Breaking My Political Silence

Growing 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.

Hanging chad, anyone?

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.

I voted today, but with a different outlook than any other time I've fulfilled my civic right.

Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part 2

Re-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.

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 this 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.

Valentines Schmalentines

Well. It's here. Again.

Valentine's Day.

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.

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.

So went my life.

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.

In college, there was wine.

The City Museum: No. Just ... No.

Once upon a time … a serious case of sensory overload almost killed me. Seriously, you guys. I. Could. Have. Died.

Have you heard of the City Museum 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.

Here's a little teaser: Can you tell who enjoyed this experience, and who couldn't handle it?!

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.

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.

"Welcome to Texas"

At 10:47 a.m. 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.)

At 3:22 p.m. 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:

"Why didn't you go when it first opened or when it closed?" 

Followed by:

"Everyone knows you should expect to wait that long if you go in the middle of the day."

Ahem, I am not everyone. I am an Oklahoman. 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.

My visit to the DMV took place as follows:

11:18...Approach front desk and realize I left my car insurance in the car.
11:20...Return to front desk with car insurance, car registration, birth certificate, social security card and passport.
11:21...Get my ticket, #311, and sit down in the most uncomfortable plastic chair imaginable.
11:23...Send my boss the following picture and tell her my errand could possibly take a little longer than expected.

11:28...Hear mumblings of people who have been waiting for over two hours. Become slightly concerned.
11:29...Begin writing a letter to one of my Australian friends.
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.)
11:38...Begin texting complaints to my friends.
11:57...Lady stands up with her grandma and says:

 "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."

11:58...Exit Cali lady and Gma.
12:03...Finish letter to my Australian friend. Proceed to twiddle my thumbs.
12:07...Smoker #1 sits down next to me. I hold my breath.
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.
12:08...Smoker #2 joins Smoker #1. They talk about Facebook.

S1: Hey dude, how many Facebook friends do you have?
S2: Aw man, I don't know.
S1: Well Sally has over 400.
S2: 400? No f***ing way.
S1: I'll be lucky if I can get 400 friends by Christmas.

12:09...I. Can't. Breathe. Plus, I'm getting really anxious and starting to sweat.
12:38...Decide to call my mother during her lunch break, giving me an excuse to leave the vicinity of Smokers 1 and 2.
12:42...Front desk lady tells me "I know it's crowded honey, but you can't stand there."
12:43...Find new seat away from smokers.
12:56...Begin writing a letter to my sister.
1:16...Overhear a man on the phone yelling at what I assume was some sort of government agency.

"I'm here with my Los Angeles ID, my New York passport, and several dozen other taxpayers. WHAT IS GOING ON?!"

1:16:23 Angry man leaves the building to yell at whatever poor soul is on the other end of the phone.
1:18...First number called in the 300s! Hooray for 306! Only 5 more numbers until it's my turn! I feel a glimmer of hope.
1:33...Another angry lady stands up and yells:

"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!"

1:33:27...Angry lady sits back down and mumbles "stupid, stupid, stupid" under her breath repeatedly.
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.
1:44...There is a line of five people waiting to speak to the supervisor.
1:53...Angry lady's angry husband bursts through the door and proceeds to berate front desk lady.
1:55...Exit angry lady and husband.
1:58...Finish letter to my sister. More thumb twiddling follows.
2:12...Sweet, nice, understanding Becky is gone. I've been here for 3 hours and it's time to start complaining. (But I plan on being a much nicer complainer than angry lady)
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.
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.
2:16...California girl, who is apparently #310, complains to front desk lady.
2:17...Cali girl and I hover next to the front desk hoping for some sort of positive progress while complaining about how our home states would never allow such madness.
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 no one for me to complain to.
2:34...Front desk lady takes pity on our souls and calls someone to tell them to call us next.
2:37...310 is called and Cali girl leaves me.
2:39...The heavens open up and I hear the magical words I've been waiting to hear for three and a half hours:

"Number 311 to window three."

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.

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.

The last words my friend behind the counter said to me as I was leaving?

"Welcome to Texas."

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...

I still (and always will) love Oklahoma a little bit more.

In need of a baby penguin

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."

