From the Kentucky coal mine to the California sun

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

I wish I had written that lyric. A simple phrase big enough to live your life around. Something that everyone – no matter who you are – can not only relate to, but believe in. Agree with. Strive for. Wish for.

Kris Kristofferson may have written the song, but Janis Joplin is the one who gave it life. It’s her voice that makes you feel the words. Hearing about her traveling cross country with her companion Bobby would make anyone want to pack it up and head out into the sunset. See the world without a watch. Tossing your schedule out the window as you go full steam ahead into the unknown.

What is your freedom?

We all express our own freedom in different ways. And there are those who are so strapped down to life’s demands, they don’t allow themselves to even dream of their own freedom. One person’s freedom is another’s luxury.

I’ve stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and peered into the night sky viewing the beautiful Paris lights. I’ve floated down a river in Bangkok visually taking in the enormous gold encrusted mansions. I’ve visited a small German village, rubbed elbows with the locals and walked through a several-centuries-old castle. I’ve relaxed on a beach in Grand Cayman mesmerized by the bluest ocean I’ve ever seen.

Freedom? Sure, I have had the freedom to live these experiences in a world where others may not be so free. I also have the freedom to work, drive, and vote… all of which are unfathomable in some countries.

As free as these things may make me, they are not my freedom.

My freedom is internal. My freedom is the ability to sort through my feelings and own them. To express my thoughts and not be judged. To not be controlled by someone else’s games and expectations. To show love and to be loved without being under the umbrella of fear.

This is my freedom because I find it hard to achieve. If freedom came easily it would not be called freedom. We have to paddle through treacherous rapids before we can truly experience the calm essence of freedom.

If freedom truly is another word for nothing left to lose, we have to actually get ahead of our life, turn around, see everything as it is, accept it and own it. It’s impossible to move forward in freedom when you still have strings attached behind you.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Nothing, and that's all that Bobby left me, yeah.

She loved her life with Bobby. They shared the love of the road as well as an emotional connection. But no matter how much they had together, it wasn’t enough for Bobby. He left in search of his own freedom. His own home. To satisfy his own internal need for something else. Something better.

I guess Bobby felt he had nothing left to lose. Nothing, including Janis. Even though she was left behind, she loved him. She said she would trade all her tomorrows for one single yesterday.

Sounds like Janis needed to have learned a little bit about freedom from Bobby. I think she always knew his placement in her life wasn’t permanent. The part of him she loved so much was the same part that caused him to leave.

Funny when that happens.

Spewing expletives would have made me feel better.

I believe her apology, but I don’t believe her reasoning.

I can be crass at times. I’ve been told I have a sharp tongue. My humor is expressed through insults, sarcasm and harmless physical interaction. And one who carries these attributes can generally recognize others who do as well.

I love bantering with those who share my humor. I’m open game to your comedic insults and am prepared to bounce them right back. To be granted a front row seat in my life, quick wit will get you there. You either have it or you don’t. And if you don’t, the backfire can be a bitch.

Insulting someone without the backdrop of humor is very dangerous. But what is worse, is insulting someone just to be mean and then later using the excuse of humor as a way to dig yourself out of a self-inflicted hole. It doesn’t work. The table is then turned and you end up looking like an idiot. Sweating under that hot spotlight, you realize your wiggle room is rapidly decreasing.

Although I now find the humor in the following story, it still hits a sensitive nerve that I cannot shake.

It was beautiful outside. Standing on the sidelines of a little league football game, I felt the cool breeze and realized that autumn was well on its way. Good weather, good friends, a good game and my loyal companion ChaCha by my side. Not being a sports-kinda-gal, I didn’t know the rules of the game. I may not know what a fumble is, but I cheered on the team as if I were a football fanatic. Life was good. Spirits were high. We were living out a Norman Rockwell painting.

That is until she walked over.

The Scene: I’m standing next to a long-time friend watching his nine year old son push people down on the football field and ChaCha is sweetly sitting at my feet. My friend’s 72 year old mother is there. Although one would assume she’s there to watch her grandson play football, turns out she was there to irritate the hell out of me.

She walks over to me and stands right in front of me looking me straight in the eyes…

Her: Your dog is ugly.
Me: ---
Her: ---
Me: Excuse me?
Her: He’s ugly.
Me: No she’s not.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: SHE is NOT ugly.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: (giving her “go straight to hell” look)
Her: I guess he’s nice, but he’s ugly.

It was at this point I had a decision to make.

I could either call her a variety of words that would make even a sailor blush… or I could walk away. I thought about the first option. I already had the words picked out and in what order I was going to say them. Cussing out a 72 year old woman didn’t bother me. Cussing her out in front of small children didn’t even bother me. What bothered me was cussing out my friend’s mother. I respect my friend. I love him dearly and I felt verbally assaulting his mother right in front of him might cause some sort of wrinkle in our friendship. Especially since he didn’t hear her verbally assault me first because he was too busy rooting on his future NFL player.

So I chose option B. Not the most fun out of the two options. However, before I jetted off with my ugly dog, I did give her the meanest look I’ve ever given anyone. My evil look reached through her pupils and so deep into her soul I know it had to have caused her physical pain. I swear she turned to stone and crumbled as I pivoted away.

Let’s break this down…

I may think your dog is ugly. I may even talk to my friends about it and snicker behind your back. But I would never – NEVER – tell you to your face “Your dog is ugly.” Never. There are just certain things in life you don’t have to be honest about. It’s okay to have an opinion and NOT share it. Plus, ChaCha isn’t ugly. I think that’s what peeves me the most. She’s not. Here’s proof and here’s proof.

Later that evening I discussed the hateful situation with my friend. I told him his mother was rude and I felt she owed me an apology.

Flash forward two days later…

I’m walking out of my garage to water my soon-to-be-dead flowers and I find this irritant of a woman on my front porch. She’s looking for me. Great.

Her: Becca, come here I want to talk to you.
Me: Well, I’m kinda busy. Why don’t you come down here.
Her: I was told I hurt your feelings.
Me: Uh, yup. You sure did.
Her: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was only playing.
Me: Playing? You weren’t playing.
Her: I’m sorry.
Me. You know, there are certain things in life you DON’T do. That’s to say to someone’s face that their kid or pet is ugly. It’s just rude.
Her: Please accept my apology?
Me: It’s accepted. This is over.

She said she was “playing.” That’s crap.

I can’t believe she pulled out the humor card. She obviously doesn’t realize she’s talking to the Queen of Sarcasm. I invented sarcasm. I own it. And she’s no where close to it. Plus even if that were the case, she would have apologized a second after she said it due to the crushed look on my face. You don’t play like that. At least not with me. I know how to play and that ain’t playing.

I’m sure I’ll get over this eventually. Surely. I mean, if someone told me this story, I would find it quite humorous. Getting all in a huff because someone said your dog is ugly sounds like a Seinfeld plot.

Even though I’m sure I don’t have to prove to anyone again that ChaCha’s not ugly, here’s more proof.

