Happy Mother’s Day

To my 5’2″ Mexican mother,

 

You may have been the world’s cutest baby.

 

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Although, when you look at your own mom, it’s not really shocking.

 

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My abuelita was hotter than your abuelita.

 

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and wonder… dude.  I know we’ve got all these photos of you and me together on the day I was born, but are SURE I came out of your belly?

 

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19 years old

 Like, really, REALLY sure?

You’ve done a lot for me, but deep in my heart I’m still a bit resentful.  Couldn’t you have tried a little bit harder to give me your olive skin?  I’m pretty sure I’m the most un-Mexican half-Mexican in the world.  I know you don’t really get a choice as to what your kid will look like… I’m just saying, you could have tried a little bit harder to pass on your genes.  Cuz seriously, woman, you had some great genes to pass along.

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I know you tried to pass on your ability to pose for the camera.  That…. that got lost in the translation somewhere.  Sorry.

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You also tried to pass on how to be feminine, to do your hair, to never wear underwear with holes in them, to sit like a lady, and to always wash your fruit before you eat it.

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As I sit here eating my unwashed apple with a live baby chicken shoved down my bra (how else should I keep it warm while I’m holding it?) all I can say is:  you really tried, and nobody’s blaming you.

Madrisima, you are more beautiful than I think you will ever know, and I love you.  And I promise that by the time you guys arrive today, I will have at least changed out of my chicken bra and into something less germ-ridden, just for you.   I also promise that every time I bite into a piece of unwashed fruit, no matter how old I am, I will hear your voice going “Re-be-ca!  Wash that!”

See?  You did your job well.

…..even though was just selfish of you not to give me more of those gorgeous Mexican genes.

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Happy Mother’s Day :)

Chickens! Little Bitty Baby Chicks!

The problem with buying baby chicks is that, well, they’re baby chicks.

And the problem with baby chicks is that they’re addicting.

The other problem is that they’re incredibly fertile, especially at a young age.  You go to the store and you buy three baby chicks, and then by the time you come home those little sneaks have gone and turned themselves into seven baby chickens.

It’s not my fault.  I blame society – all those babies having babies.  Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Before I delve into introducing the chicks, let me catch everyone up to speed on my current chickens.

At the moment we have three adult chickens.

Tanesha, the Buff Orpington.

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She’s… she’s pretty stupid, and that’s really saying something, because chickens aren’t the brightest creatures alive.  She’s not just stupid – she’s stupid for a chicken.

She also isn’t the greatest layer – I think she averages about 2 eggs a week, now that she’s passed her prime?  Maybe three?  She’s been a bad layer from the start – at best she only gave us 4 or so eggs a week.

On the other hand, she’s very sweet, and she’s so big that the other chickens don’t mess with her, so just by being her she keeps the other chickens in line.

My four red hens, Myrtle, Martha, Itchy and Scratchy were all Golden Sexlink chickens – great egg layers (seriously!  7-8 eggs a week, EACH!) who go through chicken menopause early and really decrease their laying production at about 3 or so years old.

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Moaning Myrtle and Martha Stewart (this is Myrtle in the picture) were eaten by raccoons about two months ago.  It was really horrible and heart wrenching and I miss them AND their eggs – although they were drying up, they were still good for 4 or more eggs week (they used to lay 7 a week, sometimes more).  Now that they’re gone, I’ve had to go back to buying storebought eggs, and that’s no fun at all.

That just leaves me with Itchy and Scratchy – who are nice, but not very sweet, and I wasn’t going to mourn them going into someone else’s stew pot…..

Except that Itchy earned herself a reprieve by surviving 5 days trapped under a flower pot.
Seriously.  Five days under a flower pot, and she’s still alive.  How….?

 

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You can see the dark circle to the left, where the flower pot originally was.

Back in April I let the chickens out to go peck in the main part of the yard.  In a perfect scenario they’d be out all the time, but…. but they poop like Chihuahuas.

Who wants to add “scooping up chicken poop” to their to-do list? Not me – so they live in the outdoor coop.

Still, they get out a couple of times a week to peck at bugs and stretch their legs. On that particular day we let them out in the morning, and by lunchtime Itchy was missing.  Poor Itchy is ridiculously low on the pecking order, so it would be odd for her to wander off by herself.  Several times a year I had to isolate her form the other chickens, because they would randomly decide to just try to eat her alive.

