JUST A CRAZY WOMAN

Sometimes It's Easy to Make a Hard Decision

2009-03-06T19:04:00.008-06:00

They had pretty pink bows in their hair.

Running through the grass and falling on top of each other, the two little toddlers were oblivious to their mothers’ watchful eyes. Their playful giggling drowned out any adult conversation coming from the bench only a few feet away. As I walked past them I wondered. I wondered if their children were adopted or if they had them the good ole’ fashion way.

I’ve been having conversations like that a lot in my head lately. It seems I’ve not only noticed children more than usual, but I have found myself caught in conversations about people’s children. I’m sure this has always been the case, but in light of my recent doctor’s appointment the thought of children seem to be more front stage than usual.

I don’t have any children and my scheduled hysterectomy on April 1 permanently closes the deal. Sure, I can adopt. I have no problem with that. But there’s something about the birth of a baby. Your baby. The one who has your green eyes or your curly red hair. The child who has your smirk. Your laugh. Your bad math skills, but your artistic flair. A little you… as good or bad as that may be.

I was a little girl once.

And I had dreams. As a child I always assumed I would get married and have children. You know, the white picket fence and children’s artwork on the fridge. I’ve never married. I’m in no hurry for a bad marriage and so I’m more than willing to wait on a good one. But the children. I’ll be 40 next year and I have never, never wanted to have children in my 40’s. I applaud those who do, but it’s not something I want.

My mother asked me to put off the surgery and see if I could have a child. God bless her. She’s probably the only mother in history to ask her unmarried daughter to get pregnant. I can’t. I never wanted to be a single mom. And I can’t ask my boyfriend of less than two months to be a daddy. Plus, the real humdinger is that I’m most likely infertile anyway.

Part of me wishes I could give her a grandchild. Even though my parents would strongly disagree, I do feel like I’ve short changed them. I have never given them something that would bring them such incredible joy. I would love to be able to do that for them. But I can’t. And it hurts.

I explained to my mother my decision for having the surgery. I told her as deep as the emotional struggle is to permanently end the dream of having children, the relief I will get from having no more pain is stronger. The unbearable pain has to go. And out of this decision comes the guilt over a child that has never been born. My child.

I would be lying if I said the doctor’s suggestion was a shock. I had been contemplating it for the past couple of years. It was always in the back of my head, but I was too scared to say it out loud. The “what if’s” kept my mouth shut. The “could be’s” kept the dream alive. It took the doctor to say something for me to actually acknowledge it. To realize it. To absorb it.

And it made me feel justified.

I’m not one for radical surgeries just for the hell of it. I don’t have cancer and so this isn’t an emergency. But the early April date works in my busy schedule. I’m not looking forward to the cabin fever, but I am looking forward to after the recuperation period. I think I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. They say you never know the actual level of pain you’ve lived with until it’s gone.

As of today – Friday, March 6 at 7pm – I’m happy with my decision. I reserve the right to break down and cry at any moment. But right now as I type this… I’m okay.

It doesn’t matter if they were adopted or not.

Those two little girls I saw playing were having the time of their lives. Their grass-stained pink shirts and their messed up hair were the furthest things from their minds. All they cared about was each other and how loudly they could laugh. They don’t know how they came to be. They don’t know if they were planned or an accident.

And it surely didn’t matter at that moment. To anyone.

Milli Vanilli blamed it on the rain.

2008-06-30T22:42:00.014-05:00

I blamed it on the writer’s strike.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the need to express my thoughts. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve actually had many moments of overwhelming desire to sit down and tell all. To let it all out without care or censorship. But the truth is… I needed a break.

I received many emails asking about my silence. It was a convenience to blame it on the writer’s strike. No, I don’t belong to the Writer’s Guild. However, as an amateur writer, I did support their platform. Plus, it seemed like a good excuse. But that excuse is now old and unusable since we’ve all happily returned to our lazy television addiction. Even though I don’t watch The Bachelor, I am glad it aired for your entertainment.

My life in a nutshell. Ok, maybe two nutshells.

It’s been a year to the date that I purchased my new home. I can honestly say it has been the best decision I have ever made... although there haven’t been a whole lot of good decisions. Like the night I drank too many homemade kamikazes while attending a midnight bon fire in some rice fields in the middle of nowhere with people I didn’t know. But that’s another story for another time.

I love my house. I love everything about it. I love it’s potential and it’s location. I have my dream list of things I will do once I win the lottery. But until then, I will continue to slyly take advantage of my friends by using them for my better good. That’s what friends are for, right?

For those who ask or wonder, I’m still unable to catch and maintain a relationship. I realize this is no shocker to most of you. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you are very much aware that I’m just not all that lucky in love. I’ve gone against my victimized instinct and have ventured out into the dating world, but to no surprise none have worked out. Once again the fear of the inevitable rejection has caused me to crawl back under the “no way in hell” dating rock. Here I will stay until someone much stronger than I comes along and proves to me that it’s okay to trust again. Until then, overdosing in chocolate and staying in my pajamas all weekend will have to suffice.

I apologize for my non-blogging activity.

Since I’ve most likely lost my Blog Queen title, I will need to come up with a new marketing tactic. Maybe a few vacation give-a-ways or gas gift cards. Of course I can always sink down to the begging and pleading level. It may work since I have no pride or shame.

I hope you welcome me back into this blogging world. I cross my fingers and pray that I my writing rhythm and witty words will win you over with it’s honesty and candor.

- Just a crazy woman

From the Kentucky coal mine to the California sun

2007-10-10T08:55:00.002-05:00

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.

2007-10-07T19:59:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-18T21:51:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-09-05T22:12:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-20T19:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-14T15:28:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-01T19:48:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-29T21:42:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-04-30T23:03:00.000-05:00

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!!!!!

2007-04-16T22:01:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-08T20:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-01T16:52:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-03-31T22:18:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-03-23T23:17:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-03-17T08:56:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-03-09T23:20:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-01T22:36:00.000-06:00

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.

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

2007-02-24T18:41:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-08T21:46:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-04T12:04:00.000-06:00

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.

...and I want my own dressing room!

2007-01-26T23:09:00.000-06:00

I think I could do it better than her. Way better.

It’s Friday night and I’m alone surfing the channels trying to find a television show that would somehow psychologically make me forget that it’s Friday night and I’m alone. Good luck, right? Just when I thought that this was an unfeasible task, my pity party slowly began to fade as my attention was drawn to the following scene:

It was very windy at the campground and the family began securing their tent and other camping gear. Suddenly a massive tree falls over and nearly kills them all. The mother runs over to their camper, grabs the doorknob and is electrocuted. Her eyes roll back into her head and she falls backwards and begins convulsing violently. The loyal husband risks being shocked and pulls her away from the camper. The ambulance arrives and everyone lives.

It wasn’t the plot that caught my attention. It wasn’t the fact that this was a true story. What drew me in was that these were incredibly, horribly, embarrassingly bad actors. You know the type: reenactment actors. I don’t know where reenactment actors come from, but you see them all the time. They try really hard to have the same color hair or body type of the person they are reenacting. I wonder if that’s the only criteria. Acting skills not necessary?

I want to be a reenactment actor.

I think I could have done the electrocution scene with a little more pizzazz. Drama. Realness. As I’m typing, I’m rolling my eyes back into my head and I really think I’m doing a good job. I know I don’t have a mirror, but I’m feeling it. I’m feeling the scene. The moment. The pain. I could do this. When this horrible reenactment actor fell backwards, she more like sat down. I think I would have put more umph into it. I wonder if the reenactment director was tired of her at this point and found no sense in shooting scene #240. I would have leaped back away from the door and landed a little less strategically. She also didn’t do a very good job in the convulsing scene. She just looked like she was fake shaking. I would have done some background work to see how someone would truly convulse in that situation. I guess that would make me a “method reenactment actor.”

I wonder if she was a stand-in. Like maybe the real reenactment actor got sick and so her cousin’s girlfriend had to fill in. I don’t know who these reenactment actors are, but I don’t think they’re real actors. You never hear of a celebrity who used to be a reenactment actor. They never pull out old reenactment scenes to embarrass Julia Roberts. I bet Bruce Willis doesn’t have cheesy bank-robber-gas-station reenactment footage secretly stashed in a vault.

How difficult of a job could this be? It’s not like you have to keep a plot going. You don’t even talk much. You’re only on for two minutes max and most of the time you’re either running away from someone or running after someone. Is this a normal stepping stone in an actor’s career? And is this above or below Burger King commercials? It’s a coin toss really. I wonder if there’s an award ceremony for reenactment actors. Do they put their reenactment experiences on their resume?

Elizabeth Hurley
Reenactment Actor, 1984
“America’s Most Wanted”
Has experience in being chased and thrown in trunk. Won the RAA (Reenactment Actor’s Award) for best screams in a reenactment.

