Body Butter

This blog will have no relevance. No point. It will not have any impact on… well anything. You will click away after reading it and – most likely – forget that you even read it. It will just be about something that has greatly affected my life in the smallest way possible.

It’s about body butter.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been obsessed with lotion. Yup. Lotion. I have all kinds. In every room. Even a couple of bottles in my office at work. I buy lotion just because I want to. At times, it has become a problem. It’s more than just the fact that I’m a girl. I realize that lotion can be a girly thing – but it goes way beyond that. I don’t obsess over perfumed lotions. I don’t necessarily collect the “flavor of the month” like apple, cucumber, vanilla. It’s your good ole plain, unscented, run of the mill kind of lotion.

You see, I have this issue. This mental thing. This psychological problem that occurs when my hands are too dry. When they are parched, it seems I can’t breathe. Really. It’s like if I don’t get lotion NOW, I will suffocate. Of course it’s not just only my hands. It’s everywhere. Yes, I realize that this sounds a little odd. A little quirky. But, I am a woman of quirks – if you haven’t already noticed. Although I brush them off as part of my charm, others may view them as symptoms of OCD. I think “charm” sounds better.

I fed my obsession last week when I bought something called Body Butter made by Aloette. I love Aloette products, so I figured Body Butter must be right up my alley. It comes in a tube that when you push from the bottom, the solid substance rises through the top. Got it?

After a shower the other day, I break open this tube of body butter to give it a twirl. I proceeded in my usual application-of-the-lotion routine by smearing this stuff all over. Before I knew it I had a problem… I looked like a freakin greased up body builder wanna be. I was glistening in the bathroom light. When I stared at myself in the mirror and I swear I could see my own reflection bouncing off my body.

This created a problem since I had to quickly get ready for work. This means clothes. Clothes on top of a greased up body is NOT an attractive feeling. If I still had my old waterbed, I could have easily turned it into a slip-n-slide. So I began the process of rapidly rubbing it in which really made it worse. I literally had to stand there and just wait it out. Gee, THAT was fun.

Took a while, but everything worked out okay. Actually, after all of it was absorbed I was pretty dag-gum soft. Too bad I’m the only one who got to feel of me.

Lesson learned? Don’t apply so much. I’ve done it since then and it worked perfectly. Not sure why I needed to share this personal information, but I figured that surely I’m not the only one in the whole world who has had issues with too much lotion.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

Wallgreen's: Soap, Drugs, Lipstick & Career Advice?

I reluctantly stopped by Walgreen’s today after work to fill a prescription and get a few various things that I don’t need. The cashier was a young, whipper-snapper named "Aric" who not only didn't look a day over 20, but who also apparently didn’t know how to spell his own name. Below his name on his name tag it said “Certified Photo Specialist" in permanent lettering. As I was standing there next in line waiting on the lady in front of me to finish trying to convince young Aric that the toilet paper was on sale, I was thinking about this young man’s official title. If he was a “Certified Photo Specialist”, why was he about to scan my purchases? Did the regular cashier call in sick? Were they so busy they had to yank an employee from another department? I don’t ever see a pharmacist up there ringing up “designer” fragrances, vienna sausages, canned cat food and feminine products (yes, I do pay attention to what other people are buying). I mean, both Aric and the pharmacist are both certified in their special fields, right?

Which brought me to my next train of thought: What exactly IS a “Certified Photo Specialist” and what do they have to do to become certified? Or better yet, WHY do they have to be certified? Is it such a dangerous job that you have to be legally appointed to do it? I’m a graphic designer and I’ve never been specifically certified for my photo handling. I’ve never harmed myself or others during the scanning/designing/printing process. So, while I’m still waiting on the lady in front of me to finish up her transaction, I’m wondering what type of certification I’ve missed out on. Will this advance my career in any way?

I should have asked Aric his advice on my career options, but I was ready to get out of there. I’m sure he would have taken the time to counsel me. I mean, his WAS wearing a decorated uniform and all.

Funny thing: I just googled “Certified Photo Specialist” and found something written by a not-so-proud former “CPS” of Walgreen’s. He said that in order to be certified, you take lessons on customer service, taking orders and learning how to file machine repair requests. No lessons on photo copying, scanning, reproducing, tweaking, cropping, coloring, dpi… nothing.

Well, I find that very interesting.

You can't make this stuff up

06.16.06... I'm sleeping hard. It's that really good kind of sleep. I'm checked out from reality and have no intentions on resurfacing my life until the morning. At 1:18am all of this changes.