She’s not exactly the world’s bravest chicken so it was out of character for her to wander off, but I figured she was just scratching for worms in the empty field behind us and would be back soon.

When evening came and she still hadn’t returned, I went on a full on search for her.  Unfortunately, she really was nowhere to be found.  Had someone seen her and taken her home, thinking she was abandoned?  Had a daytime coyote eaten her?  A daytime raccoon?  A hawk?

I gave up after nearly an hour of searching and locked my remaining two hens in for the night.  I held out hope that she’d maybe show up the next morning… but no.

I said goodbye to her in my heart and moved on.  It sounds cold, but after having to clean up bloody chunks of Moaning Myrtle, a missing chicken wasn’t very traumatic to me.

So, imagine my surprise when the following Saturday, almost 6 days after she’d disappeared, I flipped over a broken flower pot to throw it in the trash, and out exploded a very bedraggled, hungry chicken.

 

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Picture taken about 3 minutes after she came out.

Have any of you ever reached into a bag of feed and had a mouse jump out?  I don’t know about you, but having a mouse suddenly skitter out at me makes me jump, every time, even though I’m not scared of mice.

Flipping over a flower pot and have a chicken explode out at my face, complete with a squawk and a bunch of noisy flapping was a bazillion times worse.

I didn’t just say a bad word – I screamed a cuss word so loud it kind of echoed throughout the neighborhood.  Sorry, neighbors.  After I stared at her in amazement for a few moments I ran and got her some food and water.

I think what happened is that she jumped up onto the edge of the flower pot and because it was empty (it was broken and I was waiting for space in the trash can to throw it away), it flipped over on her.  She survived because the flower pot landed on an old hay bale.  We had some heavy rain mid-week, so I think it absorbed some of it?  I’m really glad I found her alive – if I’d decided to throw away the pot the following weekend and found a dead chicken underneath, I would have hated myself for a long time.

Any chicken who survived nearly a week under the flower pot deserves a second chance at life, don’t you think?

So, in a couple of weeks, when Tanesha and Scratchy go off to “freezer camp”, Itchy will stay with us.

As for the chicks…. while I loved how well the Golden SexLink laid their eggs and how low-maintenance they were, I didn’t like how quickly they shut down on production right at 3 years old, and I especially didn’t like how much they pecked each other.  Supplementing their feed with mealworms and cat food (for protein) helped, but even when they had tons of space, they had a tendency to peck on each other’s feathers.

When the feed store near me got a surprise “whoopsie” order of 300 baby chicks, I decided to go a little hog wild.  My requirements for the breeds were:  good layers, friendly, bears confinement well, and quiet.  (Did you know that some hens need lots of space, or that some breeds are known for being really noisy?  I didn’t, before I started my researching.)

On Saturday we all went down to the feed store to pick out some chicks.  My mom got caught up in the chicken fever and got two of her own…. which she will pay for and I will take care of.  In exchange, she’ll get some of the eggs once they start laying.

I was thrilled when she wanted some, because it meant I would be able to get the two breeds I had really wanted but couldn’t justify:  A golden wyandotte (very pretty), and a Light Brahma (they have feathery feet!!!!  Did I mention I have a thing for feathery feet???!!!!)

Here are the breeds I chose:

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Black Australorp — Although they’re great layers, they lay slightly less than the Barred Rocks….but for some reason The Squid wanted a black chicken for “his chicken”, so that’s why we got this one.

 

 

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Ameraucana – Uh… who WOULDN’T want a bearded chicken that lays blue eggs?!

 

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Golden Wyandotte – Sweet and friendly – decent egg layers but not enough that I could justify them without talking my mom into one :)

 

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Barred Rock – sweet, friendly, and egg-laying machines.

I’ve already apologized on Facebook, but I’ll apologize here, too.  If you don’t like photos of baby chicks, you’re probably a psychopath and you should also probably click away now, because it’s about to get all spammy up in here.

Also, before anyone accuses me of being all artsy-fartsy with my black/white photos….

Baby chicks need a heat lamp to survive, and the best heat lamps are red, because they make everything a uniform reddish color (so chicks are less likely to peck each other.).

Color photos are all tinged a really weird red, like I’m setting up some kind of little bitty underage chicken sex shop.

Chicks for sale, and the prices are…. cheep?

