Friday, December 6, 2013

Call That Shit.

     Many of my blogs discuss happenings while I am driving.  I feel this is because I am pretty much driving for my whole life.  You'd think all these life lessons would have been previously learned.  You'd think.  Regarding happenings while driving and the lack of life-lesson-learning, this blog is no different.  It also uses profanity.  So close your ears, Mom.
     It started this morning.  I checked my email on the computer.  I specified computer because I usually check it on my fancy pants smartphone and then don't do anything about it because it's hard to use my smartphone.  So then I read the emails and I forget about them.  Well, today I checked my emails on my real computer and realized, hey, that credit card statement was from a long time ago.  I should check it.  And yes, it was overdue.  But only by 5 days - 2 of them the weekend - which TOTALLY doesn't count as regular days - so only 3 days late.  That's it!  Also, I should mention that this is the credit card I've had since I've had credit cards starting approximately a whole friggin decade ago.  Always paid on time, most of the time to zero.  I am a good credit-card-paying American.  I paid the bill and the late charge without complaint because it was totally my fault that it was late and I am a good credit-card-paying American.
     After work tonight I needed gas.  Like, soooooooooooo needed gas.  I had actually run it to empty yesterday and made it home and made Zach go buy some in town in his little red gas can and bring it back and fill my tank to almost a quarter-full.  So by the time I made the incredible journey west to work, it was empty again.  Luckily, there is a Conoco right next to where I work.  I slid on in on what I presume to be fumes and ran my credit card.  "See Cashier," it said.  I blinked a blink longer than a standard blink and swore a little under my breath as it was exactly 6 degrees outside.  I ran the card again and pushed "no I do not want a carwash thank you very much quit asking me" for the second time and did the cold dance (like the potty dance, but with arms held close to one's body).  Again, "See Cashier."  Normally I'd be like, "Whatever, screw you Conoco.  Diamond Shamrock wants my money," but I was seeeeeriously on empty so I went inside to "see cashier."  She ran the card and gruffly grumbled, "It's because it's denied."  I gasped like the entitled rich white girl I am and shook my head disdainfully.  "I'll just call them."  I spun on my heels and walked back to my car and got in, turned the heater on high, and called the number on the back of my card.
     After a circling conversation about my delinquent bill (I think they use that word to make you feel like a criminal.), I was notified that online payments don't post until midnight.  What?!  What are they doing that whole time?  You had ONE JOB, people!  I said something along the lines of, "Weeelllll, how do you suppose I'll get home tonight?" or something obviously intelligent like that, to which she replied, "Oh goodness!  Let me see what I can do!"  So then I felt even more stupid - the girl who can't pay her credit card bill on time also can't fill up her tank on time.  I was actually feeling quite introspective sitting there in my car being reminded of my faults as a human.  Thanks, Mastercard.  So, the two solutions ended up being 1) Sit in my car until midnight when the payment posted or 2) Pay the amount due on this month's bill straight from my bank account, although they would have to contact the bank to make sure the money was in there ( phone payments happen immediately but online takes 12 hours?).  Seeing as though I didn't really want to spend the night in my car, I of course agreed for them to call my bank.  But weren't they closed?  It was after 6:30.  I ended up talking to Delinquent-Payment-Man, who, of course you'd figure by that name, is a straight up dick.  I gave him all the information he needed and then he put me on hold while he contacted my bank.  And then hung up on me.  STRAIGHT UP DICK!  Well, I don't know about you, but ain't nobody got time for that.  So I angrily buckled my seat belt (safety first) and stormed out of the gas station.
     I should tell you that part of being an entitled white girl is having fancy gadgets.  I have my fancy smartphone and also I have a fancy new car and my fancy smartphone works through my fancy new car.  I know, right?!  So I can push a button in my fancy new car and it makes my fancy smartphone go to voicedial.  I hastily pushed the voicedial button so that I could call Zach and warn him that he might be picking up my stranded ass on the side of Highway 24.  Buuuuuut smartphones are actually real stupid and I hate them.  "Call Zach."
     "Call Zach."
     "NO NOT CANCEL CALL ZACH!"  This time I pronounced it Za -ch- because sometimes smartphones need a little help in the spelling department.
     "Call that shit."
     "Call that shit."
     "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"  By this time I could have totally just picked up the stupid phone and hit the call button, but it's just the principle of it, right?
     I tried again.  This time, "Call Home."
     I must have a fucking lisp.  "HOME. CALL HOME."
     "Calling Home."
     Thank Baby Jesus.  The phone rang and Zach picked up.  I told him of my predicament and how I was slowly approaching Falcon with the gas light on.  He offered to meet me there, but I replied that I'd like to see how far I'd get.  Just wanted to warn him that I might be on the side of the highway in -6 degree weather.  Chillin'.  See what I did there?
     I continued on my long journey, the fancy gas mileage gauge both a blessing as a curse as it silently reminded me that coasting down hills was awesome, and also that I have to use the accelerator to go up hills, and when I did that, I would most likely run out of gas and get stranded and die and everyone I knew would be alone forever without me.  I even wondered things like if the radio used gas, so I turned it off and rode silently, creepily, even breathing shallowly as if normal breathing would use up more gas.
     I called Zach (CALL HOME.  FUCKING CALL HOME!) one last time before I entered no-man's land (no reception for about 6 miles from the highway to my house).  We decided that after 10 minutes, he'd come rescue me if I wasn't home.
     Amazingly, my bad decisions and I arrived home safely!  Then I ate a burrito and now I am sitting here.  The End.
I lurve you, Yaris.
     Wait.  Good stories have morals.  Okay.  Moral 1: Pay your credit card bill on time because they are seriously fucking assholes.  Moral 2: Yaris' get AWESOME gas mileage, even without gas!  

