OC Family - Moms. Kids. Life. - (Hippo Brigade)

Poorly built sugar piñatas

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 11:18:00 GMT

Every night I switch off the light, close my eyes, and make attempts of peace in harmony in my subconscious. I visualize lemon meringue pie and pink bunnies, and how amazing it would be to have bouncy, shiny hair. I visualize Jason Bateman in a speedo, and street tacos, and drinking Prosecco in Union Square.

But as soon as I drift off into sleep, I have an anxiety attack.

My body becomes an angry, dark place and all my muscles clench up. My fists ball up, my spine becomes a crocked disaster, and my jaw gets insanely sore. It’s like my body is telling me, I hate sleep, and I don’t want to do it, no sir, I don’t.

And then my mind chimes in and says, quit being lame, sleeping is the most magnificent gift. It’s glorious, and it’s the one thing I look forward to all day. Stop screwing this up for me!

And thus, a war is waged.

When I wake up in the morning, I’m like, what the what? Why do my teeth hurt? Why is my arm all the way over there, that doesn’t seem natural. And why can’t I look left anymore?

I can deal with a sore body. That’s fine. I can do yoga or stretch to work the kinks out (although I never do). But my mouth is another story.

The teeth thing really bothers me, I have dreams of my teeth shattering and crumbling into pieces. Like those sugar sculpting T.V. shows on the Food Network. You know where they spend 8 hours making a 5-foot piñata out of delicate pink and blue sugar, and then they have to move the thing 20 inches in front of them to have it judged, and the whole thing shatters, and everyone is like, “OH NO!!” but honestly, we all knew it was coming. Because it’s a piñata, made of sugar.

So, yeah. My mouth is like the shows on Food Network.

And my teeth are poorly built sugar piñatas.

I used to have a mouth-gaurd that I’d wear at night, but it mysteriously disappeared. I’m not positive, but all signs point to my dog eating it. Her recent dry hacking, coupled with her repulsive ability to eat anything, especially if it’s thickly coated in my morning drool, was what ultimately tipped me off.

Thanks Zoey, now all my teeth are going to fall out, and it’s all your fault.

Plus, you owe me 400 dollars.

So, why is my mouth so stressed out?

Or, better question, why am I so stressed out?

My life is pretty awesome. I don’t have a schedule that I have to adhere to, and my kids are so frickin’ rad. Seriously, have you met them? You need to, they’re amazing.

I get to do practically anything I want, which means my days are filled with going to the beach, the pool, and the mall, and hanging out with my best friends.

Although, I do touch a lot of poo within a given day, and I get yelled at by both my baby and 3-year-old, and on really special occasions, my mom. I usually have Hudson sitting on my left hip, and my free hand is preparing endless snacks for Berlyn. I am constantly cleaning up paint, play-doh, and Golden Puffs. And my boobs are not my own. Oh, and speaking of my boobs, they have lost all discretion, and have been spotted by 3 of my neighbors and at least 4 Container Store employees, and that was just yesterday.

Being a mommy is tough, and even though my mind is okay with it, my body is telling me otherwise.

If I don’t get a vacation from these kids soon, I’m going to end up with grinded down stumps for teeth.

They are going crumble and shatter into a million pieces like those sugar creations on T.V.

But it won't be all bad, because maybe I can wear one of these:

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Breastfeeding and Alcohol

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 14:24:00 GMT

I’m not a party girl.

I don’t like to get drunk.

I don’t like that sick feeling the next morning. Plus there’s the possiblity of vomiting, and honestly, the thought of that makes me shudder.

I do, however enjoy the occasional drink.

But because, I’m nursing Hudson, I have to be mindful of how much I drink.

I don’t want a drunk baby on my hands.

Could you imagine?

Wait–on second thought, let’s not imagine.

So I bought these alcohol strip thingies to test my milk before I give it to the Huds.

He appreciates that.

The other night I went out with a few friends, and had two glasses of wine. They were spread out over 3.5 hours, and I even drove home, but by the time I got home I tested my milk, and wouldn’t you know?

It said I was drunk.

I tried to reason with the strip.

“Listen here,” I commanded. “I’m not drunk. I had 2 glasses of wine and a heap of pasta. I’m totally sober. If I were drunk could I do this?”

I started to pat my head and rub my belly simultaneously.

“Or what about this?”

I touched my nose with my index finger while closing my eyes and tilting my head back.

“Hell–ooo? Check this out.”

I moon walked across the kitchen floor. I even threw in a lewd crotch grab, to really drive the point home.

Just then my husband walked in, “Who are you talking to? And what the heck are you doing? You’re totally sauced right now, aren’t’ you?I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive home!”

“No, no. Pat, don’t be silly. I’m talking to the milk strip, see? I’m showing it that I’m sober. It thinks I should dump this milk.”

“Ludicrous. Hey let me see that thing.”

Pat grabbed the strip from me.

“Oh Beckey, this thing darker than the chart! You’re totally drunk right now. You should probably lay down. Here, take some Advil. I’m going to dump this milk. It’s tainted with your irresponsibility.”

“Nooo!!! Don’t dump it. That’s liquid gold. Maybe we can make cheese out of it. Or if we dump it into the garden I bet a beautiful tree will grow. Or maybe you can drink it!”

“Seriously Beckey? A tree? You are totally drunk.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

For more go to hippobrigade.com

You pee out your butt!

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 11:52:00 GMT

Berlyn and I were out, she was on her bike and I was riding a skateboard.

That’s right.

A skateboard.

(Okay, so this picture was taken like 7 years ago, but you get the idea)

Whatever, I’m cool. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.

Anyways, we saw these boys and they started talking to us.

If you know me, you’d know that I don’t really enjoy kids, but these boys were kinda adorable, and they were 5-years-old, so I made a special exception.

We did the usual chit chat about soccer, and baseball and how being five is way cool, but six is slightly better.

And then Kid A said, “you’re like 30 aren’t you?”

To which I replied, “Phhsh, 30? Are you serious? Don’t I look 24?

Kid B: No, you look like you’re 40!!

Me: 40?! I look 40? Dangit, I really should be spending less time outdoors.

Kid A: No, you look like you’re zero.

Me: Thanks…?

I think that was his very special way of giving me a complement. I don’t expect 5-year olds to understand the complicated psyche of a woman. Hell, I don’t understand myself most of the time.

Then we started talking about skateboards and how totally crappy I am riding one, and then Kid A said, “you have wheels on your butt!”

Me: Really? On my butt? Where?!

Kid A: You have wheels on your eyes!!

Me: Oh, I get it, you’re being weird. I’ll play along. Oooh, I have wheels on my eyes. Look at me, I can skate on my eyeballs.

And then I did this awesome pantomime thing like I was doing sweet Tony Hawk tricks on my eyeballs, and it looked like a cross between ice dancer-princess and like an angel was inhabiting my body for a brief second. I felt like I was floating on a cloud made of ethereal dust, but it was totally lost on them.

Doesn’t anyone appreciate preforming arts anymore??

Kid A: Dude, your boobs stick out. They stick out like this. (Making finger guns and sticking them on his chest) Nee Naw!! (that was his sound effect for my boobs…I find it fitting)

Me: Yup. I have boobs. Anyways, look a rock. You’re a kid, you like rocks, right?

(I was trying to divert this tragically awkward conversation)

Kid A: You have boobs and a WIENER!! You have a wiener that shoots boobs.

Me: Alright, You crossed a line, kid. Come on Berlyn we got to go.

