Please Stay Tuned For A Very Special Episode Of Betsey Booms, But I Promise Nobody Will Touch Dudley In His No No Place

Due to popular demand, like two readers who are kind of pushy, it looks like I should make the "vlog" a regular feature here. Besides, I have a regular writing gig now so it's made my blog feel more like a free for all.

But, I'm kind of a procrastinator so chances are it will be like a semi-regular feature until it gets to the point where you just don't expect it at all, but look you clicked and look at that, she got off her lazy ass and did it.

Here's the thing though, I'm kind of refusing to call it a "vlog" from here on out. I think we're going to call it something better. Faster, stronger, more Betsey. Something like TeleBetsey or BoomsVision. I don't know yet. It could be something really cool that I don't even know about yet.

However, I don't want to sit here and yap at you about things you don't care about. So here is your chance. Delurk now! Please email me at BetseyBoomsATGmaildotcom. Ask me questions or for advice. Tell me what topics you want me to talk about. Maybe stories you want me to elaborate on. Anything you want. Feel free to Twitter me @BetseyBooms.

You know, you can even say that you want me to croon the sweet, sweet tunes of Kenny Loggins or even Kenny Rogers. Because you need to know when to hold 'em in the Danger Zone. Chances are I won't actually croon, but you know, you gave it a shot. You're a gung ho hipster.

Oh and I can't film them in my car anymore. Jason will end up with ulcers.

You Can Take The Boy Out Of Texas, But You Better Keep Frying His Food

Spending the last two days at home with the dude, now known as "Young Wheezy, gave me the opportunity to do something I don't get to do very often.

Make dinner.

I know. I'll be the first to tell you that in this arena I am one spoiled princess like girl. Not only does Jason cook daily, but he is a fantastic cook. Always coming up with new ideas, everything is always tasty and in no way pushes the lame envelope.

And, I used to be a great cook. I can still whip up some sauce that is high on the rad scale and and some mean, mushroom cloud laying enchiladas, but the thing is, I'm completely out of practice from being Mrs. Booms. And chubbier, I'm decidedly chubbier from being Mrs. Booms too.

Looking back on yesterday, I should have stuck with that box of stroganoff I almost put the hamburger slam on. Instead? I opted for lemon pepper talapia, pasta in a creamy Parmesan sauce and steamed green beans. Chances are this meal would have been pleasing to anyone else. Well anyone not from the state of Texas:

Me: What is that look on your face about?

Jason: (carefully not letting his tongue actually touch the fish) Nuffin'.

Me: Really? Could have fooled me, you hate it right?

Jason: (finally gulping it down his throat) Um, no. I mean, yeah. No.

Me: Oh hon, you are a red meat guy. I'm sorry.

Jason: It's okay, I just don't think I'm a "fish" guy.

Me: Really? What if it was fried and oh, I don't know, called catfish?

Jason: Good point, you can fry anything and I'd eat it.

Me: Well how about those turkey corn dogs with the multi-grain coating?

Jason: I'm not touching those.

And that's fine by me, I like to eat them and pretend I'm a drunken hepatitis ridden carnie that runs a dangerous ride that's never been inspected.

I'm just a dreamer like that.

Is There Such A Thing As Zombie Slop, You Know, Like PIg Food?

Mr. Booms and I have always been "anti-gun" when it comes to keeping one in the house. I have many reasons including a kid accidentally killing himself when I was in school with his father's gun, and my brother finding my dad's and shooting a hole in their box springs.

Jason and I have been on the same page until yesterday:

Jason: I'm thinking maybe we should a gun for the house and keep it someplace like the attic.

Me: What? No, absolutely not.

Jason: What if we need to protect ourselves?

Me: We can get one after the kids have moved out.

Jason: Pssshaw. Why get one then? The only person left to protect would be you.

Me: True, I see your loving point. You know, now that I think about it, we should have one in case of zombie infiltration.

Jason: A handgun is going to nothing in case of zombies, honey.

Me: So not true. You aim for the head. Always aim for the head.

Jason: Yeah right, totally not going to work.

Me: Seriously? You're going to tell me how to kill zombies? I think I'm just a little more educated in this area.

Jason: Whatever.

Me: That's it, when they come you are toast. Zombie toast. I'm tossing you in while I aim for their heads.

Chances are I probably won't, but let's not tell him that just yet.

Also? I had a conversation with my 9 year old who asked me questions regarding "the period" and "the puberty".

Sigh.

I Have Found My New Favorite Person

With not a drop of Diet Coke to be found in the house this morning, I made my way to the drive through at the local McJerk's. The placebo effect of the Diet 7*up that I did have was only going to last so long.

