I’m not really one to make rules for myself. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I’ll try almost anything once, and I rarely freak if a risk I take doesn’t end in my favor. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain standards by which I live. Let me explain.
I don’t let just anyone or anything into my bedroom. My bed is a cone of trust. You don’t get to enter it, especially with me, unless I know that you won’t betray me. It’s a Becca law that I have always honored.
This being said, something has happened to this law. I have broken it.
You see, it has turned cold here. It’s wet, lonely, and miserably freezing. I find myself perpetually squatted by a cheap space heater, while the oven is on broil and gaping open. Jack has begun to look at me like I’m some sort of weak, pathetic, cold-blooded varmint. I’ve also come to despise my bed. While the blankets surround me with warmth, that warmth stops conveniently above my waist. I need to regain feeling. I need to feel something in my toes again, if you know what I mean.
I just can’t take it anymore.
I did something. I invited strange company under my covers. I needed to wake up engulfed, even if I was only pretending. I wanted to forget the cold sting in my heels, even if it was just for one night.
I slept with socks.
I let them encompass my feet all night long. They rode up and down my ankles shamelessly all night, waking me in agony and bliss all at the same time. I felt violated and wrong but so utterly warm. At one point, I think I even broke a sweat.
It all started a week ago when I accidentally fell asleep with them on. I wasn’t something I meant to do. It was not planned. When I woke up, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was also extremely itchy, which intensified the churn in my tummy. Guilt set in quickly as I violently kicked the socks from my feet.
As the fuzzy intruders fell to the floor, I felt relief… until the next night.
Again, I began drifting off to sleep when I briefly awoke to glance down towards the foot of my bed. There they were again, yet I did nothing to say no. I needed them. I wanted them. And as morning approached, I found myself in the same tornado of sheets and blankets, angrily wrestling the smothering socks off of my feet.
At first, it was just an affair that I allowed to happen. It was purely physical. But somewhere in the whirlwind affair, I began to feel attached. Like they were a part of me. I know this, because I just realized that they are still on my feet as I sit here typing this.
Do they feel the same way? Probably not. If anyone needs me, I’ll be doing the walk of shame…
In my socks.
I’ve also started a weird relationship with a onesie. Check it out on Beccatube here or in the sidebar. I’m beyond help.
- If you wear socks to bed, you are probably a lunatic (bigasschuck.wordpress.com)
- Time to Bundle Up – Part 2 (socks) (solefulmamas.com)
- Finding a pair (arosekelly.wordpress.com)
When I got involved with Bloggers for Movember in 2012, I participated for a few reasons.
- Le Clown asked me, and you don’t tell him no. Unless you like flaming clown poop on your doorstep.
- I love facial hair much more than the average person. I’d take a bearded throw blanket any day.
- It was a great way to get involved with the blogging community and a charitable cause all at the same time.
I slept well every night of Movember 2012 knowing that I had done my part as an upstanding citizen of both the non virtual and virtual worlds of which I was a part. However, this year Bloggers for Movember means much more to me on an intimate level. This year, Movember has sunk into me… deep. BFM isn’t just something I am proud to put my name on. It has made me tap into my appreciation for the men I love, the men I like, and even the ones that I don’t.
This year, BFM is for remembering Jet, who I haven’t spoken of or written about since he died. It is for my lovable friend Jamie, whose untimely funeral I had to attend this month. It’s for spending time with Mr. OB, who has some serious surgeries on his plate in the near future. It’s for trying my best to forgive my brother for all of the drugs, the lies, and the betrayal. It’s is for comforting my exhausted dad. It’s for making peace with ex boyfriends and mending friendships that have been neglected. It’s for surprising the man I love with new razors and butt wipes from Dollar Shave Club. It’s for celebrating, mourning, and mending.
Point blank. This year is for appreciating the mens, embracing their lives, and giving them the time they deserve. More of my time, more time to recover, more time to laugh, more time to forgive, and most importantly, more time to live.
At the end of the day, no one has complete control of their fate, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t fight with iron fists to hold some of the reigns. And THAT’S why I support and appreciate Movember. Because I support and appreciate the men in my life.
I want to extend some huge thank yous to the backstage team at this time.
