Holy $98 Overage Charge, Bat Man!

Ok, so my damn phone bill came and it had a massive overage charge, which I never do, because I don't talk to that many people, so my dang phone bill was, let's see, can I do math in my head, 41 goes into 158 how many times? Anyway, it's a fucking huge phone bill, for me anyway. So no one call me. Text me, but not more than 250 times, because then I'll have to pay for them assuming that I answer each text, which adds up to 500 texts total. Which I can add up in my head, thanks. So to recap, don't call me, you bastards. Text me, please, but only if it's important. Because I can't be spending my beer money on fucking phone calls, ok?

Hey, do you remember Carl, the straight guy who knows all the words to Grease? I do, but he don't remember me, kids, and he's sitting right next to me, ignoring me, which is fine, because I'm not in the mood exactly to be too nice to strangers. I'm in the mood to pick a fight, actually, and I haven't felt like this in forever. I didn't miss it.

Let's not go picking fights for fun. Hey look, my battery power is running out. Dang. I wonder if they would install an outlet at this end of the bar for me. That would be so convenient. I can't move to the geek corner with the outlets because people are occupying all the outlet-adjacent tables.

It's very difficult being me.

PS. Tonight's drinking is sponsored by last month's freelance gig, which I finally got paid for today. Don't worry, I'll pay the phone bill tomorrow.

Well, Fuck ME, Sweden, As It Turns Out.

Sweden - 3
ReadBecca - 0

Not only was I wrong about the shelves being faulty, I cut my hand on the glorified laminated cardboard backing piece, which drew blood, and I was wrong about needing the drill. They provide this little hand-cranky thing that made me feel like I was starting a Model T. Ikea means "Just because the instructions are internationally understood pictographs doesn't mean you'll follow them correctly, you ignorant American." There wasn't a damn thing wrong with the shelves. The half-circles were where the pins fit in the adjustable shelves. Bookcase successfully assembled. Books successfully out of dresser drawers. ReadBecca contrite.

Level of realization there are many more books in boxes in the storage closet: High.
Next Ikea storage solution: Chosen. And measured. Will fit CD player. And serve as bar.
Height of Eiffel Tower lamp: Too tall. Trade places with paper shredder.
Level of realization ReadBecca didn't measure paper shredder: High
Confidence level that paper shredder will fit on non-adjustable shelf: Medium-low

And all this home-storage assembly was done without the aid of adult beverages. Amazing. Now I only have to get a job. And pay tuition. And get something to eat. I'm freakin' starving.

Just in case it wasn't completely clear:

Sorry, Sweden. My bad.

Fuck You, Sweden, And Your Fucking Bookcase.

Ok, so right now I hate an entirely pleasant country and I know that's irrational, but still. If the two of you who have been to my house in the last two years remember, there has been a tall, skinny cardboard box leaning against the wall pretty much since I moved in, right? It's the bookcase I bought for all the books that are in my bottom two dresser drawers instead of clothes. All my clothes are in the laundry basket getting wrinkled right where I can see them and find them. Anyway.

I opened that fucking box tonight.

First, I couldn't find the instructions. Then as I get set with the drill charging (I know the directions always say you don't need a drill to tighten the screws, but fuck Sweden. You need a drill.) and my hammer at the ready (yes, I own tools that aren't sexual in nature.), I take a good look at the shelves themselves to make sure I'm using the correct ones first, I realize that half of them are fucking fucked up. The pre-drilled holes are all in the fucking wrong places, and not only are they not in the right fucking places, they're half off the edges. So instead of a fucking round hole in the wrong place (0), there's a bunch of fucking half-circles (c) off the edges of four fucking shelves. Fuck these fucking Swedish shelves. What the fuck does Ikea even mean?

Fuck their fucking cinnamon rolls and their fucking 90 day return policy. And fuck putting all the fucking furniture back where it was. I WANT that lamp in the middle of the fucking floor. The only thing I'm going to put back is my CD player. It can sit on the fucking floor just like fucking college for all I care.

This never would have fucking happened at the New Yankee Workshop. Support public television now!

Besides the monumental bookshelf fuck-up of '07, I have other interesting things to speak of, but now I don't want to. After all this time, it feels weird to talk about it, even though it's like the reason ReadBecca exists. I guess the only thing I want to say is that St. Patrick's Day is no longer the anniversary of anything. Except that time Michele ordered seven Jell-o shots. To go.

What The Hell, Thursday?

So apparently, Thursday is date night at The Dubliner. So there are no ruffians or ne'er-do-wells with whom we may consort, however innocently, or not guiltily, whatever the case may be. Stef is here with me, and we abandoned our ginormous table that we never sit at for the bar, which we always sit at, and we feel much better. Except now I'm writing and Stef is bored. Writing is a solo process. It blows that we can't write at the same time. They make sex toys with remote controls for two, but still, I blog alone. I'm sure Stef appreciates that. (Official disclaimer: we are just friends, and not in a Perez Hilton way.)

I am a mathematical genius. Took the algebra final and despite not knowing an effing thing about logarithms, I still got an 87.something, so I hit my 64 quota and have my A overall. Please hold your applause. Hey, cook me a steak. I'm all stream of consciousness right now. You would be too after 4 or 5 beers and a bunch of blinking Christmas lights. Oh my gah, Stef just outed me blogging to strangers. I blushed. I can look at vibrators for two hours today, but two dudes see me typing at a bar and I blush. My brain is so miswired. Ok, now I can't think. I better buy some shots or something. Self-consciousness ruins everything. Self-awareness is heretofore banned.

Ok. Who wants a Tuaca shot?

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Shitty Weather.

I don't like winter. I like the clothes though. But winter itself I can do without. These gray days make me want to stay home and eat potatoes. Summer makes me want to stay home and eat lettuce, so there's the yang to the yin right there. I've got a winter birthday, so that's good. I hardly have to share with other people on my birthday because 95% of the American population was born in September. Rock on, Aquarius.

I just paid a bunch of bills. I had money to burn for 10 minutes and now I'm poor again. I hate that. I had to harass a freelance client for a check after that. Bitch better have my money. I'm starting to get all cranky and moany. I was going to go look for vintage ties today. I suppose I still could, but what if I find some? I can't buy them. And that is worse than not looking at all. The only thing I can legitimately purchase is a #882E scantron. I got a quarter in my purse for that. I'm hoping hot chocolate when I get home will at least partially lift my crap mood. I think if I deliberately stand outside until my fingers turn blue, I'll appreciate the cocoa even more and I won't feel sorry for myself anymore. At least I have cocoa. There are people who are much worse off. Poor cocoa-less waifs.

My hair looks good today, so I've got that going for me, which is nice. Dinner is already cooking in my crock pot, so I'm going to have something delicious waiting for me in addition to hot chocolate. I will also have garlic bread later. Nothing is better than garlic bread. I stand by that statement. I ate the ice cream, but I do have the extra creamy and delicious strawberry yogurt in reserve. And Stef's delicious chocolate cherry brownies. I ate the Chex mix last night. All in all, things could be a lot worse. I don't live under the I-45 bridge. I'm not a crack whore, so I don't have to hide from my pimp. I don't have tuberculosis or scabies. I'm not married to someone I don't love. Oprah isn't trying to have me killed, because she could, you know, if she wanted to. My umbrella is way bigger than that guy's. I've been to Paris. Hey, look at that, I'm smiling.

Think of one good thing and have a better day. You could count ReadBecca as your good thing; it's just a suggestion. Dang, now I've gone all sappy. Huzzah for mood swings!

Dang, When Did It Start Raining?

I was googling some smut and I must have really been concentrating because it's raining and I didn't notice. Note: I am sitting a foot from the window. If a truck came through this joint, I'd be the first thing it hit. It is rather notable that I didn't see it start with the rain.

Anyway, the combination of not having anything better to do and a weekly appointment means the other six days of the week all I think about is smut and how long it is until Monday and what I need to do to get ready for it. I shouldn't have this much time on my hands. It's dangerous. If I start talking about building a home dungeon, fill out an application at Dairy Queen for me and make sure I show up for the interview in something other than a latex apron and boots.

Remind me to actually take my algebra final. I'm preoccupied with visions of sugarsmuts dancing in my head.

Dang, You People Are Behind.

Ok, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Last Friday we hit The Capitol Pub and gave it 3.5 ReadBecca Beers. It's a bit large, which will make it hard to talk to strangers, as opposed to the forced intimacy of the much smaller The Dubliner, which we went to after The Cap. We shut the joint down and talked to many, many strangers, including a 24 yr. old with more mouth than experience with old broads, I'm betting.

Then there was Married Randy from Oregon who was totally turned on when I equated Canada with R.O.U.Ses, I don't think either one of them exists. And when he used his big come on, "You smell so good, what is that?" And I said, "Soap." I thought he was going to die at the thought that I just walk around smelling like that naturally. (SoftSoap body wash, Milk & Honey flavor, pick some up at Target today!) I've seen about 67,392,503 girls swoop in to "save" their friend from an undesirable, but I've never seen a guy do it. MRFO's friends swooped in to save him from me, obviously the town Jezebel. I thought it was funny. Didn't they see me avoiding Randy's attempts to kiss me? Guess not. This is my official notice to the state of Oregon: I don't fool around with married men. Very bad juju comes from such things.

The alleged Canadians were funny. One of them was supposed to have been a hockey player. I wouldn't know, but he kept signing things (my empty beer, a coaster) so I kept one (the coaster) just in case it wasn't total bullshit, which I'm sure it is, but still, you never know.

Our first stranger of the evening was Chris, who had to stand around waiting for service, when my beer was already waiting for me before I even sat down. ReadBecca: You better recognize, and Chris did, with an obvious, "You must be regulars." That we are, son, that we are.

Also, we saw people we hadn't seen since last St. Patrick's day and that time we made out. It was weird how everyone we talked about suddenly showed up. I should have said, "Hey Stef, you know who we haven't seen in forever? George Clooney." He would have magically appeared.

I suspect one of the people we hadn't seen since last SPD was trying to make me jealous. Ha. He always wanted me more than I wanted him. I love it when that happens, which is, like, never. He gave me more notice than was required after the initial "Hey" combined with the chin lift, touching the small of my back as he passed by, when he could have kept walking without any need to get close enough to touch me and I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't. Making sure I knew he was there. Ha.

Yeah, I'm gloating! So what? It was a good night, on all fronts. My jokes were funny and I looked hot. The planets were all aligned. It's nice when someone says you're pretty, even if they're drunk and from Oregon and married to boot. And then Guy Who I Made Out With Once was all, "Where are you girls going now? I've got wine and a fireplace." and we were all, "Home, dude." which is code for "Once was enough. We're through."

