There Was No There, There.

Alternate title: Nature? No, Thank You.

I have been to the mountain top, and I don't care to go back. Ever. There were trees and snow. I saw them out the window. I saw them for three days.

I was told the Thanksgiving trip would be to a "ski resort." There was some "ski" but not a lick of "resort." The best way to explain it is that I was able to phonecam the entire town in two pictures. They had a Starbucks, but it hadn't opened for the season yet. They have over 300 nights a year below freezing. It was cold and I couldn't breathe due to the dry, oxygen-impaired air. I'm surprised my asthma didn't act up. I also had to sleep on a sofa bed. And I had no cell reception at 10,420 feet. I couldn't even send funny texts about my misery.

After coming down off the mountain, I got cell reception and a beer. It was warmer and there was something to do. I saw some red rocks in a canyon. I saw them out the window too. I saw a book store, but it was going out of business. People who hike don't read I guess. If we had spent three days in the canyon instead of just the one, I'm sure I would have had to hike, which would have been ok.

ReadBecca prefers hiking to being trapped in the tundra of a two-building town. It's my own personal version of "Would You Rather?" I would pay good money to keep the beauty of the outdoors unspoiled, as long as I didn't have to experience any of it.

Level of Irritation Over The Holiday: Chernobyl
Feeling at Inability to Hide Said Level of Irritation: Guilty

I Made It To Vegas Alive.

But I had the Shatner Seat on the plane. You do remember Twilight Zone: The Movie, don't you? ReadBecca thought of nothing else for three hours last night. That and the guy next to her was a leg fidgeter. Coach sucks.

We'll be on our way soon to the frozen tundra where I will apparently be doing some hiking. I haven't even had coffee, and I have to think about hiking. Yeesh.

It Turns Out I Actually Know The Jag-Off Who Ruined Things For Everyone.

I ran into a former colleague from the joint that laid me off and it turns out he wasn't defaming my virtue, he just has an unhealthy obsession with Will Farrell. So imagine if the students in Tiananmen Square hadn't been brutally repressed. Freedom of expression for all! Commence commenting at will.

Also, said former colleague wouldn't say how he obtained the information that ReadBecca exists. I imagine I told someone from the old joint who told him, but for the life of me, I don't remember who. In any case, secret identity exposed.

ReadBecca has been checking things out on The Weather Channel and she will be freezing over Thanksgiving. The lows are in the teens in Utah. God help me. The only thing I hate worse than being too hot is being too cold.

It also took me half an hour to make all my travel-sized liquids and gels fit into a Ziploc bag. It looks like Tetris.

And I didn't even bring my nighttime makeup. Just the boring brown daytime stuff. Also no eyelash curler. And no eyeliner sharpener. And no razor. Or hairspray. Or mousse. Or styling creme. Or detailing wax. I only packed three scarves and no pashminas. It's like I'm on Survivor.

I hope I don't meet Daniel Craig on the plane.

Sweet Mother Of All That Is Holy, Daniel Craig Is The Sexiest Man Alive, I Don’t Care What People Magazine Says About Clooney.

Matt the Miller Man hooked us up with some sneak preview tickets to see “Casino Royale” last night, and let me tell you, it was worth every sweet penny I didn’t spend to see it.

Daniel. Craig. So. Effing. Hot. I couldn’t talk when he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Literally. Me. Not talking. There were no words. I am officially over Collin Farrell.

Daniel Craig polishes his shoes with the likes of Collin Farrell. I couldn’t sleep last night for the visions of Daniel Craig I couldn’t get out of my head. Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. I now love the letter D more than any other letter, even R.

I’ve seen my share of naked foreigners, and Daniel Craig is by far the nakedest foreigner ever. The only thing we didn’t see was the goods. I’m convinced anyway. Goods or no goods, Daniel Craig is It. I hope he Googles himself and reads this and leaves comments. I don’t even care that he’s blond.

I liked the movie too.

There's Always One Jag-Off Who Ruins It For Everybody.

Comments are now being moderated. I told you people ReadBecca wasn't a democracy a long time ago. If you insist on standing in front of the tank, remember you're in Red China and no one will ever know your name.

Who Closes At 4 PM On A Saturday?

ReadBecca's dry cleaner, that's who.

This is the belated Margarita Ball recap.

ReadBecca cajoled her tailor into fixing, on a very tight schedule, a ripped seam in her black velvet jacket with the cute peplum in back, only to be stymied in her attempt to appear swanlike in her black A-line ball skirt by a ridiculously early-closing local proprietor.

I called Stefanie and told her they had my dress hostage and I had nothing to wear. ReadBecca does not own surplus formal wear. Stefanie skeptically asked if she should keep getting ready. ReadBecca says, "Absolutely. I'll think of something."

Forty-five minutes and three progress reports later, ReadBecca is in her undies and wishing the birds and mice from Cinderella would show up and start sewing something fabulous while she had a nice cocktail.

I had dressy-ish black pants purchased for the Oklahoma gig, so at least I had a base to start with. There was an attempt at going without a top under the jacket but ReadBecca couldn't pull it off. There was another attempt at a homemade tube top-esque thingie that reguired safety pins and a strapless bra that would have landed me on Go Fug Yourself. Then, genius struck.

I whipped out my pale pink satin and black lace camisole pajama top and wore that to the ball. I piled on many, many strands of pearls to serve as a distraction, and called the whole thing a tuxedo. It pays to own jammies that would make a Gabor sister proud.

Then, after all that, we were bored and there was no place to sit and we couldn't get cell reception to locate Matt the Miller Man in the sea of literally thousands of people, so we went to The Dubliner.

All the way there, we talked about how we were SO going to stand out in our finery, me in my new tuxedo, Stef in her knockout dress. (Shut up. No one thought we were gay.) It was going to kick ass how we were going to get so much attention. Then when we got there, we were totally ignored.

We forgot it was Halloween.

In any case, we made friends who bought us drinks all night, even during the extra hour of Daylight Savings Time craziness, and have determined that we will no longer be drinking shots, or staying the extra hour next year. You'd have to be drunk to agree to shots, which make you drunk, which leads to more shots. It's a vicious circle. But we took a taxi, so no one died.

To sum up, I went to a bar in my pajamas with a friend in a gown and drank shots with foreigners, and we weren't the weirdest people in the room. We live in interesting times.

Road Trip With ReadBecca: OKLAHOMA! OKLAHOMA! OKLAHOMA! Edition

Number of Minutes Spent Looking for Pearls Worn Last Weekend: 75
Location of Pearls When Found: Under the couch
Hours Late Leaving for Oklahoma: ¾
Level of Hangover at Point of Departure: Yellow
Obligatory Trips to McDonald’s: 1
Number of Elapsed Minutes Before Realization That All CDs Left at Home: 20
Emotion Felt When Said Forgotten CDs Realization Meant Probable Exposure to Country Music: Horror
Emotion Felt at Discovery That Drive to Denton Isn’t That Far: Mild surprise
Number of Cars in Roadside Porn Store Parking Lot at 11:37 a.m.: 7
Level of Disappointment Felt That Passport Stamp Unnecessary for Border Crossing: Moderate
Uncontrollable Verbal Outburst at Realization that Border Crossing Had Already Happened: “Holy fuck, I’m in Oklahoma!”
Uncontrollable Verbal Outburst at Each Instance of Robinson’s Outdoor Advertising: “HAM SANDWICHES!”
Tendency of ReadBecca to Talk to Self in Car: Innate
Quality of Oklahoma State Highway Signage: Low
Curiosity at Meaning of “Wilderness” in “Arbuckle Wilderness”: Piqued
Number of Times Cigarette Purchase Considered: 1
Cigarettes Purchased: 0
Usefulness of Maps.Com Directions to Shawnee Holiday Inn Express: Nil
Wrong Turns Taken: 3
Percentage of Shawnee Population at Wal-Mart Super Mart on Saturday Afternoon: 100
Cost of Travel Size Hairspray: $1.09
Uncontrollable Verbal Outburst upon Entering Holiday Inn Express Suite: “Holy fuck, this is bigger than my apartment!”
Incongruent Groups Also Staying at Shawnee Holiday Inn Express: Class of ’54 and cage match fighters
Minutes Late to Wedding Ceremony: 10
Parts of Ceremony Missed: Overture including Beatles’ tune and Bride’s Entrance
Level of Regret at Missing Bride’s Entrance Due to Having Seen a Picture of the Dress Already: Low
Level of Regret at Missing Look on Groom’s Face: Inconsolable
Determination of Cause of Late Arrival: Ridiculous 35 mph speed limit and county constable watching
Compliments on Shoes: 2
Minutes Spent Making Group Small Talk before Group Instinct to Find Free Booze Kicked In: 5
Glasses of Red Wine Consumed: Innumerable
Number of First True Loves Seen: 1
Number of Decisions Not To Speak To Said First True Love Until He Spoke First: 1
Winner of Secret Decision Not to Speak To Said First True Love Until He Spoke First: ReadBecca
Number of Minutes First True Love Waited Before Acknowledging Presence of ReadBecca: 10
Number of Minutes First True Love Waited Before Acknowledging Presence of ReadBecca At Last Meeting: 30
Advantage: ReadBecca
Level of Awkwardness of Conversation With First True Love: low
Level of Awkwardness of Conversation With First True Love After Being Called By Said First True Love’s Wife’s Name: Moderate
Group Consensus On Who Had Changed The Least: First True Love
Stance of ReadBecca on Said Least Changed Vote: Dissenting
References Made to “My Left Nut”: 3
Bottles of Red Wine Carried Outside Tent to Watch Fireworks: 1
Number of Comments on Bottle of Red Wine Carried Outside Tent to Watch Fireworks: 267,418
Bottles of Red Wine Stolen for Later: 1
Bottles of Red Wine Stolen Back by Caterer: 1
Bottles of Red Wine Re-stolen: 1
Bottles of White Wine Stolen: Who cares? I don’t drink white wine.
Number of Sober Wives Required To Drive: 3
Number of Sober Wives Irritated at Drunks Who Would Not Shut Up Even When She Almost Hit a Deer: 1
Room Number of After-Party: 404
Number of Times ReadBecca’s Ass Slapped By Cage Fighting Teen In Neighboring Room: 1
Number of Times ReadBecca Announced Age Suitable For Being Mother of Cage Fighting Teen: 1
Number of Minutes Spent In Cage Fighting Party Room: 2
Number of Sober Wives In Attendance at After-Party: 0
Number of Microwave Ovens Deliberately Destroyed: 1
Room Number of After-After-Party: 402
Number of Beers Deliberately Poured on Bed: 4
References to High School Fight Song: 1
Number of Bags of Doritos Deliberately Placed Under Covers of Bed: 1
Number of Hotel Employees Dispatched to Deal With Unruly Guests: 1
Number of Announcements of Ending of Party: 1
Theme Song of 4 a.m. Hour: Evanescence, “Call Me When You’re Sober”
Number of Occupants of Dorito/Beer Bed Who Ended Up in the Bigger Than ReadBecca’s Apartment Suite Instead: 1
Number of Former Occupants of Dorito/Beer Bed Who Snore: 1
Hours of Sleep Attained by ReadBecca: None
Beds Shared With Former Occupant of Dorito/Beer Bed: 0
Beds Shared With Booker of Bigger Than My Apartment Suite: 1
Hours of Sleep Attained by ReadBecca: 2
Number of Beds Attempted Sleep In, In Toto: 3
Number of Cold Wash Cloths Applied to Forehead in Vain Attempt to Ward Off Headache: 1
Level of Inability to Figure Out Shower Operation: High
Number of Packets of Peanut Butter Crackers By Which Life Was Saved: 1
Conclusions Jumped To: 2
Level of Hangover at Time of Return: Orange
Brooks & Dunn Songs Deliberately Listened To: ½
Strangest Thing for Sale in Truck Stop Ladies’ Room: Bin Laden condoms
Realization that 4 a.m. Phone Call Was Not Meant As Character Indictment, But as Obscure Reference To The Events of 1988: Dawning
Number of Newly Married Couples Who Were Gracious Enough To Let High School Pals Use Their Wedding As An Excuse To Act Like Teenagers: 1
Newly Married Couples Who Couldn’t Be More Suited For Each Other: 1
Number of Beautiful Brides ReadBecca Would Be Friends With Even If She Hadn’t Married Someone ReadBecca Has Known For 20 Years: 1

ReadBecca Loves Formalwear.

