The Blog of Bex

Wacko Yacko esta MUY loco.....

2009-07-07T13:42:00.003-04:00

I have a strange affinity for Reggaeton music, which has me, at times, listening to Hispanic radio stations. This morning was no exception. I don't speak Spanish so I have no idea what the hell the announcers are saying...but I imagine that the DJ's are dressed up like clowns like on the Spanish TV. The guys are almost always fat and love to make wild and sometimes suggestive facial gestures. The women either are beautiful and curvy or look like a prison warden with makeup.

Anyhoo, this morning they were playing a cool song and then when it ended, the crazy (Muy LOCO!!!) announcers took over. It sounded something like this:

Labbadda labbadda....LabbaaaaaDAAA!!! [cue the canned laughter] Blah blah
blah....Michael Jackson .... blah blah blah...labbadda....... ....esta...Wacko
Yacko....

I finally figure out that I was listening to the "zany" morning crew discuss the Michael Jackson funeral coverage. So much for my self-imposed moratorium on the subject today. Does anybody REALLY give a flying fuck this "guy" is dead?? Don't get me wrong...I think that he was an innovative pop star back in the day. I saw him in concert a LONG time ago and thought it was great.

That was THEN. Before he mutilated himself with countless surgeries and chemical treatments. And that was also before he practiced what I consider to be WILDLY inappropriate activities with children whose parents had lost their minds and granted permission for unsupervised sleepovers at Creepy Uncle Mikeys house.

I can't wait for tomorrow...that's for damn sure. Bury this crazy fucker and let's all move on.

Until then, I'll console myself with a Reggaeton remix from youtube, during which I will try not to lament the unkind gods who didn't make me from the Dominican Republic so I too could have a glorious ass. No, out of all of the "mixed blood" in my family I had to get the Irish ass. Meh....

OH Baby!!!!

2009-05-04T21:43:00.001-04:00

I became aware of a documentary today called 'Orgasmic Birth'. It documents, essentially, women who have "natural" deliveries and then are blessed with some kind of orgasm at the end of the delivery. Wha...really????!

I've had three kids, but they've all been born via c-section. In the beginning I really wanted a vaginal birth...it just never happened for me (stupid cervix). But I planned for it, gave it a lot of thought and when I was crafting my Personal Birthing Plan my doctor asked me to put whether or not I'd like drugs and I wrote (after careful seconds of consideration), "Hell yes, I want the drugs! And if y'all are running low just let me know and I'll bring my own!"

That having been said, I have plenty of girlfriends who have done it without anything and they are just fine. Although, one would think that the same women who told me that I've just got to get a Rabbit vibrator would have the 4-1-1 on the orgasm at delivery if you don't do drugs thing. I'm guessing it doesn't happen for just anyone. (Maybe there is more to that bat-shit-crazy octomom than I had previously thought????)

After reading further through their literature it appears that some use "manual stimulation" to reach orgasm as they are delivering their child. I can tell you guys this much; my husband already thinks I'm a freak. I'm pretty sure masturbating during the delivery of our child would push him over the edge (not in a good way).

There are some good points in the article, however. When you are sexually stimulated, you don't receive pain the same way. And, to some, pain actually feels kinda good (you know who you are) when you're having sex.

I know some granola girls who will be all over this shit. I'm not judging you, Sisters! Squeeze that pickle through your straw anyway you can! I, personally, will take this movement seriously as soon as I hear that the same advice is being given to other people in pain.

For example, someone getting a tooth filled. Or, keeping it "apples to apples", how about a guy getting a vasectomy? That hurts (if my husband is to be believed). Perhaps he should have just allowed himself to reach down, and...oh man. I can't even finish the thought. Anyway, it is an interesting idea. And you never know, right?? Maybe the next time I stub my toe I'll give it a try.

Perez Hilton...he's quite the schlub

2009-04-29T16:45:00.002-04:00

This is why I love Southern Women. And Drag Queens.

Sing it, Sista!!!

Party Chit Chat

2009-04-15T18:37:00.003-04:00

I met a very interesting woman today. We were at a luncheon and were seated across from one another at a long table. She introduced herself to me and we began chatting. Suddenly, things got weird:

Her: This egg salad sandwich is YUMMY.

Me: Mine, too! There must be relish in here....

Her: Speaking of eggs, I have endometriosis.

Me: Oh man, that sucks. I have a couple of girlfriends who have it, too. (the men at the table are now slowly scooting their chairs away from us while I bat my eyes at them, silently imploring "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME HERE BY MYSELF!")

Her: It's VERY painful. I had cysts on my uterus AND cervix. I also have boils taken out from time-to-time. It really sucks.

Me: Ummm...yah, I'd imagine. Oh! Not to change the subject or anything, but did you SEE the cake over there!!! Wow!!

Her: I like cake. It reminds me of my ovaries.

Me: ......eh.... So...I hate to change the subject again, but I'm dying to know: what do you do for a living??

Her: I'm a Matron.

Me: Is that like a Patron, but a chick?

Her: No, that's like a Matron. As in a Prison Matron.

Me: [some unintelligible noise leaves the bottom of my throat as I look at her with curious horror, knowing that I'll never be able to stop her from telling further horrible truths about her life.]

Her: Yep, I do full body cavity searches on female prisoners for a living.

Me: Cavity searches...that means that... [and then silence as I automatically begin imagining the women I've seen on the TV show 'Cops' naked with their cavities exposed. Suddenly the egg sandwich was slowly rising in my throat, inexplicably trying to return to my mouth.]

Parties are kind of overrated.

Jabba can suck it.

2009-04-01T09:09:00.003-04:00

On my way to drop my kids off at the local elementary school this morning there was a police officer who was directing traffic. I was behind 5 other cars that he had stopped so that another line of traffic could go. We had been sitting there for about 30 seconds when the truck behind me beeped his horn. I glanced in the rear view mirror thinking, "Hey, Einstein. I'm not stopped here because I love the way the beater Chevy in front of me feeds poisonous gases into my car. Open your fucking eyes and see that we either have to stop or run a cop over while our kids are in the car."

But I kept my acerbic and witty comments to myself as I had wee ones in the car. Because I have self control.

