What a terrible time to get sick.

There was so much I wanted to do with the boys today.  It’s Christmas eve, and I’m a huge Christmas fanatic.  It’s not just my belief in God, either.  I like the colors, I like the twinkly lights, I like the way Christmas trees smell, I like the comfort food, I like the happiness, I like the cold weather….

I just plain like Christmas.

At first I thought I was just feeling lazy, so I tried to perk myself up by getting dressed up and putting on a full face of makeup…. but by mid afternoon I had to be honest with myself.  My throat hurt.  My bones hurt.  I felt like I was swimming through a fog, a haze of weak malaise.

Ugh.  Sick.

The Bean was my hero all day long – it was his first day of vacation, and instead of relaxing he took point with the boys all day.

And oh, oh what boys they were.  It’s as if they could scent weakness on me, and little predators they decided to go on the attack using their favorite weapon:  spastic hyperactivity.

They ran.  They wrestled.  They squealed.  They screamed.  They laughed.  They fought.  They laughed again.  They vaulted off of furniture, the walls, each other, the dog, our sanity……

The Bean was my hero today – not only did he encourage me to sprawl on the couch and ignore the kids, he scrubbed the entire kitchen, did about five loads of laundry, and vacuumed.

Sometimes, I swear, that man is the sexiest man on earth.

Initially we were planning on spending the morning with Caspian, the afternoon with friends, the evening at a candlelit service, then coming home and baking cookies for Santa.

Instead we did none of the above.  We did let the dogs run up at the school, so there was that.

By 7 tonight both Bean and I were reaching the end of our rope with our boys.  They’d sucked every ounce of Christmas spirit out of us, along with every ounce of patience.  They’d skipped naps, been running for hours straight, and in our attempt to physically exhaust them we had only exhausted ourselves.

I tried talking them into letting us put cheese puffs in a bowl for Santa instead of cookies, but they weren’t buying it.  We finally compromised with a piece of cake my unbelievably talented neighbor baked for us.  I don’t remember what kind if it is called – it’s gluten free vanilla coconut cheese cake something-or-other and it tastes like sunshine and angels singing

Whatever it is, “Santa” can’t wait to eat it, even though she… err, he would have been happy with a bowl of cheese puffs, too.

Earlier in the day the DragonMonkey had been very concerned about leaving the milk out for Santa.

“Does Santa like rotten milk?”

“What?  No.  Nobody likes rotten milk.”

“But are we going to give him milk and cookies?”

“If you want to put out milk and cookies tonight, we can.  We can make the cookies together and decorate them this afternoon.”  (This was back when I just thought I was having a lazy morning.)

“But if we put out the milk too soon it will not be fresh, and it will taste rotten.  And if Santa tastes the rotten milk, he will vomit, and he will not leave any presents.”

Welcome to the House of Bean, where Santa enjoys cheese puffs, eats gluten-free cake, and then vomits all over the living room.

Huh.  Now that I think about it, that whole scenario sounds depressingly normal.  That version of Santa would fit right in around here.

Anyways, we finally compromised and left Santa a note that the milk was in the fridge.  Considering the day both boys had, I decided to offer them one last chance to plead their remorse in the note.  The spoke and I wrote, transcribing their words exactly, word-for-word.  I had to ask them to pause from time to time, but I really did write it down exactly as it came out of their mouth.

Here was what DragonMonkey had to say:

“Dear Santa, 

Milk is in the fridge.  I hope, if you let me, I could probably find you another day.  If you have a remote control race car, please give it to me – if you have it in your bag. There’s a slice of cake for you on the counter, and there’s some cookies right by our coffee maker, if you want some.”

Before I could protest about DragonMonkey trying to give away MY cookies to Santa without even asking, the Bean walked into the kitchen with Coyote (aka Little Kitty) in his arms and made a joke about Santa leaving something for the kitty under the tree.  DragonMonkey overheard him, and the note took on a much darker note.

“If you have mice in your sled, please bring in the mice catcher and then leave it out for Little Kitty and rub it up (he meant wrap) with tape and a rubber band….if you have it in your sled. 

Love,DragonMonkey (and I’m six years old!)

Next it was the Squid’s turn.  After three years of being mellow and sweet and wonderful, he is approaching four with all the finesse of a bus slamming into a brick wall at top speeds.  To be honest, if I felt even marginally healthier and if I knew of a store that was still open, I would go get some charcoal briquettes at the store and give him “coal” for Christmas.  He more than deserves it.

“Squid, it’s your turn to leave a note for Santa.  You’ve been very naughty all day – do you have anything you want to tell Santa?”

Here is what he had to say to plead his case:

“Dear Santa, 

I want a remote control train, and a remote control dump truck….”

At this point I cut in.  “Squid, you’re not supposed to be asking for stuff!  This is the last thing Santa will read before he leaves gifts here – IF he leaves gifts here. Is there anything you want to say, considering how horrible you behaved all day wrong?  That’s what this note is about.”

Dutifully reminded, he continued on:

“A remote control… two tractors!  Only one…. actually.. three!  Or four!  1, 2, 3, or four, or five!  or six!  And Sketcher shoes that run real fast, just like this!”

And then he took off, clomping and skittering around the house at full speed, showing just how fast a Squid with brand-new Sketcher shoes would run.

“Squid! Get back here!  You need to finish your note!”

And so he did:

“Love, DragonMonkey.  Cuz I’m DragonMonkey.  Yes I am!”

Sigh.  I tell him to plead his case and he asks for more presents and ends it with a lie.

Coal.  I’m telling you, that kid deserves coal!

On the other hand – I’d like to point out how eloquent DragonMonkey has become.  For all you moms  out there worrying about delayed speech and all that – keep in mind that the Dragonmonkey didn’t speak intelligibly until he was almost four, and now he’s able to use nearly-perfect grammar when instructing Santa how to rubber band wrapping paper over live mice so our cat has something to torture on Christmas morning.  Isn’t that sweet of him?

As for us….

The boys are finally asleep in their beds, we have Country Christmas music playing on iHeart radio, the Bean is nearly finished wrapping gifts, and I think I’m gonna turn off the computer and just enjoy the warmth of my Oregon home.  Maybe I’ll talk the Bean into putting down the scissors and sitting out on the porch while we listen to the rain fall on the porch roof.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The new dog is awesome.

I was supposed to pick her up the evening of my November 6th post, but….

Sigh.  Craigslisters.

I’ve actually had awesome luck with Craigslist people since moving to Oregon – on a whole, they’re much more reliable than California Craigslisters, so I guess I was overdue.  I was supposed to hit “publish” on that blog post, and then text for the address and head out. I even got someone to cover for me so I could leave work early, hired a babysitter, and….

And then the lady who was going to meet me couldn’t find a ride.  Apparently she needed a ride to go get the dog from her friend’s place – I couldn’t go get the dog without her.

I couldn’t tell if Ms. Craigslister was discreetly asking me to pick her up, but yeah.

No, I prefer to remain un-mugged, with my throat un-slit, thank you very much.

By 7pm that night  I told her it might be best for us to do it another day.  I didn’t get a response from her until the evening of the next day, when I got a text saying hey, she’d found a ride, and could I head out to meet her?

I admit it – I ignored the text.  It wasn’t very mature, but I was annoyed.  I’d taken time off of work the day before and was making up for it by working late.  I had a talk I was going  to give at the library the next day and needed to prepare, I needed to go grocery shopping, and didn’t feel like dealing with Portland traffic with no warning.  I felt bad, as there was a dog in need, but…. but I was just so overwhelmed.

I asked her if we could do it on Saturday…. and once again I received no response until Saturday evening.  Look, for the record, if we ever need to meet up I should probably let you know I am not a night person.  By the time six pm hits I’m counting down the hours till baby bedtime and sweet, sweet, silence.  I’m up for any adventures in the morning.  Do you wanna explore a volcano at 7 in the morning?  SURE!  Wanna go hanggliding at dawn?  AWESOME!  Wanna paint a three story house?  LET ME GET MY DROP CLOTH!

By eight in the evening the only thing I’m good for is shooting people nasty looks and muttering “Get off my lawn” at stupidly cheerful night people.

I texted her back and suggested Sunday – she agreed.  I asked where we should meet up, and she quit responding.

I waited another couple of hours and followed up – where were we meeting?

She gave me a city.

I asked for more specifics.

She gave me the name of a giant street that was an hour’s drive away and spanned the length of the entire city.

I asked for a little more detailed location – she gave me a generic cross street in the middle of the city.

I texted back.  “Are we meeting on the corner?  In the street?  In a building?  At a house?  Who am I meeting – you?  Your friend with the dog?  Can I get a little more info?”

She ignored it.

I asked again for more information on Sunday morning.  Finally I received:

“There’s a McDonald’s there.”