Yippee, ReadBecca's going to the ball! The annual Margarita Society Ball is this weekend. ReadBecca rarely attends formal events now that she's out of high school. She had tons of formals then, between homecoming, prom and cotillion events. Yes, ReadBecca was in cotillion. But she was not a debutante. Shocker!

ReadBecca went to one college formal. She wasn't in a sorority. She just slept with their boyfriends. No, I'm kidding. Wait, did I? I'm pretty sure I slept with somebody's boyfriend at some point. I went to rehab for that.

Anyway, ReadBecca is getting tarted up like trash and going to the ball. Her dress has slight petticoat action. However, I've had to give up on the whole garters-and-bustier underpinnings in favor of the more practical Spanx. But man, when I wore garters, I wore the HELL out of them. Somewhere, I have photographic evidence...

I'm surprisingly comfortable in the uncomfortable floor length gown. When everyone else went to change for the after-party, I remained in my elaborate eveningwear. I can't see shelling out all that dough, spending hours getting buffed, polished and up-do'd, only to take it all off as soon as the photo was taken. It took 50 hairpins to accomplish my senior prom hairdo. I go balls out for balls. And after all that, I caught my date kissing Laurel L. Bastard.

I think the real attraction is I get to go nuts on makeup. Bring on the purple glitter eyeshadow and matching cat-eye liner! I used to wear blue AND green eye liner AND blue AND green mascara all at once in the 80s. Blue on the top, green on the bottom. I also wore pink Chuck Taylors. I rocked.

I get to rock again this weekend. I'll be easy to pick out of the crowd. Trust me. If there's one thing ReadBecca knows how to do, it's definitely not blending in.

Whoa! What The Hell Was That?

ReadBecca got a phone call at HQ from a regular reader recently concerning the psychological 180 of the last two posts. In explanation, ReadBecca offers this:

Just like The Force, ReadBecca has two sides.

Actually, ReadBecca has at least 144 sides, but she’s on her meds, so let’s not get into all of that.

ReadBecca is a bitch, a lover, a child, a mother, a sinner, a saint. She doesn’t feel ashamed. She’s your hell, your dream. ReadBecca is nothing in between. She’s a tease, a goddess on her knees; when you’re hurt, when you suffer, she’s an angel undercover. She’s been numb, but she’s recently been revived, so now you know she’s still alive.

You wouldn’t want ReadBecca any other way.

I Saw These Girls.

Saturday morning at IHOP, I saw these girls. Eleven or twelve years old. They were so young and happy, truly in-between. Not children, not women. Just girls. Independent enough for their own table, but moms not far away. I saw these girls fresh from a volleyball victory, celebrating their win with chocolate chip pancakes. They were still young and it was still o.k. to eat what they wanted. For that I was glad. More because their mothers didn't think to tell them no, they couldn't, because chocolate chip pancakes make you fat. My mother started telling me to hold in my stomach at that age. As if I had a stomach. And even if I did, what did it matter? It matters now.

So I watched the girls and thought how wonderful it was to be a girl, how wonderful those girls are. They have never been disappointed. I thought about it and the women they would become.

The world is a hard, cruel place and the great tragedy of my life is that, although I suspected as much, no one who loved me confirmed my reports. I was a naive girl. I wasn't ready. I didn't know.

My mother's mother was married at 15 to my 21-year-old grandfather. That's shocking even today. She was a child, totally unprepared to be a wife or mother. My grandmother was left alone a lot as a child. She never really grew up. She stopped. She was only 15. I know my grandmother was a romantic. She loved the story of the real-life king who gave up his crown for a woman. I'm not sure if she imagined her absent father as a king or that a king would love her enough to save her. I just know she dreamed of a king. Her tragic flaw was dreaming instead of living.

My mother didn't have a bad start, she married at 18, but she had expectations. My mother learned about the king from her mother and I suspect she was dismayed that her father wasn't him. He wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't a very good one either. She chose a good man for a husband, but he wasn't a king, not even a prince. Chronically disappointed, my mother expected more than any good man could give, kingly or otherwise. My mother's tragic flaw is that she expects to see kings around every corner.

My mother. If people are born with internal compasses, hers is either cracked or de-magnetized. She's lost out there. She can't see. I used to think it was because I was invisible. That she made me invisible. That she was blinded at birth. But that's not true. I think you choose when to be born.

I don't believe in kings. I'm not sure if that's always been true, or is now or was. Or will be. It may be just something I say. I don't know.

I saw these girls in all their beauty and innocence. They were too old for crayons really, but just the same, they didn't want to let the crayons go. They were wild, scribbling so quickly and hard they spilled a drink. They immediately looked to their mothers to clean it up, sure the help would come. They were right.

The mothers were harder for me to ignore. I wanted to tell them, to warn them. To explain what is coming and to tell them to prepare their daughters. To teach them to fight before the world swallows them whole, or in bits. I can't decide which way is worse. I don't think I could watch a daughter lose without breaking my own heart. It would be unbearable. Raising a boy to be a king would be easy in comparison.

The mothers looked about my age and I wanted to ask them how they knew they could be mothers. How had the confidence stayed after girlhood had gone? And I wanted to tell them what I know, in case they didn't. They needed to tell their girls, to warn them what is coming. To arm them for battle. Because the world is a hard, cruel place and girls shouldn't go out alone. There are no kings.

Ode to Fluff: Movies That Made Me What I Am

Fast Times at Ridgemont High
Cinderella
Gone With the Wind
Porky's
National Lampoon's Vacation
National Lampoon's European Vacation
National Lampoon's Animal House
Say Anything
A Nightmare on Elm Street
Pippi Longstocking
Catholic school film strips (Bing!)
ViewMaster slides
Rocky
Rocky IV
Alien
Aliens
Rosemary's Baby
The Breakfast Club
Pretty in Pink
Cool Hand Luke (I saw this in fifth grade. Man, I was ahead of my time.)
The Shawshank Redemption
The Aristocats (This isn't a typo. There is no "r" missing.)
The Rescuers
Jaws
King Kong (Jessica Lange version)
Hot Stuff
9 1/2 Weeks
Body Heat (but I've never actually seen it)
Wolfen (same here)
Cat People
Mommie Dearest
Top Gun
Risky Business
Angel
The Highlander
The Highlander II (Because it taught me it's ok to demand your money back.)
Threesome
The Saint
The Boondock Saints
Any Which Way But Loose
Cannonball Run
Convoy
The Parent Trap (Hayley Mills version)
The Shootist
Flash Gordon
Urban Cowboy
A Fish Called Wanda
The Little Mermaid
Rebecca
Psycho
The Professional
An American Werewolf in London
The Crying Game
Gorillas in the Mist
All of Me
Silkwood
Lady and the Tramp
Sleeping Beauty
Snow White
Bambi
Hamburger Hill
Platoon
Tigerland
Two for the Road
Little Darlings
Smile
The Prince of Tides
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Seven (Because there is such a thing as going too far.)
Escape from Witch Mountain
Victor/Victoria
Tootsie
Mystic Pizza
The Omen
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!

Dude, I Am Working On It.

Do you want a bit of piffling fluff or do you want profoundly deep? I got both.

I Have Not Been In Rehab.

I have not been at fat camp or Betty Ford, Hazleden or Promises. I am not a friend of Mel. I've just been in a valley. A pretty deep one. But a few days ago, I woke up and guess who appeared in my bed. Yep. Normal. I totally remember him.

The Three Moods of Melquiades ReadBecca

I haven't posted anything, but that doesn't mean I haven't had thoughts. I have. They pretty much all fall into three, self-explanatory categories:

1. Fuck!
2. Whatever.
3. Fuckin' whatever, man.

Two other things of note. The only thing I hate worse than jazz is folk music, and PBS better come up with programs about something or someone other than the Mamas and the Papas and John Denver or I'm writing public television out of my will. I don't want to watch any more Bob Dylan shows either. That guy comes off as so big a jackass that it makes me want to hit him over the head with his guitar, accoustic or electric, whichever's handier.

Go read WritingGal for a substitute one-year anniversary post. I can't be bothered.

ReadBecca Is Broke, Willie Nelson-Style.

You need some copy editing or marriage ceremonying, you drop me a line. Reasonable rates and excellent customer service, with a certain "je ne sais quoi." Tell your friends. I am not kidding.

I don't know how it's possible, but I have less money now than I did when I didn't have any sort of job at all. Taking the government cheese kept me in the black, but getting a job put me in the red. What. The. Fuck?

Oprah and her Debt Diet. I never should have watched that show. I would still be blissfully unaware of the straits direr than the Straits of Magellan I'm in if I had just left things alone. Never take action! Deny! Deny! Deny! How could I have forgotten that?

Shit. I just remembered I owe the library money too.

Fabulous Things Come To Those Who Drink Heavily At NorthPark Mall.

Y'all know I shop a lot, right? I am a champeen browser. If I can spend an hour and a half checking stuff out at CVS, imagine the time I consume at Sephora. I have their handy Beauty Insider card, and because of that I was invited to the big new opening party for Sephora and the big new fancy Klinger Salon next door. (Klinger is a long-time Dallas institution like Neiman's, btw, and they are both located across from the opening-soon Barneys New York.)

So I showed up in jeans and a t-shirt because I forgot I live in Dallas. Several people pointed out that Vidal Sassoon's son was there. And they had a Clipboard Lady at the door. She didn't hassle me, so I won't call her a Clipboard Bitch like I normally would.

Hibiscus tea? No thanks. White wine? Eh. Champagne? And how! Keep 'em coming, brother. Prosciuto and fig? I'll pass. Something on endive? Negatory. Coconut shrimp? Only if you want me to go cocoNUTTY!

I drank 4,782 glasses of Heaven and ate the day's catch of a Rockport shrimp boat. I got a goody bag, a chair massage and a color/cut consultation, which brings me to my next point.