So now you know why I take pictures of all the chicks in black and white.

 

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Freckles – the DragonMonkey’s Barred Rock.

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Diva – My mom’s Golden Wyandotte

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The Squid, clearly illustrating his enthusiasm over being asked to “JUST PUT DOWN THE CHICKEN FOR ONE SECOND, AND SMILE.”

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More of Diva – I swear I have other chicks, but she’s so ridiculously photogenic.

 

 

 

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We had to put a lock on the door, because we were scared The Squid would Elmira them to death… or maybe Lenny them? Either way, he’s more into the chicks than I am, and that’s saying something.

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Diva, again

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Henrietta Fancy Pants, a Light Brahma

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Squid and Mr. Lahey (who is hopefully a hen – The Bean just has a sense of humor when naming chickens.)

And, because I know you’re all as obsessed with the chicks as I am…. a video of them eating (complete with nametags, introducing them all.)

For the record, I think I’ve spent 3/4 of my waking hours in the bathroom as of late.  I can’t help it.  I find their sounds, and their silly motions just so soothing.

That’s My Story, And I’m Sticking To It

I didn’t see him there, lurking against the wall.

In retrospect, it seems odd that I would have missed him.  Six foot six, 240 pounds of pure muscle, shoulders like a linebacker…. it really does seem odd that I didn’t notice him at first.

I definitely noticed him when he reached out and grabbed me by my shirt, slamming my back against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of me.

“BUY CHICKENS,” he rasped in an eerie voice, not unlike Bane from Batman.

Actually, now that I think about it, he totally looked like Bane from Batman.  He had a creepy weird mask, and evil eyes, and it was dark and rainy even though it was 8:30 in the morning.

 

Just like this, only I was wearing Wal-Mart jeans instead of a Batman suit and my back ended up against the feed store wall instead of the floor.

So anyways, there he was, all creepy and scary and demanding I buy little bitty baby chickens, but, well, you know me.  I’m brave, and strong, and it takes a lot to scare me.

“NEVER,” I cried, struggling to pull out of his inexorable grip.  It felt like thrashing against a brick wall, and for a brief moment I panicked.  I was trying to escape with all my strength, and he wasn’t even budging.  I kicked at his knee cap and he grunted at the impact, but since he was 6’7 and Bane and all, it didn’t really do that much damage.

“BUY CHICKENS,” he repeated.

I let my body relax, thinking I could lull him into relaxing his hold, but when I kicked off against the wall he barely twitched.

I paused, panting, and spit in his face.  “”Let go of me, you warthog-faced buffoon!  My husband has our monthly budget all planned out, and I would never ruin it like that!”

“BUY CHICKENS, OR IT WILL BE EXTREMELY PAINFUL… FOR YOU.”

“You think I care about pain?  You think you scare me?  My husband and I are a team!  We decided on this budget together!  I will not betray him!”

“BUY THE CHICKENS, OR I WILL REMOVE YOUR ARM.”

“I don’t care!  Remove my arm!  He is my beloved husband, and I will not turn against him!”

And then he said something that truly scared me.  “BUY THE CHICKENS OR I WILL PUT DOOR DINGS ON YOUR HUSBAND’S CAR, AND MASH A MOLDY BANANA DEEP INTO THE SEAT CUSHIONS.”

Bean, I could have withstood anything, even though he was 6’8 and 300 pounds of sheer muscle, even though his face mask creeped me out, and even though he literally had my back against the feed store wall.  My love for you is that strong.

But Bean.  BEAN.  He threatened your car.

Bean, I know how much you love that car, and I just… I just couldn’t let him do that.  I know that getting chicks will mean a lot of personal sacrifice on my end, as I prepare a place for them to live in, and set up the heat lamp.

I’ll have to care for them round the clock, and clean up after them, and… and… pick them up and hold them…. and it will be so hard making sure sure they get hugged all the time….
It will mean so much work and sweat and effort on my part…. but I don’t care.  I knew the moment the words left Bane that I would do anything to protect your car, even if it meant buying baby chicks that weren’t in this month’s budget.

That’s how much I love you, Bean.  I am willing to sacrifice for you that much.

BUY CHICKS”, Bane repeated.  “BUY CHICKS OR THE BEAN’S CAR WILL BE RUINED.”
And so I did.

So…. anyhooo…..

