Category: Uncategorized

An Excerpt from: “The Horse Won’t Come Out of The Barn”

My criteria for a man after my divorce was – Must have a job, teeth, must have owned something (even if the wife got it in a divorce), a retirement fund, not live with the Mother, an unsuspended driver’s license, a car, and insurance.  One of my beach biddies, Madame Elizabeth (pronounced Ma-Dom), told me I was setting my expectations way too high…. and I hate her because I attract men that either need a purse or a nurse, most of which you can hear breathing across the damn street due to sleep apnea, their testosterone shitting the bed thus building the dicky-doo physique (when their gut sticks out more than their dicky do). Like a pre-nup, I’ve lowered my pre-req to:   Breathing and not a Viagra pill junky.

This is a Dicky-Doo
This is a Dicky-Doo
 Men still want a piece of nice young ass and will risk a four plus hour erection and a visit to the ER to get a piece.  I was told a story by an ER nurse that a man came in with the extended Viagra erection – the technical term is priapism and it’s basically a heart attack for the penis.  The longer the blood is trapped in the penis without being irrigated, the penis turns black and falls off.  Kidding – well maybe.  Anyway, erector penis came through the ER door and the man was way past the recommended four hour curfew on seeking medical attention.  Yes, he took the little blue pill and yes he’d had this woody for over double the time recommended by the Surgeon General, but by the time the ER staff detailed out the irrigation system that needed to be performed to deflate his engorged penis, he signed a waiver for release because he had to go pick up his wife at the train station.  So, clearly it wasn’t his wife his penis was standing at attention for on overtime.  He returns to the hospital with his wife telling her he has a gall stone, but doesn’t want her in the room with him and begs the ER staff not to disclose any information.  You know where this is heading and “head” being the operative word.  A case study showed there were 10,000 cases of priapism in just one year. That my friends is a whole lot ‘O big dicks.  Men will always be boys and the problem is that God gave men a brain and a penis and only enough blood to run one at a time, and we women know which gets the most blood flow.
Ten years in a department of 40 men.  Uniform ordering day is always something I look forward to.  I know who ordered their Dickie work pants to fit under their Dicky-Doo or around their Dicky-Doo.

C-Sections: The gift that keeps on giving

For those of you old timer C-Section’rs and newly acquired C-Section’rs, here’s a little fun ditty to store in your cache.
I have a friend who was recently having discomfort with her C-Section scar. Mind you, it’s been 17 years since that scar had been stapled shut, stitched inside and out, and closed up for business. However, upon her discomfort level she did one of those peek sees down her pants and saw  it was popping open or something because it was bleeding.  (ladies you know what peek-see I’m talking about…years of the MENNIS, I mean menses).  After closer scrutiny, she realized something was sticking out and it very much resembled a fishermen’s slip knot.
After a few calls and her physicians thinking they were dealing with a Maunchausen Syndrome patient, her OB/GYN office relented and booked her an appointment.  Well, when her Doctor saw her old war wound sprouting knotted fishing line, he just couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to believe it.  I think my friend has the potential for making the Guinness Book of World Records for having the longest residing non-dissolving suture.  This wasn’t the first time either!  One of these fly fishers surfaced 2 years ago at the 15 year mark.  I begged to photograph the area with the hope her insurance company will pay for a tummy tuck after the surgeon goes in to remove her internal chia pet. She hasn’t bought into my photo op yet, but she knows full well my photos always come in handy at the most opportune moments.
In the meantime, I told her if her knotty scar was rubbing against her clothing, she should use my ingenious idea of placing a little panty liner onto her undies/padded side towards the inflicted area.

Since she refused having her little fishing expedition photographed, I had to use an archived photo; and as you can see, the panty liner cushion works great for laparoscopic holes as well.  I’m sure men would just love this as well.

Your new age “Hint from Hell-eased,”  aka Heloise.

The Hell-Ease Padding

About

 
 
Welcome to The Word According to Behoxie!  I am committed to making you laugh, drop your jaw, shake your head in disbelief, and make you wonder whether, “Is this sh*# for real?”  I assure you it’s all real:  Real people, every bit of true, a daily snapchat of sorts portraying society from the swirling Nor’east corridor. 
 
