tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85011665953045316022024-03-13T09:07:18.473-05:00Life with BeckyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-63753640350716677582018-03-21T11:02:00.001-05:002018-03-21T11:02:46.041-05:00Always Check the Laundry Room for FerretsWith every failed dating saga I feel like I'm closer to giving up and becoming "that crazy dog lady next door." Last weekend I did a professional photoshoot with my one true love. While three engagement photoshoots swirled around me, I was lost in a euphoric state staring at my dog like this:<br>
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As much as I'd like to think a dog-centered lifestyle could work, unfortunately I'm all too aware that much like my princess pup, I'm a little needy. I also lack situational awareness and can barely make it through a trip to the DMV without losing my sh*t. So I press on in search of someone who can save me from myself. It's a labor of love for, well, love. </div>
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But man, it's rough out there. The singles of the world are not-so-delicately tiptoeing through a hot mess minefield riddled with creepazoids, mistaken identities and ferrets. Yes, ferrets.<br>
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So today I've set out to detail some words of advice for those of you wading through the madness with me. Let my dating screw ups and these vintage Becky memes remind you that you're not alone. And dating is hard.<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2018/03/always-check-laundry-room-for-ferrets.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-86009039506779042442017-11-22T10:16:00.000-06:002018-03-20T20:15:00.244-05:00Pizza Stone Toe Happens<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Look at the life picture I've painted in 2017 and you'll see me
falling in love, traveling across the globe and playing with lots of puppies.
There were many bright spots, but I'd like to go on record along with the rest of
America and say that overall this year was pretty much a little bitch. (Sorry
mom.) Plus I've had to endure most of 2017 with only nine toenails. And if that
isn't a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qlMgvZU8hzE/WhR3ZfGj3OI/AAAAAAAACHU/DKYGzINeaPkmWx6NqKRRQTvkAxpKMhWowCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_5539%2B%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1358" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qlMgvZU8hzE/WhR3ZfGj3OI/AAAAAAAACHU/DKYGzINeaPkmWx6NqKRRQTvkAxpKMhWowCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_5539%2B%25281%2529.JPG" width="271"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Social media me, sending chill vibes in 2017.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The real me, telling 2017 to lay off.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">"You seem oddly... calm," my best friend, Suzie, says as
she sits next to me less than two weeks after my latest breakup. As I prattle on and on
about the man of the minute I found on some dating app, she remains skeptical.
But obviously, I'M FINE. I mean, look at the evidence: I'm going on dates!
Booking flights right and left! Taking up new hobbies! Unstoppable, I tell you!</span></div>
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A few days later, the simple task of reheating a piece of pizza confirms that I
am not, in fact, fine. Apparently the sure-fire indicator I'm experiencing
life trauma is to gauge my behavior in the kitchen. (cc: <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-great-chocolate-chip-cookie.html">The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013.</a></span>)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Place directly on oven rack OR ON PIZZA STONE." Danger ahead.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I cleverly decide to use a pizza stone for this task because A)
I'm a new woman post-breakup who makes even dull tasks exciting, B) The
reheating instructions told me to, and C) I had a pizza stone when I moved into
my apartment two years ago and wonder if it still exists. Answer: it does! And
in its original packaging no less! This becomes a problem when I lift the
disintegrating box to about chest height and the pizza stone falls out the
bottom, plummeting to the ground... by way of my toe.</span><br>
</div><a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2017/11/pizza-stone-toe-happens.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-87408914703349740812017-07-31T22:20:00.000-05:002018-03-20T21:38:13.375-05:00Something > NothingA funny thing happens when you broadcast your life-altering decisions to the world: some people actually listen. One of the coolest things about the past year of my life (other than the fact that I can finally make happy hour) is that I've somehow become a source of wisdom/inspiration for a few people. I'm flattered and humbled, but also at a loss for what to say when people ask how they can shift their lives in a positive direction. It forces me to retrace my steps and ask myself: How DID I get here?<br>
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The simple answer is that it can't be defined by a single moment. Quitting my job may have seemed like a very assertive, final action that put everything on track, but in actuality it was one action that was flanked on either side by other actions -- some big, some small -- that were just as important as the <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/09/a-birthday-card-and-resignation-letter.html">birthday card/resignation letter saga</a>.<br>
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The before... I pursued new relationships; I moved to a new part of town; I gave my boss an ultimatum that if things didn't change, I was going to find something new.</blockquote>
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The after... I traveled to new parts of the country; I sat in my kitchen and applied to new jobs; I went to awkward networking events and met more new people.</blockquote>
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<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2017/07/something-nothing.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-73606564590578661232017-02-07T21:44:00.001-06:002018-03-20T21:40:56.314-05:00Hello from the Other Side...Well kids, I survived. For those of you who have more important things to do than track my employment status, I <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/09/a-birthday-card-and-resignation-letter.html">quit my job</a> last fall with zero plans for next steps. I had lots of adjectives thrown at me during my three-month funemployment journey: brave, risky, exciting, irresponsible. It was all of those things, but more than anything... IT WAS WORTH IT.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comin' atcha, life. </td></tr>
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My generation gets a bad rap for being lazy, self-entitled brats. Perhaps that's true of the well-coiffed hippie I saw selling "magical rocks" outside a bookstore in Portland, but in general I'd like to raise a hand on behalf of Millennials and say that we're dedicated, loyal, hard-working folks who just want to find our place in the world. We quite frankly don't have time to be wastes of space since we're expected to have three years of experience the day after graduation just to be eligible for an entry-level position. This means once we get a job, we're pretty serious about keeping it. I mean, we all own rescue dogs and they need to eat.</div>
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Yes, we are busy sending Biden/Obama memes to the group text, watching viral videos of pandas playing in the snow, drooling over Chrissy Tiegen's latest Snapchat recipe and stalking an ex's new flame on Instagram. But do you know the main reason some of us run into poles with our heads glued to screens? Because we're trying to figure out how email works in the latest iOS update, proofing the 29th revision of that document that just won't die and responding to our boss' 2am texts. I watch <i>Mad Men</i> today and despite the alcoholism, mental instability and sexism, find myself thinking: "Wow! Those were the days!" If Don Draper went to Hawaii, he was untouchable: no Internet, no email, no cell phones. Meanwhile, during my get-over-your-breakup-vacation I found myself pacing across a pool deck in Santorini trying to find a Wifi signal.<br>
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This is a problem that plagues all of working America. The difference for Millennials is that 24/7 accessibility is the only norm we've ever known. It hit me as I sat fielding emails in the ER with an IV shoved into my arm at 6am on a Wednesday: perhaps this isn't a good norm to accept. Perhaps it's time to try something different.<br>
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"Quitting" has a bad connotation in most circumstances. For a long time I thought quitting was the equivalent of failure. But ultimately I realized that sometimes quitting is the bravest and best thing you can do. I'm not right about everything, but I was right about that. The three months I spent in limbo were some of the most important moments of my life. Not because I did anything revolutionary, but because I re-discovered how to place value in the things that make me happy.<br>
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</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2017/02/hello-from-other-side.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-84975111021077278142016-11-08T17:12:00.000-06:002018-03-20T21:42:11.259-05:00Breaking My Political SilenceGrowing up, Election Day was like Christmas for my family. We'd gather around the TV with a blank map of the U.S. and color each state red or blue as the "politi-guys" (a term I still use as a grown adult) projected the winner of the Presidential election. The recount of 2000 -- oh man. Big times in our household.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging chad, anyone?</td></tr>
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But those were happier times. Times when I never would have dreamed up an election cycle like this one. I've watched the light go out that I once saw in my father's eyes at the prospect of selecting a new Commander in Chief. I've glazed over the politically charged posts and articles that have been cluttering every corner of the Internet with he said/she said. America is tired; so very tired.<br>