Anyway, as we entered the drop off zone I stopped the car (because that's what I typically do when SMALL CHILDREN need to get out of the fucking car) and my two daughters picked up their bags and hopped out. As my second grader was closing the door she said, "I love you, Mommy." At this very moment the jackass behind me laid on his horn again, causing my sweet little second grader to nearly jump out of her skin.

My self control slid into my penny loafers as I felt a murderous rage boiling up inside me. WHY are some people such complete and utter tools?! I stopped the car and stared my poisonous gas-fueled hairy eye at him. He was fat. He was bald. He was sweaty. You could just tell that he had offensive body odor. It looked as though Jabba the Hut had somehow managed to grow two little patches of hair above his ears and squeeze himself into a large Ford pickup truck.

What a miserable, disgusting man. He probably didn't even mean to beep. It was probably an errant roll on his flab-a-lanche of a stomach that unexpectedly reared up and hit the horn. Fat fucking asshole. I hope that he chokes on the raw rodent that he will undoubtedly scarf down for lunch.

Florida: The Good. The Bad. The Holy SHIT!!!

2009-03-27T08:54:00.001-04:00

So you know...I live in Florida now. The good news is that my southern accent is stronger than ever - I think it was some sort of defense mechanism...of or for what, I have no idea. I definitely miss Atlanta and my friends, though, especially now. Spring in Atlanta is SO beautiful.

But Florida is pretty nice, too. We go to the beach at least once a week and we all love having a pool in the backyard. Also, my husband makes me a Planter's Punch every night and I don't even feel guilty by knocking it back - we're on vacation, right??

A couple of weeks ago I was reading the news and saw this weird picture:

In case your eyes can't make sense of it, I'll give you a hint. It's not a puppy. I'm guessing it's not an air freshener, either. It is, in fact, a Burmese Python that ruptured and now has a really big dead Alligator sticking out of it's stomach. Oh, and something ate the snakes head off. That's why there is no head there.

National Geographic has been studying this and has even done an "event recreation" that they aren't sharing with me (bitches). But according to their website, here is how the above train wreck happened: a 13 foot python ate a 6 foot alligator. While the snake was busy ingesting his meal (I'm guessing getting a 6 foot INTACT gator through your digestive tract would be very distracting) another alligator sneaked up and bit the snakes head off. In that struggle the python surprised everybody by rupturing in the middle, leaving half of the eaten gator hanging out. And this, boys and girls, is why we don't wrestle after Thanksgiving dinner.

At any rate, I'm pretty sure that my mouth doesn't open wide enough to let out the scream that would surely accompany anything even resembling the above scene.

So it's not all Key Lime Pie and Hibiscus flowers. But it's sunny. And besides...I've got my rum punch and I'm not afraid to use it.

Pardon me, Brother, but could you spare a dime?

2009-03-24T19:57:00.003-04:00

In Florida our homeless people seem to have some sort of union or something. They have matching uniforms and are up - at the crack of dawn - asking for donations on my street corner as I'm unsuccessfully trying to hustle my kids to school on time. And it's always the same guy which leaves me to wonder, "If you can get your shit together enough to show up here everyday asking for money, why don't you just...oh, I don't know...get a job or something??"

My guy, I call him Hud (stands for homeless unkempt dude), is not tall enough. This is basically a nicer way of saying that he's fat. But Hud is totally FAT!! I keep wondering just exactly how needy IS this guy when he can afford to eat an extra thousand calories a day?!

Every morning he greets me in the same fashion - he puts a sad little frown on his crinkly face and holds his hand up with his thumb and index finger almost touching as if to say, "Sadly, my shrinky dink is only this big...that's what fucked up my life and got me all begging on your corner and stuff."

But in reality I would imagine that he's just suggesting that I give him a little bit. (Just the tip. Just for a minute. Just to see what it feels like.) I always smile and then shake my head to imply, "Not in this fucking lifetime, Fatty. Try the car behind me. They look like the type who would love to sponsor an aging drugged out homeless union beggar dude."

Yet I see people giving him money all of the time. I suppose that's why he does it. He probably makes more than the President.

There is another corner nearby where I saw two uniformed homeless people on an apparent Smoking and Cell Phone Break. They were literally hiding in the bushes so I guess those two activities are either bad for business or verboten when you're in the homeless dude union. Unions can be a bitch, you know? Unlike me. I'm never a bitch. Well...almost never.

Switching up the team....

2009-03-19T22:56:00.000-04:00

About 15 years ago I got a call from my sister-in-law. She was graduating from college and needed a chaperone to drive from California to the East coast with her. The reason for this, I would find out later, is that she was a notoriously bad driver. And I don't mean this figuratively. I'm being pretty fucking literal. As in, she literally flipped a car 3 or 4 times on a highway one time. That kind of stuff.

Anyway, I was just as willing way back then (as I am now) to shirk my responsibilities and do something stupid so I said "sure!" and caught a flight across the country to hook up with her.

She is a sweet girl and we had a lot of fun meeting in San Francisco, going to L.A., Vegas, Carhenge...you name it. At one point, somewhere in or around Colorado, I became exhausted and wanted to stop for the night. I was pretty tired of the Motel 6's we'd been frequenting and asked if we could use a phone book to look up a Bed and Breakfast. She'd never heard of this. I assured her that it is not that much more expensive but infinitely more comfortable.

We pulled over and I called the first one with a nice looking ad in the yellow pages. As it was late (almost 10) I got right to the point: "Do you, or do you not, have any rooms available with TWO beds?"

The innkeeper responded, "We do have a beautiful room with two beds. They are separated by a thin wall. We also have a much smaller room that goes for the same price...it has one BIG bed. Which would you like?"

I thought, 'Bless her heart. She must be mentally handicapped as I very clearly stated my wish for two beds.'

So I told her very slowly and carefully, "No...I need TWO beds. T-W-O. That would be terrific. That means 'really good'. Thanks so much...."

When we arrived she showed us around the inn and told us about breakfast. She showed us to the room with two beds and then said, "Remember, there is a room with just one big bed...if you want it."

I reiterated that we wanted the two beds all the while thinking WTF is wrong with this chick?!

The next morning I got up before my sis and headed for coffee. As I walked down the hall I looked through an open door and saw two women sitting up in a big bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I thought to myself, "Ha ha! They must have gotten here after us and had to take the one big bed room!"