(Thankfully she was out of earshot for the entire conversation)

Kid A: You have a wiener on your butt!! And you pee out of your butt too!

Me: Nope. I do not have a wiener on my butt. Don’t you understand basic anatomy? And people don’t pee out of their butt, they pee out of their urethra, so there!

ZING!

No?

Not really a zing, huh?

What was I supposed to do? Reprimand him? I didn’t know where his mom was. I kept asking, and he said she was inside their house.

I had to refrain from coming back with nasty comebacks, because, Hello? I’m an adult, and apparently I look 40, so I had to act appropriatly.

So, it’s conversations like this that remind me why I don’t really like kids.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Balloons and their general suckiness

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 10:34:00 GMT

I hate balloons.

Yeah, I’m that person.

I might as well say that I don’t like ice cream and getting punched in the junk is my idea of a good time.

I mean, who doesn’t like balloons?

They’re a sign that every one’s having a good time.

Parties? Balloons.

Zoo? Balloons.

A sale at the mall? Balloons.

High school Winter Formal? Balloons.

Carnival? Balloons.

Buying a new car? Balloons.

Grocery store? Frickin' balloons.

I’ve been to three different grocery stores in the last 2 weeks, and have somehow accumulated like 58 balloons.

The employees just automatically give them to Berlyn.

Like she’s wearing a sign that says, “Look how cute and adorable I am, now give me a BALLOON already!”

Then I have to be all, thank you Mr. Green Smock, I appreciate you. But I don’t. Instead I want to flick pennies at your eyeballs.

First of all, getting a balloon home is no easy feat.

Berlyn MUST hold it while we drive. Except when she goes to grab something else, she lets go of the balloon, then the thing starts bobbing around the car, all loopy and swirly-like. It will migrate over to Hudson, who gets freaked out, and starts waiving his drool-soaked fists in the air. Then it travels up to the front seat, and blocks my view, and then I can’t text and drive as efficiently.

I say a bunch of nasty words under my breath, and stuff the sucker under the dash until we get home.

Once home, she lets go of it every 16 seconds, and starts whining, so I’m constantly retrieving it.

And then after 12 hours the thing gets all sad and deflated and joins the others in the balloon graveyard.

6 days pass.

And on the 7th day, I go all ballistic on those balloons.

I round up all the saggy suckers, and let the air out of them with my gigantic scissors, and my menacing cackle.

Meanwhile, Berlyn is rolling around on the floor, screaming.

“Berlyn, the purpose of the balloon has been fulfilled. Now we have to throw it away,” I tell her this while I pop another balloon.

“NOOO!!”

*Idea*

“Berlyn? Would you like to help me pop them?”

“YES!!”

“Isn’t that fun?”

Apparently it proved to be a little too fun.

Now she just wants to pop stuff.

My bag of Cheetos?

My exercise ball?

My water bra?

Nothing is safe anymore.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

The end of an era

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 09:27:00 GMT

I think I’m done having babies. At least that’s what I keep telling my lady parts.

I’m all, “Listen here ovaries, fallopian tubes, and you too uterus! No more babies, ya hear?”

Don’t you wish it was that easy? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about those beastly birth control mood swings.

You know what I’m talking about ladies; those crazy fits of rage where you flip over the table, stand on the rubble, and then do a lewd hand gesture to your neighbor out the window as he walks his dog. And then seconds later you let out a meek, sorry, and nonchalantly shrug your shoulders to your husband, as if to say, What? Now who’s gonna clean this mess and apologize to Mr Sheldon?

Yeah, I’m not so down with that.

Yoo-hoo! Hello?

Back to me being done having babies.

Hudson is such a precious little nugget, that I’m cherishing every part of his baby-ness, because I know it’s the last time.

He’s been sleeping beside me in a co-sleeper since he was born.

You know, those crib thingies that attach to your bed? So you can caress their soft head while they sleep, OR jostle them rigidly while you’re half awake to make sure they’re still breathing?

Ya, those things.

This is what they look like:

I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. This is what they look like if you’re incredibly hip, and modern, and you live in Tokyo, or some awesome Scandinavian town. Mine just looks like this:

About two months ago (when he was 3 months old), I did his night time routine and laid him down in his co-sleeper, and he usually rolls over and goes right to sleep as if to say, okay mama see ya on the flip side. Which really means, see ya in 6.5 hours where I’ll desperately cry out for some leche, then fall asleep half way through the feeding and leave your left boob all lopsided. SUCKA!

But this night was different. He cried.

A lot.

And after trying many things, I stuck him in his crib. In his room. Really, really far down the hall. Which is at least 20 steps away.

He fell right asleep.

But when it was time for me to go to bed, I grabbed him out of his crib and stuck him back into his co-sleeper, next to me. Who’s the sucka now, huh Hudson?

All was fine for a few weeks, then he cried out again. And again. So finally I acquiesced, and let him sleep in his crib all night.

What kind of baby tells you he’s ready to sleep in his own room?

A crazy baby named Hudson, that’s who.

That night was fun. I paced the halls, stared at his video monitor, and contemplated laying with him in his crib. It could support my weight, right?

It’s been a few weeks, and he’s doing swell in his own room. But his co-sleeper is still attached to my bed.

It’s empty, waiting for him to come back.

But he’s not going to.

It’s kinda sad, really.

But it’s not totally empty. It’s become my new night stand. Because the co-sleeper blocks my actual night stand. So I have my chapstick in there, my mouthguard, my bottle of water, my monitor. I think I might even stick one of Berlyn’s dolls in there to make me feel less weird about this whole thing.

Because putting a fake baby in the co-sleeper would make the whole thing less weird.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Mighty Delicious

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:41:00 GMT

I get these ridiculous food cravings.

I call the cravings ridiculous because I will stop at nothing to see to it that the food makes it directly into my mouth.

Say, for instance, I had a hankering for some lobster and Alpha-Bits. I would redirect my entire day to revolve around obtaining said lobster and box of alphabetical cereal.

I would squish myself into a entirely unflattering and rubbery wet suit, board a fishing boat, get intolerably sea sick, jump in shark infested waters, and pull up the cages where all the lobsters are, all while deftly avoiding any sudden snapping from those wily sea creatures.

As for the Alpha-Bits? Target. Where I will impulsively buy mascara, a sports bra, lemonade, an enticing board game by Milton Bradley, potato chips, and a fruity smelling body wash.

Three in a half years ago, I defied my intolerance of lactose and became quite acquainted with a little establishment known as Golden Spoon. Pretty soon, any time seemed like a good time to have Golden Spoon. Nasty thing about those crazy yogurt shops is, they are franchised, so each one is different.

Would I go to the one that was within walking distance from my house?

Heck no!

What about the one that was 4 blocks away?

Nope, not good enough for me.

Instead, I would drive two cities away for the shop with the rainbow choco chips topping. It’s true I would, all for these little beasts,:

During that time in my life, I guess I just really needed rainbow choco chips on my fro-yo. It was a time filled with reruns of Sex and the City on TBS, doing Spanish homework, and planning my wedding.

I’d be all, “what flowers would work best as a center piece in the ladies’ bathroom, the phaleaenopsis or the peonies?

Yadi, yadi, blah, RAINBOW CHOCO CHIPS!! Must go to Golden Spoon NOW!!”

And that's how nothing got done.

I haven’t revisited my Golden Spoon Craving since then, but that picture of rainbow choco chips sure looks mighty delicious.

May have to swing by later tonight.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Could I be making my child's obsessions worse?

Thu, 20 May 2010 10:59:00 GMT

As of late, Berlyn has been acquiring obsessions.

