Florida: The Good. The Bad. The Holy SHIT!!!

So you know...I live in Florida now. The good news is that my southern accent is stronger than ever - I think it was some sort of defense mechanism...of or for what, I have no idea. I definitely miss Atlanta and my friends, though, especially now. Spring in Atlanta is SO beautiful.

But Florida is pretty nice, too. We go to the beach at least once a week and we all love having a pool in the backyard. Also, my husband makes me a Planter's Punch every night and I don't even feel guilty by knocking it back - we're on vacation, right??

A couple of weeks ago I was reading the news and saw this weird picture:



In case your eyes can't make sense of it, I'll give you a hint. It's not a puppy. I'm guessing it's not an air freshener, either. It is, in fact, a Burmese Python that ruptured and now has a really big dead Alligator sticking out of it's stomach. Oh, and something ate the snakes head off. That's why there is no head there.

National Geographic has been studying this and has even done an "event recreation" that they aren't sharing with me (bitches). But according to their website, here is how the above train wreck happened: a 13 foot python ate a 6 foot alligator. While the snake was busy ingesting his meal (I'm guessing getting a 6 foot INTACT gator through your digestive tract would be very distracting) another alligator sneaked up and bit the snakes head off. In that struggle the python surprised everybody by rupturing in the middle, leaving half of the eaten gator hanging out. And this, boys and girls, is why we don't wrestle after Thanksgiving dinner.

At any rate, I'm pretty sure that my mouth doesn't open wide enough to let out the scream that would surely accompany anything even resembling the above scene.

So it's not all Key Lime Pie and Hibiscus flowers. But it's sunny. And besides...I've got my rum punch and I'm not afraid to use it.

Pardon me, Brother, but could you spare a dime?

In Florida our homeless people seem to have some sort of union or something. They have matching uniforms and are up - at the crack of dawn - asking for donations on my street corner as I'm unsuccessfully trying to hustle my kids to school on time. And it's always the same guy which leaves me to wonder, "If you can get your shit together enough to show up here everyday asking for money, why don't you just...oh, I don't know...get a job or something??"

My guy, I call him Hud (stands for homeless unkempt dude), is not tall enough. This is basically a nicer way of saying that he's fat. But Hud is totally FAT!! I keep wondering just exactly how needy IS this guy when he can afford to eat an extra thousand calories a day?!

Every morning he greets me in the same fashion - he puts a sad little frown on his crinkly face and holds his hand up with his thumb and index finger almost touching as if to say, "Sadly, my shrinky dink is only this big...that's what fucked up my life and got me all begging on your corner and stuff."

But in reality I would imagine that he's just suggesting that I give him a little bit. (Just the tip. Just for a minute. Just to see what it feels like.) I always smile and then shake my head to imply, "Not in this fucking lifetime, Fatty. Try the car behind me. They look like the type who would love to sponsor an aging drugged out homeless union beggar dude."

Yet I see people giving him money all of the time. I suppose that's why he does it. He probably makes more than the President.

There is another corner nearby where I saw two uniformed homeless people on an apparent Smoking and Cell Phone Break. They were literally hiding in the bushes so I guess those two activities are either bad for business or verboten when you're in the homeless dude union. Unions can be a bitch, you know? Unlike me. I'm never a bitch. Well...almost never.

Switching up the team....

About 15 years ago I got a call from my sister-in-law. She was graduating from college and needed a chaperone to drive from California to the East coast with her. The reason for this, I would find out later, is that she was a notoriously bad driver. And I don't mean this figuratively. I'm being pretty fucking literal. As in, she literally flipped a car 3 or 4 times on a highway one time. That kind of stuff.

Anyway, I was just as willing way back then (as I am now) to shirk my responsibilities and do something stupid so I said "sure!" and caught a flight across the country to hook up with her.

She is a sweet girl and we had a lot of fun meeting in San Francisco, going to L.A., Vegas, Carhenge...you name it. At one point, somewhere in or around Colorado, I became exhausted and wanted to stop for the night. I was pretty tired of the Motel 6's we'd been frequenting and asked if we could use a phone book to look up a Bed and Breakfast. She'd never heard of this. I assured her that it is not that much more expensive but infinitely more comfortable.

We pulled over and I called the first one with a nice looking ad in the yellow pages. As it was late (almost 10) I got right to the point: "Do you, or do you not, have any rooms available with TWO beds?"

