Extreme Makeover: Blog Edition

When I was seven I was going to be a ballerina when I grew up.  Or a nurse.  Or Luke Skywalker.  (Actually I really wanted to be Leia Organa but then she totally let me down when she kissed Solo which was gross!  And totally uncalled for.)

Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you need the cootie shot!

And so, much to the conspicuous envy of my neighborhood playmates (I'm talking to you, Amy Bircher)  I alone got to be the Pirouetting Jedi Trauma Nurse Assassin when it came time for make believe.  This early propensity to polymorphism probably explains my fascination, nay, obsession with Transformers even though they were for boys.  Because honestly, Barbies were soo static and boring.  And also lacking in light and sound and working joints.  But Transformers, well, they could be this:

Or THIS!

♫ More than meets the eye ♪

So when I got a little older I set out for degrees in Geology as well as English Literature.  But that was only after I joined the Army.  But eventually I did drop the Geology bit when I decided to go to law school.  Or graduate school, to be an English Professor.  Or a writer.  And then promptly decided to drop everything, get pregnant, and become an Environmentally Conscious Stay-At-Home-Mom With An Overdeveloped Sense Of Justice And Excellent Taste In Literature.  Who in her younger years looked a lot like this chick:

(I actually got this Barbie as a gift when I graduated Basic Training.)

So when I started this blog I was having one of my angsty/poetic episodes that typically lasts me anywhere from three minutes to three years and frequently provokes me to open a volume of Norton' English Literature,

(HAHA You totally thought I was going to say a bottle of Shiraz.  SUCKER!!!!!)

wax melancholic, and revel in the company of dead sad chicks like Sylvia Plath and Hamlet's Ophelia (you know, Hamlet's bipolar girlfriend who falls/jumps from a tree branch and, due to the voluminousness of her inordinately poofy gown, drowns) while re-imagining for them wildly different outcomes.  My Ophelia would float, breathe, put on a DVF shirtdress, and use the Force to kick Claudius' ass while tending to Laertes' and Gertrude's medical emergencies.  En pointe.

A year and a half into this endeavor, though, methinks this blog channels Ophelia far less than (one of my) alter-ego(s), Alice, of Wonderland fame.  Curious, absurd, illogical Alice who imagines six impossible things before breakfast, who is too large for her house and too small for her Queen.

Waverly, 2009

Me, most days

So I'm renaming the blog for a not-so-sad, not-so-dead chick who'd probably not back the family station wagon into a lake, but most certainly would have a corkscrew in her apron for opening the bottle that says "Drink Me."

Anyway,why exactly is a raven like a writing desk?

Curiouser and curiouser....

. 

  

Happy Holi-Months

This morning a Target employee wished me Happy Holidays.  I was not aware that 11/1 was a holiday but my birthday IS Saturday so suddenly it all made more sense--the lights, the decorations, the gift wrap--so I said thank you.  Although red and green are really not my colors.  I know this because I've had them done and it turns out that ivories, grays, and taupes suit me best as well as--squee!--cheetah and/or leopard print.  So if you HAD to decorate a tree or anything else to celebrate me on November 6th which is in five days yes I'm talking to you you would have to find something more muted like mulberry and olive.

Little known fact: One New Year's Day not long ago I vowed to wear something in cheetah print every day for a year.  Because making a budget and drinking eight glasses of water a day were so 2009.  And also: boring.  I mean, you don't even have time to spend your shoe allowance because you're in the bathroom ALL FREAKING DAY and besides you just spent all your money on smartwater® which spelled backwards turns out to say the words I Don't Look Anything Like Jennifer Aniston.

In the end my resolution to wear cheetah print every day went the same way as all the others, which is to say that by mid-January I got bored of them, drank eight glasses of wine, and went shoe shopping.


However you should know that Crocs™ makes cheetah print foot--OK there are no words.  Crocs™ are like foot prostitutes.  Or therapists.  You pay for them, they make you feel REALLY good.  So yeah Crocs™ makes these fleece-lined cheetah print foot blowjobs.  I can only imagine that this metaphor is appropriate because when I put them on I make the same face as--OK Mom and Dad stop reading RIGHT NOW.

Anyway my point is that, as my Grandma and maybe it was Mark Twain (I can't remember-they both had moustaches)  always said, "Familiarity breeds contempt."  Which is EXACTLY how I felt about 23 days into my ill-fated resolution.  I had cheetah Crocs™, cheetah throw pillows, cheetah hand towels, blouses, heels, even--wait for it--a cheetah print Snuggie™.  

(Honestly, it's like the ghost of Billy Mays lives in my house.  It's an infomercial graveyard up in here, folks.  Watch out for that Fushigi™ Magic Gravity Ball at the bottom of the staircase!  BUT WAIT!  Should you slip on it and cut yourself, I will recline you ever so gently against my Ab Rocket™ and will apply, with my Sham Wow®, a salve made from the aloe I grew in my Topsy Turvy® Planter.)

But you have to call me in the next twenty minutes.

Speaking of contempt (WHAT.  I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME.) and the whole familiarity blah blah blah thing my point is this:  I got sick of the cheetah print.  (Well OK just for a little while.)  And I am sick, sick I tell you, already, of Christmas.  I was in October, actually.  I have this awful, knotted, gnarled pit in my stomach at the very sight of ornaments and plastic trees and 3-outlet forest green power plug adapters.  

However I do like that Eggnog Latte Coffee-Mate® Limited Edition coffee creamer.  

It's really, really good.  And if you call in the next twenty minutes you'll get...

Anyway, Happy Holidays.  Only it's not days, anymore, now is it?  

Happy Holi-Months.  And to all a good fiscal quarter.

Cows Are Also Really Scary

So every fall about this time The Wicked Turkey and I say we're going to take the kids to the North Carolina mountains.  It's a lovely idea, really--the quaint, quiet mountain cabin, the astonishingly, vibrantly heady fall foliage, the picturesque views from the Blue Ridge Parkway, the glorious solitude of being outside the Sprint network...

I KNOW.  You want to go too, now.  And so do we.  Every year.  But the world is a terrible place and there's a war in Afghanistan and it's a three hour drive to the mountains and the economy sucks and someone has strep throat and Haliburton's causing wars and ruining the planet and... OK there's always an excuse.

(Not to mention that the last time I went to the mountains outside of ski season I nearly threw myself in a fit of despair from THIS swinging bridge:)

OK so I'll tell you the story.  

