Insomniac

It amazes me that I’ve had the ability to come up with this many things to say in my blog. Or maybe it doesn’t amaze me at all.

So many things to write about. So little to tell.

I’m snuggled under my cozy comforter without the ability to fall asleep. I’ve tried. My brain just doesn’t seem to want to shut down. Too many things to think about I guess. How come it’s always late at night when this happens? Why couldn’t I have gotten all these thoughts over with earlier in the day?

As I lie here, typing, listening to my old dog’s deep snores, I can’t help but to think of every single issue. The good. The bad. The indifferent. All rolled up into one big ball that defines me. Who I am. Who I’m not. Who I’m going to be.

Most of these issues I’m not bold enough (or stupid enough) to mention here. And most are just too silly and shouldn’t even be using up valuable brain space.

But yet, here I am.

I’m not really sure why I grabbed this laptop and began typing in the dark. I guess I hoped that seeing my thoughts appear on this glowing screen would mean that they would then become permanent. Tangible. And there would be no need to replay them in my head again and again. My eyes are droopy and my thoughts are slurred, but I know that sleep isn’t in my near future. At least not until after I get these words out.

Words.

Words are amazing to me. They can break you. They can drain you. There are times in my life when I would much rather have taken a stabbing. They can build you. Protect you. Make you smile. But sadly, sometimes it’s the harsh words that shout out the loudest. Even years after they were spoken. Why is that? Bad words make me run. Avoid.

Avoid.

There’s another humdinger. Sometimes I’m so good at avoiding that I don’t even realize that I am. I’m usually called on it. Confronted. Told to change, but not told how. The exit door is unmarked and so I find myself just standing there waiting. Blogging.

Oh how this blog is not about you. Not for you.

It’s for me. It’s about me. It’s about that warped sense of self that seems to strangely co-exist with confidence and pride. It’s about contentment and happiness, mixed in with fear and doubt. It’s about loving my life yet yearning for more. It’s about today. It’s about six years ago. It’s about 28 years ago. It’s about how all of this will unavoidably mold itself into a tomorrow. The unknown and the uncontrolled. Into me.

It’s about thinking too much. It’s about thinking and not doing. Not fixing.

My brain is a remote control flipping through different channels. Flip-Flip-Flip. Each channel different in plot. Different genres. Comedy. Inspirational. Tragedy. One story never crossing paths with the next. Yet I’m the common thread. Funny how life can be so random, perplexing and simple all at the same time. Funny how I’m the one who probably makes it that way.

Hopefully I’ll be able to table these thoughts and pick them back up tomorrow when the daylight can expose new solutions. New ideas. New plans.

Goodnight...

My Latest Soapbox

As everyone in the world knows by now, Madonna adopted a child from Malawi, Africa.

And we all know of this on-going conflict between her and the child’s biological father, but what has caught my attention is the ridiculing of Madonna for adopting a child from another country.

People are saying things like, “There are so many children right here in America that need to be adopted. How dare she go to a foreign country. We need to take care of our own first.”

I had a relatable conversation a few weeks ago.

About a month ago I learned that my cousin (on my dad’s side) and his wife are selling all of their belongings and moving to Lebanon. I don’t know exactly their plan, but it’s obviously to help the Lebanese people in some way.

A few weeks ago I was telling my uncle (on my mother’s side) about my cousin’s decision. He became very critical of my cousin’s choice. He didn’t understand why anyone would move to a foreign country when there’s plenty of help needed here.

Two different stories. Same complaint.

I have absolutely no desire to move to a foreign country to “help” anyone. Whether it is on a mission trip, to help an orphanage, to feed the poor, to sweep the streets…

It’s just not in my heart. It’s not something that I’m drawn to and I can’t relate to people, like my cousin, who are. However, I think it’s fine if he wants to go. Go. I respect him for following his passion – no matter how different it is than mine.

See, I believe, that it takes all kinds of people. All kinds of passions. All kinds of hearts. Everyone. If we all had the same passion, this world would have ended a long time ago.