Jason Wommack (The Life of JWo): You have worked your beard off (literally) to help me get things rolling for this year’s BFM campaign. As I am typing this, you are still leagues above everyone else as far as bringing in donations. Your dedication has impressed me beyond belief. Which is why I have decided, as Le Clown did with BFM 2012, to pass the campaign captain hat to you for 2014. Just be sure to tell Tammy that I bruise easy, so to go easy on the punches coming my way. *wink*
Jen Sharp (Sips of Jen and Tonic), Jon Hagar (Brother Jon), Adam Sendek (Chowderhead), Canvas of the Minds, and all my girls Julie and Chiara at The Indie Chicks: Thank you ALL for getting involved. Whether it was a post, a contest, an ad, or avid retweets, you were part of the reason that BFM kept MOving right along this year. And I thank you sincerely. I could NOT have done it without your help.
TJ Lubrano (TJ Lubarno Illustrations): YOU! I don’t even know where to begin with you ma’am. Not only were you one of the first to jump on my side and work with me to plan this year’s campaign and throw around contest ideas, but you worked your butt off to give us not only ONE Movemberrific original art piece, but THREE. I’ll forever be grateful for your undying support, and forever the biggest fan of all of your work. Thank you love.
There are only three days left to make your contribution. Don’t forget that everyone who donates to BFM will be thrown into a drawing for the graphic design artwork below, and the top three highest bidders (donaters) will receive pick of on of the three art pieces painted and donated by TJ Lubrano (also below). Thank you all for opening your hearts (and wallets) this year. You are all honorary Flysters in my book!
Happy Thanksgiving to all. Winners and more thank yous will be announced in a special Vlog at the beginning of December.
- Bloggers for Movember 2013 Begins! (25tofly.com)
- Bloggers for Movember Grand Finale (25tofly.com)
- Official 25toFly BFM Contest (25tofly.com)
- Bloggers for Movember Gets Help From Dollar Shave Club (25tofly.com)
The wonderful ladies at The Indie Chicks have invited me back in for some double shot coffee to talk about Bloggers for Movember, and this time, I am not just blabbering about how I want to pet all men with facial hair. This year, I wanted to explain why I find Bloggers for Movember to be a positively impacting cause by writing about an experience that wasn’t so positively impacting.
Just a reminder, if you haven’t already joined in for the Movember efforts, you still have a good solid five days. You can share your own dealings with loss, cancer, men’s physical or mental health, funny or scary doctor stories on your blogs, or you can simply donate to the team, the network, or me personally (donations to any of the three pages will count towards BFM). Any bit helps, even until the last minute. And don’t forget that in doing so, you will also be bidding to win some amazing art and other MOrrific prizes from some special bloggers.
It kind of felt like learning to walk again when I left. I felt exhilarated by my new-found separation from such a shaping relationship and simultaneously a little lost. The good kind of lost. The kind of lost that makes you feel like you are teaching yourself something new. Sure, I had pangs of homesickness, because he was what I considered home for as long as I could remember. But missing familiarity eventually turned into embracing change.
I met new people. I dabbled in new relationships. At first, it felt right. Like making an A on a test makes you feel right. Which felt good. New relationships were accomplishments in moving on, but not much more than that. After all, GPAs don’t matter much in the scheme of life. Nonetheless, the new relationships were fun and easy. I could feign attachment without skipping a beat of my own agenda. I almost fooled myself into thinking I was anything but detached. I liked it that way.
I strategically and forcefully changed all of my radio stations; a subconscious attempt at moving on. It was working splendidly until DJ Heavy Metal decided to throw in a little Tim McGraw for shits and giggles. My new guy quickly reached out at the exact moment as me… only he was reaching out to turn the station, and I was reaching out to turn up the volume. “I never liked country,” he said.
As I looked around, it was as if everything suspended for a brief moment, and in that moment, nothing looked right. Something shattered in me, and I immediately thought of him.
After that, I began to shell up even more. I would steam up the bathroom to mimic the humidity we used to bask in. I would pour a little too much on the rocks. I started cooking those savory meals again, and found myself seeking solace in my headphones, blasting nothing but country. I tried to transfer all of the things I loved about him, into my new relationships.
