Always Check the Laundry Room for Ferrets

With 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:

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. 

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.

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.

Pizza Stone Toe Happens

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.

Social media me, sending chill vibes in 2017.

The real me, telling 2017 to lay off.

"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!

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: The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013.)

"Place directly on oven rack OR ON PIZZA STONE." Danger ahead.

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.

Something > Nothing

A 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?

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 birthday card/resignation letter saga.

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.

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.

Hello 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 quit my job 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.

Comin' atcha, life. 

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.

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 Mad Men 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.

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.

"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.

A 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.

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.)

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. Literally.) I know this big, scary decision will make me whole again, and I've been making excuses to put it off long enough.

Which brings us back to my mic drop moment.

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:

"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." 

I'm More of an Indoors Girl

"What do you do for a living?"

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: "I work in advertising," and hope we can leave it at that. But we rarely do.

"Oh really? What does that entail?"

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. Yes, that NRA.

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.

I'm Writing a Book. Really.

Hello, 2015. I hope you're a heck of a lot better than 2014.

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 The Three Musketeers, which was my resolution back at the turn of 2013. Whoops.

I don't even remember the characters' names.

In 2015, I've resolved to finish my book. Not Alexandre Dumas' book; MY book.

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:

"For my birthday this year I want you to write all of these stories down."

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.)

So as my gift to Becca and to you, my loyal blog readers, an excerpt from chapter 6: "Bunny Boy"

The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013

I 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."

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.

Happier baking times.

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.

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.

I storm off to take a shower and cool off. When I surface, I hope to extend an olive branch and watch some House of Cards. 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.

Sorry guys, BRB. Gonna cry it out.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?!

How (not to) Skydive Like a Pro

I hate heights. Absolutely hate them. But for some reason, I enjoy putting myself through emotional turmoil by doing things like riding roller coasters and bungee jumping. Skydiving has been on my "things that will terrify and possibly kill me but could end up being decently fun" bucket list 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.

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 ... wait, what's that word?

WTF is a heli-skydive? 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.

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: I'm still free-falling at 14,000 feet toward my own demise. By choice. But still. A girl can only handle so much. Planes, I understand. We go way back. Helicopters ... I just ... no.

I eventually hear back from Skydive Australia (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.

My skydive adventure begins at 6:40 a.m. outside a Holiday Inn in Kings Cross, 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.

Also, yes. I brought Safari Sam with me for support. No, he didn't really help calm my nerves.

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, I'm going in the first load.

Pardon?

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 ...

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.

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.

"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.

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.

Public Transportation Struggles

Based on my experiences in Sydney, I somehow got this crazy idea in my head that I was a master at navigating public transportation. Wrong wrong wrong. Apparently I blocked out the memories of Sydney: the early days. But those memories of my early Sydney clueless-ness came flooding back as I wandered the streets/subway tunnels on my recent trip to NYC.

 Please note how at-ease and in-control I look on trains in Sydney

Not the case on my trip to the Big Apple

Public Transportation Fail #1
Initially I was confident about getting from my friend Ali's dorm to NYC...then I tried to buy my train ticket. I was looking for "Times Square" as a destination on the automated ticket booth, but no such destination existed. This might have had something to do with the fact that I was in the state of New Jersey, not New York. It was all downhill from there. I hopped on the first train that came with plans to buy my ticket on the train instead. A nice conductor approached me about 10 minutes into the ride and asked for my ticket. I just showed him a printout copy of the route Ali had told me to take and offered him $11.50 for my fare. He oh-so-nicely accepted my payment without tacking on a $5 surcharge since I clearly had no idea what I was doing. He also pointed out a few expert city commuters and told me to follow them to my next train. Unfortunately, the city folk my conductor friend had pointed out were so good at navigating through public transit that I lost track of them within seconds of leaving the train. I had to ask two more people at station #2 for directions and somehow made it onto train #2. On board train #2, my luggage and I caused problems trying to fit onto an already full train. A nice stranger had to hold the door open for me as I straddled my luggage, halfway inside and halfway outside. My fellow travelers were not very happy about the draft my luggage and I were letting in. When I arrived at train station #3, I accidentally kicked a man's shoe off while trying to haul my luggage up the stairs (I really need to learn how to pack lighter). I wandered around aimlessly for a while then had to ask a group of cops plus another random stranger for directions.