Still snickering, I joined a few ladies sitting around the dining room table to enjoy a gourmet country breakfast. Behind one of them I noticed a painting of two women caressing each others breasts...kind of funny in a dining room...then I noticed that there were no men here...what are the odds of that...????

It slowly dawned on my that I had brought my shielded (and very Catholic) sister-in-law to a lesbian bed and breakfast. Everyone assumed that we were a closeted couple, hence the repeated offerings of the one big bed. By the time my sis headed downstairs I had already made fast friends and was thinking about leaving my husband for the kind yet funny woman with the Harley. She was into welding and long walks on the beach. I think I could totally get into that....

Check out the schweaty balls on THAT one....

2009-03-13T08:41:00.002-04:00

Mr. Bex entered a weight loss contest at work and is driving me bat shit crazy. Thankfully today is the final day of it and, he claims, he'll take me out for lunch anywhere I want to go to thank me for my participation.

While I might have been construed of as "less than supportive" early on by mocking his giving up the nightly cocktail while I enjoyed my steak, I've more than made up for it this morning. Yes, this morning I have given counsel on the ins and outs (mostly outs) of laxatives. I have also wrapped said husband from head-to-toe in saran wrap - and we're not even going to have sex!

Then, when the aforementioned laxative kicked in I was required to rewrap and then help dress him in his already sweat (and god knows what else) covered clothes. I may never be really clean ever again. All of this and it's not even 9am yet.

This is why I will have a bloody mary bigger than my head with my lunch today and I won't even feel bad about. I've fucking earned it. He, on the other hand, may have earned about a thousand bucks and bragging rights, so he's pretty happy. I can hear him, as I type, in the other room doing situps in his saran wrap ensemble. Jesus....

Bex is going GREEN!

2009-03-12T17:19:00.003-04:00

As in, recycling. As in I didn't write, fund or act in the following. I know. I said I KNOW!! Plus it's old, hell, you've probably seen it a dozen times. But it cracks me up every time I see it so I'm throwing it up here ANYWAY. Take that.

And the dialogue! Instant classic....

Obama says (under his breath), "baDUNKadunk". McCain adds, "I would tap that, my friend."

It is sad that I have no original material to share. But fear not, young grasshoppers. I just bought a pair of rollerblades and I'm not as young as I think I am. I'm sure I'll come up with something soon.

The Elusive Badunkadunk

2009-03-06T16:44:00.000-05:00

The town I've recently moved to is made up of mostly Hispanic people. It's very strange...I'm in the same country, one state down, yet I feel like I should have my passport with me at all times.

There are a lot of things I love about it, with the great food at the top of the list. Cuban, Dominican Republic, Mexican, Colombian...it's all wonderful. When I pick my kids up at school it is more likely that the parents and teachers will be speaking in Spanish, which has given me the very cool sensation that I'm on a sort of permanent vacation.

Probably the worst thing about it is I'm surrounded by people with majorly impressive asses. I've never before felt so boring from behind as I do now. I find myself staring at thick women in stores and restaurants, wondering how I, too, could have a badunkadunk*. I've been eating rice and beans like it's going out of style but it isn't working. I blame my stupid Irish ancestors and their stupid flat Irish asses. Thanks a lot, Mick. Red hair, hyper sun sensitivity AND no booty.

But at least I can wear my "Everyone Loves An Irish Girl" t-shirt, knowing that nobody will accuse me of being a poser....

*The posterior of a female humans anatomy when the diameter of her posterior is not to exceed 50 inches but not to be less than 40 inches. Equally important is that the waistline must be no more than 2/3 of the diameter of the badunkadunk.
Synonyms: Bangin' Booty; Onion.
Antonyms: See "Bex, the flat-assed wonder".

The Evolution of Hair (no, the other kind)

2009-03-05T09:35:00.000-05:00

I recently asked a girlfriend if her daughters ever saw her naked and, if so, how did she handle it. Her answer was "Well, I used to all the time, but...I'm kind of, um, creative with my hair...so now I put a hand down there to cover it and skedaddle into a pair of panties ASAFP."

Creative...what does that mean? Is there a New! and Improved! Crotch Coif of which I'm unaware??? I asked her if maybe she shaved her husbands first initial down there or something and we had a nice laugh.

The whole reason I asked her in the first place was because I have another girlfriend who was recently in her garden tub, having a soak when her 8 year old son walked into the bathroom and said he wanted to jump in. He did so in his underwear. Well, her husband came in and got pissed off! I guess he thought it was inappropriate for the boy to see his mother naked. I have no idea about her coiffing tendencies...but maybe she has a similar issue.

Well, all of this talk about bush coiffing has me thinking about its' evolution. College girls today have no idea about the horrors we used to carry around in our Jordache jeans. In fact, just the other day I was in the woman's steam room at the YMCA when I saw a woman who had clearly missed the memo. She looked as if she were in the process of giving birth to an unkempt black poodle.

There was a bulbous POUF of hair that I couldn't turn away from. And trust me - I really wanted to. In fact my first thought was why a woman was walking around with a chimney sweeps broom in front of her hoo hah. She was walking around the bathroom naked as a jay bird, apparently unaware that people buzz that stuff down nowadays.

I remember the first time going beyond the bikini line was suggested to me. I was in college and my roommate was, among other things, a topless dancer. She told me I should trim it and I thought she meant that the bikini line should go further in. It had never occurred to me that I could actually get scissors and go to work.

Fast forward 20 years and now I'm totally with the program. In fact I practice yoga not for the health benefits but so that I can do all of the moves I need to in the shower to shave to my satisfaction. I don't hide it from my kids, though (the eldest is 9). I figure they don't have anything to compare it to. But I wonder if, when they hit maturity, this will make them feel insecure. You know, "Why am I such a hairy beast when my mom is nice and smooth?? What's wrong with ME???!!"

I am growing out the hair on my head and carry a picture in my wallet so I can remind my hairstylist what I'd love to look like. I like to keep the focus on the direction we're going with it. Sometimes I wonder what direction I'm taking with my down under hair style. It's gone from the Wild Wild West, to a tamed fro, to a landing strip. Then you have the sideways Hitler and then, finally, the pencil mustache. Then, I guess, the blip just gets smaller and smaller until it disappears. Kind of like this guy.