This morning, I spent four hours getting my hair colored and cut as a hair model for Bunny and Adam, who were taking classes from some hot-shot, out-of-town people (one of whom was a wee gay Scotsman, at least I assume the gayness, because I'm never wrong about the foreign) and I believe this is rivaling the time I got my hair cut in Paris instead of going to the Louvre. You will be amazed.

Go see them. Bunny for color and Adam for cut. Klinger Salon, NorthPark Mall, Dallas, Texas.

And yes, I really did say "Hi Handsome!" to a gay cater waiter. That is what 4,782 glasses of Heaven will bring a girl to.

I Can't Even Talk About It.

Have you ever found yourself drunk on champagne at Sephora, coconut shrimp tail in hand, saying things like "Hi handsome" to gay cater waiters, and having no idea the party ended an hour ago?

The Toaster...Oh Who Cares?

Long story short, a dude gave me a toaster on a first date. I freaked out. I kept the toaster. I ran into the guy a few weeks ago. He's a friend of Bill W. now.

So what's up? I am done learning stuff for a while. Anatomy and Physiology class is officially dundies. Totally crocodile. I could have missed 30 questions on the final and still gotten my A. Tell me how pretty I am, because I KNOW I'm smart. Science no longer scares me.

Community college classmates, however, still freak my shit out. The idea that birth defects could happen before a woman even KNEW she was pregnant ASTOUNDED my classmates. It was a 10-minute lecture-stopper. I can't even explain how apoplectic that makes me.

BTW, it takes two beers to read a chapter, one to celebrate the end of the chapter, and one just to chill with, and you can still be home by 9:30 no worse for wear. The lights at The Dubliner are on a dimmer and if you ask, they'll turn it up so you can read. No one will bother you while you're reading, but as soon as you stop, you'll become an object of curiosity.

I met Dr. Robert in the laundry room last week. He thought I was a med student and was excited to chat. I don't think he had talked to anyone in like a week. He has some sort of prestigious fellowship in pediatric infectious disease and he just moved here from New York, and Texas is like another planet to him. He is also embarrassed to talk to girls while holding his freshly laundered underwear. I got a sheepish apology and a blush, then he hastily threw them in his basket as if to say, "THOSE ARE NOT MY UNDERWEAR!"

Stefanie would dig him. Tall. Asian. Unfortunately no ascot. I don't know if he's the Boy Scout who knows how to tie knots for a whole other reason, but I'm sure you'll let me know, won't you Stef?

I'm going to see Pirates of the Caribbean today to celebrate the end of summer school. No, I will not be in pirate drag. I know you're all sad. I am wearing the shoes I wore when I pulled the book club pirate stunt though, so consider it an hommage to Cap'n DisRespecca, Scourge of the Sea. I should have kept all the rings. And the gigantic hoop earring. And the red silk kerchief. OK, I like dressing up like a pirate for no particular reason. So sue me.

I haven't decided what I'm going to do next. I need to work more I guess. I like the idea of an underemployed second half of summer though. I wish Jane was here. We could have cocktails at the club after tennis. I hate Philadelphia and the freedom it rode in on.

Who Remembers The Toaster Incident?

WritingGal has threatened to kill me for the lack of updates. She's a tiny, tiny woman but she scares me. No time today, but tomorrow - The Toaster Incident (redux).

The thymus gland secretes thymosin, which facillitates T-cell production. It is located in the thoracic region between the lungs.

Don't Freeze Up Girl

You know who I miss? Adam Ant.

I know he went bald and crazy but damn he made gay piracy look good. I've always had a thing for boys in eyeliner. Oh Simon Le Bon, you lined-eye god, you have ruined me for all other men. One of the funnest times of my life was going to see Duran Duran last year for my birthday with the girls. It's fun to scream like a teen-aged girl.

I also thought Spike was hotter than Angel.

I'm sad that I missed the cocaine and champagne frenzy of the rock star/model days of the eighties. I bet I would have had fun right up until I died in my London hotel suite. I had to make do with Miller Genuine Draft and hanging out at Swantner Park. I never even got an MIP. It was hard to be bad in Corpus Christi. They made Susanna Somebody take out her nose ring at Hamlin Junior High. It was a pearl stud. It's hard to bad when you're a debutante.

They did however film one of the greatest movies of all time in Corpus in the eighties - "The Legend of Billie Jean." I like to watch it and point out all the stuff that's fake. Christian Slater and Helen Slater were in it and so was the voice of Lisa Simpson whose name I can never remember although I know exactly who she is.

The house with the slide was real; the miniature golf course was fake. They built it under the JFK Causeway bridge where Snoopy's is. (Three drink maximum. Don't feed the seagulls.)

Summer Summer Summer It's Like A Merry-Go-Round

Some knucklehead DJ on the radio this morning suggested we move the summer solstice to Friday.

I declare that the sun no longer is our anchorman in the solar system. I declare that it is Uranus, the planet that rules the sign of Aquarius. By this arbitrary whim I render the centuries-long study of the sky completely useless and render Stonehenge and Chaco Canyon null and void. All this I decree by my omnipotent hand! Bow before me, you groveling nothings!

Anyway.

What's new? What's new? Ah, yes. The parking lot attendant of the lot I park in everyday for school is the nicest person I have ever met. He is always cheerful and wants to know how my class is going. I swear if I let him, he's put my grades on his fridge. He always says "How you doing my friend?" I miss him on Fridays, but I'm glad he goes home early. I like the idea of him knocking off early for the weekend from hanging out in that tiny booth all day.

There's a guy in my class called Big Sam and I always think of "Gone With the Wind" when I hear that. Big Sam saved Scarlett from some ruffians when she was out making business calls in her carriage all alone, which caused her second husband that she stole from her sister to go after them and he died, and Ashley got shot, and Rhett saved them all from jail by telling the Yankees that they were all at Belle Watling's cat house.

It's time to watch GWTW again I think. I still cry at the end when Scarlett is so delusional and thinks she'll get Rhett back. Fat chance.

Which reminds me, I saw "The Break Up" with Stefanie and we interpreted the ending in polar opposite ways. She says they get back together and I say they have nothing left to talk about and will never see each other ever again and that meeting on the street was closure. What do you say? Are Brooke and Gary meant to be?

As Long As People Are Calling Me Trashy...

I might as well tell you about how I had dinner at the car wash last Thursday.

I highly recommend Tacos and More for your dining pleasure. You've driven by it a hundred time if you live in Dallas. It's at the intersection of Ross and Greenville and it's that little red-and-white-striped walk-up window at the car wash next to CVS. Practice your high-school Spanish before you go to facilitate ordering. Excellent tacos that are served the right way with cilantro, onion, lime wedges and that neon-green hot sauce that sets your tongue on fire in a good way. Sure, you can get it to go, but I suggest staying right there less than 10 feet from the cars careening past and dining al fresco like I did. Someone suggested if you are that close to the traffic you should be wearing a fluorescent vest and a hard hat. Not a bad idea. They sell Mexican cokes if you need a cane sugar rush, but regular U.S. ones are cheaper.

I might marry a man who took me to Tacos and More in his bitchin' Camaro. We could share a 40.

Also, there is a girl in my class who has worn a different article of terry cloth-material clothing every single day. I'm sure it's all Juicy Couture, but damn, how much terry cloth can a girl own? I also counted how many people's butts were bigger than the desks the other night. Pretty much all of them.

Hey, I hear The Portlanders are playing at Gypsy Tea next weekend. Who's in?

Matt Has Not Seen A Yeti.

Matt the Miller Man is away in the mountains, but in his weekly check-in call, he mentioned no yeti sightings. I say, what's the point in going to the wilderness and being out of cell phone range for a week if there are no yetis to report? Matt's cat, the infamous Peggy Sue, is fine. I have not damaged anything in Matt's house either. I broke his dining room ceiling fan once when I was house sitting, so breaking more stuff is not an option.

Matt says I ought to know the anatomy part of Anatomy and Physiology pretty well. Bwah ha har! So far, it's going swimmingly. A's on the first test and lab quiz. We shall see. I am going to miss the discussion of "Reading Lolita in Tehran" at book club and I'm sad. I liked that book, and this month's gathering is very near my place, at Heather's new house that I haven't seen yet. Dang.

You remember last summer when I broke my foot and was in a cast for two months? Yeah, me too. Good times.

You know what the longest song ever is? The ones that don't rock when you want to hear a song that rocks. And hitting scan instead of the presets is dangerous because you are for sure going to hear snippets of country and death metal, which are equally heinous in my book. I go through this every morning. I love you, Mesquite Schools Radio, but the sweet sounds of the seventies sometimes ain't what I'm about.

So I flip through the presets and hear the end of The Killers, which I thought was Franz Ferdinand but who can tell and as far as I know neither band is from Serbia, and the end of a Shakira song (my hips don't lie either), and part of "Rocket Man" and the beginning of a Van Halen number that wasn't "Running with the Devil," and ELO I think. I could not find a Thursday anthem and yeah, I have a CD player but I like to be musically surprised like that time last summer when I was totally rocking out to "Rhinestone Cowboy" and then a car hit me at the intersection of Skillman and Southwestern on the afternoon of the night I fell down and broke my foot at the rehearsal dinner of the wedding I was officiating the next day at the arboretum.

Glen Campbell gave me PTSD.

Hey, What Are You Doing?

I'm not doing anything even remotely related to copy editing, I can tell you that much. I'm helping the programmer guy build the new website here at the freelancing gig.

Yes, your fear is the correct reaction. Mine is anger, but what's new?

How is it that I am constantly doing things I have no idea how to do? I mean, I figured out that I like foreign countries because my constant feeling of being somewhere I don't belong is normal there, because I don't belong. But here on the home turf, why in the hell would I want to reinforce that feeling? How am I always in a place that isn't where I originally thought I was going? And why don't I ever see it coming?

Someone once told me I was like algebra, that he could predict exactly what I was going to do in any situation and he didn't need to know why, he just knew the answer. Maybe I'm continually blindsided by people and situations because I suck at math.

Maybe it's like standing in shallow water at the beach. You're just standing there, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico, counting the seventh wave or whatever, and you look up after God knows how long, and, even though you haven't taken a step, you are half a mile down the coastline and you can't see your mom's gold Ford Elite anymore.

That happens to me all the freakin' time.

Sesquicentennial Post: I Been Busy.

Hell School Is. (School is teachers who don't know teaching facts that aren't true to kids who don't care.)

I have been carrying around this Matt Groening comic since 1989 that shows the emotional state at varying points in life. It is hilarious and accurate.

I have never had a job and went to school simultaneously before and it is difficult. I think it's more difficult because I am old.

I pulled an all-nighter to finish a project and let me tell you, I wanted to die. I was walking around downtown talking to myself before class and stepped in front of two separate moving cars when crossing two different streets. Then the damn thing wouldn't print. I was muttering in class because I was too tired to keep my thoughts in my head where they belong.

But not only did I get the A I set out to get, I got the highest average in the class, which again makes me King of the Dipshits due to the whole Lyndon Johnson thing.

I'm learning Anatomy and Physiology now and I am D-U-M-B. Last night I was identifying the stages of cell mitosis (I don't know what that means) and got five out of ten questions wrong. I looked at the answer key, went back to try again, and - even knowing the answer - I got a couple wrong twice.

