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.

Mud is the new black.

Nothing like a funeral to remind you how A.D.D. you really are.

It was muddy from the morning’s rain. Walking through the cemetery, I was irritated that the heels of my black leather boots kept sinking into the soft ground. It was an outdoor funeral of a co-worker’s father who had died from a long term illness. I never met the man. I didn’t even know his name until I read the generic funeral home service bulletin.

Before the service began, I did the obligatory meet and greet. It felt weird being in such a great mood at such a sad funeral. I did a decent acting job while shaking the hands of the surviving family members. I soon located a familiar face and hobbled over for a quick chat. She must have also been emotionally detached from the somber settings because we were quickly laughing so loud that people stared. We broke funeral etiquette #1.

My funeral-rebel friend and I calmed down once the service began. Standing in direct sunlight, I grew jealous of the family members and their sheltered reserved seating. They were under the pavilion and out of the mud. I think next time I’ll bring crutches as a prop so I can selfishly have a seat. I mean, if you’re going to go through the trouble of putting out two rows of chairs, you might as well put four or six… right?

The obsession over my muddy heels escalated. They were so far into the ground that it looked as if I was wearing flats. The thought of sinking into soft cemetery ground gave me the creeps. I kept adjusting my footing, but nothing worked. I visualized the people standing behind me laughing at my shoe struggle. I convinced myself that at dinner tonight, they would tell their families the belly laughing story of some crazy chick in front of them at the funeral.

Although I should have been listening to the preacher, there were several other things preoccupying my brain.

My bored hands kept fiddling with the generic funeral service program. You know the kind… a picture on the front of the sun beaming through calming clouds. Then there’s the predictable bible verse on the inside. At my funeral I don’t want a picture of calming clouds or a predictable bible verse. As I stood there still shuffling my feet, I decided that I want a picture of me on the front and Matthew 22:27 “Finally, the woman died.” printed across the bottom. Might as well go out with a little humor.

I began thinking I could start designing funky funeral programs. Customize them to the person. People would pay for that, right? If the goal is to not be traditional, then the sky’s the limit on what I can do. I personally would much rather have my favorite Picasso painting on the front than a photo of a babbling brook. Of course there are copyright laws… I’ll consult my lawyer.

As I transformed my program into an origami project, I nonchalantly glanced through the crowd for prospects. Cute men go to funerals, too… right? Well, not this one. I laughed at the idea of meeting Mr. Right For Me at a funeral. Stranger things have happened.

After judging everyone’s clothes and hairstyles, I decided to tune into what the preacher had to say. He spoke of love and forgiveness. The typical funeral sermon. Each time he said something poignant, everyone’s head would bow in agreement. I wondered how many funerals we’ve all stood through in our lives hearing this same message. How many times we all bow our heads in agreement and then walk away not remembering a thing. I wondered how many funerals it takes for us to hear the message.

Staring down at my muddy shoes, I thought about my own stubbornness.

My own reluctance to forgive… to love. How many funerals will it take me to learn the basic necessities of life. How many muddy shoes will it take for me to realize that I stand in my own way. Who’s funeral will make me realize that these big complex issues that I struggle with daily actually have an answer. At what point will I understand that stealing someone else’s sheltered seat is a poor way of facing my own issues.

When the funeral concluded, I said my goodbyes to my rebel friend and co-worker.

Hobbling to the car, I craved a Sonic Cherry Limeaid. I never got one. Although unrecognizable, my origami project turned out well and the desire to design customizable service programs has faded.

I think I’ll wear flats to the next outdoor funeral.

Do I have to enter rehab if I make fun of someone marrying their brother and having children?

I know they’re out there.

Those inbred families. You may know them, met them or – gasp – are related to them. And if you ARE them, I would rather not know your “family reunion” stories. I’m all about sharing the love, but come on people.

I think I met my first inbred family today.

I left work early to take ChaCha to her yearly scheduled vet appointment. Who, just as I predicted, views life through rose colored glasses now that she’s an indoor dog. Demanding treats or snoozing on the couch for hours, you’d think she entered a lavish doggie retreat. I was hoping that the poking, prodding and needles at the vet’s office would bring her down to earth. Maybe remind her that she is still a dog. It didn’t work. I witnessed my plan backfiring as everyone in the waiting room loved all over her and said “Pretty girl! Pretty girl!” in that kind of baby talk that drives you mad. But, of course, it’s okay when I do it.

After the two-steps-back vet visit, I decided to treat The Queen to a field trip at Petco. I love these pet stores that allow you to bring your leashed dogs. Even though you may have to avoid stepping in yellow puddles, the experience usually is quite pleasant.

The alleged inbred family was at the cashier when I entered the store. And as a side note, they were at the cashier the entire time I was there… which was about 25 minutes. They couldn’t find their Petco discount card. Then they couldn’t find their money. Then they asked the cashier all these medical questions… as if a degree in Zoology was a prerequisite for this sixteen year old to run the cash register.

Then there are their two victims-of-inbreeding children. The ones running all over the store. The ones constantly annoying me at the Snack Bar as I scooped various way-over-priced doggie treats and placed them inside a clear bag.

