Author Archives: Becky Bean

Admit it. You’re Jealous.

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“So, we’re accepting the job offer with Portland?”

 “Yes, Becky, it looks like that’s the one we’ll go with.”

 “Awesome, Bean! This is great! I already have a lot of friends up there!”

 “Wait…friends? I thought you said you’d never been up there?”

 “I haven’t. Oh, Bean, this is going to be great! I already have tons of people we’re going to have to go visit and ride with…”

 “Are these friends you knew from before we met?”

“Nope.”

 “How do you know them?”

 “Oh, well, I haven’t really met them. They’re from my blog!

“From your blog?” Bean raised an eyebrow. 

“Don’t look at me like that.  Yes, from my blog.  They still count as friends.”

Whatever, Portland friends. Psssht. Bean doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You and me… we’re tight.

Although, in the interest of maintaining an honest friendship with you, I do have to be blunt.  I will not, ever, EVER wear hiking sandles with socks.  I can embrace the rain, the overcast skies, the mud, the hipsters, and everything else you throw at me, but a girl has to have standards.  I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.  

Anyways, in response to some of the comments my new friends (YES, Bean, they are my FRIENDS) wrote to me….

POA girl said:  “I’ve been told that Clackamas has more horses per capita then any other county in the country. I don’t know if it is true or not but oh boy do we have horses here. Wanna know another secret? There are a number of Canadian horses here (they look like foundation style Morgans). You prefer other types? We got it all.“

Is this true?  I don’t care if it is or not.  I’m going to say it’s true.  And even though I will be living in Colombia County, I’m just going to pretend that it’s Clackamas so I can brag.  I think it took me all of thirty seconds after receiving this comment to google “Canadian Horse”.  This is what I found:

 I immediately went to equine.com to see how much they are going for…  Drat.  Does anyone have about $10 to $20 thousand dollars I can borrow?  I can repay you in angry DragonMonkies and Squidgelet puke.  Let me know if you want to take me up on the offer – I have plenty of “currency” on hand.

Albigear said: ” One time I went there I got to see the naked bike ride (7,000 strong?…”

And then she went on to say some other stuff, but I have to be honest, I quit paying attention after that.  Because, seriously.  Wait a second.  Hold on there.

NAKED BIKE RIDE?  As in… naked people?  On bikes?  Riding?  7,000 of them, all at once?

But… but….but people have flibbly bits.  And dangly thangs.  And wobbly fat.  And…

Gross.

How do you even sit comfortably on your bike seat?  Wouldn’t it chafe after awhile?  What about when you have to stand up to pedal up a hill… what then?  Sure, it may not bug you… but what about the person behind you?  Do they really need that view?  Or worse…what if you have one of those comfortable gel bike seats— the kind that’s sorta made out of absorbent material?  How in the world could you get that thing clean enough to ever lend it out to a friend after riding around naked on it? 


“Oh, hey, Jack… Yeah, no problem.  You can borrow my bike.  Oh, and hey, here’s a paper towel.  You might want to give it a quick wipe before you sit down.  I just spent two sweaty hours with that skinny front portion jammed up against my….”

GROSS.  Bad, Portland.  Bad.  I’m giving you -2 coolness points.

Snipe asked if the house we’re moving to is horse-friendly.  Sadly, it isn’t.  We had to work within our budget, and unfortunately, we had to choose between “horse-friendly” and “land with an actual house on it”.  I tried convincing The Bean that it would be a really great adventure to spend the next few years squatting in a tent on some property while we saved up enough money to build on it, but he wasn’t buying it.

That said, the area I’m moving to is fairly horse friendly.  While I can’t have a horse on my property, I was able to find several reasonable-looking barns close by.   In fact, there are some downright gorgeous barns nearby. 

Check out this place:

For those of you too lazy to click through, check out this picture:

 I.  Want.  To.  Ride.  In.  That.  Covered.  Arena.  

Okay, what I really want is to one day have a covered arena like that on my property.  But unless I make it big as an author one day and just have stupid money to throw around, I don’t think that’s very likely.  So, instead, I will settle for lusting after other people’s arenas.

I also want to go check out this barn:

For the record, you guys are allowed to browse the sales page all you want, but I already have dibs on “Quik Like A Jackrabbit.”  No, I do not have $12,000 dollars.  And no, I have no idea what I’d do with a cow horse with that much fancy breeding— I expect I’d just fall off a lot.

Even so, it doesn’t matter.  I call “dibs”, and everyone knows that “dibs” is an all-powerful claim.  Even Urban  Dictionary recognizes it.

“Dibs:  The most powerful force in the universe, it is used to call possession of a certain object or idea. There are very few things that trump dibs.”

You can’t argue with a dibs.

While we’re on the subject of “dibs”ing, I’ve saved the best thing for last:

Holy crap.

I’m going to be living near a Morgan horse farm. Admit it.  You’re jealous.

Dibs.

Dibs.

Same horse, but still Dibs.

This one’s so mine it’s not even funny.  Uber dibs.

Also mine.  Dibs.

Quit asking.  I already called dibs.

Yes, I already called uber dibs on him, but I just wanted to be clear:  He’s mine.  Back off.  I saw him first, and if you continue to encroach on my dibs, I don’t think we can be friends any more.  I mean, look at him.
No, seriously.  Look closer:
No, that’s not photoshop.  He really does have “Property of Becky” permanently tattooed on his hindquarters.  It would just be embarrassing for you if you tried to claim he was yours.

I understand that it’s very greedy of me to call dibs on so many of their horses, but I’m afraid that’s what happens when you’re second to the table.  Besides…. finder’s keepers.