Thursday, September 19, 2013

A letter to Zach on our anniversary.

Homecoming 2002?  One shoulder top?  Yes please.
10 years.  10 YEARS!   A whole decade.  All my fingers.  Next year is 1 toe.  10 years is a long time to be with someone.  I'm so proud of you and me!  We are pretty darn awesome.  No one thought we could do it - 2 CRAZY KIDS right out of high school with one CRAZY KID inside my uterus.  People thought we were just getting married because of Blake, but really, we were pretty much married the second we met.  We did married things when we were 17, like garage sailing and going for drives.  Everyone thought that just meant sex, which was only half way true, and the other half was garage sales and going for drives for
realzies.  I told you I loved you way too soon, 'cause I did, and you said, "I think I love you," which I'm pretty sure meant, "can we go garage sailing now?" but I knew you loved me, too. 

Present day adorableness.

2 gorgeous kids and 6 or 7 houses, 2 college degrees, 2 dogs down to 1, 400 broken Subarus and 2 good Toyotas, and 1 chicken farm later, here we are!  Luckily, we are still hot, too, otherwise this would have ended years ago.  Juuuuust kidding.  Kind of.  I'm glad that we decided together that you should always have a scruffy face and that I should cut your hair so you don't get a Pencil Head Haircut at Cost Cutters.  That we pick out your jeans together so I can see your cute butt.  That you sigh and groan and get mad at me, but you won't wear your ugly baseball caps into public with me.  I'm also glad we decided that every day you have to tell me 8 times that I do not look fat and that you don't get to be annoyed when I ask for the 9th time.  And how sometimes I ask if I will look like a "B" for bitch, and how other times I will ask if I look like a "bee" because what I'm wearing is black and yellow, and how you also don't get to be annoyed for that.  I guess this paragraph is my "thank you for putting up with my crazy" paragraph, because seriously, thanks for that.  I know I'm a terrible bitch sometimes and you ALWAYS have to clean the house because I HATE it and how I ask for a backrub seriously 5 times a night and you usually give in and do it and I never, ever
Zombies.  Why not?
return the favor, and how I always use run-on sentences (even though you do it waaaay worse, and mine's intentional, so there.).  Thank you for watching the kids day in and day out while I get away to my precious work in my precious city.  I love the country, but you know I need my escape and my me-time.  And thank you so much for your understanding that my friends are my family and I need to be with them sometimes, too.  You graciously stay home and watch the boys whenever I need you to.  Thank you for being there through the stress of terrible jobs and not enough money, of getting fired and getting hired.  For listening to my daily conversation of the consistency of my morning poo like it was worth listening to.  For knowing when to back the hell off when I'm curled up on the bed and I want to die, but also knowing when that passes and I need a hug.  And another backrub.  Thank you for throwing away your Bone Thugs in Harmony CD.