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<b>I voted today, but with a different outlook than any other time I've fulfilled my civic right.</b><br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/11/breaking-my-political-silence.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-16699191081592920812016-09-16T11:42:00.000-05:002016-09-16T11:54:39.260-05:00A Birthday Card and a Resignation Letter Walk into a CEO's Office...Life is a series of decisions; hard decisions, easy decisions, good decisions, bad decisions. I have trouble deciding what toppings I want on my pizza, so making the big, life altering kinds of decisions is something I try to avoid. But sometimes, those decisions refuse to be ignored. Such was the case a few weeks ago when I turned my future into one big question mark.<br>
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It's 7:30am on a Wednesday in late August. I'm at my desk ready to dry heave, completely panicked, because... it's happening. I'm going to step down from my job without a clue what I'm going to do next. (Pause for "Are you crazy?!" mental shouting.)<br>
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Here's the deal. My job is amazing and so are the people that I work with. I've learned invaluable skills, traveled the country, and crafted messages for a massive brand. I've progressed further in my career than I could have ever dreamed in such a short amount of time, but that hasn't come without sacrifices. A lof of them. (And also some scars. <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/08/im-more-of-indoors-girl.html">Literally</a>.) I know this big, scary decision will make me whole again, and I've been making excuses to put it off long enough.<br>
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Which brings us back to my mic drop moment.<br>
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I have a great amount of respect for my (now former) company's CEO, and I don't want to disappoint him. With my better judgment fogged by the weight of emotions I'm trying to wrangle, I walk into his office with what I deem to be a peace offering... in the form of a greeting card. My opening line:<br>
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<b>"I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I have your birthday card. The bad news is, I also have my letter of resignation." </b><br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/09/a-birthday-card-and-resignation-letter.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-27059757944928249752016-08-21T15:35:00.001-05:002016-10-27T11:12:11.013-05:00I'm More of an Indoors Girl<b>"What do you do for a living?"</b><br>
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This is a simple, normal question that every adult hears on a regular basis. I just don't have a simple, normal answer. My usual avoidance strategy is to play the vague card: <b>"I work in advertising,"</b> and hope we can leave it at that. But we rarely do.<br>
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<b>"Oh really? What does that entail?"</b><br>
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This is where things get hairy. Although I work in advertising, my responsibilities can't be summed up in "I'm like Don Draper without the drinking problem." Three years ago, I started down a logical path as a copywriter, but I've been all over the place since then. Today, my title says "Associate Creative Director," but it doesn't say that I'm also producer, director, casting director, make-up artist, shrink, chef, hair stylist and den mother. These are all responsibilities that fall under my umbrella as the creative director of several online video series that my agency creates for ... wait for it ... the NRA. <b>Yes, that NRA.</b><br>
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The up side here is that my work stories are far more entertaining than anything my accountant friends have to share, and I can bewitch 95 percent of men by dissecting the pros and cons of a Glock vs. a Sig Sauer.<br>
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<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2016/08/im-more-of-indoors-girl.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-73811053948321489852015-01-04T11:15:00.000-06:002018-03-20T08:56:49.958-05:00I'm Writing a Book. Really.Hello, 2015. I hope you're a heck of a lot better than 2014.<br>
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This is the time of year when everyone is making resolutions to stop eating sweets, find a new job and compliment one stranger a day. I'm not very good at keeping my resolutions. For example: still haven't finished reading <i>The Three Musketeers</i>, which was my resolution back at the turn of <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2013/01/new-year-new-nonsense.html">2013</a>. Whoops.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't even remember the characters' names.</td></tr>
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In 2015, I've resolved to finish my book. Not Alexandre Dumas' book; MY book.<br>
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Yep. I'm writing a book. It all started about three years ago. I had just finished recounting the saga of my latest failed dating attempt to my best friend, Becca. She laughed and shook her head as she always does, then made a request:<br>
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"For my birthday this year I want you to write all of these stories down."<br>
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What best friend wants, best friend gets. So I started to write. I used to be a meticulous journal keeper, which meant I was able to reach as far back as my first-ever-kind-of-dating-situation circa age 15. And on I forged down memory lane; from first kisses to first loves to first broken hearts. And where has that gotten me? 37 chapters spread across 157 single-spaced pages. And counting. Becca is still waiting for her 23rd birthday gift. (My bad, B.)<br>
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So as my gift to Becca and to you, my loyal blog readers, an excerpt from chapter 6: "Bunny Boy"<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2015/01/im-writing-book-really.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-7085716234658260312014-10-08T20:19:00.000-05:002015-01-04T11:16:12.519-06:00The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013I like to think I've earned my place at Ackerman McQueen as a capable, intelligent member of the team. But for a time there, I was definitely known by 95 percent of the people I worked with as "the girl who lost it over cookies."<br>
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I've been known to lash out irrationally where baked goods are involved. Not just once, but multiple times. Some of my girlfriends still talk about one incident when I lost it while trying to dye icing orange. Then there was that time my best friend and I got into an argument over whether we should use a wooden or rubber spoon to mix a batch of brownies. We chased each other through the house wielding kitchen utensils.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AiqmdIU5AiY/VC3SE9RRMlI/AAAAAAAABwI/vAplhfqbv58/s1600/10392221_1263363311186_4402507_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AiqmdIU5AiY/VC3SE9RRMlI/AAAAAAAABwI/vAplhfqbv58/s1600/10392221_1263363311186_4402507_n.jpg" height="300" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happier baking times.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. But nothing will ever compare to The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013.<br>
<br>
The root of this meltdown isn't actually the cookies in question. It's really about a boy, of course. I don't recall exactly what leads to our argumentative state that night. I'm on the defensive because he seems to be critiquing everything I do, and he probably thinks I'm doing the same. The result: we're both in moods. You know, those moods where it doesn't take much to set you off. My tipping point? He says the batch of cookies I spent five hours baking the night before are mediocre at best. Aaaaaaand I'm crying.<br>
<br>
I storm off to take a shower and cool off. When I surface, I hope to extend an olive branch and watch some <i>House of Cards</i>. Instead he informs me that he's typed out a note on his iPhone detailing everything I've been doing wrong during our 11-month relationship. Well that sounds FUN. I guess Frank and Clare Underwood will have to wait.<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nvnf2G7FhYs/VDXgNIaIExI/AAAAAAAABws/IsB12zgiNGQ/s1600/frank%2Band%2Bclaire%2Bunderwood%2Bnetflix%2Bhouse%2Bof%2Bcards%2Bfavorite%2Bcouple.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nvnf2G7FhYs/VDXgNIaIExI/AAAAAAAABws/IsB12zgiNGQ/s1600/frank%2Band%2Bclaire%2Bunderwood%2Bnetflix%2Bhouse%2Bof%2Bcards%2Bfavorite%2Bcouple.jpg.jpg" height="258" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry guys, BRB. Gonna cry it out.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He reads the painfully long tirade without even pausing to look up, and I fall apart. The only positive words I remember are "I love you." However, those words are immediately followed by the word "but," which pretty much eclipses that ounce of silver I-Love-You lining.<br>
<br>
Full-on ugly girl cry status has been reached. Once he finally wraps it up, I mutter something like, "Ok...I'll try to stop doing those million things that I'm apparently doing wrong." I don't know what else to say, so I roll over and cry myself to sleep. Clearly our communication skills are top notch and we handle conflict really well.<br>
<br>
The next morning, I show up late to work with four dozen cookies that are now 48 hours old, partially burned and symbolic of a still unresolved argument and my crumbling (pun intended) relationship. My puffy, crying eyes are hidden behind my glasses. My hair is lazily pulled into an I-don't-care-bun. I'm wearing a thin layer of waterproof mascara. Basically, I'm giving off that "don't screw with me" vibe. Unfortunately, Darren isn't catching on to said vibe.<br>
<br>
Darren is the local forever bachelor in the office. He's hilarious, charming and an excellent story-teller. However, you would not pin him for a fantastic baker. If, for example, he challenged you to a bake-off, you would gladly accept and laugh him off as zero competition. You'd spend an entire month trash-talking and sending office-wide emails touting your impending victory. You wouldn't be even slightly concerned that your latest batch of cookies wasn't your best, because there's no way this guy can bake half as well as you -- even when you're at your worst. No way.<br>
