tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73015861451407873532024-03-14T04:25:21.020-05:00noodlerouxBecky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.comBlogger1175125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-9440440782028602772018-11-19T16:47:00.000-06:002018-11-19T17:01:36.917-06:00We are moving! We are moving!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You. Guys.<br />
<br />
I finally moved this here blog to new, luxurious digs. Please visit <a href="http://www.noodleroux.com/">www.noodleroux.com</a>.<br />
<br />
If you subscribe, THANK YOU! And I'm sorry, but you'll have to resubscribe at <a href="http://www.noodleroux.com/">www.noodleroux.com</a>. This ancient Blogger site has served me well, but all updates will be at <a href="http://www.noodleroux.com/">www.noodleroux.com</a> from here on out.<br />
<br />
I love you. That is all.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-21736917991130756212018-11-06T18:34:00.002-06:002018-11-06T19:04:59.820-06:00Lest you believe I have it together ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've had a cold, but with my new life partner DayQuil, I was feeling pretty swell yesterday.<br />
<br />
I washed my hair. I did laundry. I even ran some errands, meaning I left my house. It was a good day.<br />
<br />
When I was getting ready for bed, I discovered that I'd spent a good part of the day with a Halls cough drop in my bra.<br />
<br />
The good news is that it hadn't fully melted and irreparably melded my boob to my bra. The bad news was that it was melted to the paper so I had to throw it away. Oh, and also that I WENT TO THE HARDWARE STORE AND THE PET FOOD STORE WITH A COUGH DROP IN MY BRA AND PEOPLE WERE PROBABLY TOO NICE TO SAY ANYTHING BUT THEY TOTALLY NOTICED.<br />
<br />
If you need me, I've taken to my bed.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-41299413033170374992018-10-19T12:10:00.001-05:002018-10-19T12:10:45.996-05:00You're beautiful. And you smell good.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I like giving people compliments. If we're being honest, it's rather self-serving - making people feel good makes me feel good. And it's all about meeeeee!<br />
<br />
But I'm always amazed at how people respond. At yoga the other day, one of my classmates was wearing a big ol' t-shirt that had obviously been around a while ... but the color was pretty much the color she should wear all the time forever. She looked radiant.<br />
<br />
When class was over, I said, "I've got to tell you - that color is dynamite on you!" And I smiled and didn't think too much of it.<br />
<br />
She looked stricken. And then she said, "Oh my gosh. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. You made my year!"<br />
<br />
Soooo ... yay, I made her feel good. But ... that was the nicest thing? That was the highlight of her year? Oh honey. That hurt my heart. I figured things must be pretty brutal if that's how she felt, but at least I brought some sunshine in? It must be pretty sad if a random compliment has such a big impact.<br />
<br />
And then? Then I lost my shit over hearsay from 30 years ago.<br />
<br />
Here's the deal. My sweet, dear friend is always telling me I should be a storyteller on <a href="https://themoth.org/" target="_blank">The Moth</a>. I am so fortunate to have a pal who a) has known me since seventh grade; and b) still believes in me so wholeheartedly.<br />
<br />
She told me a story about how she'd told her mom about The Moth, and, well, you know her mom talks 24/7 and it's just part of her charm. And her mom had told our junior high school librarian about The Moth and how I should be on it.<br />
<br />
Small towns. Amiright?<br />
<br />
And then? Then, our junior high librarian said, "Oh, Becky Brown? Yeah, there was talk in the teachers' lounge about her. There was some question as to whether or not that writing was really hers because it was so good. But it turned out, nope, that's really her writing."<br />
<br />
Umm?<br />
<br />
I am 43 years old. I have, mercifully, been out of junior high for 28 years.<br />
<br />
But the idea that educators in the holy, inner sanctum of the junior high teachers' lounge thought I might be cheating or plagiarizing because my writing was so good?<br />
<br />
Well, it made my year. It turned me into my yoga classmate in the lovely green t-shirt. And it gave me a little perspective.<br />
<br />
We're all desperate for affirmation, for love, for kindness. (Evidently in my case, also for 30-year-old accusations of plagiarism.) Everybody seems to be mad at everybody else and we're hurting.<br />
<br />
It strengthened my compliment resolve.<br />
<br />
I try to say at least one nice thing each day to someone who is not a) my dog; or b) my spouse. But what if I upped that to two people each day? What if we all upped it to two people each day?<br />
<br />
By the way? You look really nice today.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-18185273440677839002018-09-07T16:13:00.000-05:002018-09-07T16:13:08.447-05:00Why I can't have fish.Once upon a time, in a land two hours away, I was a young 23-year-old loading up a U-Haul to move to the big city. My possessions included:<br />
<ul>
<li>The World's Most Uncomfortable Futon</li>
<li>A bed I'd bought for $75 (which included pillows and a set of sheets!)</li>
<li>The kitchen table my grandparents got when they were first married (My grandpa couldn't remember how much it cost in dollars, but he knew how many bushels of wheat it worked out to. #depressionmath)</li>
</ul>
My sweet friend who helped load the truck was very excited about a going-away gift she had for me. And that gift was ... a betta. A fish to keep me company as I moved to a big city where I knew no one.<br />
<br />
A fish I had to keep alive in a plastic bag of water in a U-Haul.<br />
<br />
But the fish survived our cross-country journey and we settled into a one-bedroom apartment wherein everything was beige. I named him Barry the Betta after The Grand Triumvirate of Barrys: Gibb, Manilow, and White. Because that's a concert I want to see.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And he was a showman. Obviously. And let's pretend this isn't a stock photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Barry lived in a little container on the kitchen counter, brightening up the joint with his bright blue hue. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but the really gorgeous seldom are. They haven't been forced to develop that skill.<br />
<br />
We lived not happily, but ok-ishly for a few months. Then, there was drama.<br />
<br />
One Saturday morning, I realized Barry was overdue for his routine tank cleaning. So, I scooped him up and left him in a glass of water while I proceeded to clean his little plastic home. Part of the deal was you had to let the new water sit for a bit before you put the fish back in. No biggie.<br />
<br />
Except I got hungry. So I made myself a sandwich. A tuna-salad sandwich. I went in the other room to eat.<br />
<br />
And when I returned, Barry the Betta was not in his little glass. He had flipped out of the glass, onto the counter, off the counter into the sink, out of the sink into the sink drain. His little blue body was still.<br />
<br />
Panic filled my body and a quick mental scan of the apartment showed me to be the only adult-like person around. I alone would have to deal with the emergency at hand.<br />
<br />
I picked Barry up and tossed his body into his little tank. And he started swimming around! Crisis averted!<br />
<br />
I then spent approximately four hours apologizing for making a tuna-fish sandwich in front of my fish roommate. Could I have been any more callous and cruel?<br />
<br />
It seemed like Barry and I made amends.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I arrived home from work to find the apartment quieter than usual, if that was even possible. A glance in the kitchen showed that Barry was lounging in the middle of the kitchen floor. As fish do.<br />
<br />
I walked towards him and took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline surge. Then I picked up Barry and tossed him back in his tank. It had worked before - surely it would work again, just like magic!<br />
<br />
But Barry didn't instantly start swimming. Barry just sort of bobbed along crookedly. It was then I realized that half of Barry was dried and stuck on the linoleum floor.<br />
<br />
Listen. Mistakes were made. I was young and not accustomed to the care of aquatic animals. But I share this tale of woe so that others may learn from my mistakes. <br />
<br />
Do not make your roommate think that you might eat him. And dead fish stick to linoleum.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-67015872172518607982018-08-13T16:38:00.000-05:002018-08-13T16:38:01.552-05:00Let's vacation in the desert.I caught the last 30 minutes of "The Poseidon Adventure" this weekend. Because I am good at life.<br />
<br />
Now, I have written some <a href="https://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2014/04/theres-got-to-be-morning-after.html" target="_blank">hard-hitting commentary</a> on this, the grand dame of all disaster flicks. And I say without shame that I love it. I love "The Poseidon Adventure." I love Gene Hackman. I love all the polyester. I love how Red Buttons puts the sweet man moves on that blonde girl and doesn't let the rest of the group know she can't swim.<br />
<br />
But I had a few epiphanies on this, only my second viewing of this cinematic masterpiece:<br />
<br />
1. For the love of all that is holy, I hope these people got some serious counseling after they were rescued. Since this was 1972, I'm guessing not. They were probably given a complementary cruise line t-shirt and sent on their way. But this entire experience (because I WILL NOT call anything that involves dying on vacation an "adventure") just screams PTSD.<br />
<br />
2. When the survivors are finally rescued, it's by these dudes in a helicopter that lands on the capsized boat. Uh, wouldn't that be super-dangerous for the helicopter and possibly cause The Poseidon to sink? Also, they get the people out of the hull of the boat and are all, "How many of you are there?" And when the folks answer, "Six," the rescuers are just like, "Oh. OK." And they load up the six people in the helicopter and fly away. What if there were more people the six folks just didn't know about? I guess they're just outta luck because the helicopter dudes have other cruise ships to land on.<br />
<br />
3. Everybody is always talking about what a lardass Shelley Winters was. Like, per the script, they're just fat shaming her left and right. And yet?<br />
<br />
Shelley looks just fine, like an older lady. Well, she looks just fine until she dies of a heart attack after saving Gene Hackman's life. It was ... not the most realistic death scene. But she died a hero! A hero who wasn't sideshow-fat-lady fat, thankyouverymuch.