There are people who desire a child from another country. Great! That’s one more hungry, sick child in this world that is saved. Have you read up on the plethora of Chinese girl babies being tossed away because of their one-child policy?

There are people who desire an American baby. Great! I say go for it. Of course, once you adopt a black baby then everyone will criticize you for not adopting a white one. There are plenty of American babies that need to be rescued.

Here’s my point: We all have different ideas of what needs to be done to make this world, and our lives, better. We need all these different ideas.

If you had an extra $1000 and were asked to give it to a charity… which one would you choose?

Make a Wish Foundation? Special Olympics? National Association for the Deaf? Ovarian Cancer Research Fund? Girl Scouts? National Parkinson Foundation? Humane Society? Your church’s food bank?

A friend of mine who recently was given a clean bill of health after a battle with stage four ovarian cancer, just very well might choose Ovarian Cancer Research. She might see the importance of this non profit organization. She might feel that donating to the Girl Scouts is a waste of money since they rob us each year via Thin Mints or (my most favorite) Tagalongs.

Personally, I would give my money to the Humane Society. Some people might not understand why I would donate money to help a dog instead of donating it to help a starving child. Sure, I could tell you my reasons, but they really don’t matter. Some people feel that helping humans is much more important. And I’m not going to argue with them... because they are wrong. And they’re right.

They are all important and not important.

My cousin’s thing might not be helping the homeless in his community. And that’s cool, because I’m sure there are other people in his community that do have that passion.

If you complain that Madonna adopted an African baby, then prove your point by adopting your very own American one. What… don’t want to? You don’t want to save the life of that poor American child that Madonna didn’t adopt?

Don’t worry. It’s not your thing. I understand. But it apparently is her thing.

Am I making any sense here? Am I just talking in circles?

I’m not sure about you, but I need all you people that have different ideas of what needs to be fixed or helped, because, frankly, I have no desire to do about 99% of it.

The Next Level

Friendships are interesting to me.

I believe that we all have different levels of friendships. And I also believe that each level is important because it provides an avenue for friendships to grow. To deepen. To evolve. In my life there are four levels of friendships that equally play a part in balancing my life.

Basic level.

We all have the casual friendships. The people that we enjoy being around during social occasions. You laugh. You have fun. You say, “We really need to do lunch”, but you never do. It’s all surface, social interaction – which is important because sometimes you’ll meet someone that you soon allow into the second level...

Intermediate Level.

These are the people that you talk to often. You actually do lunch. Their number is in your cell phone. You call each other up for a movie or a late dinner. They tell you stories about their kids and you tell them stories about your pathetic love life. When they throw a party, you are automatically on the invite list. However, as often as you may see each other, it still remains a bit on the surface. There’s nothing wrong with surface. You need surface, because sometimes surface leads to the third level…

Advanced Level.

These are the people who have successfully passed the first two levels. They have proven a sense of loyalty to you. You now care about the fight they had with their spouse. You care that they are stressed at work. You just care more. You feel free to express your struggles, fears and concerns. You have great conversations and email each other often. They make your life fun and interesting. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, this type of friendship will elevate into the fourth level…

Lifetime Level.

These are the people that you know you will always have in your life. No matter what. These are more than friendships. They are relationships. They are what true, deep connections are made of. You understand each other. You have empathy for their problems. You feel excited for their triumphs. You genuinely feel that they are a part of you. They help define who you are. You may have differences in politics, religion, or social issues… but it doesn’t matter. You accept each other. This type of friendship gives you a feeling of freedom and acceptance. No matter how screwed up you really are or what stupid decision you just made or how incredibly lonely you really feel… they are there. They slap you when you need it. They hug you when you need it. They simply love you for you. And what an awesome feeling to be able to give that right back to them. To have someone that you can express love to freely. You would do absolutely anything for them. Sometimes life is good because of these relationships. Without them, there would be a void.

I have friendships on all of these levels.

