forward, running lightly.~~ She gave a heavy sigh, pressing her hands to the base of her spine, wincing. Man. Eight hours at a desk job was killer on the lower back. ~~Ever faithful, the warrior's wolf raced quickly alongside her, alert for any danger that might threaten his mistress as they raced along the sunbeaten path.~~ Great. The cocker spaniel was all wrapped up in his leash again. He stood there, confused and whining, ready to piddle all over the place if she approached him too suddenly.

In front of her, the toddler began to shift nervously--- why had they stopped? "Park? Park? PARK?! PARK?! PARK?! PARK?!" As if on cue, the infant picked up on his brother's whines and began a quiet whining of his own. She glanced at the two of them in exasperation. Couldn't she take two minutes to look at the sunset without both of them dissolving into a complete meltdown?

Hmmm. Maybe there's a reason nobody writes fanfiction about being a mom.

Clip Clop the Magical Trust Pony

2011-09-21T21:28:00.000-07:00

Becky Bean: Chicken Owner Extraordinaire

2011-09-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

Let me start this off by saying I like chickens.

Actually, that’s a bit bland. Let me rephrase:

I absolutely adore chickens.

I like the big ones, I like the small ones, I like the ones with fuzzy little legs. I like the way they eat insects, and the way they squabble when you throw food on the ground. I love their tiny little pea brains and how they forget about something 30 seconds after it just happened. I love their ineffectual flapping, their anxious little clucks, and I especially love the way they holler excitedly every time they lay an egg, as if it’s the first time it’s ever happened to them.

Ba-CLUCK! Ba-CLUCK! Holy crap, it’s an egg! Ba-CLUUUUUUUCK! Look, I made an egg! Look! It’s an EGG! Look, it’s an…. Oooh, what’s that over there? That looks interesting. Is it edible? Peck, peck.

Chickens: They’re the goldfish of the bird world.

I can’t wait to get some property so I can finally own some chickens.

Of course, this won’t be the first time that I owned chickens.

Oh, no. I’ve owned chickens before. In fact, I owned them for at least four hours.

Yes, that’s right. For one brief, glorious, golden evening, I was a proud chicken owner.

It was during the time I was a wrangler up at the dude ranch. One of the owners called to say that she had some chickens she needed to rehome, and would any of the wranglers be interested?

Chickens? Free chickens?

“Oh, sure., no problem. We can give your chickens a home. Just bring them up, and we’ll find a place for them…. Sure, sounds good. See you tomorrow.” I tried to seem calm, cool, collected… but my voice cracked a little with restrained excitement.

CHICKENS! I WAS GOING TO OWN CHICKENS!!!!! I would feed them, and love them, and collect their eggs…. I would train them to accept hugs and kisses and love….. I would carry them around with me under my arm..... During the long summer evenings my chicken friends and I would hang out on my porch – I’d read my book and they’d wander around, pecking at my shoelaces and flapping up to stand on the balcony rail..... keeping me company with their nervous, drawn-out clucks.

Could I train them to stand on my shoulder, like a parrot? If I worked at it long enough, could I train them to ride on my saddle with me? Chickens! Flappy, loud, feathery friends who would poop out little edible presents for me, every morning! I could hardly wait!

I spent all evening and the next morning in a flurry of activity. I cleaned out an abandoned chicken coop on the side of my house, going so far as crawl inside and scrub the wooden walls with a brillo pad. My chicken friends would NOT live in dusty filth.

I patched holes, sealed cracks, and made it completely weather-tight.

I spread a thick layer of shavings and followed it up with an even thicker layer of straw.

Hours later, I was dusty, red-faced, sweaty and exhausted, but I was also proud. Before me stood an incredibly fancy chicken coop ---- nay, a chicken mansion. It looked warm, cozy, inviting. I could just picture them filing in a contented, loud little line each evening, clucking out their thanks and appreciation.

Inside, I spread a generous layer of chicken feed. Chickens don’t have very big brains, so I planned to appeal to their stomachs. In time my chicken friends would grow to love me for the wonderful person I was on the inside, but until their little chicken hearts warmed up to me, I could at least make them love me for the delicious food I provided.

The other wranglers watched me in amusement as I sweated around the chicken coop, trying to make everything just perfect.

“They’re just birds, Becky. Stupid, edible birds.”

“They’re NOT just birds. They’re chickens. They’re MY chickens.”

“She’s giving them to you, then? I thought she was giving them to the ranch.”

“They’re going to live on MY property, so they’ll be mine. I’ll be the one feeding them, so it’s me they’ll end up loving.”

“Loving?” The guys looked at each other, smirking.

“Yes, loving!” I snapped. Stupid men, trying to get in between me and my chicken friends. Pah. They thought they could come between us? Whatever. Me and my chicken friends – we had a bond much deeper than that. We were homies. We were tight.

The day seemed to linger forever, but finally, finally they arrived.

The truck came down the dusty road, and in the back of the truck I saw an oversized dog kennel strapped down.

“They’re here!” I scrambled under the fence, abandoning the wheelbarrow half-full of manure.

Hold on, Chicken friends! I’m coming!

I danced around nervously as my two coworkers unloaded the dog kennel. We butted it up against the chicken coop, but the chickens were not going to cooperate. After a couple of hours in the back of a truck they were scared, sullen, and silent. We tried to wait and let them venture forth on their own, but the owner needed her kennel back. Finally, a decision was made to expedite the process. I winced, wringing my hands nervously as the guys grabbed the back end of the kennel tipped the chickens unceremoniously into the chicken coop. Instead of the peaceful, orderly line of chickens returning to their feathery home, I watched my chicken friends pour into their sanctuary an angry, flappy, noisy mess.

Onetwo…three…fourfivesixseveneight. Eight chickens – they were all there. Poor little guys.

I crouched down by the opening, poking my head into the door and talking softly. “It’s okay, guys. It’s okay. Shhhh. Just eat your food. Look! Yummy chicken food!” I picked up a bit of the food and tossed it at their feet, causing them to squawk and jump back in fright. They eyed me suspiciously in silence. First the car ride, then the unceremonious dumping, and now this stranger was randomly throwing crap at them for no reason?

“Becky, we need to feed.” The Head Wrangler was a calm, older man with a lot of experience under his belt. “Just leave the chickens alone. They need time to adjust.”

“Shouldn’t I lock them in there? I mean, with a cat, you lock them inside until they know it’s home. Shouldn’t it be the same for chickens?”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re chickens, Becky. They’ve got food in there. They aren’t going anywhere.”

“But I haven’t showed them where the water is – I mean, it’s in the back corner… what if they can’t find it?”

“They’ll find it.”

“But what if they leave?” I started wringing my hands nervously.

“It’s almost nighttime – the sun’s nearly down. They aren’t going anywhere. They’re not stupid – they know they either need to be inside or up in a roost by the time the sun’s down or they’ll get eaten. And once they sleep in there overnight, they’ll know it’s home.”

“But...”

“They’re fine, Becky. Now load up in the truck – we need to go load the hay.”

Feeding seemed to take forever. It was past twilight and edging into the darkness of dusk when we finally finished. I hopped out of the truck before it had even rolled to a stop and trotted over to my chicken coop to peek on my new friends.I poked my head cautiously inside the hole and….

Empty.

Gone.

Not a chicken to be found.

“They’re gone!” Desperately, I tore around the yard, looking for them. Behind the bushes? Nope. Under the eaves? No. Waiting for me in a loving little flock up on my balcony? Negative.

I don’t know what drew my eye to the distant hillside, but even when I did look, it took a moment to see them.

There, trotting purposefully up the mountain front, in a peaceful, orderly, single-file line, were my chickens. They were so distant that they weren’t much more than tiny little spots of color on the otherwise drab mountain. They’d already made it past the horse pasture and the ranch boundary line and were marching resolutely into the Sequoia National Forest.

It was obvious they’d had enough. First the truck, then the dumping, then the tiny, dank little hole and the woman who threw things at them? Nuh-uh. They weren’t sticking around for this. That’s it – they were done. There was plenty of space out there for them to live in chicken freedom without having to worry about that sort of nonsense again.

One, two, three four…five, six, seven eight. Eight chickens. I counted them sadly.

And never saw them again.

I imagine they’re still out there, lean, rangy, half-wild and with lightning quick reflexes, like the chicken version of Lord of the Flies.

And don’t you DARE tell me otherwise.

Think He'd Buy It?

2011-09-17T22:18:00.000-07:00

What if I told The Bean that she followed me home?

Hmm. That might be a bit of a stretch, considering I live in California and she's situated over in West Virginia.

What if I told him that she had the ability to predict winning lottery tickets, and then when it didn't pan out I could just tell him that she lost the ability, like a little kid losing his baby teeth?

Or, hmmm...

What if I told The Bean that I pet her too much and her owners refused to take her back, saying she didn't "smell" right anymore? I mean, birds do that, right? Think he'd buy it?

Of course, I'd still have to come up with the money to buy her. I'll worry about where I'll actually keep her later.

Maybe I could hold a bake sale? Would anybody like to buy some brownies? That should be enough to raise the money, right? Would anybody like to buy a $650.00 brownie? Maybe two? Let me know ahead of time how many you want - I need to head over to the grocery store to pick up a couple of boxes.

I mean, look how happy it'd make me.

SIGH.

Horselessness sucks.

Oh, Well. I Tried.

2011-09-14T21:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, as a parent, you get these really cool ideas about all the neat things you're going to do together with your child.

Unfortunately, soon after they're born children tend to develop their own personalities and opinions.

In other words, reality sets in and ruins your golden little dream.

Here's a good example:

Before the DragonMonkey was born I had the greatest little scenario I'd like to imagine. There I'd be, leaning back on my couch, my tiny son curled up on my chest, cuddled all warm and soft against me. I'd lean my head down and breathe in his baby scent, then lay my cheek against him, close my eyes, and smile....

See? Isn't that a great daydream?

For weeks I tried to get The DragonMonkey to comply. I'd tuck him against me, and hum to him, and pat his back, and swaddle, and unswaddle, and do everything possible to make him live out my little mommy-fantasy, but he wasn't having anything to do with it. Fall asleep while being held? Are you kidding? There's entirely too much to look at it! Kick, kick! Wiggle, wiggle!

One evening I came home from a late shift at my old bartender job only to be met at the door by a incredibly smug Bean.

"Guess who fell asleep on Dada's chest?"

"What? How? You're kidding, right?"

"Nope."

"I've been trying to get him to do that for weeks! How'd you make him.. How...?"

"I guess he just wanted his Dada," he said, oozing superiority like some kind of palpable disease.

Sometimes I think it should be legal, moral, and totally acceptable to kick your husband in his shins. I'm just sayin'.

Of course, I wasn't the only one with a dream..

Before the DragonMonkey's birth The Bean haughtily informed me that we weren't going to have a lot of those silly, plastic kids toys in our house.

"And no dumb baby books, either. If he doesn't ever get any, he won't know what he's missing."

"So, what, he's just going to pick up reading by osmosis?"

"No, we'll get him good books. Educational books." He paused for a moment, dreamy-eyed. "He can visit his dada at work once he's older, and he'll sit there by my desk, working on a math book all afternoon, because he won't know any different."

"Oh, reeeeeally? And just how old is he, in this scenario?"

"I dunno. Don't give me that look! I don't mean taking him as a little baby. I mean, I know he'll have to grow up a bit first. Maybe two years old?"

Ha.

Ha ha ha.

Ha.

It's okay - you can laugh at The Bean with me. He's used to it by now.

So where am I going with this?

Here is where I am going with this:

There I was, sitting there at the world's longest red light, and I thought to myself--- Wow. I really want to sing me some Rick Astley.

