Valentines Day

This. This freaking post. I wrote it back in 2016 as an homage to our love. And truthfully, to show off our, oh so glamorous life. Now, it has become, BY FAR, the most popular of any other post I’ve ever written! 
I’d like to think it got traction because of the story, or the writing, but I know it’s because it has the word “poop”  is in the title.
That’s okay, If you’re here to read about poop—still love you.

Carry on, xox JB

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Maybe you should just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious that could render you dead, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides). And based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have a whole lotta good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and a true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is! After winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket, the man disclosed that a bird had recently pooped on his head and that his friends had insisted it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“I thought it was a load of shit,” the man admitted, (pun intended) “but when I was in a Lotto shop I had $5 left in my wallet so figured I would buy a scratch-off and test my luck.”

“I could not believe it when I scratched the right numbers and realized I had won $100,000,” the man told NZ Lotteries.

“It is such a great feeling! I plan to start a new life with this win. I want to wipe my debts and just enjoy life.” The man, originally from Christchurch, plans to move back down there, undeterred by the recent earthquake.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning acumen. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy abyss, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fogville altogether and going for a big lunch—you guessed it THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there.)

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town on our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite. It was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach, and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune—and poop), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven) and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (not literally, that’s an idiom, mind out of the gutter people!) we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl.

Carry on,

xox

Let’s get real here. Valentines Day sucks. It just does.
Oh sure, when you’re in the beginning of a relationship it can be all hearts and flowers, but in my opinion, it is the pink-clad, chocolate covered ugly step-sister of New Year’s Eve. Neither rarely live up to our expectations.

That being said, for their own emotional survival, some single women take things into their own hands.

Amy Pohler for instance. She invented Galentine’s Day.

Galentine’s Day is a popular fictional holiday for women to celebrate with their girlfriends.  Created by Amy Poehler’s character, Leslie Knope on the NBC sitcom Parks and Recreation, the holiday takes place every year on Feb. 13 in celebration of female friendship.

I love that.

Once upon a time, I created a day too.

Except mine makes me shudder with shame. You be the judge. 

Here ya go…

I am not proud of what I’m about to reveal—but it’s the truth.

Once upon a time, I had the world by the balls. Or the tits. Both are equally painful if you think about it.

Anyhow, I had a job I loved, lots of friends and foreign travel. I ate and drank well. I had enough sex (although, do you really ever have enough sex? — Asking for a friend). Only one thing stuck in my craw and I was an A-number-one brat about it.

Thinking back on this chapter of my life, I can’t believe what a spoiled jerk I was. A serious boil on the ass of humanity.

Nevertheless, I still think the cause was a good one—I just went about it all wrong.

I was nearing my forties, terminally single, and childless by choice.

One night, tipsy on wine and inadequacy after attending yet another friend’s baby shower directly on the heels of Mother’s Day, I decided that there needed to be a National holiday to celebrate women like…well, me…who am I kidding? Just me.

I picked a day in September, because of where it sits on the calendar (I wasn’t a total asshole). I placed it directly after summer and just prior to the run-up to the holidays. I think it was September 20th.

After careful consideration, filled with equal parts entitlement and hubris, I gathered together my family and friends to decree that September 20th would heretofore be known as Spinster Auntie Day!

I wanted cake. Cupcakes to be exact. I wanted decorations. And gifts. I think I even registered somewhere. God help me.

Why my sister didn’t, at the very least, gag and tie me up until I decided to behave myself is beyond me. Anyway…

My feeling was this: I celebrated everyone — all the time.
Weddings and their showers, babies and their showers and birthdays. So many baby birthdays… I lost count. In your thirties, celebrating matrimony and childbirth essentially takes up most of your Saturdays and many of your Sundays. Society at large celebrates mommies and motherhood. And families. As fun as that can be—and it was fun—after a decade I felt like an outsider.

It was a club of which I was not a member. Cue the violins.

There was no day for me and the many women like me. (Insert hands on hips, whining and foot stomps here.)

The unmarried, childless women that all the other women turned to in times of joy and crisis.
The Auntie. In my case, The Spinster Auntie.

The diaper changing, stroller pushing, tote lugging, binkie washing, baby wranglers.

The ones who take worried midnight phone calls, do emergency 6 am pharmacy runs, and read Goodnight Moon over and over tens of thousands of times. We sit covered in drool or some unidentified sticky substance to watch Frozen or Toy Story or Cars until we want to gouge our eyes out while the mommies grab a quick shower, run an errand, or God willing, catch a nap.

We were regularly available because we were a part of that village, you know, the one that it takes to raise a kid.
And besides that, we had no real life.

At the time I knew the parents were heroic. No question about it. But I couldn’t help feeling like at times we were the unsung heroes. No one meant to overlook us. They were sleep deprived and just so fucking busy being full-time parents.

Overlooking is never intentional.

Now before you go and totally hate me (If you don’t already), don’t get me wrong. I loved my auntie duties. My time spent with my niece and nephew and the children of all of my friends are irreplaceable. Every boo-boo kiss, hand-hold, “I wuv you”, and baby-belly-laugh was pure joy to me and I wouldn’t have missed it. I felt lucky to be a member of the inside circle.

