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I can die now, The Bloggess knows I exist

So I know there are more famous and noteworthy people out there than Jenny Lawson, aka, The Bloggess- my favorite blogger in the universe. And who inspires my blog. But I should also blame her too for the number of times I need to pay the swear jar– she uses the ‘F’ word a lot, and now I do too. Kind of like when you hung out with a kid in middle school who swore a lot and it rubs off on you because you want to be cool like them. That’s like how my ‘relationship’ is with Jenny.

It’s Sunday morning, we should be at church. We haven’t gone in awhile. Thankfully, I’m Lutheran and I’m not plagued with a whole lot of guilt. Not the church kind anyway. James was raised Catholic. I don’t know how guilty he feels. He probably is feeling really guilty too right about now. He went to the Judas Priest concert last night, parked his car on the street- not in a garage, and spent the night at the hotel on the corner with his brother so they didn’t have to drive home late. This morning when he went to his car,  two windows were smashed and his car charger and sunglasses stolen. Suck it.

He is feeling really sorry for himself. I’m not going to say “I told you so” for not parking in a garage over night. Bad things happen in garages too. I’m not going to say, ‘well, if you had come home last night and we went to church this morning, that would not have happened.’

I’m going to make him a latte, and some coffee cake and serve it with a smile. While he’s on the phone with the insurance company my world is rocked in a different way….

You would have thought the President called me, or Taylor Lautner rang my doorbell the way I acted. I needed a Valium or Xanax stat. Neither of which I have. I’m thinking a Benadryl is the strongest stuff in my medicine cabinet. Is 10:30 on a Sunday morning too early for a shot of Maker’s Mark? That would do the trick…

Anyway, I had put a picture of my pumpkin carving of Beyonce the metal chicken on the Bloggess’ Facebook page. A lot of you know who Beyonce is. The metal chicken, not Jay Z’s wife.  Owen told me, it doesn’t look that good because most people don’t know what metal chickens are supposed to look like. And if it was just a rooster, than people would know what it is. I was proud of it anyway and put it on the porch with the other pumpkins (angry birds, and Emma’s salute to Steve Jobs with an Apple pumpkin).

When James was talking very important things like deductibles, window repair and such to the insurance agent, I was freaking out because The Bloggess clicked ‘like’ on my photo, THEN wrote ‘LOVE’ in the comments. Cue trumpets! Cock a doodle mother fucking doo!!

Okay, she’s probably just being polite. Like when someone gives you a painting of a clown, and you say, “why thank yooou, how nice of you”. In that sing songy voice.

Things are already starting to slow down, my pulse has recovered.

The car will get fixed, the children will go about their day like mom is a crazy person, and I will bask in my glory that I felt like the cool kid on the block for about 10 minutes.

Next year, I’m carving Copernicus the Homicidal monkey on my pumpkin…

www.thebloggess.com

it's a metal chicken carved in a pumpkin, can't you tell?

I can die now, The Bloggess knows I exist

So I know there are more famous and noteworthy people out there than Jenny Lawson, aka, The Bloggess- my favorite blogger in the universe. And who inspires my blog. But I should also blame her too for the number of times I need to pay the swear jar– she uses the ‘F’ word a lot, and now I do too. Kind of like when you hung out with a kid in middle school who swore a lot and it rubs off on you because you want to be cool like them. That’s like how my ‘relationship’ is with Jenny.

It’s Sunday morning, we should be at church. We haven’t gone in awhile. Thankfully, I’m Lutheran and I’m not plagued with a whole lot of guilt. Not the church kind anyway. James was raised Catholic. I don’t know how guilty he feels. He probably is feeling really guilty too right about now. He went to the Judas Priest concert last night, parked his car on the street- not in a garage, and spent the night at the hotel on the corner with his brother so they didn’t have to drive home late. This morning when he went to his car,  two windows were smashed and his car charger and sunglasses stolen. Suck it.

He is feeling really sorry for himself. I’m not going to say “I told you so” for not parking in a garage over night. Bad things happen in garages too. I’m not going to say, ‘well, if you had come home last night and we went to church this morning, that would not have happened.’

I’m going to make him a latte, and some coffee cake and serve it with a smile. While he’s on the phone with the insurance company my world is rocked in a different way….