I am lucky to be able to surround myself with witty, intelligent, sensitive, and amazing people. However, lately I’ve been affected more by the Lifetime Level. If these people are a reflection of me, then I’m doing pretty damn good. These people affect the core of who I am. They validate me. They give me a feeling of purpose. They provide me an emotional intimacy that I thrive off of.

There’s only a small handful in my last level. I like to keep things close and tight. I’m grateful for all of them, but there are two that have touched me the most this past week or so.

You know who you are and I just wanted to say “thank you”.

Exceeding Joy

About three years ago, I was approached with this question:

“Have you ever experienced exceeding joy?”

I’ve been trying to answer that question for three years now because I’ve never been happy with my automatic “no” response. I’ve turned the table and asked others this question, and it seems that the answers always fall into three categories…

• "When I got married": This is the number one response.
  
• "Children": Running in close second, people say the birth or raising of their children.
• "No": This would be the ONLY other response I’ve received and it has always come from people who have never been married and have no children.

Exceeding: to go beyond limits; to extend beyond or outside of.

I asked this question to some single friends Tuesday night as we hung out at Starbucks sipping our lattes and hot chocolate. After the question was presented, everyone sat there in deep thought. Looking up at the sky as if searching for a memory, everyone struggled to remember one experience that would qualify as exceeding joy. I would think that an “exceeding joy” experience wouldn’t be that easy to forget.

They confirmed even more the demographics of my survey results. They are single adults and their answer is “no”. One of us in the group just purchased a brand new, fully loaded truck. He said that he was VERRRY happy about his new pimped-up-ride, but he couldn’t say he was exceedingly joyful about it.

Even though I’m sure everyone can experience exceeding joy, I am curious to know why it’s always the same “when I got married” or “when my daughter was born” answers. Surely there are more memories in life that cause this overwhelming emotion.

Today was the day I changed my answer.

I’ve experienced joy. Many times. I’m joyful hanging out with a good friend. I’m joyful finding a great pair of shoes on sale. I would even consider it joy when someone else does my yard. But exceeding? No.

I had an experience today that actually had a mixture of emotions: joyfulness, happiness, amazement, humbleness… among many others, I’m sure. Being a woman, I can feel all these emotions at once.

I have a friend of several years who has been fighting multiple battles for many years. When I met her, she was at her lowest. She was addicted to very hard drugs, homeless, serious mental issues and being abused by her “boyfriend” who sold her for money on a regular basis. Our paths crossed because she was worried about her dog that was also being abused. I took the dog home and we became friends.

I won’t go into all the stories I’ve experienced with her. They are very dark and some people thought I was crazy. Literally. I was doing my best to help her without being taken advantage of. And that is quite a challenge. My unbreakable rules were difficult explaining for the 20th time to someone wacked out on crack. But even in her lowest moment, she was still a person of worth who needed someone sane in her world who believed that… because she couldn’t.

She asked me for money only once. It was for $20 and I gave it to her only as a test. A test that I – honestly – thought she would fail. I was wrong. She paid me back every last cent… she paid me with money she begged from people at various gas stations and stop lights. No matter how she got the money, this was a huge forward leap because it showed responsibility on her part and trust on mine.

She came to see me today.

I recognized her familiar voice in the hallway, “Where’s Becca’s office?” I turned around to see her standing there with a huge white teddy bear. She looks awesome. She’s been clean and on proper medication since January 29, 2006. She no longer weighs 90lbs. She had make-up on, brushed hair and a colorful sweater that brightened her face. And she’s got new upper and lower teeth that she proudly showed me.

“You look great!!!!”

“Ohh, I’ve gained too much weight, but if that’s my only problem now, I’m doing okay.”

“Who cares about the weight. You’re beautiful.”

“Becca, I love you and I want you to have this.”

She hands me this big white teddy bear that has gold wings attached to its back and a gold halo on its head.

“For me? Wow. Thank you, but you didn’t have…”

“I want you to have it. You’ve been my guardian angel and when I saw it, it reminded me of you.”

Up until today, I defined “exceeding joy” wrong.