Ok, I’m done. I’m totally over it now. Time for me to go feed my ugly dog.

My First Flower Bed: A Sad Tale

I stood there staring at the big heap of dirt in my front yard and thought, “Well, what am I going to do with this crap?”

There used to be a bush there. Or maybe it was a tree. However a crepe myrtle is categorized, it was gone by the time I crawled out of bed Saturday morning. I know a man who was in need of a crepe myrtle and I was in need of getting rid of one… so together we made a perfect match. My pain-in-my-butt trash was his treasure. Hallelujah.

At 7:30am I walked down the front steps of my new house to get a closer view of this large hole in the ground that used to house the overgrown plant. Tree. Bush. Whatever. Standing there with really bad bed-head and wearing my Elmo pj’s, I stared at the massive crater trying to decide my landscaping options. I’m not a landscaper. I’m not a gardener. I don’t even play one on TV. Scratching my bed-head, I decided no matter what… it’s time to get dirty.

After slapping my hair into the typical ponytail and changing into some unofficial landscaping clothes, I returned to my hollowed yard. It was while I was unproductively rearranging dirt when my neighbor’s six year old daughter came running over. When she started digging up rocks and tossing them in a pile, I realized that the child had a plan. A good plan. I gave her the title of Project Manager and I followed her lead.

Even though my new Project Manager became occasionally side tracked by squiggly worms, we managed to build up a pretty good collection of rocks. It wasn’t too much longer when the mother of my new young boss walked over to make sure I wasn’t being bothered. Little did she know I was relying on her six year old child for guidance.

My neighbor loves yard work. She’s kinda freaky that way.

I think the sight of the dirt, worms and rocks got her a little excited. She actually wanted dirt crammed in her fingernails. This is unfathomable to me. I was out there out of necessity. She belly flopped into the dirt out of desire. I quickly realized if I wanted more than a worthless heap of rocks, I better demote my Project Manager and bring this dirt-lovin-woman on as Director of Operations.

The more we dug, the dirtier we became. I swear the dirt multiplied. And so did the rocks. My red flipflops were now unrecognizable and my half way decent nails were breaking one by one. I think it was when we were a few miles away from hitting China when we discovered a hidden treasure of bricks. A lot of bricks. A crap load of bricks. All lined up as if they once were a pathway. I found it odd that someone - however many years ago - would cover them with such a huge layer of dirt.

I consulted with my Director of Operations and it was decided we would use the bricks to build a retaining wall to aid in our landscaping design. An idea that I openly credit her. If it weren’t for her, I’d still be standing there clueless with no direction. Like a captain of a ship with no idea where to go or even how to turn it on.

The fate of the bricks began an ongoing argument between the Director of Operations and the demoted Project Manager. It seems the six year old wasn’t aware of the staff change because she had other plans for the newly found bricks. Something about building a “Bridge to Terabithia.” This is apparently some sort of child-speak I’m not familiar with. She eventually lost the argument and we pressed on.

As we continued our hard labor, we had the typical female-to-female conversation:

Me: I’m sorry my legs are hairy.
Her: Girl, so are mine.
Me: The hair is just so black against my white legs.
Her: I noticed mine glistening in the sun when I was walking the dog earlier.
Me: I need to shave.
Her: If you’re like me and you’re not in a relationship, there’s no need.
Me: Girl, I know what you’re sayin.
Her: Sometimes it’ll get so bad that it’ll bother me when I’m trying to sleep.
Me: You know it’s sad when you’re forced into shaving your legs because your long leg hairs hurt you when you’re trying to sleep.
Her: So sad.
Me: I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.
Her: You know, me neither.
Me: Well, aren’t we an attractive pair.

About 3pm we completed phase one of the landscaping project.

I swear I’ve never been so filthy. My dirt-lovin neighbor enjoyed becoming one with the earth. I, however, felt less enchanted. Nevertheless, it did feel good to be productive.

Phase two would involve a field trip to the local Home Depot to purchase random flowers with 26 lettered names and vague instructions. I felt the overwhelming desire to scrub the earth’s soil off my incredibly dirty body before venturing out. And yes, I shaved my legs and brushed my teeth just incase I ran into “Mr. Right Now.” Which of course I didn’t. And I could bet a year’s salary I would have if I hadn’t.

My neighbor didn’t comment on my freshly shaven legs and fresh breath when I returned with the botanical goods. I was insulted. Saddened. Disappointed. But then decided I was being pretty pathetic. Shocker, I know. But when one’s hard up for a compliment, they’ll look under the dirtiest rock to get one.

I’ve learned a lot from my roll in the dirt.

One: trim your fingernails before you dig. It’ll save you in heartache later.

Two: mulch AFTER you plant. I now have to remulch the mulch.

Three: hairy legged neighbors sure come in handy.

Four: prepare for your flowers to die. I’m sure mine will. Soon.

And five: I still hate yard work.

Not only do you look like a monkey, but you act like one, too.

The following is the actual conversation I had with myself this afternoon as I was peeing:

“Jeez. I can’t believe I’m going to be 38 tomorrow. Lord have mercy. 38. Un-freakin-believable. Doesn’t even seem possible. Good gravy this is the oldest I’ve ever been. Sheesh. Wait… 38? That doesn’t seem right. What year is it? 2007? What year was I born? 1970. Wait… that means I’ll be 37. I’ll be 37 tomorrow not 38. Whew! Ok, things are looking up.”

And I’m not lying.

I could bore you with the things I’ve learned in my 37 years of life. I could also list all the things that I still have yet to experience. I could share my profound insights on life, love and happiness. And I could even explain to you the meaning of life. But I won’t.

September 6, 1970

All I’m going to say is thank God I was born in an even numbered year which is also the beginning of a decade. 1970. It’s easy to calculate and it seems the older I’ve gotten, the more important that is. If I had been born in 1967 or 1972 it would cause me to have to constantly carry around a calculator just to determine my current age.

Why is it that people are so hung up on age? And by “people” I mean me. Even though realizing I’m not turning 38 brings a little sparkle back into my old, weary eyes, the thought of being 37 is quite… quite… quite… horrific. Like I said in my self-conversation, “It’s the oldest I’ve ever been.” But I guess it’s better than 38. Or being dead. Or being 37 and living a horrible life. Which I’m not. Ok, maybe 37 isn’t so bad.

Here is a conversation I had Monday with friend:

Best Buy Clerk: Sir, can I have your birthdate?
Him: August 10, 1958
Me: 1958? Hahahahahaha
Him: -------
Me: And you’re not dead yet??

And here is a conversation I had today with a 31 year old co-worker:

Me: My birthday’s tomorrow.
Her: Yep. How old?
Me: 37
Her: Hahahaha
Me: What’s so funny?
Her: Do you realize that you are now OFFICIALLY in your late 30’s?
Me: Shut up.
Her: Look, you gave me hell when I turned 30. It’s payback time.
Me: When I turned 36 I was so happy that I was still considered mid-30’s.
Her: Those days are over, baaabbbbyyyy!!!
Me: Shut up.
Her: You are SO old.