And you know what?  McDonald’s was perfect – because at that point there was no way in heck I was gonna meet anybody at a residence.  I also asked her who all was going to be there at the meeting – her?  The dog’s owner?

 She ignored that, too.

Before I left I downloaded an app that showed my real-time location and shared it with The Bean and wrote down, just in case.  Call me paranoid, but I used to answer 911 phone calls…. and there is some really not-nice Craigslist stuff that goes down from time to time.

When I arrived I made sure to park half a mile away in a busy parking lot – I didn’t want them knowing what kind of car I drove or what my license plate was. It may have seemed like overkill, but if it weren’t for the fact there was a starving dog involved I would have cancelled the whole transaction a long time before.  I do not trust strangers who are deliberately vague with details when I am driving to meet them.

I walked through unfamiliar city to the world’s most hidden McDonald’s – if it weren’t for my phone’s GPS, I never would have found it.  I arrived about 10 minutes early and texted for the third time – “How will I recognize you?  Are you walking?  In a car?”

“C u soon”

By this point I was really weirded out and decided to turn my phone on silent and wait inside the McDonald’s.  If I didn’t like the look of the people I was going to ignore them when they showed up and pretend to be just another person eating my fries.

About 15 minutes past our agreed meetup time I saw my phone ringing was ringing.  I looked out the window and felt a wave of relief –  two nice, generic, skinny Portlandia chicks who I could totally take in a fight unless they knew kung fu.  PHEW.

I went out and waved them down.  They parked the car and as soon as Ms. Cragislister opened the car door, a wiry little shepherd mix bounded out of it.  She was mostly shepherd, with a square body, overly-long radar ears, a beautiful thick coat, and as soon as she saw me she danced straight towards me, crshing into my lower legs in one of those I’m-half-on-my-back/half-sitting/please-pet-my belly moves. She looked up at me with big, sweet eyes, and my heart melted.

I scratched her belly while she wagged her tail between her eyes, and raised my eyes to Ms. Cragislister.  “Hey, I’m glad to see you’re a chick – I was beginning to get nervous at the way you were avoiding answering questions directly.  I was worried you might be Jeffrey Dahmer when you didn’t text back.”

“I had to hold the dog.”  She didn’t return my smile.

I looked at the totally calm, off-leash dog leaning against my legs and had to wonder.

The dog had no leash, but I’d planned ahead and brought a choke collar and leash. I figured that going on a walk before the drive home would give her a chance to get to know me and also give me a chance to assess her.

I slipped the collar over her head, and as I did she sat at my feet politely, looking up at me with big, liquid, “Please be nice” eyes.

Ms. Craigslist started to get back into her car, so I called out.

“So, any ideas how old she is?  Does she have a name?”

“They called her Dixie, but you can call her whatever.  I think she’s under two.”

They started to close the door, so I spoke quickly.  “You said shepherd mix, and I see shepherd… any idea what the other half is?”

“Her mom was a shepherd – they said purebred.  They said the dad was maybe coyote.”

And then they got in the car.  I tried to ask a few more questions before they left,  but they seemed to be in a hurry so I let them drive off.

I started walking back to my car – and realized I didn’t even need a leash.  She was heeling perfectly. Good dog.  Very good dog.

Despite me letting her sniff multiple grassy spots she waited until we were in the middle of the world’s loooongest crosswalk with the world’s shooooortest red light before going poo.  I’d brought a baggie to pick up any mess on our walk, but the flashing red hand had already gone to solid, and I could tell the light was about to change even though I was only halfway through the intersection. I hunched my shoulders beneath the stares of a bazillion drivers as I literally dragged the skinny, still-pooping dog behind me, leaving a nice little trail of tootsie rolls behind us.

I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter, or that I had a giant neon sign flashing over my head.  “LOOK AT THIS UNHEALTHY, EXTREMELY SKINNY DOG.  THIS WOMAN IS A TERRIBLE DOG OWNER.  STARE AT THE SCUM OF HUMANITY WHO LETS HER SKINNY DOG CRAP WHEREVER IT WANTS AND DOESN’T EVEN BOTHER TO PICK IT UP.”

She loaded up like a champ and sat in the passenger seat, alternating between staring out the window with a resigned air and shooting me worried glances.

She was so much prettier than I expected.

I guess it’s time for a confession:  I usually adopt pretty animals, or animals so ugly they’re personable.

It’s not very kind to the plain-jane pets, but in the back of my mind I’m always worried about what will happen if I run out of money, or if I have to suddenly join Witness Protection and my dogs end up in the pound, or if my kids develop a sudden-onset animal allergy and I have to sell all of them.

It’s like, even as I’m assessing a pet, in the back of my mind I’m always thinking, “If this doesn’t work out, would my ad linger on Craigslist for minutes or months?”

This was the first time I’d ever agreed to go rescue a dog sight-unseen, and I thought I was being very magnanimous by agreeing before I even saw a picture. Don’t get me wrong –  I’ve fostered for adoption agencies before, but those places come with a “holy crap, take this animal back!” kind of built in.

Anyways, we drove home, I just kept shooting her incredulous glances. I just couldn’t believe this dog was for real.  She was sweet.  She was kind.  She was pretty.  She was obedient, and had the personality I just absolutely LOVE – sensitive enough to bond, but not super needy or pushy.  If I’d custom-ordered her on the “dominance scale” chart, she couldn’t have been more perfect – submissive, but not cringey.  She was smart but not super intelligent (those of you who had the “joy” of owning an intelligent dog know exactly what I’m talking about!)

These may not be traits everyone likes, but they are the kind of traits that I really mesh well with.  Plus – I’m a shepherd fanatic.  I got a lab because that was the kind of dog my boys needed, and she’s gorgeous and awesome and everything I’d hoped for – but I have and will always love shepherds, especially shepherds with a sable coat.

The drive home was only an hour long, but even so, as I ran fingers through her thick, dull coat, sighing as my hands hit rib bones and hip bones, and realized:  Dude.  I think I’m about to be a big, fat, foster FAIL.  It was like I’d custom-ordered a dog and she was delivered by Craigslist.

The meeting between her and Artemis went okay – we took both dogs to the nearby track and just walked them until eventually we were walking around with both dogs completely ignoring each other.  Artemis was in a completely spastic, hyper mood so the new dog was understandably overwhelmed – I let them sniff a bit and play just a little bit off-leash, but mostly limited their interaction.  I felt like it would be better to keep them separated than have the first meeting go badly – and since I hadn’t jogged Artemis or played fetch in two days (Bad me. Bad), it was a recipe for failure.

I gave Artemis rawhide bone and put her in my bedroom, and let Sudo loose in the house.

She went immediately to our giant pot of water (Artemis is the world’s MESSIEST drinker, and it cuts the water dripping down by half) and began drinking.

And drinking.

And drinking.

And drinking.

And drinking.

And drinking.

And drinking.

She didn’t respond to the name she came with, and I’ve never been one who has issues renaming an animals, so it didn’t take us long to come up with a new name.

I kind of wish we’d waited a couple of days longer – about five days after we named her I stumbled across “Keeper” and I realized it fit her perfectly….

But by then we were already set on Sudo.   I have to admit, the name still makes me laugh.  (It’s a computer Linux command  – when you use it, it kind of forces your computer to accept your command, no matter what.  “No barking.  No barking.  Sigh.  Sudo, no barking.  Thank you.”)

It took the boys awhile to figure out her name – they called her Noodle or Poodle for almost a week – and to be honest, I still refer to her as Sudo the Noodle.

And I know I’m a total foster fail… but, I mean… look.  Could you resist her?

Anyways, it’s been a lot of fun watching Sudo fatten up and learn how to have fun. 

Day 2:  “May I?  Really? May I really go play?”

Before (Day 1) and After (Yesterday, day 42 )

Anyways, part of the reason I haven’t updated on her is because I’ve been sitting around waiting to figure out what she’s *really* like.  I mean, sure she was perfect when I got her, but I wanted to report on her *reaaaaal* personality.

“She’d probably like kids” Ms. Craigslist said.  She was right. 

Except… it’s been six weeks now, and yeah.  Sorry.  I just happen to have stumbled across the perfect dog.  I wish it were possible to clone her and hand her perfection out to everyone.

….aaaand then I was petting her the day before yesterday and I realized – sigh.  I just might be able to.

I was looking at her the other day, trying to place what her other “half” might be.  She has long, thin legs and a coyote-way of moving, but I’ve met half coyote dogs before, and she definitely wasn’t half coyote.

At first I suspected Australian cattle dog based on the squareness of her head and a certain squareness to her muzzle, but as she gained weight I realized that was just combo of dehydration and hunger making her head appear so large and square.

Catahoula?  Dobie?  Who knows?