She goes crazy for a specific collection of objects around the house. If she doesn’t have her things my world gets very dark and ugly and not worth living until we find them. Currently, here are her obsessions:

Her bunny blanket:

The Little Mermaid movie (most times she just carries around the case):

Her red sparkle shoes:

And the color purple, not the movie Oprah was in, but the actual color purple:

I can empathize with the girl, I NEED to watch the latest installment of Nine by Design, eat marshmallow cookies, and drink my a.m. cup of coffee. But am I making it worse for her by always giving into her whims? Should I put boundaries on her obsessions?

I would love to sit around all day and watch a certain fantastical design show, and eat cookies made of marshmallows all day, but I can't, but that's because the show is only on once a week, and if I eat more than 3 marshmallow cookies in a sitting, I get really bad flatulence.

I know that I can’t always have what I want. But as a toddler, should I expect her to know that? What would I be accomplishing by setting limits on how often she wears a certain pair of shoes, or carries around a bunny blanket? Would I just be causing her to always be incredibly angry, who one day resents me and wears gothic clothing and black lipstick?

So, for now, I’ll grant her her purple stuff, her bunny blanket and her sparkle shoes, even if they don’t match her outfit, because she has a long road ahead of her, filled with crap that sucks, and if sparkly shoes and a carrying around The Little Mermaid DVD case help her cope, then that’s just fine by me.

For more, go to hippobrigade.com

I almost died.

Thu, 13 May 2010 15:05:00 GMT

Raise your hands if you want to hear about my brush with death! Yea! I count at least 6 people. Okay here it is:

My friend got married this weekend. So Pat and I grabbed our tiny car and loaded two more folks into it, and headed up a gigantic hill known as the San Bernardino Mountains. We made a lot of twists and turns and then drove on dirt roads, passed 7 bait and tackle shops, rented a canoe, and then hang glided the rest of the way to the hotel where the wedding was at. Finally we got there and it was fabulous, there was dancing, lobster bisque, and one beautiful bride.

But shoot!

I forgot my camera.

But here is a photo of the most beautiful bride that I've ever seen, just pretend like this is my friend, but with a different dress on.

It was late, we were sleepy and had a 2 hour drive ahead of us, so we left. I drove because hello? I’m a control freak, plus being in the back of a tiny car down a twisty mountain would make me want to vomit on my sexy lady dress, and that would suck a lot. So we all piled into the clown car and set off! I was driving down a tiny one-lane highway, twisting and turning:

And then we drove into a humungous cloud and visibility went from a 80 to a 0 in one second.

There was nothing!

NOTHING.

Here’s what it looked like in case you have a hard time picturing what nothing looks like:

I slowed to a 2 mph crawl and only saw one lane reflector at a time.

ONE.

AT.

TIME.

Can you imagine driving like that? Down a spiraling one lane highway of death? With a car full of people you love? One wrong turn and you’re driving off a cliff?

Or you could hit a deer?

Or a hitchhiker?

Or the Abominable Snowman?

The good news is, we survived. And I only veered off the road and lost control once. But that only resulted in a dismembered yeti, and since we didn’t know the guy we don’t really consider it a loss.

I think I deserve some kind of special driver’s license or something. Like one that says “I kick butt driving in zero visibility” or” I only slightly mutilated a yeti, but hey everyone’s alive!” Or something, I don’t know, just a thought.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Thanks Yo Gabba Gabba!

Fri, 07 May 2010 09:14:00 GMT

I love T.V. and I’m not ashamed to admit it. And I would never, EVER considering getting rid of if for a more simplistic life style, or to enrich my way of living, or any other ridiculous reason like that, because I love it, and I would tongue kiss it if I could, or if it could kiss me back, but it can’t, and an inappropriate fondling will have to suffice.

T.V. brings me much joy in the form of Real Housewives of New York, 30 Rock, Top Chef, Modern Family, and although I hate myself for admitting this, The Bachelor(ette) series. And I’m completely convinced that if I didn’t watch my favorite shows, my hair would burst into flames,

and I would sprout a tail,

and my stand mixer would malfunction,

and all my shoes would turn into lobsters,

and I would die.

In that order.

So I’m not really surprised to find out that Berlyn loves T.V. too. The girl L.O.V.E.S the television. She has insisted on watching this show called Yo Gabba Gabba, and when she does her eyes glaze over, her head tilts to one side, and there is a distinct amount of drool that puddles in her lap. I started to worry about the effects this show has on my daughter, so I began to sit down and actually watch the show with her, because usually I flick it on and BOOM! Instant babysitter!

Time for a shower.

Am I right mommies?

No?

Shoot.

No, what I meant to say is I adore my child, and would never claim that I use the television to entertain her when I’m all out of entertainment and I just need to lay down and pretend I’m drinking a dirty martini, but really its a tall frosty glass of milk with exactly 4 ice cubes, and I’ll have the most intense gas after I finish it, but damn it’s worth it.

That’s actually what I really meant to say, but the point is I started watching it too…and something strange happened.

I got sucked in.

Hot Dog! That show is mesmerizing. They have these loopy 80s graphics that I can identify with because I am a child of the 80s. And they sing really repetitive songs that talk about liking bugs, and how much fun it is to brush your teeth, and most importantly, there’s this tall skinny guy called DJ Lance Rock who wears an orange unitard, and he’s my favorite. And if he wasn’t so flamboyantly gay, I’d probably have a mammoth-sized crush on him.

Even though I'm not thrilled with the way this character looks.

I'm glad to watch it with her, because it's just as entertaining for her as it is for me. Maybe that's because I never really developed mentally much after my 5th birthday, but let's not get consumed with the details...

The important thing is that we watch it together. And a several points of the day you can catch us singing, "there's a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy."

Or "Skippy, skip, skip. Skippy skip, skip, skip!"

Or, "I like worms, I like worms, I like worms, I LIKE WORMS!"

Thanks DJ Lance Rock, your crazy melodies are both driving me crazy and bringing my daughter and me closer together.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Embarrassment: It's not so bad

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 11:56:00 GMT

Embarrassment has always seemed to find me.

Like that time when a pack of 7th grader boys voyeuristically watched me use a tampon for the first time without my knowledge, or when I fell down a flight of stairs at college, and my skirt flipped over my head and everyone saw my laundry-day thong, or when I feverishly yelled out, “GRETCHEN!!” GRETCHEN, I miss you so much, where have you been!?” Only to find out that it wasn’t Gretchen at all, but an incredibly tiny man with long, silky hair.

Ahh, yes, embarrassment, we were once good friends. We found ourselves together often-- at parties, in public speaking classes, and in whole-school assemblies, but now that I’ve grown up, embarrassment and I have grown apart.

Either I’ve adapted because of the whole survival of the fittest thing, or I’ve matured, and farting in front of the lady giving me a pedicure is not embarrassing, but a natural part of life. But don’t fret, because I increased her tip by five dollars due to the proximity of my fart to her face.

Truth be told, I don’t embarrass much these days. Except for lately I’m worried that my daughter might hold the key to my embarrassment, and I have a very strong feeling that she’ll be really good at mortifying me.

Here are a few excerpts of recent conversations I’ve had with Berlyn. Thankfully we were alone each time, but you never know when an unsuspecting ear will be lurking, waiting to hear all about Berlyn’s observations:

BERLYN: I’m three!

ME: That’s right Berlyn, you’re three.

BERLYN: Momma, you're 37!

ME: No. Momma’s not 37. And now we’re heading to the dermatologist to see about some Botox options. Really, Berlyn? I look 37? Sheesh.

