Make Wine Not War

I arrived in Italy with the posture of the last quintuplet squeezed out of the vagina of a Clomid addict.  I had been stuffed into a window seat next to my husband, who smells pretty okay, for a 9 hour flight. What didn’t smell pretty okay was the leftover puke of the previous passenger.  If that wasn’t lovely enough, I also had a weird official airline metal box under the seat in front of me.

On our first short flight, I had bragged to all my friends and family about my husband being cramped in his seat, while at 5’2, I had all the leg room I wanted, both sitting properly and not.  The tall people of the world became so jealous that they called in favors with the airline to make my longer flight miserable.  It might have had something to do with me posting this picture on Facebook:

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The best part of this picture is the lady in the background. I think her daughter was lifting her butt to fart..

Fortunately, the cards had more in store for me than numb feet and nostrils full of puke.  After we landed, the trip became everything I had dreamt of, and more.  I survived on Nutella croissant breakfasts, gelato lunches, and pasta and steak dinners that put crazy monkey sex to shame.  I found out a lot about Italian culture and art:

  • Much like the honey badger, when it comes to parking or driving, they don’t care:

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    I’ll make it fit… is what she said.

  • Sylvester Stallone has a great plastic surgeon:

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    “Nothing is real if you don’t believe in who you are.” – Rocky Balboa. See! He admits it!

  • Podiatrists used extreme measures in Caesar’s time, even resorting to amputation for something as simple as a corn:

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    I’m trying to let go of my “Corningwear” pun because Rod said y’all wouldn’t get it.

There are old lady linebackers that like to visit Saint Peter’s Basilica. They’d just as soon take you out with an elbow to the rib than allow you to see anything they might be interested in seeing before you.  The best defense* is to escape to places that serve copious amounts of wine and then bring you more free glasses because they like you.

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So we may have already had an entire bottle, and free champagne before they brought us the free after dinner drink. Don’t judge us until you’ve visited the Vatican.

  • Men like to fight naked… all the time… no matter why.  I guess so that they can do this:
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    Let me show you this move I learned from a book called Fifty Shades of War.

    To be continued…



Lady or Not… Here I Come!

*Or offense, or WTFever.  I tried to look it up, but it was just a bunch of football mumbo-jumbo.

All Around Town

I’ve been a busy girl since I’ve last posted.  As I’m leaving for Rome today, I wanted to get in a quick post for you all with some photos I’ve taken around town recently.  Most of these were taken with my cell phone, so please don’t mind the photo quality.

This first one was taken a few weeks ago when I was listening to live music.  I’ve always been fascinated with tattoos but I have to wonder the motivation of some who puts the cotton logo on their neck.

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“F you polyester!”


This one was taken by a close friend.  They said I could share it if I blocked out the company name.  Nothing says professional work place than someone taking a dump on the men’s bathroom floor.

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In Austin we have a cab company that wants you to make babies in their vehicles.

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Fortune cookies know how famous I am.

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My hypothetical daughter thinks I’m gross.

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The small print says, “I know you’re going to be gross on purpose just to annoy me.”

My two rare writers/editors to Lady or Not went out for a night on the town.  I didn’t think it was funny but thought you all would like to see a photo. Jason is left, I’m center, Rod is on the right.

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Other than that, I wanted to publicly thank Timothy Price for sending me some SD cards in the mail for my trip. You’re really awesome and sweet.

Thank you to Sue for shipping me her book.  My daughter really enjoyed it as she is in theater. If you all want to read her book it is on amazon.  Click here to purchase:

Thank you all for purchasing your amazon though me.



Lady or Not… Here I Come!

SXSW CD Carnage

Yesterday I headed out to SXSW in Austin to drink listen to music.  My buddy Jason moved to Austin this past summer, and wanted to check out the festival. As I’m a glutton for punishment, I allowed him to drag me along in exchange for him having to be seen with me in my new LoN t-shirt.

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Cute huh? Sorry it’s a boob shot, but I took it to show a few friends. I realized it’s the only photo I have in it. I wanted to brag to you guys because you all are the only ones that would care.

