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