Do you think you can get home tonight before the feed store closes so we can pick them out together, or do you just want to go tomorrow morning?  I was thinking Ameraucanas that lay the blue eggs, Barred Rocks, and maybe a Leghorn would adequately prove my devotion to you and your car, as well as give us enough eggs.

 

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Ask a Car Salesman

Have you ever wished you could just get a car salesman to give you an honest, straightforward answer?

 

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Well, here’s your chance.

For those of you who don’t remember, before we moved to Oregon The Bean made his (our?) living selling cars.  He’d been doing it for over 10 years, and I mean, he really sold cars.  I think his record still holds at his old dealership for the “most units moved” in a month (73 cars? 76? he can’t quite remember the exact number anymore).  It wasn’t like he worked at a small dealership, either. His dealership was second in sales (for the brand of car they sold) for the entire United States

In other words, The Bean can really sell cars.

Heck, the guy can sell pretty much anything. Don’t believe me?  Allow me to illustrate:

A few weeks into our dating I realized that our relationship wasn’t really going anywhere, and it didn’t make sense to prolong the inevitable.  After my shift as a cocktail waitress ended I walked over to his house to break up with him…..

….and ended up cooking him dinner, giving him a back massage, and staying the night.

What’s worse, I didn’t even realize what had happened until the next morning, when my sister texted me, “So, how’d the breakup go?”

That’s how good of a salesman he is.

So, here’s the deal.  If you have ever wanted to ask a car salesman a question and get a straight answer….. leave a comment. I’ll ask The Bean, and you’ll get the straight answer in the next “Ask A Car Salesman” post.

Also, I type at about 100 wpm, so I am doing my best to take down The Bean’s answers verbatim and only editing them to make them easier to read on paper.  One of the things I’ve always enjoyed when listening to him talk about the car industry was the weird vocabulary/vernacular.  Cars are units, people who have made the decision to buy are “under the ether”, all salesman use a foursquare, you avoid mooches and roaches and hope for a lay-down to walk through the door….

It’s kind of fascinating.

Anyways, if you ask, he’ll answer.  We’re deep enough into his career as an accountant that I don’t think we’ll ever have to fall back on him selling cars, so there’s no harm in straightforward honesty about some of the stuff car dealerships really do.

So… ask away!

In the meantime, I proposed this idea on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, so I thought I’d start off with some of the questions people left on the post.

 

How long do I REALLY have to return the car with no penalties? I believe it’s 3 business days?

Zero days.  The three-day thing is a myth. The federal law for cooling off periods does not apply to auto purchases.  Although….I remember in California, before I left the business, they came out with this optional thing you could buy if you wanted. It was a cancellation contract where you could give the car back.  The price of it was based on the selling price of the car, and it was only available on used cars under $40,000.

It didn’t really matter, because nobody ever bought the contract because it was so expensive. On a $20,000 used car it was around $500 bucks, and if you didn’t bring the car back within 3 days, it was just money you lost. What was the point?  You can rent a car for three days cheaper than that.

There might be a state somewhere that has a legal cooling off period for cars, but not for new cars.  If you get in a new car, and you drive it over the curb onto the street, you own it.  It’s yours. Once it leaves the dealership, even if it only has .25 of a mile on it, it’s considered a used car and can’t be sold again as a new car.

Moral of the story…if you sign on it and drive it over the curb…you OWN it.

 

Why does buying a car take so long?

It’s supposed to wear a buyer down.  The more tired you get, the more desire you’ll have to “just get out of there.” There comes a point in the transaction where a buyer’s mentally committed to buying the car, and they’re gonna buy it no matter what.  By wearing them down, the buyer’s more likely to just say “Yeah, that’s fine, that’s fine, that’s fine,” and be willing to just sign on whatever so they can get out of the dealership.

 

What’s that term again?  That term for people who you can totally rip off at that point if you wanted to?

Becky, I didn’t rip people off.

 

I know, I know.  I’m just trying to remember the term you mentioned for people who you could rip off at that point, if you wanted to.

I really hate the term rip-off, you know—

 

A lay-down!  That’s right.  I was just trying to remember.  Oh, RELAX, Bean.  I was just trying to remember the term.  Anyways, once someone’s committed to buying, is that when the salesman tries to sell them lots of stuff?  (<— Would you like to buy my new book?  It’s called: Becky Bean: How To Piss off An Interview Subject And Make Them All Defensive.)