If you want to see what I'm talking about, do your own dirty work. Pick up a Playboy pictorial from 1980. Then 85, 90, and so on, all the way to current times, checking out the five year transformation.

I know some people are into the natural hair gone wild thing and, hey - that's cool. Whatever blows your skirt up, right? But it strikes me at this point almost like a fetish. I wonder if the hirsute look will ever be back in vogue? I really hope not.

By the way, I haven't been blogging nearly as much as I used to and my humor-blogs score SUCKS. If you get a chance to go there and give me a smiley, I'd appreciate it. I guess I'm not quite ready to hang up the towel. Yet. Also, I'm going to give a shoutout to my girl Leigh who has also been lying low. What's up, Girlfriend?? Any coiffing tips you'd care to share???

Rhymes with Holinoscopy

2009-03-03T22:09:00.002-05:00

Some time ago I went to my twentieth high school reunion. I had a good time, although I hadn't seen most of these people since the day I accepted my diploma. One exception was a guy named...well, let's call him "Joe" in case he doesn't want to be discussed on a public blog. Anyway, I bumped into "Joe" several years ago on Bourbon Street in New Orleans around 11:45PM on New Years Eve. I don't know about him but we had been drinking since that morning so I didn't remember much about the encounter.

So when I saw him at the reunion I brought up the New Orleans thing and we laughed about it. We started making small talk and he said that he was, in fact, a medical doctor. I thought that was pretty cool. After all, this is someone with whom I'd sit at parties and bang heads with while listening to heavy metal bands. And look how nicely he turned out! I asked him what kind of medicine he practiced and he said, "uh, internal." Well, I'm no doctor (nor did I sleep in a Holiday Inn Express last night) but that seemed...a bit vague. A bit like bullshit. So I asked him to pinpoint it and it turns out that he's a proctologist. For those of you who've never had medical issues requiring this particular expertise, this is someone who checks out your lower intestines. He will, for a fee, drug you and then put a 6 foot long tube with a camera on the end of it into your arse.

I've started thinking about this and I have to say, I'm curious. I wonder at what point he had thought, "Screw cardiology! I think I'd like to give colonoscopies for a living."

What's that you say? You've never had a colonoscopy? Really??? Well let me enlighten you: The first thing that happens is a doctor examines you Down There. And then he delivers The News - "I'd like to get a better look at this." Leaving you to think, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!" He pats you reassuringly on the shoulder, gives you a prescription to fill and sets an appointment.

So you go to the drugstore to get your prescription. The store clerks give each other Knowing Looks as they try to find a shopping bag big enough to fit the gallon jug into. You can feel beads of sweat appearing on your brow. But hey, you're tough, right? You can do this.

So you take your gallon jug home and read the instructions. In the instructions it informs you that this stuff tastes significantly better if it is cold and advises you to put it in the fridge for a couple hours. That's nice, isn't it? Really thoughtful. So you chill it, take a bath and try not to think about tomorrow morning.

It's time to drink the gallon of fluid. You get it out of the fridge and read the label again. "Lemonade Favored". I always did enjoy a nice glass of lemonade...

You take a tentative sip and immediately suspect that those bitches at the drugstore have poisoned you. This shit tastes like battery acid. And you have to drink a shot of it every 10 minutes for HOURS. It makes you wonder what it would have tasted like had it not been chilled. About 45 minutes into this process you hear something boiling. You look around, alarmed by the sounds intensity. Suddenly your alarm grows as you realize that the sound you hear is emanating from your STOMACH. About this time you double over in pain from the stomach cramps. You sprint to the toilet (hopefully) just in time to enjoy the explosive diarrhea.

There will be no sex tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I don't care WHO you are.

The next morning you wake up and look around for diaper cream to put on your ass as it is chafed from expelling water all night. You aren't allowed to eat anything but this really isn't a problem...you are so grossed out from your experiences you think that you may never eat again.

By now you just want to get this thing over with. So you submit to the ridiculous gown they make you wear. You lie on the hospital bed, all prim and proper and wait DESPERATELY for the narcotics to kick in. The door to your room opens and a few professionals walk in. They are at work and happy, discussing the reality TV show they enjoyed the night before as you were shooting foam out of your butt. They smile at you, ask how "it" is going. Some one puts his hand on your shoulder and invites you to roll on your side and grab your knees.

They tell you this won't hurt and start the procedure. The only problem is nobody told you that this procedure blows gas up "there". They do this to inflate the intestines so they can look around. And nobody told you that this feels EXACTLY like you are 2 seconds away from MAJOR - I'm gonna knock the back of the toilet off - styled diarrhea.

Now don't forget, there is a crowd behind you. And they are all looking in the general direction of your ass. So you start out with a polite warning, "Ummm...you guys...yeah....you might want to...umm...yeah, I think I need to go to the restroom...uh-huh...I'll just be a sec...ummmm....please, you guys....I'll be quick...uhmm, you guys????....Doctor! No, it doesn't hurt, but I...really...ummm....I would like to go to the bathroom...nope...this can't wait... could I just, uh...mmm... Uh Oh. Look out! She's gonna blow! Clear out of there! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....SAVE YOURSELVES!! SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!"

And right here, in the middle of your personal lifetime low point, you do the unthinkable. You fall asleep. When you wake up you are all tucked in the hospital bed like nothing ever happened. There is no medical personnel carnage on the floor. You haven't sprayed shit all over the wall. Hmmmm. Was it all a dream? The doctor comes in and smiles at you. I'm thinking that keeping a straight face at this point MUST be the most difficult part of his job. He tells you that it was a false alarm and that there is nothing wrong with your intestinal track. You may get dressed and go home. Woohoo! You are a little woozy from the drugs so you don't even realize that you are walking funny, kind of like a drunk cowboy. But at least you don't have that tube up your ass anymore.

Back to my friend Joe, I wonder at what point he decided that this is how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Perhaps he somehow discovered that he was really good at keeping a straight face after someone makes a total idiot out of herself. I guess I'll have to wait for my 25th reunion to find out.

