My First Flower Bed: A Sad Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three: hairy legged neighbors sure come in handy.

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

And five: I still hate yard work.

I Just Love Pointless Humor

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

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

This is our exact email exchange:

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

did you want to walk the bridge today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday night at Backyard Burgers…

Me: This pollen has gotten everyone so sick.

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

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

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

Me: You seem normal right now.

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

Me: ………

Him: I swear!

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

Him: ….. oh yeah. I mean Barry White.

Me: There’s a big difference ya know.

Him: White. I meant White. Not Manilow.

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

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

She’s one of my favorite people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your shoe off.”

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

“Take the other one off.”

“Here, hold my coke.”

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

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

“No, it isn’t. They’re the same.”

“No. They’re not.”

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

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

And I was right.

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

So what if she has a funky toe?

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

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

Girl Power = More Power Than I Realized

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.

Drunk Therapy ALWAYS Ends Badly

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.

The Next Level

Friendships are interesting to me.

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

Basic level.

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

Intermediate Level.

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

Advanced Level.

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

Lifetime Level.

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

I have friendships on all of these levels.

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

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

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

As My World Turns

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now…

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what am I going to do now?

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

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

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

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

That's it. I’m quitting my job.

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

Any takers?

Ohhhh How Gross

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

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

Me: What color is it?

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

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

Him: Oh crap.

Me: What happened?

Him: I just stepped on a frog.

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

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

Me: Is it dead??

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

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

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

Me: That poor poor frog.

Him: Such is the circle of life.

You can't make this stuff up

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.

Leathal Weapon

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 Illustrated Man

I think I might have a problem. An issue. A friend referred to it as an addiction.

Ever since I was a teenager I had this overwhelmingly rebellious desire to have a tattoo. I fought that craving for many years. Not necessarily because I thought it was wrong… but rather because I didn’t know what to get. The idea of permanently inking myself was something that I felt needed some thought. Deep contemplation.

To me tattoos tell the story of someone’s life. The stories can be obvious or vague, but either way they reveal a lot. As a kid I read the book “The Illustrated Man” by Ray Bradbury. I fell in love with its stories. I believe that this was the beginning of my fascination.

After a way-too-soon midlife crisis in my early 30’s, I decided that tattoo time was here. I visited various tattoo parlors with people just to see what it was all about. I was curious of the procedure, as well as the artistic angle. I watched closely as people received their first or thirtieth tattoo. Never straying my eyes from the needle. I’m weird like that. I even stood right there as a girl got her tongue pierced. It wasn’t pleasant, but oddly very entertaining. I didn’t know the newly pierced victim, but she said she didn’t mind me watching. I will never forget the look in her eyes when that needle forced itself up through her tongue. No thank you. I think I’ll pass on that.

After much anxiety, I finally made a decision on what to get and where. I drew up my own little design and studied over it for a week or so. When T-Day had arrived, my support crew of about 10 joined me at a little classy joint called “7th Street Tattoo and Piercing”. I couldn’t have done it without them. They were cheering me on throughout the whole painful process. Yup, painful. When I told the artist that I wanted it just below my ankle bone, he warned me that it was a painful area. I went for it anyway.

I now sport a cute little black-ink-only igthuse below my right ankle bone. I felt it represented my struggles and my faith... with a little bit of rebellion thrown in. I don’t regret it one bit.

Infact…

The other day I had an email conversation with my friend I mentioned in my first sentence. We were discussing tattoos. A topic she knows very well since she is adorned with them. It’s not like she has a body suit of tattoos, but she’d win any office contest for sure.

I explained to her that I’m feeling a little unbalanced. I have this small tattoo on one side, but there’s nothing on the other. I feel a little right-heavy. I compared it to my graphic designing. Layout has to have balance. Whether it’s with color, graphic or just white space, it must be balanced. I’m not balanced.

That’s when she threw all my excuses away and said...

“No. It’s called an addiction.”

Can I have an addiction after just one? Is that possible? I’ve done pretty good in life staying away from stuff like crack, acid, and heroin. I hear that once you’ve smoked crack, you’re pretty much addicted. Does the same apply to tattoos? Surely not. Right?

Maybe she speaks from experience. Maybe she had the same issue after her first. I wonder how long it was in-between her first two. Maybe I need to set up an interview with her and ask her all these questions I have swirling around in my head. I don’t want to be addicted… just balanced. Right?

Of course, I do find it funny that I’m willing to sit through that pain again. For some reason I associate the pain with good - not bad. Good pain. The kind of pain that tells you that you’re alive. It wakes up your nerve endings. Physically and emotionally.

Wait. That’s how an addict would talk. Good grief. She’s right. I’m staying as far away from tattoo parlors as possible.

I’ll just spend the rest of my life unbalanced – in more ways than one, I'm sure.