I ordered my fruit and yogurt parfait and large Diet Coke and proceeded into the converging drive thru (it has to be spelled this way, the sign says so)lane because this McD's is all fancy with two lanes to order in. Pulling up to the window I reach out my hand full of my debit card and see neon pink and green acrylic nails on the end of a heavily tattooed hand, which was connected to a wrist with a tattooed chain wrapped around it. Looking into the face of the owner of the hand, I smiled at the crinkles around the corners of the 60-something year old that greeted me with a smile.

That's right, Grandma. You rock those jobstoppers! Because you, my friend, are my new favorite person.

And, I've decided that I hate my purse. If I see one more dumb broad carrying one just like it, I'm going to lob mine directly at their head. But only after I get my monkey wallet out of it.

PS. I should add that my new least favorite people are the two dip shits at the pizza joint yesterday, who obviously went to lunch together and then sat at the table across from each other, talking in loud, girly voices to other people on their cell phones through the whole meal.

I Did That Thing Where You Tell Someone About Your Blog And Then They Have To Read It

I do this thing when I get drunk and tell people about my blog. And then I always regret it the next day. The good news is THIS TIME, I don't regret it at all. My friend Tiffany is going to be reading and I'm sure SHE will regret that shit soon.

But I know her husband and I know that she has a lot more to regret in life than this.

However, she's probably going to be confused about a few things.

Let me provide a little key to reading my blog. I write about a few things a lot.

Zombies - I have a weird fascination with zombies. She'll understand, she knows Mr. Boom's when he's been drinking.

Robots - They are crazy cool and when they take over the world I want to be on their good side.

Shivs - When robots take over the world, or I end up in prison because of something Jason has done, I will want to be as schooled on shivs as possible. So I talk about those a lot. I'm still not down with how to keister stash one though.

Joaquin Phoenix - I don't know. He's just really weird and cool. That's all.

Teen Wolf - Teen Wolf will be saving the world when the robots take over. It's the only explanation for why Teen Wolf has had a resurgence and this is the Year of Teen Wolf.

Air-punching - It's the universal signal for kicking fucking ass. Who doesn't get this?

Being a rail riding, breakdancing hobo who is a master of skullfuckery - Wow, that's kind of a long story.

Billy Idol - The king of air-punching.

Saying things about Jesus that are bad.

Other random things:

Kenny Rogers
Foreigner
Journey
Wolf Nuggets
Monster Squad
Nards
Mr. T

You know, looking over this list I now realize there is no real help for me. My mind is a strange and dark place. Which is mostly okay by me, but if you're reading my blog and enjoying it, you are screwed.

I'm Pretty Sure The Only Reason I Still Have A Job Is Because I Change Light Bulbs

I have this tendency to send emails out to my office where I say pretty much everything in the subject line and then finish in the body of the email. And then when I'm going back through my emails I start to think I'm nuts because I'm just looking at the body of the email and not the subject line.

I read things like (And I swear, I really sent all of these out company wide):

"Head over!"

"There is a huge, bubbling difference between dishwasher soap and dish soap."

"He is running late this morning and will be in shortly. Shortly and probably angry.
He’s like that."

"This guy looks like a total tool. I’m easily amused"

"Thanks, all my fresh-breathed homies"

"Dig in and smear away."

"Really, corn is delicious and kind of nutritious, but splendid?"

"For those of you who have not done this yet? I know who you are, I will hunt you down. Or throw something at you. I swear I will, don’t make me."

I'm not really sure why I still have a job. Mostly, I think it's because I say shit like this. However, if my emails are ever part of the review process I'm totally fucked.

Nefarious Acts Committed Under The Cover of Darkness

I now present you with a dramatically drawn hypothetical reenactment of alleged activities, supposedly committed under the cover of darkness, theoretically.



[Close Scene]

The Squirrels In Our Family Tree

When I was a little girl, my grandmother wrote a book about the whack jobs in my family. The title of the book was 'The Squirrels In Our Family Tree'. Keeping up with this rich history, I went on to marry a man whose last name literally translates into "nut tree".

In the usual chaos that composes my morning, my very favorite story about the horrid little man that was my Great Grandfather made it's way into the forefront of my mind. Moe was little, drunk and mean. He was a scrappy, spiteful man with a wicked back hand who was as bitter as the day is long.

Moe and his wife, Dotty, were raising my Grandmother in St. Louis, back in the days when you could send your kid down the street with a bucket and she'd come home with it filled with beer. I imagine that was handy. Mostly because Moe was a painter and like most every painter I've ever met he was a drinker.

