My Friends Call Me Bacon

Genie Bra Let Down

2012-01-18T12:04:00.000-08:00

There are not enough words to describe how upset I am that I have to write this post.

Bereaved.
Bitter.
Cheerless.
Doleful.
Forlorn.
Languished.
Morose.
Sorrowful.
Troubled.
Woebegone.

Okay, maybe there are enough words, and you betcha I just used the thesaurus. I won't beat around the bush anymore; I'll just say it.

The Genie Bra sucks.

*gasp*

I know, I know, my endorsement in this post was overwhelmingly positive. But that was before I washed and dried it. Genie Bra says - throw it in the washer and dryer. Well, guess what....after only one cycle of washing and drying the Genie Bra has lost all it's support.

I jump for a living. Literally. As in I go to work and actually jump up and down with children.

My once washed and dried Genie Bras now offer the support of an oversize sweatshirt. As in zero.

Although generally still comfortable, the elastic band around my once washed and dried Genie Bras have also started rolling up. And my boobs, also, no longer look super sexy. My once washed and dried Genie Bras are now flattening me like a typical sports bra.

What a bust...

This genie owes the insomniac female population an apology.

Save your money and your hopes and dreams for a real bra, ladies.

Create.

2012-01-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

Patti Digh is one incredible girl. Last spring I attended one of her retreats, and this past summer I attended one of her workshops. Life changing I tell you. Life changing.

She purposed two great questions for the new year:

(1) What do you need/want to let go of in 2012?

(2) What do you want to create in 2012?

I love this idea of answering these questions in lue of the traditional New Year's resolutions.

My answer to number (2) is an overwhelming desire to create art.

In 2012 I want to make things. Lots of things.

What do you want to create in 2012?

Super Genie Bra Give Away (yay!)

2011-12-04T09:36:00.001-08:00

It finally happened.

The arrival of the Genie Bra was even more thrilling than I expected. I'm not ashamed to say I squealed with delight and did a little happy dance when the hubs handed me the package. I immediately ran to the bedroom to try on my new loot.

I talk about ordering the Genie Bra here. I am now going to talk about wearing the Genie Bra.

As soon as I put it on, I was overwhelmed with comfort. I took it out for a test drive and jumped up and down. Now, that's support.

I ran to the kitchen and jumped up and down for the hubs.
"Watch this! Watch this! Look at the support!"

Folks, I was amazed. Not only is it supportive, and super sexy, it is so comfortable. Man is it comfortable. It's safe to say I didn't know what comfort was until I put on the Genie Bra.

Conveniently, I hosted a party last night so I was able to demonstrate for all the girls. I jumped up and down. "Watch this! Watch this! Look at the support!"

Conveniently for them, the Genie Bra became the super sexy party favor. I did, after all, have six.

When I was gushing about the comfort they asked a valid question. "Do you think your current bras are uncomfortable?" No. Well not until the Genie Bra. I didn't realize how uncomfortable my "comfortable" bras were until I put on the Genie Bra and experienced real comfort.

Look up comfort in the dictionary and this is what you'll find:

I came across this review website. I am flabbergasted 65% percent of people said the Genie Bra sucks. Let me tell you something. It so does not suck.

I am surprised to report it's not as ugly as I anticipated. I can't go all the way out on a limb and say it's sexy, but let me tell you something, ladies. I have a new definition of sexy:

Comfort is sexy.

I am super excited to offer you my second My Friends Call Me Bacon super blog give away!

If you wear a size medium shirt, message me your address and I will be super overjoyed to send you your very own super Genie Bra in white.

These are not my boobs but they sure look super in the Genie Bra.

The bottom-line:

The Genie Bra = Super

Thanks, Big Buy

2011-11-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

I am thankful for YOU.

That is all.

Three Wishes

2011-11-21T09:08:00.001-08:00

Insomnia, you have been my friend for a long time.

Thanks to you, six years ago I tried Bare Minerals before it was available in stores. You had me at, "swirl, tap and buff."

About 2am last night you gave me another great gift.
The Genie Bra.

Thanks to the special, "call now offer" I will be receiving, in a short three to six weeks, not one, but six genie bras. That's right...six Genie Bras. Two whites, two nudes, and two blacks.

The Genie Bra promises a lot. For walking, running, and standing states a happy Genie Bra convert. Her claim: "One Genie Bra will replace an entire drawer of bras." She had me at, "standing."

Size A or size DDD...it works for all. Simply order your shirt size. This seems strange to me, but apparently the patented interweave lock system is to thank for this one size almost fits all feature.

Bottom line boobs are kind of weird, but the Genie Bra is confident it can make even the weirdest boobs look great.

By far the greatest thing about the Genie Bra is how sexy it is.
Lace? No way. Fuchsia? Forget it.
Nude sports bra? I think yes.

Who would want to wear a 2.5 million dollar bra covered in 142 carats of yellow and white diamonds:

The Victoria's Secret 2011 Fantasy Treasure Bra

When you can wear this:

Watch out Miranda Kerr and Victoria's Secret...I've got the Genie Bra (in a short three to six weeks).

Never Stop Twirling

2011-11-17T13:31:00.001-08:00

My very awesome niece is going straight from school, tomorrow, to get her license. She will be driving around Polly the Pontiac - an orange dream on four wheels.

Although I am Aunt Beck, and not her mother, I am still experiencing the, I-can't-believe-you're-so-grown-up-syndrome.

When she was three, she would only wear dresses that twirled. It could be ten below zero and this girl would insist on playing in the snow in a twirl dress. You could also present her with the most beautiful dress, but if it didn't twirl just right it would be rejected.

Little Girl Twirling Dress by Debra Hurd

For Christmas she asked for two things. A pink angel whistle (no one could figure out what the hell a pink angel whistle was) and a floor length mirror so she could watch herself twirl.

This girl knew what it was all about.
She still does.

Love you, my lady!
(don't text and drive)

The Silent Project

2011-11-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

I have always wanted to go to a silent retreat.

I know this is a somewhat bizarre desire. Whenever I mention it to someone they that get that "huh?!" look on their face. "That's weird, why would you want to not talk?"

I am so talky talky I'm curious to know what it would feel like to be...silent...for days.
The hubs was out of town a few weekends ago and so I thought I'd throw myself my very own private Silent Staycation.

I got pretty excited about this prospect. I imagined myself sitting on the floor (in lotus position of course) alone with my thoughts (completely enlightened of course).

But then something happened.
I panicked. Full on panic attack.
Haven't had one of those babies in years.

Really? It's that scary to be silent? Apparently so.

Me, silent, for the entire weekend? Didn't happen.
Oreos for dinner and viewings of Dirty Dancing and Footloose (the original and the remake)? I think, yes.

Baby steps...

Baby Steps by Donna Thomas

Have you ever been silent for days?

We're All Connected - Call Me Hope

2011-11-14T12:30:00.001-08:00

Some things just have a way of brightening your day.
This is one of them.

click here

Thanks to Mama Hope for being such an awesome organization.

P.S. You're Cute.

2011-11-11T08:47:00.001-08:00

How fabulous this this?

I will admit I have done my fair share of "secret admiring."
I am guilty of doing the occasional drive by in high school.
Oh come, on you did it too.

For all of 6th, 7th, and 8th grade, one of my gal pals had a crush on Nick. We would casually go on walks...the "scenic (see nick) route."
That's what we called it. I know, we're so clever.

For my entire elementary school career I had a major crush. He lived down the street. I know what you are thinking, oh, how convenient. Yes it was. For years I left multiple secret admirer notes in his mailbox. Notes that said things like:

Your cute.
Love,
Your Secret Admireer (I was a bad speller)

At my ten year high school reunion I fessed up to all the boys I ever crushed on. The conversation went something like this:

"I had the hugest crush on you. Because you're so stinkin' cute."

I thought this was a great idea. Seriously, how is not the greatest idea of all time? But for some weird reason the hubs was embarrassed. Our conversation went something like this:

"OMG you are so embarrassing. This is creepy. I'm standing next to you while you do this."
(He didn't really say OMG, because he's not a teenage girl, but he meant it)

Am I creepy? Maybe a tab...but you love me for it.

p.s. You're cute.
Love,
Your Secret Admireer (I'm still a bad speller)

How To Be Awesome

2011-11-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

I truly love the bizarre google box searches that lead you to this blog.

Not only does, "Justin Bieber naked on the toilet" bring you here,
but so does, "make your own pilgrim hat,"
and simply, "Jesus."

Justin Bieber, Pilgrims, Jesus...yup, that about covers it.

But since you asked:
make your own Pilgrim hat...

(Step 1)
Whip out some construction paper.
Pilgrim hats are traditionally black, but don't let that limit you.
Purple? Sure. Green? You bet.

(Step 2)
Using scissors is the easiest, but if you feel like a challenge use your teeth. Cut (or eat) the paper into a hat shape.

(Step 3)
Glue, tape, or use magic to affix any decorations you might enjoy.
I usually put a band of cream paper on the hat but feel free to get creative. Charms? Glitter? The more the merrier, we are, after all, celebrating Thanksgiving.

(Step 4)
Pin your awesome construction paper hat onto the real hat of your choice. This works a lot better than trying to make the entire hat out of paper. An entirely paper hat often rips or isn't quite tight enough and ends up around your neck.

(Step 5)
I can't recommend enough the addition of an Indian headdress. This meal is about the Pilgrims and the Indians. The best thing about the Indian headdress is that you get to pick out an Indian name. Pilgrims have boring names like Thomas and William, but Indians have awesome names, like "Runs With Cats."

(Step 6)
You are now officially awesome...eat some pumpkin pie!

Give Away (yay!)

2011-11-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

I have discovered a new bliss...

...cutting up old books and pasting them on to old blocks.
I didn't know I could have so much fun.

On of my goals of 2010 is to create art and then give it away.
However, who knew giving away art could be so hard.
I started to feel shy...what if people don't want blocks?

So in lieu of giving away art I recently started an etsy shop.
I am going into the hole with these blocks, as old books and old blocks can be expensive, and I insist on free shipping...so I am sort of giving away my art.

This is what my guest bedroom looks like.

I can't decide if this room should be renamed my studio or my workshop. Nonetheless, it is very messy, and filled to the brim with bliss.

I also, joyfully, find little tiny words around the house. Stowaways, from the bedroom.
In the kitchen I found, "and so she."
In the hallway i found, "laughed and laughed."
In the bathroom I found, "shall we?"

Few things make me happier than telling stories, and I can't currently think of anything that makes me happier than telling these stories on blocks. I'll admit it probably has something to do with Mod Podge.

This glue, in itself, is amazing and has the power to evoke great joy.
I can recommend, nothing more, than using Mod Podge.
I am not exaggerating when I say this is what dreams are made of.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.

But trust me, buy Mod Podge immediately and see for yourself it's grand joy evoking properties.

So all this jibber jabber to announce my first blog give away!
That's what bloggers do, right?

Visit WordArtByBacon, pick out a block, message me your address, and I will send you the block of your choice.
Now, don't you be shy...

Yay for creating art and then giving it away!

After creating all these blocks, I decided to write a love story.
See below.

cat nap

2011-11-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

I have been waiting four and a half years for my cats to turn into lap cats.

There is nothing quite like having a kitty on your lap.
There is nothing quite like having a kitty on your belly while you take your own cat nap.

It was worth the wait...

The Truth About Wrinkles

2011-10-30T11:05:00.000-07:00

It's good to look your age.
Skip the Botox...

because you earned those laugh lines...

You're beautiful, and life is short; have a chuckle; don't ever hold a single moment of laughter back...

1..2...3...Jump!

2011-10-26T08:48:00.000-07:00

A dear friend directed me to the greatest website on Earth.
Jump. Because.

Why jump?
Besides the fact I jump with children for a living, that everyday at work children squeal with delight as their feet leave the ground, I jump for reasons beyond a paycheck.

I jump because it is my bliss.
Because there is no other way to feel more alive.
See below.

Why do you jump?

Watch Out World

2011-10-19T09:18:00.000-07:00

When we get out of our own way who knows what we are capable of.

Sometimes that's all it takes...

So get out of your own way...share with the world the gifts you have been lent.

Breathe In...

2011-10-11T12:27:00.000-07:00

But then again who doesn't?
Go ahead, suck in a biiiiiiig breath...

Bieber Poops

2011-09-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

In the past thirty days, fifteen different people have been directed to this blog by searching, "Justin Bieber naked." Really people? First of all, he's only seventeen. Secondly, really people?