By the way, as you might have guessed by this blog, a colonoscopy is not one of my favorite pastimes. BUT guess what, people. It's a hell of a lot better then colon cancer. So if you need one GET one. There. I've met my unsolicited advice quota for the day.

And The Designated Asshole Du Jour IS...I'll give you a hint - she just had 8 babies all at once....

2009-02-12T17:43:00.000-05:00

I realize that this is well-covered territory. But the welfare cow from the state of California is SERIOUSLY pissing me off. What the fuck could she be thinking?!

I'm not sure how the news story officially developed. But here is how I processed it:

A lady in California had octuplets?! Jesus...what is that, eight?! EIGHT babies?! Fuck me...I hope that shit's not contagious!

The octuplets mom isn't married? Huh. Must be some trust fund baby with more money then sense.

SHE LIVES WITH HER MOTHER?! IN A SMALL HOUSE???!!! AND they have no money AND her mom said she did not and would not support her in this pursuit. Holy shit....

What the...the doctor submitted the hospital bill to the state for payment?! She receives food stamps (and other state benefits) for the SIX kids she already has. But she doesn't believe that she's on welfare. Right.

She set up a website to receive donations. Unbelievable. I'll get right on that. Right after I send in a generous contribution to the Save The Mosquito's Foundation. Now she's wondering why the media has "turned on her" and she's receiving death threats.

Let me take a stab at that, Nadya. I'm guessing that you've been too self-absorbed in the most grotesque way to have noticed that our country is in financial difficulty. People are losing their jobs and their homes. Marriages are ending because the financial strain makes it impossible to even carry on a civil conversation in the house, never mind nurture a close relationship. People who have been saving their money for a lifetime cannot any longer afford to send their kids to college. Some with medical issues are waiting for treatment because they just don't have the money right now. Too bad they don't know about the Nadya Suleman Method - just fucking do it and someone else will magically pick up the tab! (Why didn't I think of that when I saw those Jimmy Choo's that I really WANTED??!)

And here you are, with your head so far up your ass I'm surprised that your jackass doctor was able to get a hold of your uterus. You were quoted as saying that you "wanted a big family". Well guess what, asshole - your WANTS should not supersede the NEEDS of the people who live with or near you. Particularly since THEY are the ones who have EARNED their own fucking money that is being taxed to pay for your ridiculous existence!!!

Ugh. What a crock of shit.

Jessie, Jessie, Two-by-four, how will she ever get through the door?

2009-02-02T15:10:00.001-05:00

A newspaper headline caught my eye today.

"Nick Lachey Defends His Ex-Wife Jessica Simpson!"

Against what or whom, I couldn't help but wonder. Did that football player she's dating smack her around? Or maybe it's that wacko dad of hers. He always kind of creeped me out....

No, it turns out that people in the press are busting on Jessica for gaining weight. She has had the audacity to go from a size zero to a size two, the ginormous whore. And well-meaning supporters are coming out of the woodwork to give her back-handed compliments.

Her ex-husband Nick must have been really pleased with this zinger:

"I hope she's happy, whatever size she comes in. I wish her nothing but the best."

I have no problem with the beginning or ending of this statement. It's the gooey insides that I take issue with, as in "...whatever size she comes in."

He may as well said (while reviewing the latest paparazzi shot), "Damn, she is a porker, eh?? I always figured that she'd balloon up one of these days. Well, she's a sweet girl, bless her heart."

I cannot imagine someone giving an unflattering picture to one of my exes and then asking him to comment on it. I would be mortified. And then, after a few introspective moments, I would go on a brownie fueled rampage, killing every photographer within my sights.

Lego Flooring Sucks: An Open Letter to Target and Costco

2009-01-30T15:44:00.000-05:00

Dear Target and Costco:

I have spent fortunes in your stores. In fact, I visit so often that my 3 year old son calls you "Popcorn" and "Hot Dog", respectively, because those are the rewards he gets if he's a good little monkey while we shop in your store.

So listen, I have a question for you guys. Whose bright idea was it to put those fucking red bumps outside of your doors? You know the ones I mean, right? The crippling ones on the floor that regularly break my eggs and cause my son, who is still sitting in your cart on our way into the parking lot, to grimace in pain as his testicles are pounded back into his stomach and beyond. Yes, those red bumps.

I would really love to meet the brain trust who thought that these might be a good idea. Seriously - what the fuck?! They practically shake me to my knees, knock my shit around in the cart and hurt my feet through my shoes. What possible good purpose could they have???

As if all of that weren't enough, I am a woman of a certain age. And in case you missed the memo, we don't like to be uncontrollably shaken when standing upright. I'll not go into any further detail, other than to say that it has to do with the back of our arms and our necks. Of course, the only thing worse than personally going over the bumps is being behind an obese person trying to make their way through it. I'm surprised that my eyes aren't bleeding.

So please, be good little stewards of commerce and give Lego their red flooring back before someone gets hurt by the back bacon of a fat chick.

Sincerely,

Bex

Neti Pot Nuttiness

2009-01-29T11:15:00.002-05:00

Last summer I took my kids to the neighborhood pool even though I had a horrible sinus infection. And yes, I'm expecting my major award any day now. Anyhoo, I was sitting and suffering, watching my kids frolic, when a friend showed up. Now, she wasn't a good friend. We didn't have a whole lot in common other than being mothers. She was really into all of that natural, vegetarian, holistic crap. She was even wearing her Free Tibet! t-shirt over her itsy bitsy bikini (that she looked alarmingly fantastic in).

She looked at me carefully and said, "You look like you don't feel well" which is, let's face it, a polite way of saying "Damn, Girl - you look like shit!" I told her about my sinus infection, expecting pity and the offer of an organic pulp bar or something. But no, she hit me with the, "Do you have a Neti Pot?" Of course I had no idea what the hell she was talking about so she explained it. "You're kidding! I don't know WHAT we'd do without ours! It looks like a little tea pot..."

I interjected that I hate tea. A lot. That's why I don't have one....

She laughed at me and said, "No, Silly! You don't drink it! heh heh heh - you stick the spout up your nose and run salted water through your sinus cavity!"

I'm pretty sure the shock and horror on my face demonstrated my position on the whole neti pot thing. Then she started telling me how her 7 year old kid does it, too, and loves it, blah, blah, blah.