<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hbI6r2uUtQg" width="560"></iframe><br />
Here's not-fat Shelley <i>doing her own stunts. Underwater. </i><br />
<br />
I would also like to mention that I was at a conference this spring where Maureen McGovern sang. I did not actually meet Ms. McGovern, but I now feel like I have a special "in" with the cast of "The Poseidon Adventure." Like, I'm pretty sure Gene Hackman will be stopping by at Christmas. As long as Christmas isn't on a boat because OMG none of these people should ever get on a boat ever again. Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-22176230062325736142018-07-20T11:05:00.001-05:002018-07-22T11:40:55.703-05:00Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. Or, how many moms you got?"<a href="http://diaryofadyingmom.blogspot.com/2008/09/mother-and-child-reunion.html" target="_blank">Life gives you lots of mothers</a>."<br />
<br />
It's true. I'm blessed with an amazing "real" mom. But I've been guided and comforted by many other moms, too.<br />
<br />
There was Debby, the woman I worked with in college, who drove me home - completely out of her way - when it was really cold. And Mylene, the coworker at my first job in a big city, who took me under her wing - and then freakin' helped me move out of a very bad situation. And Lynn, who took one look at me and knew I could use a funny and kind friend. All such important mothers.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I had Marsha. She was BFF's mom, and her house was always open. She and her husband were the kind of folks who never carpeted their family room, so the kids could hang out there and not have any worries.<br />
<br />
Marsha had a huge laugh and was always going off on an adventure. She biked across Iowa and then around the Netherlands three times. She broke her wrist learning how to rollerblade when she was … a lot older than I am now.<br />
<br />
Marsha passed away a few weeks ago.<br />
<br />
It wasn't unexpected, and it was in many ways a relief. Alzheimer's is the worst, worst, worst.<br />
<br />
I was so focused on being present and strong for BFF. We cleaned out her mom's room at the care center. We joked about all the casseroles and all the folks stopping by the house.<br />
<br />
Our posse did shots in the bathroom of the funeral home.<br />
<br />
We climbed to the top of the rocket slide in the city park late at night, still dressed up from the visitation.<br />
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/7776581@N04/8622686833" target="_blank"><i>Source</i></a></div>
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We looked like adults even if we were scared kids.<br />
<br />
It was OK.<br />
<br />
And then the morning of the funeral, as a dear friend and I were walking towards the church? I saw the hearse. And I turned away and said, "Hold on - I need to stand here and lose my shit."<br />
<br />
They were going to take Marsha away. I'd seen her. I knew she was gone. But a hearse? A hearse made it real. So I stood on a sidewalk and made guttural noises into a dainty handkerchief.<br />
<br />
We all need a mom, and I have been fortunate to have many good ones.<br />
<br />
At the funeral luncheon in the church basement, I sat with BFF's brother. We hadn't seen each other in at least 15 years. He said he was surprised to learn I didn't have kids.<br />
<br />
"Well, things didn't turn out the way I planned," I said. And then some spirit took over my body and I continued, "But this way I get to focus on being the best aunt. And we all have many mothers, and I get to be a surrogate mom to the people around me. Like your mom was for me."<br />
<br />
Yes. Just like that.<br />
<br />
I promise to pay it forward, Marsha. Thank you.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-50203122905625421822018-04-12T17:55:00.000-05:002018-04-12T17:55:32.049-05:00Anti-depressants and Indian food.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Listen. If that title isn't an SEO gold mine, I don't know what is.<br />
<br />
Today was my follow-up med check with my doctor. You know, the appointment in which you have to be somewhat crazy ("Please refill my prescription.") but not too crazy ("Like, I don't need to be committed or anything."). It's a fine line. It stressed me out.<br />
<br />
My doc is so, so nice. We talked about how I'm feeling (Better but anxious like worrying is my J-O-B.). We talked about adding another med (In theory, I'm against any med that makes you need another med, but at this point? I DO NOT FUCKING CARE.). And then she gently said, "You know, some people just need to be on these medications. Their brains don't produce these substances and there's no stigma to being on medication long-term."<br />
<br />
And then I cried just enough to get red-faced and blotchy.<br />
<br />
And then it was OK. Except I was all blotchy and had that "Oh, she just cried" look. And we get health care through my husband's work, so the clinic is in his actual office building. And I was meeting him for lunch, in the cafeteria, amongst hundreds of his peers.<br />
<br />
Sigh. I just decided it was fine. My handbag arsenal consisted only of lipstick, and adding more pink to the situation wasn't going to help.<br />
<br />
I met My Guy and he showed me around the café ... which is redonkulous. He works for a tech company and the cafeteria is a lot like Google, except you still have to pay for your food. But it's basically the fanciest food court you can imagine with all sorts of options.<br />
<br />
I'm a vegetarian, so finding non-lettuce food can be a challenge. But the Indian station had several veggie options. We ordered at the fancy kiosk. And then I waited for my food at the Indian station. It's all very high-tech - they have a video board and you can watch your name move up as they fill orders.<br />
<br />
I waited, the only white person. And let's be honest: that is just fine, because white people need to have that experience. But also? Indian food is amazing! White people need to get with the program!<br />
<br />
So I waited, and the guy behind the counter was yelling at people and quickly filling orders. Finally, it was my turn.<br />
<br />
I stood at the counter. And the fast-moving yelling guy just stopped and looked at me.<br />
<br />
He looked at the food. And he looked at the little white lady in front of him. And then he said, "This is hot."<br />
<br />
I just looked at him. Because duh.<br />
<br />
He tried again. "This is SPICY."<br />
<br />
I waited a beat. "Yeah?"<br />
<br />
Finally, he was sort of like, "Your funeral, lady" and threw some food in a container and threw it at me.<br />
<br />
I got racially profiled at lunch!<br />
<br />
For the record, the food was spicy but it wasn't SPICY. It was "I drank a bunch of water" spicy, not "Give me all the dairy products to put in my mouth forever" spicy. It was delicious and I ate all of it.<br />
<br />
The lunch date with My Guy softened my heart about, you know, being on 17 antidepressants until the end of time. (OK, two. Two antidepressants.) Because he is cute and funny and was impressed that his little white lady wife ate all the spicy Indian food after the trauma of being racially profiled.<br />
<br />
I mentioned this story to my friend who is Fake Asian. She grew up in Iowa but is Korean but ... SHE GREW UP IN IOWA. She reported that when she's out with white friends, she can order Thai food that's a seven on the one to 10 spicy scale and the waitstaff doesn't blink. But if a white friend orders a seven, the waiter is invariably all, "Oh, are you sure? That's super, super hot."<br />
<br />
Are people with less pigment genetically incapable of eating spicy food? Did I miss something?<br />
<br />
To be fair, I was blotchy at lunch. Maybe the fast-moving yelling guy thought I'd already ingested something too spicy. You know, something like Sprite.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-12718566943071908972018-04-02T18:00:00.000-05:002018-04-02T18:00:55.872-05:00Depression, my DVR, RuPaul, and learning to be real.I went off my antidepressants last year. I just kind of wanted to see what would happen. And it was … fine. It just felt like there were more peaks and valleys.<br />
<br />
Well, and as an unmedicated empath, it felt like I was walking around naked. And people would shave my skin off with a cheese slicer, shove their problems into my body, and then try to sort of slap my skin back over it in an “Ehh, good enough” half-assed gesture.
