As Luck Would Have It...

I found it lying on the concrete near my front left tire.

It had so much grime caked on it I almost didn’t notice it. If it weren’t for the recognizable circular shape, I probably would have walked passed it. Gotten into my car and driven off none the wiser. There’s no way of knowing how long it had been there. No way to know whose pocket it fell out of.

I picked it up and scraped off the gunk to reveal the year. It said 1993. I’m not sure why I needed to know this. It’s not like it would make it be worth more. It’s a penny. The poorest coin we have. A stupid penny. Not even made out of copper. Not even worth one cent if melted down. But there it was in my hand. It’s new owner.

As I opened my car door and sat inside, I studied the gunk. What was all this black stuff? Tar? Old gum? Dried oil? I wondered how many people in the last fourteen years held this exact penny in their hand and contributed to its cocoon of dirt. How many lives this penny has passed through. One cent means more to some than it does others.

Even though it’s worth so little, people believe in its good fortune.

As I sat in my car with one foot still on the ground, I turned the penny over several times… as if the other side was going to look differently than it did 1.3 seconds before. I wondered how many times each day a penny is found by someone who believes in its luck.

I’m not one who believes in luck – although I use the word quite often. Keep your multicolored rabbits feet. A four leaf clover is what it is. I don’t have pictures of elephants on my walls or believe in the magic of a shooting star.

And I certainly don’t believe in the power of the penny.

Which is probably why I made the decision. Decided to give in. Take a chance. I took the road most traveled and I recited that age old saying. The same one I learned as a little girl – back when I also believed my Wonder Woman bracelets would rid off evil. No one’s ever said that saying it brings bad luck, so I had nothing to lose. I held it in my hand, closed my eyes and said it…

“Find a penny, pick it up and all day long you’ll have good luck.”

It felt silly. I chuckled as I tossed the dirty coin into my car’s cup holder which contains a billion others just like it. A billion other wishes gone unwished. Driving down the street I thought “Is it really luck if you’ve asked for it?”

Dissecting the saying brought even more questions.

“You’ll have good luck” should really be “I’ll have good luck.” Sounds to me like I’m giving the luck to someone else. And it doesn’t say what to do with the penny afterwards. Can I throw it back down on the ground and still remain lucky? If I use it to pay for a Quarter Pounder, am I just forfeiting my chance at luck? Does saying “…and all day long…” mean I have to keep it for 24 hours? Or can I keep it until I feel the luck is all used up? Or maybe until I find another penny and pick it up?

I pulled into a gas station, got out of my car and immediately stepped into a big puddle. And I was wearing sandals. Not too lucky. And a later I received a nice little speeding ticket. And pennies are supposed to be lucky? Maybe I should have shown Mr. Policeman my penny. I’m sure he would have understood.

I’m not too sure how much luck this fake copper penny holds, but I wonder if I still have those Wonder Woman bracelets.

Take Me Away!!!!!

I’m not sure if you can still buy Calgon, but I think I could be in one of their commercials right now and represent the product quite proudly.

I wouldn’t care how big the production crew and how many cameras there are. Show me a warm bath overflowing with bubbles and I’d strip down and jump in quicker than… well… quicker than I can eat a bag of those new dark chocolate M&M’s… because it’s really a coin toss which I need worse.

I don’t know why they use those perfect-haired-models in bubble bath commercials. They don’t look like they’ve had a rough day. Or week. Or month. Or life. These so-called-creative ad agencies need to use a strung out woman with six kids and a traveling husband. Distract her kids with lighters, open outlets, and sharp objects and put her in a peaceful bubble bath for 15 minutes. Let’s see if she comes out a new woman. If she does, I’m sold. Reality commercials. It should be the next fad.

Putting a jackhammer to my head just might possibly release some of the pressure.

I don’t even think I’d feel it. While spring may sprout beautiful flowers, it brings hell to my sinuses. Really, put a nail on either side of my nose and go get a hammer. I’ll wait. I wonder if Calgon has a medicinal line of products. It would be awesome if I could sink into a tub of bubbles to escape life while simultaneously treat a sinus infection. Bring me a shot of tequila while you’re at it. That always helps.

This blog is going to take me forever to write because I keep stopping to scrunch up my face. Somehow closing my eyes really tight and wrinkling my nose makes the pressure a whopping 2% better. And of course then I see dots when I open my eyes, and by the time it takes to refocus on the computer screen, I’ve completely lost track of thought.

…now where was I...

