boobs

Nudie Resorts And The Ass Dance

You probably saw the title and thought, “definitely a Beth post”, but this time the words aren’t mine, I swear! I have to thank Sandy for inspiring me to look up search terms people have used that led to my blog. According to some of the searches, these people are perverted weirdos. No problem there. That there’s my tribe.

 

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Pass The Effins, Please.

Abundance

Thanksgiving is the perfect occasion for ushering in the holiday season; it’s a time for stories, projects, cooking and sharing. That’s exactly what this post is about. I’ve linked up with 5 other bloggers, each sharing a piece of what the season has to offer. We have humor, thought, family projects and food.

I hope you’ll click on all the links below to see what we’ve put together for you:

Home on Deranged has a family post about the first and last Thanksgiving spent with mom.
Kiss My List is sharing a simple but meaningful family craft project that does double duty as Thanksgiving decor.
The Rowdy Baker  has posted a recipe for an Iced Pumpkin Roll with Butterscotch Cream Filling.
PinkWhen  shares a project you can display for Thanksgiving dinner and guests.
Baking In A Tornado will share a recipe for that leftover turkey.

Me? Well, I have a humorous story (surprised?) about what happens when someone is pushed just one step too far.

mashed-potatoes-23783286

Living several hours away from the majority of my extended family, often the only time I see them is on the holidays. So it’s odd that when I think of Thanksgiving, my first thought isn’t so much warm/fuzzy family nostalgia, or the amazing food, but more like when you reminisce episodes of your favorite comedy series, because the laughter is what I remember and what I look forward to most. As I’ve posted about them in the past, they are a lively crew with, shall we say, eclectic personalities.

There are too many stories to recount in just one post…like the time my one cousin walked into the glass patio door holding a full plate of food…or how Aunt Jane will inevitably show up behind you with a vegetable hanging out of her nose….or how my brother, who’s notoriously either late or a no-show for every event, will make my mother a nervous wreck until the very last minute, but then stroll in, sometimes even mid-meal, and my mom will be so happy he showed she’ll practically throw a parade for him – and I’m all, hey, where’s my frickin’ confetti? I drove 5 hours to get here with two kids and I was on time….ahem, I digress…

But there is one story that stands out above ’em all and continues to sort of define the holidays with our crew. The story of how mashed potatoes became known as the “effins”.

Approximately fifteen years ago, “the hens” – as I refer to the ladies who plan everything – were divvying up cooking duties, making lists, and getting organized for the upcoming holiday. I’m constantly blown away with the amount of preparation a Thanksgiving meal requires. Thankfully, I’m still given jobs like: bring wine and canned cranberries. Sometimes it pays to suck in the kitchen.

Anyway, as usual, Aunt Anne (of Superhero Otter fame) was given the job of making mashed potatoes, because, well, that’s her thing. She rocks mashed potatoes. What nobody realized was, she didn’t really plan on it being her thing. In fact, she aspired to contribute casseroles and desserts, yet was always assigned mashed potatoes. That particular year, she’d had enough and protested. After a few go ’rounds between the four sisters, where they continued to insist she make them because she did it best, this happened:

Aunt Anne: Fine! I’ll make the fucking mashed potatoes!

Initial stunned silence was quickly replaced with hysterical laughter. Although her outburst didn’t result in alternate meal assignments, it did birth a new family joke: mashed potatoes have never been referred to as such again. Instead, they became the f#*%ing mashed potatoes. Of course, to negate the necessity of repeating the F-word, they altered it to “effing mashed potatoes”…and now simply, the effins. For years since, Aunt Anne has received antique potato mashers for Christmas, lest she forget her special kitchen calling. I’m sure she burns treasures every one of them.

See you in a few weeks, my crazy-wonderful tribe. Aunt Anne, make plenty of effins. I’ll be having two helpings, as usual, because you know yours are the best.

tday

Fly’s In The Buttermilk, Do Not Shoo! Fly On The Wall!

WELCOME to a Fly on the Wall group post! Today 14 bloggers are inviting you to catch a glimpse of what you’d see if you were a fly on the wall in our homes.