But it was fine.<br />
<br />
I wrote this big long blog about antidepressants and my experience going off of them and how powerwashing my MIL’s house was the key to getting over the withdrawal zaps and I how needed to be bold and talk about it and things were OK and blah blah blah. Except I never published that blog.<br />
<br />
Probably because subconsciously, I knew that things weren’t OK. Shit was building up.<br />
<br />
I’m just going to be straight with you. After about seven months, I started crying a lot. And being a royal witch to my husband. And feeling super put out anytime anyone asked me for anything – including paying clients.<br />
<br />
And then? Then, our DVR betrayed me.<br />
<br />
Our DVR is 97 years old because neither of us can stand the thought of calling DirectTV and haggling to get new equipment or dumping them entirely, only to sign up again next week so we could get new equipment. DirectTV? Your customer service model leaves a lot to be desired.<br />
<br />
So, we have this DVR that’s made out of an old gramophone and some piano wire and probably real cocaine, since it used to be in everything.<br />
<br />
And our coked-up, elderly DVR did not record the finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars Season Three.<br />
<br />
My Guy immediately started looking for online alternatives – the Comedy Central app, streaming, all of it. He kept a watchful eye on me, his indignant life partner. I turned away from him. And then I buried my face in the sofa cushions and completely lost my shit.<br />
<br />
And that? That was the moment that I knew I needed to go back on an antidepressant.<br />
<br />
It’s been a rough few weeks. Once you hit rock bottom, then you have to sit there in the rocky bottomness while a) you procure meds; b) the meds start to kick in; and c) the meds build up enough to have a consistent effect.<br />
<br />
I’ve been crying a lot. I’ve had pretty much zero concentration. I feel like I need to apologize to the world for my broken brain and inability to just get over it already.<br />
<br />
But, you know, here I am. Still here. Like a motherfucking warrior. So, there’s that.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-4008194633458302072018-03-12T21:07:00.000-05:002018-03-12T21:07:02.632-05:00Infertility is like a gopher. I've got a real problem with necks.<br />
<br />
A dear friend recently asked me out of the blue, in public, "I noticed you have all those bumps on your face and neck. What are they? Are they going to go away?"<br />
<br />
It was like a maggot-filled squirrel carcass had been dropped in my lap. What? I was shocked and didn't have time for the gracious response. Instead, my mouth opened and I said, "Yeah. That's from when I was trying to get pregnant. I didn't get a baby but I did get a horrible facial deformity. It's permanent. Not that I'm bitter."<br />
<br />
I sounded like a hateful old hag.<br />
<br />
For those playing along at home, I'm referring to the bumps along my jawline that are basically <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2017/01/infertility-silver-lining.html" target="_blank">uterine fibroids on my face</a>. Since they're on my jawline and mercifully not painful, I kind of forget about them. But they're obviously ... obvious.<br />
<br />
I've been ruminating on why this exchange bothered me. Is it because we like to believe people see our fantasy selves instead of the uterine-fibroids-and-all truth? When <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2018/01/i-would-make-terrible-action-star.html" target="_blank">I had a black eye</a>, I was amazed by how many people didn't notice it or pretended not to. Are we just used to people not seeing us? Or do we depend on the dream that our faults aren't discernible to the naked eye?<br />
<br />
In the midst of my navel gazing, I went to the grocery store. Under even the best of circumstances, this trip makes me moderately homicidal. This day was no exception.<br />
<br />
There was a couple bickering over what type of bread to purchase. They had an infant in their cart and were sporting sweatpants that suggested sleep and laundry were not happening on the regular. They weren't adorable new parents - they were haggard and haggling and not being their Oprah best selves.<br />
<br />
The guy also had a series of huge neck tattoos that had clearly not been considered all together. They had been plotted individually, and he'd hoped they'd make a pleasing whole.<br />
<br />
They did not.<br />
<br />
The tattoo closest to my critical harpy eye was some sort of green monster. It was not a known character. Maybe it was his own art. Maybe it didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Or maybe it's exactly what he hoped for and a representation of how all his dreams were coming true. But I looked at that tattoo with disdain and thought, "Oh, fer Christ's sake. You clearly make horrible life decisions and yet even you are entrusted with a baby. Fuuuuuck riiiiight offfffff."<br />
<br />
It was not one of my kindest, most loving moments.<br />
<br />
I am a selfish, horrible person, which is not a surprise. But I was surprised by my vitriol towards this man. The thing about infertility is that after a while, it's fine. Fine-ish. Fine-adjacent, anyway. And then it pops up like the gopher in "Caddyshack," all "Hey! Remember me!" And you're all, "Sonofa bee sting! What the hell?"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpK75At4VdK5TbpqqBv6AToKYjwzdEjTUjZRPqqhd6vTeHz0rjMbxaMNmsb3tR30xVRUaM5CMTf5uf8amx1D0w8Ob2RgBvVOlX1LAQ5nVLIXl-nzCiApIrMyfYMCOmUlhugegG3iSWlX8/s1600/gopher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpK75At4VdK5TbpqqBv6AToKYjwzdEjTUjZRPqqhd6vTeHz0rjMbxaMNmsb3tR30xVRUaM5CMTf5uf8amx1D0w8Ob2RgBvVOlX1LAQ5nVLIXl-nzCiApIrMyfYMCOmUlhugegG3iSWlX8/s320/gopher.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
I hope I didn't give neck tattoo guy obvious stink-eye. If I did, it wasn't about him - it was about me, which I guess is a good lesson. I'm trying to find a larger, feel-good life lesson for all of this. So far, what' I've got is "Don't look at people's necks."<br />
<br />
I don't think that offers a lot of value. Like, it's not going to get me on Oprah's "Super Soul Sunday," unless it's a very special episode wherein everyone wears turtlenecks.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it would be an episode that's all, "I have a black, black heart, but I'm trying. What about you?"Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-12333775368978876332018-02-26T17:25:00.001-06:002018-02-26T17:25:46.561-06:00Stalking is fun!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW12niv78Bdb4BZet_4bl-IyC1coBlcOGtiHHYUoc1b1MT6kMHL2bATK4eM1pCQlNLV2UT6lzhagh1KNU4JPVHI0TSP8Pu6MTVLZigoHZjUB-zXUljLADKZwaqgxkxzSNh8LnPhIJJaz4b/s1600/grocery+noodleroux.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="868" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW12niv78Bdb4BZet_4bl-IyC1coBlcOGtiHHYUoc1b1MT6kMHL2bATK4eM1pCQlNLV2UT6lzhagh1KNU4JPVHI0TSP8Pu6MTVLZigoHZjUB-zXUljLADKZwaqgxkxzSNh8LnPhIJJaz4b/s320/grocery+noodleroux.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
Remember that time I stalked my grocery bagger?<br />
<br />
Oh, wait! That's ALL THE TIME FOREVER.<br />
<br />
Let's face it: I love this young man. If you must know why, I am happy to recap:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2014/03/big-things-are-little-things-and-little.html" target="_blank">He was ... not skilled at bagging groceries</a>. He would not make eye contact with anyone and seemed to wish the floor would open up and swallow him whole.</li>
<li><a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2014/06/like-butterfly.html" target="_blank">Months later, I noticed him retrieving carts</a>. He was smiling with beautiful, movie star teeth. Later, I saw him getting picked up from work. He let out an exuberant "Woo-hoo!" to celebrate the end of the workday.</li>
<li><a href="https://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2016/12/lets-hear-it-for-boy.html" target="_blank">Months after that, he bagged my groceries</a> ... with the canned goods on the bottom and the produce on the top. But that is not even remotely important. What's important is that this man who would barely acknowledge anyone now looked up and told me to have a nice day.</li>
</ul>
I know. I know!<br />
<br />
Y'all, I am going to tell you want happened last time I was at the HyVee.<br />
<br />
The woman with the fabulous earrings was checking out my gajillion groceries. And she made a little joke to my bagger boyfriend, and he laughed and joked back. And then? Then, he started singing along to the Shania Twain song on the Muzak. He knew all the words.<br />
<br />
Now, I would like some sort of award or at least a participant's ribbon for keeping my shit together. I acted so cool, like it was no big deal that my bagger boyfriend was comfortable in his own skin, like I hadn't been witness to a slo-mo miracle over the last four years.<br />
<br />
I channeled my inner 14-year-old and acted like nothing impressed me. I didn't even get excited when my bagger boyfriend asked if I needed help out to my car. I answered "no" because let's be honest - the temptation to kidnap him would be too great.<br />
<br />
I channeled my inner Fonzie and was so cool, but then I smiled all the way out to my car, and the whole time I was loading the car, and basically the whole ride home.<br />
<br />
Going to the grocery can make me moderately homicidal. The lack of cart etiquette alone is ... challenging. I'm worried that all my wrath means I miss out on all the good stuff around me. So, I focus on my bagger and try to go from there.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-86049635963823532982018-01-31T08:06:00.001-06:002018-01-31T08:06:58.636-06:00I would make a terrible action star.I have a black eye. Courtesy of Walter the Wonderdoodle.<br />
<br />
He's a baby. And he weighs 60 pounds. And he isn't quite sure what to do with his body. And he is only moderately well-behaved, for which I take at least partial responsibility.<br />
<br />
