Tuesday, October 16, 2012

I like big butts and I cannot lie.

You know how you can get a song stuck in your head?  I think I have a mental disorder that gives me constant, STUPID songs stuck in my head at all times.  In fact, I think it may qualify as a disability and I should be able to get accommodations on my TCAP test.  My IEP reads: "Should be able to listen to crap songs while testing."  Take for instance, the mere mentioning of songs that get stuck in my head - I literally only have to think "I get songs stuck in my head all the time," and the worst-sticking song of all time "CALL ME MAYBE," becomes permanently lodged.  Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy. 
You're welcome.
It doesn't help that I teach in a middle school and that is their life theme song, so on days where I'm so excited to have an actual good song in my head in the morning - MMM thank you for being alive, Ray LaMontagne - my dreams are shattered by third period because FREAKING JACOB LOVES CARLY RAE JEPSON GODDAMMIT. 
And three simple letters sitting next to eachother in the above sentence, "MMM," served to not only wash Carly Rae Jepson AND Ray LaMontagne from my brain, but insert another vile musicial number from the long lost but long loved boy band, Hanson.  Oh yes.  MMMbop.
Doppa dop. a. doowop.
That poor tall brother was certainly unfortunate-looking, wasn't he?  Why the long face?

The oldest Hanson brother at the farm.

I typed in "Hanson Horse Face" to find a great comparison picture, to no avail (has no one made that connection?), but this is just effing perfect.  So there it is.

The other morning, I woke up and cracked my back before I got out of bed.  It seriously seriously cracked out the Star Wars theme song!  I'm not even joking with you!  It was like "Duh duh, duh duh duh DUH duh!"  Not only is that extrememly impressive, but it set me off for a day long star-wars-theme-song-stuck-in-head extravaganza.  Very talented, my back is.

You can't even shake salt out of a salt shaker around me because of the word "shake," which, in my head, turns to "shape," and you better shape up, 'cause I need a man, and my heart is set on you.  Seriously.  Seriously don't shake anything around me. 

Don't even think about wearing Shape Ups around me or you get my excellent version of the Grease soundtrack sung to you for the rest of the day.

Stream-of-thought blog today - now I just got "I like big butts" stuck in my head because I'm picturing you shaking your huge butt around me.  No other brother can deny.
It also doesn't help that I work at Painting with a Twist and it has become my life goal to come up with the most sticky, irritating, flashback songs that are meant to get in your head and stay there.  I'm like Pavlov's (sp?) dog now; whenever I'm getting ready to go teach a class, I get the Painting Playlist in my head as I'm putting on my makeup or whatever.  And for this reason, I must kill Ke$ha.

But the ultimate dumb reason I get a particular song stuck in my head is this: anytime I, or anyone else I see for that matter, is walking and swinging their arms wildly and taking large steps, I get "I have confidence in sunshine" stuck in my head for the rest of time.  That's all it takes.

One Two Three I have confidence in me

Friday, September 7, 2012

Road Rage

I work 12 hundred miles away from where I live currently.  It takes 40 minutes each way.  It's fine; it's a beautiful drive through meadows and trees and there are actually buffalo on the side of the road (fake ones that people farm, not wild ones), and really I don't mind it.  But here's the deal: I am a chronically late person.  Like - everywhere I go all the time late late late person.  One time the fam and I were going to meet my in-laws somewhere for something and they told us to be there at 9:30.  Well, I was feeling industrious, apparently, because we got there at like 8:50.  Weren't they surprised!  Get this though.  They really didn't want to leave until 10:30.  They told us to be there an hour early because they knew I'd be an hour late. 

That is how you know you're a crappy person.

What I should be doing instead of driving to work.
But yes, I admit it.  I am just a late person.  I don't even wake up until I'm teaching my third class and who knows what's happened in the first three hours.  Pandemonium, most likely.  But the trouble with being a late person (besides being late to things) is that it's very, very stressful. 

