Bell Pecker: The Tale of an Aspiring Veggie

I wish someone had told me earlier on how fucking awesome it is to watch your kids grow up. Sure, people mentioned what a joy it is to teach them new things and how sitting around eyeing the baby take its first wobbly step made their uterus get all knotted up around their throat because OH MY! THE KID DOESN’T REALLY BELIEVE HE’S A KITTEN. HE CAN WALK ON TWO LEGS DAMMIT…..!! OR AT LEAST THINKS HE’S AN EVOLVED SPECIES OF SUPER CAT AND THAT MAKES HIM A FUCKING GENIUS!!!

No.  What someone should have told me is how much of a delight it is when your children begin talking like a real adult. But not a very intelligent adult. More like a mentally challenged senior with wet brain. So you get to hear funny shit all day long and laugh to yourself at their expense.

 Because even though toddlers say humorous things, they don’t always understand why mommy thinks the phrase, “I don’t want to put that bell pecker in my mouth! It’s yucky looking…. I’ll get the cooties!!!”, is funny.

But just wait until they hit their mid-forties early twenties… That phrase will suddenly take on a whole new meaning. I’m pretty certain I remember uttering it at the drive-in theater to a hopeful young lad when I was in high school.

The girl was the winner today. Because I really didn’t have a come-back for the bell pecker comment. This mama has seen some pretty unappealing peckers in her day. And I really didn’t want to be responsible for forcing the girl to put a potentially cootie-coverd pecker in her mouth against her will.  There’s plenty of time for that later… After all, isn’t that what college is for?

((In case you’re wondering, semantics won the battle and we ate cookies.))

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I Shot the Fashion Police. But I Did Not Kill the Under-Paid Child Who Sews My Clothes.

You can't see in the photo, but the crotch of these pjs is completely ripped out and I'm wearing Hello Kitty skull leggings underneath. Total win.

I HATE being cold. It sucks. Maybe if I lived someplace that provided snow-fall on a regular basis it would be different. Because pretty things go a long way in my book and it’s hard to top a fresh, untouched snowfall.

Unfortunately, I reside in the bitter bible belt. Where snow too closely resembles semen. Which is totally prohibited. So God just doles out rainfall instead of snowflakes. It’s common knowledge that Christians dig golden showers*. And because God doesn’t always think things through to the finish**, all we end up with is vicious ice storms.

I’ve officially given up this winter. No more stylish coats or prancing around campus in heeled boots. I’m staying at home and refusing to get dressed in anything that doesn’t significantly contribute to my warmth.

Because it’s all about me.

The rest of you frozen bastards have my full sympathy as you carry out your daily lives. I do pity you for not having the foresight to get yourself knocked up at a tender young age. My iron-clad line of “staying home to spend quality time with the children” is simply a nice way of saying, “Fuck you all. I have the option of spending my days at home dressed like a bum and I’m going to take full adantage of it”.


* See: The Virgin Mary story. No funky white stuff.

** See: 1. Ex-boyfriends 2. My life story 3. The Sweet-Valley High book series

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I WILL NOT SCREAM OBSCENE WORDS (In Public)… (I Will Continue In The Privacy of My Own Home Obviously)

I love how some things transcend cultral differences and just lie inherent in all people. Like smiling. Or basic emotions. Or that moment you’re at a loud party and the room suddenly goes quiet just as you are screaming something innappropriate. 

That so has to be a universal phenomenon…!! 

Unless you’re Canadian. Everything flies in the Great North. That’s why people like Celine Dion, Chris Haney and Scott Abbott*, and all the dudes from Nickleback have been allowed to thrive. There is just no sense of right and wrong there. If a moral line exsisted in Canada it wouldn’t just be occassionally crossed. That line would be sodomized and held in a kinky postion until it curled itself into a safe little circle. But I digress…

Those awkward moments in a suddenly silent room…. 

As with many things in my life, I can’t help but feel I experience a freakishly abnormal amount of cringe-worthy shit. Like there was a mix-up at the People Factory in the Sky (you know, like where we all come from?)…. and there are rotund dwarfs that dole out various situations in little scoops and dollops (resulting in situations known to average folk as – fate, coiencidence, karma, bad luck, good luck – and all of those other wonder terms we use to explain things). But that’s all just science fiction we made up to explain for the fact that those ofish little men in the sky are fucking life up for people.

 I’m pretty sure they’ve been dealing with substance abuse problems for centuries. That’s why crappy lives are not evenly distributed across the board like they’re supposed to be. The cracked-out, sky men are screwing the whole system up. I’m calling for a mandatory NA meeting in heaven so they can get their shit together.

Because burnt-out, sky-dwarf junkies are the only explaination I can come up with for the outlandish amount of humiliating experiences I get myself into…

The list is long…

 Things like having a piece of basil the size of Kanye West’s ego stuck between your front teeth. And no one tells you. So you go to a job interview with it unknowly bitch-slapping you in the face like the imbecil you are every time you smile. 

Unintentionally setting off a fire alarm in the Smithsonian.

Walking in the door after a date, only to realize your zipper has been down for God-knows-how-long. Then noticing (as you’re ripping the bastard dennim from your body) that you are wearing panties so hideous your eccentric aunt wouldn’t even wear them.

Drinking way too much iced tea at a political rally… and then peeing on a sidewalk in front of the mayor. All because your friend told you a dead baby joke that made you laugh so hard you lost bladder control.

I can’t even recount the number of times I’ve stuck not only my foot in my mouth,  but my leg- all the way up to my perky vagina. (That bitch seems to stay oblivious to the wretched situations we find ourselves in. I can only attribute this to her passion for screwdrivers and desire to remain in the dark).