Fly on the Wall

Come on in and buzz around my house (SCROLL DOWN), see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:

Baking In A Tornado
Just a Little Nutty
Follow me home . . .
Stacy Sews and Schools
The Sadder But Wiser Girl
Menopausal Mother
Moore Organized Mayhem
The Insomniac’s Dream
The Momisodes
Spatulas on Parade
Searching for Sanity
The Rowdy Baker
Writer B is Me
Sorry kid, Your Mom Doesn’t Play Well With Others

*A FLY ON THE WALL – TELIHO STYLE*

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The actual conversation (if it indeed qualifies as such) that occurred this morning on the way to school. Myself and my two boys. To makes things easier (and protect the obnoxious), I’ll use their nicknames, D-man (9yo) and Cheesy (6yo):

D-Man: I HATE school. I can’t believe I have to go back to that awful place. I HATE third grade.

ME: I know it’s tough, buddy, but you can do it. Just hang in there. Things will seem bet–

D-Man: –I talked to this older kid and he said he hated third grade the most. He said it sucked out of all the grades.

ME: What older kid?

Cheesy: Do rabbits have penises?

ME: What? Wait, D, what older kid did you talk to? How old?

D-Man: Thirteen.

ME: Where on Earth are you talking to thirteen year olds?

Cheesy: MOM! Do rabbits have penises?

D-man:  On Xbox. Hey, did I tell you my dream about the robot?

ME: Yes!

D-man: I already told you about my dream?

ME: No. Rabbits have penises.

Cheesy: And balls? *lots of giggles from the back seat*

ME: *sigh* Yes, if they are boys.

D-Man: So this giant robot made of Minecraft brick comes crashing out of the ocean….

Cheesy: Does Milo have balls? (our dog)

ME: Well, uh, he did. I mean, yeah. But he’s neutered. *immediate regret* rewind rewind rewind

D-Man: ….and then he twirls this snowman monster thing over his head….

Cheesy: He’s noonered! What does THAT mean?!

ME: It’s an operation dogs have so they can’t make puppies. please Lord get me out of this

D-Man: …..smashes this grey pile of ash that sprays up and blows the robot’s head off……

Cheesy: I thought only girls made babies?

ME: Cheesy, I can’t do the birds and the bees right now. Let’s tal—

Cheesy: BEES HAVE PENISES TOO?!?!

mating-flies-15885625

I’m home alone about 10AM. Kids are in school. Hubs calls.

ME: Yes? How may I help you?

HIM: Whatareyoudoing?

ME: On the computer. Whatareyoudoing?

HIM: I called to give you a couple reminders.

ME: Great. You know how much I like that.

HIM: I thought you might. I need you to be sure and take the ipad mini back today and see if they can replace it. The boys can’t be playing on it with that crack in the screen.

ME: Uh-huh.

HIM: And it would be great if you returned that hat to the party store before someone ruins it.

ME: Yep. That would be great.

HIM: And while you’re out, you should take your car to that place I told you about and get the oil changed because they’ll also wash it for you and your car is disgusting.

ME: My car is fine.

HIM: Your car is awful, Beth. Are you going to do any of those things?

ME: I will only commit to putting them on my list.

HIM: Your list.

ME: Yup.

HIM: And you’re going to put oil change on your list?

ME: Probably not.

HIM: Why? I don’t understand what the problem is…

ME: You know I hate going to the oil change place. I designated that a man job long ago.

HIM:

ME: I find it very sexy when you do man jobs.

HIM: Reeeealllly. Well, now we’re talkin’. (I can actually hear him smiling)

ME: *eye roll* it’s so damn easy

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It’s past bedtime. The 6yo comes downstairs with what appears to be glitter and a piece of paper and approaches me at the couch. I’m limp with fatigue,  and no longer care if anyone is in jammies or has brushed their teeth. I have deferred to daddy and am attempting to escape reality by engrossing myself in Twitter and Facebook a book on orbital mechanics. Yet here is a child in my face with craft supplies.

6yo: Mommy. Mommy. You know that thing where you put glitter on the paper and shake it off and it makes dots?

ME: Uh-huh.

6yo: Can we do that?

ME: Absolutely not.

6yo: Whhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?????

ME: What do you mean why? You’re supposed to be in bed, young man. It’s late. And we don’t even have glue.