The innkeeper responded, "We do have a beautiful room with two beds. They are separated by a thin wall. We also have a much smaller room that goes for the same price...it has one BIG bed. Which would you like?"

I thought, 'Bless her heart. She must be mentally handicapped as I very clearly stated my wish for two beds.'

So I told her very slowly and carefully, "No...I need TWO beds. T-W-O. That would be terrific. That means 'really good'. Thanks so much...."

When we arrived she showed us around the inn and told us about breakfast. She showed us to the room with two beds and then said, "Remember, there is a room with just one big bed...if you want it."

I reiterated that we wanted the two beds all the while thinking WTF is wrong with this chick?!

The next morning I got up before my sis and headed for coffee. As I walked down the hall I looked through an open door and saw two women sitting up in a big bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I thought to myself, "Ha ha! They must have gotten here after us and had to take the one big bed room!"

Still snickering, I joined a few ladies sitting around the dining room table to enjoy a gourmet country breakfast. Behind one of them I noticed a painting of two women caressing each others breasts...kind of funny in a dining room...then I noticed that there were no men here...what are the odds of that...????

It slowly dawned on my that I had brought my shielded (and very Catholic) sister-in-law to a lesbian bed and breakfast. Everyone assumed that we were a closeted couple, hence the repeated offerings of the one big bed. By the time my sis headed downstairs I had already made fast friends and was thinking about leaving my husband for the kind yet funny woman with the Harley. She was into welding and long walks on the beach. I think I could totally get into that....

Check out the schweaty balls on THAT one....

Mr. Bex entered a weight loss contest at work and is driving me bat shit crazy. Thankfully today is the final day of it and, he claims, he'll take me out for lunch anywhere I want to go to thank me for my participation.

While I might have been construed of as "less than supportive" early on by mocking his giving up the nightly cocktail while I enjoyed my steak, I've more than made up for it this morning. Yes, this morning I have given counsel on the ins and outs (mostly outs) of laxatives. I have also wrapped said husband from head-to-toe in saran wrap - and we're not even going to have sex!

Then, when the aforementioned laxative kicked in I was required to rewrap and then help dress him in his already sweat (and god knows what else) covered clothes. I may never be really clean ever again. All of this and it's not even 9am yet.

This is why I will have a bloody mary bigger than my head with my lunch today and I won't even feel bad about. I've fucking earned it. He, on the other hand, may have earned about a thousand bucks and bragging rights, so he's pretty happy. I can hear him, as I type, in the other room doing situps in his saran wrap ensemble. Jesus....

Bex is going GREEN!

As in, recycling. As in I didn't write, fund or act in the following. I know. I said I KNOW!! Plus it's old, hell, you've probably seen it a dozen times. But it cracks me up every time I see it so I'm throwing it up here ANYWAY. Take that.

And the dialogue! Instant classic....

Obama says (under his breath), "baDUNKadunk". McCain adds, "I would tap that, my friend."



It is sad that I have no original material to share. But fear not, young grasshoppers. I just bought a pair of rollerblades and I'm not as young as I think I am. I'm sure I'll come up with something soon.

The Elusive Badunkadunk

The town I've recently moved to is made up of mostly Hispanic people. It's very strange...I'm in the same country, one state down, yet I feel like I should have my passport with me at all times.

There are a lot of things I love about it, with the great food at the top of the list. Cuban, Dominican Republic, Mexican, Colombian...it's all wonderful. When I pick my kids up at school it is more likely that the parents and teachers will be speaking in Spanish, which has given me the very cool sensation that I'm on a sort of permanent vacation.

Probably the worst thing about it is I'm surrounded by people with majorly impressive asses. I've never before felt so boring from behind as I do now. I find myself staring at thick women in stores and restaurants, wondering how I, too, could have a badunkadunk*. I've been eating rice and beans like it's going out of style but it isn't working. I blame my stupid Irish ancestors and their stupid flat Irish asses. Thanks a lot, Mick. Red hair, hyper sun sensitivity AND no booty.

But at least I can wear my "Everyone Loves An Irish Girl" t-shirt, knowing that nobody will accuse me of being a poser....



*The posterior of a female humans anatomy when the diameter of her posterior is not to exceed 50 inches but not to be less than 40 inches. Equally important is that the waistline must be no more than 2/3 of the diameter of the badunkadunk.
Synonyms: Bangin' Booty; Onion.
Antonyms: See "Bex, the flat-assed wonder".