And HEY, how cool would it be if I could teach the DragonMonkey to sing along with me?

Obviously, that would be really, really cool.

Man, I better drag out my phone and record this. This is going to be epic. We are so going to have a really cool, wonderful, remember-that-time-when-you-were-two-and-we-sang-Rick-Astley-together bonding moment right now.

I really don't know what I thought was going to happen.---did I really think he was just going to burst out into song with me and the two of us would be some kind of harmonious, uber-cool Rickrolling mother-son team?

The kid can't even pronounce the word "bubbles". He still calls his oatmeal "Nonope". Seriously, what was I thinking?

Oh well..... another dream dashed by reality.

Of course, I guess if it really was my dream I should probably have tried to learn the right lyrics. It wasn't until I listened to it a second time that I realized I was singing "lay" instead of "let". Apparently my Rick Astley carries me everywhere.

Yeesh.

September 11, 2001

2011-09-11T21:52:00.000-07:00

I woke up with a start.

As far as I could tell, it was the middle of the night. I sat there, still and quiet in the dark room, trying to get my bearings. What woke me up? It wasn't unusual for me to be jolted awake in the middle of the night. Since Grandpa died I had been having nightmares several times a week---- horrible, emotionally draining dreams that I did my best to forget as soon as I woke up. During the final few weeks of his life Grandma and I had taken to sleeping in the same room. We both had our reasons, but basically it boiled down to the fact that we needed each other. Death isn't pretty, and knowing someone was in the house with you made it a lot easier.

I listened to her soft, rhythmic snores for a moment, glancing over at her. No, no, everything looked normal there.

Why was I awake? And why couldn't I shake that something is wrong feeling?

I strained my ears, but I couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary in the house. Besides, between the German Shepherd in the yard and the cockatiel in the hall, somebody would be hard pressed to break into our house unnoticed.

I held my breath, listening.

Nothing. The house sounded peacefully normal. I gave a shrug and rolled over in my bed, burying my head beneath my pillow as I sought sleep.

No such luck. Instead of feeling sleepy, the anxious feeling grew worse, twisting my stomach. Something wasn't right. Something was really, really not right.

I sat up in bed quietly and glanced at the clock. I don't remember exactly what time it was - somewhere between 2 and 3 in the morning.

Witching Hour. I hated that term. Suppressing a shiver I lay back in bed, pulling the blankets up around my shoulder tightly. I stared quietly at Grandma and tried to let her soft breathing lull me back to sleep, but it was no use. I was too anxious--- no, not anxious - fearful? Filled with foreboding?

I contemplated calling my mom and stepdad to pray with me. I knew they wouldn't mind, but still, I felt a little silly.

Hi. No, everything's fine. No, I'm not hurt. No, I don't need you to come get me. Can you pray with me? I'm nervous. No, there's nothing wrong. No, there's nothing going on in my life. No, I didn't have a nightmare, and no, I am not upset about Grandpa. I just feel like something's wrong. It's not an anxiety attack. No, it's not---

Yeah. I probably should have called, but I just didn't feel like dealing with trying to explain my feeling. Besides, I was comfortable in my bed and didn't want to get out. Of course, that didn't mean I couldn't pray on my own. I buried my head beneath the pillow, closed my eyes, and prayed until I fell asleep.

I slept late the next morning. My morning class didn't begin until late morning, and after my little middle of the night wakeup session I wasn't feeling too perky.

I lay in bed, bonelessly, enjoying the morning, when I sensed the bedroom door opening. Propping myself up on my elbow, I smiled at my Grandma. "Good morning."

"We're at war."

"Wait. What?" Her words made no sense to me.

"Somebody bombed us this morning - we're at war." She spoke to me gravely, and without a lot of fanfare. This was the voice of experience, sad experience - a woman who had lived through The Great Depression, World War II, The Korean War, Vietnam, and countless other battles.

I stood up quickly, peppering her with questions as she lead me to the living room, and ultimately the television set.

Where?

The Twin Towers.

What happened?

Someone flew two planes into them.

Is everyone okay?

No, of course they're not. The buildings collapsed.

Why didn't you wake me?

I didn't know it was going to happen. I tuned in right after the confusion following the first plane, and then when everything else went down, I wasn't sure you wanted to see it.

I sat there numbly beside her, staring at the images. It seemed surreal - too much for my brain to handle.

For once, even the news stations seemed subdued. There was no point in trying for sensationalism - it was awful enough without any gimmicks. The worst part was not knowing ---- how many? How many died? How many were still trapped? Why? Was this the end of the attack, or just the beginning?

The uncertainty that had gripped me just hours before returned, settling in my stomach as I sat beside my grandmother, silently watching. Mushroom clouds of ash, grey, numb faces..... I closed my eyes as they showed the footage of the jumpers.

The jumpers.

I could handle the rest, but the sight of the twisting, falling bodies, choosing flight over fire.....

One rabid young reporter - cloaked in the same colorless uniform as dust as everyone else - stationed himself at the foot of one of the towers.

"This is Generic News Station One, reporting live from the base of what used to be the south tower. Behind me you can see the decimation, the.." he trailed off, looking over his shoulder as two firefighters stumbled from the wreckage. "Here! Here we have two heroic firefighters, just emerging from what appears to be a dangerous trip in the unstable wreckage, risking life and limb in an attempt to pull people to safety. Tell us - what is it like down there?"

The older firefighter stared at the reporter, then simply left.

The reporter didn't miss a beat, simply shifting his microphone to the second, colorless, grey-cloaked firefighter.

There was a pause, then:

"You don't want to know."

The young firefighter shook his head, sending up a cloud of dust, voice distant. Emotionless. Haunted.

The reporter pressed on. "Our viewers back home are praying for you and your fellow emergency service personnel.... they are watching, desperate to know.... what is it like down there? Is it chaotic? Are they evacuating, or going back in? Were you able to rescue anyone? How did you escape? Tell us - what is it like?"

Leave him alone, I thought, hating the reporter, his questions, and all news media. Savages. Wolves. Crows, pecking at the eyes of a fawn. I hated that reporter, yet I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

The fireman ignored the camera, which was inching closer, zooming tightly on his grey face and bleak, bleak, seen-too-much eyes.

He stared at the reporter in silence - an uncomfortably long silence, made doubly so by the fact that it was a national news station.

"You. Don't. Want. To. Know." He brushed past the reporter, leaving him shaken. The reporter stared after him for a quiet moment, before regrouping and facing the camera again.

The way he said it - the look in that firefighter's eyes - it said more to me than any images I've seen. It still haunts me.

I remember struggling with the decision about whether or not I should go to class. I'd had a busy day planned that day - school in the morning, followed by driving out to help Thom Cain with his horses. A late lunch with my grandma, and homework.

But now there was----this. Death. Uncertainty. Fear. Horror. How was I supposed to go to class when something like this was going on?

Slowly, the fear and sorrow began to evolve. The longer I thought about the more I realized that something about the whole thing made me mad.

And not a little bit mad.

A LOT mad.

How dare they? What a waste. What an absolute, disgusting waste of human life...and for what? War is bad enough, but this? What was I supposed to learn from this? I mean, they must have an agenda, right? Who they heck were "they" anyways? How was this supposed to make me aware of their cause? Was it supposed to make me feel like they had something worth listening to?

It pissed me off.

Screw them. Screw them and their planes. I wasn't going to spend the rest of the day hiding in my house, glued to the news media. Unlike the people in those towers, and on those airplanes, I still had my life, and I intended to keep living it.

And I damned well didn't intend to live it in fear.

So I went to school.

And I drove over to Thom's house. And I saddled up one of his stallions and rode it, despite the fact that I'd never ridden a stallion before.

I convinced my Grandma to go with me to Bakersfield for lunch. I had no appetite, but I ate anyways. My lips were thin with anger, my chin was jutting stubbornly, my stomach was nervously complaining, but I ate that damn lunch.

We listened to the radio the entire way and the entire drive back.

We didn't exactly laugh and have a good time.

But we went. I was bound and determined to fill that day with memories other than carnage, and horror, and sadness.

And you know what?

The stallion was sweet, and the ride was thrilling.

The lunch was delicious.

My classes were informative.

Maybe I don't remember all the details of each event, but I did something other than mourn on 9/11. I lived my life, in honor of those who had no life left to live, and in silent protest against the day.

I was twenty years old on 9/11.

It's been ten years.

Grandma's dead now. I sold my old Ford Ranger. I am no longer living in the valley. I have a husband. Two beautiful boys. A career. A savings account.

Life did go on, one tiny step at a time.

But you know what? If I close my eyes, I'm right back there on that faded white couch, worn leather creaking as Grandma and I lean forward, staring quietly at the outdated television

It's the first time we've had a terrorist attack on our own soil, Becky. You watch. This will change things. Before, this sort of stuff has always been somewhere else. Now it's here. They hit us at home. We can't go back. This is going to change this land.

I nod, averting my eyes too late as they show another clip of one of the jumpers.

The jumpers.

I wish I hadn't gone back to sleep. I wish I had stayed up in those pre-dawn hours, and prayed. No, it probably wouldn't have changed anything, but still.

I wish I had stayed awake and prayed.

Lazy Summer Evenings

2011-09-10T20:08:00.000-07:00

As nice as it is sitting around the house, teaching the boys about etiquette and the finer things in life,

I'm trying to take advantage of summer.

For all I complain about living in SoCal, sometimes there are perks.

The beach is quite nice.

After work I'll toss the boys in the car and drive down to the pier. Traipsing about in the sand while the sun lingers in the golden sky is a very nice way to end a busy, stressful day.

DragonMonkey and the Squid seem to have a good time.

It's nice to see them bonding as brothers.

Some nights the thought of dealing with sand and the inevitable meltdowns is too much.

I'll plop The Squid in one of the many carriers I have around,

slap a leash on Max, and off we'll go.

It's hard for me to be depressed about my life if I'm outside. Besides, both the DragonMonkey and Bad Max seem to enjoy our new evening rituals.

Last weekend I dragged The Bean with me out on a walk.

"Come on, you'll enjoy yourself. It's beautiful outside! Sun, breeze, fresh air...."

I grabbed his hand, and pulled him to his feet.

"You won't regret it."

The four of us set off to walk along the riverbed trail.

It was really nice.

BadMax and the DragonMonkey forged ahead. The DragonMonkey's extremely proud of the fact that he is walking HIS dog, and he makes sure everyone we pass knows it.

"Walk MAX. I walk Max. WALK MAX. Yoook. Yook at me. WALK MAX," he hollers.

The sound of the sand crunching beneath my sneakers was soothing, and The Bean and I walked along in companionable silence, shoulders bumping.

The afternoon breeze was light, but the day was warm enough that it felt good against my skin. I closed my eyes slightly and tilted my face up to the sun, smiling slightly.

Something fluttered against my hand, brushing down lightly.

Landing? Did something just land on my hand?

Umm... did I have a bug on my hand?

I pride myself on not being a squealy girly-girl about bugs, but still... did something seriously just land on my hand?!

With The Squid strapped to the front of me I couldn't just glance down, so I did the next best thing: I shook my hand, blindly trying to flick it off.

Something large clung tightly to my finger... AND BIT ME.

It's amazing how quickly someone who prides herself on not being a squealy girly-girl about bugs can throw her pride out the window.

"EEEEE! EEEE!" I flapped my hand frantically, accidentally smacking The Squidgelet in the process, prompting him to howl. "Eeee! Get it off! Getitoff! Getitoff!"

I shied into the Bean, hard, throwing him off balance. I could still feel it, whatever it was, heavy and flappy, clinging tight to my hand. I flapped it against my thigh, trying to squish it, but it clung stubbornly and bit again.