I chose Behoxie as my pen name because as only my luck would have it, I had two sister-in-laws with the same first name as me, Barbara.  A surname that was over used 50+ years ago and practically banned today. When my brother married a Barbara, we shared my maiden last name.  Then when I married, my husband’s sister was Barbara and I had to share my married last name since she was a spinster.  Following my divorce, I couldn’t decide if I should go back to my maiden name or stick with my married name.  The choice was made for me all on its own.  If I google myself by my maiden name, I pull up an obituary and feel like I’m in Beetlejuice finding out I am deceased.  My other alternative is to continue sharing my married name with my ex-sister-in-law, a mentally ill recluse. So, either way I’m eff’d.  It’s bad enough when I call a doctor’s office and they ask me which Barbara I am.  Blessed be are social security numbers.   So, when I was in Rhode Island, I kept seeing “Hoxie”-this “Hoxie”-that in road names, businesses, and trucks.  I thought why the hell not?  I got a shitload of Hoxie and I’m just gonna be one, marriage license included or not.  Thus, Behoxie was born.
 
Background Info:
 
My roots alone are comical with my Mother being a Polish/Russian/Jew and my Father all Italian.  Therefore, my birthright gifted me with being able to cook, clean, and as tight as a fleas’ ass with money.
Which leads me to…..

I grew up and still preside in one of the most prestigious zip codes in the U.S.  The town where the 1947 film,  A Gentlemen’s Agreement was based upon for its anti-Semitism.  Then in 2004, Darien once again entered into the spotlight when they filmed the re-make of the 1975 Stepford Wives.  Imagine that profiling double hit!  It’s fair to say, decades later nothing has changed. Not. One. Single. Bit.  We still have no synagogue, and the most black you’ll see is the color of a Suburban, Land Rover, or pavement.  It’s like Disney on crack.

Experience & Learning Curves:

  • On the back nine of life, I’ve learned to treat myself with the same amount of kindness that I bestowed upon those who did not deserve it.
  • The loyalty of some people ends exactly the same moment when the benefit of you doing for them has ended.
  • We can only make peace with ourselves by acknowledging and accepting who we are, what our lesson was we came to learn; otherwise our ass will be beamed back to try, try again.
Skills & Abilities:
  • Extremely independent
  • Enabler extraordinaire
  • Girlfriend/Ex-girlfriend
  • Ear piercer & baby teeth extractor (clearly a missed calling to be a nurse)
  • 34B model for Cross Your Heart f’ugly bra packaging
  • Wife/Ex-wife
  • Mother of three and a few others I didn’t birth
  • Domestic goddess/Ex-domestic goddess
  • Meals on wheels
  • 24/7 soup kitchen
  • Hostel Manager (minus the fee)
  • Sanitary Engineer (i.e., the dump runner)
  • Daycare provider
  • Hairdresser (minor trims & buzz cuts only since I sheared off the top of my son’s ear)
  • Waitress
  • Hospice caregiver
  • Employment Recruiter
  • Secretary
  • Clothes/jewelry/shoe whore
  • An empath (google it)
  • Clairsentient (google it)
  • Good friend/Ex-good friend
  • Big fan of Mother Theresa, Erma Bombeck, Ann Landers, and Heloise, and Maya Angelou
  • Voice of reason or
  • Psychopath (when provoked with lies and I just know…..)
  • Work wife
  • Working Mother and work Mother (two different roles entirely)
  • Union representative, Ex-union rep, suckered back in Union Rep
  • Labor/delivery coach (6 babes & pretty awe-inspiring since I had 3 C-sections)
  • Therapist, divorce mediator, private investigator, drug, alcohol, legal, and suicide counselor – ALL performed without proper credentials.

This is one of those lists that defines the old term, “Jack of all trades, master of none.”  However, I’ve mastered many quite well, and the outcome has provided me with more than enough material for the makings of a nice trilogy and then some.  I’m no fool in acknowledging that almost everyone has a twisted story and a book just waiting to be written, but my writing is for self preservation to release some of these demented tales to take a load off of whatever brain cells I may have remaining.  It’s exhausting having to tell dozens of people the same, “You’re not gonna believe this shit” story and try to keep track of who you told.  My wonderful friends and family pounce right on me when I’m repeating, so before telling one of our numerous sagas, we’ve all adapted this signature line of,  “I may have already told you this, but….” Basically it’s the CYA (cover your ass) way of embarking on the road to CRS (can’t remember shit).