Most car salesmen aren’t trying to sneak something in – they’re trying to pay the bills the same as everyone else. Most of us are pretty honest people.  Think about it – it’s the same type of transaction you get when you go to some high-end clothing store like Nordstrom’s.  When you buy a sweater and the salesperson says “You look great in that”, you’re still getting sold something.  When the person at Nordstrom’s says, “You look great in that shirt, and it matches this tie I have over here perfectly,” they’re trying to upsell you something, the same as a car salesman.  Sure, once a person’s “under the ether” and they’re mentally committed to buying the car, that’s when you try to get them to buy upsells and accessories, but it’s not like that stuff is worthless.  All that stuff adds value to the right type of buyer.

For example, somebody who keeps a car a long time and isn’t that good at maintaining it***, they’d actually benefit from an extended warranty.  Someone who leases or sells their car every three or four years, it wouldn’t help.

Fancy wheels might be expensive, but to the right person there is value in that. They might like how flashy they look in it, whereas a soccer mom in a minivan wouldn’t be interested in flashy wheels.

At the end of the day the transactions gotta make sense to everyone, right?  The dealer’s gotta make money, the salesman’s gotta make money, the customer’s gotta feel like they got a good deal and everyone gets what they want.

*** YES, BEAN, I NOTICED THAT POINTED STARE YOU GAVE ME WHEN YOU SAID THAT, YOU BIG POO-POO HEAD.

 

Can you explain the price terms? (<— Okay, nobody actually asked this.  This was me asking, because I’m financially dyslexic and can never keep money-terms straight in my head.) 

The invoice is technically what the dealer bought the car from the manufacturer for.
The MSRP is the Manufacturer Suggested Retail Price.  It’s what they’re listing the car at – the sticker, not-on-sale price.  You don’t usually sell a car at MSRP, because for some reason nobody thinks cars are worth what the sticker price is.  The exception to that would be exotic sports cars, or if it’s a high-demand, low-production car.  For instance, when the Turbo Miata was new there wasn’t anything exotic about it, but a lot of people wanted it so they sold for MSRP.  If you went into the dealer and asked for a grand off, well, there were ten other people willing to pay full price .

There are a lot of cars where the supply and demand dictate it sells for more than MSRP.  It’s been several years so I don’t know if it’s still true, but if you went in to buy a Porsche 911 Turbo you’d be lucky to have the privilege of paying only 10 grand over MSRP for that kind of car.  When gas was over 5 bucks a gallon, if you wanted to buy a Toyota Prius or a Honda Civic hybrid you had to pay over MSRP.  People fought over cars like that – as in, they actually almost physically fought each other to buy them.


What about the MSRP on Used Cars?

Oh, used cars are fun.  Used cars don’t have MSRP.  An MSRP is only for new cars – MSRP is “MANUFACTURER” Suggested Retail Price.  Basically, dealers go to Kelly Blue Book to come up with what the price the car is worth.  The only reason they use Kelly Blue Book is because the banks used Kelly Blue Book to determine how much money they’re willing to loan on the car. So, if Kelly Blue Book stated the car was worth 15 grand, then the banks would say they wouldn’t be willing to give a loan over 110% of what the car was worth.  So, the dealer would price it at 16 grand.

I always hated Kelly Blue Book because certain types of people would come in waving a piece of paper around and saying things like, “Well, Kelly Blue Book says my car is worth X amount!”  I always used to tell them, “Well, why don’t you go have Kelly Blue Book buy your car?”  Interestingly enough, Kelly Blue Book doesn’t actually buy cars…


Interesting rant/point of view I inspired out of The Bean when I was arguing with him about how a lot of people do get ripped off by car dealerships…because, I’m a super professional interviewer and like to argue with the interview subject:

Sure, there were people who might have rolled back odometers and stuff like that in the past, but that was back when cars had tailfins and Bugsy Siegel rolled around in them. The thing is, that stuff mostly went away when tailfins went away on cars.  You can’t do that anymore.   Still, there’s this public perception that car dealership’s aren’t there to make money, and that the buyer shouldn’t have to pay a penny over what the dealership bought it for.

