Mother/Daughter Look-a-Likes: Can’t Tell Them Apart!

June 28, 2016 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Everywhere my daughter and I go, people can’t tell us apart. That’s why we have a history of taking twinsy pics; to blow people’s minds that we’re actually mother/daughter.

We took some yesterday, in fact, just for you. See if you can figure out who’s who!

Good luck, friends.

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You’re never going to believe this, but we’re 25 years apart in age. FOR REALS.

I know, right??

Minds. Blown.

You’re welcome, The Internets! It’s like the blue dress all over again.

With love,

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P.S. If you’re not done being shocked and amazed, here are some of our other Twinsie Pics…

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P.P.S. In unrelated news, MY KID IS THE BEST SPORT EVER. The End.

To My Coma Friend

March 10, 2016 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

We sat on her queen bed in her yellow room with the bay windows looking over the forested hill when we made our pact.

I was in my pajamas and she were in hers, and we neither looked nor smelled good, with our hair piled on our heads, day-old mascara adorning our faces, and early morning dragon breath about which we cared nothing at all, gleefully breathing in and out and adding to the halitosis nightmare with the coffee and cream we sipped and tried not to spill on her new flannel sheets.

It was morning on a weekend and we were roommates and good friends by that time; good enough for me to take the Big Risk and see if we might become Much More.

Not lovers.

Nope. More than that.

“You have to promise — PROMISE — to pluck my chin hairs if I’m ever in a coma,” I said. “I mean, you can wait a few days, but after that you’re going to have to sneak tweezers into the ICU and spent some quality time with my chin, OK? I need you to be… my Coma Friend.”

“Yes. Absolutely! No problem,” she said quickly. “I will do this for you, but I want something in return.”

“Anything. ANYTHING,” I replied.

And she said, “You shall SWEAR TO GOD and on your ETERNAL SALVATION that you will MAKE HASTE to my house if I’m ever in a coma and take the box of sex toys from under my bed before my mother comes over. There are things… things she should never see,” my friend finished in a whisper as I giggled, then chortled, then belly laughed.

I’m not sure if we were laughing at our frivolous demands or if we were laughing from wild relief. I suspect both. And we’ve renewed our pledge over the years, checking in here and there to be sure our pact is intact and that will not waver in our dedication to our plan.

Dearest Coma Friend,

Oh how I love you! More than a bestie. More than a sister. More than my morning cuppa, which is really saying something.

Dearest Coma Friend,

You are my FAVORITE kind of ALL the friends. Thank you for being more than a bestie and better than a friend. Thank you for being my Coma Friend.

Forever yours,

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P.S. I’m not making light of comas. Cross my heart.

P.P.S. I don’t expect her to actually pluck my chin hairs when I’m in a coma, because I suspect that in a coma I won’t care.

P.P.P.S. I DO expect her to have the nurses call her, STAT, if I seem to be coming out of the coma, so she can haul ass to the hospital and wax the hell out of my chin hairs before I wake up. And then I expect her to LIE to me and tell me she’d been doing it all along. I feel like that’s what Jesus would do.

P.P.P.P.S. Do you have a Coma Friend? If so, please tell me about him/her and the pact(s) you’ve made. I feel like we should know what all of our Coma Options are. And also that if hospitals included this kind of thing in Advance Directive forms they’d be MUCH more successful at getting people to complete them. <<<Why I Should Be in Charge of All the Things

The Fastest, Easiest, Juiciest Turkey-Cooking Method is Spatchcocking. Because Jesus Loves Us.

November 23, 2015 in Beth, Family, Food, Funny by Beth Woolsey

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Mark Bittman’s Spatchcocked Turkey. Want to know how to spatchcock the heck out of a bird? See Mr. Bittman’s tutorial on The New York Times here.

I read an article in The New York Times on how to roast a turkey in 45 minutes.

FORTY FIVE MINUTES, friends, to cook a 12+ pound bird.

Not only that, but this method results in tastier, juicier, more evenly cooked meat with crisper skin.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have time to pee some days. I don’t have time to brush my teeth, much less my hair. I don’t have time to stop or breathe or finish a cup of coffee while it’s hot. So a Thanksgiving turkey roasting method that cuts cooking time by 75% AND is more delicious?? THAT IS THE COOKING METHOD FOR ME, folks. That makes an actual difference in my life.