As my friend Kristen put it: "Don't get your hopes up because this year is all about rejection."

Womp Womp.

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."

And then I thought of the movie March of the Penguins.

The first thing I thought after I saw this movie was: Penguins are so cute!
The second thing I thought after I saw this movie was: HOW ARE THERE ANY PENGUINS STILL ALIVE ON THIS PLANET????

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.

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?

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.

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.

Are you seeing my connection here? I realize the penguins' situation is a bit (as in a lot) more extreme than mine, but...

AGAINST ALL THESE ODDS, HOW DO PENGUINS EXIST?
AGAINST ALL THESE ODDS, HOW DO RECENT COLLEGE GRADUATES GET JOBS?

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.

It's April. I  graduate on May 7th. Then my life turns into a big ?  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.

I WANT ONE (literally and metaphorically)

RIP Beckers717 (...almost)

You're all most likely aware by now that I have a hard time letting go of anything that has even a slight connection to my past. Hence why I still have my AOL screenname from 3rd grade: Beckers717. As of late, this screenname has been demoted to the junk e-mail account I give to stores so I can get free coupons and what not. All fine and dandy.

Until recently.

Somehow my childhood e-mail account has been hacked and taken up the task of spamming everyone I have ever had any sort of connection to since elementary school. Basically, it's spamming the entire world. At first I ignored the spamming, hoping it would stop...but things started to get out of hand real fast. My friends started complaining to me that I was attacking their inboxes. The final straw: last week Beckers717 decided to contact all my fellow Zoo employees about the wonders of Viagra. Greeeeeat.

Today I decided it's time to let go. I took charge of the situation and created a new junk e-mail account, re-signed up to get all my coupons sent there instead, and went to complete the final step of the process: canceling the Beckers717 account. Sniffle Sniffle. A little bittersweet. I paused for a moment to reflect on the good times, forwarded myself some funny e-mails I wanted to hold onto, and forged ahead with the cancellation. Then the emotional bonds broke and I just got angry. Why? Well, have you ever tried to cancel an AOL account? IT'S IMPOSSIBLE.

After spending an hour trying to sift through AOL's "help" page, I resorted to calling a 1-800 number.

Let's talk for a second about how automated phone calls are THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE. By the time I get to talk to an actual person (if that ever happens), I am no longer a nice person. Which is such a shame for the person on the other end of the phone. I try to give myself a mental peptalk before these dreaded phone calls: "Keep your cool, Becky. Speak clearly and press the right numbers when the stupid computer voice asks you to. And remember when you talk to a real person that it's not their fault the system is faulty." Despite my peptalks, things never end well. But it's only because the automated part always goes like my experience with AOL's phone service went today.

My side of the conversation:

"Yes."
"YES."
Presses 1
Presses 2
"Cancellation."
"CANCELLATION."
"74137"
"SEVEN-FOUR-ONE-THREE-SEVEN"
Types in 7-4-1-3-7
"Beckers717"
"B-e-c-k-e-r-s-7-1-7"
"BEE-EE-CEE-KAY-EE-ARE-ES-SEVEN-ONE-SEVEN"
(frustrated grunts begin)
"Phone number"
(I say my home phone number that I'd rather not give out to the Internet world)
(I type in my home phone number that I'm still not giving out to the Internet world)
"74137"
(I start mumbling frustrations under my breath)
Types in 74137
"B-e-c-k-e-r-s-7-1-7"
"B-E-C-K-E-R-S-7-1-7"
"BEE-EE-CEE-KAY-EE-ARE-ES-SEVEN-ONE-SEVEN"
"Yes! They found my account!"
(Pause)
"WHAT?!"
Slams phone down in frustration
"They said I should visit the website's help section for immediate assistance or press 2 to upgrade my account. I don't want to freaking upgrade my freaking account!!!!! I just want it to go away!!!!"

Not only was Peyton (my office mate) laughing at me, Kelly across the hall heard my entire exchange and was laughing as well. Meanwhile, I was just angry. And back at square one. So I decided to take to Twitter to vocalize my frustrations.

Beckyjlong: "Currently LOATHING @AOL for making it impossible for me to cancel my ancient e-mail account that is spamming the world.  #sendinghatevibes"

(Alright, it might have been a bit hostile. Clearly I was still fuming from my failed phone call.)

