2005: Lindsay Said It Would Be My Year, And She Was Right

My good pal Lindsay is a freakin' prophet. 2005 was a good year for me. A lot of stuff happened, but the action was mostly internal. I spent the year getting my shit together. I mean, it's always been about me, but this year it was in a good way. Monica once said she was "exfoliating [her] life" and that's how I feel too. My life got microdermabrasion in 2005. Monica and Lindsay - wise women, those two.

I have a tendency to get lost and howl at the injustice of it all. Howling is fine. You have to howl occasionally. But then you have to stop howling and freakin' eat the caribou. I am devouring the caribou in 2006 and there's plenty to share with the pack. I don't have to eat the whole thing. But I get first crack at it, being the alpha female of my own life.

I'm going to get a CritterCam from those penguin guys and make a wildlife documentary about myself. See you at Sundance!

PS. Love and happiness to you and yours, and lots of mixed metaphors while I'm at it.

100 Blogs of Solitude

Unlike our pal WritingGal, I'm not giving anything away to the 100th commenter. I'm shocked as hell I'm still posting in the first place. Me, I get bored and move on. Like the time I tried to teach myself to crochet. I made a sort of trapezoid about 4x3x2x3 inches. I'm not a crafty gal.

But I like hammering things. I watch The New Yankee Workshop on PBS all the time and I'm amazed by carpentry. And I love how Norm Abrams takes care of every detail. I hate it when people don't miter the corners of their molding properly. I notice those things. But I am so impatient, I can't measure anything because it takes too long. I want it done perfectly, now. I bet I'm a pain in the ass to live with.

I need a haircut, a massage, a manicure, a pedicure and a facial. I'll settle for the haircut and the massage. Someone go make me a cup of tea. God, I'm so high maintenance.

Question: At what point does taking a nap become going to bed at three in the afternoon? Last Thursday, I left work at noon, had lunch with Matt, picked up some DVDs and took a nap on the sofa. I woke up at 9 pm. I slept for about six hours. Is that a nap or did I go to bed and get a short night's sleep? Note: I was not sick, pregnant, drunk or up all night. Discuss.

Should I Wait?

Every year my parents send my presents early and my dad makes me promise I won't open them until Christmas. Since Dis is on her own, she usually ignores him and opens them anyway, except for last year when he made me wait until he was on the phone and could hear the paper tearing. My presents are here. In the trunk of my car. I want to open them. Should I?

Discuss.

Also there's a chance I could go on a blind date with a bald, fat sportswriter. That will definitely be discussed if it comes through.

Merry Christmas!

Oh, The Weather Outside Was Possibly Frightful, But I Wouldn't Know Because I Never Left The Couch.

I missed The Will Clarke Show due to over indulgence. I got your message, Niebaum, but I was too hungover to have a conversation.

I saw Gary Cogill, the movie reviewer, at the Balcony Club with Matt after the book club party and promptly alienated him by proclaiming loudly, "Hey that's that guy from TV! I think his name is Ed Bark!" Ed Bark is the television reviewer, and as far as I know, he doesn't have a show and doesn't go to Cannes. Oops. Gary ran away from me and sat by himself in a booth. I am not good with celebs when I'm hammered. I did the same thing to Babe Laufenberg on my birthday one year.

We also ran into Toaster Boy, who hit on me as usual. Ah Colm, that ship sailed long ago. Actually, it was never launched in the first place.

It was a good book club party. I got Jacquie's book and I haven't read "Snow Falling on Cedars" so I was happy and she was happy and all was right with the world. She's so pretty. What a gal!

I found out Surgeon Steve reads my blog and I'm a little freaked out, but I don't know why. I mean, I know people read this thing and it's not like I'm trying to hide anything. And I'm pretty sure he already knew I was nuts. So everyone say hi to Surgeon Steve!

It amazes me that someone my age and that I know holds lives in his hands every day and still drinks cocktails (not when he's on call) and is normal. Wow. I have accomplished so very little. No, that's not true. I'm fabulous and I bring the flair. And when I'm done with nursing school it'll be like ER and I'll be the nurse who knows everything and he'll be the surgeon with a terrible bedside manor and there will be friendly banter. I love television.

Surgeon Steve and Doctor Kory (who is also a surgeon btw) are good people and I'm glad I know them. I would so let either one of them operate on me if I needed it. Just don't leave a big scar, ok?

Everyone Go To Will Clarke's Reading Tomorrow

Will Clarke, author of "Lord Vishnu's Love Handles" which will soon be made into a feature film, is reading and autographing tomorrow at 3 p.m. at Border's on Greenville at Lover's, across the street from Central Market. (Niebaum, I expect to see you there. I am going to be so hungover.)

Will is a refugee from advertising who wrote his book at the same Starbucks I go to. He is every Dallas advertising employee's secret dream. We will worship him as a god.

Also, BIG NEWS AT DISRESPECCA'S OFFICE!

They fired Sarge last night after he made yours truly and another co-worker cry in the same meeting. First, Dis ran out in tears and slammed the door, then co-worker B ran out in tears and slammed the door harder. Dis was comforted in the ladies' room by Laura the nice woman who cleans up after us. She hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, but since she only speaks Spanish and I only speak English, I'm not really sure what she said. Co-worker B went straight to Sarge's boss who went to HR and that's all she wrote. It's unfortunate this is what it comes to, but I'm so glad it's over.

Book club Chrismukkah party tonight! Rock on!

What I Want For Christmas

Every year, I go nuts and buy myself an extravagant Christmas present. I kinda did that already this time, so I won't be getting myself anything else. (That's the problem when you go shopping and buy the entire line of Laura Mercier and don't look at price tags on anything. You get a shock when the credit card bill comes.) So due to my grieving through visits to Target and my have-to-look-good-in-Vegas trips to Nordstrom, I believe Christmas is done for Dis.

But if someone else were to get me a present, this is what I would like:

All the DVDs of the great Christmas specials I loved as a kid so I can hang with Yukon, Baby New Year with the big ears, Aeon the bird who kidnapped him, Charlie in the Box, Rudolph, Frosty in his snappy vest, the caveman from the Archipelago of Time whose upper jaw moved instead of his lower jaw, The Abominable Snow Monster, Mr. Heat Miser & Mr. Freeze, young Kris Kringle and the missus and the gang from Peanuts.

Oh the good memories I have of all of them! Back before Christmas got complicated. Before I had to choose between parents. When I believed.

When I watch the shows on TV now, I get a little of my childhood innocence back and it is a precious thing. Having the DVDs would be like having the Christmas spirit in a bottle.

The Dealio With What Went Down With Jersey Frank, For You Pervs Who Want Details

I got back to the casino (The Wynn) after shopping for a couple hours and saw all the girls in the lobby bar with a bunch of guys I didn't know.

I walked up and said, "Hey, kids. What's up?" There was drinking and smoking in progress. The guys on the sofa at the table said "Hey come sit over here!" So I shoved my Neiman's bags under the table and ordered an Absolut Mandarin and tonic, which I didn't pay for.

I had just gotten my makeup done at Laura Mercier and I looked good. I had my hair done in loose braids and pinned up in a sexy mess, which I shook loose in a cascade of blonde waves (at the moment, my hair is really long, like 1997 long) and then the guy to my right said he was Frank from New Jersey and he liked my hair down better than up even though I was hot both ways and 20 minutes later we were making out and people took pictures. We were holding hands or leaving hands on thighs and I was calling him "Sugar." It was pretty much the land speed record for DisRespecca getting a little play, or a Vegas Boyfriend, as I call it. It was 5 in the afternoon and I was sober. I don't know about Frankie, but he was making sense and he wasn't slurring.

Neither one of us was sober when I called him later that night. In fact, he was passed out on the sofa. I have no idea what time it was. I just know we were headed for some crazy underground late night club and I was tired of walking and I didn't know how much further we had to walk and I was cold, and I saw that Caesar's was across the street so I left Gillian with the Canadian cowboy who just got out of jail for armed robbery who was giving her a piggy back ride down the Strip because her shoes where even more ridiculous than mine, and I actually called Jersey Joe's phone number which was written on my arm along with the suite number and told him I was looking for Frankie.

They met me in the lobby and convinced me I would not be killed if I went to their room. I know, technically I'm an idiot, but it turns out I was right because I am still alive and unscathed and everyone behaved like gentlemen, which they had earlier as well.

I think I had a drink. I know I turned the air conditioning down because I was hot and that I get hot when I drink too much. I know Frankie and I kissed on the couch like teenagers for a while. It's all a blur.

I just know I woke up fully clothed and freezing and I was pretty sure that my Laura Mercier had melted down my face at some point and I did not want to be there when anyone else woke up, and my phone was nearly dead at 7 am and I called my dad and told him to pick me up outside Caesar's Palace. Nice suites in that joint, by the way. And it was cold outside, which was good, because I was in bad shape and the cold helped with the nausea.

My dad and step-Linda drove me home and I had to ask dad to pull over on Tropicana so I could get sick. I went to bed and slept until 4 pm. Then I ate some chicken noodle soup, got dressed and went to dinner at Shintaro at the Bellagio where I was the queen of making out with strangers. I win!

ReadBecca Hasn't Been Worth A Damn Lately.

I know. I'm a slacker. But genius cannot be summoned on demand. It's possible ideas are brewing. I'll whip up some amusing commentary soon, I promise.

Did I mention I made out with a guy? I haven't kissed a stranger in forever and it was so fun. I am going to make it a point to do that more often.

Vacation Over. Need A Coffee.

Just yesterday, I was still sleeping at this time, about to wake up in half an hour. I could be eating Lucky Charms right now. Naked. Nah, I'd probably just be in my jammies and not bother brushing my hair. Vacations are good.

I had two days at home after Vegas and I did nothing. I cleaned nothing. I organized nothing. I put up no Christmas tree. I did no chores of any kind. I ate Frito pie.

Yeah, you heard me, and this is something I have long wanted to confess. I like Frito pie. I like it in the chip bag eaten with a spork. I like it from Sonic or DQ. I like the chili homemade or out of a can. I like it with generic corn chips or name-brand Frito-Lay products. I like it with more cheese than Ben Affleck's Christmas card. I like Frito pie and I don't care who knows it.

I also like hot dogs and I don't care what they're made of. I will eat them from 7-11. I will eat them from A&W Rootbeer Restaurants. I will eat them at a ball game. I will eat them grilled on the 4th of July or on any given Tuesday. I will eat them microwaved or boiled if I have to. I will eat them footlong or bun-length. I will eat them from a cart in the street. I like hot dogs and I don't care who knows it.

I do not like Moon Pies, however. I just thought you should know.

Thanks For Making Out With Me, Frank From New Jersey.

I stayed out Friday until 8 am. I spent one dollar. Everyone go to Vegas immediately.

Frank has pretty eyes and is an excellent kisser. I would definitely kiss that kid again, if I had the chance.

He let me boss him around a bit. I should have married him.

He didn't believe I am almost 35. I should have given him a son.