I’ll never forget the moment we reunited. The radio must have been on our side, because the perfect songs trickled in as we sat on the tailgate together in the damp air. I didn’t say anything, I just breathed him in. I never believed in the saying, “you never know what you have until its gone,” just as I never liked Country. But sometimes you just have to admit you were wrong. And that’s why I went back.
I missed you, Louisiana.
This two part post was inspired by A New Orleans Love Story by Joey Albanese about New Orleans.
The one that got away. Do we all experience it? That one ex that you didn’t know completed you until you left?
The longest relationship I have ever had took years to build and only two to demolish. All of the memories, the places, and the laughs. Our relationship was fickle and tumultuous, but extremely passionate. We would bitch endlessly over the thermostat one minute and then bask in the balmy humidity the next. We loved to savor our food together and never shamed each other for drinking a little too much. Occasionally, I would grow tired of lazy ways and become jealous of friends that were driven away, but then the radio would come on. Everything was butter. I never liked Country. The songs never sounded good with anyone else.
You see he wasn’t like anyone. He was one of a kind. And not in the cliché kind of way that people might describe a cheap pendant on QVC. He owned the phrase one of a kind, and he knew it despite the fact that I sometimes didn’t.
He loved the water, and even looked great covered in moss. When I was in his presence I felt I belonged to something special. We were our own little secret club. It’s weird though, because we never really had a honeymoon phase. As long as I could remember we had always just been together. There was no one before him.
Regardless, I knew ultimately something would happen to our smooth cruising. We eventually began to take each other for granted. This would be the beginning of the end. The more possessive and predictable he became, the more indifferent and unimpressed I was. I convinced myself that his simple ways were holding me back.
Eventually, I started refusing to go out on the water. The special meals we cooked tasted bland, as if my taste buds had become tired of the repetition. We didn’t drink together anymore, but I drank alone. I had built up so much resentment, though he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Then my eyes began to wander. I would leave town for weeks and see other people. I didn’t even try to hide it. Funny thing is, he must have known but didn’t seem to care. Maybe he secretly knew I was too far gone. He was intuitive like that. And one day, sure enough, I was gone. For good.
Blogger Interactive is next weekend! I can’t wait to meet everyone who is coming. You can keep up with all the festivities by following us on Twitter, Facebook, and now Instagram (@bloggerinteractive)! Be sure to use the hashtag #BI2013 for posting!
Today, I had somewhere to be. Today, I planned to get up early, shower, put on a nice pair of dress pants and a top that says “I’m important” and print out a crisp resume. Today, I went in search of part-time work.
I woke up promptly to my alarm. I only snoozed three times, which had me impressed with me already. Unfortunately, the rest went south quickly. Kind of like it did for that reptilian intruder Jack gobbled down with delight right in front of my face the other day. Cats, what are you going to do right? At least I didn’t have to touch it.
I rolled out of bed to head for the shower. I reached for my bedside lamp.
Click. Click, click. Shit, no spare light bulbs. Oh well.
As I sauntered into the bathroom ready to get my fresh and clean on, a similar instance occurred.
Click. Click, click. Shit, these light bulbs too? That’s a bizarre set of coincidental light bulb failures.
Why I didn’t immediately realize that the power was mysteriously out is beyond me. Brain putty. Regardless, I gathered three candles from the kitchen, lit them, and arranged them on the toilet tank before turning on the water. I’ll tell you this, showers by candlelight at 9 am can go one of two ways, and weirdly in my case, both ways at once. One outcome ends in you feeling very romantically appreciated by yourself. The other ends with you yanking back the shower curtain every thirty seconds assured that you will be inches away from the face of an intruder wearing an evil bunny mask with a crossbow aimed for your eyeball. I happened to experience both simultaneously, which was… confusing, terrifying and sexy all at once.
After surviving my emotional ping-pong match, I dried off and opened the window in my room for some natural light. Then, I reached for my blow dryer, plugged it in, and set forth confidently to blow dry my hair. Apparently, I needed to research how electricity works, so I towel dried my hair and fired up the lap top. Brain putty.
What is wrong with my internet? Is everything going to crap out on me today?
These were my legitimate thoughts as I stomped down the stairs to inspect the router. My brain putty sloshed against my skull as I discovered that routers too require an outlet. Who knew? Apparently I used to know.