You would have thought the President called me, or Taylor Lautner rang my doorbell the way I acted. I needed a Valium or Xanax stat. Neither of which I have. I’m thinking a Benadryl is the strongest stuff in my medicine cabinet. Is 10:30 on a Sunday morning too early for a shot of Maker’s Mark? That would do the trick…

Anyway, I had put a picture of my pumpkin carving of Beyonce the metal chicken on the Bloggess’ Facebook page. A lot of you know who Beyonce is. The metal chicken, not Jay Z’s wife.  Owen told me, it doesn’t look that good because most people don’t know what metal chickens are supposed to look like. And if it was just a rooster, than people would know what it is. I was proud of it anyway and put it on the porch with the other pumpkins (angry birds, and Emma’s salute to Steve Jobs with an Apple pumpkin).

When James was talking very important things like deductibles, window repair and such to the insurance agent, I was freaking out because The Bloggess clicked ‘like’ on my photo, THEN wrote ‘LOVE’ in the comments. Cue trumpets! Cock a doodle mother fucking doo!!

Okay, she’s probably just being polite. Like when someone gives you a painting of a clown, and you say, “why thank yooou, how nice of you”. In that sing songy voice.

Things are already starting to slow down, my pulse has recovered.

The car will get fixed, the children will go about their day like mom is a crazy person, and I will bask in my glory that I felt like the cool kid on the block for about 10 minutes.

Next year, I’m carving Copernicus the Homicidal monkey on my pumpkin…

www.thebloggess.com

it's a metal chicken carved in a pumpkin, can't you tell?

Follow up from yesterday- if you’re married to me, you don’t need to bother reading this…

As if I need to specify… More hormones and some whining here…

I can’t believe how much response my blog post received yesterday! But now, the anxiety sets in. I want to continue to enlighten, spread joy and reveal bull shit whenever I can- especially my own, but I’m afraid to fall short.

So in case you never read my blog again- thanks for accepting me and embracing my words.

When I asked James if he read my post, his response was so typically male!! “Gosh, you share a lot, are you sure you want that out there?”

And my answer is yes. If I’ve learned anything as I reach almost 40, it’s that I really don’t give a crap. That is SO NOT TRUE.

I really want people to like me.

Okay, but…

I also know it’s more important to be true to myself and honest than to please anyone. Even James. Sorry sweetie (you know this already).

I don’t want everyone to agree  with me, and yes, I don’t want people to not like me either! I can just see folks rolling their eyes about my comments about pajama jeans and Laura Ingalls. (Wouldn’t Laura dig a pair of pajama jeans??!!)

Yes, sometimes I might seem shallow, trivial and down right blonde. (Hey, I resemble that comment.) But that is because I sometimes can’t take the heavy. You know?
My parents are aging and fighting chronic disease, my adult sister is disabled living at home; I freak out when I think about the future sometimes. I grapple with the idea of drowning polar bears in the Arctic, garbage piles floating in the oceans and genetically modified alfalfa. I worry that my children will get a tattoo on their face when they turn 18. Please, anywhere else, just not the face. I’m afraid of bladder incontinence when I  laugh get older . I constantly think I’m on the verge of dementia. Especially when I walk in to the pantry while making dinner and don’t remember what….I…went….in….there…for…..

But I’m also so excited about seeing The Hunger Games as a movie, taking the kids to Europe for the first time, the next Oscar’s, Kristen Wiig’s next movie, will there be a Glee spin-off…. and so much more!

There’s always something to look forward to.  At least that’s what I’m thinking when I scoop out the cat box.

Well, it’s all about me, me, me isn’t it….

That’s all. Keep calm and carry on.

Medicated and proud of it

I’m not going to give you any bull shit here.  I am not my natural happy self all the time. In fact, I can be a real bitch. (no comment James) My favorite question from the husband, ‘why are you so crabby, did you forget to take your pill?’  Back off asshole! I’m crabby because you load the dishwasher like a drunk monkey that is blind and you can’t seem to remember that your clothes go in your closet and not on our bathroom floor!

As I was saying…

I take prozac. Just a small dosage. It’s called Sarafem. It’s for PMDD. Premenstrual dysphoric disorder. (I know guys, I lost you at premenstrual…)

I seriously don’t know how I would function without it. And I want to tell you my story so you don’t feel bad about yourself, or guilty, or inadequate or whatever fucked up guilt trip you can place that most of us moms/women do to ourselves.