I left that conversation thinking that she is - officially - a super freak. Of all of the orifices I'd stick a tea pot spout, well, my nose is the bottom of the list.

About six months later my eldest (who was 8) got a sinus infection. She had just finished up a round of antibiotics for something else and I was dreading taking her to the pediatrician. Remembering the above conversation I went to the drugstore, in a fit of desperation, and discreetly asked for the neti pot section. When I got there I saw that there was an entire industry related to sinus rinsing. Who knew?!

I purchased a sinus rinser that looks like a plastic shampoo bottle with a whole in the lid. It came with 50 packs of sinus rinse. I kept looking for a box that had just a couple of packs as there was no way we were going to need FIFTY opportunities to squirt water up our noses.

When I got home I hopped in the shower with my kid and told her the dealio. She leaned her head forward and I squirted water into one nostril. Green oysters of death paraded out of the other nostril as if on a Slip-N-Slide. It was INSANE how much crap came out of there. After that my kid took a deep breath - and smiled at me. Even more shocking was that the next morning she came to me and asked me to do it to her again because she could breath so much better afterwards. I was shocked, but complied. Again, funky nastiness of a consistency so vile I was concerned that our plumbing would get corked up ran out of her nose.

She got better in no time. Now, I think she prefers this sinus rinse to blowing her nose. We went through those 50 packs much sooner than I would have thought and I went right out and bought the pack of 100.

The next time I got sick I spent about 30 minutes sitting in front of my bathroom mirror. I kept blowing my nose but nothing would come out, even though I felt so stuffed up. I held the sinus rinser in my trembling hand. Finally, I worked up the courage to stick it up to my right nostril and squeeze. It's a weird feeling. It feels kind of like you're in the pool and about to get water up your nose. But then you quit worrying about that because you're in shock and awe at the crapola you've been hiding in your sinuses. After I was done, I blew my nose, took a deep breath - and smiled. I felt fantastic!

Recently I read an entry on one of my favorite blogs when suddenly a new term leaped out at me - Neti Pot Nut Job.

What the...what the fuck is Dan talking about?! Nut Job...I'm not a Nut Job!

Then I began mentally running through the evidence. When I packed for the move to Florida I put my sinus rinser in my purse to make sure that it wouldn't get lost. Every time someone in the family sniffles I jump up, anxious to go get the rinser ready. Now whenever I have a friend with a stuffed up nose I recommend that they go get one. When they reject the idea I push back, insisting that I'm right - they'll love it if only they'd try it. I've considered buying a second "back up" sinus rinser. Because you never know.

And I almost forgot the Grand Daddy Litmus Test of all "Do I Have A Problem" questions: Have you ever concealed your usage from a loved one? Ummm...hell yes. (Nothing lets your husband know "I'm feeling super sexy tonight" like hunching over your sink in a nightgown, shooting salt-water boogers out of your nose with a syringe.)

Fuck. I'm totally a Neti Pot Nut Job.

Paris in 1995

2009-01-28T10:23:00.001-05:00

On July 25, 1995 I took the metro from my dormitory in Paris to the station Saint Michel, which was a stones throw from Notre Dame Cathedral. I was with a group of fellow students and we were to meet our professor for Le Bateau Mouche, which is a tour of Paris on a little boat.

Saint Michel is a busy station as it has two main trains that intersect there. RER B is the bottom line and above that crosses the RER C line. And then above RER C is the street.

We arrived at the station via RER B and looked for the exit our teacher had told us to use. A couple of the students saw a big map and began to study it, convinced that it would show them the way. I thought this was stupid and said so - after all, how hard could this be? Get out of the station, look for a river. Follow the river until you see the boats.

Our group split into two and we left our friends who were fruitlessly staring at the map. We ascended some stairs and were standing next to the RER C train when we felt an explosion. There was a total moment of silence as we all pondered, "What the hell was that?!" The impact didn't move my body, but it had caused my organs to vibrate in the creepiest way.

I decided to leave, with or without my peers. I headed towards an exit where there was a line of people who had the same idea. In my peripheral vision I saw someone running in a strange way. His arms were down at his side and he was swaying as he ran. I looked at him and saw that he was badly injured - his shirt was torn and burned and there appeared to be blood all over him.

I jumped the small fence keeping me in the station and ran out to the street.

It was a beautiful day. There were many people elegantly snacking in the cafes, ladies were walking their babies...it was almost as if I had dreamed it.

A stampede of people erupted from the station. Transfixed, I stood there. I have no idea why. I just couldn't leave. People with minor injuries were coming out and everyone looked as though they'd been in a fire.

After the initial thrust of people I saw a woman lying on the stairs. Thinking she had fallen, I ran down to help her. She had a bad cut diagonally across her throat and blood was coming out in squirts, just like the movies. I tried to talk to her but her eyes were like marbles, rolling around in her head. She began smacking herself in the ears...in hindsight I think that she was near the bomb and it might have deafened her, at least temporarily. I took her skirt and held it against her neck but she kept swatting at me.

I heard the sirens above so I ran to get her help. The medics shoved me out of the way and got to work. I still hadn't realized what had happened.

The explosion sounded exactly like a bomb had gone off. But that was too incredible to assume. But it was indeed a bomb, planted by Algerian terrorists. It had been on the train line we had been on. They had put it under a seat and many people sitting or standing there lost their legs. 8 people died.

The medics began pulling people out of the station. I think there were around 75 seriously injured. The beautiful cafes were turned into operating rooms as limbs were removed to save lives.

Our friend slowly walked up the stairs in a daze. Her face was completely white except for two bright red spots on her cheeks, as though she were blushing. There was soot all over her. Apparently she was still standing next to that map when the bomb went off. It sent her flying backwards into a wall where she hit her head. But her much more serious injury was mental; she saw people dying, people on fire, people who had lost their arms or legs in the explosion.

Helicopters filled the air. There must have been hundreds of them. The whole thing was so surreal...we just stood there with our mouths hanging open.

Then I heard one of the policemen say that there was another bomb that had not yet detonated and we needed to clear the area. I began blindly running down the street, having no idea where I could or should go.