Thank you for these.

Beckie is totes crushing on Zachary.

I don't know how it's possible that we still think the other is so funny (wait, are you just pacifying me?).  You've had the same jokes for, like, 5 years now, and I still laugh at them.  I have no idea why.  Calling everything "Diablo Dan?"  What the hell is that?  And Our Lady of ______ jokes?  So lame.  I love it. 

So... 10 years.  That felt like 400 years and also 1 minute at the same time.  I'm the garsh-darn luckiest gal alive and I love you so much.

So I'm not buying you a present, except the knowledge that I am dancing around to this Paramore song which is unfortunately catchy and I like it except her baby bangs.  But it pretty much nails what I am so in-eloquently trying to express.
Love you.

Monday, August 12, 2013


Today I am having a heart attack.  Not a real one, a mommy one.  Like a hormonal girl after a bad breakup, I just crammed a huge bowl of chocolate cereal in my face and am currently washing it down with the creamery-est coffee ever and getting a gnarly sugar headache.
Hold on, time to take the drogas.
There we go.

FYI, if you didn't know already, I am allowed to eat whatever I want because I take diabetes medication even though I don't have diabetes.  The opposite - I am hypoglycemic, which is why I pass out all the time stupidly and am also always grumpy.  I take Metformin, which helps regulate my insulin, which is the only reason I'm nice to you sometimes.  So even though I CAN eat anything I want, ironically, the meds make me want to eat nothing, and when I do, vomit it all up.  So that's fun.  But the reason I just told you that random fact was to explain why I can eat ice cream for breakfast and allz will be okay.  And also because I am FREAKING OUT and that always ends in disaster and run-on sentences.

"So why are you freaking out, Beckie?" you might be asking.
Let me tell you.  Today my whole world got thrown upside-down.  My kids allofasudden grew up into adults who hate me, my house is quiet, I am not driving to work, I have time to blog, I have time to think.  Ohmygod.  Today was the first day of school for my kids at their new elementary school. 
Mom is sooooooooo embarrassing.
My oldest is in 4th grade, which is ridiculous and I disagree with it.  I am NOT that old and never will be.  I love when people say, "you're too young to have a 10 year old!"  Those people are my best friends.  If you haven't said that to me, we're not friends.  When I taught elementary, the 4th graders were the "old" kids who I had high expectations from to be mature and role models and create decent art because they had the coordination and skills and deep-creative-thinking abilities.  And then my baby goes to 4th grade, and I'm like, he's a BABY.  He needs me to zip his backpack and tie his shoes and wipe his nose, right?  WRONG.  He is fine and if he wasn't my kid, he would be expected to have coordination and skills and deep-creative-thinking abilities.  But it's so surreal I can't even handle it.  My youngest is now in 3rd grade, which is a little easier to swallow when you've already had a third grader, but still pretty much terrible.  He's ginormous, too, at least 2 inches taller than everyone in his class, which makes him look like he's supposed to be there, at least.  Don't get me wrong; I would still throw him in 1st grade if I could!  He would be huuuuge!  Like one of those 7th graders will a full beard.  You're like, don't ever buy a van without windows and/or a trench coat, bearded creeper 7th grader.  So my kids are old and I am old and we are all old, but that's not even the worst part.  The worst part is that I think I've ruined my kids' lives because it's taken me until now to get my shit together.  We've moved the kids from school to school every year since they started going to school.  Blake has been to 4 schools in 4 years.  #TeacherLife, but still not fair to them.  Cody's fine with it - he makes friends in two seconds (He says this morning, "I just make friends because everyone thinks I'm funny."  Matter-o-fact.), although he looked a little distraught this morning in line.  Blake, however, is the exact opposite.  He makes one friend in his whole life who he loves desperately and can't get over.  Like a penguin (those are the ones that mate for life, right?).  And then I tear him away from his one and only friend and his heart out along with it.  My husband made a promise to him the other day that we wouldn't move until he graduated high school (which also sends me into commitment-phobic panic mode, but that's another story), but how can you not make that promise to those big, green, sullen, stability-seeking eyes?  Heartbreaking.  Blake was in line this morning, hanging his head, and I think there was a little gray cloud just above it.  He was even closing his eyes... maybe it would all go away?  So I totally worry about him.  He is the sweetest boy in the whole world and I have destroyed his childhood.  That's how it feels.