I have only been working at my current school since August, so I still have to pretend to be a good, caring person who follows the rules and is idealistic about the state of education in America.  And be on time to things.  I had a meeting this week at 7:20.  EW SEVEN TWENTY!  And everything that could possibly go wrong on a commute to work happened on this day!!!  I left with plenty of time.  Maybe 2 minutes to spare, even.  But ohmygodpeople go the frickin speed limit already!  I got behind a normal car - not even a heavy truck or something - who, not even exaggerating, was going 20 under the speed limit.  Well, when you have the commute to work timed to the second so you don't have to leave any earlier, 20 miles under the speed limit just isn't going to cut it.  Highway 83 is notorious for the double yellow, though.  Nowhere to pass.  Sweet Baby Jesus.  I followed that a-hole for my whole entire life.  I think I actually turned 38 while I was waiting for him to figure out what that silly pedal on the floor of his car was fer heh heh heh.  Luckily, one can turn off on another side road and arrive at the same destination in the same amount of time.  This guy knew that little trick, though, and took that road.  Well, smartypants me kept going the first way!  I was sooooooooooo proud of myself.  Until... UNTIL.... ROAD WORK!  Besides being notorious for the double yellow, Highway 83 is also well known for showcasing the beautiful seasons of Colorado: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Road work.  My heart plummeted to the bottom of my stomach as I watched my clock tick by (yes I have a grandfather clock in my car).  Every second wasted while the lady in the orange vest slowly held her STOP sign and ate her morning sandwich, was another second I would have to prove myself as I guiltily made up for being late to the first meeting of the school year.  That was a terrible run on, but I think you get the point.  FINALLY we got past the construction and I was flying!  Normally the rest of the drive should take me 20 more minutes... I had 11.  So of course I got behind the other slowest person that ever drove a car ever.  I don't know what's with these Elizabeth people.  They either want to ram you and kill you with their SUV's or they want to ruin your life by making you late everywhere.  Yes, I blame them.  So I put put putted all the way to school, finally arriving 10 minutes late and sheepishly slinking into a back seat in the library.  Walk Of Shame.  (My principal STILL hasn't spoken to me.) 

This movie was about me.  Except for the fake boobs part.
That's not the end of the story!

The drive home:
Oh yes.
That day I was also closing on the sale of my house.  Quite an important day, wouldn't you say?  Yes, you would, and I would agree.  I knew if I left right at 3:15, I could jog down the highway and be there by the scheduled time of 4:00.  Easy Peasy.  Lemon Squeezy.  Right, I know.  So the kids got off their bus at my school at 3:20.  Excellent start.  We raced to the back parking lot as fast as we could!  Not parked there.  That's right, I was in such a hurry that morning to get to the meeting, I parked in front.  Race back to the front!  Right past the principal.  Ahhhh leaving before you're supposed to, eh?  And weren't you late this morning?  (In my head it's a leprechaun voice but really, he doesn't sound like that at all.)  So Walk Of Shame number two and I'm yelling at Slow Poke Blake to keep up already and we finally get in the car and... wait in the bus lane until 3:35.  Soooooooo awesome.  I finally get on the highway and search through my purse to find my phone to call Zach and tell him there is just no way in hell and the tears are already coming and I know no one says it anymore, but I'ma hot mess.  So I get Zach on the phone and start crying like a stupid girl.  He has to talk me off the edge because I'm freaking out as I watch my grandfather clock start ticking faster and faster and, oh, I could get on the interstate, that will be faster!  I take an exit I've never taken before (excellent ideas are my specialty) and then have to call Zach crying again because I think I'm lost and now I'll be even later.  Luckily, in between my bouts of insanity and amazing girlishness, he has called our realtor (who's waiting at the title company already) and she says to not stress - they have all the time in the world.  Well, I know that she's just the nicest person in the history of time and probably she's missing an important dinner with the President of the United States or something and she's giving it up for ME because I AM A LATE PERSON.  And that just makes me feel like a shitty, shitty, late person.  I finally begin to calm down after I realize that yes, I have once before taken this way to get to the interstate.  I hop on and the grandfather clock slows a little and I stop telling the kids, NO MORE TALKING MOMMY'S FREAKING OUT BE QUIET!  And then the traffic on the interstate stops.  2 exits before mine.  Stops.  I don't know why.  Welcome to Colorado.  I call Zach again and in the little inhale inhale sniff quietly freaking out voice (you know it, you've done it, whatever), inform him of the new complication.  He reassures me that it'll be fine (in the way those special cops talk people off of bridges).

