#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.

Beasts of Burden.

I am always open to suggestions as to what to discuss on each post.  So, when my best friend said he wanted me to talk about boobs, I happily accepted the challenge.

Now, he did not specify exactly how he wanted boobs brought up.  He left that to me.  He is going to be so pissed when he reads my interpretation of his suggestion, which will please me greatly. 

Everyone, I present to you, a woman's guide to boobs.

Boobs are a right of passage for every female.  Some are small, some are large, all of them are amazing.

Sometimes.

Personally, mine annoy me about 87% of the time.  If I am not dropping food on or in between them, then they are suffocating me when I lay down.  If they aren't suffocating me, then they are getting in the way of me seeing my feet.  If they aren't obstructing my view, then they are making it nearly impossible to give someone a hug without it being awkward.  Men, you have no idea how lucky you are not to have these literal sacks of fat just resting on your chest.  Although, you do have to deal with surprise boners throughout your day.  So, we will call it a draw on this one.

I enjoy having them though, because they are personal pillows that you always have on you.  Literally.  I used to nap on them in high school instead of staying awake and learning.

The biggest drawback to having boobs, though, has to be bras.  Everything about bras is a hassle, and I mean everything.  The straps.  The lack of straps.  The underwire.  The lack of underwire.  The attempted murder by the rogue underwire.  Sports bras being the most comfortable yet the least sexy.  I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Oh, and don't even get me started on the minimal choices there are when it comes to purchasing one.  Cute bras are only for tiny chested women and prepubescent teens.  Which is kind of fucked up, don't you think?  I not only have the pleasure of getting old and saggy, I am also unable to find pretty bras to enjoy the short amount of time I do have with my perky friends.  I am only able to find flesh colored prison garments to hold my glorious bosom.

Women will get into physical altercations with other women over bras.  You do NOT want to be in the "intimates" section when there are 4 women and only one attractive bra bigger than an A-cup available.  It isn't a pretty sight.  Fists get thrown, rude comments about one's mother are made.  Seriously, it's rough.

Also, can we talk about how expensive they are for a second?  I do not want to have to put out a second mortgage on my home just so I can own more than 3 bras.  I mean I understand, it's precious cargo, and they should be treated with the utmost respect and care, but 50 dollars?! COME ON!  You honestly expect me to spend half my paycheck on one bra, just because it may or may not have FAKE jewels on them, or some fancy lace stitching, or be a color other than Caucasian Nude?  Are you fucking kidding me?!

Listen, I'm not asking, nor am I expecting to look like a Victoria's Secret model when I buy one, but it is no wonder they are all so damn skinny.  No one can afford to eat AND wear that lingerie. 

That's it.  That's what it's like to be a woman with breasts in today's world.  Sorry if that ruins boobs for you, men of Earth.  I just needed you to understand what women go through.

Mother knows best.

The hardest part about adulthood isn't trying to successfully date, or nailing a job interview, or making sure you get enough sleep.  It's realizing that your mother was right.  About everything.

It is god damn infuriating.

You spend years trying to prove your mother wrong.  "I'm not an idiot Ma, I know what I'm doing."  False.  You ARE an idiot and you DON'T know what you're doing.  The sooner you realize it, the better off you'll be. 

Parents are supposed to let their children fail in order for them to succeed further down the road.  My mother, however, is quite different.  She wants us to listen to her so it saves her the trouble of fixing the huge mess we are about to make by taking matters into our own hands.  I can't blame her though, my siblings and I really shouldn't be left to our own devices.  Case and point: there's a rule in our family that no one is allowed to go to Mexico without adult supervision because my mom doesn't want to have to bail us out of a Mexican prison.  She doesn't speak Spanish.  It wouldn't end well.

I am not kidding.  This is an actual rule that was made about 15 years ago and it is still very much in effect today.

The only thing that I am successfully able to do without her help is make myself food.  Even then, I still sometimes ask her what to do, because she wants to help.  I'm doing it for her sake, really, because I am a very considerate daughter.

As you get older, more and more things get added to the list of "things my mother was right about."  Things you honestly have never given a second thought to, because only moms think about them.

Admitting actually isn't the worst part of all of this, it's the smug look on her face every time you admit it.  Even telling her over the phone, you can still see her cheesy smile as every mistake you've ever made from not listening, just washes over her. 

Here is a list of things about which your mother will forever be right:

• Your laundry doesn't just magically do itself. -My mom taught my siblings and I how to do laundry at a young age so we wouldn't be helpless.  I still hate doing it, though.  Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #1: When out of clean work clothes, don't wash them.  Either Febreze the hell out of them, or just head to the store and get new ones.