<br>
Except he can. He can bake better than you. Better than me. Better than all of us. By a lot. I walk into the conference room that morning and see Darren's perfect cookies, which were apparently just removed from the oven mere hours before. My cookies look wimpy. They have half the amount of chocolate. They're losing their fluff. They are, as I had already been told, mediocre at best. Help.<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-great-chocolate-chip-cookie.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-1849689182159820912014-06-24T22:09:00.000-05:002018-03-20T08:57:13.555-05:00Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part 2Re-entering the singles world after you had pretty much planned your entire life with someone is a jarring experience. On the upside, my newly single status has presented a plethora of opportunities for me to ridicule other people whose problems and dating prospects are clearly much bleaker than mine. While I am seriously concerned about the crop of men that lies before me, I am at least entertained by the words they allow to escape their mouths. I am even more entertained by the fact that they think these words will make me, or any female for that matter, go weak in the knees.<br>
<br>
Allow me to provide some real life examples of why things are going awry as I force myself back into the dating pool. Apparently things haven't changed much since I wrote <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/02/pick-up-lines-that-never-work-part-i.html">this</a> two years ago. This is just one week in the life of a Dallas 20-something single lady. It's a scary place out there.<br>
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<b></b><br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2014/06/pick-up-lines-that-never-work-part-2.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-75435991545181045692014-02-13T21:04:00.000-06:002014-02-16T21:05:09.742-06:00Valentines SchmalentinesWell. It's here. Again.<br>
<br>
Valentine's Day.<br>
<br>
Like many people, I've had a love/hate relationship with this holiday. The "love" phase came in elementary school when I got to decorate a shoe box and all my classmates gave me candy. Plus my mom threw me a Valentine bunko party one year that RULED.<br>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qu5iTVOM2q4/Uv1zynYZf2I/AAAAAAAABeY/9YyXBwOfcqU/s1600/lovevday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qu5iTVOM2q4/Uv1zynYZf2I/AAAAAAAABeY/9YyXBwOfcqU/s1600/lovevday.jpg" height="266" width="400"></a></div>
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The "hate" phase came soon after. My dating career began at age 15 with a month-long "relationship" that missed V-Day by a few weeks. This "relationship" held the record for my longest official dating situation until I was 24. During the intervening years, I pretty much dated boys for a week then was over it. People who follow a similar dating patern must come to terms with these three truths: 1) You're dating the wrong people. 2) You have commitment issues. 3) You don't have Valentines. Ever.<br>
<br>
So went my life.<br>
<br>
In middle school and high school I coveted the ugly, cheap teddy bears my friends received from their boyfriends and wrote angst-ridden posts on my Xanga.<br>
<br>
In college, there was wine.<br>
<br>
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<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2014/02/valentines-schmalentines.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-63110696290804369482013-08-07T22:36:00.002-05:002014-02-14T12:55:17.525-06:00The City Museum: No. Just ... No.<div class="MsoNormal">
Once upon a time … a serious case of sensory overload almost
killed me. Seriously, you guys. I. Could. Have. Died.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you heard of the <a href="http://www.citymuseum.org/site/">City Museum</a> in St. Louis? If you
like feeling claustrophobic, having children crawl above, under, and around you
through metal cages, and being surrounded by chaos … this place is for
you. If the combination of those three things sounds miserable to you … STAY
AWAY. I’m in the “stay away” group, and wish I had known this before
putting myself through what I've decided was a casual get together in Satan's backyard.<br>
<br>
Here's a little teaser: Can you tell who enjoyed this experience, and who couldn't handle it?!<br>
<br>
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</div><a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2013/08/city-museum.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-4688962337140757762013-03-05T10:24:00.000-06:002013-03-06T11:18:39.932-06:00How (not to) Skydive Like a ProI hate heights. Absolutely hate them. But for some reason, I enjoy putting myself through emotional turmoil by doing things like riding roller coasters and <a href="http://www.lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2011/02/spiders-snakes-and-matchcomoh-my.html">bungee jumping</a>. Skydiving has been on my <b>"things that will terrify and possibly kill me but could end up being decently fun" bucket list</b> for awhile, and Australia sounds like a pretty great place to do it. If I'm going to die by slamming my body into the ground, at least it will be a very pretty piece of ground.<br>
<br>
I book skydiving a solid month before my Australian adventure, mostly so I am forced to pay my credit card bill before leaving for my trip and therefore would have to swallow the fact that I willingly threw away hundreds of dollars in the event that I decide to wimp out. I receive two different confirmation emails after clicking the "purchase" button. Both of them remind me of the astronomical amount of money I've invested in voluntarily ending my life and the second email says ... <b>wait, what's that word?</b><br>
<br>
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<b>WTF is a heli-skydive? </b>Am I jumping out of a HELICOPTER? Cue frantic attempts at contacting the skydive company. After two emails go unanswered, I resort to Twitter, Facebook and lastly a phone call that tells me I have a wrong number. I. Am. Panicking. Skydive Australia, you're on my list.<br>
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The problem is, I've never been in a helicopter. One "first" for the
day (that first being shaking hands with death) is about all I can
handle at a time. I realize that it really doesn't matter what aircraft I choose. Helicopter, plane, hovercraft or flying pig: <b>I'm still free-falling at 14,000 feet toward my own demise. By choice. </b>But still. A girl can only handle so much. Planes, I understand. We go way back. Helicopters ... I just ... no.<br>
<br>
I eventually hear back from <a href="http://www.australiaskydive.com.au/">Skydive Australia</a> (it really didn't take that long; I'm just a paranoid freak), and, just my luck, they don't have a plane anymore. Just two helicopters. Two "firsts" it is.<br>
<br>
My skydive adventure begins at 6:40 a.m. outside a Holiday Inn in <a href="http://www.sydney.com.au/kingsx.htm">Kings Cross</a>, where random drunkards are still piggyback riding through the streets and slurring karaoke songs. A small van pulls up to take us to the jump site. Our driver, the quintessential Aussie who would make a career out of skydiving, ushers my friend, Julia, and I into the van along with six strangers. We arrive at the jump site an hour later without incident and confirm our bookings, then I slip away to the bathroom to ward off the possibility of peeing on my tandem jumper when he hurls me out of a helicopter.<br>
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Also, yes. I brought <a href="http://www.safarisamblog.com/">Safari Sam</a> with me for support. No, he didn't really help calm my nerves.<br>
<br>
I return from the bathroom to hear my name being yelled repeatedly. I've been here for approximately 10 minutes, but it's time to get dressed for my jump. Oh, and by the way, <b>I'm going in the first load.</b><br>
<br>
Pardon?<br>
<br>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q6mWDFIGlBg/UTYWSo8h5NI/AAAAAAAABW4/d3swTE_B-4Q/s1600/166720_2628572240556_505180674_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q6mWDFIGlBg/UTYWSo8h5NI/AAAAAAAABW4/d3swTE_B-4Q/s400/166720_2628572240556_505180674_n.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2013/03/how-not-to-skydive-like-pro.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-18045380983654399862013-01-22T12:59:00.001-06:002013-01-22T12:59:47.242-06:00No Pictures, Please (part 2)I really wasn't kidding when I said I can't pose for pictures alone. Boredom recently led me to reach back to the depths of my Facebook past and discover that I've had this problem for as long as Facebook can remember (meaning since 2006 when I first jumped on Mark Zuckerburg's bandwagon). I truly was a solid solo photo poser up until about age 10, but then puberty hit and my preteen years just went to pieces as awkwardness took over in all my solo pic situations. And still the awkwardness remains.<br>
<br>
Please see below for further submissions to my solo pic failures, featuring the faces first highlighted in <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2011/08/no-pictures-please.html">this blog</a>, plus a few additional faces<b> </b>that have popped up in my research.<br>
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<b>1. The "you're taking this picture against my will and I'm not happy about it" face</b><br>
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<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2013/01/no-pictures-please-part-2.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-36079257937395231852013-01-05T10:53:00.000-06:002013-01-08T09:35:22.933-06:00New Year, New NonsenseOh, hello!<br>
<br>
Let's all take a moment to relish in the fact that I am now embarking on my <i>fourth year</i> of ranting on this little piece of the blogosphere. From small beginnings involving way too much <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2010/10/you-are-what-you-eat.html">mayonnaise</a>, a <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2010/10/cat-astrophe.html">CAT-astrophe</a> of epic proportions and <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2010/09/treadmill-thoughts.html">treadmills</a>, we've blossomed into <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/02/pick-up-lines-that-never-work-part-i.html">lame pick-up lines</a>, <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/01/damsel-in-distress.html">apartment lock-ins</a> and my <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2011/08/no-pictures-please.html">inability to be photographed alone</a>.<br>