Turning him down was easy. Mondays are much better. I like having Monday in my back pocket at the moment. It'll do.

Aside from working it, I've been doing Algebra like a mad woman. The final is next week. I can get as low as a 64 on it and still pass the class. With an A. ReadBecca got mad Algebra skills. Who knew?

Hey guess what. My house is still clean. I KNOW. It IS crazy. But still don't look in the closet.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,” the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

I can't explain how good it felt to sleep in my own bed, soundly and through the night, only to be awakened by Zipperhead, an old high school buddy who now flies for Homeland Security. Zip's called me four times in the last week. He called me sober this morning and asked me all the same questions he asked me when he called me drunk the first three times. He usually calls me from the tub, but he's an amateur. No bubbles.

But that's ok because I needed a wake-up call. The power went out and my alarm clock was blinking like all git-out when the phone rang at 9:30. Note to self: change back-up battery. The power goes out too frequently for no reason to live dangerously without it.

I've been on the Internet for three hours and I have nothing to show for it. It's weird. I got some things done today, but since it's virtual, I don't have any proof. I don't even have a list to check off. To-do lists make some people, and by some people I mean Stef, feel great when they cross stuff off. I just feel inadequate looking at all the crap I have to do, especially if I can't cross off every single thing. The worst thing in the world is a to-do list with everything crossed off except one. I'd rather cross nothing off. I keep telling you my brain doesn't work like yours.

Hey there's a new bar in town which I am curious and excited about. I intend to check it for wi-fi as soon as possible. I should come up with a rating symbol. What would be a good graphical representation of ReadBecca? "ReadBecca gives this bar two and a half Foreigners." What about Bitter Points? That begs the question, is a high number of Bitter Points good or bad? Or I could start equating things to countries, like so: "If this bar were a country, it would be Rwanda." I could also use states. "This bar is Kentucky. Let's get out of here."

Any suggestions, pets?

I Miss You, Laying Down In Bed To Sleep.

After a lovely joyful years-long asthma-free period, I can't breathe. You smoke one lousy stinkin' cigarette for no apparent reason on a Friday night, and then you're cursed with nearly two weeks of shortness of breath and coughing so hard you seriously think you're going to crack a rib or something, if your throat doesn't close up and kill you first.

I haven't slept in my delicious bed in over a week. How can I use "delicious" to describe my bed? Because when I'm in it, it feels so good I can taste it, that's how. Anyway, I can't lay down because my lungs seize up when I'm horizontal. I've been sleeping sitting up on the sofa. It's not all that much fun. It's not all that comfortable either. I've woken up in some weird configurations lately, and not in a good way. Which reminds me, since I had to cancel last Monday, next Monday should count double, doncha think? Hot damn!

I tried to listen to my lungs with my handy dandy stethoscope, but I don't know what I'm listening for. The only conclusion I've been able to come to is, yes, I am definitely breathing. The advantage of having a tiny bathroom is it's easy to turn it into a steam room. I enjoy the steam. I like to pretend I'm at the country club. Except there's no cabana boy. I gotta get me one of those. (What a perfect Christmas gift you could give ReadBecca!)

Other than that, I got nuthin'. I've been holed up at home. After I finished the annual ReadBecca Thanksgiving Film Festival (this year's theme: DVDs I've picked up and put back down at least three times at Premiere Video - Away From Her, No End In Sight, In The Land Of Women, Copying Beethoven and Amazing Grace) I don't know what I've been doing. Seriously, I can't think of anything. I haven't been anywhere or done anything. Jesus, how can I not know what I've done for the last week? I haven't even been drinking. I must have watched a lot of PBS. Wait! Yesterday I watched the Teletubbies! Thank God, I haven't completely lost my mind. At least I remembered something.

Ok, let's wrap it up. I'm not sure about this Pushing Daisies show. I feel like I should love it but I don't. I find it twee and annoying. I also admit I've been skipping How I Met Your Mother to watch Dancing With The Stars. Don't worry, I'm sufficiently ashamed of myself, you don't have to trouble yourself to admonish me. I even missed Slapsgiving. How dare me!

I'm Sorry, Charlie Brown.

I forgot I had to be at school at the same time as the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special. Dang. But here I am, cold beer conveniently located and battery fully charged, to tell you how much I kick ass at Algebra. I kick very much ass at Algebra. There was only one question where I was halfway all WTF? and due to the wonder of Adobe Acrobat, I have checked the text book and even when I don't know what the hell I'm doing, I can figure it out enough to not look like a total dipshit.

I win.

My wit and bad-assery are legend. I suggest you bookmark ReadBecca now, before I start snubbing people, and you can't get on the list.

So what else is new? Nada. Unemployed? Check. The Foreigner still mooning after me? Check. Family-free Thanksgiving? Check. Allergies? Check check. It'll be a green tea and Claritin holiday, God bless us, everyone! Allergies mean that I will be wearing a scarf of some sort until they're gone. I know it's all in my head, but my sore throat feels better when I wear a scarf. Today I have my green fuzzy one. It's so soft and cozy. I wear it with pajamas around the house. I've been known to sport the green scarf, mismatched pj's (Horrors!), and my tiara. I like to remind people who they're dealing with.

You people have a thankstastic holiday. I'll see you on the other side, or sooner if the beaujolais treats me right.

Love and gravy,

ReadBecca

You Should See What Happens When Someone Brings Me Coffee And A Croissant.

So, Monday, yeah. I suggest everyone have the Mondays I've been having lately. I'm not kidding.

Let's see. What sort of Thanksgiving film festival should I have this year? I don't think I can take the final season of The Sopranos. There is such a thing as too dark, even ReadBecca knows that. Musicals? Only if I buy more wine. There's the tear jerker route. Beaches, Steel Magnolias, Terms of Endearment and ET. Also, only if I buy more wine. War movies? Only if I buy more cigars.

Next up: delicious cooking for one, not as sad as you might think. I think I'm going to eat steak. They don't make single-serve turkeys. I checked. Do you think Marie Antoinette would have kept her head if she'd said, "Let them eat steak!" instead? (She didn't really say it anyway. They wanted her head on a plate no matter what the poor woman said.)

PS. Yes, I will be watching Charlie Brown tomorrow at 7 Central. You should be too.

My Head Hurts Too Much To Be Clever.

But not bad enough to actually sit here and watch this dumb ass movie. Josh Hartnett, you are cute, but I'm still not watching you and Han Solo in this crap. But I will watch until this scene is over, but only 'cause it's got Smokey Robinson as the sound track. Han Solo would never call a psychic.

Ok, so all I wanted was an empty chair, but to get the chair, I had to sit down with a bunch of drunk golfers who kept saying how classy I looked, but wouldn't stop talking about my boobs. Then I met the worst wingman since Maverick killed Goose. The second his buddy went to the men's room, he told us his buddy was married to his cousin and was only in town for the weekend to see the Cowboys. So obviously he had to be busted for taking his wedding ring off and being a drunken jackass from Minnesota.

Then I hung out with the substitute doorman Alex, who carded me. And I smoked one cigarette, yeah I'm stupid I know, and I blame my headache on that and not eating dinner before I went out last night. My hair hurts.

Ashley invented the space bubble bath. It's a clear plastic suit with a neck gasket to keep the bubbles in, and you shimmy around to make the suds. It comes in a single or double model. NASA will be thrilled.

I need to lie down. Or take a shower. Or lie down in the shower. Whichever. Hey do my laundry and put clean sheets on my bed. I can't sleep in hangover sheets. I can't sleep in fever sheets either, but that's neither here nor there. When you're done with that, you can play with my hair until I fall asleep. That's it, thanks. Oh, and make me some lemonade. Thanks.

If Friday Were An Algebraic Equation, Its Graph Would Be A Big Ass Parabola.

I have been doing Algebra. All day. I only stopped to clean up some broken glass.

See, my Kool-Aid pitcher was on the same shelf above the fridge where my cookbooks are and I guess Tyler Florence and Jamie Oliver got into a fight over me, and the big dumb dude from my 1967 McCall's cookbook that assures me I can win the heart of my man by baking a cake jumped in and things got really ugly and they knocked my pitcher off the shelf where it exploded into about 93 bajillion pieces and what looked like shiny sand.

Those boys. Aren't they adorable?

I'm so glad I was just solving non-linear systems and not sleeping when the melee broke out. I would have had a myocardial infarction and would be down at Parkland right now, probably still in the waiting room because I don't have any health insurance. It was a rather loud noise.

So that's my Friday. Algebra and broken glass. Surely there's a bad poem in there for the annual W.B. Ray High School lit mag.

I suppose I ought to get dressed and go check the mail. I probably ought to go buy some more adult juice boxes from Target. I was going to hit Central Market and make a pot roast tomorrow, but dang it, it's going to be 79 degrees tomorrow and it's too damn hot for pot roast. I guess I could grill some chicken or something. I don't have a grill.

I could go the old Dad and ReadBecca route and just make a bunch of appetizers instead of dinner. I think we lived on cheese and Triscuits for like four years. It was awesome.

I think this Thanksgiving when I go to Luby's with all the people from the old folks' home whose children don't visit, I'm going to sit with some old dudes. I think I'm bringing me some adult juice boxes for the team, too. Won't Happy Acres be thrilled to get back a mess of liquored up grandparents on a holiday? Fantasic. Then we'll all go to outerspace and be young forever.

Zach Braff. Probably a jackass. I didn't used to think that. But now I got a feeling. I have no idea why. Anyway, he's suspect. I got my eye on you, Braff.

Uh, Wednesday, I Guess.

After a trifecta of Wednesdays, I hit bust.

This Wednesday involves ice cream. And bordeaux. Duh, I'm not totally lame. The chocolate part of mint chocolate ice cream is working nicely with the bordeaux, and the bits of cork complement it nicely as well. I always turn the worm once too many times. That is not a euphemism.

ReadBecca doesn't talk dirty. (Saying fuck a lot doesn't count.) So when ReadBecca works herself up to leave an admittedly half-assed inarticulate voicemail offering a particular service generally acknowleged the world over to be a desirable one, it's a red letter day for her. The letter might be red to match her face, seeing as how the voicemail was not returned.