It’s deeper than the default answers I’ve received. Or at least how I viewed them. It’s not just a one-time experience, but maybe an entire process where exceeding joy slowly reveals itself. She showed me this today. It’s the connection that she and I have. It’s going through everything that we’ve experienced and coming out on top. It’s her knowing what it’s like to think clearly. It’s me being a part of that. It’s knowing that the hundredth time at rehab worked for her. It’s finally seeing the white of her eyes, her clear skin and new teeth. It’s the feeling that I’m loved and appreciated for doing nothing more than being a friend. She is a miracle and I am amazed that I’ve had the chance to witness it.

Up until October 18, my answer was, “No. I’ve never experienced exceeding joy.” On October 19, I have changed my answer.

Do you ever misspell your own name?

As much as I hate to admit this… I do.

As you can see in Exhibit A featured above, my name is very round. Curvy. When writing it, you move the pen multiple times in the same fashion. Sometimes I find myself not paying attention and I’ll put more “c’s” in it than there needs to be. Like “Beccca” for instance. My name obviously doesn’t have three “c’s”, but my mind just wants my pen to keep going.

And when this happens, it kinda makes me look like an idiot because I have to go back and turn the third “c” into an “a” and then scribble out the last “a”. Or sometimes I’ll make the new “a” a little bit larger to cover the third “c” and the last “a”. Which makes my name completely unbalanced with normal sized letters in the beginning and then ending with a huge “a”. As a graphic designer, this bugs the hell out of me.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ll start writing a note to someone and then not be pleased with its position on the paper. Crumple it up and start over. However this is not practical when I’m at the gas station after I’ve misspelled my name on the debit card receipt. I can’t say, “Ummm, yeah. Hi. Can you reprint that receipt because it seems I’ve misspelled my name and it’s bugging the hell out of me. Thanks.”

I don’t misspell my last name however. All the letters are different. Nothing repeats. They are all different shapes. Of course, most of the time I just scribble the last two letters of it into an unrecognizable line.

Maybe that’s what I should do with my first name. Just a scribbled line.

Can someone wake up one day and decide to change their signature? I mean, it won’t match my driver’s license or social security card. Do you think that would cause some sort of governmental issue? Will the government accuse me of NOT being me? And I’m sure they won’t take me seriously if I told them that I changed my signature because I always misspell my first name.

Of course, this blog could be proof. You think? I wonder if they would believe me after I referred them to this particular blog entry. But then they’d get all nosey and read my other entries and lock me up for just being crazy and pathetic.

Ohhhhh why do I come up with questions that have no answers...

Sure hate it when I learn something about myself...

The other day I was flipping through the channels.

It was one of those afternoons where there’s a fine line between stupid TV and entertaining TV. So there I was going back and forth between “Cannon Ball Run” and some made-for-TV-movie starring either Susan Lucci or Linda Carter, when I found something actually quite interesting.

It was called “When I was a Girl”…

It’s a documentary exploring the life journeys of several well known women (actresses, athletes, politicians, authors, etc.), looking at where they are now in life and focusing on who and what inspired them when they were young. They talked about what ways their personalities evolved from children into teenagers into adults.

I don’t know about your life, but mine can get pretty hectic. Sometimes I get so bogged down with what needs to be done now that I forget who I really am… what got me here. I have forgotten that my biggest goal as a child was to own the entire collection of Barbie dolls, including the townhouse and convertible. I got pretty close to that goal, too. I even owned the Donny, Marie and Cher dolls. But then I sadly grew up.

If I close my eyes, I can remember running down to the creek near our house, taking off my shoes, walking through the cold water and feeling the moss between my toes. At that time in my life, the definition of success was catching the most tadpoles. Things sure have changed.

This TV show made me remember these things. It gave me an excuse to be able to sit back and think about fun stuff . . . when things weren’t so serious. When the worst thing in my life was when I couldn’t wear my snazzy red cowgirl boots EVERY day along with my favorite shirt that had “Becca” proudly embroidered on the back.