 
Goals & Objectives:
 
Depending on what pandemonium lands on my doorstep at any given moment, I will most certainly keep you entertained reporting on our cookie cutter Stepford town as the “Daily Blabber” of sorts since our hometown newspaper stopped reporting anything honestly or worthy months ago when their top investigative reporter went AWOL (or put in the WASP witness protection program).  Once he began reporting “the other side” of our school system’s Special Education lawsuit, he disappeared into exile since the Board of Education had just spent a gazillion dollars on an investigative report that had a shit boat of inconsistencies.   As a townie and wise woman in her 90th year dubbed it, “The Darien Coating.”
 
Add to that maelstrom, when I’m tapped in, I have an extraordinary sense in my observance of people, places, and things.  I know things.  I see things.  I feel things.  I get messages and not all from this realm, and when the spirit world wants you to acknowledge their presence, they’ll make damn sure to drop enough hard evidence to succeed.  I often wonder if the heavens are made up of an entire colony of stubborn Italians who still need to have the last word.
 
 
Employment 2001 – Present:
 
I started working as a school secretary just days before the 9/11 attack – so much for easing into a job; it was baptism by fire, literally and figuratively. In the four years on the job, I was like an upright Dyson Animal vacuum inhaling 30 lbs. worth of body fat hoofing down daily:  590 calorie DD coffee cake muffins, booger-laced  birthday cupcakes, and government issue taco boats and mystery meat.  I wasn’t beneath being blackmailed either with Hershey kisses, Dove chocolate and M&M’s for making copies. My friends had a beach towel made of my school wall photo as the “heifer” secretary.  They all suck.  I still regret the day I left that job and the wonderful gentle man I worked for, even after becoming a heifer.
 
I went onto taking a position in the Facilities Department (still within the school system).  I lost my first supervisor to a heart attack in the bathroom at 47 years young. That’s a whole story in and of itself, and those extra 30 lbs. melted right off.  His replacement started six months later and lasted six weeks until he was arrested on a felony charge.  Six months after that, his replacement, my present supervisor….we’ll just say he had and continues to have quite the clean up after many years of the Darien Coating and each time he scrapes off a layer, there’s a new coat underneath needing to be scraped and his fingers are bleeding.  I believe we’ve come to a mutual understanding on many levels, but I am getting a little annoyed by how many bacon, egg and cheese sandwich bets I’ve lost to him.
 
We now have a new Superintendent who took on this asylum knowing full well the inmates were running it.  Hell, he only needed to meet his “Interim” predecessor to feel her aura and gauge the additional pain she inflicted while at the helm for the mere 19 months she was there.  She among other dark energy vampires was the reason my fortress-like desk was equipped with a mirror facing out to repel the bad energy, a pathos plant to absorb the bad energy, and sage smudge sticks to clear the bad energy.  On a sidebar, Dr. D is a Psychologist and no stranger in cleaning up corruption.  In his previous district, he was appointed Superintendent because his predecessor embezzled $11.2 million dollars.  I reckon he’s kind of like the clean up priest our Diocese sent in to our Catholic church after one of their Monsignors skimmed $1.3 million from the weekly offerings to support his lavish, clandestine lifestyle.  The beauty in all this is Dr. D is Jewish, and I’m thinking maybe a sequel to The Gentlemen’s Agreement is in order.  Perhaps George Clooney can play the leading role this time replacing Gregory Peck.  I will say I am very entertained watching Dr. D shake things up.  He started July 1 and by July 2 we were all informed every single employee’s office location was moving (new energy maybe?).  Personally, I benefited by moving from a groundhog bunker located in the bowels of the receiving area to an office with an internal take out window in the hallway.  I’m not sure if they’re just moving me closer to the exit door, but for the moment I’m embracing my space because everything in life is always “Subject to Change.” This is clearly the censored version of my employment for obvious reasons – I like my take out window.
 
Writing to you from God’s little acres where we like to believe that flatulence is made up of sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.  A song my friend, Donna, sings quite well and animatedly just like Lesley Gore did almost 50 years ago.  Until next time, please enjoy a little…..