One the one hand, ReadBecca is having a massive I-carried-a-watermelon moment and on the other hand, ReadBecca thinks it's hilarious. I'm all, OH COME ON! It's been nearly six years and now I can't even give it away. I'm sitting here smiling, shaking my head and thinking what a ridiculous thing this is to have happen. You'd think I planned it. I mean, I did think about it all day before I made the call, but I didn't practice the actual words. I never thought that it wouldn't happen. Funny. I never see it coming.

These are my actual life and times and they are so stupid. It's chick lit. With a pastel cover and some long-lined cartoon chick with a pink martini. Ok, I just looked up at the TV and saw some chick with gold bling in her mouth that said UPGRADE. That is possibly the most pornographic thing I have ever seen, and I've been to a strip club that only had a jukebox the strippers had to put quarters into to have something to gyrate to. That's not in the chick lit section. It's in the back with the bongs.

Hey, guess what. This year's beaujolais nouveau comes out tomorrow! Wooooooo!

Monday. You Better Recognize!

Hey, buy me these shoes.

They need a home where they will be loved and appreciated and worn with a very tasteful French maid outfit. They're on sale on ninewest.com and I wear a 9m.

How many jobs out there do you think will let ReadBecca have Mondays off? Monday is climbing the charts as my fave day. I mean, I will always always always love Tuesday afternoons, and Sunday mornings are quite nice as well. But breakfast at nine and not watching a movie on Mondays and being done by 12:30 and then taking a nap and a sandalwood bubble bath ain't a bad way to start a week.

I got a call today about a possible job with like, a paycheck involved and everything. But I'm sad because it means giving up Wino Wednesday and MMMMMMMmmmmmonday. Here's hoping I can stretch it out for another week.

Demon Insomnia is plaguing me again. I went to bed at 11 last night, and again at 1:30, and once more at 3, and I gave it shot at 6 just for the hell of it. I even tried to take a nap and got pretty much nowhere near the Land of Nod. I could never be a prisoner of war. I would crack so fast when it came to the whole sleep deprivation thing, it would curl your Aunt Fanny's hair.

I'm going to have some Jell-O and see if I can't go to sleep at 8:30 like a third-grader.

Remember, those shoes aren't going to buy themselves, and black patent is a classic, and who are you to deny me hooker shoes?

Wino Wednesday

Ok, so that makes three Wednesdays in a row that I have been out boozing it up with The Foreigner. I got home earlier this last time, but less sober. I had an adult juice box before I went out, two splits at The Dub, and another adult juice box when I got home. Yeah, I woke up with wine stains on my pj's, you want to make something of it? I was surprisingly not hung over on Thursday, just tired from the weird dreams about The Foreigner cleaning my kitchen naked and then having sex upside down (like a bat). The funniest thing is, I tried to post when I got home and could not figure out how to copy and paste the entry after my neighbor's wifi kicked me off. Seriously. I couldn't do it. I probably tried for an hour. Somehow I saved it as a .txt file but even I'm afraid to read that shit.

Also, ReadBecca cleaned. Call the Vatican! We need to verify this miracle! ReadBecca still needs to do the floors and some dishes, but she quit after two days of hard labor. (Ow. My whole body hurts.) Whatever happens, DO NOT look in the closet.

Ok, so I went ahead and looked in the .txt closet and it's too...ReadBecca. It HAS to see the light of day, with no corrections or censorship. Enjoy my issues. That's why I have them. To entertain strangers and friends alike. And now, without further ado, I present Wednesday's musings on the modern situation!

Dang it all to hell and back, ReadBecca is conflicted.

Yeah, I know ReadBecca's set point is fucked up and conflicted, but still. ReadBecca was supposed to have been violated nine ways to Sunday by The Foreigner by now,
but ReadBecca, in a fit of self-esteem, actually turned the fella down. I know! Either you're saying, "Atta girl!" or "You stupid bitch, never turn down perverted sex of doom!"

The thing is, I agree with you. All of you. The headline was supposed to be "We'll Always Have Wednesday." and here I am, Wednesday, like the last two Wednesdays, except home earlier and yet drunker, and I can't stop thinking about
The Foreigner's freaking kisses and the 46,892 glasses of wine that have made it freakin' impossible to stop thinking about the delicious kisses of doom that I will regret and crave all at the same time. I hate him and all that he stands for, except for unless it's delicious red wine from a box and I am listening to Crystal Gayle. Hang on, I have to find the remote.

Also, thank God I didn't burn the fucking house down. When I left to tell The Foreigner to "FUCK OFF, YET NOT SO FAR AS NEVER KISSING ME AGAIN," I thought I put out the candle I had burning all day, and Hey, guess what! That bitch had been burning all day, and into the night. Thank God I'm not a hobo. I couldn't deal with being a hobo and not having sex all in the same day.

And dammit, preparations were made! There was exfoliation! There was use of the good bath products! And it's all my fault because I know The Foreigner will never touch me unless we're having sex. He's not hand-holding guy! He totally admits it! He's friends-with-benefits guy, and I have plenty of guy friends already! And it is totally unfair that a classy broad like me has to work so hard for dirty monkey sex combined with a little hand-holding.

Seriously, if you're here, you know the last thing ReadBecca needs is to throw gas on the fire of chaos with like, a relationship. It would be great if I were the kind of person who could wander around life three glasses of wine in, except that state is unsustainable and then people like The freakin' Foreigner ask stupid questions like "Are you ok to drive?" which can only be answered with, "No, but I'm gonna." which is stupider than fuck, and yet, what the hell is The Foreigner going to do? Especially since said The Foreigner said he wouldn't read ReadBecca anymore since ReadBecca has expressed regret on on more than one occasion of having given The Foreigner the ReadBeccam address, because now she can't talk about him freely and ReadBecca really doesn't give a shit either way right now. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

lySerious;u

It is not fair in any way that I am not having dirty filthy illegal delightful carnal knowledge of The Foreigner right this very minute. And trust me, if I were, I would not be all typing away at this moment and shut up.

The other day, ReadBecca realized the difference between ReadBecca and actual people. If someone asked actual people to walk down a creepy dark alley for apparently no reason, actual people would say "Fuck you and the white coat you rode in on."

ReadBecca says, "OK."

And has no conception of what could happen down said dark creepy alley, nor does ReadBecca care. ReadBecca thinks they're just taking a walk. ReadBecca wants to see what happens next, damn the consequences. ReadBecca has always been that way, which could explain why ReadBecca has a lot to write and/or seek therapy about. Either way, it makes for good material. Hang on, I need to take a sip.

ReadBecca doesn't want to think about tomorrow. ReadBecca wants to make some memories and have good material. ReadBecca wants to be interesting and out of the ordinary. ReadBecca thinks that self-destructive artists like Van Gogh were fucking morons, but then she sees Van Gogh's self-portrait in the Musee D'Orsay and the Haystacks exhibit at the DMA, and she wants to be first in line for that kind of crazy. Bring. It. ON.

ReadBecca wants to be immortal.

What the hell, Crystal Gayle? Did I say STOP?

I have adult juice boxes from Target and Crystal Gayle's greatest hits on repeat to infinity. What more could I ask for except for to not be cold while I'm writing all my ridiculous bullshit and to have a little carnal knowledge of an inappropriate suitor who isn't exactly pursuing his suit? Again I say: It. Isn't. Fucking. Fair. That. I. Have. To. Choose. Between. Self. Respect. And. Banging. The. Foreigner.

Even The Foreigner wants me to do the right thing. I hate him and everything he stands for and all his reserved control and remoteness and I want to break The Foreigner, but The Foreigner is so self-contained and ReadBecca is so emotional and lacks the kind of focus it would take to make that damn Foreigner beg until he cried.

I want to buy a riding whip.

Man, I am so full of shit.

Big Birthday Bash Now With Bonus Random Gunfire!

So the annual Matt the Miller Man and company birthday bash was this past weekend and as usual, free beer is awesome. Basically, I threw a subsidized cocktail party for my friends, since I invited seven people as my guests and we sat outside on the patio and socialized amongst ourselves. I snagged a tray from behind the bar and loaded it up with beers in plastic cups and it felt like 50 cent draft night at Wings N More circa 1996. Then there was the gunshots. Yeah, I don't want to get shot just for free beer.

Sherlock's is kind of on the edge of a bad neighborhood, and it's not normally a place in my drinking repertoire, so now it's right out. Or if I have to go back next year for the birthday bash, I will stay inside where it is marginally safer.

Hey I just got off the phone with The Foreigner. Yeah, I know there's like hundreds of foreigners I talk about, but this one gets the official title for now. He's a neat freak. Fantastic. We'll never have sex.

The Foreigner thinks of his place as his Fortress of Solitude, and I can't have people over without a year's notice because it's absolute chaos, so unless he gets us a room at The Mansion, we're just going to have to continue making out in the street at the end of the evening. Besides, he has a thing about not picking women up on dates, plus he's got that motorcycle-for-one thing, so as long as I'm driving myself, I've got no reason not to take myself home, alone, as usual.

When somebody picks you up, you're sort of at their mercy as to when you go home. The pick-up date is an instant reason to go home with someone. The meet-you-there date says, "I am sleeping in my own bed, with my own pillow, diagonally across my bed with no sharing or having to listen to you fucking snore all night, you bastard."

Dang, at some point I need to do some Algebra. I think there's been a test posted sometime last week and I haven't checked the website and I skipped class both times last week. Once because it was do-your-homework-and-ask-questions day, and I already did my homework and I didn't have any questions, and once because it was Thursday and I wanted to watch Gray's Anatomy and nurse my headache from Wednesday. Shut up. I have a 4.0.

So finding a job and learning Algebra are delayed because I would rather go to the movies with The Foreigner and not have sex because we both have issues about letting people into our space and he's not picking me up, which seems like a good enough reason to continue The Streak. I mean it's been nearly six years, so what's the point in breaking it now? I might as well go for the decade and then go on Oprah to talk about it so America can discuss my sexless existence as either something noble or pathetic, depending. Then I can get interviewed in People magazine and be one of the 50 Most Interesting Dried Up Crazy Old Maids. It'll be very.

I have to go pick out an outfit and coordinate my eyeliner and lip gloss. I can't hang around here entertaining you people all day. I have people to not do and movies to criticize. And you should get back to work too, you lazy fucks.

No really, I heart you. Come back tomorrow. Mwah!

Trust Me. You Need Silver Shoes.

Ok, so I have to give myself a Wednesday curfew. This time, I was out until nearly 3 a.m. I know. I'm ridiculous. Who do I think I am? A hipster hanging out in Fair Park with no responsibilities like my blog makes money or something? I lecture myself so you don't have to.