I also robbed the cradle a little. I think he was 28. I may start collecting younger men. Remember Clayton from Atlanta? (I don't know how to do internal links so look up the archives from last summer.) I am so going to be Mrs. Robinson.

Vegas bottom line: An excellent time. I only wish I hadn't been too hung over to go to Light, but that's a whole other story.

I'm Already Up By A Free Dinner.

I've been in Vegas since 3:30 and I'm already ahead. Dad bought dinner. Sweet!

I feel like I'm in school again. I'm typing on his computer and he's watching TV in the living room. It feels like 1998, except I'm not associated with anyone in the music business.

Ah, guys in bands or guys who were the fifth Beatle, I knew them well. I don't miss the long hair. I miss the free drinks.

Rock stars. You gotta go through that stage because it's just too much fun. If you haven't ever dated a dude in a band, do it once before you die or turn forty.

Trust me.

I'm Registered At Jimmy Choo And Target.

By this time next Tuesday, I will have been married to George Clooney for 89 hours. I'll call from Lake Como. Mwah!

I'm Taking My Purple Satin Slingbacks To Vegas, Baby!

I leave for Lost Wages tomorrow. Yeeeeeeeeee HAW!

I'm hangin' with Dad and Step-Linda and I got a date with destiny at the craps table. I bought purple satin bejeweled slingbacks because I love ridiculous shoes. They aren't ridiculously high like the ones I bought for the Paris wedding. (God, those shoes are fab. Mauve strappy ankle-wrap skyscraper stilettos. They are the definition of limo shoes.) They won't let you sit at the craps table and blackjack has too much counting involved. I always take a card when I shouldn't and the guy next to me gets mad because he thinks it was his. I call bullshit on that. I can take as many cards as I want and I don't owe the next player nothin'.

I can't wait to blog about my millions when I win them.

I Can't Stop Eating Pop Tarts.

Thanks a lot, WritingGal. You better come visit me in sugar rehab. I had four cups of coffee and two tarts on Friday and had heart palpitations. I had to eat some carrots just to come down off the high. I cut down to two cups and two tarts this morning and I've got the shakes. I'm sure this Coke I'm drinking will help.

I am trying to do laundry but I can't concentrate long enough to separate whites from darks and delicates from colors. Oh caffeine and sugar, you twin mistresses of all that is distracted and shaky, some day I hope to end your reign of terror, but not today. Matt the Miller Man has a box of chocolates on his coffee table and I am so going to eat all the good ones before he gets back from Corpus tonight.

Ooh, something shiny!

I'm Tired Of You, Tony Soprano.

Over the last three days, I watched the complete fifth season of The Sopranos, and might I say, so what?

I was really interested in all the characters but now I'm all feh. Adriana was the only one who seemed even a little bit human but boy was she stupid. It's hard to root for someone that dumb. And Tony. He is just awful. I thought he had some redeeming qualities, but no, he doesn't. He lost me when he deliberately provoked Janice when her anger management classes actually seemed to be working and then walked away smiling. Sociopath. No hope for him. Why bother watching the next season if they ever make it? I'm going to mentally wack Tony myself and be done with the whole thing. And what the hell is wrong with Dr. Melfi? I can't even start with her or we'll be here all night.

So to sum up, Sopranos Thanksgiving marathon, not so much.

I should have rented "GiGi" and "Brigadoon" instead. Note to self: Let's do musicals with happy frolicking at Christmas. It's not Steve McQueen, but I think I've had enough of the ironic holiday film festival for a while.

I need a hug and a cookie.

Mourning Is Hard.

A great big thank you to everyone who's called or posted to let me know you're thinking of me. You've all been really great. I cried so much Sunday and Monday I gave myself a migraine yesterday and took the day off. But I'm better now.

I wish Grandpa Tex would come visit me, but he must be pretty busy explaining himself for some stuff up in heaven. He said Uncle Hubert, Aunt Louise and Grandma had all come to visit him and he knew for sure it was Hubert because he sat on the end of the bed and he was heavy and wouldn't get off Grandpa's feet. So Tex had a welcoming committee when he kicked it. Good. We should all be so lucky.

I'm my usual anti-holiday family gathering self. We're only working a half day today so I'm off to Ikea maybe and then to get DVDs and books. I haven't been grocery shopping yet, so it may be a Marie Calender's frozen dinner for Thanksgiving. There's pretty much no such thing as a turkey for one. I'm off to Vegas next week for plenty of Dad and Step-Linda time.

And I invited Crazy Linda to come visit me in Dallas after Thanksgiving. I know. It's the grief talking. Anyway, she's a wreck and it beats going down to Houston where all the real drama happens. I'm so going to need all my friends around to be the buffer.

I'll post from Vegas and let you know what's happening. Dad says he's going to make me go camping. Ho. Lee. Craaaaaap.

Happy Turkey Day, my little crumpets!

For those of you who have my number, feel free to call and see how many glasses of wine I've had by noon tomorrow. Cheers!

Adios, Grandpa Tex.

Grandpa Tex died yesterday. He was 96.

I finally started laughing yesterday when I thought about what they would do with his glass eye. If I had my druthers, I'd keep it in a velvet box. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone else would think it was as funny as I do. So I guess I'll just let it go with him.

Grandpa Tex was an ornery, difficult, opinionated, loud, mean, controlling old man. He was also funny, kind, sensitive, observant, wise, silly, mischievous, generous and wonderful. The caricature of a loud-mouthed Texan, but genuine. He couldn't be anything but who he was.

No one was allowed to adjust the air conditioning in his house. Ever. There has never been another human being who ate more biscuits. At every meal, there were biscuits and jelly. He fried eggs in an inch of bacon grease in a cast iron skillet older than I am. He liked to crush up crackers or cornbread and put them in a tall glass of buttermilk.

I was lucky. He was nicer to the girls and the grandkids, and being a girl grandkid exempted me from his tirades. I also never brought home any ne'er-do-well husbands, got divorced, was unemployed, went to rehab, got arrested, had a fatherless child or dated (in view of the family) any persons of color, all things sure to set him off. It also helped that I vote Democrat. In a family full of Republicans, Grandpa and I manned the last outpost of democracy, although his brand of Southern Democrat was a far cry from the lefty liberal leanings of mine.

A couple years ago, Grandpa and I talked about living alone. After Grandma died, he was pretty much alone except for the housekeeper most of the time. It broke my heart when we both said how hard it was to cook for just one person. There I was, single in the big city in all my fabulousness, and the one person who understood how hard it is to be on my own was my 90-year-old grandfather. It still gets me to this day. That's why I asked, "Did Carrie Bradshaw have a grandpa?"

He told me I could come live with him anytime. It was a big compliment. Not everybody was invited to stay, and he kicked my thieving cousin out a few months ago.

Grandpa named every dog he ever had either Bitsy or Sam. Little dogs were Bitsy; big dogs were Sam. There must have been 15 Bitsy's and Sam's. The current Bitsy is going with my mom. I wish I could take her, but I'm never home. Bitsy is better off with company.

Grandpa Tex's idea of sex education was to nudge me with his elbow and ask, "You know what causes that, don't you?" whenever there was news of a new baby coming. He always asked if I had a boyfriend and I always said no. Then he'd tell me I better hurry up and get married since I'm getting on. Then he'd want me to remind him how old I was before he'd change his mind and tell me since I had a good job and my car was running good, I didn't need to worry about getting married.

Grandpa's criteria for success was a steady job and a good engine. Much like his own self. He was predictable in that you never knew if you were going to be on his good side or not, and his heart was the engine that kept him with us for nearly 97 years, through all manner of Texas cooking, hard drinking and fighting.

He was the last of a people that lived as simply as they could, when any day without rain was a good one, unless they needed it. He was bigger than life and love him as I do or hate him as I'm sure others did, you simply couldn't ignore Tex. He has been the center of five generations of my family. I wonder now what will keep us connected.

Louis Quaid Martin, or Grandpa Tex to me, I'm sure you're happy to be gone from here at last. You never were one for big productions, so I'll use the words you used to say goodbye whenever we talked:

Well, I'll see ya.

I Just Want Some Boots That Aren't Furry. Is That Too Much To Ask?

I blame Sienna Miller for this. Your fiance sleeps with one nanny and the whole world has to wear furry boots in solidarity. Stupid furry boots. I'm not doing it. You can't make me.

What should I buy myself for Christmas? Also, what should I buy myself for the big birthday in February? I must commemorate it since it's a milestone. 35 is the new fabulous. That's my motto. I'm thinking ridiculously expensive handbag. Which reminds me, I haven't carried my Louis in quite some time. Must break it out again. Hmmm, Christmas. Possibly silk pajamas and a smoking jacket. All the better to swan around my tiny apartment in, spilling wine everywhere. Note to self: stock up on the champers.

Shopping is hard.

What's For Dinner?

What should I have? Pancakes or chili? Discuss.

Who Wants To Be My Beneficiary?

My company switched insurance plans. Who should I name as beneficiary since I'm single and don't have any cats? Nominate yourself or someone else. If I kick the bucket, buy the farm or take the big sleep, you'll be rich! Why should I leave you the cash in addition to my cherished memory? Discuss.

I Hab A Cold Ib By Dose.

I knew I was getting sick on Friday when I woke up with the telltale sore throat. I got ready Friday night by buying generic Claritin D and a new thermometer. I never had a fever, which was disappointing. I kind of like that fever feeling when you're not really awake and not really asleep and you're burning up and freezing all at the same time. You're miserable, but it feels so good when the fever breaks, it's worth it.

I had an out-of-body experience once when I had a fever when I was little. This was before we moved to Texas, so I was really little, like three or four. I remember I was supposed to be in bed taking a nap, but I went outside and I was balancing on this concrete wall and I scraped my knee. I knew I would be in trouble for being outside, so I couldn't go in to get my knee patched up.

So I went in the back yard and got on one of the swings and sat there feeling sorry for myself because I couldn't get sympathy for my scrape since I wasn't supposed to be out there in the first place. It suddenly felt like I was in a super-fast elevator and I was looking down on myself as a little kid sitting there crying, but the me that was watching wasn't a child.

I remember thinking and feeling like an adult for just a few seconds and understanding the poor kid's dilemma and then whoosh I was back in my body and I remember the physical sensation of it, like when you hit the brakes hard and unexpectedly and you lurch forward. Little kid me was a little freaked out and I jumped up off that swing and ran into the house.

Craaaazzzyyyyy.

Anyway, I sort of like having a fever was the point.

Jason, Do You Want To Go To The Margarita Ball A Week From Saturday?

I don't have time to call Stef and get your number right now, so I'm hoping you just read this sometime in the next couple days. You'll have to wear a suit. If you have a tux handy, that would be great, but who cares if you don't? It don't cost nuthin'. Let me know and we'll synchronize our watches or whatever.

PS. I'm not hitting on you.

I've Been Preoccupied, But That Doesn't Mean I Don't Love You.

Don't worry, I'm not cheating on you. I've just got a lot on my mind and my sore shoulders are making it hard to think about anything else. What are you doing Saturday night? Let's have a date night and put the focus back on us. What do you say, kitten? You know you're the only one for me.