I think I’m a good screamer. I can run. I can even do them both at the same time. And since everyone is always saying to me, “You look like someone I know,” I think I could play just about anyone. I’d have reenactment parties and invite all my friends over. We’d huddle around the television with beer and pizza. Then I would humor them with behind the scene stories about the other reenactment actors. I’d sign fake autographs and be the life of the party.

I’m pretty sure I could do a good dying scene. I’ve already practiced rolling my eyes back. I can hold my breath for a while although it’s difficult to do while typing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll practice my “death fall”… do a John-Wayne-swaggered walk and grab onto a piece of furniture as I fall helplessly to the ground.

I wonder if reenactment actors have agents.

If so, I need to find one. Does that mean I have to move to NYC or Hollywood? I’m sure my family and friends will understand when I tell them I’m selling everything and moving to the Big Apple to pursue a career in reenactment acting. Surely they’ll save their giggles until after I’ve ridden off into the cheesy reenacted sunset.

This will be fun. I’m going for it.

She's so dramatic.

2007-01-22T17:56:00.000-06:00

Me: I’m going to do something and I’m not sure if I should tell you.

Mom: Oh God. What. What are you going to do. Oh God.

Me: I really don’t think you’re gonna like this.

Mom: Just tell me. Oh God.

Me: I’m going skydiving.

Mom: Oh dear Lord! You are not! You’re going to die!

Me: I doubt I’ll die, but I’ll make sure all my affairs are in order before hand.

Mom: Don’t even kid, Becca. You’re going to break your legs.

Me: It’s a tandem dive, mom. The instructor is in control. Plus, he’s legs will hit first.

Mom: You’re going to break your legs and possibly your arms, too.

Me: Oh mother.

Mom: Do NOT tell your grandmother about this. It’ll do her in. Oh dear Lord.

Me: I’ll tell her the day after so she’ll know I’m alive and safe.

Mom: Oh God. Are you really going to do this?

Me: Yes.

Mom: I hope it scares you so bad that you pee, shit and throw up all the way down to the ground so you’ll never want to do it again.

Me: Thank you for your support.

It's not over until the fat lady sings. Sings badly.

2007-01-18T21:04:00.000-06:00

It was while I was contemplating what to eat for dinner when it hit me.

Trying to decide between a Healthy Choice pizza and a bowl of cereal, my mind changed topics. Food became a secondary need. I suddenly became sad. Lost. And there was nothing I could do to fulfill this overwhelming desire.

American Idol isn’t on tonight.

Call me a junkie, but I really get off watching the stupid people audition. The past two nights I have sat on my couch, knees pulled up, and biting my nails as I watched these wishful thinkers stand there and give it their all. It’s quite sad really. Well, it’s sad in an uncontrollable laughter kind of way. I think to myself, “Why did his mother and friends LIE to him?” Why would they encourage him to embarrass himself on national television? Who hates him this much?

Of course every child is told “you can do anything you want in life” or “if you can dream it, you can be it.” Although I understand the message behind these cheerleader phrases, they are simply not true. A child cannot be anything they want. American Idol proves it.

What is your passion? What are you good at?

And how confident are you that you are actually that good? If you had to present your talent to three highly paid professionals in your field, how confident are you that you would meet their approval?

If I had to gather up some of my best graphic designing work and present them… I’d probably be a no-show. There are way too many designing tips and tricks that I’d like to learn before I put myself through that turmoil.

I agree that confidence is a good thing. It makes you appear strong, attractive and helps during job interviews and dates. But these auditioning idiots walk into that room with a kind of confidence I don’t understand. Is false-confidence still confidence? Basically, no matter how confident you are, there’s always that chance that you’re not as good at your hobby/job as you think.

On last night’s show, a girl completely bombed in her audition even after building herself up as having star quality. Totally shocked by the judges’ truthful remarks, she refused to believe that she was anything less than perfect. She was horrible! Everyone in the United States knows this. Well, everyone except for her and her dedicated mother. After being humiliated and rejected, her mother comforted her by telling her that she must have just been nervous because she was a really good singer. WHAT? Did I miss something?

“If you can dream it, you can be it.” No, you can’t.

My mother teaches multi-handicapped kindergarteners. And, yes, the family joke is that she was inspired after raising me.

The majority of kindergarteners have difficult home lives in addition to being blind, deaf and/or in a wheelchair. Mom is a natural nurturer and gives those kids more love and attention than they probably do anywhere else. She struggles when a little girl in a wheelchair says she wants to be a ballerina. Or when a boy who is blind can’t wait until he’s old enough to drive a race car.

Aren’t we supposed to tell every five year old that they can accomplish anything? How do you look into that little girl’s eyes and say “No, you can’t be a ballerina.” Simply: you don’t. You just pray that as she gets older she realizes what dreams are realistic and what aren’t.

These American Idol wanna be’s never figured this part out.

The “you can do anything” gave them a false sense of self. They will continue to believe they can sing while there’s proof on tape that they can’t. They’re doing nothing more than wasting their life chasing a hopeless dream while ignoring the fact that they have other untapped talents.

I will have to wait until Tuesday to see another addicting episode of American Idol. I will be predictably sitting on my couch, knees pulled up and biting my nails. I find utter joy in these idiots’ false sense of confidence.

Their mothers and friends should be shot, but because of my selfish need for entertainment, I want to tell them “thank you.”

You're not that good-looking, but in the dark I won't notice.

2007-01-14T22:00:00.000-06:00

I’m not a fan of pressure.

Those who personally know me have heard me say this a million times. It’s usually brought up during an ~~interrogation~~ conversation about how I’m not dating anyone. About how I don’t make myself available. About how I’m “too this” or “too that.” About how I need to be more aggressive when it comes to meeting people. Everyone has their opinions on how to help the poor single gal out.

I realize that I’m desperate, but the question is how desperate.

Sometimes being a 36 year old single female makes me feel like I’m viewed as a science project. I’m examined, studied, poked, prodded and turned upside down and inside out. My “no man” status is deliberated. My flaws are dissected, placed in a petri dish and presented to an open forum.

These repeated conversations only result in me getting defensive. I wouldn’t mind it if I was offered new answers. New solutions. New view point. Somehow pointing out my insecurities for the thousandth time only makes them magnify. Making me retreat even further behind my brick wall with a big bucket of mortar for damage control purposes and an ungodly amount of chocolate that would last most people a year.

I’ve been given several solutions to my singleness.

Everywhere from solo bar hopping to online dating to the produce section of the grocery store. Can’t it be easier than this? Have my dating options dwindled down to a bag of seedless grapes? Is leaning alone against a bar trying to look sexy – when the truth is I’m incredibly self conscious – my only resort? Is uploading my photo, coming up with a clever profile as if I’m selling a product, and meeting men for 15 minute intervals at Starbucks the only way to find someone?

Meeting people was easier in my 20’s. We were all single back then. Groups of single people knew other groups of single people. Now that I’m reaching my (cough cough) late 30’s, I find it more difficult to meet men. I can’t help to think that for centuries people have managed to meet each other through less desperate measures. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. It’s all so complicated now.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m attracted to emotionally unavailable men.

I’m sure a psychotherapist would have a field day with that. I continually find myself going down a dead end road. I see the signs. They’re there. Right in my face. I even read the signs, but then I say, “Becca, you’re wrong. You need to be more optimistic.”

But I find that optimism can be another word for just being blind.

Maybe because it’s the beginning of a new year, but I’ve found myself having multiple conversations lately about dating. The last one being just this afternoon with a friend who has found himself single in his mid 40’s. He has succumbed to the social pressures and has headed down that road of online dating in full force. He’s met several lovely ladies, but no one who he would consider a good enough catch. We discussed the pro’s and con’s of this seemingly desperate act for companionship and we came to the conclusion that you must go into it with little or no expectations.

After our 1.5 hour conversation, I had an “ah ha” moment. Maybe it was more like my desperation and my analytical mind clashing together into what most people would call an epiphany. Not sure if it was something he said, but I decided that I would join him. Dive into the scary cold waters of this thing called online dating.

The truth is…. I’ve done it before.

It’s been several years, and it wasn’t through the “respectable” services which are now available. I met three or four guys and they were… well… freaky. These pathetic experiences aided in my anxiety for meeting people through the computer.

But no matter how unnatural or uneasy it feels, I decided that my desperation was high enough to give one of the popular dating sites a trial run. Put all my inhibitions aside. Look past my experiences and pretend that I never met those freaky people. I answered all the appropriate questions. I offered my personal stats. I said what I was looking for in a man. I was completely realistic and honest. I even wrote up a witty profile description. Then I hit “submit” and crossed my fingers. And do you know what it said?

“Sorry! We have not identified any matches for your review. Consider expanding your preferences to include a wider range of potential matches.”