Actually, it was fine, and we signed the house over and no one was mad at me.  But this just goes to show you that you should always give yourself more time than you think you need.

 Plus my kids are learning bad habits from my road rage and have been walking around all day saying "Jesus Christ!" about everything and I'm sure you can guess how much my mom looooooooooves that.


Sunday, August 26, 2012

Whiney Rant That Makes Me Sound Like A Grumpy Old Man

Jesus H. Christ, I am so over inspirational Facebook posts.  "The Dawn of a New Era" is fast approaching?  Ok, Lion King, thanks.  "Love Is All You Need?"  Whatever, freaking The Beatles, I need some damn money.  Damnit.  That is all I need.  "Freedom Isn't Free!"  Um... yes it is.  When is the last time you went to Walmart and found freedom in aisle 5?  It's like bummer stickers for social media, and let me tell you how I feel about bumper stickers.
Please, feel free to share your opinions in a more passive-aggressive way, if you can find one.  WAIT - that is the most passive-aggressive way to share your opinions EVER!  Here is what I think.  I do not know you and I would most likely not engage you in conversation in public, and even if I did, I would not immediately begin spewing my beliefs to you, Stranger, but since you are sitting behind me in traffic, here is what I think!  I would like to C03xI$+ (Coexist) with you, but not because you strategically placed a sticker on your mode of transportation for me to read while I am already enraged at the 16th stoplight I've sat at during my evening commute.  I am also so delighted that you have 7 children who are actively participating in unique sports, but I don't need to see a cartoon picture of them all lined up in their athletic garb on the back of your soccer mom van.  And please stop putting their names above their caricatures.  I like to put myself in other people's shoes in moments like these.  Say... a child molester.  Oh good, now I know that lil' Cindy, youngest in a family of 12 (6 boys, 4 girls, Fido, and FiFi...awwwww) is in dance class, and maybe if I follow that SUV to see where Cindy's bus stop is and OH HI CINDY!  Your mom said I can pick you up after dance class in my white windowless van and here's some candy and Daddy is with Fido at the park do you want a ride over there to meet them? 
Get it?
Plus I don't really care about your family.
Or your political views.  By the way, you look ignorant and I hope you don't have one of those signs in your front yard because that's worse and no one's going to vote for Romney.  Even with your yard sign.  Maybe because of your yard sign.
Sooooo don't believe there is sunshine behind every cloud, Inspirational Facebook Post readers, because sometimes it's night.

P.S. Soccer Mom Van Owner, Sarah, aka an eggcellent friend of mine started blogging and it's hilarious.  See link.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

You White. You Hair Gold.

In case you don't know already, I had to move back in with my parents.  I got a job up in Elizabeth, but from my old house in the south part of Colorado Springs, it would have been over an hour drive each way.  I like living in my car as much as the next person (you can tell by all the empty Diet Cokes and trash on the floor), but that's just a bit much for me.  So we decided to put the house up for sale and move in with the parental units so we wouldn't have to do it frantically in 6 days if the house sells.  Also, they live in Black Forest, which is a bit closer to Elizabeth (just in case we don't find a house to buy soon). 

My adorable house.  Wanna buy it?

I've lived in my house on the Southsiiiide for over three years now.  That's definitely enough time for me to turn gangsta, which is of course, awesome, and for me to realize that the white folk up here are super different than my white trash ways.  I am accustomed to falling asleep to the lulling sound of fireworks being set off in the cul-de-sac well before the Fourth of July, this one guy's laugh that sounds like this: "huh huh huh" "huh" "huh," and the occasional Gatorate-bottle-whipping extravaganza (We poe, we can't afford no guns.).  Yes, you heard it.  Whipping.  Let me enlighten you.