It was my birthday.  November 6th, 1998.  The Wicked Turkey and I had been dating for five years.  FIVE YEARS, PEOPLE.  We had a house together, had dogs and cats together, had gotten over our mutual incredulity at the oddness of each other's families, and were deep in that nearly flawless period of courtship when He still picks up after himself and buys his own underwear and SHE still wears makeup everyday and pretends to be interested in football.  Also: I had moved across the country twice for him.  In a nutshell, it was time.  TIME, PEOPLE.  Johnny had planned a romantic getaway to Grandfather Mountain (pictured above) for my birthday.  I had planned on getting a ring.  That Ring.  So we drive the three hours to Grandfather Mountain and I don't even get carsick because I'm thinking about whether my new diamond will come with a princess or emerald cut.  And I don't get even slightly winded climbing the fifty stairs to the mountain's swinging bridge access because I'm debating whether or not to hyphenate my future last name.  And I swallow my utter, abject fear of spanning the 228 foot long, perilously swinging, frighteningly narrow MILE HIGH MOTHERFUCKING BRIDGE that was engineered before computers and I end up crossing parts of the bridge in a kind of clutching-the-floorboards-for-dear-life, low-crawl on my belly that looked something like this

except I was wearing MAC not camouflage (courtship days, remember???)--because I was busy imagining how I would say "YES!" without making the ugly-cry face when he popped the question.

But we don't talk about that part.  The Becky Is Terrified of Most Things Part.  Heights, germs, cockroaches, roller coasters, squirrels, Republicans, Little People, clowns, geese, old people, open closet doors, baby dolls, loud noises, pool drains, the woods, the basement, dark places, and loose or missing teeth.*

*This list is merely a summary.  I am also afraid of rejection and criticism and the half-mocking half-incredulous mostly-contemptuous question I almost always receive when people, happening upon my petrification at various things or situations, ask:

"BUT I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN THE ARMY.  YOU JUMPED OUT OF AIRPLANES.  HOW CAN YOU BE SCARED???"

The Reader's Digest Abridged Version of my official explanation:  I was scared.  All the time.  But I was even more afraid of Failure and of Embarrassing Myself.  Also: I typically had, strapped to my person at any given time, an M-16 rifle, a parachute, and hand sanitizer.  (The world is a far less scary place when you have these things on quick-deploy.)

SO.  Back to the story.  It's my birthday and I'm standing on top of a mountain all alone with this man I love more than Texas and Shakespeare and Not Watching Football on this glorious autumn day and I've survived the Certain Death Bridge and I'm totally ready to say I do without making the ugly cry face and IT'S TIME, PEOPLE.

Time.  A brilliant, beautiful moment.  Everything is perfect and splendid and immaculate and almost holy in its beauty and Johnny, my love, my soon-I-am-sure-to-be-my-fiance gets very still, looks deeply into my eyes, and says, ever so quietly and gently, "Becky...Would you...like to go back down and get some more coffee?"

Yeah.  That happened.  In real life.

SO.  Twelve years later I've got a couple rings on my finger, a wedding dress in the attic, two kids, and an abiding fear of Most Things and even Some New Ones.  And I still do the Terrible Ugly Cry Face.  Sometimes.  But not this weekend, even though Johnny was really mean to me about the packing and I forgot to fill Bridger's prescriptions and the DVD player in the minivan is not working and it turns out Haliburton might have caused the BP oil spill--because WE ARE GOING TO THE MOUNTAINS.

We make the three hour drive.  EASY.  Johnny even gets the DVD player to work.  EASY.  I don't even get carsick.  We arrive at the quaint, quiet mountain cabin, courtesy of a good and gracious friend who owns the cabin, the surrounding farmland, and apparently half the freaking mountain.  Really.  We unpack and drive to the crest, get out of the car and absorb the surreal beauty, the glorious leaves, the pastoral landscape unfurling beneath us.

We hike around a bit and I get the FANTASTIC idea that Johnny and Bridger should drive back down to the cabin.  Waverly the Fearless and I will hike down on our own and meet them there.  EASY.  Johnny says it's a short hike through fairly even terrain and I'm all Rocky Mountain High from the sheer beauty of this place except technically I'm Smokey Mountain High but John Denver didn't sing that song and hey--I shop at REI and I'm wearing some rather kick-ass boots so WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

*SPOILER ALERT!  The boots were from Nordstrom, not REI and yeah... you can guess where this is going...

*Also--Johnny had to jimmy a barbed-wire cattle fence for Wavy and me climb under in order for us to even begin our "hike"...

*Also--I had no cell phone reception, no M-16, no parachute, and no hand sanitizer.

So Wavy and I begin our hike.  We are having a Bonding Experience.  We are two fierce, strong, self-reliant Nature Girls wearing really cute boots and--jeggings!

--and we're not afraid to step in --OHMYGOD THAT IS AN AWFULLY BIG COW PATTY.

Yeah.

LOTS of awfully big cow patties.

About a half mile further in it occurs to me that where there are cow patties, there might be cows.

And.....there.  One.  Is.  Up ahead of us on the tip of the hill.

(actual photograph)

And then there's another.  And then another.  And the OH MY GOD THERE'S LIKE TWENTY OF THEM with their weird hip bones and their twitchy tails and their evil herd mentality and ohmygod they're all looking at us.

I ask Waverly what we should do.  (YES, I often defer to the judgement of my five year old when confronted with life's insolvable problems.)  "Keep going," she says.  "We can walk around them."  OK, but I am nervous.  There is nothing but farmland in front of us, woods behind us and no one anywhere near who would hear us if we called for help.   I only know one way to the cabin, and it is straight ahead, directly through what I'm beginning to think of as The Killing Fields.

(I know, I know.  I'm from Texas.  Steers and Queers, right?  Why should I be afraid of cows?  WELL I'LL TELL YOU.  I'm from the part of Texas where the largest land animals you'll come across are the people lined up for the Chicken Fried Steak at Luby's Cafeteria)

So the most exposure I've had to cattle in my whole life to this point is the bulls I saw each year at the Texas Prison Rodeo when I was a kid.  I AM NOT KIDDING THIS IS A REAL EVENT.  Back in the early eighties, before, oh, OSHA and the ACLU and Amnesty International--apparently--they would put forty convicts in an arena with one raging, snorting, bucking, frothing-at-the-mouth wild bull with $50.00 inside of a bag tied between his horns and let the convicts risk life and limb retrieving the money bag for the schadenfreude of hundreds of East Texans.  Yes, my parents thought  this was appropriate childhood entertainment.  No, my sister and I are not scarred by this experience because we were plied into cotton-candy-induced bleary-eyed apathy at the violence and general mayhem involved therein.

