Bad Luck Becca: Strikes Again

For the next month, I am on vacation.

I will be in LA for a week, but New York will take up the bulk of my time.

I will be blogging most of my trip to LA, because I have never been to the West Coast before (save for a layover in Seattle once, but I never even left the airport, so does that actually count?) and I am so excited to share it all with you.

Now, my vacation began as most do, with an electric feeling deep inside of me, and an almost disturbing sense of pure happiness and joy. I don't have to work for over a month.  I don't have to deal with people I dislike.  I don't have to deal with any problems other than the ones I, will inevitably, create myself.  It's an amazing feeling to finally be able to come home for a visit.

You see, I haven't been to New York since Christmas. While I have had visits from my mom, sister, and nieces over the past 7 months, it hasn't quite been the same.  I have felt so empty.  Especially watching them leave.  I have lived in North Carolina for 2 years now, and it doesn't get any easier leaving my family.

Now, I really do love North Carolina and those with whom I have become friends, I just honestly believe it won't ever feel like home to me. At least, not fully.

Those of you that don't know me personally may not know this, but I am an extremely pessimistic/realistic person when it comes to situations into which I have put myself.  I spent weeks making lists, packing, cleaning, and all around stressing, to make sure that I was all set for my near 30 days at home.

I plan for the worst, most unexpected events to occur.
Always have.
Always will.

If I need to pack for 7 days, I pack for 10-14, just in case my plane crashes and I'm stranded on a desert island, that way I have a few outfit changes available before I die of starvation. I mean, I obviously won't die in the actual crash; I'm not made of glass. If I need to save up 100 dollars to fix my car, I'll save up 500 just in case my car is more broken than originally thought. I can't help it, it's how I was raised.

I like being prepared. If nothing goes wrong, than I am pleasantly surprised instead of vindicated by my original pessimistic thoughts.

A couple days before my drive up the Eastern Seaboard, I went and got the usual maintenance done to my car. Ya know, oil change, tire pressure check, tire rotation; just to make sure all was well.

Naturally, I was prepared for a "Bad Luck Becca" situation (which I so aptly named.) You know, a few last minute issues to occur before I left NC, but what actually happened was even more BLB than normal.

The first thing that happened was my phone committed suicide.  I was leaving for NY in 9 hours and my phone decided that it was over living. The screen is just a series of blue and black stripes. Seriously, dead.

I was planning on getting a new phone anyway when I got home, since Apple makes older models of iPhones obsolete the millisecond a new version comes out. BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT!!! YOU COULDN'T HAVE WAITED 24 HOURS?!? ONE DAY! That was all I was asking.

I had to run to AT&T and reactivate my old iPhone 4 so I had some way of contacting someone in case I crashed, or broke down, or was kidnapped.  Guys, the phone doesn't even have Siri. I was probably better off going phoneless; it is so old.

I'm so lucky that I'm a pack rat and don't throw anything out, because I would have been sincerely fucked.

This isn't even the worst thing that happened that day

My drive was fine.  I hit traffic a few times in Virginia, but that wasn't shocking to me.  Virginia is the worst state.  No, really.  I used to be the biggest proponent of the argument that Pennsylvania was the worst, but new life into experiences have since changed my mind.

Everything was going great until I was about 65 miles away from mother's house.

My steering wheel started severely shaking. You know how in old movies people always are moving the steering wheel so dramatically that you know they aren't really driving because they would actually be all over the road?  That's what was happening.  I pulled over because I honestly thought my tire was flat, when I was satisfied that it wasn't, I got back in the car and drove off.  The car, still shaking.

I drove the rest of the way home, with what sounded like a helicopter just flying around in my front seat.  I was screaming at my car to stop. I cried a little bit, and by the time I actually got home, my car sounded like it was seconds from exploding.


I was so stressed out that I just went inside and went to bed, immediately after pulling into the driveway.  The next morning, as I was unpacking my car, I discovered the problem.

When I got my tires rotated, the fucking mechanic who worked on it, didn't tighten the lug nuts on my wheel. I lost one completely, and the other 4 were so loose that I could tighten them with my hand.  I almost lost my entire fucking wheel: tire, rim, everything.

Now, had it only been me in the car, I would have been upset, sure, but I would have calmed down.  I had my niece as well was my cat with me, which made me lose my shit when I found out.

My mom had to calm me down because I threatened lawsuit after lawsuit and severe bodily harm on the mechanic who ALMOST KILLED ME.

I may be dramatic, at times, I am aware of this, but my reactions were warranted.
I have since taken care of the car issues, as well as the phone issue, but you know the saying, "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong?"

That's my life motto, and not by choice.

Birthdays

Today is my birthday.

The last few years, I haven't really cared much about my birthday.  At all.  Especially since moving away from home.  My family isn't around to celebrate with me, so I haven't really felt the need to celebrate it.  I have some of the best friends in the world who force me to do things because they, and I quote, "Don't care about my depressing nonsense, we are having cake." 

Growing up, I always made a huge deal about my birthday.  I have an army of siblings, so having one day a year that was completely about me was amazing.  My mom and I would always have a day together, usually a picnic since it was always so nice out.  It was just always one of my most favorite day of the year.

As I have gotten older, things have changed.  I started to see it as just another benchmark in my life reminding me that which I have yet to obtain.  It reminded me that I was another year older, I didn't have any direction in life, and I am that much closer to death.  I have stopped feeling that way.  I realized that that isn't what birthdays are about.  No one has it figured out, and I need to stop putting so much pressure on myself because I am the only person who can decide what is right for me and where I "need to be."

This year, though, I feel very differently.

I am heartbroken.

Not because I am another year older, but because there are 49 people that will never get this same chance.

I usually keep my mouth shut about politics, and the like, because no one wants to hear your opinions, especially if they differ from theirs.  I also have been trying to find the right words.  I don't think I will ever be able to say all that I feel.

But I honestly cannot take it anymore.  Fourty-nine lives were lost.  Not lost, stolen, by a person who was controlled by hatred.  No, not a person.  He doesn't deserve that title.  A monster.

How?!  How could you ever do that to another person, let alone 49?

I just don't understand.  They did nothing wrong.  The children of Sandy Hook did nothing wrong.  The victims in Aurora were just trying to lose themselves in a Batman movie.  Freddy Gray did nothing wrong.  Tamir Rice did nothing wrong.  The victims of Belgium, the victims of Paris, the people of Syria, did nothing wrong.  None of these victims did anything wrong.  All any of these people were doing was just living.  That's it.  Trying to be good people.  Trying to make a difference, and lead respectable lives, and make their mark on the world.  That's all anybody wants to do.

There is so much hatred in this world, and I don't understand it.  I have been crying for days.  Honestly.  Every time I read an article, or see a picture, or a news clip;  I lose it.  It isn't fair.  I know that "life's not fair," but this isn't what is meant.  That means that someone more qualified than you got the job.  It means that you didn't get the spot on the cheerleading squad because you messed up your footwork, but the other 10 girls didn't.  It means that someone stole the parking spot that you were waiting for because they were quicker than you.  It doesn't mean that your life is any less important than anyone else's.  It doesn't mean that anyone deserves to have their life cut short because someone decides that they have a right to take it away from them.

One of my very best friends frequented that nightclub in Orlando.  Luckily, he was not there this time, and I am thankful every day for that.  Others are not so lucky.  People now have to bury their sons, their daughters, their brothers, their sisters, their mothers, their fathers.  What was once a safe haven for LGBT community members is now marred with sadness, hopelessness, and confusion.  I, as well as millions of other Americans, are trying to make sense of what happened on June 12.  No matter how hard I try, I don't think I will ever understand.

No one is born hating anything, except maybe brussel sprouts, and even then, YOU STILL TRY THEM TO MAKE SURE!!!  How does anyone think that they have a right to dictate how someone else lives?  I was raised to respect everyone, to respect their beliefs, especially if they differ from my own, to respect everyone's life for it is theirs to live how they want.

I was raised to love people for who they are.

I was not raised to hate.

This year, my birthday is not for me.  It is for every single victim of gun violence. 

Today, I celebrate your lives.

My heart is forever with all of you.

Dates are apparently not just a weird fruit.

Dating is a rite of passage in the life of a twentysomething.

Well, all of them, except this twentysomething.  I don't date.  I don't mean that I am adorkably clumsy on dates, and end up having an array of bad first date stories and a slew of ex-boyfriends.  No I mean that I don't ever date therefore I don't have any awkward first date stories.  I'm basically like a nun, no that's not right, they are married to Jesus.  I'm like someone that willingly spends all of their time alone.  A HERMIT! That's the word I was looking for.  I knew that if I just kept typing I would get there.

Have I tried it before?  Uhhhhh kind of?  I'll explain later.

There are a few reasons as to why I don't date, actually.  The main one is because I don't want to.  Sprinkle in a deep love of being alone, a little cynicism, disgust of doing anything in public, and a disdain for people, marriage, and children, and you got yourself a "Becca."

Everyone always asks me why I don't date, and depending on how I am feeling when I am asked, I give one of three responses. 

1. I just don't want to.  Never have.  Never will.
2. Why do you want to date?
3. Oh that's simple.  It's none of your fucking business.

All of these garner the same, trite response:  "Oh you just haven't found the right man, yet."

Wrong.

That 100% has nothing to do with my reasons for not dating.