I failed Chemistry in high school. Mr. Y gave me a passing grade anyway because he said even though I tried as hard as I could, I had no aptitude for it and he thought I would never pass and couldn't graduate without it.

I cheated in Geometry (I just had to ask my officemate which math had triangles in it) because I knew I'd fail if I didn't.

I failed Zoology in college, but that was because I went out with Larry Salerno every Wednesday night and didn't ever make it to class at eight Thursday morning.

I got a D in Meterology. Cumulonimbus!

I think I passed Geology, but I never could tell the difference between rocks and minerals. It's also the only class I was ever encouraged to lick something to identify it, and I took The Psychology of Human Sexual Behavior.

To sum up, I am not science-smart and I have to get an A in this thing if I ever want to get into a nursing program. (I don't need no stinkin' science to deliver babies!) Would you all like to start wagering on the likelihood of a passing grade? It's about 100 to 1 I'll get it on the first try, so I probably won't sell my books back since I'll need them again. (What a racket, the bookstore.)

I like to learn stuff, but man I hate feeling stupid. Why do all the models in the lab look EXACTLY the same to me?

I Can't Stop Spilling My Coffee.

I have a problem. I have spilled coffee on myself three out of five mornings this week. I do not know what is wrong with me. Was it the singing at the top of my voice along with Jamie Cullum? Could it be the music is not only a mindtrick wherein you may watch me forget about missing you, but the cause of the spillage? Negatory. I took Jamie out of the car entirely today and spillage occurred anyway. I can't rule out a backlash effect due to the absence of the Jamie, yet.

Could it be related to my alleged attendance of the Steve McQueen School of Driving? (Some guy once told me I went there. I had just run like three red lights. I don't do that anymore.) Am I spilling because of all the sips taken in midair when I'm jumping garbage cans? Wait, that's Evil Knieval. Steve McQueen is much cooler. I must be spilling when I'm trying to cross the border into Switzerland and jumping barbed wire.

My theories are not yet developed and right now I don't have time because I have to make a phone call and I can't multitask. You people figure it out. What is wrong with ReadBecca? I thank you in advance to restrict your snarky answers to the subject of ReadBecca's coffee-spilling. ReadBecca is well aware of her deficiences in other areas.

"Lyndon Johnson. Was he black?"

Oh, community college, you produced such interesting questions during lecture today.

I almost got in a fistfight about the pope today. Not Benny, JP II. Now kids, you know I'm a Questioning Catholic, like lots of good Catholic saints were. I attend mass sporadically, and I don't think the Church is infallible, and in some cases is even wrong (not that many, but a few; i.e., gay people may go to hell just like the rest of us, but not just for being gay). But that kid saying something nasty about JP II just pushed the wrong button in me. I had an outburst and our fearless leader had to simmer us down. I totally wanted to meet that guy at the flagpole at three o'clock.

You don't talk smack about the pope, you don't say Catholics worship statues, and you don't complain that mass is too long and you don't like all the kneeling. You can take the girl out of Catholic school, but you can't take Catholic school out of the girl.

Also, I had a conversation about South Texas today and I miss it more than I realized. I was very much in a Mac Davis, "Happiness is Lubbock, Texas, in my Rearview Mirror" mood when I got the hell out of Corpus, and now I'm a little worried that the end of that song will happen to me. I don't know if I want to be buried in a Jeep, per se, but dammit I may not have blood in my veins, it may be saltwater from the Laguna Madre. Eeew, seaweed, tar and jellyfish!

Mac Davis. You don't get enough of him. He warned me not to get hooked on him, he'd just use me, then set me free, oh but I didn't listen.

Skipped the movie yesterday in favor of napping and dinner with Matt the Miller Man. I mean, napping first and having dinner with Matt LATER. Don't want to start any unfounded rumors about myself; Matt and I are just good friends, and not in a People magazine quote kind of way. You never make better friends than the ones you keep from your childhood.

Also, you know those ladies at the bus stop with the umbrellas? I'm one of them. I hate being hot and I'm terrified of getting wrinkles so I walk around downtown Dallas with my lime green umbrella and I don't care who knows it.

In fact, it's NOT an umbrella, it's a parasol, and I love it so much, I even wore matching underpants the other day. Mock if you will, you sweaty, wrinkled bastards, but those bus stop ladies have shown me the way.

I saw a guy yesterday wearing goggles (like from chem lab) and red suspenders pushing an igloo cooler down the street. I would have given anything to know the back story on that one.

And Another Thing...

Re: Alias finale single lasting image

Was that a giant bloody kickball?

Nuts To That! I'm Going To The Movies.

Unlike Blogda, I can't quote The Simpsons at will, but today's title is one of the few Homerisms I know, and I think about it every time I want to see a movie.

My freelance gig is on hiatus until Thursday since everyone who works there is in Canada. So I got a free afternoon. And what am I going to do with it? Study? You have got to be kidding me.

I'm having Hot Pockets for lunch then I'm off to see Da Vinci. Or Flight 93. I can't decide. Probably the Vinch. Flight 93 is an in the privacy of your own home film, like The Passion of the Christ, which I deliberately waited for on video because I didn't want to sit in the theater with other people's opinions. ReadBecca knows her limitations.

ReadBecca might finally assemble her Ikea book case after the movie. She doesn't know why she has taken to writing about herself in the third person. Maybe it's because she talks about DisRespecca, the evil twin who likes drinking and sailors, like that. So if ReadBecca, DisRespecca and the Omniscient Narrator who keeps track of them both and writes about it are separate entities, then who the hell am I? Can Just Rebecca exist in a vacuum? Jesus, I have got to drop psychology.

Note of regard to Whitney:

Nobody walks in LA.

Everyone In Downtown Dallas Wants Me To Give Them A Dollar.

So I completed my first week of summer school and got an A on my first test. I am a genius. And no, they would not take a note from my shrink instead of actually re-taking Intro to Psych. I asked.

Also, ReadBecca will stick her hand anywhere for a quarter. I dropped a laundry quarter under the machine and you know when you still have to use quarters to do your damn laundry that a thing like that can push you right over the edge because then your ratio of washes to dries is all out of whack and nobody needs wet denim. So ReadBecca stuck her hand under there all Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom style to retrieve said quarter. You do not want to look under an apartment complex washing machine. I repeat for emphasis: you do not want to look under an apartment complex washing machine.

I got my quarter and have developed a serious Lady Macbeth condition.

I got a laundry room beef with this broad now. Everyone knows you can't expect to use all the machines at once on a weekend, but by gum in the middle of a weekday he who arrives first claims all. So there I was sorting away when this broad comes in and procedes to invade my turf. I decide to bite the bullet and give her half the machines if I have to. But she doesn't do that. She only needs one. And she picks the one in the middle. Which totally throws off my system.

Firstly, she can't wait 20 minutes? If she had left her stuff, I would have put it in for her. And B, who picks the one in the middle? It would be like going to the movies and not leaving a buffer seat.

Then, THEN, she goes and flops on a lounge chair and leaves her one measly load in my way when it's done. I had to wait 'til one of mine was finished while her stinkin' wet laundry sat there totally finished with the spin cycle. She was laying out the whole time and without sunscreen. She is so going to get leather-faced and all skin cancery.

Now that I think about it, this may have all happened on a Sunday. Still. That broad is going down next time I see her.

Also, Jamie Cullum was fun. He's small enough to carry around in my purse, but musically, I'd need at least a large duffle bag.

Alternative Jamie Joke, Dirty Version: He so short, I got a vibrator taller than him. Thank you! Goodnight!

ReadBecca's New Job: A Day One Recap

So I got there about nine, toting my reading lamp and my tissues, and was in my new work outfit and feeling Friday fine.

My office roomie Mike is nice. He set up a Jamie Cullum radio station on Pandora just for me. We listened to it all day even though he hates it. See? Nice. Could be because of training from wife and kid.

Tony is my boss. Addicted to his BlackBerry. Wears a wallet chain. Shacked up with some woman. Tony gave me enough stuff to keep me busy all day, but not advertising agency busy. The amount of work I did in an eight-hour day would have been a couple hour's worth at the last place. It was niiiiiice.

Also, the boys didn't make me each lunch like a loser all by myself. We went to Double Dave's and I think I hallucinated that it was 1993. Freebird's World Burrito and Double Dave's. Instant time machines.

By 4:30, me and Mike were the only people left in the office. I didn't know what to do. I've never had a job where people actually, you know, went home at some point. I am so used to working assinine hours that I kinda felt like a cheater. By six, I was drinking beer with Stefanie at Idle Rich. It was awesome. Freelancing good.

And on the last of my frequent trips downtown for school crap, I drove by Gypsy Tea and nearly wrecked when I saw my music boyfriend Jamie Cullum is in town tomorrow. Even though it's a Sunday and the same time as Grey's Anatomy, I'm going. I'll tape the GA. I'll probably be the oldest broad in Deep Ellum. Jamie Cullum, mmm.

I came to the liberry today to do all my homework for this week in advance, but it smells like dirty baby in here and I can't take it. I'm going to Good Records to get my golden ticket, and be the uncoolest person in the room, and find someplace less malodorous to work.

Hey, should ReadBecca have ads like Writing Gal? I wonder how much dough she gets.

ReadBecca Gets A Job.

The freelance thing is finally working out, which is exactly what ReadBecca wanted all along. ReadBecca knew she couldn't live on a minimum wage job and a full-time gig would interfere with school. ReadBecca has been biding her time while those around her did the freaking out. ReadBecca is cool under pressure, except that time she made Fiona and Stefanie go with her on the Match.com date. She was definitely freaking out then.

Now ReadBecca is obsessed with El Centro College and their tricky ways. ReadBecca was forced to take a placement test to get into the Algebra class she absolutely must complete this summer. However. Practice questions provided by advising office in no way resembled actual test. Those. Mother. Effing. Bastards.

Let's make that tests, plural. Because there were two math tests, only one of which she expected. One of which ReadBecca sailed through. The other of which ReadBecca scored a 19. 19. The average age of a Viet Nam soldier. Nnnnnnnineteen.

ReadBecca is outraged. And pissed off. Because the part she passed was THE ALGEBRA PART. The part she failed was whatever that math is that you have to do functions and sine and cosine. Is that trigonometry? ReadBecca has no idea. Because it wasn't on the practice test provided by the advising office. Practice questions covered stuff like decimals and solving for x. Not a graph of the slope of y in sight.

Imagine DisRespecca's dismay when she saw the + shaped graphing questions when she was expecting to turn decimals into percents. So even though she passed the algebra portion, they won't let her in. ReadBecca will never take trig, BTW. It isn't on the nursing school curriculum. She. Just. Needs. Algebra. For. God's. Sake.

They want to send her to remedial math (the "highest level of remedial math" to be exact, which just makes me King of the Dipshits), which is no good because ReadBecca already has a class scheduled for that time. ReadBecca can't try again until after next Thursday, because that's the end of the semester and you can only take a placement exam once a semester. ReadBecca is also considering the Advanced Placement exam, which is totally different from the Are You Stupid? Placement Exam, so she doesn't have to take the effing class at all.