You're welcome.  Anyway, so I'm totally used to leaving my grocery cart in the middle of the aisle at King Soopers, where I am also no longer shocked to see multiple thongs and/or back boobs, be harrassed to buy someone's extra food stamps so he can buy crack rocks, and walk past the 3 security guards at the door without realizing they are even there.  If that isn't hood, I don't know what is.  One time my mom went shopping with me at the dollar store off of Academy and there was a line that had 4 or 5 people in it waiting to check out.  Let it be known that my mother has lived in White American Suburbia since 1991 and finds it rude that people leave their carts in the middle of the aisle at King Soopers.  So Mother Dearest did not want to wait in line.  In Monument, one does not wait in line.  They open up more lines for you in Monument and you still look at them condescendingly, like, "why didn't you do that before I had to sigh in distaste?"  She looked at me and whispered conspiratorally, "Maybe if I can make eye contact with the checker they will realize they should open up another line."  I laughed.  HAH.  This be the southside.  Yo.  Oh, Mother.  That doesn't work in these here parts.  I watched as Mom tried to make eye contact with the checker.  It was a little uncomfortable.  I think she finally did, so of course, as expected, the checker did not call to have another line opened.  I think she actually started checking slower.  It really was a learning oppotunity. 

I have learned in the past 3 years that if I don't want to be judged at my King Soopers or Dollar Store, that I need to be unwashed, wear sweatpants, and drag my 2 children who do not look like they have the same father to the store.  If I did go to the store, say, after work, with nice clothes, hair fixed, and no bastard-looking children, that's when I got the crusty stink eyes.  Why this white girl be buyin' our food? they'd say with their eyes.  I mean this in the least racist way possible.  That's just my southside accent.  Although I've never seen an Asian with back boobs.  I digress.

I went to King Soopers in Monument a few days ago.  I was unwashed and wearing sweatpants.  No -better - sweatSHORTS!  I know!  I knew I'd be judged, but OMG I just did not want to take a shower that day.  I had it coming.  I walked into the store.  The aisles were wider, the produce brighter, they had an ENTIRE AISLE OF ORGANIC CEREAL.  UP FRONT!  I didn't even have to go all the way back to the prescription reading glasses next to the old magazine rack in the back to find my Peanut Butter Puffins.  The ladies with their perfectly cut soccer mom hair looked classic and hoity in their perfect-for-grocery-shopping low-heeled shoes.  My flip-flops with holes in them began to cower in fear, which was weird for shoes, and I could swear my adult acne became more noticeable.  The ladies looked at my sweatshorts, my greasy hair, my adult acne, my personified shoes, and I could hear them calling their HOA's about why they were letting poor people in.  But maybe I just made that up.  Actually, instead of running her cart into mine and then blaming me for poor cart driving skills, when one lady accidentally bumped me SHE APOLOGIZED.  Where is this place? I thought while swinging my cart in circles in the giant aisle singing The Hills Are Alive.

I SWEET LOVE the old bread on sale section.  My dad calls it the Used Bread Section.  It's, like, the best part of any store, ever.  You can get rolls that are only 4 hours older than the other rolls for 14 cents!  They had pita bread, which is usually $4 a pack, for 79 cents.  You can't not buy every single pack when they are only 79 cents.  Even if that does make you seem like a homeless person.  So I bought them all.  It's seriously still such a great deal that I would re-deal with the embarrassing mockery of the checker just for more 79 cent pita bread.  He was all 19 years old and consescending, like, "looks like you hit that sale section pretty hard," and I was like, "huh, yeah." <--Brilliant retort.  Because when I don't have makeup on, I have low self-esteem when normally I'd be like, whatever 19 year old, you'd totally be hitting on my old ass in a club.  If I had makeup on.  And it was dark.  And they let 19 year olds in clubs.  What was I talking about?  So then I guiltilly bought a scratch ticket because rich people don't buy scratch tickets and I could feel the judgement burning into my back, and I zoomed out of the store and into the parking lot, where of course I couldn't find my car because it had camoflaged itself with dirt and I couldn't see it next to all the shiny Mercedezez.  The one redeeming thing about the parking lot was I heard an old guy say "shit" to his wife (which Monumenteers don't say in public because WWJD.) and I wrote "shit in the lot" into the note section of my phone so I wouldn't forget to write about it.  I got in my car and promptly forgot how to drive because I regressed into my 16 year old self buying groceries at the Monument King Soopers who just got her license and I drove like a sofaking weetahded teenager until I found the parking lot exit, and drove away breathing heavily and grasping the steering wheel because that was INTENSE.

