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

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.

Decaffeinated

So I'm at the beach house with the in-laws and today--day three--I hit a wall.  Not in anger or frustration,  although that would be understandable because the in-laws are narcoleptic, alzheimer-ridden control-freaks with an aversion to hearing aids.  WHAT.  No.  I hit a wall because apparently, SOMEONE (read: mother-in-law) has been making decaf coffee unbenownst to anyone else here and passing it off as actual coffee.  I guess that would explain the narcolepsy.   And the headaches.  And my ill mood.  This morning at the beach this interchange actually took place:

Redneck Dude in homemade boat with tattered travesty of an American flag fluttering listlessly from one of the downriggers beaches his boat. 

Me:  DUDE.  Are you American?  I've seen Jihadists treat the flag with more respect than that. 

Redneck Dude's white trash drunken girl friend falls off the boat, proceeds to squat and without her ass even being entirely covered by the water proceeds to pee in about 18 inches of tide. 

This infuriates me beyond the pale.  I try to sick my dog on them, but he is a pathetic Retriever and only manages to get ass-humped by the Chocolate Lab twenty feet up the beach.  He comes back with a mouth full of seaweed and drops it at my feet.  I tell him he should be ashamed of himself, as no self-respecting dog should allow that kind of behavior until at least the third date.

I have no idea why I'm so irritable.  I'm at a gorgeous beach; it's a beautiful day.  I have my kids and my husband and my dog and a good book.

I tell JP that if the woman sitting in the beach chair next to me had spent as much money on a nutritionist for her obese child as she had for her fake breasts she could have prevented  a certain lifetime of bullying, diabetes, and high cholesterol.  Oh well.  Single moms with fat kids have to compensate somehow.

I am an evil person.

Back at the beach house, I go for more coffee.  The pot is empty.  I go to make more but can't find coffee beans anywhere.  Just this dirt-like substance in a green can.  I think they call it decaf.  I corner the mother-in-law. 

Me:  Is this what you've been making the whole time?
Her:  Well, we were out of regular.

I stare at her wordlessly for about twenty seconds. 

I get in the minivan.  Someone on this island has to have real coffee. 

There are three convenience stores on Harker's Island.  One is closed for Easter.  The other two have no coffee.  DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M TELLING YOU?  Gas stations with no coffee.  The best thing I can find is Frappucino in a bottle.  I buy it with a Coke chaser. 

It is terrible.  I drink the Coke instead on the drive home, which is only four minutes long.  Back at the kitchen, I consider microwaving the vile frappucino in an attempt to make it taste more like real coffee.  JP tells me this is a bad idea.  Luckily, by now the caffeine in the Coke is kicking in and I'm beginning to see reason.

I drink the Frappucino. 

JP will not take me back to the beach, despite my assurances of adequate caffeination and better behavior. 

Also, the Retreiver seems a little traumatized.

Health Care Reform, my way.

BE IT ENACTED BY THE LEGISLATURE OF THE STATE OF MOMMYTOWN:

Section 1.  When seeking presciption drugs or a sick note for work or school, a WebMD diagnosis shall suffice except in the case of Schedule III controlled substances which will require such information as can be printed from your home computer from google.com/health. 

Section 2.  Pediatric patient waiting rooms shall be furnished with inflatable bounce houses for well children; ice cream sundae bars for sick children.  Shots shall be abolished forthwith and as such all vaccines, antibiotics, rabies treatments, and novacaine shall be administered via medicinally-infused temporary tattooes of either the Star Wars or Hello Kitty variety.

Section 3.  Highly technical, jargon-filled diagnoses shall be renamed with humor and according to the common vernacular.  Eg: ADHD shall be known henceforth as Bad Kid; allergic rhinitis to be reclassified as Stuffed-the-Fuck-Upedness; Type II Diabetes as Doughnut Syndrome. 