There should be more Supertramp in all our lives. I need more pillows. I like cake. I need to stop obsessing. I don't have enough knives. What if someone spills? I don't have enough wine glasses. I am not buying doilies. I hate my job. I'm in a funk. This week has been hard. I'm tired. I need a massage and a facial. I fell down last Friday and my scrape still hurts. I want to go to the movies. I wish I had some cheese. I want lasagne. Soup is good food. I'm thirsty. mmm... LouAnn plate. I'm cranky. I need a nap. It's cool outside. I'm going to lunch early. I want to curl up in a ball and have quiet time. Everyone put your head on your desk. I don't like monkeys. I wish I had a dog. The batteries in my digital thermometer are dead so I can't get sick. If I were in the hospital, would people come see me? What if I kill a patient? What if I look bad in scrubs? What if there is no McDreamy? That was a good kiss he gave Izzy. I would have followed him out. I'm not cool. I can't believe they killed Shannon. Sayid's going to lose it. They should stop pressing the button. I'm not full-strength today. I've been de-DisRespeccified with some sort of alien brain ray. Stupid aliens. Tom Cruise is nuts. I don't find crazy people attractive. What's up with my beach vision? Let's have some more of that, please. It's almost lunch time. I want soup and garlic bread. Spaghetti would also be nice. I need a fountain coke. I like ice cream. I like tea. I'm a nice girl, most of the time. I must never tell any person who wants to date me about this blog. I'm not really crazy. I'm maybe a little eccentric sometimes. My eyes are getting heavy. I want to lay on the floor in corpse pose. I like lavender. I have to go google something.

Yesterday, I Chose A Mantra.

Shrink #2 proposed I use a mantra when I'm all stressed out, which sounds great to me. I believe in all that yoga-breathing, visualizing your bliss stuff. I just forget to do it when I'm trying to kill people at the office with my brainwaves. I know it would be easier just to make a shiv out of a Sharpie, but somehow I think I'd get caught.

The mantra that came to me?

Apple pie.

You'd think it would be something like "My bliss is in the now." Nope. I'm "Apple pie."

Apple pie. Apple pie. Apple pie. Apple pie. Apple pie. Serenity NOW! APPLE PIE!

What's your mantra? Discuss.

My Neck Hurts And I Blame Sarge.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

Stress causes migraines. Migraines make me want to poke a hole in my skull so my brains leak out.

I had a fun migraine on Friday, and I'm still hungover from it. I know exactly what caused it. Sarge. He made me mad on Thursday, so bam, Friday headache. It doesn't take a rocket scientist.

Smiling while you really want to strangle someone is hazardous to your health. It gives you migraines.

On a more positive note, the tanker truck driver this morning at the gas station gave me the eye. Twice. I love you too, Tanker Truck Driver. I love you too.

Can You Hear Me From Under This Bus?

Hey guess what. I don't know everything. Sarge says. Has he MET me?

He also says I have to arrange a group lunch next week for our new editor and I have to decide who rides with whom. See, no one wants to ride with Sarge and he knows that. Sarge throws me under the bus by making sure the cheese doesn't stand alone, so I'm throwing Only Boy Editor Left under the bus in turn. He rides with Sarge. FNG always gets screwed. The rest of us are riding in the fun car and talking about the people in the Sarge car.

Please. No more Halloween candy. Is it too much to ask for some green beans? Mmmm...vegetables.

The Best Part Of Waking Up Has Nothing To Do With Folger's

To go with my delightful magic caffeine dispenser, I purchased a cow creamer.

You've been to the small-town diner that serves you cream in a ceramic cow, haven't you? Now I own one. I have a cow creamer! I can't wait to make pancakes and have the cow on the table. Except I don't have a table. No room. I have a bar. With stuff all over it.

I'll take the cow to IHOP on Sunday.

I Love You, Phillips Senseo Coffee Maker.

I have been looking at those new-fangled coffee makers that use coffee pods ever since I saw one in action at Thea's office that time we tried to get U2 tickets. I checked them all out at Target and picked the one that took the least amout of hands to operate, only I had a mental block about paying $70 for a coffee maker. I couldn't do it. I own Oscar de la Renta pants, but I couldn't spring for that damn coffee maker.

The combined forces of Sarge and a sale at Target finally got me my delightful new kitchen gadget. $50 was the magic number. I have enjoyed three mornings of coffee brewed at home for a bargain price and still made it into the office without drawing the wrath of Sarge, who just now threw me under the bus as I was typing.

Lunch hour delayed.

The Fact That I Can't Fix That Lowercase S Is Also Freaking Me Out.

My subconscious Mind Is Freaking Me Out.

So I went to the chiropractor today to get a massage and to get cracked. Susan the awesome masseuse worked on my neck and back and I've got a stubborn knot that won't relax so to get me to concentrate on something other than willing myself to relax, she asked me, "What makes you happy?"

And this is the image that popped into my mind:

Me on the front porch of a beach house watching my seven-year-old son playing at the edge of the water. I was laughing and I looked good for 45. Then I thought I better throw a father into the vision. So, poof, there he was sitting next to me in an Adirondack chair, holding my hand. He was tall, dark and handsome, although I didn't see his face. Just an impression of his profile.

Whoa.

There were no Manolos; I wasn't half in the bag; I wasn't smoking and the dude was definitely an American.

W. T. F?

My Unmentionables Look Like They've Been Screwing Magnum P.I.'s Moustache.

Let me explain.

It's Halloween.

I bought this cheap velvet medieval evil queen dress at the Halloween store. So I'm wearing it. And I discovered that since it's cheap crap velvet, it's shedding fuzzy black dust bunnies which have attached themselves all over my foundation garments. So even if I do make eye contact with some masked stranger today and the violins begin to swell, there's no way in hell this Medieval Barbie dress is coming off. No one needs to see the hilarity that is going on underneath this get up.

V. Bridget Jones enormous pants scene, only with black and red velvet and gold rickrack trim.

Christ, I'm A Collaborator.

Sarge pulled me aside today to thank me for being a team player, and that he couldn't say that for anyone else.

What happened to the pretty French girls when the Nazis lit out of Paris? Hey, a girl needs stockings and chocolate. I have a sick mother and I have to feed her somehow. Ow! My hair! Please don't leave me tied to the Pont Neuf! Didn't you see me singing La Marseillaise last week at Rick's? Vive la France!

A Crushed ReadBeckian Searches for Answers

I received this message today from a tearful little girl:

"Did you scare Uncle Tucker off with your rants in the Longhorn post? He never even said goodbye."

And to you, Faithful Readers, I say this. Sometimes men leave for no good reason. It's never you. It's always them. Or it's you, in a good way. It wasn't that Big had a fear of commitment really. It was that he couldn't break Carrie. And Hubbell's girl was lovely, just beige. And Edward was a shit.

And Tucker? He... does this. He still loves you. He just doesn't know how to show it. There there, princess. ReadBecca's here and she's going to take care of you forever and ever and never leave. Do you want a pony?

Another Jason Quote

DisRespecca: If I were a man, I'd be you.
Jason: If I were a man, I'd be me too.

Speaking of Getting People...

Jason gets me.

When he said "Fuck Boysenberry!" I knew exactly what he meant. He's tall. It's too bad he's so skinny. I would feed him pancakes every day to fatten him up a little. Men with smaller thighs than mine are not allowed. And yet he's still ok looking.

But brain-wise, the kid is aces. I've only met the dude like twice and he makes me laugh like few others. He's a writer. I'm an editor. It's like freakin' Felix and Oscar, only if they were alike. No, it's like Ashley and Mary Kate, if we were interchangeable. What are things that complement each other again? It's like... Salt and Peppa. I don't know who Spinderella is like.

Anyway, he's delightful. I highly recommend taking Jason with you if you expect to get snowed in somewhere.

Dude, do you remember telling me you wanted to go on the road trip when I visit Jane in Austin as soon as she's settled? I bet you don't. It was right after you told Stefanie you loved her.

Next time I see you, I'm so giving you a Rock N Roll McDonald's head butt. Also, somehow the rat ended up in my bag. His little red eyes are checking me out as we speak.

It Is Against the Law To Be Up This Late and Not Be In a Bar.

Oh, my rods and cones.

Kids, don't become a copy editor. You'll end up still at the office at 1 in the morning on a Tuesday and you'll miss Gilmore Girls and you'll never know what's going on with Rory and that Logan fellow who's so hot you don't even care if he's jailbait.

And Baby's mom is in that show so it's even better. And Gradpa was the head vamp in The Lost Boys, which you saw 17 times in the theater when Jason Patric and Kiefer Sutherland had yet to part ways because of Julia Roberts.

Gilmore Girls is so good, I don't even care I'm supposed to be identifying with the mom, not the daughter.

Why Is Tucker Up So Late? Discuss.

I think he's up trying the new flavors of Fresca.

I'm Not Always A Hater.

Things I love:

Ice cream
Mashed potatoes
My dad
My girlfriends
New outfits
Sunny fall and spring days
Drinking beer with my guy friends
Drinking wine with my girl friends
Drinking alone and talking to myself
Menthol cigarettes on a cold winter night
Snuggling
Pictures in which I look thinner than I am
Smart dogs
Soft sweaters that are slightly too big
Taking naps on the couch
Making out like it's high school
When a handsome man smiles at me at lunch
Writing nonsense on my blog
The way Corpus smells like petrochemicals and seaweed
When my Grandpa tells funny stories
When a boy takes my glasses off my face so he can kiss me
Holding hands
Dancing
Pictures of my friends' kids
When I make people laugh
When other people make me laugh
A really good turkey sandwich
A cool washcloth on my forehead when I'm sick
Tang
The way my hair smells after I wash it and it's half dry
When someone else washes my hair
Lounging
Clean sheets
Spaghetti
When the underdog wins
Wrapping presents
Unwrapping presents
Scenic overlooks
Maps
Private jokes
Strong huggers
That sound the tape measure makes when you let it retract
Remote controls
Books
Libraries
Ancient places
Old churches
Waving at traffic
Throwing it out and starting over
Going to the chiropractor
Facials
Going to the movies
U2
Green apples
Grilled cheese
Making love, not war
Pointing and laughing
Cocoa
Anything lemon-fresh
Boats
Being done forever
Calendars
Diaries
Poking things with a stick
Firecrackers
Popeye's Fried Chicken
Bear cubs
Rubbing my eyes when I'm sleepy
Goodnight kisses
Talking so long at a restaurant they have to ask you to leave
Complimentary valet parking
Vodka tonics
The secret smile
Sighing at old times
Cooking
The word "shifty"
Cool guys
Seeing through cool guys
Putting on my pajamas
Making up songs

How Bad Can It Get?

Good Lord, we all hate Sarge. He throws us under the bus every chance he gets, and it's only been about a month.

Out of five editors, four of us are looking to get out, and the only reason it's not five is because I haven't talked to him yet. How do you lose five editors in a month? You hire Sarge.