The bartender at The Amsterdam Bar is named Sheldon.

"A Sheldon can do your income taxes, if you need a root canal, Sheldon's your man... but humpin' and pumpin' is not Sheldon's strong suit. It's the name. 'Do it to me Sheldon, you're an animal Sheldon, ride me big Sheldon.' Doesn't work."

He looks more like an "Ace."

Also, yesterday I decided to cut my own bangs. I know. Who do I think I am? Adam, the guy who cuts my hair and who always does an awesome job and who will cut my bangs for free in between haircuts? I don't even have good scissors. I have three-for-a-buck scissors from Ikea. At least I didn't cut them too short and give myself Xena, Warrior Princess bangs from 1996, which I had BTW and which I dyed one shade away from black. I know. I was an idiot.

It has become apparent to me after decades of dying my hair for fun and profit that it's a have-to situation rather than a want-to situation. I have recently noticed that I am going gray, for realsies. And yeah, I know I shouldn't bow down to the impossible ideal of Western Beauty and all that shit, but you try bucking the system when you live in Dallas. Dallas invented the system. I know. I should move. Moving's a hassle. I'll stick with Lady Clairol for now. (That's not an endorsement. I prefer L'Oreal products, but Lady Clairol is funnier.)

You know what's fun? Lavender and chammomile baby bath bubble baths. That is an endorsement, particularly when you stay out too late on a Wednesday. Damn Wednesday! Wednesday is heretofore banned. Bath products for babies are not banned. They are encouraged, because they're cheap and they smell good and they leave you all soft and delightful. I couldn't stop smelling my arms all day yesterday. I know. When I picture it, it's weird too.

Hey you know how I hate the freakin' coffee house station on XM? I figured out how to fix that. Headphones. I know! I'm a genius. But now I look like a Headphone Geek like all the other Headphone Geeks I used to silently mock. At least I'm the only one here today. I can hear Cell Phone Guy in between songs. At least I'm not that guy, so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

"When was the last time you were decently kissed? I mean, really, honestly good and kissed?"

"Dave Gammelgard. New Year's Eve. '61."

Boo, Motherfucker.

So I am once again unemployed. Yesterday, I didn't know whether or not to go to the new job, which is now the new old job as opposed to the old old job and the old new job. Damn, I'm dizzy. So I went and all hell broke loose and shit went down and things happened beyond my control. I didn't do anything wrong, in case you doubted me for even a second, and if you did, we're breaking up.

Anyway, now I can tell you the best part ever, since I don't work there anymore. I was working for the Boy Scouts. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHoooooooooohaaaarhgtaah...[cough]. That's it.

Now I'm going to become a recreational alcoholic.

I swear this time I'm going to drink during the day at least once, since I didn't the last time I didn't have a job. I've already picked the day and a potential accomplice, who doesn't work Mondays. Otherwise, I'll try to be more productive than I was last time. Note to self: 11 am is not an early time to wake up. NO staying up to watch Craig Ferguson, even if he is a foreigner.

That's all I got. I had too many IM conversations going on at the same time and now I can't concentrate on only one thing. blah I'm out.

One more thing, I saw an Army guy in fatigues drinking a Frappuccino and I busted out laughing. Is that as funny as I think, or am I just nuts?

Discover Wednesday!

I took Stef for a b-day drink on Wednesday and didn't get home until nearly 1 a.m. I blame the cheese board. Who knew Wednesday could be so chock-full of fun? And I only spent $6.50. Because Tyler has an expense account and everyone in the world works in advertising or media. So yay Tyler, yay Wednesday, boo Thursday morning, and boo boys who don't know to quit while they're behind. Stefanie's funny when she's done.

I laughed and laughed on Wednesday and dang if I didn't make two new friends. I went all old school and wrote my number in ink on a napkin. It pays to carry a pen and not be afraid of strangers.

Also, I love my new mascara. I can put on five coats and my lashes still don't clump. I'm going for 10 next time. So run right out and get yourself some Lash Exact; it's purple packaging and approved by Queen Latifah. It takes me about 5-7 minutes to do all my make-up besides my eyes. Eyes can take up to an hour with false eyelashes. I dig eye make-up of all kinds. You should see pictures of me at summer camp when I was 14. Out in the middle of the Hill Country with a plastic compass and a Xeroxed topographical map, and still sportin' both blue AND green mascara. My Holy Grail is purple eyeshadow. I can't find the right one. I have at least seven of them, and none of them are quite right.

You know, I didn't really want to blog today, but I did anyway and I feel better. It's been a day of freaking out for me because my new job called me up and told me not to come in today or Monday. I hate being a freelancer. The budget I made on Wednesday while I didn't have anything to do mocks me from inside my laptop bag. I can hear it telling me I'm going to be a hobo. But now that I've confessed to freaking out and then calming down, I'm freaking out again. Let's go back to talking about mascara.

I am going to Premiere Video and getting me something funny to watch tonight, after Ghost Whisperer. Now that chick knows false eye lashes. I dig all the ridiculous, cleavage revealing outfits on that show. You know the whole town talks about slutty, psycho Melinda behind her back. I would be friends with her, and not all weird about ghosts like stupid Camryn Manheim. I liked the old best friend better. Aisha Tyler, I think. She was on Friends for a while. Camryn was better when she was Plan B'ing people on that lawyer show that Dylan McDermott was also better on than that crap show he's on now. BTW, since when does every TV show in the world have to say "tranny hooker" every five minutes? I used to have to watch cable for that.

Damn, I need to do laundry. I can tell because I'm wearing panties I hate. I know, why own panties one doesn't care for? I didn't deliberately buy underwear I don't enjoy. It just happens sometimes inadvertently. Don't you judge me.

ReadBecca Blogs From Parking Lot. Film At 11.

Hey I'm parked outside Taco Diner! Bloggety blog blog blog!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO STEFANIE!

Leave a b-day comment for our fabulous girl. Have to run!

If Ozzie Is The Brie of Metal, Then Ratt Is The Spray Cheese That Bypasses Crackers And Is Dispensed Directly Into The Mouth.

Poison Cherry = Good Times

A rockin' Friday night was had by all. Drinks drunk and side pony tails and chicks handing out antipsychotics in the ladies room. Interesting. I also finally met Niebaum's alleged lady friend. She does, indeed, exist. I approve. (As if that matters.)

Sammy Hagar's two 18-wheelers are parked mere steps away from my front door. Ok, so it's really a couple blocks, but it's totally walkable. I love the idea that Sammy Hagar has been in my neighborhood for the past couple days. I bet I could meet him if I just hung around the parking lot after work today.

Also, they're having a screening of The Darjeeling Limited tonight followed by a Q&A with Jason Scwartzman. I can't think of any questions right now, except for maybe "After this, do you want to go get some tacos at the carwash?" I bet he'd go. I'd even buy him a 40 at the CVS next door.

But, alas, I have to go learn some more algebra. Wouldn't it be awesome if I could take both Sammy Hagar and Jason Schwartzman to class with me for show and tell? "Here are some famous people, who, as far as I know, don't have anything to do with any type of math whatsoever. I would like five points extra credit. Thank you."

I think I've found my new office arch nemesis. She's the person I sort of snapped at last Wednesday. I may just be tilting at windmills, but I swear she's taking a tone and copping a 'tude. I need a nemesis everywhere I work, or else my need to rage against The Man goes unfulfilled, and I got enough other needs currently going unfulfilled to add that one. Diane. I made copies for her for three hours this morning. I am not exaggerating. For real. I made copies for three hours this morning. When was the last time you made copies for three hours? College? Instead of just checking out the book? Yeah, I thought so.

Dang, this place smells like vanilla Plug-Ins. And I'm not even using the outlet. It's interfering with my ability to hate Diane. How can I hate when it smells like cake?

FUCK YOU, GUILLERMO.

Success! SUCCESS!

One of my favorite movies is Dangerous Liasons. I like it when Vicomte Whatshisface (J. Malkovich) runs up the stairs after he's finally bedded either Uma Thurman or Michelle Pfeiffer, I forget which, shouting "Success!" I would like to wear satin knee breeches and run up an 18th century staircase yelling "Success!" before I die.

Anyway.

I have successfully completed 28 algebra test questions with a passing percentage of 95.7 at the Dubliner, and I had nary a drop of booze in the nearly three hours I was there. First, no making fun of me for taking that long to do only 28 questions, and B.) I was IMing someone at the same time. Also, BRAVA to me for going to the Dubliner for the first time in more than eight years without drinking. It's a miracle.

Normally, a 95.7 would be a little low for my liking, but I'm trying not to be such a perfectionist with my grades and accept A's that happen to be less than 98%. I like 98%. It's fun to write. Also, it's really good to be better than 98 people, but not as good as two other people. It gives me a sense of superiority and humbles me, all in one. A nice balance, leaning slightly toward I Am Better Than You.

I am enjoying finding wifi hot spots. Chik-Fil-A invites you to stay as long as you like, so I will. Except I'm not at Chik-Fil-A. I'm next door. I have found an outlet at the combo Pizza Hut/Taco Bell (I had pizza, but now I wish I went somewhere for a salad.), and even though I'm using battery power, I am comforted by the presence of an outlet, should the need arise.

Everywhere I go, I look for outlets now. I couldn't find any yesterday, and I was disappointed. I'm sure there's a gadget that would allow me to have unlimited power or solar power or hand-cranked by a small third-world child power, but I think I got enough technology to be going on with.

A lot of old people work where I work. I don't mean just people older than me, I mean actual old people, like who could be retired somewhere or something. It's weird seeing grandparents all over the place. I always hold open the elevator.

I made a deal with the office cafeteria cashier. They use freakin' STYROFOAM cups, and I can't be using that shit, Al Gore would plotz. So we figured out that my new mug from Target holds a little more than a small, but not as much as a medium, and he's charging me I think 70 cents a cup. What a deal! I think I'll pay him on Mondays in advance and drink coffee all week without having to swipe my ATM card every time. They have a minimum purchase and I can't be going around with all these extraneous granola bars. People will talk.

I'm going out tomorrow for Stef's bday so I promise to do something stupid so I can exaggerate the experience for you after. Kidding. Every word I write here is 100% certified truish.

So Long, Suckers!

Today was Day Two of my new job. I'm still freelancing for the same outfit but they got me out of the hell hole job and into a new one. These are the things I've encountered in two days that sound like porn, but aren't:

Water sports
Stroking from a T-position
Wood

It's good to have new stimuli.