Dating is hard.  Dating is messy.  Why add unnecessary stress to my already unnecessarily stressed life?  I like being on my own.  When it comes to dating, you have to pretend to be someone you're not.  You have to "hide your crazy" as my girlfriends put it.  Especially at the beginning.  You have to reel someone in with the fake you, so that by the time they realize who you truly are, they have put too much time and effort in, so they are stuck with you.  How romantic is that?  You also have to try and convince someone else that you have your shit together just a little bit more than they do so you seem exotic and well-adjusted, and I refuse to lie like that. Newsflash, people, I am none of those things!   I am not ashamed.  I am an abrasive, dinosaur-loving, book-obsessed whack job who hides their true self for no one. 

Not a single fucking person I have ever come into contact with is well-adjusted.  We all have issues. 

Listen, I have never been ashamed, or afraid, to be the first person to admit they don't know what they are doing with their lives.  I say it loudly.  I say it proudly.  I say it in rhyme.  All of the time.  I have a magnet on my fridge that has my name written entirely in penises for Christ's sake, so I'm not really at a point where I can be taken seriously.

See?  I wasn't kidding.

One time, I had to put together a table, and the directions were solely in Chinese, or Japanese, not quite sure of the difference.  And I ended up calling my father, telling him I lost the directions and couldn't do it on my own.  Which resulted in me eating potato chips on the couch, watching, while he cursed and fumbled with loose table legs and screws.  Hey! He likes being needed.  I am only doing him a disservice by not allowing him to help me.  I am the most selfless daughter.  You're welcome, Tom.

My point is that, I can't even convince myself that I have my shit together.   How am I supposed to convince someone else?  Why would I even want to?  The beauty of life is that no one has it figured out, why pretend just to impress someone that may not be in our lives in a day, a week, a month, or even a year?

The reason I am bringing this up is because my annoyingly beautiful roommate, whom I love to death, doesn't seem to understand why I don't date.  She's what one would call a "hopeless romantic."  She believes in fairytales.  I do too, but I believe in the raw, graphic, and dark fairytales of The Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson.   You know, the ones where the princess ends up almost as bloody as the villains, sometimes worse off.  She believes in the watered-down Disney versions.  I promise you I am not knocking Disney, at all.  I love all things Disney, it's just that in comparison, they are the G-rated movie adaptation of the R-rated book.

She keeps telling me, that I need to try and put myself out there.  So recently, I have.  For three reasons.

1. It's incredibly entertaining watching her get frustrated with me because my opening lines to men are usually puns that only myself and middle-aged dads would enjoy.
2. I'm trying to make her see that I am genuinely happy with my decision to be alone, and that not every girl grew up dreaming of being the Damsel in distress waiting for their Knight-in-Shining-Armor to rescue her.  Some girls grew up knowing that they were the Knight the whole time.
3. I plan on documenting here the embarrassing, awkward, and down right ridiculous encounters I have, and her annoying and never-ending quest to find me love.  Woof.

Stay tuned.

:)


Ps...I predict that this will only end badly.

Literally, a starving artist.

So if you have been following my life lately, you know that I started working out again for the first time in over 2 years.  What you may not have realized is that along with exercise, I have also been dieting, because why not torture myself?

Now, if you are lucky enough to have never needed to go on a diet, congratulations.  But also, get away from me.  I never want to be friends with you.  I'm sure you're great, but like, I hate you?

All the rest of you ugly nerds, come sit down and complain with me.

DIETING IS THE FUCKING WORST THING EVER!

Dieting is terrible because there are no loopholes.  There's no substitute.  You either eat healthy and lose weight, or you don't.  You can't have ice cream because it's bad for you.  There's no such thing as ice cream that's good for you, and I swear to God if you say, "What about frozen yogurt?"  I will stab you in the leg.  If frozen yogurt were like ice cream, IT WOULD BE CALLED FUCKING ICE CREAM!  When it comes to working out, instead of running a mile, you at the very least can walk 5.  Walking is easy.  I mean, I still hate it, but I would rather do that, than diet.

The hunger is constant, and I mean constant. 

I mean I think about food all of the time anyway, but your desire is heightened when you are going through withdrawal a.k.a. dieting.

ALL I WANT IS A GODDAMN CUPCAKE, BUT INSTEAD OF A CUPCAKE, I GET TO EAT KALE.  IN EVERYTHING.  KALE IS THE NEW SUPERFOOD AND IT SHOULD TAKE UP 90% OF YOUR DIET.

ENOUGH WITH THE KALE, PEOPLE!

Do you know what kale is?  What kale has always been?  A mother flipping garnish.  It has been used by restaurants for MILLENIA to beautify your plates of steak, chicken, mashed potatoes, waffles, or whatever delicious poison you have decided to ingest.  Growing up, I constantly heard, "Don't eat the kale, it's just garnish."

That is a code by which I have lived for 27 years.  Until, well, yesterday when I bought the world's largest bag at the grocery store for two bucks.  I am not exaggerating, it is bigger than my face.  It's no wonder it's always been a garnish, it's cheap enough to purchase and directly throw into the garbage without any significant effect on your budget.

Kale.  Ugh, even the word sounds disgusting.

Alas, I am trying something new here.  Not new per se, but new-adjacent.  I figured that eating Chick-fil-a four times a week, while delicious, probably isn't the best thing for you.  So why not try the opposite and be fucking miserable for the next year of my life.

MY GOD, am I ever.

I know that life is too short to be miserable, but it's also the longest thing you will ever do, so shut up inspirational Instagrammers.

It has been 8 days.

I.
Am.
So.
Hungry.

My stomach is growling, in sync, to every tap of the keyboard.

I love eating.  Obviously.  I mean, who doesn't?  I wouldn't be in the situation I'm in, if I didn't.  When you are dieting, eating isn't the same, though.  You have to eat constantly.  While normally this task would render me near catatonic with joy, I am not eating what I would love to be eating.  Ya know, cookies, pie, mashed potatoes, hot dogs, CHEESE, etc.  :::drools:::

I am eating fruits, vegetables, and plain ass chicken.  It's awful.  I literally have to measure my food.  Seriously.  I have to use measuring cups and spoons to make sure that I don't overeat.  I am constantly counting calories, out loud.  I sound like an insane person.  I have to keep a daily food diary to make sure I don't go over my allotted 1200 calories a day.  A FOOD DIARY!  I don't even keep a normal, every day diary where I write down my thoughts and feelings.  Oh.  Wait.  Yeah, that's what this blog is.  Right.  Shut up.  I'm delirious from the hunger.

I just want to cave and have a cheeseburger with a side of pizza.

Yet, with every day that passes I realize how far I have come and don't want to give up.  Willpower is a bitch.

Honestly, the worst of it all though, is having to be at work while dieting.

I work in a restaurant where I spend 100% of my shifts smelling food.  That isn't my job title, I'm not  a professional food sniffer or anything.  I don't even think that career exists.  Although, I would probably be amazing at it.  If any of you hear of this job becoming mainstream, I'm no hipster.  E-mail me the details.  Hello, new career path, here I come!

I have to serve food to people which I am unable to eat.  I watch them as they drink the alcoholic beverages that I have made for them.  I watch them eat piece of bread after piece of bread, wishing for one bite.  I have to serve platters of food knowing that, even on my break, I can't enjoy it.  I have to eat vegetables, rice, and chicken.  That's it, that's my amazing and healthy dinner.  Every. Single. Night.

Sometimes, I walk into the kitchen just to stare at the fryer, and I'm consumed with jealousy because it spends all of its time with delicious food inside of it.

Dieting makes me hate eating.  Becca loves eating.  It is her favorite thing to do, next to trivia games and judging people.  Dieting has made me hate that which I once loved.  Do any of you know what that's like?  That's like, if Jack and Rose survived and made it all the way to New York.  Then upon landing, Rose found out she was suffering from sea sickness the entire boat ride, and once on stable land, realized she actually hated Jack.  So she dumped him.  Food is my Jack, and I'll never let go.


Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #11:  Eat. The. God. Damn. Cupcake. Screw. Kale.

Roof Stoof

I joined the gym today.

I have been wanting to do it for some time now, but I am lazy and never felt like actually going.

It was a terrible experience from the second I stepped in the door, until I walked out of it.

I don't mean that "ugh, I hate working out, everything sucks, and I'm dying." Those were my thoughts, the entire time, but I mean that I'm an embarrassing person.  I also have only gone to the gym by myself, twice in my entire life.  The second of which was today.  It is one of my irrational fears.  I don't know why I am so scared of it, I just am.  Shut up.  Don't judge me.

It was a rough day.

Let me start this off by saying that four years ago, with the help of my psycho best friend/trainer I worked my ass off, literally.  I worked out nearly every day, ate like a rabbit, and lost nearly 60 pounds.  It was the worst, yet most rewarding, experience of my life.  After losing that weight, I took some time off from working out because I finally didn't hate what I saw in the mirror.  I learned how to love myself, my body, and every single flaw I have ever found over the last 20 years.

The reasons I took a break are because, I genuinely hated it and truly believed that I could keep the weight off.  While the latter is mostly true, I did gain some back, and I am completely okay with it.  I look how I look, and if you don't like it, then don't look at me.  What I realized is that working out helped  me manage my anger, as well as my anxiety, so I decided to give it another go.  If I lose weight, great, if not, that's okay too.  I like who I am.  I liked who I was yesterday, and I will like who I become tomorrow.

Now, it has been over 2 years since I have stepped foot in a gym, because I HATE DOING PHYSICAL ACTIVITIES! I am not exaggerating.  Two. Whole. Years.  I chose the workout station on Pandora and it said "last played January 2014."  I am honestly not surprised in the slightest, because I genuinely hate doing things that can be construed as exercise of any kind.  Running, is the worst.  Climbing stairs, is the worst.  Laying down on the couch watching Netflix, is the best.