What??? No WAY am I going to expand my preferences! You have GOT to be kidding me. Wondering if I somehow messed up, I reviewed my preferences. Nope. They’re all good. Everything I want in a man. Submit. Same crappy response.

What’s so sad is I feel like I wasn’t being picky. I was being realistic. I thought I was pretty liberal in my choices. Apparently not. I’m sure if it had asked, “Does your match need to be emotionally unavailable?” then I would have hit the dating jackpot.

As I sit here eating my comfort food of choice – chocolate – I’ve continually hit the “refresh” button, but it still says no. Notta. In fact, I could swear it said,

“You will never find a man. You are hopeless. There is no one in central Arkansas that meets your requirements. You are better off settling for freaky people in chat rooms.”

Great. Maybe I’ll go hit the produce section. I hear there’s a sale on seedless grapes.

Not even if you were the last man on earth and I was out of batteries.

2007-01-10T20:51:00.000-06:00

He was being subtlety obvious.

I’ve now seen him three times in the chiropractor’s office. It seems our similar work schedule allows us to both have only 5pm appointments… on the same day. He’s a talkative guy. I know all about his job, children, and the car accident he had in December. He is also very open telling me how he’s looking for a woman. He has no problem blinding my eyes with his lit up vacancy sign.

“I’m tired of seasonal women. You know the kind that’s only around for a while? I’m looking for someone who will stay for the long run.”

He’s told me this three time now.

I assume by my lack of response he feels I haven’t heard him. That I haven’t picked up on his underlining meaning. But the truth is I’ve picked up on it and I’m not interested.

“Oh look, you showed up for our date,” he says every time I walk in. Although he thinks he’s being cute, I find it annoying. I pleasantly smile back with a polite “Oh yes, here I am.”

The juicy part of our “date” occurs when we are conveniently sitting next to each other in the massage room. While we are both hooked up to the electro muscle massager thing-a-ma-jigs, he fills me in on his lonely life and gives me updates on his aches and pains. I humor him by injecting a “yes” or “no” or “oh, I’m sorry” into the one sided conversation.

Today he told me how big his house is. I guess I looked like I cared. Maybe he thought if I knew this tidbit of real estate information, I would realize what a great guy he is. That somehow I would see him differently. That I would feel that having a big house would over-rule the fact that I’m totally physically uninterested.

“I have this huge two story house that is just too big for me. Since it’s just me, most of the house is unused. It sure would be nice to have someone to share it with.”

Not me, mister.

I remained hooked up to the mechanical back massager thingy while he gathered his belongings. Standing there in the doorway, he continued a loooong story about one of his friends. Since I wasn’t paying attention, I can’t even remember what the story was. Thankfully my new lover soon said his goodbyes and headed off to that big lonesome house on the hill.

I’m flattered by my new Casanova’s complimentary comments.

It’s sad that I have absolutely no interest in him. Not even his big two story house is enough to convert my feelings. I have no doubt that he would be a good provider and cook me breakfast in bed, but there’s something about physical attraction that I cannot avoid. It’s a shame really. I think I’ll break up with him when I see him on our next date.

What can I say… I’m a seasonal woman.

Bringing Crack Back

2007-01-07T11:41:00.000-06:00

I accidentally wore my “standing up” jeans last night.

I went out with friends to a fancy cigar bar last night. Running errands before hand, this gave me an hour to get ready. Only an hour. Normally this would be sufficient, but as I was deciding what to wear, I realized that I hate all my clothes.

Typically I’m a jeans-and-tshirt kind of gal. I don’t wear puffy sleeves, flower prints and the color pink. I avoid sweater sets, ponchos and things with bows. However, last night I felt the need to bring out my more feminine side. I perused through my closet and laundry room for something that would bring out the girl in me. Something that would allow me to bring sexy back.

Sadly, I found very little.

I’m sure getting tired of one's clothes is a normal thing. We all go through cycles. I now find myself at the end of one cycle and not sure how to begin the next. Maybe I need a personal shopper that will tell me when I look like crap. I would welcome this criticism if it came from the right person. The wrong person would end up being the target of a bunch of colorful words and rude insults.

Now utterly depressed in my lack of style, I decided to give my chest of drawers a shot. This chest is usually reserved for those clothes that I lie to myself about. The “one day” clothes. The ones I pathetically hang onto in case I ever decide to take the gym seriously. I dug through each drawer in hopes to find a hidden treasure. An article of clothing that I could somehow pass off as decent.

And there they were…

Jeans. I discovered a pair of jeans that I had forgotten. I remember liking these jeans. They had the appropriately placed manufactured worn in spots that made them look as if I wear them everyday while doing manual labor. As I put them on, I hoped for the best. I was surprised that they were a perfect fit. I twirled in the mirror like a teenager checking out every angle. Not too tight, not too loose. Perfect length for the new high heeled black leather boots I bought a couple of weeks ago. Paired up with a girly shirt I found, I was looking hot. The choir was singing. The angels were dancing. I even had great hair. This was going to be a good night.

And then I got into my car.

Finally happy with my ensemble and with one last look in the mirror, I grabbed my keys and headed to the car. Opened the door and sat down.

“Crap.”

There are “standing up” jeans and “sitting down” jeans.

Unless you wear sweats all the time, you must know what I’m talking about. You don’t sit down in standing up jeans. You either flash your crack or reveal that bulge that indicates you’ve been through the Taco Bell drive-thru way too many times. It all depends on where the top of the jeans hit ya or how tight they are. In my haste, I forgot that these were my standing up jeans.

Standing up jeans are reserved for parties or clubs where you don’t plan to sit. You gracefully stand with a martini in one hand while the other hand is free for flirting with that cute guy. That casual touch of his hand or picking off that imaginary lint off his shoulder. You don’t sit down in standing up jeans. This is a fashion no-no.

In too much of a hurry, I thought “screw it” and drove to the bar where my friends were waiting. Saying “no” to crack, I conveniently kept my back towards the wall while sitting at the table. Whenever I stood up, I tried to cleverly pull my pants up with as much grace as possible. I enjoyed going to the cigar bar and I look forward to going back.

But until the plumber look is in style, I’m wearing my sitting down jeans.

Say "YES" to Drugs

2006-12-28T04:51:00.000-06:00

I was doing what every normal person does.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that made me use my super human strength. No saving people from a burning house. Nope. I wasn’t doing anything impressive. Although receiving a medal of valor would be nice, I would be more likely awarded a medal of stupidity.

I threw my back out.

Many of us have been here. We’ve all experienced this mind numbing pain. The kind of pain that makes you shout out various colorful obscenities. I think I even made up a few. It’s the kind of pain that will cause the average person to crawl to the street corner and beg for illegal pain killers. Any kind will do. Really. We'll pay high dollar.

I was getting ready to go have lunch with a friend.

And since that’s what I was doing, I’m blaming him. It’s all his fault. If I wasn’t leaving to meet him then this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t selfishly asked me to lunch then I wouldn’t have been laid up and out of commission for the past 12 hours. Sounds good, right?

Ok, maybe it’s not his fault. Plus he’s the one who gave me the pain killers. Which I have enjoyed. As I type this, I have no feeling in my body and life is good. Of course it’s 4:30am, but somehow I’m okay with that. I think I would be okay with just about anything right now.

I’m leaving town tomorrow and the thought of being on a plane for several hours makes me cringe. I guess I can get through anything as long as I have these pain killers and my iPod. I refuse to be in pain while on vacation. So as soon as my plane lands in Tampa, I’ve instructed my friends to make sure that I am continually supplied with adult beverages. Those mixed in with the drugs should make a memorable trip.

Yes, I still haven’t revealed how I gracefully threw my back out. That’s because I’m avoiding you. I’m trying to avoid the public humiliation that I know for a fact is headed my way. But since the pills I just took are starting to make me tad loopy, I best end this blog before I admit way more than how I hurt myself.

Ok, fine. I was putting on my shoe. There. Happy?

I was sitting down and putting on my left shoe. How uninteresting is that? So while I’m on my mini vacation in Tampa, feel free to make up a more exciting story. One that I can tell people without being snickered at. Maybe one that might cause me to be featured in the local newspaper.

Ok, I’m starting to see double and my brain and fingers have lost their connection. Gotta go.

Taboo: Chapter Three

2006-12-24T18:49:00.000-06:00

As I sit here on my couch on Christmas Eve, I find myself confused.

While I’m expected to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, the only thing running through my mind is a long list of unanswered questions.

My questions are not original. I’m not the first person to ever have thoughts that challenge mainstream Christianity. My struggles with God are common with yours, but your struggles aren’t the ones that occupy my brain. This is a customized battle. One that God and I have learned to know well. The script and dance steps are well rehearsed. The same questions and doubts are always brought into the ring, but at the end of the day I return to my post and forfeit. Relinquishing my need for answers due to frustration, tiredness and wariness. I have, however, discovered through this process that having too many questions hinders your ability to hear the answers.