The documentary also brought up an interesting question:

If you could go back in time and talk to yourself at different ages, what would you say? What advice would you give the younger you?

There are a lot of things I’d like to say to the younger-Becca, that’s for sure.

I wish I had been a little more observant. I wish I had paid closer attention to what was going on around me at home, instead of putting all my energy into making sure every square inch of my bedroom walls were covered in Duran Duran, Rick Springfield, John Stamos, Michael Jackson and Van Halen posters.

I wish I had learned the value of a buck before I made the choice to collect credit cards just because they had pretty colorful designs. This would have saved me six years of working three jobs just to pay them all off.

I would also encourage myself in areas where I now know I would’ve been really good. Tell myself that creativity is not a sign of weakness, but in fact it’s something to be quite proud of. Embrace it, grow it, and let it take me outside the box.

I would tell myself to be a risk-taker. Get out there. Take a chance. Most chances are worth taking. That the only reason to NOT take a risk is because I’ve weighed the pros and cons… and NOT because I’m not worth the effort or the result. If I had realized that all those years ago, I wouldn’t be struggling so hard with it now.

I’m sure I can keep going with the “what-if’s”. But I do think that if I was able to go back and tell the younger-me these things, it would lessen some of today’s insecurities.

On this television show, these famous women also discussed the people in their lives that influenced them the most.

For me, I would have to say my Granddaddy.

He and I always had a special bond. A connection. It is indescribable. He’s been gone for several years now and I think and smile about him daily. Always will. I still hang onto his old brown leather cap that he always wore. I have a picture on my office desk of the two of us. I have an original painting of him that my uncle-the-artist painted for me. Granddaddy was the sweetest, most generous man anyone could meet. He was a man of integrity, had a quiet passion for God, and had no desire to live anything other than his simple life. No matter how scared I got or how much trouble I was in, I could count on him to love me. He loved me. Not just because I was his granddaughter, but because he knew I was worth loving. And he would have loved you, too.... just because you are you.

Memories are strange things to me.

Sometimes they are clear as day. Sometimes they are so vague that I wonder if they really happened. What childhood memory makes you smile? If you could go back for just a few hours and be five again, what would you do?

I would catch tadpoles with Granddaddy.

As My World Turns

My life changed yesterday. The boundaries that I had strategically placed are now broken. Busted through. Fallen debris of rules and regulations are scattered around me in a million pieces. I have gone mad. Wild. And I don’t think my life will ever be the same.

I now have a fully functional television with satellite and Tivo in my bedroom.

So how long HAS it been since I’ve had the ability to watch television in my bedroom? Let’s see… probably the mid 80’s. It may have been right when Joanie confessed her love for Chachi that I ended my love affair with bed-viewing television. I think it had something to do with the fact that we had this-new-thing-called-cable in the den… along with this way-futuristic-technology called a VCR. This made the TV set up in my bedroom boring. Bland. It wasn’t as coooool as our new cutting edge system in the den. I started to scoff at my mangled up rabbit ears. They were no good for me now.

There’s a new man in town and there’s no more room for you and your static, buddy boy.

Even though that was the beginning of my anti-tv-bedroom movement, I believe it slowly developed into a totally different thing. During pajama parties with friends or sleepovers at a boyfriend’s, I noticed that I was not able to fall asleep while the TV was on. Maybe it’s not that I couldn’t fall asleep, but rather that I couldn’t stop watching it. Make sense? I will keep my eyes open with toothpicks if that means finishing a show. I don’t want to miss something. Some vital information to the plot could be revealed… and if I’m asleep, I’ll miss it.

Last year I purchased a bigger/better TV for my den which brought my Tivo experience to a whole new unbelievable level. Since the replaced TV was still in excellent condition, I decided to put it in the bedroom to collect dust. There it has sat.

Until now…

When my friend Darrell upgraded to a HD DVR the other day, this freed up his Tivo receiver. For an incredibly small fee, his discarded machine now belongs to me. I can’t express my – how sad – excitement. He came over yesterday and hooked me all up.