Check this out: AOL replied to my mean tweet!
AOL: "@Beckyjlong Hi - if you post your issue to this forum someone from AOL Mail can assist you http://aol.it/AOLMailForum (CC:@AOLSupportHelp)"

I LOVE SOCIAL MEDIA!!!!

I posted a question to the forum and actually got a response within minutes that told me to e-mail some other e-mail address and ask to have my account canceled. Magical! Still waiting to see if that works, but it's progress!

Screw you automated phone calls. I don't need YOU. I have Twitter.

Despite my small Twitter win, Beckers717 still exists. At least for the time being. Therefore, I would like to send a warning to all of you out there in the world: Beckers717 could go on another spamming rampage at any moment. And just so we're clear...Beckers717 thinks you should try Viagra, not me. Be on the alert.

Spiders, Snakes, and Match.com...Oh My!

Everyone is afraid of something. Lots of somethings, actually. Myself included.

For one, I'm afraid of heights. My height phobia can easily be seen (or actually, more like can easily be heard) in this video from when I went bungee jumping in Queenstown, New Zealand. Hint: You might want to turn the volume down on your speakers before pressing play.

When the bungee workers pulled me up from this terrifying experience, I was shaking so much that I had to hold on to a pole in order to be able to stand upright. Tangent story: As I was shaking and clinging to said pole, the New Zealanders were making fun of me for all the racket I made. My response: "Yeah, I'm a screamer." There was an awkward pause and then everyone erupted into laughter. I confusedly looked around before a light bulb went off in my head that my comment was not being taken in the context I had meant it to be taken. New Zealand, Australia, America, the place doesn't matter. Wherever I am, I can always be counted on to make some awkward comment with a sexually-themed double meaning that never crosses my mind before I open my mouth. And the people I'm with can always be counted on to twist my words into the raunchier of the two meanings and point it out to the world. Thanks, guys.

Back to my original point.

My other fears aren't anything out of the ordinary: motorcycles, spiders, snakes, CLOWNS (I shiver at the thought), sharks, crocodiles, horror films, drowning, etc. etc. etc.

I also have some very specific fears about the future:

1. Being unemployed
I'm very much hoping this fear doesn't become a realization when I graduate in less than 3 months. I need financial support in order to be able to keep up my Chipotle burrito bowl obsession and regular Target shopping sprees. Then there's those other adult things like rent, utilities, car payments, bills...bleh.

2. Meeting my husband on Match.com

No judgment to people who meet this way. I'm very happy for you all. I would just much rather meet my hubby somewhere out there in the real world so I have a "meet cute" story to tell my grandkids (shout out to The Holiday, one of my all-time fav movies and the source--along with the Notebook--of many of my unrealistic romantic expectations). I saw a statistic the other day that Match.com alone contributes to two percent of ALL marriages every year. One website. Two percent of U.S. marriages.  20,000 people join everyday. Aren't you a little afraid, too?

3. Becoming a cat lady

Due to my extreme hatred of cats (with the exception of Felix, obviously) this fear is especially nightmarish for me. The image of me in a house overrun with felines as I sit in my rocking chair knitting cat #23, Mr. Whiskers, a new sweater...I just can't even fathom. No. No. No.

Yes Valentine's Day is right around the corner...and yes I am especially aware of my single-status thanks to this commercial holiday...and yes I am currently curled up in bed watching a chick flick (The Wedding Planner)...and yes I did just buy my friend bridal magazines since she got engaged on Friday. All those things combined make #2 and #3 slightly more terrifying as of late, but I realize I'm only 22. Really I'm mostly worried about #1 at the moment. And also, my latest "I don't want this to be my life" fear:

4. Becoming a hoarder
Lately I've been noticing a few signs that worry me I could potentially be swayed down this very very dark path. Here are a few of the things I have caught myself hoarding:

--Mints. I went through a mint-hoarding phase in middle school. I would always take a handful of mints whenever I left a restaurant. This resulted in me designating a purse as the "mint purse." It was packed with literally hundreds of different mints. Of course, I couldn't carry around a purse that only had mints in it. So I never actually had the mints with me, and they never got eaten. I recovered the mint purse when I was cleaning out my closet the summer after my high school graduation. The mints all went in the trash. Apparently (and thankfully) I phased out of that one without even noticing.
--Moist towelettes. At Medieval Times about a month ago I didn't use my moist towelette and brought it home in my purse. Rather than throwing it away when I found it the next morning, I put it on my bedside table for later use. Last night I realized that moist towelette moments are few and far between in my bedroom. Not to mention, I do actually own soap. So the moist towelette went in the trash. Another win for Becky! Close call.
--Leftovers. I'm like a human vacuum/disposal/insert "she'll eat anything" metaphor here. I'm telling you, I just hate to see anything go to waste. My roommate's dad once wanted to ship half of a leftover sandwich to me (we live 200+ miles apart) because he had previously witnessed me taking all five of his family members' food home after dinner one night. (I mean, they weren't going to eat any of it...) On Medieval Times night, I took home three of my friends' leftover chickens. They give you an ENTIRE chicken as your main course. No normal human being can eat an entire chicken. No normal human being takes to-go boxes from Medieval Times either. I'm normal in the sense that I couldn't eat my whole chicken. I'm not normal in the sense that I took four half eaten chickens home in a to-go box. Here is visual proof:

--Boxes. I can't bring myself to throw them away! What if I need to ship...something? Or what if I want to do...something...with my laptop's original packaging? Or what if I can use that scrap of cardboard to make a sign for...something? Can't say I've had many "something" instances come along very often, but there's always that chance. Hence the large amount of boxes I have stored in three different closets and my room.
--Lotion. In middle school your typical pre-teen girl accumulates more Bath and Body Works merchandise than she knows what to do with. I was one such girl. Despite the amount of lotion, body glitter, body spray, soap, etc. that I owned, I refused to use any of it. I wanted to "save" it for special occasions. Special occasions are very infrequent in middle school. Around the same time I got rid of the mint purse, I cleaned out a mess of evaporated, dried up, and weirdly colored Bath and Body Works stuff that was no longer usable from under my sink. You'll all be happy to hear I now actually use all lotions and the like that I own. Feel free to use that as a gift idea for my birthday. Or even my half-birthday, which is closer. (May 25th--for those of you who were wondering)
--Tissue paper. I bought some colored tissue paper in Sydney for my final project in Contemporary Australian Arts (embarrassingly one of the most difficult classes I've ever taken--details on that will have to wait for another post). I had to cram everything I had accrued over the course of five months in Australia into two rolling suitcases and a backpack. Of course I couldn't bring myself to leave the tissue paper behind. It's currently in my closet. The next time I gift you something, you might get that something in a bag with tissue paper lovingly transported all the way across the Pacific Ocean. Good thing I brought it back, right?!

I think the line between being thrifty and having a hoarding problem is a very delicate one to tiptoe along, and I'm getting very nervous that my life will end up on the side of the latter. Do I really think things could get as out of control in my life as on the TLC show "Hoarding: Buried Alive?" Of  course not. I'm just hoping I don't revert back to the mint purse stage. In fact, in writing this I've decided that maybe it would be a healthy decision to throw away a few of those boxes. Progress!

I've also noticed that this blog has just turned into me explaining all my oddities to the world. Thanks for not judging. (And if you are judging, thanks for not telling me you're judging.) All these random stories just make me cutely quirky, right? (With a little bit of weird and bizarre mixed in. I'm OK with it.)

Ricky, EllieFran, and The Blind Guy

Today is my father's very favorite holiday. Some people look forward to birthdays; others count down the days til Christmas. Not Ricky! He prefers Election Day.

Did I just call my father as Ricky? Yes I did. I'd like to divert for a second to clarify. No, he isn't my uncle/stepfather/adopted father. He is my biological father. And yes, as many of you know, I regularly refer to him as Ricky. Is he offended? I think he used to be. One day, 3rd grade Becky came home from school and decided to be obnoxious by calling her father by his first name. Not just his first name, the version of his first name people called him in elementary school. I don't recall my exact reasoning behind this. Perhaps I was curious how long it would last before he went completely insane with annoyance? Anyway, during this initial phase I'm thinking Ricky was most likely a little perturbed. But now? It's just the usual. I forget that it catches people off guard. In fact, the whole family has taken my lead. My sister, Carolyn, has even embellished Ricky's name so he now has a rapper alter ego: Pretty Ricky.  