So.  Here I am, alone on a mountain with my five year old daughter facing SEVERAL bulls.  And not one of them has a lootbag tied to his horns and I have no M-16 and sadly, no cotton candy.  But I do identify among the herd several nursing mama cows and in the spirit of solidarity hope that they will recognize me as one of their own and therefore will not hurt me or my former nursling and maybe they can convince the calf-daddies to look for some felons to maul.

And then they begin walking towards us.  All of them.  Fast.  In weird evil cow herd unison.  Waverly announces--loudly--that she will kill them with her walking stick and then kindly--and loudly--reminds them that she doesn't even eat cow.  I look for a rock or stick to defend us with and all I see are cow patties.  The cows are coming faster.  With determination.

 I ask Waverly what we should do.

"RUN!" she says.

But she can't say her R's yet so it sounds more like "ONE!"  which normally would be cute but the barbed wire fence we're going to have to scale to escape certain death at the hands (hooves?) of the Angry Cows is really really sharp and really really high and Waverly is really really heavy.  We manage after all to cross the field and I toss Waverly over the barbed wire fence to (supposed) safety and realize I cannot scale said fence.  These jeggings are from Saks and this fence belongs to some farmer and if I try to climb it I will break it and that would be bad for the farmer and for me, as any breach in the fence could allow passage of the now-stampeding cows into our safe zone.  So I dig deep, get brave, channel my formerly (partially) bad-ass GI Jane self and run DIRECTLY TOWARDS the stampeding cows to a tree I may or may not be able to climb to safety.

In my mind this is what I look like.

FREEDOM!

The good news is--I can still climb a tree.  I jump from the haven of said tree's branches to the other side of the barbed wire fence much to the relief of my daughter.  Who is standing in...

A cow patty.

And I remember.  Where there are cow patties there must be cows.  

"RUN!"  

We run across another field to another barbed wire fence.  Jeggings and farmers be damned I'm climbing this bitch.  I hoist Wavy over.  And in a move even Angelina Jolie's stunt woman would envy, I sling myself over the fence.

Without.  Tearing.  The jeggings.  

It's Cows 0.  Wavy and Me 1.  The cows do not look pleased.

Now we hike carefully, precariously, down a steep, impossibly narrow trail flanked on one side by Mean Bessie and Her Cohorts, the other side by a sheer drop-off to a rocky gully far below us.  

And then we hear something.  Music.  Faint at first and then growing louder.  Dueling Banjos?  No.  Because THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY.  What we are hearing is, ostensibly, an intoxicated Person of Spanish Linguistic Ability serenading (and belching at) the mountainside at the top of his ever loving lungs.   We are only mildly comforted by his presence because we have watched enough Dora and Diego to cry for help in Spanish however, our amigo sounds a bit too inebriated to al rescate us and I'm pretty sure he's missing his Rescue Pack.  

Yeah.

We choose to keep our presence hidden from the mountain people and continue to the cabin.  

I still don't see the cabin.  

We are far, far removed from English-speaking human contact.

There is an entire herd of cattle on the other side of the fence bent on our certain demise.

We have an awful lot of cow poop on our fancy boots.

I have neither water nor food nor emergency flares nor anything else one would pack in the REI backpack I've been eyeing.   

And I am most likely tetanus-positive at this point from the barbed wire fences I've scaled.

And it is at this very moment that Waverly announces, "I need to go potty.  BAD."

...

AFTERWORD

We lived.  But barely.  We finally made it back to the cabin, which, thank GOD, had a washer and dryer.  However it was in the basement which I was afraid of so Johnny had to do all the cow poop laundry.

I never succeeded in convincing Waverly to pee in the woods.  She was like, "OK, if you do it with me."  And I was like, "No."

Johnny would like you all to know that he did not intentionally send Waverly and me to our near deaths.  He would  like to remind you that he grew up in the kind of family that greased pigs for the chasing at family gatherings and therefore has a much higher tolerance for domesticated farm animals than I and had no idea I would be scared of the cows because, you know, I was in the Army. 

Upon returning to Cary I used my member rewards at REI to buy some actual hiking boots, an emergency beacon, and a handheld GPS.  I am still searching the internet for cow repellant.  

Sprint continues to offer the good people of western North Carolina no service at all, which is pretty much the same service it offers to the people of Central and Eastern North Carolina, which is no service at all.  Halliburton continues to club baby seals and slap orphans and contaminate baby formula with...cow poop.

We never heard anything more from our Mountain Mariachi.  I think of him fondly and hope he is well.

Mean Bessie and her band of Mean Cohorts abide.  

THE END.

Back On the Bike, Y'all

(Oops.  Almost titled this post "Beck on the Bike."  Which would be glorious if it were David Beckam but quite unfortunate of it were that monstrosity Glenn Beck.)

THIS:

OR THIS:

YOU CHOOSE.  YOU DECIDE.

In any case, apologies, all, for my hiatus!

And now:

COMING SOON...

"What Happened at the Mammography Clinic"

"Two Teachers, a Preacher, and a Stay-At-Home-Mom Walk Into a Tattoo Parlor..."

"Sign Ideas for Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity"

"Contents of My Purse From Last Night"

But for now...

Bridger came home from school today with an essay about the four best things that ever happened to him and the four worst things that ever happened to him.  In other words, while I'm  freaking about the cost of his prescriptions I  get some real perspective:

THE GOOD

1. Christmas

2. Halloween

3. My Birthday

4. I got a new dog named Aslan.

The Bad

1. Afghanistan war

2. My Uncle Ryan got cancer.

3. My best friend moved.

4. My dog Teton died.

Sniffle.  

Absence Make the Heart Grow Fatter, or, Home Sweet Illiterate Vacation Home

So I'm back from a long weekend at Harkers Island and all I can say is Home Sweet (high ceiling, open floor plan, more-bathrooms-in-it-than-people-living-in-it) Home. 

(OK that might have been one of the most obnoxious sentences I've ever written. Some people live in the BOXES they fish from grocery store dumpsters. And not even the General Mills boxes, which are corrugated and somewhat weatherproof, but the Piggly Wiggly cereal boxes made from tissue paper and flour paste that dissolve into a sticky paste when rained upon.  So I should SHUT UP NOW AND BE GRATEFUL FOR WHAT I HAVE.)

And I am.  Grateful.  But do you have any idea how long I'm going to have to wear THIS metal bikini before Master Luke shows up to renegotiate my mortgage with Jabba the Hut? 

DO YOU? 

Anyway Northern and Western readers if you MUST know Piggly Wiggly is the most ghetto-trashy of all ghetto-trash grocery stores. Apologies to my good friends at Living Without Walmart but Piggly Wiggly is the baddest (and I don't mean Michael Jackson bad) of all bad food-buying experiences. THIS is where the country people go to buy fatback and pickled pigs feet.  Every single item in that store contains either multi-mega-hyper-global-transgendered-transatlantic-transform your muscle tone into cellultite- transfats OR morally-ethically-spiritually-physically-positively-absolutely-undeniably-partially hydrogenated oils!