About 10 years ago my good friend Julie died of breast cancer. She was 41. It was in the gloomy post holiday month of January and I couldn’t seem to get a grip on life. Emma was not quite 2 years old and I stayed home with her, like I have done since the day she was born and still do for my kids. I had never lost anyone close to me. Not a peer anyway. Every day felt like PMS. Every day felt gloomy and lonely, especially home with a toddler where I had no interaction with adults accept for reruns of the Golden Girls and Oprah.  My doctor put me on Sarafem which is for PMDD. Like PMS, but different. (Sort of a personality disorder, personality being- you are a bitch no matter what and you can’t blame PMS for it)

Thankfully the little dose of seratonin each day helps keep my chemicals in a happy balance. I am primarily a positive person. I stay cheerful for my children, my spouse and my friends. I don’t like to wallow. But there’s days, maybe weeks, I feel sorry for myself. And then I feel sorry for myself for being so lousy about feeling sorry for myself! I know there’s other people who have it worse, who live with cancer, who lost their job, who have addiction, whose spouse is overseas serving our country,  or whatever else that burdens them. But my bad days are MY bad days. So I let myself have one or two, then slap myself across the face (sort of) and say pull yourself together. And go buy a new handbag. Just kidding James. Sort of. Not really. Usually lipstick. Or shoes. Mostly lipstick…

My point is, I think we need to be honest about our bad days. What are we ashamed of? Who are we fooling?

Do whatever you can to help yourself. Seriously.

A woman in my neighborhood 3 years ago, shot and killed herself while home with her 4 little children. She was manically depressed. I always thought she was happy, managing her household of little kids. I was wrong.  Every now and then, if she had said to anyone in the neighborhood, “please excuse me if you hear me yelling at my kids, they are pissing me off…or, sorry if I haven’t changed my clothes in 2 days, I am so exhausted that I can’t see straight”, then maybe she still would be with us and her children. Maybe she would’ve had that release of, ‘I’m flawed, and that’s okay.’ Although I think she had more mental baggage than just that. But I still think of all of us women in that boat of ‘how did the day go by and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet or organized the pantry shelves’, kind of day.

Another story comes from my cousin who found her best friend hanging from a rope. Another suicide, another depression. My childhood friend shot herself last spring. Depression, suicide.

Folks. When a woman talks about her depression or her medications for it, don’t tell her she’s weak for relying on something to make her ‘normal’. Don’t say that you would ‘never’ take something that alters yourself to be a functioning person. Those statements are so nauseatingly inaccurate, it makes my head spin. Depression is the evil beast that alters you. Not the medicine.

Of course there’s the argument of when people stop their meds, change their meds or certain side effects of meds that do alter their thinking. That is another discussion for another day.

All I can think of is the 8 children I already know without a mother. Will you tell them it’s a weakness to take a prescription for their mental health?

Do you tell diabetics they are pathetic for taking insulin? They should just change their diet, is that it?

If you haven’t figured out already, I’m pleading to us all to be more understanding, to not judge, to not say you’d ‘never’ do something when you haven’t walked a mile in someone’s shoes.

 

 

So I just wanted you to know, nobody is perfect,especially me. Maybe when we peel back the layers, take down the walls, we can accept each other and ourselves with whole hearts. Why do we punish ourselves, –there’s a whole lot of therapy in that answer. But start with loving yourself, and just go from there. Easier said than done, I know. But it will spread like pond ripples I am sure.

 

Unless you’re having chemo every day, stop your bitching–revisited

Let me add to that, unless your hair has fallen out and you’ve endured 2 plus weeks of chemo and radiation- stop your bitching!

Just keepin’ it real. Let’s remember our friends who are fighting the fight every day. And most importantly- take care of yourself. Take your vitamins- eat your vegetables, breathe deeply and smile. Stress is a killer.

When the asshole on the freeway cuts you off, don’t flip him the bird, smile and wave. It might confuse them, but that’s the idea.

Love you!

