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."