I’ve taken to introducing her as a German shepherd/hound dog.  When she barks there’s a distinctive “baying” undernote to it, and based on her facial markings I’ve heard “hound” suggested quite a few times, so I’ve just decided to roll with it.

Besides – she’s still a bit ribby, but she has absolutely no underline:

That’s okay, we love her anyways even if she doesn’t have a Scarlett O’Hara waist.  I tell her that, too.  I even said it to her last night.    “Poor little girl – it’s okay.  I love you even if you don’t have a tiny waist.”  Sudo, quite willing to believe I’d love her no matter what, flopped down on her back, tail wagging as she invited a belly scratch.

“You’re so pretty we don’t mind at all that you’re all thick and square and matronly, do we?  Do we, ugly little girl?”  (Shut up.  You baby talk your dogs your way, I’ll baby talk my dogs my way.)

Sudo opened her mouth and smiled at me, tail wagging softly as she enjoyed a good belly scratch….. and as I scratched I realized I kept bumping into her teats – something that didn’t used to happen.

Uh-oh.

I stopped scratching, and Sudo rolled over into her favorite resting sphinx position.

“Oh, phew.  Okay.  For a second there you looked kind of…. oh, nevermind. Who’s a good dog?  You want a belly rub?  Roll on over and….”

Double uh-oh. 

It was like one of those photos that change when you move your head from side to side. – from above she looked normal.   From underneath or the side….  Well, she looked pregnant.  I guess I wasn’t completely surprised, because I could tell she was coming out of season when I brought her home.  If I’d thought she could have handled the stress of a big surgery I might have gone to the next day to get her spayed, but she was so skinny I’ve been waiting until she’s nice and healthy – probably some time in mid January.

Only…. only I really, really, REALLY did not remember her teats standing out that much.  I stopped in my scratching reached down and tested one – and was more than a little dismayed at what came out.

Hey, 26 year old Becky, in seven years you will be, married, have two kids, and be sitting in your Oregon living room squeezing dog nipples and forcing people to look at the gross stuff that comes out. Oh, yeah.  That’s right. You’re still the life of the party, man.   But at least one thing is cool: you’ve matured enough to realize that you should  probably hide close-up photos of discharge coming out of your dog’s nipples so readers don’t have to explain themselves to anyone passing by who happens to glance at the computer screen.   See?  People can change.  Go you.  

Click to see my dog’s hairy nipples

  Click to see gross stuff coming out of my dog’s hair nipples. Also, for the record, I am very concerned what that last sentence is going to do in terms of the search terms people use to find my blog

So… yeah.   I’m not going to say she’s absolutely 100% pregnant – I would need x-rays for that,  but I’m pretty sure I feel puppies rolling around, and she’s got big bewbs that leak stuff, and…

And there was this whole other thing I had written here about stuff I learned from this possible dog pregnancy, but once I was done writing it I realized it was kind of off-topic, and besides, I had actually created the LONGEST POST IN THE HISTORY OF THE ENTIRE WORLD, so I cut it and I’ll post it in a day or two.

Anyways – we’ll see.  I’ve owned Sudo for 43 days.  It’s hard to say, but she could have been a week to two weeks pregnant when I got her.  Of course, she could have been only two days pregnant.  She also could not be pregnant at all, because I brought her in for any X-rays.

Irregardless, I think it’s safe to assume she was about a week pregnant when I picked her up… which means she’s about 50 days pregnant.  Dogs whelp between 56-65 days (63 days is average), so… so we’ll see. I borrowed a blue plastic kids’ pool and set up a whelping area in my closet, and got all sorts of supplies just in case…. so, we’ll see.

Also, I used irregardless just to annoy my grammar nazi friends.  Hah.  Made you cringe.

“Mommy, can I get an ice cream from McDonald’s?”

Ever since I started carrying gluten-free ice cream cones in the back of my car, the DragonMonkey has been obsessed with the dollar soft serve ice creams from McDonald’s.  I can’t say I blame him – he’s been eating it out of a cup for so many years that using a cone is almost more of a treat than the ice cream itself.

Unfortunately, we were late.  We had places to go, and besides – I didn’t feel like stopping.  “Sorry, kid.  No ice cream today.”

He sighed – a resigned, almost adult sound that drifted from the backseat.  “Damnit.” He said it under his breath,  in a soft, quiet little voice…. just not quiet enough.

My head whipped around so fast I heard my neck crack.  “WHAT?  WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

The DragonMonkey hunched down beneath my gaze, trying to fold in on himself.  This wasn’t the first time we’d talked about “bad words”.  It would be nice to blame his newfound appreciation for cussing on the kindergarten riffraff at school…. but since I’ve already had one very embarrassing talk with his teachers about the DragonMonkey’s potty mouth, I’m coming to the realization that my son might very well be the riffraff.

So, we’ve been cleaning up our language as of late… although, apparently, not enough.  Hunching his shoulders, the DragonMonkey lowered his head, his hair sliding forward over his eyes in an effort to hide himself from my angry glare.  Effective though it might be, I realized I probably shouldn’t be shooting my glare-of-death towards the backseat while I was driving the car, so I turned back to face road.

“Young man, we do NOT use language like that, do you hear me?”

He opened his mouth to apologize, already nodding, when he was interrupted by the Squid.

“What’d you say?  What’d you say?  Mama, what’d he say?” Apparently the Squid needed to know the exact bad word that had been said so he could avoid saying it.

If that doesn’t make sense to you, then you’re probably not three years old.

“Squid, it’s not important.”

“Which bad word?  Which bad word you say, DragonMonkey?”  Squid was not about to be deterred. Someone had said a bad word, and by golly, he was gonna get to the bottom of the mystery.

“Squid, it doesn’t matter what word your brother said, only that it was a very, very, very bad word-“

“NUH-UH!” the DragonMonkey interrupted.  “I didn’t say a very, very, very bad word, I only said ‘damnit’.”

Ah, yes.  My kindergartener knows how to rank foul language.  Awesome.  I am a totally awesome mom.

“DRAGONMONKEY!”

“What?  What you say?  What word was it?”  Squid asked again, raising his voice to be heard over me.  He needed to know.  For… for science.

“SQUID!”

“I said ‘damnit’,” supplied my six year old.  He’s helpful like that.

“DRAGONMONKEY!”

“I didn’t say it again!  I was just telling Squid that I said ‘damnit’ cuz he asked.”

“DRAGONMONKEY!”

“No, Mama,” said the ever-helpful Squid, rising to the defense of his brother.  “He just say ‘damnit’ to me, not a bad word damnit.”

“DAMNI— I mean, darn it boys, would you guys quit saying damn it?”

Cuss jar.

Bean, we really, really, really need to get that cuss jar going.

I lean back against the walls, trapping my hands behind me at the small of my back so I can hide the restless tapping of my fingers.

It seems the health care team is in the middle of something with Wayne no matter what time of day I come- bathing, changing, moving him into his chair, trimming nails…..

It’s a good sign, I guess.  I remind myself it’s a good sign.  A nursing home that takes care of its patients is a very good thing.

Still.  His room is so small I feel awkward just standing there waiting, so I generally excuse myself and wait in the hall.  It feels better than just staring at them while they train the constantly-new staff.

High turnover rate probably isn’t a good thing.

I shake my head, pushing the thought out of my head.  It’s not my place to say anything.  I’m the help – or rather, was the help.  I suppose I’m just a friend now, since my last day working for the family was last Tuesday.  I guess I don’t really need to be visiting when Wayne calls my phone late at night, but I can’t help myself.

Six months, nine hour shifts, sometimes as much as forty hours a week with Wayne… how can you suddenly shut it off when you’re no longer paid to care?

You can’t, which is why I am here, tapping out my hidden sorrow against a freshly-painted wall.

One of the residents approaches me in a wheelchair.   The hallways are a slowly busy place, although the residents foot-pedal their wheelchairs on their circuitous routes at such a glacial pace that it’s not hard to avoid the traffic jams. I tense as she wheels closer, preparing to step out of her way as she drifts from barely moving to not moving.  Eventually it becomes obvious she’s stopped, so I relax again, fingers still tapping quietly.

From the way her watery brown eyes glance around I’m not sure she’s aware where she is, much less why she’s stopped.  I wait for her to move her eyes to mine, then smile and nod.  It’s a fake smile – all tight lips and no teeth, but it’s better than nothing.  I hate small talk and the fake social niceties that make the world go around, but for them, for these lost, forgotten founts of wisdom, I make the effort.
It feels like the least I can do.

“Hello,” I say, and nod again.

Her eyes focus in on mine, and her brows pull together.  “Why?”  She pauses, then asks again in a voice laced with pain.  “Why?”

My heart sinks.  It’s her.  It’s the “Why” woman.