-xoxo

I am writing this entry today to honor my friend Molly. She is going through her, God knows, 3rd round of battling brain cancer, maybe 4th? I’m sure she is keeping track! This week she starts her chemo and radiation. She has a little boy Sailor and a husband Donny, who worship at the feet of her glorious being.

I’ve known Molly since high school and haven’t seen her in 20 years. But no difference, she is still the same spunky, sassy Molly that drove with me for hours in my little SAAB to all the restaurants in the Federal Way area when we tried to get food donations for our high school Blabathon. What’s a Blabathon? Why it’s a 40 hour, non-stop talking ‘telethon’ of sorts to raise money for the speech and debate team. We had so much fun, we had crazy-ass fun. Molly is the type of friend that whenever you spend time with her, you pretty much are guaranteed to laugh until you pee your pants.

So, it’s Monday, and if you’re in Seattle, it’s raining. But that doesn’t mean you can go around having a pity party. It means, you need to be furiously happy, hug your kids, spouse, pets, whatever, and say, “Hallelujah, I’m alive”!

Unless of course, you’re the one starting the 6 week round of chemo/radiation, then bitch all you want.

Funny, I don’t think Molly is bitching though. She’s probably laughing. Or maybe she’s flipping her brain cancer the bird. That would be even better.

Molly- if I had a 5 foot metal chicken to put on your doorstep to cheer you up- I would do it.

“Hey cancer- ‘knock, knock, mother fucker!!”

Love,

Frugalista- Rebecca

P.S. For those of who that are thoroughly confused by what I’m talking about with metal chickens and all-

Check my link to the left, ‘my idol’. That will help.

http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

"Hey Cancer, knock, knock mother fucker"

Let’s get something straight- the original “Footloose” was way cheeseball even back then.

I just saw the new Footloose this weekend. And I loved it. I remember seeing the trailer for it months ago and shaking my head in disgust. “How could they do a remake?” “What on earth can Julianne Hough have to offer besides great hairography?” “Don’t they know that this is Kevin Bacon gold they are messing with?”  All those thoughts ran through my head. And then I watched some of the original. It is way CHEESEBALL people. Seriously. Lori Singer can’t act out of a paper bag. Kevin Bacon is super cute, talented, but those white wash jeans are too tight. And he smokes. The new one, no one smokes. Beer drinking, yes. Smoking, no.

I remember 1984 and seeing the original in the theater with my big brother, Christopher. Christopher is 11 years older than me. Pretty useful to have to get in to all the cool movies. I saw Rocky, Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Summer School and Footloose all in the theater. Talk about 80′s cinema heaven! And 70′s too!!

The movie made me want to go to high school and everyone would break out in perfect choreography to the theme song. I wanted to wear cowboy boots and dance in a barn with confetti falling everywhere. It was a musical for our generation. Kenny Loggins had the cornerstone of 80s soundtracks. I mean, Footloose AND Top Gun. He hit the iconic jackpot with those.

Here’s what I like about the new one. It keeps the integrity of the old one, has great music and choreography, and I really LIKE the actors in it. The new boy- Kenny Wormald is adorable and talented. Maybe this movie will launch his career like the original did for Mr. Bacon. Julianne Hough is disgustingly hot. I hate her tiny waist and skinny thighs. But she actually does a decent job acting. She’s convincing enough for the teen angst movie this picture offers. I would rather watch her than Kristen Stewart any day. And the new kid who plays Willard- Miles Teller, can come home with me. He’s like a puppy you want to scratch behind the ears. Totally gives Christopher Penn the perfect homage to the role.

Super Cute Willard

No Oscar winner here, but fun and entertaining. Like movies should be sometimes. Disagree with me if you wish.

Ladies see it and tell your friends. Guys see it, and don’t admit it, that’s okay.

I’m thinking I’m going line dancing soon- anyone want to join me?

Ode to my Dad

My dad is 80 years old today. 80!!  He was born in 1931 in some little place in England. Not fancy London, no. Just some small town if I told you the name, you’d nod and pretend like you know it, but you really don’t. I know from stories that he basically grew up poor. Of course when he was 10, the war was in full swing and I’m sure that made things even more unpleasant for the family. A family of 3 boys and 2 girls. My dad being the second oldest and looking after his younger siblings. Michael Tom Tipper had a life you read about in a Frank McCourt novel.

