And this little one went wee wee wee all the way home.

She’s one of my favorite people.

She showed up unexpectedly in my office yesterday. It’s always good to see her because I love the conversations we have. The kind of conversations that last an hour and contain nothing. An hour filled of unconnected, tongue-n-cheek, mindless babble, but yet have a deep and profound backdrop. We feel that if a problem is viewed by twisting it into a different angle, it is through sarcasm and wit that you will surprisingly find the hidden truth. This philosophy proved true yesterday.

She plopped down onto one of my “guest” chairs and began munching on the food she had just purchased through the Wendy’s drive-thru. I call them “guest” chairs because I rarely have official meetings in my office. People usually are drawn into my office for social reasons. Friends often show up for no particular reason.

“Sooooo, why are you here? Can I help you in some way?”

“I came by to eat in front of you. Want a fry?”

The next ten minutes of our conversation was about how rude I was for having already eaten lunch. I explained to her in my ever-so-sarcastic-way that this world revolved around me and therefore she should have been there earlier. That she should have known what time I eat lunch and therefore made arrangements to meet my schedule. As she ranted about how I didn’t want any of her fries, I noticed that she kept looking at her feet.

“Why do I see my pinky toe crack on my right foot and not on any of the other toes. Or on my left foot?”

“Are you sure it’s not fat pushed together caused by squeezing your foot into that shoe?”

She was wearing cute brown high heels that had a pointed toe.

The top of the shoe was designed in a way that would cover the toe cracks of the average foot. I leaned over in my chair to get a closer look at her newly discovered pinky toe crack.

“Um, I don’t have fat feet. It’s a crack. Definitely a crack.”

“Take your shoe off.”

When she removed her stylish shoe from her self-called dainty right foot, it became obvious that it was a crack. It didn’t disappear. It didn’t spread out. It stayed the same. She slowly placed her shoe back on and we closely studied her foot as it was inserted. There it was again: the pinky toe crack. Since I’m easily amused, I began to question why her left pinky toe was crackless. Did one shoe have a default that the other didn’t? Was it the shoe… or her foot?

“Take the other one off.”

“Here, hold my coke.”

With the removal of both shoes, I was able to see a clearer picture of the toe crack issue. Both feet were presented to me for examination and she did NOT like what I had to say.

“I can see that the pinky toe crack on your right foot is longer than the one on your left.”

“No, it isn’t. They’re the same.”

“No. They’re not.”

I grabbed my trusty metal ruler, got down on my office floor and began measuring. Apparently having a metal ruler shoved in between your toes isn’t a pleasant experience. She swiped the ruler from my hand, saving herself from any more pain. She took back control and was defiant in proving me wrong in this longer-pinky-toe-crack theory that I had stirred up.

With one measurement down and one to go, she was cocky in her confidence. How dare I insinuate that one foot was abnormal. How dare I label her imperfect. How dare I make her prove to me that she was right and I was wrong.

And I was right.

Her right pinky toe was a half inch longer. Mystery solved. Case closed. Release the jury. Throw her in jail for not being perfect. She was astonished. She freaked. She was appalled that she could live 24 years without realizing this about herself. She felt flawed. Blown away. She threatened to take my shoes off and measure my own toe cracks. I told her that comparing her cracks to mine wasn’t going to make her feel any better.

So what if she has a funky toe?

Just see the toe as a symbolism that you will always discover new things about yourself. No matter your age. Own the toe and go on with your life.

Problems should be viewed by twisting them into different angles. It is through sarcasm and wit that you will surprisingly find the hidden truth.

Oh, How I Love Thee... Let Me Count the Cheesy Ways

What was meant as a small request from a five year old has turned into a hair pulling experience.

I don’t have children. So when my nephews and niece have a request, I am willing to do as many cartwheels and backhand springs necessary to make sure it is done. And since they live in a different state, the pressure builds to be the perfect aunt… and I always feel I fall short.

I never reach my yearly quota of hugs and kisses from them. Mainly because when I’m with them, I don’t want to be labeled “the annoying aunt” who can’t quit kissing or squeezing them. We all have had aunts like this. I often ride that fence between being loving and irritating and it takes honed skills to not topple completely over onto the wrong side.