I tend to change things up name-wise. When we got our brand new puppy, I suggested we name her Ellie. I immediately retracted my name suggestion because it was my tennis coach's name. Apparently I was concerned that my coach would be offended I had stolen her name for a dog. My family didn't care (no doubt my tennis coach wouldn't have cared either), and so our border collie pup became Ellie. A few weeks later, however, my sister and I decided to play a trick on Ricky. The plan: start calling the dog "Fran" and see if Ricky notices. The result: much confusion.

  

Ricky: "Didn't we name the dog Ellie?"  

Becky (or Beckles as Ricky tends to call me): "No. We named her Fran.  Remember?"  

Ricky: "...No?"

In the end, Ricky wasn't fooled. But once again, the name stuck! The whole family now refers to Ellie as EllieFran and occasionally just Fran. They are putty in my hands, I tell you! PUTTY! Haven't decided what my next name-change project will be, but I'll keep you posted.

Back to my original point.  I started this blog entry that somehow spun off into a succession of anecdotes for a reason.  Here was my initial thought process:

Election Day = Ricky

Ricky + Beckles + Election Day + 2000 = Blind Guy

Who is this blind guy I speak of? Allow me to re-introduce you.

Do these images look familiar? Perhaps bringing back memories of the Florida ballot disputes in 2000? I endearingly named this man "The Blind Guy." And, as proven through the Ricky and EllieFran stories, I only give nicknames to people/animals that I really love. The Blind Guy certainly fits that criteria. I was so enraptured by this man and his ridiculous facial expressions that Ricky gave me a framed 8x10 photo of my blind friend for Christmas that year. It sat on my hutch for years and years right next to my autographed picture of Shannon Miller. I'm sure I still have it somewhere.

So Blind Guy, this post is dedicated to you. Where ever you are, you still have a special place in my heart. And so do you, Ricky and EllieFran. Happy Election Day!

You are what you eat?

I hope this saying isn't true because I've gone through some strange eating habits in the past. And if you are what you eat, I'm disturbing and unnatural. I started thinking about my weird food eating the other day when I decided to top off my chocolate chip peanut butter cookie stack (and banana ice cream) with the trio of fries (sweet potato, parmesan, and some spicy one I can't remember the name of) at Tillman's. Because doesn't that just sound like it will all go so well together? For some reason I thought so. Looking back, eating that food in that order wasn't my best call. This was one of those decisions that tasted good at the time...and then my tummy regretted later.

That's usually how my food eating habits go. You see, I love food SO much  that I have problems with the whole "stop eating when you feel like you might explode" concept. I just had a huge dinner but there's free pizza available for the taking...yes please. I'm already stuffed but that dessert looks really yummy...I'll take two, thanks. Maybe I don't need lunch because I'm still full from the ten pancakes I had for breakfast...no way jose.

My proudest and most ridiculous/embarrassing food moments come from my childhood. To this day, my family STILL makes fun of me for how I used to eat two of my favorite fast food meals.

The Flattened Hamburgers at McDonald's

Picture this: An 8-year old girl walks up to the counter at McDonald's. Does she want a Happy Meal? Nope. Make that a double cheeseburger meal with a large order of fries and a Sprite, please. I'm not talking about a cheeseburger with two meat patties. I'm talking two separate burgers. Because clearly, one just wasn't enough to fill out my adolescent frame. But of course, I still wasn't convinced this was enough food.

Cue my stroke of genius. In my little brain, I decided  that if I would flatten the burgers it would increase the surface area. Obviously a larger surface area of burger means more bites for me and more food. I was such a bright child. So every time I went to McDonald's, I went through the process of ordering more food than I could carry and flattening my cheeseburgers. I then had to eat the burgers fast enough so they didn't have time to un-flatten. People judged (as they should have), my family laughed (it was much deserved), and I ate every last bite.