I believe there is a difference between religion and spirituality.

I’m not in search of religion. Religion is easily obtainable. I have a religion. I go to church. I’ve maneuvered myself through all the appropriate ministries and have felt temporary fulfillment through them. Spirituality is something that grows way deeper than just memorizing John 3:16 and repeating it enough times until it makes sense. To me, it’s a more complex level of consciousness and connectedness to oneself and to God. I have been fascinated by spirituality for years, but it seems my analytical behavior prevents me from experiencing it fully.

My life is surrounded by people of all levels of belief. From die-hard Christianity to atheism. When I was about 10 my father decided that our family would stop going to church and thus turn against his strong southern Baptist upbringing. Growing up he would never explain to me his reasons because he believed that I needed to decide my own path and not be restricted to his. Although his intentions were good, giving me “free will” left me dangling, unsure and without direction. As an adult I’ve asked about his outlook on God, but he is still silent. He still will not explain what happened all those years ago. Since I’m no longer a child, I assume his reasons for not being forth coming has changed. I often wonder if he fears my judgment while the truth is no more than me wanting to get to know my father. Wanting to know how his questions compare to mine. Wanting to know if we have the same fears or if he has somehow figured it all out. Because of the tiny bit of information I have managed to squeeze out, I have categorized him as an agnostic.

I believe my father’s decision catapulted my spiritual search.

One would view this as positive. It’s caused me to be open minded, nonjudgmental, and tolerant of different belief systems. Although I tend to stand on shaky ground about many spiritual issues, there are two things I do believe: that God exists and that we will transition into a different life experience after we die.

I think a lot of times we tend to mentally put God in a small box and project humanistic thoughts and characteristics on him. I’m guilty of doing this during my personal battles with him. At times I feel I’m fighting with a handicap. That maybe I’m not supposed to know certain answers, but yet I still ask the same questions over and over again. Not unlike my father, God remains silent. Why did God give me an analytical personality if he has no intentions on humoring me with answers? Why did he give me the ability to love a man’s mind, body and soul but yet hasn’t provided someone to receive it?

People blame God for tragedies as well using him as a coping mechanism.

Some people say they survived cancer though the Word of God while others say they survived on their own strength and positive outlook. I want to know why. If someone claims to overcome cancer “by the grace of God” then doesn’t that imply that those who passed were not in his graces?

Tammy Faye Bakker is in the final stages of cancer. She is now in hospice and weighs 68lbs. During a phone interview on Larry King Live the other night, she said that she has faith that God will heal her. That God will rid her body of this cancer and she will then be able to use her testimony to show others the power of God. Even though Tammy Faye is a person who is easily made fun of, I believe she is sincere. That she believes what she believes. Although a bit quirky, I don’t view her as a con. But I’m not a fan of hers. I can’t get past the eyelashes and the too-bubbly personality. Nevertheless, if it is true that God expects us to have faith in him and spread his Word, then Tammy Faye has done way more than most of us. If she’s expecting herself to be healed… will she? If she dies, what is our answer? That she didn’t have enough faith? That faith doesn’t matter? That it was just her time to go? That there is no God? That God chose to decline the perfect opportunity to perform a miracle in front of millions of witnesses? If she does live, will you give the credit to science or to God?

On Christmas Day my family will sit around the dinner table, hold hands and say a prayer of thanks to God. Of course it will end in the customary “…to the nourishment of our bodies.” I have many things to be thankful for this Christmas. I have wonderful friends who I hold close to my heart and a family that is incredibly supportive.

But as I sit there at the table with my eyes closed, I’ll most likely be asking the question “Who are you exactly?”

Cosmic Conspiracy

2006-12-21T21:40:00.000-06:00

I think I was born into the wrong family.

It’s nothing against my relatives. Really. They’re great. I love them. However, I just think that I was meant for something else. Something different than this.

I think when I was born, some papers got mixed up. Maybe a baby-switch scandal. Maybe I’m really adopted and no one’s told me. I guess looking exactly like my father proves these theories wrong.

Maybe the Fertility God’s decided to play a joke. Maybe they were bored one day floating around in the universe and thought this would be really funny. Bad joke, perhaps? Little did they know that I would eventually catch on. That I would discover their cosmic conspiracy.

I think I was meant to be Royalty.

I spent the afternoon at the day spa. Let me say that again: the DAY SPA. There I was being pampered and fussed over… and loving every minute of it. I soaked it up. I think I was meant to be incredibly wealthy, have servants, a masseuse, a chef and a driver. They would all be paid an insane amount of money to make me feel like the princess that I know I am. Of course I can’t forget the cabana boy. He’s very important to my overall well being.

I don’t consider myself a high maintenance gal. I don’t require attention 24/7 from the people in my life. I’m easy to please. But I feel that what I experienced today should be experienced on a regular basis. Like every week would be grrrrreat.

I felt this conviction even stronger when I got home.

When I got home from the day spa, I was all noodley and relaxed and had this calm euphoric feeling. I was looking forward to chillin’ out… maybe watch a little television… maybe take a nap. I was all about anything that wouldn’t exhort energy. I wanted to bask in my royalty-ness.

When I walked through my front door, my house was hot. Not cool. Hot. This is not good for a princess. Princesses require air conditioning. I don’t know anything about air conditioning, so I did what every unknowledgeable princess would do… I went outside and stood there staring at the unit. I guess I assumed that it would tell me what was wrong. Other things do. My printer tells me when it’s out of paper or ink. When my car is low on oil, a cute little light that says “low oil” blinks. When I’m low on gas, it even sings to me. This big metal thing-a-ma-jig in my backyard was saying notta.

This was bad news for the refreshed princess. Luckily I was able to contact my landlord. She said that she would try to get someone over. Try? I didn’t want to play my Royalty card to heavily, but I explained to her that it was FREAKIN HOT and that it would be swell if I could have some assistance. It was 95 degrees and I was inside my house sweating. A sweating princess is not a happy princess.

Long story short, a nice man came over and fixed it. He was very efficient. I bet he realized that he was dealing with a future queen.

I wish other people in my life were as observant.

Girl Power = More Power Than I Realized

2006-12-20T22:54:00.000-06:00

I’m not really sure what "Girl Power" is exactly.

A friend of mine’s eight year old daughter likes me. I mean, really likes me. I took her to paint pottery on Saturday which only escalated her fondness for me. When my friend, the father of the reigning Miss Girl Power, inquired about her affection, she responded with the attitude that only an eight year old girl can have: “cuz she’s a girl.”

She’s all about the Girl Power. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has liked me just because I’m a girl. I hope I have other characteristics that someone may consider first when deciding if they want to be my friend. I would like to think my wittiness or accepting personality would rank higher than just simply being a girl. I may not be the smartest fish in the bowl, but I hope that someone would admire my intelligence before persuing a friendship based solely on the fact that I’m a female.

She threatened my life the other day.

On Sunday morning Little Miss Girl Power’s father emailed me an invitation for an early dinner. Normally I jump at the chance to eat his culinary concoctions since they are incredibly delectable. Plus I’m growing tired of eating cereal for every meal. However on Sunday I had a scheduling issue. In my emailed response, I noted my conflict and waited for his reply. And waited. And waited.

Later in the afternoon I emailed him a second time with a sarcastic remark and within minutes I received an email saying “answer your freakin phone!” It seems that I had left my cell phone in my car the night before.

I fetch my phone and… there they were. Five missed calls from the president of Girl Power herself. Five very important voice mails that were impatiently waiting for my retrieval. How dare I not have my phone next to me at all times? How dare I miss even one phone call from her royal highness?

The first voice mail was sweet. She politely introduced herself by name and gently offered the invitation for dinner. The second voice mail was still sweet, but had a very slight hint of urgency. By the fifth voice mail… she was pissed and passed out all kinds of threats. With the sound of high irritation, she s-l-o-w-l-y reiterated her full name and the full name of her father just in case I was too stupid to realize the matter at hand. She then explained to me how I w-i-l-l be there for dinner. Will. And then she hung up. No closing salutations. No “I’d love to see you.” No “hope you can make it.” No “I hope you’re not dead.” Nothing. Just a click. I felt my ranking in the office of Girl Power rapidly declining.

Until Sunday I somehow managed to live 36 years with my life being threatened only once. Considering the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done, being threatened only once is a huge accomplishment. A triumph worthy of recognition. The first time was by a crazy man and now... it's by an eight year old girl.

Girl Power: Zero Tolerance.

I guess I didn’t realize that aggravating the social structure of Girl Power resulted in being reprimanded. I didn’t know that this multi-level organization required that I remain alert and on my toes in case my recruiter beckons me at any given second.

Like how all Girl Power members should, I quickly gathered my things and headed over to the castle. She was pleased. And that’s all that matters. She soon forgave me and we had a lovely conversation over dinner about how she enjoys chocolate covered ants much better than chocolate covered crickets.