"EEEEEEE!!!! GETITOFF!"

With one last flick I felt it come loose and out of the corner of my eye I saw it falling towards my pants leg. I bounced to the side with another squeal...

And watched as a large butterfly fluttered brokenly to the ground.

I stared at it in confusion for a moment.

"It's a just a BUTTERFLY. It's a MONARCH BUTTERFLY." I looked up to see who spoke and saw a pack of bicyclists riding past me, all glaring at me with similar looks of disdain and accusation. Stupid sissy girl. Butterfly killer.

I blushed, and busied myself trying to soothe The Squidgelet. I didn't look up until the sound of their bicycles and their feel of their judgy, judgy eyes were far in the distance.

"It bit me," I explained to The Bean.

"Butterflies bite?" He raised his eyebrows.

"WHATEVER. I know what I felt."

Ahead of us, the DragonMonkey and Max were stopped, watching us. "Bug? Mama kill bug?" The DragonMonkey watched me, eyes wide. Learning.

Yes, that's right, my son. In this family we destroy butterflies. We also eat spotted owl soup and warm ourselves at night with our baby seal blankets.

"No, DragonMonkey. It was a mistake. Forget about it." Right. As if. "Let's just keep walking."

"Butterflies bite?" The Bean asked again, smirking.

"Shut up."

I came, I saw, I rode... and Conquered

2011-09-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

Labor Day weekend.

It was our last real weekend together as a family until Thanksgiving. The Bean is taking 18 units this semester in addition with his normal full-time job. I expect I'll catch glimpses of him between now and then, but that's about it.

He graduates in May and we both agree it just can't happen soon enough.

Since there is only one real way to celebrate a three day weekend, there was little doubt where we'd go:

Bakersfield.

Horses.

Am I sounding like a broken record yet?

The DragonMonkey shows every sign of becoming a full-fledged member of the horseaii society. (Mugwump, did you come up with that phrase or did you hear it somewhere else?)

He didn't sleep at all during the nearly three hour drive up to Bakersfield.

"Howse? Horwse? Wide Horwse? Wide Horwse? Pet Horwse? Niiiice, howrsie. Niiiice. Ride? Ride Horwse?"

It was cute at first, but after three hours I was almost wishing horses didn't exist.

We saw Cotton's new filly, who at three months old is growing up to be quite the little looker.

I finally got a chance to ride Willy, Ms. Pal's three year old son. I took a couple of hurried pictures, which I promptly forgot up on a camera chip in Bakersfield. The pictures are hurried, because I WAS hurried. There was a horse. And he was about to have a saddle on his back. And my butt was going to be in that saddle.

Who can be bothered with photography in a moment like that?

Willie is, sadly, quite handsome. I say sadly because I'd like to own him, but he's out of my league. He's 15.2 and will probably end up 15.3, huge (and not finished filling out yet), beautiful head, kind eye, intelligent, beyond sweet, great feet, and packaged nicely with a stunningly flashy deeply silver red roan coat. He's the kind of horse that markets easily, goes for good money, and then sells for even more money when he's a little older, if someone doesn't keep him for liffe. DARN.

The ride was great - Willie was fresh - quite fresh, actually. I surprised myself by swallowing the butterflies and actually enjoying myself. Immensely.

I got up on an extremely fresh three year old I've never ridden before and took him out on trail. We set off in a long trot and worked on headset while Bunnygal rode the unflappable Rocky (her stallion) alongside us.

I feel like I crossed some sort of milestone in my riding. Two or three years ago I would have been miserably nervous, which would have fed Willie's energy. I would have battled him into a jiggy walk and be scared I would lose control the entire time. Instead, I got on, raised my eyebrows as I felt the loaded bomb of a horse beneath me, and took off at a trot to get rid of some excess nerves. Willie settled right down, and we both had a blast.

The next day we went out to visit MaryJane, who is currently in training. Remember MaryJane, Rocky's first foal?

Well, she's not a gawky yearling anymore. It's amazing to me how much she's filled out in a year.

She's in training with a local cutting trainer who says she's doing well. Very well.

She still has her fancy buckskin roan coloring.

And she's still sweet.

Really, really, really sweet.

I think the DragonMonkey and I both fell a little bit in love.

I had to separate the two of them when she started licking his head and making his hair stand up on end.

I also got a chance to hang out with some cows. I like cows. Yeah, they're not the brightest animal on the planet, but I like the way they look at me as if I'm the most fascinating creature to walk the face of the earth.

Whenever I see this:

THIS is really what I see:

(if you have crappy eyes like me, click on the photo to read their thought bubbles)

See? The sky's even brighter and the field is even yellower when cows are around.
(It has nothing to do with me learning how to use a photo editing service, either.)

Of course, the horse the DragonMonkey and I both really fell in love with on this trip was Ms. Pal.

I mean, how can you not? She's just so stinking sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet. I wish I were better with a camera so I could show how she'd lower her head and close her eyes and just melt into the clumsy little pets that the DragonMonkey kept bestowing on her.

She's just a total sweetheart.

Ms. Pal's always kind of taken a backseat in Bunnygal's herd. After being greenbroke (and poorly at that) as a two year old, she took a hiatus as a pasture ornament and broodmare. She throws her great conformation to every foal, and most importantly, she gives them her incredibly sweet, willing attitude as well. I always enjoyed visiting with her, but there were always flashier horses who captured my eye and attention. Recently, Bunnygal started riding her again. She probably has about twenty or maybe thirty rides on Ms. Pal over the past couple of months.

When we first arrived at Bunnygal's place I immediately noticed that Ms. Pal was standing tied at the rail with a saddle on her back.

Normally I don't like getting up on anything less than a well-trained horse. I don't have any real lessons under my belt aside from the helpful critique's Bunnygal's been giving me over the years. Not only does it make me nervous to be up on a greenbroke horse, but it really emphasizes how little I know. I hate that feeling of getting up on a horse and feeling it deaden up and go numb beneath me because I'm not being precise with what I ask.

On the other hand, I've been hanging around Ms. Pal for years now, and I was dying to try her out.

I hopped on, and WOW. I'm beginning to realize it may not be the horse, so much as the way Bunnygal trains, but WOW. What a "click". Even though she probably knew less than any horse I've really ridden it didn't seem to matter. She was light and responsive, steady, and approached everything I asked of her with her customary sweet, willing attitude.

When we trotted I had one of those moments where I felt my center of balance sink deep in the saddle and it felt like nothing could make me fall off.

I love those moments.

Afterwards, we gave her a bath and let The DragonMonkey walk her around until she dried off. Considering it was 100+ degrees and the middle of the day, that didn't take long.

I will be really sad the day he outgrows the "menial tasks are fun!" phase.

I also learned that roundpens are good for more than working horses.

I want a roundpen in my backyard now.

I can't really figure out how to end this blogpost, since it wasn't really anything more than me sharing some photos and blabbering on about how much I like horses. I know, I know, it's not exactly thrilling stuff. I promise that it's only a matter of time before I spastically embarrass myself at my work office or say something idiotic in public. When I do, I'll be sure to share it with all of you. Maybe I'll even find some old Jr. High photos of myself and we can have a "geek-off" and see who was the nerdiest.

I bet I'll win.

Meanwhile, I am going to shamelessly plagiarize from Haiku Farms , and since I live down in Southern California and she lives up in in the Northwest (and is therefore too far away to retaliate by throwing something at me) there's nothing she can do about it, either:

Life. Is. Good. ©

Reasons I Really Don't Like Horses

2011-09-05T08:25:00.000-07:00

I have to be honest - horses aren't perfect.

I know, I know, I go on and on in this blog about how much I ~~am jonesing like a crack addict~~ miss them slightly and would very much like to have them in my life again.

The thing is, I think I've been painting a rather lopsided picture of owning a horse. Since I don't want anybody out there to get an inaccurate picture of what owning a horse is all about, I have come up with a comprehensive list of why horses sometimes suck.

Brace yourself - this won't make for easy reading.

Alfalfa down your bra on a sweaty day

Digging out "the pee spot"

The way your boots never smell the same after digging out "the pee spot"

Mucking out stalls after a rain and how an inch of water from the sky translates into manure that has the same basic weight and density as Osmium

The cost

Poky boogers created by dust and alfalfa that stab the inside of your nostrils
The way horses ONLY sneeze on your clean shirt when you are sneaking by for a quick scratch before going to work
The way they always pass gas whenever you clean their back hooves

updated after Lyatha reminded me I forgot one of the worst parts: The way they'll take a big drink of water or a big bite of wet food riiiiiight before lovingly resting their chin on your shoulder... and dribbling it down the neck of your shirt.

That's about all I can think of. I'm sorry I had to do that - I know it was tough to read, but I did think it was time for a little honesty on this blog.

Sometimes horses are just awful.... just so, so awful.

Not Everyone Owns a Lear Jet.....

2011-08-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

Larry Trocha .

I first learned about him on this post from Fugly Horse of the Day. She referred to this newsletter and called him a hero. I liked what I read, so just for kicks I signed up for his newsletter. You know what? I'm glad I did. I am really enjoying reading it several times a week. He's got great, down to earth advice. He stops just short of telling you exactly how to deal with problems - he gives you overall advice, and if you have enough knowledge and background with horses you can figure out the rest. If you don't, well, he always recommends one of his videos that will give you the tools to address the problem. The word on the street is that these videos are actually pretty helpful. I've seen a few snippets of the videos on his site, and I'm pretty impressed. I'm planning on buying one of his videos and trying it out, as soon as I figure out which one to get.

So, why am I writing about him?

This morning, I woke up and read this newsletter.

And then I scrolled down to peruse the comments, and I found this little gem (if it's too small for you to read, click on it):

Best. Response. EVER.

Shadow Puppets

2011-08-23T13:51:00.000-07:00

I grab my Nook and click on the tiny attached reading light. It’s dark in our bedroom, and the way the light is twisted means that when it turns on, it shines full-force into The Bean’s eyes. He lets out a yelp and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sorry, sorry!” I mutter, twisting the light to face the ceiling. “Yeesh, that’s bright. Do they really think we need that much light to read a book?

The Bean shrugs and mutters something noncommittal, settling into bed beside me.

I play with the light a bit more, twisting it on different parts of the room, shining it in corners to play with the shadows.

Ooooh! Shadows!

“Here, hold this!” I say, dropping the Nook into The Bean’s hands. “Look!” I put my hand in front of the light and make a shadow dog. “Woof. Woof, woof! Woof. Aaaa-ooooooo!” The "dog" tilts his head back, howling quietly. I grin over at The Bean and discover that he is somehow managing to look down his nose at me, even though we’re both lying flat in bed.

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you do a better one."

Silently, The Bean hands the Nook light to me. He takes his time preparing for his shadow puppet, stretching and arranging his fingers just so. Finally, he balls up a fist, wiggling his knuckles slightly. I stare at the ceiling, transfixed, watching the slow curves of the shadow move, undulate, twisting and transforming slowly into....

A giant shadow of him flipping me off.

"Hah, hah, hah," I shove the Nook light back at him. It's my turn again, and I decide to impress him. I mean, he probably doesn’t know he’s married to someone who used to be really well-known for her shadow-puppet abilities.

“Here, look, I made this one up when I was eight.” I smile in expectation, remembering the way my sister and I used to make shadow puppets on the walls of our bedroom, their forms wavering and indistinct in the dim light. “Look! It’s a giraffe! And it’s eating a tree!”