That Piggle will make yo ass jiggle.  They should have named that store Piggly Jiggly.

(More on Horrible Ideas in Branding in another post. Seriously? Who thought squirming swine made for a good corporate identity? WOW.)

ALSO: their logo.  (What is that hat?)

This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.  This little piggy went to his day job as a country store butcher and chopped his brothers and sisters into pork chops and bacon ALL THE WAY HOME.
 


(OK this really wasn't supposed to be a post about how much I dislike Piggly Wiggly.)
 
So I'm at the Piggly Wiggly in Beafort...because there are no grocery stores on Harkers Island.  That's part of its charm.  Along with the fact that NOT ONE RESTAURANT ON THE ENTIRE ISLAND HAS A LIQUOR LICENSE.  But the hush puppies are good and it is pretty much bereft of tourists so all in all it's not a terrible place,
 

unless you haven't had your coffee...

 
and well, actually, we love it there.  It's small, it's quaint, it's where we go whenever we can get away from The Big Town of Raleigh.  Among its many charms Harkers Island is known for its quietude, the craftsmanship of its hand carved duck decoys (not a joke), its long history of boatbuilding, and its particular brogue.  Even amongst the nearly-indecipherable Down Easters (the good folks of the Southern Outer Banks) the Hoi Toiders (as they are known) are a rare (in)breed and known for the peculiarity of their accents.
 
Also: their mad English Spelling and Usage skills.
 
Spotted just this last weekend:

• On a placard advertising a church fundraiser breakfast: "Pancakes and Bisquits".  (I assume they're made with Bisquick?)
• On a hand painted sign in someone's front yard: "Obamacare Will Rationalize Cancer Care to the Elderly.  Fire the Democrats!"  (Because the last things seniors can handle is a bunch of rationalizing.  You can't justify anything to those people.)
• "Far Wood 4 Sale" (Yeah I don't need to say anything at all here do I?)

And don't even get me started on the overabundance of apostrophes in this town.  The island is positively INFESTED.  I have notified the Army Corps of Engineers AND the USDA and so far no one shares the urgency of my sense of doom.  I'm like Jeff Goldblum in Independence Day trying to convince the President that ALIENS ARE POISED AT THIS VERY MOMENT TO INVADE THE PLANET.   Decoy-carving unintelligible teetotalling Republican aliens with fifth grade educations who can't write the letter S without apostrophying it from every angle!   It's punctuation anarchy!

Wanna know what's funny / ironic / serendipitous?  There's no apostrophe in Harkers Island.

(Also:  if you scour this post thoroughly enought you will find at least fourteen errors in usage, spelling, punctuation, and grammar.  I like to sprinkle these here and there just to fuck with all of you.  It's like Where's Waldo only even nerdier.  PLEASE, write to me about them.  I absolutely LOVE to be corrected.)

Because really, what else do I have to complain about?

Of Balls and Boobies, or, What Not to Bring to a Mammogram

WARNING: This Post Contains Too Much Information

So…this is actually happening. There is a golf ball in my left breast.  This is especially alarming as that particular breast is only tennis ball sized in the first place and why am I referring to it singularly as if they’re both not the same size?  Like the other one could actually be, like, football sized?  BUT OH WAIT! 1) I nursed two children into adulthood.  Bridger had a beard before he finally weaned.  2) Waverly was a lefty not a switch hitter (nursing mamas you know what I'm talking about).  So basically, in the breast department I'm batting 1000 with one softball and one baseball--a statistic I've calculated on the grounds that back when the boobies were still perfect they helped land me a really fantastic husband and that my kids have never even had ONE ear infection and their brains are just HUGE from all that breastmilk (which is evidenced by the size of their abnormally large craniums--those kids have noggins like basketballs!) and I can’t even properly throw a ball so where are these sports analogies even coming from and also: THE 2010 WORLD CUP IS AFOOT, BITCHES!  Also: Tour De France.   Rhymes with LANCE! 

This series of events, which are only fortunate if you enjoy soccer, cycling, AND teeing off from my ribcage and are only possible in July of every fourth year leads me to two conclusions: 1) I'm going to have a mammogram. That golf ball probably shouldn’t be in there.  (I believe there's a Tiger Wood joke lurking nearbouts and if I think of it I'll let you know but all I can think of right now is Fergie singing "my lovely lady lumps") and 2) I really need a vuvuzela.  OR cowbell.  Or whatever those crazy Frenchmen use to cheer on the Tour.  (Sometimes they actually run naked alongside the peleton.  I am going to have to get naked enough for this mammogram so I think I'll have to pass on THAT particular indignity.)  In fact, I would like to take my vuvuzela / cowbell with me to the mammogram. Which is at Duke.  TOMORROW.  And I can annoy the SHIT out of those pretentious Duke doctors with their terrible Duke frowns and their terrible Duke nostrils and their terrible Duke football program.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!  Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding! 

(But I’m not thinking about that because as we speak England is being made naked by the Germans and this time Winston Churchill is nowhere to be found and in a fascinating if not serendipitous accident of providence the US is out of the war, having been defeated by some…Africans. Oh the irony! Oh the kismet!)

(OK I started this post a week or more ago.  By now Spain and Netherlands rule the world.  Little has changed in 500 years.  Colonialism waxes eternal.) 

In any case you shouldn't worry.  Spain will defeat the Netherlands, Contador will (I hate to admit it) beat Armstrong, and I will get my boobie pancaked, nay, tortillad, tomorrow afternoon.  In fact, you won't have to miss ANY of the action.  World Cup and the Tour will be broadcast in all their resplendent glory 'cross television sets across the land and I will be live-tweeting my mammogram (!).  EVERY SQUISHY DETAIL! 

In honor of the Tour (and to mitigate my fear of what exactly is growing inside my breast which I am not thinking about LANCE LANCE LANCE)  I might even ride my bike to the hospital.  It will be the Tour de Triangle.  I'll start out riding the Raleigh stage, scenic only in its view of Midtown shopping centers and a desparate suburbia but deadly in its threat of Northern-transplant Volvo drivers and Nascar-wannabe mullethead Camaro speedsters.  The Raleigh stage being only slightly less hazard-prone than the final stage, Durham, with its fine ghetto views and haphazard gunfire but ending in the award of a jersey in any color but red, blue, black, white, or gold WHICH WILL ALL GET YOU CLIPPED, YO, and a successful entry into the Duke campus which is only slightly more segregated / innoculated against its encroaching blackness than Washington D.C.

