Wordless Thoughts

i search and search to find the words.
a way no one's ever seen and no one's ever heard.
my pen is ready and my thoughts are straight.
no words are coming. this is the part i hate.

sometimes words just fall right out of my hand.
first in my mind, then on the paper they land.
my mind is loaded with things to share.
i'm not quite sure why this paper is bare.

i think about him, them, us and you.
i think about the things i know i need to do.
i think about how my life has changed.
maybe better. maybe worse. it's just not the same.

i have a million poems yet to be expressed.
so what if one's a flop. no reason to get depressed.
i promise next time i'll try to be more witty.
if i don't, then oh well. what a shame. what a pitty.

The Illustrated Man

I think I might have a problem. An issue. A friend referred to it as an addiction.

Ever since I was a teenager I had this overwhelmingly rebellious desire to have a tattoo. I fought that craving for many years. Not necessarily because I thought it was wrong… but rather because I didn’t know what to get. The idea of permanently inking myself was something that I felt needed some thought. Deep contemplation.

To me tattoos tell the story of someone’s life. The stories can be obvious or vague, but either way they reveal a lot. As a kid I read the book “The Illustrated Man” by Ray Bradbury. I fell in love with its stories. I believe that this was the beginning of my fascination.

After a way-too-soon midlife crisis in my early 30’s, I decided that tattoo time was here. I visited various tattoo parlors with people just to see what it was all about. I was curious of the procedure, as well as the artistic angle. I watched closely as people received their first or thirtieth tattoo. Never straying my eyes from the needle. I’m weird like that. I even stood right there as a girl got her tongue pierced. It wasn’t pleasant, but oddly very entertaining. I didn’t know the newly pierced victim, but she said she didn’t mind me watching. I will never forget the look in her eyes when that needle forced itself up through her tongue. No thank you. I think I’ll pass on that.

After much anxiety, I finally made a decision on what to get and where. I drew up my own little design and studied over it for a week or so. When T-Day had arrived, my support crew of about 10 joined me at a little classy joint called “7th Street Tattoo and Piercing”. I couldn’t have done it without them. They were cheering me on throughout the whole painful process. Yup, painful. When I told the artist that I wanted it just below my ankle bone, he warned me that it was a painful area. I went for it anyway.

I now sport a cute little black-ink-only igthuse below my right ankle bone. I felt it represented my struggles and my faith... with a little bit of rebellion thrown in. I don’t regret it one bit.

Infact…

The other day I had an email conversation with my friend I mentioned in my first sentence. We were discussing tattoos. A topic she knows very well since she is adorned with them. It’s not like she has a body suit of tattoos, but she’d win any office contest for sure.

I explained to her that I’m feeling a little unbalanced. I have this small tattoo on one side, but there’s nothing on the other. I feel a little right-heavy. I compared it to my graphic designing. Layout has to have balance. Whether it’s with color, graphic or just white space, it must be balanced. I’m not balanced.

That’s when she threw all my excuses away and said...

“No. It’s called an addiction.”

Can I have an addiction after just one? Is that possible? I’ve done pretty good in life staying away from stuff like crack, acid, and heroin. I hear that once you’ve smoked crack, you’re pretty much addicted. Does the same apply to tattoos? Surely not. Right?

Maybe she speaks from experience. Maybe she had the same issue after her first. I wonder how long it was in-between her first two. Maybe I need to set up an interview with her and ask her all these questions I have swirling around in my head. I don’t want to be addicted… just balanced. Right?

Of course, I do find it funny that I’m willing to sit through that pain again. For some reason I associate the pain with good - not bad. Good pain. The kind of pain that tells you that you’re alive. It wakes up your nerve endings. Physically and emotionally.

Wait. That’s how an addict would talk. Good grief. She’s right. I’m staying as far away from tattoo parlors as possible.

I’ll just spend the rest of my life unbalanced – in more ways than one, I'm sure.

The Pressures of Being Clark Kent

Kids crack me up. They’ll believe anything.

Sometimes when I’m around small children I like to make stuff up just to see if they’ll believe me. See how far I can go. Once I convinced a three year old that everyone’s feet were removable at the ankle. She was leery at first. She asked questions. I had answers. Within 10 minutes she was a believer. I explained to her the mechanics of how your ankle unscrews. She cautiously nodded “yes” when I asked her if she wanted a demonstration. I had her leg across my lap, one hand on the bottom of her tiny bare foot and the other around her ankle. I formed a good grip and started to slowly twist. I don’t think a full second passed before she realized that I was making it up.

Of course, I’m not always potentially physically harmful.