I grimace at my first attempt – it looks awful. In fact, it doesn’t really look like a mammal at all. It just looks lie a hand crippled with arthritis, trying to grab at the shadow of another hand. Hmm. That’s not very magical. I twist my hand several different ways, trying to recreate my favorite, but it’s no use. My hands are thicker, older, and I’m too out of practice. “Well, I mean, just pretend. See? It’s a giraffe. Eating. Nom, nom, nom.” Against the starkness of our ceiling something resembling a creepy sea monster makes chewing motions at… well, at my other hand balled up into a fist.

“You know, I remember it looking much cooler.”

“Suuuuure,” says The Bean, rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” I snap. “Look.” I cross my thumbs, and spread the “wings” of my hands majestically. “It’s an eagle!”

Against the ceiling, a spidery-looking bird jerks its wings spastically. I study the overly-long pinion feathers formed by my fingers and decide that it’s not an eagle, but rather a sickly crow.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” I flap my hands again…

And feel The Bean’s free hand slide slowly up my side, in warm invitation.

“Caw… Caw… Caw…” The bird makes a few more pathetic attempts at flaps before disintegrating as I reach over to the Bean, kissing him deeply. The mood of our bedroom changed drastically, and the air grows warmer.

Except...

“Bean,” I whisper.

“Mmm?”

“Bean, wait.”

“Mmmmm?”

“Bean, can we do this another night?”

He leans back, looking at me quizzically. “What’s wrong?”

“I…. I wasn’t done making hand puppets,” I admit, guiltily.

With a disgruntled look, The Bean flops back onto his side of the bed. The Nook light clicks back on, blindingly bright in our dim room.

“Caw! Caw, caw!” The sickly crow flutters happily on the ceiling, drowning out The Bean’s heavy sigh.

Dear Google Ads:

2011-08-22T12:25:00.000-07:00

EWWWW.

First you offer me a horse-incinerating device . Now you're trying to sell me Axe body spray for my mannequin? I mean, everyone needs their mannequin to bow-chicka-wow-wow fresh, right?

Because that's normal, right?

Seriously, Google, you're creeping me out. Quit it.

It's Friday, Friday!

2011-08-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

Apparently even roosters like to sing along with Rebecca Black's "Friday".

Update on My Life

2011-08-18T10:40:00.000-07:00

From August 18, 2011

All credit to this wonderful depiction of how I'm feeling goes to the incredibly talented Allie of Hyperbole and a Half. I nabbed it from this post, which is pretty much a biography of my life prior to meeting The Bean.

Huntington Beach: Some Days It's Not That Bad

2011-08-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

I whine a lot.

"I hate Orange County," you'll hear me snivel. "Why can't we move now?" I'll ~~whine in an annoying tone~~ ask the Bean in an adult, mature fashion. "Other people seem to manage to survive in Montana, or Colorado. Why not us?"

"'We'll get there," The Bean says in a distracted tone, having been through this particular ~~whinefest~~ scintillating conversation a million times before.

I pout on my way to work, ignoring the beautiful drive down PCH as I feel sorry for myself.

When Becky was in SoCal land: Let poor Becky go,
Oppress'd so hard she could not stand, Let poor Becky go.
Go down, Becky, Way down in SoCal land,
Tell old Pharaoh, Let poor Becky go.

It's no secret that I want to move.

There are too many people.

It's crowded.

There's too much concrete.

There are too many buildings. I hate the traffic. I hate the city life. I hate living ten feet from my neighbors. I'm scared my sons will grow up and start wearing skinny jeans like the other ~~idiots~~ handsome young men of this city.

I feel like I can't breathe.

Most days, I feel like I'm in the middle of a prison sentence, just doing my time until I can earn my way to freedom.

However.

Every once in awhile, it's not that bad.

When the weather's just right,

and the tourists are all gathered somewhere else,

and you feel like you might have a moment's solitude...

It's actually quite beautiful.

And as I watch my son racing along the sand, I realize that when I do move........

I think I might miss it, just a little.

Because on certain days, living in Huntington Beach is a pretty nice place to be.

I Like to Tease The Bean

2011-08-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

I like to tease the Bean.

I try to take him seriously and deal with him a mature, straightforward manner…

But then he gets too serious.

And once he gets all serious/adult/mature/stuck-up, it brings out the little sister in me.

When I look at him, I no longer see an intelligent, handsome man who is joined together with me within the bonds of holy matrimony.

I see someone who needs to be teased, and teased hard.

See, the problem with The Bean is that he is very good at what he does. He is very intelligent, and very persuasive and he started excelling in the business world before he was even allowed to legally drink. We’re only three weeks apart in age, but while I was running around, enjoying lazy summer afternoons, horses, and traveling around the state in my beat up old ’91 Ford Ranger, he was spearheading the development of overseas production plants and working 60 hour weeks to get ahead.

He is used to being taken seriously.

Taking things seriously has never been my strong suit.

What makes it even worse is that he never really tells me “No.” I mean, can you blame me? Who can resist such an open door?

As a little sister, I’m familiar with the way teasing usually goes down.

I tease.

The other person becomes annoyed.

I pick on them harder.

The other person becomes even more annoyed.

I continue picking on them.

The other person snaps at me to “KNOCK IT OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE.”

I heave a contented sigh at a job well-done and wander off to go find another victim.

But:

The Bean never says “No”.

He never says “Quit.”

He never says “Leave me alone.”

During the first few days of our marriage, I remember actively trying to find his breaking point.

What happened if I waited until he was asleep and wrote all over his back with a permanent marker?

Sadly, nothing. The joke was on me – I chose to play my practical joke on a too-warm summer night, and with the lack of air conditioning the Bean just sweated the marker off and stained my favorite sheets.

What happened if I sang the same song thirty times in a row while sitting beside him in a car? THEN would he tell me to be quiet?

The Bean ignored me stoically, hands firmly placed at ten and two, executing safe lane changes and dutifully checking the rearview mirror on a regular basis like the DMV handbook recommends.

What about if I poked him? What would happen if I poked his arm… and then continued poking him even after he’d said “What?” I tried this one day while waiting in line at the store. The Bean ignored me, continuing to place the items on the conveyor belt.

I shifted my weight, annoyed. Where was his breaking point? I upped the ante, moving from poking his arm to slowly poking his head, waiting for some sign of annoyance. An angry look? A grumpy sigh?

Nothing. The Bean continued along with his purchase, digging in his wallet for his ATM card.

I decided to go all out – slowly, giving him every chance possible to avert his head or smack my hand away, I extended my finger, aiming towards his eyeball. Surely. Surely he’ll tell me to stop before I poke his eyeball.

The Bean ignored me, squinting his one eye shut as he continued on with his transaction.

Fascinated, I tried it again. The slooooow finger of doom crept towards his eyeball.

The only sign he noticed it was that he squinted his eye shut milliseconds before I actually touched it.

“STOP IT!” said the cashier in a frustrated, annoyed tone. “LEAVE HIS EYE ALONE.”

I looked up, startled, to find myself beneath the baleful glance of an extremely annoyed woman in her late 50s. Mollified, I let my hand drop back down to my side. Well. At least I’d gotten a reaction from someone.

You know, now that I think about it, I really only managed to get a good reaction out of him one time. Late one evening while we were still living in Long Beach, I waited until he fell asleep, then snuck into the kitchen. I grabbed one of our gigantic, plastic tumblers we used as drinking glasses and filled it full of water, hiding it in on the bottom shelf of our refrigerator. The glasses were enormous – they probably held somewhere close to 30 ounces of water. Snickering, I crept back to bed and fell asleep.

The next morning, as The Bean stumbled sleepily into the bathroom to shower before work, I feigned sleep.

I waited until I heard the sound of the shower door close before throwing off the blankets and tiptoeing into the kitchen to retrieve my gigantic glass of frigid, icy cold water.

There are many disadvantages to living in an absurdly tiny apartment; however, this was one of the times when I managed to make it work in my favor. The bathroom may have been minuscule, but clambering up to stand on the toilet seat put me in a wonderful vantage point above the shower.

“Oh, Beeeeean,” I sang out gaily as I slowly tipped the icy water onto his head.

“Crap! ACK! COLD! COLD! ACK!” said The Bean eloquently as he hopped around the tiny box of a shower in a failed attempt to avoid the icy stream.

“What’s the matter?” I continued in my singsong voice. “It’s just water… you’re already wet….”

“Cold! COLD COLD! ACK! WHY? WHY?! QUIT IT! QUIT IT! QUIT—BBblbllbblbl!” He gasped as dumped the remaining water on his head.

Aaaaah. Finally.

I smiled in satisfaction and hopped off the toilet seat.

Success at last.

From Aug 9, 2011

Monday, Monday, Monday. Curse thee.

2011-08-08T09:31:00.000-07:00

Woke up late today.
Seriously considered getting busy with The Bean, but alas: no time (see line item #1).
Began contemplating whether or not we could find time to have a little "busy time" later today... but no, The Bean has an evening class.... maybe tomorrow morning? No... I work out tomorrow morning.... and I have plans tomorrow evening - besides, The Bean has another night class..... Maybe Wednesday morning...?....
Became seriously depressed at the thought that not only is my life so busy I have to "plan" something as fun and spontaneous as "busy time"... but I'm not even sure we do have time, even if we did plan it.
Got in the shower, pouting.
Couldn't find the razor to shave my legs, which mean I wouldn't be able to wear the business skirt I wanted to wear. Instead, I would have to wear my too-tight, too-high, kinda too-short in the legs "wow-I-look-like-a-mom" pants.
Considered not shaving and just taking a chance nobody would actually look at my legs today.
Looked down and saw the long, full forest of leg hair that currently adorns my leg undulate gently in the breeze.
Decided to go with the pants.
Stuffed myself into pants.
Stared morosely in the mirror. Ugh. Fat.
Drove to work.
Stopped to get coffee--- Mmmm. Coffee. At least one thing went well, right?
Received a phone call from The Bean letting me know I had forgotten half of the parts to my pump at home, which means pumping will take twice as long.
Got to work.
Put things down at desk.
Immediately spilled 30 ounces of coffee all over my desk - watched in horror as 30 ounces became something like 425 bazillion ounces and covered everything in sight.
~~Galumphed~~ Ran nimbly and lightly to the breakroom to get paper towels.
Spent 30 minutes cleaning. Congratulated myself that I managed to sop everything up without losing a single bit of electronics to the coffee madness.
Tried to begin work.
Realized that I did have one casualty - my keyboard, which once again decided it did not want to type the letter "t".
Tried to fix keyboard.
End result: A keyboard that ONLY types the letter T. T. Ttt. TtTtttT. Pages and pages of TttttTTTtttttttttttttttTTTtttttttttttttttTTTttttttttttt.
Disconnected keyboard, opened laptop.
Look at the time: 9:30am. Only seven more hours to go.
Take a break, type up a post complaining about it, post it to blog.
Look at time: 9:46am. Back to work.

Where I Am Now: Part 6

2011-08-01T23:20:00.001-07:00

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

“Hey Bean. “

“Hmmm?”

“Guess what?”

The Bean sighed, heavily, already anticipating the punchline. “What?”

“We’re married.”

“Yes. I know,” he said in a slightly annoyed tone, attention already wandering.

I really couldn’t blame him – it was probably the twentieth time I’d said it that afternoon. I still found it hard to believe I was married.

Married.

Me.

The Bean was my husband. I was Becky Bean. Mrs. Becky Bean. I liked my new last name. Everyone agreed – it suited me.

Still, it took some getting used to.

For a shotgun-style wedding we certainly had a lot of people show up. Well, let me rephrase that--- I had a lot of people show up.

The Bean told his family that we were having a private civil service ceremony.

His family said they understood and mailed off a few sweetly-written "Congratulations!" cards with a couple of checks and gift cards to start us on our new journey together.

Then it was my turn. I told my family that I was having a private civil service ceremony.