There.

OK maybe I should drive there, because the only thing less dignified than being carjacked is being bike-jacked.  And both are equally probable in our fine sister city of Durham.  By which I mean red headed stepsister city.  I feel bad for Durham, really.  I think someday that they, and Ft. Worth, Urbana, and St. Paul should all get together and start some kind of civil rights movement for under-recognized twin cities.  Parasitic or not.  We shall overcome.   

So I think I'll wear green to Duke tomorrow.  The maillot vert, in hopes that this journey of mine is just a sprint and not a Grand Tour.  The one with pockets big enough for my noisemakers and Tarheel pompoms.  Because I plan on winning.

Dear Becky: An Open Letter From the Mass In Your Left Breast

May 14, 2010
In Response to Your Letter: To the Trespasser Inside My Left Breast


Dear Becky,

First, we'd like thank you for your hospitality.  Your temperate 98.6 degree environment has suited us perfectly, as has the nourishment provided by your steady diet of sugar, caffeine and alcohol.  (Some members of our faction would have you know that they prefer Malbec to Merlot, but we digress.)  Furthermore, the days you go braless provide us much amusement.  It's like a fun park ride in here.  (Some members of our faction would like to make you aware of their tendency toward motion sickness.  They recommend La Perla Intimates [available at Nordstrom] or the Spanx Bra-llelujah.)


Secondly, we'd like to inform you that we are of peace, always.  (That's right.  We can hear everything in here.  That V show on TV is awesome!  Tell us, do you think the lizard baby birth scene will be as good as the 1980's version?)  (Some members of our faction kindly ask that you stop Tivo-ing True Blood.  We hate those fake southern accents.)  (Also, we really enjoy Grey's Anatomy.  When the brave doctors discover a Hail Mary miracle cure for some kid with cancer your resulting crying-provoked estrogen rush is positively exhilarating.  We're STILL talking about the one where the mother AND the baby die in childbirth.)


Our point is, we mean you no harm.  We don't even know how we got here, nor do we fully understand this biological imperative to reproduce uncontrollably.  (We're kind of like teenagers that way.  Really, we just want to crash on your couch for a little bit.  All this reproduction is EXHAUSTING.)  And like teenagers, we really don't fully understand who we are quite yet.  Remember when we watched The Matrix on USA a couple weeks back?  We might perceive, like you, that we're an invasive, uncontrollable mass of ever-replicating cells with an undeniable compulsion to invade adjacent tissues, wreak havoc on all your organ systems and, ultimately, eradicate you.  (No offense.  We kind of like you.)   But the reality might very well be that we've been duped by a race of all-powerful, artificially intelligent machines (i.e., the WebMD symptom checker) and that we're actually just a hormone-provoked cyst that will dissipate of its own volition in about two weeks.  (Yes, we heard you doctor's explanation.  She's a regular Morpheus, isn't she?)   


Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself in your upcoming mammogram.  (Which, by the way, we are REALLY not looking forward to.  We hear they're even more constricting than your sports bra.)


Until then, good hostess, we suggest avoiding caffeine, your husband, lying on your stomach, and running up and down the stairs with your usual vigor. 


Also, we have requests from several among us that you start watching Glee.  We hear it's freakin' HILARIOUS. 


Affectionately and Indefinitely Yours,
The Goodwill Ambassadors of the Breast Mass of Questionable Significance

To the Trespasser Inside My Left Breast

Good morning, intruder.  I cannot blame you for your choice of abode.  It's warm and soft and nourishing there.  My babies would tell you the same.

I would like to start out by informing you that you are not welcome here.  (This is difficult for me to state, as I am genuinely a very hospitable person and absolutely LOVE having company.)  I am truly sorry if I misled you in any way into thinking that I would house or foster you.  Yes, I have often complained about the size and condition of my breasts and have even considered an addition or remodel.  This occasional dissatisfaction does not mean, though, that said real estate is available for sale, rent, or occupation.  (To be quite honest, I've never had a roomate or a parasite and do not wish for either now. )

You should have received your eviction papers by now.  Yet you persist in your tenancy!

I would ask, regardless, that the members of your clan (which incidently seem to be growing)  refrain from traveling from their current location.  I warn you: the lymph node in my armpit may seem to be a desireable travel destination but is positively Syrian in its concurrent beauty and propensity to violence (my white cells: terrorists!) and so I inform you that you are banned from travel there and am, in fact, revoking your passport.

I should also make a special announcement that your continued presence in what my children affectionately refer to as my Nanas may result in your being needle aspirated, cultured, squashed in mammography, irradiated, poisoned, or EXCISED.

Also: I reject your claim that I have judged you (and harshly) without even getting to know you.  No, I do not know whether you are benign or malignant.  I DON'T REALLY CARE. You may call me a cell-ist if that makes you feel better about yourself.  I am not.  In fact, some of my best friends are cells or some combination thereof.  I am particularly fond of neurons and zygotes.  And it is common knowledge that amoeba babies are ADORABLE. 

Again I apologize.  I am usually a kind person, given neither to violence nor threats of such.  But I will deport you like an Arizona Mexican.  Consider yourself warned.

I should wrap this up as I have to get off to the doctor's office.  But just to recap, I am asking you, little tangled knot of cells,  to cease and desist in an immediate fashion. 

Yours Truly and Temporarily,
Becky

A Baby Story: Facebook Edition

Becky Pennington met a really cute boy tonight.
Sept. 18, 1993 at 7:32 pm

Becky Pennington is now friends with Johnny Powell
Sept. 19, 1993 at 9:32 am

Johnny Powell changed his employer to 82nd Airborne
Dec. 14, 1993 at 6:00 am

Johnny Powell likes Wilmington, Isuzu Troopers, and Off Post Passes.
February 28, 1994 at 7:32 pm

Becky Pennington and Johnny Powell are in a relationship.
March 23, 1994 at 11:43 am


Becky Pennington became a fan of Living Happily Ever After.
March 30, 1994 at 3:56 pm

Johnny Powell became a fan of Temporary Relationships.
February 2, 1996 at 4:32 pm

Becky Pennington changed her current city to Dallas, TX.
May 12, 1997 at 5:39 pm

Johnny Powell changed his current city to Raleigh, NC.
May13, 1997 at 5:00 pm

Becky Pennington Four years, people! Seriously, what is wrong with him?
May 14, 1997 at 5:48 pm

Johnny Powell really misses Becky
October 16, 1997 at 9:12 am
     Becky Pennington Miss you too, babe!

Becky Pennington changed her current city to Raleigh, NC
Dec. 31, 1997 at 10:43 pm
     Johnny Powell likes this.