I won’t give you my dad’s biography. I don’t even think I know it all completely. It gets a little hazy for me between when he met my mom and came to the states in the 50s.

There’s things I’m so grateful for about my dad. He makes a proper cup of tea (duh, hence the English in him) and he made me a sugar butty as a kid. It’s white bread, butter and a sprinkling of sugar. When I visit, I still have one. And Emma and Owen love it too.

But really, what I love about my dad, and I could weep with pride when I express this, he is the hardest working, never complaining, smartest, most dependable human being I know. Sometimes growing up with such perfection is a little difficult. I remember getting scolded for something I did wrong, or he likes to yell and say things like, ‘bloody hell’, typical English swear phrase, which would kind of scare me. It definitely scared the little kids that came to play at our house!! Sorry about that.  It didn’t happen often.

But I can’t say more, he is truly a man of unselfish devotion. He has rescued me on the side of the freeway to change a flat tire- and this was just a few years ago! He knows his way around a kitchen and a garage. He can get all greasy with his coveralls while restoring his vintage Jaguar that he is doing now, or back when he worked as a mechanic for United Airlines for 35 years and came home with black under his finger nails. But as they say, he cleans up good. He can put his best dinner jacket on and have tea with the Queen and fit right in. And people always ask about his accent, which we barely notice anymore, but comes through especially when he says, ‘bloody hell’. I think he has the distinguished air of Prince Phillip, mixed with a bit of Len Goodman (from Dancing with the Stars) and that quiet, mystery like Clint Eastwood, but just without the squinty eyes.

He is a cancer survivor, a WWII survivor, an immigrant, a husband, father and grandfather. He isn’t perfect, I know that. But he’s my dad and he’s perfect to me.

Happy Birthday Daddy, I love you.

Becca

yep, that's me as a baby gnawing on my daddy's nose.

Ode to my Dad

My dad is 80 years old today. 80!!  He was born in 1931 in some little place in England. Not fancy London, no. Just some small town if I told you the name, you’d nod and pretend like you know it, but you really don’t. I know from stories that he basically grew up poor. Of course when he was 10, the war was in full swing and I’m sure that made things even more unpleasant for the family. A family of 3 boys and 2 girls. My dad being the second oldest and looking after his younger siblings. Michael Tom Tipper had a life you read about in a Frank McCourt novel.

I won’t give you my dad’s biography. I don’t even think I know it all completely. It gets a little hazy for me between when he met my mom and came to the states in the 50s.

There’s things I’m so grateful for about my dad. He makes a proper cup of tea (duh, hence the English in him) and he made me a sugar butty as a kid. It’s white bread, butter and a sprinkling of sugar. When I visit, I still have one. And Emma and Owen love it too.

But really, what I love about my dad, and I could weep with pride when I express this, he is the hardest working, never complaining, smartest, most dependable human being I know. Sometimes growing up with such perfection is a little difficult. I remember getting scolded for something I did wrong, or he likes to yell and say things like, ‘bloody hell’, typical English swear phrase, which would kind of scare me. It definitely scared the little kids that came to play at our house!! Sorry about that.  It didn’t happen often.

But I can’t say more, he is truly a man of unselfish devotion. He has rescued me on the side of the freeway to change a flat tire- and this was just a few years ago! He knows his way around a kitchen and a garage. He can get all greasy with his coveralls while restoring his vintage Jaguar that he is doing now, or back when he worked as a mechanic for United Airlines for 35 years and came home with black under his finger nails. But as they say, he cleans up good. He can put his best dinner jacket on and have tea with the Queen and fit right in. And people always ask about his accent, which we barely notice anymore, but comes through especially when he says, ‘bloody hell’. I think he has the distinguished air of Prince Phillip, mixed with a bit of Len Goodman (from Dancing with the Stars) and that quiet, mystery like Clint Eastwood, but just without the squinty eyes.

He is a cancer survivor, a WWII survivor, an immigrant, a husband, father and grandfather. He isn’t perfect, I know that. But he’s my dad and he’s perfect to me.

Happy Birthday Daddy, I love you.

Becca

yep, that's me as a baby gnawing on my daddy's nose.