<br>
<b>Ah, sweet memories.</b><br>
<br>
Moving on to a new year. Here are my 13 goals for 2013:<br>
<br>
<b>1. </b><b>Convince one of my friends to buy a hedgehog. </b>I would buy one myself, but I'm already in charge of <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/02/adventures-of-diva-dog.html#more">one life</a>, and that's about all I can handle at the moment. Therefore, if you are easily impressionable, please <a href="http://cuteoverload.com/2012/12/12/buckley-shops-for-a-bed/">click here</a> to see pictures of Buckley the hedgehog going shopping for a bed. And now you want a hedgehog, right? <i>Please</i>. Make my dreams (and yours) come true.<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYeSRr-iPRQ/UOXan_TR2eI/AAAAAAAAAyI/R3cmc-aJP38/s1600/buckley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYeSRr-iPRQ/UOXan_TR2eI/AAAAAAAAAyI/R3cmc-aJP38/s400/buckley.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Want. Need. MUST HAVE. The mini bed and the hedgehog.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>2. </b><b>Go on the greatest vacation ever to <a href="http://beckyandbecca.blogspot.com/">Australia</a>.</b> Eat Pancakes on the Rocks. Swim in the ocean. Avoid being eaten by a shark. Learn to surf. Jump out of a plane. Etc. Etc. Etc.<br>
<b>2a. (Optional but preferable) Find an Australian husband.</b><br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qMKszQ9nby0/UOXaFxULzsI/AAAAAAAAAyA/lh48UDENo_4/s1600/syd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qMKszQ9nby0/UOXaFxULzsI/AAAAAAAAAyA/lh48UDENo_4/s400/syd.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guess who will be in this exact spot in exactly one month? This girl.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e3zlPZ25B5c/UOXZfG8NJnI/AAAAAAAAAx4/a2uMmq1qX6U/s1600/pancakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e3zlPZ25B5c/UOXZfG8NJnI/AAAAAAAAAx4/a2uMmq1qX6U/s400/pancakes.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pancakes on the Rocks, get in my belly. If I can't have an Aussie husband, I'll settle for this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>3. </b><b>Finish reading <i>The Three Musketeers.</i> </b>Christmas 2011 I decided to be cultural (and cheap) and downloaded this literary classic for free on my Kindle. Since then, I've read 6 percent of the book. Off to a bit of a slow start on my cultural conquest, but 2013 is my year!<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2013/01/new-year-new-nonsense.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-81394418556183851852012-10-10T15:49:00.000-05:002012-10-11T09:03:40.946-05:00Nail Polish NightmareMy most recent situation was part Incredible Hulk, part Carrie Bradshaw. The Hulk because it involved my super human strength; Carrie Bradshaw because the culprit that led to this predicament was a beauty product.<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcXXJhUnWLw/UHTUk70e0RI/AAAAAAAAApQ/LPSo2Ko4AD0/s1600/The-hulk-2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcXXJhUnWLw/UHTUk70e0RI/AAAAAAAAApQ/LPSo2Ko4AD0/s320/The-hulk-2003.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're twins. (Fraternal, not identical.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VkFvoEyQOVM/UHRElagouJI/AAAAAAAAAo4/CzUUrMEVOe8/s1600/Carrie-bradshaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VkFvoEyQOVM/UHRElagouJI/AAAAAAAAAo4/CzUUrMEVOe8/s320/Carrie-bradshaw.jpg" width="299"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the Carrie Bradshaw I want to be.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TGN7owX7Dw0/UHREl6BFcII/AAAAAAAAApA/XYaXC1NbEHk/s1600/carrie-bradshaw-tutu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TGN7owX7Dw0/UHREl6BFcII/AAAAAAAAApA/XYaXC1NbEHk/s400/carrie-bradshaw-tutu.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the Carrie Bradshaw I actually am. (Except I don't even look cute in tutus.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
Additionally, both of these characters are fictional. Audiences watch in wonder and say, <b>"Surely that would never happen to anyone in real life."</b> Ladies and gentlemen, you've just described my 23 years on this earth.<br>
<br>
Only I can <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/01/damsel-in-distress.html">lock myself INSIDE an apartment</a>.<br>
<br>
Only I can <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2011/09/wardrobe-malfunction.html">unintentionally put on a peep show for 40 Asian tourists</a>.<br>
<br>
<b>And only I can end up in urgent care after a run-in with a nail polish bottle.</b> <br>
<br>
It all starts with open-toed shoes. I don't realize until I'm at work that -- gasp! -- my toe nails are not painted and the whole world can see thanks to my open-toed shoes selection. I realize it's a little silly I'm concerned about such things because I work at a zoo. Nail polish is not a must-have for most zoo employees, but it is for this one. Exposing naked non-painted toes is just a no-no.<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/10/nail-polish-nightmare.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-79213882277286357162012-07-12T12:31:00.000-05:002012-07-23T09:50:04.363-05:00Dream OnDon't you HATE it when you wake up from an insanely awesome and realistic dream, can still picture it in your head but are unable to put it into words, and then the dream disappears so you're left with nothing but the sad reality of waking up to your neighbor mowing the lawn at 6 a.m. accompanied by the immediate need to pee?<br>
<br>
Well, my friends, I woke up from a dream last weekend that was so crazy I specifically laid in bed with my eyes closed and focused on the events until I was able to put words to them and make the pictures stick in my head. Lucky for you, this means I can now share my dream with you. You're welcome in advance. It's pretty great.<br>
<br>
Close your eyes and dream with me ...<br>
<br>
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<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/07/dream-on.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-8975660931125260172012-02-27T22:47:00.003-06:002013-03-06T10:34:38.030-06:00Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part II've decided that my latest blogging endeavor is going to be to keep track of all the horrendous pick-up lines that I hear when I venture out into Fort Worth's social scene. I'll be honest, these occurrences are becoming more rare since I'm now more likely to choose the anti-social option of staying in with my puppy and drinking wine. (Cool kid, right here.)<br />
<br />
Perhaps my hesitation to go out into the world has something to do with the sharks that are out there, waiting to throw their one-liners at me. Here are some examples of the word vomit that has assailed me recently.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Pick-up line that will never work #1</b><br />
<br />
"You should smile. You look angry and sad."<br />
<br />
I'm a smiler, but I don't just stare off into space with a smile on my face. In this instance, I was standing in a corner while my friends got drinks. Do I want to be the grinning weirdo standing by herself and surveying the room of strangers? No. I was neither angry nor sad; I was ambivalent. But after that lame pick-up, I instantly became annoyed. So I rolled my eyes and walked away.<br />
<br />
<b>Pick-up line that will never work #2</b><br />
<br />
"That isn't how you really dance, is it?"<br />
<br />
I talked to this kid for about three seconds and then he asked me to dance. Really? If you just insulted my super sweet moves, why would you even want to go there? Or think that I'd be interested? Not happening. And just for the record, yes I do really dance like that. "That" meaning, I only dance to songs that I know the words to so I can act them out.<br />
<br />
<b>Pick-up line that will never work #3</b><br />
<br />
"Are you here for a bachelorette party?"<br />
"No. Do you think me or any of my friends look old enough to get married? How old do you think I am?"<br />
"23?"<br />
"... Correct. But I don't want to get married until I'm at least 26. So no, this is not a bachelorette party."<br />
"Well so you can meet your husband tonight, date for 2 years and 2 months, have a 10 month engagement, and be married by the time you're 26."<br />
<br />
I can't figure out if this kid was trying to hint that he had chosen himself as my future husband, or if he was just way too interested in math problems. Either way, I thanked him for his interest in the next three years of my life and politely excused myself. A liiiiiiiiiittle too anxious for my taste.<br />
<br />
Between Sir Smiles-A-Lot, Lord of the Dance, and Mr. Let-Me-Put-A-Ring-On-It, I have once again been reminded why I'm still single. I assume there are normal men who strike up normal conversations with normal women in this city. I just haven't been approached by any of them yet. Until I do meet one such suitor, I will continue to inform you all of the ridiculousness that I hear.<br />
<br />
And a note to the gentlemen in question: I do appreciate the gesture. Walking up to strangers is intimidating. So thanks for deeming me worthy, numbers 1, 2, and 3. Just ... please think twice before you word vomit all over me again and I'm forced to embarrass you by retaliating with a sassy remark and walking away.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-46932799749628011772012-01-13T09:48:00.002-06:002012-05-15T21:09:49.700-05:00Damsel in DistressRaise your hand if you've been held captive in your own home four times within a span of 15 hours.<br>
<br>
What's that? Am I the only one with my hand raised? <b>Shocking.</b><br>
<br>
I've come to realize that living in an apartment means that things break a lot. However, it also means that people come to fix your stuff for you for free! This is excellent news for me since, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incredibly gifted at breaking things. And, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incapable of fixing things on my own. <br>
<br>
Exhibits A and B of my girlyness: <b>I wear tiaras in public and in private.</b> (When in private, preferably while crafting and drinking wine.)<br>
<br>
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<br>
I'm the type that won't complain about something until the final breakage happens and leaves me locked in a room, stuck on the side of a road, cleaning up a flooded bathroom, etc. The door knob to my bedroom has been fidgety for the past week, but I have been choosing to ignore it.<br>