And then I found out this cooking method is called … wait for it … spatchcocking.

Spatchcocking.

Spatch. Cocking.

And do you know why it’s called spatchcocking?

Because Jesus loves us. Or because someone was drinking. But probably because Jesus loves us. That’s why. And Jesus is not content to simply give good gifts like a faster bird-cooking time. Nope; that’s not enough. Jesus is EXTRAVAGANT, y’all. Excessive. And Jesus knows the only thing better than fast turkey is making sure it’s got a name like spatchcocking.

Spatchcocking.

Spatchcockery.

So we can spend Thanksgiving getting up to our usual spatchcock shenanigans, formerly known as tom-foolery.

Spatchcock-enanigans.

Just in time for Thanksgiving, American friends, I’ve decided I’m as aspiring spatchcocker.

Spatchcocking is for me.

Spatchcocking, after all, is fast, easy and juicy, and who doesn’t like fast, easy and juicy? No one. No one is who. No one doesn’t like fast, easy and juicy.

SPATCHCOCKING ALL AROUND.

Look. I’m not here to tell you how to live your life or Do Things a Better Way. This is not that blog. I’m just saying if you’re not spatchcocking… if you’re not a spatchcocker… if you’re not, you know, totally into spatchcockery… you’re probably ruining Thanksgiving. And America.

The End

P.S. While the breasts are fully exposed with any turkey-cooking method, the spatchcocked bird allows heat to be evenly distributed to all parts, meaning spatchcocking results in breasts, thighs and legs that finish at the same time. Simultaneous finishes, folks! Which is, after all, the goal.

P.P.S. I contacted my dad, my usual turkey-roaster, and informed him that he would be spatchcocking this year. He wasn’t sure he ought to discuss spatchcocking with his daughter, but eventually came around enough to ask if I thought he could spatchcock on a rack. “Do you think I can spatchcock on a rack?” he asked. I politely but firmly informed him that, while I’m generally a proponent of open communication and discussing things as a family, I draw the line at deciding for him exactly where he ought to spatchcock.

P.P.P.S. I’ve since discovered that a rack is, in fact, ideal for spatchcocking.

Why Science is Bad for Children

October 26, 2015 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader, friends, this morning at the front door, prostrate on the threadbare entry rug that desperately needs replacing but won’t get it anytime soon.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader after the dogs, bless their hearts, knocked him into the wall while rushing past him playing their usual morning games of Bark, Bark, Growl and Bite, Bite, Chase.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader this morning, face down, rocking slightly, and expressing the heck out of himself, which we tend to encourage at our house, but I am a GOOD mama and a CHRISTIAN, damn it, so I told him to “knock it off, man” and, “we do not talk like that around here,” which was a lie, but also, “there’s no reason for language like that,” which I figured was true and therefore canceled the lying portion of my response.

“But I am HURT,” he said, and followed that with, “SHIT, MOM,” for emphasis, and also because he’s a punk.

“Still,” I said with Stern Face, “that’s no excuse.” And for once he didn’t say, “But you say it, Mom,” or, “But I learned it from watching you!”

Nope. He didn’t say any of those things.

Instead, he rolled over, looked me in the eye, and said, “SCIENCE, Mom. This is called SCIENCE. It has been scientifically proven that swearing helps with pain. SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN. Watch, Mom. Watch this. … … SHiiiiiiiiiiiiT! … … ” and then he sighed with satisfaction and grinned. “You know what, Mom? You know what? I feel totally better. I am HEALED because of SCIENCE.”

And he popped up off that floor and strolled away, every ounce of his 9-year-old body shaking with laughter.

In conclusion, my child is a butt.

Also, science should be banned.

Sincerely yours,

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When You’re Better At Stuff Than Your Kids

October 25, 2015 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

It’s hard sometimes being a mama and being, well, better at stuff than your kids. You know? Like, they want to be good at stuff right now, and you don’t want to discourage them, and they say stuff like, “I’m a really good draw-er, right, Mom? As good as you, right?” with their earnest scribbles, and, “I can match my clothes really good, Mom,” with the fuschia socks and the gold shirt and the green plaid skirt, and you can see they’re trying — they’re trying so hard — and they suddenly care about proficiency, and you don’t want to squash that initiative, so you LIE and say stuff back like, “Sure you are,” and, “You’re SO GOOD at that, sweetheart.”