Turn around!  Let me see your backpacks!  Hate Mom-me.
     They also hate me already.  I know that's not true, but I kind of hate me (Mom-me) and understand.  Mom-me is different than just me.  I think Me-me is pretty awesome, but if I were my kids I would totally hate Mom-me.  Mom-me is like, "I need to get a picture!  Turn around so I can see your backpacks!  Don't make that face!  Are you nervous?  Don't be nervous!  Look at all the friends you can make!  Oh look, there is your teacher!  Oooh, you'll have so much fun!  Blah blah blah!"  Hate.  But that's how I am and I can't help it, like it's been ingrained in my genetics since moms were invented.  Blake stood there while I tried to hug his limp body and wouldn't talk to me, and I'm all trying not to show him how freaking the freak out I am that my baby is going into 4th grade and it's worse that he won't respond so I try harder and then it's just a terrible cycle of mom-hatred.  And I didn't know where to stand so I just kept moving spots around the playground like a straight up weirdo.  And also I think I never know what to do with my arms, so they were probably T-Rex arms the whole time.  I can understand the hatred.  I really can.

My house is silent.  Until 3:30.  Silent.

That is also quite strange for me because I am sitting at home on a Monday.  Remember, I've been a teacher for the last 5 years of my life.  This is the first year SINCE I WAS FOUR YEARS OLD that I haven't had a school year.  Panic Panic Panic.  My life is awesome awesome, don't get me wrong, but I think in my old age I am realizing change is hard.  Maybe not hard, but weird.  I wish there were better words for this.  Off-putting?  Off-balance?  Those sound negative, and it's not a negative feeling, just a... weird... feeling.  See, I'm bad at this.  But think, if your life has always revolved around school year, summer off, school year, summer off, and then all of a sudden, there is no summer off, there is new job during the summer, and then your kids go to school and you aren't going with them at the same time, and it felt like there was no summer because you moved to a strange land, and now you don't work 4 minutes away from them and can't pick them up if they have a tummy ache (even though they don't need you to now because they are adults), it's going to feel WEIRD!  It's strange, too, to not have to worry about lesson plans and first days for students and parent teacher conferences and early morning meetings.  (Butohmygodit'ssoawesome!!!!!)  (If you're thinking about getting into the teaching field - DON'T!  Unless you're a big fan of politics, red tape, and assholes.  Then it's definitely the career for you.)
Now I have all this... what do you call it?  Time?  I think so.  I have time to go through that huge stack of bills staring at me right now.  So I'm definitely gonna call it and go into the other room, cuz ain't nobody got time for that.
OMG I wonder how my babies are doing right now!  Is there a biting-off-fingernails emoticon?  :3  Nope, just ballsface.  Next blog: how they were perfectly fine and I have anxiety issues. 

Saturday, July 13, 2013


I realize that I haven't blogged in many moons.  Blame it on the ADD.  I blame it on having 16 jobs and no time to breathe, much less write!  But now I only have ONE job and it is AWESOME!  Hence my SHOUTY CAPITALS!  Alas, here I am, feeling inspired again to write about things that you don't care about.  YES!  Today's topic is: Rednecks.  And more specifically, how I have become one.  In case you don't know, I recently moved out into Nowhereville, Colorado.  I had a small stint in Somewhereville in between moving called My Parent's House For Almost a Year, which was great for all the reasons you'd assume.  But we finally found a house and we got a great deal in a little town (totes adorbs) called Peyton.  Yes, it has a zipcode, no your phone won't be able to get you here once you cross Stapleton Drive because you will lose reception.  It's not like the city part of Peyton, either.  It's like 10 miles away from that, where someone could kill you and no one would know, or at least where said killer would take your body to dump.  Wow, that's graphic and not even what I was going to write about.

