Category Archives: Embarrassing Stories

I’ve Got Mom Butt

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The title says it all.

Squidgelet is a year old.  According to all the manuals, all the chub you have left on you when your baby hits a year is YOUR fat, not baby fat.

Well, crap.

I mean, there are some good things about being fat.

I never get cold any more.

When I go see a movie, I don’t have to worry about the seat cushion being too hard – I’ve brought my own squishy seat cushion with me.

When I’m out for a walk I don’t have to worry about anybody whistling at me like they used to.

I float great in water.  Between that and the never getting cold, I imagine I could be a pretty serious competitor at long-distance cold water swimming.  

I do know I’d kick some serious heiny at a game of “Who Can Survive the Longest Without Food on a Desert Island”.  Anyone want to play with me?  Winner gets to eat all the losers!  Anyone?  You there, in the back— is that a hand?  No?

At any rate, it was time to do something about it.

I dragged the boys with me down to my local 24 Hour Fitness and got ready to pay the $8 for childcare that it normally costs to work out.  I used to get up before work to work out, but I’ve been pushing so hard in all the other areas of my life, I just feel like I need to get a full night’s sleep.  Living with RA is kind of like living with a really grumpy bear – when it’s in “hibernating”  you’ve got to judge just how much “noise” you can make going about with your daily life.  If you make too much “noise” (stress, exhaustion, stress, over-exertion, stress), the bear comes roaring hungrily out of its cave, and heaven help any helpless little joint that gets in its way.  My “bear” has been tossing and turning restlessly lately, so I’m doing what I can to soothe it back to sleep.  That means that working out before work just isn’t in the cards at the moment.

Unfortunately, at $8 a pop for childcare, working out more than 1 or 2 times a week isn’t in the financial cards, either.

Imagine my surprise when I went to sign in and found out that the gym was having a special – Holy Crap.  $10 per kid, PER MONTH, and I could work out as often as I wanted?

I could feel my thighs getting toned, just listening to it.

Thrilled beyond belief, I reached into my purse to grab my wallet…

Only to discover I’d left it at home.

So I dragged both kids back to the car, loaded them up, and drove home.

“Gym? GYM?  GYM?!” wailed the DragonMonkey, upset at the sudden change of plans.  “Play wif da twuck at da gym?  PLEASE?  GYMGYMGYM?!”

I unloaded them out of the car, searched the house, found my wallet, loaded them back in the car, and drove back to the gym.

“GYM?  We awr going to da gym?  GYM?  PWEASE? GYMGYMGYM?!”


 I pulled into the parking lot, unloaded both boys out of the car, and headed into the gym.

 Life used to be so much simpler back in the days when I hopping in and out of a car wasn’t a 10 minute ordeal.

After checking them in and a fruitless attempt at soothing the Squidgelet’s tears, I managed to sneak out and into the busy gym.

I changed and briefly stretched, then hopped onto an elliptical machine.  Sure, I was sandwiched in between a 17 year old toned goddess and a young Brad Pitt, both of whom were wearing beautiful, expensive workout outfits.  Yes, I was wearing wrinkly pajama bottoms and my husband’s old t-shirt, but who cared?   It was just a matter of time.  With the new workout special, I could afford to work out seven days a week, if I wanted to.  Why, in just a few month’s time, that would be me on the elliptical, flaunting my toned body in a too-tight lycra uniform.  Just knowing I had this freedom was giving me a spring in my step.

I increased the resistance and incline of the machine, legs pumping in time with the bass of the music piped in over the speakers.  Boo-yah.  Less than two minutes into my 30 minute set, and I could already feel my muscles warming up.  This was going to be great.  Feel the burn, feel the burn, feel the…

“Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club.  Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club.”

With a start, I shut off the machine, grabbed the ratty kitchen towel that I was using as my workout towel, and opened the door to childcare room.

The smell of vomit assaulted me immediately.

“He, uh, he got sick…” the childcare worker trailed off, swallowing a gag as she attempted to do damage control.  The Squid was howling, purple-faced, his entire outfit, the bouncy, and carpet all dripping with throw-up.  It looked absolutely impossible for there to be that much throw-up, and yet… there it was.