Well, I recently took my oldest on a trip. My oldest who is 17 and a senior in high school and about to abandon me for college, so I’m taking any excuse I can find to force Quality Time upon her.

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We landed at the beach.

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And bless her heart — bless her heart, you guys — but she’s still trying SO HARD on that whole proficiency thing.

The child thinks she’s a dancer.

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She thinks she’s got moves.

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And, ultimately, she wants what I think all of us want, which is to be someday as proficient as our mommies and daddies are at life; that natural comparison of child to parent.

I didn’t want to discourage her, but I also felt like at 17 she’s old enough to understand she’s not good at everything yet, you know? Like at 17, she’s ready for some of life’s harsher truths.

So we did a dance off.

We posed it out.

And, although it’s difficult in some of these to tell us apart, which means she’s almost as proficient as me, if you look closely at Abby (on the left) and me (on the right), you can see she still has some work to do, like in this one:

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And this one:

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And this one:

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In conclusion, Abby has some work to do.

Also, we can pray for her.

With love,

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The Consequences of Having No Filter

August 26, 2015 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

I went to the coffee shop this morning and exchanged my usual banter with the usual baristas as we’ve done off and on for a few years now. We tell jokes. We make off-hand and slightly off-color comments. We laugh too loud because we think we’re funny and we don’t much care if we’re wrong.

This morning, though, after we finished our rowdy chatter, one of the guys asked me what kind of filter I have.

“What kind of filter do you have, anyway?” he said, which I thought was weird because he should know by now that the answer is PRACTICALLY NONE AT ALL. I mean, DUH.

So I said, “I’m really surprised you’d ask me that,” and “I thought we knew each other better than this,” and “I think I’ve done everything in my power to demonstrate my lack of filter, man” and “What did I say, anyway, that makes you ask this NOW? Like, I thought our convo this morning was downright TAME. Geez.”

Which is when he looked at me and started to laugh and said, “You just ordered ground coffee, Beth. I need to know how fine to grind it. What kind of filter does your coffee machine have?”

Oh.

Mm hm.

Welcome to my world.

On the bright side, after all this time thinking I have no filter at all, it turns out I ACTUALLY DO! Yippee!

10 Haikus About Motherhood

August 3, 2015 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Here’s how I feel today: pfffttttttt.

So I wrote haikus.

I don’t know why those things go together, but they do.

Without further ado, here are:

10 Haikus About Motherhood

Got Out of Bed Late
Got out of bed late.
Big surprise. By which I mean,
No surprise at all.

Spilled Coffee
Spilled coffee on my
shirt on my way to work this
morning. Normal day.

My Kids Yell
My kids yell and yell
And yell and yell and yell and
Yell and yell and yell.

My Dog Licks Balls
My dog likes to lick.
Especially balls. My dog
Is a Ball Licker.

Chips
Potato chips break.
They’re fragile. Brittle. Crumbly.
Shrapnel everywhere.

Potato shrapnel
In my bed, on my couch, in
The carpet. Shards hurt.

I’d Like to Poop Alone
I’d like to poop a-
lone. I’d like to poop alone.
Lonely poop sounds nice.

Boys Pee on Things
Boys pee on things like
grass and trees and walls and floors,
bees and leaves and me.

Perimenopause
Perimenopause.
Not quite menopause, but FUN!
Night sweats are sex-ay.

I’m a Tired Mom
I’m a tired mom.
That’s redundant, isn’t it?
Too tired to count syllables anymore. Pfft.

And here’s one more, as a bonus, not about motherhood, but probably applicable, depending on the kind of day you’re having:

How I Feel About What’s Happening in Our Churches and Our (in)Ability to Love Our Neighbors as Ourselves
Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls.
Fuckity fuck. Balls.

In conclusion,  pfffttttttt.

Love,

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P.S. Please share your haikus with me, too. A bad haiku LOVES company, friends. It’s what Jesus would do. Pretty sure.