What goes around comes around, huh?

One good thing about my birthday being tomorrow is that I’ll have good hair. A friend is my hairdresser. Tonight she pampered me with the works. Coloring. Streaking. Cutting. Even free shampoo, conditioner and other hair products that I haven’t quite figured out the purposes of. After she styled it I told her I looked like a rock star. Too bad she doesn’t do my hair every morning.

So there you have it.

A birthday blog that lacks insight, foreshadowing and reflection. I’ve been too busy obsessing over www.justin.tv to be concerned about how my aches and pains are going to only get worse. My new high-school-girl crush on Zac Efron has me way too occupied to bother with what I haven’t done with my life.

Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the Zac thing.

But it’s true. It’s a coin toss between wanting to mother him by saving him from a desolate future in rehab due to drug addiction and wanting him to be my little-boy-play-toy. Perverse, I know. It changes back and forth pretty much hourly.

Is it considered omg-so-not-cool if a 37 year old carries around a Zac Efron lunchbox? How about a 37 year old without children who has watched both High School Musicals more than once?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

Dear Crazy People

You know who you are.

I know I hide behind the “Just a Crazy Woman” virtual mask, but the truth is… I’m not. Sure, I’m a little nutty, pretty complex, at times eccentric, kinda creative and incredibly insecure… but I’m not in any way mentally deranged. I’m not certifiable. I’ve never even once been held in a straight jacket. Well, maybe once, but that was for something entirely different. Kinky does not mean crazy. Unless your definition of kinky involves barnyard animals. In that case, you’re both kinky AND crazy.

If I had a dime for every time a guy has told me about his “crazy” ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, I’d be living it up in Belize right now. Lounging in a hammock and enjoying the ocean breeze while sipping some sort of tropical drink with one of those cute little paper umbrellas.

I’d have to change my name to “Just a Rich Woman.”

I don’t know what it is. These men. Calling all their ex’s crazy. Are they? I mean really… are they? What does this say about you if you find yourself dating all these crazy women? There’s only one common denominator… and that’s you, baby.

Sure, I can say that I’ve never been in a “healthy” relationship. Obviously. I’ll be 37 in two weeks and have never been married or even remotely close to it. That’s gotta say something right there. Not that all marriages are healthy. Because I realize they’re not. And, please, save all the emails saying how much better it is getting married “later in life.” This is totally not the point of this blog.

I’m writing this blog to all the crazy people.

The people who are ruining it for the rest of us. Stop it. Stop going out with guys and scaring the hell out of them by falling in love with them on the second date. Stop the stalking. Stop the crying about wanting to have a baby even though you’ve only been dating a month. Stop trying on wedding dresses behind his back. Stop trying to control his every move and every breath. Just STOP IT!

Stop freaking a guy out so bad that it makes him project all YOUR craziness onto us normal people. I have my own issues. I don’t need yours, too. My insecurities are enough to keep me busy. I don’t have time to be blamed for your infidelities, manipulation and birth-control-pill-popping forgetfulness. Do you realize how hard it is for a guy to see the essence of who I am while your back-stabbing, rumor spreading, and heel stomping energy is floating in the way?

And to all you men who find it necessary to talk about your crazy ex’s.

Don’t. The last thing you need to tell some new person is about your last trip to Crazy Town. It scares us normal people. We then want to know why you went there. Did you just drive through? Did you stay only a night or two? Did you invest in property? How long was it before you realized where you were? And once you did, how quickly did it take you to get your ass out of town?

That is unless your new person is another crazy.

Then this will scare them into hiding their craziness behind a “normal” mask. It takes about 45 days for it all to seep to the relationship surface. By then it just might be too late because they’re already picking out His & Hers monogrammed bath towels.

I can honestly say I have never called an ex “crazy.”

Sure, they’ve been controlling. Abrasive. Uninterested. Lazy. Boring. Confusing. But crazy? Nope. I save that terminology for those who truly deserve it.

Thank you for your time,

Just a Crazy Woman

Lessons from the Porch: Change

I don’t like it. It makes me sweat and incredibly nervous.

It takes every profound feeling I have and magnifies it to an unimaginable level. Ok, maybe that’s a tad bit of an exaggeration, but not much. I will obsess over it and analyze it until it’s broken down into so many pieces that it’s just about impossible to see clearly. I am my own worst enemy, but yet I do it every time.

Change.

Change is something you can count on. It’s life. It’s as normal as brushing your teeth. The average life goes through a multitude of change. I, however, hate it. I don’t like things being messed with. I don’t like what I know today to be different tomorrow. I don’t like counting on the consistency of something only to find out it’s now being altered into something different.

I’m not talking about the simple things in life. You can change tonight’s dinner menu on me and I’ll not care. We can switch vacation details at the last minute and I’ll go with the flow. You can even cancel plans with me and even though I’d be ticked, I’d handle it like a big girl.

I manage day to day complications with ease, understanding and hopefully a dash of humor. But once that dependable ground beneath me begins to shake, I yield and start asking questions. Not only of you, but of myself.

Some change is good and some change is bad. I get it.

In 2000 my father announced that he was leaving my mother after 30 plus years of marriage. You would have to know my family to realize what kind of shock this was. My parents represented the type of marriage that I yearned for. Because of their example, I decided early how I wanted to be treated. Their marriage made of stone was my template for how life should be. I felt it was as dependable as tomorrow’s sunrise.

This change shook the ground underneath me and I dug in my claws hoping to find some sort of sense of it all. I couldn’t. Although I still can’t, the passing seven years has caused me to live with a change that will forever be a defining moment in my life. The moment when I discovered love does not conquer all. That love may be as dependable as expecting sunny skies on your wedding day.

I have just experienced another life defining moment. Another change.

Being a single adult is great. My time is free and my money is mine. But as delicate and complex as love is, I have been searching for it since I officiated the wedding between Barbie and Ken.

I have been living my life in temporary housing for my entire adult life. Renting. Never burying my roots into a permanent home that I could call mine. This wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision. It was just self-assumed that I would permanently hang my hat in a home shared with someone else. Funny how life doesn’t listen to your plans.

Buying a house is stressful. Everyone knows this. And I feel being single makes it even worse. I have had to rely on the advice and help of friends who have gone above and beyond the call of friendship duty. But as I have begun settling into my new life in my new home perched upon this small hill, I have realized that this is the change I have needed for long time.

Through this change I have learned that the solidness of the ground beneath me isn’t dependent on someone else’s life or their decisions or their outlook. It’s only my own balance that can keep the ground steady. My parent’s marriage was just that – their marriage. Although it still saddens me to see how bad choices ruined a good marriage, I am slowly learning how to accept change as a way to customize my own life.

Right now I am sitting on my new front porch.

A front porch that belongs to me and not some landlord who is making an extra buck. All of the leaves on the big tree shading my house are mine. I paid for them. The other night I trimmed down the overgrown bushes planted alongside my driveway. Even though I hate every minute of yard work, I now know that maintaining those ugly bushes is an aid into helping me develop my own personal solid ground. It has been one out of many lessons I’ve experienced lately that has taught me that depending on myself is not a bad thing. It brings a sense of security that I normally looked toward others to provide. Although this change has been challenging these past few weeks, I am glad to have gone through the experience.