Please. Someone stab me in the eye with something sharp. We're either going to be here until midnight, or we have to come back at five. In the morning. It's so early, Starbucks isn't even open yet.

Sarge wanted one of us to come back to the office since she was already on her way home. With her baby. Seriously!

These are not the posts I planned. Mine were much more fun. I was really anticipating You Had Me At "Fuck Boysenberry."

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Blog.

Good job, Tucker. If I were Johnny, I'd invite you over to the couch.

There wasn't enough cursing, but there was a mention of drugs, which I'm so telling your kid about someday, so that counts. The suspense almost killed me, but I never looked at what you were up to. I kept writing CHARLIE DON'T SURF on a post-it pad every time I was tempted.

Not reading was hard.

I dreaded going home at night. I bugged my friends instead. I went over to Matt's uninvited. Watched Lost. I watched hockey with Stefanie and went to bed early. I bought jeans. I went to happy hour and discovered once again that yes, boys are THAT stupid. Every time I find that out again, it's like I'm fucking Columbus discovering the New World. I sat around on the couch for like an hour without the tv on and without reading and I got sleepy so I took a nap. I went over to Stefanie's. I tried to get her drunk. We went to the store next to the oyster bar where I lied to the clerk and said we were there for a friend. (Note to self: Greenville selection much better, but no punch card.) He had purple hair. I wasn't fooling him with my transparent story. Stefanie kicked me out of her house at 10 because she was tired. She watches a lot of CBS. I ate pancakes on Sunday. Joyce waits on me every time and never remembers my strawberry jam. Then I went shopping for a halloween costume. And now I don't like it but I can't take it back. Stupid seasonal holiday store. Monday I went to dinner with the girls for Stefanie's birthday, stopping off to pick up her gift. Saw bum being hassled. Possibly he was a hustler, not a bum. It was the gayborhood so who knows?

Not reading is interesting. I'm going to have to do it more often, like maybe twice a year or something. The hardest part was not surfing the Internet at work when I was bored. And I totally failed at not reading personal emails. My house is not any less dirty, but I do feel like I spent more time catching up with my friends this week. I have no idea what's happening in the news, and I don't really care. I stopped watching the news on tv a while back. But now I might have to stop reading it too.

Crap, I gotta go. Sarge.

Longhorns No. 1 in BCS

That's right, the horns are number one in the nation. Of course it will probably only last a week because these polls are crazy, but hey, number one!



Disrespecca will most likely kill me in the morning.

i unhate you, teletubbies

Once upon a time, long ago, I was adamant about not letting parenthood ruin my judgment. Clearly, parenthood had ruined the once flourishing career of Eddie Murphy. One day he was a fabulous comedian, the next, he was a hack willing to do anything that would get a laugh out of a 5 year old. And speaking of hacks, I swore on my soul that I would never foist onto my children that insult to humanity, that horrific agitator, Barney the dinosaur.

And one day (still long ago), wanting to see what all the fuss was about, I tuned in to view the Teletubbies. I was freaked out by goos and gaas of the wide eyed aliens with tv's in their bellies. Even more so by the mind bending repetitiveness, and the giggling sunshine baby. Watching that show reminded me why I don't use psychedelic drugs any more, it was like a bad trip.

And for years, the Teletubbies remained of my "dont's" list. Then one day... i had a kid.

No wait, scratch that. Let me try again. Then one day... i had a kid that wouldn't stop crying and screaming and fussing for no given reason, while i was trying to feed it or clean it or change it, and it felt like the world had closed in on me and my life would be over soon because i hadn't gotten any sleep for 30 days since that dang kid was born.

And behold, someone had tivo'd and episode of the Teletubbies. And lo, the powers it beheld, soothing the savage beast. Suddenly, I loved the Teletubbies, not for their rhythmic dances or sprightly love for one another, but for the act of mercy they performed for me, the parent. Yes, it's a little sad to be using the television as a substitute for, well for whatever they did before television. But the truth is, I always said we shouldn't blame the television, it's done nothing wrong; it's the shows on television that wreak all the havoc. And if one can find a show that gently, kindly, and considerately introduces kids to this great big world of ours, and does so without annoying other adults in the room, then I'm all for it. Plus, Po speaks chinese.

So here's to the Teletubbies, may they continue to be beacon of tranquility. Incidentally, as far as I'm concerned, Barney can still keep it where the sun don't shine; he's not coming in my house.

fashionista? or fuginator?

Ok, so I also promised Disrespecca that I would write about some of her favorite topics, like shoes, work, and things to hate. Let's start with shoes.

The wife and I have been trying to stick to a budget lately, which is hard on a girl that loves her shoppin'. So when I recently fell into to some extra cash, I decided I would buy her a pair of shoes she had been eyeballing. Technically speaking, I gave her cash, which sounds kind of rude and impersonal, but I did make my own little note with a big shoe on it that said, "Happy Shoe Day!", with the intention of giving her not only a pair of new shoes, but also the shopping experience that goes along with it.

Time to spill the beans. She wants a pair of clogs. To be more specific, she wants a pair of slightly-fuzzy, pony-print, professional Dansko clogs. These shoes are not only interesting to look at, but also very comfortable; and with autumn just around the corner, make for a very seasonal set of chaussure.

Question is: Fashionable or Fugly?

Let's hold off a second. More beans to spill. It so happens that I personally own not one, but two pairs of men's Dansko clogs; one black pair, one brown pair, oiled leather professional. I happen to love these things and I look forward to the forthcoming clog wearing season.

Fashion or Fug?

But let's also consider that the answer to this question might vary greatly with geography. Like other departments of fashion, acceptability varies greatly between Dallas and Austin. Sort of a Neiman Marcus vs Whole Earth kind of thing.

So bring on the comments and confessionals. Are clogs hot or not?

tucker taking turn

Since DisRespecca is off cleansing her frontal lobe, I have hijacked ReadBecca (with her permission, of course). If I can't be served a daily dish of RANT, perhaps i can find some sustenance in serving it. Strangely, and perhaps regrettably, she made no conditions; she only claimed no responsibility for "anything offensive, repulsive or stupid" i might say. How silly of her, she left out imbecilic, asinine, balmy, and cockeyed. Yeah... balmy.

Let's begin with a disclaimer:
I have a casual disregard four spelling.

My brain just doesn't care. I am just as likely to write, "their was a time" as "there going to the airport". And phrases like, "disregard four spelling" will never be caught by a spell checker. Which is a perfect topic for segue.

I'm really annoyed with Microsoft's spell checkers. The heuristics they designed to make suggestions are pathetic at best. For instance, if I were to misspell the word "appendicks", MS would suggest "appendix"; but if I typed "appendics" (no k) it fails to come up with the correct suggestion. Better yet, try a really common mistake, accidentally using the adjacent key. "aooendix" causes the the spell checker to offer nothing as an alternative. Google on the other hand, is much better at stuff like this. If you search for "aooendix" the first thing it replies is "Did you mean: appendix". I love you Google.

Sarge: Not So Much

Not liking Sarge. No one is. Micromanager. Assigns self-directed projects. Also known as "busy work." Doesn't like people to surf. Posting becoming difficult. Also stressing me out by talking about how to reduce stress all the time. Would reduce stress if wasn't so focused on what time I come in and what time I leave. Resent having to choose between stopping for Starbucks and being at my desk at exactly nine. Who the hell is ever in the office at nine in advertising? No one. That's who.

ReadBecca has to take a week off. I'm not allowed to read anything for a week. Google "The Artist's Way" chapter four. It's a thing. Technically, I probably should have taken a whole week off, but I didn't think it would fly with Sarge. So no Internet for a week. No magazines. No email. No books. No reading of any kind. You'll have to call me if you want to talk to me. I'm going to delete all personal emails so I can't read them and respond. God, what a week this is going to be.

See you next Wednesday.

The Weird Dreams Are Starting To Freak Me Out.

This time, my younger brother was about eight and I was how old I am now, which is old.

I know this is old because I went horseback riding for two hours on Saturday and couldn't get off the horse without a step stool (it was a big horse) and then I think I had a heat stroke in the parking lot because I couldn't see because of all the spots in my eyes and I was dizzy, which was only cured by extra-high, tundra-level AC and a cherry slushie. I told you I'm old.

Anyway, eight-year-old Brother was being abusively punished by my dad, which is totally not the case in reality. My dad's a peach. He can't even spell abuse, much less dish it out. My dad was making him sleep on a roll-away bed in the driveway of the house we grew up in on a humid, damp night. This is the pre-remodeled house. I remember the back door, which was in a totally different place after we added on.

So grown-up me went out there in the middle of the night to do something about it. Except crazy Linda was out there already with this annoying little dog, which I thought had gotten out of the backyard because the gate was open. She was consoling Brother and telling him to be brave and that he could get through the night all by himself. His head was facing down the driveway and I thought he would be safer facing the other way, so he could see the street and run if anyone came up from there.

I, of course, was pissed.

I demanded she do something. Like bring the kid inside. Or if she was afraid to do that, take him and leave. Only she wouldn't do either. She said she was still invested in her relationship with dream-bully Dad and didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it. So I gave Brother either my phone number or a key to my apartment or something and told him to come over anytime he felt unsafe. I don't know why I didn't just get him out of his pneumonia-inducing, damp, hotel-style roll-away and take him with me, but it wasn't an option in the dream.

And even though she wasn't actually smoking, I'm positive Crazy Linda was a smoker in the dream. She was also a blonde and crack-head skinny.

WTF?

I remember the driveway at night like I was there right now. Funny how the most familiar things turn sinister as soon as the sun goes down.

Longest. Day. Ever.

So. Busy. No. Time. To. Bloooooooooooaaahahahahahahhagggg...save...yourselves...it'...too...late. For. Meuhgharghauh...

Satan: No, Thank You.

People, the Devil is real. I don't have, you know, first-hand proof, but hey, I don't want any.

I had a dream that Olivia from Law & Order: SVU was possessed by the devil when Stabler left her alone in a Not Good place. She even told him she felt an evil presence, but you know Stabler. He went after the perp anyway and left Olivia with the great cheekbones all by herself. She didn't stand a chance.

So Olivia is possessed and somehow I turn into her, but I know the devil is there. But then Olivia/me is in a different body entirely. We're the devil dressed up like a priest. And for some reason we have to get in this cabinet and when we open it, we discover a tabernacle and we know there's a consecrated host in there and we're freaked out. You know, because it's the body of Jesus Himself we're dealing with now, and we know He could totally kick our ass.

And there's some sort of burning ember we have to put out so no one will know we're the devil but we can't touch it because the Body of Christ will burn us, since the ember is smoldering away on top of the host. We do it anyway and our hands get all blistered.

Then we're not in the devil priest, we're outside him and there's no "we" anymore because Olivia is off solving a crime or something and I'm on my own. And btw, the devil priest has hollow eyeballs filled with blood, so if you look into his pupils, you can see it sloshing around in there. It's super red when you do.