A Little Less Conversation

I went to a great party Saturday night at a friend’s house. Lots of people, music, good conversation. Usually at our parties, the crowd starts thinning about 10pm. The responsible people decide they need to get up in the morning, leaving us scallywags unsupervised… which is why most of the good stuff happens after 10pm.

So it was just like clockwork Saturday night when we witnessed the bulk of the party-goers leaving. Now it was just us… the normal crowd. About 12 of us huddled around the table out on the deck. Little conversations sprinkled here and there. A couple of guitars playing made-up songs. All the leftover food placed in the center of the table in hopes that it gets eaten. Which it does.

Normally, one of those little conversations takes on a life. Spreading itself throughout the group. This causes people of like minds to mentally congregate… separating the crowd into teams: the losing team and the winning team. Of course both teams think they’re winning. Naturally.

This particular game was over the topic of politics. Not usually a good topic amongst friends, huh? Or maybe it was the perfect topic. Normally I would think that the two teams represented would be the republicans and the democrats. But it seems over the past few years the line that separates everyone has changed into Clinton-Haters and Clinton-Supporters. The rule is that you have to declare up front which team you’re on.

I’m not necessarily a rule follower. I sat there listening to my friends while nursing my margarita and eating way-to-many of those homemade chocolate chip cookies. It occurred to me that the topic was a little less political and maybe a little more moral.

The Clinton-Supporters bring out their briefcase of political facts which they incorporate into their usual and rehearsed “Why I Defend Clinton” speech. Normally I would think that you debate political facts with opposing political facts. But it seems to me that the “Why I Hate Clinton” team always brings up the moral issue every time as their defense. They always go straight to the “but he LIED” and then right into any other morally wrong doing.

What REALLY cracks me up that inevitably the argument always resorts to “personal” testimonies. “My cousin’s friend’s wife used to work for a guy who knew Clinton and he said that…” These unproven stories never end well either.

So here’s my problem: This is all a bunch of crap.

I’m not a politically driven person, but I do think that people are arguing the wrong fight. I’m not going to defend or chastise Clinton’s political history because, frankly, I’m not that interested. However, I am going to say something if all you do is use someone’s sexual history and those “personal” testimonials as your political argument.

If you’re going to attack a President on political grounds, use politics as your weapon. And don’t use the whole “but he lied to us… to America” line. You would lie, too. If you were placed up there in a chair in front of millions of people and asked if you had sexual relations with some intern in a blue dress, I guaran-dog-tee you that most people would have lied under that amount of pressure.

I just wish that people would use politics to fight politics. Use morals to fight morals. And that’s only if you have your own moral ground to stand on. Don’t hold your wife’s hand while politically slamming another man for immoral behavior when you have stained a few blue dresses yourself.

Whew, I’m on a roll. Get out of my way.

I did voice my opinion to the crowd Saturday night in between my regular feedings of chips and dip. Turns out there was another believer there and so we made a team of two. It was nice to have back-up.

Maybe this conversation is always brought up because I live in Arkansas. People here take the Clinton issues pretty seriously. They are either proud of him or ashamed of him. And since we ALL know him personally, we feel that our opinions are correct and validated.

After our debate sizzled out, it was suggested that we now tackle topic of religion. The group vote was “NO”. Smart people. Very smart.

One thing that I do find interesting: For not being a politically driven person, these past two blog entries have been politically oriented. Wussup wit dat?

Motive

I had lunch with a long time friend the other day. We met about 18 years ago in the gift wrapping department of Dillard's where we worked. We instantly became friends. We were both teenagers, full of life, in love with all the boys and even had plans of being roommates. We spent time searching for an apartment and went shopping for "like way cool stuff" to decorate it with. We each had that teenage-girl-sparkle in our eye that reflected the big huge dreams we had for ourselves.

We never moved in together, but our friendship grew as we got older. We shared our poetry with each other and even collaborated on a few pieces. She showed me her artwork which I always thought was brilliant. We partied - hard - and survived all those boys who we thought were sent from heaven who turned out to be from hell. I won't tell you all our stories. I'm not sure if you would find them funny or pathetic. Nevertheless, we have experienced a great deal together and I wouldn't trade her or those memories for all the chocolate in the world.

She's been married, divorced, remarried. She has a house full of kids - two of which are her's biologically. She still paints brilliantly and stays connected to her creative mind. I don't know if she writes anymore... I hope she does. She knows that she can tell me anything - and she does. I'm not a counselor, but sometimes a friend is even better.

So we had lunch the other day at Lenny’s. My favorite sandwich shop. The lady who is normally at the register wasn’t there this day. I wonder if she’s okay. Maybe she just had the day off. It was pouring rain. Pouring. We left our umbrellas leaned against the front window creating a puddle of water on the floor. We silently chuckled every time one of the umbrellas would slip to the floor when someone opened the door.