“Here, don’t worry about it.  I’ll clean it up.”  I grabbed The Squid and lifted him to me, doing my best to ignore the feeling of his puke-drenched clothes soaking into mine. 

Ten minutes and 3,000 paper towels later, I dragged both kids out to the car again.

“GYM?  No, I wanna pway at da gym!  No, mama!  No, no wanna go!  GYM? GYM?! GYM?! GYM!?”

That was last Monday.  It has now been nine days of coughing, sleepless nights, and puking from the flu.  I have not been back to the gym yet. 

Also:

Dear Flu Bug:

Please go away and quit picking on my two children.  They were both skinny to begin with.  They really didn’t need days of puking.  I’m starting to feel like I’m carting around little Auschwitz babies.  If you wanted to pick on someone, why not pick on me?  I wouldn’t minded having a little bit of the flu.  It might have been good for at least five pounds.

Sincerely,

Becky Bean

Mmm… Apple Pie!

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14

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.

Sexual Harassment

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7

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.

Becky the Big Name Trainer

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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 blow to 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.

Becky Bean: Chicken Owner Extraordinaire

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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.

Tiiiiiiiimber……

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7

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.

Contaminated BREASTS

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10

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.

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall….

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5

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall…

Who’s the trashiest of them all?

Sigh.

Me.

~~~~~~~~~

I went wedding dress shopping with a friend the other day. I was late getting out of work, so by the time I screeched to a halt in front of my house, threw the kids into their carseats loving placed my children into the car, dropped the DragonMonkey off at the sitters and arrived after driving through evening traffic, I was pretty frazzled.

The Squidgelet was howling with hunger by the time I pulled up to the first boutique.
Thankfully, I’d planned ahead. While my work shirt wasn’t very nursing friendly I’d brought along a nursing tank top. I burst into the door with my howling infant and asked a startled employee where the dressing room was.

When I laid the Squid down on the ground to change into my tank top, it sounded like I was setting him on fire, completely drowning out the peaceful instrumental music they had piped over the speakers.

Oh, well… it was wedding dress shop. Pretty much everyone in there was either married or planning on getting married, and odds were that they’d probably end up pregnant at some point. I was just doing them a favor by preparing them for the reality, right?

Right.

After changing as fast as I could I popped the Squid onto nurse, covered up politely with a nursing cover, and then went to go paw through overly-expensive dresses.

Unfortunately, while I may have been discreetly covering up, the Squid didn’t really get the memo. It was way past his meal time, and he was slurping it up and going to town.

And by slurping I mean SLUUUUUUUUURPING. You could hear him gulping and sucking from ten feet away. Forget the discreet little nursing cover – everyone knew exactly what was going on beneath the blanket. He might as well have been holding up a little sign saying “HELLO. I HAVE A NIPPLE IN MY MOUTH.”

The problem with wedding dress shopping is that it entails a lot of waiting. Each dress has an enormous amount of buttons, ties, stays, laces, and clasps to wrangle with. That would have been okay, except for one other problem:

Wedding dress boutiques have lots of mirrors.

Many, many, many mirrors.

I’ve never been a fan of mirrors.

It’s not that I have low-self esteem and can’t stand to look at myself. Oh, no. It’s the exact opposite.

Every time I get around a mirror I turn into a large, human, parakeet.

Look! My eyes notice my reflection gazing back at me, and it’s all downhill from there.. It’s ME! Hello, me! Look at you! You’re me! Look at my hair! Look at my eyes! Hello, eyes!“

I mean, aside from some weight gain and a couple of funky hair cuts, I haven’t really changed all that much in the past decade or so. Why am I so enthralled?

I try to ignore the siren call of the mirror, but it’s futile. I flutter and fuss in front of my shiny reflection as if I’m the most interesting thing ever created.