So what do I do? I start poking the devil priest in the forehead, who's laying on the floor for some reason – just chillin', and telling him I know he's the devil and that God loves me and will protect me from him. And I know it's pissing him off and I keep doing it.

I mean, who pokes the bloody-eyed devil in the forehead while he's trying to relax?

I woke up unnerved and repeating to myself that God will protect me. I almost got my rosary out of the box I keep by my bed to go back to sleep with it in my hands, but some rational, and very likely to get me possessed, part of my brain said No It's Just A Dream. But another part of my brain noticed that it was nearly four in the morning, which is the 3 a.m. hour, which I just learned from that Emily Rose movie is a perversion of the traditional time when Jesus died, 3 in the afternoon, so then I thought, Crap I Just Might Be Actually Getting Possessed Right Now.

This all happened in like a millisecond so I didn't have time to process much before I went back to sleep.

Scary Epilogue:

Kidd Kraddick had a devil bit this morning. And I NEVER listen to Kidd Kraddick. Tilty camera angle commences. REEK REEK REEK REEK REEK REEK!

I Talk In My Sleep.

In case there's anyone reading who hasn't slept with me, I talk in my sleep.

Often, I curse in my sleep. I wake myself up with a good SONOFABITCH and GODDAMMIT more frequently than I suspect other people do. I also wave my arms around while talking in my sleep, waking myself up when I flail into the wall. I tend to talk in complete sentences as well and I'm usually yelling at someone who's annoyed me in my dream.

GODDAMMIT, BOHNEN! I'M IN THE SHOWER! is something I yelled during a work dream. Bohnen wanted me to edit something when I was bathing. She even brought me a pen like she was being helpful. I woke up hollering, pissed and simultaneously laughing because it was so ridiculous.

My dreams are pretty obvious and easy to analyze. I used to have this recurring nightmare that the government was looking for me because I knew about a secret plot to nuke the world. I was hiding in a deserted town, only the town wasn't real. It was only facades of buildings, like on a movie studio back lot set. I could hear the helicopters and see the searchlights and some Man in Black had a bullhorn and was telling me they had my family. If I would come out, they'd let my family go. But if I didn't, the feds would kill my family. I knew I could get away. So I would have to choose between exposing the plan to kill a billion people or saving my family.

Then I'd wake up.

I never dreamed the end and never actually made the dream choice, but that's not the point. The point was the anxiety of having to make the choice, not what I decided in the end.

See? Obvious dream analysis.

I kept waking myself up all night Monday, cursing and arms banging around. I remember thinking I needed to get my digital camera and take a picture of my dream.

I would have had to get an 8x10 of that action.

I Hate You, Not Hating Anybody for Three Weeks.

I haven't hated anyone or anything enough to mention it since September 22. I feel like a hate slacker. Maybe if I list the things that mildly annoy me, I'll work myself into a frenzy of hate like a shark. Sharks are bad. I hate them. See? It's working already!

Sharks
Baby blue minivans
People who don't let you exit the elevator before they try to get on
When Starbucks doesn't have any croissants
Years in which I do not leave the confines of the United States of America
Flying coach
That my broken foot still hurts
Being cold
Being hot
Being interrupted
When none of the movies at Premier Video appeal to me
Acne
Ill-mannered dogs and children
Noisy neighbors
Birds
That the radio controls in my car are slightly too far away
Being single on Sunday morning
Pumpkin guts

Pygmalion: Probably Much Funnier On The Stage

There's a reason George Bernard Shaw was the preeminent dramatist of his time and why people still produce his work. Only I didn't see it when I read Pygmalion. It's hard to read something that was meant to be acted. People have that same problem with Shakespeare. Professor Higgins was a horrible man. As Monica says, as a person, he's Terrible F. I think I need to see the play to appreciate it better.

I am going to start calling horrible men PigMaleon however.

I Am Extremely Pleased with My Outfit Today.

Crisp white shirt under a scoop-neck forest green t-shirt, denim mini, green tights and brown herringbone round-toe flats. Capped off with a gold sequin scarf tied casually prep school-style and my chocolate brown suede coat. This outfit is the perfect fall outfit.

Only I wasted it. I keep forgetting about the whole Texas-OU thing. (Go Texas.) So when I called certain ladies this morning at around 8:30 a.m. to plan a happy hour and was turned down due to plans revolving around being an alum (Go Texas.), I was bummed. I could have saved this outfit for a happy hour day. I can wear it again, but it won't be the same. My enthusiasm will wane. I won't feel nearly as cute as I do today. I'm cute, dammit! I'm in a boy-friendly mood! Stupid football game. (Go Texas.)

Go Team.

I share an office with a Sooner. Most of my friends are Longhorns. I do not care either way. But everyone is insisting I choose a side. GO TOE U! That's a combination of GO TEXAS and GO OU. Maybe I'll go shopping anyway.

Mmmmm...Hot Chocolate.

I'm having the first hot chocolate of the season as we speak. It's a bit rainy and chilly and windy today. I however am wearing the wrong shoes for that. It's the last wearing of the black patent t-strap sandals.

I broke out the pink coat this morning. It was fun unzipping the Banana Republic bag and choosing amongst all my outerwear. Which reminds me, I need to get a New York coat for the big trip. It's going to be as cold as a witch's you know what up there in February and my Texas-appropriate coats will not do. Note to self: You do not need a purple fox fur-trimmed number, no matter how freakin' fabulous it is.

So I've got my cocoa, my favorite pink coat and my summer shoes on and all is right with the world. It's a great day, people. Appreciate it.

Love and Autumn kisses,

ReadBecca

I Forgot About You, The Indigo Girls.

Ah, jangly guitars and lesbians. So soothing.

I heard you on the radio this morning. It was one of those songs that's not Galileo. It was still good. Sorry I couldn't sit in the car and listen to the whole thing. I really needed a coffee.

It was awesome how your song was followed by Led Zeppelin. It reminded me of Fast Times at Ridgemont High when Rat was trying to seduce Stacy. "Side two, Led Zeppelin IV."

Anyway, it was nice seeing you. Keep in touch!

Cherokee People, Cherokee Tribe.

Y'all remember that tune from the 70's, right? (Oh, google it, you whippersnappers.) I also remember Cher's "Half Breed." And when those dudes decided they wanted Alcatraz back. Everybody had something to protest and the Indians didn't miss the boat.

Let's just get this out of the way. I know it's Native American, not Indian. I'm aware of the PC implications. You're lucky I don't take after Grandpa Tex. But then again, he might show some respect seeing as how it's rumored his family comes from the same line as Quanah Parker, whose mother Cynthia Parker was a famous captive. I don't know how much of all that is true. Everyone is one sixteenth Native American and has a dead Irish grandmother.

I do know that my dad's family goes way back in Texas. A lot farther than I ever thought, and killin' injuns was apparently a big tradition with them. Dig deep enough, and there's an atrocity in every family.

Any way, I finished my latest homework assignment from Tucker. (Why am I always talking about that guy? Discuss.) I read "The Education of Little Tree." It was a big tree-hugger, Native American rights, young adult reader, children's hit back in the 70's.

I didn't like it at first. It's written in dialect and I'm prejudiced against books that are written that way. I used to work at a university press and the managing editor told me that whenever she saw a manuscript and it was written in dialect, it was pretty much a given that it was going to suck. Most of the time, dialect manuscripts don't even get read. They might get thrown in the slush pile for some junior of the junior editors to read, maybe. So my expectations were in the basement.

But it grew on me. I read it in two sittings. I enjoyed it more in the second sitting. Maybe because it got pretty emotional at the end. It was honest and moving. I'm sure it was inspired by the times, but it's a gentle voice. It's not a strident protest that just makes you want to shove a home-made poster down somebody's throat. GET A HAIRCUT, HIPPIE! The book is at its best when the dialect is at the minumum.

It's logical and lets you go your own way. It doesn't fight to convert you. It tells the story simply and allows you to come to your own conclusion by directing you quietly. It's compared to Huck Finn, which makes sense. I think Huck Finn is a much better book, though. It's a good book to pack if you're going camping or if you are like me and have camped enough for a lifetime and now you just want to get a massage and a cocktail at the Four Seasons.

I like the idea of unspoiled wilderness and I think we should preserve as much as possible, but I don't ever want to live in it. Scenic overlooks are a fantastic way to experience the great outdoors and avoid chiggers. So is concrete as far as the eye can see and the Discovery Channel.

Pick up "The Education of Little Tree." ReadBecca gives it thumbs up.

Conversations with Sarge

New Boss Guy is henceforth known as Sarge. The cool kids in the creative department gave him that handle because he used to be a marine for like 20 years or something. I'm reporting this exchange verbatim.

Sarge: It's good to be hydrated.
ReadBecca: Yes, it is.

Tivo Is Tucker.

He got an unearned shout-out and I'm not nearly the princess of the blogosphere as I had hoped, attracting random readers like bees to sweet, sweet honeysuckle. But still, I have Patt and Anonymous. And WritingGal linked ReadBecca. I can't figure out how to make links work. It looks easy, but I have failed.

Everyone give Tucker a dirty look.

Also, I dreamed about cigarettes this weekend. Someone had a whole carton. I did not dream-smoke or for-real smoke, but I can't stop thinking about it. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to bum one off somebody so I can remember how gross it was. And yet there is a 7-11 just seconds away from the office and they are chock full of tobacco goodness. So close, and yet so far.

I Love You, New Boss.

I'll make this quick. New Boss Guy came in here about an hour ago and told us to go home early for the hell of it. Hence, I'm out of here on a Friday at 3 p.m. and I only worked three days this week.

Greatest. Week. Ever.

Think I'll stop by ye olde liquor shoppe on the way home. God help you people whose numbers are in my cell phone.

BYE!

I Love You, The Outfield.

I'm sorry I didn't come to your show that time you were in Corpus in 1987, or was it '88? I think it was '87. Yes, because it was the summer after sophomore year.

Anyway, I got busted for smoking in my mom's car so I was on restriction and I couldn't come to the show. I blame Holly, Jennifer and Schellei. I had all the windows down and they made me put them up except for a crack because the wind was messing up their hair. Holly said the smell would be gone by morning. They were all smoking too. Four girls smoking in the Oldsmobile Cutlass Cierra was not going to go unnoticed. Holly said a lot of things.

But that kid my mom was letting sleep on our couch busted me. He could have said it wasn't me, it was my friends, but no, that punk ratted me out. My mom was always picking up strays with alleged bad home lives, but I always knew they were trouble makers and she was an easy mark.

That one kid just wanted to sleep with me. He creeped me out. I was only nice to him once so he would go with me to a dance because Crazy Linda wouldn't let me go unless I had a date. Yeah, she's not a feminist.

He spent the whole time trying to get me out of the ballroom and into some dark, out-of-the way place. He said he wanted to go "exploring." I knew what he was up to and my friends thought he was gross. It's funny how much smarter I was about men when I was fifteen. But I didn't know how to score beer yet, so that might have something to do with it.

It's weird, but I remember being busted for smoking IN the car, but not for actually SMOKING, which I continued to do up until I was about 26.

