Posted by Becky Boo on September 11, 2015 in Thinking Thoughts
Note from Boo: I generally try to be funny, witty or just random on my blog, today is not that day.
September 11th will always be a day that is covered in a shadow. For those of us who were lucky enough to only experience the horror from the sidelines, we too still feel a deep sadness. It’s a day of remembrance and pause.
No one knows when your time is up and that second-hand on your life stops moving. I don’t believe that anyone leaves for work and doesn’t expect to come home. I don’t believe we ever expect our loved ones to not come back to us.
Today is the anniversary when the world stopped and ended for innocents. Today is a reminder that life is precious.
Perhaps it is because we know deep down we only have so many minutes and we refuse to acknowledge the clock.
It’s too painful.
It’s too scary.
It’s as real as the sun rising in the east.
I left my home today fully expecting to return. I didn’t make sure everyone I love knows exactly how I feel about them. I didn’t hug HG one long last time for the day. I take my life for granted, and that is a damn dirty rotten shame.
Today gentle readers, enjoy the moments. Be grateful. Say thank you. Say I love you a million times. Snuggle. Forgive. Watch Pitch Perfect for the 100th time and text your friends “LOL”. Better yet, watch it with them. Just live.
Conversation (allegedly) between HG and Myself while he was watching TV in bed and I was asleep.
HG: “OMG, what is wrong with your feet? why do they feel like that?, why are your talons wrapped around my ankle?”
Me: (allegedly, in what was told me as a creepy witchy whisper) “It’s because I tiptoe barefoot thru your dreams at night like a T-Rex”
And then allegedly I giggled in an evil manner and turned over and went back to a deep slumber.
I told him I was being cute. like an Otter. They hold hands whilst they sleep so as not to get separated. He told me Otters have cute feet and mine could be used as a weapon…
I don’t think HG appreciates just how much I want to snuggle him in my sleep.
You know how they say “keep a notebook with you at all times to jot down your ideas, even on your bedside table?”
I am not sure who “they” are, but I have given it a rather hearty try.
Do you know what things I write down at 3 AM? or while running thru my house and I happen to see a scrap of paper? My mind is a scary place ya’ll.
Coming soon to a blog near you:
- Clowns should not make cake
- Why don’t we have appliances like the Jetsons?
- Lemon-aid is for Bears (Honestly, I must have been drinking)
- Would I kill HG if he was a Zombie? (wasn’t drinking)
- Kill Bill Volume 12 (No freaking clue)
- Peep This (again, there may have been wine involved)
And my personal favorite
- “And the clouds surrounded the mountain like an army and you couldn’t see shit”
I am not sure this method is going to work out for me, however, I am quite confident these were all brilliant ideas that have somehow lost their way and/or the ranting of a soon to be crazy woman…
I do not do well making personal decisions under pressure. I am not even talking about a “red wire, green wire” situation.
It could be as simple as being the last one to order when out to dinner with friends. Who wants to be the one holding up the order? My anxiety riddled self just pops out and I am all “JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL!!!!!” the minute a waiter looks at me.
There are many,many,many times when I am at a restaurant and there is nothing on the menu that looks good to me. Unfortunately, I am rather picky when it comes to food and as rule I try to hide it. If I am the last person to order, whatever item I happen to glance at is what I request, hopefully in a calm, quiet manner.
Which is why, I ended up with the worlds largest platter of Fried Clams. An entire plate of just Fried Clams…All 5 lbs just for me…
This is a moment shared with close friends so I can never run from it, I can only embrace it.
Now when we are out in public and HG sees that look start to cross my face he gently whispers “don’t go all fried clams, okay?”
Occasionally a passer-by will hear and glance nervously at me as if “going all fried clams” is a code word for going kamikaze or crapping myself. They usually just keep walking.
Anxiety, you are a bitch, and your Trucker name is “Fried Clams”
I, sadly, have suffered my cold sores for most of my life.
While in the fourth grade when we had to take Sex Ed I went home crying because I had herpes. (This was pointed out by very helpful classmates) That day has stuck with me since.
When I get stressed? BAM! My lip gets a beautiful bright pink neon flashing sign for a week.
Now, I know in the big, and really, little picture this is no big deal, until HG treats you like you are Patient Zero of the household.
My home becomes reminiscent of that scene in ET, when the entire house is cloaked off and the guys are all walking around suited up and no one can touch him and the poor little guy is just laying there? I am the little guy tarped off.
The minute there are signs, he pretty much puts on a Hazmat suit and follows me around with bleach wipes and Lysol. The same cuddly guy who generally would walk thru fire for me keeps at least a ten yard distance.
*insert Meatloaf singing in the background “I would do anything for love…but I won’t do that…* and by that he means me…
I have decided that as a somewhat intelligent individual, I should be able to create at least rudimentary meals for HG.