Justin can't believe it.

I thought the naked inquires were a bit much until someone searched "Justin Bieber on the toilet." But there's more.
Someone searched "Justin Bieber naked on the toilet."

Justin is appalled.

Is that what the kids are doing these days? Pooping naked? If so, I'm really behind the times. Speaking of pooping, someone searched "Does Justin Bieber's poop smell?"

Despite what Justin, his mother, Usher, or Selena Gomez may think, his poop probably doesn't smell like violets. I'm guessing it smells like...poop. His poop most likely doesn't sing either, in case that was going to be the next search. But maybe that's an idea for his next album?

Justin thinks it's a great idea.

As far as the naked searches go, let's keep it G rated folks, this isn't that kind of blog.

Irene Flashdance

2011-09-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

Flashback...I posted about the anticipation of Irene.

And then she came and went.
We lost power for five days. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches and pancakes made on our camping stove, and played board games by candlelight where I might, or might not, have gotten drunk.

We lost power because stuff like this happened.

We spent two nights at a friend's house.

Lucy was hoping to come along and packed herself in my overnight bag.

Only living in the Midwest or in Californina, along the Peaceful Pacific, I had never experienced a hurricane or tropical storm before. I will admit it was a tad exciting. If I closed my eyes it sounded like the roaring of the ocean. Except it was only the wind as it relentlessly whooshed through the trees, bending the branches to their limits and rattling the leaves. It was surreal having ocean front property in the middle of Annapolis.

I love a good storm. I don't wish the destruction that comes along with it, but watching the storm, on the balcony, was quite cozy.

Irene put on quite a good show.
Mother Nature sure knows how to dance.

Math is Fun

2011-09-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

A weekend math lesson...

1 city

*PLUS*
2 sisters

*PLUS*
3 days

*PLUS*
4 restaurants

*PLUS*
5 different kinds of crab

*PLUS*
6 million glasses of wine

*EQUALS*
A ridiculously good time.

Oooooh math is fun!

Irene, Irene, Banana-Fana Fo-Fene

2011-08-27T12:01:00.000-07:00

Waiting for Irene...

Is a rain slicker and umbrella in a third story living room a bit much? Perhaps, but I'd like to be prepared, and I admit, I am hoping to get a chuckle from the hubs when he gets home from work.

In the name of necessary preparation, I just got home from the wine store.

Rain slicker, umbrella, wine - Irene I am ready for you.

Bust a Move

2011-08-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

When in doubt, dance.

Ants With a Mission

2011-07-28T13:32:00.000-07:00

I love peonies. I really really love peonies.

I love their bobbly head blossoms.

I love the vast meridian of colors in which they can bloom.

In elementary school I brought peony bouquets to my teachers on the last day of school, the stems carefully wrapped in sopping wet paper towel and tin foil.

But most of all, I love that they can not exist without ants. Ants, normally thought of as a nuisance, existing in this world to silently make sure each peony can bloom.

The Coast, Some Wine and a Haiku

2011-07-15T09:04:00.001-07:00

My mom and I went on a vacation to California. Just the two of us.

We drove along the Big Sur Coast and drank wine.

We saw realllly old trees, (900 year old tree)

one hundred and ninety-three harbor seals,

and listened to crashing waves.

We sat in wooden chairs in the middle of a babbling creek,

and on a bench, on a cliff, where the beauty, cliche as it is, literally took our breath away.

We watched the water turn from turquoise,

to blue,

to golden, as the sun went down.

Each day we took gobs of pictures a wrote a haiku.

The Sunset

We wait patiently

Anytime now, says the sun

The water turns gold

The Waiter

Ex-radio host

He lives here for the ocean

He is fifty-three

The Slough

We looked for the seals

One hundred and ninety-three

So cute and stinky

Our Trip

Sad to say goodbye

It was a fabulous trip

Mother and daughter

Hope to see you soon, California...

Sweet Dreams

2011-07-08T17:28:00.001-07:00

Never quit dreaming...

Make a Difference

2011-07-07T09:03:00.001-07:00

I wouldn't call myself an Oprah fan. I just don't get somebody who puts themselves on the cover of their magazine every single month. Okay you got me, I might possibly be holding a tiny grudge that she snubbed me in Beverly Hills twelve years ago. Living in L.A. gave me the joyous experience of being snubbed by many celebrities, but by Oprah? I mean one would expect to get snubbed by Tori Spelling, in the Halloween section of Rite Aide, at 10:30 on a Tuesday night, but Oprah?

I've never read her magazine because she puts herself on the cover every single month and frankly that just irks me. Oh wait, did I already say that?

A facebook friend, who also happens be a real friend, posted an article from the February 2011 issue. In case you're not sure which one is the February issue, it's the one with Oprah on the cover.

The article is by Martha Beck, a life coach with the monthly column, Restroom Garfitti, in O Magazine. She challenges us to ask ourselves 20 questions. There are two questions that really stood out for me:

1) "How do I want the world to be different because I lived in it?"

2) "How do I want to be different because I lived in this world?"

How utterly fabulous. Living with intention completely changes our lives. We are powerful enough to change the world. We really are. I mean, granted, we're not Oprah or anything, we might not be able to open schools in Africa and give away cars, but we can change the world in small ways.

So how do we want the world to be different because we were here, and how do we want to be different because we are here?

How would our lives be different if we asked ourselves those questions every single morning?

My conversation with myself went something like this:

What do I want? Really want?

A milkshake.

No - focus! What do I want in this life?

An oreo milkshake?

Hey - be serious. This is serious. This is Oprah stuff. Oprah is a very serious person.

Okay, okay, let me think a moment...

I want to make some part of this little huge world a tad more beautiful. I want to see beauty, feel beauty, be inspired by beauty, and then make a little beauty of my own.

I want to create and witness beauty...and an oreo milkshake.

What about you?

The Evolution of...Us

2011-06-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

We met nine years ago today.

I fell for him during the hookie pookie.

I stole him from his date. Oops...

The night he asked me to go steady.

You bet there was a rose and a poem...

The night our fate was sealed.

I caught the bouquet and he caught the guarder...

The night he proposed on Marriage Island.

I was surprised...sort of...

On Sunrise Beach, Paradise Island, Bahamas.

One of our first married kisses...

Our fifth anniversary when we returned to the scene of the crime.

Just how I remembered it...

Six (official) years in and we're still smiling (most of the time)...

Man am I lucky...

Your Search - My Entertainment

2011-06-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

I'm thrilled the following searches lead you to this blog:

"call me toilet paper"
If you insist.

"Justin Bieber bath suit"
What on earth is a bath suit? Do you mean bathing suit?

"me hot in pajamas"

I don't want to sound insulting, but simply searching "me" will not lead you to websites about yourself. That is unless you are this hot tamale.

"anything with spoon(s) in it"

Huh? You searched it, buddy, not me.

"call for a good time anytime"

Thanks for the offer!

"a girl called me burnt bacon because i tan. what should i say back to her?"

How about this?

I'm so glad to be of service to you, bizarre google box search people.

I hope you found what you were looking for.

Starburst

2011-06-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

I, seat 18 A, had a heart to heart with Steven, the legal dog bite expert, in seat 18 C.

"Life is a dance," he said, "it really is...but that doesn't mean you always have to be dancing."

Then, quietly together, we shared his pack of Starburst somewhere over the Grand Canyon.

I am a person of few rules, but one of my steadfast rules is:
Make airplane friends. No exceptions.

Bacon Bash

2011-06-20T20:48:00.000-07:00

I've got the best friends. Ever.
'Nuff said.

A Fathered Remembered

2011-06-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

He was young when he died. Only 46. I was in 5th grade.
It was Mother's Day and we were going to make my mother asparagus soup.

I've lived 20 years without him, now.
He was a good dad.
We went on bird walks, and on Sundays he made bacon.

Every night he tucked me in. "Sweet dreams, my angel," he always said.

I miss him. It's a certain kind of pain that doesn't ever really go away.

Happy Father's day, daddy.

Sweet dreams, my angel...

For A Good Time Call...

2011-06-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

I talk on the phone a lot. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. I started thinking about how much telephone communication has changed in my mere (almost) thirty-two years.

For starters, when I was little, we talked on a phone with a cord.

There was a chair near the phone where you sat. That was it. You didn't walk around; you didn't drive; you didn't sit outside; you didn't clean the toilet; you didn't use the toilet; you sat in the gold chair. The same chair I got sent to when I was bad. The same chair I peed in because I was suppose to "think about what I did" when I was bad and I'd be damned if anyone was going to tell me what to think about. That's right, I'd just pee instead.

Anyways...

Shortly after we got a cordless phone with a huge ass antenna.

This was amazing. The cordless phone base had an intercom that sat on the kitchen counter. This was also amazing. I would set up a table on the front porch and repeatedly call my mom on the intercom to bring me things. This was my version of dining at a fancy restaurant. This is also all the proof I need that I have the galaxy's best mom.

This cordless phone also gave me the awesome ability to sit on the curb of my driveway and talk on the phone to my girlfriend, sitting on the curb of her driveway, on her cordless phone, directly across the street. It was really great to hear her live in my left ear and over the phone, slightly delayed, in my right ear. We could do this for hours.

But we didn't do it for hours because there was no such thing as call waiting and I had an older sister who was almost always waiting for a call. Getting a busy signal had to have been one of the most annoying experiences. Most annoying next to not getting an answer at all. That was soon remedied with the invention of the answering machine. My sister's boyfriend sang, in falsetto, to the melody of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, "Nobody's home, nobody's home, leave a message, and we'll call you back." This, too, was amazing. Obviously.

I was delighted this picture showed up when I image searched answering machine.

After call waiting and answering machines came the menage a trois of phone calls - three way calling. Now this was a good time. When I had mono freshmen year of high school and missed school for an entire month three way calling was quite entertaining. Any time someone was home from school they'd call me and we'd call everyone else who was home from school. One day, during my daily prescribed dose of Doogie Howser, we had ten people on the line - each person using their their three way calling to add more individuals to the call. Good time? I think yes.

Three way calling, however, led to the possibility of spying. Any time your phone rang there could be a secret listener. I learned the hard way, roughly fifteen times, to never answer "yes" to the question "Are you mad at ______?"

I met my high school boyfriend on three way calling. My mother thought this was so high tech and loved to tell people how "modern" I was.

Then what? Then a little invention called *something. I don't remember what number it was but you could dial *some number and it would automatically call back the number who just called you. This put an abrupt end to prank calling. It was a very disappointing time for me because no one loved to prank call more than me. It also put an end to calling a boy you liked and hanging up as soon as he said hello. Again, very disappointing.

If *something wasn't a risky enough reason to stop prank calling along came Caller ID. Caller ID seemed like something from the future. You can know who's calling you before you answer? What is this 2000 and infinity? Nope. It was 1990 something. When you made a prank call and someone said, "You better quit calling because I have a tracer" it was finally real. People had "tracers."

I don't know who John Smith is but he is the example on all Caller ID pictures.

So what came next? Pagers. Pagers led to the very annoying experience of having to search for payphones. Payphones. Remember those?

In case you are not familiar this is a payphone. And when I used them they were $.25 a call.

When I was little it was my dream to do this. Okay it still kind of is.

The World Record for "phone booth packing" is twenty-five people. "Phone booth packing" was the thing to do in 1959.

Pagers began our modern experience of always being able to be reached. Once you paged someone, you knew they knew you wanted to talk to them. In my opinion this was the beginning of the end. But in all fairness it was the beginning of another source of fabulousness. Paging people things like 800813 which looked like BOOBIE if you turned your pager upside down. Silver lining people.

After high school I got rid of my pager at the same time people started getting cell phones. I didn't get a cell phone until 2003. I was the last person I knew to get a cell phone. Now I'm the almost the last person I know to not have a smart phone. Smart phones blow my mind. The internet on your phone? Seriously? Amazing. And by the way, I may poo poo being able to be reached at any time but being able to be on the internet any time is plain awesome. Knowing my history I'll probably be the last person I know to get a smart phone too. Or April of next year when I'm available for an upgrade.

What will be next? Perhaps when this little girl is (almost) thirty-two we will be making phone calls by simply pushing a button on our foreheads.

Occasionally I long for the days when not being home means I'm unreachable. When I get home I'll check my answering machine and call you back on a phone with a cord. Wait, what? Nevermind. Call me anytime you want. I have a very high answer rate.