A couple of weeks ago I stopped making my night visits to Wayne, even though it was really the best time for both of us.  He was always more alert at night, and by 8 my kids are sleeping in their beds so I don’t feel pressed for time.  It was working out surprisingly well for us – I would bring him a coffee, and the two of us would talk as I decompressed from my day, sharing stories until he tired .  Sometimes I rub talc onto his back – being bedridden makes the skin so itchy, and it has always relaxed him.

I didn’t mind the late bed time or shortened sleep.  I didn’t even mind the howl of the “Help” man from the end of the corridor.  Help Man never sounded like he needed help – he just sounded argumentative. The few times I’d peeked in on him he’d been perfectly fine, just angry.  He probably had his reasons, but there’s only so many concerns I can shoulder at once.

But the “Why” woman.  The “Why” woman tore at my heart.

“Why?”
“Why?”
“Whyyyyy?”

It was a quavering, hopeless sound, and the implications ripped at me until I felt raw and bloody.  When she would start up I would excuse myself and go home after only 10 minutes of visiting with Wayne.   I couldn’t take it any longer than that.

Evenings were easier for my schedule.  They were easier… but they were hard, so hard I stopped visiting at night.  And yet, despite my careful planning, there she is in front of me, gaze boring into mine.

“Why?”

“Hi.  I’m Becky,” I say, trying to change the subject, and this time I try a little harder with my fake smile.

She waits, eyes looking into mine.  I break first, my gaze skittering off to the side as I fake the need to look around the corner, chasing after an interesting sound that doesn’t exist.

She pulls me back with her despair.  “Why?”

A million answers come to mind, all of them truthful….. none of them kind, none of them helpful.  I should be able to do this. I’ve worked with the elderly for years.  If you have your defenses in place you can sing a song of conversation, tripping lightly from sadness to a happiness, although the joy is usually too-soon forgotten.  All you need to do is redirect the conversational stream.  It’s a dance I’m skilled at, but today… today I’ve forgotten my props, and all I have left is raw honesty.

“I don’t know.”

She shakes her head, not surprised.  The silence falls between us.  I want to flee, but I promised Wayne I’d wait and return, and it seems rude to run away.

Besides, if she has the strength for her reality then I should be able to handle it for longer than thirty seconds, right?

Right?

The silence stretches between us, and I can feel her growing restless with the need to ask again, so I try to redirect her.

“That is the most beautiful ring,” I say, motioning at her hands.  It is, too – a deceptively simple double band of silver that twists on itself, reminiscent of the infinity symbol.

She stares at it, thumb twisting the band.

“It’s amazing.  Where did you get it?”

She looks up at me, and I can see her mouth open, ready to ask again, so I cut her off.  It’s rude, I know, but maybe she’ll just think I have no class.

“Of course, maybe it’s just your hands.  I’m starting to wish I brought gloves,” I say with forced cheer, looking down at my cracked nails, the horse dirt shining from under each nail – brown rings of courage lent to me from Caspian that very afternoon.  “My hands are a mess, but yours are gorgeous.  Did you get a manicure?  Your nails are gorgeous.”

She looks down at her hands, at the paper-soft skin with soft wrinkles.  Her well-shaped nails with their fresh red nail polish seem out of place in a home where “a night out” means scooting yourself with your heels through fluorescent hallways to watch tv in the common room instead of by yourself.

“Well, I think I’m going to go check on my friend.  Have a great afternoon!”  I flash another bright, too-fake smile and turn away.  I know they won’t be done with Wayne for another few minutes, but I’m hoping in vain to for enough space between us so I don’t have to hear her soft, hopeless voice when it calls out again.

“Why?”

Raise your hand if you’re behind on house cleaning.

Raise your hand if you’re behind on your dictation work at your typing job.

Raise your hand if you totally need to fix up your chicken coop area give it some TLC and hard work.

Raise your hand if you haven’t ridden your own horse in almost three weeks.

Raise your hand if you signed up for Rally classes with your dog and have missed three in a row, which is pretty much the whole thing, because of last minute work and babysitting scheduling issues.

Raise your hand if you signed up to be a municipal liaison for NaNoWriMo.

Raise your hand if you really suck at that sort of stuff.

Raise your hand if you’ve committed to “winning” NaNoWriMo and are so behind on your word count it’s actually almost comical at this point.

Raise your hand if you have a bad habit of surfing  the Craigslist pet ads.

Raise your hand if your heart seized up inside of you when you saw this picture in the pet section last night – a picture of an elderly Jack Russell with bad hips, a poor old guy who was so skinny your jaw dropped:

Raise your hand if you read the plea – please rescue my friend’s pets.  My friend has agreed to let them go, my friend is gone too often, is not in a good place to have pets, and the animals are going hungry.  He’s agreed it’s for the best to rehome them.

Raise your hand if you realized that if you just ignored this plea then you’re kind of a hypocrite, because you do have the time and resources to help out a skinny dog, and if you followed through on your impulse to ignore the problem just because you’re feeling overwhelmed with an imaginary word count goal, then that’s kind of crappy of you’re kind of a crappy human being.  Raise your hand if you texted and offered to rescue the poor thing, thinking that at the very, very least you could bring it into the vet and feed the poor thing steak while they helped him be forever free of pain.

And then… and then the person texted back that someone had already stepped up for the Jack Russell but there was some kind of a small shepherd mix, female, younger, 35-40 pounds, thin… and would you consider giving her a home?

I think we can all see where this is going.

I don’t want this to be a post bashing the original owner – because, in my opinion…. the owner is doing the right thing.  It’s hard to admit when you’re in a bad place, but they had the strength to do so. I don’t know who they are, or what they are going through, but these animals are not being removed from the home, they’re being surrendered, and that takes a lot of strength.

And yes, animals shouldn’t get this thin, but…. but if we crucify every person who comes forward and admits defeat, then people are just gonna keep hiding their brokenness and the animals will be the ones who pay the price.

So, honestly?  I want to take a moment to say thank you to two people – thank you to the friend who convinced their friend to rehome the animals, and thank you to the struggling person for being strong enough to do right by their pets and let them find good homes.

Is it two people I’m thanking?  One person?  Who knows?  Those two people might very well be the very same person, but  I guess I kind of feel it’s none of my business, and I’d hate for them or anyone else like them to find this post and decide to just hide their problems next time.

So, I’m gonna go pick up this girl tonight:

They say she’s good with kids, and she lives with two other dogs and two cats.  Here’s hoping they’re right.  My goal is to throw some training into her and rehome – I’m not against a second dog, but I really don’t like female/female mixes, especially with little kids… but we’ll see.

What’s one more thing on my plate of responsibility, when it makes my heart feel happy because I know I’m doing the right thing?

“Hey.  Hey, Becky.”

“Yeah, Brain?”

“You’re asleep right now.”

“Yup.  Finally.  I’m so glad I’m over my recent insomnia.  So, you got any good dreams for me tonight?  You’ve been lacking in the originality department lately.  It’s getting kinda boring.”

“Oh, man, you are so lucky.  Tonight is YOUR NIGHT, Becky.  I have the most amazing dream prepared for you.”

“SWEET.  Hold on, let me pull up a chair.  Tell me all about it.  I’m so excited.  I’m overdue for an awesome dream.”

“So, you know that one Internet friend you have?  The one you met up with awhile back?  The one who looks kind of like that one chick you think is so unbelievably gorgeous?  The one who’s on Game of Thrones?”

“Natalie Dormer?   The one who shaved her head and looks all cool as Cressida for the next Hunger Games movie?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“OMG, Brain, am I going to meet her in my dreams?  THIS IS GOING TO BE SO COOL!”

“Well, not quite.  You know your friend who looks sort of like her?  FyyahChild?”  Well, she’s gonna be in it.”

“Oh, sweet.  FyyahChild’s one of my favorite people!”

“Yup.  Only, it’s gonna be a naughty dream.”

“…… Oh.  Uh, okay.  Ummm…. I didn’t know I swing that way?  And even if I did, I didn’t even know I felt that way about her?  This is coming as kind of a surprise.”

“Dude, just bear with me.  This dream gets good. “

“Okay?  … I guess?”

“Yeah, so, in this dream you guys are hanging out and talking.  You’re, like, on a lakeshore, camping or something.  And she’s got this boyfriend.  And he’s, like, totally hot.  He looks like that one guy you had a huge crush on in high school?  Just like him, only this guy actually has nice eyes.”

“Alright, Brain, now we’re talking.  Except… shouldn’t The Bean be in this dream if it’s a naughty dream?  I’m feeling a little weird about it.”

“Hold your horses, Becky.  I’m getting there.  So anyways, there’s FyyahChild and this guy, who is totally hot, and they say that since the three of you get along so well, and everyone’s so close, they kind of want you to be, like, their third, if you know what I mean.”