Girl Power. It’s an eight year old's world and I’m slowly learning how to be worthy of it.

My dog smells like a corn dog.

2006-12-08T23:39:00.000-06:00

And I’m not particularly sure why.

I walked into my bedroom earlier to grab my pair of Slipper Socks “with grippers” that I won at the company Christmas party last weekend. Ok, I didn’t really win them. Someone else did and decided I needed them more since they were a little girly. Plus they wouldn’t fit his big toe much less his feet. I had actually forgotten about them but remembered tonight when I noticed my toes turning blue due to my cold house. If I ever move, remind me to get an insulated house.

So there I was fetching my new blue socks. While I was trying to break the plastic tag thingy with my teeth, I noticed a smell. At first I wasn’t able to locate the source. I walked around… sniff… sniff… sniff. The smell was strangely familiar, yet out of place. Corn dogs? Do I smell corn dogs?

My mind raced through all the possibilities.

The only thing I “cooked” tonight was a pot of water for my hot chocolate. To my knowledge boiled water doesn’t have a corn dog smell. Plus, I don’t normally boil my water in my bedroom. I even stood under the air vent to see if it was the heater. Negative.

As I stood there in the middle of the room scratching my head pondering this weird corn-dog-smell-phenomenon, Pepper stood up, twirled in a few circles, rearranged her blanket and then settled back into her tight curled up position. I’ve watched her do this for nearly 16 years and it always makes me smile. Watching her do her thing. Watching her be a dog. Becoming a little sentimental, I knelt down to give the princess her daily quota of lovin. The kind where I cradle her head in my hands, rub our faces together and sprinkle her nose and squinted eyes with a million kisses.

Well, let’s just say I started to…

As our faces got closer, I realize immediately what it is that smells like corn dogs: Pepper. I would like to say for the record, I have never noticed her smelling like this. Consider me perplexed. Baffled. Corn dogs?

Do old dogs get a smell like old people? If so, is the scent normally comparable to fair food? When I wash her will this smell go away or have I now entered the next phase of doggie geriatrics? Is there an anti-corn-dog-odor pill that she can take for this?

Since it’s too cold tonight, tomorrow will be bath day. But wait… that means tonight I will be sleeping in the same room with a dog that smells like corn dogs.

I’m not really sure I can do that.

By Design

2006-12-03T15:24:00.000-06:00

I’ve been exposed to the phrase “living your authentic self” through television, books and friends.

It wouldn’t be authentic of me to say that it didn’t confuse me. I guess I understand the idea, but the process is a little harder to grasp. It’s not easy to crawl out from under all the layers of self lies or the expectations placed by society. And from what I’ve experienced, “society” can mean as big as the world or as small as your own family. The size of the group does not determine the depth of damage.

We’re encouraged to dissect the labels that we place on ourselves. To go through them individually and determine if they help us or hurt us. To determine why they are there to begin with. Did we put them there or did someone else? Others may project their expectations onto us, but we’re guilty for naming them and allowing them to define us.

Like you, throughout my life I have experienced the pressure from other people’s expectations.

They expect me to be a certain way… good or bad. And I’m sure like you, I feel that I’ve been a constant disappointment. I don’t consider myself a people pleaser, but I do care how the people in my life feel about me. And often I place my own expectations onto them by assuming their feelings. Putting my misguided thoughts into their heads. And since it’s not always accurate, this creates a bad cycle of foolish behavior. I guess this means that owning the real me and giving back others the freedom of their own feelings will end the cycle and be a step towards becoming my authentic self.

Not sure how easy that is to do.

I am a person with dreams, goals, desires and needs, but at a young age I decided to rob myself. As a child I decided that it was better to take tiny baby steps instead of defining and focusing on what I truly want. Test the waters. Don’t make huge waves. Sneak in and if it feels wrong, sneak out. Go unnoticed. I told myself that when you enter with a bang, all eyes are on you and your mistakes are magnified. Exposed for all to judge, dissect and label. I thought remaining under the radar was the smart thing to do. It wasn’t.

I tend to be attracted to people who are daring. Spontaneous. Go getters. Not just in my love life, but in friends as well. They make me nervous, but it’s a good nervous. I’m drawn to their freedom. Their bravery. The way they do things without always having to mentally list the pros and cons. They don’t test the waters… they jump in. And often they’ll grab my hand before the big splash. Sometimes I’ll willingly jump with them, but I always hold my nose.

Maybe I’ve digressed from my “authentic self” topic. But then, maybe I haven’t.

There are all types of people. And just because someone is willing to take a chance and I’m not, doesn’t mean they have it all figured out. That they somehow hold the key to life long happiness that I’ve been searching for. I guess to live my own authentic life would be to accept the way I am. The way I’m built. The way I’m designed. To not view it as a weakness, but as my character. But then there’s always the argument of whether or not it was placed there at birth or if it was placed there by life experiences. Internalizing other people’s actions or words.

Why can’t we allow our positive experiences be our life compass? Why do we latch onto the negative? If someone allows the positive experiences be their guide, does that mean they automatically live an authentic life? If they are generally happy and love their life, does that mean they don’t have to walk through the hard stuff like the rest of us? At what point are you able to look in the mirror and know you are authentic? Maybe I’m too busy looking for the on switch and I just need to realize that it’s a life long process. An inconsistent process that can be constantly conflicting. For someone who aches for security, unpredictability isn’t good news.

Once again… I have more questions than answers.

However, I can authentically say that always having a list of questions is part of my character. I may not always ask them out loud in conversations, but they are always circling in my head. This blog just surfaces a small percentage of mine regarding this particular topic. If I keep going, a novel might break out. Maybe one day I’ll ask the right questions to the right person and learn all the hidden truths.

If so, be confident that I’ll be back here sharing the knowledge.

Dear Diary

2006-11-25T23:42:00.000-06:00

As I routinely laid my day’s jewelry in my small antique bowl, my eyes moved upward noticing the row of books I had placed on the shelf a few years back. Books that range from biographies to Paris travel guides to Robert Frost poetry. Also in that collection are my old journals. Journals that I haven’t written in or read in years.

As a child I was obsessed with blank books. Unfilled journals. I was constantly buying them. I had this idea that one day I would fill them all with words. My words. Words that I would creatively orchestrate into a poem or a personal essay. To me, my written word was proof that I was here. That I existed.

I guess I’m still that way.

All throughout my childhood I often felt invisible. Skipped over. Not worth the effort. Looking back now, that contradicts how my life really was. My parents showed me unbelievable love. I was popular with my friends. I won awards and was fed compliments. But yet I somehow still felt undeserving.

I removed my journals from the shelf, sat on the couch and began thumbing through the pages. Reading my own words written by the younger me. Remembering how I felt as I wrote each entry. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Not unlike the feelings that motivate the writings of this older me. It’s just more alarming when it comes from the mind of a 13 year old. Somehow when you’re older, being bitter is expected.

I notice some of the entries are quite powerful. After finishing a page, there are no questions left to ask. Feelings are clearly explained. I've discovered that my words were more raw and forthcoming as a child than they are as an adult.

There are also pages full of love and hope. Ideas for my future. Wants, needs, desires. Most of which make me smile since they are totally unrealistic. I wrote confessions of love for some stupid boy and then admitting hurt when the feelings weren’t reciprocated.

I have my grandmother’s diary from the early 1930’s. She mostly wrote about school and washing her hair. She mentioned a few times about being ill and staying in bed. After she died, I selfishly and sentimentally gathered several of her old things – her diary being one of them.

I’ve read through it many times and enjoy her innocence. I love knowing her at that age through her words. However after reading my own childhood journals… I wonder who will possess them after I’m gone. Who will be the one to thumb through my personal thoughts? My words reveal much more than my grandmother ever would have dreamed.

If as a child I viewed my journals as proof that I existed, then I must let them be exactly that. No need to hide how I felt. What I was. What I am.

I suspect this blog is a mere continuation of me proving that I exist.

Drunk Therapy ALWAYS Ends Badly

2006-11-20T18:19:00.000-06:00

I went to a birthday party Saturday night at a friend’s house.

Great music. Good food. Since I only had a few beers, I remained in a sober state. A state that allowed me to view my friends as they… well… got drunk. Which is always such a joy and a prime opportunity for future black mailing.

It’s hilarious the things people will say or admit after a few cocktails. The truth always seems to surface. The bold questions somehow don’t seem so bold. And the answers seem to spill out so easily. Wives openly discuss how their husbands fall short of their expectations and husbands complain how they don’t have sex anymore. And then just a few minutes later, they’re dirty dancing together on the back deck.

I had an interesting conversation with two friends.

A conversation that was sprinkled throughout the night. One friend is a female and the other, a male. Both drunk and both of which I’ve known for 20 years. The conversation was about my lack of a man in my life. As I sat there in the hot seat, they darted questions towards me in hopes to solve my “problem” before the night’s end.