BERLYN: Noooo! You don’t look 37.

ME: Thanks sweetie, but I don't believe you, and we're going to swing by the dermatologist on our way home.

And while driving…

BERLYN: Momma’s Naked!

ME: No child, I'm not naked right now. I have on pants, and a shirt. But if I were naked I’d probably get a special visit from Mr. Police Officer who would take me to a place called jail, and then take you off to child protective services. And that would make mommy really, really sad.

While I was in the bathroom…

BERLYN: Momma’s wiping her butt!

ME: Yup.

Because that time it was true.

Your turn. I’ve told you like 6 embarrassing things about me, now tell me some embarrassing things that have happened to you so I don’t feel so bad.

for more go to hippobrigade.com

Hiring a cleaning lady may induce a panic attack

Sun, 04 Apr 2010 11:37:00 GMT

Cleaning people are going to clean my house today.

I feel like a celebrity.

No one has ever cleaned my house before. And that’s just fine, because I’m a stay-at-home mom, and I really don’t have a whole lot going on in my life that would keep me from making sure a poo residue doesn’t build up in the toilet. I can handle cleaning my house, but the last few times my mom has been over, she's *ahem* mentioned how I would benefit from having a professional come over to clean.

Her treat!

Thanks for being nonchalant mom.

Oh, and you go ahead and openly call me a slob anytime, if it means you'll send your cleaning people over.

YES!! ((I am air-punching the sky with enthusiasm))

But there is all this stuff I have to do before they get here…

Like clean my house.

I have to clean my house before they clean my house. Does that make me normal or neurotic?

And I’ve created a list of demands.

You know, all the stuff I don't want to do. Like re-tile my bathroom, and make me dinner...

What? They don't do that?

Shoot.

I'm pretty sure when they get here, I’m going to follow them around the house, to make certain they clean to my standards.

I’ll be so bored, and antsy, I’ll have no choice but to follow them.

What the heck are you supposed to do when cleaning people are at your house?

Do you just watch them?

Clearly, I'm new at this.

I can’t take a nap because I want them to clean my bedroom.

I can’t go out because I don't want to leave them alone in my house.

I’d feel like a lazy bum if i just sat on the couch and watched Bravo. But because I’m such a sweet lazy bum, I’d probably lift my legs up while they cleaned the floor under me.

What if they use Pledge on my hardwood floors? Or vacuum up my dog? What if they use the same sponge for the toilets on the kitchen counters? What if they go through my drawers and find where I keep my collection of dead turtles, or what if they steal a pair of my shoes?

How do people do this every week?

Excuse me now, I need to have a panic attack.

For more, go to hippobrigade.com

I bought something yesterday...

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 12:01:00 GMT

I was at Target and I bought…

fake boobs.

I didn’t know Target sold fake boobs, but there they were right next to the cotton briefs and tube socks. And somehow they ended up in my cart, right next to the bottle of Kaboom! and Oreos.

Fake boobs.

In my cart.

I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to get home and stick them on. I mean, hello? Who couldn’t use a pair of fake boobs? Even thought I am well endowed thanks to nursing, I could always use a bit of umph, I mean, I’m not stupid, and I’d never turn down a bit of umph. Nope. Never.

They look like boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which is probably why the peoples call them ‘cutlets’. And they stick. Like a big fake boobie sticker.

And I stuck those boneless, skinless bad boys to my chest, and then proceeded to squeeze them, because, COME ON!

Berlyn was intrigued.

My husband was confused.

And I kept dancing around the house squeezing my fake boobies. And you’re welcome for the mental image.

Here’s the drawback:

After an entire day of wearing my cutlets, immature boob fondling on my behalf, and flashing my friend Jenielle, whom I’m positive was appreciative, I finally peeled off my fake Target boobies, and then was bowled over with the smell. Like OMG I smell like a tree-living hippie who swears off deodorant or showering because it would interfere with their natural odor. Side note: natural odor, my friends? Smells. Bad. Even on me, a tiny, adorable non-sweaty girly girl.

I was stinky.

So word to the wise, if you’re going to buy fake boobies at Target make sure you’re not going to have the sexy-time right after you peel those stinkers off. Dip your boobies in a basin of soapy water and then proceed. Please.

Your man will thank me.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

A little chat with Jesus

Sat, 13 Mar 2010 17:16:00 GMT

We had a leak in our house a few days ago, and had the leak people out to inspect it. Which means, they came over and tore giant holes in our walls. They found the leak, and repaired it. And Because I didn’t want ferral rodents jumping out of the walls and attaching their spiny teeth to my precious face and then ripping chunks out of my cheeks, we’re having the holes repaired.

It seems like a simple process, except that I have to evacuate my home every morning before I poop and have my morning cup of coffee (I must note that the combination of me being constipated and surly does not make for a happy camper).

But I go, I take my babies, some snacks, and head out for a peaceful happy-time afternoon. Meanwhile, the dude who’s repairing my walls is drinking way too many Powerades, and getting all hopped up on drywall fumes because his urine is all OVER my bathroom.

At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and assumed he got a mound of insulation in his eyeball, which may have compromised his depth perception, therefore rending his aim more challenging to navigate. I felt sorry for him as I cleaned up his mess, and hoped his eyeball felt better. Then it happened again the next day, and I’m thinking, humm…maybe it’s not so much the hunk of pink furry stuff in his eye, but maybe that’s where he thinks the pee-pee goes. So I had a little chat with him.

ME: So Jesus, how does it feel to be named after the Son of God? Do your friends call you Lord for short? That’s a lot of pressure. Speaking of pressure, you peed all over my bathroom, what’s up with that?

JESUS: I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.

ME: That’s alright. Just clean up after yourself. You’re a guest in my home, and you should be respectful of my space. Well, actually you’re not so much a guest, but more like an intruder sent on a mission to destroy my sanity, but same rules apply.

JESUS: Whatever lady.

ME: Thanks Jesus! You’re the best.

JESUS: It's pronounced 'hey-sus'

ME: Mmmkay. Just clean up your mess, Lord.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Facebook Dump

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 14:02:00 GMT

Raise your hand if you look at Facebook while taking a massive dump!!

I know I do.

Nope, it’s not gross it’s necessary. How else am I supposed to keep up with your boring minutia every day? Tammy O’ Foster Just got a peppermint mocha from Starbucks. That’s some important stuff, and I need to read about it…on the toilet.

Whatever.

Don’t look at me like that.

You do it too.

It’s called multitasking. And it just makes good sense.

Truth of the matter is, you can get a lot done while sitting on the toilet. Not me, per se, because I’m a quick crapper, I like to get in and out and on with my day. Just a quick glance at FB, and I move on. But most of the population likes to sit, relax, and email, text, twitter, and I’m totally fine with it because, shhh no one knows you're pooping.

My mom will call me. "Oh, Beck", she’ll start, "this gay couple just moved in next-door and they have the most fabulous garden. I have to know their secret."

And then she’ll ramble on about the sale at Kohl’s and I’ll kindly remind her that I will never ever shop at Kohl’s. And then she’ll reprimand me for not calling my grandma enough. Then the next thing I hear is...BAWW-WHOOSH!

**Flush**

MOOOOMMMMM! Did you just poo while on the phone with me??!

No dear, I just peed. Don’t worry Beck, I’ll use Lysol on the phone after I hang up.

See where I get my smarts from? That woman is always thinking.

So a word to all you facebook pooers, there’s no shame in multitasking. Just use Lysol and wash your hands afterwards, because if my mom does it, it’s gotta be okay.