“…. Brain, that sounds like I’m cheating on Joe.  I mean, I’m seriously weirded out.”

“No, Becky.  Roll with it.  They want you as a monogamous third.  They’ll even use the word monogamous lots of times, so you’ll feel comfortable.”

“I guess?  Except … except aren’t I married?”

“You’re dreaming.  Look down – see your body?  You look like you’re 15 again.  It’s cool. Quit worrying about it.”

“I know I’m dreaming, but I’m pretty sure I’m actually married in real life.  I’ve got this feeling that I am, and that this really isn’t cool.”

“Becky, I told you.  It’s a monogamous threesome.”

“No, seriously Brain.   Stop the dream.  I’m literally going to put a pause on this dream and figure this out.  No, quit your complaining. You shouldn’t spring stuff like this on me when I’m about to wake up –  you know I can totally do that lucid dreaming thing when I’m about to wake up.  If you didn’t want any input then you should have started it when I was deeper asleep. So, even if the three of us are all monogamous together, aren’t I still married to the Bean?”

“Technically, yes, but…”

“But if I’m sleeping with other people, it’s totally cheating.  That’s not who I am.”

“But you’re a monogamous threesome.”

“I mean, that makes a weird kind of sense in dreamland, but I can’t shake the feeling it doesn’t make any sense in real life.  Brain, I need to run this by The Bean first to make sure he’s okay with it.  I really don’t think he’s gonna be down with this idea.”

“He’s cool with it.  See?  Read this.  It’ll explain everything.”

“Brain, the letters are sliding all over the page.  I can’t make it out.  What does it say?”

“Try harder, Becky.  Just read it and you’ll totally get it.”

 “….. okay, I literally cannot read this.  Is that… is that a “4”?  You can’t writes words with numbers in them.  I’m so confused right now.”

“Good. Anyways, you have the paper that explains it but you’re just too lazy to read it and that’s not our fault.  Besides……shouldn’t you make sure the whole idea is a good one, before you ask him?  It’s like test-driving a car, right?  Why bother bringing it up to The Bean if it’s not even gonna work out?”

“…. I guess?  I mean, I think that makes sense?”

“Becky, it’s a dream.”

“Oooooh, yeah.  That’s right.  It’s a dream.  This makes total sense.  Wait, I’m feeling lost – what were we talking about?”

“Nothing.  Sit back down and enjoy the rest of this scenario.  Anyways, so you’re totally agreeing to this monogamous threesome thingie with them.  And that guy, he’s totally playing with your hair the way you like?”

“Mmmm…”

“And then he’s all running his fingers over your back, and over your ribs, and he’s also giving you a back massage while FyyahChild’s talking to you?”

“Mmmm…. what’s she saying?”

“Who cares?  Doesn’t that back massage feel good?”

“It suuuuure doooooes….Mmmmmm.”

“Anyways, since you’re on board, and you’re all hot and bothered right now, how about you give this threesome thing a trial run, Becky??”

“MMMMMM.  Okay.  Sure.  Brain, this is amazing.   Keep it coming.”

“Okay, so here goes, Becky.  Brace yourself for your first threesome dream – you’ve made it to 33 years old without having a dream anything like this before – it’s gonna be so good.  Anyways, are you ready?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, Becky, now there are four little boys running around you.  They’re really hyper, and super noisy.”

“Wait.  What??”

“Don’t you remember?  Squid and the DragonMonkey are here, and they haven’t had lunch yet so they’re hyper and crabby, and how could you forget that you were babysitting your friend’s Claire’s kids?”

“What?  I don’t remember this at all?  I thought we were—“

“QUICK!  ALL FOUR BOYS JUST RAN PAST YOU!  OH, CRAP, THEY’RE RUNNING STRAIGHT TOWARDS THE WATER – THEY’RE GOING TO DROWN!  THEY’RE GOING TO DROWN!  THEY’RE GOING TO —-Oh, phew.  FyyahChild just got up and is taking care of them for you.  Isn’t that nice?”

“…. Yes?”

“Wasn’t that so nice, knowing that someone else is helping you babysit four boys?”

“….I guess?”

“Oh, here – you take the youngest boy, Adam.  He’s super sleepy and needs to be rocked to sleep – FyyahChild will watch the other three boys while you rock him to sleep.”

“Uh… okay.  Uhm, Brain?  What happened to that totally hot guy who looked like that one guy in high school I had a crush on?”

“Oh, he’s totally gonna keep giving you a back massage while you rock Adam to sleep.  I mean, we all know Adam’s super big for a three year old and your neck and upper back are totally gonna hurt otherwise.  Doesn’t that feel good?  Yeah?  Don’t you like your threesome?”

“….. I guess?  I just…. I just thought it would be a bit more…. racy?”

“Oh, Becky.  Why would I give you a racy dream?  You’re kind of fat.  And, honestly, at 33 you’re not really porn star material anymore.  You’re a 33 year old mother.  Did you really think I was going to give you a sex dream?”

“You know, Brain, you’re being kind of mean.  And yes, his hands feel good on my shoulders – Shhhh, shhhh, Adam.  Shhhhh, go back to sleep –  but just because I’m a fat mom doesn’t mean I want to sit around and dream about mom stuff.  You promised me a naughty dream.  This is kind of boring.”

“Becky, you practically drive a minivan.  You don’t need dreams like that.  This is as good as it gets, so just shut up. “

——

And then I got so angry at how boring my dream turned out that I literally woke myself up, because THIS?  THIS WAS MY IDEA OF A THREESOME?

I mean, I was uncomfortable with the whole concept and didn’t actually want to do it…..but am I really THAT boring? That was the best alternate scenario my brain could come up with?  I could have done anything… I could have turned into a secret government assassin.  I could have turned into a superhero capable of flying, or a cowboy living on the range, or an arctic explorer, or a horse, or a mountain climber, or a space ninja.

But noooooooo.  Apparently, having someone help me babysit and getting a back massage is as deep as my hidden fantasies go.   What’s next on the dream horizon?  A pulse-racing, edge-of-your-seat-thriller about cutting coupons?

Man, I need to get out more.

I feel like for this to go down the right way, you  need to have this video (with the sound – the sound is the most important part) playing in the background while you read this post.

No, seriously, click it, let the music start, and then read the rest of this.

Is it playing?

Okay, good.  Read fast, it’s only 29 seconds long.

Ahem.

Hey there, loyal blog follower!  Boy, are you in for a wonderful surprise!

Well, in case you didn’t notice, I’m here to confirm the rumors.  Yes, my website was down for a week.  And yes, any time you typed in “www.blogofbecky.com” you got 404’d.

But!

It was all soooo worth it, because of this.  Look around you – do you see this sexy new website I designed?  Are you SHOCKED AND AWED YET?

It’s okay.   Shhh, shhh.  I know you’re overwhelmed by how amazing it is. Do you need a moment to be amazed?  I’m going to give you a moment to be amazed. Just sit there and breathe it all in.  Soak in the majesty.

Don’t you like it?  Isn’t it, like, the best?  Aren’t you just amazed and in awe of my totally impressive computer skills?   See that header up above?  It says Blog of Becky – yeah, that’s right.  It lets you know where you are, so you don’t confused. Look at that lettering. It’s all… blue.  Blue, on a white background.  And it’s not even centered.  Only stupid people center stuff.

And why is my website suddenly so awesome?

Well, that’s easy.

It’s because OMG I HATE COMPUTERS AND ALL CODING AND ALL BLOGS AND ALL URLS AND ALL WEB FORWARDING AND EVERYTHING THAT EVER HAD TO DO WITH TRYING TO UPDATE A WEBSITE BECAUSE UIO2375893P12U4IJDkp:ujI*P&#*($&#*OPJFEIL:EWKUH#*((P&%R*#(@OJHELK:HJ#*(%P&@#*(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PantPantPantPantPant.

Look, I admit it.  I suck at this aspect of computers.  It’s actually pretty embarrassing, because I have feeling I might be good at it if I had even the most rudimentary knowledge of the terminology.

The problem is I’m completely illiterate when it comes to web design, and I never actually get around to learning anything about it until OMG I PROCRASTINATED AND EVERYTHING JUST BLEW UP AND I NEED TO KNOW RIGHT NOW.

I’m embarrassed to say this is not the first time this has happened.

Usually I desperately try to fix it… and in doing so I break it worse.  Then I have to Google a how-to YouTube video on how to fix what I just demolished. And then I have to search the Internet for some kind of free shareware program that gives me the tools to fix it. And then I have to Google a how-to video on how to use that program.  And then… and then….

And then eventually I just get really, really angry and decide SCREW IT spend the rest of the evening finding find funny pictures on the Internet to help me calm down.