When I woke up today, I forced myself to put on my work out clothes.  Naturally, I searched for a long time, because they had gotten themselves shoved into the back of one of my dresser drawers somehow.  I begrudgingly waddled to my car and drove to join the gym.  The whole while thinking, "this is stupid, just get food and go home."  Had I actually eaten, today might have gone a little differently, or it wouldn't have, and I would just have been full whilst being embarrassing.

I nervously walked into the gym to find this really adorable girl at the counter wearing a shirt that said "Cute guys? I thought you said French Fries." So naturally, I knew we would become best friends.  She said hi with a smile, and I was like, "Yeah, okay, she is approachable and cute.  I can do this.  Sisterhood at its finest."

"Hi," I said, "I would like to join your wonderful gym please."  BECAUSE I'M THE MOST AWKWARD PERSON ON THE PLANET!
"Oh! That's great,"  She said as she jumped up and down in excitement, "Let me get Andrew for you. He will help you get started."
HUH!??! ANDREW?!?!? OH GOD!! A MAN! I CAN'T DO THIS! ABORT MISSION! ABORT!

Andrew walked up to the desk, looking like a Greek God: bearded, tan, and over 6 feet tall.  He was just a solid wall of sinew and muscle, and I couldn't look him in the eye.

He went over the basics of the gym and I was nervously sweating just standing there.  He then told me he had to take my picture for my membership, and at this point I was profusely sweating and panicking.  I don't do well with "professional" and "important" pictures.  I clam up.  I am basically Chandler Bing.  So, I awkwardly smiled as he took the picture.  Or at least that's what I thought he was doing.  He didn't actually take the picture until I started to walk away thinking he was done.  MY GYM PICTURE IS A BLURRY, OUT OF FOCUS SHOT OF ME SMILING WITH A CLOSED MOUTH AND WHAT APPEARS TO BE 3 CHINS!!!! I know this because I saw it pop up on the computer.  Andrew laughed and I gave up.  I grabbed my purse, wishing I was dead and said bye.

Of course, this wasn't the end of it.  Andrew had to get the last words in, "Rebecca, right?  Well, it was nice meeting you. I better see you in here again."  Of course, my response wasn't to say "Nice to meet you as well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you."  My response was to laugh like some sort of demon possessed goose.  Just a loud honk filled the gym, as I rushed to find the locker rooms.

This isn't where the embarrassment ended.  'Twas only the beginning.

I put my stuff in a locker and proceeded to the gym area.  Now, this locker room was very complex and almost maze-like.  There were twists and turns and cubby holes, and secret closets, and it was all a very daunting experience.  As I was heading into the gym, I turned into, what I thought was the hallway, and it ended up being a little cubby hole with a giant mirror.  I proceeded to slam into it because I was untangling my headphones as I walked, and also BECAUSE IT WAS A FUCKING LABYRINTH AND PROBABLY HOME TO A MINOTAUR AS WELL.  A girl in the locker room gasp and then laughed as I rushed around the corner to, what I prayed, was the exit to the gym.

I headed straight for the treadmills because it was the only thing that I recognized.  Gym equipment has drastically changed in the last four years, I can tell you that much.  I saw people hanging from ropes, and bars, and they all stared at me like I was a piece of meat. 

The first treadmill I got on, was broken.  I found that out after about a minute of pushing buttons with no result. 

The next treadmill worked just fine.  I put it on a high incline but low speed as to get my heart rate up and ease my way into it.  I had a book and my music and I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself.  After reading a few chapters in my book, I decided to set it down and run, for the first time in years.

I lowered the incline, popped up to the speed to a quick jog/low run speed (for me, not for like, normal people that work out all of the time), and proceeded to push myself.

I was in the groove, I could barely breathe, I was sweating, but I thought to myself "I remember this feeling, I hate this, but it's kind of nice."  All was well, until all of the sudden I jerked back and nearly flew off of the treadmill, because I ran too close to the bar that measures your heart rate and MY FAT ASS STOMACH DECIDED TO HIT THE EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON ON THE TREADMILL!  Everyone around me saw it happen, because I of course yelled out "Whoa" like I was trying to reign in a horse.

I almost gave up and left, but I still had 15 minutes left on my cardio time and Mama didn't raise no quitter.  I pushed myself through the embarrassment, and the stares, and finished my session.  After cleaning the machine, I went to this treadclimber thing.  Now, I have never used one, but I am not comfortable with doing any weight lifting yet, solely cardio.  I guess it is an elliptical crossed with a treadmill, and I thought "how hard could this be?"

Let me tell you, very hard.  I was on it for about a minute and a half before it made this screeching noise and stopped.

It was at that point that I said, OUT LOUD, "fuck it, I'm done for the day."

I grabbed my stuff out of the locker room, and rushed out of the gym because if I actually broke the machine, I didn't want them to catch me.  I can barely afford the membership to the gym, let alone the equipment in it.


Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #10:  Working out sucks, but it doesn't have to be boring.  Have fun with it.  Cause a scene.  Also, dancing to the Cupid Shuffle on a treadmill, while very dangerous, is also incredibly fun.

Gracias

I just want to take a moment to thank everyone that spends a little bit of their time each day, or every other day, or once a week, or even once a month reading my blog.

I truly appreciate it.

Also, I apologize for my absence the last 2 weeks.  My mother came to visit me, and I took a break from blogging to make sure I could spend every free second I had with her.  Sometimes, I feel that people get too wrapped up in themselves, and comparing their lives with another on social media/ in real life that we forget what is truly important.  For me, that's my family. 

I hate that I have to remind myself to put my phone down every once in a while, that I should step away from my computer for at least an hour every day, but that is the world in which we all live.  It's annoying, sure, but I would rather have a reason to step away, than not.

Thank you again, and I hope you all continue to enjoy the random thoughts that come to my mind.


Becca.

RIP

****I should probably post a disclaimer about today's post.  I am writing from a place of sorrow and confusion today, so it may not have my normal amount of sarcasm and sass.  That being said, if you feel like reading, go on ahead, if you don't want to be bothered with any serious thought, I totally get it and I forgive you.



Today is a hard day for me, as it usually is when I hear news of someone's passing.

I am not like most people I know.  When celebrities die, a part of me dies.  Especially if I connected with them at some point in my life.  Now I don't mean that I met them and we were the best of friends, I mean that their work touched me and became a part of my life in some way.

I just heard the news that Prince died about an hour ago.  Purple Rain! I mean I am devastated.  I have honestly been crying this whole time.  There was a brief moment where I just stared at the wall, thinking that this was yet another celebrity hoax.  Unfortunately, the world wasn't that lucky.

I loved that man.  I remember hearing "When Doves Cry" for the first time and just crying at the beauty of his voice.  Him singing was so magical to me.  He could go from the lowest note in his register all the way to the highest note, hitting every. single. note. on the way up like it was a skill that every person on the planet has.  He was beautiful and amazing and I will miss him.  I'm listening to that first song of his I ever heard, right now, sob-singing and typing through blurred vision.

My entire life, I have always been too attached to celebrities and/or fictional characters.  (Please see post about Leo I did a few months ago, if you need a reference)  My argument is, how can you not be?  Did you not grow up watching their films, or hearing their songs, or reading their tales?  There is no way that I am the only person that I know who doesn't have a fond memory/ies of an actor, or a singer, or a book character/s.  There is absolutely no way!  SPOILER ALERT, but there is no way that you didn't cry in Harry Potter when Fred died, or when Snape died, or when fucking DOBBY, the sweetest house-elf to ever exist, who did wrong to no one, died.  There's just no way.  If you didn't you are a heartless monster, and I hate you.

I cannot stress enough to you all how attached I become.  I sincerely like celebrities more than I do people that are actually, physically in my life.  My poor family has had to deal with this my entire life.  The phone calls in the middle of the night of me sobbing hysterically, or the crazy amount of texts when I am spiraling out of control and refuse to leave my bed to eat, or shower, are too numerous to count.  When Frank Sinatra died, I was 7 years old.  I honestly think this is the first time I realized how much music and film influenced me.  I grew up listening to his music because of my parents, I even began thinking he was my grandfather at one point in my life.  I'm not insane, you see, my grandpa died when I was really young and I only have a handful of memories of Old Hank,  Grandpa Sinatra was always there whenever I needed him.  If I was sad, I'd pop in one of his CDs,  if I was really happy, I would do the same.  His music was a constant in my life, no matter how I felt.  I have since learned that he wasn't actually my grandfather, but I still feel connected to him as if he were.

There have been instances where, when a celebrity passes away that I shut the world out.  When I found out Heath Ledger died, I was at work.  I looked up at the TV to the news, fell to the ground, and started sobbing.  I grabbed my stuff and left work.  I didn't tell anyone, I just ran out.  I cried all night and disappeared to my room for a couple of days.  I still cannot watch any of his movies.  It's been 8 years and it still hurts.  I haven't even seen "The Dark Knight," because I'm still sad.  I know, I know, it's his best work.  That's what people have been telling me for years, but I just cannot watch it yet, okay?!

Losing people is never easy, and again, I KNOW I DIDN'T KNOW THEM PERSONALLY, but I knew their art.  Robin Williams, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, David Bowie, Prince, Alan Rickman, Maureen O'Hara, all of them in the past few years have gone.  It fucking sucks.  They were all such a big part of my life and who I am.  Their work shaped me, in some way or another, they allowed me to be my crazy, goofy, weird self and I thank all of them for it.