The Evolution of Hair (no, the other kind)

I recently asked a girlfriend if her daughters ever saw her naked and, if so, how did she handle it. Her answer was "Well, I used to all the time, but...I'm kind of, um, creative with my hair...so now I put a hand down there to cover it and skedaddle into a pair of panties ASAFP."

Creative...what does that mean? Is there a New! and Improved! Crotch Coif of which I'm unaware??? I asked her if maybe she shaved her husbands first initial down there or something and we had a nice laugh.

The whole reason I asked her in the first place was because I have another girlfriend who was recently in her garden tub, having a soak when her 8 year old son walked into the bathroom and said he wanted to jump in. He did so in his underwear. Well, her husband came in and got pissed off! I guess he thought it was inappropriate for the boy to see his mother naked. I have no idea about her coiffing tendencies...but maybe she has a similar issue.

Well, all of this talk about bush coiffing has me thinking about its' evolution. College girls today have no idea about the horrors we used to carry around in our Jordache jeans. In fact, just the other day I was in the woman's steam room at the YMCA when I saw a woman who had clearly missed the memo. She looked as if she were in the process of giving birth to an unkempt black poodle.



There was a bulbous POUF of hair that I couldn't turn away from. And trust me - I really wanted to. In fact my first thought was why a woman was walking around with a chimney sweeps broom in front of her hoo hah. She was walking around the bathroom naked as a jay bird, apparently unaware that people buzz that stuff down nowadays.

I remember the first time going beyond the bikini line was suggested to me. I was in college and my roommate was, among other things, a topless dancer. She told me I should trim it and I thought she meant that the bikini line should go further in. It had never occurred to me that I could actually get scissors and go to work.

Fast forward 20 years and now I'm totally with the program. In fact I practice yoga not for the health benefits but so that I can do all of the moves I need to in the shower to shave to my satisfaction. I don't hide it from my kids, though (the eldest is 9). I figure they don't have anything to compare it to. But I wonder if, when they hit maturity, this will make them feel insecure. You know, "Why am I such a hairy beast when my mom is nice and smooth?? What's wrong with ME???!!"

I am growing out the hair on my head and carry a picture in my wallet so I can remind my hairstylist what I'd love to look like. I like to keep the focus on the direction we're going with it. Sometimes I wonder what direction I'm taking with my down under hair style. It's gone from the Wild Wild West, to a tamed fro, to a landing strip. Then you have the sideways Hitler and then, finally, the pencil mustache. Then, I guess, the blip just gets smaller and smaller until it disappears. Kind of like this guy.



If you want to see what I'm talking about, do your own dirty work. Pick up a Playboy pictorial from 1980. Then 85, 90, and so on, all the way to current times, checking out the five year transformation.

I know some people are into the natural hair gone wild thing and, hey - that's cool. Whatever blows your skirt up, right? But it strikes me at this point almost like a fetish. I wonder if the hirsute look will ever be back in vogue? I really hope not.

By the way, I haven't been blogging nearly as much as I used to and my humor-blogs score SUCKS. If you get a chance to go there and give me a smiley, I'd appreciate it. I guess I'm not quite ready to hang up the towel. Yet. Also, I'm going to give a shoutout to my girl Leigh who has also been lying low. What's up, Girlfriend?? Any coiffing tips you'd care to share???

Rhymes with Holinoscopy

Some time ago I went to my twentieth high school reunion. I had a good time, although I hadn't seen most of these people since the day I accepted my diploma. One exception was a guy named...well, let's call him "Joe" in case he doesn't want to be discussed on a public blog. Anyway, I bumped into "Joe" several years ago on Bourbon Street in New Orleans around 11:45PM on New Years Eve. I don't know about him but we had been drinking since that morning so I didn't remember much about the encounter.

So when I saw him at the reunion I brought up the New Orleans thing and we laughed about it. We started making small talk and he said that he was, in fact, a medical doctor. I thought that was pretty cool. After all, this is someone with whom I'd sit at parties and bang heads with while listening to heavy metal bands. And look how nicely he turned out! I asked him what kind of medicine he practiced and he said, "uh, internal." Well, I'm no doctor (nor did I sleep in a Holiday Inn Express last night) but that seemed...a bit vague. A bit like bullshit. So I asked him to pinpoint it and it turns out that he's a proctologist. For those of you who've never had medical issues requiring this particular expertise, this is someone who checks out your lower intestines. He will, for a fee, drug you and then put a 6 foot long tube with a camera on the end of it into your arse.