When my sister-in-law was pregnant with my oldest nephew Clark, I wrote him a poem while on a road trip to south Florida. I was crammed in the backseat between pieces of luggage and needed to somehow mentally drown out the horrible music and out-of-tune voices coming from the front of the car. Even though Clark wasn’t born yet, I felt so much love for him. Now even at nine years old, he still proudly displays the poem on his bedroom wall. Okay, I’m sure the truth is that my brother hung it on the wall years ago just to humor me.

I never wrote a poem for my niece or youngest nephew when they were born. It’s not that I didn’t think about it… I just didn’t write them. Maybe there was just something special about the first born. Kinda like how mothers fill out those baby books for their first child and then slack off for every kid after that.

So, now I’m in trouble.

Apparently my five year old nephew, Philip, has noticed that Clark is the only one with a poem written by Auntie Becca. After a week of Philip’s complaining about not feeling the love, my brother calls me with this seemingly small request:

Him: He wants you to write him a poem.
Me: Really? He’s five. He actually cares?
Him: Becca, he won’t let up. Every night he’s asked me if I’ve called you yet.
Me: Awwww, he’s so literary at such a young age!
Him: Either that or he’s just pissed that Clark has something he doesn’t.
Me: I’d rather believe that he’s a little poet like me.
Him: Ok, whatever makes you feel better. Just write him one for his birthday, ok?

His birthday is Saturday.

THIS Saturday. Ok, I’m not going to lie. This conversation between my brother and me happened a month ago. I’d love to tell you that I immediately sat down and jotted out a beautiful poem, but my nose would grow longer than Pinocchio’s. Apparently my natural habit of procrastination even applies to meeting the needs of the world’s greatest youngest nephew.

It dawned on me today that I needed to write a poem, print it out, find a frame and mail it tomorrow. Even then Philip still probably won’t get it until Monday. See? Bad aunt. No amount of cartwheels or backhand springs will get me out of this.

All day at work I thought about the direction of the poem and I came up with no good ideas. It wasn’t until I came home from work, sat down with my laptop and forced a poem out, that I actually feel I might have written one worthy enough for my little Shakespeare. I thought about all the things his little five year old self loves. I thought about how turning six will mean that he’s now too big for a nursery rhyme and still way too young for a sonnet. I wanted him to be able to relate to the poem and hopefully not toss it aside as he grabs his brand new way cool robot. Of course if my brother’s assessment is correct, Philip will not even read the poem but yet put a mark on the “Clark vs. Philip” scoreboard. It will be interesting to see if my seven year old niece Audrey will care enough to request a poem for her April birthday. I better get started just in case.

I wanted to write a poem that expresses my cheesy love for Philip without coming across as that “annoying aunt.” Hopefully I’ve succeeded…

Oh, what a wonderful world! I love so many things!
Like squiggly lines and funny hats and a butterfly’s wings.
I love when the sky turns orange before the sun goes to bed.
And how a parrot’s feathers are blue, purple, yellow and red!

I love bananas in my cereal and sugar in my tea.
And hot fudge drizzled over a chocolate brownie.
I love that mountains are so big and ants are so small.
I love so many things! No time to list them all!

I love wishing wells, seahorses and singing in the rain.
Shower me with hugs and kisses and I never will complain!
I love counting stars at night and seeing how high I go.
And all the crazy creatures in the ocean down below.

It’s hard to imagine anything that I love more than these.
It’s Philip that I love more! He makes it such a breeze!
I love him more than roller coasters or puppies or pie.
I love him more than firecrackers exploding in the sky.

A jillion times around the world and you're still not quite there.
I love him more than trucks or robots or a furry koala bear.
There really is no end. I love him more than the highest score.
He’s the greatest youngest nephew and everyday I love him more!

The Importance of a Pinky

The whole thing started with the junk room.

I don’t know why we keep the crap we do. When I first moved into my house five years ago, I promised myself that the extra bedroom would be a home office – and ONLY a home office. I apparently was lying to myself. I tend to do that quite often.