Be my friend on Facebook.

For more, go to Hippobrigade.com

When I grow up...

Sat, 06 Mar 2010 15:00:00 GMT

When I was a little girl there were a few things I wanted to be when I grew up.

My parents always used to tell me that I should be a doctor or a lawyer, but I had other, less complicated aspirations for myself. One in particular was to be a shampoo bottle writer.

I’m not quite sure of the technical name for it, maybe marketing and advertising for personal hygiene products…?

But when I was little, all I wanted to do was be the person who wrote the little paragraph on the back of the bottle. Although it didn't really pan out for me, I think I'd still be really good at it:

Fancy Lady Shampoo transforms your funky, dry, lack-luster, nasty, tresses into shiny luxurious locks that when other people see your hair, they get into car accidents, or trip and fall, because your hair looks that phenomenal. No more struggling with bad hair days, coxing your hair under a stinky hat, or calling in sick because your hair is scary. Instead you can have the hair other women covet, and men want to run their fingers through, babies want to pull, and dogs want to hump.

Let your hair soak up the calming aroma of luscious lavender, and energetic mint, as you try not to think too hard about the fact that we use placenta in our products, not only fortify and protect your hair, but to also to give it that afterbirth glow.

Envelope your senses and evolve your ho-hum shower experience into a rejuvenating and cleansing retreat. Unleash the rich lather and unleash the Fancy Lady in you.

Damn! A shampoo company better hire me quick! With a gem like that on the back of their bottle, their sales would sky rocket.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

My name on a keychain

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 10:36:00 GMT

My parents gave me a nice enough name: Rebecca. Although they never call me that, instead they call me Beckey.

No, I don’t think you heard me right, it’s BeckEy.

There’s an extra vowel thrown, and I’m pretty sure they added it to give the 6 year old version of myself a panic attack every time a teacher, my friends, or my grandma spelled it incorrectly (and my grandma still spells it wrong–WTF Grams?).

I remember going to Disneyland when I was like 8 and spinning the big keychain display. I saw “Becky” and "Rebecca" keychains, but no “Beckey”.

Don’t the fine people who make keychains for Disneyland know that I have AN EXTRA E!?

Frick.

That whole Disneyland trip was pure crap after that. My brother, Jason, had no trouble finding his stupid, generic name. And he twirled his fancy keychain around his finger as I coveted a more simply spelled name. Why couldn’t my name be Anna, Mary, or Sarah? There were always an abundance of Sarah keychains.

So, I figured it was my duty, as a parent, to pass on the frustration to my daughter. She will probably never find her name among the gold cursive necklaces at Sea World, she will probably won't find it in the spin-display of keychains at Disneyland, but dammit, it’s a nice name, and any girl would be lucky to have it.

And I’m sure it’s a character builder, or something.

Yeah, yeah… that sounds good–I named her Berlyn because it builds character. That’s right. That’s exactly why I did that. I don’t want her to think life is perfect and theme parks always have her name on a mug, because LIFE’S JUST NOT FAIR.

Yup, I’m still upset about not getting a “Beckey” Keychain…maybe someday. Someday.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

I'd make a really crappy celebrity

Mon, 08 Feb 2010 16:30:00 GMT

Remember when I was all, OMG I am completely incapable of having a conversation with people because my brain is covered in mayonnaise that a donkey just ate and than shat a donkey stool on the fourth of July when your gay cousin lit your baby on fire because he mistook her for a sparkler, and then we all took a giant nap because...WHAAA?

Yeah, all those words up there? Code for, I'm a total idiot and no one should listen to the ramblings of my mouth.

But someone did listen. An actual person listened to me. And they got paid for it. Or I'm assuming that they got paid, because they sounded very professional. Maybe she got paid in Gloria Vanderbilt merchandise. Perhaps a pair of paisley knickers and a oven glove? I think that's a fair wage for listening to me.

So, anyways a few weeks ago someone called me up and did a phone interview with me for the OC Family Magazine.

I didn't have a stenographer handy, but this is pretty much how it went down:

Her: How long have you been writing your blog?

Me: I don't know.

Her: **awkward pause**

Me: Well, I guess you can check the archives if you really want to know. Or you can write, longer than a year, shorter than 17.

Her: What made you start your blog?

Me: The fact that I think I'm frickin hilarious. And I needed an outlet to introduce the world to my dog, Zoey.

Say 'hi', Zoey. Come here Zoey. ZOEY! COME HERE. Say 'hi.'

ZOEY: ((Labored breathing))

Me: That was Zoey, she says hi. She's very shy on the phone.

Her: Okay...What do you think makes your blog stand out among the crowd?

Me: Humm. I have a hippo on my blog. That's something cool. Wait. Not that I think I'm fat or anything. Ahh man! Do you think people could misconstrue my hippo illustration for a poor view of my body image? I'm actually quite slender, well that is, when I'm not stuffing my face with onion rings from Ruby's, while I try to lose this flabby baby weight. It's really hard to lose baby weight when all I want is a greasy hamburger and some chocolate covered bacon. You know? Do you have any kids? You must know what it's like. (Opening the fridge) Oh shoot! I'm all out of cheese!

From there it sorta spiraled down hill.

There were a lot more awkward silences, and a handful of moments where I tried to make a joke, but it came off as me sounding creepy. Oh, and there were lots of times when I changed subjects because I couldn't remember what her original question was, and then there were times when I TALKED REALLY LOUD to hide my flatulence.

All in all, I think it went really well for my very first phone interview. But if I ever do one of these again, they should buy me like 3 apple-tinis and make sure I'm not wearing any pants.

I say the funniest things when I'm pantsless and drunk.

Massage Thoughts

Fri, 29 Jan 2010 14:40:00 GMT

I had a massage last night.

Have you ever noticed that massages are kinda weird?

I mean, think about it: there you are, totally naked while some stranger rubs you down.

Undies are of course optional. I chose to wear them. They make me feel safe and somehow less naked.

On the day of my massage I decided it would be best if I abandoned my stretched out and faded knickers for a pair of pretty undies with hearts on them. This is because I want my masseuse to know that not only am I adorable (hence the hearts), but I’m classy too (hence the absence of stains).

I’m not all that modest, but something about being totally vulnerable on a massage table makes me aware of everything, and I’m pretty confident that she snuck a peek at my goodies when I flipped over.
I tried so hard to relax, I put my face in the hole, I closed my eyes, and focused on taking deep, cleansing breaths. I listened to the soft chimes and woodwinds, but my stupid thoughts kept interrupting me:

Can she see all my cellulite when she squishes my leg fat? I wonder if the length of my leg hair is offending her. What if I have a huge whitehead on my back and she’s afraid to massage near it, fearing that it might explode. I wonder what kind of shoes she’s wearing… they look like Asics, or maybe they’re New Balance. Do they make special shoes just for masseuses? I wonder if she jogs in them too. I would, if I had a pair of nice athletic shoes that I had to wear to work. Oh, but wait, I don’t jog. Sometimes I consider jogging, but then I realize that it's hard work. And instead of sweating and wheezing, I I’d rather watch the DIY network, eat avocado hummus, and dream up ways to use flagstone to adorn my landscape.

What if I farted right now? Would she giggle? Would I?

Oh, crap, now I think I have to fart!! HOLD IT…STEADY. SQUEEZE IT, BECKEY!

Okay, I’m good now. I think I am finally relaxed…

*Note: I waited until my massage ended and the masseuse left the room to toot.