•  You can't have cake for dinner. -I do this all of the time.  You CAN have cake for dinner, but there are some draw backs.  One, you have to buy the cake yourself.  Which is horseshit.  Two, you of course don't buy the small cake.  You buy the one that can feed a small army because it's a better deal. (SEE MOM, I'M THRIFTY!) Three, you tell yourself you can eat that entire mammoth cake no problem.  Four, PROBLEM.  Major problem.  You get about 1/5 of the way through the cake and realize you hate yourself and have pretty much given yourself diabetes.  At this point, you are contemplating calling her and telling her about your self-inflicted tummy ache.  This is a trap.  Do NOT call her. Five, you didn't listen to me, and you called her.  Six, now comes the lecture.  "You can't eat a whole cake for dinner, Rebecca.  How many times do we have to have this conversation?"  Seven, at this point you've probably called her a dream killer or something equally as ridiculous, but you are on a very emotional sugar high and cannot be held responsible for your own actions.  Eight, you have now apologized for your sugar induced rage and offer her some cake.  Nine, she says some backhanded thing about how she's eating an adult dinner with vegetables and everything so she doesn't want cake, and it sends you into another tirade.  Ten, you realize that she is right, so you stop arguing and tell her how much you love her. 

• Your friends are shit. -Hear me out.  Now, your mom doesn't hate every person you've ever met, but she does.  Your mom can see a person and immediately know every mistake they have ever made in their life, and she judges them for it.  Of course, she won't say this to their face.  She will be as pleasant as can be, but the minute they leave, she will look at you with such disappointment on her face and say, "no, they're no good."  You of course don't listen and continue your friendships.  Mother stays silent and lies in wait.  Then the day comes when you have a fight with them, and she pounces.  "I told you they were no good.  Why don't you ever listen to me?"  You roll your eyes and get annoyed, but then you think that maybe they aren't any good for you.  And that is how you end friendships because your mom planted a time bomb in your brain and after 5-10 years of nonsense, it explodes.  So, thanks mom. (This is said with the heaviest of sarcasm.)

• Saving money isn't that hard. -This one is an absolute lie.  It should be saving money is important, but of course your mother doesn't say that.  She has to make sure that you know that there is something wrong with you because you are unable to save money.  My life motto is "You can't take it with you when you die," and I use it nearly every day to discuss my financial standings.  Probably why I own more books than I have friends in this world.  Saving money is actually really important, and it allows you to buy a $60 shower curtain AND pay your rent at the same time, which is pretty cool.  If my mom had put it in those terms when I was 18, I probably wouldn't have fought her so hard on it.  Who am I kidding, yes I would.

• You need to make a doctors appointment. -You can actually get away with not doing this one, and not even solely because you avoid making them at all and pray you don't die. Rebecca's Adulthood Survival Tip #2: Here's a real life transcript of how to successfully avoid scheduling your own doctors appointments.
• "Mom, I'm so sick.  I can't do anything.  I'm dying!"
• "You aren't dying, Rebecca. Go to the doctor if you don't feel well."
• "What? No.  I hate doctors.  I won't go."
• "Okay, then suffer, I don't care."
• "How would I even do that?  I don't know anything about anything.  Do I have insurance?"
• "Yes, we have insurance.  The insurance card is on the table, just call the doctor's office and tell them you want to schedule an appointment, then bring that card with you and it will be all taken care of."
• "WAIT! I have to not only schedule the appointment, but I also have to drive myself there?! I'm good, I'd rather die."
• At this point, my mom had hung up the phone.  She called back about 10 minutes later.
• "Your appointment is all set for this afternoon and I'll come get you."
• Hah, so easy.

• You actually have to buy your own groceries. -WHAT?! You mean my fridge won't miraculously refill itself after my roommate and I have eaten everything during a late night binge? You mean to tell me that I actually have to make a list of food I have run out of, get dressed, and drive MYSELF to the store to purchase things with MY OWN money?  Stop the ride, I want to get off.

I have only hit on a few of things here.  There will be so many more in your lifetime, I promise you.  Will it get any less annoying realizing that she was right?  Nope.  If anything it will make you want to strangle her because you know you are going to have to say those three little words, "you were right."  Every time you utter that phrase, you die a little inside.  It's okay, though, because you will be rewarded when you have kids that you can torture for decades, and that's what parenting should be all about.