Oh, I was discussing the pros and cons of capital punishment. Wait, no I wasn’t. I was talking about how I’m in desperate need of a little R&R. A get-a-way. Time off. An escape. At least that’s where my topic was headed. Whether it’s in the form of a vacation or in a vat full of suds, I need some time to regroup.

I went on a long nature walk by the Arkansas River yesterday morning. Just me and my trusty canine companion, ChaCha, by my side. Now that I think about it, this nature walk could have jump started this whole sinus issue. Damn nature.

Camera in pocket, I wanted to be prepared in case I saw something photo worthy. But the only picture I took was of a couple of fishermen. Instead the walk turned into an hour of self-help. A prayer walk. Meditation. You know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been there. It’s that moment of truth when we finally realize how screwed up we really are. No matter how perfect we try to be, we’re all just as dysfunctional as the next.

As my not-so-modest dog took a lovely dump on the river bank, I tried to think of solutions to my life’s obstacles. I’ve been here before. I’ve blogged about it before. Why does it take us so long to learn? I realize that I’m trying to resolve issues that are out of my control. But even though things are beyond my power, doesn’t mean that I’m not directly affected by them. But then there are those times when I’m totally in control, yet I keep banging my head against the same wall.

Why do we do this? Why can’t we just fix our problems and move on? I’ve come to believe that those who say they fix their problems and move on, are lying. We are all a slave to something – be it a person, an addiction, a situation, ourselves. It gets us all. None of us are safe. We’ll criticize someone for making a bad choice and then we go home, shut the door and live silently in our own stupidity or shame.

The morning walk rejuvenated me. It made me feel productive.

So when I got home I decided to continue the theme by doing a little house cleaning. I turned on my nifty Roomba and let it run around the house vacuuming while I… well… took a nap on the couch. June Cleaver would be SO jealous. The Roomba is a marvelous invention but, like me, it gets stuck in tough situations. It gets trapped under a chair and keeps running into the same four legs until it finds a way to wiggle out between them. If a Roomba can figure out how to wiggle its way out of repeating the same thing over and over again, so can I. Right? That was a hypothetical question by the way. Your honest answer is not needed.

As much as I would love to continue this enjoyable, deep, psychological evaluation of my thoughts…

I feel like my head is going to explode any second. No more need for the nails and hammer. Surely the explosion will relieve some of the pressure. I just googled Calgon and they do still sell it. Sure wish I had some. There are several things I’d like to drown in those suds.

And I’m serious about the reality commercials. Palmolive has sure passed up some great after-Christmas-dinner opportunities to show us in real time how it "works like magic to bust away stuck-on food." And in case you’re wondering… no, I don’t consider those staged infomercials as reality commercials.

Ok, off to bury my head in between two pillows in hopes of accidentally suffocating myself. At least for eight hours anyway.

Some Things Are Just Not Cherry-Worthy

Poor lady. I don’t know why she continues to subject herself to my family’s craziness.

She’s in her eighties and lives down the street from my grandmother. She goes to church three times a week – if not more. Every Tuesday she goes to the hospital to visit anyone who needs cheering up, whether she knows them or not. She weighs all of 80lbs, soft spoken, pale as a ghost, tight curly short brown hair and is as sweet and innocent as anybody can be. And I’d bet you a million dollars she gets uncomfortable during our family’s “questionable” discussions.

She was invited to join us for Easter lunch.

However, we had to wait to eat until she returned home from church at 12:30pm. Asking my family to wait to eat for anything is considered criminal. It was only 10am when we arrived at my Grandmother’s, and you would have thought it would be a week until our next meal. Everyone bumped elbows while hovering over the turkey and ham. Picking out and eating the tiny pieces apparently isn’t considered really eating. And somehow selflessly finding these treasured slivers for each other made our own gluttony guilt free.

“Let’s not invite her next time,” my grandmother said as she “tasted” a roll. “We can’t just wait until she’s back. If we invite her next time, we’ll just tell her she can’t go to church.”

We took turns being the lookout. The lookout’s job was to stand at the kitchen window and watch for her red Cadillac to pull into her driveway. It was during my shift when she finally came home after her selfish morning of worship and praise. I yelled through the house, “She’s home!”

Moments later the phone rings. When my Grandmother answers, her voice suddenly goes up three octaves higher…

“Ohhhh hiiii honey. Ohhhh, you’re okay. You just come over whenever you’re ready. Do you need Becca to come down and walk with you?”

Wait. Whenever she’s ready? My, how Grandmother’s attitude changed. Just mere seconds ago she was salivating over the corn casserole. And what’s with her volunteering MY services? Being the youngest in the house, I guess she assumes I get around better and I felt this wasn’t the time to compare arthritis medicines.