I am a lady, after all.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

I don't like kids

Tue, 19 Jan 2010 13:14:00 GMT

It’s not a lie. I wish I was lying, but nope…100% true. It’s not babies so much as it is the over 5 set. Especially the really whiney ones, and the know-it-alls. Ohh, speaking of know-it-alls, the other day, we went to a roller hockey rink to play hockey with my dad, my brother, and some other friends.

This little girl found her way to our rink and decided to play with us. Without asking, just started to play. And she wasn’t even nice. I’d be all sorts of down with some kid that wanted to play who was nice, but no. Not nice. Actually, she was kind of an a-hole.

Here’s the conversation we had on the bench, as she was putting her skates on:

Her: Oh, your daughter is cute. And she has a Juicy sweatshirt on. I have a Juicy sweatshirt too, except mine’s at home

Me: cool.

Her: Yeah. Oh! and MY dad plays hockey too. He’s better than your dad. I bet if they played together your dad would fall a lot, and my dad would win.

Me: That’s probably true, although it doesn’t change the fact that your dad can suck it.

Her: What?

Me: Oh, nothing. (To Berlyn) Look! An airplane! It’s a really old airplane. How cool is that Berlyn?

(I think there was an air show near by, we were in the Inland Empire, and they love their air shows out there, almost as much as they love raised trucks and tribal tattoos.)

Her: Oh, that’s cool. I know someone who has an airplane like that

Me: Really? You actually know someone that has an airplane like that?

Her: Yeah. Oh, your daughter’s eating raisins. Those are good, I have like 56 of those boxes at home.

Me: Neat.

True story. That was the exact conversation we had. See? A-hole right? And what am I supposed to say to a kid like that? I got nothing. I just have to nod, and feel really sorry for the people that will encounter her for the rest of her life.

So when I say I don’t like kids, I’m referring to kids like that. Not your kids, I love each and everyone of your kids. Except for the crappy ones.

For more, go to hippobrigade.com

I've been forgetting my wallet lately.

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 14:36:00 GMT

I switch bags often so sometimes I think I have it, but then at the most inconvenient times, I realize I don’t.

Like a few weeks ago when I had this fantastic idea to go to Target and Trader Jo’s, AND Home Goods. I felt good. I was gonna get some stuff done that day. First I headed to Home Goods to try to find a table cloth, or a picture frame, or maybe it was a lamp in the shape of a tiger, either way, I didn’t find anything there so I left. But as I was getting ready to back out, some crazy lady, who reminded me of my mother, rear ended me. We exchanged information, and she felt terrible, and I continued on my journey to Target.

I loaded up my cart as I leisurely walked down the isles. I sniffed soap, flipped through magazines, and tried on a purple sports bra, Then I made my way to the check out, stuck everything on the conveyor belt, smiled at the checker, and I even threw in a pack of gum too, because I was feeling kicky.

I started to nonchalantly fish for my wallet.

Then I started to dig for my wallet.

AND THEN I dumped everything on the floor, got on my knees, and frantically stirred things around hoping to find some form of currency.

NOTHING.

Oh the shame.

The embarrassment.

And the feeling of defeat as I admitted that I didn’t have a way to pay for all the stuff she just rang up.

It might have been the first time I’ve ever walked out of Target without buying something.

As I was driving home I realized that I got in a car accident, and I didn’t have my wallet on me. Ooops. And I was more worried about making sure I bought laundry detergent at Target?

Two weeks later I forgot my wallet again. This time I was at the Farmer’s Market.

A week after that I forgot it at Happy Nails.

Yesterday it was at the drive-thru at Del Taco.

You’d think I’d learn.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

My mom sticks stuff in my fridge

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 13:17:00 GMT

When my mom stays over to watch Berlyn she sticks stuff in my refrigerator. Usually she brings a produce bag stuffed with a strawberry Yoplait yogurt, raw almonds, a box of Wheat Thins, and a bottle of water. Because apparently I don’t have any food in my kitchen. I think she thinks I hate food. I have nothing in my pantry or fridge, and I solely live off coffee and my good looks.

Not only does she bring her own food, but she buys food and sticks the weird leftovers all over my kitchen. I come home and there’s the crust of her sandwich sitting on my counter and quarter cup of milk, 2 baby carrots and a half eaten apple just sitting in the middle of the refrigerator shelf. Gross.

She says it’s for Berlyn. But Berlyn doesn’t want to eat my mom’s half eaten apple. She does have some standards.

The last time she stayed over was about 3 weeks ago. And this morning I was rummaging through my fridge to find a wedge of cheese to chew on. And shoved waaay back into the far reaches of my fridge was a crumpled up paper towel. Ordinarily, I don’t refrigerate my paper towels, and I defiantly don’t ever clean my refrigerator, so I knew as soon as I saw it, it was the work of my mother.

I pulled the paper towel out with the tips of my fingernails, and carefully inspected it. I peered inside without breathing in, and found that It was the yolk of a hard boiled egg.

Who keeps the yolk of a hard boiled egg? Did she save it for me? Why did she hide it in the back of my fridge? Was she trying to sabotage me with the stench of a rotten egg? I think my mom secretly hates me. Oh, so many questions I have to get answered.

I immediately called her up and interrogated her about the egg.

She said that it was weird.

She said she didn’t remember.

She said that maybe it wasn’t her.

No, I don’t believe her. I know it was her.

And when I see her today, I’m going to give it back to her.

Because it is hers after all.

for more go to hippobrigade.com

Fried Chicken, Any One?

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 16:53:00 GMT

One of my favorite words is chicken. I love the way it sounds. Now you say it, out loud, come on, it's fun!

Speaking of fun stuff and chicken, I have a story for you: when I was in 7th grade, I had this cooky science teacher called, Mr. Butler. His claim to fame was that he had over 100 t-shirts. Among these were cartoon depictions of the solar system, Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, and an air brushed scene of pond life.

To him it was all about quantity, not quality.

At the beginning of the school year there was a tank of chicken eggs in the back of the class room. They were under hot flood lights which looked liked the lights they use at Mc Donalds to warm up the Big Macs. The eggs eventually hatched, and at Spring Break a few students were given the prestigious opportunity granted by my crazy science teacher to take the baby chicks home for the week. Among the chosen few were my friend Jenna and me. We decided to take care of our chicks together in one tank at her house.

We didn’t have a maternal hair on our head, we never played with dolls or house when we were growing up. We never mentored the younger kids on the block, instead we made them get us Diet Coke and nachos from their kitchens, but for some reason, we felt like we got this. We were going to rock the crap out of taking care of baby chickens.

I mean, really? How hard could it be?

The walk home from school was electrifying. We were so excited that our skin was glowing and we couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear. Which, come to think of it, was probably a combination of Oxy pads, Jolt cola, Aqua Net, and new chicken mama pride.

When we got to Jenna’s house, her dad pulled out an old fish tank and filled it with cedar. We put a mesh lid on top and remembered that we had to keep the chicks very, very warm, so we grabbed two flood lights from the garage and put them directly over the cage. Then we realized that we had to feed the chickens, so we jumped in the back of her dad’s Jeep and he drove us to the feed store. While we were browsing the isles for freeze dried worms and maggots, we found a sweet little baby duck, and Jenna begged her dad to bring it home. He eventually gave in and we were quickly on our way to having an entire farm.

We returned to Jenna’s house, and ran up stairs to check on the chickens. We were so excited for them to meet the new duck and eat dirt flavored meal worms. But when we rounded the corner to her room we could smell the faint, yet distinct odor of fried chicken. We ran to the tank and discovered that not even an hour after bringing the baby chicks home we had fried them to death! There they were: both of them with their sweet little chicken feet pointed straight to the sky.