<br>
It becomes impossible to ignore the problem on Sunday night when the door knob breaks completely and I become locked in my room. I stand with a dog that I know really needs to go to the bathroom in one hand while my other hand tugs and turns at the door knob to no avail. After a solid two minutes of knob turning, I decide the knob is dead and I am trapped. So I grab my phone to call my roommate (who is very confused about why I'm waking her up via phone when I'm one room away) to rescue me. Too late for the dog since she's already peed and pooped on the carpet, but I learn my lesson and leave the door cracked open before I drift off to sleep.<br>
<br>
Fast forward to 2 a.m.<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2012/01/damsel-in-distress.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-4674818870832293602011-12-28T16:28:00.002-06:002013-03-06T10:35:39.492-06:00My Night as a GroupieI think enough time has elapsed that law enforcement will no longer come chasing after me if I share this story, so I'm going to tell it to you all. However, if the police drag me off to jail for evading parking garage payment, I will have to delete this post. Enjoy reading while I'm breathing the fresh air of freedom.<br>
<br>
Remember when I told you about how I am incapable of functioning in the presence of a celebrity? Apparently that is only in reference to people who I think are actually talented or legit A-list celebs. Weird and non-talented D-list celebs do not apply. The night I met <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2010/11/celebrities-make-me-nervous.html">Tyler Hilton</a> and made a fool of myself, I also met Josiah Leming and made a fool of him. Mwahahahahaha.<br>
<br>
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<br>
Upon arriving at the Palladium in Dallas that night, I decide that I am going to meet Tyler Hilton. No, I'm not just going to meet him. I am going to meet him and we are going to become best friends. Then somewhere down the road Ty (we'll be on a nickname basis, obviously) is going to fall madly in love with me and write dozens of love songs about our perfect relationship. To make this happen I realize I can't just be another girl in the line of meet-and-greets he has to endure. <b>My plan: get in with the band</b>. Genius, right?<br>
<br>
Shortly thereafter, <b>I rework my plan to be: get in with the band and/or the opening acts. </b>Perfect. This is a definite slam dunk.<br>
<a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2011/12/my-night-as-groupie.html#more">Read more »</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-17668181239728268792011-10-24T21:09:00.002-05:002011-10-25T16:36:13.284-05:00A plea for fallDear Texas,<br />
<br />
I really do love you. I love your friendly people. I love your shopping. I love your rodeos, your cowboys, your use of the word "yall." I love your immediate cancellation of school if there is a 10 percent chance of snow in next week's forecast. I love your super-sized football stadiums. I love your Mexican food and your margaritas. I love your concerts. I love your TCU horned frogs. I love your Central Market. I love a lot of things about you, Texas.<br />
<br />
I would love you even more if you had one thing: the season between summer and winter.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>It's called FALL.</b><br />
<br />
Or autumn. Which ever you prefer.<br />
<br />
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Heard of it? It doesn't appear that you have, because since I moved to Texas I have not seen even a hint of said season. Here's how fall is supposed to work: temperatures are supposed to cool down, leaves on trees are supposed to change colors and I'm supposed to curl up outside with a blanket and mug of hot apple cider. And while all this is going on, I'm supposed to be wearing tights, boots and scarves.<br />
<br />
Instead, what do you do to me? You continue to pound me with sweat-inducing days. You give me false hope for a day (or even a few hours) that it might be time to get out my fall wardrobe, then you turn on the heat again. I am then forced to peel off my much-anticipated sweater and scarf. Then I look in the mirror and my humidity-sensitive frizzball hair has once again erupted.<br />
<br />
Don't even get me started on your shameful fall foliage. Texas, you should be showing me hues of yellow, red and orange. What do I see instead? Green, green everywhere. I love the color green, but I'm over it. The trees have been green since March. Let's move on.<br />
<br />
I know it's only a matter of time until I'm freezing and begging for these warm days to return, but right now I want fall. <b>I <i>need</i> fall.</b> Please, Texas, help a girl out. I know you've never experienced it before, but I think you'd really enjoy this lovely season. Give it a try. I'd appreciate it oh-so-much.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Becky<br />
<br />
P.S. Here is what fall looks like, in case you need some inspiration. Please note the leaves, scarves, general festive-ness and smiles that fall weather brings to my face.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
The year was 2004. I was 15 years old. As per usual, I was not even slightly interested in the football game going on but insisted that the adults call me into the room for every commercial break. I watched the halftime show because my future husband, Justin Timberlake, was set to perform. The only person who shared my interest in the show was <a href="http://lifewithbeckyl.blogspot.com/2010/11/ricky-elliefran-and-blind-guy.html">Ricky</a>, but really he was only half-heartedly watching. Until...dun dun duuuuuuuun...<b>the wardrobe malfunction.</b></div>
</div>
<br />
I stared blankly at the screen for a few seconds then had the following conversation with myself in my head<br />
<blockquote>
"What the...was that...no...shame on your for thinking..."<br />
(Make eye contact with father and look away)<br />
"...I think it was..."</blockquote>
Then I broke the silence<br />
<blockquote>
Becky: "Did you just see...?"<br />
Ricky: "Uh, yeah. Yeah I did."<br />
Becky: (to other people in the room) "Did you guys just see that?"<br />
General consensus from everyone else in the room who wasn't paying attention: "See what?"<br />
Becky: (turning back to Ricky) <b>"I didn't imagine that, right?"</b><br />
Ricky: "No, I don't think so. No."</blockquote>
Silence between Ricky and I followed as everyone else in the room continued ignorantly chattering. I wasn't 100% sure that Janet Jackson had flashed me until the next morning when it was all over the news.<br />
<br />
I'm sure all of you can agree with me that the JJ incident was no "wardrobe malfunction." <b>You don't decorate your body parts with little trinkets unless you're planning on showing those trinkets off</b>, either to a special someone or to the entire world in the case of Ms. Jackson.<br />
<br />
This long lead-in is actually leading somewhere. Yesterday I had a Janet Jackson moment, and it reminded me that I have had consistent Janet Jackson moments for the past year and a half due to <b>one article of clothing</b>.<br />
<br />
Before I move forward, I'd like to clarify that my moments are not completely JJ-esque because my flashing is always unintentional. This is a legitimate case of wardrobe malfunction. <b>The culprits: windy gusts combined with a cheap skirt.</b> I can tell you from personal experience, those two things do not mix well.<br />
<br />
I bought my super cute but super cheap (the $10 price tag should have warned me that it was trouble) skirt in Sydney where the wind blows like this:<br />
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The skirt's inaugural journey was a St. Patrick's Day cocktail cruise with two of my friends who were visiting from Tulsa. Present on the boat were about <b>thirty people between the ages of 50 and 99...and three 21-year-olds.</b> We already stood out, and within three minutes of our relaxing cruise I had already drawn even more attention to us.<br />
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My initial thought after claiming a prime table near the front of the boat was to go outside and take in the gorgeous view. <b>BAD IDEA.</b> Since I was the first brave soul to venture outside, I was not expecting the huge gust of wind that greeted me upon opening the door. Now I've had skirts flounce in the wind before, but never have I had a skirt blow up over my head and result in temporary blindness due to fabric covering my eyes. That changed on March 17, 2010.<br />
<br />
<b>HORROR. ABSOLUTE HORROR AND DISGRACE.</b><br />
<br />
That's what I was feeling as I fell to the ground and battled my skirt down from my face while my onlookers stood by, equally horrified (with the exception of my two friends who were convulsing in laughter). My knee actually started bleeding because I fell to the ground with such force. I don't think I can call it a battle wound. <b>More like a shame wound.</b> And since this all occurred three minutes into the cruise, I had to sail around the harbor for the next two hours with a boat full of people who had seen my panties. When people ask me to name my most embarrassing moment ever, <b>I pinpoint those two hours.</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6DnebRmBm-k/TmeySsVIiLI/AAAAAAAAAOo/jSf2qMFnOPE/s1600/26881_1322105859713_1442820095_31634923_4631454_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6DnebRmBm-k/TmeySsVIiLI/AAAAAAAAAOo/jSf2qMFnOPE/s400/26881_1322105859713_1442820095_31634923_4631454_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shame wound</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfS_Ugd489M/TmbyQ0t_17I/AAAAAAAAAOc/5sXpw1ImspI/s1600/Nautica+Ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfS_Ugd489M/TmbyQ0t_17I/AAAAAAAAAOc/5sXpw1ImspI/s400/Nautica+Ad.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note the death grip I have on my skirt in hopes of warding off further incident </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I tried to retire the skirt after my harbor cruise debacle, but it's just <b>too cute to go to waste</b>. So I kept wearing it. And I kept having flashing issues. No incidences were of the caliber that I just described, but they were still filled with shame and disgrace. Every time I tempt fate and put on my skirt, it is a calm non-windy morning. Every time I walk outside, the winds gust and I cling to the fabric for dear life. <b>Mother Nature obviously enjoys toying with me.</b><br />
<br />