Anyways, here’s a little back story before I get to my main point:

Part of the reason I went to that writing conference back in August was because in my head I’ve always considered September 2014 as the official kick-off date for me being a “real writer”.

I don’t remember if I ever said this, but the whole reason this blog exists is because I needed to get over my anxiety over letting people read my writing.  My words have always felt very personal to me – I enjoy writing.  Sometimes, when the words come just right, it feels like I open up a vein inside me and the words flow like music.

Back before I started this blog, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than spilling out your very essence onto paper, showing it to someone, and then having them think it was crap.  It was better just to keep your writing to yourself than to risk being hurt, right?

Wrong.

In fact, even when I was living by the motto I knew it was a crappy motto.  Besides, I always liked the idea of being published.  On the other hand, I’d done enough research to know that getting something out in print is never easy, but your odds of “making it” go reaaaaaaally down when you never actually submit anything.

So, I created this blog.  My first few posts were crawling with so much anxiety it almost pains me to read them nowadays, but I leave them up because it reminds me of how far I’ve come.  Eventually I really began opening up, and then Mugwump found me and directed actual readers here, and now I’ve made a whole bunch of wonderful friends from this blog.

(Poor Bean.  Most women have normal friends – friends with names like Michelle, or Kelly.   Me?  I’m always talking about people called Fyaahchild or Mugwump or RedHorse, or whatever.  Bean, I swear they’re real, and not just imaginary.  You believe me, right?)

Where was I?

Ah, yes.  So, I started writing, and as people responded I realize – dude.  This is fun.  I would actually like to do this for a living one day.  I even got my first angry troll who went out of her way to make me feel like crap for a bad decision I once made…. and it occurred to me – huh.  Well, that’s it.  I was honest about a horrible decision, someone followed me around and rubbed my face in how crappy I was… and I survived.

Surely future literary criticism couldn’t be any worse than that?

Even though I knew I wanted to pursue writing, I didn’t really want to begin until I had the time to do it right.  Despite the fact I had been blessed with such low-energy, polite children,

I knew I couldn’t devote the kind of time and effort necessary to succeed at writing until the DragonMonkey at least hit kindergarten.  Man, how long was that going to be?  September 2014?  Wow, what a long time away.

And then all of a sudden it was actually almost September, and I realized – whoa.  It was time to start making plans to take this writing thing seriously.  I mean, I’ve been writing this whole time, but there’s a difference between jotting down stories and actually approaching it as a business and stuff.

So, I went to a writing conference last month.  Remember?  I took a picture with Diana Gabaldon’s butt?  Well, I’m not going to lie.  That was the most exciting moment of the entire conference, and maybe my entire year.

However, the second most exciting thing was that I had the chance to sit down with a real-live publisher and talk to her about some ideas I had.  I mean, sure I had to pay $30 to do it.  And sure, I had to do it under the guise of “Uh, I write on this super small-potatoes, practically non-existent blog?  And, uh, I write funny stories?  Mostly about my kids?  And, uh, I’ve got a sort-of book idea?”

I mean, I didn’t go in there unprepared.  Oh, no!  I totally sat down for about 30 minutes before the session and jotted down a pitch which sounded a tad bit more professional.  Even better, the two sessions I went to before then were “What is Author Platform” and “The Perfect Pitch” – so when I went in there I actually managed to sound semi-educated about marketing and whatnot.

Still, the idea wasn’t really to sell her on a book – it was more to pick her brain.  I wanted to hear her talk about what it might take to transition some of my blog posts into a book – how much harder is it to market than traditional fiction writing?  Where there any caveats?  Did she have any suggestions, etc, etc?  Since I was paying her for her time, I figured she would probably give me an honest opinion about the idea

Plus, I wanted to get my first pitch session over with.  Eventually, some day soon I hope, I’m going to have a fiction book in ready-to-submit form.  When that day comes I am going to be crawling out of my skin with nerves about submitting it to agents and publishers and all of that fun stuff. Why not practice a bit, and get the nerves out of the way?

The money was well-spent because the publisher knew her stuff, and had a ton of useful insight which she shared.  And then she did something completely unexpected:

She handed me her card and said, “It sounds interesting.  Why don’t you send me some samples?”

And then I nodded and took the card and walked out of the pitch session going, “Dude…. did she…. did that…do I have a card….  Wait.  What?”

I came home and immediately began scrambling to seem more professional.  I mean, okay.  I didn’t want to seem TOO professional.  The potential title I gave her for my potential book, which I came up with about forty minutes before I met with her, was “Quit Peeing on the Dog”.  I don’t think you can pitch a book like that and then try to sell yourself as hoity-toity and uber-professional.

On the other hand, there’s all of this annoying business stuff that comes hand in hand with the business of writing – author platforms, and business plans, and web pages, and social media presence…and….

Yuck.

It sounded… boring, and a little overwhelming.  So, being the dutiful woman that I am, I decided to ignore all of that and procrastinate instead.  I created a Becky Bean Writes Facebook page, and made my real life Facebook page open to the public, and piddled around with my blog – and you can see how well that turned out.

One day, when you grow up, you can succeed at life just like me.  

On the other hand, did you see my new URL?  I picked it out myself and do kind of love it.  It even comes with its own fancy-schmancy email address:  becky@beckybeanwrites.com

Dude, I feel a little bit like an obnoxious kid – I’m handing this email address out left and right.  Is it weird that I’m this excited about not having a gmail address anymore?  I’m practically accosting strangers on the street, like a little kid that just had a birthday and can’t stop telling EVERYONE.  Hi, I’m Becky, and I’m “this many” years old.  Shut up.  I know that’s a lot of fingers.  Whatever, you’re distracting me.  Did you know I have a new email address? It’s becky@beckybeanwrites.com.  That’s right – it’s not gmail.com, or yahoo.com.  Wanna hear it again?  You don’t?  Well, too bad.  It’s becky@beckybeanwrites.com.  It, like, has my  name in it.  That’s because I’m important.  

Last week I even got all excited when they passed around a Kindergarten parent sign-in sheet thingie at the DragonMonkey’s school and it had a little space for my email address.  What’s that?  You said you want my email address?  Well, stand back and prepare to be AMAZED.

So I started writing in really big letters because I really am kind of obnoxiously proud of it….and that’s when I realized… dude.  It’s a really long email address.  I had to scratch it out twice because I kept not leaving  enough room for it, and in the end it just looked like the pen vomited a bunch of ink on the paper and then sneezed some really cramped letters that trailed up the side of the page in an unreadable scrawl completely at odds with all the other parent’s neat printing and legible email addresses.

Whatever.  They all had yahoo.com and gmail.com and hotmail.com email addresses, so what would they know?

Moving on.

After I bought my new URL last week I tried to forward it.  And when I did that, I broke the old URL forwarding.  And then while trying to fix the forwarding on the old URL I managed to break everything.

And then I got annoyed at trying to fix URLs so I decided that instead of fixing all the redirecting URLs I should change to a new template instead.

And so, right after I broke about a bazillion URLS I broke my blog’s template.  And then I tried to upload the backup copy of my old template and I broke the backup template as well.

Does anyone want to hire me as a website designer for their enemies? Anyone?  Anyone at all?  No?

I spent a week straight trying to fix the mess.  Every day after work (I am doing full-time geriatric care right now) I would come upstairs to my office and spend a couple of hours  cussing and bursting out into angry tears calmly trying to fix things.  Last night, after a week’s worth tears and anguish, I threw in the towel and begged The Bean for help.

And then The Bean walked upstairs and un-clicked a few boxes and fixed the forwarding in about 2 minutes.

I should have been grateful.  I really should have.  A nice wife would have clapped her hands in delight and then bounced over and hugged her husband with one cute little foot in the air and said something like “You’re so smart and your biceps are so sexy!” or whatever it is nice wives do.

I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I just got really pissy and grumpy that he was able to fix it so easily.  In fact, I didn’t just dislike him, I downright hated him. I’d been fighting with it for a week, and he just clicked a few buttons and fixed it in two minutes?  He was a stupid stupidhead, that’s what he was.  Stupid, stupidhead Bean.

And then stupid stupidhead Bean actually looked at my gorgeous “new” website and said, “What the hell happened to your blog?”

And I looked at him at him for a moment

before calmly replying, “I was trying to upload a template and it didn’t work.  See?  This template right here – I thought it looked clean and professional.”

And then The Bean, who sometimes has no sense of self-preservation, looked at the template and said, “That one?  Why?  Your old blog looked better.”

And to my credit I didn’t go all stabby-stabby on him.  Instead, I just turned off the computer and huffed off to bed, and when he crawled in to go to sleep, do you know what I did? I totally didn’t let his ankle touch mine, even though that’s how we normally sleep.  HA!  I sure taught him, didn’t I?