This meant even crawling commando style underneath my house. Darrell tried to convince my two outdoor dogs to enter first into the dark, scary, narrow space, but they just sat there… looking at him as if saying, “No way, buddy. You go first and then we might think about it.” As if he lost a bet, he took his flashlight and started to head in.

I think it was at this point that I said to him, “Look. If you scream for help, I’m sorry, but I’m not going in to get you. You’ll just have to figure something else out.”

With Darrell’s legs dangling out from underneath my house, I couldn’t help but to have an overwhelming desire to put pretty ruby slippers on his feet. While fighting spider webs and other creepy crawly things, I don’t think he found me funny when I called him the Wicked Witch of the East. Oh, what a sad world when I’m the only one who appreciates my humor.

My dog Rock finally took the dare and ran in, but stuck closely to her human friend. Apparently she was so moved by this new experience, she showed her appreciation by repeatedly kissing Darrell all over his face. Now I’m sure as you move inch by inch, slithering through narrow passages, fearing snakes and dead things, the last thing you need is a dog licking your face. Through the outside vents, I could hear my friend patiently saying, “Ok. Rock. I love you, too. Ok. Thank you. Ok.”

ChaCha and I stood outside the tiny portal, clutching our purses and bibles, praying for our soldiers to return from war unharmed. And they did. All in one piece. Dirty, but all in one piece.

So what am I going to do now?

I have now purposefully gone against my rules of “no TV in the bedroom.” It’s like voting republican all your life and then suddenly saying, “You know what? I’m going democrat. Hook me up.” It’s like KD Lang deciding she now likes men. Or Mother Teresa announcing in her prime that she now believes the poor really can help themselves.

My new decision – which goes against how I’ve lived all these years – is going to take some adjusting. I guess I’m now in the market for some really good under eye concealer, because this chick’s gonna have bags. And don’t even try to talk to me about the whole “TV timer” thing. It only works well if you can actually fall asleep while it’s on.

I am now also faced with the decision of which shows are to be recorded on which television. I mean… will I watch All My Children in the den or in my bedroom? How about Nip/Tuck? (never mind – Nip/Tuck gets the bedroom!) Of course now I can record way more shows since I have a whole other unit. How does one decide? I’m totally addicted to cooking shows even though I don’t cook. I always encourage myself by saying, “Yup! I can cook that! Easy!” but then never do it since cooking for one is NO fun. So Rachael Ray just might be one of my new shows.

Of course, you realize what this all means, right? I won’t have time for sleep at all. If I’m watching TV in my bedroom and den, plus recording a slue of all new shows, there’s no TIME for sleep.

That's it. I’m quitting my job.

I always thought I had no life before, but this has really sunk me even lower. I might as well get a catheter and a mini fridge and never leave. I’ll have my laptop so I can still communicate with the outside world. Maybe I can pay someone to come over and humor me with conversation every so often… plus empty the catheter bag.

Any takers?

Ohhhh How Gross

A small part of a phone conversation I had with a friend about 1pm today:

Him: I test drove several trucks and this one seemed to be best one. So I bought it.

Me: What color is it?

Him: Some sort of gray, silver, metallic color. It’s smaller than the truck I have now, but I also think I’m going to buy a car.

Me: I’m sure the new truck will work great transporting the four wheeler and dogs and…

Him: Oh crap.

Me: What happened?

Him: I just stepped on a frog.

Me: You stepped on A FROG? Oh my (puke puke) did it get away?

Him: Well, this is unfortunate. It suffered the blow of my full body weight. I must say this is quite unfortunate for the frog.

Me: Is it dead??

Him: Wellllll, it did one more hop after the initial impact. I’m thinking that if it’s not dead, it surely will die strictly from the raised blood pressure created by the full foot-to-body compression.

Me: You have no idea how disgusting this is do you.

Him: We can always look on the bright side. Maybe my weight created enough force to just bug the eyes out. Maybe he won’t die and just be blind.

Me: That poor poor frog.

Him: Such is the circle of life.