But I was trying to be a good mom. Really, I was. He'd been cooped up in the house all day, so I got some tennis balls out. Of course, all of our dog toys are stored in the refrigerator. It's the one place where Walter and Li'l Frank are all, "Oh, so, shit just got real. That's really put away."<br />
<br />
So, I got two tennis balls out so that the kids could run off a little energy before going to bed. And since it was late and I've all but given up on keeping our wood floors nice, we played ball in the house. As you do.<br />
<br />
I grabbed at Walter and caught him ... but he didn't stop. He kept running, bringing me along with him. What stopped my forward trajectory was an upholstered dining room chair. <br />
<br />
You know what part of an upholstered dining room chair isn't exactly upholstered? The top corner. Yep. That part of the chair may look upholstered, but it is pointy and hard. I hit it with my eye socket.<br />
<br />
Now, I love me some Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. He is funny and self-deprecating and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/therock/" target="_blank">his Instagram feed</a> is kind and inspiring.<br />
<br />
But within about 10 seconds of ramming my tender eye area into a chair, I thought, "The Rock is a lying liar!"<br />
<br />
In his movies, if he gets partially blown up or breaks his entire body, he's still all, "We've got to save the kids" or whatever. And he keeps moving. And he always has some sort of cut that really needs stitches but he keeps going and you think, "Oh, it's not that bad."<br />
<br />
But within 10 seconds of my Major Facial Injury? I was crying like a baby into my icepack and asking my husband to take the dog outside and beat him. (My Guy demurred because he's not a monster.)<br />
<br />
Y'all? My face hurt so badly. And if you saw me, you'd be all, "Yeah, you've got an inch-long bruise on your face. So ... what else is new?" And then I'd be all, "YOU MUST RESPECT MY DEBILITATING WOUND!"<br />
<br />
It's a few days later and I'm still amazed by how tender my delicate ladyeyeball area is. And although the black eye is fading into yellow and green, I still feel like I was somehow treated wrongly. The bruise should have been bigger, darker, or perhaps accompanied by flashing neon lights so that people would understand the depths of my suffering.<br />
<br />
I would make a horrible action star. I am the anti-Dwayne. Instead of running off to save the kids from the earthquake or whatever, I'd be all, "Uhhh. You guys? This really hurts. Can someone tend to me? What? The dinosaurs have hijacked the Pentagon? But I'm actively bruising ..."<br />
<br />
I guess we all have our special gifts.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-6861956359056542782018-01-29T09:59:00.000-06:002018-02-18T12:34:12.657-06:00Detergent, defeat ... and redemption.I have the cleanest spare tire in all the land!<br />
<br />
That is the only silver lining I could find, and I'm going to stick with it.<br />
<br />
I bought a bottle of laundry detergent at Target. And then, like a fool, I put it in the trunk of my car. When I went to unload my bounty of cleaning supplies, paper towels, and trail mix, I found that the detergent and fallen on its side ... and the cap hadn't been secure. The trunk of my car was soggy with Seventh Generation Free & Clear.<br />
<br />
Now, I got a new car a few months ago. I traded in my grey '03 Honda Accord for ... a grey '17 Honda Accord. I keep my stuff nice, so that '03 was in great shape. But finally having a new car has put me on high alert. No, I will not be parking by that hoopty that screams, "Free door dings." And I won't be hauling mulch in this car anytime soon.<br />
<br />
But failed to see the danger of detergent. Oh, the detergent.<br />
<br />
It got on everything. I will spare you the details, but here are the low points:<br />
<ul>
<li>The detergent soaked the carpet in the trunk and dripped down into the compartment with the spare.</li>
<li>Liquid detergent is sticky and hard to clean. If you Google it, the results are basically, "Dude, you are fucked."</li>
<li>I ended up with my ice scraper, all my reusable shopping bags, and my ancient-yet-beloved suede messenger bag drying in my bathtub. It took forever to rinse them off.</li>
<li>I sopped the detergent out of the carpet using two rolls of paper towels. It was not the most ecologically friendly option, but I was desperate and mired in defeat.</li>
</ul>
All told, that's three hours of my life I'll never get back. At the end of it, I found myself, wine in totally dry and chapped hand, watching "RuPaul's Drag Race."<br />
<br />
My Guy suggested we go out to eat. He is smart like that and also probably feared my wrath.<br />
<br />
At the Mexican restaurant, I decided to continue my run of imbibing moderately priced white wine. Yes, I know Mexican restaurants aren't known for their stellar wine selections. I didn't care. I ordered a class of pinot grigio. The waitress clearly was not prepared for such a non-tequila-based request, but she scribbled something on her notepad. Then, she asked to see ID.<br />
<br />
It was my turn to be totally unprepared. I dug my wallet out of the very bottom of my purse, figuring she'd been instructed to card all the people all the time. She apologized as I handed her my ID. And then she started laughing.<br />
<br />
"Oh my god! Oh my god!" she said. "I don't believe it! You're older than my mom!"<br />
<br />
Whut?<br />
<br />
"Your skin - how do you get it to look like that?"<br />
<br />
And then? Then I rose above my station in life. No longer was I the shrew who'd been hunched over the trunk of her car for hours, bemoaning the roving packs of young ruffians who were obviously loosening the lids on bottles of detergent merely for sport. No. I morphed into a gracious, gorgeous woman, ready to lead youth onto the righteous path of proper skincare.<br />
<br />
My Guy jumped in first. "She moisturizes like 17 times a day."<br />
<br />
I eyed him, them turned to the waitress. "You are so kind. All it is is sunscreen. Use sunscreen every day."<br />
<br />
She looked at My Guy. "And moisturize? I should get some moisturizer?"<br />
<br />
She was all of 20 years old, if that. "A moisturizer that has a sunscreen in it will treat you right," I said in my effervescent, naturally gorgeous way. I did not mention my recent realization that my skin looks good because I have a fat face.<br />
<br />
The waitress put her hand to the soft spot between her chin and her check. "I'm already noticing changes and I don't like any of it!"<br />
<br />
Now, here, admittedly, I got a little "Oh, honey, get used to it." But she thanked me for the advice and went off to get our drinks. I tried to convince My Guy that we should adopt her.<br />
<br />
Later, she approached the table apologetically, with urging from another waiter. "Umm, I'm sorry, but we don't have pinot grigio. But we do have chardonnay ... or merlot." She pronounced the latter as it really should be pronounced: mer-LOT.<br />
<br />
I smiled and said the chardonnay would be fine.<br />
<br />
After she left, My Guy and I smiled at each other. "I love her," I said.<br />
<br />
He shook his head. "We can't take her home. But we're going to have to tip her sooooooo much."Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-8417154572962538692018-01-02T17:53:00.001-06:002018-01-02T17:53:57.260-06:00Fat, dachshunds, dental care, crying in public, and why I shouldn't be allowed to leave my house.I made a very kind vet tech cry today. It was an event 11 years in the making.<br />
<br />
Let me explain.<br />
<br />
Li'l Frankfurter has a long history of being too thin. When I first met him eight years ago, he was thin-ish but fine. Then, six months in? He had <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2009/10/big-trouble-with-little-dog.html" target="_blank">emergency surgery</a> to remove carpet backing from his intestines. I don't have any carpet in my house (see also: dogs). He'd had the carpet backing in his system for months, if not years. It messed his gut <i>up</i>.<br />
<br />
We had great success working with a holistic vet and <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2014/11/my-phat-dachshund.html" target="_blank">Li'l Frank gained weight</a>. And then those tricks stopped working and the vet moved out of the country and well, he just got thin. Too thin.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52l8nJOfu2noNWWlJfSelkpkfZaevBY2g9tzH18IyzJ8ey2nOR_WImMAELKWSpepRJmHx1JfRC22pouV3SSF7be3b72Shvkj8RxSuGKNGGFcrLU42Vzqv-6A1CoKmBEofhDycNyymjbP7/s1600/too+thin+doxie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52l8nJOfu2noNWWlJfSelkpkfZaevBY2g9tzH18IyzJ8ey2nOR_WImMAELKWSpepRJmHx1JfRC22pouV3SSF7be3b72Shvkj8RxSuGKNGGFcrLU42Vzqv-6A1CoKmBEofhDycNyymjbP7/s400/too+thin+doxie.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It hurts to look at this photo. I'm not gonna lie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In August, we started seeing a new holistic vet. My baby boy has gained and gained and gained and is now a new dog. When you weigh five pounds and gain another four? It's a game-changer. <br />
<br />
Now, he looks like a dachshund! Behold, the thick layer of neck fat! My Guy refers to it as Frank's "neck cankle." And our friends now refer to our once-sickly doxie as "beefcake."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMGIXGOGTtmaAWl7q084V78Q0_s70Xxb8ufvoUE2ZuVysepCqgyGJWj3kPbHkUF10cp4BHrMfG2q-x0puiLdoNJ_JVsEdtNXeqPudGuWezvo_BjSclIMMyZhX757zVgqhOVaFnuYlPStG/s1600/phat+doxie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMGIXGOGTtmaAWl7q084V78Q0_s70Xxb8ufvoUE2ZuVysepCqgyGJWj3kPbHkUF10cp4BHrMfG2q-x0puiLdoNJ_JVsEdtNXeqPudGuWezvo_BjSclIMMyZhX757zVgqhOVaFnuYlPStG/s1600/phat+doxie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMGIXGOGTtmaAWl7q084V78Q0_s70Xxb8ufvoUE2ZuVysepCqgyGJWj3kPbHkUF10cp4BHrMfG2q-x0puiLdoNJ_JVsEdtNXeqPudGuWezvo_BjSclIMMyZhX757zVgqhOVaFnuYlPStG/s400/phat+doxie.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So phat. And demanding!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's such a blessing. And you know what blessings mean: dental hygiene!<br />
<br />
I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to teach Li'l Frank how to floss. However, he now weighs enough to withstand a dental cleaning with the new vet.<br />