The third option is to take remedial math, which will leave her a prereq short of the nursing school admissions requirements, which means she will have to wait an entire year to start nursing school. And that also means that ReadBecca must let the morons beat her. ReadBecca would rather die than be bested by someone she is smarter than.

So you can see how the level of rage is rising due to the incompetence of an office that gives incomplete, inaccurate information. ReadBecca hates hates hates people who can't think creatively, who can't think at least three moves ahead, who can't innovate, who make her jump through hoops for no good reason. ReadBecca also wants them to stop asking her when she's planning to take English Composition. Just writing that down made me pause because of the red haze blocking my view of the screen.

ReadBecca feels much better having ranted today. She's been pissed off since Monday. You know that kind of pissed off frustration that makes women cry at the office? ReadBecca hasn't felt that since she left the 9 to 5 world three months ago. It took a community college to break her.

Also, ReadBecca saw Collin Farrell in a magazine with some other girl. Son of a bitch. I stood by him for years and now that he's been to rehab, he gets all cozy with some redhead who never had to deal with his crap. Totally. Unfair.

And another thing, why can't ReadBecca find a Lemon Chill for sale anywhere?

Bonus Aside:

I saw an ice cream truck at a stoplight Monday. It had something called an Ice Tickle for sale. I had a boyfriend once who liked a good Ice Tickle every now and again.

Road Trip With ReadBecca

Number of Cars in Roadside Porn Store Parking Lot at 10:45 am: 5
First Song to Require a Repeat (x3): Gavin Degraw "I Don't Wanna Be"; Also theme from One Tree Hill
Desire for First Cold Beer: 11:15 am
God-Awful Radio Station Names: 1 (90.5 "The Cat" complete with meow and hissing)
Desire for Second Cold Beer: 12:25 pm
Shania Twain Songs ReadBecca Is Ashamed To Have Sung Along With: 1
Rest Stop Headed South: Huntsville
Rest Stop Headed North: Buffalo
Instances of Regretting Not Bringing Crystal Gayle CD: 2
Inadvertent Nostalgic Smiles at Bryan Exit: 1
Number of Items Sold in Truck Stop Ladies' Room Instead of Condoms: 5
Weirdest Thing for Sale in Truck Stop: Briefcases
Number of Loops Around Truck Stop Hot Dog Station Before Taking a Pass: 5
Favorite Road Trip Breakfast: McDonald's
Revenge Fantasies Entertained: 1
Best Time to See How Pretty Texas Can Be: Early May
Speed at Which ReadBecca Achieves Homeostasis: 80 mph
Cars That Annoyed ReadBecca: all of them
Number of Times Resigned to Left Arm Sunburn: 3
Cigarette Cravings Ignored: 1 really freakin' tremendous one
Items In Truck Stop That Reminded ReadBecca of Dad: 1 (Grandma's Soft Baked Oatmeal Raisin Cookies)
Desire for Third Cold Beer: 2:09 pm
Exit At Which Gulf Coast Sky Became Recognizable: 32
Wedding Guests Present With Whom ReadBecca Once Slept in a Closet: 1 (totally platonic)
Unintentionally Ironic Racist Comments Made by Wedding Guest: 1 (guest complained about "Mexicans" in Corpus, however, guest's daughter lives in San Miguel and is pregnant with Mexican husband's child)
Unintentionally Ironic Racist Bumper Stickers For Sale: 1 ("I'd Rather Be Free" with eagle-shaped Confederate flag)
Pink Wedding Dresses: 1 (Sounds nuts to some, but couldn't have been prettier on a redheaded, freckled bride)
Coconut Shrimps on a Stick Consumed: 5
Regrets ReadBecca Didn't Have Time to Go to the Beach: 1
Tangos Danced With Another Chick: 1 (T-A-N-G-O)
Duran Duran Songs Suitable for Pole Dancing: 1 (Skin Trade, duh.)
Number of Times Duran Duran Song Suitable for Pole Dancing Repeated: 4
Fantasy Wedding Band: Jamie Cullum and Friends
Fantasy Wedding Caterer: Jamie Oliver
Fantasy Wedding After Party: U2 concert, best seats in the house
Fantasy Wedding Unique Amenity: chilled sunscreen
Roadside Statues Observed: 2, Sam Houston and Farm to Market Road Buddha.
Advantage: FM Buddha
Level of Surprise a Hollywood Disaster Movie Has Not Been Made About Galveston: High
Decisions Made Based On Hotel Proximity to Whataburger: 1
Number of Times Waffle House Waitress Called ReadBecca Sweetie: 1
One-word Description Of Waffle House Staff: jocular
Point At Which ReadBecca Was Able to Stop Thinking Like A Visa Commercial: undetermined. Make. It. Stop.
Notes Made Headed South: All of them
Notes Made Heades North: Nil. The return trip is always a let down.
SUV's Used As Pace Cars So ReadBecca Would Not Get a Ticket In Dallas Outskirts' Speed Traps: 2
Newly Wed Couples Knee-deep in Marital Bliss: 1
Number of People A Good Time Was Had By: All

Every wedding ReadBecca has been to has been different. This one was a Winery Wedding. I've had the Central Park Wedding, Paris Wedding, Rooftop Wedding, Garden Wedding, Tacky Beer Hall Wedding, Aquarium Wedding, Totally Dry Baptist Wedding and Classic Catholic Wedding. I missed the Montana Wedding for the Brother Wedding. I've even had a Fake Wedding. I've been a rice bag girl, a guest, a bridesmaid and the minister. Never been a bride or had a Beach Wedding.

Maybe I'll save that one for myself.

Monica, Do Not Read This Post. It Will Only Freak You Out.

The lovely Kimbo is getting married on Saturday. I'm driving down. I suddenly remembered that every sticker on my vehicle is expired: Oil change, registration and inspection. I consider all that crap man territory, like lawn care and roofing.

I used to be really good at that changing the oil every three months thing, but now those dudes are using some sort of fadeaway ink on the reminder stickers they put in the window so now I know they used Penzoil, but God only knows when that was.

I also found my registration form in one of my purses, unopened. It's only four days expired. That's the least of my worries. I know for sure my car has never been inspected. When do you have to get new tires? I have no idea. I probably need those too.

I hate standing in line at government agencies and beaurocracies in general. That may be why I ignore these things until I get a ticket. Then you just stand in line some more, but at least I didn't have to stand in line for like a year.

My friend Monica will have a heart attack when she reads this. She is the opposite of everything I said today. The thing is, I don't really care about any of this stuff. I seriously don't think it matters in the big picture, which is the one in which I'm happy. I can just see Mon's face. I told you not to read it!

PS. Mon, I have an interview tomorrow and they are totally cool with summer school. The salary is decent. It's also a healthcare media outfit, so isn't that a coincidence? It's all going to be ok, I promise. I have to go get my oil changed now.

Creepiest. Dream. Ever.

Last night I dreamed I was John Leguizamo's hooker.

Only I didn't know he thought I was hooker until he tried to pay me. I didn't take the money, but I thought about it. I didn't take it because I thought he might be a cop. Dream DisRespecca has street cred. I think he's going to get killed off ER. Which is fine. They've had too many totally messed up doctor story lines.

First Doug has to bring in that girl whose name he didn't know who died because she had epilepsy and was doing coke in Doug's bathroom and her sister came to claim the body and didn't know Doug was the lowlife guy she spent her last night with and he felt guilty. And then Carter gets stabbed and abuses prescription drugs. And Luka nails a patient's mom in the supply closet and then has to tell her her kid has cancer. And now we have JLeg who does drugs on the weekends when he isn't on call and gets shot by the psycho husband of the psycho woman who followed him from Jersey and who is now stalking him and apparently JLeg doesn't know the number for 911.

No more crazy doctors.

I forgot that time when Dr. Green stopped the elevator and pretended to shock that guy but only held the paddles up in the air and just watched him die. Like I said, no more crazy doctors. Let's get a nice one who gives out lollipops.

Tuesday's Bonus Aside:

I got a copy of my transcript from my wayward then reformed college days. Man, I had shitty grades the first time around. Why my parents didn't make me come home after I got a 1.6 GPA, I will never know. I do remember when my dad put my grades on the fridge when I got my first 4.0 though. He's a good dad. I would never have made it out alive at all if he hadn't put his own life on hold to take care of me. He still has a button I gave him a billion years ago that says "Ask not what your Dad can do for you, but what you can do for your Dad." It's on his fridge in Vegas.

DisRespecca is the biggest Daddy's girl that ever lived. I think I'll give him a call.

I Have Got To Stop Talking To Strangers.

So last week we had a girls happy hour and it was delightful. Excellent HH, ladies, I had fun! In fact, I had so much fun, I kept going. I decided to capitalize on my some French word I can't figure out how to spell that pretty much means good will so I stopped by Vickery Park.

I met these two dudes Ryan and Sergio who invited me to watch a movie. They're neighbors. So I went. I know. I can't believe I went either. Seriously. I know better than that. But I was curious and I have insomnia and I'm tired of being up late all by myself and I had no designs on either of them.

There are too many people out there who, while not evil sociopaths bent on my torturous death, just have too many issues of their own creation. And I like to sit next to them at bars and ask questions.

We never watched the movie. We pretty much just watched Ryan check his messages 48 times before he decided he wanted to hit on a waitress at The Corner Bar. I thought it was a bad idea, but I caved and agreed to chaperone the outing.

I should have gone with my gut. I ended up paying the tab for all three of us, which was not my intention at all. When the check came, suddenly Ryan and Sergio were not making eye contact. Whatever. I frown sternly upon them.

Ryan is nuts. He is involved in a toxic relationship and I think ol' Sergio may be a bit co-dependent. Ryan has called me twice. Once at 5:45 in the morning and once at 1 am. You must stop this random calling, sir. Nothing good can come of the middle of the night phone call. Note to self: Stop giving insane people your number, for God's sake.

My tendency to want to see what happens next has not resulted in my death or imprisonment in Hannibal Lecter's basement, but it also hasn't brought me a state of zen enlightenment either. That's why I say I have got to stop talking to strangers. The entertainment value of such shenanigans has rapidly waned in the light of day.

I blame it on my crushing case of insomnia. I will do pretty much anything to distract my brain so I can get some sleep. Except talk to more strangers. Present company excluded. Thank your lucky stars I can't blog away in the middle of the night. Like the late night phone call, nothing good can come of blogging after midnight.

Bonus Aside:

East Dallas' Best Named Business: Chupacabra's

We used to tease one of the bus boys at Wings N More at the end of the night. When he had to take out the trash, we told him the chupacabra was hiding behind the dumpster. Poor kid was terrified. One of these days, I'm going to get a snow cone at Chupacabra's and maybe buy a saint's candle to keep the evil eye at bay.

Jury Duty, Target Freaks and How I Pissed Off the Librarian

I was out of Jury Duty by 11:30 am so I don't have any voir dire stories, but that doesn't mean I didn't see anything interesting. I forgot to bring a book so I eavesdropped and stared at people.