The most recent occurrence was yesterday at the gas station. I had made it through an entire work day without a flashing hitch. I was congratulating myself on this accomplishment when I remembered that I hadn't closed the little door to my gas tank. So I stepped out of my car and...<br />
<br />
<b>BAM.</b> Wind gust.<br />
<br />
Luckily I'm somewhat experienced at this point and reacted in time to shield the world behind me (aka rush hour traffic on I-30 and the surrounding access roads) from the horror, but<b> the car driving in front of me got a little show</b>. Fabulous. I checked my gas tank, and the door was closed anyway. Even more fabulous. I scurried into my car and pulled into the car wash to shield myself from the world. And the wind.<br />
<br />
<b>HORROR AND DISGRACE.</b><br />
<br />
Thank goodness fall is just around the corner and I won't be tempted to wear my flasher skirt for at least another eight months. But a warning to you all, if you see me wearing my little flowery skirt please do the following:<br />
<blockquote>
1. Ask if I'm wearing shorts underneath it.<br />
2. Run away.</blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-24686183816144456882011-08-24T21:12:00.005-05:002011-12-30T10:21:08.429-06:00"Welcome to Texas"At <b>10:47 a.m.</b> on Tuesday, August 24 I left the office to get my Texas driver's license. (Something I'd been telling HR I was going to do for the past month. I figured it was about time.)<br />
<br />
At <b>3:22 p.m</b>. I returned to work. Ex. Haus. Ted. As I complained about my 3.5 hour wait to the world, the question kept coming back to me:<br />
<blockquote><b>"Why didn't you go when it first opened or when it closed?"</b> </blockquote>Followed by:<br />
<blockquote><b>"Everyone knows you should expect to wait that long if you go in the middle of the day."</b></blockquote>Ahem, I am not everyone. <b>I am an Oklahoman.</b> And we don't do things this way. We complain if we have to wait at the DMV for more than 30 minutes. So no, I did not know to expect such insanity. Rather, I patted myself on the back for thinking ahead and aiming to miss the lunch hour rush. Much to my demise, apparently every hour at the Texas DMV is the lunch hour rush. <br />
<br />
<b>My visit to the DMV took place as follows:</b><br />
<br />
11:18...Approach front desk and realize I left my car insurance in the car. <br />
11:20...Return to front desk with car insurance, car registration, birth certificate, social security card and passport.<br />
11:21...Get my ticket, #311, and sit down in the most uncomfortable plastic chair imaginable.<br />
11:23...Send my boss the following picture and tell her my errand could possibly take a little longer than expected. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nBOMj3ReMkI/TlWlISSITNI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/1uV_ovySCtY/s1600/IMG-20110823-00049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nBOMj3ReMkI/TlWlISSITNI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/1uV_ovySCtY/s400/IMG-20110823-00049.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
11:28...Hear mumblings of people who have been waiting for over two hours. <b>Become slightly concerned.</b><br />
11:29...Begin writing a letter to one of my Australian friends.<br />
11:33...Try to sneakily watch the Spanish version of "The Three Little Pigs" that is entertaining the kid in front of me on his mother's phone. (I was unsuccessful.)<br />
11:38...Begin texting complaints to my friends.<br />
11:57...Lady stands up with her grandma and says:<br />
<blockquote> "I'm from California and I've never seen it this bad. Waiting over two hours is ridiculous. We're out of here. If we come back at 4:56 before you close you have to serve us, right? We'll see you then."</blockquote>11:58...Exit Cali lady and Gma.<br />
12:03...Finish letter to my Australian friend. <b>Proceed to twiddle my thumbs.</b><br />
12:07...Smoker #1 sits down next to me. I hold my breath.<br />
12:07:37...I start to turn blue from lack of oxygen and lean forward to try to find fresh air that doesn't have Smoker #1's scent attached to it.<br />
12:08...Smoker #2 joins Smoker #1. They talk about Facebook.<br />
<blockquote>S1: Hey dude, how many Facebook friends do you have?<br />
S2: Aw man, I don't know.<br />
S1: Well Sally has over 400.<br />
S2: 400? No f***ing way.<br />
S1: I'll be lucky if I can get 400 friends by Christmas.</blockquote>12:09...<b>I. Can't. Breathe. </b>Plus, I'm getting really anxious and starting to sweat.<br />
12:38...Decide to call my mother during her lunch break, giving me an excuse to leave the vicinity of Smokers 1 and 2.<br />
12:42...Front desk lady tells me "I know it's crowded honey, but you can't stand there."<br />
12:43...Find new seat away from smokers.<br />
12:56...Begin writing a letter to my sister.<br />
1:16...Overhear a man on the phone yelling at what I assume was some sort of government agency.<br />
<blockquote>"I'm here with my Los Angeles ID, my New York passport, and several dozen other taxpayers. WHAT IS GOING ON?!"</blockquote>1:16:23 Angry man leaves the building to yell at whatever poor soul is on the other end of the phone.<br />
1:18...First number called in the 300s! Hooray for 306! Only 5 more numbers until it's my turn!<b> I feel a glimmer of hope.</b><br />
1:33...Another angry lady stands up and yells:<br />
<blockquote>"If you think I'm going to sit here for over two hours wasting my whole day here...I've got better things to do with my time! This is STUPID!"</blockquote>1:33:27...Angry lady sits back down and mumbles "stupid, stupid, stupid" under her breath repeatedly.<br />
1:43...Angry lady asks if she can speak to a supervisor. Apparently the supervisor is trying to expedite the process by working behind a computer to sign people up for driver's licenses. Angry lady says she'll wait.<br />
1:44...<b>There is a line of five people waiting to speak to the supervisor.</b><br />
1:53...Angry lady's angry husband bursts through the door and proceeds to berate front desk lady.<br />
1:55...Exit angry lady and husband.<br />
1:58...Finish letter to my sister. <b>More thumb twiddling follows. </b><br />
2:12...Sweet, nice, understanding Becky is gone. I've been here for 3 hours and <b>it's time to start complaining. </b>(But I plan on being a much nicer complainer than angry lady)<br />
2:13...Approach front desk lady and ask her what's up with the 300s (which I've figured out is the category of numbers for people who have an out-of-state license) getting no love. Front desk lady doesn't know.<br />
2:14...Front desk lady "goes to talk to her supervisor" but I witness her walk to the back, stand there, talk to no one and return to her desk without speaking to me or acknowledging my existence.<br />
2:16...California girl, who is apparently #310, complains to front desk lady. <br />
2:17...Cali girl and I hover next to the front desk hoping for some sort of positive progress while complaining about how <b>our home states would never allow such madness</b>.<br />
2:23...Ask to speak to the supervisor. Learn that the supervisor is outside testing the driving skills of 16-year olds. Translation: there is no one supervising the shenanigans taking place inside the DMV, and therefore <b>no one for me to complain to.</b><br />
2:34...Front desk lady takes pity on our souls and calls someone to tell them to call us next.<br />
2:37...310 is called and Cali girl leaves me.<br />
2:39...The heavens open up and I hear the magical words I've been waiting to hear for three and a half hours:<br />
<blockquote><b>"Number 311 to window three."</b></blockquote>Finally reaching the other side of the wall that I've been dying to see behind for more than three hours feels very Wizard of Oz-esque. Only instead of looking behind the curtain to discover that it's nothing but a little man pushing buttons and turning knobs, I look behind the wall and find that it's nothing but five people seated behind a long counter typing on computers and making copies.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xkCRVds0oF0/TlWhUIwlIjI/AAAAAAAAAOM/5N7rA9zSkuE/s1600/doroty+%2526+wiz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xkCRVds0oF0/TlWhUIwlIjI/AAAAAAAAAOM/5N7rA9zSkuE/s400/doroty+%2526+wiz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
No matter. This is the home stretch. I've finally made it to the end of my DMV yellow brick road! (Excuse me as I continue my cheesy metaphor.) 13 minutes later at 2:52...I'm outta there.<br />
<br />
The last words my friend behind the counter said to me as I was leaving?<br />
<blockquote><b>"Welcome to Texas."</b></blockquote>Gee, thanks so much. My new license expires in 2017 and I'm already dreading renewing it. Despite all of this, I'm choosing to see past my DMV incident since I really do love Texas. It's just that...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>I still (and always will) love Oklahoma a little bit more.</b></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UCN2oM8sdig/TlWfE80_xnI/AAAAAAAAAOI/cYsBTlBxRXE/s1600/675px-Flag_of_Oklahoma.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UCN2oM8sdig/TlWfE80_xnI/AAAAAAAAAOI/cYsBTlBxRXE/s400/675px-Flag_of_Oklahoma.svg.png" width="400" /></a></div><b><br />
</b><b> </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-36118913821918137382011-08-12T15:11:00.005-05:002012-04-12T16:55:22.042-05:00No pictures, pleaseThe other day, as I often tend to do, I was taking a nice walk down Australia memory lane. I usually look at Becca's pictures from our 5 months abroad more than mine because her photography skills completely eclipse mine. Please see the following photos as evidence to this claim:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X7EfvYtXspg/TkV8U5q5lVI/AAAAAAAAAKI/aszl2qb5Jgo/s1600/31262_417731697572_502977572_5177742_4414808_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X7EfvYtXspg/TkV8U5q5lVI/AAAAAAAAAKI/aszl2qb5Jgo/s400/31262_417731697572_502977572_5177742_4414808_n.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2usUSQ56w4o/TkV8_rmgV_I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/B5-QS5wZtdM/s1600/23617_410477577572_502977572_5007530_846551_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2usUSQ56w4o/TkV8_rmgV_I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/B5-QS5wZtdM/s400/23617_410477577572_502977572_5007530_846551_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IhjnU_aX91A/TkV8V5JDxpI/AAAAAAAAAKM/7Gfd0qQZ29A/s1600/31749_431322957572_502977572_5543488_7163752_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IhjnU_aX91A/TkV8V5JDxpI/AAAAAAAAAKM/7Gfd0qQZ29A/s400/31749_431322957572_502977572_5543488_7163752_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SAK7Cvkxt2E/TkV8Tq-BFLI/AAAAAAAAAKE/7xD-9Et8R5w/s1600/22164_343621092572_502977572_4573678_5211561_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SAK7Cvkxt2E/TkV8Tq-BFLI/AAAAAAAAAKE/7xD-9Et8R5w/s400/22164_343621092572_502977572_4573678_5211561_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