Thus far, it has been an interesting endeavor.
It started with awesome intentions, and then ends with a lump of pea jerky. I had carefully released the peas from the can into the pot on the stove. Then I got distracted by the movie on my iPad that was propped on the counter, and by the book I was in the middle of reading.
HG “What is burning on the stove”
Me “Nothing is burning, the peas are in their own water, they can’t burn”
HG “There is no water left in that pan, you can’t smell that?”
Me “Huh…I don’t remember when I turned them on… that escalated quickly though eh?”
HG “You burned peas, that were from a can”
Me “Technically, they are just dehydrated, its like Pea Jerky”
HG “I am going to make a Pizza”
Me “Um, you are welcome for making dinner jerkface!”
I am not sure I will ever be recognized for my efforts in the kitchen…
So, my idea of blogging to write again may perchance have gone by the wayside the last few months. In My defense, I did get married a few months back and that did require a large percentage of my attention…(More on that later)
I was reading an article regarding spirit animals and I have decided that mine is a Sloth, or perhaps a Hare on crack; my best guess is that they had a baby. So, a Rare? Rath? Sare? Lets go with Rare.
I am either all in, or I just want to lay down with my pillow and perhaps nap a bit. A teacher once told me that I am like a hiccupping butterfly, landing just long enough to take a peak, and then something else would catch my attention. “LOOK SHINY”.
So gentle readers, I am back. Drinks are on the right, blankets on the left and please leave everything in its proper place.
Posted by Becky Boo on January 8, 2015 in Uncategorized
I have spent most of my life with an idolized version of what a soul mate is. The perfect person who would be the Prince to my Princess. It was a mash up of Danny and Sandy from Grease, and me and Don Johnson living in Miami.
What I have learned is that I was wrong… really, really, wrong.
Not in that it is necessarily a bad thing and I woke up one morning all “holy crap this is just so horrific”. My realization was more like a “Oh, Yeah, this makes more sense to me”. Hindsight is so 20/20…I hate it when my Mother is right.
The following is a list of things that yours truly believes constitute a Soul mate. Yours is different, because you are not me and I am not you. (That totally sounds like a Beetles song.) However, the basic principles remain the same.
Also, the world would implode if there were ever two of me…it would be a disaster; trust me on this.
- Going to Taco Bell at 3:00 A.M because you must have a taco with extra cheese now.
- Rubbing your toes until you stop crying
- Doesn’t get irritated when you speak all the parts along with your favorite movie
- Pretends that you don’t have PMS
- Understands that you will never learn how to cook
- That you can fart in front of and laugh
- No matter how angry you are, you would rather sleep next to them then apart
- Goes and checks out the scary noise you are convinced is a demon or someone breaking into the house even though they have told you a million times in the last hour it’s just the wind but they will go check anyway so you will shut the hell up and go to sleep
- Tells you when you are wrong
- Always has your Six
Take that Hallmark Channel
Posted by Becky Boo on September 12, 2014 in Archives Of Boo
The closer my wedding date gets, the more I think about my family that have passed on. I know in my heart they will be there in spirit, and I hope they enjoy the party too.
Perhaps the spot that is left empty in the quilt that is your family never fills, and is never replaced. Maybe we are all destined to just keep moving forward and remembering when, until we are all patched back together again.
Things seem to be more real once actions/feelings and moments are placed into the written word. A daydream is nothing more than a passing few moments of joy or sorrow, not truly a reality.
Writing has always been my therapy, a way to neatly tuck and store anything and everything in my life so that it can be cataloged into its proper place. I have tried several times to write this post, and each time, I have slammed the laptop closed and stomped my foot and headed for a glass of wine.
My cousin Richie passed suddenly on January the 7th. He was a fabulous person and saying that he will be missed in an understatement. A Son, Brother, Father and soon to be Grandfather, he has left a very large ache in the hearts of his family and friends.
For the second time in 10 months, I watched parents bury their child. It is so against how the natural order of things should be, that I wanted to scream, throw-up, yell at God, and curl up in a ball.
There is a circle in my family comprised of myself and my cousins that remember the small town where we all come from, life with our grandparents, summers up north, winters in the snow. I was the baby and they were the cool kids I pestered to drag me along where ever they went. We are one short now and stunned.
I could look at Richie and say ” I really miss them” and he knew what I meant, he knew my pain. His idea of home and mine were pretty much the same “Up North”.
I smile when I think he is with our grandparents now. In my head and heart he just got back Up-North before the rest of us. My Grandmother opened the door and Grandpa handed him a beer…
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
I am ready to meet my maker, but whether my maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.
For the record, death sucks arse. It isn’t fair.
We all miss you Richie.
July 27, 1967-January 7, 2009