I look at my uncle, “You go get her.”

“What… you want me to throw her over my shoulder and come back running?... Ok.”

Within a few minutes she finally arrives to the house carrying a bowl of special fruit salad. It was special because she put cherries in it. She doesn’t normally put cherries in it but thought this occasion deserved some.

Sitting at the table scarfing down our food, we had our usual off-the-cuff conversations.

My mother told a story about one of her students and it somehow turned into one of those things I’m sure the elderly neighbor feared.

Mom: He said he lives behind The Honey Hut.

Me: What’s The Honey Hut?

Grandmother: Sounds like a strip joint.

Aunt: And how would you know what a strip joint sounds like?

Grandmother: I just know.

Mom: Whatever it is, his dad buys him burgers there.

Uncle: Strip joints serve food, too.

Aunt: And how would you know that strip joints serve food?

Uncle: I just know. Where’s the phonebook?

My uncle is very inquisitive. He will ask a million questions about any topic until he feels he’s received enough to base some sort of opinion. I usually bring up a topic on purpose just to get him going.

The way-out-of-her-comfort-zone neighbor is silent as my uncle returns to the dinner table and begins flipping through the phonebook. Her eyes are down and she occasionally picks at her special fruit salad.

Uncle: There’s not “strip joint” listed in the phone book.

Mom: Try “adult entertainment.”

Uncle: Nope, not there either.

Aunt: I’m somehow pleased to know you don’t know how to look this up.

Me: Try “ho.”

Grandmother: Try “entertainment, adult.”

I don’t want to know how my grandmother knew how to find the listings of strip joints. I really don’t. My mind cannot even go there. Turns out The Honey Hut is listed under “restaurant and bar,” so the question is still unanswered. I trust my uncle will get to the bottom of this stripper matter and report back to the family.

She didn’t last long after lunch. Shocker.

She’s a sweet lady and tried very hard to change the “stripper” topic by talking about the troubles with her cordless phone. Right after the kitchen was cleaned and right before it was Sunday afternoon naptime, she fetched her bowl of leftover special fruit salad and waved her goodbyes. My uncle escorted her home so he could take a look at her phone. Turns out she just wasn’t hanging it up correctly.

I wonder if she’s looked back on today’s Easter celebration with my family and wondered if it was special enough for cherries.

I Just Love Pointless Humor

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

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

This is our exact email exchange:

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

did you want to walk the bridge today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet me in the middle

I would love to stand at the peak of Mount Everest, but I have no desire to do the climbing.

Put me in a plane and drop me off at the top. I’ll stab the icy ground with my flag pole and declare shameless victory. I’ll raise my arms in the air, do some fancy foot work, and soak in the amazing beauty that very few have seen. Some may call it cheating, but I call it avoiding avalanches, falling rocks, frostbite and lack of oxygen.

To some people the dream is the process. It’s gathering all your climbing gear. It’s the training and the focus. It’s the expectation of surviving with the chance of death. It’s the sweat, strategy and teamwork. It’s inhaling the freezing air and being warmed up by the adrenaline. It’s overcoming fear and the feeling of triumph. It’s pushing yourself to the limit and then pushing it even farther. It’s the experience of it all.

I don’t camp, much less climb mountains. I would rather be forced at gunpoint to listen to eight hours of rap music than sleep outside in a tent. And I really hate rap music. Sure, I’ll show up for the campfire and s’mores. I’ll even hold your hand and sing Kumbaya. But when it comes to nite-nite time, I’m headed either back home or the nearest hotel. Be sure to call me in the morning when you’re fixing breakfast over an open flame. But once you break out the hiking boots, backpacks, and ropes, I’m gone again.

All of this to say, every one of us has a different dream. Some of us just have larger dreams than others. While one strives to reach a mountain peak, another might desire to tackle the smaller hills. One might want to buy a Lamborghini and another to finally pay off the Pinto they bought five years ago. One person might dream of packing up and moving their life to Europe, while another might yearn for the security and stability of a family and home.

I say whatever makes you feel alive… do it.

However, my advice is to always take a keen sense of observation and level headedness. Problems follow us no matter where we are. Whether we wave our freedom flag on that mountain or choose the stability of the solid ground, if we don’t see things for their truth they will always have us in a suffocating headlock. They don’t disappear just because we’ve changed the scenery.

And yes, I’m talking about something that I have a hard time doing as well.