The thing is, you wouldn’t do that anywhere else.  I mean, you wouldn’t go to Best Buy to buy a tv and ask the guy what his invoice is, and tell him you’re not gonna pay a penny over that. It doesn’t say “Red Cross” on the side of the building – it’s not a charity organization.  Dealerships have to pay the bill to keep their lights on, too. That’s part of the reason some dealerships have gotten more aggressive in their tactics. If consumers push and push and push, then dealerships are gonna push back.


What was the average you would make on an average car commission?

Are you talking about my commission or the dealership’s gross profit?  As far as commission, depending on the pay plan I was on, it was 25-30% of the gross profit for the deal.  A beginner car salesman would get around 20%.

The least amount I ever made on a deal was $100 – that was the amount you got for moving a unit.  Some guys only got a $50 flat for moving the unit – it all depended how well you negotiated your pay plan.


What’s the most you ever made on a deal?

I think it was around $8500 bucks.  That deal was on the last mineral grey Acura NSX that was available for sale in the US, when the car went out of production. I sold it through a contact of mine to a very well known actor.  He was actually a total prick, but he paid all the money.

 

How about you guys?  Got any questions?  Ask away!

Do You Want to Make a Baaaaby?

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Uterus: Do you want to make a baaaaby?

 

Me: What?  You’re mumbling again.  What’d you say?

 

Uterus: Do you want to build a baby?

 

Me:  Oh, holy heck.  No.  Not again.  Please don’t.  I hate that song. Shut up.

 

Uterus:  Do you want to build a baaaaby?

 

Me: Stop it. Please don’t sing that song again.  NO SONGS FROM FROZEN, AND NO BABIES.

 

Uterus: Come on let’s go and plaaaaay

 

Me: Seriously.  Stop it.

 

Uterus: I never have fun anymore…

 

Me:  Good.

 

Uterus: I get a little bored…

 

Me: Shut up.

 

Uterus: Now that the babies inside me have gone awaaaaaaay.

 

Me:  …… are you done yet?

 

Uterus: You used to keep me busy, now there’s just empty wallls, watching the uterus lining flow byyyyyyyyyy……

 

Me:  …… Now are you done?

 

Uterus:  Do you want to build a baaaby?

 

Me:  NO.

 

Uterus: Okay, byyyeeee :(

 

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A couple weeks later

 

Me:  Hello?

 

Uterus:

 

Me:  Hello?  Uterus?

 

Uterus:

 

Me:  Hey, sweetie, I’m sorry I didn’t let you build a baby, but, you know, I have a say in these things, too.

 

Uterus:

 

Me:  Look, you can’t ignore me forever.  We’ve got a timeline for our conversations. Remember?  That thing that happens once a month?

 

Uterus (mumbling):  Don’t wanna.

 

Me:  You don’t wanna? Huh?  What’s that supposed to mean?  Look, it’s time for you to do your thing.

 

Uterus.  No.

 

Me:  Hey, trust me.  I wish it wasn’t an option, but it is.  it’s time to clean house, so let’s just get it over with, okay?

 

Uterus:  No.  I made a nursery for the baby. It’s lovely. I wanna keep it.

 

Me:  What?  Why would you make a nursery?

 

Uterus:  For the baby. It’s beautiful, and the baby is going to love it.

 

Me:  You do realize how stupid that is, right?  Why would you make a nursery for a baby that was never gonna happen? I specifically told you we weren’t going to have one. What a waste of time.

 

Uterus:  No it’s not. I’m keeping this nursery.

 

Me:  That’s…. that’s just gross.  It’s already past due.  Just get rid of it.   You don’t even need it.

 

Uterus:  YES I DO.

 

Me: What?  Explain yourself.

 

Uterus:  I’M KEEPING THE NURSERY.  I NEED IT.  BECAUSE…. BECAUSE REASONS, THAT’S WHY.

 

Me:  ….. now you’re scaring me.  Why do you need it?

 

Uterus:  None of your business.

 

Me:  Actually, it’s totally my business. What do you mean you need the nursery?  I mean it.  Tell me.

 

Uterus:  I’m not telling you.

 

Me:  Yes, you will.  I’m going to force you to tell me the truth by using my magic wand, otherwise known as ClearBlue Pregnancy Stick.  Now.  Speak clearly into the wand, and tell me the truth:  Did you smuggle in a baby while I wasn’t looking?

 

Uterus:  No.

 

Me:  Oh, thank heavens.  You had me worrie–

 

Uterus:  But I could be lying.