One day, I will be able to watch all their films, and listen to all their music without sadness consuming me.  Or maybe I won't.  Maybe I will forever be sad, who knows.  All I know is that my world was brighter for having them in it, sadness and all.

Rest In Paradise, my friends.  You shall always be missed.

A game, is, the foot.

I spent the first hour of my shift at work on Tuesday, daydreaming about quitting my job, packing up my cat and roommate, and driving across the country to start a new life.

While, yes, this is a thought I have on a weekly basis, it was also really slow that day.

Two of my friends/co-workers and I then decided to play a game of hypotheticals to distract ourselves from the negative thoughts in our heads.  For 4 hours.  It passed the time really well, and let us all get to know each other a little better.  It was a lot of fun.  So, I have decided to share with the world, what exactly it is that I, and most service workers, do with our lives.  None of this is exaggerated, I took very detailed notes.  Oh and by service workers, I mean we work in a restaurant.  We aren't prostitutes.  Well, kind of.

Feel free to try this out the next time you are bored.  Or don't, I couldn't care less.

Names have been changed to protect identities.
Ps, they chose their own code names.
Me = Me, obviously
Lestadt (L)= Man
Bloo (B) = Woman

Question 1:  If you could live the rest of your life as any celebrity, past or present, who would you choose?
Me: Uhhhhh, Tina Fey, I think.  Yeah, she's amazing. Her.
Lestadt:  Brad Pitt. No, Tupac.  I know he got shot at 26, but still.
Me: Oooooo, "Fight Club" era Brad Pitt? Yes please.
Bloo:  I would definitely be Beyoncé. Forever. No question.

Question 2: What celebrity would you sleep with?  You have to pick a man and a woman.
B: Man, Chris Brown.  The answer is always Chris Brown.  Woman, Megan Fox, she's so hot.
Me:  Leo, OBVIOUSLY, and Rihanna.
L: Rihanna.  Only Rihanna.  I am not picking a dude.
Me:  You gotta, that's how the game works!
*He didn't, we moved on.

Question 3:  Growing up, and don't act like we all didn't have one, what cartoon were you the most attracted to? 
Me:  Oh this is embarrassing! Teenage Simba, Robin Hood, like the fox version, and Peter Pan.
B:  Hmmm, grown up Simba was hot, and so manly.  Aladdin, definitely.  I was convinced I would grow up and marry him.  Hercules, too, he was gorgeous.
L:  I had a huge crush on the lady fox from Robin Hood, and Princess Jasmine.
Me: Maid Marian, good choice, but why are we so attracted to literal foxes? Also, slave Jasmine? Or all of the time Jasmine?
L: Oh God, any Jasmine.
Me:  Is it hot in here? I'm getting very warm.
B:  Girl!
L:  Hahaha, you guys are getting more excited about cartoons than you did the real people.

Question 4:  Who gave you your first sexual feelings?
Me: Raphael from the Ninja Turtles.  I legit thought he was my soul mate for a few years.
L:  I remember being in a thrift store when I was a kid and seeing an old issue of Sports Illustrated with Elle Macpherson on the cover.  She was wearing this fishnet bathing suit thing and all I could think of was, "Oh my god, tehe that's her nipple."
B: Uhhhh, let me get back to you.  (She never did, she got distracted with actual work.  I KNOW.  So, we just moved on to the next question.)

Question 5:  Pick a professional athlete to bone.
B:  Fuck, I can't choose.  There are so many I am attracted to.  I don't wanna play anymore.  My head hurts. Come back to me!
L:  Mia Hamm in her prime was hot.  There was also this Russian Track runner I saw on tv once who had a big butt, but I never learned her name.
Me:  Hmmmm, Odell Beckham, Jr. Or Doug McDermott.  Or, Andre Drummond.
L:  NO! I know mine.  Anna Kournikova.
Me//B:  We knew you'd pick her.

Question 6: If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
L:  Tahiti.  In one of those houses that are on stilts in the water with the glass floors so you can just watch the water.
B:  The Canary Islands wearing Canary yellow diamonds.
Me:  There is this tiny village in Switzerland, at the base of the Matterhorn, I can't remember the name of it but it starts with a 'Z,' I think.  It's perfect and snowy and cozy and I just want to sit in my cottage, reading next to a fire.
B:  No, that's too cold.  Never.

Question 7:  If you were free from all punishment, what crime would you commit?
B: MURDER.  No, don't put that.  I would rob the richest bank in the world.
L: I would rob Fort Knox.
Me:  Honestly?  I would punch Donald Trump square in the fucking face.  Just beat the shit out of him.  Not kill him, though.  I want him to live the rest of his life knowing that a "lowly woman" beat the ever living piss out of him.
B:  I wouldn't want to waste mine on Trump.  I need money.  It makes my world go round baby!
L:  Becca, I know what you should do.  Break into Leo's house and install cameras so you can see him forever.
Me:  I'm no stalker.  Punch Trump.
B: I changed mine! I would murder every owner of every Major League Soccer team, take control of FIFA, and then have money forever.
Me: ....well I know never to cross you.

Question 8: If you could live in any decade, which would you choose?
Me:  Am I a man or a woman in this scenario?
L:  You're you.
Me:  So, a woman.  This one.  Definitely this one.
L:  I don't know, the "Roaring Twenties?"  That sounds nice, ladies drinking and smoking?
Me:  Don't forget the rampant sexism and inequality.  Is that what you would choose?  The twenties?
L: No, the '70s, I think.
B:  I would be a teen in the late '80s early '90s.  The hip hop era.  Where they danced like this,  ***she then proceeds to violently hump the air***  That's where I need to be.
L:  I would be at Woodstock and at Studio 54.
Me:  I honestly think I would pick the early '40s.  Wartime was eerily beautiful, don't get me wrong it was tragic and sad, but beautiful.  There's this romanticism surrounding it for me.
B:  That's only fun if you're white, and a man.
Me:  I look white, I'd be okay.  Maybe.
B: No, you have that curly, curly hair and look Puerto Rican.  I think you'd be shit out of luck.
L:  And you're Native American.
B:  Yeah you've got Indian in you.  No Bueno.  This question is not great for you and me.
Me:  CRAP DAMNIT!

Question 9:  If you were an animal, what would you be?
Me:  I hate this question, because no matter what I pick, everyone says, "No, you'd definitely be a panda."  This has been an ongoing theme in my life.
B:  No.  I wouldn't say panda, I would say like a panther or a snow leopard or something like that.  You have an attitude, but you aren't mean.
Me:  I would say an Ostrich.  A big ass bird that can't even bird.  That's me.
B:  I'd be a lion, but a male lion.  Not a girl lion.  I want the mane.  I don't want to be a girl lion!
L:  I'd be an otter.  They sure do look like they have a lot of fun those otters.

Question 10: If you had to pick between flight or invisibility, which would you pick?
Me:  Fuck! This is hard.
B:  I need time.  I need to think.  Come back to me.
L:  Flight, because if I ever wanted to be alone, I could just fly off and be like "BYE."  Plus, I have always wanted to fly.
Me:  Invisibility.  I don't know if you know this, but I do a lot of awkward things.  So, if I ever got embarrassed, I could literally disappear before your eyes.  Which, let's be honest, I have needed to do before but couldn't.  Plus, I would be the UNDENIABLE WORLD CHAMPION of Hide-and-Seek.  That's pretty fucking awesome.
L:  It would be pretty sweet to get on an elevator and fart as loud as you wanted to.  Plus, you could see everyone you wanted to naked.  Everyone on this list.
B:  I pick invisibility.  You could commit so many crimes.
Me:  What is wrong with us that we pick things solely for the acts of depravity we can commit? 


That is everything.  We only got through 10 questions because we all still had to be adults and do our work.  It isn't all bad though, we got paid to dick around all night, which is pretty awesome.  I should also probably say, that I am the one in charge every shift.  I don't know why my boss thought THAT was a good idea.

Writer's Block

I honestly have no inspiration today. 

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO TALK ABOUT!

Normally I just sit down on my living room floor, grab my laptop, and get to writing about whatever is in my head.  No plans, just writing.  Today, there is nothing.

AB. SO. LUTE. LY. NO. THING.

I sat in front of this goddamn screen for over an hour.  Just staring. I think that I definitely caused some damage to my retinas waiting for an inspiring thought that never came.

Maybe I am tired.  I mean I did take a 2 hour angry nap today because I got extremely pissed off this afternoon.   What is an angry nap, you ask?  It is kind of like a normal nap, but you get so mad that you ended up tiring yourself out, like a toddler, so you nap away the anger.  Which didn't really help, because when my roommate woke me up so we could go to the movies, I was still angry.  I wasn't even happy about the snacks I bought at concessions.  I got nachos, and I didn't even enjoy them.  I only get excited about a few things in this life: dinosaurs, books, movies, and food.  That's it.  Am I dying?

I mean, I turned off my phone today and left it at home because I was so angry.  It was actually kind of freeing.

Maybe I'm depressed, like in a dramatic sense, not the literal sense because that is a very real and horrible mental illness and it is not something to be taken lightly. 

Maybe I have just exhausted every thought in my head and peaked the minute I started this blog.  I feel that that is impossible because I usually can't even sleep at night because I'm thinking about so many different things.  Like, the fact that when you touch anything with your tongue, you're not touching, but tasting.  HOW CRAZY IS THAT?!