Of course my attitude can all change once I begin making the mortgage payments. And I reserve that right.

Deadly Sin: Gluttony

I’m a pig. I’m not going to lie.

I’m not one of those girls who picks at the tiny side salad she ordered as a full meal. I’m not going to eat before I go somewhere so I won’t be hungry when I get there. If you offer me food at your house, I’m not going to say, “Oh, that’s alright. I’m okay. Thanks anyway.” Rather, I will take your offered food, scarf it down and help myself to seconds. And if you offer me a doggie-bag to take home, you’re my friend for life.

I love leftovers. I love your leftovers. If you invite me over for dinner, don’t put it past me to show up at your house with an empty container. And, by the way, inviting me over for dinner brings as much excitement to my life as finding a $100 bill in last year’s coat pocket.

I wish I was one of those people who eat only for the purpose of fueling their body. I wish I could stay away from the Chinese buffet line like I can stay away from crack. I don’t have a crack problem and never will. I know “never say never” but I’m feeling pretty confident. Maybe a policeman guarding the door of my favorite Mexican restaurant would deter me. Probably not.

I’ve discussed my love affair with chocolate before, but I don’t think you quite grasp it.

I love chocolate. I’m in love with it. I want to marry it. I want to roll around naked in an enormous bowl of warm fudge. Whenever a co-worker of mine asks for a favor, she always bribes me with chocolate. She knows. It’s evil the way she taunts me with chocolate as if it was cold hard cash, but I fall for it every time.

A couple of weeks ago someone gave my mother a big ziplock bag of M&M’s. Not the plain ones, but the peanut butter M&M’s. That night I stopped by her house and before I left she handed me the ziplock bag of heaven and said, “Here. Take it. I don’t want this in my house.” She and I have the text book case of addiction passing down to the next generation. Not wanting to enable her addiction, I gladly took it. I hadn’t even driven a block before the devil appeared on my shoulder screaming in my ear “EAT! NOW!” I obliged.

I left the chocolate flavored cocaine in my car over night since having it in my house would have been a poor idea. The next morning I took it to work with me in hopes of sharing my treasure with my co-workers. It never left my desk. The ziplock bag remained unzipped for easier chocolate-eating-access. Sure, I offered it to selective people as they came into my office, but I mainly kept my stash a secret. I was a chocolate miser. Selfish. A wild dog unashamed to growl and show her sharp teeth if you got too close without being invited.

Running an errand that afternoon, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I was nauseous. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was since I hadn’t eaten anything weird or unusual. Walking back to my office I passed the receptionist’s desk and casually mentioned to her that I wasn’t feeling well. She stuck out her bottom lip, tilted her head and said, “Ohhhh, I’m sorry.”

I sat at my desk to finish up a project. I subconsciously reached into the unzipped ziplock bag and grabbed a handful of M&M’s. It was after I shoved the handful of crack into my mouth when I realized why I felt sick: I was in the middle of a chocolate overdose. I immediately thought, “Man. What a shame.”

I’ve gone on a three-month chocolate diet before.

I’ve never been so miserable. It was as if telling someone I dearly love that I don’t love them anymore. That I’m better off without them. It’s not true. It’s all a lie. I want them and need them in my life because they bring me joy. Make me happy. I can’t do that to chocolate. Chocolate is my friend.

If enjoying a good meal and going back for seconds or having an unhealthy chocolate obsession is defined as gluttony… so be it. Guilty as charged.

At least I don’t lie about who I am by saying I’m full after gnawing on a few carrot sticks.

Deadly Sin: Lust

It was while I was standing in the check-out lane at the drugstore when he walked in.

He was about six foot and rugged with brown messy hair. Had a little GQ thing going for him. He was wearing a graphic tee that was partially tucked in at the right place. Dark jeans with worn-out areas appropriately scattered. A hip guy who was most likely running in to buy condoms. I couldn’t decide if his hot date was going to be with a girl or another guy.

I stood there in line holding one of those dorky shopping baskets. It was filled with moisturizer, toothpaste, deodorant, and clear fingernail polish. Yup, pretty boring. For a split second I thought about dumping the basket’s boring contents and replacing it with something more exciting. Maybe like a box of Trojans. Thought it’d make me look less boring. Willing. Available. But I really needed the toothpaste since I ran out just that morning. And even though moisturizer isn’t a great lure, it is a great necessity.

Walking through the automatic doors, he saw someone he knew.

Another guy. A guy who had just purchased his own basket of items. I became interested in this union. I wondered what they were talking about. How did they know each other? As much as I would love to describe how the other guy looked, I was too blinded by Guy #1’s hotness. Memory of the other guy is only a blur.

I finally advanced to the front of the check-out line. This was a good move since it allowed me to overhear the private conversation. Standing there talking, my boyfriend’s hands were casually tucked into the pockets of his stylish-way-cool jeans. He seemed friendly. He smiled a lot. He gave off a good vibe. I was hooked.

The cashier kept talking to me. She would NOT shut up. Why is it that usually I get a bitter, socially inept cashier who hates her job and her life, but this time I get Ms. Personality? Doesn’t she realize that my nosey-self is trying to get the scoop on my new lover? Doesn’t she understand that by talking to me, she’s jeopardizing my chances with my future fiancé? Doesn’t she know that the father of my unborn children is only a mere five feet away from me? The nerve. How rude. Help a sista out, wont ya?

I obviously looked uninterested in Ms. Chatty’s ramblings because she soon quieted down.

Thank God. Now I can spy in peace. I have to admit I was hoping to hear “Just thought I’d stop by the drugstore in hopes of finding a girl named Becca who I will adore and cherish for the rest of our lives.” But I didn’t.

Blurry guy: So dude, whatcha been up to?

Hot guy: Dude, not much. Just got finished serving my community service.

Great. Community service. How come I always pick the bad boys? How come I intuitively seek the ones with a rap sheet or personal issues or a bad attitude? This happens over and over and over and over again. I scare myself. Really. I can pick them out of a crowd.

I would much rather him say, “I saved a lost puppy this morning, mailed my grandmother her birthday present and I think I’ll spend the evening at home watching old reruns of ‘Chico and the Man’.”

He would have had me at “lost puppy.”

This is why I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust my instinct.

Just when I start to like you, you’re going to tell me about the 12 years you spent in prison because of murder. Or embezzlement. Or robbing a bank. The tattoo on your arm I thought was cute will turn out to be some gang symbol.

Ok, maybe it’s never been that bad. At least no one’s ever told me about serving time, but I wouldn’t put it past some of them. Maybe I should consider becoming a prisoner’s pen pal. At least I’d know up front what the scoop is.

My new lover and I never made it past those five minutes.

