Nail Polish Nightmare

My 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.

We're twins. (Fraternal, not identical.)

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I want to be.

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I actually am. (Except I don't even look cute in tutus.)

Additionally, both of these characters are fictional. Audiences watch in wonder and say, "Surely that would never happen to anyone in real life." Ladies and gentlemen, you've just described my 23 years on this earth.

Only I can lock myself INSIDE an apartment.

Only I can unintentionally put on a peep show for 40 Asian tourists.

And only I can end up in urgent care after a run-in with a nail polish bottle.

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.

Dream On

Don'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?

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.

Close your eyes and dream with me ...

Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part I

I'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.)

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.

Pick-up line that will never work #1

"You should smile. You look angry and sad."

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.

Pick-up line that will never work #2

"That isn't how you really dance, is it?"

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.

Pick-up line that will never work #3

"Are you here for a bachelorette party?"
"No. Do you think me or any of my friends look old enough to get married? How old do you think I am?"
"23?"
"... Correct. But I don't want to get married until I'm at least 26. So no, this is not a bachelorette party."
"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."

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.

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.

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.

Damsel in Distress

Raise your hand if you've been held captive in your own home four times within a span of 15 hours.

What's that? Am I the only one with my hand raised? Shocking.

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.

Exhibits A and B of my girlyness: I wear tiaras in public and in private. (When in private, preferably while crafting and drinking wine.)

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.

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.

Fast forward to 2 a.m.

My Night as a Groupie

I 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.

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 Tyler Hilton and made a fool of myself, I also met Josiah Leming and made a fool of him. Mwahahahahaha.

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. My plan: get in with the band. Genius, right?

Shortly thereafter, I rework my plan to be: get in with the band and/or the opening acts. Perfect. This is a definite slam dunk.

A plea for fall

Dear Texas,

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.

I would love you even more if you had one thing: the season between summer and winter. 

It's called FALL.

Or autumn. Which ever you prefer.

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.

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.

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.

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. I need fall. 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.

Sincerely,
Becky

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.

Wardrobe Malfunction

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 Ricky, but really he was only half-heartedly watching. Until...dun dun duuuuuuuun...the wardrobe malfunction.

I stared blankly at the screen for a few seconds then had the following conversation with myself in my head

 "What the...was that...no...shame on your for thinking..."
(Make eye contact with father and look away)
"...I think it was..."

Then I broke the silence

Becky: "Did you just see...?"
Ricky: "Uh, yeah. Yeah I did."
Becky: (to other people in the room) "Did you guys just see that?"
General consensus from everyone else in the room who wasn't paying attention: "See what?"
Becky: (turning back to Ricky) "I didn't imagine that, right?"
Ricky: "No, I don't think so. No."

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.

I'm sure all of you can agree with me that the JJ incident was no "wardrobe malfunction." You don't decorate your body parts with little trinkets unless you're planning on showing those trinkets off, either to a special someone or to the entire world in the case of Ms. Jackson.

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 one article of clothing.

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. The culprits: windy gusts combined with a cheap skirt. I can tell you from personal experience, those two things do not mix well.

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:

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 thirty people between the ages of 50 and 99...and three 21-year-olds. We already stood out, and within three minutes of our relaxing cruise I had already drawn even more attention to us.

My initial thought after claiming a prime table near the front of the boat was to go outside and take in the gorgeous view. BAD IDEA. 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.

HORROR. ABSOLUTE HORROR AND DISGRACE.

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. More like a shame wound. 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, I pinpoint those two hours.

Shame wound

Please note the death grip I have on my skirt in hopes of warding off further incident

I tried to retire the skirt after my harbor cruise debacle, but it's just too cute to go to waste. 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. Mother Nature obviously enjoys toying with me.

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...

BAM. Wind gust.

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 the car driving in front of me got a little show. 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.

HORROR AND DISGRACE.

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:

1. Ask if I'm wearing shorts underneath it.
2. Run away.