While most of her photos are outstanding, there are a number of Becca's Aussie pics that have been tainted. What could possibly tarnish the beautiful images she put to film? One thing: <b>Becky's awkwardness. </b><br />
<br />
You see, I don't really know how to handle pictures by myself. I feel lost, out of place, silly, and a combination of emotions that result in...photos of me looking ridiculous and awkward. Apparently there is some uniformity to my awkwardness, because I counted <b>6 difference faces I make in solo pictures.</b> They all differ depending on my mood and the situation, but they do provide a glimpse into what you can expect if you try to freeze me in a moment in time by myself. The faces are as follows:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>1. The "you're taking this picture against my will and I'm not happy about it" face</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YD7e-3qtgNw/TkV-qaViMqI/AAAAAAAAAKU/IBbLiqbDgJ0/s1600/23617_411423572572_502977572_5035361_1076614_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YD7e-3qtgNw/TkV-qaViMqI/AAAAAAAAAKU/IBbLiqbDgJ0/s400/23617_411423572572_502977572_5035361_1076614_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tzzLZiZGeRY/TkV-qs7gvdI/AAAAAAAAAKY/mW_R17OjEM0/s1600/22164_343623622572_502977572_4573715_4953833_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tzzLZiZGeRY/TkV-qs7gvdI/AAAAAAAAAKY/mW_R17OjEM0/s400/22164_343623622572_502977572_4573715_4953833_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5lqVJeqxxE/TkV-qz1GWPI/AAAAAAAAAKc/dA4x0kqDwtQ/s1600/22653_324193162572_502977572_4495221_5959371_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5lqVJeqxxE/TkV-qz1GWPI/AAAAAAAAAKc/dA4x0kqDwtQ/s400/22653_324193162572_502977572_4495221_5959371_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WcPIduZiako/TkV-q5_OBFI/AAAAAAAAAKg/bha2y3i1ASM/s1600/22653_324193247572_502977572_4495229_2549275_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WcPIduZiako/TkV-q5_OBFI/AAAAAAAAAKg/bha2y3i1ASM/s400/22653_324193247572_502977572_4495229_2549275_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-irTvO7Br88w/TkV-rKTMowI/AAAAAAAAAKk/quEISKKAQxM/s1600/23538_332080307572_502977572_4529587_7466734_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-irTvO7Br88w/TkV-rKTMowI/AAAAAAAAAKk/quEISKKAQxM/s400/23538_332080307572_502977572_4529587_7466734_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NncO9Ew_ZIc/TkV-rBZYhaI/AAAAAAAAAKo/e8izREOZGtA/s1600/23538_332139137572_502977572_4530046_3063023_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NncO9Ew_ZIc/TkV-rBZYhaI/AAAAAAAAAKo/e8izREOZGtA/s400/23538_332139137572_502977572_4530046_3063023_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EZ5_lEwhoIA/TkV-rb535TI/AAAAAAAAAKs/FXNFx1Zh5Eo/s1600/23617_410465967572_502977572_5006969_5133794_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EZ5_lEwhoIA/TkV-rb535TI/AAAAAAAAAKs/FXNFx1Zh5Eo/s400/23617_410465967572_502977572_5006969_5133794_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b>2. The "I don't know what to do so I'm just going to pretend like I don't know you're taking a picture and avoid eye contact" face</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DgCuVajUDjo/TkV_fhRybHI/AAAAAAAAAK4/GlXd5MMBkeY/s1600/25582_351247022572_502977572_4602942_2061103_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DgCuVajUDjo/TkV_fhRybHI/AAAAAAAAAK4/GlXd5MMBkeY/s400/25582_351247022572_502977572_4602942_2061103_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lBpkzPvknU8/TkV_fwA_ewI/AAAAAAAAAK8/EmGhfBOB0IE/s1600/23538_332116067572_502977572_4529855_627693_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lBpkzPvknU8/TkV_fwA_ewI/AAAAAAAAAK8/EmGhfBOB0IE/s400/23538_332116067572_502977572_4529855_627693_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2n-HfXbTwzk/TkV_gC4rqYI/AAAAAAAAALE/nCTTMfRkUI8/s1600/23617_410466197572_502977572_5007006_2690447_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2n-HfXbTwzk/TkV_gC4rqYI/AAAAAAAAALE/nCTTMfRkUI8/s400/23617_410466197572_502977572_5007006_2690447_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWqijXMeLM8/TkV_f1xRe4I/AAAAAAAAALA/RNwSULcNX6Y/s1600/23617_410466172572_502977572_5007002_1665579_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWqijXMeLM8/TkV_f1xRe4I/AAAAAAAAALA/RNwSULcNX6Y/s400/23617_410466172572_502977572_5007002_1665579_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pg2_AmVpGHE/TkV_gLd248I/AAAAAAAAALI/iRZ1baO6mUg/s1600/23617_410474582572_502977572_5007342_1013343_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pg2_AmVpGHE/TkV_gLd248I/AAAAAAAAALI/iRZ1baO6mUg/s400/23617_410474582572_502977572_5007342_1013343_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>3. The "I'm uncomfortable so I'm going to act overly excited by throwing my arms up in the air and/or give a thumbs up paired with a goofy open-mouthed grin" face</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AC2PCjsALJY/TkWAKtho-vI/AAAAAAAAALM/blE9KRu-Kb0/s1600/26147_410448932572_502977572_5006591_3134389_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AC2PCjsALJY/TkWAKtho-vI/AAAAAAAAALM/blE9KRu-Kb0/s400/26147_410448932572_502977572_5006591_3134389_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0eSDaW6Ky48/TkWAK4mJs0I/AAAAAAAAALQ/bc_p5MvPAeE/s1600/22653_324240907572_502977572_4495356_5065546_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0eSDaW6Ky48/TkWAK4mJs0I/AAAAAAAAALQ/bc_p5MvPAeE/s400/22653_324240907572_502977572_4495356_5065546_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pve22E-BDP8/TkWALOZC-mI/AAAAAAAAALU/Ja37sFOshZQ/s1600/23538_332138842572_502977572_4530008_7413310_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pve22E-BDP8/TkWALOZC-mI/AAAAAAAAALU/Ja37sFOshZQ/s400/23538_332138842572_502977572_4530008_7413310_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TVxQ3jTNeHM/TkWALRUCW5I/AAAAAAAAALY/oOTu0edASX0/s1600/23617_411423547572_502977572_5035358_560947_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TVxQ3jTNeHM/TkWALRUCW5I/AAAAAAAAALY/oOTu0edASX0/s400/23617_411423547572_502977572_5035358_560947_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xPxqoXSpT8/TkWALqjIq9I/AAAAAAAAALc/V7nahwxlQqU/s1600/26147_410448822572_502977572_5006574_7143571_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xPxqoXSpT8/TkWALqjIq9I/AAAAAAAAALc/V7nahwxlQqU/s400/26147_410448822572_502977572_5006574_7143571_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b>4. The "Becca is making me pose like this" face</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-il6LWWjWsO8/TkWAyR3-VlI/AAAAAAAAALg/j8HR47yY-p0/s1600/36412_433000637572_502977572_5585529_4924454_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-il6LWWjWsO8/TkWAyR3-VlI/AAAAAAAAALg/j8HR47yY-p0/s400/36412_433000637572_502977572_5585529_4924454_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VTIrPbIIBfk/TkWAyoAHviI/AAAAAAAAALk/kSlb8-2Fso0/s1600/23538_332132682572_502977572_4529957_7358862_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VTIrPbIIBfk/TkWAyoAHviI/AAAAAAAAALk/kSlb8-2Fso0/s400/23538_332132682572_502977572_4529957_7358862_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YYDuALDQYiE/TkWAy1BekyI/AAAAAAAAALo/q1nzIoagUwA/s1600/23538_332139237572_502977572_4530060_6584256_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YYDuALDQYiE/TkWAy1BekyI/AAAAAAAAALo/q1nzIoagUwA/s400/23538_332139237572_502977572_4530060_6584256_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ba9iqW2WRKw/TkWAzKfNrbI/AAAAAAAAALw/lVy509GC16A/s1600/23617_410474732572_502977572_5007364_2337434_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ba9iqW2WRKw/TkWAzKfNrbI/AAAAAAAAALw/lVy509GC16A/s400/23617_410474732572_502977572_5007364_2337434_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HTTojORXda8/TkWAzcnVybI/AAAAAAAAAL0/MHcwLymoQOw/s1600/23617_410477602572_502977572_5007534_7094676_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HTTojORXda8/TkWAzcnVybI/AAAAAAAAAL0/MHcwLymoQOw/s400/23617_410477602572_502977572_5007534_7094676_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xoudUkQOmg8/TkWAzpS1-nI/AAAAAAAAAL4/y1HdneHx0aM/s1600/23617_410478112572_502977572_5007616_1156206_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xoudUkQOmg8/TkWAzpS1-nI/AAAAAAAAAL4/y1HdneHx0aM/s400/23617_410478112572_502977572_5007616_1156206_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ugBK2LfzV8Q/TkWAz58iCsI/AAAAAAAAAL8/u6r6wVWntGI/s1600/26097_410434047572_502977572_5005945_960513_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ugBK2LfzV8Q/TkWAz58iCsI/AAAAAAAAAL8/u6r6wVWntGI/s400/26097_410434047572_502977572_5005945_960513_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QUARRk-V6lM/TkWA0IAUTCI/AAAAAAAAAMA/rI4lJNAm1JE/s1600/31262_416778152572_502977572_5160576_7915780_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QUARRk-V6lM/TkWA0IAUTCI/AAAAAAAAAMA/rI4lJNAm1JE/s400/31262_416778152572_502977572_5160576_7915780_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<b>5. The "I'm too delirious and exhausted so I can't stop you from taking a picture right now" face</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Wo1u7HJyMU/TkWBiStj4MI/AAAAAAAAAMM/AMKz1OvJoAE/s1600/22653_324193252572_502977572_4495230_2656307_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Wo1u7HJyMU/TkWBiStj4MI/AAAAAAAAAMM/AMKz1OvJoAE/s400/22653_324193252572_502977572_4495230_2656307_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kf601bZIBLs/TkWBim_VNHI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/hRX3IH0Z7vE/s1600/22653_324241027572_502977572_4495370_3361711_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kf601bZIBLs/TkWBim_VNHI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/hRX3IH0Z7vE/s400/22653_324241027572_502977572_4495370_3361711_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iu5M2lRrOx8/TkWBii_FhUI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Sj0yA0LVLEE/s1600/22653_324241107572_502977572_4495379_5433968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iu5M2lRrOx8/TkWBii_FhUI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Sj0yA0LVLEE/s400/22653_324241107572_502977572_4495379_5433968_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b>6. The "I'm going to try to strike a cute pose, but it's going to end up looking really silly instead" face</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33-jpm-m3gA/TkWBi74FwxI/AAAAAAAAAMY/j5E8vlJlH24/s1600/23538_332080347572_502977572_4529592_2996485_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33-jpm-m3gA/TkWBi74FwxI/AAAAAAAAAMY/j5E8vlJlH24/s400/23538_332080347572_502977572_4529592_2996485_n.