Every so often I’ll go through a drive-thru and get a kid’s meal. Yeah, for me. An adult. I always get it with a large Diet Coke though. As we all know, these meals come with a stupid, cheap toy. In the past I’ve tossed the toy in the trash without a second thought. But for some reason lately I’ve felt guilty trashing this useless thing. I have no idea why.

A co-worker of mine has a four year old daughter. Several weeks ago I started putting the toy in her in-box which is mounted on the wall. I never said anything about it. I just did it. Last week she caught me red-handed. The toy was in my grasp and I had a guilty look. I was caught. She told me that she was wondering where the toys were coming from and that her daughter loves the whole surprise of it all. At the risk of sounding all sappy, this kinda made me feel good. I asked her not to tell her daughter that it was me. I handed my co-worker the toy and said, “… because I am the Toy Fairy.”

Later that night...

Mommy: Look honey! There was another toy in my box for you!
4 year old: anotha towee?
Mommy: This one’s a squirt gun.
4 year old: momma, where do day come fwom?
Mommy: The Toy Fairy leaves them in my box so I can bring them home to you.
4 year old: towee faiwee? weely momma? weely???
Mommy: Really!!
4 year old: are you fo weel momma? fo weel?
Mommy: Yes, I'm for real, honey!

After hearing about this sweet conversation, I’ve taken my Toy Fairy responsibilities very seriously. I got a kid’s meal for lunch yesterday, but when I got back to work I realized that there wasn’t a toy in the bag. Man, I was TICKED. Grrrrrr! Not a good idea to mess with the Toy Fairy because I hear she has aggression issues.

My co-worker has been telling people about the Toy Fairy. Luckily she hasn’t mentioned my name, so my anonymity remains safe. Yesterday she found a note in her box from a couple of the interns:

“We want to be visited by the Toy Fairy, too!”

You know, this can easily get out of hand. I’d love to be the Toy Fairy to the two interns, however, this would mean that I’d need to consume more kid’s meals. Not good. Plus the other interns will get jealous and want to be on the Toy Fairy list as well. Where will it end?

How does Santa do it??? Would I need to start taking applications for Fairy Elves? Well, this would open up a whole new set of issues. I would have to design costumes for me and my elves. Plus, I would like to call them something other than “elves”. I wouldn’t want Santa to sue me. I’d have to make it mandatory that the elves consume kid’s meals to help with the collecting of the toys. I’d have to hire a lawyer to draw up some “revealing the identity of the fairy will result in your death” paperwork. I’d have to figure out an elf interviewing process that wouldn’t give my identity away… just in case they’re not hired. Then there’s the Toy Fairy logo and website…

Now I’m stressed.

I felt that it was too early in the Toy Fairy development to have so much stress. So, I decided that these two interns needed to work for it. After all, they’re not four. They’re in college. Things aren’t free anymore.

Through a secret transaction, I gave them a note:

I am the Toy Fairy. Small children automatically have faith. In order to receive, you must believe. Prove to me your faith and you will be blessed.

- The Toy Fairy

Apparently they were REALLY excited about the note. My source (co-worker) tells me that the two interns are trying to think of a way to prove their worthiness to the Toy Fairy. They’re creative kids, so I’m interested to see what they come up with.

Guess I need to go to the dollar store and load up on some stupid toys. Sheesh. I can only eat so many kid’s meals.

Double Your Pleasure. Double Your Fun.

Sir, would you please go? Sir? Sir?? Sir??? SIR. HELLOOO?!?

Sometimes only an hour for lunch isn’t enough time to get everything done. If I have several errands, I’ll usually feel the need to drive fast to get it all over with. Ok, I usually ignore the speed limit anyway. However, I was feeling specifically rushed today. So rushed that I didn’t have time for idiots.

Sir, would you please turn already???

I wouldn’t say I had a small car. It’s a Grand AM and so it’s average size. However, it really doesn’t matter when you’re up against one of those big SUV’s.

I’m sitting at a stop sign at Merrill Drive and Arcade Drive. I would love to turn right onto Merrill. Would absolutely LOVE to turn right. But there’s a big white SUV right next to me in the turn left lane. It’s blocking my view of on-coming traffic. I can’t see worth a flip and this guy is just sitting there. His face is turned the other way, so I’m assuming that he’s waiting on a car... ASS.U.M.E.

I sit there staring at him. It’s like he’s in a trance. He’s eyes are open, but he’s barely moving. Then I realize it. The problem is solved. The puzzle piece has been found.

Coming into my view on the left are two girls jogging down the sidewalk across the street. Very tan. Very fit. Verrrrry blond. Wearing short shorts and tank tops. Their pony-tails swinging side to side like they're in a shampoo commerical. These two-double-mint-girls are making this guy’s eyes pop out. This man isn’t waiting on a freakin car. He’s a freakin perv. And he’s making ME wait while he gets his jollies. THIS I will not take.