I don't hate it here, not at all.  It's super pretty and there's all this SPACE (good and bad - I'll explain soon) and the children have room to frolic, although they just stay inside and play Playstation.  And the dog can run for miles and miles, although she just sleeps on the kitchen floor all day and poops inside for no reason.  And I have all this beautiful inspiration to paint landscapes and plants and bones like Georgia O'Keeffe, but I just stay inside and take naps and watch Game of Thrones in my bed because that show is freaking AWESOME.

City chickens gone country
You all know that I am not one to judge (insert laughter), but Rednecks, like the real, mullet-wearing, #tanktop, #momjorts, etc., etc., are just, well... judgeable.  So I do.  And then today the slow realization has been dawning that I, too, am becoming a Redneck, and it's happening quite quickly.  I've only been out here for a few months, and here I sit unshowered with just a bikini top on, my stomach hanging over my #jorts, fatly spilling graham crackers crumbs from my mouth as I eat them straight from the box while I type.  You are welcome for that visual.  I also literally have a red neck from "tanning" today.  "Oh, tanning's not Redneck," you say?  Well, I don't have a lawn, so I put my lawn chair on my husband's trailer and covered it with bath towels to lay out and grab some sun today.  And he moved said trailer to my preferred tanning spot in the back yard by hitching it to the bucket of his John Deere tractor and backing up.  I read my book alongside the sounds of chickens clucking and a plastic bag waving in the breeze.  And a chainsaw.
Tanning Beds, White Trash Style.
I drive by the ol' Pop-A-Top Saloon on my way to work and no longer sneer.  Ok, maybe I still sneer a little.  The broken car in the driveway being used as a cup holder for my PBR?  Not judging it, doing it.  That's extreme and not all true.  But there is a broken car in my driveway and the other day we had friends over and there were like 9 cars in front of the house and it looked totes white trash.  We also roasted marshmallows outside in the fire pit with those friends.  No sticks for roasting?  No problem.  Here is some wire we found on the ground.  Is that the specific flavor of... tetanus?  There was a sick ass snake outside the other day and OMG I hate hate hate snakes and the only thing I could do was flap my arms scaredly and tell my 8 year old to shoot it (which he did because he, too, is becoming redneck).
And did I mention that my house is actually a trailer house?  Welllll it iiiiisssss!  Here's what I've discovered about living in a trailer house: I don't really give a crap.  We don't have grates on the vents.  The doors are off the hinges in multiple rooms.  Probably not gonna fix.  Everything I own is still in an open box sitting on the floor.  There is an entire room that smells like cigarettes and piss that we need to prime and paint so the kids don't have to sleep in the office anymore.  Ooooorrrr we could just close the door.  I don't know why living out in the middle of nowhere allows me the mindset to just not care.  But I do think it has something to do with the SPACE.  There is just so much of it!  It's as if it doesn't matter that there is a huge outside trash pile over there, and then another one 6 acres down.  The huge trash piles actually look tiny from my window in my bedroom, which is where I am anyway watching Game of Thrones.  And it's not like I'm going outside to walk up to the trash piles, because that's just silly.  Is my mind becoming free as I slowly begin to not care what people think?  Or am I just disgusting?  That was rhetorical; please don't answer.
Home Sweet Trailer
This is an inconclusive blog.  I am without conclusion.  Allz I can say is I am on my way to becoming accustomed to always feeling like I'm camping; it even smells like camping here (not the outhouse smell, the fresh rain on dirt smell, calm down).  Let me leave you with some pictures of the Adventures of City Girl in the Country!
Sooooooooo cute!  These are the neighbor's cows.  
Sunset over the neighboring trailer and beer holder - I mean truck.


Thursday, February 21, 2013

This blog is about poop.

     I should warn you now that this post is about shit.  Shit at work.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  But before I delve in, I wanted to let you know that when you're searching for "blogspot" so you can get to your blog, don't forget the g, or weird things will come up.  On your mom's computer.  Another fair warning.  Aren't you so glad I'm so protective of you?  I'm like Christian Grey.  Now finish your dinner; you'll need your strength.  For this blog.