The happy-go-lucky cashier put my purchases in a white plastic bag with the words “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” printed in blue on one side. I then headed over to Home Depot and bought insect-repellant yard spray and bathtub caulk.

The next morning as I ridded my yard of fleas, beetles and other nasty things, I thought about my ex-drugstore-boyfriend. I thought about how I pick out the bad boys when all I want is a good one. In an epiphany I realized that I liked the idea of someone adventuresome because I find my life incredibly boring. Here I was spraying my yard and about to caulk my tub when I really would rather be riding on the back of a Harley screaming back at the wind.

Great. Now it looks like I have two problems.

I’m sure my ex-baby-daddy has gone on with his life. I’m sure he’s not suffering from the break-up. I hope he learned something from his community service and stays out of trouble.

Who knows… maybe we’ll meet again. But he better not be wearing an orange jumpsuit.

As Luck Would Have It...

I found it lying on the concrete near my front left tire.

It had so much grime caked on it I almost didn’t notice it. If it weren’t for the recognizable circular shape, I probably would have walked passed it. Gotten into my car and driven off none the wiser. There’s no way of knowing how long it had been there. No way to know whose pocket it fell out of.

I picked it up and scraped off the gunk to reveal the year. It said 1993. I’m not sure why I needed to know this. It’s not like it would make it be worth more. It’s a penny. The poorest coin we have. A stupid penny. Not even made out of copper. Not even worth one cent if melted down. But there it was in my hand. It’s new owner.

As I opened my car door and sat inside, I studied the gunk. What was all this black stuff? Tar? Old gum? Dried oil? I wondered how many people in the last fourteen years held this exact penny in their hand and contributed to its cocoon of dirt. How many lives this penny has passed through. One cent means more to some than it does others.

Even though it’s worth so little, people believe in its good fortune.

As I sat in my car with one foot still on the ground, I turned the penny over several times… as if the other side was going to look differently than it did 1.3 seconds before. I wondered how many times each day a penny is found by someone who believes in its luck.

I’m not one who believes in luck – although I use the word quite often. Keep your multicolored rabbits feet. A four leaf clover is what it is. I don’t have pictures of elephants on my walls or believe in the magic of a shooting star.

And I certainly don’t believe in the power of the penny.

Which is probably why I made the decision. Decided to give in. Take a chance. I took the road most traveled and I recited that age old saying. The same one I learned as a little girl – back when I also believed my Wonder Woman bracelets would rid off evil. No one’s ever said that saying it brings bad luck, so I had nothing to lose. I held it in my hand, closed my eyes and said it…

“Find a penny, pick it up and all day long you’ll have good luck.”

It felt silly. I chuckled as I tossed the dirty coin into my car’s cup holder which contains a billion others just like it. A billion other wishes gone unwished. Driving down the street I thought “Is it really luck if you’ve asked for it?”

Dissecting the saying brought even more questions.

“You’ll have good luck” should really be “I’ll have good luck.” Sounds to me like I’m giving the luck to someone else. And it doesn’t say what to do with the penny afterwards. Can I throw it back down on the ground and still remain lucky? If I use it to pay for a Quarter Pounder, am I just forfeiting my chance at luck? Does saying “…and all day long…” mean I have to keep it for 24 hours? Or can I keep it until I feel the luck is all used up? Or maybe until I find another penny and pick it up?

I pulled into a gas station, got out of my car and immediately stepped into a big puddle. And I was wearing sandals. Not too lucky. And a later I received a nice little speeding ticket. And pennies are supposed to be lucky? Maybe I should have shown Mr. Policeman my penny. I’m sure he would have understood.

I’m not too sure how much luck this fake copper penny holds, but I wonder if I still have those Wonder Woman bracelets.

Take Me Away!!!!!

I’m not sure if you can still buy Calgon, but I think I could be in one of their commercials right now and represent the product quite proudly.

I wouldn’t care how big the production crew and how many cameras there are. Show me a warm bath overflowing with bubbles and I’d strip down and jump in quicker than… well… quicker than I can eat a bag of those new dark chocolate M&M’s… because it’s really a coin toss which I need worse.

I don’t know why they use those perfect-haired-models in bubble bath commercials. They don’t look like they’ve had a rough day. Or week. Or month. Or life. These so-called-creative ad agencies need to use a strung out woman with six kids and a traveling husband. Distract her kids with lighters, open outlets, and sharp objects and put her in a peaceful bubble bath for 15 minutes. Let’s see if she comes out a new woman. If she does, I’m sold. Reality commercials. It should be the next fad.

Putting a jackhammer to my head just might possibly release some of the pressure.

I don’t even think I’d feel it. While spring may sprout beautiful flowers, it brings hell to my sinuses. Really, put a nail on either side of my nose and go get a hammer. I’ll wait. I wonder if Calgon has a medicinal line of products. It would be awesome if I could sink into a tub of bubbles to escape life while simultaneously treat a sinus infection. Bring me a shot of tequila while you’re at it. That always helps.

This blog is going to take me forever to write because I keep stopping to scrunch up my face. Somehow closing my eyes really tight and wrinkling my nose makes the pressure a whopping 2% better. And of course then I see dots when I open my eyes, and by the time it takes to refocus on the computer screen, I’ve completely lost track of thought.

…now where was I...

Oh, I was discussing the pros and cons of capital punishment. Wait, no I wasn’t. I was talking about how I’m in desperate need of a little R&R. A get-a-way. Time off. An escape. At least that’s where my topic was headed. Whether it’s in the form of a vacation or in a vat full of suds, I need some time to regroup.

I went on a long nature walk by the Arkansas River yesterday morning. Just me and my trusty canine companion, ChaCha, by my side. Now that I think about it, this nature walk could have jump started this whole sinus issue. Damn nature.

Camera in pocket, I wanted to be prepared in case I saw something photo worthy. But the only picture I took was of a couple of fishermen. Instead the walk turned into an hour of self-help. A prayer walk. Meditation. You know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been there. It’s that moment of truth when we finally realize how screwed up we really are. No matter how perfect we try to be, we’re all just as dysfunctional as the next.

As my not-so-modest dog took a lovely dump on the river bank, I tried to think of solutions to my life’s obstacles. I’ve been here before. I’ve blogged about it before. Why does it take us so long to learn? I realize that I’m trying to resolve issues that are out of my control. But even though things are beyond my power, doesn’t mean that I’m not directly affected by them. But then there are those times when I’m totally in control, yet I keep banging my head against the same wall.

Why do we do this? Why can’t we just fix our problems and move on? I’ve come to believe that those who say they fix their problems and move on, are lying. We are all a slave to something – be it a person, an addiction, a situation, ourselves. It gets us all. None of us are safe. We’ll criticize someone for making a bad choice and then we go home, shut the door and live silently in our own stupidity or shame.

The morning walk rejuvenated me. It made me feel productive.