Becky Pennington OMG! HE ASKED ME TO MARRY HIM!
Dec. 25, 1998 at 10:27 am
     Barbara Pennington, Jenny Pennington, and 64 others like this.

Becky Pennington, Johnny Powell, and 250 others are attending Johnny and Becky’s Wedding.

Becky Pennington Powell and Johnny Powell changed their relationship status to Married.
May 20, 2000 at 6:00 pm

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of EPT Early Pregnancy Tests
May 14, 2002 at 6:48 am

Becky Pennington Powell has some exciting news to share!
May 14, 2002 at 6:53 am

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of Not Throwing Up.
May 20, 2002 at 7:04 am

Becky Pennington Powell OH MY GOD MY BOOBS ARE HUGE!
May 22, 2002 at 7:17 am

Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of Nurse Midwives
June 1, 2002 at 1:40 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  NOM NOM NOM!  These raw tomatoes are to DIE for!  ZOMG!
June 1, 2002 at 3:40 pm

Becky Pennington Powell Morning Sickness.  It's not just for mornings anymore.  FML.
June 4, 2002 at 4:22 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  is now friends with Mary David Asheborough, Certified Nurse Midwife
June 6, 2002 at 1:41 pm

Becky Pennington Powell According to the ultrasound, I'm having the lizard baby from V.  FTW!
June 14, 2002 at 12:32 pm

Becky Pennington Powell at Indigo Girls with Jenny Pennington.  FACT: the lines for the ladies' rooms at Indigo Girls concerts are REALLY long.  Those Lesbians are really nice, though, and will let pregnant women straight to the front of the line.
July 6, 2002 at 9:46 pm  

Becky Pennington Powell  joined the group The Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth
Sept. 17, 2002 at 2:17 pm
    Mary Catherine Schmilley You are CRAZY!
     Allie Carter MayfairYou’re gonna want an epidural. Trust me lolz!
     Meghan Smith Rider SRSLY?
     Kelly Rogers Why would you want to do that? I say give me the drugs lol!
     Laura Thomas ROFLMAO!
    
Becky Pennington Powell I refuse to wear maternity underwear.  I say this with resolve and aplomb.
Oct, 14, 2002 at 9:18 am

Johnny Powell My wife is the cutest pregnant girl ever.
Oct. 14, 2002 at 10:16 am

Becky Pennington Powell Dear Lord, please let me get through finals and Christmas before this baby comes.  PLZOKTHX.
Nov. 16, 2002 at 4:56 pm

Becky Pennington Powell Wow.  Nursing bras are kinky.  They've got trap door flaps for easy access.  I should have bought some of these a LONG time ago.
Nov. 16, 2002 at 4:56 pm
      Johnny Powell  likes this

Johnny Powell learned what Kegels are tonight.  Also, that women can stop their pee stream  WITHOUT using their hands.
     Dec. 2, 1002 at 9:13 pm
      Jenny Pennington Ahahahahaha!
    
Becky Pennington Powell People do NOT think it's funny when they ask you when you're due and you say "today."  (I'm actually not) In fact they kind of freak out.
Dec. 20, 2002 at 4:52 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  Exactly WHAT is the mucous plug supposed to look like?  (TMI?  Sorry, Dad.)
January 2, 2003 at 6:36 am

Becky Pennington Powell IT’S HAPPENING!
January 7, 2003 at 4:32 am
      Barbara Pennington likes this

Becky Pennington Powell : Johnny Powell You might want to come home. :)
January 7, 2003 at 2:01 pm
     Johnny Powell  Really?
     
Johnny Powell  is going to be a Daddy soon!
January 7, 2003 at 2:03 pm
     Tom Pennington likes this

Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of Hershey’s Kisses and The Sopranos Season Two on DVD
January 7, 2003 at 4:38 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  Waterfalls, magnificent sunlit gardens, flowers opening. Ohmmmm….
January 7, 2003 at 5:16 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  OK this hurts.
January 7, 2003 at 5:41 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  I am powerful!
January 7, 2003 at 5:46 pm

Becky Pennington Powell Heeeeggg.
January 7, 2003 at 5:59 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of Not Throwing Up Hershey’s Kisses
January 7, 2003 at 6:21 pm


Becky Pennington Powell  Errgh. Gar.
January 7, 2003 at 6:49 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  Isn’t time to go the hospital yet? This is starting to get REALLY uncomfortable.
January 7, 2003 at 7:01 pm
     Johnny Powell You’re not going to be any more comfortable at the hospital, honey.
     Becky Pennington Powell  I dislike you intensely.

Becky Pennington Powell  OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
January 7, 2003 at 7:11 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  is in the bathtub. Wow, this warm water feels SOOOOOOOO good! I could just stay in here my whole labor. I could totally give birth RIGHT HERE.
January 7, 2003 at 8:22 pm

Becky Pennington Powell is at Rex Hospital
January 7, 2003 at 8:56 pm

Johnny Powell Contractions are three minutes apart. She’s totally having this baby before midnight. Wish us luck!
January 7, 2003 at 9:06 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  Contractions three minutes apart! I’ve got to be at least six centimeters by now. Hang on…WOW that was a rough one. I almost had to sit down for a second there.
January 7, 2003 at 9:06 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  Can you BELIEVE they expect me to fill out hospital forms WHILE I’M IN LABOR? I’m writing out my insurance information and BAM! Another contraction!
January 7, 2003 at 9:23 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  They are going to be SO SORRY if I pop this baby out right here in triage. LOL.
January 7, 2003 at 9:34 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  ONE CENTIMETER. SERIOUSLY? 16 HOURS OF LABOR AND ONLY ONE EFFING CENTIMETER? PRETTY SURE I WAS AT ONE CENTIMETER BEFORE I EVER EVEN GOT PREGNANT!
January 7, 2003 at 9:54 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  OWW OWW OWWW FUUUUUUUUCK!
January 7, 2003 at 10:04 pm
Johnny Powell became a fan of Doulas and Labor Nurses.
January 7, 2003 at 10:07 pm

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of Pacing, Rocking, Squatting, and four other profiles.
January 7, 2003 at 10:11 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  GARRRRR OM OM OM OH OH!
January 7, 2003 at 10:48 pm

Johnny Powell I don’t know the woman in this room. Can I have my wife back please?
January 7, 2003 at 10:51 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of Vomit Trays.
January 7, 2003 at 11:07 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  THE BIRTHING BALL! SOMEONE GET ME THE EFFING BIRTHING BALL!
January 7, 2003 at 11:29 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of walking during labor.
Jan. 7, 2003 at 11:46 pm

Becky Pennington Powell  They should really do something about the wallpaper in these hallwa.....OW OWW HRMMMMMMM...
Jan. 8, 2003 at 12:01 am

Becky Pennington Powell  WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE TURN OFF THAT GODAWFUL MUSIC?
Jan. 8, 2003 at 12:49 am
    Johnny Powell It’s the CD we made for your labor, honey? Remember?
     Becky Pennington Powell  I will kill you.