After discouraging several people from showing up I ended up only having to cram 19 of my closest family and friends into the miniscule curtained-off area in the Orange County courthouse.

So much for eloping.

I set my foot down and refused to plan anything overly elaborate. We bought a case of hot dogs and several bags of buns from Costco. We threw in a couple of flats of "Kirkland" brand soda, some makings for s'mores, and called it a day.

My mother was a little horrified at how bare bones everything, but she could see that I wasn't going to budge.

We compromised on the dress. It may have been cream colored, but it also had black, and we bought it on sale at Dress Barn.

When The Bean asked me what he should wear, I told him that I liked the way he looked in a fancy, mock-turtleneck and slacks I'd once seen him wearing.

The day of the wedding dawned. I felt surprisingly mellow, considering I'd left so many details for the last minute.

My mom did a beautiful job with my hair, and I showed up at Macy's at the local mall and had one of the makeup girls do my makeup in exchange for me purchasing some eye shadow and lip gloss.

By the time I finished getting ready and arrived back home to throw on my dress and drive to the courthouse, I knew I was going to be late.

The day was unseasonably warm, and I sat sweating in the backseat, barking out orders to help my out-of-town friends navigate their way to the courthouse. If you're not used to dancing through the lightening-fast lane changes and complex freeway interchanges that make up the average Friday afternoon drive on a southern California freeway, it can be a little daunting.

We pulled up to the front of the courthouse, and I saw the Bean waiting for me, surrounded by over a dozen of my friends and family that he didn't even know.

He looked distinctly uncomfortable, eyeballing the laughing strangers like a horse about to spook. Of course, I may have been reading into a little too much. He might have just looked uncomfortable because I had ordered him into a wool turtleneck on an 80 degree day and then left him standing in the hot sun waiting for me.

I stepped out of the car to the "oohs" and "aahs" of family and friends, all of them politely ignoring the solid bump that lifted the front of my dress. I may have only been 4 months along, but I had popped out early.

I waited for the Bean to compliment me, and then noticed he was looking almost green.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Let's just get inside."

I reached over to hug him and someone shouted, "Give her a kiss! Give her a kiss!"

Robotically, the Bean leaned forward and gave me a chaste, impersonal kiss on the lips.

I could see a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sun? Nerves? I wanted to ask him, but with everyone milling around us I knew I wouldn't get anything more than a mumbled answer. For a smooth-talker the Bean is surprisingly introverted, and from what I could sense he was completely out of his comfort zone, to the point he had almost shut down.

"Let's get inside." I grabbed his sweaty hand with my own damp palm and the two of us headed up to the second floor.

The hallway was surprisingly crowded for an early afternoon. Glancing around at the other brides, I had to laugh.

One of the brides wore an exquisite, pearl-encrusted, full-length white wedding gown. The thing looked like it cost a thousand dollars.

She was also at that stage of pregnancy where it looked like if you bumped her too hard her water might break. Suddenly, my worries about my "baby bump" disappeared and I was able to relax a little.

Still, as nervous as I was about the whole day, I don’t really have a clear, fluid memory of the events – instead, I was left with bright, disjointed flashes of memory.

I remember finding a sign that said passports/visas to the left, marriage certificates to the right, and pointing it out to The Bean.

I remember catching him staring at it so intently that I actually began to worry which direction he was going to head..

I remember the look on my Grandma’s face, and her warm hug.

I remember my mom taking pictures - Lordy how she took pictures – pictures in front of the courthouse, pictures walking to the elevator, pictures in the elevator…

I remember looking over as she took pictures of somebody’s shoes. “Mom, what on earth?”

“I ran out of stuff to take pictures of,” she said defensively. “So I’m taking pictures of shoes.”

I remember heading over to a side room to sign our marriage license. It was an insanely busy room, with brides, grooms, family members, witnesses and everyone bumbling about in a melee.

I don’t really remember signing the paper… and I guess that’s for good reason.

The license at the courthouse has The Bean’s signature.

The license has the signature of our two witnesses.

It has the county clerk’s signature.

You know what it doesn’t have?

My signature.

Apparently I got so distracted by the hubbub that I forgot to actually sign the piece of paper. I didn't notice this until I went back to get a copy of it.

Typical me.

Anyways, I remember the officiant calling our name, and our laughter as we tried to fit everyone in the narrow, curtained off area. I don’t think everyone actually made it through the door.

I remember my mom moving around the room, snapping dozens of pictures a minute.

I remember the officiant had a nice speaking voice, and that I agreed with what she had to say about marriage.

I don’t remember what she actually said, though.

I remember laughing as the Bean struggled tried to slip my ring on my finger, and finally pulling my hand out of his grasp and popping it over my knuckle for him.

I remember sliding the ring over his finger and repeating my vows.

To love. To cherish. To honor.

I remember heaving a big sigh and quietly mumbling “and obey” in a sulky, sullen tone after the officiant left that part out. I remember I sounded as grumpy as I felt about adding that line on – but after the years I’d spent mulling over whether or not I wanted it in my wedding ceremony, I decided last minute that it needed to be there.

It’s okay, though. I don’t think The Bean heard me, so I think I’m safe.

I remember sliding the ring over The Bean’s finger…. And looking up to see my mom leaning over his shoulder as she took a picture. She was up on her tiptoes, elbow resting on his shoulder, cheek inches from his cheek as she tried to get a better angle for a picture.

“Why didn’t you tell him to clean his ears?” she would complain later. “You can see his earwax in every shot.”

I remember everyone cheering as we kissed, but I don’t actually remember the kiss.

The drive to the beach and the bonfire was also a blur. Everyone was relaxed and laughing. I remember looking at The Bean from across the fire, watching the firelight play along his jawline, studying the intelligence in his eyes. My husband. I felt both proud and a little unnerved.

We opted to have a photographer friend take photos in lieu of a cheap, weekend honeymoon. We were broke, so it was one or the other.

I’m still happy with the choice we made.

Two days after we were married, I was still trying to find a way to make it all sink in. Married. Me.

Wow.

I bumped The Bean playfully with my elbow. Again.

“Hey Bean, guess what?”

Introducing Becky's Professional Review

2011-07-31T09:56:00.000-07:00

So, I hear some bloggers do reviews.

Apparently you can get paid for stuff like that.

I am now about to demonstrate why nobody will ever hire me to review their product.

Product: MotherLove More Milk Plus

Claim: "A safe and effective herbal formula designed to quickly increase breast milk for breastfeeding mothers."

Effectiveness according to me: Hey, you know what? This stuff actually works. I took it, I did all those other handy tricks (drank tons of water, ate oatmeal, pumped more often), and in about a week I had increased from about 9-10 ounces per workday to 13-14 ounces per workday. Who knows? It's only been a week... maybe I will increase even more. This stuff definitely does its job.

Why I bothered writing this review: After taking my dose this morning I finally figured out how to describe the taste.... Do you remember The Matrix? Do you remember the way people looked when they were mid-morph, when the agents were possessing them and their face was melting off in a kind horrified scream, features twisting in agony?

Yup. It tastes just like that. It's such a great flavor.

I made The Bean taste a tiny drop once. He brushed his teeth for twenty minutes.

You know what? I'm feeling kind of mean right now. The Bean is lying comfortably on our sofa, curled up with a cat.

It's time for my noon dosage of the face-melting, highly-effective Motherlove More Milk Plus.

I'm going to go take my medicine.

And then I'm going to save just a teensy bit of it between my lips... and go kiss The Bean.

Stay tuned. I'll let you know what his reaction is.

*****

Update: His face lit up as I went down to give him a loving kiss..... and then once he tasted it he buried his face in the couch pillow and moaned. "You're sick... SICK. Why would you do that? Nasty! You're SICK!"

And then as I stood in front of him, cackling:

"Move. I can't see the tv."

I think he'll survive.

He's MINE, girls... BACK OFF!

2011-07-29T11:15:00.000-07:00

It's the middle of the week, and both the Bean and I have just arrived home after yet another glorious day in California traffic.

As usual, The DragonMonkey is making loud, noisy laps around the house.

“Eeeeee! Hahahahahahahahah! Kick doggie! Hahahahahahaha! EEEE!!! EEE!!”

In a perfect, 1950s world I’d be donning my apron, patting my perfectly coiffed hair, and getting ready to lovingly prepare a healthy, nutritious, and delicious warm meal for my family.

Unfortunately for The Bean, this is 2011 and I ain’t no June Cleaver.

“Hey Bean,” I holler, trying to be heard over the racket the DragonMonkey is making. “Grab a hotdog out of the fridge for the DM. It’s dinner time.”

Hot dogs are considered healthy, delicious, and nutritious, right?

Please don’t answer that.

“We’ve only got one,” The Bean hollers back. “What else do we give him?”

“Ummmm…..” Let’s see… rice takes too long… I’ve cooked fish three times this week…. I did chips yesterday….. Ah-ha! “Applesauce. Give him some applesauce.”

There. Protein and fruit. Maybe it’s not a culinary masterpiece, but it’s gluten-free and filling. Yay for me.

From the living room, the Squidgelet begins to whimper quietly. Hello? Hello? Has everyone forgotten about me?

I flatten myself against the wall, preparing to push myself between the Bean and open refrigerator door and the narrow kitchen doorway so I can go pick him up.

Thoughtfully, the Bean shuts the door slightly, so I don’t have to actually suck in my ~~flabby belly~~ beautifully toned abs to squeeze past. I shoot him a smile, but he seems distracted.

As I scoot past him, I see the door jerk in my direction… once, twice... accompanied by a muted “Pa-choo! Pa-choo!”

I stop, and stare at the Bean incredulously.

“Did you...Did you just pretend to hit me with the refrigerator door? Complete with cartoony sound effects?”

The Bean flushes, and his eyes drop guiltily.

“Yeah.”

“Why? What on earth would make you do that?”

He shrugs like a teenager, still eyeing the floor guiltily. “I dunno. It just seemed like it would be fun. Like a videogame, or something.”

*******************

Actual Excerpt from Gmail Chat:

Sigh.

They never grow up, do they?

Goodbye Anonymity!

2011-07-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hello, Internet.

My name is Becky.

I live in Huntington Beach.

I have a husband, two children, a big butt, and a cocker spaniel with self-esteem issues.

I am thirty years old.

Thirty.

Like, wow. Thirty. According to the plan I made for myself in junior high, I should be celebrating my one year wedding anniversary and saving up my money. After all, in about a year or so I am going to branch out and open up my own large animal veterinary clinic in Colorado. In about two years I will become pregnant with my first child. The funds from the release of my SECOND book will help cover the gap of my maternity leave.

You know, if you ignore the fact that I still live in California, have a desk job, have not published a single thing and you only focus on the children/husband aspect of my plan…

Woohooo! I’m a total overachiever!

I tried to think of something big that I could do to celebrate turning thirty. I actually gave it quite a bit of thought over the past few weeks/months, and I finally came to my decision:

I am coming out of the blogging closet.

I’ve been hiding my blog from my real-life friends and family, mostly because I liked the freedom of my “anonymity”. I even went as far as creating a “fake” Facebook profile and linking it to this blog… that way I could still be “friends” with you guys, but not worry about anyone spilling the beans.

The thing is---- hiding stuff is not really my thing.

I mean, for starters, I'm too busy for that kind of silliness. Being secretive takes time, and time is not something I have in abundance.

We are desperately low on groceries at home. I'd complain about it, but it's pretty much all my fault. Apparently you have to actually get in the car and GO to the store to replace what you eat. You can’t just think about it really hard.

Trust me. I've tried.

I’ve even tried “Accio, Groceries!” but it doesn’t seem to work.

