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.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
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.
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.
:)
Ps...I predict that this will only end badly.
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.
- I just don't want to. Never have. Never will.
- Why do you want to date?
- Oh that's simple. It's none of your fucking business.
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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
:)
Ps...I predict that this will only end badly.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, May 9, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
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.
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.
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