They heard a rumor that I was gracing the event with my presence, so they reserved me a parking spot about 5 miles from the main drag.  And guess what?  I got the special celebrity price of $25 dollars for the privilege of a mud pit with only 2 inches of mud.  I’m pretty sure they would have escorted me to 6th street had they not known that I wanted to walk.

We started our hike to the venues when Jason was approached by a handsome homeless man, resembling William H. Macy from the show Shameless, asking for money to buy a beer.  When Jason told him he couldn’t help, the man continued to talk.  Because Jason is a giant and I am fun-sized, the man jumped when I spoke to him.  I leaned over and said, “Actually, he needs you to buy him a beer.  He’s unemployed.”  The man just shook his head and muttered something about how lucky Jason was to be out with my breasts, and possibly my face.

stabbing 300x225 SXSW CD Carnage After such flattery, I suggested we get drinks dinner at my favorite restaurant. You have to understand that this place has a chicken almondine that gives me a lady boner.  The problem is that every time I go there, someone wants to share with me.  I know I am 5’2″.  I know I care about fitness… but back off my meat or I’ll cut you.  I left all the veggies because I can’t eat that much, and just scarfed down the meat and potatoes.

As we were leaving, I noticed the crowds gathering around me.  I was flattered by the attention, but there were cheap drinks bands I wanted to find.  Once we managed to get onto the main drag, I started to feel bad for the abandoned CD’s littering my path.  Their only dream in life was to be inserted into a player.  I captured this photo of their carnage:

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Let us not forget the sadness of the lost beer I captured

I couldn’t understand the purpose of all this carnage until I heard someone yell my name.  It could have been that “Becca” was written on the back of my t-shirt, but I decided that wasn’t it.  I realized that everyone had decided to line my path.  Rather than the customary rose petals, they opted for CDs as it was a music festival.  I was practically royalty at SXSW.

motorboat1 256x300 SXSW CD Carnage After hearing a few good bands and several that looked pretty, I decided my ass had been grabbed enough by women and a few men. Plus the accidental motorboating of my boobs was making Jason jealous.  He didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t motorboat his. (Any volunteers?)  We were also both feeling uncomfortable as we were inappropriately dressed by actually wearing… clothes.  I guess when they read the signs that said “Live music- no cover” they misunderstood.

My adoring crowds had grown so dense that it was difficult to walk in the street without stranger’s pubic hairs brushing my arm.  As I’m a bit of a diva and prefer to be touched only by pubic hairs that have been washed by blessed water under a full moon, I suggested we leave.  Jason agreed because he does what I tell him to, and we hightailed it back to the car.  Again, only because I really wanted to walk.



Lady or Not… Here I Come!

If your pubes haven’t been blessed under a full moon, and you need a little help removing them, this kit works great.  I purchased it the other day and I know for sure it’s great on eyebrows.  Thanks for supporting by making purchases though my Amazon store even if you buy a different product. icon smile SXSW CD Carnage

Literary Dysmorphia

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I made this awesome image myself because every time I Google a Yahoo image, all I get is porn. What does “grammar” have to do with porn?

If you know me at all, you know that a 1st grader could easily beat me in a spelling bee.  This is pretty awesome for little shin-biters around the world, but a bit disconcerting for me. So generally, I tell them they are spelling the word wrong because I’m a grown-up and I’m smarter than them.  They listen… thus the problem with spelling and grammar in today’s world.

fewer 300x300 Literary DysmorphiaYesterday was National Grammar Day: a day where those who feel inferior to the rest of the world can thumb their noses at those they deem simple-minded.  While I don’t equate myself with these people, I did recently exclaim in the grocery store, “Look!  They used the correct word ‘fewer’ rather than ‘less’ on their sign!” Then I only heard crickets chirping from all the other shoppers who had no idea what I was talking about. Fortunately, my friend Jason was there to be excited with me, or I might have had to remind these strangers who I am and then they would have been embarrassed.