I’ve never looked at fried chicken the same way since.

For more, go to hippobrigade.com

I can't stand when people cough loud

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 10:07:00 GMT

It’s disgusting. It’s like they’re saying, “Hey you over there. yeah you, the uptight one, want to hear something cool? This is what my boogers and throat-goo sounds like when I try to scrape them out of my esophagus with the sheer force of my breath! GRRRHHRUGHTUTUCHH!!”

Only it’s not cool. It makes my innards quiver. It’s like when you stick a butter knife in between the prongs of a fork and slide it back and forth a few times.

It’s those damn smokers that are the worst. They’re all yellow, and leathery, and half falling apart. And if the annoyance of their smoke AND the cigarette butts they leave everywhere wasn’t enough of a disturbance, they cough in front of you while you’re in line at the gynecologist. Not quietly either, It’s all GUYGKFFFIEGIEH%#((@)#GFFFKKHYTTYHHIHGCHCH!!

Then there’s a pause and you think you can go back to watching Emeril (yeah, they play episodes of Emeril at my gyno, because nothing says pelvic exam like braised pork loin with a side of garlic mashed potatoes, am I right, ladies?).

And then the chick starts at it again, but this time she adds a meek and raspy, “sorry” at the end. And the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up and you’re clutching your purse so tight that you’re tearing small holes in the leather with your fingernails, and she has the nerve to say sorry?

Then you stab her. Because seriously, someone needed to put her out of her misery. And then everyone in the gyno office gives you a standing ovation, and Emeril comes out and gives you a lasagna with words written in mozzarella that say, “thanks for stabbing the coughing lady.”

And you’re all, “Oh, that? That was nothing.” And you shake his hand.

And then the nursing staff hoists you on their shoulders, and they all sing ''We Wish You a Merry Christmas'', because everyone really likes that song, even in the gynecological office.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

In Praise of the Maternity Pants

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 11:13:00 GMT

Wearing maternity pants is like wearing a hug, wrapped in cotton candy, while eating a sandwich, and stabbing Heidi and Spencer in the neck with a pair of rusty tweezers just used to pluck a few rouge pubes.

Because the moment I found out I was pregnant, I decided to eat only cheeseburgers, I’ve packed on a few pregnancy pounds, and thusly, no longer fit into my regular jeans, which means I had to find my maternity clothes from the last pregnancy. And I discovered that all of it is truly ugly, except for one pair of cute jeans with a sassy spandex band at the top.

And here’s what I want to know: why didn’t I wear maternity pants everyday of my God-given life regardless of if I am growing a tiny fetus in my uterus or not?

Let me give you a scope of awesomeness that is maternity pants:

Stretchy waist equals good for all sorts of things like,

Eating a large meal, at say Arby’s or the BK Lounge; you don’t have to unbutton your top button anymore, the stretchy waist grows with you
Impromptu sex (easy off, easy on)
You don’t have to do lunges, squats, and mystifying dance moves to get the jeans on, because the suckers always fit, no matter how fat you get. And let’s face it, you look like a total tool when you do all those weird squats
When you get home from work or school or whatever the heck you do all day, instead of taking your pants off and walking around the house in your funky undies for all the neighbors to see, you can leave your pants on! Because, wait for it –they’re cozy, and comfy, plus, God likes you more when you keep your pants on

Why do pregnant women get all the cozy stuff? Just because they’re growing a baby inside them makes them suddenly in need for cozy pants? Dude, I needed cozy pants, you need cozy pants, that chick over there looks like she could use some cozy pants.

And the great thing is, no one knows you’re cozy. Instead everyone thinks you’re just as uncomfortable as they are with your tight jeans poking you in the abdomen…and you get to smile to yourself, and think, HA! My pants have a secret. And they’re not telling.

Then the chick next to you says, “You look like your pants have a secret. My pants have a secret too…”

And you say,”Oh, noo. Did I accidentally say that my pants have a secret out loud? I’m not sexually attracted to you. I like men, thank you though. I might have considered it back in college, but now that I’m older, and pregnant... you look like a very nice lady.”

And then she says again, “no, my pants…they too have a secret,” and she lifts up her shirt and shows you this:

AGGGHH!!

Just be careful when you wear your maternity pants. Things could get out of hand.

For more, visit hippobrigade.com

My new neighbors

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 11:42:00 GMT

For about 6 months the home that shares a wall with us was vacant. And before it was vacant, there was this very quiet hispanic family that lived there. I think it was a family of five, and I’m pretty sure they walked around with carne asada in their mouths all the time, because seriously, not a peep.

Oh, and there was this crazy uncle that lived there and he worked at the Marriott down the road, and he loved my pug.

And one day I saw his very long pinky nail.

It was painted light blue.

With sparkles.

I don’t know if that meant he was gay or a druggie, or both. But after that I started to wink at him. It was my saucy way of saying, ‘I know about your blue nail.’ But then he got the wrong idea and he asked me out on a date. I said no, because I’m not into guys that have a blue sparkle pinkie-nail and work at the Marriott.

And after that, they moved.

I think I made them move.

So, anyway this nice couple with their baby girl just moved in. And I was all, YEA! Another chance to work on my winking, so it is not to be misconstrued as a sexual innuendo. Plus maybe I’ll be besties with the wife, and we’ll do the things that stay at home moms do, like swap casserole recipes, and talk about how awesome Berlyn is.

And just as I was imagining what color we’d paint our toenails at our tandem pedicure appointment, the BANGING started. And it went on for two weeks straight.

OH! but they were nice enough to save their construction efforts for weekends and after work. So 10:30 at night I’d hear the nail gun shooting holes into their walls, and the air compressor for their paint gun thing, and their crappy Creed CD that they played over and over and over, and I think I’m just jealous because they scraped the cottage cheese off their ceilings, and my cottage cheese still hangs, taunting me with its dangly cobwebs and sallow color.

So now they blew it. I’m not going to be besties with the wife next door, because she likes Creed, and has no common decency, and how could I be friends with someone like that?

Sure, I’ll be cordial, perhaps copy a few pages out of the Emily Post manners book, and stick it in her mailbox. The chapter where it’s not polite to do construction if you have an ajoing wall without first bringing your neighbors some delicious cake with sprinkle frosting, or pay for pedicures, or offer to scrape their ceilings too.

I wish my hispanic neighbors with the carne asada would move back in, I kinda miss that blue sparkle nail.

For more, go to hippobrigade.com

Is "Fart" a bad word?

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 14:13:00 GMT

As I trek deeper into the world of mommy-hood, I always seem to find myself facing a new challenge. One week it’s wondering what to do when all my daughter wants to eat is waffles, and the next week it’s realizing that she has developed a fiery addiction to anything involving Disney Princesses. She is currently in Disney Princess rehab where she is learning that not everything embossed with Cinderella’s face on it needs to belong to her.

My newest challenge is trying to figure out what are acceptable words to teach Berlyn. Her vocabulary is growing exponentially. and she repeats everything I say. She’s so curious about things and what they mean, and I want to give her the correct word.

Take for instance this morning when she pushed out a loud, bumpy, kinda awesome fart, and declared, “Mama, I pooped!”

“No, dear that was a fart. You farted.”

“Mama, I farted!”

“Yup, that’s right.”

Oh, but it felt so wrong. Isn’t fart a bad word? What should I have called it instead? Toot? Should I have said, honey, you had flatulence? You broke wind. I can’t even get the words out without wanting to do a phony british accent.