We sat there with our hot sandwiches and updated each other on our lives – all within the 60 minutes that we were alowed away from work. We talked about her husband’s traveling and how difficult it is being the only parent in the house for days at a time. How your brain gets scrambled and you tend to lose yourself in between all the after-school activities, homework and a full time job. How a maid would be nice, but it costs money. She talked about how tiring it is when it’s 9pm at night and you’ve just sat down and breathed for the first time. She’s a good mom. I see the sacrifice. I see her doing her best with her young children and a horrible ex-husband who doesn’t seem to understand how to parent. Who causes her grief in ways that I can’t go into. I see it all and wish there was something I can do. But maybe listening is the best thing she needs.

She listens to me as well. While our 60 minutes was ticking away too fast, we talked about my single life and how it sucked. I talked about how difficult it is dating in my mid 30’s. Finding someone with real passion and a good heart. I told her “it’s just never going to happen.” But inside I was thinking that it’s just got to.

She said something very interesting to me. I told her that I didn’t want to be one of those people who were always looking. I said that I’m not the type to go to the grocery store in hopes to find a man. I’m not the type to hang out in a certain establishment with the motive of finding forever love. “Motive” was apparently my word for the day because I used it several times in those 60 minutes. Over and over with different colorful words before and after. Motive. I didn’t want my motive to be to find someone to love me.

I don’t remember word for word her response. Mainly because it didn’t sink into my thick skull until much later. It’s times like this when I wish we could Tivo conversations and play it back later for more accuracy. She probably had no clue that she was saying something profound. She didn’t know that I was going to feel her words way deeper than they were given. She looked at me. She said that she understood what I was saying, but that sometimes when we concentrate too much on what our motives are NOT, it block us from seeing what things could be. If we focus heavily on what we DON’T want to be, that it causes us to avoid what we do.

Wow. Like I said, I don’t remember her exact words that I’m sure just flew from her mouth without any thought. However, that’s what I heard. That was my interpretation long after our 60 minutes were up. That’s what I’m reflecting on. And you know what?

She’s right.

Cracked, Flawed and Imperfect

Ever since I was a teenager I wanted to take pottery. Well, I finally did it. Took at ten-week class at the local arts center and absolutely loved it. I think I'll go back this fall for the second course.

I made several pieces of pottery. I actually still have some up there that I need to finish and bring home. When people found out that I was taking pottery, several of them said they wanted a piece. They wanted a customized piece of pottery with my initials carved in the bottom.

Since I can't handle the pressure of making EVERYONE a piece, I chose a selected few. I chose people who I felt understood the creative process and appreciated the piece’s flawed and charming presentation. Ok, basically I chose people who would (hopefully) love it no matter how crappy it really is.

I don't know about you, but I put a lot of demands on myself. Probably in the wrong areas of my life. Sometimes I get so worked up that the anxiety builds pretty high. Here's the thing though... I try my best to not let it show. I know. I'm lying to myself if I think people don't notice. They notice.

So, after the ten-week class was over, I had a variety of different original pieces to pass out to my selected audience. The audience that won't reject me. The people who accept my wacky creativity and love me anyway. The people who would normally consider original artwork as their "style". These are safe people. These are good people. These are people who search for the cracks and unevenness because they actually LIKE them.

As time when on after my last pottery class, these customized pieces of kilned sweat-n-tears were needing to be passed out to their designated owners. Just thinking about each exchange, my anxiety heightened. I feared that it wasn't what they expected. Afraid of the, "Oh, but I really was wanting a bowl... did you make a bowl by chance?" I toughened myself up for the pleasant, "Oh, now that's nice. What a nice piece. Thank you." As thick skinned as I was hoping to be, I quickly realized that I was a bundle of insecure mush. I had as much confidence as a bowl of jello.

So I made a mental list of my pottery victims and decided to just go for it. Just do it. Just give them that exposed tender piece of my heart and to say “to hell with you” if they didn’t like it. I did a quick google on “death by pottery giving” and turns out I was pretty safe. I straightened my shoulders, held my head up high, walked with confidence, and with my shaking hands I handed each one of those suckers over to my judge and jury.

What was so crazy about this whole experience is that these kind souls actually loved their pieces. Each one expressed in their own way their appreciation and made my exaggerated anxiety unjustifiable. I was secretly taught that I wasted a lot of good energy.

Why is it that we define ourselves by how others view us? Why is it that we put our self worth into their hands? Why is it that a couple of bad experiences as a child turns into a life time of doubt?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m one lucky person to have some great people around me. This makes me wish I had given pieces to those other people who didn’t make the receiving list. Makes me wish I had opened myself up emotionally and creatively to others.

Who knows, maybe those pieces I still have up at the arts center have a chance to be gifts.