So when I got home I decided to continue the theme by doing a little house cleaning. I turned on my nifty Roomba and let it run around the house vacuuming while I… well… took a nap on the couch. June Cleaver would be SO jealous. The Roomba is a marvelous invention but, like me, it gets stuck in tough situations. It gets trapped under a chair and keeps running into the same four legs until it finds a way to wiggle out between them. If a Roomba can figure out how to wiggle its way out of repeating the same thing over and over again, so can I. Right? That was a hypothetical question by the way. Your honest answer is not needed.

As much as I would love to continue this enjoyable, deep, psychological evaluation of my thoughts…

I feel like my head is going to explode any second. No more need for the nails and hammer. Surely the explosion will relieve some of the pressure. I just googled Calgon and they do still sell it. Sure wish I had some. There are several things I’d like to drown in those suds.

And I’m serious about the reality commercials. Palmolive has sure passed up some great after-Christmas-dinner opportunities to show us in real time how it "works like magic to bust away stuck-on food." And in case you’re wondering… no, I don’t consider those staged infomercials as reality commercials.

Ok, off to bury my head in between two pillows in hopes of accidentally suffocating myself. At least for eight hours anyway.

Some Things Are Just Not Cherry-Worthy

Poor lady. I don’t know why she continues to subject herself to my family’s craziness.

She’s in her eighties and lives down the street from my grandmother. She goes to church three times a week – if not more. Every Tuesday she goes to the hospital to visit anyone who needs cheering up, whether she knows them or not. She weighs all of 80lbs, soft spoken, pale as a ghost, tight curly short brown hair and is as sweet and innocent as anybody can be. And I’d bet you a million dollars she gets uncomfortable during our family’s “questionable” discussions.

She was invited to join us for Easter lunch.

However, we had to wait to eat until she returned home from church at 12:30pm. Asking my family to wait to eat for anything is considered criminal. It was only 10am when we arrived at my Grandmother’s, and you would have thought it would be a week until our next meal. Everyone bumped elbows while hovering over the turkey and ham. Picking out and eating the tiny pieces apparently isn’t considered really eating. And somehow selflessly finding these treasured slivers for each other made our own gluttony guilt free.

“Let’s not invite her next time,” my grandmother said as she “tasted” a roll. “We can’t just wait until she’s back. If we invite her next time, we’ll just tell her she can’t go to church.”

We took turns being the lookout. The lookout’s job was to stand at the kitchen window and watch for her red Cadillac to pull into her driveway. It was during my shift when she finally came home after her selfish morning of worship and praise. I yelled through the house, “She’s home!”

Moments later the phone rings. When my Grandmother answers, her voice suddenly goes up three octaves higher…

“Ohhhh hiiii honey. Ohhhh, you’re okay. You just come over whenever you’re ready. Do you need Becca to come down and walk with you?”

Wait. Whenever she’s ready? My, how Grandmother’s attitude changed. Just mere seconds ago she was salivating over the corn casserole. And what’s with her volunteering MY services? Being the youngest in the house, I guess she assumes I get around better and I felt this wasn’t the time to compare arthritis medicines.

I look at my uncle, “You go get her.”

“What… you want me to throw her over my shoulder and come back running?... Ok.”

Within a few minutes she finally arrives to the house carrying a bowl of special fruit salad. It was special because she put cherries in it. She doesn’t normally put cherries in it but thought this occasion deserved some.

Sitting at the table scarfing down our food, we had our usual off-the-cuff conversations.

My mother told a story about one of her students and it somehow turned into one of those things I’m sure the elderly neighbor feared.

Mom: He said he lives behind The Honey Hut.

Me: What’s The Honey Hut?

Grandmother: Sounds like a strip joint.

Aunt: And how would you know what a strip joint sounds like?

Grandmother: I just know.

Mom: Whatever it is, his dad buys him burgers there.

Uncle: Strip joints serve food, too.

Aunt: And how would you know that strip joints serve food?

Uncle: I just know. Where’s the phonebook?

My uncle is very inquisitive. He will ask a million questions about any topic until he feels he’s received enough to base some sort of opinion. I usually bring up a topic on purpose just to get him going.

The way-out-of-her-comfort-zone neighbor is silent as my uncle returns to the dinner table and begins flipping through the phonebook. Her eyes are down and she occasionally picks at her special fruit salad.

Uncle: There’s not “strip joint” listed in the phone book.

Mom: Try “adult entertainment.”

Uncle: Nope, not there either.

Aunt: I’m somehow pleased to know you don’t know how to look this up.

Me: Try “ho.”

Grandmother: Try “entertainment, adult.”

I don’t want to know how my grandmother knew how to find the listings of strip joints. I really don’t. My mind cannot even go there. Turns out The Honey Hut is listed under “restaurant and bar,” so the question is still unanswered. I trust my uncle will get to the bottom of this stripper matter and report back to the family.

She didn’t last long after lunch. Shocker.

She’s a sweet lady and tried very hard to change the “stripper” topic by talking about the troubles with her cordless phone. Right after the kitchen was cleaned and right before it was Sunday afternoon naptime, she fetched her bowl of leftover special fruit salad and waved her goodbyes. My uncle escorted her home so he could take a look at her phone. Turns out she just wasn’t hanging it up correctly.

I wonder if she’s looked back on today’s Easter celebration with my family and wondered if it was special enough for cherries.

I Just Love Pointless Humor

I emailed him earlier today but accidentally sent it to his home email instead of his work.

At dinner last night we discussed the possibility of taking the dogs for a walk this weekend over The Big Dam Bridge which is the longest pedestrian-only bridge in North America. Ironically we were eating at Damgoode Pies, which is, in my opinion, the best pizza in Little Rock. Looks like we had a Dam theme going. Since he can’t read his home email at work, he replied to me from his office.

This is our exact email exchange:

From: Me
To: Him
Subject: Bridge
2:51pm

did you want to walk the bridge today?

From: Him
To: Me
Subject: Hey there
3:05pm

I noticed that you sent an email to my gmail account with the title of “bridge”. That is all I can discern from the message since company policy prevents me from actually opening the message. I am assuming that you are asking if I want to help build a bridge to the future. If that is the case, it depends on what would be my role in this. If I can be supervisor or assistant to the supervisor, I might be all about it, otherwise, I will have to see what the full job description is and what the point of the bridge will be.

From: Me
To: Him
Subject: Re: Hey there
3:10pm

oh crap. sorry. i guess my home puter defaults to your gmail. my bad.

if you remember our last night conversation correctly, YOU are the doer and I'M the delegater. therefore i am the supervisor on any building-of-bridge project. if you wish to delegate, you will need to hire your own people to work under you. the bridge that i'm proposing would run from my front porch straight to Tunica. i realize this is quite a large task to initially comprehend, but i have faith that you can make this happen.

in the meantime, maybe we can walk the dam bridge here?

From: Him
To: Me
Subject: Re: Hey there
3:48pm

I think it would be fun to walk the Big Dam Bridge tomorrow morning before lunch. That sounds fun. As far as your bridge to Tunica, I am thinking about the materials now. I think building it out of flying pigs would make an excellent choice. That way we won’t have to get permission from all the landowners between here and there to build the supporting pylons on their land and thereby saving the manager (you) tons of money. I just need a research grant of $2.5 million to develop the flying pigs.