I've started thinking about this and I have to say, I'm curious. I wonder at what point he had thought, "Screw cardiology! I think I'd like to give colonoscopies for a living."

What's that you say? You've never had a colonoscopy? Really??? Well let me enlighten you: The first thing that happens is a doctor examines you Down There. And then he delivers The News - "I'd like to get a better look at this." Leaving you to think, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!" He pats you reassuringly on the shoulder, gives you a prescription to fill and sets an appointment.

So you go to the drugstore to get your prescription. The store clerks give each other Knowing Looks as they try to find a shopping bag big enough to fit the gallon jug into. You can feel beads of sweat appearing on your brow. But hey, you're tough, right? You can do this.

So you take your gallon jug home and read the instructions. In the instructions it informs you that this stuff tastes significantly better if it is cold and advises you to put it in the fridge for a couple hours. That's nice, isn't it? Really thoughtful. So you chill it, take a bath and try not to think about tomorrow morning.

It's time to drink the gallon of fluid. You get it out of the fridge and read the label again. "Lemonade Favored". I always did enjoy a nice glass of lemonade...

You take a tentative sip and immediately suspect that those bitches at the drugstore have poisoned you. This shit tastes like battery acid. And you have to drink a shot of it every 10 minutes for HOURS. It makes you wonder what it would have tasted like had it not been chilled. About 45 minutes into this process you hear something boiling. You look around, alarmed by the sounds intensity. Suddenly your alarm grows as you realize that the sound you hear is emanating from your STOMACH. About this time you double over in pain from the stomach cramps. You sprint to the toilet (hopefully) just in time to enjoy the explosive diarrhea.

There will be no sex tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I don't care WHO you are.

The next morning you wake up and look around for diaper cream to put on your ass as it is chafed from expelling water all night. You aren't allowed to eat anything but this really isn't a problem...you are so grossed out from your experiences you think that you may never eat again.

By now you just want to get this thing over with. So you submit to the ridiculous gown they make you wear. You lie on the hospital bed, all prim and proper and wait DESPERATELY for the narcotics to kick in. The door to your room opens and a few professionals walk in. They are at work and happy, discussing the reality TV show they enjoyed the night before as you were shooting foam out of your butt. They smile at you, ask how "it" is going. Some one puts his hand on your shoulder and invites you to roll on your side and grab your knees.

They tell you this won't hurt and start the procedure. The only problem is nobody told you that this procedure blows gas up "there". They do this to inflate the intestines so they can look around. And nobody told you that this feels EXACTLY like you are 2 seconds away from MAJOR - I'm gonna knock the back of the toilet off - styled diarrhea.

Now don't forget, there is a crowd behind you. And they are all looking in the general direction of your ass. So you start out with a polite warning, "Ummm...you guys...yeah....you might want to...umm...yeah, I think I need to go to the restroom...uh-huh...I'll just be a sec...ummmm....please, you guys....I'll be quick...uhmm, you guys????....Doctor! No, it doesn't hurt, but I...really...ummm....I would like to go to the bathroom...nope...this can't wait... could I just, uh...mmm... Uh Oh. Look out! She's gonna blow! Clear out of there! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....SAVE YOURSELVES!! SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!"

And right here, in the middle of your personal lifetime low point, you do the unthinkable. You fall asleep. When you wake up you are all tucked in the hospital bed like nothing ever happened. There is no medical personnel carnage on the floor. You haven't sprayed shit all over the wall. Hmmmm. Was it all a dream? The doctor comes in and smiles at you. I'm thinking that keeping a straight face at this point MUST be the most difficult part of his job. He tells you that it was a false alarm and that there is nothing wrong with your intestinal track. You may get dressed and go home. Woohoo! You are a little woozy from the drugs so you don't even realize that you are walking funny, kind of like a drunk cowboy. But at least you don't have that tube up your ass anymore.

Back to my friend Joe, I wonder at what point he decided that this is how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Perhaps he somehow discovered that he was really good at keeping a straight face after someone makes a total idiot out of herself. I guess I'll have to wait for my 25th reunion to find out.

By the way, as you might have guessed by this blog, a colonoscopy is not one of my favorite pastimes. BUT guess what, people. It's a hell of a lot better then colon cancer. So if you need one GET one. There. I've met my unsolicited advice quota for the day.