My phone rings.

It takes me a good few seconds before I realized that the ringing was real and not some sound effect in my dream. Whenever the phone rings in the middle of the night, we all think the worse. We wonder if someone's dead or arrested. Within a matter of seconds, we conjure up all these different crazy scenarios. But never in my life have I ever thought of the scenario that was just about to come true.

Me: Hello?
My neighbor: Becca Becca Becca!!!

Just then my stupid answering machine kicks on and I have to wait until my own annoying recorded voice is finished. BEEP...

Me: What's wrong?
Her: I am soooo sorry to call you!! I need your help!! I have a moth in my ear!!!
Me: Wha? Huh? Who?
Her: A moth flew inside my ear and he's fluttering around and I can't get him out and it feels really weird and I need help!!!
Me: Wha? Huh? Say again?

After this odd conversation, I hang up the phone and stare at the very dark ceiling in a sleepy daze. Confused. Was that real? Did I dream that? I truly wasn't sure. Did she just tell me that there was a friggin moth in her ear? I managed to get out of bed and begin to work my way through the dark house. I barely miss stepping over my very old blind/deaf dog who is still sleeping soundly sprawled out in the middle of the floor. Turning on the lights would have been too easy. Plus that's something a person awake would do. I am still asleep. I finally reach the lamp in the den and I hear a panicked knock on my front door. This was confirmation that I wasn't going totally crazy. I open the door.

My neighbor frantically enters my house. In a sleepy stupor I require more confirmation of this situation... "Did you say you had a moth in your ear?" She starts going on and on about it fluttering around in her ear. She's pacing back and forth and is clearly disturbed by the whole thing. This surprises me because she is the one that I depend on in crazy situations. She's the one who removes dead things from my backyard that The Rock has killed. And now here she is in my house in panic mode. I must step up to this challenge, but I'm still asleep.

Her: Oh my God! I need you to see if you can get it out! It's fluttering around!
Me: Ok, I need a drink.

Wait... hold it right there. What? A drink? Did I actually say that? Yup. Why do I need a drink at this odd, yet crucial, moment? It's not like I need a shot of tequila or a cold beer. For some reason I can't tackle the subject before me without a swig of Crystal Light Raspberry Ice. I can only explain this by saying I am sleep walking. It was only a few minutes ago that I was on a beach in the South of France with Mel Gibson and now I'm being asked to remove a moth from someone's ear. I am so far from reality that a drink sounds appropriate.

I get back from the kitchen (drink in hand) and I find my moth infected friend bent down, hands on her knees, shaking her head from side to side muttering statements like: "I dont know what to do!" and "He's flying around!" She hands me the tweezers she had snatched from her emergency Moth-In-Ear First Aid Kit. I fetch a flashlight and peer into her ear. Nothing. I see nothing. It's just an ear. This Attack Moth had weaseled its way too far in there to see.

Now, normally this whole situation would have freaked me out. I'm generally not the one who people chose to remove flying insects from their ear. My calmness surprises me. I guess still being asleep is working in my favor. And in hers.

Especially when she says...

Her: Oh my God, I can hear him breathing! I can actually hear him breathe!

Yup. If it were 1:30pm instead of 1:30am, you would have to SCRAPE ME off the ceiling. I suggest going to the ER, but she's dead set against it. Maybe for embarrassment reasons? Understandable. Really. But I'm sure the doctors working the late shift could use a good laugh. We manage to head on over to the kitchen sink to flush her ear out with rubbing alcohol. Brilliant idea since it kills the bug. No more fluttering. No more breathing.

Even though the Attack Moth is now dead, he is still in there. We keep flushing. We keep trying to Q-tip him out, but we fail in all our attempts. Her ear canal would have to be this moth's grave yard for the night. This results in her going to the doctor the next day to have the dead thing removed.

The doctor told her that the moth was leaning up against her ear drum. ACK! I can only imagine how loud that fluttering/breathing had to have been. Right next to your ear drum? Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I've somehow lost my appetite for the next six months.

This whole experiences still seems like a dream. However, I have one major proof that it happened: my answering machine.

Shut 'er down.

I want to reboot my life.

Like millions of people, I work on a computer all day and well into the night. Every so often the computer runs slow. Or it may not like a certain file. Whatever the reason, sometimes I have to reboot. I have to shut down, wait ten seconds and turn it back on. Why? Because – like most of us – it needs to regroup. Refocus. Reorganize files and start over again.