The guy to my right wore a cool Tuskegee Airmen jacket and told me when I was looking over his shoulder to see what he was reading that Iran has an electromagnetic pulse weapon that can make airplanes fall out of the sky. I think I saw that on the X Files in 1995.

He also told me Iran is going to use it this year. I'll mark my calendar. He was underlining important points in his book, but as I recall from my higher education, it doesn't help if you underline everything on the page. Poor Tuskegee Conspiracy Theory Guy.

History Buff Guy was on TCTG's right. He saw the snazzy jacket just like I did and super enthusiastically asked if TCTG had any relatives who were Airmen. TCTG said no and HBG was done with him.

Then on my left was Namedropper Lady who apparently knows every rich man in Dallas. Not the Mark Cuban rich guys, the Cullen Davis rich guys. She was reading a romance novel in hardback. I bet she never smoked Virginia Slims.

Then there was Mr. Know It All. He had an answer for everything and was the smartest kid in the class. He read an Internet newspaper. I would not want to be on a jury with that guy. You know he'd insist on being in charge and not want to discuss anything. I would have to vote not guilty just to make sure Mr. Know It All didn't take the defendant out back and hang him, even if he was clearly guilty. On the plus side, Mr. Know It All had a voice made for books on tape. Everything out of his mouth was pompous and condescending, but if you ignored the content, it sounded great.

Then in front of me was Karma Chick who decided that since she was a good person, fate had stepped in to skip her juror number. She was a people pleaser. Mr. Know It All would totally have stepped all over her in deliberations, and she would have probably brought cupcakes.

Rides The Bus Lady behind me complained about gas prices. It takes her an hour on the bus to get to work in Addison, but only 10 minutes if she drives, but she takes the bus anyway. It was her day off on Monday and she would have still been in the bed if she hadn't had to come downtown. She was also a half hour early due to the train schedule and Union Station was right next door so she didn't have to walk far.

Gay Oak Cliff Guy has white liberal guilt about not using public transportation, but since he works downtown and Oak Cliff is so close, he drives to work anyway. Gay Oak Cliff Guy is very conscientious about talking to people of color in a normal tone of voice. I told you he had white liberal guilt.

Silent Helpful Lady behind me adjusted my pashmina when I was cold and couldn't get it to lay flat on my shoulders. She was my favorite.

When I got to Jury Duty, I was resentful and determined to keep to myself and a bit hostile. It was the biggest coach cabin in the world and I was determined to avoid making any single serving friends.

But by the end of the morning, I changed my attitude.

Everyone around me was complaining about jury duty and how long it takes and how inconvenient it is and how they hated it. I wanted to smack them all on the back of their stupid heads and tell them that people all over the world are living lives without choice of any kind.

They don't have jury duty because the militia just shows up in the back of a Toyota pick-up and starts shooting.

So yeah, shut your fat privileged mouths or move to Darfur and see how that works out. I thank my lucky American stars and stripes that I can sit around all day and either watch Maury Povich or not. After Jury Duty, I went to McDonald's and took a four-hour nap. God bless America.

Then after my interview Tuesday, which went well I think, Jason bought me lunch. Thanks dude! Then I went to Target.

I saw a woman and her new lower-back tattoo. I don't think she had her pants zipped because she had slung them way down on her hips so they wouldn't touch her ink, but she had wrapped a sweater around her hips so no one would see her ass cleavage. I almost asked her if it had started itching yet.

Then I saw Freakily Young For Puberty Girl. I've heard tell that girls are developing as young as 8 these days. And that overweight girls are more likely to develop early. I saw proof at Target.

I saw a chubby girl I swear couldn't have been out of third grade wearing a bra. But the worst part of it was that it was some patterned hot pink number that showed right through her little school uniform white shirt. What is that girl's mother teaching her? I believe in wearing a black bra under a white shirt if you're going out at night. It can be sexy if done with the right attitude and accessories. But that's not something a third-grader needs to know until college. She'll be on the poll by seventh grade. Let's welcome Destiny Chastain to center stage!

And then yesterday, I pissed off the librarian. I got that damn sticking space bar computer again so I decided to switch keyboards after the guy next to me left. I had no idea it was going to have such dire and lasting consequences.

On a Mac, you just unplug stuff and plug it back in and nothing bad happens. But the library's Dell POS's (pieces of shit) are set up so an alarm actually sounds and the damn thing crashes. I set off two alarms and crashed two computers and brought the librarian lady running. At least it wasn't the guy who told me I couldn't bring bottled water in and I said "OK" and walked off. He hates me. I have a bottle of water in my purse right now. I think I'll take a sip. Ah, thirst quenching goodness.

Anyway, my computer never rebooted and I couldn't log on to a different one because the reservation system still had me in an active session. So I told her I was sorry, the keyboards need to be cleaned, and then I left. Today, one of the computers I crashed has a big OUT OF SERVICE sign on it and the sticky keyboard is gone. I think I'll go graffiti the ladies' room.

ReadBecca Was Here.

I'm Such A Sellout.

I'm wearing a bra today. I might as well vote Republican.

I missed the calcium focus group due to writing down the wrong address. I ended up in Deep Ellum, which is a far cry from Uptown. I can now give tours of East Dallas, except I can't decipher all the tags. I wish I had a tag. Someone tagged the dumpster at the Lakewood library with "BORED," but since I could read it, I suspect it was a middle-class white kid with not enough parental supervision.

What else is new? I dreamed my parents owned a convenience store on the banks of the Seine in Paris. It had Slurpees. I worked there occasionally but had problems scanning barcodes. If you've ever been to Paris, you'll know just how ridiculous this dream is.

I got the Final Jeopardy question right. Che Guevarra. Maybe I'm not that much of a sellout after all.

I'll Alert The Media.

Today, Mr. Rogers got a haircut. And people on Family Feud are dumb.

I'm going to use my calcium focus group money to get a haircut and tomorrow I'm going down to the prestigious El Centro College to get all registered for my nursing school prerequisites. But first I have to pay that parking ticket at A&M that I got for parking in a faculty spot during my very last final. I've owed that money since December 1998.

Who wants to be my first needle stick? If you let Jane scan your heart, then this will be like the same thing, only pokier.

I Haven't Worn A Bra In Three Days.

Mostly because I need to do laundry. I did half the laundry yesterday. I might do the rest today or I might just go braless for a week and see what happens.

What is up with France? I think rioting in the streets is just something they do for fun.

I have the worst keyboard in the library. The space bar sticks. It's difficult not to just let the words all run together. Itwouldlook likethis. No thanks. I quit for today. I'm getting really pissed at this space bar and it doesn't go with my braless vibe.

If The Pope Came To Dinner

I would make teriyaki salmon with jasmine rice and spinach salad with mandarin oranges and balsamic vinaigrette. I'm assuming he would visit in the summer and that would be a nice thing to eat when it's so hot outside you're never really that hungry anyway.

For dessert, fresh berries and whipped cream. If he wanted to say mass that would be cool. I've never been an altar girl. That was all new-fangled when I was a kid and controversial down in Corpus Christi. It would be like when my aunt and uncle had their friend the priest over and he'd say mass in the dining room. It's still my favorite way to go to church. I would totally have a private chapel on my estate if I were rich.

Wouldn't that be cool? Me and Father Benedict just hanging out, saying mass and having a nice piece of fish.

The Texas Workforce commission Thinks I'm Lazy.

The TWC has denied me two weeks of dole money A.) for filing late and B.) for having the flu. I have to send in a written appeal. I want my $700. I'm really tired of the whole jobless scene. This would be so much better if I had won the lottery.

What can I do for $25 an hour? (Insert your own dirty joke here.)

I have no skills other than editing and being generally fabulous. I wonder if the TV stations are hiring. I would make an excellent reporter.

We're going live to ReadBecca at the scene. ReadBecca, what can you tell us about today's city council meeting?

I have absolutely no idea, Rick. I was totally bored and stopped listening. City council meetings have been pretty lackluster since that time a couple years ago when that woman peed in the trash can when the council wouldn't let her continue to speak if she left the room. Reporting live from Dallas City Hall, I'm ReadBecca for Channel Eleventeen News.

Where The Eff Is ReadBecca?

Right here, kids. Regular posting is difficult these days, especially because every time I get a chance, the library computers are so sloooooooooow, I get frustrated and give up. I hate waiting.

Anyway, I survived St. Patty's in good shape. I spent seven and a half hours at The Idle Rich Pub. Thanks to the Wall Street Journal, I had free fish and chips, four beers and two girly Lemon Drop shots. Then I had three more beers served by a cute bartender who I ended up breaking up with as I was leaving. He was funny. I like boys who play along.

I do not like girls who I barely know telling me I'm going to be a cat lady. Some girl who hangs out with Matt the Miller Man decided she was the person who needed to intervene in my lonely, worthless life. I quote, "Your friends are worried about you." Like my guy friends sit around and talk about how worried they are about me. And she doesn't know the book club girls, who are actually my friends. And then she said something about sweat pants and Gray's Anatomy. If everyone who watches that show in their comfy Sunday clothes went out and bought a cat, the nation would be experiencing a run on tabbies.

Um, here's a tip. If I have never, ever called you and you have never, ever called me and we have never, ever hung out without Matt being around, and your number has never, ever been in my cell phone, and you have never, ever seen me naked, we are not friends.

I barely know this woman, and I wouldn't choose to know her if I had the choice. She's a friend of a friend, and I don't like her very much anyway. So to have a person on the fringes of my life decide to judge me, well I wanted to punch her in the face. Since violence is never the answer, I just got another beer.

They had an excellent band called The Kildares. The are a rock Celtic band. Very danceable and sort of punk too. I enjoyed them immensely. Then I got hungry and went home.

Other than that, I'm in a calcium focus group for $50 thanks to WritingGal, and I have JURY DUTY on April 3, which I cannot wait to report on. If I'm on the jury, I am sure to have stories of interest. People at jury duty are weird.

I still don't have a job.

I'm Pretty Sure My Lungs Are Filled With Jell-o.

Woo spring allergy season! I have this totally awesome cough. It's got a pattern. I cough twice. Cough cough. Then about five or ten minutes later I have to really cough. COUGH! It's terrific. I feel like I can hear liquid sloshing around in my lungs. I want to stick a tube in there and vacuum it all out. Wouldn't that be great? I could finally get a deep breath.

I gave ReadBecca's address to a couple guys I used to work with. Now I can never go back. I hang my head in mock shame.

If ReadBecca doesn't re-enter the corporate world, what should she do? Sacking groceries is my plan B. What do you suggest? What would be the ultimate out-of-the-fast-lane job? Remember Office Space? He worked construction. What would you do? What do you think ReadBecca should do? Discuss.

OK, So Apparently My Love Knows Some Bounds.

I set my alarm so I'd have plenty of time for pancakes before the debauchery of Greenville Avenue. And I thought "Eh." So I didn't go. I just didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like just going and making friends with strangers and hoping I ran into someone I knew. I mean, it's really hard to find your friends in a crowd of 15,000 (according to Channel 11). So I bailed. For the first time since I moved to Dallas. I even went last year after Jacquie's baby shower when we had booze in the glove compartment. It's the end of an era I suppose.