Now who wants to cram in a phone booth with me?

Great Deal

2011-05-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

Who would pay FIVE American dollars for a regular old can of warm diet pepsi?

This girl.

I think it is quite a testament to my diet pop problem and, yes, that's POP not SODA. I would like to think the view made this regular old can of warm diet pepsi worth the $.25 per sip.

Mmmmm...diet pop.
Mmmmm...the ocean.

Egg Head

2011-05-22T11:10:00.001-07:00

My blog statistics have shown another important question has been asked: "Why do my mates call me an egg?"

This is a strange question, yes, but I am going to do my damnedest to help you out.

First things first, does your birth picture look like this?

Does your brain look like this...

Instead of this...

Do you by any chance wear barrettes like these?

Or perhaps have this tattoo?

Do you say, "Go fry an egg!" when you want someone to leave you alone?
Do your refer to your savings as a nest egg?
Do you egg people on or put all your eggs in one basket?

If you answered yes to any of these questions we might be on to something. If you answered no to these questions...well...I just don't know. Ask your mates.

Yum...

2011-05-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

I found quite a compelling, very accurate, and all inclusive website about bacon:

IsBaconDelicious.com

On a side note, wouldn't it be great to have one of these?!

I love mud

2011-05-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

Cindy Lauper says, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."

And boy do we ever...

What is more fun than mud? Crawling and swimming through mud that is. AND in a costume to boot! This past weekend I did just that with one of my besties at the Run Amuck Festival.

We had so much fun we almost died.
See below.

The beer garden may have had gross beer, but it had a great view.
See below.

Want a near death by joy experience?

If so, sign up for a race near you!
See below.

You asked...I answered (sort of)

2011-03-28T10:39:00.001-07:00

I blog quite infrequently. I realize, perhaps it's TOO infrequently, because you are turning to me with some very important questions. I realize, also, I only have six readers, but my six readers, you need guidance. Well, you're not actually "my readers," you're random google box searchers, but nonetheless guidance you need. My blog stats show what search words, or often search questions, lead you to my blog and recently you have asked:

Which came first, bacon or Jesus?
Which came first, Jesus or the Easter Bunny?
AND
Wooden spoon broke on me am I invincible?

These are all such important questions that I hardly know where to start!

I am going to leave the Jesus Easter Bunny situation for a different day closer to Easter. If you can't wait until then, ask your mom. Perhaps a bunny cartoon or a story about my grandma and the Easter Bunny may hold you over as well.

Which came first:

Bacon...

bacon...

or Jesus...

But maybe this is the wrong question.

Maybe we should be asking about a Bacon Jesus...

Yes, a Bacon Jesus. Toby Elles, a 22 year old from Salford, Lancs, England accidentally fell asleep on the couch after a few beers, and woke up to a house full of smoke and a Bacon Jesus. He claims,

"It's some kind of miracle."

Yup, that's some kind of miracle alright.

Forget about walking on water, healing the ill, raising from the dead, and all that jazz.

Making a self portrait out of burnt bacon - MIR-A-CLE.

You can read the whole story here.

So what came first? Bacon or Jesus? I didn't answer your question, did I? I don't know. Seriously, ask your mom.

But I do know people like to assume that Jesus likes bacon because you can get all kinds of stuff like this mug:

Or this fabulous shirt for your dog:

I would say these people must be correct in their theory. If Jesus, himself, is choosing bacon as his medium for self portraits he must like it. Don't you think?

In my bacon Jesus search I came across a lovely way to honor Jesus with bacon. Or a lovely way to honor bacon with Jesus, which ever your prefer.

Moving on to wooden spoons...

Yes, you may in fact be invincible; but, I don't recommend jumping off a bridge, in a straight jacket, set on fire just yet. I think this could have a lot to do with the particular wooden spoon. There are a heck of a lot of wooden spoons out there. If the spoon looked anything like the spoon below you probably are invincible, but I still don't recommend acting like you are just in case it turns out your not. We would miss you too much.

Anymore questions?
I'll do my best. If I don't know the answers, I'll ask my mom.

It’s a Chromosomal Thing

2011-01-10T22:31:00.000-08:00

It’s true. I have been diagnosed with Bieber Fever.
Some, or many, or many many, believe this should be an embarrassing confession.

But nope.

I’m 31 and I have the Bieber Fever.

It’s so severe my eyes turned red.

The best part is I didn’t even know he existed until this past August, watching ondemand music videos, after a day at the pool fueled with a steady stream of pina coladas.

One instant – one chord – one word – that’s all it took.

And that word was…
BABY

The problem is that it’s just so damn catchy. Only having roughly four lines, that say roughly the same thing, makes it easy to sing along.

Baby, baby, baby, oh
Like baby, baby, baby, no
Like baby, baby, baby, oh
I thought you'd always be mine, mine

And let’s face it.

You can’t not sing along.

I’ll prove it.

Do I even need to mention that it’s in a bowling alley? AND has a teeny bop hot pool table scene? But let’s keep it rated G, folks, the last scene has some serious hand holding.

Bieber Fever – be careful.
It’s contagious.

I’ll leave you with a little Baby Bieber. I dare you to not catch the Baby Bieber Fever. But it’s not just contagious – they’re also doing studies about a genetic link. Don’t blame me, blame my mother.

Won't...

2010-10-12T16:28:00.001-07:00

New Kids on the Block 2011 Cruise:

How does this keep happening to me? Year after year after year...

This is the ship I won’t be on.

This is the towel swan that won’t be on my bed.

This is where I won’t be going.

These are the fine men in their finest cruise wear I won’t see.

This is Joe in his bathing suit I won’t see.

This is the lotion I won’t be rubbing on his back.

This is when he won’t be ripping off his shirt for me.

This is the song he won’t be singing me.

This is the spaghetti dinner we won’t be sharing.

This is the little black dress I won't be wearing.

This is the goodnight kiss we won't have.

This is the blog he won’t be writing about how amazing I am.

But next year, next year I will be on that cruise so help me God.

Hear Me Roar

2010-09-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

It is easy to forget we have the strength
to do the things we need to do.

It is easy to forget we have the strength
to do the things we have always wanted to do.

But there is nothing we can not do.

We are strong.
We are invincible.
We are woman.

Here is a reminder.
Play it again and again and again until you believe it.
Play it again and again and again until you feel the strength in your heart.

Then play it one more time to sing along.

Ladies, this one is for you…
Words and Music by Helen Reddy and Ray Burton (slightly edited version)

Whether it's with Carrie Bradshaw, Bert, or Helen Reddy herself, sing along. LOUD.

I AM WOMAN
I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an' pretend
'cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna keep me down again

CHORUS
Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul

CHORUS
Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin' arms across the land
But I'm still an embryo
With a long long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

CHORUS
Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

FADE
I am woman
I am woman
I am woman
I am woman
I am strong
I am invincible
I am strong
I am invincible
I am woman
I am woman

Birthday Bacon

2010-07-07T10:56:00.000-07:00

"Make lots of wishes, then make them come true."
-C.Hawthorne Flaherty

And it was Fabulous

2010-05-14T11:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday something fabulous happened. I heard a screech and a splash. I rushed to the balcony and found three very happy individuals in the swimming pool. I’m not talking about the three ducks who make our swimming pool their home April through May. I am talking about three very delighted human beings living in the moment.

There is a detail that made this situation even more fabulous. It was raining. It was a gorgeous, steady, spring shower. The other detail that makes this event ever so fabulous is that the pool fence is locked and, therefore, they are deviants. I’m sure I don’t have to point out how often deviant behavior becomes some of life’s greatest moments.

One of the girls yelled to the others, “It took my breath away! Did it take your breath away?” This is a textbook indication something is fabulous; it sucks the air straight out of your lungs.

They hopped out of the pool. One girl pulled up her sopping socks, the other two retrieved their glasses from the patio table, and then it happened. They pulled out a camera and took a self portrait. Seriously can this get any more fabulous?

It does.

The two girls darted off. I tried to take a picture of the fugitives but my picture taking skills are lacking and by the time the picture snapped it captured the moment they were…gone.

But that is not the fabulous part. The fabulous part is that after the two girls left the boy shut and locked the gate.

Hmmm…he has the key to the pool gate? Yes he does. Why? Because he is the maintenance man!!!

Even if you don’t use the word fabulous you have to admit this is…well…about as fabulous as it gets.

Here is a picture of the deviant maintenance man locking the gate. It is only his back because I need to protect his identity.

These are some of the moments I live for – moments of witnessing pure joy.

Get on out there.
Do something that makes you yelp.
Live in the moment.
Make a splash.

Break it down

2010-04-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

This makes me ridiculously happy.

Enjoy.

Home Sweet Home?

2010-04-10T06:44:00.001-07:00

A Midwest girl goes east. They call it the Mid Atlantic. It has taken me nearly five years to get to the point where when someone asks me where I’m from I say Annapolis, Maryland, instead of Schererville, Indiana.

When I am in Indiana I say I’m going home, when I am in Maryland I say I’m going home. I feel homesick wherever I go.

Courtesy of dictionary.com
Home:
(1) the place in which one's domestic affections are centered
(2) a person's native place or own country
(3) deep to the heart

These definitions make my understanding worse:
(1) Maryland
(2) Indiana
(3) Indiana & Maryland & California

I tossed California in there because although I only lived there for four years, and never got to the point where I said I was from Los Angeles, California instead of Schererville, Indiana, it was still long enough that it has remained in a tucked away corner of my heart.

According to this definition I have resolved nothing. Is home where I caught lightening bugs and ran through the sprinkler in the grassy backyard? Is home in my husband’s arms?

Is home a feeling or a place?

Maryland and Indiana tie.

Where or where is my place called home?

Where is yours?

I would eat your butt if it were made of chocolate

2010-04-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

Wow, did I seriously just post a cartoon?
It’s embarrassing, but I did.

Shhh…don’t tell.

But you giggled, right? Or smiled? Or rolled your eyes? Or had a sudden, intense desire to eat a chocolate bunny’s ass?

What? You didn't? Woops...please still read my blog...

Which came first - Jesus or the chocolate egg?

2010-03-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I usually only went to church on Easter. I went to my grandmother’s church which is full of old people, and there is a coffee hour after the service with generic, store brand cookies and sequin crafts to buy. She would show me off, of course, but I would feel shy and didn’t quite like being kissed by random and strange old ladies with fur stoles.

The part of church I did like was when we got to say aloud, “He has risen, indeed.” The pastor would say, quite frequently, maybe even once every thirty seconds, “He is risen.” That was when we got to loudly proclaim, “He is risen, indeed.” I didn’t necessarily believe he was “risen,” but nonetheless I liked shouting something. Anything, really, I was a child.

As an adult, I still don’t necessarily believe he is “risen” and go to Catholic church, with my husband, where we don’t get to shout anything, but there are a few things about Easter I do believe in; and they all involve eggs.

Coloring eggs, hunting eggs, rabbits that lay chocolate eggs, and the idea that a rabbit delivers these chocolate eggs to you in, usually, a very colorful basket.

My grandmother was so upset about my love for the Easter Bunny she felt she had to nip it in the bud. When I was four years old, I was sitting in her lap on Easter morning and she said to me, “You know the Easter Bunny isn’t real, don’t you?”
“What?!?!?!?!?!?”
“Yeah, the Easter Bunny is really your mom and dad and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters.”
“What!?!?!?!?”
“Santa Clause and the tooth fairy aren’t real either.”
I mean, come on grandma, why not throw it all out there now. Four is definitely too old to believe in magical things.

So put on your Easter Egg scouring glasses, stain your fingers coloring eggs, and know the Easter Bunny has risen. He has risen, indeed.

And down I go

2010-03-05T22:18:00.000-08:00

Boy am I glad I can laugh at myself.
Enjoy...

1…2…3…rolling…

2010-02-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

The two best things about traveling by plane – a shoe shine in the airport and the Sky Mall. I would like to focus on the sky Mall portion of this program.

Sky Mall is packed full of so many things I didn’t know I needed. For starters, “The Ultimate Spy Gadget: a stylish watch with a secret,” is obviously something I need to have. I dreamed about a watch like this for the entirety of my childhood. Sky Mall calls it, “One of the most useful spy gadgets we have ever seen.” I have a tendency to like anything that can be refereed to as a “gadget,” and putting spy in front of it is enough to make my mouth water. This watch has a built in DVR concealed by the number two.