I have dreams. They may not be as big as yours, but they’re still dreams. They’re not financial or material. I don’t have any political aspirations. I have no desire to be a spokesperson for any particular movement and I don’t have any goals to be a CEO. I might ride in your pretty Lamborghini and may even think you’re cool for having it, but I’m not going to save my pennies to buy one.

Even though I’ve been told my emotions and thoughts are complex, I live a simple life.

I want a simple life. I do best with structure. The more structured my life, the more fun I’ve had jet setting to France, Thailand or even a road trip to Tunica. I can fly by the seat of my pants as long as I know that I’ll eventually come home. That I have a home.

I’m going skydiving soon and I would have never thought of it if my friend hadn’t mentioned she was going. Although we’re waiting for her hectic schedule to let up, I look forward to the freedom and open air while strapped to someone who has already done it a few thousand times. I didn’t even know that skydiving was a dream of mine. It kinda just happened. That’s the way most things happen in my life. I don’t know that I want something until it’s presented to me.

I’ve only had one job interview in my life. And that was almost 17 years ago. Every job I’ve had before and since has just fallen in my lap. I’ve left jobs for better offers. I’ve turned down jobs. I’ve wished for a new job and it’s somehow found me. I’ve never been without an income. I think this is a true representation of how I live my life. I sometimes don’t know that I need or want something until it’s in front of my face.

I wish my dreams were more concrete.

I wish I had a list that I can check off. As much as I would love to stomp grapes with my bare feet at some winery in France, I’ll go if the opportunity presents itself. I’m not booking my flight just yet. But if you want to go, call me. Seriously.

If I had to pick one dream, it would be love and acceptance. That’s no shocker, I know. I realize that sometimes my own fear jeopardizes that opportunity. But sometimes I feel like it will happen similar to the way my career path has. I mean, I didn’t have to suffer through climbing Mount Everest to find friends… why would I to find a guy?

I’ve done some amazing and crazy things in my life and I have no regrets. And the things that I didn’t take a bold chance on have turned out for the best. The only two things I ask for out of life are loyalty and understanding. Two things that I hopefully have proven myself of having time and time again.

And if my “big dream” in life is love and acceptance, then this is what I expect out of those closest to me. I will give it back ten fold. Promise. There are no one-way streets in my dream.

No big, tall, icy mountains to overcome. No smoke and mirrors hiding a truer meaning.

Like I said before, whatever makes you feel alive... do it.

Just look both ways before you cross the street. Don’t run with scissors. Wear clean underwear. But above all, while floating down this river of life, don’t forget those who love and accept you… no matter what.

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

Wednesday night at Backyard Burgers…

Me: This pollen has gotten everyone so sick.

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

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

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

Me: You seem normal right now.

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

Me: ………

Him: I swear!

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

Him: ….. oh yeah. I mean Barry White.

Me: There’s a big difference ya know.

Him: White. I meant White. Not Manilow.

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

Dear Diary... I chose the gym over chocolate. And I'm not sure why.

Jogging on a treadmill can either be mentally therapeutic or self destructive.

Ok, maybe not jogging. More like a fast walk. A slow jog. Slow motion run. However you view it, you’re still trapped in some weird time capsule. Nothing but you and that synthetic road ahead. We do whatever we can to avoid the boredom: ipods, magazines, television. Because let’s be honest, no one really likes spending an hour or so with their own thoughts. Of course, maybe it’s just me.

I didn’t want to go to the gym tonight.

There were a thousand other things I would rather have been doing. I’d much rather have been at Cold Stone Creamery eating some sort of big time chocolate concoction with hot fudge drizzled on top and a brownie on the side. Not to mention a long nap afterwards. I’d take a long nap over a workout any day. But I made the wise choice. The mature decision. Took the responsible option. I put on my ugly tennis shoes, grabbed my nifty-itty-bitty ipod shuffle and headed on over to the place I dread the most: The Gym. I know, I know, once you get started you’re glad you went. Blah blah blah blah. It helped that I was meeting a friend there. Hate to disappoint him. Accountability sure does suck.

I’m in the middle of listening to an audio book. Being my third visit to hell the gym this week, I’m several chapters in. This is also an incentive to go. Somehow walking around my house listening to an audio book doesn’t do it for me. There are too many other things to do and I have a hard time multi-tasking. I even have a hard time watching TV while cleaning the house. Thank God for Tivo. So I’ve decided that audio books are one way to get my chocolate-eating-butt into the gym.