This new gig looks promising, but it's still early days. I have my own cube, but the coffee sucks even worse than the old office coffee. I figure no office has good coffee, so I won't count off for that. At least I won't have to charge my groceries to a credit card anymore.

I don't think I'll have an Ashley in this new joint. I'll save my heart of darkness for you folks. Ashley says she already misses me going to the dark place. For instance, during my last week, someone was taping up some boxes or something to mail, and they were making a lot of tape-gun racket in the hallway. Ashley says, "It reminds me of Christmas!"

And I said, "It sounds like a kidnapping."

Love and sunshiney kisses from your...

!!!!!!!!!!READBECCA!!!!!!!!

OH HELL TO THE YEAH!

I can't express how happy I am at this moment. This is huge. Only naked Orlando Bloom holding my winning lottery ticket in his teeth could make me happier.

Guess, go on guess, where I am and what I am doing. Yes, I am having beers and doing algebra homework, which I now declare to be ALEgebra, at my favorite place ever. It's like Disneyland for alcoholics. I am sitting at the bar at my bar.

Sweet mother of all that is holy, The Dubliner has wifi.

I may never leave.

I am keeping an eye on my battery level. My next task is to scope out all the outlets. I don't care that the damn Cowboys game is blaring on the speakers instead of such awesome tunes as "Lust For Life." I have an amazing ability to ignore things. It all sounds like white noise in the end. If I start being able to hear individual voices, I'm fucked, but right now, the only voice that's coming in clearly is Tara's. She's the bartender. We love her. You should too. Give her big tips. Immediately.

I am so stunned with the news that I can blog and do homework from my absolute favorite place in the world beside my own bed that I can hardly think what to say. This will totally get me laid.

This is so much cooler than sitting next to that guy at Starbuck's who is writing his book longhand and wears tweed even in the summer. He seems like he has an idea in his head of what a serious, eccentric writer should look like. I say deliberate eccentricity is called a costume. Me, I prefer occasionally wearing my pajamas in public and covering it up with a big shawl from India. No one can tell I'm wearing my jammies. Not right now. I look relatively normal for a Sunday. For any day.

Remind me to put my calculator away. Watch this. I'm going to spell BOOBLESS on it and show Stef. She would have laughed harder if she wasn't reading this over my shoulder. I am so going to die in this bar. I have a beer on my left, a glass of champagne on my right, and my laptop in the middle. Dang, I'm going to be famous. I wonder what Oprah will be like.

Let's see. What is the flaw in this plan? NO flaws. No cons. Everybody wins. This guy is pissed at the Cowboys. He said, "For fuck's sake!" I love that statement. I have no interest in football whatsoever. At least I will over hear interesting things.

TOUCHDOWN!

I had to look up when everyone was cheering. Losing battery power...must publish...and...shut down...stay tuned...for more....posts...from...the...Dublinerrrrrrrrrrrr...

ARGHERK C OE I Can't IM And Post Simultaneously

Dang, I am unable to multitask. My head hurts too. I don't know if they're related. Ashley agrees with me that calling the clitoris a miniature penis is insulting and wrong. She says the penis is "a hugely deformed clit." This is what I talk about with Ashley. She's all trying to work and code stuff or program stuff or whatever she does to the website of our employer, and then I start talking about the female prostate. Then she tells me about her pet shrimp Bubba's immaculate conception. I am not making this up.

I think I'm clenching my jaw or something. My neck ain't been right since the foreigner pulled my hair too hard. I miss Dr. Mary. I need the creepy crawly electrode treatment and a good cracking. And a nap. And a snack. And some fruit punch. Maybe a grilled cheese. Sangwich...mmmm....

I gotta go.

To Sir, With Love

I had a sex dream about Ben Kingsley.

It was a pretty ok sex dream. BK (dang, that makes me think of the creepy hamburger pimper; I won't use that in the rest of the story) was a little weird in what he was into. Not the weirdest thing I've ever experienced, in a dream or in actuality, but still weird enough that if I meet Ben Kingsley in person, I don't think I'll be able to talk to him without blushing.

It takes a lot to make me blush. I once blushed in a leather fetish store when I said to an employee "Sorry, I'm in your way." And he said, "You aren't sorry. You will be spanked." I just wasn't expecting that from a browsing experience. I wasn't even shopping. I was with a friend who was shopping for a skirt. I was totally the innocent party.

Anyway, Ben Kingsley wasn't so much into me as the totally awesome human being I am. He was nice and all, but I could have been anybody. I was just a mean to his ends with a scrub brush in the tub. I'm sure we've all felt like that at least twice, whether you were the scrubber or the scrubbee. It's ok if you're desperate I guess, but it's so much better if whoever you're with actually makes eye contact and talks to you rather than going all glazed over and mumbling "Get you washed, get you washed," to themselves.

I had another dream in which I was babysitting that guy Tucker's kid and there was a party and this guy I knew in high school showed up in drag. It wasn't fabulous drag, it was like "Mama's Family" drag. He had old lady shoes and a flowered dress on. Not a sequin in sight. There was some sort of misunderstanding with Mrs. Tucker in the dream. She was calling me and I didn't answer my phone, and she thought I wouldn't pick up for her, only Tucker, but that wasn't the deal. I just don't answer my phone in general, which you probably know if you've called me in the last 10 years or so. When I feel like answering, no one calls me. Crap, I forgot to call Jane back yesterday.

Anyway, there were tons of people at the dream party and I was dancing and trying to decide whether or not to sleep on this old brown velvet couch without being expressly invited or I should try to drive to Kerrville, which is the reverse of something I did in real life. I once drove from Kerrville to Austin to have dinner with Tucker, and I was so freakin' late and he was really pissed off but he didn't say anything and we still had a nice dinner at Houston's, even though we were like the last people allowed in to eat at a ridiculously late time for dinner. I got a ticket in Dripping Springs on the way.

Also, in the dream, we used my purse as a football, and now that I think about it, I don't think Tucker ever appeared in the dream. People just talked about him and it was his house and Mrs. Tucker was there and a bunch of other married with children types who weren't dancing or playing purse football. That was all the single people who crashed the party, including those in old lady drag. The MWCs were sitting around talking and drinking wine and I couldn't think of anything to say.

It would have been awesome if I could've taken Ben Kingsley as my date to the party dream.

I Hate You, Jimmy Vincente.

I am displeased.

I cannot defeat the kung fu of the online Algebra test. Seriously. Since I can take the damn things three times, you'd think I could get 100 perfect points. Negatory. The best I can do is a 96 point whatever for not knowing how to multiply the factors of 21. I told you I can't play Blackjack in Vegas because of all the math. SEE? I WASN'T KIDDING. I don't even make the same mistakes on each try. I find new and ingenious ways to fuck up every time. If I can't subdue the Algebra kung fu, I will throttle Jimmy Vincente. I will poke him sharply with a half-dried out whiteboard marker. I will narrow my eyes and frown at him. I will stamp my foot and leave in a huff. I will not thank him when I win my Oscar and I won't apologize for it the next morning when I'm on Oprah. Jimmy Vincente is dead to me, except for when I have to sit in his class. And then he's a vegetable to me.

Dang, it's getting cold in ye olde White Rock Coffee. They've got a hippie couple up from Austin to play the jangly guitar music and something they insist is NOT a mandolin, but it sure as hell sounds like one to me. All their songs sound the same. I'm sure they're very nice people, and I can't smell any patchouli, so I guess they're alright. I'd let them on the Ark, as long as they never came up to the Lido Deck while I was there.

Ok, that's it. There's no way WRC is going to give me another free frozen coffee beverage of any kind so there's nothing here for me. I'm breaking up with WRC for tonight, until next week when I need free wi-fi again. They always take me back. Suckers.

Ow. My Hair Hurts.

I love it when Saturday night lasts until Sunday night. I don’t love the brain pain said Saturday night marathon results in. My whole body hurts. I have bruises. They’re explainable, i.e., I know where they came from, rather who they came from. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more. I blame Matt the Miller Man.

He invited me to a wine tasting. We tasted 15 wines. I’ve never tasted more than four at a time before, and the 15 included a margarita wine that looked like peppermint Scope. I can’t even tell you what the last five wines were. The wine lady believed in heavy pours, and frequent repeats. Purple tongues galore.

Then after Stefanie caught the bouquet at the fun wedding, we met at the usual place. We met these idiots from Oklahoma. One was a married football coach who didn’t take his vow of fidelity very seriously and then he spit on the floor. Talk about three strikes. I didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly how disgusting I found him to be. “You are disgusting and unsanitary. You could have SARS.” His wife should leave him. Immediately. I curse his team with a losing record for the next 25 years. He was easy to get rid of, but his idiot friend kept loitering around Stef. We fixed his wagon. We recruited foreigners. Nothing scares off Oklahoma idiots faster than a man with dreadlocks.

The foreigners bought us drinks aplenty and we stayed until the lights came on, then we went home and drank some more with said foreigners. That was unnecessary. We have agreed not to do that again for some time. St. Paddy’s is in six months.

The Streak remains unbroken. In the Clintonian sense. Don’t judge, you dweller of a glass house! Five and a half years and counting! That’s got to cause cancer or something.

I tried out a new place to take my Algebra tests online. The Tipperary Inn. It’s closer to my house than the other place I go for free wi-fi, but since it’s a bar, it’s a bit loud, even in the late afternoon before anyone really gets there. I found an outlet to work near, but these other dudes needed it as well so I had to listen to this blowhard’s expert testimony on everything from Social Security to the pyramids. I can’t even tell you how he got from A to B on those topics, but he damn sure knew everything about everything, let me tell you.

Then the Irish music groupies got there way early so they could sit at the table right in front of the band. It was only 5:30. They must really love Irish music. Anyway, I rushed through my test and didn’t bother checking my answers so I got a subpar grade that is UNACCEPTABLE. But that’s ok, because I get three swings at the piñata. Yes, you read that right. I get two more chances to take the same test. That showed me which ones I got wrong. And the correct answers. I also have a week to complete it. Community college is weird. If the site doesn’t generate new questions when I take my next crack at it, then it’s pointless taking Algebra again because I’m sure as hell never going to learn anything. Yes, I did write down all the ones I missed. But I didn’t write down the answers. I am not a cheater, and you should know me by now if you thought I did. Cheating is for idiot Oklahoma spitting football coaches, not ReadBecca. ReadBecca is an academic angel, if nowhere else.

Also, I love Queen Elizabeth II and Inspector Lynley. They are good for hangovers.