I glare back over to him and he’s just sitting there watching these sluts…er… nice, young, virginally pure ladies… jog down the street. He has NO clue that I’m even there. I’d be surprise if he had any clue where HE was. I start getting pretty ticked at the whole thing and so I just lay in on my horn.

HONK!!!!!!!!

I swear he jumped five feet. He looked at me with that “what? huh? what?? me?” look. We had a good few seconds of eye contact when I mouthed the words “Move Your Car, You Perv.” Well, maybe the “you perv” part was only in my head.

Here’s the deal: I know these were hot chicks. I can recognize “hot” when I see it. I even appreciate hotness. Really. They obviously take care of their well toned bodies. If I asked them, I’m sure they would even give me the name of their plastic surgeon that did their boob jobs that their daddies bought them for their 18th birthday. I mean, I even thought “wow” when I saw them and I’m as straight as they come.

If it were a hot guy jogging down the sidewalk, you bet your booty that I’d take notice. However, I would like to think that I wouldn’t hold up traffic behind me and beside me because of him. I’d more likely get out my digital and take a picture so I can reflect on it later when I’m bored. That’s more my style. Photogenic stalking. It’s safer and they can’t arrest you for it.

Maybe he wouldn’t have ticked me off if I hadn’t been in such a hurry. I probably would have laughed at the whole thing if I didn’t need to get back to work. Little did he know that the crazy woman in the Grand AM next to him was a blogger.

This is a reenactment of a true story:

CAST: Becca (self), ChaCha (dog), Rock (dog)

TIME & PLACE: 06/04/06, 0800 hrs, at my back door

I’m going out of town for the day to earn some brownie points, uh, I mean to spend some quality time with my elderly grandmother. It’s freakin hot outside so I thought I better check on ChaCha and Rock’s water supply. I open my back door... Ack! It’s happened again. There’s another one.

[freeze story]

Background info: Rock, a 35lb golden mutt, is a hunter by instinct. I have discovered many victims of senseless deaths. For a fear of Peta, I will refrain from going into the different types of animals. Plus, the possibility of me gagging just thinking about it is quite high. Rock really should have her own TV show called “When Rock Attacks”.

[unfreeze]

Not again. Will this ever stop? I stand at my back door looking at Rock’s latest victim. Right there on the porch, just inches away from their food bowl was… a dead bird. A poor innocent bird that never had a chance against the forces of The Rock.

I’m sure right before the bird turned into another backyard statistic, he was really cute flying around looking for worms. However, I can’t think about that now because it’s dead and it’s on my back porch. And there’s Rock. Proudly standing next to her prize waiting for me to take her picture. Begging me to praise her with love and affection.

Rule #1: I don’t touch dead things.
Rule #2: I don’t touch dogs that just played with dead things.

The dead thing needs to go. My neighbor always takes care of these issues for me. She doesn’t mind the dead. This is not normal. And I find it quite cruel that she laughs at me while I dry heave during the removal process. But she’s my savior and… oh crap, she’s not home.

I back up and shut the door. I haven’t gone into a full panic mode... yet. I stand there trying to come up with a plan. A strategy. A way out. The clock is ticking away and I need to leave soon. The dead thing can NOT just stay there and it’s too early to call anyone. I guess (gulp) that I need to just do this. I need to become the adult that I pretend to be. I need to get the dead thing out of the backyard… On. My. Own.

I march into the kitchen with confidence and control. I grab a plastic grocery bag and head to the back door. I stop. I go back and grab five more plastic bags and layer them inside each other. I open the door. (breathe in... breathe out... and again) Slowly I approach the dead thing but my confidence level drops. Rock keeps begging for affirmation. ChaCha is blocking me by hovering over the dead thing.

[freeze story]

Background info: ChaCha, a 50lb German shepherd mix, is a protector. She protects all – the living and the dead. When Rock kills something, she fully believes that she can bring it back to life.

[unfreeze]

I stand there with my plastic bags and no plan. I wonder what McGyver would do. I place the opened six-layered bag near the dead thing and grab a big stick. While one hand is holding The Protector back by the collar, the other uses the stick and attempts a little “scoot-n-flip” action. The second the stick touches it, I totally gross out and back off. The dead thing wins that round and so I retreat to my corner of the ring for some further assessment.

Rock, quickly becoming my un-wanted cheerleader, jumps up and down as if saying “You can do it! Just grab it with your teeth like I do!” This is NOT helping. ChaCha is still hovering over the dead thing trying to psychically bring it back to life. This is one very dysfunctional family.