For example, a few weeks ago at a family dinner. I was talking to my 87 year old grandmother (who is the definition of traditions and lady-like manners) above the den of thirty family members screaming over each other. As I tried to convince her that this is the PRIME time to hit the dating scence up, the noise volume in the room reached a record-smashing level. She said she was done with men.

So naturally, the exact moment that I screamed, “Grandmother- YOU SHOULD TOTALLY BE A LESBIAN AND HIT IT WITH SOME HOT OLD CHICKS!!!”, was the precise moment of a room-wide lull.

Every single eyeball swiveled towards me.

Then I exploded in a massive cloud of sulfurish smoke.

Not really. But that would have only been fitting had it actually occured. Instead I was resigned to stand there and listen to numerous biblical lectures on homosexuality from my uber-godly cousin.

I have a feeling that all I’m going to get for Christmas is a do-it-yourself surgery kit with all the gear I will need to sew my mouth shut.

* The inventors of Trival Pursuit. The board game 77% responsible for public recognition amoung my family and friends of what an idiot I am.

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You Know in Retro Rome Tigers Used To Eat Christians? What Happened To This Fad and How Can We Bring it Back?!?

Do you ever have the feeling that the authors of the bible had access to far more superior drugs than we do today?


In between the kids going to church every Sunday morning, attending a children’s program at church on a fairly regular basis on Sunday nights, and preschool at another church nursery once a week- my house is beginning to represent a Holy Rollers Convention.

And as if I wasn’t kicking myself enough about my all the lies I already tell them… Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, the Raven-Mocker(What? You don’t threaten your offspring with graphic, revamped tales from Cherokee mythology about death??)… This whole delve into the ins and outs of Christianity is almost too much for me.

Like every time Pie forces me to recount the story of Noah’s Ark I feel this sinister desire to slip in the fact that Noah was way into bestiality. And those cute little pigmy pigs we saw at the zoo the other day? Yeah, Pie. Those were some of Noah’s offspring. That’s why hogs are so aggressive. They remember their unwilling porking of biblical proportions and carry that with them in their DNA.

Oh, Adam and Eve? Sorry to squish the dream so young darling… But obviously Adam’s cock wasn’t big enough to satisfy Eve and she had to find some kinky action else where. Sticking a swishy snake tail into her angelic love nest was the kiss of death for all us women. Because now we’re destined to a life-time as being written off as ruthless bitches. When actually we’re just wise and Eve was simply a pioneer of smart decisions and early dildos. You know that snake was the inspiration for the Snake of Paradise? Let me get an ‘AMEN EVE!!’…!!

If I get a call from the school regarding my child informing them that Mary Mag. was the original “Other Woman” and that Jesus turning water into wine was his only redeeming trait I may be forced to move to another state. Because if my mother ever catches wind of the tiny bits of reality I slip into the bible lessons in my house I’ll probably be crucified. Upside-down of course.

Let’s just hope she never discovers that the miniature Psalms bible that Korbo received at his Baby Dedication is now involved in obscene acts in the bottom of my purse as it doubles for the kid’s on-the-go coloring book.

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Alcoholics Should Never Give Each Other Advice or Attempt to be Rational

I have a feeling that most sibling advice conversations don’t follow the same patterns as mine do. Which is probably why I so rarely call my brother for advice. But desperate times call for desperate measures and trying to make a life-altering choice requires input. Unfortunately, my list of trusted confidantes I could talk to was limited to Sookie-Cat or my bro. I may have been better off speaking to the kitten…

T: This is a big decision. You should probably be sober for at least a week before making it.

Me: But you basically just struggled with the EXACT same situation and I know what a down-in-the-gutter alcoholic you are!!

T: Yeah, but I had a few drunk years to think everything over. That’s basically the equivalent to one week of sober thinking.

Somehow I have a feeling I’ll be wrestling with this mental monster for awhile…

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The Upside Down Bean Battle

I love the bits of randomness I hear throughout my day. The kids and I were playing outside. Correction. The kids were playing outside. I was hauling BD’s entire drum set and 200 deceptively heavy cymbals from the van to the garage. As I stepped over the bean pile Korbo was attempting to pour his bowl of beans onto Pie’s princess plate (which was pristinly arranged with five beans). She threw her body across the plate and screamed, “NOOOOO!! Your little white flowers can’t mix with my chocolate bunnies!!!!”

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Necrophilia is the New Black

I love that BD listens to my random conversations and always provides feed-back no matter what the subject matter. Like when I paused ESPN to ask him about necrophilia earlier.

Me: If you were going to have sex with a dead person, do you think it would be more enjoyable being a chick riding a man-corpse or a guy fucking a  cadaverous woman?

We discussed the various aspects of how much lube a man would have to use since, obviously, dead girls aren’t juicy. Compared a rigor-mortified cock (yeah, I’m betting that’s the first time you’ve heard that phrase today) to a refrigerator-chilled glass dildo. Discussed angles and positions when one person isn’t moving. Ultimately, we agreed that female necros have a leg up (pun intended) in the physical pleasure department over their male counterparts.

See? Not all deep marital conversations revolve around boring stuff.

And because I like to freak him out as much as possible. Just before I pushed play on the remote, I leaned over to whisper in his ear, “I’m really glad we had this conversation. Now, to keep in the festive sprit of the season, on Halloween night I’m going to dress you up like a homicide victim and you’re going to pretend to be a corpse while I perform all kinds of sinful acts on your lifeless body”.

Unfortunately for BD this was one of my more mild conversations of the day. He totally hearts me and shit.


Filed under body, marriage