One train ride later...I was finally in Times Square! Well actually, I was in a train station below Times Square. And I was trapped in a turnstile. The succession of body parts and luggage was as follows: first one bar, then my luggage with my hand clinging to it, then another bar, then the rest of me. I have no idea how I got into this position. I just know that I couldn't get the bar, my body, or my luggage to move. Wonderful. After wriggling around for long enough to draw significant attention to myself, I kicked my suitcase in front of me and fell on top of it. A random stranger helped me up and handed me my bag while saying: "I saw you struggling. Are you OK?" I sheepishly thanked him and tripped over my bag as I started to climb the stairs. I thought this was the homestretch, but somehow I managed to get lost trying to get from 7th Avenue to 8th Avenue. I asked another cop for directions and found my hotel (just 3 blocks from my original starting point--typical) 45 minutes later. 

Total number of people I asked for help: 11
Total travel time: 2 hours
My public transportation confidence is officially gone.

Public Transportation Fail #2
Getting from Rockefeller Plaza to Little Italy: how hard can it be? Harder than you'd think. My three friends and I decided to be thrifty and save money by taking the subway instead of a taxi. Looking back, taking a taxi really would have been a good call. Lauren and I got directions from a friendly mall security guard. He was sitting behind a desk, so we decided he looked important enough and would be able to get us where we needed to go. In fact, we were so confident in our friend that we started discussing how we should have asked for his name so we could write a thank you note to his supervisor. We spoke too soon. The express train that our security guard friend said stopped at Canal Street...didn't stop at Canal Street. We started thinking something might be awry when we went over a bridge.

Becky: "Um...Lauren...are we supposed to go over a body of water? Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?"
Lauren: "I don't know...maybe...I mean, I'm sure we're fine..."

Five stops later, we decided that maybe everything wasn't fine. We got off somewhere in Brooklyn (yes, apparently that WAS the Brooklyn Bridge) and looked totally out of place. Lauren saw a rat the size of her foot and I almost peed my pants when a guy asked us what time it was. Paranoid much? Yes.

Just to give you a visual on our situation, we started close to Times Square by the pink square in the upper left. We got off the train near the green square next to the orange line in the bottom right. We had been trying to get to place where the yellow line splits in two next to the green line (on the Manhattan side of the bridge). Not. Even. Close.

An hour and a half later, we finally found Little Italy. We decided to avoid any futher confusion and had Sayif (who became my new best friend because I told him his name reminded me of Sayid from "Lost") take us home in a taxi.

Public Transportation Fail #3
At this point you're probably thinking, "Really, Becky? You managed to get lost this many times within a span of 4 days? Do you have a brain?" In my defense, this fail was not entirely my fault. Yes, I still had to ask at least five people which trains to get on/where to buy my ticket/when to get off. But, I successfully got to two of my three trains without getting incredibly lost or creating a scene with my luggage. These were both big wins for me. The problem was that my second train was late getting in because we stopped just outside of the station and had to wait for someone on the train in front of us to get ARRESTED before we could pull into the platform. Classy. I arrived at platform F just in time to watch my train pulling out of the station. The girl running alongside the train with her purple houndstooth luggage dragging behind her while banging on the door yelling for the train to stop....that was me. The girl that broke down in tears because she was exhausted, the next train didn't  come for another hour, and she was in the middle of nowhere New Jersey...also me. Not my proudest moment. I sat pitifully whimpering to myself on a bench until Ali came to rescue me. The ultimate embarrassment: I couldn't figure out where the exit to the station was. 

Moral of the story: I'm directionally challenged, emotionally unstable when low on sleep, and a klutz. But hey, I survived! And I still love NYC, despite my inability to navigate its subway system.

 See? When I'm not in transit, NYC and I are the best of friends

Felix the Wonder Cat

Life hasn't supplied me with much inspiration for a new blog post as of late. While I continue to ruminate on my next pressing topic, I thought I'd share a favorite family tale that has become infamous over the years. Now I can't really take credit for any of the mayhem I'm about to describe, but as a member of the Meeder clan (my mom's side of the family), I feel that I have earned the right to take some sort of ownership over the Felix the Cat story.