<br />
Now, in the past, <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2009/12/i-cant-hear-you-over-whining.html?m=0" target="_blank">I have been a little chippy, if you will, about the veterinary! professional! dental! cleaning</a>! But Frank's mouth was a stinky mess. It was time.<br />
<br />
Today was the day. The kid had three little teeth pulled and came through like a champion.<br />
<br />
When I picked him up, the vet provided a report card, complete with Li'l Frank's photo. Except they gave me two report cards - one with a photo from September, and one with a photo from today.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHVS0aLSDExLAsV1_03LMdjk94SrcZk1LQ9nYao02at-GiMVXMcDI_PsWI_b9mOG9TUNrArAojpojxKRlzrYAkvAVpKO8Sh1L2XkESJy-y92dVWOMx1j4keiRJPGDK7ysnPP3w1yDY8vL/s1600/before+and+after+doxie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="1600" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHVS0aLSDExLAsV1_03LMdjk94SrcZk1LQ9nYao02at-GiMVXMcDI_PsWI_b9mOG9TUNrArAojpojxKRlzrYAkvAVpKO8Sh1L2XkESJy-y92dVWOMx1j4keiRJPGDK7ysnPP3w1yDY8vL/s400/before+and+after+doxie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I know. I know!<br />
<br />
And that "before" photo was after he'd gained a pound because we forgot to take his photo when we first started seeing the new vet. My poor boy. But look at him now - so furry! So robust!<br />
<br />
So, I was already a touch delicate. I had been worried that the anesthesia would be troublesome, or that the kid would need to have all his teeth removed. But we were looking at the best possible outcome. And I was reminded of just how far my little boy had come.<br />
<br />
The vet tech shared my relief and went on and on about how well Frank did and what a good boy he was. She also mentioned that before they put him under, he dropped a giant deuce in the middle of the table, because that's just the kind of guy he is. We laughed.<br />
<br />
Then, she showed me before and after photos of his teeth. She pointed out his top, front teeth.<br />
<br />
"These teeth are really worn down," she said. "Does he chew or ... is he in a kennel a lot?"<br />
<br />
"Well, my best guess is that he was a puppy mill dog, so ..."<br />
<br />
She was visibly relieved. "Oh, that makes perfect sense! We see this a lot in puppy mill dogs. They get so agitated that they chew the bars of the cage. And see this curve on the back of his canines? A lot of the time, they'll hook their canine teeth around a bar and just work it, trying desperately to get out."<br />
<br />
Now, I will admit that I want to kill this dog at least once a day. But he is a trusting, kind, loving spirit. And the idea of him being treated so horribly, of being so desperate to get out of a cage that he wore down his front teeth and wore grooves into his canines? Well ... I started to cry in the middle of the vet waiting room.<br />
<br />
"Oh, honey, I didn't mean to make you upset!" the vet tech said. Then she teared up. "The good news is that nobody here cries alone. I can't help it."<br />
<br />
"Oh, no, I'm sorry! It's OK - he's so spoiled now. I just ..." I didn't have the words. So I asked about some post-op instructions even though I already knew the answer.<br />
<br />
I got Li'l Frank home and he is appropriately loopy. Right now, he's curled up in a blanket on my lap and making sounds like a pigeon. And I kind of can't stop crying.<br />
<br />
I know I am doing right by this dog. But sometimes I'm amazed by how much the world hurts. It's like the bitter cold air right now - it hurts to coexist with it. My heart seems to grow more and more tender and I just can't even stand the thought of some things. It's like the world is one giant ASPCA ad.<br />
<br />
So, I'm going to dote on this big little dog who sounds like he is leaking air. I'll focus on that and hope my face stops leaking fluids.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-45355498211524151062017-12-04T14:54:00.000-06:002017-12-04T14:54:07.804-06:00When your show and tell is a human.My husband loves to play disc golf. So, when we travel, we often find local disc golf stores. They're usually strip-mall affairs peopled by the disc golf world's version of stoner surfer dudes. But the folks are always nice and quick with a referral to a good local course. We support a local business. Everybody wins.<br />
<br />
Our most recent local disc golf shop was something else. It was inside an office building and was a disc golf shop-slash-insurance billing office. But the owner? Well, he was a gem.<br />
<br />
As My Guy looked at the assortment of discs, the shop owner told us about two local courses that would be a good fit. And, well, they were both named after guys who had been instrumental in bringing the sport to town. They were his high school history teacher and that teacher's best friend.<br />
<br />
And then? Then, this gentleman whipped out his high school yearbook. It easily fell open to a page that had obviously been accessed often and displayed a quarter-page photo of a guy who looked like Jim Henson.<br />
<br />
"See, in 1979, 1980, you were supposed to respect and fear your teachers," he said. "But Jim wasn't that kind of guy. He made you feel important. He'd be walking down the hall with other teachers, and he'd leave them to come talk to you. He'd give you a hug and ask about you and make you feel like a person. <br />
<br />
"Well, he started the first disc golf tournament in town, and got me and my buddies into the sport." He pulled a disc off the wall. "This was the disc from that tourney. I felt pretty special having this disc that my teacher gave me. Talk about feeling like a big man the next Monday at school!"<br />
<br />
Somewhere in this dialogue, I went from being charmed to being completely torn apart and oozing with love for this man and his history teacher.<br />
<br />
Cancer got the teacher in the 90s. But he made such a big impact that my new friend keeps his 40-year-old yearbook at the ready, poised to talk about the man who had such a big impact on his life.<br />
<br />
Life goals: be so kind that someone keeps your yearbook at the ready.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-72504989637052704122017-11-09T16:07:00.001-06:002017-11-09T16:07:11.728-06:00Priorities and grace.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzennKudDRkUfIpmPfXKkYzfxUtlqoVC2w800WdTi3wBjz0S_lSYcCYivQgM265n7BUKpHSKmtXG4b9EkF4J7Soht9a21w9JGKq44OXFExLsn3kubrVCcw7cs-riMlEDRgGXsbe8ghsjh/s1600/voting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="1272" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzennKudDRkUfIpmPfXKkYzfxUtlqoVC2w800WdTi3wBjz0S_lSYcCYivQgM265n7BUKpHSKmtXG4b9EkF4J7Soht9a21w9JGKq44OXFExLsn3kubrVCcw7cs-riMlEDRgGXsbe8ghsjh/s320/voting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I voted on Tuesday. You know, like a decent human.<br />
<br />
As I was driving up to my polling place, I saw a woman striding with purpose down the sidewalk. And I thought, "That woman is gonna go git it done at the polls!" I was delighted when I saw her walk up to the church basement where the voting magic was taking place. Up close, she was kind of scary. She moved fast and she was not messing around - she was there to get her democracy on. I liked her.<br />
<br />
At 2 in the afternoon, there was a tiny bit of a wait - I had to stand in line behind one person. But it gave me time to appreciate the red, white, and blue apparel donned by the volunteers. Plus? People were voting, even though we didn't have anything sexy on the ballot. Revolution starts at home, so I researched those water board candidates and was going to make my voice heard, dammit.<br />
<br />
I voted. And as I was finishing up, an older gentleman came in. The volunteers took his ID and asked him to verify his address. And this lovely man said, "I have dementia, so this is hard for me. But I think it's ..." And then he rattled off an address.<br />
<br />
I left. Well, I left the building but sat in my car and cried.<br />
<br />
Last year, after voting? I also sat in my car and cried. I cried because I didn't have words to express how I felt about voting for a woman for president. I was proud and excited. And I tried to explain to my husband that this vote was for every boy who told me I was "just a girl," for all those times I was told to shut up or was talked over, for all of it. But I didn't have the words.<br />
<br />
This year, I cried because the last year has been exhausting and scary and sad. But mostly I cried for the sweet man in the khaki jacket, who shared that reciting his address was a challenge. I admire his honesty and his bravery. And I'm so thankful that he saw voting as a priority. He didn't stay home, even if he didn't have the words. He went out and did the work to be done.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-35952569739257256962017-10-27T09:06:00.001-05:002017-10-27T11:41:16.786-05:00Dreams come true: dog pee edition.My worst nightmare is having a house that smells like dog pee. Forget zombies or that dream where you're at the grocery store nekkid. Having a house that smells and that people talk about behind my back is my number one fear.<br />
<br />
This is Li'l Frankfurter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9os7lMbtDKGCOteNVkUrekjAHi6BRDRaQgLVLkMHetBWs0l8ewiV2rCKtK1lOs4BVjmhuYHxv2V54UP6Ra6aEOUlBpMcPvsj0ZA06P-9NTd6v46E81fJNvO5SxhylP7LoP0iZxtpNxK0R/s1600/sleep+on+your+toys+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1506" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9os7lMbtDKGCOteNVkUrekjAHi6BRDRaQgLVLkMHetBWs0l8ewiV2rCKtK1lOs4BVjmhuYHxv2V54UP6Ra6aEOUlBpMcPvsj0ZA06P-9NTd6v46E81fJNvO5SxhylP7LoP0iZxtpNxK0R/s320/sleep+on+your+toys+FB.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you sleep on your toys, that keeps your dog bro from filching your stuff.</td></tr>
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He's a dachshund. He does not give a rat's ass about anything. Sure, he'll go potty outside ... if you remind him. But now that it's getting colder? Nope. Left to his own devices, he'd happily pee behind the couch.<br />
<br />