Things I Need To Google

The IRA, particularly the Hunger Strikes, maybe some bombings and people who got caught
More hospitals
Craig Ferguson's book(s) and film(s)
Mississippi
Aging soap opera stars who unbutton their shirts too far on Tavis Smiley
Tavis Smiley
The etymology of "arrogance"
Blah Blah Blog
Santa Barbara, the soap, not the city
Malta, again
Limoncello recipes
Danny Devito as Jack Nicholson's Dill
The Louisiana Purchase
The top 10 Westerns
James Garner
Lou Diamond Phillips
The history of Corpus Christi, Texas - was it de Pineda? Definitely not Magellan.
Ponce de Leon
The Black Plague in North America
The theme song to the new Ken Burns film of doom
Edith Piaf
Local meth labs
Whether or not shoes on a wire really = drug dealer, and if so, whose shoes are they? A punk ass bitch's or his own, recently determined to be wack
Chiropractic medicine
Multivitamins
Dude ranches

WTF Albertson's?

There's a display set up just inside the doors at Albertson's. There's a folding table with arrangements of roses, which makes sense. It's the cans of refried beans in a pyramid that I don't get. Nothing says "I love you" like roses and refried beans.

I have discovered that Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream is not the best Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. I tried Breyer's and liked it better. I also tried Haagen Daz Extra Rich Light Mint Chocolate Chip, but even though it tasted ok, it had a weird texture, like it had melted and refrozen. I need to try it again to see if it was a fluke. But none of this is stopping me from eating the Blue Bell.

There has recently been an explosion of dark chocolate versions of your standard candy favorites. I lurve me some dark chocolate so I was delirious at the thought of a dark chocolate Snickers. Then I ate one. Eh. Not that big a deal, but the dark chocolate peanut M&M's are freakin' awesome, for your basic candy aisle dark chocolate. I prefer fancy dark chocolate, i.e., Godiva. In case you want to send me some.

Smokey Robinson rocks, btw. Tracks of my Tears. Awesome. That is going on my Songs for the Hungover soundtrack. Which will also feature Joey, Sunday Morning Coming Down, Blue Bayou, Tequila Sunrise, Don't Pass Me By, Do You Know The Way To San Jose? and many more!

I do not want to get on a bus with Kenny Wayne Shepherd. PBS pledge time has arrived again, and I have had enough of the blues. Last year it was folk music. That blues documentary was cool the first time I saw it and saw that guy Pinetop, who I actually saw in person in Austin at Antone's one time with Andy. That's a lot of A's. Anyway.

I have also seen all those other Austin guys who used to be in Double Trouble. I saw them play with BB King once in Bryan. I got in for free. My friend was dating this loser dude who kept talking about how he knew those guys and then they totally snubbed him. Funny. I told you he was a loser. I'm kind of glad my friend stole him right from (literally) under me. He was bad news in every way.

I've picked some winners, but I've never had one who was bat-shit crazy like that guy. I had the college boyfriend who was a sloppy drunk so I broke up with him on New Year's Eve after he got loaded in front of all my friends and embarrassed me. We were fighting in the bathroom and he raised his hand like he was going to hit me, but he didn't do it. I kind of wanted him to so I could kill him for it, then tell my Dad and my brothers so he could get killed again. He cried in my front yard. What a pussy.

I drank sangria with his friends one night after that and they told me what a mess he was and why he started dating me in the first place, and how he ended up falling in love me even though he only wanted to get some action and dump me. They weren't great friends, I guess, since they spilled the beans so easily. Anyway, he was a loser.

Let's make a list.

ReadBecca's List of Loser Exes

David from high school
David from Dallas
Evil Edward
Steven what's his name who was slightly less unmarried than he lead me to believe
Eric the sloppy drunk (it took me 10 minutes to remember his name)
Chris McCoy whose name I couldn't remember when we were dating so my friends called him Bob, but now I can't forget it
Internet boyfriend in Massachusetts who I think was named Mike and who I actually met f2f because I flew out there to meet him
Colin Farrell
Luis even though he was never technically my boyfriend, but it didn't stop us from making out, because he broke my heart
Ross, also never technically my boyfriend, unless it was after 1 am on a Saturday night
Larry
The other Larry who wouldn't sleep with me but who said I had the softest skin known to man and the world's most perfect bottom lip
The Marine with the "points of contact in Austin" Christmas card; dang, his name was David too, what's up with all the David's?

I'm bored with that list. I could make a list of things that bore me. I think I need to reinstate the I Hate You feature. That was always a hit. I'll try to work up some rage for you folks.

Auld Lang Syne

I just watched the tape of my 18th birthday party.

Matt the Miller Man was there, and Andy, who was directly responsible for Road Trip With ReadBecca: Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Edition. I don't remember the party so much as I remember the party from the night before. And when Luis called me at noon and sang Happy Birthday to me in the worst hangover voice I have heard to this day, and I listened to the whole thing, which took forever, before I said a word because I always knew when it was Lou on the phone. Then we had to go downtown and decorate the ballroom at one of the hotels for the Favorites Dance because Matt was class president and volunteered our asses. I think Luis and I worked for maybe 25 minutes before we took off and ate chicken friend steak at the hotel restaurant. I paid for him.

He and Dave procured a bottle of vodka for Jimmy's Scamfest '89 party and we took shots out of the cap until I ended up laying on the deck without shoes or my letterman jacket, which had ended up being worn by Alison Chavez instead, and it was a rare cold night for South Texas, but then again my birthday is in February so 30 degree weather isn't that strange, but anyway, I was drunker than I probably ever had been up until that point and I believe Andy carried me into the house and put me on the pool table, which sounds like the beginning of a Jodie Foster movie, but it wasn't, and I spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor and some guy I didn't even know held my hair and at midnight Lou and Dave and Matt et al slammed open the pocket door and sang happy birthday to me, which I watched with my head at their feet so they looked upside down to me, and I said, "Aw, I love you guys!" It was a good party.

And the next day was the Favorites Dance which happened also to be my 18th birthday, so everyone came to my house after the dance for breakfast, and most everyone was there before I was because Hayden Hauser and I went parking first. I wonder whatever happened to him. We met in Texas Driving School. His parents were very nice to me. I used to go over and hang out with them even if Hayden wasn't home. He took me to my prom too.

Luis and Dave sang "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'" to me and I am so glad I have it on tape. Lou called me his best girlfriend. It's so sad we're not friends anymore. But the tape makes me smile. Barbara Pruitt gives Dave Garner a classic fuck-off look. Dave being Dave was always weird. Andy got a great shot of what a hottie I was at 18. If I had only known the power I had at that age. Jimmy Zimmerman was there, and George and Erin and Risa and Frank Hernandez of "as you wish" fame and who sat next to me at graduation and carried me out of the auditorium in his arms like a movie, and told me he loved me. I bet he doesn't remember. I remember Holly and I running out the doors into blinding sunlight. It was a perfect moment.

My party is followed by an ancient episode of Geraldo. It's got neo-nazis. And then Donahue. It's a time capsule from 1989 and Barbara Bush gets a shout out at my party. I was wearing my James Avery silver ring with the teddy bear charm that I got as a little girl, so I used to wear it on my pinky in high school. I don't remember what happened to that ring, but I wish I still had it. I have big hair on the tape. Someone asks me who did my hair and I said that my mom and I did it. My mom did my hair for a Coronets dance once and I look like Priscilla Presley in the pictures. My mom graduated high school in 1967. I don't remember going to a salon for any dance except the prom. That hair-do took like a hundred hair pins to accomplish. Not bobby pins, actual old-fashioned hair pins like my grandma used. You have to stick them in and then bend one side to make them stay, but once they are in, those sumbitches ain't coming out.

My dress was red and I got it in eighth grade for my cousin's wedding, but I took it to the seamstress who made our Tex-Ann pep rally outfits and had her turn it into a bubble dress, which has recently come back into style simply to freak me out, and turning it into a bubble dress made it really short and I had dyed-to-match red satin pumps. I was not named Class Flirt.

Sigh.

It's Just Not Normal To Have Eight Bodies In A Wooded Area, That's Just Not Normal.

And the person who said it wasn't even British.

If I were a book, I'd be "Ulysses" by James Joyce. The Internet told me:

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

I have actually read "Ulysses." No, wait, it was the other one, all the short ones together. "Dubliners." And "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man." Those I read. I read "Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha" at the same time. The smallish conference room full of idiots who went to A&M, that bastion of liberal arts education, to get literature degrees thought that Paddy Clarke putting firecrakers in his little brother's mouth and lighting them was HILARIOUS. Our teacher was horrified by our desensitization to violence. We can't help it. We came up on the Three Stooges, pagan babies and learning to read with little black Sambo stories. It's a wonder we can tie our shoes.

The thing with not buying bottled water anymore is, I'm always freakin' thirsty. Tap water tastes like dirt. Dirt water or disappointing Al Gore. Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool.

Bernie Mac says stuff like "panty thong" and "Big Mama" which reminds me of Grandpa Tex for some reason. (He said "Mama Grace" and I don't even want to know if he said anything at all about thongs.) He would be horrified.

Damn, I forgot to go to the store for cokes and milk. Coffee is going to be compromised in the morning, just like it was today. Godiva coffee drinks that taste like really good chocolate milk aren't going to cut it two days in a row. Damn my tendency to stay at rest when at rest. I've been lounging around in my panty thong (not really) all afternoon, watching Dr. Phil yell at 24-year-olds with four children, no job and who sleep until 4:30 pm with a camera crew in the living room, who can't get along with their "meddling parents." Hey shut up about me living with my dad. I wasn't all up in the living room sleeping on the floor, taking booze out of the liquor cabinet to take to parties at three in the morning. I hate sleeping on the floor. I would never do that. I hate stealing Crown Royal. I would always do that.

Speaking of dad, he is pushing for me to be a teacher again, which sounds like slow suicide to me. I wonder what he'd say if I told him I was going to be a teacher, but in New Orleans. Seriously, when I say "teaching" out loud, I reflexively follow it with, "gaaalhoucgh." Which is Irish for "Shit no! Christ!" That teacher who was horrified by our Paddy Clarke reaction taught us to say "Irish" not "Gaelic" because it was a racist term. I've never once had someone tell me a Gaelic joke. That's totally an invitation, folks.

Who Are You Calling A Cootie Queen, You Lint Licker!

What the French, toast?

I may have to clean up the language soon. I have a line on a gig at a conservative Christian pyramid scheme to be named later. I know. I know. I'm not sure if it's a sign of the apocalypse either. I can't imagine a working day in which I didn't call at least one person a fucking idiot. It's why I don't teach preschool. This will be interesting.