Maybe my bad mood from earlier has just made me spiral out of control.  Ugh, and if I have to hear one more person say, "be happy, it isn't so bad. Someone out there has it worse than you," I will lose my fucking mind.  I get it, there are homeless people living under bridges, and there are starving children that have no idea when they will have their next meal.  SHUT UP! I get it, but that doesn't diminish the fact that I had a bad day.  No one gets to tell me how I feel about something, because it's HOW I FEEL YOU ASSHAT!

If you are reading this, please, PLEASE don't ever be that person.  No one likes that person.  It's worse than the person who is always fucking chipper at 8 am and has to tell everyone about their weekend.  Stop it, Linda.  No one cares.

I honestly am just over being an adult today.
I'll try again tomorrow.

Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #9: Sometimes, you just gotta go off the grid.  Be like Ron Swanson, no phone, just you in your cabin in the woods with some whiskey.  Or, be like me and scream until you pass out and wake up in a puddle of your own drool.  Or whatever works for you.

Independence Shmindependence

I have decided to take a break from talking about my most embarrassing moments.  Not because I don't enjoy sharing them, but because it's my blog and I can do what I want. 

Don't you all worry, I still have plenty of embarrassment to share, they will just be scattered throughout the blog whenever I feel like talking about them.

Now that that is covered, let us move on.




When I finally moved out of my mom's house after I graduated college, I felt so free.

I lived alone. 

I could come home whenever I wanted to and not have to worry about waking up my roommates.  I never wore pants.  I watched Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings on repeat, quoting every line perfectly, and I didn't have to listen to my sisters yelling at me to shut up.  I could listen to and choreograph dances to Broadway showtunes without judgement.  My books found a safe home without fear of being creased.  It was honestly one of the most amazing times in my life.

I had never lived alone before, so I really didn't know what to expect.  Having 5 siblings meant that I always had to share a room with someone.  In college, I had multiple roommates.  This was the first time in my life in which I was completely alone, and there was no turning back for me.

This was my first taste of independence.  A lot of people think that college is your first real independent experience, but I never felt that way.  You see, my brother and I went to the same college, so I never really felt like I was on my own. 

Independence came to me when I moved down the road from my mom.  Literally down the road.  Other than the house number, our addresses were exactly the same.

Anyway, things were great in my apartment.  I felt so good about myself.  I always knew that I would do well on my own, and now I had the proof.  Everything was perfect until, one afternoon, I decided to go and get groceries. 

In one of the bags was a delicious snack.  A gloriously large jar of kosher dill pickles.  This jar, very quickly, became my enemy.

I couldn't open it.

I tried every trick in the book.  I used a dry towel to get a good grip on the jar.  Didn't work.  I tapped the edge of the lid on the counter, rotating as needed.  Didn't work.  I used a bottle opener to try and wedge it open.  Didn't work.  I burst into tears, pleading with it about how hungry I was.  Didn't work.

Crying over a jar of unopened pickles.  What had I become?

I had this stubborn fuck of a jar sitting in my fridge for 2 weeks, taunting me.  Multiple times a day I would open the door and just see it staring back at me, with it's dumb face. 

(I drew a face on it at one point because I had clearly gone insane, and saw a jar of pickles as my enemy.  Figured I needed to make it as dramatic as possible because of who I am as a person.)

I couldn't do anything about it,  I felt helpless.  I contemplated asking my best friend, who is 200 pounds of pure beefy muscle, to open it, but I felt that that would mean I wasn't as independent as I thought.  Also, he hates pickles and if I had to listen to him complain about getting covered in pickle juice, I would have thrown the whole jar at him.  It got to the point where I almost put it in my sink and smashed it with a hammer.  I contemplated eating glass shard ridden pickles just so this jar didn't win!  It was in that moment, that I knew it already had.

I caved.

I called my dad crying because I couldn't open it.  No matter what I did, it wouldn't open.  He told me he would come help, so he ended up driving 30 minutes to my apartment solely to open a jar of pickles.  He walked into the apartment to find me curled up on the kitchen floor clutching a gigantic jar of pickles, crying.  He didn't say a word.  He just picked up the jar, opened it WITH ZERO FUCKING EFFORT, put the jar back into my arms, and left.  Angered, I screamed, "I LOOSENED IT FOR YOU!" as he walked out the door.


Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #8:  Being independent does not mean you still don't need help every once in a while.  You are still a strong, independent person, even if you have to call your parents crying about a jar of pickles you can't open.  Just don't call your siblings, they WILL make fun of you and won't be of any help at all.

Apologies, my dudes.

I just wanted to take a minute and apologize to you all.


I am so sorry for not posting for a couple of weeks.  I was experiencing technical difficulties with my blog/ computer, so I was unable to share anything with you.  It was annoying, inconvenient, and nearly made me develop stress eczema.


I have no idea what was going on, but basically any time I logged in, my computer responded like it was going to explode.


I have fixed it, so I shan't be disappearing again.*










Note*  I did not acutally fix anything, I don't know how to fix computers, but I did bypass the problem.  If there is anything I have learned from trying to be an adult, it is how to ignore problems long enough that you convince yourself that nothing was ever wrong in the first place.

#3

The third story that has been nominated for "Most Embarrassing Moment in Becca's Life" happened in the same year as the Bertha barrel roll incident of the '97-'98 school year.


The fourth grade was a rough time for me.


Now, for those of you who don't know me personally, I have extremely curly hair.  I have the type of curls that people pay insane amounts of money to get. ON PURPOSE. Think of that perm your mother forced you to get in middle school right before picture day, thinking that it would look amazing, when in reality it looked like a poodle stuck its paw in an electrical outlet and got shocked, and then died.  On top of your head.  That's the type of hair I have. 


I promise, there was a reason I brought this up.  I also needed to make sure you all have the proper image in your head before I begin.


This story is about the first and only time I succumbed to peer pressure.


My friend decided she wanted to have a slumber party with a few of the girls in my grade.  This was the first real slumber party I had ever been to, and I mean one with more than just two of us.  I was excited, yet nervous.  You see, there was a reason I never did sleepovers.  I am a very violent sleeper and was incredibly concerned with what might happen were I to be left in a room full of sleeping people without my parents present.  I am still very self-conscious about this, because I once almost killed my sister, Rachel.  If my dad didn't hear her gasping for air, I would be writing this on the walls of my prison cell using my own blood for ink. True story.


Anyway, it was the end of school on a Friday, we all gathered at the front of the school so we could walk to my friend's house and get girls night going.  I was told there was going to be pizza when we got there, so I basically ran the entire way, and left everyone else in my dust.  You see, my family is the size of a small army.  I was used/am used to having to fight my siblings for food, and rarely did I come out on top.  Not this time.  This time, I was going to be in a house with 7 girls that didn't know what survival was.  This was it, this was my time to shine.


I, of course, claimed roughly 2 large pizzas for myself and plopped myself in a corner of her bedroom and didn't move for hours.  Mostly because I was just as stuffed as the crust on my pizza, but also because I had really only come for the free food.


The slumber party consisted of your typical "girly" activities: we had a dance party, watched some Disney movies, played "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board" to see if any of us had any magical powers, and gave each other make overs.


That last event is the one that haunts my nights.  My friend, who we will call Lucinda, because I can't really remember whose goddamn house it was, brought out all sorts of make up and hair products and accessories.  Everyone squealed with excitement.  I, however, let out more of a muffled groan, because I had just eaten my weight in dough and cheese, but no one could really tell the difference. Or they really didn't care.


Everyone grabbed their favorite pieces of make up and a mirror and started getting glammed up.  I just stared at the baskets of stuff wondering what I was supposed to do with the items in them.  I was 9.  I had zero interest in things that weren't The Goosebumps books, or The Ninja Turtles.  So I grabbed some blue lipstick and just faked my way through it.


So, there were about 7 other girls at this house, and all of them had pin straight hair.  Naturally, one of my loudmouth friends, who wasn't really my friend because she was a loudmouth, decided she wanted to curl everyone's hair.  Including mine.  Seeing as how I already have curly hair, I said her idea was stupid, because it was.  WHY ARE YOU GOING TO CURL HAIR THAT IS ALREADY CURLY YOU DUMB STRAIGHT-HAIRED IDIOT?!  Looking back, I wish I said this and saved myself some embarrassment, but I didn't. 


After she had gotten through about 3 girl's hair, she looked at me and told me it was my turn.  We continued to fight for about 30 minutes until I caved and let her do it.  Which. Was. Stupid.


Within 20 seconds of her wrapping a fairly large strand tightly around the curling iron, I hear the words "uh-oh."  I panicked.  The mother fucking curling iron was now stuck in my hair and still very much on.  As my scalp was literally being burned off of my skull, I started screaming at her, and one of my other genius friends grabbed a comb and hairbrush thinking that they would somehow brush the curling iron of death out of my hair.  This turned out to be an even worse idea, because they too, got stuck.


I now had a curling iron, a comb, and a hairbrush making a new home on the top of my head, as I was running around like a dog on a leash.  Literally.  The curling iron was still plugged in as I ran across the room, and it stayed plugged in as it yanked me to the ground when I ran out of cord.


I ended up having to call my mom to come get me and to untangle these objects from my hair.  To my mom's credit, she didn't get annoyed or make fun of me once for this, and she saved all of my hair.  I didn't have to go walking around with a singed bald spot for months.  So, thanks for that Liz.


Shortly after this, I stopped being friends with Curling Iron Susie  (not her real name, but she doesn't get the satisfaction of me using her real name after what she did.)    I also didn't go to a slumber party for another 6 years because of this.  Turns out, my totally justified concern about possibly murdering my friends in my sleep wasn't the biggest issue that night.  Who knew?