Get a pair? (caution, this post contains a lot of I’m not sure what, and you will either love it or hate it)

So a bit ago my friend Molly (the same Molly battling her brain tumor)  posted a status on Facebook about why mens’ balls are really overrated. People are always comparing having courage to having a set of balls. Or, saying phrases like ‘gee, you’ve got balls to say that’. ‘That took balls to do.’

Right?

My question is, what have balls ever done?

I hope you don’t think I have an obsession with balls. After my Schweddy Balls post for Ben & Jerry’s I realize this is getting ridiculous. However, my purpose here is to give credit to the brave women I know. And Molly in particular. So…

You know what really does the work? Vaginas. Yes, I said it.

They push life into this world, endure all kinds of intrusions and are really the work horses (so to speak) of mother nature.

So the next time someone does something really brave, courageous or you know, ballsy… say, ‘wow, you’ve got vagina to do that’.

Men, I mean no disrespect. Everyone, I’m sure you think I’m crazy.

And Molly, you’ve got vagina for sure.

Even Betty White agrees:

It's like I can't love her even more!

Hail, Hail Tina Fey. Bossypants Rules.

Today I would like to just extol the virtues of Tina Fey. From Saturday Night Live to 30 Rock she is a writing goddess. She does Sarah Palin better than Sarah Palin wrote the screen play for Mean Girls which is, despite an early Lindsay Lohan movie, teen angst at its best.

I started to read Bossypants, her memoir, this week. Maybe it was because I had just finished reading Sarah’s Key, a book about the Holocaust, and I needed some levity so I thought Tina’s book was – HILARIOUS.  But I think it stands on its own even if you haven’t been emotionally scarred by a book that rips out your heart over a Jewish family torn apart…

ANYWAY… Miss Tina. Oh how I love you. If she’s reading this (ha!) then I want her to know that I would act just as awkward around her if I were to meet her the way she was awkward around Oprah when she met her.

This is what I love about her- she lists all her flaws on paper, tells us what Hollywood would’ve changed about her, then celebrates them. YES!! Geeky girls rule!

Here’s just  some of the things we are supposed to be worried about with our physical appearance:

  • muffin top
  • spider veins
  • boobs too big
  • boobs too small
  • cankles
  • saddlebags
  • calves too big
  • no calves

Then here’s some of what she celebrates about her

  • Straight Greek eyebrows that grow together and even onto your face if she didn’t pluck them
  • Rounded shoulders from sitting at a computer all day for years and years
  • and this one’s my favorite “A wad of lower-back fat that never went away after I lost my “baby weight.” One day in ten years, this back roll will meet up with my front pouch, forever obscuring my small high waist, and I will officially be my mother.”

Oh hell yes!!

See why I love her??

Now here’s my list of things I love to hate about myself, but don’t have the guts or money to surgically change and wouldn’t anyway, because screw it, I’m really just fine.

Okay:

  • Cellulite on the back of my legs since I was 15
  • thick German arms no matter how skinny I get
  • and here’s the piece de resistance, and I’m just going to tell it like it is, pardon the foul language: Seriously fucked up feet. Like really bad. I’ve had orthotics since I was 22. (read my entry on more couches at parties)
  • Freckles that have now turned to age spots
  • Moles on my back that my dermatologist lovingly calls, ‘skin barnacles’.
  • Stretch marks from having two children. So many that it looks like I was attacked by a bobcat that scratched, not just my stomach, but my entire ass.

There. Feel free to share all the things you love to hate about yourself. Guys too. Okay, you probably won’t because then next time I’ll see you, I’m just going to be looking for your third nipple, or checking to see if your nose is in fact crooked, or how your earlobes are shaped like kidney beans. Whatever.

So yay Tina Fey. For letting me feel like that even though I’m on the verge of 40, I am not a size 0, I haven’t worked professionally on the theater or screen.. EVER, I can still be amazing. And maybe even she’ll have me write for 30 Rock one day. She and I could talk over schnitzle and spetzle (her mom’s German too). More reason she should have me as a friend.

Well, thank you for reading my Tina Fey love fest. I’m going back to read Bossypants now.

Oh, and in true Frugalista fashion, I didn’t pay full price for the hardcover, which retails for $26.99, I got it for $16.99 at TJ Maxx. Cha Ching.

I'm probably breaking all kinds of copyright laws using this picture. Tina Fey, I love you, don't sue me.