I soon began shooting back. Defending myself against statements like “You need to figure out what you’re doing wrong” and clichés like “It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” For the record, these are not the best things to say. It’s like saying after someone dies: “At least they’re in a better place.” True or not, it just doesn’t help.

At some point during this therapy session with my two intoxicated friends, the bold questions started to emerge. My female friend stumbles towards my ear and whispers the slurred words, “Are you sure you’re not in love with him after all these years?” The “him” was referring to the third person in this conversation. One of my closest friends. A 20 year platonic friendship.

I take a step back…

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a logical question.”

“No. Nooooo. Noooooo.”

This then takes another comical turn. He, not knowing what she asked me, says…

“Did she ask you if you’re gay?”

“WHAT?”

“Is that what she asked you?”

”Are you now suggesting that not having a man means I’m gay???”

As humorous and waaaay off mark as this was, I quickly shut this therapy session down. Short of humping the next guy who walked by, I didn’t feel I could properly defend myself. I was backed into a corner and so I began waving my white flag.

I like drunk people.

If I never take another sip of an alcoholic beverage, I’m still hanging out with those who do. They provide humor to my life in a way that is impossible without tequila.

I must say the wobbly birthday girl held her ground very well. As I told her that night, she is the most graceful drunk I’ve ever seen. Who knows how many apple martinis she had, but she swaggered with eloquence and remained poised throughout the evening.

And I told her exactly how truly envious I am.

Why I Hate Christmas

2006-11-18T16:27:00.000-06:00

For most of my life I’ve been called Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. I’m hoping to set the record straight and attempt to defend my already questionable reputation.

Christmas is great. It’s wonderful. Really. I swear.

You can smell cinnamon cider in the air. Children are gleefully playing in the snow. People are sharing their love through gift giving. Carolers are caroling. Sleigh bells are ringing. Blah Blah Blah… You get the drift, I’m sure.

No matter who you are, you have to agree that when its Christmas time the cheese factor is pretty high. People buy sweaters that have snowmen, santas or candy canes scattered all over them. They don’t buy just one… but they buy a crap load so they can wear them E.V.E.R.Y. freakin day. And apparently large Christmas tree earrings are a must when trying to pull off the appropriate Christmas attire. If YOU are one of these people, I mean no ill will towards you personally… just your insanely cheesy wardrobe. To me, Christmas makes the world appear as if the Clipart Fairy threw up all over it.

Christmas = Presents.

I love giving presents as well as receiving them. No doubt about it. But as a kid, I enjoyed sleeping more than I did Christmas morning. While normal children wake up with excitement billowing inside them, I was that odd kid who opted to sleep in. So every year on Christmas morning my excited older brother would run into my room, disrupt my peaceful slumber, and loudly announce that Santa had visited us during the night. It would almost take an act of congress to get me out of that warm bed. One year my most thoughtful brother received a Polaroid camera from Santa. Instead of the usual Christmas routine of forcing me out of bed, he took Polaroid’s of all my presents and brought them to my bedside. Sad story, but sweet guy.

There’s a fine line between cheese and non-cheese.

If I ever do cheese, the cheese has to be so obvious that it’s understood. Make sense? The cheese becomes the joke. This I’m okay with. Of course, if ever I had children, I’m sure my house would have been adorned with all the fake snow, yard art, and animated santas that money can buy. And I'm sure the poor things would have worn snowflake dresses and Rudolf ties. Not at the same time of course…

I’m now trying to accept the cheese within.

I’ve been given more grief about my Christmas attitude than I can shake two cinnamon sticks at. I’m not one to mold myself into what other’s expect of me, but I feel I am someone who is willing to adopt someone else’s outlook if it makes sense. I may be naturally stubborn, but not so much that I slam the door in your face if you don’t agree with my point of view.

All that to say, I’m trying to find that cheesy Christmas spirit that lurks deep, deep, deep inside me. That verrrrrry tiny place where the love of a snowman tie and a candy cane sweater struggles to survive. The incredibly small corner of my heart that is reserved only for big plastic yard art and red foil Christmas trees. Like I said, I’m trying.

Act your way into a feeling.

I’ve even listened to Christmas radio in hopes to magically absorb some of this holiday cheer. Not only in my car, but I – on extremely rare occasions – have listened to it in my office. This has freaked some of my coworkers out. They don’t know what’s going on and have grown concerned about me. I assure them that my name still is Becca and I have not been abducted by tiny-stupid-Christmas-elf-aliens. Just know that the day I show up in a Christmas sweater, I’ll have fallen way over the edge. At that point, I'll be beyond saving. Run. Save yourselves.

A little too late?

As I write this, I wonder now if Christmas was the right holiday to begin my new pro-cheese life. Maybe I should have started with Columbus Day or something. A holiday less visually celebrated in order to start off slow with little pressure. Maybe make it a goal to wish at least 12 people “Happy Columbus Day”. If the day seems to be going okay, I could hum “America the Beautiful” as if it came naturally. Then branch out the next year to Fourth of July - maybe sporting a red, white & blue attire for the day while passing out tiny flags. Adopting a new holiday each year is a good idea to me. Then by the time the King of Cheese holiday is to be incorporated into the list, I’ll be better prepared.

I should have come up with this brilliant idea before I started torturing myself. One person can only hear “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” so many freakin times in their day before they fearl the men in white jackets coming to take them away.

Which reminds me of the lyrics of my life's theme song:

"They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!! They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa"

The Letter

2006-11-08T23:28:00.000-06:00

Forgiveness. What a crazy word.

I hear it thrown around all the time as if it is something easily obtainable. As if doing it is as easy as saying it.

“I forgive you.”

Like most things in my life, the more I think about it, the more confused I become. It’s difficult. It’s hard. It’s saying that I will no longer allow what you did to impact my life from this day on. I release you as my burden. But the truth is… it does still impact my life. It does still remain a burden.

I sometimes find it difficult to differentiate between forgiving and just not caring anymore. Knowing me and the way I operate, not caring about something is another form of avoidance. I avoid the pain by not caring and putting a pretty bow on it called forgiveness. True forgiveness would require me to take an extra step through the pain. A step that I would rather not endure if possible.

About ten years ago I was a juror in a murder trial.

Triple homicide. Three children were shot in the head while huddling in the corner on top of each other. As if protecting one another. I saw photos of their layered dead bodies surrounded by blood. Each photo taken from a different angle and distance. I heard the 911 tape of their mother screaming for help while the two murderers were trying to kill her. As I lived through each day of this trial, I heard and saw things that made me feel a level of emotion that I didn’t know existed. Those children. My God. Those sweet children. The mother survived the attack and as I watched her on the witness stand, I literally cried for her pain. I studied her eyes trying to comprehend what they had seen. Witnessed. The cold blooded murder of three of her four children.

The other jurors and I gave this murderer the death penalty. I was very pro capital punishment and walked away feeling like I had done my community a good service. I was mad knowing that this man had the option to appeal. My deep level of sadness and anger manifested itself into a need for bitter revenge. If someone had killed him right there in the court room… I felt it would be justified.

A few years later I was mindlessly flipping through the channels. I was halfway paying attention when I suddenly saw her face. The mother. I would recognize those eyes anywhere. One of the local stations was interviewing her about how she had forgiven these men who murdered her children. Forgiven them? But how? I saw graphic photos of what she experienced. I heard her screams. How can she forgive something – someone – so horrific?

I watched her eyes as I had done before. I listened to her words through my television. Her words were so honest and raw. Honorable. Moving. Poetic. I immediately gathered a piece of paper and pen and began writing her a letter expressing my respect. I admitted my confusion about her forgiveness, but my admiration of her decision. Within a few weeks I received a letter back from her. One that I did not expect to receive. One that spoke of peace. Of forgiveness. Of humanity. A letter that I will always hold on to and cherish.

Mary Hussian is an amazing woman.

She forgave the unforgivable. It took her several years, but she was finally able to find that place inside her. That peace. She no longer wanted the death penalty for this man that I had convicted in 1995. She fought for clemency, but failed. He died by lethal injection in 2003.

I’ve often wondered what it was inside her that clicked. What was it exactly that made her go from one extreme to the other? How did she forgive someone whose actions will impact her every day for the rest of her life? He killed her children execution style. How does one live through something so brutal and still manage to find peace? If forgiving someone requires an extra step through the pain, I don’t want to imagine that next level of her pain.

In comparison to hers, my life’s journeys have been quite mild. No matter how big my mountains are in front of me or behind me, Ms. Hussian is an example that forgiveness is possible. Doable. Even though I haven’t quite figured out her formula, I know that it exists.

Forgiveness.