Yeah. I rearranged our living room furniture because "behind the couch" became a magical land where all dog folk could do whatever they wanted. Now, there is no "behind the couch." And Li'l Frank has been feeling ... displaced.<br />
<b><br /></b>
So, our TV room is where the kennels are. And it's been smelling a little funky as of late. Why yes, just last week, I washed all our floors with hot water and vinegar. Yeah, on my hands and knees. But no, I didn't move the couch in the TV room. It's heavy and I was already in need of both attitude and chiropractic adjustments.<br />
<br />
But last night? Last night, I noticed a few drops of liquid on the floor, right at the corner of said heavy couch. You know, right next to Li'l Frank's kennel? Some paper towel investigation showed that Li'l Frank had marked the corner of the couch ... and there was an ocean of urine under the couch.<br />
<br />
I moved the couch.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
And this is what I found.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUy2lgydTenYxV33M8keBMsEUBUsCw5Xex0Ko84UnsQu9wQa5vWjiwlkeQSejEhPfwYQOk3RTAuJKfXdBEYbBu68G96Y92M2COKr1sYesRhbXeXr8CGN4FrT8fwyjfQZxbh3kTWbT0EVz/s1600/bones.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUy2lgydTenYxV33M8keBMsEUBUsCw5Xex0Ko84UnsQu9wQa5vWjiwlkeQSejEhPfwYQOk3RTAuJKfXdBEYbBu68G96Y92M2COKr1sYesRhbXeXr8CGN4FrT8fwyjfQZxbh3kTWbT0EVz/s320/bones.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, that's not an archaeological dig.</td></tr>
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Li'l Frank had confiscated bones from his brother, pushed them under the corner of the couch, and then marked the couch as his territory.<br />
<br />
On one hand, I admire his ingenuity. And to stash his haul right next to his kennel? Smart move.<br />
<br />
On the other hand? It's going to be a long winter.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-11824726664449477872017-10-19T15:37:00.001-05:002017-10-19T15:37:56.235-05:00Me, too, or death by a thousand paper cuts.I've been a tiny bit reticent to jump into the "me, too" fray for one seriously messed-up reason: what happened to me wasn't *that* bad. Like, it could have been so much worse.<br />
<br />
When you feel like being harassed instead of physically assaulted means you maybe don't have a right to be upset? That's all kinds of systemic sexism, like layers of being told "it's not that big of a deal" have grown into our skin, becoming part of us.<br />
<br />
Eww.<br />
<br />
So let's talk about the "it's not big enough of a deal to report" stuff. Like the boss who came up behind 20-year-old me and started rubbing my shoulders. "You're so tense," he said. (Note: Yes, I was tense because my 50-year-old boss just started massaging me.) "You should come over to the house and sit in the hot tub. It will work those knots right out."<br />
<br />
I think I responded with a half-hearted "Ehh-huh" - just enough to make him walk away. I was 20. I didn't know what to do. I was just a baby.<br />
<br />
But as an adult? This is how it went down.<br />
<br />
<b>My Guy:</b> "I had a great day. I figured out the fix to a big problem. I feel good. How was your day?"<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> "On the drive into work, this guy was waving and smiling at me, right on the freeway. I finally figured out that <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2009/04/we-all-have-our-special-gifts.html?m=0" target="_blank">he was adjusting his mirrors to look at my chest. </a>Then, I got to work and had a conversation with my male coworker, who insisted that I set up a meeting for him. I refused, since the meeting had nothing to do with me. But he wouldn't let it go. So I ended up yelling, <a href="https://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2011/11/mute-no-more.html" target="_blank">'I AM NOT YOUR SECRETARY'</a> into the phone before hanging up and slamming my head against my desk. Then, I figured out how to fix a big problem. Nobody paid attention to my fix until a male coworker half promoted it / half claimed it as his own idea. My boss later thanked me for my work but <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2007/11/not-girl-not-yet-woman-oh-no-wait.html" target="_blank">called me "kiddo</a>." Then, on the way out of the parking garage, I got behind Creepy Rajeev, who was driving 2 miles per hour because he had his window down and was driving alongside and talking to every woman walking to her car. <a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2011/03/were-not-equal-im-much-smarter.html" target="_blank">He followed four different women</a>. It took me 20 minutes to get out of the garage. I AM SO FUCKING TIRED."<br />
<br />
Just think of how much more women could accomplish if we weren't dealing with this bullshit every day. Because all those tiny moments of gritting teeth, of pep talks in the mirror in the ladies' room? They take a lot of mental and emotional energy. And now? NOW WE ARE TIRED.<br />
<br />
And done. We're done.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-75294679570501015942017-10-13T10:15:00.000-05:002017-10-13T10:15:22.875-05:00Why I stopped writing.I kind of stopped writing because I started to think that my stories didn't matter.<br />
<br />
It's such a ballsy thing to stand up and say, "Yes, my story matters. It's important and I must get it out into the world and it will make a difference."<br />
<br />
But I was depressed and couldn't imagine such things. So I made excuses. I was tired. I was working on writing that pays, writing about Joe's Mattress Shack and their new pillowtop ultra extreme bedding extravaganza. I wasn't denying the world anything of value.<br />
<br />
Except I was. I am.<br />
<br />
It's so easy to look at other people's stories and say, "YES! This is of value! Get this out in the world!"<a href="https://www.rd.com/advice/travel/joe-dimaggio-babysat-my-daughter/" target="_blank"> Like the story that Mary-Claire King tells about Joe DiMaggio babysitting her daughter at the airport</a>. That's an important story.<br />
<br />
But the gist of that story is that you never know what ripples a simple act of kindness will have in the world. In Mary-Claire's case ... well, you should just read the story.<br />
<br />
In my case? Maybe somebody just needs to hear, "Me, too."<br />
<br />
Or maybe I'm more of a cautionary tale. Whichever.<br />
<br />
Either way, I'm getting back on the horse. I'm telling my stories, even when it hurts.<br />
<br />
Here's what I've been up to:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://noodleroux.blogspot.com/2017/06/i-am-having-bloody-mary-on-thursday.html" target="_blank">Rehabbed our rental house</a>, put it on the market, and got a full-price offer within an hour. An hour! Last time I tried to sell a house, it took nine months, so this was amazing. Except ... we knew we had to replace the roof. The roofers didn't tarp the roof correctly. We had a torrential rain. THE CEILINGS INSIDE THE HOUSE COLLAPSED FROM THE WATER DAMAGE. It's all so stupid. The roofing company took responsibility and it only moved our closing back a week, but My Guy and I both lost about 10 years off our lives due to stress.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3q1N5Zx_9KeuVBABkFjuKJXEKW3XjPHyWCU-1gW8ErrfssJKAG_HMg2uVfanUquNOmXf6tnN5slv8t3x2pAxor_mIOj0JV6THRHq8CvZo3JD9sSSgTOnmgxRFFSO1lMvk8XW2V_Kd0CcE/s1600/ceiling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3q1N5Zx_9KeuVBABkFjuKJXEKW3XjPHyWCU-1gW8ErrfssJKAG_HMg2uVfanUquNOmXf6tnN5slv8t3x2pAxor_mIOj0JV6THRHq8CvZo3JD9sSSgTOnmgxRFFSO1lMvk8XW2V_Kd0CcE/s320/ceiling.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dude. That's not supposed to look like that. Also, just out of frame? My husband and I having simultaneous heart attacks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Obsessed all summer about going to the beach. It was to be my finish line after a summer of the aforementioned house flipping madness. I am one of those people who just neeeeeeds water. We were scheduled to go to Florida ... during the hurricane. When I called the hotel to cancel our non-refundable reservation, I was all, "You don't want me during the hurricane! I have no skillz!" and they were like, "You're right, we don't want you. Here's all your money back." I was relieved but ... slightly hurt.</li>
<li>Been mauled by this now-50-pound dog.</li>
</ul>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy0NFhtO6Z8h_MbsFZdG62AXuyeZqOAtypSkjz6tbprzpUO8IScuWEurjiPo8uJDqeeOrMdcbb9sQ7quqR00_Qv4cYT5ipQp-ltggXYxN7kbSLTct0NsgF7VlDjSQ673RbajCMehokR4m/s1600/big+walt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1061" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy0NFhtO6Z8h_MbsFZdG62AXuyeZqOAtypSkjz6tbprzpUO8IScuWEurjiPo8uJDqeeOrMdcbb9sQ7quqR00_Qv4cYT5ipQp-ltggXYxN7kbSLTct0NsgF7VlDjSQ673RbajCMehokR4m/s320/big+walt.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey! I'mma jump on you, 'kay?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
So. Let's catch up. What's up with you?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mega, huge, completely indebted thanks to reader Cyndi B. who reached out to say she missed my writing. Thank you.</div>
Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-90264933689285263592017-07-20T16:39:00.000-05:002017-07-20T16:39:36.822-05:00In which my husband's feet give me a mental breakdown in the HyVee parking lot.There was something in the air - the planets were aligned, or maybe there's just something about a 70-year-old's birthday party that makes people think, "Hey! I'm gonna ask that 40-something lady why she doesn't have kids!" But it happened.<br />
<br />
I was at a birthday party. I knew three people there. Two of those people were men who asked me - separately, but within about 20 minutes of each other - why I didn't have kids, or what I was waiting for, or when My Guy and I were going to get on that already.<br />
<br />
When an acquaintance asked me, I surprised myself. Deep within the darkest recesses of my black, black heart, a gracious lady arose. Like a glamorous phoenix! She knew just what to say. I opened my mouth and "Well, we wanted kids, but it didn't work out. But we decided to be happy anyway" came flowing out. Even as I was speaking the words, I thought, "Oh, wow. This is some klassy shit." <br />