“No, dear, you merely broke wind, now hand mummy a crumpet, and then I have to change your nappy. Cherri-o then”

For more fun go to hippobrigade.com

enie meeny miney mo

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 09:03:00 GMT

How do families decide how many kids to bring into this world? You know what would be easier then deciding? If one day you opened your mailbox and found an especially official letter among the stacks of mattress ads. It would be the type of letter that you opened even before you got back into your home, because you were so intrigued with it. And inside it had a number. That’s all, just a printed number. 3. “Oh, honey we got our child quota today, I guess we can start trying.” BOOM, done, easy.

You know what is not easy? Trying to figure out if one is enough. I spent all weekend envisioning myself, our lives, and our family as just the three of us. And then I tried to envision adding more babies, and it made me a little swirly in the head.

The hard part is, is that when I look ahead at my life in 10 years, I think of having 3 kids, but when I really see our lives now, and how it’s playing out right in front of me, I think, us and Berlyn is perfection.

But there are so many pros and cons to this, almost to the point where I am split right down the middle. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about this too much, because I still have plenty of time to have more babies if we decided that is what we want.

But wait– I don’t have that much time, because my eggs get older with each passing day. OH GOD, I don’t want to make a baby with old eggs! I wouldn’t even bake a cake with old eggs! I don’t have much time at all. When my mom was my age, she had two babies, ages 3 and 4 and was working on divorcing my father (the divorcing part is irrelevant to my point, but I just wanted to give you a little more background into my life).

Crap. Well it's a good thing I'm pregnant now. And since I'm pregnant, we're kind of locked into two kids, but I don't think I'm going to be able to make a decision about a third one, because I know by the time number two gets here I'll be passed out every day due to sleep depravation and my morning martini.

So, we'll stick with two. Yeah, two is a good number.

Steam cleaning a wookie

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:00:00 GMT

Every year for Christmas or my birthday, since I've been married, my step-mom and dad like to buy me domestic gifts. I love this, because if my husband bought me a blender I'd have to blend some of his man hairs, but if my dad does it, I'm like, "daiquiri anyone?"

In the last four years my step-mom and dad have given me:

a stand mixer

a sewing machine

a vacuum

a robotic vacuum

a robotic mop

and a steam cleaner

I got the steam cleaner for Christmas and order to use it, I actually have to clean something. So, I've been avoiding eye contact with it for the past 2 months. But since my home is a complete disaster, I decided now would be an excellent time to christen my new gift.

And HOT DOG! The thing works like a charm. I steamed my tile floors, and then I slept for 20 hours.

After I woke up, I mustered enough energy to steam clean my wool rug. And while I was cleaning I was humming the Prince song Purple Rain, but the only part I know is Pur-ple rain, purple rain...

And right as I was trying to figure out the next lyric, it coughed up a mighty-sized hair ball. It was like I was steam cleaning a wookie.

And then I wondered, did I steam clean a wookie? My mind was wondering, singing the Purple Rain song and all, so I don't actually recall. But I'm pretty sure I'd notice a hairy-lummox of a man/beast walk through my front door, lay on my wool rug, and let me steam clean it's hairy body. So, I'm almost sure the hair clump came from my rug…almost sure.

When the hair ball came out of the steam cleaner, it was like popping a massive zit only instead of puss and blood, it was wool carpeting, bits of fingernail, a half eaten Cheeto (who eats half a Cheeto?), and Zoey's fur.

So for that I have to thank my dad.

Thanks dad, without your practical gifts, I would never have had such a gratifying experience.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 13:12:00 GMT

Dear Hugo,

I know you must be going through some trying times, and my heart goes out to you. But that does not excuse the fact that you some how gave my phone number instead of your own. Now I have lawyers and agents of sorts calling my phone every half hour trying to get a hold of you. It seems you owe some people some money. They have been leaving me messages about how you filed for bankruptcy, and they also need you to fill out some more paper work. Please use that opportunity to fill in the correct phone number.

Let me help: when the question asks for your phone number, you’re supposed to put your phone number in the blank, not mine. It’s pretty easy. I know you’re not so good with the numbers, which would explain the pickle you’re in right now, so I’ll have some grace with you, but next time, I may not be so sweet and patient.

I don’t have much to do in my day, and I’ll be honest, I am intrigued with your financial predicament, so in a way, the phone calls have been a welcomed treat. But now I am curious, how did you spend your money? What did you buy that caused you to go bankrupt? Was it a pony? Did you buy an island? A fast car? Is your wife mad at you? I’d be pretty mad, if I was her. Or maybe she’s the one that spent all the money. Did she buy a Birkin bag?

Did she get some lipo? A boob job? Well, look on the bright side, at least they can’t take the boobies away…or can they?

Good luck with everything Hugo, I hope it all works out for the best.

Call me sometime, and let me know how everything is going--

You have my number, it’s the one you keep giving out.

Warmest Regards,
Beckey

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Photos: apple.com and uptown-bags.com

I Want:

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 07:55:00 GMT

I want to be inspiring
I want a Pop-Tart
I want to have long hair
I want a SUV with third row seating
I want for people to like me
I want to shoot a semi-automatic weapon
I want some pain killers for this headache
I want to be a better person
I want laser hair removal
I want to be a genius
I want my daughter to be happy and feel loved
I want to create
I want to take a nap
I want my boobs to be one size bigger
I want to be productive
I want to go to Spain
I want my dog to stop barking
I want to play the violin
I want to be a good speller
I want people to be patient
I want to live at the beach
I want to sing
I want a fifteen hundred dollar handbag
I want to go horseback riding
I want to be courageous
I want to get in a bar fight
I want to grow old with my husband
I want to dance well
I want my family to be more loving
I want to be compassionate
I want to be multi-lingual
I want a cupcake

...or maybe two.

I want a lot.

http://hippobrigade.com

Is It Mating Season Already?

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 10:59:00 GMT

Apparently.

There are some birds that are sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G, chirping all the time outside my bedroom window.

At first it was kind of pretty, and I found their melody to be whimsical and carefree. But after hearing the sugary-sweetness of their call all day AND all night, the whimsy melted off. Yes, those damn birds are cackling ALL NIGHT LONG.

Which coincidentally makes me think of the Lionel Richie song: All night loooong, Karamu, fiesta, forever come on and sing along! All night long!

Which in turn makes me think of sitting in a blue carpeted therapist office. My mother used to bring me along to her shrink’s appointment when I was eight, and I would sit quietly in the lobby while I drank a can of Sprite from the vending machine and listened to soft hits from the 80s. But this one time, I was invited in to her office and my mom said I could ask her anything–anything? ANYTHING. Well, I was a bit low on money, on account of me being eight, and I saw this new Barbie at Target, the one where she is a lawyer. So I asked her for twenty dollars. My mom and her laughed, and I was told to wait in the lobby until they were finished with the session.

I wasn’t being funny, I really wanted twenty dollars…

Anyways, what were we talking about before? Birds- oh right. I don’t know a lot about birds, but I do know that when my friend Dena puts a sheet over Smokey’s bird cage, Smokey goes to sleep–which would lead me to believe that birds don’t chirp at night. I had to google it to learn more. I found out that birds who call in the night are either protecting their territory, or trying to find a lover.

So, I guess I just have to wait until my backyard birds find true love. Which brings me to my next thought: do birds have sexy time? Do they do “it” in the trees? Or while flying?

Oh, those birds- such showoffs.

For more go to hippobrigade.com
Photo: Anthropologie.com