Sky Mall says it’s, “great for personal security or evidence gathering.” Now, that’s what I’m talking about! I love this idea of conjuring up a scheme where I can record the precise words or images needed to incriminate my enemy. Words like, “James shot her in the head and flushed the gun down the toilet,” or simply, “I did it.”

This watch will most certainly make me the most sought after female spy. “The Ultimate Spy Gadget: a stylish watch with a secret,” will allow me the ability to incriminate even the sneakiest bad guys. You can rest easy knowing I have will have the ability to record video and voice. You can also rest easy knowing it is powered by a rechargeable lithium battery and built in 2GB flash memory. It is the Cadillac of spy gadgets.

available for $99.95 in either brown or black

Be assured, me and the number two got your back. AND I’ll be wearing the, “Wonder Woman Cuff Bracelet” on my other wrist.

For obvious reasons.

Duh.

Snow? Serve it up!

2010-02-08T11:50:00.001-08:00

It snowed over two feet. What’s the logical thing to do? Eat it of course. Although I probably wouldn’t drink a glass of rainwater without a cash prize, I am more than egger to eat snow. I don't think this is unique. I mean doesn't every thirty 30 year old eat snow?

step one:

step two:

step three:

step four:

Now all I need is an icicle popsicle straight off the bottom of the car like I use to enjoy as a little girl.
Yummmm...

Which came first - the toilet paper or the snow?

2010-02-05T12:53:00.000-08:00

I love the mass hysteria leading up to a snowstorm. Grocery stores resemble Toy’s R’ Us on Christmas Eve. Yesterday I was one of those people; except instead of buying bulk size toilet paper and several dozens of eggs, I was purchasing cheese and crackers.

I had a vision of the hubs and I eating a fruit and cheese platter, while playing a board game and drinking vodka tonics, as the snow accumulated outside. I am now prepared for that scenario.

I am glad I was part of the grocery chaos because it was fascinating to watch the shoppers and experience the hysterical energy. Among the most confusing to me are those buying 36 rolls of toilet paper. It is especially curious because most of them just bought 36 rolls four days ago before the last snow shower.

I don’t know how often they go to the bathroom at their house, but I am not going to judge who may, or may not, have a spastic colon aggravated by either salsa or snowfall.

It seems that these toilet paper hording individuals are the same ones who buy multiple cartons of eggs. Ahhh….suddenly it makes sense! Lot’s of toilet paper will, indeed, be necessary after eating four six egg omelets.

Isadora, I owe you one, sista

2010-01-30T10:38:00.000-08:00

This morning I took a modern dance workshop in the style of Isadora Duncan. Isadora is considered to be the mother of modern dance. Her work is most famous for it’s free flowing movements. She wore scarves and tunics, and danced with her breath and her soul. To dance like Isadora Duncan, is to connect with and release your spirit. Isadora Duncan’s style may contribute to why people think modern dance is weird, but it is also why I love to dance. To move like Isadora is to be a dancer, regardless if you have ever taken a dance class. To move like Isadora, for lack of a better description, is to be alive. I know that sounds incredibility dramatic and may even have caused you roll your eyes, but it really is true.

Isadora rejected the conventions of ballet. There would be buns no more. Slippers, forget it. She danced barefoot and literally and metaphorically let her hair down.

She lived what many people at the time considered a scandalous life. Even by today’s standards she would be considered an eccentric woman. But in Isadora’s case, her eccentric nature is what made her, and her style of dance, beautiful. But beautiful not only for her, the performer, but also beautiful for those watching and experiencing her dance.

Isadora died in 1927 at the age of fifty. Her death was as romantic and tragic as her life. She stepped into an automobile, leaving a visit to Nice, and said, “Goodbye, my friends, I’m off to glory.” Moments later her scarf became tangled in the spokes of the tire and she was killed instantly. Uh yeah, true story.

I feel lucky to have been able to experience my spirit the way she experienced hers in class today. I also feel lucky that I got to dance wearing a tunic. Take my word for it. That alone is a good time.

My technique is lacking but my teacher explained, “First you must dance with your soul, and technique will follow.” "If you build it, they will come." Except it is a dance studio and not a corn field, and my teacher wasn't Kevin Costner. Are you rolling your eyes again? Sorry, I couldn't help myself. This is a welcome relief from my other modern class where I failed miserably at every technical attempt. I still tried to capture the essence of my spirit in the movements, but the movements were so complex it was hard for me to get out of my head long enough to experience dancing. Today I have learned I first need to rediscover my dancing soul, before I can judge my technical ability.

Thank you, Isadora.

It smells in here

2010-01-29T09:13:00.000-08:00

Have you ever heard a song and been brought back to a certain event or time in your life? For me, “Ghetto Superstar,” is the sound of riding in my friend’s red Saturn, on the way to Century City Mall, the summer of 98’. But memories don’t stop at songs for me. My most vivid memories are triggered by scents. They’re not just general memories either. They are memories that invoke the raw emotions I felt at that particular moment in time. They are real, and intense. I have a box with, “Becky’s smell memory box,” written on it in turquoise blue sharpie. You might think this makes me a freak, but I prefer to think it makes me a romantic.

I’m not the sentimental type who keeps ticket stubs and things of the like to document a particular time, but I am the type to keep a “Becky’s smell memory box" to relive those old times. Oddly, I have no control over what things are going to make me feel what. I only discover it, years later, when I come across an old bottle of shampoo or perfume.

I don’t pull this box out often, but came across it today organizing my closet. I keep this box in the corner, below my box of tights, on top of my scrapbook box. You may be wondering why I have so many boxes in my closet and the answer is because I don’t have a dresser. You may be wondering why I don’t have a dresser, but for that I have no good reason.

I will, now, share with you the contents of my, “Becky’s smell memory box,” as I take my trip to a time I have not thought of, or felt the feelings of, in eons, but lived in lifetimes ago.

Colgate sensitive skin shave cream…
Shaving my legs in my mother’s bathroom shower. Specifically, the summer of 92' when I had my first awkward kiss. This smell puts butterflies in my stomach rushing me back to being 13.

Calgon morning glory body mist…
Senior year of high school, reading college guide books. An indescribable feeling of imaging a life I didn’t know how to imagine. Wow, that doesn’t make sense, but when I smell it, it does.

Nivea moisturizing shower gel, refreshing rain forest scent…
USC’s summer production workshop, the summer of 98’. This is the feeling of being on my own for the first time. Specifically, getting ready for my first "college party."

Auric Blends Chinese Rain body oil...
Also the summer of 98.’ Specifically, my Orchard Avenue apartment. This is the feeling of really being on my own, with new friends, a new boyfriend, and never wanting to turn back. This is the smell of hopeful anticipation.

Calgon water lilies body mist…
Taking walks in the Hollywood Hills, with a man who adored me and who I loved. Specifically, a walk we took with his dog, in my red gypsy skirt, picking Jasmine. This is the smell of being deliriously in love, the way only a nineteen year old can be in love.

Bath and body works moonbeam sparkling body lotion…
The winter of 99.’ Feeling lonely and in love with a man who didn’t love me back. Specifically, watching “Titanic” in my white nightgown, on a Pier One papasan chair, in my first apartment in Beverly Hills. Wow, that really sounds pathetic when I say it out loud and write it down, but this is truly the smell of a broken heart.

Bath and body works tangerine spice body cream…
My apartment in Orange County. Specifically, vacuuming. I know that sounds ridiculous but it’s the smell of resentment that I was cleaning an apartment while other people my age were, age appropriately, living in dirty dorm rooms.

Bath and body works mango mandarin body splash…
This is my favorite memory. The summer I met the hubs. Specifically, apartment and roommate hunting, feeling spontaneous, alive, and stop at nothing love.

Matrix, curl.like shampoo…
My honeymoon. Specifically, getting ready for dinner after a day in the sun. Feeling the calm comfort and excitement of, officially, spending my life with the hubs.

If my house was burning and I could only bring one box, this would be the one.

The world's most important invention

2010-01-21T14:03:00.000-08:00

I have done something radical about my current unhappiness with my weight. I’m not talking about diet and exercise, though I have started swimming, taking dance classes, and “eating sensibly.”

What I’m talking about it much more radical. It’s not PX09 or XP90. How does that combination go? I’m also not talking about acai, fish oil supplements, Alli, or any other promise pill. It’s not the “Special K Challenge,” or my dear friend’s “Fruity Pebbles Diet.” Are you thinking Weight Watchers? Nope, it’s not that either.

The revolution I am talking about is what Victoria Secret calls a “Style Shaper,” or simply, what your grandma calls, "a girdle." Why on God’s green earth have I not thought of this before? It's brilliant.

Who invented this? I want to shake their hand. What I feel is true love.

I may never take it off.

Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top

2010-01-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

Do you recall my neighbor with the untimely pumpkin? It finally disappeared yesterday.
Halleluiah!
Believe it or not, I didn't have anything to do with its disappearance - though I thought about it.
Every. Damn. Day.

Let’s move on to another pressing topic. I’ll give you a clue…Christmastime is o-v-e-r.

I am so stinkin’ glad Christmas is over. I know, it’s my own fault. I get in the spirit of the season so early that by the time Christmas comes I’ve had more than my fill. Due to my early celebratory spirit, this is the situation I find myself admits every year. I understand most people aren’t quite done celebrating Christmas on December 26th, like I am. In fact, in 2000 I was guilty of taking my tree down on Christmas day. But, hello people, it’s January 11th. Take down your Christmas lights. If you are not going to take them down at least quit lighting them up.

Please.

I realize this is another one of my “rules,” and perhaps I am being too ridged, but I have to put my foot down. Christmas lights should not be illuminated after January 1st, and definitely not on January 11th.

Geeze.

I know they’re pretty, they’re magical, blah, blah, blah…but there is a time and a place, and the time is the day after Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day, thus giving you at least four weeks. Isn’t that time enough?

It’s. Time. To. Move. On.

Pretty please.

I fully realize that this posting makes me a bit of a controlling freak, but I am trying to do us all a favor.

Consider this a plea. If I were on my deathbed, consider this my last dying wish.

Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top...
Take. Down. Your. Christmas. Lights!

2010 - hear me roar!

2010-01-02T10:15:00.000-08:00

New Year’s resolutions. Lov’em. Hopeful and full of the best intentions. Keeping a resolution, not always easy, but making them is part of the beauty. The desire to change and the belief that you can do it is powerful. Perhaps even more powerful than the follow through.

Here goes…2010…

hide less

laugh more
go to Truxton Park more
take advantage of the things Annapolis has to offer – one activity a month

be proud of my accomplishments

camp more than once
swim a mile in the bay
go to museums more often – one museum a quarter

purr more

actually read and finish the book club books
try new recipes
call my grandma more

play more

visit the ocean more than once
clean the floors more often
allow the hubs to have more down time by not planning so many activities

fight less - comprise more

color more
send cards for no reason
watch less tv

snuggle more

honor my feelings instead of judging them
dance!
write!

drink less fresca and diet coke

collect polished glass
do things that feed my spirit and soul
have fewer “rules”

be more caring

drink more water
become a pen pal
not be so hard on myself
keep my spontaneity but do a better job of thinking things through

take more naps

Live joyfully!

Live in the moment!!!!!

What are yours??

to eat the cookie or the dough

2009-12-29T02:23:00.001-08:00

Not long ago, three friends got together to make cookies.
See below.

The peanut butter cookies were my favorite.
See below.

In search of a good peanut butter cookie recipe?
See below.

Classic Peanut Butter Cookies
½ butter, softened
½ peanut butter
½ granulated sugar
½ cup packed brown sugar or ¼ cup honey
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon baking powder
1 egg
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
additional granulated sugar

*preheat oven to 375 degrees F
*in large bowl combine butter and peanut butter
*beat in electric mixer on medium to high speed for 30 seconds
*add the ½ cup granulated sugar, brown sugar, baking soda, and baking powder
*beat until combined, scraping side of bowl occasionally
*beat in egg and vanilla until combined
*beat in as much of the flour as you can with the mixer
*using a wooden spoon, stir in any remaining flour
*cover and chill about 1 hour or until dough is easy to handle

*place additional granulated sugar in a small bowl
*shape dough into 1 inch balls
*roll balls in sugar to coat
*place balls 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet
*using the tines of a fork, flatten balls by making crisscross marks on top
*bake in preheated oven for 7 to 9 minutes or until the bottoms are lightly browned
*transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool
*makes about 36 cookies

Need more guidance on how to make those peanut butter cookies?
See below.