It occurs to me that I really need to find a better way of dealing with anger other than creating a passive-aggressive space between us in bed.

Also, I probably shouldn’t have been so angry at someone who fixed my blog and then complimented the old design of my website – the design I created myself.  Hey, Bean?

So, in case you were wondering about that whole publisher deal, no. No, I haven’t gotten anything off to the publisher yet, because life hands me magical things like publisher cards and then I squander opportunities.  I’m cool like that.

I’m hoping to get something off to them in the next week or two.  I have to admit, my hopes aren’t really high, especially considering how much time has lapsed- but I am actually okay with being turned down.  I’ll be a bit disappointed, sure, but for me?  For me this is only the beginning.  I’ve given myself 18 months to try to make some traction in the writing world – and getting an invite to submit on my first try feels like a huge win already.

So, there you have it.  Welcome to my new website.

Becky Bean Writes?

Why, yes.  Yes she does.

PS:  Have you ever told yourself you’re not allowed to go to bed until you finish a blog post?  And then it’s almost 10 at night, and you’re EXHAUSTED, because you have to get up at 5:30 to squeeze in one more day of training before your half-marathon – the half marathon you are woefully unprepared for and are probably going to have to walk more than half of?

And then you realize that about 80% of this post has started or ended with some kind of a conjunction, and shouldn’t you actually wait until the morning and proof read this instead of just typing it and sending out a rough draft?  I mean, it’s a blog post about wanting to be a professional writer, for heaven’s sake.  And besides, you forgot to mention how you are working with an actual for-real web designer who is going to migrate your blog over to WordPress and then create a fancy, personalized new webpage just for you.  How are you going to work that in seamlessly?  You should go back, proofread, fix everything, and then work that line in somewhere so people realize you at least learned from your week of anguish.

And then you realize:  No.  Your alarm goes off at 5:30, so just click publish and go to bed.

And so you do.

Today is September 11th.

Do you know what I’m thinking about right now?

Holy crap, I have to run a half marathon in 10 days. I’m so under-prepared that it’s not comical, it’s just sad.  I’m probably going to hurt myself.  Oh well… To Finish is To Win, right?

Speaking of winning, or rather not-winning…I didn’t get a chance to shower after my run this morning.  In fact, I didn’t even have time to change out of my workout clothes before I dropped off the DragonMonkey at kindergarten, Squid at daycare, and then me at work..  I hope I don’t smell. There’s a shower here – I wonder if it would be weird if I used it?  I mean, I do the laundry anyways, so I could wash my towel, and nobody would be the wiser….

But if I took a shower, then I’d have to get dressed back into my gross workout clothes again… and that might feel even nastier.

Today is September 11th, and do you know what I’m doing this evening?

Well, I am getting off work at 5. I need to pick up the kids by 5:10 at the very latest – the daycare lady has a back-to-school thingie she needs to attend for her own kid.  How am I supposed to leave at 5 and then have the kids out of her house by 5:10? I swear it takes them 10 minutes just to put on their shoes. Maybe I can leave a few minutes early?

Oh, man, I really need to get to WinCo tonight, too.  I haven’t gone since I last humiliated myself, and I had to break down and go to Safeway this morning.  I spent $30 and bought got two small bags of groceries.  If I spent $30 at WinCo I’d walk away with at least five bags of groceries.

But wait, crap… I told the boys I’d take them to go see the How to Train Your Dragon 2 at the cheap theaters tonight… do I have time to make it to WinCo and back by the 7pm showing?  Probably not.  Ugh, I wish the day had more hours in it.

It’s September 11th, and I really need to do a load of black clothes – we’re totally out of socks, and my running pants could probably stand up and run away on their own.  Heck, maybe I have done a load of blacks, and it’s just sitting there, squashed, at the bottom of the gigantic mountain of clean-but-unfolded laundry I’ve been doing my best to ignore.  I hate laundry.  I’m 33 years old and it’s the bane of my existence.  That must mean I have a pretty good life… but that doesn’t make me hate it any less.

It’s September 11th, and thirteen years ago I had to force myself to move past the cold queasiness that burned a leaden hole in my stomach.  Today I continue my annual tradition of boring things, and every year it’s easier, .

Don’t get me wrong – I fully support the memorials and the remembrances and the honoring of the people who died that day.

But for me?

For me, every September 11th is all about mundane, boring, inconsequential tasks.  I know my passive-aggressive indifference doesn’t actually accomplish anything, but it makes me feel better. I consider it my way of giving a giant middle finger (or two) to everything Al Qaeda did that day.

What’s that?  Oh, that’s right.  It’s the anniversary of that day again, isn’t it?  That day you killed yourself and murdered thousands of innocents in a spectacular fashion in order to try to get some kind of point across?  Huh?  I’m sorry, I can’t really remember what that point of all that was, just that all those deaths were really sad.  Hey, do you have any gluten-free flour I could borrow?  My barn owner’s husband is sick, and he’s Celiac too, and I want to make him a loaf of zucchini/blueberry gluten free bread.  It’s amazing – you should try it…

Oh, crap, that’s right.  I can’t borrow flour from you – you aren’t alive anymore. You died trying to send some kind of message of hate which was supposed to drastically alter my way of life, didn’t you?  I totally forgot about you.  Whoops.  How embarrassing for both of us.  Anyways, would you look at the time?  If I’m going to make that loaf of bread I really need to stop by Safeway and grab some Bob’s Red Mills gluten-free flour.  I bet it’s going to be $6 for the world’s tiniest bag.  There goes this week’s grocery budget.  Man, I wish I had time to get to WinCo today.

In case you’re curious, here’s the Blueberry Zucchini Bread recipe  – I shamelessly stole it from allrecipes.com.  It’s amazing, and if you want to make it gluten-free all you have to do is substitute in gluten-free flour instead of regular flour.  Also, you definitely want to add some xantham gum to your gluten free flour – it makes everything bind together so it’s nice and light and fluffy. Just check the side of the bag for how much to use – there’s a chart there.

Also, if you’re super sensitive, make sure you purchase gluten-free vanilla extract.  I don’t know what is in there that makes some people react, but it can cause problems.

I made two delicious loaves with this recipe.  I can’t recommend it enough!

Rated: Submitted By: LAUJRA Photo By: dabblingdiva Prep Time: 15 Minutes Cook Time: 50 Minutes Ready In: 1 Hour 45 Minutes Servings: 12

Look, I’m not a CPA.  In fact, I can’t imagine me ever being an accountant, unless someone hired me to deliberately screw over an enemy by haphazardly trashing their books.  If you came to this post because you want to know about the ins and outs of the daily life of a CPA, then Google led you astray.

What I can tell you about is what it’s like to be the wife of a Certified Public Accountant.  I know all about that.

Well, I mean, I think I know all about being a wife of a CPA… I mean, I’m still married. I think? His name is Bean, and he’s… uh… he’s got brown hair?  And maybe his eyes are brown?  I mean, he did come home last night.

Well, I mean, I hope he did.   I definitely remember someone coming home last night, although I can’t tell you exactly what he looked like, since he crawled in after I went to sleep and then dragged himself out of the house before I woke up in the morning.  I hope it wasn’t a weirdo  breaking into my house.

Oh well.  Even if it was a weirdo, the dog didn’t bark at hi,  he didn’t steal the covers or the TV, and he kept my feet warm. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

All joking aside,  I haven’t actually seen the Bean during daylight hours in days… maybe weeks.  I got so lonely for him that I waited up for him the other night, and the two of us sat down to a lovely dinner at a little after 11pm.

And by “lovely dinner” I mean he heated up some top Ramen and I ate a bowl of cereal, because we’re both just so stinking exhausted that the idea of cooking makes us want to cry.

If your spouse is looking into being a CPA, here’s some of the down-to-earth details to help you understand a little more about it.  Also, Bean, yes, I’m sure I’m going to get a lot of the technical details wrong.  I suppose I could ask you to proofread it before I send it out… but it’s busy season, and if I put one more thing on your plate I think you’re going to go postal.

1. Accounting is split into two fields:  Private vs. Public.  Private accountant people have lovely boring jobs, with lovely boring 9-5 hours.  They max out pay-wise at about $100,000… maybe $125,000 a year?  That’s the super high end of the field, though… usually it pays a lot less.  I have no idea what the starting pay is.  All I know is that they start out paying more than public accounting, but the end game is also a lot less money.

   If you’re looking for info on private accounting, look elsewhere.  This info is all about public accountant CPA.

2. Public accounting is further broken down into two fields:  Tax vs Audit.  Audit people travel around and, well, audit people.  Tax people mostly stay in their own office and deal with taxes.  Shut up – I know that’s common sense, but I had no idea what accountants actually did when I first started this whole gig.
3. The Bean is a tax accountant, so all I know about audit accountants are the negatives – mainly, why he didn’t want to become one.  The reason why is simple:  Travel.