But there's a chance to make up for it. The REAL St. Patty's is Friday. And I don't have a job. I think I'll be at Idle Rich about 3 pm. Maybe earlier. Y'all call me and let me know if you would like to meet me. Jason, this means you.

I still wore my green shoes yesterday.

Interview Numero Tres: Now That's What I'm Talkin' About

I went to Aquent today to see if I could get some gigs freelancing. They gave me an orange coffee mug and a calendar. I could cuddle with them right now.

I told them I would consider myself a freelancing sucess if I could get 30 hours a week. I'll take more, but to me, that's the benchmark to being able to live on freelancing money. So we'll see how that all turns out. Art Squad and The Creative Group have made nary an overture. I suppose I can call their non-communicative asses up in the morning and say "What gives?"

Other than that, I'm looking to partake of a happy hour situation. And I need something green to wear on Saturday. Something green and mucho flattering. I may have pancakes alone on Saturday morning, but I don't intend for there to be solo pancakes on Sunday morning, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink. Say no more, say no more.

I wonder where I could score a green velvet ladies' tuxedo.

My Love For St. Patrick's Day Knows No Bounds.

I love St. Patrick's Day. I love the cheezy plastic crap every beer company hands out. I love the weird hats. I love wearing green. I love pinching people. I love it when it's a nice day and I love it when it's crap weather. I love drinking early in the day and I love that I run out of money and somehow manage to keep scoring drinks. I love it when Michele buys Jell-o shots to go. I love it when Stefanie wears her straw hat and her Vanity Fair flip-flops. I love it when Sebastien can't stand up straight. I love talking to strangers. I love playing Spot The Foreigner. I love having to walk home because I spent all my cab fare. I love being the first to arrive and among the last ones standing, except for that time I had a migraine and went to sleep in Jacquie's driveway. I love ruining whatever shoes I wear that year. I love being absolutely covered in spilled beer at the end of the day. I love watching the mounted police clearing the street. I love watching people get arrested. I love bumming pizza off strangers. I love going home in a complete shambles every year. I love looking at the pictures and not remembering being in any of them. I love all of it. Every last alcohol-soaked minute of the day.

I do not love the port-a-johns. It's a personal badge of honor how long I can wait before I have no choice.

So join me if you will. It is DisRespecca's biggest appearance of the year. You might even call it her birthday, her bat mitzvah, her sweet 16, her Golden Anniversary, her raison d'etre.

This Saturday. Greenville Avenue. As early as possible. I think I'll have pancakes at IHOP around 10 and then head to The Dubliner.

It's possible I may act inappropriately and loudly. I will tell you I love you. I will probably spit when I talk. I will boldly go where lots of people are also going. I will revel in my abandon, Tom Petty-style.

Go on. I double dirty dog dare you to come with. And bring extra money. I'm so going to make you buy me drinks.

Interview Numero Dos: Much Better

It's hard to care about jobs. The one I interviewed for today sounds like it involves staying late a lot. Yeah, I don't want to do that.

Aquent called me today. We'll see about the freelancing. I have to go take another test on Wednesday. But I don't care. Today is such a nice day, what I really want to do is go drink beer on patio somewhere and watch the wheels go round and round. I just love to watch them roll.

Ah, Spring! My favorite season! And next weekend is the St. Patty's Parade. Which means it's me and Not Having Sex's anniversary. We're registered at Condom Sense.

New York: I Don't Think I'd Make It There.

New York is fast. You can't just stroll around gawking at stuff. I hate feeling rushed all the time. I amble. I perambulate. I lollygag. They don't have time for that in New York. Maybe I should try Brooklyn.

I have an interview on Monday for a job I don't think I want. I think I'd rather bag groceries at Central Market. But I'm going. And I promise I won't show up drunk this time.

We met the drunkest Scots in the history of drunken Scots in New York. Shout out to Ann, Jake and Campbell, who lurved him some Stefanie. Who wouldn't? She's a knockout.

Would It Be Wrong If I...

spent my free time watching the teenaged Lacrosse players practice at St. Mark's?

I drove by there today, and thought about becoming the new hot teacher. Mary Kay Letourneau. I don't want to be lumped in with that crazy broad.

Bogda and Jason, I really think you two should hang out. It would be like colliding comedy atoms.

I got nothin'. I'm 35. Good pancakes. No job. A mountain of laundry to do. Weather's bad. Speaking of weather, I need to check the report on NYC.

Look for us on Letterman!

Interviewing: I'm Not Wild About It, Either.

Interview did not go as well as I expected. I was told I made some mistakes I shouldn't have. I thought some of them were simply judgment calls, and I would have argued my point if it was a real-life situation. But it's not good form to argue with someone who's interviewing you. In any case, I don't expect a call back.

Which is fine. They just wanted me to dance. Editors don't work directly with writers there. What is the point in that, I ask? What they want is a proofreader so they can say "DANCE, MONKEY! DANCE!" I am a copy editor. And if I have to explain the difference, then I am going to punch you in the face next time I see you.

I found three more leads, which is my unemployment quota each week. And it's only Wednesday! I can watch Lost in peace knowing that's taken care of. Now if they'd just send me my severance money so I can spend it all on vodka tonics. Or, you know, food. And souvenirs from New York. I'm going to write something about how to vacation in New York for 50 cents a day when I get back, if I really go. I need to make some calls on that topic.

I can't think of anything else. Being out of work is robbing me of creativity. I'm not getting enough contact with other human beings so I'm missing the spark that anger always brought to the blog.

I think I'll sit on a street corner for an hour and see what happens.

Valentine's Day: I'm Not Wild About It.

I haven't liked Valentine's Day since I was 16. A guy told me he couldn't see me anymore that day at like 7:30 in the morning. Granted, he was 28 years old and went to high school with my older cousins, one of whom had given him a call and suggested he rethink dating me. He was the Young Life leader. Scott Something. He picked me up for our first date and I was wearing Keds and my socks and my hair ribbon matched. He was wearing a Cosby sweater that really brought out the gray in his hair. It was the only date both my parents waited up for me. On the couch. In the living room. With all the lights on. And the TV was off. To this day, I can't believe they let me even leave the house with him.

So I'm not big on Valentine's Day.

On a completely different note, I have an interview tomorrow morning for a freelance position. They actually wanted to hire me full time, but I turned them down. They want me to work nights. Yeah, I don't want to. I'll charge them time and a half working nights as a freelancer so it won't cut into my cabana boy time. Ah, Raoul makes a mean rum punch.

The birthday celebration will indeed involve pancakes, only at a cute little diner called Lucky's. I'm going to drink 35 mimosas to commemorate the day.

You know who's surprisingly funny? Martha Stewart. She had Kenny Mayne on today, and was freakishly fun to watch. Man, I miss SportsCenter. I used to watch it in college because I thought it was funny. It was usually 2 in the morning, so maybe everything was funny then.

Happy V-day to you, grudgingly.

Expert Negotiator Needs Job.

I asked for more severance money and got it. I am brilliant. I also had some interesting dreams about Naveen Andrews from Lost. Nice! I spent an hour trying to go back to sleep to see what else would happen. Mmmm...Sayid.

Anyhow, I applied for three jobs and the freelance agencies have my info so I guess that's progress. I have allowed myself this week to be a total bum. I have only accomplished the essentials. Next week, I'll be much harder on myself.

Ooo, 18 minutes. Have to bail and not be interesting today.

Man oh man, Sayid is hot. I'm just saying.

You Know What Show Rocks?

Freakin' Sesame Street. That show is awesome! It's way better than The View.

Day Two of being Under Utilized. I am so bored already, I can't stand it. It's one thing to lay around on the couch all day when you know you don't often get the chance. It's quite another knowing I can do it until some unknown time, who knows how long. Enforced laziness is not as much fun. I feel like the guy who was Sloth in that movie Seven. Which by the way is the most disturbing film I've ever seen, and I have a high tolerance for disturbing. It made me sick.

Anyhow, I'm going to make a list today of Things To Do. From getting my oil changed during the early bird weekday special to campaigning for Kinky Friedman. Maybe he'll give me a job when he gets elected.

Hey, at least I brushed my hair today. That's got to count for something!

Also, ice cream and fruit snacks is a healthy dinner right? Note to self: The official number of too many fruit snacks is six.

Chik Fil A is also the lunch spot of choice for North Dallas stay at home moms and their not yet school age children. They're also remarkably well behaved.

What's going on in the world? Let me know...

The Scoop.

The library sucks. I have only 17 minutes left of Internet time for the day. You only get two sessions of 25 minutes each. I used my first session to file for unemployment. Then I emailed WritingGal, who gets a shoutout for being helpful.

There were 11 total people let go on Friday, all departments, all levels. The word on the street is "Blame the new business team. They suck." It blindsided everyone and the troops are scared. They miss me. Word from my source is, without ReadBecca there to get it done, "we're screwed." Wooo! I told them so.

Friday night I did the only rational thing you can do at a time like this. I shaved my legs and put on glitter eyeliner and went drinking.

It didn't get as ugly as it could have because I left my wallet at home and had no ID. After happy hour when the doormen show up, I was out in the cold. I know. I look great but I don't look underage for crying out loud. Had to settle for looking through the window at Matt the Miller Man fondling a beer bottle and pointing and laughing at me. I was tired and needed to go home anyway.

I have nine minutes. I feel like Kiefer Sutherland and I don't even watch that show.

Bogda, if I don't call you it's because I can't find your cell number. I don't know if it's still the 214 one. I know I have it on a post-it in one of my get-out-and-stay-out boxes I packed on Friday. They're in the car still.

So if you hear of any editing gigs, let ReadBecca know. She's not busy. She won't even drink on the job.

Mental state: Eerily calm, disillusioned, sober

Five minutes! Time to spell check, publish and get the hell of Station 3 before some other jobless bum kicks my ass for hogging the computer.

Ciao, cheeky monkeys.

ReadBecca Gets Laid.

OFF.

Yes, children, I was made redundant, let go, given the pink slip, received my walking papers, had my position impacted by a corporate reorganization, invited to leave, shown the door, and given the bum's rush.

I do not have a job. Or health insurance. And no, I did not see it coming. On Tuesday, I got a raise. On Friday, I was laid off. Yeah, I don't understand it either.

The severance package I've been offered? Not great. The usual two weeks. I don't get my three weeks of vacation for being with the company six years and I wasn't allowed to say goodbye to my friends. Which makes me a little sad and a little bitter, even though I know it's not personal. If you work for a company that's owned by one of the biggest media holding companies in the world, well, you've got to know up front that it's always going to be about the Benjamins. I get it.

I don't love advertising and I was planning to quit later this year. Just not this week. Because my ducks are all over the fucking place, not in a row. In any case, I'm sure everything will work out. I've got my mom committing insurance fraud to get me free drugs and my friends are being so wonderful. Such good people I'm blessed with.

I'm making a list of all the things I need to do. File for unemployment. Get a library card. Carpet bomb the job market with my resume. See if I can hack it freelancing. Get my old apron from Wings N More out of storage and practice doing tip percentages in my head. Take down my naked Christmas tree. Don't sleep until noon. Exercise instead of watching daytime TV. Put a plane ticket on my credit card and go to Paris for a while. Go to Vegas and gamble my unemployment checks. You know, all the practical things you make excuses for because you're too busy or too tired after working all day.