Yummm...num...num...

smashing pumpkins

2009-12-11T10:34:00.000-08:00

I saw a pumpkin outside my neighbor’s door. This is not a pumpkin sitting next to a garbage bag a few moments away from being carried to the dumpster. This pumpkin is decoration!!! You may not think this is a big deal. Oh, it is.

I have a strict policy. NO pumpkins after December 1st.
And this is being generous. Really, pumpkins should be gone the day after Thanksgiving. People, there is no need for pumpkins after Thanksgiving. Give it up, you've had them since BEFORE Halloween. Let go!

December 11th, really?

I took a picture of this pumpkin in case you don’t believe me.

This is my number one pet peeve. Number one. You may be disgusted by this. What about litterbugs, and liars, and perfectly healthy people who park in handicap spaces, and poison childern’s Halloween candy, and leave empty toilet paper rolls?

Nope. Pumpkins after December 1st. So help me God…

Happy Birthday Jesus! I hope you like chocolate cake.

2009-12-08T14:52:00.000-08:00

What do you want to do tonight? I know! Let’s dress up like reindeer and get drunk! The Annapolis Santa Stumble…reindeer, elves, Santas, and Christmas trees galore!
Oh, and the famous birthday boy too.

When I was a little girl my friend Katie, who lived down the street who I bit occasionally when she pissed me off, would bake a birthday cake with her mom for Jesus. We would sing and clap and shout for he’s a jolly good fellow. Actually we didn’t, but it makes the story more colorful, don’t you think?

I am bringing this up not because of the, “He is the reason for the season” sweatshirts often worn by grandmothers, but because I saw the birthday boy, himself, drinking beer at Dock Street Bar last Saturday night. I suppose it wasn’t the real Jesus, like the Santas at the mall aren’t the real Santas, but it was good to see him make an appearance at such a festive event.

Here are the reindeer doing a practice run down Main Street getting ready for the big night of pulling Jesus's sleigh.
Oh, wait...how does that story go?

What's a girl to do?

2009-12-05T08:19:00.000-08:00

New Kids on the Block cruise 2010 – SOLD OUT
Joe McIntyre concert 2010 – SOLD OUT

Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Why is life, oh, so very cruel?

New Kids in their cruise wear. Something I will never see.

68 reasons for rejection/68 ways into my heart

2009-12-03T13:20:00.000-08:00

When I was eighteen I had a, “Becky is 18 and mature file.” I created this file in attempt to prove to my mother I was mature enough to have a pager, borrow her car, and have my desired curfew. I put “mature” things in it like my pager billing statements. I know what you are thinking. Pager? My response would be that all the kids at Lake Central High School had one. Mine was blue. And yes, if all the kids from LC jumped off a bridge, I can almost guarantee I would have too.

I came across this file the other day and found it has two remaining items inside. The first item is a piece of lined notebook paper with intangible proof that I was “mature.”
It reads, “Today Julie turned to me and said, Wow Buck, you look really mature today for some reason. And then later on tonight Big Steve said to me, You look older today for some reason. Hmmm…I dunno. A step closer to being mature perhaps?”

The other item in the file is a checklist to determine if a guy is “dateable.” I wrote this checklist with the help of my best girlfriends. It has a total of 68 questions divided among six categories:
- must attitudes
- superficial
- activity/personality musts
- character trait musts
- extra credit
- automatic failure

As you can imagine this list is full of very important characteristics. Characteristics that are vital to sustain a relationship with an eighteen year old, but surprising, ends up a lot of it is important with a relationship with a thirty year old as well. Or at least, this thirty year old.

I will now list all 68 items for your enjoyment. I hope you will laugh as hard as I did.
Reminder: I was 18 when I created this list.
Reminder: It might be exactly the same if I created it today.

Becky, Beck, Buck, and Becka Lynn are all the same person. (me)

Keep your eyes peeled for the (*)
It signifies a quality the hubs missed.
(+) means I labeled the question N/A on the hub's test due to pager reference or hobby I no longer have like my famous quote book and fairies, our dear little winged friends.

From the “must attitudes” list:
-Names their form of transportation. If applicable, names their fish (*)
-Has a favorite tv show and is a devoted fan ( I would like to alter this a little. Is a devoted 90210 fan in addition to being devoted to his own show)
-Will enjoy an occasional board game or card game (Alteration. Needs to love always playing board games)
-Can enjoy classical music and/or Yanni (Yes, I actually said Yanni. I was probably referring to the Yanni at the Acropolis vhs video my mom taped off of PBS.)
-Has a favorite color not because of a sports team
-Likes the smell of moss (huh? I love the smell of moss so much I tried to grow it on a coffee saucer in my bedroom)
-Will help collect spoons (uh, yeah, I use to have a spoon collection)
-Likes the beach
-Tree climber/former tree climber (I love that I am hoping for an eighteen year old who currently climbs trees)
-Enjoys sitting at Lunderburg (There is a subdivision by my childhood house called Lunderburg. There is a sign for the subdivision and my friends and I loved sitting there. I had many teenage, life changing conversations there)
-Enjoys the occasional stroll
-Whistles while he works (*)
-Leaves answering machine messages (Wow…the days before voicemail.)
-Can page fun things like BOOBIE (+)

From the “superficial” list:
-Stick figure drawing that shows the boy is taller than me (And the boy has a ponytail! Ick!)
-Lively eyes that sparkle when he smiles
-Is blessed with a smile that makes Becka Lynn smile
-Nice hands
-No ugly feet
-Smells good
-Handsome or good looking – no hotties (Ut oh, sorry Kev, not a hottie. But so very, very handsome.)
-No high tops with tennis socks (This was a really close call. The hubs almost failed. When I met him he had white sneakers with ankle support. Not a high top – but it was really close. As soon as we officially started dating he lost the shoes.)
-Laugh makes me smile

From the “activity/personality musts” list:
-Enjoys hugs
-Smiles a lot
-Gentle
-Affectionate but not touchy-feely
-Possess ability to get muddy or dirty
-Respects the arts
-Makes me laugh uproariously
-Supports and participates quote book addiction (+) ( I use to have a “quote book.” I would constantly write down things people said that I wanted to include in a movie one day. That’s right. I planed on being a film director)
-Has an element of spontaneity
-Wears handmade gifts even when ugly
-Will let Buck draw him without his shirt on (Sounds weird, I know. I was doing a series on clavicles for my figure drawing class. Oh, that sounds weird too.)
-Can discuss fairies comfortably (+) (Okay. I went through a fairy phase.)
-Positive attitude or general outlook
-Has a job…not a lazy bum or spoiled brat
-Doesn’t constantly pat himself on the back or have an image hang up
-Has an interesting room (*) (I dug deep here. What was your childhood room like? Your dorm room? Your fraternity room? Nope. All very uninteresting.)
-Doesn’t mind glitter
-Makes wishes
-Tasteful cuser

From the “character trait musts” list:
-Respects female bonding
-No rudeness directed toward Jake (Awwww, Jake…my childhood dog)
-Recycles…no litterbugs
-Isn’t afraid of this list or other silly things
-Can talk about issues with out progressing into a fight or yelling
-Respects and is careful about week before period emotional time
-Appreciates the joys of chilling with Pam (my mum)
-Isn’t afraid to try new things
-Is brave, helps Buck be a tough cookie but sometimes may need help being brave himself
-No crybabies but has ability to cry
-No whiners or chronic complainers
-Doesn’t make me cry, but will let me cry
-Ambitious
-Can tell me I look beautiful
-Is prompt when returning pages (+) (Yup...yet another pager reference. See how important pagers were?)
-Can handle the truth…no liars
-Would go out of his way for me and not even realize it
-Loves his mommy
-Cherishes Beck
-Appreciates things (Things? hmmm…I probably should have been a little more specific. Had I been more specific I may not have had the boyfriend who “appreciates” death metal music)
-Would grant a Buck appreciation day (The hubs was enthusiastic about this. I think -That deserves an extra shout out.)
-Looks out for my wellbeing and best interest
-Has an impact on Buck
-Is interested in what Buck does
-Supports Becky
-Helps Becka Lynn grow (Yeah, lot’s of nicknames)
-Has an impact on Buck

From the “extra credit” pluses…non requirements list:
-Ponytails (Hy-ste-ri-cal. I hate poneytails. Hate.)
-Wears rings but not class rings (Hy-ste-ri-cal. Hate when men wear rings. Hate.)
-Green eyes (bingo!)
-Distinctive features

From the “automatic failure” out the door if list:
-No assholes
-No boring jocks
-No macho men
-No physical abusers
-No emotional abusers
-No bug killers without good reason
-No drug users
-No alcoholics but possible AA members (I can’t go on a date with you because you are an alcoholic, but feel free to call me as soon as you are officially enrolled in AA)
-No racists
-No control freaks
-No possessive boys or clingers
-No push overs

When I read over the checklist, I had a good laugh. I didn’t think the hubs would measure up when given the test. Ends up he did. He scored 95%!

There’s one more little thing. There is a grading scale. And it’s tough.
70%-80% deserves fighting chance (one date)
80%-90% dating material (one mess up)
91%-99% possible boyfriend material
100+% possible marital material

According to the grading scale the hubs is “possible boyfriend material” In order to be eligible as possible marital material, the hubs would not be able to miss a single quality on the checklist. None! Thirty year old me thinks 95% is pretty damn awesome, especially when the points lost are because he doesn’t whistle while he works, doesn’t name his car or his hypothetical fish, and didn’t have an interesting room growing up. Eighteen year old me thinks 95% isn’t good enough. I mean how could I possibly consider marrying someone who doesn’t name his hypothetical fish or doesn’t whistle while he works? It’s a deal breaker for sure. Eighteen expects every need, desire, or whim to be met, 100% of the time. There is no wiggle room. It’s – you have 100+% of these qualities or I can’t consider spending my life with you.

This is a great example why my eighteen year old relationships were so disappointing. The standards were basically unattainable, and would, of course, fail. What is it about being eighteen that is so idealistic? I was so idealistic I spent most of my eighteenth year in emotional distress because nothing, nothing, nothing less than 100+% was good enough. Thirty is a little tainted, sure, for the better I would like to think. Instead of focusing on the fact the hubs isn’t marital material, I am going to congratulate him on earning an A on a very difficult test, and remind him we need to declare that “Buck Appreciation Day!”

Now, finally, I am going to say what we all say. If only I knew, then, what I know now. It would have spared me a heck of a lot of heartache. But wait, I only know what I know, now, because of what I didn’t know then.

Which came first? The chicken or the dating checklist?

la la la loser

2009-12-02T10:32:00.000-08:00

You might be a loser…

If you are shopping at K-mart at 10pm buying a chia pet for your cats. My friend, who shall remain nameless to protect her from embarrassment, was not an innocent bystander. She was by my side supporting this purchase as well as buying Christmas ornaments for her cat.

We have always said to one another, “If we ever find ourselves making scrapbooks of our cats on a Saturday night, sipping cocoa, that will be the proof that we have hit rock bottom.”

Hmmm…I don’t know, somehow this seems almost more pathetic.

Would you like a lime with your Christmas tree?

2009-11-30T12:03:00.001-08:00

I have always thought gin tastes like Christmas trees. Does Lucy think Christmas trees taste like gin?

Lucy tests it out.

Oh, yeah…that’s gin, baby. Jackpot.

Did our Christmas tree just eat my husband?

2009-11-29T20:13:00.000-08:00

chomp!

Tree chopping, hauling, and trimming day finally arrived!
Get ready for a lot of pictures. I took 67 pictures. I was obnoxious. Don't worry, I only posted 12.

This year the goal was to get the absolute biggest tree our living room could possibly handle. If we didn’t nail it right on the head we got really stinkin’ close.

We took precise measurements - the hubs held his hands above his head and then we estimated one additional foot. That was what we believed would be the perfect height for our tree. Using that measuring system we came to the conclusion that the tree we chose was 8 feet tall, the height of our ceiling, and therefore...perfect. Once we got home, hauled the tree up 3 flights of stairs and stood it up the living room, it was exactly 8 feet tall. Exactly. The very tip top of the tree rested against the ceiling.

Folks, our measuring system was not just an estimate, but in fact, a precise, down to the millimeter measurement.

Damn we’re good.

How are we ever going to choose?!

let's pick THIS one

The hubs is a superstar. He chops down the tree with ease. At first.