Look at my pants. They are blue. Hello, blue pants! Look at my hair! It has a crooked part. I must fix that. There, all fixed. Hello, hair! Hello, eyes! I must get closer, so I can see myself better. Hello, me!

What the heck IS it about mirrors? It makes no sense. It’s not like I wear tons of makeup that I need to keep an eye on. It’s not like I have lots of accessories I need to constantly straighten. Why do I even bother looking? I try to keep a level head about the whole thing, but it seems impossible. No matter how much I try to be strong, any time there is a mirror in the general vicinity you inevitably will find me edging closer and closer, twisting my head this way and that as I preen and stare at myself.

The wedding boutique was no exception.

Even though I was doing my best to ignore the mirrors, the primitive parakeet portion of my brain instantly woke up. Look! A friend!

No, it’s just me. Be quiet.

No, seriously, look! It’s a friend! Go study this friend!

Look, I already know what I look like. I don’t need to stare at a mirror like some self-absorbed socialite.

Becky! Go! LOOOK! It’s a FRIEND! How neat! Hello, friend! Becky, go look at her! Go study her! What an INTERESTING-LOOKING friend!

Hmm. You know, you may be right. She does look kind of cool.

And with that, the mirror had sucked me in again.

Gone was the boutique.

Gone was the nursing baby cradled with one arm.

Gone was my real-life friend who was about to emerge from the dressing room at any moment.

Parakeet-Becky took over completely.

LOOK! It’s ME! Hello, ME! Hmmm. Your skin is looking rather nice to day.

Any pimples on your nose? No, no, you’re looking nice. It seems to be a good skin day.

Is that a bit of mascara under your eye? Here, let me take care of that for you.

Huh, if I crane my neck just so, I give myself a double chin. I wonder, if I squeeze my chin in really hard, does it make three chins? No, no, just two… Eww, are those blackheads on my chin? Yes, they are, aren’t they?

Weird, they seem really obvious from this angle, but not that angle. I should probably get rid of them.

Hmm. That one was easy. What do I do with it? Oh, well. That’s what pockets are invented for, right? Huh, there’s another one… maybe I should try to get that one too…

All of a sudden I came back to myself.

There I was.

Standing two inches from a mirror.

Cradling a baby schlurping loudly on one boob.

And using the other hand to scratch at blackheads and wipe it my pocket.

WHAT. THE. HELL. WAS. I. DOING?

I used the mirror to glance behind me…

And yup.

There was the owner and the salesperson, mouths slightly agape as they stared at me in horror.

Flushing red, I crept back to the little waiting room chairs. Great. Now I would forevermore be known as that-creepy-pimple-lady. And I still had about an hour left of interacting with these people and trying to seem normal.

Ugh. How embarrassing.

Writhing in discomfort and daydreaming of disappearing, my eyes happened to catch my red-faced reflection from across the room.

Look! A friend! Hello, friend!

Stubborn As a….

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8

A horse’s gestational period is 11 months, give or take a few days.

Unless you breed it with a donkey.

When you breed it with a donkey, and it’s pregnant with a mule, then its gestational period is 12 months.

After going 2 weeks overdue with the DragonMonkey, and sitting around almost 1 week overdue with the Squidgelet… well, I guess where I’m going with this is that I’ve finally found legitimate, scientific proof that the Bean is an ass.

Hah.

Just kidding. I’m probably going to be struck down by lightening for making that joke. After all, this is the man who woke up yesterday, cooked me bacon, told me I looked beautiful, and then cleaned the kitchen.

Three cheers for marriages based off of getting knocked up by a some random customer you met in a bar !

At any rate, time has slowed down as we anxiously await the arrival of the Squidgelet.

Somewhere along the way, in addition to frantic, nesting-type cleaning, I picked up a fairly nasty cold. Swollen and moody, I’ve spent the past week doing the following:

1. Blowing my nose
2. Peeing
3. Blowing my nose
4. Taking the DragonMonkey to Frogg’s Bounce House
5. Peeing
6. Sneezing
7. Peeing while sneezing
8. Cleaning
9. Peeing while blowing my nose
10 Cleaning

It’s an exciting life, and I know you’re all jealous.

One of the hardest things about going past your due date isn’t necessarily the waiting— it’s fending off the various friends, relatives and complete strangers who corner you for updates. I’m not talking about people like you guys, who are of course dependent upon my spotty blog updates. I’m talking about people in my everyday, normal life— people I’ve seen only hours before.

“Any news, Becky?”

“Becky, have you had your baby yet?”

“You’re still pregnant?”

“You mean you haven’t had that baby yet?”