We found out later that the terrorists had planted bombs on both RER B and C. But the one on C - the one that I was standing next to - was a dud. They had been designed to go off at the same time and I heard that they had hoped to rupture the wall of the station so that the river would flood it.

Thankfully they failed in the more catastrophic plan.

For a long time I felt like I'd never be the same again. I had nightmares and trouble eating; my doctor said it was post traumatic stress disorder. Now I rarely think about it. But for whatever reason I was thinking about it today and thought that I'd write about it.

As if I needed ONE more reason not to like Sushi

2009-01-27T14:33:00.000-05:00

Apparently a group of seven Japanese men were sickened recently, three of them critically, for eating Blowfish testicles. This has caused me to wonder...what the hell is the matter with people, anyway???!

Now, before I get too judgmental I should note that they ordered the grilled fish nuts. Perhaps they thought that, through the grilling process, the tender regions might be somehow pasteurized or something. And speaking of cooking them, how big could these things be anyway? What kind of grill do they have to accomodate what couldn't be much larger than an M & M??

It is well known in Japan that eating any part of a blowfish could be deadly yet people treat it as a delicacy and clamor for it in restaurants. But let it be known - if anyone I know ever gets sick from eating Blowfish - whether you ate the balls or not - prepare to get about the same amount of sympathy you'd get for "accidentally" lodging a gerbil up your ass.

Douche Du Jour

2009-01-27T10:43:00.001-05:00

You know, it's not every day when you find someone so socially and morally repugnant that even evangelical Christians don't want anything to do with him. But this is exactly what has happened when the New Life Church pushed out pastor Ted Haggard with the following statement: "Dude. Live in the now. You're GAY. Don't go away mad, just please, please go away."

Simultaneously gay activists are actively trying to push him back into the church as they don't want him, either.

Even the infamous NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Love Association) rejected him with the following press release: "Ehhhh....yeah...regarding the rumors that Ted Haggard wants to join our ranks...umm...we are going to have to pass. He makes our skin crawl."

In closing, I would like to suggest that Gayle Taggard go have random, crazy cougar sex with as many hot guys as possible. She probably has a lot of tension to release.

Stewardese, translated for YOU

2009-01-22T10:30:00.002-05:00

I used to want to be a Airline Stewardess. But then I thought that maybe that wasn't such a great idea because, at the end of the day, you're just walking around a pressurized tube that sails through the air at 300 miles an hour while hustling cocktails and preparing for a catastrophic crash. All while wearing heels and panty hose. Fuck that.

Plus, I'm pretty sure that I'd find a way to screw up the little speech they give before take off. At the very least I'd struggle with keeping a straight face through some of it. As it is I can't help but translate their Stewardese into Bex Speak:

What the Stews say: "If the airplane cabin were to suddenly lose pressure..."

What I hear: It is possible that, at any given time and with NO real warning, there won't be enough oxygen on this fucker to sustain human life. But don't panic....

Them: "...in which case the oxygen masks will pop out of the overhead compartment. Please put on your mask before assisting anyone else."

Me: Plan on taking up some of the precious remaining air with a loud scream as something with tentacles just dropped on your head. Of course your ensuing panic is amplified as you were already feeling a little lightheaded (probably an effect of the lack of oxygen). You will be a lot more comfortable on this doomed flight if you allow the kid next to you to pass out from lack of air before you put his mask on.

Them: "...do not be alarmed when the oxygen mask doesn't inflate with air..."

Me: Let me get this straight...for some reason this plane doesn't have air in it. So I'm supposed to believe that this little plastic mask is somehow designed to allow me to breathe but just "looks" like it's failing. RIGHT. See you on the other side, bitches....

Them: "Everybody! Look at this bright and shiny object! It's called a SEAT BELT and here is how you use it. See this end? You stick it in that end. And then you pull it to make it tighter. So, just to recap, you put this part into this part...."

Me: I have a mental image of the individual for whom this is stated. He approaches the belt with cautious curiosity, initially hitting it with a stick to see if it bites. Of course he'll be making his chimp noises while investigating. Then, when his courage is worked up, he'll begin smacking the two belt ends together over his head while yelling, "Oklahoma! Oklahoma!" There will be drool on his shirt and a big pee stain on his pants because he forgot to shake it...again.

But I think the airlines need to add something to their seat belt spiel. Something like, "If your seat belt doesn't fit around your jelly belly please let one of us know immediately. Because this is an excellent indicator that you do not actually fit and probably are not really contained within the airspace of your seat. This could be construed as offensive to some, as we read about in this scathing post on the Blog of Bex. Apparently she was forced to wear someone else's fat like a parka. At any rate, big boned beauties need to procure two seats or be prepared to be featured in a blog entry."

MOM...she started it....

2009-01-16T10:13:00.001-05:00

Our house is typically a peaceful place. But every now and again, my girls fight. And then every once in a blue moon they BATTLE. We're talking punches, smacks and name calling. Apparently being called "poopie head" is the pinnacle of bad names right now, which is quite fortunate considering the bad words they've surely heard me mutter over the years.

These battles will often times will go for a day or two, peppered with periods of peace. Then, suddenly, there will be an attack, which will be a retribution for some previous offense.

For example:

Girl 1 is sitting on the sofa, reading a book when Girl 2 stealthily descends upon Girl 1 and snatches the book away.

Girl 1: Chases her sister until she's cornered and slaps her arm.

Girl 2: (in an incredulous voice) "What was THAT for?!"

Girl 1: "You took my book!"

And the bickering escalates which brings a visit from the pissed off maternal figure in the house. By the time I get there, they are both breathing heavily with their little red cheeks puffed out in indignation while beads of perspiration roll down their brows.

They both begin yelling at me at once with familiar phrases falling to the ground like shrapnel:

She started it!
Did not!
Did too!

So I take each of them by the ear (which immediately quiets them) and we begin to attempt to dissect the root of the issue. Here is a snapshot:

Last night Girl 1 entered Girl 2's room without permission, which is against house rules.

But, Girl 2 asserts that the only reason she broke that rule was to recover ownership of her favorite Barbie that Girl 1 had taken, again without permission, which is also against house rules.