Now all I have to do is work on the email where I introduce myself to the farm owners and ask to visit.  I’ve been working on this stupid thing for weeks.  I swear, I put less time and effort into dating The Bean than I am into trying to hit just the right note with the owners of this farm.

Does anyone have any suggestions for how to word a “Hi, nice to meet you” note which will result in them saying, “Hi, Becky, we’ve been waiting for someone like you to write!  Why don’t you come on by and meet our herd?  You can basically pretend that they’re all yours and groom and ride them any time you want.  We’ll even provide free baby sitting and gas money for the drive!”

Shhhh.  Don’t interrupt my daydream with reality.  It could happen, right?

I’ve Got Mom Butt

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The title says it all.

Squidgelet is a year old.  According to all the manuals, all the chub you have left on you when your baby hits a year is YOUR fat, not baby fat.

Well, crap.

I mean, there are some good things about being fat.

I never get cold any more.

When I go see a movie, I don’t have to worry about the seat cushion being too hard – I’ve brought my own squishy seat cushion with me.

When I’m out for a walk I don’t have to worry about anybody whistling at me like they used to.

I float great in water.  Between that and the never getting cold, I imagine I could be a pretty serious competitor at long-distance cold water swimming.  

I do know I’d kick some serious heiny at a game of “Who Can Survive the Longest Without Food on a Desert Island”.  Anyone want to play with me?  Winner gets to eat all the losers!  Anyone?  You there, in the back— is that a hand?  No?

At any rate, it was time to do something about it.

I dragged the boys with me down to my local 24 Hour Fitness and got ready to pay the $8 for childcare that it normally costs to work out.  I used to get up before work to work out, but I’ve been pushing so hard in all the other areas of my life, I just feel like I need to get a full night’s sleep.  Living with RA is kind of like living with a really grumpy bear – when it’s in “hibernating”  you’ve got to judge just how much “noise” you can make going about with your daily life.  If you make too much “noise” (stress, exhaustion, stress, over-exertion, stress), the bear comes roaring hungrily out of its cave, and heaven help any helpless little joint that gets in its way.  My “bear” has been tossing and turning restlessly lately, so I’m doing what I can to soothe it back to sleep.  That means that working out before work just isn’t in the cards at the moment.

Unfortunately, at $8 a pop for childcare, working out more than 1 or 2 times a week isn’t in the financial cards, either.

Imagine my surprise when I went to sign in and found out that the gym was having a special – Holy Crap.  $10 per kid, PER MONTH, and I could work out as often as I wanted?

I could feel my thighs getting toned, just listening to it.

Thrilled beyond belief, I reached into my purse to grab my wallet…

Only to discover I’d left it at home.

So I dragged both kids back to the car, loaded them up, and drove home.

“Gym? GYM?  GYM?!” wailed the DragonMonkey, upset at the sudden change of plans.  “Play wif da twuck at da gym?  PLEASE?  GYMGYMGYM?!”

I unloaded them out of the car, searched the house, found my wallet, loaded them back in the car, and drove back to the gym.

“GYM?  We awr going to da gym?  GYM?  PWEASE? GYMGYMGYM?!”


 I pulled into the parking lot, unloaded both boys out of the car, and headed into the gym.

 Life used to be so much simpler back in the days when I hopping in and out of a car wasn’t a 10 minute ordeal.

After checking them in and a fruitless attempt at soothing the Squidgelet’s tears, I managed to sneak out and into the busy gym.

I changed and briefly stretched, then hopped onto an elliptical machine.  Sure, I was sandwiched in between a 17 year old toned goddess and a young Brad Pitt, both of whom were wearing beautiful, expensive workout outfits.  Yes, I was wearing wrinkly pajama bottoms and my husband’s old t-shirt, but who cared?   It was just a matter of time.  With the new workout special, I could afford to work out seven days a week, if I wanted to.  Why, in just a few month’s time, that would be me on the elliptical, flaunting my toned body in a too-tight lycra uniform.  Just knowing I had this freedom was giving me a spring in my step.

I increased the resistance and incline of the machine, legs pumping in time with the bass of the music piped in over the speakers.  Boo-yah.  Less than two minutes into my 30 minute set, and I could already feel my muscles warming up.  This was going to be great.  Feel the burn, feel the burn, feel the…

“Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club.  Becky Bean, please report to Kid’s Club.”

With a start, I shut off the machine, grabbed the ratty kitchen towel that I was using as my workout towel, and opened the door to childcare room.

The smell of vomit assaulted me immediately.

“He, uh, he got sick…” the childcare worker trailed off, swallowing a gag as she attempted to do damage control.  The Squid was howling, purple-faced, his entire outfit, the bouncy, and carpet all dripping with throw-up.  It looked absolutely impossible for there to be that much throw-up, and yet… there it was.

“Here, don’t worry about it.  I’ll clean it up.”  I grabbed The Squid and lifted him to me, doing my best to ignore the feeling of his puke-drenched clothes soaking into mine. 

Ten minutes and 3,000 paper towels later, I dragged both kids out to the car again.

“GYM?  No, I wanna pway at da gym!  No, mama!  No, no wanna go!  GYM? GYM?! GYM?! GYM!?”

That was last Monday.  It has now been nine days of coughing, sleepless nights, and puking from the flu.  I have not been back to the gym yet. 

Also:

Dear Flu Bug:

Please go away and quit picking on my two children.  They were both skinny to begin with.  They really didn’t need days of puking.  I’m starting to feel like I’m carting around little Auschwitz babies.  If you wanted to pick on someone, why not pick on me?  I wouldn’t minded having a little bit of the flu.  It might have been good for at least five pounds.

Sincerely,

Becky Bean

http://www.hulu.com/embed/M12h0LZQBaPz9-9y4hzpZQ