I continued on attempting to groom myself in my current free prison, but you wouldn’t know it by the looks of my hair. Just as I was feeling smug for dressing myself using the necessities of a cave woman, I realized I was forgetting one thing. I needed to print my resume. Funny how The Office marathon that I engaged in the night before had failed to remind me I needed paper. But anyhow, I marched right up to my printer to find that there were just a few slivers of tree left in the tray. Score. Just as I plugged in the USB and searched for the print option, there it was again. Brain putty.
Moral: Outlets require electricity. If your power is out, so are your outlets. All of them. They won’t work. Not for your hair dryer, not for your router, and certainly not for your printer either. You’re welcome.
There is something I have to accept about my current self. It is something that, surprisingly, I don’t know if I enjoy or hate. Or hate that I enjoy. Or even enjoy hating. I am a modern nomad.
For the past five months I have had no real home. Not physically anyway. At first, the rush of stripping off lease shackles and wiping my name off of the grid gave me a high. I felt like I had beat some sort of system. The one that says you have to follow a certain progression. The house you grew up in – college dorm – apartment with one too many room mates- apartment with no room mates – rent house – mortgage – death.
I wrote about how fantastic it felt to let go of old crap, the cleansing of de-cluttering, and the excitement of the unknown. I have traveled to so many new places. I lived in a new place. I stayed in so many Holiday Inn Expresses that I am now opening a shop on Ebay selling tiny lotion bottles that are easily mistaken for conditioner.
It’s true. All of that it is exciting. But exciting doesn’t always necessarily associate with words like fun, easy, or stress free. In fact, it has been written that acute stress is what actually brings about excitement. It isn’t always clear, open roads with your favorite song on the radio, and a large Icee in the cup holder. Sometimes, it is bumper to bumper traffic, nothing but radio interference, and a watered down Sprite when you asked for a Coke.
It turns out that being or feeling stuck and confined is often equally as terrifying as being locked out or feeling afloat. I’ve been a creature of habit. I’ve been a hermit, and now I have been a nomad. I have no idea what I will try out next, but I will be something. Sometimes I just don’t know what I want, and I’ve accepted that that probably means I will continue to change forever. And you know what? I am inexplicable okay with that. Actually, I love that about me.
In honor of my nomadic life, check out my second installment of hotel room ramblings: Hotel Room Perks
Winners of my contest for Blogger Interactive will be e-mailed this month, hang tight! I haven’t forgotten!
For ten years now, or so it seems, I have had an unfinished, untitled post in the dusty cupboard of my dashboard. Actually, it was titled, no title, which WordPress automatically assigns to all of those posts you begin to write knowing that you have no intention of finishing but that you begin to write anyway to make yourself feel like you gave it a shot.
The only text it contained read:
This could only mean “1″ of “1″ things.
In my desperation, I attempted to write a list post. I know what I must have been thinking, “I can surely rattle off quickly, raise a few chuckles, and get my groove back”. Yet, apparently I went into the scheme unarmed, save for the numerals that would keep the words in queue. Well, “1″ numeral at least. Today, I finish this list once and for all so that the uncapitalized no title will stop making my brain vibrate with discomfort.
Things That Come In “1′s”
1. 40 oz. beers in paper bags
2. The gummy vitamins that mutated into 1 whole gummy vitamin after I left them in my car in the middle of Summer
3. Kickboxing class
4. Cream cheese packets at Starbucks
5. Becca Cord
Things That Never Come In “1′s:
1. People who play scratch off tickets at the cash register like it’s the casino
4. Overly enthusiastic, borderline creepy smiles at Starbucks
5. 5 for $25 panty deals at Victoria’s Secret
Whew! I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have conquered this post. Finally! I can move forward. I’ve been dying to write about so many things, yet I couldn’t stop staring at no title and knowing that there was a list I needed to purge from my brain. I hope we can all get back to normal around here now.
I’d like to get back in the loop a bit, especially with Blogger Interactive right around the corner, and in hopes that it will shake up my creative juices again now that I have a bit of time freed up. If you comment, send me a link to something you have written in the past week, month, whatever. Something important or something you wrote just for fun. Laughs are encouraged. Thanks Flysters.