Section 4.  In response to the overwhelming popularity of hot TV doctors, all physicians must be exceedingly attractive and preface their names with "Mc."  Congress does not forsee a conflict of interest between hot Irish American TV doctors and the growing population of Indian American medical doctors, as Indian men are incredibly attractive once they shave off their moustaches and McPatel sounds just fine.  As such the Hippocratic Oath should be ammended to include the verbiage "First, do no ugliness."

Section 5.  Pre-existing conditions immediately and unequivocally qualify the Patient for Vicodyn and Bugs Bunny Band-Aids, as those Patients presenting with established illnesses deserve extra TLC.

Section 6.  All women having given birth and/or breastfed a child shall be entitled to breast augmentation or reduction, tummy tuck, vaginoplasty, liposuction, and a lifetime supply of SSRI's.

Section 7.  Botox is not a privilege, but a universal right.

Section 8.  End of Life Counseling (aka Death Panels) and abortion coverage shall be made available, free of charge and in exclusivity, to fans of  Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh. 

Section 9.  Every effort must be made to promote preventive health measures.  As such, gynecologist visits and mammograms shall be rewarded with Nordstrom vouchers.

Section 10.  CT scanners must broadcast Black Eyed Peas or Iz to decrease symptoms of claustrophobia and ennui. 

Section 11.  No officer of a private health insurance company may earn more money than God or Oprah Winfrey.

Section 12. There shall be a cure for the common cold, autism, AIDS, and all forms of cancer.

Section 13. All laws or parts of laws in conflict with this act are hereby repealed, reduced, or recycled.

Section 14. This act shall become effective on April 1, 2010 upon a majority vote by honest, working parents of the non-Vanderbiltian class.

Disclaimer

OK I have to say it.

The entries published herein are works of FICTION (stop freaking out Aunt Lisa!  Dad--that's not you!), and all names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of my imagination or are used fictitiously or are entirely too funny/ridiculous to go without mention. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is probably on purpose so I suggest you get over yourself. 

Should you find yourself suggested, parodied, named, or otherwise outrightly called out for the purposes of my silly musings feel free to meet me behind the playground after school.  I dare you.

Furthermore, should you even THINK about reproducing, copying/pasting, or otherwise jacking without my permission the content posted here I WILL SHANK YOU. 

Finally, should you feel slighted, left out, or otherwise unappreciated by me, my family, or my Gregories please cease and desist before polluting my blog with the indecency that is your drug-addled existence and mind your vagina. 

© Becky Pennington Powell

Insomnia is a Brillig Bitch and Other Meditations on the Frumiousness of ML.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

                          - Lewis Carroll
                          (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872) 

Sigh. I'm so sleepy I IS THAT A UNICORN PRANCING ACROSS THE CUL DE SAC oh never mind. Yawn. I've been up since 2AM. You? One night I'll learn to quit fighting my wily bogeyman and just get out  the bed when it so obviously, unequivocally, and indisputably appears that I'll not be revisiting dreamland again ante this meridiem. Really, it's a waste of imaginative energy and my heightened sense of drama to spend four hours each godawfully EARLY morning brooding over last year's Tax Deductions of Questionable Legality and the boy's heart arrythmia and the plight of the orphans of Haiti and OH MY GOD WHAT IF A COMET REALLY IS ON TRACK TO PUMMEL THE PLANET AND BRUCE WILLIS WAS DEAD ALL ALONG (curse you, M. Night. Shyamalan and I don't believe that's your real name either!) or I'm Pretty Sure That This Twitch In My Eye is MS.

And I get foot cramps. Paralyzing, agonizing, My-Toes-Are-Trying-To-Make-The-Vulcan-Salute-Entirely-Against-My-Will Cramps.