I miss you, Marlboro Menthol Light 100's in a box. Although with a softpack, there's always one cigarette left. You just have to un-crush the pack and look for it.

JOSIE'S ON VACATION FAR AWAY. COME AROUND AND TALK IT OVER!
SO MANY THINGS THAT I WANT TO SAY. YOU KNOW I LIKE MY GIRLS A LITTLE BIT OLDER.
I JUST WANT TO USE YOUR LOVE TONIGHT.
I DON'T WANT TO LOSE YOUR LOVE TONIGHT.

God, I need a smoke.

You Know What Turns Me On?

Total strangers leaving comments on ReadBecca. Patt, Tivo and Anonymous, I love you, man! I have no idea who you are or how you got here, but I'm so glad you did. Maybe we'll all be in People Magazine someday.

Of course, this doesn't mean I don't love the people I do know who leave comments. You kids are my bread and butter. Just don't tell anyone in my family, you know I'm talking about Crazy Linda, because that would make the holidays a real bitch.

Wait, I forgot you dudes know my favorite way to spend Christmas is watching Steve McQueen movies and waiting for people to call me, or for Thea to ambush me and bring me a plate of goodies from her mom. That cake was really good, btw. Crazy Linda's contribution to my holiday cheer is to yell at me for not coming "home," which is a place I've never even seen. You know, because I don't like to visit the asylum and I hate her husband. That loser.

Obviously, it's almost October. I can tell because I'm already dreading the whole what-are-you-doing-for-Christmas conversation that comes every year, like the first snowfall, and ends in someone hanging up on someone else.

Hey! This year the Steve McQueen marathon will be on DVD! God bless us, every one!

Flux Capacitor... Fluxing.

There are so many black wires behind my TV, it looks like that gross squid-ink spaghetti. They're all tangled and there's no way to hide them. Why aren't these things wireless?

I have yet to do yoga, naked or otherwise, but I did watch the DVD. They go way too fast for beginners, even though it's supposed to be for beginners. Maybe they meant the poses aren't hard. They aren't, but they talk so fast, I'll probably have to skip a couple to keep up.

You know what really chaps my ass? Yoga blocks don't come in pairs, but you need two for things like modified upward-facing dog. I can't do that thing where you go from cobra to a push up to downward-facing dog.

Also, I was distracted by Rodney Yee's package. He wears these tiny black man-panties and you can see EVERYTHING. He's lying on the beach and he looks like a freakin' sundial. And what's-her-name from the P.M. session wears a white unitard. Similarly disturbing.

I get it. Man. Black. Woman. White. Yin. Yang. Inner peace through yoga. But still. Tiny black man-panties and weird white unitards freak me out. I don't know how I'm going to meditate knowing that's on my TV screen if I open my eyes.

I Gave In.

Yesterday, I bought a DVD player. I had to. Most newly released movies aren't coming out on VHS anymore. Also, I found a DVD with morning/evening 20-minute yoga lessons and it didn't come in VHS, so I had to go DVD.

Only I haven't quite yet. I tried to hook it up, but I need a flux capacitor. See, apparently, new-fangled TVs have some sort of yellow receptacle thingie that matches the yellow receptacle thingie on DVD players. Only my TV is old-fangled. Hence, no yellow receptacle thingie to plug the tri-colored cord into.

Jesus, what happened to co-ax? That's what I used last time I had to hook up any TV-related objects. Anyway, I have to go into the GFZ (Geek-Friendly Zone) to acquire said flux capacitor so I can do yoga naked in the privacy of my own home. Man, getting all zen takes a lot more equipment than I expected. Think the geeks will be nicer to me if I tell them I need this gizmo so I can do naked yoga?

P.S. My new yoga mat is a soothing grass-green.
P.P.S. I'm not really going to be naked. I will do yoga in pajamas. Most of the time.

You Know What's Fun?

Throwing away old socks that basically have nothing wrong with them except you've changed sock styles. I used to wear those white socks that came halfway up the calf and then I'd push them down, 1987-style. Bunched up socks and ratty Keds were my uniform. It took me 20 minutes to get my socks properly bunched and evenly spaced between bunches. I got less obsessed with the perfection of my bunching, but I still tended to buy the same kind of socks, even though I hardly ever wear shoes that require them.

I bought some suede athletic-style shoes that aren't meant to work out in to wear in Paris and I didn't want uncool socks fucking up my look, so I had to switch styles. Then the guy at Run-On! told me my socks sucked when I went to buy new walking shoes that are actually meant to work out in. So I bought some socks with CoolMax technology, which is weird because socks don't really require much technology. Then I started buying socks that were low or not meant to show at all. Which leads to a giant pile of clean, hardly worn, bunchable socks staring at me every time I open the closet.

Yesterday, I pitched them all in a garbage bag along with some of my least favorite underwear styles. I can't get into that shade of purple.

Ah, Mental Health.

Hey, kids. Took a couple days off work to get my head checked, as the youngsters say. I feel better. There won't be a repeat of the mouthy email that got me busted on Friday. Oops. Got cocky and thought I could get away with it. Very ill-advised move. Let's not repeat it.

Anyway, to get out of the funk I'm in, I went to the ole standby. Books. I bought three of them I'm finding pretty dang useful. One is called "I Don't Know What I Want, But I Know It's Not This." I had to check the inside to make sure it wasn't dedicated to me. Of the six categories of needing a career change, I have three. I go balls out on everything.

Then there's "The Artist's Way" which is the book the class I wanted to take at SMU is based on, only they canceled the class for lack of interest. I've committed myself to twelve weeks of creative liberation. Today was day one. I'm sleepy.

And then, here's the shocker, I bought a book about the top 100 jobs in health care. I think I'm going to nursing school. NO ONE PANIC.

I think I want to be a labor and delivery nurse. Here's my reasons:

I need a job that is important and contributes to the good of the world. That is not advertising.

I need a job that will also allow me time to follow my millions of other interests, no matter how temporary they are. For instance: Six weeks of throwing pots and then getting my pilot's license. Nursing is considered full time when you work four days a week.

Labor and delivery to me isn't all about the baby. It's about getting the woman through an awesome experience so she doesn't look back and think of it as the worst thing that ever happened to her. You guys know I'm a feminist, right? Ok, just making that clear. I've been fascinated by pregnancy and all the jazz that goes with it ever since I had to read "Our Bodies, Ourselves" for a class in college. I want to get pregnant someday, but somebody else is going to have to take the kid. I've told all my girlfriends I'd surrogate for them if they ever need it.

Also, for the most part, labor and delivery nurses deal with healthy people. Once the baby is delivered and the mom has a couple days to recover, they're back at home. I like the idea of it being over. I don't want to have long, painful declines. Like in a nursing home. That would be too hard emotionally. I'm not looking to get too involved. Of course, I know that it will sometimes happen in special cases, but I like the idea of saying "Here's your kid. Congratulations! I'm so happy for you! Next!"

I'm not cut out for corporate life. I don't fit the culture and I'm tired of being frustrated all the time that things aren't the way I think they should be. It's making me miserable and affecting my whole life. I need to set some boundaries. You! This is my dance space! That's your dance space! I don't go into yours; you don't go into mine.

So, nursing school. I think.

I Love You, Marie Claire Magazine.

I quit reading Cosmo years ago because it got too slutty after Helen Gurley Brown left. Marie Claire is now tops. I also enjoy Lucky and the occasional Vogue. The cream of the crop is Vanity Fair. I devour it. Dominick Dunne can sit next to me any time he wants. I fully expect to meet him for soup in February when I'm in New York. Kiss kiss, darling Mr. Dunne! Mwah!

I Hate You, Fleetwood Mac.

I shouldn't have to explain. You guys know the drill.

Crazy Linda Calms Down. Slightly.

I talked to CL on the way to work this morning. She was up all night worrying. She has to spend the night at the hospital she works at tonight. She told me the hospital gets "special reports" about what to expect injury-wise. I had to explain to her that it was a worst-case scenario that hospitals prepare for, and that the winds she's so scared of won't be that strong by the time they reach her, an hour inland from Galveston. This is one world-class mountain-out-of-a-molehill-making woman. I had to get her focused and saying out loud what was actually happening, rather than what she's imagining will happen, which gets worse and worse the more she thinks about it. I tried to break her out of her loop and I think I did, at least for the time I had her on the phone. I'm so learning stuff from the head-shrinker!

Crazy Linda Thinks She's Going to Die in the Hurricane.

I got this crazy, panicky email full of doom a little while ago. You know how you can flag an email to a colleague in Outlook to show it's important? My mom sent me a flagged email. Also, every email she ever sends me has the same subject: Houston. Is she reminding me where she lives?

Hurricane Rita is expected to hit somewhere in Texas, anywhere from Corpus all the way to the tip of Louisiana. That is one huge non-specific target. So while my mom is freaking out because she's sure it's going to hit Houston, she's also freaking out because she thinks it's going to hit Corpus, where my 96-year-old grandpa Tex lives by himself. Houston and Corpus are 207 miles apart. I don't think I need to say it, but I will. It is impossible for Rita to hit both places.

Here's an example of self-created drama: She's been calling my aunt down in Corpus repeatedly, and my aunt won't call her back, so she is getting more and more worked up about not knowing what's going on with Tex and if he's safe so she sends me an email and I can tell she's on the verge of being hysterical and she's not thinking logically.

So I called Grandpa Tex and asked him what he was doing. He's fine.

His housekeeper packed a bag for him and his medicine is all in order and he's going to my aunt and uncle's very nice ranch where he'll be safe and sound. See how that works? I wanted to know what Grandpa Tex was doing for the hurricane so I called him up in Corpus and asked him. I did not call my brother in Colorado every five minutes to get an update. Like my aunt isn't busy enough trying to leave town to answer 50 relatives calling to find out what's going on. Tex loves it when people call. Call Tex!

You know in the movies when the one girl won't stop screaming and someone slaps her? I know exactly how they feel.

Crab-holding-up Putz.

I forgot to mention Mr. Pinhead McNo-Answer was English.

I know. Date an American, ReadBecca. Date an American.

But foreigners are just so... foreign. You know how couples who've been together for a while are supposed to try and spice things up by trying something Different? That's the thing with foreigners. They're different FROM THE BEGINNING.

They wear black socks and weird shoes and say strange things and don't care if I drink and they can never tell when I'm joking and they talk more and don't watch so much TV and are afraid of guns and can't drive worth shit and are just so dreamy I want to put them in my pocket and carry them around with me. I love them. Except for the ones I don't love. We've covered them.

Oh God. I bet I marry a guy from Mesquite named Skeeter who wears denim shirts with the sleeves ripped off.

My Job.

I know I keep saying I need a new job, but I'm wavering again. Where else will I be able to take naps on a nice leather couch during lunch? That's a pretty big perk.