This had me thinking.  Am I a grammar geek?  I don’t bother to spell-check emails or edit them before I hit send.  I often have to think if I should use the word “lay” or “lie”, and I might as well forget trying to use the word “moot” properly.  Then again, you should see the people rushing to loosen my corsets and give me mouth-to-mouth when I hit publish by accident before editing a post.*

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I didn’t think I was a grammar geek… until recently.  I told my friend Rod that I’m pretty sure I have what I like to call Literary Dysmorphia.   Here I was,  trucking along as a narcissistic blogger who loosely called herself a writer because… well, why the heck not?  My amazing ability to fool people into believing I knew what I was doing led to much better writers than myself asking me to edit their works.  This was great, because I had no friggin’ clue what I was doing.  But being super awesome, I faked my way through it.  Recently, I’ve been asked by a few people if I can hook them up in the editing world.  But the most flattering of all was being found by the CEO of a huge editing company, and then being offered compensation to write something for them.  It wasn’t much, but it was ego-stroking to say the least.

Literary Dysmorphia is defined by me as seeing your writing through warped goggles. Some writers are on their high horses thinking that they are better than everyone else, and can’t understand how others get published.  Some of us are practically perfect, but are scared to death to actually write a book.  Therefore, we cover ourselves in bacon grease and let dogs bite us so we don’t have to face that demon.

I’m a day late and a dollar short, but happy grammar day, y’all.

grammar day 300x129 Literary Dysmorphiax,
Lady or Not… Here I Come!

*I totally noticed that this sentence was a run-on, but I make my own grammar rules, so shut it.

Bite Me!

This week has been quite the adventure.  I have tons of photos to show you of poker nights in the neighborhood, parties, birthdays, date nights, nights on the town… but who cares about all that?  Seriously, everyone posts about how great life is; I want to post about how my life sucks.

I live in an 18-square-mile golf course neighborhood.  Basically, that means you pay a monthly fee to watch others hit golfballs into your windows. Fortunately for me, I couldn’t afford a house that faces the green, therefore I was forced to stare at the naked backyards of my neighbors.  This wasn’t a problem for me, because I happen to own some binoculars, and often I get bored playing Candy Crush for a living.  Being too poor for the nicer houses has its entertainment perks.  But, as I’m talking about how my life sucks… my neighbors are super boring and the ones who aren’t close their blinds.

The other perk of the neighborhood is a Facebook page, where you get to verbally ejaculate all your complaints about living in the hood. You know, posts like: “The Pooch Parlor (a doggy wash and groom room) didn’t have the good smelling shampoo”, “Did you notice that my neighbor’s house has grass .000002 mm over neighborhood regulation?” ,”I’m selling cigarettes for a school fundraiser.  Would anyone like to buy any?”… that sort of thing.

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I’m a sweet dog and I have an orange bow-tie. Who doesn’t trust a boy in a bow-tie? Not creepy at all.

This week I woke up to a Facebook alert posted by one of my “neighbors” two miles away and one town over.  He had found a wandering dog along one of the trails.  The man had left the dog in the Pooch Parlor if anyone knew whose it was.  He was worried that with the temperature hovering around 32, it was too cold for the dog.

Later, when I got to the gym, the dog was still there.  The poor, pitiful creature was crying at the door.  I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach which I was pretty sure was the result of last night’s dinner.  But then I remembered my dinner had been Southern Comfort, so that couldn’t be it.  Jason was there, and he told me the feeling I was experiencing was… ohh, what did he call it… ummm… sympathy. I checked to see if Muttley the mongrel had a tag with his owner’s number on it (I wasn’t planning on spending any reward money, I swear).  He didn’t, and it was freezing in there, so I let the HOA know and took him home with me. At this point, Jason’s sole mission was to jump into the line of fire dog bites. He failed… seriously.  No I mean there is failing… and there is what Jason did.

IMG 20140211 131155%257E2 Bite Me!This dog was so sweet.  He went potty outside. He snuggled up to me.  He seemed to feel at home.  So much at home that he decided to make my leg his snack.  I found out later that the dog belonged to the lovely gentleman that yelled out, “Yay, titties!” at the New Year’s Eve party I attended.  Intimidated by the owner’s sophistication, I didn’t tell him about the bite. Unbeknownst to me, the dog is a known vampire.  He lures in practically perfect bloggers, and then sucks the blood right out of their throbbing (recently worked out) calves.