<br />
When a friend asked me the same question mere minutes later, I had used a good portion of my grace and dignity for the day. Plus, we were pals who gave each other a hard time. And I was getting tired. My response to him? "Shit down there is broken." <br />
<br />
And ... that was an effective way to change the subject pretty quickly.<br />
<br />
I felt good. I felt like I had successfully maneuvered two conversations that a few years ago would have left me reeling. Instead, I thought about how people usually have only the best intentions. I was mature and strong and had it going on.<br />
<br />
On the way home, I ran by the grocery store. I cruised up and down the aisles, thinking about my grand infertile lady triumph, about how not having children in the Midwest in 2017 still makes you kind of a weirdo, but it was OK. I was so calm and mature and Oprah-like.<br />
<br />
And then I left the store. As I was walking out, I saw a dad put his cart away and move to lift his 3-year-old son from the seat. The little boy had a rather unfortunate haircut but clearly thought this grocery outing was a grand man expedition with his dad.<br />
<br />
Before picking up his boy, the man planted his feet - one foot slightly in front of the other, about hip-distance apart. <br />
<br />
Now, I'm not sure how this happened, but I married a jock. My Guy loves any activity that involves a ball, bat, club, disc, or racquet. He has coached. He once held an informal clinic to teach my entire family how to throw a football because, God love us, we are quite indoorsy. He's that guy.<br />
<br />
A lifetime of athletic endeavors means that there are some things My Guy does without thinking. Any arm movement - even if he's just tossing a dog toy - comes with a nice follow through. And I don't think he's capable of picking up even a can of dog food without first planting his feet - one foot slightly in front of the other, about hip-distance apart.<br />
<br />
So when I saw that man getting ready to pick up his son outside the HyVee, my gut reaction was, "Oh! That's how My Guy would pick up his son."<br />
<br />
Except he doesn't have a son. Except, except, except.<br />
<br />
Not having kids is fine except when it isn't. And it's not a rational kind of crazy - it's a weird grief that pops its head up whenever it feels like it, even if it's been away for a while.<br />
<br />
I didn't tackle the man and start crying. After all, he had his feet properly planted and would have therefore been able to swat me away like a fly. No, instead, I walked past with a somewhat contorted face. I got into my car and had a rational inner conversation about the merits of losing my shit in the parking lot of the grocery I frequent several times a week. <br />
<br />
Pro: It might feel good. <br />
<br />
Cons: Someone might see me and I come here all the time. I am so close to home, surely I could just have my mental breakdown at home like a lady. Crying makes my face puffy and who needs that?<br />
<br />
I drove home. I didn't cry at all, even after I was safely ensconced in my fortress of solitude. I was just ... sad.<br />
<br />
And the next day was Sunday, and it was a Sunday when My Guy and I didn't have to go sit at a soccer field for six hours because we don't have kids. Life was good. But sometimes? Sometimes, being childless means lots of little flesh wounds.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-61307720929633934782017-07-13T17:19:00.000-05:002017-07-13T17:19:21.573-05:00All Walter does is win.It's time for America's favorite game show ...<br />
<br />
WHAT'S!<br />
<br />
IN!<br />
<br />
YOUR!<br />
<br />
MOUTH!<br />
<br />
Today's contestant is our reigning champion, Walter the Wonderdoodle! Walter initially came on our show at his mother's urging, as she was astounded by the number of times each day that she asked him, "Walter, what's in your mouth?"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Am serious dog. Take challenge seriously."</td></tr>
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During his reign as our "What's In Your Mouth?" champion, Walter has had many interesting things in his mouth, including bark, socks, mail, underwear, shoes, silverware, pens, newspapers, paperclips, a nut and bolt combo, rocks, toilet paper, and his brother, who is a miniature dachshund. It's all part of what makes Walter such a winner!<br />
<br />
Today, let's see what Walter has for us. Hey, Walter!<br />
<br />
WHAT'S!<br />
<br />
IN!<br />
<br />
YOUR!<br />
<br />
MOUTH!<br />
<br />
Drum roll please ... oh, folks, this is truly a thrill. Walter the Wonderdoodle has really stepped up his game and has something special for us today. Walter, what's in your mouth?<br />
<br />
Ladies and gentleman ... it's a box of matches!<br />
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That's no little matchbook, folks. That's an entire box of kitchen matches! Turns out our lovable little doodle is also a burgeoning pyromaniac, the little scamp. Let's hear it for Walter! <br />
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And thanks to his creative choices, Walter wins ... a heart attack for his mother! Oh, isn't she a lucky lady? Congratulations to you all!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Am dog. Am very good boy."</td></tr>
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Will Walter be able to keep his streak going? We wouldn't bet against him! Join us next time on America's favorite game show ...<br />
<br />
WHAT'S!<br />
<br />
IN!<br />
<br />
YOUR!<br />
<br />
MOUTH!Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-27469509805824015912017-07-03T11:33:00.000-05:002017-07-03T11:33:20.045-05:00Eat the damned pancakes.Food is what makes America great. I'm talking potato salad, your auntie's secret marinara sauce, ham balls, spring rolls, fajitas, that Korean dish you can't pronounce, and all the rest. And don't even get me started on desserts. In the United States, we know how to eat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merica.</td></tr>
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And yet sometimes, we don't.<br />
<br />
This holiday, as we celebrate the Declaration of Independence and all that makes our nation a patchwork of awesomeness, I ask - nay, beg - that we all use a little common sense. Lady at IHOP, I'm looking at you.<br />
<br />
My Guy and I recently reveled in the magic of Breakfast as Dinner at an International House of Pancakes. While other restaurants use parsley or perhaps a small orange slice as garnish, at IHOP, all the meals are accompanied by a plate of pancakes. It's what makes this country so amazing.<br />
<br />
But what doesn't make this country so amazing is ordering the wrong thing. So, lady at IHOP? You were at a restaurant called International House of Pancakes. And you were in Missouri. And you ordered THE TILAPIA PLATTER. And then you sent it back to the kitchen three times. <br />
<br />
Now, I'm guessing it wasn't the best tilapia. And you are well within your rights to send back your meal if it wasn't to your liking. But please, let's take some personal responsibility here.<br />
<br />
You ordered tilapia. At an IHOP. In a land-locked state. And then you were shocked and angry when it wasn't awesome tilapia.<br />
<br />
How about next time, you order pancakes? Because at an International House of Pancakes, they make pretty good pancakes. Note that the restaurant isn't called International House of Fish. Because they aren't known for their fish. They are known for their pancakes. <br />
<br />
In America, we have room for - and need! - all variety of people and businesses. And no one should be all things to all people. You don't buy groceries at a Jiffy Lube. <br />
<br />
Let's try to embrace folks for the special gifts they bring to the table. Because sometimes, what they bring to the table are light and fluffy pancakes that will fill your belly with joy.<br />
<br />
And IHOP? Take the tilapia off the menu. Stick to your strengths. Because that fish smelled rank.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-24610694803581283192017-06-29T10:56:00.000-05:002017-06-29T11:14:59.451-05:00I am having a bloody mary on a Thursday morning and I don't care who knows.My Guy and I have been rehabbing a house. Not our house. Our rental house. The house he lived in before we got married, the house we couldn't sell during the recession and so have been renting for lo these long six years. The house we very much want to sell now.<br />
<br />
The tenants left the house ... asunder? That's too Rodgers-and-Hammerstein-musical kind. Trashed? That sounds a bit too punk rock. Lemme put it this way: In the midst of arguing with my husband about why she should get the entirety of her deposit back, the tenant mentioned off-hand, as you do, that her 4-year-old had been using the carpet in one of the bedrooms as a toilet.<br />
<br />
She wants her deposit back. Every last cent.<br />
<br />
Holes in walls. A youngster who is now evidently quite adept at signing his name, seeing as how he practiced - in marker - on most of the walls in the house. Trash, trash everywhere.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing to see here. Just a wall. Like all the other walls.</td></tr>
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We are doing most of the work ourselves. Everything takes longer than we think it will. And the work we are contracting out costs more than originally anticipated. Like, say, the floors. Why, just this morning, the flooring crew showed up and informed us that instead of taking one day, the job would take three. And they'll need to remove the kitchen cabinets, even though the new countertop was just installed. (You know, the countertop we had to replace because the tenant didn't think the leaky kitchen faucet was worth mentioning, but the entire counter ended up rotten and moldy? That countertop?) Oh, and this whole deal will move the carpet install back anywhere from three days to a week. And this whole thing will cost us 1500 more American dollars.<br />
<br />
I broke. I'm day drinking. <br />
<br />