     50 Shades of Grey is a great transition into exactly what I'd like to talk about today: poop.  Here's why.  50 Shades of Grey is an excellent book.  For literary reasons, of course, such as sentence fluency, punctuation, and word choice.  And also for content.  For content reasons, 50 Shades of Grey is an excellent book to read by yourself (or creepily with a friend, if that's how you are) in places that are NOT the bathroom.

     Firstly, let's talk about reading in the bathroom.  I don't know about you, but I have to have to have to read something while I'm using the ladies' room.  Magazines, backs of Febreze bottles, cereal boxes (just when I'm hungry).  I'm also an avid poo texter (you're welcome, friends).  I will do the pre-poo-around-the-house-to-find-something-to-read-before-I-can-shit run because it is extremely necessary that I not be bored whilst shitting.  Enter 50 Shades of Grey.  Let's just say NOT AS SEXY to read around...certain...smells.  Maybe just save the boring parts for when you're using the bathroom. That would be my recommendation.

HTF can poop be forest green?

     So...reading things.  I also feel the need to read things while pooping at work, but people would totally know if they saw you grabbing your Kindle and then doing that poop run, so you can't even do that.  You just have to go in and hope that the custodians brought in a different kind of Lysol so you have something to read.

     Pooping at work is the worst, though.  I hate hate hate it.  I hate knowing that someone pooped in there before you and you are about to sit on that warm-ass toilet.  I hate walking into that shit cloud and immediately despising that person that you liked moments before you knew they could defile a place in a moment's time.  And knowing that you're about to do the same thing.  I hate that Fruit-Punch-Persimmon Febreze that tricks your brain into thinking there wasn't a hot dump in there seconds before.

     So, in a perfect world, you'd never have to poop at work.  But the world isn't perfect, which is why work poos must occur.  Sometimes a less-than-perfect-but-still-a-little-awesome poo happens - that's when you're in there all alone and you know everyone's busy so you don't have to worry about any loud noises and you can just be free.  Still awesome.  But those can't happen every time, or you'll get complacent about life and take things for granted like shitting in peace, so to keep you on your toes, sometimes you eat a shit-ton of beans for dinner and you have to take a noisy dump and apparently EVERYONE in the whole place drank 6 cups of coffee that morning so EVERYONE is in the bathroom for the whole day.  Those are the days that make sure you don't take your calm, people-free poos for granted.  You know what I'm talking about.  You walk in - no one's there.  You're all, "YES!  CALM POO TIME!  And daaaaaamn I have some gas that I've been holding for like three hours."  So you sit on the cold toilet (no one's been in there for a it a sign?  How lovely!).  And you let that gas out and HOLY F it's loud, but still no one's there, so it's still awesome, and so you decide you can be free and let out last night's dinner.  And that second - that mortifying second - where you're taking that terribly noisy gas-intermittent-shit - a colleague walks in.  And you are ashamed.  Usually it's the pretty one that wears heels to work every day.  You know she heard it, even though you stopped immediately.  So many questions: should I courtesy flush?  Then she'll totally know.  How long will she be here?  I have so much more love to give!  Do you think she knows me by my shoes?  Of course she knows your shoes - they're covered in paint and you're the only art teacher here.  Oh, she knows.  And there are a few seconds where it's soundless and you wonder if she needs to poop, too, but she's waiting for you to leave, but you're waiting for her to leave so you can finish, but it's just a painful few silent seconds, and then she flushes (THANK GOD!  You can let out a little gas then.)  And so much relief!  As she leaves, you pick the Febreze back up to continue reading -- ooh, Tropical Cumquat -- and you can finally finish what you started.

     But then you realize that probably everyone reads the back of that disgusting Febreze and they do it BEFORE THEY WASH THEIR HANDS!

     So you put it back down in disgust, finish your business, and get the hell outa that stall.
     You wash your hands slowly, hoping that Miss Heels won't still be in the hall, because then she'd totally know how long you were in there.

     You exit, rubbing lotion into your hands, until you realize that that motion makes you look extremely maniacal - like an evil doer - which is not necessarily a good thing while exiting a public bathroom.  And of course, Miss Heels is still totally out in the hall.  She gives you the OMG-you-were-in-there-for-like-18-minutes look, and you maniacally rub your hands together, put your Kindle back under your arm, and get the hell out of there.