Moral of the story?  It's hard being white no matter where you live. 

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Leo the Rooster

Today we said goodbye to our friend Leo.  Leo is a rooster who used to be a girl chicken named Leah.  We bought her/him from a lady on craigslist along with a few other fine feathered friends.  But things were different with Leah.  She grew so fast.  She was a freak-spaz when you tried to hold her.  We thought, "awww look at Leah, she's such a big girl!"  If she was a lady person, she would have retorted, "Mmmhmm well I like my curves!" but she was merely a chicken and could only say "bok" and peck at our rings. 

About a month ago, girl Leah began to crow.  I was in the office, drinking my coffee and checking my email.  Zach was still asleep.  And I heard it.  It was not quiet.  And it was unmistakable.  I yelled across the hall, "Zach!  Leah is crowing!"  He answered, "muuuuuung."  I yelled again (heaven forbid I get up.  Seriously, coffee time is MY time.), "You have to get him; he'll wake the neighbors!"  And after this statement, all the neighbor dogs began to bark.  And there are, like, 300 of them.  So Zach sleepily bounded (contradiction?) out of bed, threw on some shorts but no shoes, and ran outside to get Leah from the coop.  He then brought the bewildered poultry into the house and with wild eyes, asked, "What do I do with him?"  "I don't know!" I answered, pretending like I was going to get out of my chair.  "Put him in the dog crate!"  It was, and still is, a brilliant idea.  So Zach kicked his dog out of her crate in the garage and put a chicken in it instead.  We were all a little confused then, especially Leah/Leo, I'm assuming.  In the other dog crate across the garage, dumb boy dog, Jasper, was also confused.  But we all had a good laugh as we realized that the garage was now for the dumb boy animals.  Har har har <---- good laugh. 

This is when we finally allowed ourselves to admit that, yes, in fact, Leah was a boy, and her/his name was changed to Leo.  Leo only crowed a few times, and when he did, we would race outside and grab him from the makeshift chicken coop and throw him into the dog crate.  It worked for a while because Leo was not yet a giant freak, so his crows were little and adorable and we would say things like, "It's so nice to have the rooster wake us up instead of an alarm clock!"  But then Leo and his chicken craps began to grow larger and smellier and he was still being man-handled unwillingly into a dog crate every evening and letting us know how unhappy he was about it by CROWING SO FREAKING LOUD ALL THE FREAKING TIME and although Leo was a sweet boy chicken and we all loved him dearly, he tried to claw Blake's face off from ear to mouth like a gang cutting, and then we knew it was time.

My dad reasoned that we could let Leo free and let nature have its way with him.  Maybe he'd survive to populate the forest with crow-chickens, a new species not unlike a mockingjay from Hunger Games.  Or perhaps he'd die by coyote, but we wouldn't know, and that makes it ok.  But I wondered if maybe we'd release him and he'd just stay there and hang out.  Completely defeating the purpose.  So Dad suggested we release him at Weikel Elementary School, the school that I "just wasn't a good fit" for, because probably Leo would be a good fit, and also that's hilarious.  Maybe they'd make him the mascot when he populated the playground with mockingjays.  But I, ever the humanitarian, decided to craigslist him instead (after some very inhumane tactics that I cannot make public for fear of imprisonment for cruelty to animals.  Just kidding.  Kind of.)  Many people responded to the ad.  Lovely farmers from Calhan and Falcon, some with chickens and some who needed a new family pet.  Awww how sweet.  But because I am lazy, I decided to reply to the dude who lived in Black Forest, because we were already going up there, and that's just easier.  So Dude pulls up.  He's like 12 and smoking a cigarette and the first thought in my mind is COCKFIGHTS.  Poor Leo is going to have to Hunger Game for the rest of his life.  But I am a nice person who does not like to judge a book by its cover (I know, right?), so I went to find a box to send Leo packing in.  No box and 5 minutes later, Zach hands Leo over to Dude who just puts him in the back of his car.  Not something you see every day. 