Boy #1: I got crabs.

Me: Wow. Really?

Boy #1: They’re ugly, too.

I assume this child meant he was purchasing pet crabs. I was too afraid to probe.

Boy #2: Is this your dog?

Me: Yes. Her name is ChaCha.

Boy #2: Is it a girl?

Me: Yes. She is a girl. You can pet her. She’s nice.

Boy #2: Is she your buddy?

Me: I guess so. Yeah.

Boy #2: So is it now a boy?

Me: Uhhh, no. She’s still a girl.

I must have missed that day in biology class when they discussed how canines can change their sex at any given time.

I know you’re wondering why I assume these people were inbred.

Let’s just say – I know. Their matching DNA was as obvious as Anna Nicole’s active sex life. As noticeable as the crack in the Liberty Bell. As clear as the glass door I ran smack into the other day. I just know. I’m smart like that.

To describe their inbredness would leave me wide open for accusations of how I generalize people. Ok, maybe I do. It’s not like I walked into Petco and said “Oh goodie! Inbred people!” Ok, maybe I did. It’s not like I lured the parents into a conversation so I could properly assess the inbred situation. Ok, crap. You got me.

When I left Petco the quadruplets were still there. At the register. Still. Pilfering through their purse and wallet and asking stupid pet questions to an employee who had nothing more to say than “I don’t know. I don't know. I don't know.”

As I exited through the automatic doors, I couldn’t help but to quietly think “Thank you GOD for the life I have.”

Wasting Time in Circles

He calls me every time he sends me an email just so I’ll know that he has sent me an email.

I cannot express how this irritates me. He’s a client of mine and therefore I can’t tell him that he’s an idiot. I can’t explain to him that only complete morons do this. To insult him would only cause him to withdrawal all projects and never use me again. As nice as that may sound, he’s a client that seems to willingly pay me whatever I charge him. Never complains. Just sends the check.

To call someone and alert them to an email is probably the biggest waste of time ever. Why would one find it necessary to do this?

His email:

I need 6000 8.5x11, trifold, four color brochures designed and printed by the beginning of next month. Attached are photos and the copy.

His phone call:

I want to let you know that I need 6000 8.5x11, trifold, four color brochures designed and printed by the beginning of next month. I have emailed you photos and the copy.

Thank God for caller ID.

What purpose does this phone call serve? It’s not like I wait days until I reply to his email. It’s not like he has no clue if I’ve received it or not. If the man needs brochures, he’ll get brochures. Along with a nice invoice that says “Thank you for your business!” typed in bold print at the bottom.

When I see his name pop up in my inbox, I know the phone is about to ring. I’ve begun to ignore his phone calls and send them straight to voice mail. And then this stirs up another issue: having to wait a couple of hours before I reply to his email. If I reply right away, he knows I’m accessible. He knows that I’m at my computer working and just didn’t answer my phone. The things I do to avoid hurting the feelings of the people who pay me money. After the appropriate length of time has passed, my reply emails always are the same: “Just got your message. No problem. I’ll let you know if I have questions.” And that’s it.

Not only does this waste his time, it wastes mine. The emotional energy that I generate dodging phone calls and sending delayed emails is enough to have its own charge on his invoice.

I waste enough of my own time and don’t need his help.

The other day I realized that every time I walk through my hallway, I glance at the answering machine to see if I missed a message. Every time. Even if I’ve been home for hours. And the crazy part is that people never call me on my home phone… yet I still look. I can give you names of only five people who call me at home. And rarely at that. My home phone number is used for DSL purposes as well as passing out to the millions of men who request it. Ok, maybe not millions. Hundreds. Ok, a few. The few guys who have asked me for my number… they get the home number. It’s the Single Gal Policy. A rule. The last thing I need is for some turned-out-to-be-freaky guy calling my cell phone and wasting even more of my time by bugging the hell out of me all day.

I also waste time turning on the bathroom light even though it’s obviously already on. Without even looking, I reach to flip the switch upwards. I then think I must have missed my aim because nothing flipped, so I immediately try again. Realizing my own stupidity, I roll my eyes and sigh. Of course I’m also wasting electricity by leaving the light on in the first place. Don’t tell Al Gore. I’m very much aware of my own inconvenient truth.

There are a million other ways I waste time, but it still irritates me when someone like my client does it. One thing when I do. Another when it’s done to me.

I find it interesting as I write about wasting time…

my elderly dog enters into the room and begins walking in large circles. Over and over again. She has Cognitive Dysfunction Syndrome (aka doggie dementia). Walking repeatedly in large circles is a waste of time. She’s not going anywhere. Shoot, she doesn’t even know if she wants to go somewhere. She’s oblivious. She’ll walk in circles until I physically put my hand on her and stop her. Her timing is quite appropriate.

How many circles do I walk every day without even realizing it?

Maybe that’s what we all do: Walk around in circles until someone puts their hand on our shoulder and says “No. This way…”

Maybe my problem isn’t wasting time… but listening.