Becca's Adulthood Survival Tip #7:  Never succumb to peer pressure.  Your friends are usually idiots.  Do whatever you want.  Also, don't be a dick and pressure your friends and make them feel like shit for making their own decisions separate from your influence.  It goes both ways.

#2

The second story that has been nominated for "Most Embarrassing Moment in Becca's Life" happened when I was 9 years old.

It was the beginning of the school year; I was in the 4th grade.  I had just recently become an aunt for the first time, I had most of my close friends in my class, and I liked my teacher.  Honestly, it looked like I was headed for a great year.  Oh how wrong I was.

Now, you are thinking to yourself, "What happened?! Did her dog die? Did she accidentally call her teacher 'Mom?'  Did she fall in front of the whole school?"  The answer to those questions are yes, but not that year.

What happened to me, is honestly much worse than that, and it happened, like most embarrassing middle school stories do; on the playground.

Like most middle schools, mine consisted of children in grades 3 through 6.  The school had 2 wings, you had the 3rd and 4th grades down one hallway, and the 5th and 6th grades down the other.  At either end of the school, there were 2 separate playgrounds, one of which has haunted my dreams for 18 years.

It was a fairly normal playground, a couple of swing sets, some monkey bars, and a slide.  Seeing as how there weren't that many options for entertainment, we used to play games outside as well.  There were the usual schoolyard games, Red Rover, tag, kickball, etc.  My favorite game, however, became my undoing. 

Children's imaginations sometimes get the best of them.  My friends and I were constantly trying to think of new ways to have fun on the playground.  For some reason, all our "fun" ideas involved the cornerstone of it: the slide.  Now, this wasn't your typical slide.  She was practically perfect.  It was a million feet tall, realistically it was probably around 6 or 7 feet, but I was 9, and had no real concept of height.  It was a beautiful stainless steel and barely even burned you when it was hot out.  The exposed bolts were so few that you rarely cut yourself.  This was the Beauty Queen of slides.  I named her Bertha.

The day Bertha betrayed me, was a normal day in the life of a 4th grader.  I got up and got dressed, made it to school, said something stupid to my teacher, and then played outside.  Typical.

When recess began, we all swarmed around the slide to start our game.  The point of the game was to see how many people we could actually fit on the slide at one time.  We would send down one person at a time, and they would have to stop themselves from actually exiting the slide.  The strongest person always went first, of course, because he/she would have to hold up the rest of us.  There was a special technique to this game.  You had to slide down sideways, with your legs hanging over the side of the slide, and you would have to have a firm grip but not too firm that it stopped you from actually moving.  This may sound confusing, so I have included an artist's rendering of the scenario below.

I am the artist.

 

I was a very gender neutral child.  I don't like the terms "girly" or "tomboy" because I think that limits children, but I definitely had my own sense of, what I considered, style.  I dressed how I dressed and acted how I acted.  I didn't necessarily like wearing dresses, but I didn't always hate it and occasionally wouldn't fight Liz when she suggested I wear one. This happened to be one of the days that I didn't fight her.  I wore a cute black and white checkered sleeveless jumper which I wore over a short sleeved turtleneck that had two small teddy bears holding hands with a heart in between them.  It was still fairly cold out, so I wore black tights that day, too.

 

Anyway, we had all begun waiting for our turn to climb Bertha's perfectly spaced stairs.  I was 5th in line.

 

The adrenaline was pumping through me.  Only 4 more people to go.  This was my favorite place to be.  Yes, now 3 more people.  I couldn't wait, I was getting so excited.  Now, only 2 more.  I had been practicing my technique for days, I was going to rock this.  Oh my god, one more person.  You can do this.  Yes! MY TURN!  As I climbed up the steps to the summit, my breath caught in my throat, and my hands gripped the railings tightly.  I was nervous.  What if I fell?  No, you can't worry about that now, let's do this.

 

I wish, so much, that I had simply fallen.

 

I sat down, turned my legs to the right as to let them dangle over the side of Bertha and let myself fly.  But I swung my legs too hard and ended up facing the top of the slide as I barrel rolled downward, my legs spread-eagle, making eye contact with the boy who was next in line at the top of the slide.  I flipped backward with such force that I knocked into the person below me so hard that it launched everyone off of the slide and onto the wet ground.

 

Again, here is an artist's rendering.

 

 

We were just a huddled mass of limbs on the ground.  I was on the top of the pile.  I fumbled my way into standing up, grumbling, covered in mulch and mud.  Embarrassed, and on the verge of tears, I ran as fast as my chubby legs could carry me, to the bathroom to clean up.  I locked myself in the stall for the rest of recess, I couldn't face my classmates.  Especially the boy who just saw more of me than he probably had planned to that morning.

 

I wanted to die that day.  You think you're safe, you think that bad things won't happen to you in your favorite place.  You are so happy, and carefree, how could anything go wrong?  You are just going down a slide, what's the worst that could happen?

I didn't go out for recess for about 2 weeks after that, I stayed inside and read.  I figured that reading couldn't hurt you.  They are just words.  It was then that I discovered Charlotte's Web and realized that everything hurts and life is stupid.

 

Becca's Adulthood Survival Tip #6:  Be careful.  It's the most beautiful ones that hurt you the most.

#1

In light of the events of last night's 88th Academy Awards, I feel like this is the perfect time to discuss with you the first story that has been nominated by a panel of my peers for "Most Embarrassing Moment in Becca's Life."  This "panel of peers" consists mostly of my mom and siblings, with a few close friends thrown in.  So, in reality not quite my peers, just a bunch of people that are tired of my shit.

As we all know, Leonardo DiCaprio, until last night, had never won an Oscar.  The internet loved to remind the world of that.  To me and many others, this was absolute bullshit.  He is one of the most amazing actors to ever exist and the Academy has snubbed him numerous times (5, I think).  Over the course of the past 20 years, I have had very strong feelings about this.  Every single time he's lost for Best Actor, I would yell at the television and throw whatever was closest to me at it. 

Not this year, though.  This year, HE FINALLY FUCKING WON!  My reaction was not the least bit shocking, seeing as how I like celebrities and fictional characters more than I do people I actually know/actually exist.  I screamed.  I ugly-cried.  I hyperventilated.  I honestly lost my shit and pissed off my neighbors in the process.  One of my best friends, with whom I was video-chatting the entire Oscars, recorded my reaction.  I cried for about 2 hours; I am so happy for him.  I didn't even know who won Best Picture until I woke up this morning because I was so distracted by Leo finally getting his much deserved award.

This is not the embarrassing story.  Everyone knows my love for Leo is stronger than anything in this world, and if you didn't know that, now you do.  No, the embarrassing part of this post has to do with the letter that I wrote to him when I was 10 years old. 
IN PENCIL. 
I know.

Remember all those teen magazines in the 90s?  There was Teen People, Seventeen, Tiger Beat, and YT or something like that.  These magazines catered to a younger demographic and always had "teenage heartthrobs" and "the Girl Next Door" type actresses/singers on the covers.  Well also in those magazines they published actors' addresses where you could send them fan mail.  Remember, this was before Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.  You couldn't just message them in 140 characters about how much you loved them, it took time and effort.

Well, one day while I was staring at the pictures in one of those magazines, I found Leo's address.  (To all my readers born after 1996, the addresses given were not a celebrity's real home address.  That would be creepy.  It was usually a P.O. Box set up by their Talent Agency in order for fans to reach out to them.  I doubt they even read it.)  Anyway, I decided that day I was going to write him a love letter of sorts.  Now I didn't have the skill with words that I do today, I was 10, and incredibly stupid.

I haven't seen the letter in almost 20 years so I don't quite remember everything that I wrote, but I do remember bits and pieces.  I told him how much I loved him and his movies.  Constantly.  I think I wrote "I love you" about 6 times. (Which is how many times he has been nominated for an Oscar, by the way.  So, fate.) I had seen every single movie of his, up until that point, except for Basketball Diaries because my sister Natasha said I was too young to watch it.  I put that in the letter.  I was mad at her for loving him too and didn't want to share him, so I tried to defame her character.  I obviously planned on marrying him and didn't want competition from my own flesh and blood.  I still plan on marrying him one day, let's be honest here.

This letter never reached him.  I'm not saying that because he never responded and I'm being dramatic, I never actually mailed the letter.  Why? Because I didn't know how to go about buying stamps when I was 10 and didn't really understand the postal system.  I thought you just put a letter in the mailbox, raise the flag, and that was it.  My mailman, Rick, got annoyed with me at least once a week over this.  This letter is currently sitting in my mother's garage.  I know this because Natasha found it a couple years ago and reminded me of how embarrassed I should feel.

Don't worry Natasha, I am slightly.   Not enough to allow you to have him, though.

Becca rhymes with embarrassment.

I am an embarrassing person. 

There is no question about that. 

Over the years, however, I have become immune to the embarrassment myself.  I am now only really embarrassing to those who are not yet used to me, and more specifically, my little sister.  I say "little sister" because she is younger than I am, but only by 2 years.  So stop picturing a bitchy 10 year old, and start picturing a bitchy 25 year old.* 

Even though I am used to my own outbursts/actions, there have been a few times in my life where even I was shocked by them.  So, I have decided that for the next 10 or so posts I am going to share with you some of the most embarrassing things that have ever happened to me in my life, and the subsequent shame that followed.

I hope you all enjoy!




*Disclaimer: Any seemingly rude thing that I say about my siblings is said out of the truest love.   They are my best friends in the entire world and I can't imagine my life without them.  This disclaimer is for you, the reader, they know this already, having been in my life for 20+ years.  Having said that, sometimes we can all be a bit bitchy and mean, and we all know it.  <3

Life is confusing.