“When do you think you’ll go into labor?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“Did you have the baby yet?”

Despite my constant reassurances that I will text/call/Facebook update/Twitter/carrier pigeon/snail mail/and telepathically reach out to everyone when the Squidgelet arrives, I still face a barrage of well-meaning questions on a daily basis. Apparently my promises to keep people informed are not enough, as most people seem to think that without constant supervision I will sneak off under the front porch, build a little nest out of cardboard and bits of my hair and give birth there.

Frankly, it’s starting to seem like a peaceful, appealing option.

My personal favorites are the strangers I meet on the street.

“You were due last week? REALLY?! So, you could, like, go at any minute, right?”

They glance at me expectantly, as if waiting for a fully-formed fetus to accidentally fall out of my va-jay-jay.

“Well, yes, I could, but labor takes awhile so I don’t think we’re in any danger of it happening in the grocery store.”

Invariably, they look disappointed.

In addition to the constant questioning, any time I head out in public I have to prepare myself for the onslaught of unsolicited advice and horror stories.

“Wow, you’re due any day, huh?” Random Woman #1 shakes her head sadly. “I remember when I gave birth— it took almost 90 hours, and in the end they had to use a chainsaw to slice me from sternum to groin in order to remove my 17 pound baby.”

I nod noncommittally, trying to discourage her.

It’s to no avail. Random Woman’s friend scents blood, and moves in, looming over me.

“She did. I saw it happen. It took over 4,000 stitches to sew her back up, and she still ended up with a colostomy bag. Of course, you should have seen me after I had my twins,” she says, in an attempt to one-up. “Since there were two of them I had double the amount of stitches, and TWO colostomy bags.”

Random Woman #3 senses my discomfort, and sneaks in from behind.

“My birth was actually fairly easy, but I paid for it later,” she says with a heavy sigh. “My son didn’t sleep through the night until he was 23. Even after he was at college, he’d call me up, wailing at 20 minute intervals throughout the night… I hope you get your sleep now, because once you give birth, you’ll never sleep again….”

At this point I interrupt them, trying to make them go away. “Oh, I know about all of this. This is going to be my second child. Thanks anyways.”

The women brighten, undeterred. “Oh! Well, you’ve had it easy, then. Once you have a second child, your life REALLY changes. In fact, once the second one arrives, you can pretty much say goodbye to any happiness you might have ever felt.”

“It’s true! It’s true!” exclaims Random Woman #2. “Once you have a second child, you’ll never have any time to yourself!”

“You’ll never find a sitter!”

“You’ll never get any sleep!”

They advance on me ominously, and suddenly I feel like I’ve been trapped by the three evil witches from MacBeth.

“You’ll never regain your figure!”

“Your husband will leave you and sleep with his secretary!”

“All the flesh will melt off your bones!”

“Wait a second!” I stutter. “”I don’t think that’s necessarily true…”

The women ignore my protestations.

“Your first child will turn into a bloodthirsty, carnivorous monster! He’ll start carrying a little prison shank with him to pre-school!”

“Your second child will never have the time, love, and attention you gave your first child, and will end up deformed and gangrenous!”

“They’ll both end up as evil little rapists!” At this point they usually start chanting in unison.
“You’ll be fat forever! You’ll never smile again! You’ll be a fat, unhappy, sleep-deprived mother of gangrenous little serial rapists!”

Sometimes I hate other women.

Of course, I’m not sure which brand of mom is the worse— is it the Doomsayers, or is it the UberMothers? You know the ones I’m talking about— they smile placidly, serenely, radiating peaceful contentment with every aspect of being a mother. They are just… so…. FULFILLED.

They really give me the creeps.

I was cornered by one of them at Frogg’s Bounce House the other day.

“Will you be giving birth in a hospital or in the comfort of your own home?”

I’m not sure what it is about me, but something about my face seems to make people want to open up and SHARE with me. The Bean never suffers from this problem. Not once have I seen The Bean get cornered at a checkout stand by an over-talkative cashier, and yet it seems to happen to me on a daily basis.

“Who was that?” The Bean will ask, sitting with our grocery cart at the entrance to the store, where he’s been waiting for ten minutes as I try to extract myself.