In fact, I had to reboot my little, hand-me-down laptop about five minutes ago. And I found myself being jealous of it. As I waited for the sign-on screen to appear, I wished that I had a reboot button myself. That I had a way of just shutting it all down and then starting up fresh.

My laptop is working fine now. Before I rebooted, it was running a little slow and just didn’t seem to want to do what I asked it. What I needed. I needed it to work for me, but instead it was working against me. We were playing against each other in a technical fist fight. I gave up and rebooted.

I feel like my life is sometimes a fist fight.

Always trying to learn new ways to maneuver myself so I won’t get too hurt. Learning new boxing moves. Although at times I can make it through without getting too badly beat, sometimes it causes me to run slow. It causes me to struggle to do those things in my life that I need the most. It causes me to have less confidence than I should. It would be great if I could just shut it down so all my life files can fall gracefully into correct order.

Of course there are certain life files that I would rather not have. That’s when uninstall would come in handy.

I realize that rebooting one's life is not an original thought. The comparison is not new. I’m not breaking new blogging ground here. But it is – however – a grand idea.

I feel it would give me opportunities that I’m too busy or slow or fragmented to take. Reboot to a clear mind and a fresh start. Maybe I would then be willing to overcome my fear of horses or flying insects. Or accept life change. Or do something crazy and unimaginable like asking a guy out.

Without a button, how does one reboot?

Vacations are great. I love them. But they don’t reboot me. I can spend an entire week far away, enjoying every minute of it, but still manage to come back un-rebooted. Things don’t change while I’m on vacation. They just get postponed.

This makes me think that rebooting is something that must be done here – while being present in my own life. I can’t change the colors of my own painting while I’m off gallivanting in Grand Cayman. I have to be here. In my life. Brushes and paints in hand.

Who are you?

My computer’s sign-on screen asks me who I am. Without any hesitation, I click “Becca” and enter a password that opens me up to this marvelous technical world.

When I figure out how to reboot my life, I hope that when asked who I am, I’m not so quick to give a habitual response.

A Day in the Life...

I was just instructed to write another poem.
May struggle at first, but soon I’ll get goin.
Last one was serious – so this one is light.
I’ll attempt to be funny with all of my might.

There’s a Starbucks – brand new – near where I stays.
No drive-thru however, so I went out of my ways.
Found another - far off - that had curb side service.
Had enough caffeine to make me jittery and nervous.

Not sure why I couldn’t get out of my car.
Walk in and order – instead I drove far.
I guess this might say a lot about me.
Maybe stubborn or bored… or maybe lazy.

Took a bath just now – a long one and hot.
Washed my face with some stuff that I just bought.
My tan has now faded – so sad that it’s gone.
Contacts are out and glasses are on.

On the couch and typing and the Tivo is paused.
Trying to force out this poem – a ruckus you’ve caused.
This princess is tired and my eyes want to close.
This challenge has ended. Are you happy? Who knows.

Untitled Words

Too long gone. Too far ahead.
Sometimes the middle is the same as dead.
I search. I reach. Look forward. Look back.
All I end up with is too much slack.

My eyes are foggy. My heart is weak.
I can’t even hear the words you speak.
Brain too cluttered. Feet won’t move.
Don’t know how you’ll choose to prove.

Don’t want strength. Don’t want this fight.
I’d look up but the sun’s too bright.
Hang onto lucky. Some call it blessed.
I say why don’t you just give it a rest.

Tired of talking. Record’s worn out.
Words won’t soak in when I have this doubt.
Page is blank. No colors to choose.
Strange to not care when I don’t want to lose.

$1000 an hour and no kissing.

This is a snippet of a telephone conversation I had with my mother last night. I’ll just pick it up where it got interesting:

Me: So I told her that I’m pretty confident that no one would ever mistake me as a prostitute.

Her: You never know.

Me: Huh?

Her: Honey, I think if you wanted to be a prostitute that you would be the best ho in town!

Me: ----

Her: It’s just that I believe in you and feel that you can do anything you want and be the best at it. Even if that was being a ho.

Gotta love moms who will stand behind you no matter what, huh?

Recycled Leftovers?

TONIGHT AT TEXAS ROADHOUSE:

Hostess: Have you ever been here before?

Me: They have, but I haven’t.

Hostess: We have hand cut steaks, fresh baked bread and side items made from scrap.

Me: I’m sorry… side items, what?

Hostess: Our side items are made from scrap.

Me:

Hostess: Your waitress Kim will be with you shortly.

Me: Dad, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not have side items made from scrap.