I just wanted a day. And cake. Don’t forget about the cake.

I don’t remember if we ever celebrated Spinster Auntie Day more than once. Probably not. I’m certain I went on with my life, too ashamed to bring it up again. I think if asked my sister, with a shudder, could remember.

Come to find out I was not alone in my unadulterated shamelessness. In 2009, someone actually got a National Aunt and Uncle Day added to the calendar (I like my title better), but I never heard about it because by that time I was married and had, at long last, finally gotten over myself.

Listen, loves, the point here (if there is one), is this: Is there an unsung hero, an Auntie or Uncle either by birth or just their proximity, around you now? Please, please, will you say thank you and buy them a cupcake? From me?

Carry on,
xox

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious and most likely deadly, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides), based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is, after winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket. The man said a bird recently pooped on his head, and his friends told him it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning abilities. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last-minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy purgatory, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fog-ville altogether and going for a big lunch, you guessed it, THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there).

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town and our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite, and it was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven), and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the Rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (that’s an idiom, not literally, mind out of the gutter people, Ewwww), we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl. Maybe YOU had a better Valentine’s Day than me? Huh? I don’t think soooo but I’ll listen!

Carry on,

xox

” Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world,
I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.
General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed,
but I don’t see that.

It seems to me that love is everywhere.

Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy,
but it’s always there – fathers and sons,
mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.”
~From the movie LOVE ACTUALLY

Happy Valentine’s Day My loves, God only knows what I’d be without YOU!

xox

“They say that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water,
it will leap out right away to escape the danger.
But, if you put a frog in a kettle that is filled with water that is cool and pleasant, 
and then you gradually heat the kettle until it starts boiling, 
the frog will not become aware of the threat until it is too late.

The frog’s survival instincts are geared towards detecting sudden changes.”

For Valentine’s Day, above and beyond the sweet cards and thoughtful romantic gestures, I received one of the ultimate tokens of love a man can give. My husband tackled something that’s been lurking up at the top of my Honey Do List.
He unplugged my bathroom sink.

While his sink drains happily unencumbered, swiftly out to the Pacific Ocean, mine is so stopped up at this point that even brushing my teeth or a simple hand washing fills the basin and takes several minutes to empty. It has for five years.

As a result, there is always a thin layer of slimy, soapy scum that lines the inside of my sink every time I use it. Rinsing it out is a complete act of futility.
Let water drain. Swish clean water around. Wait for it to drain. Repeat. Again and again until you bang your forehead repeatedly on the porcelain — or the sink is clean — whichever comes first.

We’ve both attempted all the usual quick fixes for a slow drain, with gratifying, but alas, temporary results. The clog was beyond the P-trap, inside the wall. This called for desperate measures – hence my Valentines Day request. “Baby, will you PLEASE fix my sink?”

When the time came, he showed up with all the prerequisite tools of the trade, wrenches, a bucket and towel. My husband is nothing if not deliberate. He slowly and carefully loosened the joints, making sure that the bucket, resting on a beach towel, was set in position to catch any debris. When he had everything open to the wall he stuck his face, glasses at the tip of his nose, up to the open pipe in order to get a good look inside. I could tell by his determined walk back to retrieve MORE tools, that he was up against an extremely foul foe. There was one hell of a disgusting hair, gel, and toothpaste, mouthwash, hand cream, and orchid moss monster clog that inhabited that pipe.

When he returned, he was lookin’ kinda sexy, armed with gloves and a screwdriver looking thingy, I offered to run the garden hose inside the bathroom, “to flush the little fucker out to sea.”

He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “I’ve got this” was his dry reply.

Shit, shit, shit. Note to self: You know better than to stick your nose into a Honey Do List repair. Especially a Valentines Day Special. Back away. Slooowly.

After about half an hour, he emerged triumphant. “Go run the water” he said, following me back into the bathroom so he could see my reaction.
I washed my hands, and the thirty seconds that it used to take for the water to back up, came and went. I stared at the perfectly functioning drain – as if a miracle had occurred. “I can’t remember the last time the water drained so fast” (in other words exactly as it was designed to do.) I reached over and gave him a big hug. “I’m serious, this sink has been backed up for as long as I can remember”

He gathered his tools and as he walked away he shared this little nugget: “It’s just like the boiled frog.” It was so out of context it took me a minute.
“You’re right, it is!” I yelled down the hall.

God, who made the sexy, makeshift, philosophical plumber so smart? And why in the hell do I keep doing this to myself?
Remember my sad excuse for a smart-phone? It was so old and decrepit, so tired from all of the demands that I laid on it, that in the end all it could accomplish – was to be a phone. And it wasn’t even good at that. Wah,Wah. The End. New phone. Nirvana!

The boiled frog!
There’s no danger I need to escape – just annoying bullshit. I’m the frog, sitting happily in water where the boiling point is so gradual, slow, and subtle, it just becomes…an aggravating part of life. Now as I write this I’m taking a mental inventory of other boiling frogs that are causing me grief. I declare 2015 the end of BOILED FROGS!

What are your boiled frog situations? I know you have them. Confess.

Carry on,
xox