 

Me:  WHAT?

 

Uterus:  Oooh, ooh, I’m feeling weird.  Is it because it’s a cramp?  Or am I stretching the walls to make more room for the beautiful infant I’m housing?  You’ll never know, because I’m NEVER TELLING YOU AND I’M NEVER GIVING YOU THIS NURSERY.

 

Me:  I hate you.  I’m going to make you speak into the wand of truth again tomorrow morning.  You can’t lie as well first thing in the morning.

 

 

[Later that night]

 

Uterus:  Hey, Becky, you awake?

 

Me:  <snore>

 

Uterus:  Are you really asleep?

 

Me:  <SNORE>

 

Uterus:  Good.  Because you totally deserve this.

 

Me:  What the…. WHAT IS ALL OF THIS?

 

Uterus:  It’s what you wanted, you selfish waste of a human being!

 

Me:  What is going on?  Did somebody slaughter a rabbit in the bed?  WHAT IS THIS HORRIBLE MESS?

 

Uterus:  I HATE YOU.  I made a delightful nursery for the baby, and you’re forcing me to get rid of it, SO I’M GOING TO GET RID OF IT ALL AT ONCE BECAUSE YOU’RE A HORRIBLE PERSON AND THAT’S WHAT YOU DESERVE.

 

Me:  This is not what I wanted at all!   I don’t make these rules, you know.  I just live by them!  Oh, gross.  Nasty.  It’s everywhere.  Why?  Why would you do this to me?  It’s not even six in the morning!

 