The “Sunday School answer” says it’s for me and not them. However, this phrase doesn’t explain the process. It only explains the result. It doesn’t help me to understand how to turn “not caring anymore” into true forgiveness. It doesn’t explain that sometimes we need to forgive ourselves for not forgiving. Maybe this would release those pressures we place on ourselves and allow true honest healing.

I would love to have coffee with Ms. Hussian sometime. Forget the coffee… all I need is a hug.

The O'Becca Factor

2006-11-06T16:28:00.000-06:00

Politics. Ugh. Why I’ve decided to write a political blog should be the eighth wonder of the world. I’ve touched on this subject before, but shied away from any particular issue. I do my best to avoid narrowing down my political opinions in writing because that will only result in exposing my utter ignorance.

So in order to not stray from tradition, I will attempt to be as vague and confusing as possible.

I’m not one to keep up with today’s headlines. Sure, every now and then I’ll catch the “top stories” at the top of the hour on CNN. I may watch Anderson Cooper every so often, but that’s mainly because I think he’s a cutie. Too skinny, but cute. One of my favorite shows is Larry King Live, but even I fast forward through most of the show.

I’m drawn to non-political stories. You know the kind… the little old lady who beats up a mugger. Or the dog who saves the life of a two year old. Or the teenager who throws her newly born baby into the dumpster. Or a highly successful pastor being caught with is pants down. Or how contaminated tomatoes are now being blamed for the most recent salmonella outbreak. Those stories, as inspirational, depressing or humorous as they may be, are what catch my attention.

I don’t watch war coverage.

I just can’t. For a couple of reasons. First, it depresses me. Second, it confuses me. I’m not up-to-date on all the players and so I tend to not know/understand what this game is all about. This is my fault. I totally take complete blame for my own ignorance, denial, uninterest... or whatever you want to call it. My excuse of avoidance can only defend me so far. This I realize.

And this makes me quite dangerous.

As I was sipping my second bout of coffee this morning with a friend at the neighborhood Starbucks patio freezing my ass off, I explained to him that reading about political issues now is like tuning into a movie an hour too late. Sure I can form an opinion on what little knowledge I have gathered, but that’s possibly a risky move since I don’t know what has happened before now. The information I receive from the media is filtered through their own political agenda and I find it quite difficult to trust. Candidates up for (re)election are only going to put their best foot forward and do whatever it takes to have me believe that they will make all the bad stuff go away.

Ignorance does not hinder my right to vote.

Should it? A couple of weeks before election day, should they hand out fee copies of updated “Politics for Dummies” books? Of course, I’m sure those would even be filtered depending on who’s shucking out the bucks.

Even though I probably know more about political issues than I’m letting on, it does scare me that uninformed people are voting for issues that may affect my life. There are people who go to the polls and shade in the first available oval because… well, because it’s the first one. Uninformed OCD people will have to perfectly shade in the first available oval all the way down the list. Or maybe they’ll shade in the first, then the second, then the third… until they run out and then start the whole cycle over again with the first. Granny will vote for anyone named “Robert” because that’s the name of her favorite grandson and anyone named Robert must be a good boy.

Oie Vey.

But I hesitantly admit… I can be just as damaging. I still don’t know who to vote for governor. I always default to the Democratic Party, but over the past few years I’ve decided that wasn’t a good idea. Defaulting can lead to bad uneducated decisions. But since I’ve missed the first hour of the movie, I guess can only do my best and apologize later.

And I’m going to completely avoid the topic of the fear of stupid people hacking into the electronic voting machines. If “they” can’t avoid people from manipulating the election results, how am I going to trust that they can prevent another tall building from crumbling down.

Red states. Blue states.

We live in America where statistics are used as often as they can. We love statistics. Red. Blue. Rural. Urban. Democrat. Republican. Americans tend to vote the way their families have. A kid growing up on a farm is probably going to vote Democrat because that’s what his family did. Same goes for a person voting Republican who grew up surrounded by the great resources of a big city. If your parents are Southern Baptist… you will be, too.

Gotta respect people who have learned to make their own decisions about politics, religion and life. Just because that’s the way your momma made the meatloaf doesn’t mean that it’s the best way. Side bar: My momma does make great meatloaf and I don’t even attempt to out do her.

Competition = Choices

I believe that all these different views are good. It creates competition which can – at times – be healthy. I wish we had more competition in life. Choices on electric companies, gas companies, schools, etc. I think it would bring quality up and prices down. But who am I... I’ve already admitted my lack of knowledge on the issues of today’s society.

I just went back and re-read what I’ve thus far typed.

If being vague and confusing and avoiding specific topics was my goal from the start, I believe I’ve achieved it. I will now put this blog out of it's misery and end it. I’ve been told I have the ability to write three pages about absolutely nothing. I can write you a short essay about the description and social importance of a mere thimble. And I’m sure it’s a talent that will amount to absolutely nothing.

There is no moral to this political blog. In order to have a moral, there would have been motivation from the beginning. It lacks insightfulness (a critique I received just this morning from my friend as we downed our hot coffee). If I were to attempt to summarize this jumbled mess, it would be to say that people need to vote. And if they don’t vote, let it be due to being uninformed on the issues and not because of laziness. Don’t vote for the fear of making the wrong choice and not because it’s out of your way.

Ok, I’m done with political blogs for now.

Insomniac

2006-10-28T00:19:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

But yet, here I am.

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

Words.

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

Avoid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight...

My Latest Soapbox

2006-10-25T22:20:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

I had a relatable conversation a few weeks ago.

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

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

Two different stories. Same complaint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are all important and not important.

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

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

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

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

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

The Next Level

2006-10-22T22:24:00.000-05:00

Friendships are interesting to me.

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

Basic level.

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

Intermediate Level.

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

Advanced Level.

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

Lifetime Level.

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

I have friendships on all of these levels.

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

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

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

Exceeding Joy

2006-10-19T20:49:00.000-05:00

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

“Have you ever experienced exceeding joy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today was the day I changed my answer.

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

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

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

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

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

She came to see me today.

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

“You look great!!!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you ever misspell your own name?

2006-10-17T12:32:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-10-12T12:04:00.000-05:00

The other day I was flipping through the channels.

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

It was called “When I was a Girl”…

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

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

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

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

The documentary also brought up an interesting question:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For me, I would have to say my Granddaddy.

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

Memories are strange things to me.

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

I would catch tadpoles with Granddaddy.

As My World Turns

2006-10-08T16:49:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now…

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what am I going to do now?

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

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

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

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

That's it. I’m quitting my job.

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

Any takers?

Ohhhh How Gross

2006-10-01T14:26:00.000-05:00

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

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

Me: What color is it?

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

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

Him: Oh crap.

Me: What happened?

Him: I just stepped on a frog.

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

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

Me: Is it dead??

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

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

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

Me: That poor poor frog.

Him: Such is the circle of life.

Body Butter

2006-09-26T21:49:00.000-05:00

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

It’s about body butter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-09-25T11:13:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

Well, I find that very interesting.

You can't make this stuff up

2006-09-25T11:03:00.000-05:00

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

My phone rings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when she says...

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

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

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

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

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

Shut 'er down.

2006-09-18T22:55:00.000-05:00

I want to reboot my life.

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

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

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

I feel like my life is sometimes a fist fight.

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

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

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

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

Without a button, how does one reboot?

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

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

Who are you?

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

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

A Day in the Life...

2006-09-15T23:21:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Untitled Words

2006-09-13T22:37:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

$1000 an hour and no kissing.

2006-09-09T09:59:00.000-05:00

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

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

Her: You never know.

Me: Huh?

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

Me: ----

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

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

Recycled Leftovers?

2006-09-06T20:28:00.000-05:00

TONIGHT AT TEXAS ROADHOUSE:

Hostess: Have you ever been here before?

Me: They have, but I haven’t.

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

Me: I’m sorry… side items, what?

Hostess: Our side items are made from scrap.

Me:

Hostess: Your waitress Kim will be with you shortly.

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

Gossip

2006-08-18T05:53:00.000-05:00

A conversation I had at last night’s Mary Kay party:

Her: It’s not happening in September.

Me: I’m lost. What’s not happening?

Her: You know… the wedding.

Me: Still lost. What wedding?

Her: You know

Me: Ok. I need a little more info here.

Her: Between “name” and “name”.

Me: Ohhh… wait, I thought they had gotten married in June or July.

Her: This will be the third postponement.

Me: Did she finally tell him she’s been married five times already?

Her: Yes. Among a whole bunch of other stuff.

Me: Really? Like what?

Her: I’d rather not say. I’ve taken a vow to stop gossiping... but they aren’t living together anymore.

Me: Are you serious? You've stopped gossiping?

Her: Yes

Me: So, what is THIS? Only half gossiping? At what point would this turn into real gossip?

Her: I’m just sayin’…

Me: Well, start this stupid vow tomorrow and finish the gossip you’ve already started.”

And, of course, she did.