I'm getting a new boss on Monday. I've been assigned to be his "buddy." Yes, we have an official buddy program, except it's supposed to be a peer-based thing. I think it's supremely weird that I'm expected to take my new boss out to lunch on his first day and pay for it, then expense it. Yeah. I told you it was weird. They couldn't think of anyone in a non-subordinate role? I had to buddy the last new guy and he told our current boss I was short with him and got annoyed when he asked questions. You would think they would be a sign of my unsuitability for the buddy program in general, but no. I have to buddy my freakin' boss.

I'm so not doing it. Either the whole team goes or this Ken character can eat a sandwich at his desk.

I Love You, Cheese.

Self-explanatory.

Punctuation is funny. For example: I love you! Cheese!

That's funny, but I don't know why.

I Am Not A Pisces.

I don't know what the deal is with my Blogger profile, but I am clearly NOT a Pisces. Yes, I was born on the cusp and that could mean I share traits of both signs, but I do NOT. I am SO an Aquarius. That profile is totally bogus. Except it's all true. Just not the Pisces part.

I'm supposed to match well with Geminis. Which is true because I tend to go for two-faced, lying men. Come on, you saw that coming! I predict you're laughing.

I Hate You, James Taylor.

See: I Hate You, Steely Dan. I Hate You, The Eagles.

Good Weekend.

After having a Fat Friday due to my future husband's decision to never email me again once he saw what I look like, things picked up. I went to the movies instead of happy hour because of my bad mood and saw "The Exorcism of Emily Rose" which reminded me that yes, I am scared of the Devil. My rosary is beside my bed. I bought it at Notre Dame. The one in Paris, not the one with football.

Then when I was talking to my dad and my step-mom on the phone outside Borders, I said I was standing outside the door like some kind of freak instead of going in and some dude said, "You're alright." So my non-freak status was validated by a guy who buys books on Friday nights. And I think one of the Borders dudes was hitting on me while trying to help me find a scary book. He said he'd think about it and have a list ready when I came in next. I ended up buying my next Tucker homework book and a bargain Stephen King collection of short stories, which so far aren't that scary. I think ol' Stephen is done.

I got a brilliant idea for Halloween decorations while I was at World Market on Saturday, so I guess I'm having a Halloween party. That'll make up for having to cancel the pool party because of the broken foot. Yay! I love parties! And I just thought of a FABULOUS party favor as well. I really should plan more events. Except for the 100-degree heat outside, I'm in total fall mode. Maybe I'll cook Thanksgiving dinner again this year.

On Sunday, a decent-looking guy who needed a shave told me I had a nice smile when I was eating pancakes. I wasn't even wearing make up. My hair did look fabulous however. So screw the non-responding rat bastard who didn't like the look of me in photos. He wasn't that great himself so who is he to judge? Fucking crab-holding-up putz. Plus, after the Saga of Evil Edward, non-responsive dicks like him are lucky I don't go apeshit on their asses. That's the one sure-fired way to make me criminally insane. I can't be responsible for my actions after that. No court would convict me. Seriously, how hard is it to be a decent human being? Jerk.

I'm alright with a nice smile and a very beautiful rosary to ward off the Devil, who may come disguised as people who just disappear without a word. Whatever. My Halloween party will rock the Kasbah.

The People Have Spoken. All Two of Them.

ReadBecca.com is not kaput. Yet.

But you've been warned about the possible suckage, so don't come crying to the comments section when it happens.

Have you ever met anyone that actually acted on something they dreamed? Sometimes I really question my own judgment. Thank God I'm only making decisions about blogging based on my dreams. What if I were the president? What if I bombed Cuba because of a dream I had about Ricky Ricardo? (I haven't had a dream about Ricky Ricardo, btw.)

I know for sure I was talking in my sleep last night because I woke myself up. For some reason, I think I said "Goddammit!" But I may have dreamed that too.

I'm even angry in my DREAMS. Dude, you KNOW I have issues. Why can't I have a nice sex dream? Women do experience the Big O in their sleep. Let's have some more of that action, chief.

This Blog Sucks.

I think I was dreaming maybe but in any case, I had an epiphany last night: ReadBecca.com blows. I'm not going to do it anymore. Thea rocks for commenting consistently. I'll buy you a beer tonight at Arriba. Unless there's a grassroots campaign to keep it around, my days as a Blogger are over.

Don't cry for me, Argentina. I'll find some other hobby that I'll quit after a month.

Why Do I Not Have Servants?

These are the servants I'd like to have:

Butler, for doing manly chores like polishing my shoes, stuff with the car and announcing visitors; sets a high tone
Lady's Maid, for taking care of my clothes and hair; trusted with all my secrets
Chamber Maid, for keeping my bedroom in order in case I ever want to entertain anyone there
Cook, for cooking, mostly breakfast so I don't have to get up early or eat cereal bars
Scullery Maid, for cleaning and scrubbing stuff you scrub
Grounds Keeper, because I kill plants
Goatherd, in case I get a dog
Housekeeper, for keeping all the other servants in line; organizing the lot so it all runs like clockwork so I don't have to think
Stable Boy, for when I feel like slumming or need a patsy
Sherpa, to hold my purse

I've seen it on PBS. People had servants. It was a big deal. I say we bring them back. Huzzah for servants!

Book Club of Two

So Tucker's still around and we're trading books.

He mailed me the CD's from the Breedlove ReUnify gigs (I said "gigs.") with the first book in the Master and Commander series, which I brilliantly reviewed as "Fat man in a little boat" and "Harlequin romance novels for men." I'm still proud of that little witticism. I even got name-checked on his wife's blog for it.

I assigned him "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime" from Tuesdays With Vino because we all loved it and I'm glad to report Tucker did too.

My next Tucker homework assignment is something called "The Education of Little Tree" which I know nothing about. But remember Tucker is the guy who told me to read "A Prayer for Owen Meany" and that was dynamite between covers. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt.

And now I giggle. I assigned science fiction-lovin', football season-obsessing Tucker –- wait for it -– SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. I'll give him extra credit if he watches the Emma Thompson movie adaptation too.

I can't wait for when he's ready for the next one. I've got an idea.

Who's Next?: Part Deux

If my job should turn out to be The Russian and take me to Paris, I would go and not break up with it, even if it did accidentally slap me during an argument.

Jamie. Colin. Who's Next?

That would be my job. I need to break up with it. Except I'm going to have to do it the dirty way. I'm going to have to cheat on it first by finding a new one before I leave the old one. I'd like to do it right and be alone for a while before I jump into a new relationship. But I'm going to be a gold digger and just leave the one I have for one with more money and a flashier car. Don't judge. All relationships are different.

Send job leads to ReadBecca.com. English degree and seven years of editing experience. The camera loves me. Ideal positions: talk show host; Bond Girl; quirky neighbor with excellent sex life.

I Broke Up with Jamie Oliver Last Night

Y'all know how much I love hot chefs, right? And remember how obsessed with Jamie Oliver I was? I had to break up with him.

I saw him on Letterman last night. I stayed up late just to see him. To my surprise, I was all "feh" when he came out. He's looking a little puffy and he's letting his hair get too long. And I think his wife is knocked up again. You just know they're going to come up with another wacky name for this one. Welcome to the world, Thor Carburetor!

So we're through.

Don't think I've gone nuts and thrown out my autographed copy of Happy Days. It's not like we're not still friends. I'll probably be godmother to his next restaurant. MMMM...cheese sticks.

PS. I broke up with Colin Farrell a while back. I'm sure you know how much I loved him in spite of his recreational heroin use and penchant for hookers. I just couldn't be a doormat forever and raise his child by another woman. I had to change my number so he'd stop calling me late at night. It was sad, painful and I can't talk about it anymore.

I Hate You, Steely Dan. I Hate You, The Eagles.

I don't know what's happened to me in the last few months that makes me want to bludgeon someone every time I hear Steely Dan or The Eagles. They both used to be favorites of mine, in that "greatest hits of" kind of way. But now I can't bear them.

Steely Dan makes me think of sexual harassment. Some sleazy, skinny, mustachioed, tinted-lensed creep in too-tight stone-washed denim saying dirty-in-a-bad-way things. The kind of guy who thinks the height of romance is getting high and watching porn. The kind of guy who preys on teen-age girls from broken homes. Gross. It makes my skin crawl. And I don't know why Steely Dan is now associated with this icky scenario in my head. It smells like patchouli.

And The Eagles. I. Just. Hate. Them. For. No. Reason. I can't even stand Sad Cafe anymore. Which was a Sunday morning staple, like One Love. (Bob Marley is still the bee's knees.)

I can't even talk about them anymore, they are so gross. I'm sitting here making an eewww face and shuddering at the thought of it.

I have to go take a Silkwood shower now.

Matt Matt the Miller Man

I just had a surprise lunch with one of my oldest and dearest friends, known far and wide as Matt Matt the Miller Man. We've known each other since seventh grade. I went to his Bar Mitzvah and he went to my college graduation.

He knows how I take my coffee. He opens the car door for me. He gave me a key to his place. He buys me beers and tuaca shots. When I say I won't drink any more tuaca shots, he makes fun of me until I do. He asked me my opinion about the new tile he's putting in his house. He kisses me hello when he sees me. His parents like me.

But I don't want to sleep with him. All these years, and not once have I ever thought about dating him. But I love him all the same. I want him to be my man of honor if I ever get married. And if I get left at the alter, I'm so taking him with me on what was supposed to be the honeymoon. I'm sure he'll look fab in a taffeta hoop skirt.

I love you to bits, Matthew Nance Adler! Can I come over and do laundry on Friday?

If Lovin' Them Is Wrong, I Don't Want To Be Right

I think my love of pancakes might be maybe more than the law allows.

I seriously love me some freakin' pancakes. I love them so much, I even eat the center part, where they put the melon-baller scoop of butter, that tends to get soggy.

I make pancakes at home from scratch. I don't even use Bisquick.

I eat pancakes for dinner. I ate them the day I moved to Lakewood in March at 5 pm with all the early birders. (I ate Luby's the next day. It was an early-bird theme that week.) I've even found a parking space in the shade for the next time I eat pancakes.

I want people to come over on the weekends so I have to get out of bed early and make even more pancakes.

I like them silver dollar-sized and the short stack. I like blueberry pancakes, but the blueberries have to be cooked in the batter, not poured over the top in that sticky compote concoction. I like potato pancakes, thanks to Hanukkah at Matt's house. Hold the sour cream.

I like them with strawberry jam smeared between the layers. I'll even go crazy sometimes and put grape jelly on one layer. I like waffles too, but I eat them with peanut butter and honey. I don't make them at home because I don't have a waffle iron. I just Leggo with the Eggos to my everlasting culinary shame.

I do not like syrup. No maple-smelling sludge on my beloved pancakes. The thought makes me want to purge. It's tree blood. I can't eat that shit.

Hola = Delicious

Dinner at Hola last night was fab, as usual. MMMMM...sangria. And this is what we ordered: calamari, asparagus, portobello mushrooms, fruit & cheese, salad, patatas bravas, patatas omelet, shrimp in garlic sauce, saffron chicken, cod croquettes, olives, roasted red peppers, steak in brandy peppercorn sauce and did I mention the sangria? I think we had five pitchers.