Ear buds in place and my modern day walkman playing, I mentally nestled into the idea that I would be stuck there running in place for Lord knows how long. It’s different each time. Sometimes I give up earlier than I should. Sometimes I lose track of time and run longer than anticipated. I don’t ever do that on purpose. Believe me. I would rather have a Mac Truck run over my foot a few dozen times than stay at the gym a few unnecessary minutes longer.

Listening to the book tonight, my mind kept separating from the story line. Drifting off into la-la land. I finally hit the pause button because I was tired of rewinding it every few minutes to catch up on what I missed. My brain flipped through several subjects, but it decided to land on one in particular: my blogs.

“Why do I keep writing about the same topic over and over again?” I questioned as I increased the treadmill’s incline.

It seems most of my blogs are about being single.

I’m a well rounded gal (keep your gym puns to yourself, please). I have opinions on most everything and even if I don’t, I can B.S. my way through it pretty well. I may see things backwards than most, but hey, at least I see them.

Funny things happen to me everyday. Like just yesterday when my office security pass thingy fell out of my back pocket into the toilet AFTER I was finished and BEFORE I flushed. Scrubbing it with soap under hot water I thought, “I wonder if I’m the only person in the world who has ever washed their security pass with soap and water. I hope I’m not deactivating something important inside there.”

I can also be insightful. I generally am quite accurate on what type of person someone is. Sure, sometimes I’m way off base, but those times don’t count. I’m a deep feeler. I feel love deeply which scares the hell out of me. I can tap into other’s emotions quite easily. I’m sure this would give me plenty of blog material. I’m sure my friends won’t mind if I splash my assumption of their intimate feelings across my page. Names excluded to protect the guilty, of course.

There are so many different topics that I can choose to write about, but as I increased my treadmill’s speed I convinced myself that I was hanging onto this one topic way too many times. That continually expressing my sob stories of singleness was somehow giving forth the impression that I’m not whole. That I’m half. That I’m one reason shy of taking advantage of any two-for-one deal at the grocery store. That I’m somehow not complete by missing out on romantic pasta dinners at a fancy Italian restaurant.

Sure, I have my downs. Everyone does no matter what your marital status is. It’s called life. People who are married sometimes envy people who are single. Vise versa. Not too long ago someone said to me, “Becca, marriage isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. It really can suck.” I replied, “I’m sure a bad marriage like yours does suck. This is why I don’t want a bad marriage.”

I’ve said a billion jillion times that I’m in no hurry to get into a bad marriage.

Being single gives me the chance to work hard on my issues so that – hopefully – I don’t have to force someone else to succumb to the growing pains. That is the job of my friends whether they want to or not. They’ve already signed up for it.

While wishing I had brought a water bottle to the gym, I realized that writing about my singleness is no different than those who write about their children. Or husbands. Or hobbies. Or lifestyles. It’s what I know. Who I am. What I live. A part of me.

I came home from the gym and collapsed on my couch. Although thankful I went, I still would rather have had chocolate. Thank God there’s none in the house. Still wondering about how various my blog topics are, I grabbed my laptop and began thumbing through my entries. Turns out I was wrong. I rarely look back at old blogs. I don’t even want to know how many times I’ve contradicted myself from blog to blog. Glancing back has reminded me of some really funny, interesting and crazy things that have happened. Things that have nothing to do with being single. My findings made me happy.

And then it hit me.

This blog of mine is not for some stranger living on the other side of the world. It’s not written for their entertainment. It’s not for my personal friends who I know read it. They can call me on the phone if they’re interested in catching up on my life. They don’t have to read it here.

This blog is for me. It’s a creative outlet that I enjoy and need. It’s a way for me to sort through this jumbled up mess inside my brain. It’s a way for me to express my backwards view of life. I’ve always considered writing as free therapy. Who cares how many paragraphs it is. It’ll end when the words stop coming through. And it will be on a topic that I feel needs to be expressed. No matter how repetitive.

And that’s all I gotta say about that.

Mud is the new black.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know they’re out there.

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

I think I met my first inbred family today.

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

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

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

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

Boy #1: I got crabs.

Me: Wow. Really?

Boy #1: They’re ugly, too.

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

Boy #2: Is this your dog?

Me: Yes. Her name is ChaCha.

Boy #2: Is it a girl?

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

Boy #2: Is she your buddy?

Me: I guess so. Yeah.

Boy #2: So is it now a boy?

Me: Uhhh, no. She’s still a girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wasting Time in Circles

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

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

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

His email:

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

His phone call:

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

Thank God for caller ID.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I find it interesting as I write about wasting time…

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

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

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

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