After I cried in my Cocoa Puffs, the dog made his way home and all was well… or so I thought.  Nope.  Jason had to travel to his “brother’s wedding”  AKA: Becca please watch my dog for me while I get to frolic in the ocean and use my brother as an excuse.  I told him I wouldn’t, but then realized I needed to look helpful so I could continue to boss him around. Reluctantly, I took on his mangy mutt for the weekend.*

When Jason returned from his brother’s wedding, he was disappointed to find out his dog had become a Beccaholic. She completely ignored him, and glued herself to my thigh. As I am never happy with my thigh appearing larger than it already is, I dared to stand up and sit somewhere else.  This pissed her off because, like vampire dogs are known to do, she had marked me as hers.  The idea that I would get up without her permission made her so livid she decided to mark me permanently. Ohhh the bite earlier was nothing compared to what she did.  I’m pretty sure she’d been seducing me for weeks, waiting to get her fangs in this practically perfect blood.

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“I would never eat your yummy blood Becca. Now lets cuddle.”


After being bitten twice in one week, I think the vampires might leave me alone for a bit.  I wish there was a doggy jail for doggy outlaws.  But, alas, there is not. This sucks, as there are vampire dogs out to get me. I need someone like, Frontier Justice: Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal, to help me out of my troubles. But since I don’t have someone like that, here is the next book I’m pimping for one of’s supporters, who also is a loyal reader.

Charles Ray has several books published, but he asked me to share his fictionalized story based on the life of Bass Reeves, who was the first African American U.S. Deputy Marshal west of the Mississippi. If you’d like to purchase it click on buy now:

You can also purchase his book or any Amazon products though my Amazon store by clicking here.  Remember that anything you buy through my links helps support  You guys have been amazingly supportive.  I want to thank each and every one of you while I drink lots of wine and cry though my twice dog bitten tears. Next week, maybe only one dog will bite me.



Lady or Not… Here I Come!

*Okay… so maybe I was the one that picked her out and convinced him he needed to adopt her… but that doesn’t mean I like her in any way. icon wink Bite Me!

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Ever wonder where I come up with my Becca-isms?  I was just dreaming I was on the phone.  Someone in the dream said, “Tell him I said, ‘tough titties!’

Agitated I yelled back, “That’s highly inappropriate!  You never know if there are children around to hear.  You should say, ‘Tough rounded fun bags sometimes stuffed with plastic-filled silicone.’ This way the children can’t quote you, and you avoid awkward conversations with teachers later.”

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Lady or Not… Here I Come!

Thanks to all of you that have clicked my links and made a purchase.  You’re very sweet to support me.


Plight of the Paper Bag

The weekend before last, I hosted a party. I’m pretty sure there was some sports game going on, though I don’t remember what sport it was.  Maybe horsitball.  All I know is that I made burgers, guacamole, queso, lemon bars, and margaritas. Between all the food and alcohol my guests brought, my thighs were pretty pissed off with me the next day.

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You go get ‘em Tiger Ginobli! Horseitball Rocks!

Everyone was happy until something happened in the sport that caused people to lose focus and drink more.  I’m pretty sure what happened was that Tiger Ginobli fell off the back of the horse, but I could be wrong. To be fair, riding a horse in a diaper is difficult, so I don’t blame him.  Either way, more margaritas had to be made.  There may or may not have been a run to the local liquor store to grab more booze.

It’s a good thing one of my guests brought entertainment in the form of a paper bag. Objective: defeat the bag on one foot, using no hands, by dominating it orally. Let me tell you, I owned that bag. It was my beyotch. In every round, a strip was cut from the top of the bag to beat it into submission. A few of my guests allowed me to take photos to share:

 Plight of the Paper Bag

Notice that the bag is from the liquor store… umm… to provide more of a challenge?

The bag kept fighting back, not wanting to be slain. Horseitball was all but forgotten in the quest to defeat the evil bag.  We showed it no mercy.

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Good shall overcome evil… at least, “that’s what she said.”

The male species saw how awesome the women were at taking down the bag, and decided they could do it better… they failed. ‘Nough said.

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That’s right, that bag owned your a$$.

Eventually, chaos ensued. I’m pretty sure the bag looted the place because the diamonds I asked my guests to bring were nowhere to be found.  The quality of the pictures below has nothing to do with the pitcher of margaritas that may or may not have been consumed by the photographer.