And it goes on and on. Each attack is actually a retaliation for a previous offense. I try to explain to them that there are more mature ways of dealing with conflict. You don't always have to get someone back. But, acknowledge that you should not allow yourself to become a doormat, either, who is constantly pushed around by the other.

This morning I read a news story that stated Israel continued its air strikes in the Gaza strip. For years I have tried to understand this conflict with little success. I have friends on both sides of this argument and have listened to hours of impassioned descriptions of what "THEY" have unfairly and cruelly done while "WE" only want peace. I see a correlation between my daughters behavior and that of those in the Middle East.

There seems to be a lot of yelling about who did what last. I wish that the emphasis would switch to where and how the conflict will end.

After the last big fight between my girls I sat them down and said, "You are sisters. Love and protect each other. You guys are always looking for ways to make me proud and happy. Well, this is how you can honor me. Be good to each other, be thoughtful, patient and tolerant."

I would like to take both Israel and Palestine by the ear and drag them to a quiet corner of my house and tell them the same thing. After all, they are brothers. If they found a way to get along they would all be stronger. It would be a way to honor their planet, not to mention a way to ensure their future generations would have a better chance of success.

But I fear that I will have to continue to sit here in my little corner of the world and watch these two groups of human beings beat the shit out of each other. Innocent people will die every day, further incensing the other group, resulting in more attacks, more innocents dying, and so on. If they were my children I would spank them both for outrageously dangerous and bad behavior and then send them to their rooms - indefinitely.

This all leads me to wonder how Israelis and Palestinians resolve conflicts between their children. I wonder if they hate hearing "...she STARTED it..." as much as I do. I hope that they will find a way to peace. But I fear they will kill each other off. Hopefully they won't take out the rest of us on their way to this horrific but seemingly inevitable end.

Maxi-Mahem

2009-01-07T23:15:00.001-05:00

I think I was 11 when I got my first menstrual cycle. What a strange time in a girls life. My daughters are getting older and that's weird, too, to see their bodies changing and their personalities more developed and complex.

When I was around 12 or so something really horrible happened to me. And every now and again the terrible memory will wash over me, leaving my stomach tied in knots. I feel that I should warn my girls, but I just don't have the words, you know? How can you explain to a young girl just how quickly things can go downhill??

It's very complicated. Yet also simple. Here is what happened. I was invited to go the mall by a girlfriend whose dad was willing to drop us off. My cycle had started that morning so I put on the only protection we had way back then - a maxi-pad that you could land an airplane on. If you wore pants that were too tight with one of these things on you looked as though you had some kind of tail that made squishy diaper noises as you waddled around. As if I didn't feel conspicuous enough. That's probably where those baggy MC Hammer pants came from. Women created them because they didn't want to advertise that they were OTR.

Anyway, my friend and I were walking around at a brisk pace when, without ANY warning at all, my pad somehow flipped upside down. Now...without being TOO crude, this was around 1980. Think back to all of the Playboy pictures from back then. Lots of hair. Lots of it. Nobody was really into coiffing their junk back then. Especially not naive 12 year olds.

And these pads didn't have just any old adhesive tape. No, this was magical tape that seemed to be forever slipping off of my cotton underwear but then could (apparently) hermetically seal itself to pubic hair in no time at all.

As I said, the pad flipped upside down. All I really knew was that I was suddenly, without any warning, in the most excruciating pain of my young life while cruising the epicenter of Junior High (the mall). I began wildly gyrating around, trying to ease the pain yet every move I made created an even bigger tangled mess. Finally, I doubled over (likely giving the appearance of eminent diarrhea) and ran towards the restroom where I could free myself from the wiley tangle.

I stayed in the bathroom for about an hour, convinced that "everyone" saw me. I didn't realize then that I was such a spaz, nobody probably gave it much thought at all.

So now that you know my secret, you can probably also see my dilemma. Had my mother told me that such a travesty was possible, I'd probably never have left my room. I suppose this will be just one more thing that my girls will have to discuss with their shrinks in the years to come. Sigh....

Crazy chicks are dangerous, yo.

2009-01-06T11:24:00.000-05:00

Just when I was getting ready to have Lorena Bobbitt's name permanently laminated on the "Craziest Wife EVER" trophy, I read the little ditty about an Australian lassie who saw her husband hug another woman.

Did she ginsu his junk off, a la Bobbitt? No...she went a little pyro on us and doused his genitals with alcohol and then SET THEM ON FIRE.

(Get your hot nuts...get your hot nuts here....)

Apparently the fire in his crotch woke him up with a start and he leaped off the bed. This action knocked the bottle of alcohol over which ignited the whole place and he eventually died from his injuries. They've charged her with murder.

I wonder what defense claim her attorney might be considering.

"I thought I saw a tick and was going to burn it off but didn't want to wake him...."

"I was cold and thought he might be, too."

"Well, he loves The Doors, and I was going to surprise him with an interpretive dance to Light My Fire...."

My point is, if your woman is kinda crazy...maybe you should just not sleep.

You GO, Grandma!

2008-12-31T09:45:00.001-05:00

I have taken several self-defense courses in my day. I'd say it's a good thing to be as prepared as possible when violently attacked. Hopefully, if it ever happens, I won't stand there with my thumb up my ass wondering, "Do I smack him in the nose first and THEN stomp on his foot...or is it the other way around?? Or, maybe I should contemplate my 'Fight or Flight' options again...."

So when I read the story about an 88 year old woman in Oregon who was attacked in her own home by a NAKED intruder who chased her through the house and then shoved her face down into a chair, I briefly wondered what I would do (beyond defecating in my pants) if something like this were to happen to me. I cannot imagine how terrified she must have felt.

But I do know something that she felt - and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, would be his "package".

After having her face shoved down into her own chair, she must have thought, "You know what? I don't FUCKING THINK SO." So she reached her arm behind her back, grabbed his junk and squeezed - HARD. According to the news reports he "tore himself free" and fled. [Any man reading this just squeezed his knees together and leaned forward with a grimace on his face.]

I hereby award this 88 year old firecracker the "You GO, girl!" award.

All day long I'm going to be singing to myself, "Go, go go - Go Grandma. It's your birthday! We're gonna party like it's your birthday! Sip Bacardi like it's your birthday! Go Grandma!"

He's lucky she didn't rip it off and smack him with it.