After a few minutes it became more of a challenge.

he's so darn tough

snip snip

unleashed

he's so proud of his accomplishment

married to an optometrist AND pine needles...yup, safety glasses

on with the lights

oooh, artsy

tadah!

lights out...

why YOU should choose a real tree too...

12 days, 12 ornaments, you can do the math

2009-11-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

Today I purchased The 12 Days of Christmas ornament set from Crate and Barrel. I have a cute, little, skinny tree that I have been lugging around with me for the past eleven years, purchased when I lived in small quarters, that this year I made a “The 12 Days of Christmas tree.” I should probably specify that it is actually an official "The 12 Days of Christmas tree." Maybe my life is really dull, but this is extremely exciting for me. I have been eying these ornaments for over a year and have finally made them my own. I felt great joy as I hung each colorfully painted ornament onto each thin branch.

I have never liked the song, “The 12 Days of Christmas,” nor do I know all the words, and I certainly don't celebrate The 12 Days of Christmas as I have no tolerance for Christmas decorations past New Year's Day, but for some reason I felt like I had to have these ornaments and make an official “The 12 Days of Christmas Tree.”

On Sunday, the hubs and I are going to Davidson’s Christmas Tree Farm to chop down this year’s tree. Well, he will chop down the tree while I say words of encouragement like, “Wow, that looks really hard. Is it hard? Are you struggling?” Okay, not quite words of encouragement but I think it makes him feel super tough because it gives him a chance to say, “It’s not hard. This is so easy.”

Stay tuned for pictures of the whole Christmas tree chopping, hauling, and trimming shebang.

The much awaited official "The 12 Days of Christmas Tree"

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,

And a partridge in a pear tree!

Fine. I had to get the words off of Wikipedia. So what.

A pilgrim hat full of thanks

2009-11-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

Living away from our family it’s up to us to create our own traditions. In other words, do what ever the heck we feel like.

Turkey? No way! We’ve never really liked it so it’s a no go. Football? Sure. Naps? Sure. Staying in pajamas all day? Sure. Go to the movies? Sure. Go to the movies in our pajamas? Sure.

We make hand turkey placemats and I make a Pilgrim hat and Indian headdress to wear while we eat. The hubs is always the Pilgrim. What do we eat? Whatever the heck we feel like. It's not so much about what we eat as it is that we eat and enjoy it together.

We like to decorate for Christmas and write our letters to Santa. Of course, we also take time to recognize and give thanks for the abundance of fabulous things we have in our lives by writing each thankful thought on a little piece of paper and pull them, one at a time, out of a hat.

Thanksgiving is a time to gather together as a family, and we terribly, terribly miss not being able to share a meal with ours, but I also give thanks for the special time we have together when it’s just our little family, just our hand turkey placemats and us.

my handsome pilgrim

my name would definitely be, "Runs With Cats"

turkey placemats in use (and Lucy too)

What are your Thanksgiving traditions?

soul food

2009-11-25T12:45:00.000-08:00

Are you getting sick of hearing me talk about laying in bed? Well, it’s finally over. Tomorrow is the doctor’s official day that I can go back to work, go back to making whoopee, go back to life outside unit 302J. Sure I have missed my pedi and movie dates with ohapostrophe along with things like Starbucks and going for walks with the hubs. Call me lazy or crazy, but I have loved hibernating. I wonder, will stepping outside of my burrow cause a panic attack? What? Cars and people? Are you crazy? I am afraid I might have picked up case of agoraphobia, or perhaps the Greek term aγορά miφόβος/φοβία may be more familiar to you.

Most people I have talked to wonder how I could possibly stay inside for 3 weeks with out going stir crazy. My answer is, “But there are so many things to do inside and most of them can be done from laying in bed!”

Okay, so that didn’t clear it up for you. “How on Earth could I be HAPPY laying in bed ALL DAY?!” I guess the answer is simple; I am lazy and crazy. Most days I spend 4+ hours writing my book. My record was 9. It is obvious I spend at least an hour telling you about it in this blog. (lucky you) My record was 3. (the million pictures Bliss post) I watch 90210 at 5pm, I occasionally watch a romantic comedy, I read - I read a whole book in one day, and I color in my new favorite book, Doodle All Year: 365 days of fun! by Tarro Gomi, purchased at Starbucks.

Color? Yes, color. When’s the last time you whipped out the crayons, colored pencils or markers and went crazy? Why leave it just for children? It’s food for the soul.

How many birds do you see?

saying goodbye to fall

getting ready for winter

yes, that's a cat in the blue car (next to the pig)

once in a blue moon...

Get out the medium of your choice and don’t be afraid to color outside the lines.

Are they thin, or are they thin?

2009-11-23T15:19:00.000-08:00

Yikes, two blogs in one day again? Who has time to post two blogs in one day? Ends up I do. Does anyone think having surgery and laying in bed for over 2 weeks is an excuse to post more than one blog in a single day? Ends up I do. Feel fortunate that I am only posting two blogs a day. Ohapostrophe has created a blogging monster. A blogster. Woah, did I seriously just say that? I should be embarrassed.

Since I have been laid up in bed I have started watching the original 90210, from the 90’s, on soapnet. Yes, I watch soapnet now. I’m actually watching it as I write this. I know, I know, again, I should be embarrassed.

The orginal 90210 cast was thin and I’m not just saying that because I’m a fat girl. Donna was the thinnest, but Brenda, Kelly and Andrea were also thought of as thin. Not average weight, but thin. In the episode I am watching right now, Donna, Brenda and Kelly are trying on dresses for the big dance. Dare I say, they have a little somethin' to grab in the back and *gasp* their thighs touch.

In a society where Bridget Jones is obese, and under 110 pound celebrities are used as a touchstone as to what is attractive, unless you are an under 110 pound celebrity, it's hard to feel like you are the "correct weight."

I am bringing this up because the new 90210 cast is also considered to be thin and it is interesting to see how much thinner our idea of thin has gotten over the period of 18 years.

thin was...

thin is...

from thin...

to thinner...

I'm pretty sure if, today, we found this in an UsWeekly Shannon Doherty's face would be covered and it would have a caption that read something like, "Who's face do these thunder thighs belong to?"

If in 1990, when the above picture was taken, we replaced it with this picture, it would probably have a caption that read something like, "These chicken legs are Shannon Doherty's next meal."

So, I pose the question...to be thin or to be thin?

Warning: Only read if you have a taste for fear

2009-11-23T13:02:00.000-08:00

When I was a junior in high school, and full of angst, I had a phase where I dated guys in bands. Scary bands. One ex-boyfriend of mine is now the guitarist/vocalist for a band called Fatalist. Today is the début of their new album, “Depths of Inhumanity.” I know this, not because I am an high school ex-boyfriend stalker, (which if I was, I assure you I would not choose him to stalk) but because a mutual facebook friend made an announcement today, “...pick it up…you won’t be disappointed…do yourself a favor…” And the favor would be scare the shit out of yourself.

If you would, in fact, like to scare the shit out of yourself you can pick it up at Amazon for $14.98. If you are a bargain shopper you can find it at Best Buy for $13.99. Here is a picture of the album cover so you can easily locate it among the other old school Swedish death metal style bands. And that’s Stockholm not Gothenburg if you’re interested, which I’m fairly certain you are not.

This album has been quoted by a scary death metal band website as being, “Easily at it’s best when intended to crush your skull.” This album has songs entitled, “Rivers of Blood,” “Enthralled by Pain,” “Homicidal Epitaph,” and “Impulse to Kill.” If the titles don’t scare the shit out of you, listening to them will.

If you are interesting in hearing what all the fuss is about you can listen to it at
http://www.fatalistband.com/music/
Warning: I will not be held responsible for any nightmares that may result from listening to any songs.

If you really like them you can get this t-shirt for $15.

In case you are not a seasoned death metal connoisseur, which I am fairly certain you are not, their sound is influenced by bands like, Dismember, Carnage, Grave, Necrophobic, Autopsy, and Obituary. Is it just me, or do you notice a disturbing pattern?

So how on Earth did I get hooked up with such a scary boyfriend? It’s an interesting story. Well, actually the story isn’t that interesting so I will only highlight the best details. We dated for two months. Two months – that’s it. But somehow after he dumped me I was devastated. De-va-stated. One of my best friends at the time and I replayed all the moments of our relationship trying to figure out why I had been dumped. She did what any best friend would do in this situation which is call him bad names and catalog all of his faults with me.

A few months later, who was she kissing? You guessed it; it was my heartbreaker. Surprisingly enough, I really could have cared less and I wasn't surprised. It was the third boyfriend of mine that dumped me to date her. I was use to it. I wanted to shout to the world, “Okay – I get it – I get it! She’s prettier than me, and mysterious and awesome.”

It worked out because they’re married now, and I am genuinely happy for them, and at least I’m not married to a scary guy.

The scary guy, himself, second from the left.

Do you need an optometrist or do you need ME?

2009-11-22T14:48:00.000-08:00

I’m not REALLY an optometrist. I mean not EXACTLY. Not TECHNICALLY, but I did convince a stranger to switch to daily disposable contacts (or as we in the biz just call dailies) for “the health of his eyes.” I have also convinced my fair share of friends, coworkers, and family members to go to the optometrist for a comprehensive eye exam to check not only their acuities, but also to take a look at their retina. The doc needs to evaluate the back of the eye to see signs of things like diabetes and high blood pressure. Speaking of pressure, the doc may use a goldmann tornometer (or as we call it in the biz just goldmann) to screen for glaucoma.

So yeah, I’m not an optometrist, PERSAY, but I do know what myopic means. Impressed? I’m sure you are saying to yourself, right now, “How the hell does she know all this impressive information? Did she go to optometry school? She must have. Her knowledge is too in depth to suggest anything else.” Well, folks. I didn’t. I never ACTUALLY went to optometry school, but I did SIT NEXT TO, my husband, the optometry student, while HE studied things like prisms, optics or ocular anatomy. Once in a while I quizzed him, which is why I know tardive dyskinesia, a side effect of long term use of antisphycotics, is severe, involuntary, repetive movements that can resemble trying to catch a fly. Why is that information valuable to optometrists? No one’s sure, but the point is that I learned it in OPTOMETRY SCHOOL. Are you impressed again? Go ahead, be impressed.

I was also the “patient” for all of my husband’s, and all of IU’s School of Optometry student’s for that matter, exam “experiments.” If they had a practical test they would all line up asking ME to sit for them. This went on for three years. (Let’s be honest, the first of the four years they didn’t do anything.) They wanted to do things to me like poke my eye with gas permeable lenses and gag me for their neurological exam (or as we call it in the biz just neuro). I could also help THEM on their mock national board exam (or as we call it in the biz just boards) with inside information like crank the paper towel before you wash your hands or you’ll lose 3 points. I was SO valuable to the class of 05’. Honestly, I don’t know if they could have done it without me. Without ME. I even organized the Post Card Club for their 4th year rotations. No one did it, but I organized it. Isn’t that PRACTICALLY the same thing? It is.

I even accompanied my husband to his rotation in San Antonio. You know, just in case he needed to bounce some ideas off of me, if he had something pressing, like how to diagnose a tricky patient. Okay, fine. I went because he might need MY advice of how to diagnose something tricky because I BASICALLY went to optometry school. I am like the Wills Eye Manual. Apparently he also needed someone to cook, and go to Sea World with, but I assure you that was the second of importance of my presence.

Is it time for your annual eye exam? I can refer you to my husband or any one of my closest friends. They’ll take good care of you. But if you have ANY questions feel free to ask ME, because I am KIND OF an optometrist and, also, an expert in this field. OBVIOUSLY.

Kevin graduating and me "graduating" from
Indiana University School of Optometry.
Pay no attention to the fancy, velvet stripes on his gown.
I assure you my "optometry" degree is just as valid as his.

Is that a pretzel?

2009-11-22T10:20:00.000-08:00

Whenever I am at a party I always think to myself, "Damn. I wish I were wearing my pajamas." It only seems natural to have a party where everyone actually wears their pajamas.

Jammies, hot cocoa, chocolate martinis, rice krispies, pictionary...some of life's greatest.

Pictionary always sounds so much easier that it actually is.
Draw a pretzel? Sure.

hmmm...you said that's a pretzel?

Let ME try, everyone says.

hmmm...you said that's a pretzel?

Finally.

A pretzel.

The girls win. But really, have the boys ever won?

our little guy

2009-11-20T11:30:00.000-08:00

My husband is deeply disturbed by all of the fragmented sentences in my posts. I told him when blogging you can do whatever you feel like. It is not because I didn’t pay attention during my 7th grade grammar lessons. It is simply because I like it. Prepare yourself for a post full of fragments. Oh, and overrun sentences too.