On a side note: I’ve always had a problem with the way the wands work in Harry Potter. How am I supposed to daydream about living in a world where all of my magical powers rely on whether or not I have remembered to bring along a small, easily lost stick? If I were invited to Hogwarts (I’m sure they’ve just misplaced my invitation. Aaaaaanytime now.), the first thing I would do was head down to the infirmary and have them surgically graft my wand in my arm. Wandius Graftus-Armium! How much simpler would THAT be?

Anyways, life is busy.

I work long hours.

I have a two year old who completely destroys the house on a daily basis by flinging toys and random toddler paraphernalia everywhere.

I have a 5 month old who nurses through the night.

I have a mountain of laundry crouching in my bedroom. Now that there are four of us, it seems like I can never catch up. The pile is getting menacingly tall.

In fact, it’s just getting menacing.

At night, if I squint at it just right, it actually looks like Jabba the Hut.

With all this, I don’t really have time to live a duplicitous, double life.

By day, we have a Becky….. but by night, we have Blogger Becky with her secret superpowers of... uh... telling embarrassing stories about herself!

Yeah.

Besides, The Bean loves me and supports me. How do I know this? Well, for starters, he messages me about 3 or 4 times of a week: Has the Blog of Becky been updated yet? No? Do you have any stories on the back burner you could work on?

Plus, he took time out of an extraordinarily busy weekend to sit down and fix my shiny new url, despite the fact he had a midterm and two angry little children whining and crawling all over him.

I mean, if that's not dedication and support, I don't know what is.

So, after mulling it over, I’ve decided to go public.

Life is too short to waste time hiding things. I like my blog. I enjoy writing in it. It's fun to tell stories, and it's fun to write without worrying about whether a professor will find my writing style too informal. I can write fragments. Like this. Or this.

And I can start sentences with conjunctions if I want to. It's totally awesome.

Hey, maybe it's not a private veterinary practice or a cabin in Colorado, but it makes me happy, and I'm proud of it.

So, hi. (If you squint, you can see me waving.)

My name is Becky. Becky Bean.

I am thirty years old.

I have a husband who I call The Bean (You can see how far of a stretch THAT nickname was) and two boys: DragonMonkey and The Squid.

I’ve decided that while I may want to go public, I’ll still refer to the boys by their nicknames. After all, what if they go try to get a job in a couple of years and when the potential employer Googles their name, they find stories about how they smeared the crib with poo or had a tendency to run around naked? Besides, they really are nicknames – I’d say The Bean and I call them “DM” and “The Squid” more than we call them by their real first names.

That Facebook link over there on the sidebar is a link to my REAL Facebook account.

I'm going to update the info on it and even include a link to this site.

Sweet. Happy Birthday to me.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go ignore Jabba the Laundry Monster a little while longer and work on a couple of stories to post on my not-so-private blog.

Psssst... Look Up

2011-07-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

I turn 30 on Sunday.

Wow, I know. Thirty. Crazy.

Anyways, the Bean just gave me an early birthday present, and it made me so happy I actually "squeed" out loud.

Check it out, everyone!

Look up.

See my new url?

Yeah, that's right:

www.blogofbecky.com

OOOOOOOhhhh! I'm a REAL blogger now!

I love you, Bean :)

***Update: If it still says blogspot for you, just squint your eyes at it and pretend until we get the kinks all worked out, okay?

***Second Update: I thought I figured out how to fix everything. My word verification was "excitgn". "Yes," I thought. "It IS exciting!"

I totally broke EVERYTHING and my entire blog disappeared.

When I finally figured out how to put everything back to the way it was sorta fixed, my word verification for the change was "eatme".

I hate computers.

I NEED THIS BOOK

2011-07-18T10:11:00.001-07:00

I think the title of this blog says it all. Like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert, I've been known to crush, and crush hard.

Fortunately for my pride (as well as The Bean), I tend to crush on horses and books.

I stumbled across a new book during my internet forays this weekend, and now I can't think of anything else. I MUST OWN THIS BOOK:

It's a spoof on romance novels and the Twilight series. Need I say more?

Here is an excerpt:

“I wouldn’t drink that poison if I were you.”

He spoke with a slight accent, reminding Smella of a lonely soul from another place, another time. Or maybe just a British guy trying to sound like he was from nineteenth century Boston.

Smella’s eyes widened. Her gaze shot to the beer, then back to the stranger. “What poison?”

“You can’t pin anything on me!” The bartender hollered while stumbling backward, before falling against a shelf of beer mugs.

Locked in the stranger’s dark gaze, Smella ignored the sound of crashing glass. She was more interested in his perfectly kissable blood red lips and the cold, impenetrable aura that radiated off his stony features.

“Alcohol destroys your kidneys.” The stranger flashed a subdued smile, revealing pearly white, jagged teeth.

“You’re right.” Turning down her lips in disgust, Smella pushed away the offending glass. “Thank you for berating my choice of beverage. Throughout this novel, you may occasionally behave like a total control freak, but I know you are only concerned for my well-being, and because I am a woman, obviously I’m too stupid to act in my own best interest.”

Somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind, she thought she heard the obese bartender scream, “Help me! I’m bleeding everywhere!” But she refused to let him ruin the romantic tension that she was trying to build with the tall pasty stranger. Leaning toward him, she playfully batted long lashes while twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

But the stranger didn’t respond to her flirtation. He was too busy pinching his nose and making a gagging sound.

She scooted back. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He spoke through a wheeze. “I have to go.”

In a flash, he was gone.

Smella was confused, bewildered, frightened, rejected, vulnerable, hurt, self-conscious and irritated.

But never mind her PMS.

She was more concerned about her awkward encounter with the kind stranger.

It's not the cleanest writing ever... but who cares? I think I may even want it just for the cover. I mean, kilts are sexy, right?

Killing Zombies is Serious Business

2011-07-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

In May I agreed to be maid (matron? ick.) of honor in a wedding.

The wedding happened yesterday.

Yes, that's right---two months from initial planning stages to execution.

I've never been so exhausted in all of my life... I seriously think this wedding wore me out more than my 37 hour labor with Squidgelet.

On the other hand, it was all worth it, because the reception was held at Dave & Buster's and I now have the world's most awesome photo of myself:

Me.

Pearls.

Makeup.

A plastic machine gun.

And a wild "I'm-killing-zombies-don't-interrupt-me" gleam in my eyes.

Sweet.

We really are horrible parents.

2011-07-12T15:41:00.000-07:00

It's all my fault.

It really is.

I mean, if it weren't for us, the DragonMonkey probably would have loooooooved monkeys.

But then we went and scarred him for life..

Every night we have to convince him - YET AGAIN - that no.

No.

NO.

No, there are no herds of monkeys living in our absurdly tiny backyard. The ficus trees that line the wall do NOT contain hoards of evil, flesh-biting monkeys or angry, volatile gorillas.

The trees are full of leaves. And sticks. And probably a couple of birds or bugs.

There are NO monkeys.

It takes awhile to convince him of this, but eventually it sinks in.

Until the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

Wake up Call

2011-07-10T21:39:00.000-07:00

Dude.

I'm too fat for my saddle.

No, I'm being serious.

I'm. Too. FAT. For. My. Saddle.

I can fit in it, but my fleshy thighs are all squished and uncomfortable against the pommel and it shoves me forward and throws my center of balance off.

I caught myself logging onto Craigslist to browse through the Farm & Garden section and looking to see how much a used 16" might go for since my 15" saddle no longer fits.

Then I paused and gave it some thought..... REALLY, Becky? REALLY? Could I get any lazier or stereotypically American?

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed. I have to get up early in the morning, pack my salad and go for a run.

Because, SERIOUSLY. I out-fatted my saddle.

:(

Wanna Be My Friend?

2011-07-03T07:57:00.000-07:00

Veronica , who I am beginning to think might actually be the Queen of teh Internet, managed to sneak me onto Google + (Google Plus?).

After spending so many years on Facebook, it's kind of frustrating trying to learn an entirely new system. I mean, BLECH. I hate feeling all awkward and whatnot.

That said, I think Google Plus is going to be a lot better than Facebook. At the very least, it's going to force Facebook to fix all of its most annoying issues. Should I add my boss? Does he actually need to know that the DragonMonkey keeps purposefully peeing in his crib? I want to post something funny that happened to The Bean and I... but no, I have some younger homeschooled acquaintances on here and their moms who trusted me would KILL me if I insinuated anything vaguely dirty. And no, I do NOT want to adopt your lonely, orphan pink calf or join your Mafia.

What I like MOST about Google Plus is that I don't have any family members over there. All of my family is all safely ensconced in Facebook. This is important because the only family who know about my blog thus far are my sister and The Bean. I know one day someone will stumble upon it, but I kind of like being free to write about nakedness and failed sex attempts until then. I mean, I'll still write about it after the jig is up. I'll just have to cringe when I see them in person.

Anyways, I signed up for Google Plus with my blog's email address: blogofbecky@gmail.com.

It felt great to proudly posted a link to my blog in my profile--- It almost felt healing.

My name is Becky. I write a blog. Woot!

And if any of you get a Google Plus account once they open it up to the masses, I'd love to add you as a "friend".

That is, once I figure out how. Sigh. I hate learning curves.

Enunciation: Part Two

2011-06-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

The DragonMonkey loves trucks. They have wheels, they roll, you can crash them into things...what's not to love?

Trucks, Trucks, Trucks. It's even fun to say.

Except he can't pronounce "r"s.

And he pronounces "t"s as "f"s.

So, what does truck sound like when you remove the "r" and replace the "t" with an "f"?

I'll give you a moment to sound it out in your head.

Okay, Is everyone with me?

Yeah.

In the interest of keeping this blog semi-clean, I'm just gonna go ahead and write "truck". You guys can use your imaginations as to how the following conversations sounded in real life.

"Mama! Want my TRUCK! My TRUCK!"

Then, after he had finished playing with it, he politely tried to share with me, handing me the plastic yellow truck with a huge grin: "Truck? Truck you? Truck Mama?"

Naturally, in the interest of sharing, it's always nice to give Bad Max a turn with the toy:

"Mama give TRUCK to doggie? Doggie truck? DOGGIE TRUCK? DOGGIE TRUCK!"

My favorite conversation occurred in the grocery store, after I took away his toy truck for throwing it at people:

"TRUUUUUUUUCK!!!!! MY TRUUUUUCK! MAMA, MY TRUCK!" (keep in mind that we are in a very crowded grocery store at this point and that the DragonMonkey is impossibly loud when he's angry.) "Mama, TRUCK! Truck now! Now, mama. TRUCK! Truck to me! Truck me! TRUCK! ME TRUCK! TRUCK ME! NO TRUCK YOU... TRUCK ME! "

Enunciation

2011-06-27T10:38:00.001-07:00

"Awamahnkee."

"What?"

"Awahmahnkeepeezmahnkeemama."

"WHAT?"

Sigh (<---that's the two year old sighing, not me.)

"Awah."

"Are you saying 'I want'?"

"Yup."

"Well, then say it like that. Say 'Iiiii'."

"Iiiiii"

"WaaaaaaanT."

"Waaaaaant."

"Say 'I waaaanT'"

"I waaaaaan."

"Close enough, DragonMonkey. Now, what do you want?"

"Wan Man-key."

"Monkey?

"MAN-KEY!"

"Blankey?"

"Yup."

"You want your blankey?"

"Yup."

"Well, then say it right. 'Iiii waaaanT my BBLLLLLLLLLLLLankey, please.'"

"Mahnkey."

"Say it right or you don't get it. Say 'Buh'. "

"Buh."

"Say 'LLlllllll'."

"Lllllllll."

"Say 'Bllllll'."

"Bllllll!"

"Say 'Blllllll-ankey!'."