I'm trying to view this as some sort of lesson. Mostly, the lesson seems to be, "Don't anyone make fun of me when I randomly clean because that is the only thing that separates us from savages. The lack of deep grime is what differentiates women from beasts."<br />
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I've been trying to look kindly upon our tenants. If you don't come from a clean home, I guess you don't know how to keep a clean home. Surely they have many other redeeming qualities.<br />
<br />
Right now, the only redeeming qualities I have come up with are:<br />
<ul>
<li>Don't have cats.</li>
<li>Didn't leave a sex dungeon for us to clean up.</li>
</ul>
I'm hoping this list will grow, but right now? It's what I've got.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-57839353005453845502017-05-26T15:17:00.001-05:002017-05-26T15:17:40.034-05:00I am old and I know things and let me tell you all the things. Also? Please think I'm cool.It's graduation time and that means a lot of stuff.<br />
<br />
Well-intentioned but obviously clueless relatives like me write things in graduation cards like, "It's been fun watching your track and cross country exploits from afar. We're so proud of you." When really, what I want to write is, "I know you hardly know who I am and that's OK. I'm your dad's cousin and you peed on me once when you were a baby. I think you're great. Here, have $50. Also? I get it. All graduation cards are lame. But I'm sooo cooooool, I swear!"<br />
<br />
Well-intentioned but obviously old and creepy former babysitters like me do a little stalking. I found out that the two darling little girls that I took care of for years and whom I loved very much are both ... doctors. Like, in white coats and starting their residencies and able to deal with bodily functions. I reached out via Facebook in, again, a hopefully not lame-o manner. I got friendly responses, but also, they totally didn't remember me. Doctors are smart. Maybe they are just instinctively distancing themselves from someone who is clearly way old and out of touch. See also: I write lame graduation cards.<br />
<br />
Well-intentioned but obviously Not Cool friends of your mom like me try to help new college grads get jobs and write overbearing emails with gems like, "Here, let me tell you everything about my city and you can live here, too! And there's an IKEA, so it will be easy to set up a new apartment and here, you can just have our dining room chairs and your mom is so great and I think this would be a great job for you and I totally get it because I'm young and hip like you."<br />
<br />
Except I'm not.<br />
<br />
I'm old.<br />
<br />
Twenty years ago, I graduated from the University of Missouri. On Friday, I turned 22. On Saturday, I graduated. On Sunday, I drove to Indiana. On Monday, I interviewed at Notre Dame for a graduate assistantship in marketing for the athletic department. <br />
<br />
I met with at least five different people, including a lovely woman who only wanted to talk about my upcoming trip to the UK. Then I visited with a funny and frank man who wanted to make sure I'd be OK with being asked to do stuff like attend mass in a hotel room because a priest traveled with the teams all the time. <br />
<br />
My main contact was a guy who was a little frazzled, which was accentuated by the fact that his linen pants were torn and held together at the hip with a safety pin (Really? Your football program brings in how much money? Even newly 22-year-old me was slightly offended.). He promised to be in touch within a week. The entire interview went well. I felt really positive about it, even though a security guard wouldn't let me drive through campus because I didn't have the right sticker. Whatever. It was cool.<br />
<br />
Friends, I am still up for that job. Despite numerous follow-ups on my part (via phone, because not everyone had e-mail and so I had to call and leave actual voice messages and risk talking to a real human), I never heard from any of those people ever again. I can only assume that the job is still open and I'm still a viable candidate. I could be called upon to move to South Bend at any moment! They might ask me to get a tattoo of Touchdown Jesus to show my dedication to the job and the school - who knows?<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm living a fantasy. Or maybe people should just send the damned "Thanks but no thanks" letter so some of us don't put our lives on hold for 20 years. <br />
<br />
Here's the thing. You write the note - be it for graduation or to say thanks or to offer a helping hand - for one reason and one reason alone. You might be thinking, "Of course! Do unto others!" And that sounds nice and probably should be the right answer, but no. No, the correct answer is that you write the note so that you can keep buying pretty stationery. Also, so you can feel morally superior. But mostly so you can buy more stationery.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-44591355273681857552017-05-24T08:02:00.000-05:002017-05-24T08:02:31.353-05:00Behind the Doodle.Working from home has damaged my ability to get places on time. And having a puppy has really just destroyed whatever remained of my "get there when I said I would" skillz.<br />
<br />
Case in point?<br />
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This gorgeous boy who loves nothing in this world more than he loves plastic cups? Well, he's doing better with potty training. He will do his business outside, but you have to remind him. And if you and Walter don't have synchronized "thinking about potty" and "needing to potty" schedules? Well, good luck.<br />
<br />
I was getting ready for a lunch meeting with a new client. Yeah, it was approaching lunchtime and I had just gotten dressed. I work from home. Don't judge me!<br />
<br />
I had just gotten dressed, but I was barefoot. Suddenly, I slipped. My heel hit a puddle and in slow motion, I oh-so-gracefully did the splits. And then I sort of fell sideways. Into a larger puddle.<br />
<br />
See, the thing about Walter the Wonderdoodle is that his paws are roughly the size of dinner plates. Sure, he's only 3 and a half months old, but he's clearly going to be the size of a conversion van. So, he's got these giant feet, and they're furry. Another data point of note: Walter is incapable of peeing and then not walking through it.<br />
<br />
The puddle that caused my initial slide wasn't really a puddle. It was merely a paw print. <br />
<br />
I slid through the pee-pee paw print, probably ripped some muscle in my back that will never be the same, and then fell over sideways into a large puddle of pee. An ocean of urine, if you will.<br />
<br />
Because when you have a big puppy, they create big puddles of pee. I don't know why we haven't bought stock in Bounty and Nature's Miracle spray.<br />
<br />
Anyway, to recap: slip, slide, puddle, covered in urine, on my way to meet a new client.<br />
<br />
I decided to be all ladylike and clean up and change my clothes, even if it meant being a few minutes late.<br />
<br />
You're welcome.<br />
<br />
At least I was able to tell the client and he laughed appropriately. Because let's be honest: if you can't laugh about dog pee, we probably aren't a good fit.Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7301586145140787353.post-53657421540551330612017-04-14T17:30:00.001-05:002017-04-14T17:30:40.489-05:00Sometimes blessings hurt.Walter the Wonderdoodle is pure joy - jumping and exploring and drinking it all in. <br />
<br />
However.<br />
<br />
He's jumping on people and brand-new kitchen cabinets. Exploring means that he's unearthed a bunny nest, has discovered the magic of digging, and loves to rip up hostas. And drinking it all in means that one big gulp of water equals not one but five gigantic pees - most likely in the house - within anywhere between five and 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
Also? He loves to eat paper towels, so you best be quick when cleaning up those puddles.<br />
<br />
I am new-puppy tired. It's the kind of tired that feels like a dirty secret, like something that shouldn't be admitted. He's so adorable! He's such a blessing! He bit my face two days ago and I still look like I've been in a fight!<br />
<br />
One of my neighbors stopped me in the street. Not to comment on my mauled visage, but on the puppy. She asked, "How are you? Are you sleeping?"<br />
<br />
She is the mother of four kids under the age of 4. She asked me this while she had a newborn strapped to her chest.<br />
<br />
It was so kind of her to ask, and I felt seen. But I immediately felt guilty and said, "I am not going to complain about sleep to the mom of a newborn!" Like I was all tightly wound Joan Crawford and obsessed with etiquette, lest people find out that I'm a schlep after all.<br />
<br />
I could fall asleep on the floor right now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this guy, in a rare moment of repose.</td></tr>
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It's a weird muscle memory. I was up so much with sweet geriatric Big Doodle in his final months, and falling back to sleep wasn't always my strong suit. And with Wonderdoodle? Well, it's like my body said, "Oh, we're doing this again? Bad decision, but OK." And I'm up looking at Facebook at 4 a.m. because the puppy needed to potty at 3. <br />
<br />
It was a privilege to care for Big Doodle. It is a huge blessing to welcome Walter into our home and help him grow. But it hurts.<br />
<br />
And my mom friends look at each other knowingly - or at least I imagine they do - like, "She doesn't know true sleep deprivation because she's never had a baby." And like talking to my sweet neighbor, I guess I think they are right, like I have no right to complain. <br />
<br />
But right now? Right now, spending 23 hours a day with a puppy that is either passed out or insane and a crotchety dachshund who is just pissed off about the entire situation and bit me this morning because he mistook my finger for the rawhide I was attempting to pry out of the Wonderdoodle's maw? <br />
<br />
Well, at least newborns don't have razor-sharp teeth. Becky Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351322716749475996noreply@blogger.com10