Here's one thing you should know about me: I hate cats. HATE them. Passionately. They're just so boring. Cats hate me, too, so I suppose it works out pretty well. There is one exception to my cat hatred rule: his name is Felix. He is a wonder cat.

This isn't Felix, but Felix is black and white. I thought this cat looked kind of super hero-esque like Felix, so feel free to use him for your mental imagery in this post.

I don't remember the exact year of Felix's greatest adventure, but I do know that it happened at least a decade ago during a 4th of July weekend at Lake of the Ozarks. The Meeder family has a long standing tradition of spending every Independence Day together under the guise of some themed family reunion (for example: "slow no wake weekend" and "lakelympics"). If memory serves correctly, I was eating an Oreo when my uncle got a phone call. I couldn't tell you exactly who was on the other end of the phone or what was being said, but I could tell you that it was NOT GOOD. Yelling followed, my uncle turned bright red, my aunt turned even redder, they got into a car, and they left. I think the other adults had been tuned into what was going on, but as usual the kids were left in the dark. My cousins and I came to the conclusion that my aunt and uncle's fury was most likely the result of something my oldest cousin, Michael, had done. He was the only family member not present at the lake. The plan had been that Michael was going to get up early, drop the family cat off at the vet, and  drive three hours to the lake with a friend. Things didn't exactly work out that way...

Michael has always been a big fan of sleep. On this particular morning, he accidentally overslept. This wasn't the least bit surprising and wouldn't have been a problem were it not for the fact that the vet had closed by the time Michael woke up. On to plan B: the cat was coming to the lake. Michael found a box, put Felix in it, and hit the road. Oh, and one more little detail that's important: he was driving a convertible. With the top down. About halfway through the drive, a guy pulled up next next to Michael. Their exchange took place as follows:

Random guy: "Hey, man, your cat just flew out!"
Michael: "What?  My cap?  I wasn't wearing a cap...?"
Random guy: "No man, your CAT!"

That's right. I'll give that last sentence a second to resonate.

Picture it with me. Box in the back seat = empty. Imagine yourself as Felix: very confused as to why you're in this square brown thing, you want to break free. After a few exhaustive hours of struggling with the box, you succeed at your task. The top of the box opens and you leap to freedom. You get to enjoy the sweet smell and taste of fresh air all around you for about a millisecond then--WHOOSH--that very fresh air carries you away with it. Now imagine yourself as the random guy: did you just see a CAT fly out of the back of that car? Surely not...right? RIGHT? Oh my gosh. A CAT just flew out of that car!!!

Now before you go calling some animal rights group, let me tell you that this story has a happy ending. However, it was very unhappy for a while. My aunt and uncle (Michael's parents) drove all the way to some random scrap of highway and searched all over for Felix. They were gone for HOURS. Felix was nowhere to be found. So my aunt and uncle came back to the lake and had to tell their two other children (they were probably ages 10ish and 13ish at the time) that Felix was gone. Additionally, Michael had been so flustered that he drove away from a gas station with the pump still attached to the car. He ripped out the hose and nozzle without even noticing. The gas station owner, however, did notice and sent my uncle a bill a month later. Just the icing on the cake. Over the course of the next few weeks my aunt called every animal shelter she could find. Eventually the Meeders gave up on Felix, but one day the unexpected happened...

A woman from a trailer park around the area where Felix had disappeared called my aunt. Felix had wandered up to her trailer and she had called the number on his collar to return him home. And so a month after being blown from a moving car traveling at top speeds on a Kansas highway, Felix found himself back at home as if nothing had happened. No scratches. No bruises. No missing limbs. No major health issues. He was a little hungry, but totally fine. How did he do it? I haven't the slightest idea.

This particular feat is Felix's most famous triumph, but by no means his only triumph. Over the course of his life, Felix has been run over by my aunt's car, crushed by a garage door, placed on an IV for some illness I don't remember the details of, and gotten into plenty more trouble that my cousins can tell you all about. And did I mention, FELIX IS STILL ALIVE TODAY? I hate cats, but how can you hate Felix? Impossible.

And that is the story of why this cat has become know as, and will always be known as, "Felix the Wonder Cat."