"Blllllll...Mahnkey!"

"BLAAAAAAAAANKEY, DragonMonkey! It's BLLLLLLANKEY! Not Bull-Monkey, not Man-key, BLANKEY!"

"Yup! Yaaaay, Mama!" Clap, clap, clap.

SIIIIIGH. I'm so glad my two year old approves of the way I pronounce 'blankey'. It's good to know he thinks I'm doing at least one thing right.

Where's Becky, and Why Hasn't She Updated?

2011-06-23T20:35:00.001-07:00

Yawning, I drag myself out the front door and sit in my car. I'd like to lean my head back against the headrest, just for a moment, but I know that's too dangerous. I need to keep moving or I'll fall asleep.

It's early- just a little after 6:30 in the morning. I'm not due at work until 7:30, but I could use the extra 30 minutes to catch up. I know I'm salary and the time is not paid, but it's worth it for my sanity.

Through sheer force of will I bypass Starbucks. I love them, but I'm never going to lose the baby weight if I keep downing 300 calories worth of coffee several times a week.

I pull into the parking lot at ten to seven..... and my cell phone rings.

The Caller ID is my boss.

"Hey, Becky, have you left work yet?"

"I'm in the parking lot right now." I wait for this to sink in - that I'm a wonderful employee who has arrived thirty minutes early.

I wait in vain.

"Oh, good. There's a problem with our latest project. Call me when you've got your computer up and running."

I stare at my cell phone with a sinking feeling and sigh. There goes my extra time.

The next few hours pass by in a blur-- by the time I surface I realize I've missed my pumping time. Again. My gigantic fridge stockpile I was so proud of is dwindling slowly by a few ounces every day and it's starting to stress me out.

I stare sightlessly at the computer screen as I ~~strap two plastic sucky things to my breasts, which has got to be the least sexy thing ever and let myself be milked like a large, overweight white cow~~ politely powder my nose. It feels good to surface for air.

Of course, as soon as I'm done I hit the ground running again. Frantically-typed emails, phone calls, shuffling paper, mailing items, more emails, more phone calls, more emails, errands, more paper.

I surface again hours later and realize that I barely have time to pump before I go home. Great. I'm probably going to end up two or maybe even three ounces short again today. Perfect.

Like always, I leave work about ten minutes late. I really need to speak to my boss about my salary. I can't keep giving away my time for free like this.

The drive home is nice, but sadly a little too short. I'm probably the only person in Southern California who would like a longer commute home, but those precious minutes in the car are the only time I have to myself all day.

I try to sneak in the front door, but the DragonMonkey sees my car pull up.

"Mama car! Car! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR!"

Before my mom can stop him he has bolted out the front door and is flying down the walkway to my car. I'd be flattered, but he's being pretty literal. Sure, he's glad to see me, but that's not why he's excited. He's thrilled because my car is home. Crawling around the inside of my car and pretending to drive is the highlight of his day. Normally I let him do it even though I generally get elbowed, bruised and generally beat up as he clambers all over me in the front seat, but I can hear Squidgelet whining. He sounds hungry.

"Sweetie, I need to get inside. Mama needs to feed Squidgelet." I've tried nursing on the street before, but every time I do I end up flashing a neighbor. So now we go inside.

It's really quite amazing how quickly the DragonMonkey can shift from ecstatic joy to rage.

"NO! MAMA CAR! NO INSIDE! MAMA CAR!" I sigh, and scoop him up. He thrashes against me, back arched, howling his rage and frustration. I drop him unceremoniously just in the front door and manage to slam it behind me only milliseconds before he can dart back outside.

His screams doubly in intensity and volume. When he sees me hanging my keys on the keyring, he kicks me in the shin.

"CORNER. NOW!" He throws himself wailing into the corner, bemoaning his very existence.

I sigh, and grab the Squidgelet from my mom. I toss the baggies of milk in the fridge then sit on the couch and pop him on to nurse. Despite the ear-deafening screams from the corner, the moment turns almost peaceful.

The DragonMonkey notices my attention has wandered, so he decides to up the ante. When his screams stop abruptly I look up, just in time to watch him spit. On the floor.

I hate the spitting.

But I am just SO tired.

"Mama," the DragonMonkey sings out. "Mama. SPIT." He ineptly sprays the floor again, deliberately showing off just how bad he is.

I know negative attention is still atttention, and I should probably just ignore it... but I really do hate spit.

"NO SPITTING!" I dislodge the Squidgelet and lay him on the floor. He begins to wail at being at his sudden abandonment and is joined only moments later by the DragonMonkey as he sees me approaching. He does his best to stick his nose in the corner, but it's too late.

"You spit, you spend time in your crib. Time out in your crib, NOW. NO SPITTING! EVER!"

I plop him in his crib and close the door behind me, doing my best to ignore the furious screams.

I return to the living room and rescue the screaming Squid from the floor.

Ah, peace at last.

I leave the DragonMonkey in there for ~~about ten minutes~~ two very brief minutes before I return. He's a snotty, tear-filled, disgusting mess.

"Hug?" he says miserably. "Mama up? Hug?"

I use a towel to mop up his messy face, then lift him from his crib. He lays against me, exhausted from his rage, arms encircling me.

"Huuuug," he says warmly. "Huuuug Mama. Mommy. Huuuuuuuuug Mommy." He deepens the hug and I return it. Ah, finally. A sweet moment with my son.

He leans back, breaking the hug, and places a hand on either side of my face, forcing me to look at him.

"Hi Mama."

"Hi, DragonMonkey. I love you."

"Hi, Mama....." he trails off, then smiles a little too wide and a little too bright. "Mama, car?" he asks sweetly.

I sigh. The idea of going out to sit in my car for forty-five minutes is just not appealing. I'd really rather skip it for a day.

"Sweetie, not today. Mama's tired."

The sweet expression slips off his face. "Mama. CAR." It's pretty obvious he's not asking this time.

I put him down and sigh again. I seem to sigh a lot when I'm around the DragonMonkey. "Sweetie, I said no. No car. Not today. I know it's disappointing, but you'll just have to learn to deal with it."

He stares at me in fury for a moment, and then spits on me.

You read that right. He spits. On. ME.

It pretty much goes down like this:

Furious, I scoop him up and drop him in his crib again.

Rinse, Repeat. Rinse, Repeat.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur.

Spit, scream, love, hug, scream, laugh, scream, nurse, bath, nurse, scream, laugh, hug, scream, love, warm up bottle, blankey, kiss, nurse...

AAAAAhhhh.

Both kids in bed. If I'm lucky, I'll get an hour or two before the Squid starts crying. I hate teething.

I get less than two hours before the Squid's pained cries wake me up. For the rest of the night, every forty-five minutes, he wakes me up crying. I can't get mad at him - he so very rarely complains that I know it really hurts him.

Still.

Rock, rock, rock, nurse, sleep, scream, rock, rock, rock... nurse. Sleep. SCREAM. Rock, rock, rock, sleep....

BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEP!

The early morning light streams dimly through the window, painting the bedroom grey.

Morning. Again.

Time to start the whole thing over.

Now THIS is Riding

2011-06-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

First and foremost - bullfighting sucks. I don't condone it. I can understand why people might be interested in it, but you could manage the same thrills, excitement and competition without harpooning the bull and slitting throats and whatnot. Why not use the velcro system? Why not make it all about touching the bull, kind of like an Indian counting coup?

So, yeah. Bullfighting sucks. This video shows some of it, so if it bothers you, you might not want to watch it.

That said - holy crap. WOW. I didn't even know horses could move like this.

I don't know who the trainer is from 5 -19 seconds, but WOW. I'd like to be able to sit/train/ride a horse like that. And...just.... wow.

The horse's name is Merlin, and he's 7/8 Lusitano, 1/8 Quarter Horse... and he can canter (gallop?) at a sidepass. I didn't even know horses could do that. This is like watching some strange, hybrid version of cutting/dressage on steroids.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hit play again.

Favorites

2011-06-09T15:58:00.001-07:00

It's only a little over a mile from my house to the beach, but some days that mile seems to last forever.

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

""Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"NO." <--me, annoyed at answering the same question and changing my answer.

"GO BEACH?!" <-- The DragonMonkey, sounding incredibly distraught.

"Yes."

"GO BEACH?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"Yes."

"Go beach?"

"No." (what can I say? It gets boring saying the same thing 300 million times in a row.)

"GO BEACH?!?!?!?!GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH?GO BEACH? GO BE--"

"YES!" I interrupt. "WE ARE GOING TO THE BEACH. I HAVE SAID NOTHING BUT YES SINCE WE GOT IN THIS CAR. I HAVE SAID YES. I HAVE SAID NO. I HAVE IGNORED YOU. I HAVE ANSWERED YOU. YOU SEE THAT WE ARE ON THE WAY TO THE BEACH. WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING?"

Silence.

"Go beach?"

And then once we do get there...

Run! Run! Hahahahahahhahahaha! Run! Run! Run! Run! Hahahahahahaha! Run!

Trip. Fall.

Wait.

OMG. Sand. OMG. He has SAND. SAAAND. On his hands! SAND! Wash. Wash them repeatedly! Holy crap, another tiny speck of sand!

"MEEESS! MEESSSS! MESS! MESS! MESS! MESS!"

He flaps his hands frantically at me, wails tinged with hysteria. His face reddens as he tilts on the edge of a complete breakdown.

Meanwhile, The Squidgelet smiles up at me placidly from the Ergo, patiently waiting for me to notice his smile so he can grin even wider.

Who says you're not allowed to have favorites?

Tiiiiiiiimber......

2011-06-07T14:57:00.000-07:00

My boss honks from the street in front of the building. I stand up quickly from my desk, gathering up the package of dictation, emails, messages and various other half-finished projects and throwing open the back door to the building. Today has been one of those days – everything that can go wrong HAS gone wrong, but I’ve somehow managed to keep it together. Still, we are desperately behind schedule, and I catch myself trotting down the hallway and skipping steps in an attempt to get down to his car faster. His plane does leave in a few hours, after all.

Puffing and out of breath, I take a moment to regroup before I push open the side door and emerge into view.

Crisp brown slacks: Check
No wrinkles? Check.
No stains? Check.
No cat hair? Check.

Brand new, unstained, unfaded black work blouse? Check.

New glasses that help give me an intellectual, thoughtful, intelligent air? Check.

I take one last moment to smooth the flyaway, escapee hairs behind my ears and step out into the sunlight to approach his Lexus.

“Mr. Boss – here’s your phone. I’ve updated it to sync seamlessly with the computer. Here’s the list of messages that came in while you were gone. I’ve printed off your project list for the upcoming business trip, as well as a listing of important contacts and reminders. ”

I hand it to him, feeling more than a little proud of myself. When he left, the office was chaotic. In the few hours he’s been gone I have tamed the craziness down into a neat envelope and tidy little travel folder.

“My flight?”

“Your flight is confirmed – the boarding passes are in your package. Your driver will meet you when you land.”

“And the foundation project?”

“I’ve notified the appropriate personnel and they’re standing by. The city called regarding the offsite bonds – I referred them to the project manager and they are taking lead.”

“Okay, sounds like you have everything under control. I’ll see you next week.”

I give him a cool, professional smile. I’ve come a long ways from the gawky ex-bartender I was when I first started this job. I am cool. I am cultured. I am confident and capable. “Have a great flight, Mr. Boss.”

I turn on my heels to head back inside.

My sudden turn causes the wide cuffs of my crisp, brown, unwrinkled slacks to flare out, entangling my foot as I try to step forward.

I’m snagged.

There’s no way for me to catch myself, not with one foot effectively hogtied to the other – I crash to the ground, my fall cushioned by a slope of grass.