AND everyone in my house snores.  Seriously.  It's positively cacophonic.  Husband, children, dogs.  Cat.   OH HAI NALA ARE YOU FINALLY DYING I KEEP EXPECTING TO HEAR A DEATH RATTLE AT ANY MOMENT BUT INSTEAD IT APPEARS YOU HAVE SLEEP APNEA.  (purr/snore/suspend breathing...purr/snore/suspend breathing)

I should just slay the insomniac jabberwock, rise up from the covers and channel my uffish thoughts into writing the Great American Novel.  Burble, burble. Snicker-snack.  Really, what else is there to do at three in the morning but fire up the desktop (note that I mean this expression as the phrasal idiom it so obviously is in that I have successfully avoided setting fires at night ever since I fell back to sleep after having placed a frozen pizza in the oven only to wake up to hours later with the fire alarm screaming and a lump of charcoal in my new GE Profile built-in convection oven) and let the creative juices flow.

(Diagram THAT sentence, bitches....)

Sadly, at three in the EVER LOVING MORNING my words come out  more mimsy and outgrabed than Carrol's Walrus and soon I can't find any more of the little scoundrels and my stories fall flat as matzo.  Do you know what I can find a lot of at three o'clock in the morning?   Porn.  And lolcats.  Neither of which are conducive to my elbowing my way past Steinbeck and Vonnegut.  But damn they're funny.

Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas,
my front door gave to me
a newly dislocated knee.

(Don't ask.  OK I was running inside from the garage 'cause Baby It's Cold Outside and in my haste I kneecapped myself with my own front door.  Why yes, that DOES hurt.)  

On the second day of Christmas,

The fraser fir tree gave to me

Two itchy eyes

And a relentless need to sneeze.

On the third day of Christmas,
Having eaten everything in front of me
I gained three extra pounds,

(two of them from cookies!)

And had a relapse of anorexi

(a).

(OK I’m not really anorexic.  So STOP worrying me about my weight, people!  PLEASE.  I eat food.  I love food.)

 
On the fourth day of Christmas,
I drank too much brandy,
Four glasses eggnog,
Three cabernets,
Two Shiner Bocks,
And a hangover that nearly killed me.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my in-laws gave to me
Five Useless Things:
One laundry sorter,
Two drugstore perfumes, 

A baby-head garden stone,
And one of those electronic aquariums with fake fishies. 

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my mother gave to me

A photo session 
at Portrait Innovations

where I got

Some gorgeous pictures of my babies!

On the seventh day of Christmas, 

I drove out to Crabtree

(that’s one of the malls here, non-Triangular readers)

Had a nervous breakdown

Road-raged on a teenager

Saw the flashing blue lights

Got myself a ticket

Finally found a parking space

Then went on a rehabilitative shopping spree!

(One for her, two for me.  One for him, two for me….)

On the eighth day of Christmas,
the cat climbed up the tree, sending
Eight glass balls tumbling
Seven angels falling
Six Keepsake ornaments breaking
Five garland strands tangling
Four light strands shorting,
Three candy canes crumbling,
Two branches breaking,
And a big mess just for me to clean.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my kids they said to me,

“Mommy we’re BORED

Despite our stocking stuffers,

New electric scooter,

Pink Barbie Mustang

Playmobil vet clinic

Ten thousand legos

Board games and puzzles

Cinderella mp3 player

And the ever-elusive impossible-to-buy but Santa-brought-them-anyway Zhu-Zhu pets!”

(Child Protective Services is closed on Christmas.  I know this because on that day I tried to report myself as an imminent danger to my children.)

On the tenth day of Christmas, 

Bridger and Waverly

Ate too many cookies

Got a little hyper

Started running wild

That provoked their asthma

Necessitating albuterol

Which, ironically, is a stimulant

That makes them more hyper

Which results in wheezing

Perpetuating the cycle

Of respiratory distress and hyperactivity.

On the eleventh day of Christmas….

ELEVEN DAYS?  ELEVEN?

ARE YOU PEOPLE CRAZY?

*

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love he sent me 

To the place with the soft walls

And the funny jackets

(Not the black leather Frye one that I asked for)

The nurses here are real nice

And the drugs aren’t half-bad

And there are no kids here

Someone else cleans the kitchen

And they do the laundry

And there’s Peace on Earth and

jello cups and

Silent Nights

For me!