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

She’s one of my favorite people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your shoe off.”

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

“Take the other one off.”

“Here, hold my coke.”

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

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

“No, it isn’t. They’re the same.”

“No. They’re not.”

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

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

And I was right.

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

So what if she has a funky toe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, now I’m in trouble.

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

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

His birthday is Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Importance of a Pinky

The whole thing started with the junk room.

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

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

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

It was a messy mixture of crap.

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

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

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

Everything else was thrown into a dumpster.

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

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

What surprises me is that I never freaked out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...and I want my own dressing room!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.