I wish I was friends with Bernie Mac. I think he's been underused as an asset in the Ocean's franchise. Take a letter, Clooney, re: 14, Mac featured more prominently, less Pitt cheekbone.

Hey guess what? Someone in my Anatomy and Physiology class got the epididymis and the clitoris mixed up on an anatomically correct set of models. Google them if it's been a while since sex ed.

I was thinking back on Catholic school when they separated the fifth grade boys from the fifth grade girls and told us "the facts." We had to have a permission slip from our parents to hear it. And nary a word was mentioned again until I was 15.

Anyway, there was a lack of giggling and whispering and no one put an embarrassing question in the hat anonymously and I don't think masturbation was mentioned at all, and if it was, it was for sure not called "self-abuse" this time around and now we're all grown ups and shit when suddenly our teacher puts up a transparency of the penis showing the coronal plane, which if you don't know what that is, imagine what was left after Lorena Bobbitt's work was done. Anyway, so the various ducts and such kind of look like a face from that view and the teacher drew whiskers and ears on it to look like a kitty.

It was the black beret on the kitty that did it for me.

You Can Go Off The Eagles, But You Can't Go Off John Denver. The Man Was Freakin' Friends With The Muppets.

Welcome to Saturday night.

An architect sat next to us and drew cartoons while eavesdropping on all our stories about making out with people. I bet we made his blog.

I have consented to Classic Country Saturday Night, but I insisted on taking off my pants.

"I'd be happy just to date someone who told me his real name." That is my actual quote of the night. Stef''s is the headline. I owed her.

We tried to go to the movies instead of The Dubliner, but it's like the Bermuda Triangle. It just sucks you in, never to be heard from again. Except for that we didn't die and you will hear from us again and it's no where near Bermuda or has anything remotely triangular about it, otherwise it's exactly like the Bermuda Triangle.

It is totally not our fault that everyone in the North Dallas vicinity also wanted to see Jason Bourne fight people and do stuff like call people from the roof of the building across the street. Yeah, we totally watched parts one and two today to prepare for the big opening weekend show. We don't care if you think we're weird, you stood in line for The Phantom Menace, you stupid fanboy loser, so fuck off and get a haircut while you're at it.

Anyway, so it was sold out. We had drinks instead and now I'm on location and will be sleeping in The Pleasant Room so we can complete the triumvirate tomorrow at 10:30 am. There is a Starbucks behind the escalators.

My 20th high school reunion is in two years. I am uncomfortable with that knowledge. Let's move on.

I'm getting very sleepy. I think I should play some free cell to anesthetize myself even further for sleeping purposes. It's not like I carry my nightly dose or extra panties in my purse. Anymore.

I don't know what that means.

I Love You, Matt The Miller Man.

You know what I love? Thursday.

The people in my Anatomy and Physiology class are a bunch of filthy cheats. Therefore (comma) I required cocktails after tonight's test. I first called Stef to recruit a drinkin' buddy, but she elected to abstain. No harm, no foul. So txt'ed Ashley, who suggested I save it for tomorrow when we have a work outing to the horse races. Ashley is young. She is an amateur, and yet, I love her. Man, you should see all the typos I have to go back and erase. Anyway, my professor showed up high on painkillers, again, so we had no lecture or lab, just straight to the exam. But God only knows where the prof (prof, like it's 1992) went, so all the dirty cheating bastards in my class went to town looking shit up and whispering answers to each other and that pissed me off because I work damn hard to get A's in all my classes, and I am old and haven't had sex in five years so I have to appreciate pleasure where I find it, goddammit, so filthy cheaters have no place in my life. I became so outraged by the cheaters that I couldn't concentrate so I basically took the exam twice to make sure I didn't fuck up, and since lab and lecture were both canceled, I decided cocktails were appropriate. Jebus, this is the longest paragraph ever.

Anyway, I went home to change clothes and was at The Dubliner by 8:15. Must be a record for a school night. So I texted Ashley, called Erin, Andy's wife, and called Matt. Erin came out despite the fact that she was already in her "house coat" and then Matt came by too. So we had a cozy little trio and it was fabulous. Then Matt ordereds a Tuaca shot. Damn him! I declined the Tuaca and then he used the ultimate weapon on me, goddammit. He asked me, "What happened to the the old Beck?" So I had a lemon drop, and I couldn't even swallow it in one. I am a pussy. I love that we kept Andy's wife out past midnight on a Thursday. Ha! And we talked about him.

So Matt the Miller Man paid the tab, which was totally not the point of calling him, but appreciated all the same and now I am thankful I didn't have to go to a Dallas city park to blog away and can steal one of my neighbors' wi-fi from the comfort of my soup-stained couch and eat Cheetos and drink a fountain Coke and blog away undisturbed except for horrible typing mistakes and bad audio from my CD drive which is currently feebly playing the Breedlove reunion show from two years ago that I haven't listen to since like the first time I heard it, but I've been emailing with my best friend from junior high, who lives in Austin, this week and drinking with Matt and Erin and telling old stories, so the nostalgia level is quite high and requires music from at least 10 years ago. I'm melding the 80's friends with the 90's soundtrack. It may be a bit avant garde for the masses.

Anyway, I never meant to be out and up this late when I left class at 7:15 tonight. I totally thought I might bang a foreigner, but I always think that, so I can't be trusted. Neibaum even told me via text from LA to shag someone English, and I have failed. Again. Dang. I hate that I'm pretty much a dried up old maid. Why is it the only people I can consider having sex with all married other women? Sonsabitches.

Whatever. I know none of the Ghosts of Lovers Past would have made me happy. I will find my short Jewish lawyer and we will have amazing, soul-searing sex and I will laugh at all my exes, the ones in Texas or otherwise.

My cursor keeps going to totally unexpected locations. I swear there's a poltergeist moving it around. It has nothing to do with the Blue Moon I had that was followed by the palate cleansing Miller Lites and the Lemon Drop I consented to because I can't remember what's in a Snakebite, which is a totally girly tasting shot despite the name. Erin had a Buttery Nipple, which I just spelled as "Nibble" which makes a lot more sense, but tastes like shit.

Whoever this jackass is that keeps yelling "Hot potato!" on my Breedlove CD makes me want to strangle him with his own shoelaces. Also, I am not paying $35 to see Dan and Bob Schneider play at this yoga studio where I have to take my shoes off and be quiet, even if it is a benefit show. ReadBecca cannot be contained, and is broke. Bob was nice to me once when I waited on The Scabs in Bryan, Texas. Nice man. Cool hair. What's not to love? Hey, I fell in love-esque with Ian Moore about that time because he wore blue sparkly toenail polish and it was all chipped.

You never can tell what's going to send you over the edge. That toenail polish was damn sexy.

I Feel Sorry For Worms.

In the mornings I see worms that got trapped on the sidewalk when dawn came and burned up like vampires in the sun. It's so sad they A.) they are unaware of the sun; B.) they're so slow they can't escape. Poor worms.

I may have found a new migraine cure. After enduring the pain for nearly 24 hours, I took a trip to Walgreen's, always a good time, and loaded up on supplies. Coca-Cola, bottled water, and ice cream. Then I watched Red Dwarf on PBS. I feel better. I just wish I could sleep. That would be awesome. I forgot to buy an ice pack. I keep using quart size freezer bags, but I am afraid I'll pop it or not properly zip it up and then I'll get glacial melt water all over my favorite pillow. I can't have a sodden pillow in the middle of a migraine crisis. I'm definitely feeling better. I can read the screen without wanting to hold on to something to stop all the spinning. That's good. 'Cause yeah, I'm a geek and stood in line last night to get Harry Potter, but the whole standing in line thing I think triggered the headache so I haven't been able to read past Chapter 10 because of the whole eye-strain-headache syndrome. Mostly I just keep my eyes closed as much as possible in these situations.

I hear police helicopters a lot lately at night. Ah, life in the big city. I think I've had enough typing and screen glare. I think I might be able to sleep some more. The best cure for feeling like crap for any reason is being unconscious. Mmmm, comatose.

Stewart Copeland Reminded Me Why I Wanted A Gong. Because they ROCK. Duh.

When Stefanie casually asks if you have any homework or classes to attend on Wednesday night right before Knocked Up starts, I suggest you say no. Because if you say, "Yeah, I have to read two chapters about old peoples' psychological development and another chapter about death, then I have to write my autobiography using Erik Erikson's theory of development as a model," then you won't get a free ticket and free drinks and free gelato after The Police reunion show that YOU JUST FUCKING WATCHED FROM THE FOURTH FUCKING ROW, FUCKING CENTER, FUCKING EQUIDISTANT BETWEEN STING AND ANDY SUMMERS WHO FUCKING SMILED AT YOU WHILE FUCKING SUSTAINING FUCKING EYE CONTACT, DIRECTLY IN FUCKING FRONT OF STEWARD COPELAND AND YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO TELL PEOPLE HOW FUCKING TIGHT STING WEARS HIS FUCKING PANTS AND THAT'S HOW YOU KNOW HE DRESSES TO THE RIGHT AND HAS A FUCKING GUY BRINGING HIM FUCKING CUPS OF FUCKING TEA AND HOW MUCH THE POLICE FUCKING ROCK AND STEFANIE FUCKING ROCKS AND THANK GOD I DIDN'T FUCKING DIE OR ONE OF THEM DIDN'T FUCKING DIE AND I GOT TO SEE THEM FUCKING PLAY MY FAVORITE FUCKING SONG THAT I SWEAR IS ABOUT THE LOCH NESS FUCKING MONSTER AND YOU WON'T HAVE TO WAIT ALMOST A WEEK TO FUCKING BLOG ABOUT IT BECAUSE YOU HAD TO FUCKING PROCESS THE FUCKING AWESOMENESS OF BEING SO FUCKING CLOSE YOU COULD SEE THE FUCKING WHITES OF THEIR FUCKING EYES.

Whew, that's a lot of fucking. I'm spent.

PS. I finished the dead old people stuff and turned in the paper and took the last test just now, and once again, I am brilliant. The thing about taking online classes is that you see your score instantly and can see how much better you were than the class average. Man, I love ruining the curve.

I gotta bail. It's open mic night at WRC and I'm heard The goddamned Eagles AND Sweet Baby James and now somebody's singing some shit song with Alleluia in the chorus. My other choice was to take my test at a bar. Note to self: Next time, wrap the laptop in Saran wrap and go to the bar. I swear I'm having an aneurysm, I can't take it, he's singing a song he wrote when he was 17. I am so fucking out of here.