From: Me
To: Him
Subject: Re: Hey there
4:05pm

Tomorrow's climb will be a fun outing. I may even shave my legs for it. Not promising anything. I'll run to the store and load up on bottled water, hand held fans, and folding chairs. You never know when this chick might need to sit down. We can strap it all onto ChaCha's and Rock's backs. Well, except the folding chairs. You'll have to carry those. My job is to sweat as little as possible.

I'm sure you studied your whole flying pig theory, but I'm afraid it won't work. I would end up having to hire a large quantity of pig feeders and pig poop picker-upers. I'm sure people would rather have pylons than pig poop. Plus, there would be a constant need for vets, as well as replacement pigs. We may have to consult the Pig Labor Union for any other hidden issues. I feel this would be way more costly than building a bridge with simple MDF.

From: Him
To: Me
Subject: Re: Hey there
4:42pm

Sounds like a plan, for the walking of the bridge anyway. It is supposed to only get up to 50 for a high tomorrow and there is a freeze warning out for the state tonight.

As far as the pigs are concerned, part of the $2.5 million will be a way to research making the pigs use photosynthesis to survive, and as a result they will only consume sunlight and carbon dioxide. The only waste products will be oxygen and water vapor. It will have another consequence in which it will help the environment by reducing pollution and reflecting some of the harmful sunlight and heat radiation back into space, thereby helping to cool our planet. Also, the extra water vapor will help to regulate the temperature in both summer and winter. It is entirely possible that people would pay to have the pigs reside over their land. Plus think of all the things that will happen now that “pigs fly”. As far a sickness is concerned, thanks to my bioengineering they will be immune to all known diseases that can affect pigs. The only concern will be with any new viruses they encounter while in the sky, since that is foreign territory for pigs. Thanks to my new cloning process, it will be easy to supplement new pigs for the older pigs that pass away from old age or the occasional run in with airplanes. The average life expectancy for these pigs will be 15 years (a little short for current pig life span, but since they will flying for their entire life, I think that is acceptable) with hopes that future generations will make it to 50 within 7 generations. The older pigs that must be put down will be used to supplement the dwindling food supplies. Since they exist on sunlight, the meat will contain vast quantities of healthy antioxidants, Omega-3, Omega-6, Vitamin A, Vitamin B1, Vitamin B2, Vitamin B6, Vitamin B12, Vitamin D, Vitamin E, Niacin, Calcium, Potassium, Magnesium, Iron, and several others. All while being low in fat and containing no carbs. The meat will be kosher, and be proven to increase life span by 10% and reduce the risk of heart disease by 75%. It causes smokers to be able to quit the habit by suppressing the nicotine desire. The ears of the pig will actually be cocoa beans that when rendered into chocolate, is found to contain 0 calories and in some individuals will cause slight weight loss.

So all-in-all, I think that my flying pigs, which will be known as fligs, will be an improvement to society. And you as my benefactor stand to go down in history for helping to create the world’s greatest invention since the stick.

From: Me
To: Him
Subject: Re: Hey there
4:45pm

you see... THIS is why i love you.

Meet me in the middle

I would love to stand at the peak of Mount Everest, but I have no desire to do the climbing.

Put me in a plane and drop me off at the top. I’ll stab the icy ground with my flag pole and declare shameless victory. I’ll raise my arms in the air, do some fancy foot work, and soak in the amazing beauty that very few have seen. Some may call it cheating, but I call it avoiding avalanches, falling rocks, frostbite and lack of oxygen.

To some people the dream is the process. It’s gathering all your climbing gear. It’s the training and the focus. It’s the expectation of surviving with the chance of death. It’s the sweat, strategy and teamwork. It’s inhaling the freezing air and being warmed up by the adrenaline. It’s overcoming fear and the feeling of triumph. It’s pushing yourself to the limit and then pushing it even farther. It’s the experience of it all.

I don’t camp, much less climb mountains. I would rather be forced at gunpoint to listen to eight hours of rap music than sleep outside in a tent. And I really hate rap music. Sure, I’ll show up for the campfire and s’mores. I’ll even hold your hand and sing Kumbaya. But when it comes to nite-nite time, I’m headed either back home or the nearest hotel. Be sure to call me in the morning when you’re fixing breakfast over an open flame. But once you break out the hiking boots, backpacks, and ropes, I’m gone again.

All of this to say, every one of us has a different dream. Some of us just have larger dreams than others. While one strives to reach a mountain peak, another might desire to tackle the smaller hills. One might want to buy a Lamborghini and another to finally pay off the Pinto they bought five years ago. One person might dream of packing up and moving their life to Europe, while another might yearn for the security and stability of a family and home.

I say whatever makes you feel alive… do it.

However, my advice is to always take a keen sense of observation and level headedness. Problems follow us no matter where we are. Whether we wave our freedom flag on that mountain or choose the stability of the solid ground, if we don’t see things for their truth they will always have us in a suffocating headlock. They don’t disappear just because we’ve changed the scenery.

And yes, I’m talking about something that I have a hard time doing as well.

I have dreams. They may not be as big as yours, but they’re still dreams. They’re not financial or material. I don’t have any political aspirations. I have no desire to be a spokesperson for any particular movement and I don’t have any goals to be a CEO. I might ride in your pretty Lamborghini and may even think you’re cool for having it, but I’m not going to save my pennies to buy one.

Even though I’ve been told my emotions and thoughts are complex, I live a simple life.

I want a simple life. I do best with structure. The more structured my life, the more fun I’ve had jet setting to France, Thailand or even a road trip to Tunica. I can fly by the seat of my pants as long as I know that I’ll eventually come home. That I have a home.

I’m going skydiving soon and I would have never thought of it if my friend hadn’t mentioned she was going. Although we’re waiting for her hectic schedule to let up, I look forward to the freedom and open air while strapped to someone who has already done it a few thousand times. I didn’t even know that skydiving was a dream of mine. It kinda just happened. That’s the way most things happen in my life. I don’t know that I want something until it’s presented to me.

I’ve only had one job interview in my life. And that was almost 17 years ago. Every job I’ve had before and since has just fallen in my lap. I’ve left jobs for better offers. I’ve turned down jobs. I’ve wished for a new job and it’s somehow found me. I’ve never been without an income. I think this is a true representation of how I live my life. I sometimes don’t know that I need or want something until it’s in front of my face.

I wish my dreams were more concrete.

I wish I had a list that I can check off. As much as I would love to stomp grapes with my bare feet at some winery in France, I’ll go if the opportunity presents itself. I’m not booking my flight just yet. But if you want to go, call me. Seriously.

If I had to pick one dream, it would be love and acceptance. That’s no shocker, I know. I realize that sometimes my own fear jeopardizes that opportunity. But sometimes I feel like it will happen similar to the way my career path has. I mean, I didn’t have to suffer through climbing Mount Everest to find friends… why would I to find a guy?

