We got tagged by Mrs. Frick and she gave us B in honor of Biscuit's new eating habit. I was going to have Ava type something up. She has loads more talent when it comes to the written word. She'd come up with classy stuff and mine would just be crass. But since the title of the blog is Two Black Sheep, I've got to add a bit of Cheez Whiz to the party. Go on and guess which B's belong to which Black Sheep. And if you want to join the alphabet fun, leave us a comment.
Boys: I have always been very vocal about wanting to have boys. I didn't go the, "As long as it's healthy" route. Isn't that a given?! I just thought I'd be a better Boy Mom. So when they day came to find out, I was so afraid that the Dr. would say, "It's a girl!" and I'd have to fake happiness. I'm not saying that I'd shun the kid, but I just really wanted a boy. Hey, I'm honest. This picture is from our New Year's day and it's exactly how I wanted to spend it. It makes me real happy to say, "Here are my boys." Ok. Ok, the Pup is a girl. But we gave her a boy name.
Boobs: When you come from a family of big boobed women and you've got little ones, they come up from time to time. And when you're going through puberty, it doesn't matter if the family boobs are perky or saggy. It doesn't matter how many times you hear, "Oh they hurt your back. I'll give you some of mine." I remember in the 6th grade having to go through the annual scoliolis test. The school nurse told me to remove my top. I whipped off my Peter Pan collared shirt, and the nurse screams, "Oh my god! Cover yourself! Where's your bra?" Obviously, I didn't need one or else she'd be prepared. Only once in my life did I want to flaunt my boobs. I hadn't nursed the baby in about 3 hours and I needed a new bra. I should have known better. The woman measured me at a D cup (not right at all) and I had just bought the smallest pair of jeans I've ever squeezed into. I told everyone that passed. Then I started to leak, not sexy. But for a moment...
Bad Boys. Bad Boys: I love Cops. Once, we saw cameras around a police cruiser and I begged the husband to take his shirt off and walk around the car. Everyone knows that Cops can't resist a shirtless man. He wouldn't do it.
Boil: Ok, this is gross. Our father exaggerates every story he has every told, but the following one. Our family loves popping things (someone uses her fingernails and kind of hurts people . . . she knows it). Anyway the story, my dad was playing basketball and some kid had a huge boil on his butt. The coach took him into the locker room and had the team hold him down. The coach heated up a Coke bottle and put it on the boil. My dad said it exploded into the bottle. I really wish I could have been there. I said it was gross.
Boucle Yarn: I don't know why, but this stuff creeps me out. Can't & won't touch it.
Bitch: The word has never, ever bothered me for one single second of my life. You could call me a bitch and I wouldn't even bat an eye. Please don't get me wrong, I am probably one of the biggest proponents of equal rights that you will ever meet (I did get a little teary eyed listening to the NPR rehash of Nancy Pelosi taking over as Speaker of the House), but the word bitch doesn't have any effect on me. I don't consider it a term of disrespect; the only time that I find it remotely derogatory is when it is used in a rap song. Then, I find that rappers - folks who really have a grasp of the English language - take the easy way out.
Bags: If in the previous post, I confessed that I had a yarn problem, I probably should have been very honest and said that I have a slight bag obsession. Hardly a week goes by that I don't either buy a bag or decide which bag will be purchased next. Since this is B, I must also confess that my favorite brands are Burberry and Vera Bradley. Vera Bradley has come lately to me as my very first job was ironing borders for the company that made Vera Bradley bags. Mom was the master seamstress for their company and did all the finishing. At 12-years-old, I was grateful that anyone was willing to pay me to do work . . . even if it meant ironing yards of quarter-inch borders. Each yard was worth 10 cents so after multiple burns, I eventually made an honest buck. On and off, in and amonst baby-sitting jobs, I earned money the old sweat-shop way. Is it any wonder why I shyed away from them for fear of burning?
Breathe: Whenever I hear this song, I am firmly rooted to the spot. Even the Hilary Swank movie currently being pimped by the song gets a little more credence by Sia's breathy voice (and trust me, this movie does nothing for me . . . and I am an English teacher). I'll sit through commercials for the University of Pennsylvania's medical institutions just to hear this song. The last episode of Six Feet Under, a show I never got into, will remain on my television just to hear the song. Granted it doesn't make me cry like Coldplay's "Yellow," but there are notes and words in that song which conger up emotions I don't usually get. If ever I were to create an "all-time favorite" song list, this one would be two or three. Of course, the song title for this post is pretty damn awesome as well.
Books: Still have yet to meet a book I don't like, although I am getting rather fickle about them. If I don't like them in the first 50 pages, I don't bother any more. Honestly, life is too short for boring books. That being said, our mom doesn't like to read, but she understood that value of reading and so we were inundated with books as kids. Some of my best memories were going to the main library in my hometown to get new books with my dad. The Westing Game (humor me) may be the single finest example of literature that I have ever found; I still read it every single year, but there are so many worthwhile books out there to read. For some reason, though, I always have a plethora of Red Dress Ink books since the plot is so easy: girl finds boy, boy annoys girl, girl finds another boy, this one shits on her, first boy turns out to be really nice . . . the end.
Baby: It isn't really a secret in our house that I go through periods of wanting another baby. The Flyer and I were really young when we had Betty and Veronica and our odds at having another set of twins - 60% - weren't what either of us would call betting odds. So, at the age of 25, I had my tubes tied. About once a year, I think about having another child, but I have realized that I don't really want to raise another child, I just was to be pregnant again. You see, I really, really enjoyed being pregnant. I loved just about every aspect of it except for the bedrest (notice that wasn't a B word). Whenever I see a pregnant woman, I get a little envious of her probably because I know that it will never be me.
This post was brought to you by the letter B and the number 10. Go on, ask for a letter. There's a little bit of a Black sheep in all of us. Show us what you got.