Soon this proclaimed “home office” gradually transformed into a junk room. A catch-all room. A room filled with my life’s litter. Presents that I didn’t like. Left over paint cans. Empty boxes. Old magazines. Furniture that I don’t use. Childhood memorabilia that my mother insisted that I remove from her house. All collected, hidden from sight and never thought of again. If that single room had ever imploded, I would not have cared. I could continue living my life and never lose sleep over what was missing.

There’s no way I could have ever written down a complete inventory. I remember the most recent deposits, but the first level of debris is as forgotten as the cancelled reality show Who’s Your Daddy. And, yes, I had to google that because I… well… forgot about it. As I dug through the layers of junk, I was surprised at what I found.

It was a messy mixture of crap.

The very large black trash bag quickly multiplied to four. At first, the decision to discard or to keep was difficult. I would stand there holding an item and staring at it. Each time thinking “How can I use this?” or “Who can I give this to?” I’ve always found joy in giving my junk to someone else. I envision them in several years going through their own junk room either cursing my name or struggling to remember where they got it.

I second guessed throwing away my old 1980’s cassettes. Rick Springfield and Duran Duran will always have a place in my heart, but I realize that there is no need in holding on to their scratched cassettes. I’ve found a nice home for the leather chair and unused computer monitor. All the baskets have been freely passed out – and since I’m not a basket-type-of-person, I found it odd that I even had them to begin with.

I quickly filled up my outside trash can, so I utilized my resources by placing items (aka junk) on the front lawn with a big “FREE” sign. I watched through my window as customers would enter my curbside store and brows through my offerings. I got irritated when they left empty handed. “Come on! It’s free!” I thought to myself. I got tickled when a little boy on his bicycle had a hard time balancing his newly owned candle holders, large framed Norman Rockwell print, and a box of various dusty treasures. I can only imagine the look on his mother’s face.

Everything else was thrown into a dumpster.

The dumpster was already full, so for a couple of days I drove with two very large speakers (circa 1988) in the backseat of my car. A part of me wishes I had hooked them up to my stereo system. Turn the bass up really loud. Throw some fuzzy dice on the rearview window. Slouch all the way down and lean way over to the right as I cruised the streets of Little Rock.

The day I trashed my massive speakers, I interestingly lost one of my rings. A ring that I wear everyday. A tiny silver pinky ring with a sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds. My grandmother bought me this ring about twenty years ago. I searched through the house but never could find it. I always take my rings off together, so I couldn’t imagine how it got separated.

What surprises me is that I never freaked out.

I didn’t stress. I didn’t feel the world coming to an end. I lost one of my sentimental rings… and I was okay. After going through my day’s itinerary, I decided that it must have fallen off while I was man-handling the two speakers and tossing them into the dumpster. I visualized my ring slipping off my pinky, falling through all the random trash bags and landing in a puddle of nasty slush on the bottom of the big metal box.

I never realized how many times I use my thumb to adjust the position of the pinky ring. My pinky felt naked. I entertained the idea of buying a new ring, but was in no hurry. I decided that there were worse things in life than living without a ring on that finger. I was okay… and it shocked me.

After three or four days the thoughts of the lost ring slowly faded. I decided that it was time to do laundry and so I separated all my darks, whites, and not-sures and headed to the laundry room. I opened my washing machine door and just before throwing in a load… I saw it. There it was at the bottom. Instead of falling into the dumpster, it had fallen into the washing machine. Having been through a wash, it was sparkling as if it was new. I picked it up, proudly put it back on my finger and thought “this is a good day.”

The whole junk-room-ring experience made me realize that life goes on even if you trash your childhood memories or lose a diamond ring.

I honestly believe that if I hadn’t gone through the mental process of cleaning out my junk room that losing the ring would have been a bigger issue. I had already let go of so much and therefore when it came down to the ring – I was okay.

I’m glad I found my ring. I’m glad that my junk room will soon be an actual office. Personal growth can at times be stressful. I’m relieved to have learned that paying attention to small issues has just as much growth impact as the large ones.