“I have no idea. I’ve never met her before in my life. But she’s nervous because her mother-in-law might have to move back in with her. When she’s stressed, it causes her shingles to return, and the last thing she needs is an outbreak of shingles only weeks before her daughter’s graduation…. did you know that her daughter is graduating a year early? They’re really proud of her.”

The Bean shakes his head and the two of us wander off to our next stop, where I will invariably be regaled with stories of cheating husbands, chronic hemorrhoids, and other such niceties that I’d really rather not know about.

Lucky me.

So, it really wasn’t that big of a surprise the other day when I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a complete stranger.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“Will you be having a home birth, or will you be doing a hospital birth?”

“Oh. Uh, I’ll be giving birth in a hospital. The Bean— that’s my husband— and I discussed a home birth, but he wasn’t comfortable with it.”

“Oh. That’s so sad for you.”

“Uh, sure.” I turned to watch the DragonMonkey bouncing happily.

Hippie Homebirth Woman wasn’t finished with me yet, though.

“I had a hospital birth with my first daughter. She was developmentally delayed because of it.”

I grunted in return, hoping to end the conversation.

Hah. I was so naive.

“With my son, I was able to birth at home, and he has been ahead of all his milestones. He rolled over at four weeks, and he has been lifting himself up and holding his head steady since only two weeks.”

I glance over at the chubby, cross-eyed little infant in the sling in front of her. While he’s cute, it doesn’t really look like he’s going to be doing complex Calculus anytime soon.

“Oh. That’s very nice,” I murmur, edging away to follow the DragonMonkey as he changes to another bouncy house.

She follows.

“I think it has a lot to do with my milk production. I’ve got so much milk this time that I don’t even know what to do with it all.” She heaves a sigh. “I’ve taken to pumping it and giving it to my daughter in the evenings to help her through the flu season.”

I glance over at her five year old daughter. While I agree it might be healthy in theory…

I just really didn’t need to know that.

Hippie Homebirth Mom hasn’t finished with me yet.

“It really has everything to do with the fact that I was able to use my placenta. Did you know that at my first birth, the hospital wouldn’t let me take my placenta home?” She shakes her head, outraged.

I stare at her, feeling slightly trapped.

“This time, though, I was able to save my placenta and make a shake out of it.” She smiles serenely. “It’s so healthy for you.”

I don’t know… maybe having a delicious, placenta-shake is something that is really good for you. Maybe it’s healthy, and delicious, and the rest of us are just missing out. It’s certainly natural— many animals in the wild eat their placentas after giving birth in order to restore lost nutrients.

But you know what?

A: Just give me a vitamin. Maybe it’s not as natural, but it probably goes down a whole lot easier.

and

B: Please don’t tell me about it. “Hey, guess what I did last week? I ate my placenta!!!” is not the sort of “Hi-Nice-To-Meet-You” conversation I usually like to indulge in.

SIIIIGH.

I can’t wait to move to Arizona. I bet once we move to Arizona, nobody will ever tell me about their delicious, homemade placenta shake recipes.

Spit: It Does a Body Good?

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3

Much to my delight, it turns out that my company has an annual Thanksgiving luncheon potluck. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It’s a holiday filled with all the warmth and togetherness of Christmas and yet none of the family drama. What’s not to like?

Plus, it’s an entire day centered around eating.

Who doesn’t like a holiday that celebrates binging on vast quantities of food?

Angry, communist Nazis, that’s who. Not liking Thanksgiving is practically a sin, in my book.

Thrilled to have a reason to celebrate gorging on fatty, delicious foods my thanks for all of the blessings in my life, I immediately signed up to bring a dessert.

After a week of watching other people sign up for various items, I decided to throw caution to the wind and sign myself up to bring some mashed potatoes as well.

The problem is that life got in the way of my good intentions.

The evening before the party found the Bean working overtime, the DragonMonkey in a viciously whiny mood, the dog suffering from an attack of the runs after eating his way through the trash, and the Squidgelet making my ankles swell as my temper shortened.

By the time I put the finishing touches on the mashed potatoes, I was angry enough to chew nails and spit out bullets.

I no longer felt like cooking.

I no longer felt “thankful” or excited about the party about the next day.

In fact, I downright hated Thanksgiving.

I hated the stupid turkey. I hated the stupid gravy. I hated the stupid mashed potatoes and the stupid stuffing.