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No matter how hard we tried, the bag resisted us.  I found out later that it was tired of being cut down, held back, and oppressed in a dark closet.  It wanted it’s freedom. It’s dream was to appear in a Coca-Cola commercial, where everyone is equal, and not dumb.

Let this be a lesson to you: the next time you decide to host a Super Horsitball party, make sure that you understand the plight of the paper bags.  At least they speak American… unlike those people that claim to be American, and speak (Some of you should cover your delicate eyes before I say this…) English – like they do in England.

I heard a rumor that some people had the audacity to sing “America the Beautiful” in other languages and some of them were… dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn…*whispers* gay.  Even a paper bag – which is often repurposed to clean up dog doo – knows that this is the epitome of crap.  Only American speakers should sing that song, written by a gay woman, for a country built on diversity and freedom.



Lady or Not… Here I Come!

P.S. Thanks to all of you that have sent me Amazon links to purchase through.  I’ve officially made 8 ‘Merican dollars. I really appreciate you taking the time to support this blog, and fellow writers.  I found out I only get credit for the linked items, so if you have any more, shoot me an email (  You guys are amazing.

“The Mother of all Meltdowns”

When I was 22, I was surprised by a parasite in my womb who stole all my nutrients and made me stupid.  If you’ve never heard of pregnancy brain, you’re probably a man, and never listened to a woman talk.  For nine months, the little one, who would one day capture my heart, stole my sleep, my figure, and my dignity.

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My womb and my 2nd parasite. This is the most naked you’ll ever see either one of us.

After the first one was born and I nursed her for 13 months, I had the bright idea that I wanted my kids 2 years apart.  My husband’s army of little men took one try before I had a new little bugger sitting on my bladder so that I’d pee myself. Once that one was born, I closed up shop thinking pregnancy was the worst of it.  I thought wrong.

smelly diaper 300x168 The Mother of all MeltdownsWhen they were first born, I was instantly in love.  They had the faces of angels and they smelled perfect. Well…until they pooped. Then it was as though a hoard of demons had crawled out of the pits of hell and mated with skunks to produce the nicer smelling blowouts. I kid you not, there were days I saw poop being: eaten, painted with, and even explosions that hit the ceiling and walls in the bathroom. I said, “Hellz no!” and had one potty trained at 18 months and the other by 2. Again, this was not the hard part.

My “hypothetical” children have been very close. I tried to do the “you’re my favorite” thing with both of them when they were in preschool.  In return I received anger.  “No mommy! You can’t love me more than her/him!  You love us equally!”… which is true but I hoped to use it to manipulate them. Not only was I thwarted, they also banded together against me. If I’m upset with one, if there is a perceived raising of my voice, they will hold hands and narrow their eyes at me.  No words are ever spoken, just the silent disapproval being made known.

mom daughter 300x237 The Mother of all MeltdownsYou see, when I was growing up, I was led to believe I was going to get to torture my “hypothetical” children one day. You know… the whole, “Do as I say, not as I do” thing. If I were to say jump, they’d ask me how high. I remember once saying, “When I have kids, they’re going to eat mostly veggies because that’s what they’re going to know.”  Yeah, I was dumb.  After my second was born, I learned to make healthy versions of what most kids eat because he’d just starve himself… unless there was a bribe of dessert. I thought this was difficult.

Now I have a 12 year old and my youngest will be 10 next week. My youngest, my mini me, is charismatic and funny.  He’s never met a person that he couldn’t wrap around his finger.  While I’m begging you all to buy from amazon through me, he’s asking the kids coming to his party to donate to the local children’s shelter in lieu of gifts. I know he did this just to make me look bad.  What the H-E-double-hockey sticks?

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“All the fashion magazines say this is the ‘it’ look for all the middle school girls. Honest!”

If that wasn’t enough, my daughter did the same thing to me the Christmas before last. She wanted to give to Heifer International, and cried when she thought Santa only brought her presents. Then she had the gall to be beautiful!  I told her, “Listen beyotch, when you hit puberty you have to be ugly until you’re 25! If not, I’m gonna dress you like Mimi from the Drew Carey show and feed you nuttin’ but milkshakes and Cheetos.”