There were a lot of cat pictures in my last post. I am aware of this. I am a crazy cat lady. I am aware of this. I even purchased a kitten calendar to hang on the washing machine last January. Yes, not normal for a twenty-nine year old. I fully plan of purchasing a new one this year. Definitely not normal for a thirty year old. That is unless you are a crazy cat lady, of course.

I feel like I need to take a few moments to talk about, to remember, Sox. My dear little kitten who only lived to be one week shy of one year old. Kevin and I adopted Sox from the SPCA. I picked him because he had the biggest ears. He was so young. Only 6 weeks old. He was so little I wasn’t allowed to take him home for another two weeks. It was such a dreadfully long two weeks, waiting for our little guy. Kevin named him Sox after his beloved team, the Chicago White Sox. They had just won the World Series and Kevin needed to celebrate.

They day I brought Sox home, I remember sliding down to the floor. Swallowed by the feeling of love, my knees buckled. I couldn’t stand. I sat with Sox in my lap, my back resting up against the wall, so overwhelmed with the responsibility of a life. “I will take care of you, no matter what. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I promise.” My emotions flooding from my eyes. I cried. I held my little guy up against my chest and cried.

Sox was an amazing, brave little kitten with a zest for life. I had a pet pocket for him. It is like a baby bjorn for animals. Intended for dogs, of course. I bought this contraption because Sox always wanted to be held. I couldn’t get anything done because he would sit at my feet and cry to be held. With Sox in his pet pocket I could, finally, wash the dishes.

I started taking Sox out in his pet pocket, and on a retractable leash when he was just ten weeks old. He loved being outside. But we didn’t stop with walks through the neighborhood. I started taking Sox everywhere. He loved riding in the car. He sat in his pet pocket with his paws against the door so his whiskers could gently blow in the wind. We started going to the beach. He would dig a hole in the sand with the utmost furry and quickly sit in it. This made everyone smile. He encountered dogs almost every time we ventured out. He liked dogs. A little puppy came to the beach and they wrestled like littermates.

I started riding my bike to the beach, Sox in his pet pocket, loving the ride. He held his head high as not to miss the passing scenery. As we rode down the street people probably said,

“There goes the crazy cat lady.”

We started going downtown to City Dock. He proudly walked on his leash and loved every coo and pat on the back from those passing by. He held his tail high, a waving flag.

Occasionally, I would take him to Paws pet store to pick out a new toy. He would be very excited about a particular toy, like the catnip filled ladybug. Once we got home he would never play with it.

Kevin and I decided we should take Sox off land and onto the water. We took him kayaking at Quiet Waters Park. He started in the pet pocket but soon grew curious. I let him out so he could explore his foreign surroundings. The kayak was slick and his claws were unable to hold his grip. He leaned forward, reaching his nose in the direction of the water, and ooops, he slipped. Our little guy was fully submerged in the water. I quickly grabbed him by his harness to retrieve him from the water. He was stunned, but less than a minute later he went to the edge and jumped in, on his own free will, springing from the kayak, his own personal diving board. I grabbed him immediately by his harness and pulled him into the boat. He looked pleased. He spent the rest of the trip, laying, bathing in the sun.

Sox loved Quiet Waters Park and the forest across the street in Truxton Park. He scurried up trees until his retractable leash ran out. However, he walked at his own pace. Not like a dog, egger to keep up with your stride. He would take two or three steps and abruptly stop. We tossed acorns to motivate him to scurry down the path.

One Sunday, in the spring, Kevin and I decided to take him on a field trip to Easton. We went to the ice cream shop. Kevin and I shared a cone and Sox drank water from a Dixie cup. We leisurely sat on a bench in a neighborhood park.

It was Thanksgiving time and we decided to make the twelve hour drive to Indiana. Sox, a delighted passenger, slept on a pillow in my lap. For our next trip to Indiana, we flew. Sox was very popular in his pet pocket as we walked passed the gates. During the flight, he quietly laid in his pet carrier under the seat.

It wasn’t long before we started letting Sox go outside on his own. He is an animal and I thought that entitled him the right to run as fast as he could, feeling the wind in his tail. He even made a neighborhood friend. They pranced with one another, hid in bushes and laid, side by side, on the warm pavement in the sun.

Moving day arrived. We were moving across town. We allowed Sox to be outside since we needed to keep the door open to carry boxes onto the truck. We filled the truck to the brim for our first trip. We arrived at our destination, opened the sliding door, and out popped our little stow away. He gave us a big smile, and a laugh.

He quickly adapted to our new home. Many of the condos were still under renovation and the workers usually left the doors open. It didn’t take long before he let himself in, uninvited, but soon the workers began to look forward to his visits. On one occasion, Dan, the sales agent, spotted him inside a condo, looking out the window. He had gotten himself locked in. Dan, kindly let him out, but not without a smile and a chuckle. Sox had become the North Green Condo’s mascot.

Sox wasn’t without his faults. He had a temper. If he was angered he would bite. Hard. Kevin and I have battle scars from his tantrums. So do our guests. The vet explained that since he was taken away from his mother so young she was unable to teach him what was, and was not appropriate.

Although it often hurt, we looked past it.

We continued letting him go outside on his own without a leash at out new place and always called him inside before dusk. And, yes, he made a new feline friend. We only spotted him in the courtyard or in the bushes by the tennis courts. We never believed that he went to the parking lot or across the street.

We were naïve. I was so caught up in his happiness I sacrificed his safety.

May Day 2007. I let Sox out early, 5am, before sunrise, because I was awake waiting for an early personal training client.

This was the mistake.

Kevin left for work. As he pulled out of the parking lot he saw a kitten lying in the road. He turned around faster than he knew possible. He was convinced it couldn’t be out little Sox.

But it was.

He gently moved Sox to the grass on the side of the road. He was still warm. Kevin came into the house. I had gone back to bed. The tone in his voice, and the quivering in his words as he ran down the hallway, is still unforgettable. “Becky, Sox is dead. He got ran over a car.”
“What?” I could barely make a sound as I spoke. We rushed downstairs to the side of the road. There was my little guy. Lying. Dead.

My heart caught, breath wouldn’t enter my lungs. My little guy was dead. He lied there, limp and helpless, with his little tongue hanging out of his mouth. This vision still haunts me.

“Why is his tongue hanging out? Why is his tongue hanging out?”
“I don’t know honey,” his voice still quivered as he spoke.
We didn’t know what to do. I could no long look at his little body and went to sit on the steps. Kevin approached the steps with our little kitten in a kitchen garbage bag, crying. I could see his head pressed against the bag. This vision still haunts me.

I called George and Carrie. I didn’t know what else to do. “What do we do with him?” I was barely understandable.
“I don’t know. George and I will figure it out. Stay right there. We’ll call you back.”
We awaited their call, with Sox besides us, dead, in a garbage bag. She called back. “Can you bury him somewhere? How about Truxton Park? Come over here. George will go with Kevin.” We drove to George and Carrie's with our little kitten, dead, in a garbage bag, in the back seat. We reached George and Carrie's. George had a shovel. Kevin in his shirt and tie, and George in his pajamas, walked through the woods. They picked a spot, deep in the woods, on a hill, under a tree, overlooking the water.

“His tongue was hanging out of his mouth,” I sobbed inaudibly.
“I know, I know.” Carrie hugged me. We sat at the kitchen table as I replayed the events.
“I shouldn’t have let him out while it was dark. We shouldn’t have ever have taken him across the street. We taught him to cross the street. He couldn’t have possibly made it across in the dark. He’s so little. How couldn’t anyone have seen him? How could I have ever let him out in the dark?”

We cried together. I found comfort of our shared tears.

Kevin and George returned with a shovel and without Sox. Carrie and I went back to our house. I collected all of his things and she took them away for me.

I still cry. Some nights I lay in bed and the image of Sox, our little guy, comes back to me, in a flash, without warning. It is vivid. It hurts. I promised him I wouldn't let anything happen to him...

bliss...

2009-11-19T16:31:00.000-08:00

Laying in bed, recovering all day, gives me time to think, to decompress, to evaluate things. Things like, what makes me happy, what is my bliss, what feeds my spirit, what are the moments that make me smile a genuine, all encompassing, soulful smile? Here are some of mine. I'm lucky my list is so long.

My bliss...

making snow angels

first snow angel of the year 2008

building snowmen

Kevin, master snowman builder

the sound of crashing waves

along the PCH (Malibu, California) worth getting my pants wet for

ribbonstick dancing on the beach

Atlantic Ocean

Atlantic Ocean

Atlantic Ocean

Atlantic Ocean

building sandcastles

South Beach, Miami, Florida (spring break 2003)

riding the prettiest horse on a carousel

Boston, Massachusette

Seattle, Washington

dancing. dancing. dancing.

Negril, Jamaica (honeymoon)

The Red Rocks Amphitheatre (Denver, Colorado)

Carmi, Illnois (Clint's wedding)

flying kites

Kevin, on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean

kite festival, Outer Banks, North Carolina (our kite is the cute, little one on the right)

sleeping outside

Assateague Island, Maryland

feeling small next to a mountain

Big Bend National Park, Texas

holding kittens

Sox

kitty bellies - my favorite (Sox)

And where are the pictures of Iris and Lucy you may wonder? They have never liked being held. Okay, they hate it. (Sox)

cooking for people I love

yes, I'm wearing swimming goggles so I don't cry while cutting onions - works like a charm (Julia Child's potato leek soup)

feeling inspired by a painting

Van Gogh (National Museum of Art)

taking the scenic route

Western Maryland

celebrating birthdays

George 37

Kevin 32

trying something new

Paoli, Indiana (yes, they have skiing in Indiana)

getting my face painted

feeling like a fairy princess

cat naps

Lucy & Iris (sisters)

Lucy

Sox

Iris

lazy Sunday with my girls

a snooze with dad

Sox

You may be wondering why there are more pictures of Sox than Iris or Lucy. It's the classic the first child gets their picture taken more often situation.(Sox)

toasting friends

toasting the Eldridge girls during girl's weekend (Rams Head)

and of course...
being amidst 70 and sunny with a breeze
finding myself in a field of fireflies
making a wish with a dandylion
collecting polished glass along a seashore
felling spring wind on my face
summer thunderstorms
the smell of rain
listening to true love stories
finding a swing set
laughing with friends
laughing with a stranger
sharing an ice cream cone
using crayons
reading to a child

What are yours??

Here We Go Again

2009-11-18T10:13:00.000-08:00

Here we go again...attempt two to upload the video.
Before you view the video, take a moment to prepare yourself for seeing Joe shirtless. Are you sitting down?

You can spot me at 2:02,2:35 and 2:53. It's quick - only a millisecond at a time - so you have to activate your hawk eyes! I'm wearing a gray ski cap.

Girl in the gray ski cap

2009-11-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

It is past midnight. I am supposed to be laying in bed, counting sheep, but am instead, yes, you guessed it, you smart little devil, trying to blog. I keep using the word try because it’s not natural for me yet. But now that I have TWO readers it’s all changed. It’s not just about ohapostrophe anymore. But, yes, ohapostrophe, I was delighted to write just for you.

Joe McIntyre’s new video, “Here We Go Again,” came out today. It’s not a secret that I’m a Joe McIntyre superfan. It’s obnoxious really; how I sleep on a vintage New Kids on the Block pillowcase, kiss Joe’s face before I rest my head on his life size head, or how I had a “best of” New Kids itunes playlist before their 2008 reunion tour. As I write this I’m sporting my pink NKOTB t-shirt. Truthfully? Yes. This is not the type of thing to joke about. You still may be wondering, okay superfan, why do you think we care about this video release? And when I say “you” I am referring to my TWO readers!

As you may already know, the answer is because I am in the video. Truthfully? Yes. This is not the type of thing to joke about. My dear friend, Nick, casting director and owner of People Farm Casting did the casting for the video, and Nick is such a doll he said, because I am so crazy, I could come to L.A. to be an extra in the video.

I woke up the hubs, urgently, at one am that Friday night. “Kevin, Kevin, wake up," my voice was raspy. I was whispering, but so loudly it was the same volume as if I were lecturing a large group, with out a microphone, in an enormous assembly hall. "Can I go to L.A, to be in Joe McIntyre’s new music video Wednesday?”
“Sure. Sure.”
“No – Kevin wake up! This is very important! Can I go to L.A. to be in Joe McIntyre’s new video Wednesday?”
“Yeah, okay.” He was as convincing as I am when I declare I don't care what flavor ice cream we get.