DING! Round two begins. I start to sweat profusely and can’t decide if I need to lie down or throw up. I pick up my weapon and get back in the fight. With one eye closed and the other one squinting verrrrry tightly, I push the dead thing half way over the concrete edge where there’s about a three inch drop to the ground. I fight ChaCha off with my foot and scream at Rock to stop pressuring me. Holding my breath, I place the wide-opened bag(s) underneath the exposed half of the dead thing. Hoping my next strategic move works, I begin to slide the dead thing into the bag opening. I fight off all nausea and it lands in-between the third and fourth bag layer. Doesn’t matter. It’s in there. Thank God.

Still not breathing and mentally gagging, I quickly tie the handles together, sprint over to the side fence and toss it over. No net. 1000 points. Victory is mine and the crowd roars. Rock does a few celebratory flips and high-fives. ChaCha intensely stares at the bag through the fence in one last effort to revive the dead thing. She fails and walks away defeated yet again.

When I leave to go out of town, I pick up the icky-nasty-gross bag and put it in the big trashcan so it can join all the other dead things in the city dump. Next time... I'm leaving it right where it is until someone else can deal with it.

This was NOT one of those growing experiences.

Running On Empty

I am like SO incredibly thankful:

…that the gas pump last night at 10pm approved the use of my debit card even though I knew that there was absolutely no money in my checking account.

…that today was payday.

…that because my debit card was approved, I didn’t run out of gas which would have resulted in having been seen with no make-up and wearing my American Idol t-shirt.

…that there was no one else at the gas station to see me with no make-up and wearing my American Idol t-shirt.

…that I didn’t have a wreck or get pulled over with no make-up and wearing my American Idol t-shirt.

Things that I’m publicly ashamed of but privately love:

…my American Idol t-shirt.

Peep all you want. It's legal.

Blogging.

Everyone has a blog. You can get them for free or really, really cheap. Anyone can be important now. Even the little people like us.

I’ve been doing a lot of blog reading lately. I’ve pretty much been all over the world and back in search of the perfect blog. I plead guilty to the charges of peeping into other’s private lives for personal entertainment. Guilty of living vicariously through those I will never meet. I may have even read your blog. You never know.

It’s amazing what dirty laundry you people will air. You’ll talk about what/who you did last night, your pets, your children, your husbands, your girlfriends, your boyfriends, your husband’s boyfriend, death, illnesses, political issues, social issues… it’s all right there ready for us to read. And frankly… I L.O.V.E. it. Your curtains are wide open. Blinds are pulled up. Our legal binoculars positioned. We can peep all we want. It’s legal.

You people want us to look into your life and see what’s going on… juicy or not. It’s as if it is your own personal version of Reality TV. Your own 15 minutes of fame.

Hello. My name is Becca and I’m a blogger.

Ok fine, I’m guilty. I’ve been sucked into it as well. I’m out here right along with the rest of you people. And the crazy thing is… I like it.

I was a little late in the blogging game. In my first blogging attempt I was loyal and dedicated. I posted my views on life and even talked about my boring laundry. I talked about my relationships… the good ones and the hopeful ones. I talked about it all. And then… I stopped. I forgot to blog one day and then it turned into another bloggless day and then another. Before you know it, I had abandoned my millions of internet fans… okay, maybe just a few. Ok, one. Just one fan. Are you happy? Just one.

I thought about the ole' blog fondly. I even went to it and looked at it. Re-read my entries and self-servingly chuckled at my own witty ways of wording. Thought to myself, “I really ought to start this thing back up” - only to then click the red “X” at the top right corner of the opened window. I have to admit, there was a certain amount of guilt. I had taken the time to make my blog look pretty by choosing the right colors and formatting. I had taken care of it as if it was tangible, but then I just packed up and left. Moved out with no “good bye” note or “Dear John” letter. That was until . . .

I can’t help it. It's his fault.

It all started with an email from a long time friend of mine. He was diving into his own blogging pool just as I had only a few months earlier. An email with hopes in rallying up an audience. This stirred something inside me. A blog renewal, if you will. I started to remember the good times we had. I thought to myself, “Maybe it will work this time. Maybe if I adjust my priorities, I’ll have more time for it.” I hesitated, but eventually clicked on his emailed blog link. There it was: His Blog. My addiction developed again and soon there was a new blog in town. Not the old one. A new one with new stories of my boring life.

So here I am. Here you are. My imaginary audience who have been there with me since the beginning. God bless your loyalty. I want to thank you for keeping my exposure minimal and not spreading the word too fast. You know, I hate to get too famous too quick. I'd hate to bring the site's server down due to overwhelming traffic to my blog. I also don't think I could handle the paparazzi. Being put on the Forbes Top 100 Blogs list might just send me over that emotional cliff. The pressure of forced daily creativity might just prove too much for me.