What I know is, that through all the trials and tribulations, I was born to be their mom. My son, when he was 2, said to me, “Mommy, did you know God lets kids pick their thiew mommies?  I don’t wemember much but I wemember seeing you. When God asked me, I picked pweicked you!” I know this was meant as a guilt trip so I’d buy him lots of presents for the rest of his birthdays, but it worked. Sucker.

This, of course, forced me to put on bright red lipstick, and kiss them all over before school every morning.  I wanted to mark my territory so their friends would know to back off.  Out of left field and in rebellion, they refuse to put new toilet paper on the rollers in my house.  This is what I found tonight:

kids bathroom 300x225 The Mother of all Meltdowns

Yes, this is my kid’s bathroom. I took this picture tonight, after I’d written the post but… before I edited it.

Why am I writing about all this crappy stuff my hypotheticals did to me? Because one of’s readers published a book with some of her fellow mommies.  Mother of All Meltdowns is a work of funny tales of trials and tribulations of being a mom, written by her and some of her blogging friends. I suggest you check it out and tell me your thoughts.  You can buy the Kindle version or paperback here:

I’ve also put it on my new Amazon products page. is a great blogger, and a great supporter of this blog.

Because this blog was a bit about my personal life, and Facebook made these videos, I thought I’d share my 10th anniversary video with you. Click Here


If you have a published book and would like me to pimp it, feel free to shoot an email to me at

Becca the Pimpish Whore

Lately I’ve been a slackadaisical blogger.  I had a plethora of reasons: an hour and a half at the gym every day, spending more time with the hypothetical children, beating my editors, watching spider webs be spun.  While this was all  truthful, I started feeling bad about myself because I knew there was more to it.  After much soul-searching, I found out the root of my angst.  I finally realized, that in the deepest part of my heart, I desired to become… well, a whore.  I just wasn’t sure how to approach starting the process.

I came to this realization one day when my husband stopped doing all the laundry. I noticed that my workout clothes, that I had left in huge sweaty piles on the bathroom floor, weren’t moving into clean, folded piles in my laundry basket.  This puzzled me, so I approached my husband, cautiously (as I’m not stupid enough to complain about chores that I don’t have to do).  He mumbled something about being too busy working… for a job… that pays the bills… so we can eat.  I offered to get a job, and he said, “Who would let the cleaning ladies in if you got a job?”  (He did say that.  I posted it on Facebook moments after it happened.)

I wasn’t happy at all with that comment.  “I work!” I exclaimed. “I spend hours every day writing, editing, finding or making just the right photos. Then I comment on other people’s blogs, then I… take a nap and let the cleaning ladies in.  I sit in carpool for hours with those hypothetical children I had cut out of my body.  Then I wait for you to come home so that you can cook, wash dishes, help the hypothetical children with their homework, and possibly touch my panties by way of washing them.  How is that not work?”

“You’re right honey.  How could I have said such a thing?”

I forgave him, with the understanding that I have the right to bring this up again if there’s ever a future argument.  But it did make me think.  Did I need to get a job?  What could I possibly be qualified for?  I know… I could become a whore. Then again, I actually like my husband and my STD free status.  The typical whoring route was not going to fly.

Becca whore 300x225 Becca the Pimpish Whore

I tried whoring out my dog, but the male dogs were objectifying the females. Because she was fixed, they didn’t want her.  Mostly, they were interested in humping stuffed toys and legs of guests, so she went and hid under a blanket until I agreed to free her from a life of prostitution.

 Becca the Pimpish Whore

They rejected me!


The only thing I had left was my blog.  I sent it out to the street corner.  My blog worked day and night for months, and made nothing.  I realized that I was a whoreable pimp, and decided to become a blog whore instead.

Because I’m an epic failure at whoring and pimping, I’ve decided to start adding Amazon ads to every post.  I make nothing unless someone clicks on the ad and purchases. (I couldn’t use Google Adsense because they think my blog is porn, and there is no way to contest it.  You can read more about me telling Google to go suck it here.)  Basically, I get a $0.00001 commission on everything purchased.

Fortunately, I get to choose the product to pimp. found out about my whoremongering, and asked me to place an ad for coconut milk because she buys so much of it.  Thanks so much to her.  You should check out her awesome blog.