There were 9 of us and it only cost $27 each - tax, title and license.

Hola at the corner of McKinney and Monticello. Go.

Hola Tapas Bar
(214) 522-0505
4831 McKinney Ave
Dallas, TX 75205

I Hate You, Aunt Flo

I don't have an Aunt Flo. I have my period.

My head aches, my boobs are sore, my tummy is upset, I'm swollen all over and you people are irritating me.

As soon as I approve Matt the Miller Man's tile choice tonight, I'm going home to bed at 8:30 like it's second grade. God, what I wouldn't give for a jacuzzi bath tub and a box of wine.

Shocking New Development

I got my results back today from the Jackson Vocational Interest Survey Dr. Hampton gave me. (I promise I won't be that girl who talks all the time about what her shrink said.)

I majored in the completely wrong subject. I'm so glad to know finally that I wouldn't have been happier going to UT rather than A&M because I rated highest for Environmental Resource Management, which is really a big deal with Aggies. And which is totally weird because just the other day my dad was joking about me being a game warden and I thought it was ridiculous. Dads are smart.

I thought I wasted the '90's on drinking Lone Star Light because it was always on sale at Apple Tree, that one summer I smoked dope every day and my little brother used to pinch my bag and he thought I wouldn't notice, and sleeping with moronic guys in the Corps. Turns out the real problem was I wasn't supposed to be an English major. No wonder it took me nine years to graduate.

Also surprising is that I have a strong general interest in Engineering. WTF? Maybe that's why I don't need the instructions when I buy something that has to be assembled.

I ranked even higher in my interest in Medicine. It's #4 on my occupations list. Who the hell am I? Was I supposed to go to med school? Get me an application. STAT!

My interest in writing was shockingly low. It's only #11 on the list. Sport and Recreation ranked higher. I'M A FUCKING COACH! I never played a team sport in my life. Day is night! Up is down! I no longer feel guilty about not having a half-written novel under my bed. Explains why I don't post every day, too.

The top three job groups for me were Fine Art (Charlotte York), Entertainment (rock star), and Commercial Art (all the Art Directors I've been berating for the last six years for not knowing how to spell).

Who would have ever guessed I'd be a jock game warden with a merit badge in first aid and a nice collection of Picasso sketches who plays in a band on the side and freelances for Goodby in my spare time? You just can't make this shit up.

St. Patrick's Day, 2002

I haven't had sex since St. Patrick's Day, 2002. Yes, I realize it's been almost four years. Shut up.

This is the longest I've ever been deprived since I first Did It. (August 12, 1989. During the annual meteor shower. Hi Bennett!) The previous record was eight months. (In Ireland. Hi Mark!)

The Streak began because of Evil Edward. Meeting him was like buying a broken heart from an infomercial. It took six to eight weeks to arrive.

When he literally deserted me, it was one of the top five worst things that have ever happened to me. I was absolutely devastated. Nuclear winter devastated. Me and my devastation moved to a fallout shelter and we kept each other company. We didn't even want to have repopulate-the-species sex.

But revenge sex, that was ok.

So I picked up some English guy during the 2002 Greenville St. Patrick's Day party, which was the one-year anniversary of the day I met Evil Edward, also at the Greenville St. Patty's bachanalia. You know, because Evil Edward was English and it was our anniversary even though I hadn't seen him since the previous June. And I'd already made out with a French guy right before Thanksgiving. You know, because the English hate the French.

I told the English guy that I didn't want to trade email addresses or anything like that. (Hi Christoper. Still don't email me.) I just wanted to do it and not talk.

HA! I'll have sex with some dude I don't know and then just forget him. Take that, Evil Edward! Even though you'll never know about it and you wouldn't care even if you did! And it'll just make me feel gross and I won't enjoy it at all and the whole time I'll be thinking, "This was a mistake. Just get off me and get the hell out of my apartment which I haven't cleaned in six months because I've been busy crying." And won't my triumph over Evil Edward be complete when Substitute Edward falls asleep and stays the night and I have to drive him to his hotel the next morning and I have to live with the knowledge that he told his friends disgusting things about me! YAY! I TOTALLY WIN!

So The Streak is making a lot more sense, no?

I did try to break The Streak once. (Hi Tucker! Hi Mrs. Tucker!) And then we went to Medici for Jacquie's birthday. You all remember Clayton, right? (HELLOOOOOO CLAYTON, YOU HOTLANTA HOTTIE!) Man, I should have made out with that kid.

So I still got it. I just don't have anywhere to put it right now. The Streak may have been caused by trauma, but it lives on because my focus has changed. When I'm out with the girls, I'm having a good time with them, not looking for a hook-up. It doesn't even occur to me to try, and no one approaches me.

I suspect I'm putting out (pun intended) a Not Interested vibe. How did that happen, exactly? I've been described as "a sparkly sex angel" and my skills as "majestic" and now there's no men in sight, anywhere. It used to be so easy and natural. I used to feel like the sexiest girl in the room, whatever room I was in. I had confidence and a smoldering gaze. I used to slowly take off my glasses and toss my hair around, and I wasn't kidding. I used to stare at guys and will them to come talk to me. And they would!

I miss that girl. I want her back.

Anybody seen my sex life? I left it around here somewhere...

Coming Attractions!

Did Carrie Bradshaw Have a Grandpa?
St. Patrick's Day, 2002
Him

I Hate You, Elsa's Blog

www.writinggal.blogspot.com

It has structure. It has facts. It has a plot. It has posts before 7 am. WTF?

ReadBecca has profanity, sex, depression and no guarantees I'll ever post again.

And yet they coexist. Cue "What a Wonderful World."

Note: Elsa the person is delightful. It's only her blog that makes me want to kill myself.
Note: In case you happen to read this, I don't really want to kill myself, Dr. Hampton. And Dr. Schaeffer. See you Monday!

Not So Much a "Bridesmaid" as a "Wedding Guest"

Oops, big miscommunication on the Kimbo wedding front. It's ok though, because now I can wear pink and Kim can't stop me. It's good to know people are reading ReadBecca. It's all good, Kimbo!

You know, I think it would be fun to be a wedding planner. Maybe I should look into that. I could specialize in informal weddings since a lot of people are doing that these days. Hmmm. Who do I know that knows somebody in the business? I have vacation time I could use to intern with a successful planner. I'll know I've made it when a celebrity sells the photos of the wedding I planned to Hello! Magazine.

I could get on the Today show! OOOH! Oprah!

A world without tacos would be a sad place indeed.

The thing is, I don't really want a job.

I don't want to be lazy either. I just don't want to work. I want to have more money than God so I can go to Paris and learn French and study art. I also want to learn about sculpture in Italy. I want to take yoga and fencing. I want to learn Russian history and Argentinian tango. I want to volunteer in Darfur. I want to become a labor and delivery nurse. I want to write for a couple hours in the morning and then have lunch somewhere. I want to design my own evening gowns. I want to go to chef school, but I don't want to work in a restaurant. I just want to cook for my friends. I want to drive across the Outback on my own. I want to build houses for the homeless. I want to be on the International Best Dressed list. I want to cure cancer. I want a pony.

The Death of Innocence

Last week I saw the Wiener Mobile on 635. I realized it's a giant wiener with only half a bun. I feel like I just found out Santa isn't real. (Auntie Becca is just making a point, children. Santa IS SO real.)

It's not like a PB&J you can just fold over if you only have one piece of bread. You can't fold a wienie! I've tried! Seriously, half a bun just doesn't work. You might as well have no bun. And without a bun, who wants a wienie? You'd be better off with a bunless burger and calling it chopped steak.

What's next? Am I going to suddenly discover that the Slip N' Slide is not a fun summer splash, but actually a great way to kill your grass while slicing your arm open on a hidden tree root?

Rosebud!

Mary Kay Snipers, Go Away

On my lunch hour, I like to browse. I don't even care much what I browse. I've browsed tires.

But my browsing is being disrupted by those damn Mary Kay ladies who attack you with a compliment before you have a chance to stop, drop and roll. I want the Pinkie who came up with this world-wide, flirty-fishing recruitment scheme strung up by her suburban thumbs.

I am not all that impressed with MK products, except the clear lipgloss. I love that stuff. But I won't buy it because I don't like those pushy women and their sneaky sales tactics. Like inviting you to a "party" and finding out it's a "regional sales meeting." It's a pyramid scheme, man. And I ain't no Egyptian working for no Pharoah.

Next time one of the Snipers tells me I've got great skin, I'm going to sell her a time-share.

His name is Robert Paulson!

Oh yeah, you want to high-five me right now. I don't owe Discover Card a damn dime as of yesterday, and I didn't even have to go all Fight Club on the credit reporting bureaus to do it. I am two-fifths of the way to the Shangri La of no credit card debt, where no one gets hassled by The Man. Yeah, I know I did this to myself, but screw The Man anyway. Fuck you Amex Travel and Leisure and your little dog Discover too! And as for you, MBNA, Chase and Providian, you're all gonna be my bitches soon. I'm not waiting for death to give me a name, you dirty whores. And you can take that to the bank.

I Have a Girl Crush on the NY Times!

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/11/fashion/thursdaystyles/11CRUSH.html?incamp=article_popular

I have girl crushes on everyone in my book club. Also on Angelina Jolie AND Jennifer Anniston, which could be awkward if we're ever all in the same room. I still have a girl crush on Virginie from Paris. And on Gwen Stefani. I have a girl crush on any girl with narrow hips and a small bosom. I could go all anorexic and I'd still have child-bearing hips and have to wear a bra.

Do you have a girl crush? Are you man enough to admit your man crush? Comment away, people!

Fall Fashion Preview

I've been looking at the new fall lines for a month already. I'm obsessed. I'm even considering getting some high-heeled shearling clogs. Shearling clogs! I'll be the most fashionable sherpa in Dallas.

My college roomie Kimbo is engaged. I'm a bridesmaid. Boy howdy, I can't wait to tell the story about the time we were drinking at home and decided we both needed a man and went to The Tap to find some. The Tap had a square bar. We walked in, Kim went one way around the bar, I went the other and we met back at the front door 20 minutes later, each with a man in tow. Man, we were brazen hussies. I wouldn't even dream of pulling such a stunt now.

Anyway, I've been looking at wedding dresses for Kim on the Internet the last two days. In white, of course. Remember what Annie told Millie, "Honey, we all deserve to wear white."

I've also been looking at bridesmaid dresses, 'cause I get to be one. We are so going to drink too much at the shower. I can't wait for the shot-glass wedding favors. Woo!

And I've been hunting for a formal dress that will travel well to New York in February for Lindsay and Chuck's big day. Let me tell you, there are some seriously tacky things masquerading as fashion in this world. I saw a baby blue poofy quinceneara dress in the window of a bridal shop down the street from the bar where the only-gay-in-the-States recent immigrants hang out. I might get it and wear it ironically to show the New Yorkers them Texans is funny.

It's none of your business why I know that bar and its clientele. Didn't I just say I was a brazen hussy?