Tomorrow: Take a final look at my resume. Email it to everyone in the world. Sign the damn "separation agreement" and return it to my former employer. Be nice. Don't burn the bridge. Arrange a goodbye lunch with my former co-workers. Let them pay. Talk to the admissions adviser of the nursing program I'm trying to get into. Cure cancer. Save some orphans. Generally behave in a saintly manner.

I thought I might hang out at Starbucks, but they probably will want me to buy something. I'll hang out with Legless Joe, the head bum in my neighborhood, and get homeless tips. I'm too soft to live on the streets. I don't know how to carry a razor blade in my mouth like the best crack whores do. I better start practicing.

It's going to be weird when I don't go to the office tomorrow and don't yell at people all day. I've been telling people they're morons every day for six years. I won't know what to do with myself without awkward sentence structure to correct and ignoramus art directors to browbeat.

They wouldn't let me take my red pen. Bastards.

I Have A New Nickname.

There's this girl at work who is that cool girl. The one who wears cargo pants and a long sleeve t-shirt under a short sleeve t-shirt and puts her hair up in that messy pony tail and wears glasses and still looks like a Fashion Do. She's the one who sits in the back and says pithy things under her breath. Cool.

Today she called me HaneDog. I have never been called HaneDog before. Do I have to take up snowboarding now? I really don't want to jump out of a helicopter. Being buried in an avalanche is only slightly less horrible than dying of a shark attack, which I think is my greatest fear. Because I think you'd be alive long enough to know a shark was eating you and that would be truly the absolutely worst thing in the world and then you'd die with that knowledge. I hate sharks. And being cold.

But being called HaneDog by the cool girl, who can talk about pee and make it sound cool, that might be worth risking at least a little frost bite.

HaneDog out.

I Think I Want A Pancake Breakfast Birthday Party.

Y'all know how much pancakes mean to me, and it's slightly wacky, which is one of my strengths, so what do you think of an IHOP 35th?

I don't know what's up with me trying to think of wacky things to do. I don't think anyone thinks it's as funny as I do. Not everyone gets it.

You know who gets it? My dad. And you people who keep coming back for more. My step-mom has to talk my dad out of doing wacky things all the time. Like the time he wanted to put a giant fish (or was it Rolling Stone lips?) on the back of the bathroom door to freak out guests. I was totally for it, but we got vetoed. We have wacky DNA.

Being deliberately unusual all the time is hard. Sometimes I just don't have any wacky left to give. I think now is one of those times.

I'm all out of fresh wacky. I'll be over here being usual if you need me.

ReadBecca's Birthday Is In 16 Days.

I'm turning 35 in two weeks and I can't decide how to celebrate. I've considered driving go-carts. I've thought about arranging something at Jimmy Choo. This is a big birthday so I'm compelled to do something special. But I can't think what. Especially since three days later, we're all going to New York. Limits the budget for everyone. What to do? What to do? Anyone know where I can rent an elephant cheap?

My Date Got Fresh With Me Friday Night.

That Stefanie has a mouth on her, let me tell you, even if she is ReadBecca set on low.

We had a girl-date Friday night, dinner at Rockfish and drinks at ye olde Trinity Hall, our former club house. There was a time when you would find one or two of our gang there at any given time, any given day of the week. We were such the regulars that we were once driven home by a member of the waitstaff after celebrating a rather, ahem, graphic ballet. (It involved a giant tissue box.) Anyway, we hadn't been back in quite some time and we needed to check if we still knew anyone and if so, was it possible to date them. We did still know a few, and no, dating any of them is not permissible.

The conversation we had that is repeatable is the one about The Mystery of the Two-Vested Lady. Lady walks in wearing a long denim jumper, a giant ruffled red purse and an overly large fur vest. Whoa. Very uncool mom outfit from sometime in the 80's. So fine. We note the fug and move on.

However.

The fug didn't stop there. Denim jumper/fur vest combo has bagged her a man. She's canoodling in plain sight! Wearing a red turtleneck over her denim jumper with a fur vest and the largest red ruffled purse known to man.

But wait! There's more!

She has removed the fur vest, revealing a secondary vest of denim and studded patchwork embellishment. She achieved vest failsafe with the primary fur number and a back-up should the Soviets launch a vestal first strike. And if that first strike had come, she was set to do it for her country with that guy with the vest fetish. And Stefanie and I would have been clinging to each other, whispering sweet tips about the best exfoliant for dry skin.

We are so buying some vests before New York.

DALLAS! STARS! DALLAS! STARS!

Oh man you have GOT to go to a hockey game!

Stefanie got her sexy little hands on some tickets Wednesday. SOME tickets? Uh, they were SECOND ROW OFF THE GLASS tickets! Directly across from the Stars bench. You get a free program with seats like that, which Monica and I used to pick out the hottest players before the game started. Johan Hedberg, please be my love slave, and bring that kid Klemm with you while you're at it.

You can see everything. The players are all sweaty and manly and like two feet away. And when this girl sang the National Anthem, she didn't suck and whenever the word "star" is in the song, everyone shouts it out like this:

Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright STARS!, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that STAR!-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

It's like Manifest Destiny that we're going to win. And it was a great game! They tied and went into overtime, then when no one scored, they had a shoot out! And the Stars won! Because of Manifest Destiny! And the winning goal was made by the awesomely named SERGEI ZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBOV! And because the Stars scored at least 3 goals, everyone got a free taco! I can't resist a sport where the announcer comes on and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was the TACO GOOOOAAALLL!" And I was so into it that I didn't even have to look up anything on ESPN to refresh my memory.

I am not a sports girl. I don't care who's playing or who wins. I do not own a lucky orange thong like some people I know who enjoy Longhorn football.

But Dallas Stars hockey, hell yeah! I had a fantastic time.

Burn Him! Burn Him, I Say!

There are lots of people on Oprah's message boards who, like James Frey, are filled with The Fury. It never fails to amaze me how people use the Internet to get so worked up about things. Message boards are today's angry villagers with torches. It's a good thing it's virtual because Mr. Frey would be dangling from the tallest tree right about now.

It also reminds me of the deeply philosophical lesson I learned from Men In Black: "“A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it."

Monday, April 2, 2001, 6:05 AM

This is the first email I got from Evil Edward after he went back to England after we met. Recap: I met him on St. Patrick's Day. We spent two weeks together before he went home. By the time I got this email, he had already told me he loved me and we had started talking about one of us moving to be with the other. My comments in brackets.

Good Morning Darling, [He forgot my name already.]

I got your email first thing this morning at 2.30am plus you [First typo!] one from Alison's machine [BlackBerry] while I was walking around like a zombie, suffering from jet lag - It's horrible [Playing sympathy card.], I'm now sitting in the London office at 9am thinking it is three o'clock in the morning! [I'm so discombobulated! I'm so cute when I'm being a prick!]

I want to go to bed, preferably with you and just sleep for a week. [I know we had a lot of sex the last two weeks, but I have problems becoming erect and I also ejaculate prematurely. I will be having all the orgasms, not you.]

I'm glad you went out and spent time with your friends, went for a meal and watched a movie and had some drinks. [You're too needy. I want to spend time with my friends, go for a meal, watch a movie and have some drinks – without you.]

What about me, well - I WENT TO THE PUB ! [AND YOU WEREN'T THERE! IT WAS TERRIFIC!]

I met one of my oldest friends father in there with his son in law who I know and " chilled " - [I got absolutely hammered with these two dudes and hit on women all night.] I did breathe a sigh of relief after my first mouthful of beer. [I am an alcoholic.] At one point I did joke and ask for " a vodka martini, straight up with a twist of lemon " - [I'm gay.] I was met with complete confusion by the bar man and it felt like the entire bar went quiet ! [But I'm totally in the closet.]

The flight over was o.k. apart from the fact that there was a fat woman opposite me that kept on snoring and having to be woken up by the cabin crew. [I joined the mile high club with a flight attendant.]

I've spoken to Nicola because she phoned me to let me know Marmite is not well, [I'm actually married and we don't even have a cat, but I had to make this up in case you check my phone records.] I did go over to see him, [I fucked her.] it does not look good, [It was fantastic.] he's lost alot of weight [She is so hot.] and I have told her to take him to the vets today [She may be pregnant.] ( which she should of done before me ha having to tell her ) [I thought she was on the pill.] , I am afraid it does look like the end. [I'll never leave her.] I have told her I have met somebody else - [What happens in Dallas, stays in Dallas.] I will tell you more when I phone you later today - [I need time to make up some more bullshit.] don't worry everything is o.k. [I am going to destroy you in the most painful way I know how.]

I have had my meeting with my manager. [Not only am I married, I have a mistress other than you.] There we were, me thinking it is 3 in the morning [It was actually 3 am.] and him just having flown in from South Africa, [I called her for a piece of ass.] both of us not very mentally sharp. - [All we ever do is fuck.] The meeting went well, [It was fantastic.] he has given me some training goals to learn by the end of June. [She gave me an ultimatum.] Everytime he mentioned a training course I kept asking if that it would be held in Dallas..! [I'm going to dump her. It's a lot easier just to lie to you because you're so far away, you'll never figure it out.]

There is a course for one week in April which he said I could go to in Dallas, [I'm never going to deliver on any of my promises.] I am waiting to see if there are any spare spaces - [I will always have a bullshit excuse for not calling.] some more of my training will also be in either Toronto or Boston [I'll never be faithful.] but I will be able to take time out afterwards as the rest of my team will be in the Bahamas on a corporate expensed weeks holiday for services rendered - [I'll never leave my wife because she puts up with it.] I will hopefully be going next year as I do not qualify yet due to my time in the company (and yes, I can take a friend ! ). [As soon as I meet someone better than you, I'm going to dump you.]

Just to let you picture things the office in London is approx 5 miles west of Heathrow and is called the priory as it is a old stately home, [I work in a cubicle like everyone else.] it looks great but is not that practical as you have to fit the building not the other way around. [I am in charge of every aspect of this relationship.]

Tonight I am going to the golf club to practice my whack fuck and meet the gang. [I like to slap women around, screw them and then tell my friends about it.]

I will know in a couple of weeks if I will be going to Barcelona -[If she turns out to be knocked up...] if I am pack light! [...I'm out of here.] Tomorrow I am back in the London office with a client and Wednesday I will be in Gothenburg so get ready with those map pins ! [You will never be able to find me when you need me.] after that I will play a crafty side show and work in Nottingham and join a gym to get some weight off. [I am an accomplished liar and everyone thinks I am the nicest guy they've ever met.]

I have so far enjoyed a tuna sandwich, no steak or lobster! [The wife likes it missionary-style.]

Anyway, I will phone you later as my manager is at the next desk and I have been typing this message to you for a while. [She's getting suspicious.]

All my Love [More lies and pain than you have ever known,]


Edward Robbins [I'll just let the email signature do all the work since I can't be bothered to actually think about pleasing you.]
[Company name and phone number deleted.]

Just so's you know, I don't know if he was married or not. Since I was wrong on so many other things, it's entirely possible I didn't even know his real name.