If you have anything you buy from Amazon, let me know.  I will write a post, link the product, and your blog.  You personally will be saving my dog and I from an anticlimactic life.


Becca the Pimp

Lady or Not… Here I Come!

Because I’m a real whore AND pimp, I will link coconut oil as well:

Sweat Wars

Sometime between the births of my angelic brats, I decided I was going to lose weight and get in shape.  By that I mean starve myself while laying around the house doing nothing.  I asked my doctor for diet pills, to which he replied “Hellz no, stupid!” and told me to do the Body for Life program.  I was able to go to the gym, work my behind off, and leave without breaking a sweat.

I stayed in shape with this program throughout my pregnancy with my son, and kept it up until he started Kindergarten. I have to admit, my ass butt was tiny, and it was smokin’… well, okay all of me was smokin’… okay okay, I’m always smokin’.  I’m Becca after all.  My tush was just a little less gelatinous.

After that, I hit the gym off and on.  There were periods of time where I went for a year, and then took a few months off. Then those months grew closer together until… YOU made me fat.  Yes you, my lovely readers; it was all your fault because I sat in a chair writing, editing, and networking, all the while eating junk food carrot sticks.  I’m pretty sure ya’ll were sneaking into my house and gluing crap directly on my spanker.  I guess your mamas didn’t teach manners to you barbarians.

Either way, I went back to the gym at the beginning of October.  This would be fine, if not for one problem: sweat. Sometime within the last year, my body changed and my pores became Niagara Falls.  Add on top of that my 9 miles, 6 days a week, and you get a Beccaventure© that I like to call “Sweat Wars”.

Sweat War #1: Mascara- I’m a firm believer in going to the gym without makeup.  If you don’t understand this, then just read my Dear Ladies of the Gym post. That said, I’m often too lazy to remove my makeup from the previous day.  So it should be no surprise to you that I’ve been known to work out with mascara skid marks under my eyes.  What I didn’t know is that when you sweat like a pregnant nun, the crap runs down your face and onto your chest.

As fabulous as that part of my body is, mascara does it no favors.  I’m pretty sure my fellow gym goers were a little more than curious as to why I would apply mascara to my love bubbles.

mascara boob 300x225 Sweat Wars

Was it a cry for attention?

Sweat War #2: Vagina sweat- Once I realized the mascara was an issue, I took precautions to make sure everything was removed before I went to the gym.  I hopped on my hamster wheel and started to go.  Again, I started to notice people staring.  This time it was mostly men.  I checked to make sure nothing had popped out, or was see through.  As far as I could tell everything was fine.  Yet the longer the workout session, the more stares I received.

When I saw Noah’s Ark floating in on all the sweat that’d spilled on the floor, I decided I should stop for the day and clean off the machine.  I went over to the corner where they keep the “nobody wants to use the machine because you’re nasty” cleaning supplies, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror… my sweat had written a sign on my grey yoga pants, and it said, “Hey!  Did you notice my vagina?  Please take a moment to look.

Vagina pants 300x225 Sweat Wars

Sweat War #3: Hair- Now I knew to remove my mascara and wear black workout pants.  Awesome sauce.  Because I’m a masochist, I decided to embrace my inner Miss Piggy and climb back up on that machine. Sweat wasn’t going to get the better of me.  I felt good knowing that I had all of my issues under control.

A man started to work out on the machine next to me.  At this point, I was approximately 45 minutes into my workout, and my long, thick ponytail was groovin’ to the rhythm of my movin’.  I noticed him cutting his eyes to me periodically.  I checked for vagina sweat and mascara boob, but I was good to go. Thinking that he found me crazy attractive, I finally decided that he just couldn’t help but take a look.

After five minutes, he cut his eyes to me one more time, and then jumped off the machine and ran away quickly.  This left me puzzled.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something shimmering in the light. My head snapped to the side to see what it was.  Ewww… someone was slinging sweat.  To my utter horror, I realized it was me as my ponytail chose that moment to slap me in the face.

ponytail sweat 300x225 Sweat Wars

Lucky guy

So… yeah, I now secure my hair, though people should be grateful when my sweat gets on them.  I would call them downright lucky.  Hmph.




Lady or Not… Here I Come!