But Dude seemed happy with his random backseat rooster and I am happy that my son will get to keep his eyes, and also that I get to hear the lovely ringing of my alarm clock every morning, so we all win.

And this concludes the epic tale of Leo the rooster!

<----- Bok Bok Bok.

P.S. Blake says his next rooster will be named TreShawn. 

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Ray Liotta and Crotch Pockets

I was exiting my Facebook page just a moment ago and I saw the most terribly ugly person in the whole wide world looking at me with that smug, horseface grin and a Subway sandwich in hand:  Michael Phelps.  Arggghh!  I don't know why I despise him so much.  Maybe it's because of this:

I don't know what's up with that crotch pocket, but I'm disturbed and you should be, too.  Also, he's freakishly ginormica, which isn't fair because small people should be allowed to swim quickly to win medals and from sharks.  I think the reason I hate Michael Phelps the most is because I'm pretty sure my husband, Zach, could kick his ass if he'd just practice a little more.  I'm always like, "Zach, go swimming!"  "Faster, Zach, faster!" "Shouldn't you practice again today, honey?"  I tell him things such as, "You are just so graceful in the water, like you could be a professional swimmer!" and "Do that very special dolphin swim kick that does not make you look like a freak," and "You look sexy in that Speedo! (Uck, no!)" because SOMEONE MUST BEAT MICHAEL PHELPS!  And that someone should be my husband.  If anyone can pull off a crotch pocket, it's Zach. 

But someone should tell him that you're supposed to dive into the water, not just up.  Oh well, he's pretty.
Something funny about Zach and also about hating people is how much Zach randomly hates Ray Liotta.  I mean, what's not to love?  I think he was in a movie once where he played a dude and another movie where Hannibal ate his brains.  I have no problem with Ray Liotta.  But seriously, Zach would cut him if he even got near him.  I'm going to call Zach right now so I can repeat what he says.  Hold on.
"Zach, I need you to tell me why you hate Ray Liotta."
"I don't like his little nose, and I don't like, his like, voice.  And I don't like his acting: it's really bad.  And he icks me out when he walks... and moves around.  And I've made assumptions about maybe the way he smells and how he might treat people badly.  Ray Liotta, I just want to know why you're in movies.  How did you get this job?  I want this job. I  want to make money.  So that's why I hate Ray Liotta."
I don't think I can top that.

Monday, June 4, 2012


Oh, hey.  My name is Beckie.  I'm that one ^.  Those are my besties: Sarah and Brittany.  Yes I airbrushed us, but otherwise you wouldn't think I was twenty-one, would you?!?
I am new to this blogging narcissistic nonsense.  I always wanted to write a book.  I've started, like, 200 million of them, literally.  Literally.  And finished none because I can't complet

So I figured if I do this I will get my writer-y-ness out and I can have this online journey-telling/bitching/schtuff no one cares about (whatever, you're reading it, you know it's true.  Why are you reading this?)  forum and maybe you will laugh and maybe you will cry and maybe you will be offended and maybe you will come back to read the next day and maybe you will ask me why my sentences are so long.

Well, to tell you a little about myself, I could give you a PowerPoint presentation full of swooshy effects and inspiring music and maybe some quotes about how majestic and brave eagles are, except that I hate those and I will leave them to Professional Development at Weikel Elementary School.  And also you are reading this because you already know me.  In case you forgot, here are a few lil' tidbits:
1) I am not really 21 (I know, right?!)
2) I am an artist and an art teacher. 
3) I am a painting instructor at the best job of all time.  See picture:
4) I have 2 children and they are better than yours, so don't even deny it because you're wrong.  Side note: Blake just came in saying he wanted to run laps in his new shoes.  I said, "but it rained; you'll get your new shoes all muddy."  He replies,"It's dry already.  Earthpower."  Duh. 
5) I have 1 husband, 7 chickens, 1 rooster, 2 dogs.
6) I will start my diet tomorrow.  Mmm Blue Moon Summer Honey Wheat.

I'm sure more details will come up in the near future.  Hold on to your butts. <-- Jurassic Park reference.