I Don't Know Why I Wanted A Gong Instead Of A Doorbell.

So I wrote the last post after having been to The Dubliner, The Libertine, and The Blarney Stone. Apparently, I only go to bars with "The" in the name. I remember vaguely having written it, but that gong thing was news to me when I re-read it. I am very proud that I managed to spellcheck. I forget to in text messaging with T9 and then I end up sending people stuff like "I already frank too much to in anywhere."

I saw a new legless homeless guy. I named him Carl. I have no idea what happened to Legless Joe. That makes me sad. Also, Starbucks hates me. I am only worthy to drink their wares, not to stand behind the counter and listen to the 9,482,316th Swarley joke. I told you people I don't interview well. This other advertising agency hates me too. That interview went better than any interview I have had since that time Pat and I talked about shoes for 30 minutes and then she took me to her boss whose first question was "When can you start?" I have no idea what specifically about me they hated. I asked. I got a bureaucratic non-answer. Hmm, what is wrong with me? I feel the need to make a list.

ReadBecca's Faults

Superhumanly messy
Impatient
Moody
Supremely irritable
Interviews poorly
Doesn't iron anything
Procrastinates
Perfectionist
Hasn't had sex in five years

Crap, I have to cut the list short. The Tuesday night coffee house entertainment is setting up and I can't stay here and listen to any singer-songwriter bullshit. I can barely stand the Sirius coffee house channel they play here at WRC (White Rock Coffee. Fuck Starbucks.). There is no need for a mellow acoustic cover of any Van Halen song, especially Jump. The grocery store I used to shop at that closed played The Clash and Oingo Boingo. Minyard's rocked.

Hey, guess what. Tomorrow night Stef's taking me to see The Police. Wooooooooooooooooo!

Remember, kids, don't frank and drive.

I Promised Stef Her Quote Would Be The Headline, But I Already Lost The Paper She Wrote It On.

It was a two-parter. I know the second part was "We're bringing the shit to town." I think the first part rhymed. Anyhow.

Chad the bartender at The Libertine looks as much like Colin Farrell as anybody I've seen in person so I'd totally bang him, but nah, I won't.

We told so many stories tonight, I've lost my voice. Awesome. I had a roast beef sandwich and a debate with Ashley about what a bad idea it is to shack up with someone. She thinks it's a good idea to have a "trial period" and I say that's what fucking dating is for. Unless I got a rock and a date set, I'm not fucking cohabitating. Shut up. I know I'm saying fuck a lot. It's very late and all I have to keep me warm is a Big Gulp.

Woo! Blogging in bed is so much more than I thought it would be. I get to blog braless! Anything I can do braless is at least 20% more fun than stuff that requires foundation garments. I stand by that statement.

I hate Conway Twitty. I thought that should be made clear. I probably should have mentioned it earlier. I know this next bit may cause me to be escorted to the Mason-Dixon line, but I don't like George Jones either. I do, however, enjoy the boys of Oak Ridge, so that might save my ass. To this day, I still can't believe I actually went to A&M. How was I never stoned to death in the village square? It's a friggin' mystery.

Any joke with Christopher Walken as the punch line is 20% funnier than any competing joke. I also stand by that statement.

Note to dude pretending not to be looking at condoms at 7-11: I totally know you're buying condoms. Stop pretending to look at cough drops. You could be actually using said condoms by now.

I have GOT to stop playing Mah Jong online. I am out of control and need an intervention. Someone book Oprah and make plans to ambush me on national television. It's the only way I'll take the situation seriously.

Someday when I'm stable enough to commit to a house, I'm going to have a big brass gong instead of a doorbell. It's going to ROCK.

And...SCENE.

I Love You, The Ghost Whisperer.

Oh God help me today I drank a Pepsi.

I have a list of shows to watch on DVD this summer. Heroes. Studio 60. The Sopranos even though the last time I did that, they totally freaked my shit out.

Ow! My hippocampus!

The hippocampus is part of the brain but I can't picture anything but hippos in t-shirts and carrying backpacks and walking around all hungover.

Hmm. These TV lawyers are dumb. I could totally be Ironsides if I were a TV lawyer. Note to self: don't watch TV and ReadBecca simultaneously. Unsucessful posts are the result. Resluts. Ha. That never gets old.

Contrary to popular belief, tortelloni contains no tortoises of any kind whatsoever.

I'm still in love with Lloyd Dobbler. And his Malibu. And his matchbook. And hanging out at the Gas n' Sip.

Why is it always Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy? Jebus, why don't they throw in an evil twin? Or babies switched at birth? Whatever. Again, note to self: no blogging with the TV on in future. Duly noted.

Free With Purchase!

I finished Daniel Deronda. It wasn't worth it. I read Marie Antoinette and The Boleyn Inheritance. I pre-ordered Harry Potter. I didn't know you had to stay until the end of the credits at Pirates so don't tell me. I'm going back and making them let me watch the last 15 minutes again. I want to see creepy Kevin Costner. Um, and I have a crush on Leonardo Dicaprio. I know. Titanic was nearly ten years ago. So I'm a decade late. I don't care what you say about my 'Nardo. Yeah, I bought the Vanity Fair. What of it? He was freakin' awesome in The Departed and I loved that he called what's her face who married Chaucer and they saved Djimon Hounsou, who is so awesome that having a crush on him is just ridiculous and possibly an abomination in the eyes of the Lord because he deserves more than a mere giggly crush from some idiot woman who once had a crush on Colin Farrell who doesn't even belong in the same paragraph as Djimon Hounsou and so I apologize, Djimon, for my inarticulate and inappropriate mentioning of a hot Irish guy with issues which may or may not have been worked out in a Costa Rican rehab after wrapping Miami Vice, which was better than I thought it would be and confirmed my opinion that long hair on a guy is gross, even though I used to like it, but what do I know, I have a crush on Leo and I'm 36.

Crap, I May Have Cursed Myself.

So I locked myself out of Stef's house. In my pj bottoms and a wifebeater, under which I was not wearing a bra. And I wasn't wearing shoes. And my phone was inside. I went to Matt's instead of the neighbor's. I didn't feel like explaining who I was to strangers, especially with visible nipples. Then I gave the locksmith the wrong address. He eventually showed up anyway. But he was supremely and profoundly unskilled. I swear he had never picked any sort of lock. He began to rely on brute force, which I decided I could have done myself for free. That's when I cursed myself.

I told him I was pregnant and nauseated so he would leave. And then I wouldn't pay him. We had a fight in the front yard. Then he finally left without saying good-bye. Funny, that's the same thing that happened the last time I told a man I thought I was pregnant. (I wasn't.)

Don't worry, I got in the house. I owe Stef a window.

You people will have no excuse for not reading ReadBecca anymore. I have no excuses left due to the purchase of the laptop I am right this second typing away on. I'm even wireless. It was just impossible not to have one. Sort of like how I resisted buying a DVD player for so long and I broke down when I couldn't watch the movies I wanted to see because they don't make them on VHS.

I really don't have much to fill you in on. Except I saw the butchest drag queen ever in the parking lot at Target in too-small women's summer slides. He wanted to be dainty so badly.

I'm still a genius. I pulled A's in both my spring classes. I can't remember the last time I worked so hard for it. God knows I never tried that hard the first time I went to college. I actually gave a shit the second time I went to college, but I still got a couple B's. (Hey, I can't concentrate when I'm all in love and shit.) The third time around I am stone cold serious about it. I want to be A-number one, top of the heap, A-number one (Why does Frank repeat himself?) so even though I did get the A, it was only a 91 point something and that totally pisses me off. Unacceptable. If I'm not perfect, what's the friggin' point? (Highlight that sentence. It'll be on the final.) So I was bummed about my A. I did better in Algebra for Dummies. I didn't even need the extra credit points.

My coffee addiction may soon rival my fountain Coke addiction. Nothing smaller than a venti will do. And I suck that sucker down like nobody's business. Then I want more. They should make a patch. A flavored patch. Mmmm, orange mocha.

Like a month ago I had two sex dreams in one day, one during regular sleep and one with my nap. Awesome. I slept 14 hours last night.

I thought I had a date on the books a few weeks ago, but I had to reschedule around finals and he hasn't texted back since. He's younger. Oh crap, I forgot he knows about this blog. Shit. Eff it. I'm leaving it in.

My little brother is going to be a father. I think he's going to be freakin' great at it. I'm so glad they are expecting. They had trouble and had to intervene medically. They even moved to a different state where insurance would cover it. So I'm so happy they were successful after all that. My other brother is shacked up with his baby mama. Their kid is the youngest of five. Good luck with all of that.

Let's see, what else? I got a massage. And a facial. I need to get my bangs cut. I want to do it partly because they're irritating me and partly so I can say to my gay stylist Adam, "Hey, I need you to bang me." Damn, I'm funny.

It's pledge drive time on PBS. Send them a check. I would, but I just bought a computer. What am I, made of money?

I will be talking a lot about Developmental Psychology in the next month. And not because I'm back in therapy. (You wish.) That's first up in summer school. Then I will mention anatomy and physiology again. I still know where the thymus is. The amygdala is the fear center of the brain. See how I combined subjects there? I keep telling you I'm a genius.

Do me a favor and light a candle for me and help me reverse the curse. Or knock wood or handle a snake or whatever it is that you do spiritually. I mean, I know I can't get pregnant from a sex dream, and God knows nothing else is going on, but still. Mary wasn't expecting it either. I'm pretty sure not even the Pope would believe me, but you can't be too careful. Seriously, let this cup pass from my lips. I got enough issues without an immaculate conception. I'm pretty sure I'd get written out of the story anyway. Me and Mary Magdalene could totally hang out under the Louvre. I even saw the spot I'll be in. I took pictures. I've always wanted to walk around that joint all by myself without anyone else in the way. Conceiving the messiah is a long way to go just to look at art alone.

I heard a phrase recently that I can't get out of my head. There's something there I can't get enough of. I wrote it down and put it in my change purse. I'm not saying what it is. If I tell anyone, I don't think I'll be able to do with it what I think I might be supposed to. Weird. But Famous Author Guy probably wouldn't tell you, and he wrote three books so he must know something I don't.

Stef has a theory that since I got text messaging on my phone, I stopped writing. I think she's right. I write fantastic texts. I even punctuate. I get pissed all the time because I'm restricted to 160 characters. It's like writing haiku. Fuck haiku. Ha. That would make a great text.