Leathol Weapon

2006-08-16T09:58:00.000-05:00

It’s no secret.

I’m in love with chocolate. I openly admit it to anyone who will listen. I consider chocolate my one food group and everything else as just an appetizer.

I’m not a chocolate snob. I’ll eat any kind of chocolate. Chocolate snobs only eat high priced chocolate, where as I am an equal rights for all chocolate kind of gal. I do not judge the average Snickers bar. I will not push aside a Twix. I will not roll my eyes at a generic chocolate Easter Bunny. No. They are all the same in my eyes. Chocolate.

The other day at work I was hankerin’ for something chocolate. Anything. It was like a wave of emotion that consumed me and no matter how hard I concentrated at my work, it would not go away. I’ve even been known to steal a chocolate bar from Mr. Boss Man’s office. His secretary accidentally let it slip that he keeps a stash of the good stuff hidden. I haven’t confessed to Mr. Boss Man my sins of stealing – and I don’t plan on it. I don’t plan on telling anyone. The thought of knowing his sweet secret somehow makes me feel like I have one up on him. Ok, plus I’m afraid that he’ll find a new hiding place.

So the other day I’m dying for some chocolate and I can’t seem to shake it. I’m at my desk desperately trying to self-hypnotize with my computer monitor when I overwhelmingly belt out from the bottom of my lungs, “I NEED CHOCOLATE!!!” …no reply. No words coming back to me. It was as if I was the only one who cared about my body entering the starvation mode. Ok, so maybe I was the only one who cared. I at least expected a “Shut Up”, but nooooo.

Ten minutes later I’m still sitting there daydreaming about chocolate. Thinking silently “If I could have any chocolate in the whole world, what would it be?” I made mental plans of fulfilling my chocolate fantasy just as soon as I was able to break free from work. And I was excited.

And then SHE walks into my office.

A co-worker. A woman who not only heard my loud chocolate plea, but knew the seriousness behind it. Someone who I think would be on my side. Helping me fight the battle. Cheering me on. Understanding my God-given womanly chocolate desires, as well as knowing the consequences if they didn’t get fulfilled.

SHE slithers into my office, makes direct eye contact with me and slowly exposes her evil weapon. SHE has the unmitigated nerve to enter my jail cell with a Wendy’s Frosty in one hand and a taunting spoon in the other. SHE advances towards me in a smooth calculating way… while taking big seductive bites of her chocolate ploy. I wanted to smack that Cheshire grin right off her freakin face. I now feel like we are two lionesses with one freshly killed animal between us and absolutely nothing stopping one of us from winning. I took on this challenge.

“You’re such a bitch.”

I meant it with every chocolate-starving-fiber in me. Her eyes widened and then she suddenly bursts into laughter. What? I ain’t playing, missy. I meant it. Now hand over the Frosty nice and easy before things start to get ugly.

She’s laughing uncontrollably.

Just before she became another co-worker death statistic, I realize that I’ve been had. I was the object of a down right mean joke. Turns out someone brought Frosties for all the “office gals”. All of them. Me included. She said she heard my loud chocolate plea and just wanted to play a joke by trying to piss me off.

Well, ain’t she stinkin hilarious...

The Exorcism of Wal-Mart

2006-08-14T20:29:00.000-05:00

I went to Wal-Mart yesterday for my weekly social outing. It’s a sad life when you’ve been reduced down to putting lipstick on for a trip to Wal-Mart. It’s not like I find myself having conversations with strangers. In fact, they usually piss me off. I have found that I become so incredibly self-centered while pushing my cart through this biggie sized convenient store. I always feel that people are in my way.

These are actually thoughts that ran through my mind just yesterday at Wal-Mart:

“I think I had the right-of-way there, mister.”

“No she DIDN’T just cross in front of me!!”

“Can’t he scoot that cart over instead of taking up the whole freaking aisle? Sheesh. How rude.”

“Hey, Ms. I-shouldn’t-be-wearing-a-tube-top… get your twelve fatherless kids out of my way.”

I’m not even sure why I insist on putting myself through such hell. It must be self-punishment for some reason. I keep going back for more. It’s like a bad boyfriend. He irritates the snot out of you, but you stick around because he’s convenient and there’s really no where else to go.

About ten miles straight to the back of the store, you’ll find the music and video section. They always have these big bins full of discounted DVD’s. I just love digging through these bins. I can spend a very long time burrowing through hundreds of these cheap movies and I get excited when I find one I like. I’m sure I’ve toppled over inside a bin while not knowing my butt was straight up in the air. Oh my. How attractive.

I was obviously in a dark mood yesterday while searching though a bin, because I bought: Red Dragon, Natural Born Killers and The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Ok, the last one wasn’t on sale. Paid a full price of 13 bucks. Three movies about death and evil. Hmmmmm…

I love scary movies. I really really love them. The scarier the better, too. I’m the kind of whacko that likes to be so scared that it makes me afraid to walk to my car. Sick, I know. I get bored easily with the blood-and-guts movies – Freddie, Jason, etc. I like to at least have a plot to challenge me.

So last night about 9pm or so, I turned off all the lights and watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose by myself. Alone. In the dark. Really dark. By myself. The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Yup. And I loved it.

I had never seen the movie before. Someone at work told me that she thought it was really scary – but she’s a weenie, so I wasn’t sure if I trusted her review. Since Wal-Mart brainwashes everyone through some sort of electronic-wave-star-trek-james-bond thing through the air, I bought the movie blindly... and I really liked it.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about this week's Wal-Mart trip.

Like a Virgin

2006-08-03T23:17:00.000-05:00

I am about to embark on new territory. In a split second I decided to experience something new… something I never ever have done before… something that millions of people do each and every day.

I bought fabric softener.

Yes, as much as I hate to add to the “she’s pathetic” evidence that I have stupidly exposed already on my blog, I will now admit that I am a Fabric Softener Virgin. Shocking I know. People use this stuff all the time, but I have, until now, remained at arms length away from it.

Does this stuff really work? After one load, will I be convinced that my fabrics are actually softer?

I don’t recall my mother using it when I was a child. When I was 16 or so, I was instructed that I would take on the responsibility for my own laundry, ironing, cleaning and most of my own cooking. Good decision on mom’s part. However, I don’t remember the fabric softener step in our Laundry 101 class. Receiving these responsibilities really only made me figure out shortcuts. So it’s highly possible that I ignored that portion of the lesson. I self admit that I am not a domestic queen, but I do my best. And since I live by myself, there’s no one here to complain.

I’m not anti fabric softener per say. I don’t think it’s from the devil himself. I don’t segregate my friends into two groups – the ones who use and the ones who don’t. I don’t even think it’s been a topic of conversation. That would be a pretty boring conversation. Which raises an eyebrow on why I would even consider blogging about it.

I think I’ve avoided the whole fabric softener matter because there are things that I don’t understand. I mean, why do we even have it? Why doesn’t the laundry detergent just do it all? There are even shampoos that wash and condition in one take. I can’t personally use them because it makes my hair incredibly flat and yucky – but nevertheless, these shampoos still exist. I think the detergent companies should do the same.

I was in Wally World the other night picking up a few odds-n-ends. I love WalMart. It’s got e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. I was in the laundry aisle picking up some of that wrinkle release stuff… which is another proof of my life-learned-shortcuts. I grabbed the bottle off the shelf without even slowing down and then suddenly on my right I notice a sea of fabric softeners. I stop. I stood there staring at the bottles and began to ask myself a crap load of questions…

Does it actually work?

Will my new sheets benefit?

Am I the only one in America who hasn’t used it?

Am I missing out on something here?

I decided then and there that life was too short. I needed to step out of my box and live it up. After taking a mental survey of the different products available, I decided to throw my money into Downy with Frebreze. Since I’m a fan of Frebreze, I figured this might be a great way to start. Start with what I know. With what I am familiar. What I trust. Ok, I was overwhelmed with the choices and I just grabbed it.

When I got home, I did the geeky thing and read the label. I love reading labels. I can read the same cereal box label every day as if it was going to tell me something different. As if it would change from “lowers cholesterol” to “lose ten pounds in ten days” over night. I’m too afraid I might miss some important piece of information. So, bottle in hand, I read the label in its entirety. Spanish words and all… I like to see which words I recognize, which is usually very few. When I got to the ingredients, I chuckled out load…

Ingredients: Contains biodegradable fabric softening agents.

What in the hell else would be in there? Why even include the “ingredients” on the freakin label? How vague. Does the label on your hand soap only say “contains crap that makes your hands clean”?

I haven’t used it yet, which brings up another question: Do you people just hang out at the washing machine, waiting for this infamous “final rinse” to occur? Do you have a comfy chair or do you just lean on the washer staring at the dial waiting for it to click over into the next section?

I sure hope my $5 is well invested. This stuff has 52 loads to try and convince me.