6yo: Yes we do. *disappears around corner*

He’s out of sight, therefore, officially out of my mind. This is a bad thing, because approximately 11 minutes later, Dad calls from upstairs wondering where the 6yo is. It’s about this time that I realize glitter boy is sweeping the kitchen.

You’re smart people. You know my child spilled glitter everywhere. But what I need to explain to you is this was not ordinary glitter. This was *special* fine-as-powder-fairy-dust glitter that I bought for a specific teacher craft last year, WHICH IS WHY IT WAS HIDDEN UPSTAIRS IN MY OFFICE WHERE HE GOT IT, THE LITTLE BURGLAR. You can’t even tell any is missing from the vial, yet it is every-fricken-where. No, really. You don’t understand. I can’t envision a scenario where this glitter will not be a part of our house for the rest of our lives.

But, let me tell you something. His glitter picture? AWESOME.

Night Of The Menage Attack

So I went to a party over the weekend at a neighbor’s house down the street. I sat in the backyard for the first half of the evening with a friend, sipping drinks and enjoying the cool breeze. The hubs was with me for the first hour or so, but for the part of the story in question he was at home getting beauty sleep since he’s ambitious and does things on weekends like triathlons. Weirdo.

Anyway, at some point I wandered inside to the host’s dining room – I honestly can’t recall why – and walked up on two women sitting there. One was a little slumped over, clearly had had too much to drink. The other woman seemed totally fine.

The first thing I noticed about the sober one was she was pretty. Not the giant, silicone cans – too much makeup – Beverly Hills type, but the tall – thin – naturally beautiful type. The kind of woman I expect to a) be uppity and b) ignore my presence. But, she surprised me by immediately reaching out a hand to introduce herself. She had a firm handshake, in case you’re wondering, which is a huge deal to me. I hate limp willie handshakes. Anyway, she was chatty and warm, asked about my kids, how I knew the host, etc. etc.  As I was leaving the room, I heard her murmur, “She’s so sweet,” referring to me. Hmm. I like this gal.

Later in the evening I ran into her again in the kitchen. She was excited to see me and greeted me with an enthusiastic, “Hiii!” We yammered about this-and-that, about how her dress was from Target, (she’s frugal and down-to-earth. love her!) when she began interjecting things like, “you’re so beautiful,” and “you’re so pretty.” I’m not one to take compliments well, so I blushed and stammered, but at the same time I’m thinking, this chic is my new BFF! I’m already envisioning how great it would be to take her shopping:

ME: How does this outfit look?

BFF: It’s perfect. You’re beautiful. You look like Kate-Frickin-Moss in everything.

ME: Should I get bangs?

BFF: No, you’re perfect the way your are. But if you do you would rock them cuz you’re stunning no matter what.

ME: You’re the bestest bestie evah!

BFF: No YOU are!

ME: No YOU are!

(ahem) That wasn’t pretty. Look away.

She then introduced me to her husband who was planted on a barstool. He was very nice and also had a firm handshake. He reached over saying I had something on my face only to gently swipe the side of my nose. We laughed. I got the joke. He was poking fun at the stud in my nose. It was a little chummy that he TOUCHED MY FACE and I’d known him all of 7 seconds, but his wife was showering me with flattery so I let it slide. I’m shallow cool like that.

She complimented my top, she oozed over my children, saying how handsome they were and they must get their looks from mommy…..

and then IT happened.

New BFF to her husband: “Honey, isn’t she beautiful?”  “Isn’t she cute?”  “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Whoa. *takes new BFF off speed dial* Why is she saying this stuff to her husband? Why is she asking HIM?

This. Just. Got. Awkward.

I mean, what’s he supposed to say? You don’t ask your husband if another woman is pretty in front of said woman……unless….unless….

No. It couldn’t be. That’s preposterous. But what if it’s not? Holy Shit Balls. Are they into Menages? My mind instantly went to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend calls his bluff and wants to have a 3-way with him and her friend, but he can’t bring him self to do it. It’s hilarious, but now I’m starting to relate to it on a whole new level. One I do not appreciate. I glanced at the husband. He was smiling at me all, cat-that-ate-the-girl-from-the-party.

So this morning when we woke up in bed, they were all, that was HOT.

KIDDING. But if you’re into that sort of thing and you just got a visual, you’re welcome.