As a kid, I used to imagine what it would be like to be all grown up.  Maybe I would have a big house with a long, winding banister I could slide down.  Maybe, I would own a convertible.  Maybe, I would live in the sewers protecting New York City from the Foot Clan with the rest of the Ninja Turtles.  If you knew me as a child, the latter made the most sense for my future.  While I dreamt big and usually about fairly happy things, for some reason I sincerely believed that quicksand would be a bigger issue than it actually is.

This isn't a metaphor.  I wasn't some poetic, tortured soul that imagined adulthood would swallow you up, and leave naught in its wake.  I mean I was concerned about ACTUAL quicksand.  You know, wet patches of sand that would slowly suck you into the Earth until you suffocated and died.

I honestly have zero clue as to when, where, how, or why this became a concern of mine, either.  I did watch a lot of movies and read a lot as a kid, and I do have a very active imagination, so I guess it can be attributed to those things, but I was genuinely terrified that quicksand would be a huge issue in my adult life. 

It isn't, obviously.  Which sort of makes me sad because I thought about this so much, that I had actual plans as to how to escape, were I ever to be trapped in it.  I mean I made Home Alone style blueprints that were quite detailed, and to this day have never gotten the chance to put these plans into action.  My dreams are dead. 

Surprisingly, I am not alone in this.  I have had this conversation with several friends.  Where did this fear come from?  Seriously, it bothers me that no one has the answer.  It's not like our parents would leave notes in our lunchbox about it.  "Have a great day today.  Do well in school.  Respect your teachers.  Oh and be wary of the quicksand."  If that were the case, it wouldn't have bothered me for 20+ years, and I could just blame my parents for the problems in my life like normal Americans do.

Is it just one of those things that is a staple of your childhood?  Kind of like how every town has that one creepy house that no one goes near because you're convinced a witch lives in it.  Or how every family has that one person who is at every party/event, but no one can figure out how they are actually related to anyone?

I have come to accept that no one truly knows the answer to all of my questions, or every single person on the planet is a dick and likes torturing me.  I honestly can't tell which is more likely.  But, if I have learned anything from watching every episode of The X-Files, it's that "the truth is out there," and I will find it one day.  Or, I won't and I will just die without ever knowing.

Mayhaps this means that adulthood is the quicksand that I so desperately feared.  So, I guess I was right all along and can now die happy.

Huh, so, in reality, life ruining my dreams actually made my dreams come true? That's confusing and I hate it.

Ya snooze, ya lose?

Have you ever been watching a movie and a scene pops up on the screen of someone sleeping, or laying in bed, and you just think to yourself how badly you wish that's what you were doing at that moment?

That is how I feel on a daily basis. 
I mean constantly. 
All day. 
I could have just woken up from a 2 year long coma, and I would still be ready to go back to bed.  If you actually asked yourself, "Why is she so exhausted?"  I'm going to assume you are about 12 years old, your parents still make your lunch for school every day, and you still have a scheduled bed time.

I'm so tired because adulthood is bullshit.

You have to deal with so much responsibility between finishing college, finding a "real" job, dating, finding a place to live that is cheap enough, but not so cheap that you end up accidentally renting an apartment in a crack den, and being adult enough to stop asking your parents to schedule your appointments for you.  You have to work in order to have money for food, clothes, and rent.  You're only an entry level employee though, so after you pay your rent, you have just enough money for a 20 year old shirt from the thrift store, and a case of Ramen noodles.  You wish very much that these weren't your concerns in life, because you want to travel the world and meet amazing people, but you aren't immune to the disease that is your 20s.  Even if you could afford it right now, you would be too tired (and possibly jet-lagged) to do it. 

Trying to be a productive member of society is tiring. 
Paying bills on time is tiring.
Saving money is tiring.
Pretending you like being around the people with whom you work is tiring. 
Pretending like you don't actually need the job that you hate more than anything, is tiring.
Making a list of all the things you need to do when you aren't at work is tiring. 
Marking off anything on that to-do list is tiring. 
Being in public is tiring. 
College me will hate me for saying this, but nowadays, drinking is tiring.
Pretending you know what you are actually doing in the weight section at the gym is tiring. 
Having to actually go to the gym, is tiring.
Plopping yourself on the couch and wondering what it would be like if you were a completely different person that doesn't have to do any of the aforementioned things, is tiring. 
Writing this to you right now, is tiring.

Everything you do as an adult is draining. Maybe it isn't for everyone.  Maybe there are people out there who actually get a sense of fulfillment out of their lives and jobs.  Maybe I am just a miserable person with no direction in life.  All of which are strong possibilities, but I can guarantee you, that while reading this you became tired due to the mere thought of a responsibility you have and are currently ignoring.

Surprisingly, the overwhelming feeling I am currently having is joy, because I just got a text message from my sister that proved my point perfectly.  Serendipity at its finest.  "I overslept for work by 6 hours.  Idk what to do. Wtf. I slept for like 18 hours."  Not 30 minutes.  Not 45 minutes, but SIX. HOURS.  If this doesn't perfectly show you what it's like being an adult, then I don't know what will.

The amount of times in my life that I have been late to work due to oversleeping, are too numerous to count.  I always set my alarm with plenty of time to get up and get ready, but it never works.  My snooze button gets more action than the Bunny Ranch.  I sincerely cannot remember a day that I actually got up to my alarm.  Honestly, I have two excuses that I use.  The first of which is, "Sorry, I overslept."  The second, "Sorry, I really didn't want to come in today."  Oddly, I never get in trouble for either of these, and I'm not actually sorry.  That would mean that I actually care about my job, and I really don't.  Not that it would make any difference, I would still be late.  It's just who I am.  Accept it, people.

My parents wake up at the same time every day, without fail, with no alarm clock in sight.  I don't understand this.  I have never understood this.  When I was in college, I remember my mom telling me that she's used to it.  She's had to wake up at the same time every day for 30 years, so her body just naturally gets up, and that I would get to that point one day.  I wanted to barf.  That is disgusting to me.  No one gets to tell me when to wake up, Becca wakes up for no one.  Sometimes, not even for Becca. 

I think it was in that moment that I knew I would become adult-sized, but never adult-minded.

Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #5:  Sleep as often as you can.  Seriously, all that shit that you have to do is still going to be there tomorrow.  So, take that god damn nap you have been thinking about all day.

Being an asshole is genetic.

Whistling isn't an easy talent to master.

I don't mean having the ability to whistle, most everyone knows how to do that.  I mean actually carrying a tune and matching a pitch; that kind of whistling.

My father has mastered this art.

Most of the non-embarrassing memories I have of my dad involve him whistling.  That sentence makes it sound like he's dead; he's not.  He is fully alive and still embarrasses me nearly every day with his dadisms.

Anyway, if Tom isn't talking/laughing/blowing his nose obnoxiously loud, then he's whistling.  And he is good at it.  The whistling, not the nose blowing.  Not that he's particularly bad at blowing his nose, I just don't have a proper scale with which to measure his abilities.  Let's just say he's no worse than your grandpa, but he's better than a baby. 

I have gotten off track a little bit.

Back to the whistling.

My dad whistled while he showered, which I feel is the most common form that whistling takes.  He whistled while reading the newspaper, while watching the news, while mowing the lawn, while my mom was yelling at us for breaking someone or something, and while cooking.  I honestly don't know how he was able to pay attention to anything and keep his whistles in perfect tune.  Which, now that I'm thinking about it, probably explains why my mom paid more attention to/raised us.

Growing up, anytime Tom would whistle, we would all respond to him with our own whistles.  Have you ever heard 6 kids whistle simultaneously?  Oh and terribly off key, might I add.  It's a fucking nightmare.  It makes you want to rip your own ears off, then throw them at said kids.

This is why my mother made another rule for our family.  There is to be no whistling in the house, unless we could whistle like our father.  This is 100% true, and to answer your question, yes, this rule is still in effect today.  When Liz puts her foot down, it's forever.  That foot will never again be lifted. 

If you were caught whistling, my mom would say, "If you can't whistle like your father, then shut up."  Now don't get me wrong, my mom is a funny and amazing lady.  It's just that my parents had two-thirds of a baseball team on their own, there had to be rules, or it would have been chaos. 

Now, to this day, Liz swears that she never said shut up, but it's my memory so I'm pretty sure I'm right.  Also, my siblings will back me up on it.  Unless she is standing right next to them, then they take her side.  Which is typical.  I really can't blame them, though.  It's self-preservation.  I get it.

My mom constantly telling us to stop whistling made me want to whistle that much more.  Which is kind of ridiculous, right?  You have no urge to do anything until someone tells you not to do it.  Like when you see a sign that says "Wet Paint. Do NOT Touch."  Well, when my day started, I had zero intentions of touching this wall.  But now? Now is a different story, I must touch it.  What do you accomplish by doing that?  You just get paint all over your hand, and no way to get it off of you.  Do you feel in control at that moment?  Kind of, if you ignore your paint covered hand.  Why must it be this way?  Why can't your brain just be like, "Yeah, okay.  They said don't do it, so listen to them, respect them.  Just don't do it.  Walk away."  But that is not how human brains work.

With Liz's obvious disdain for our shitty whistling, I knew there was only one option.  That's right.  Learn to fucking whistle. 

Oh and did I ever.

Anytime my mother wasn't within earshot, I was practicing.  It took years and years.  I finally mastered it my Freshman year of college.  Liz was obviously not around, so I could whistle whenever I wanted to.  I perfected it.  I showed off my talent during Christmas break that year, and my mom's only response was, "You're good at that."