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-94NQ-O9a0nQ/TkWBi-JIl1I/AAAAAAAAAMc/KBwhVGl6vdw/s1600/23538_332080657572_502977572_4529632_1834172_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-94NQ-O9a0nQ/TkWBi-JIl1I/AAAAAAAAAMc/KBwhVGl6vdw/s400/23538_332080657572_502977572_4529632_1834172_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CzJuWMq9Nt0/TkWBjCx3p2I/AAAAAAAAAMg/4SLhTJkdjUc/s1600/23538_332115977572_502977572_4529846_6258039_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CzJuWMq9Nt0/TkWBjCx3p2I/AAAAAAAAAMg/4SLhTJkdjUc/s400/23538_332115977572_502977572_4529846_6258039_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KJM_zEGh9AI/TkWBjUZGYeI/AAAAAAAAAMk/P-6HIQMmIqQ/s1600/23538_332116142572_502977572_4529862_4138022_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KJM_zEGh9AI/TkWBjUZGYeI/AAAAAAAAAMk/P-6HIQMmIqQ/s400/23538_332116142572_502977572_4529862_4138022_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-caN2UZ1Khzg/TkWBjiD7LFI/AAAAAAAAAMo/h4mBLpilxag/s1600/23538_332213282572_502977572_4530430_2707475_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-caN2UZ1Khzg/TkWBjiD7LFI/AAAAAAAAAMo/h4mBLpilxag/s400/23538_332213282572_502977572_4530430_2707475_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rBj10k1w2TI/TkWBjtNK-fI/AAAAAAAAAMs/sGoMrDV-_cQ/s1600/26097_410434117572_502977572_5005958_6010269_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rBj10k1w2TI/TkWBjtNK-fI/AAAAAAAAAMs/sGoMrDV-_cQ/s400/26097_410434117572_502977572_5005958_6010269_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6J-Et8TI9Fg/TkWBjwDmyxI/AAAAAAAAAMw/KBorn5rq2U0/s1600/26588_412621132572_502977572_5062229_4903192_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6J-Et8TI9Fg/TkWBjwDmyxI/AAAAAAAAAMw/KBorn5rq2U0/s400/26588_412621132572_502977572_5062229_4903192_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Og1HwjWo8xs/TkWBkGZJ5PI/AAAAAAAAAM0/7hJGmcOfwgI/s1600/27205_1322732355375_1442820369_31639385_76269_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Og1HwjWo8xs/TkWBkGZJ5PI/AAAAAAAAAM0/7hJGmcOfwgI/s400/27205_1322732355375_1442820369_31639385_76269_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zV01kJqH9-0/TkWBkI9wVXI/AAAAAAAAAM4/y1ak1iinyos/s1600/30659_425507112572_502977572_5364889_3559714_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zV01kJqH9-0/TkWBkI9wVXI/AAAAAAAAAM4/y1ak1iinyos/s400/30659_425507112572_502977572_5364889_3559714_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3mq_zjdHKc/TkWBlJMG9JI/AAAAAAAAAM8/88NelyYyQpI/s1600/30659_425507232572_502977572_5364906_7321278_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3mq_zjdHKc/TkWBlJMG9JI/AAAAAAAAAM8/88NelyYyQpI/s400/30659_425507232572_502977572_5364906_7321278_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1JMqeG1VqQ/TkWBiPyC-7I/AAAAAAAAAME/t-Ls5Ui3oHg/s400/36412_432993182572_502977572_5585421_6455961_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p54cyFe0Mxk/TkWBlYX1J0I/AAAAAAAAANE/gV3aNqiqT9g/s1600/36412_432993172572_502977572_5585419_4788688_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p54cyFe0Mxk/TkWBlYX1J0I/AAAAAAAAANE/gV3aNqiqT9g/s400/36412_432993172572_502977572_5585419_4788688_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L1pKY3X8tGE/TkWBluZMxGI/AAAAAAAAANI/SEix7ip9Bf8/s1600/36412_432993177572_502977572_5585420_4850695_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L1pKY3X8tGE/TkWBluZMxGI/AAAAAAAAANI/SEix7ip9Bf8/s400/36412_432993177572_502977572_5585420_4850695_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
All the awkwardness above is just from one 5-month period. Becca kept taking pictures. And I kept supplying ridiculousness. Have I improved at solo pics since Australia? No. Case and point: Becca's birthday party earlier this month...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8g8pnhlNyko/TkWDouPSlQI/AAAAAAAAANM/FBXYyODEWiw/s1600/216656_10150327124997573_502977572_9267727_1367276_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8g8pnhlNyko/TkWDouPSlQI/AAAAAAAAANM/FBXYyODEWiw/s400/216656_10150327124997573_502977572_9267727_1367276_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
For all of you who are keeping track, that's face #2: The "I don't know what to do so I'm just going to pretend like I don't know you're taking a picture and avoid eye contact" face<br />
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Someone, please, I'm begging you, get in the picture with me<b>.</b><br />
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<b>Save me from myself.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501166595304531602.post-84533226719981009832011-04-11T23:27:00.009-05:002018-06-13T22:54:43.144-05:00In need of a baby penguin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
You know, no one ever tells you that looking for a job is basically a job in itself. An endless parade of resume editing, cover letter writing, poring over job listing websites, preparing for interviews, and fighting with hundreds of other college grads over a position that ends up going to someone "more experienced."</div>
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As my friend Kristen put it: "Don't get your hopes up because this year is all about rejection."</div>
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Womp Womp.</div>
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So today I was mentally updating my job hunt to-do list and thought to myself, "It's a wonder ANYONE has a job. This whole job hunting thing is rough."</div>
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And then I thought of the movie <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0428803/">March of the Penguins</a>.</div>
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The first thing I thought after I saw this movie was: Penguins are so cute!<br />
The second thing I thought after I saw this movie was: HOW ARE THERE ANY PENGUINS STILL ALIVE ON THIS PLANET????<br />
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Incase you haven't seen the movie, Morgan Freeman narrates as you watch penguins migrate forever away to the middle of a frigid ice sheet to raise precious baby penguins. All fine and dandy. Except your survival chances as a penguin are apparently non-existent. <br />
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First the penguins walk up to 70 miles non-stop day and night to get to the breeding ground. An entire week of walking, walking, walking. Oh, and it's usually in the middle of a blizzard. Also, there is no other living thing anywhere around. Why not? Don't know if you heard, but it's pretty cold in Antarctica. How cold? According to Morgan Freeman's voiceover, the average temps are somewhere around -50 degrees Fahrenheit...during the afternoon when the sun is out. Doesn't that sound pleasant?<br />
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After the whole mating ritual thing momma penguin lays an egg and peaces out because she's been without food for way too long. (No living thing anywhere = no food for any penguins.) So the mom penguins walk those same 70 miles back to the ocean in search of sustenance where they most likely become dinner for hungry seals that are waiting for the penguins when they arrive. In the meantime, dad stays to protect the egg. And there dad gets to sit, not moving, not eating, not doing anything, for TWO MONTHS. Can you imagine starving while sitting on a large rock-shaped thing in unbearable, freezing temperatures for two months? No thank you.<br />
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If dad miraculously survives that horrendous ordeal, the baby penguin hatches. Obviously it's hungry. Obviously dad can't really help solve the hunger problem since he hasn't seen a meal in 60 days. So it's all up to momma. What's that? Mom got eaten by a seal? Daddy and baby are both in trouble. If, however, mom somehow manages to walk all the way back to the ocean, stock up on food without being eaten herself, and then walk all the way back to the mating ground...the baby's survival rate goes up a tad. But here's the catch: mom and dad have to keep switching roles of who is going to go get food and who is going to protect the little one until the baby is strong enough to make the trek to the ocean. And each time one of the parents leaves, he or she runs the risk of freezing, starving, being eaten, or meeting some other tragic end. Plus all along there are these awful birds flying around the nesting area picking up baby penguins like little girls plucking dandelions out of the ground.<br />
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Are you seeing my connection here? I realize the penguins' situation is a bit (as in a lot) more extreme than mine, but...<br />
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<b>AGAINST ALL THESE ODDS, HOW DO PENGUINS EXIST?</b><br />
<b>AGAINST ALL THESE ODDS, HOW DO RECENT COLLEGE GRADUATES GET JOBS?</b><br />
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Now don't worry, I'm choosing to see the silver lining in this metaphor. Because, you see, some baby penguins do survive. They walk to the ocean and eventually come back to the frigid ice sheet to have little baby penguins of their own.<br />
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It's April. I graduate on May 7th. Then my life turns into a big <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">?</span> But I'm done worrying about it. I will continue to check items off my job hunt to-do list and eventually I know one of these potential jobs is going to turn into an actual job. In other words, one of these days I'm going to find a baby penguin who's a survivor and will make it back to the ocean. It's just going to take a lot of dead baby penguins to get there. Until then, all I can do is keep writing cover letters, sending out resumes, interviewing and...waiting. At least I'm not having to wait in Antarctica for two months while sitting on a rock starving and freezing to death, right? See college seniors, we don't have it so bad. Go find yourself a baby penguin.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bPF5lL1PLJc/TaPPJ6r5jBI/AAAAAAAAAIc/RQ0c7c3OkW4/s1600/penguin.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bPF5lL1PLJc/TaPPJ6r5jBI/AAAAAAAAAIc/RQ0c7c3OkW4/s320/penguin.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I WANT ONE </span>(literally and metaphorically)</div>
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