Becky Pennington Powell  OWW OWW OWWW FUUUUUUUUCK!
Jan. 8, 2003 at 12:51am

Becky Pennington Powell  OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
Jan. 8, 2003 at 1:38 am

Johnny Powell What’s the best way to dispose of those calming lavender-scented pillow thingies? (I’m askin’ for a friend.)
Jan. 8, 2003 at 1:39 am


Becky Pennington Powell  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!
Jan. 8, 2003 at 2:34 am

Johnny Powell  became a fan of Epidurals.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 2:37 am
     Becky Pennington Powell  I CAN DO THIS I CAN TOTALLY DO THIS JUST RUB MY BACK I NEED TO GET IN THE  SHOWER AGAIN OH MY GOD IS THERE SUPPOSED TO BE THIS MUCH BLOOD SOMEBODY GET ME A ROCKING CHAIR I NEED A ROCKING CHAIR NOW!
Becky Pennington Powell  became a fan of Absolute Silence from Everyone in the Room During Contractions.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 4:29 am

Johnny Powell Somebody bring me some food? Please? Becks won’t let me leave the room and we’ve been here 9 hours. THX.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 6:19 am
     Ryan Anderson On my way with some Bojangles, dude.

Becky Pennington Powell  WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT HORRIBLE SMELL? GET THAT OUT OF HERE! WHERE IS MY VOMIT PAN?
Jan. 8, 2003 at 7:14 am
     Johnny Powell *sorry* 

Jenny Pennington is at Rex Hospital
Jan. 8, 2003 at 7:29 am

Becky Pennington Powell IS ONLY AT FOUR CENTIMETERS! WTF?
Jan. 8, 2003 at 8:37 am

Becky Pennington Powell joined the group Laboring Mothers Who Have to Have Pitocin and Having Your Water Broken to Speed Up Labor
Jan. 8, 2003 at 9:14 am
    Becky Pennington Powell dislikes this. :(

Barbara Pennington is at Rex Hospital
Jan. 8, 2003 at 9:27 am

Becky Pennington Powell THAT IS NOT PITOCIN THAT IS RAT POISON.  I AM DYING.  SOMEONE CALL PETA.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 10:01 am

Becky Pennington Powell : Johnny Powell I want to go home! Can we just stop this? Seriously let’s just go home. I can’t handle this anymore.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 10:37 am

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of Holding On To Johnny’s Arm For Dear Life and Trying To Climb Up Johnny To Get Away From The Pain
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:32 am

Becky Pennington Powell HEE HEE WHOO! HEE HEE WHOO! HEE HEE WHOO!
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:37 am

Becky Pennington Powell joined the group Transition.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:38 am

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of The Fetal Position.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:40 am

Becky Pennington Powell UNNNJGH UIOOOOO GARRRRR!!!!!!!
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:41am

Becky Pennington Powell I NEED TO PUSH I HAVE TO PUSH
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:46 am
     Mary Davis Asheborough oh no you don’t.
     Becky Pennington Powell SRSLY?


Becky Pennington Powell glabble abble jarg boo dammkafarratiknon rep ping harpeleglegleglegl!!
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:48 am

Becky Pennington Powell became a fan of Not Dying In Childbirth.
Jan. 8, 2003 at 11:56 am

Mary David Asheborough It’s time. It’s now. Big pushes.
Jan. 8, 2003 12:10 pm

Johnny Powell PUUUUUSH! PUSH! BABY PUSH!
Jan. 8, 2003 12:18 pm

Bridger Banks Powell joined Facebook.
Jan. 8, 2003 12:32 pm

The Minivan Chronicles: Episode 4

(I know, I'm totally getting all George Lucas on you with this Episode Four thing but I'm pretty sure given my history with all things automotive that I'll be writing some prequels at some point in the future.  Trust me, YOU CAN'T WAIT for The Minivan Strikes Back.)

So I finally got it.  The new minivan that I've waited six months, one Suburban and one Land Rover for.  It's a good minivan...it's peppy, it's roomy, and it even has--wait for it--a VCR in it.  (I KNOW!  HOW AWESOME IS THAT?)  (BTW if you know where to buy VHS movies shoot me an email.  I imagine they're at the same store with the telegraph machines)  I suspect it has powers that even I am not aware of, as Bridger has taken to calling it the Secret Agent Super Ultra Megavan.

Well I've had it for about two weeks and weird shit starts happening.  Like the Dark Side put the force choke on my emergency brake, for starters, because I'm driving around Cary and I notice this terrible burning smell and of course I blame it on the Volvo in front of me (I dislike Volvos.  This will all be explained in Episode Three: Revenge of the Nissan).  And then I notice it again and as there are no Volvos anywhere in sight a tiny seed takes root in my mind that it might be me but I'm on my way to the mall and I'm NOT pulling over. 

OK now I see smoke in my rearview mirror.  This is not good.  I have to pull over in front of REI.  (WHY couldn't I have made it to Nordstrom?  The Force is obviously not with me this day.)

So I'm parked in a lot between REI and Dick's Sporting Goods--not a bad place to be if  you're sporting a miniskirt AND your new, ROCKING 4" heeled platform sandals AND your car seems to be on fire.  One would think.  Well, not one freaking knight, Jedi or otherwise, comes to my rescue.  At this point smoke is POURING out of my rear wheel well.  I think this is close to where the gas tank might be and I realize that I may have moved out of damsel-in-distress mode into full-on HAZMAT threat. 

I step away from the vehicle.  FAR away.  I debate whether to call Johnny or the Cary Fire Department.  I have had enough run-ins with the Cary F.D. to know that they might not see the humor in this situation.  The Wicked Turkey, though, is always good for a laugh so I call him first.

"Honey?"
"What's up I'm in an attic.  Make it quick."  (JP is a heating and air guy.  I like to say he heats and cools the Earth like the guy in the Jimmy Dean commercials?  Anyway he gets a little short when working in 120 degree attics.  You understand.)
"Umm...I think my car is on fire."
(Dead silence.)
"You're shitting me."
"Umm, what's the chance that my gas tank might explode?"
"I'm on my way."

I decide that the parking lot is unsafe at this point and decide to take cover in REI.  That store is actually REALLY neat.  They will even let you get IN the kayaks, but they won't laugh when you start singing "I'm on a BOAT, look at me I'm on a motherfucking BOAT!"  In fact, the store manager will ask you to leave.  If you apologize sincerely and inform him that your car is presently on fire, though, he will let you stay. 