Uterus:  BEHOLD THE WRATH OF MY RUINED BABY NURSERY! I WILL RAIN DOWN BLOOD UPON THEE LIKE YOU’RE CARRIE AT THE PROM.  PLAGUE AND PESTILENCE AND GROSSNESS UPON THEE AND THY MATTRESS…

~~~~~~

And now you all know why I wish I was a man.

 

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Quit shoving books down your pants, Becky

Dear 19-year-old Becky,

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Hey, that’s a great tan on your legs.  It totally matches your shoulders.  You don’t look at all like someone grabbed two different Lego people and forced their mismatched halves together.

Okay, quit shooting me dirty looks.  Whatever, you’re me.  I get to pick on you all I want. That said, there is a point to this, you know. I didn’t just come here to make fun of you. I wanted to let you know that I see you.  Yes, you.  You are on your first cruise, and you’re in the prime of your youth.  I’m looking back through the photos today, and I assure you:  YOU ARE NOT FAT.

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As far as I can tell, you are composed of about 90% legs and 10% flat belly, but eh.  I’m not gonna argue with you, because we both know you’ll never hear me, so I might as well get down to business.

Dude.  You are on a cruise, you’re single, you’re totally hot, you’re laying in a gorgeous little black bathing suit on the sands of a Mexican beach…….

And you’ve got your nose stuffed in a book.

Here’s the thing:  I know what book you’re reading.  That’s Outlander, isn’t it?  No, don’t even bother trying to hide it under the towel – we both know you stole it out of the ship’s library.  Yes, yes, I know you didn’t “steal” it – I know you’re going to “give it right back”, so it’s not “technically stealing”. Although, now that we’re on the subject….

DUDE.  You have got to quit shoving books down your pants to steal them, even if you’ve rationalized the theft in your mind.  I mean, really. Think about it for a second.  Do you realize how socially inept you’re being?    Let’s not even talk about the fact that yes, it is stealing.  No, this point is non-negotiable.  If you’re not supposed to take it and you do, then it’s stealing.  It doesn’t matter if you do give it right back to the library, which is the only place you steal books from.  It’s still stealing.  It’s going to take you three or four more years before you realize what a jerk thing that is to do to your favorite place in the entire world and you leave your life of crime behind.

It’s just… morality issue aside, how do you even consider all the possibilities of how to steal something, and then decide that cramming it down your pants is the way to go?  Are you for real?

Look, I’m older than you and I’ve learned a few things over the past few years so let me  tell you something: just tuck the book under your arm and walk off like the badass mofo you are.  Nobody cares.  Everyone’s as caught up in their own lives as you are with yours, and they really. Don’t. Care.

So quit jamming books down your pants and waddling off with them like a gimpy penguin.  It’s not cool, man. Books don’t deserve that.  The person who reads that book next doesn’t deserve it either.

Alright, back to my main point.  Where was I?

Ah, yes.

So you’re 19, single, hot, and on a Mexican beach.  You’re taking a break from a cruise filled with other single, hot young guys…. and you have your nose stuffed in a book? I know you’re feeling guilty about that – like you’re wasting this cruise  by spending the whole time reading, and let me tell you something….

DUDE, YOU’RE TOTALLY NOT.

Holy crap, isn’t that, like, the most amazing book ever?

Right?!

It’s still your most-favoritest-book-ever, even though it’s almost 15 years later!  I know you’re worried that you’re not gonna finish it in time and that you’ll actually have to consider for-real, legitimately stealing the book because you don’t have a job and your library card has a bunch of fines on it again, but dont’ worry.   You actually creep back to the library and pull an all nighter and finish it somewhere around 6 or 7 the next evening.  Also, you’re doing the right thing in not speed-reading through it.  Keep savoring those words.  There’s only one “first time”, you know?

Here’s the super cool part.  Brace yourself, because this is really good.  In about 15 years… YOU’RE GOING TO MEET THE AUTHOR, AND TAKE A PICTURE WITH HER BUTT, AND IT WILL BE AMAZING.

RIGHT?!  You live in Oregon, you own a 16.2 Andalusian cross, you’re becoming a for-real writer, and YOU ACTUALLY MEET DIANA GABALDON’S BUTT.

I know.  Life turns out pretty awesome for us, doesn’t it?

Okay, I can see that you’re actually really busy making awesome decisions so I’ll let you get back to reading, just…. Look, 19-year-old-Becky, even if you won’t believe me that you’re not fat, please believe me that you’re totally making the right decision.  You’re not “wasting” your cruise time at all.  That is such an awesome book.

Moving From Blogspot to WordPress

I know most of you guys know a heck of a lot more about computers than I do, but I’m going to explain before I explain:

Even though the fancy url up at the top doesn’t show it, I use Blogspot to type up my blog.  It’s easy to use, and honestly, if I wasn’t considering “going professional”, I’d still stay here.

Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to tweak the design to look professional, no matter how hard I try, so it’s off to WordPress I go.

Why am I bothering telling you this?

Well, if you’ve clicked “Follow this Blog” in the past you probably get email updates whenever I manage to post…. also, if you have me listed on a sidebar on your blog, it updates for you whenever I post.

What will be different after I switch where I host this blog?

HOPEFULLY NOTHING. (Knock on wood.  Spit over left shoulder.  Uh… what other superstitious stuff do people do? Throw a black cat at a mirror?  Anyways, you get the point.)

In other words, if all goes well, you guys won’t notice anything but a slight blog redesign.  The name won’t change, or anything.

Unfortunately, I’m usually quite terrible at website stuff, so I doubt all will go well.  I’m trying to keep all the thousands upon thousands (HA.)  of followers I’ve accrued over the past 7.5 years (can you believe it’s been that long?!)…but who knows if I’m following the directions right.

So.

Hopefully I’ll manage to “migrate” you guys over with me…. and if not, well… well, I guess this serves as my warning that you might have to click the “Follow this Blog” button again if you stop receiving notifications that I am posting.. and/or update the url on the few people I have who list me as a blog they follow.

Once again:  my url will stay the same (www.beckybeanwrites.com).  However, since a lot of you have followed me as blogofbecky.blogspot.com, and it just automatically forwards you to the correct url…. well, when I switch to wordpress it might mess everything up.

If any of you get a weird “301 Redirect” notice, would you let me know?  That means I’ve done it really wrong, and I have to go bang my head against a wall for a couple of hours as I try to fix it.

Sorry for any inconvenience!

Edit:  DAGNABIT.  I was gonna do try to switch it right now, but NameCheap (who I bought my domain name from) is doing maintenance.  I guess I’ll try the switch tomorrow night.

Ignore this:  e8637ed67c1e9ef8952fb4216df421eada35cea6d7d031086b

I Am Not Smart

I found this neat little biological fact in a thread of scientific facts:

One of the most recent byproducts of human evolution is that no matter how hard you try, you can’t pee your pants on purpose.  Your biology won’t allow it to happen. Go ahead, try right now!

Just in case you’re curious, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.  Let me save you some embarrassment… it’s not true.  I know this because… because reasons, okay?