Speed forward to Saturday morning. “So, Kev, do you remember telling me I can go to L.A. to be in Joe McIntyre’s new video that’s on…my throat tightened…Wednesday?”
“I do.”
“What?! You do? So I can go?!”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not your dad. If you want to go, go.”

Ahh, I married the right man.

Sunday was a day of furry. Plane ticket reservations, hotel reservations, rental car reservations. I had never bought plane tickets for a flight only two days away, but now seemed like the perfect time to start.

Speed forward to Wednesday morning. Of course I got lost on the way to the studio. It was to be expected. I still made it with two minutes to spare, or what was actually one hour and fifty-eight minutes late, and wearing the wrong clothes to boot, because, Andreas, my People Farm Casting contact told me the wrong information. Nick assured me he was about to get fired. I was mortified. Luckily, wardrobe scrounged up a zip up hoodie and a gray ski cap for me to wear so I could go on set.

Eight hours is a long time to jump and cheer under hot set lights in a ski cap, but I was in no position to complain. I was on set with my pseudo celebrity boyfriend, and it was surreal. Absolutely surreal. A set, cameras, wardrobe, make up, an asshole director, was this real? I pinched myself. Not really, but that’s what they would do in the movies, and I was, after all, on a set.

I approached Joe. I was proud I didn't behave like a superfan as I had in our mere two minute encounter, in Annapolis, a few years ago on his Joe Mac tour. I was a perfect example of cool. So cool, if you looked up cool in the dictionary you would find my face. I walked with out stumbling. I didn't cry or speak unusually loud or fast. I didn't even hyperventilated, which was my main mistake in the Rams Head foyer the last time I looked into his blue eyes, hypnotized, speechless. I behaved, dare I say, like a thirty year old with social skills, not the ten year old girl I felt like who had posters of Joe from Bop magazine on her bunk bed walls. "He's just a person. He's just a person," "He's just a person. He's just a person." It was my new mantra.

“I wanted to let you know it’s really amazing to be a part of this.” I extended my hand but instead of a platonic handshake, he hugged me. HE. Hugged. ME. He hugged me, passionately, the way he would hug a long lost lover. Okay maybe not, but he hugged me. “I’m glad you are having fun.” He smiled. He meant it.

Speed forward eight hours. It’s a wrap. “I’ll be done in twenty minutes if you want to wait around,” Joe says smoothly, like marshmallows melting in cocoa, a celebrity use to his doting fans. Uh, yeah...I waited. I quickly reapplied lipstick, and tried to dust the shine off my nose with powder that was one shade too dark, due to the end of summer. What did I wait for? Another hug, and little chat, and a picture.

My picture taking abilities are far from professional. Frankly, anyone would call it a step beyond annoying. I have to center, and then focus, and then recenter, and refocus. This takes a long stretch of time, leaving my subjects in fake smile mode far longer than is tolerable. While taking a picture of Joe with another superfan, in this usual manner, he says, “You are horrible at taking pictures, but you are very pretty.”

What?! Did he just say pretty? And he was talking to me?! Did he mean it? Is pretty simply what he calls all the girls? Does he toss around the word pretty carelessly?

I will never know, but I blushed nonetheless.

I tried to upload the video. Couldn't quite figure it out.
Stay tuned...
In the meantime here is the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-BNieBfS9U
You can spot me...2:02, 2:35, and 2:53
You have to look REALLY fast. Blink and you'll miss it.
I'm the girl in the gray ski cap.

superfan

2009-11-16T12:12:00.000-08:00

He hugged me. My celebrity dreamboat.

If only I could have comforted my superfan, nine year old little girl self, who always married Joe at the "stop and get married square" during the game of life, who's parents couldn't afford tickets to a New Kids on the Block concert, by letting her know,

“When you are thirty, you will hug Joe McIntyre. And he will call you pretty.”

Stay tuned, tomorrow, for his new video, “Here We Go Again,” and look for the girl in the gray ski cap.

What 20 years does to a teen heartthrob...

Really? Yes, really.

And in sickness and in health

2009-11-15T14:00:00.001-08:00

I can put on my own underwear again. Ten days post surgery and it’s getting a little better each day. This past week has put the, “in sickness and in health” vow to test. It is difficult to care for someone who is helpless. Someone who keeps spilling water on the floor and is unable to pick up the empty glass. “Why is the carpet wet?” is the hubs daily question. Unfortunately, sometimes it takes something bad happening to see how much someone loves and cares for you. Sure my husband loves me. I know this. But for me, the tangible proof was while he lovingly shaved my legs.

He says the words. And he means it.

We said it. We did it. And we couldn't help but smile about it.

Four years later, and I still remember this as being one of my favorite moments of my life.

I couldn't help but post one of my favorite pictures. I still remember how warm the water felt on my legs. And, yes, I got my dress wet.

I had never felt more lucky.

I realize this is getting out of control. I just can't stop traveling down memory lane.

Yes, I realize this is not a wedding blog.

Excuse me, are you wearing a fat suit?

2009-11-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

Two blogs in one day? Yes. Apparently that's what I do now. Lay in bed and watch movies, and try to have a blog.

After watching Bridget Jones's Diary and feeling obese, I decided to watch the sequel to Bridget Jones's Diary, studding Renee Zellweger very carefully. Is she fat? How fat is she? Exactly how fat does she look in this dress, in those pants, yadi yadi yada.

A little more research - yes, research. Apparently that's what I do now. Lay in bed and watch movies, try to have a blog, and research pressing topics on the internet.

Thanks to this in depth internet research, I find out that although Bridget Jones claimed to be a whopping 138, or the unspeakable 140 pounds, Renee Zellweger actually weighed 130 pounds when she played the part. Wow. That's a great way to feel even fatter. Now I am NINE pounds over what everyone considers the incredibly enormous amount of weight Renee Zellweger had to weigh to play the part of Bridget Jones.

Many celebrities said they couldn't, or shall we say wouldn't, do what she did. To add insult to injury, Renee Zellweger said she will not be gaining the weight back to play Bridget Jones the 3rd time around. Instead she will wear a fat suit. Fat suit. Ladies, if you want to look like me, it requires wearing a FAT SUIT. Wow. Nuff said.

sesame seed

2009-11-12T14:29:00.000-08:00

Every time I move I can’t help but say, “Fuck.” It is now seven days post surgery, an amount of time I thought would be sufficient for feeling bad. My doctor thinks otherwise. On Tuesday she told me it is ridiculous for me to think I should be feeling better by now, so I have decided to let be, be. I will heal when my body damn feels like it. It is not fair, or my place, to bark commands at my body, who has just been at war, to feel better. So I will just let be, be.

I keep thinking about that little sesame seed that did this to me. An embryo, so tiny, just big enough, just old enough, to even be called an embryo. Five weeks. A measly little five weeks. Not much always happens in real people time in five weeks, but in the story of creating life, turns out a lot happens.

First, my little sesame seed was only the size of the period at the end of this sentence. Then my little sesame seed grew to just that. A sesame seed. Five weeks gave this spunky, little, trouble making sesame seed just enough time to burrow and implant into my fallopian tube. Not my uterus. My fallopian tube. If that wasn’t trouble enough that little sesame seed, that damn sesame seed, ruptured said fallopian tube. This creates a hell of a lot of pain. The most, deepest, sharpest pain my body has experienced. I’m sure there are plenty of other things that are much more painful than a ruptured fallopian tube, but I have experienced none of them, and so this was the most painful of my experiences. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t lay. This pain was intense enough for me to send myself to the hospital.

Blood work, urine sample, sonogram…and then the diagnosis. A sesame seed on my fallopian tube. Surgery happened almost immediately after this discovery. Less than ten minutes later a nurse was taking my blood "just in case" and I was instructed to count backwards from ten.

I was scared. I cried.
I woke up in pain, missing one fallopian tube, and 900cc of blood.

I feel sad. They put me to sleep and dug into my body. They took out a part of me. They suctioned blood out of my abdomen. One fifth of my blood. I was laying there open and vulnerable, my bloody insides exposed, no longer safely tucked inside. They used clamps and scalpels and shiny, metal, sterile things. To them it was just another day at work. But not for me. To me it was the beginning of the first day when I will no longer be able to wander around unafraid.

I cry. Tears flood from my body how I imagine blood flooded inside my body. Now I lay because it is the only thing that doesn’t hurt. My insides are swollen; my body is full of unfamiliar air, my body slowly trying to reabsorb the blood they couldn’t get out.

I lay and my insides ache.
I wonder if they feel sad too.

four times a charm??

2009-09-28T14:07:00.000-07:00

Am I seriously getting another hair cut 7 days after the week of 3 haircuts? The answer would be - you bet. Will this fiasco ever end?? But you thought I loved my new do. And I did. When Matt did it. I have tried styling my hair in the following ways, all with varying degrees of negative results:

1)The way Matt showed me...apply ridiculously expensive hair product...dry hair with fingers until nearly dry...round brush...straighten.
End product: not good

2)Apply ridiculously expensive hair product...go to sleep with wet hair
End product: one step worse than not good

3)Apply ridiculously expensive hair product...round brush
End product: whoa - I didn't know it could get worse than attempt 2.

4)Scrunch wet hair...go to bed
End product: shit, what was a thinking

5)Apply ridiculously expensive hair product...round brush...straighten...apply different ridiculously expensive hair product
End Product: this yielded the best results, but don't get too excited, I still had to attempt to pull it back so no one would hurt their eyes looking at me

6)Is there seriously another way to fuel this fire? There is.
Let hair air dry with no products
End Product: People are actually complaining that I am hurting their eyes

Hopefully tomorrow I will leave the salon with a hairstyle I can actually replicate at home. Here's hopin'...

three times a charm

2009-09-25T13:29:00.001-07:00

New do...
I decided to get a haircut. This is a decision that a countless number of people, all over the world, make every day. Every second, in fact. Even millisecond. I imagine something like a million people a millisecond decide to get a haircut. I am sure there is a statistic that supports this claim, but I have never been one much for numbers. So I made the unoriginal decision to get a haircut last Friday. I became one of the statistics.

I called Bubbles salon, in the Harbour Center, my usual haircut establishment. First there was Lindsay. Loved her. She left. Then there was Katie. LOVED her. She left. Therefore I found myself in a cape under the whim of a lady who called herself Diane. Or was it Diana? My hair was boob length and one length…a blank slate. "Do what ever you think. I want something much shorter, spunky maybe," words they wait their whole careers to hear. What she did to me - It was not good.

I spent the weekend feeling ugly. Not a little ugly, but the ugliest kind of ugly. The kind that makes you want to give up hope on life every time you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. On Monday I made an appointment at the Bubbles salon in the Annapolis Mall. I had a girl by a name in which I don't remember. I put my faith in her that she could fix my "situation." The result was the same haircut only shorter. It was as if Diana and nameless beautician, (Beautician? Are we suppose to say that anymore?) were both Beauty School drop outs who paid some type of Hair Mafia to get their licensees. I lived with this haircut for one hour before I called Hudson and Fouquette and made an appointment for the next day.

Despite all, I arrived hopeful. My hairdresser, (Hairdresser? Are we suppose to say hairdresser anymore?) Matt, was one of the owners and so I assumed he would have to be good. Hudson and Fouquette, also known as Hudson and Fuck It, is the overpriced, snobby place to get your hair done. I was waiting for Matt to display this obnoxious behavior, but far from it. He was soft spoken and friendly, warm even. Despite the last two failed attempts, I still had faith. Faith that he would fix my hair once and for all.

Bubbles had me in and out in roughly thirty minutes. Matt spent sixty minutes just cutting my hair. SIXTY! He was focused and meticulous and I could see the creative juices emitting from his ears, genius slowly dripping from his earlobes. I don't know how he could have taken what I walked in with and turn it into what I walked out with. A true artist. A Beauty School valedictorian.

Thanks, Matt. Turns out three times is a charm.

2009-09-20T09:28:00.000-07:00

I thought I’d give this blog thing another try. I have to keep my one reader updated on the fascinating, multifaceted happenings of my life. Em wants to know what I have to say even though I talk to her in person nearly every day. Apparently she needs to see it in writing. I’m pretty sure she’s the only person reading this blog…so this one’s for you, Em!