I understand I could be way off base. She could be totally secure with herself, and obviously her marriage, and was being genuinely sweet. Maybe I’m just not used to that behavior so I read it wrong. Perhaps she had had more to drink that I thought. Maybe she just found me irresistibly adorable. I mean, who doesn’t? Probably.

Or….what if my gut was right? What if they sought me out like some sort of prey, and I was on the menu? Sweat beaded my forehead as I began to panic. What if they corner me in the bathroom? What do I do? I mean, I can’t go through with it, but I did really want to go shopping with her….holy orgy, Batman….

….what do I do?…..

….how do I get out of this?…..

SALVATION

in the form of a tired 9yo who was ready to go home. YES, SWEET BABY JESUS, MOMMY WILL TAKE YOU HOME RIGHT NOW. And thank you, precious child, for ending my night and thus a very uncomfortable situation to explain to your father.

I waved bye to my EX-BFF, thanked the hosts for their lovely party-con-love-triangle, and went home.

So now I ask YOU: Was that strange behavior or am I being a total nut-case? I’m soooo looking forward to your comments!

Editors note: I was going to title this post, I Think She Wants My Boobies, because the last few days a lot of attention has gone to balls via my last post, and I’m nothing if not fair. But then I was like, what if that looks like I’m trying too hard to put stuff like boobs and balls in my titles? And if I were, is that so bad? Anyway, I obviously ended up going with another title, but I want the record to show that I was even steven in my representation of all things round and hangy. Thank you.

Blogging Takes Big Hairy Balls

I know what you’re thinking. Why does blogging take balls? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re putting yourself out there. Big time. You’re holding a neon sign and saying, “Hey world, here I am and all the crazy shit that goes on in my head! Do you like me? Press that thumbs-up button!”

Some days your post may be funny, other days it may be more thought provoking. You never know which your followers will respond to. It’s all a big risk, but you can’t write for some supposed, abstract expectation. So you write what’s in your head and in your heart. You squeeze your eyes and say a little prayer that someone out there in the blogosphere gets you, and you hit that publish button.

To some people this may be a risk free endeavor. People who are comfortable being in the spot light. “Here I am, take it or leave it” type people. They put it all out there, lay it all on the line to be judged or loved. Easy peasy. I admire the shit out of those people.

But that’s not me. Not by a long shot.

I’m more of a “waves from afar, hope you like me but if you don’t then I probably need to apologize at this point” type. Have you ever played that game – that what Friends character are you most like game? You probably have. So keep in mind who you think you’re most like, but then ask someone else who knows you well which character they think you’re most like. The answers won’t always match. My friends all said I was definitely Phoebe. I’m assuming because we’re both blonde and dingy; good natured and a little eccentric. Know who I always related to? Chandler. I never related to any of the girls – they were way too together for me. I related to the shy guy who never knew where he fit in. The sometimes awkward one who used humor to get himself through life, or to cover up when things got too real.

I’m fiercely private by nature, but trying very hard to learn to be more open. It takes tremendous effort to quiet the negative voices in my head and gather the cajones to write. I’ve found this is infinitely easier to do with strangers, however, so blogging is good practice for me. There is a comfortable buffer in sending your words to people you never (or rarely) see. Conversely, handing my novel over to beta readers, whom I know personally, almost made me physically ill. I would have rather paraded naked in front of them. I did it, though. I gave them my novel because I want it to succeed that bad. I’ll do whatever it takes.

So why the hell bother with a blog, Beth? Because I need to, desperately. It’s strangely cathartic. It fulfills some sort of innate writer’s need to share what’s in my head. If I don’t satisfy this call to action, I’m going to end up that crazy lady under the highway that talks to invisible people and shows her boobs to strangers eats paper. And you know, you know, I’ll have like a hundred cats. So I’ll continue to use this awesome, crazy, strange venue to purge what my muse wants to create, and with shaky, tentative hands I’ll offer it to you.

This is what was in my head today. I’m scooping my big, hairy balls over to the side so I can reach the publish button. If you enjoyed it, hit that damn like button and let me feel the love. Even better, comment and tell me which Friends character you think you’re most like. Did it match what others thought? Are you a blogger? Let me know if it takes big hairy balls for you to blog too. You can use a different analogy if you want. Jes sayin’. If you’re not appreciating the testes visual. If you are, you’re welcome.