Humiliated, I try to bounce back up, hoping nobody has seen.

Unfortunately, the slick bottoms of my penny loafers were made for office floors – not for clambering up grassy slopes. They catch just long enough to let me stand halfway up before slipping out from underneath me. Down I go again, this time catching myself on my hands and knees.

With my ample butt poking up high in the air, I’m pretty sure I look like a cross between an angry stinkbug and a skunk giving warning.

So much for my newfound confidence.

Sigh.

Tuesdays: They’re the new Monday.

Lazy

2011-05-31T19:46:00.000-07:00

A picture's worth a thousand words.

So that means a video's worth, what, a million words?

In that case, I am totally overachieving this week.

First, the cast of characters - I thought I'd do a test run at videotaping all three of us before I got to the meat of the explanation. After all, I'm sitting in a chair, holding two kids and using one arm to take a video with my cell phone camera. I figured I should do a test run. I decided to ask the DragonMonkey a few questions showing off how cute he is and how he says "Nonope" instead of "oatmeal".

Instead, I got a video of a two-year-old who spits and says oatmeal perfectly clear. Ah, such is life.

And now for the explanation:

Anyways, I'm off to go drag my tired carcass into bed. I'll leave you with a photo from this weekend - Guess who I got to meet?

Baby!

2011-05-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

Hey, you all remember Cotton and Rocky right?

I mean, who can forget Rocky?

Drool.

Drooool.

Triple Droooool.

Anyways, my friend Bunnygal really liked the way Rocky's first filly was turning out, so last year she bred him again (I can hear the voice of Fugly in my head, so I'd like to point out that Rocky is 9 and this is only his second foal) and last Sunday Cotton foaled a pretty little bay (Bay roan? Who really knows until they shed out?) filly.

And since we all love baby pictures, enjoy the cuteness!

Pardon the bloodiness on the above photos, but the filly was less than an hour old.

She got cuter by the next morning, although she still had that "just escaped from the womb" look.

.....and it's naptime.

So, there you go. Your cuteness quota should be met for the day. You're welcome.

Contaminated BREASTS

2011-05-20T10:47:00.000-07:00

Ring, Ring.

With a sigh, I take a pause from the email I'm writing and pick up my work phone.

"Thank you for calling, this is Becky speaking. How may I help you?"

"Your breasts are contaminated."

There's a beat of silence, as I try to figure out if I just heard what I think I just heard.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"This is your mom. Your breasts are contaminated."

For a brief moment, I get a creepy mental image of "the girls" combined with radiation leaks and food poisoning. Gross.

"Ummm. Okay?.... Uhh... Mom, can you explain, please?" I'd be more concerned, but the reality is that my mom is the Queen of Hyperbole.

"Well, it's germ transference 101... you have a cold, so when you use your BREASTpump, the NIPPLE shields are touching your BREASTS and the milk at the same time, so the germs go from your NIPPLES and your BREASTS into the milk."

Oh. My. Gaaawd. How many times can this woman fit the words "breasts" and/or "nipples" into one sentence? I feel dirty just listening to it.

"Mom, I don't think it works like that."

"No, your germs are probably all over it. It's on the bag, and it's probably contaminating the bags it's touching. We should throw it away."

Nuh-uh. I don't care if I covered that bag in the Ebola virus - I pumped 10.5 ounces yesterday. We are NOT throwing it away!

"Mom, it's fine. The baby already has my cold. And besides, the milk has antibodies in it - you specifically want to give him that milk right now."

"But it's covered in germs." Germs, toxins, bacteria, AIDS virus, airborne anthrax - they all creep my mom out on the same level.

"It's fine, mom. There aren't any germs, and even if there were, it doesn't matter. Like I said, he's already sick."

"But how long will the germs live? You're sick, and when you used your BREASTpump, it was touching all of your BREAST and even though the milk is only coming out of your NIPPLES, the entire plastic was touching your BREAST so it's all contaminated."

Good Lord... I need a brain toothbrush.

"Mom, it's fine. He already has my cold, so he can't get sick again. Besides, even if it did work like that - and it doesn't - it's just a cold."

"But what if the germs contaminate the rest of your freezer stash? I don't want to have to deal with him having a cold again. What if I pull that bag out a couple of months from now and he gets sick again? I'm not willing to take that chance."

Crap, she's starting to get that stubborn tone to her voice. If I don't think of something soon, she's gonna chuck a 10.5 baggie of liquid gold down the drain because she's scared it's "contaminated"... even though he already has my cold and can never get it again. Crap, crap, crap.

"But I put it in the freezer," I say, making something up off the top of my head. "The drastic change in temperature works as an antiseptic and kills any germs that might have survived contact with the sterile environment of the bag. They can't survive the exposure to the icy air - it's more effective than bleach." My argument makes no sense whatsoever, but I pepper it with words like "sterile" and "antiseptic" to make it sound official. I specifically use "bleach" because I'm pretty sure bleach is my mom's Happy Spot. Clean, white, recently bleached things seem to soothe her.

"Well, I guess..." she sounds semi-convinced. "But he's not eating very well right now."

"Mom, I told you I nursed him at 7 and he ate really well. He shouldn't be hungry until 10 or 11."

"But he ate again at eight," she says, as if presenting solid proof that my contaminated milk is systematically destroying the Squidgelet.

"He ate at eight? Right after I left?"

"He woke up crying," she says defensively.

"Okay, but you're saying that he ate heavily at 7, and then you fed him again at 8? And now you're feeding him again at 10, and you're worried that he's not eating a lot?"

In the back of my mind I see all those hard hours of pumping just draining away....

"Yeah, I guess you're right. He probably isn't that hungry. So you think the milk is okay? It's not contaminated by your BREASTS?"

From the sound of her voice I can tell she's envisioning radioactive, puss-covered skin crawling with germs. Nice. Now I feel REALLY sexy.

"No, mom. I'm fine. The milk is fine. I've got to get back to work now."

Yeesh.

Lazy Summer Evenings

2011-05-18T13:39:00.001-07:00

The Bean and I are in the middle of our intricate just-got-home-hi-honey-hug-kiss-cook-dinner-put-kids-to-bed dance.

It’s a noisy, complex dance with nightly showings.

The DragonMonkey runs laps in our house, chasing the dog and squealing with excitement.

Bad Max skitters around the corners, claws tick-ticking on the wood, tongue flapping out the corner of his mouth as he narrowly evades being tackled by a two year old.

Fun! Family! Run! Fun! Run! Run! With a dog as simple as Max, it's not hard to read his thoughts.

"Hahahahahaha! Run! Run! Doggie! More run!" DragonMonkey screams with laughter at the top of his voice.

There's a reason he and Max are best friends.

The Squidgelet whines softly from his swing, fighting sleep.

I push past the Bean through the narrow doorway into the kitchen, both of us having to flatten ourselves against the walls for there to be enough room.

"No running, Max. DragonMonkey, leave the dog alone. Sweetie, can you pull out some chicken out of the freezer? Max, no running. DragonMonkey, STOP. Hi, Babe, how was your day?"

"Busy," mumbles the Bean, reaching arm-deep in the freezer, fumbling around for a bag of chicken.

“Hey, I was hoping to go to the gym tomorrow before --- DragonMonkey, please get down – before work. You don’t have to --- MAMA SAID GET DOWN. ONE… TWO… Thank you. --- You don’t have to leave early tomorrow, do you?”

“No, we should be--- DRAGONMONKEY, BE NICE TO THE CAT --- We should be good. Here’s the chicken.”

Squidgelet’s whines increased in volume.

I toss the still-frozen chicken into some warm water to defrost (oh no! bacteria! Toxic mold! Death! Whatever.) and push past the Bean again as I go to get the Squidgelet.

“Shhh. Shhhh.” I try to avoid nursing him to sleep as it’s a bad habit to fall into, but some nights you just do what you can to survive.

“Hahahahahah! MORE RUN! MORE RUN!” Max and DragonMonkey barrel past me in another noisy loop in the house.

“NO RUNNING!” I bellow, jolting Squidgelet awake. The corner of his lips twist down as if pulled by strings. “Shhh, shhhh! It’s okay!” I try to murmur into his ears, but it’s too late – I’ve thoroughly scared him.

“MWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!”

I jiggle him in what I hope is a soothing manner, making shushing noises in his ears. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Shhh, shhh…. Mama wasn’t hollering at you.”

Tick, tick, tick, skitter, Tick, tick, Pant, pant, pant. Max careens past me for a third time.

“MORE RUN! MORE RUN! RUN, RUN, RUN, DOGGIE, RUN, RUN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” screeches the DragonMonkey.

“NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!” I yell, startling the poor Squidgelet into a fresh burst of crying.

I miss living on the dude ranch.

I miss lazy, quiet evenings with dusty rays of sun dancing through the pines, turning the whole world gold. I miss the sight of horses munching contentedly in the pasture below me, occasionally stomping a fly and snorting out hay dust.

I love my kids, but I miss the sweet scent of horse and alfalfa mixing with the wild fragrance of pine needles. If I were there, I’d be kicking my legs up on the front porch, ankles crossed as I balanced on the railing. The wind would be blowing down off the hill, passing through the trees with creaking moan that never failed to make me shiver, soul contented.

CRASH!

“Uh-oh!” the Dragonmonkey calls out. Cheerfully. “Mama! Mama! Uh-oh!”

Sigh.

Super Cool... Just So Super Cool

2011-05-14T21:24:00.000-07:00

Today was a long day.

I needed a laugh.

Even though I've seen this commercial before, it still got the job done.

So, here you go:

The Blog of Becky

Not My Brightest Moment

....And the Winner Is....

Guess That DragonMonkey: Part Two

Guess That DragonMonkey!

Conversations With My Dog

Either Really Complain or Quit Complaining

Email from My Mom

Maybe She's Born With It

Rooster Pinata: The Best Sport in the World

New Year's From Thailand: Guest Post

Merry Christmas!

Mmm... Apple Pie!

Becky the Arctic Snow Fox

Bugs, Beer, and Lizards: Part Two

Guest Post from My Dad

It's All Worth It

Sexual Harassment

Excerpt from NaNoWriMo-land

Halloween and Allergies

Becky the Big Name Trainer

Saturday Night Fun

Camp Spooky

They May Take Our Lives, But They'll Never Take Our Beans!

Regret

Communication

Ransom Note: I'm Sorry It Has Come To This

Happy Friday! *Drool*

Mustang Diaries: Cascade Horse Fair

Mom Fanfiction

Clip Clop the Magical Trust Pony

Becky Bean: Chicken Owner Extraordinaire

Think He'd Buy It?

Oh, Well. I Tried.

September 11, 2001

Lazy Summer Evenings

I came, I saw, I rode... and Conquered

Reasons I Really Don't Like Horses

Not Everyone Owns a Lear Jet.....

Shadow Puppets

Dear Google Ads:

It's Friday, Friday!

Update on My Life

Huntington Beach: Some Days It's Not That Bad

I Like to Tease The Bean

Monday, Monday, Monday. Curse thee.

Where I Am Now: Part 6

Introducing Becky's Professional Review

He's MINE, girls... BACK OFF!

Goodbye Anonymity!

Psssst... Look Up

I NEED THIS BOOK

Killing Zombies is Serious Business

We really are horrible parents.

Wake up Call

Wanna Be My Friend?

Enunciation: Part Two

Enunciation

Where's Becky, and Why Hasn't She Updated?

Now *THIS* is Riding

Favorites

Tiiiiiiiimber......

Lazy

Baby!

Contaminated BREASTS

Lazy Summer Evenings

Super Cool... Just So Super Cool

Happy Friday! Drool

Now THIS is Riding