(By the time Johnny got there I'd found a new sunhat, BPA-free water bottles for the whole family, and two really cute Coolmax® moisture wicking sundresses.  NOT that I sweat.  EVER.  It's just nice to have spill-proof clothing.  Anyway.  Shopping WIN.  Mission accomplished.)

JP arrives on the scene.  The car has stopped smoking at this point.  He takes a quick look underneath the wheel thingies and then we take a drive around the parking lot to see if it happens again.

Nothing happens.  No smoke, no burning smell.  He draws my attention to the emergency brake handle.  Him: "What's the chance that you've been driving around with this *up*?  Tell me the truth."  Me: "Ummmm..."

Disaster averted.

(By the way I'm pretty sure I'm responsible for the whole Toyota debacle. I owned a Toyota once and it's common knowledge that I destroy every car I drive. I just didn't know my powers extended to an entire manufacturer. I think I should be recalled.)

ADHDEFG

(Preface: In March of 2010 my brilliant and charming, twitchy, ticky, sweetly scattered mess of a boy was diagnosed with ADHD.  During his two week long evalation which involved a psychologist, a pediatrician, both his teachers, both his parents, and a battery of testing and questionnaires, The Wicked Turkey and I came to the conclusion that we, too, may suffer from LOOK.  A BUTTERFLY.  HAVE YOU SEEN MY KEYS?)

Well, we got it. 

That paradigm, that holy grail of parenthood.  It is wondrous and sacred and we call it Minivan.  It is AWESOME, and, as I have discovered, even MORE sexy when you blast Ke$ha from the speakers with the windows rolled down.   It has a DVD player, power doors, and working brakes--but it seems to be missing...something.  GPS?  XM radio?  (Well, yes.)  But what it really lacks are STICKERS.  Suburban Mom Stickers.  Personalized stickers for each member of the family.  Have you seen these?  Businessman Dad,  Preggers Mom, Soccer Player Son, Ballerina Daughter, Two Random Dogs? 

We looked for some for our family.  Dad in La-Z-Boy with One Hand on Beer, One Hand Down Pants; Crying Mommy with Bad Hair and Prescription Bottle; Hockey Player Son Being Choked Out By Willful Four Year Old Daughter With Anger Management Issues; Large Dog Ass-Humping Smaller Dog.  WELL THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.  (Graphic artist readers: please design some for me STAT.) 

Stickers for each and every one of our hobbies.  Stickers that convey with sass and wit my positions on abortion, climate change, the president, and various constitutional rights.  (Habeus Corpus doesn't relieve people from unlawful detention.   PEOPLE relieve people from unlawful detention!)  Stickers for the kids' school.  Stickers informing you that my pregnant, meth-addicted teenage daughter can beat up your honor student.  And most importantly, the (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon decal. 

Apparently, the (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon decal is JUST as necessary to the proper functioning of the minivan as engine oil and a steering wheel.   Without one, transmissions jump, engines stall, batteries die, and the tailgating denizens of greater suburbia honk away at their horns with neither focus nor awareness as they have no idea what disorder the DVD-watching child seated within the minivan in front of them might suffer from.

Fact: (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon decals come in a wide array of colors.  Pick a cause, any cause.  You can even color coordinate your cause with the paint color of your minivan.  A blue awareness ribbon, for instance, looks especially nice against a silver paint job (especially if you're a Cowboys fan) and will signal to the driver behind you  that you intend to aware the SHIT out of Tuberous Sclerosis, sex trafficking, prostate cancer, Teletubbies, visible pantilines, and Rodents of Unusual Size.

 

Can't choose a cause?  I understand.  Choosing a (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon can be almost as nerve wracking as choosing a tattoo.  But you, my friend, can switch out your (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbons as often as you change your oil.  Ever hear of the Awareness Ribbon of the Month Club?  Me neither.  But you can imagine getting a BRAND NEW (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon *twelve!* DID YOU HEAR ME TWELVE! times a year?  You can collect ALL THE FLAVORS.   Cancer!  Incest!  Death by Road Rage!  Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation!  IF YOU CAN THINK IT YOU CAN HAVE IT ON A RIBBON SHAPED MOTHERFUCKING CAR STICKER! 

Which leads me to my own quandary.  (OK I have egads of quandaries.  This is just one.)  With which (Fill In the Blank) Awareness Ribbon do I christen my minivan?  I believe there must be some qualifications:

A) Is the color representing the proposed cause objectionable or unflattering?  Purple is totally gay and red washes me out, so...sorry, Aids babies and Alzheimer's WHAT.  WHO ARE YOU?  WHERE AM I?

B) Is anyone going to key my car in righteous indignance over the cause represented by said ribbon?  Agoraphobia makes some people REALLY angry.  No teal ribbon for me. 

C) Does anyone in my immediate family suffer from a lack of awareness about their own peculiar condition?  In that case, I'll need a ribbons for Thin Eyelash Awareness, Survivors of East Texan Asphalt Childhood Foot Trauma, and Germaphobe Protection from Microbes in General and Toilet Flush Handles Particularly.  Because SERIOUSLY.  Dude.  Everyone knows about breast cancer.  Few people, however, are aware of how freaking hot asphalt can get in the summer in Texas.  (It melts.  You can't even play basketball on it--your ball will not bounce but WILL STICK TO the pavement and quite possibly become a part of it.  AND.  Your shoes!  Sneakers, jellies, flip-flops, WHATEVER.  Upon contact with the searing asphalt they can and will melt immediately into said asphalt, fast securing your feet to the parking lot, fixing you permanently and instantly turning your entire body into an asphalt statue.  Parking lots in Texas are positively LITTERED with little kid pavement statues.  It's horrifying.)

The aforementioned terms considered, debated internally, and decided upon leave me but one choice. 

Yes.  The Boy has it.  Orange favors my olive complexion.  Probably no one hates 99% of kids enough to key my car in objection to my support of 99% of kids.  (WHAT.  ADHD IS REAL.)  And...surely, not enough people in this country are aware that 99% of kids can't sit still or pay attenion. 

An Awareness Ribbon is clearly called for.

I Google up to order one pronto.  But LOOK AT THAT SUSPICIOUS MOLE ON MY KNEE!  WebMD beckons!  But first I need a Coke!  They're in the fridge in the garage.  Wow does it EVER need cleaning!  But the cleaning products are in the kitchen!  Which reminds me, I need to figure out tonight's dinner and my, that window has finger prints all over it and  OH MY GOSH LOOK AT THAT BUTTERFLY.