I’ve done some amazing and crazy things in my life and I have no regrets. And the things that I didn’t take a bold chance on have turned out for the best. The only two things I ask for out of life are loyalty and understanding. Two things that I hopefully have proven myself of having time and time again.

And if my “big dream” in life is love and acceptance, then this is what I expect out of those closest to me. I will give it back ten fold. Promise. There are no one-way streets in my dream.

No big, tall, icy mountains to overcome. No smoke and mirrors hiding a truer meaning.

Like I said before, whatever makes you feel alive... do it.

Just look both ways before you cross the street. Don’t run with scissors. Wear clean underwear. But above all, while floating down this river of life, don’t forget those who love and accept you… no matter what.

Talk to me low and sexy. Just like Manilow. I mean White.

Wednesday night at Backyard Burgers…

Me: This pollen has gotten everyone so sick.

Him: Oh, you have no idea. I’ve been sick all week.

Me: Really? I’m sorry. Are you any better?

Him: I sound so much better today. I sounded like a different person the first half of the week.

Me: You seem normal right now.

Him: I’m good now. I swear my voice sounded just like Barry Manilow though.

Me: ………

Him: I swear!

Me: Uhhhhh, don’t you mean Barry White?

Him: ….. oh yeah. I mean Barry White.

Me: There’s a big difference ya know.

Him: White. I meant White. Not Manilow.

I laughed so hard I couldn’t even look at him. I had to turn away from the table so I wouldn’t choke on my food. One of the employees even came out to make sure we were okay. Of course I broke out in song with my own medley of “Copa Cabana”, “Mandy” and “I Write the Songs”.

Dear Diary... I chose the gym over chocolate. And I'm not sure why.

Jogging on a treadmill can either be mentally therapeutic or self destructive.

Ok, maybe not jogging. More like a fast walk. A slow jog. Slow motion run. However you view it, you’re still trapped in some weird time capsule. Nothing but you and that synthetic road ahead. We do whatever we can to avoid the boredom: ipods, magazines, television. Because let’s be honest, no one really likes spending an hour or so with their own thoughts. Of course, maybe it’s just me.

I didn’t want to go to the gym tonight.

There were a thousand other things I would rather have been doing. I’d much rather have been at Cold Stone Creamery eating some sort of big time chocolate concoction with hot fudge drizzled on top and a brownie on the side. Not to mention a long nap afterwards. I’d take a long nap over a workout any day. But I made the wise choice. The mature decision. Took the responsible option. I put on my ugly tennis shoes, grabbed my nifty-itty-bitty ipod shuffle and headed on over to the place I dread the most: The Gym. I know, I know, once you get started you’re glad you went. Blah blah blah blah. It helped that I was meeting a friend there. Hate to disappoint him. Accountability sure does suck.

I’m in the middle of listening to an audio book. Being my third visit to hell the gym this week, I’m several chapters in. This is also an incentive to go. Somehow walking around my house listening to an audio book doesn’t do it for me. There are too many other things to do and I have a hard time multi-tasking. I even have a hard time watching TV while cleaning the house. Thank God for Tivo. So I’ve decided that audio books are one way to get my chocolate-eating-butt into the gym.

Ear buds in place and my modern day walkman playing, I mentally nestled into the idea that I would be stuck there running in place for Lord knows how long. It’s different each time. Sometimes I give up earlier than I should. Sometimes I lose track of time and run longer than anticipated. I don’t ever do that on purpose. Believe me. I would rather have a Mac Truck run over my foot a few dozen times than stay at the gym a few unnecessary minutes longer.

Listening to the book tonight, my mind kept separating from the story line. Drifting off into la-la land. I finally hit the pause button because I was tired of rewinding it every few minutes to catch up on what I missed. My brain flipped through several subjects, but it decided to land on one in particular: my blogs.

“Why do I keep writing about the same topic over and over again?” I questioned as I increased the treadmill’s incline.

It seems most of my blogs are about being single.

I’m a well rounded gal (keep your gym puns to yourself, please). I have opinions on most everything and even if I don’t, I can B.S. my way through it pretty well. I may see things backwards than most, but hey, at least I see them.

Funny things happen to me everyday. Like just yesterday when my office security pass thingy fell out of my back pocket into the toilet AFTER I was finished and BEFORE I flushed. Scrubbing it with soap under hot water I thought, “I wonder if I’m the only person in the world who has ever washed their security pass with soap and water. I hope I’m not deactivating something important inside there.”

I can also be insightful. I generally am quite accurate on what type of person someone is. Sure, sometimes I’m way off base, but those times don’t count. I’m a deep feeler. I feel love deeply which scares the hell out of me. I can tap into other’s emotions quite easily. I’m sure this would give me plenty of blog material. I’m sure my friends won’t mind if I splash my assumption of their intimate feelings across my page. Names excluded to protect the guilty, of course.

There are so many different topics that I can choose to write about, but as I increased my treadmill’s speed I convinced myself that I was hanging onto this one topic way too many times. That continually expressing my sob stories of singleness was somehow giving forth the impression that I’m not whole. That I’m half. That I’m one reason shy of taking advantage of any two-for-one deal at the grocery store. That I’m somehow not complete by missing out on romantic pasta dinners at a fancy Italian restaurant.

Sure, I have my downs. Everyone does no matter what your marital status is. It’s called life. People who are married sometimes envy people who are single. Vise versa. Not too long ago someone said to me, “Becca, marriage isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. It really can suck.” I replied, “I’m sure a bad marriage like yours does suck. This is why I don’t want a bad marriage.”

I’ve said a billion jillion times that I’m in no hurry to get into a bad marriage.

Being single gives me the chance to work hard on my issues so that – hopefully – I don’t have to force someone else to succumb to the growing pains. That is the job of my friends whether they want to or not. They’ve already signed up for it.

While wishing I had brought a water bottle to the gym, I realized that writing about my singleness is no different than those who write about their children. Or husbands. Or hobbies. Or lifestyles. It’s what I know. Who I am. What I live. A part of me.

I came home from the gym and collapsed on my couch. Although thankful I went, I still would rather have had chocolate. Thank God there’s none in the house. Still wondering about how various my blog topics are, I grabbed my laptop and began thumbing through my entries. Turns out I was wrong. I rarely look back at old blogs. I don’t even want to know how many times I’ve contradicted myself from blog to blog. Glancing back has reminded me of some really funny, interesting and crazy things that have happened. Things that have nothing to do with being single. My findings made me happy.

And then it hit me.

This blog of mine is not for some stranger living on the other side of the world. It’s not written for their entertainment. It’s not for my personal friends who I know read it. They can call me on the phone if they’re interested in catching up on my life. They don’t have to read it here.

This blog is for me. It’s a creative outlet that I enjoy and need. It’s a way for me to sort through this jumbled up mess inside my brain. It’s a way for me to express my backwards view of life. I’ve always considered writing as free therapy. Who cares how many paragraphs it is. It’ll end when the words stop coming through. And it will be on a topic that I feel needs to be expressed. No matter how repetitive.

And that’s all I gotta say about that.