THAT'S IT?!

"YOU'RE GOOD AT THAT?!"  That is the only reaction I get from you woman?!  I have been practicing for years to rub it in your face that you can no longer tell me to stop whistling because I can now "whistle like my father," and you had zero reaction?!  It really shouldn't have surprised me, but it did.

Fast forward about 5 years to a Sunday dinner at my mother's house.  I was whistling while setting the table and she mentioned how good my whistling was, and I snapped.  I told her that I only learned how to whistle because she said unless we could whistle like our father, then we had to shut up. 

It was in that moment that my mom realized she raised an asshole.

Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #4:  Don't try to outfox your mother.  She will always win.  Use the tools and knowledge she has given you on your friends and coworkers to gain back some of the power in your life.  Seriously, just stop challenging your mom.

What about Elevensies?

Everyone has secrets.

Everyone.

I am no exception to this rule, I have many of my own.

Secrets with friends are probably the best ones, while simultaneously being the worst.  You love that you have something you share with someone, but you never know if they are going to keep their mouth shut about it.  So you live in constant fear that one day, everyone will know what you've done.  You made a pact for you all to stay quiet.  You can't go back on it.  A pact's a pact; plain and simple.

Every group of friends makes a pact.  You know the one, from that night in August where that thing happened, that you ALL promised never to speak of again.  I mean it brought you so much shame that you knew every single person you have ever met, or will ever meet, would judge you for it.  Yeah! That one!  I made a pact like that with my GBFF Terrence once, and I'm obviously going to tell you all about it.

Now, before you all get self-righteous on me.  I know that breaking a best friend pact is worse than killing someone (not really, murder is awful), but he and I have discussed this.  It needs to be said.  It's time; we have held this in long enough.

This is the story of the fattest thing I've ever done.

My friendship with Terrence began as most of my friendships do; we bonded over our love of food.  This bond, however, was different than most.  The passion that existed between us and food was something neither of us had ever found in another person before, and it was beautiful.  We plan our lives around the next time we are going to eat.  If he and I have things to do and food is not involved, we honestly won't do said things.  We blow it off and go eat.  Which is how I feel everyone should live their lives.

One night, about 5 years ago, he and I went on our weekly Tuesday night date to visit my sister.  She was a bartender, so a bunch of us would go down and drink for a few hours.  Our reasoning for being there was never the drinks, however.  We were there solely for the food, and to spend time with my sister of course.

On this particular Tuesday, we were feeling especially hungry.  We ordered about 75% of the appetizer menu to share, and then some.  Which was a lot of food, and I mean a lot of food.  There were nachos, potato skins, French fries, chicken tenders, mozzarella sticks, and a cheeseburger that we split with even more fries. I think there might have been a salad thrown in there just for shits and giggles.

We. Ate. Everything.

After ingesting this delicious poison, he and I were fully hating ourselves.  We couldn't move.  Even though we hated ourselves, we were so proud of the fact that we finished it all.

This is not the secret.  This was, and still is, an incredibly normal situation that occurred.  Ask anyone that knows us and they would say the same thing.  I'm sure they would add some colorful sentence fillers like, "disgusting," or "animals," when describing it, but they'd still agree with us.  Which is all that matters, really. 

What happened next is that of which we do not speak.  I don't know if it was the fact that we were both experiencing a euphoria after eating, or what, but the I swear on my life, that the following conversation occurred telepathically.

• "So what do you want to do?  Are you ready to go home?"
• "I don't know, I definitely don't want to go home though."
• "God, I'm so full!"
• "Me too!"
• "Wanna go get food?"
• "YES!"

At this point, we slowly got up, because we had each just gained 30 pounds in an hour and were trying to adjust to our new lives as HoverRound spokespeople.  We said goodbye to everyone and waddle-ran to the car, laughing maniacally, and trying not to vomit.

We drove to Denny's and ate even more nachos, our own separate meals, and then shared a dessert.

I honestly could not tell you what in the ever loving hell was the matter with us, but we could not stop eating.  Our life expectancy dropped a solid 5 years that night.  Neither of us have any idea how we managed to survive it, and we honestly believe that if we tried this now, it would kill us.  No question about it.

So, that's it.  That is our deep dark secret.  It feels good to have gotten that off my chest, but to be completely honest, I feel more hungry than anything.

A Shameless Self-Promotion

Hey all!

Follow me on Twitter ( @Bexinations )  for more of my rants on adulthood.  Some have even said they are inspiring and insightful.  By "some," I definitely don't mean myself speaking in different accents in front of the mirror while reading my own tweets.  That would just be pathetic.

I can squeeze an entire embarrassing scenario into 140 characters or less, or your money back.  (This is a joke, I will pay you no money.  Don't be greedy.)

Plus, sometimes I tweet weird things to celebrities and that's kind of fun.

Thanks everyone!

Rebecca

Duty sounds like booty.

I remember watching 12 Angry Men (the original movie adaptation with Henry Fonda) for the first time when I was about 7 with my mother.  She is a huge classic movie fan, which rubbed off on all of my siblings and myself, so we watched a lot of them growing up.   Still do.

Ps, if you have never heard of this movie.  Please go watch it. It is absolutely amazing.  Without spoiling it, even though it was made nearly 60 years ago, a guy is on trial for murdering his father.  Everyone thinks the case is open-and-shut and that he's guilty.  Everyone except, :::drum roll::: Henry Fonda.  Mr. Fonda believes he is innocent, and he spends the whole of the movie trying to convince the other 11 jurors.  It's riveting.

Instead of actually watching the movie, I asked her what they were doing.  She explained to me that they were members of a jury.  This answer did very little for my tiny child brain.  She might as well have said they do statistical analysis and data reconfiguration.

I just stared at her waiting for her to continue, but she had moved on and was back to watching the movie.  I don't blame her, I was an annoying fucking kid.  If I wasn't crying, I was talking non-stop and asking buttloads of irritating questions, or singing about stuff, or eating something I shouldn't have been eating; like dirt or sleeves of fig newtons.  WHOLE. SLEEVES.  None of these aspects of my personality have changed.  At all.  Of course, my mom still has to deal with the bulk of it, but what can you do?

So, she stopped the tape to answer more of my stupid questions.

Wait, what did I just say?  Stopped? The tape?! Yes, stopped AND tape, good job.  See kids, this was back in the day before we had Blu-Ray players, and Netflix.  This movie was recorded off of the television onto a VHS tape.  There was no pausing a tape, unless you wanted to never be able to watch it again.  You had to stop it.  You even had to rewind it to be able to watch it again at a later date, it wasn't automatic.  I know!  The '90s were a rough time, man. 

Liz (my mom) ended up going into this whole long explanation of the legal system and what it entailed, and what exactly a jury was, and I was hooked.  I couldn't get enough.  I think this is where my obsession with legal dramas started.  Hello Law and Order: SVU, I'm lookin' at you.  Stabler and Benson FOREVER!

She then told me that anyone can be on a jury, and that when I turned 18 I would be called for jury duty.  That was the last time I thought about it until about 4 years ago.

I have never once, in my entire "adult" life, been summoned for jury duty. 

Now, I am not saying this as a brag, at all.  I have seen the Pauly Shore classic of the same name.  The only person, I have ever met, that ever seemed to like it was my mother.  She always prayed for a really big murder case any time she was summoned, which I always thought a bit morbid.  As I got older, I completely understood.  A single mother with A MILLION CHILDREN will take whatever "vacation" is offered her.

I'm bringing this whole thing up because I am terrified. What if they HAVE summoned me and I just don't know about it?

You usually get your summons in the mail, right?  Well I don't open my mail unless it's a birthday/ Christmas card, or like Cosmo or something.  Seriously, does anyone still open their mail?  Ugh, if you just said to yourself "I do," please don't ever talk to me again ya liar.  All my bills are paperless, because global warming, so everything goes to my electronic mail.  If the sender of a piece of archaic paper mail is someone I don't personally know, I just recycle it.

I know what you're thinking, "well they would probably call you."  I thought about that too.  Here's the thing, if I don't know the phone number that is calling me, I DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE!  That's how people get serial murdered.  No one under the age of 47 answers random phone calls anymore.  So, if that is indeed the case, I definitely missed their calls.

Again, I know what you're thinking.  "Why are you even wasting our time writing about this on your blog, Rebecca?  We could be binge-watching 'Making a Murderer' right now."  (Pps, if you haven't yet, you definitely should)  The reason I bring this up, is because I am pretty sure failing to appear at a jury summons automatically places a warrant out for your arrest.

If I have been called into action, and I didn't show up, I am so screwed.

How would I even get out of that? 
"Sorry Your Honor, I barely like to leave my house let alone read my mail."
"It says here that there were several phone calls made to your residence." 
"Hahahahahaha. Oh, you're serious?"
"Bailiff, take her away."

If this whole scenario that I have made up, and constantly play over and over in my head, isn't enough, here's another problem.  I grew up in New York.  It's where I registered to vote, it's where I went to college, it's where my entire family is.  I am not.  I moved to North Carolina about a year and a half ago.  So, that means that IF I was actually summoned at any point over the last 8 or so years, I obviously never showed up, but I also left the state.  Are you seeing the issue here?

Well, I guess this means that I may actually get to live out one of my all-time favorite movies, The Fugitive.  So, that's a plus.

Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip # 3: Learn from my mistakes.  Always check your mail and answer your phone.  I still won't, because that's scary, but you should.