I resented my stupid coworkers for making me go through this kind of hellish torture.

This was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the stupidest holiday ever created.

I slammed around the kitchen in a near rage, crashing through cupboards and throwing pots in the sink with enough force that even the dog slunk around the corner and voluntarily kenneled himself for the night.

It took about twice as long as necessary, but I managed to eke out a delicious dessert and some fairly credible mashed potatoes. I threw saran wrap over every thing and huffed off to bed.

Unfortunately, my mood hadn’t improved my morning. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that when I opened the fridge I discovered that my previously fluffy, flavorful mashed potatoes had morphed overnight into a metric ton of solid, white-colored rocks.

I have no idea what happened. Frankly, the more I think about it, it kind of defied the laws of physics. How does a small, one pound Tupperware of mashed potatoes turn into approximately 19 pounds of rocks overnight? It doesn’t seem possible.

Grumpier than ever, I tossed the food into the car, drove to work, lugged it into the breakroom and shoved it into the fridge.

By the time lunchtime rolled around I had managed to pull myself out of my funk. I decided to avoid taking out the potatoes unless it seemed absolutely necessary. After all, even though potatoes were a loss I still had my dessert.

The breakroom was filled with laughing, happy people, and as I placed the dessert on the counter top to peel off the plastic, I found myself drawn into the holiday spirit.

“Ooooh! What is that?” I glanced over my shoulder to see two of my coworkers looking over my shoulder, eyeing my dish hungrily.

“It’s Hermes Delight,” I exclaimed proudly, turning around and holding the dish up in front of me so they could give it all the admiration it deserved. “It’s DEEEE-licious!”

Yeah.

I love Hermes Delight. It really is my favorite dessert. And holding it right in front of my face probably wasn’t the best idea, since I find it so mouthwateringly delicious.

Let me assure you that there is a BIG emphasis on the “mouthwatering” portion of that sentence. My body betrayed me (and not in that sexy Harlequin Romance novel way, either.)

Horrified, I watched as a bit of spit launched itself from my mouth right as I enunciated the “DE” of “DEE-licious”. It felt like some kind of horror movie. I couldn’t even pretend that it wasn’t happening. Like a slow-motion scene out of a bad movie, the spit launched itself in a perfect little arc and landed right in the middle of the dessert.

The three of us stared in horror at the center of my dessert.

Our eyes flicked upwards, then back down at the dessert, then back upwards.

I swear, that was the most awkward silence of my life.

What was I supposed to do? Cut out the middle portion of the dessert? Pretend it didn’t happen? Throw the whole thing away?

After all I went through to bring it to the potluck?

The two coworkers began stammering excuses as they rescued themselves from the situation, leaving me standing by the counter, staring down at my ruined dessert.

Stupid dessert.

Stupid Thanksgiving.

Stupid happy-warm-family-love-cooking-food holiday.

I stared at the dessert for a few more moments, then shrugged.

Reaching into the cupboard in front of me, I grabbed a paper plate, ladled out a gigantic portion from the center of the dish and plopped it in front of me. Ignoring the fact that I was serving myself before anyone else had started, I began grimly chewing my way through the oversized wad.

You know what? It was pretty good. In fact, it was DARN good, although interestingly enough, I was the only person to serve myself from my dish that particular day.

Oh well. It’s their loss. It really was tasty, “extra flavoring” or not.

Hermes Delight
1 large package raspberry jello
1 can whole cranberries
Juice from 1/2 lemon
Green apple
1 8 oz package cream cheese
1 cup sour cream
1 cup powdered sugar
1 can crushed pineapple
pecans
Optional: Spit

Make the raspberry jello according to the directions on the box, but only use 1/2 the required amount of water. Put into glass pan. Combine with can of whole cranberries. Zest the skin from the green apples into the mixture and add the juice from 1/2 lemon. Stir, then set into the fridge until completely solid (usually about 2 hours).

In a large bowl, combine cream cheese, sour cream, powdered sugar and crushed pineapple (drain the juice). Smooth onto the top of the jello portion once the jello portion has set properly. Sprinkle crushed pecans on top.

Serve with a garnish of spit to ensure you don’t have to share.

(PS: This is is an incredibly forgiving recipe. I swear, I make it with different amounts of ingredients every time and it always comes out tasty.)