The Mayonnaise Overload

Before I start this story, I should first tell you that I am completely grossed out by mayonnaise now (most likely due to the amount of mayo I consumed as a child). Mayonnaise freaks me out. If it freaks you out, too, this childhood food habit might freak you out (it pains me just to recount). You've been warned.

So, around the same time that I was ordering my flattened hamburgers I was also ordering footlong turkey sub sandwiches from Subway. My ideal sandwich required just 3 ingredients: white bread, turkey, and LOTS of mayonnaise. My conversation with the Subway employee usually went something like this:

"Hi, I'll have a footlong turkey sandwich on white bread."
"Don't you want a kids meal?"  "Are you sure you can eat all that?"  "Did you say a footlong?"
"Yes, I want a footlong please."
"OK...what else do you want on your sandwich?"
"Just mayonnaise. LOTS of mayonnaise."
"Is that enough?"
"A little more please...little more...little more...that's good."

And because that wasn't bad enough, I would beg my mother to let me walk across the parking lot to Rex's Chicken so I could get a side order of mashed potatoes with extra gravy as my side dish. Who needs chips? Clearly having my potatoes in mashed form went so much better with my sandwich than potatoes in chip form (how dull!). I remember one sandwich/mashed potatoes meal in particular. The gracious Subway employee who was making my sandwich offered to WRITE MY NAME IN MAYONNAISE on my sandwich. Yes, this actually happened. She even wrote in cursive. That mental image you've got in your head? The one with the word "Becky" written ornately across pieces of turkey sitting on a stale loaf of white bread? Top it all off with some mashed potatoes and you've got it exactly.

So in retrospect, I guess I have made some sort of progress in my eating habits. I'm still not normal, but at least I'm not as bizarre as my 8-year old self. (Good thing my cottage cheese phase didn't last long either...that one was rough.) You can still judge me, but don't judge the flattened hamburger technique until you've tried it.

Treadmill Thoughts

I'd like to talk about the gym.

I try to like working out. I really do. But if I'm being completely honest, I loathe the process. The only part of my workout I enjoy is the satisfaction I feel afterward and the ice cream sandwich I reward myself with.

Part of why I think I don't enjoy working out is because I'm so easily distracted. These happenings have recently diverted my attention and thrown off my "in the zone" workout concentration:

1. A girl was actually snapping along to her rap music while on the elliptical yesterday. Yes, snapping. I was confused. And distracted. And yet, slightly amused. Also, when people sing to themselves at the gym it freaks me out. I have ears. I hear you. All kinds of awkward.
2. Along the lines of snapping/singing girl, I'd like to introduce "I listen to my music so loudly that everyone else around me can hear my music through their headphones too" dude. I bet he has hearing aids by age 35.
3. You know that person who is itty bitty but runs on the treadmill like I picture the abominable snowman would? I mean, HOW does such a small person slam down their feet so hard that I can feel/hear the reverberations on the next treadmill? HOW???
4. Treadmill horse reminds me of the ever-so-annoying squeaky machines. If "I listen to my music so loudly that everyone else around me can hear my music through their headphones too" dude is on an elliptical that squeaks every time his left foot reaches a certain point, I'm DOOMED. Repetitive noises and I don't do well together.
5. To the person on the machine next to me who is totally out-doing me and making me feel weak and insignificant: I'm trying to creepily eye how many more calories you've burned than me and what resistance your elliptical is set at. You are a beast and I am not. And you're distracting me.
6. Then there are the people who come try to talk to me while I'm cherry red in the face, sweating bullets, and in need of oxygen. I can't breathe. These conversations never go well. Cell phone convos are equal failures.
7. Trying to drink water while remaing in motion. I can't do it. The number of times I've spilled half the contents of my water bottle all over my face/body is downright embarrassing. And it always earns me a few awkward glances from the people next to me who are clearly thinking "Is drinking liquids too difficult of a concept for this girl to master?"

Alright, I'm being melodramatic. But do you see my dilemma? The one thing that can keep my focus: "Wavin Flag" by K'naan. I listened to it 4 times during my workout today.

Patti Long and I like to do this dance in the kitchen while we're cooking dinner. True story. Go to the link.  Learn the super sweet moves. Dance your heart out.