Moe had been contracted to paint the interior of the neighborhood funeral parlor. On this day, he had been instructed to paint a particular room and in the middle of that room was the body of a dead man on a slab. Evidently, the funeral director didn't feel it was necessary to move the body or to instruct my intoxicated Great Grandfather on what to do with the body.

Undaunted, Moe set about his work, giving the room a fresh coat of white paint. As the day wore on and the room was finished, he then turned to look at the body in the middle of the refreshed room. Noticing that he has splattered the poor, dead, African-American man with white paint, he did the only thing that seemed logical to him...

He painted the man white.

His entire body got a nice coat of interior paint.

I never did hear what became of that man, but I can only imagine the looks on the faces of his family when they showed up to view his body.

I Crushing Your Head Because Lassos and Invisible Jets Are Played Out

I lay in bed, working and stretching out all of the kinks that always work themselves up overnight and hang around until my medicine kicks in about an hour later. So I stretched and did the very same thing I've done every morning since I was a little girl.

I reached my arm out and took my fingers and did the "I crushing your head" move to something across the room.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, well... You need to check your freaking life. You've fucked up somewhere along the way.

So I lay there and I do things like pull my drawers open from across the room. And I pick up things that are on the shelf, way over in the bathroom. I even do it with my foot and kick imaginary holes in the wall. I can actually see the sheet rock crumbling.

And that's when I realized that this? THIS? Would be the most awesome super power EVER!

I just don't know what to call it when I finally get asked what super power I'd liked to be assigned. I kind of think I just made it up.

I am, however, absolutely positive that if a hipster was going to have a super power, this would be the one, because you haven't seen this before. And if you say that you have? You are a fucking liar. Or you spent a lot of time in Europe, whatever.

Things I Wish I Was Doing Right Now (Complete Filler, Photo Dump)

Jason finally took our Florida pictures off the camera after asking me for the millionth time if I had done it yet.

And now that I see the pictures,I wish I hadn't because I'd rather being doing all of this rather than all of this (waving my hands over this blog in general):

And Then Just Like That, 22 Years Vanished

As I turned to look into our dining room, I saw him sitting there. The radio on. Like a little old man he listened.

Slightly hunched over, his pen went to work, scribbling stats and scores. I laughed as I looked and I saw what he would be in 30 years.

Then? Then he tipped the bill of his hat back and scratched the top of his head in that way. That way that makes my heart melt. The way that is only second to the move where he rubs his eyes when he's tired.

In that moment, 22 years shed away and my heart nearly split in two as I saw him as a little boy. A little boy listening to baseball. A little boy writing down swings and hits. A little boy doing what he loved.

And then he picked up his beer and took a drink and I was propelled back to the here and now.

With that? I turned back to my zombie movie and my own beer.

Time travel wreaks havoc on my heart.

People Are Such Babies About Being Coughed On

My kid, "the carrier", has pretty much recovered from his mutant viral strain of malaryia, tuberculosis, the plague, shiv in germ form and leprosy.

His father and I? Not so much.

I'm positive mine has morphed and mutated further into some weird typhoid/zombie like thing. I refuse to acknowledge the leprosy mostly because I look horrible in rags, nothing has fallen off or doubled in size yet and I hate Mother Teresa. Besides, leprosy is just zombie in a less cool form.

And with that, I locked down my place in Heaven. Look out Heaven, it's going to be a special kind of party when I get there. Mostly, because I'm anti-social and drunk a lot.

Evidently, when you are coughing a lot and have strange colors of phlegm evacuating from your face at regular intervals, your dentist is a little iffy about digging around in there. Also? People don't like it when you sit next to them in the weekly staff meeting. So I coughed on every chair around me and made myself comfortable.

Let me drop some science on you, right here. Some remedies that apparently have no effect on this particular strain of death on wheels would be Miller Light (I refuse to type LITE seriously), tacos, fajitas, shrimp nachos, Dayquil, Nyquil and Robitussin. And in regards to the Robitussin, Jason displayed some crazy mixed martial arts madness to get that shit down my throat. Robo-nasty.

Actually? I'd rather swallow something called Robo-nasty. It sounds robotic and honest.

So I'm thinking that the person who left me the love note, wishing that I would die, just might get their wish, which is what I get for being such a fucking people pleaser.

You're welcome.

You Know How You Do Someone A Favor And Then They Turn Around And Treat You Like An Asshole?

Sure you do. If not, then meet Rassles.

So yeah, I should have learned my lesson when I guest posted last week. Click on over and read the last guest post I'm ever going to write.

Sometimes you just have to know when to Never Say Die* and other times you just have to know when to fold them**.

I'm totally shanking her when she gets back to the mid-west.




*Teen Wolf
**Mr. Kenny Rogers.