   If you are are going into public accounting to get your CPA and work in audit, you’re gonna travel.  It sounds exciting at first, but what “travel” means is, “Hey, get on this plane, and go live in the cheapest hotel room we thought we could get away with, and then go audit this company and hang out with total strangers for 2-3 weeks, pawing around in all their stuff while they kind of resent you…. and then right about the time you start settling in, we’ll let you go home and relax and then you get to go somewhere else and see the inside of another office building in a different city.. hooray!”

   You won’t actually get a chance to sight see, because of the hours.  And speaking of hours…

4.  Don’t worry – there won’t be any over time unless you really want it.
   

   Ah, sorry.  I crack myself up.

   Look, I don’t care what the firm you’re looking into is saying. They can claim to care about family all they want… You are going to overtime, and you are going to have lots of it. You are their slaaaaaaave. You will live and breathe that company during busy season… which, technically is only supposed to last 3 or so months out of the year, but for some reason it’s really like 8 or 9 months out of the year.

5. Salary vs Hourly:  Look.  GO WITH HOURLY.  It’s rare, but there are firms out there who offer it.  GO WITH HOURLY.  Why?  See post above.  Many firms claim they’ll max out at 45 hours a week.  It’s so not true.  But they’ll offer a really nice salary compared to the hourly places… I’m here to tell you the hourly places pay better.
6. Tax accountants can mostly be divvied up into three fields:  large corp, mid corp, and start-ups. You also have tax guys who individual returns, but that’s kind of a different thing.  I’d tell you more, but it’s super boring to talk about.  There’s a reason I didn’t find any pictures of sexy male accountants, you know?
7. There are only two busy seasons, and those revolve around the two big deadlines:  March 15th and September 15th.

   The first tax deadline for businesses is March 15th – this is a soft deadline.  Basically, your spouse is gonna work like crazy to try to get everything completed before March 15th, and then somewhere around March 13th they are gonna get really fatalistic and start saying things like, “Oh well.  September, I guess.”  Then they file an extension, and life goes back to normal…. until late July happens, and all of a sudden everyone realizes HOLY CRAP THERE’S LESS THAN TWO MONTHS TO SEPTEMBER 15TH.

   Busy season #1 lasts from about the last week of January through March 17th or so.

   Busy season #2 lasts from about the third week in July through September 16th. There is no extension past September 15th, so just… just try not to be pregnant, or have a newborn, or have anyone die around that time.  It’s super inconvenient to have to face those things by yourself, you know?

8. I was joking about “only two busy seasons”.  Once your spouse gets done with those deadlines they will be dragged over to help the floundering individual tax accountants.  It doesn’t matter if they’re business tax vs. personal tax (deadline of April 15th) – they’ll get sucked over there anyways.  And once those deadlines are passed there are these things called “provisions”.  I don’t know exactly what a provision is, but roughly translated it means “HAH, you thought busy season was done, but you guys seemed too relaxed so now we’re just going to invent some imaginary deadlines three or four times throughout the year so tha you don’t actually get to relax. Ever.”
9. Hours:  Even during the slow season the hours are kind of crappy.  It’s like… everyone wants to stand out, and the only way to stand out is to work really long hours.  I get excited when The Bean gets off work at 6pm.  HOLY CRAP.  6?  THAT MEANS HE’LL BE HOME BY 7.  DUDE.  BOYS, COME OVER HERE, I’VE GOT GREAT NEWS!  YOUR DAD’S COMING HOME EARLY!  YOU’RE GONNA SEE HIM FOR AN ENTIRE HOUR BEFORE BED!  I KNOW, I’M EXCITED, TOO!
10. CPA Test:  In order to get your actual CPA license you have to pass the CPA exam and work for 1 year at an accredited (or whatever) accounting place.  The CPA exam is divided up into four parts, and you have to wait a certain amount of time in between each test.  Only… only they have these magical “black out” months where nobody is allowed to take the exam – and, of course, those are the months where it would be perfect for you to take the exam.

    Anyways, it’s the bane of your existence, because HOORAY! YOU GRADUATED SCHOOL! YOU’RE FINALLY DONE WITH STUDYING…. except you’re not.  In fact, it felt like the CPA exam was more frustrating than any class The Bean ever took, because trying to cram in studying in between deadlines was more stressful for him as well as the family than any midterm and finals he ever had to take during college.  The CPA exam is comparable to the bar exam.  The best way it was described, by someone who took both tests, was that the bar exam’s material is an inch wide and a mile deep, whereas the CPA exam is a mile wide and an inch deep.

11. Vacations:  If your company lets you, take them in October or November.  December’s also pretty laid back.  So is May, and a little bit of early June.
12. Labor Day:  The most aptly named holiday ever.  Your spouse will be laboring while everyone else is enjoying a lazy three-day weekend right before school starts.  At least the money’s good?
13. Valentine’s Day:  That day in the middle of the first busy season where everyone on Facebook either posts a picture of hearts and roses or a funny picture about being single and hating Valentine’s Day.
14. April 11th:  My wedding anniversary that I will never, ever, ever get to celebrate ever again, because WHAT KIND OF IDIOT GETS MARRIED TO SOMEONE STUDYING TAX ACCOUNTING ON A DATE WHICH OCCURS FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE INDIVIDUAL TAX DEADLINE? I should have gotten married on the 16th, instead of choosing to get married on a Friday because I liked the bristly way “11” looks.  Stupid Becky.
15. Fixed Assets:  Fixed assets will be the bane of your spouse’s existence.  I’m not even sure what a fixed asset is.  I mean, the Bean has explained them to me before, but I always tune out about three words in and start daydreaming about how pretty Morgan horses are.

    All I know is that businesses never get them right, and if you say the term it sounds like you’re listening.  Seriously, all you have to do is say it with a rising inflection at the end.  Not only do you sound smart, but you sound like you’re paying attention.

    The Bean:  “Somethingsomething, boring, somethingsomething, was gonna be home at five but then waa-waa-trumpet-sound-Charlie-Brown’s-teacher-makes something.“

    Me:  “Fixed assets?”

    The Bean:  “YES.  Somethingsomething, fixed assets, somethingsomethingsomething!”

    Me:  “Beer?”

    The Bean:  “I love you.”

    And people say marriage is hard work. Pah.

16. Firm Fun Days:  This is the firm’s way of deliberately flipping you off and letting you know how much they resent you.  Okay, maybe that’s not REALLY the purpose, but that’s what it feels like.  Did your spouse just spend 97 hours straight with his coworkers to meet the tax deadline? Have you not seen him before 10pm in weeks?  Well, then, in order to celebrate the end of them being gone all the time… the Firm is immediately going to steal them for yet another evening. Because nothing says “thank you” like making you sit at home all night. Alone. AGAIN.
17. Drinking:  DUDE.  Accountants are partiers.  I’m serious – this isn’t a joke at all.  I mean, you would expect cops, or firemen to get off work and go party hard.. but accountants?  It was just a total shock to me.  I’m not saying they get themselves booby tassels and hats with motorized propellers on top… but it’s definitely more of a drinking culture than I was anticipating.
18. Money:  The money’s good.  I mean, there’s a reason everyone puts up with all of that stress over something as boring as excel spreadsheets, right?  Here’s the thing, though:  You’re not gonna make money at first.  I know the figure varies, but most places are going to offer you a starting salary between $40 and $45k a year.  I know that sounds like great money, and it is totally awesome money when you’re 23…. but to a person in their 30s with a family and a ton of financial aid debt, it’s not that great.  Plus, if you (the spouse) are planning on working, you need to find a job to accommodate a single parent’s schedule, because that’s essentially what you’re going to be several months out of the year.

    Anyways, eventually you’re going to make money.  You’ll get your yearly raises, and your promotions, and while it’s a slow start at first, after the first few years the money begins to add up fairly quickly.  Still, I think it’s a game the firms play – or rather, gamble at.  Most public accountants drop out before they’ve been there five years.  There’s a high turn-over rate, especially at the 2-3 year mark, where you’re doing the job of someone whose been there much longer, but you’re still making pretty crappy money.  Five years may not seem that long on paper… but it’s a long, long time when you’re dealing with constant stress, lack of sleep, and looming deadlines.

    The thing is, after ten years?  You’re making bank. And by bank, I mean you’re making BANK.  I have no idea what a partner actually makes… but I’d guess (and this is an educated guess) that it’s in the $300-500k a year range?  Of course, you’re not going to make partner just on hard work alone – you have to have great business savvy and really stand out, but still.  I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the people who have 10 years experience make $150-200k a year.  That’s not bad for a four year degree.