I haven’t been writing.
This time I am not going to blame writer’s block. I am not even going to blame my blog for taking over and bashing the hell out of me. Actually, I don’t even feel guilty for not writing at this point…
This time, the writing is being vetoed by a much powerful force. I have purchased a new toy. I spent hours in bed with it this weekend to the point of exhaustion. There will certainly be a significant amount of embarrassment upon my next encounter with my neighbors, for they surely overheard my shrieks of excitement and enjoyment. Even Jack subtly exited the room on several occasions as if even he was embarrassed for me. I practically needed a “do not disturb” sign.
Whoa. I know you all have your minds on peen today (thanks Clown man), but what kind of gal do you take me for? I am talking about my new HD Webcam and accompanying movie editing software. I have many ideas swarming in my mind right now that it is hard for me to wrangle them all and put them into manageable cubbyholes in my mind. So for now, you can just watch me play with my new toy for about fifteen seconds. After all, that’s about how long it takes to get anyone off, right?
Please note: I am no longer just a pixel of your imagination. There will be much more to come once I master this thing.
Don’t you love a good conversation with your family on the Holidays? My family sure does…
Brother (from a room on the other side of the house): “Come help me, I don’t know how to wrap.”
Brother: “Come help me.”
Mom: “She said no.”
On shopping last minute…
Brother: “What can I get for Dad?”
Me: “He likes to be outdoors. You should get him a tent so he can camp out in the back yard.”
Brother: “He would probably love that.”
Me: “Or, a pillow for when he sleeps on the floor. I was joking about the tent.”
Brother: “I am going to get him slippers. If he doesn’t like them I will take them.”
Me: “I don’t think that is how it is supposed to work.”
Brother: “Do you have any money?”
Merry Christmas everyone. May all of your conversations be this deep.
See what I did there? Did you see? Did you?
Let me preface this by saying I was inspired to write this post after reading Melanie Crutchfield’s How to Be Beautiful. If girls pooped I probably would have shat myself laughing when I read it. I’d award her with free underwear if that wasn’t a weird thing to do. If
I hadn’t given up Photoshop so quickly because I sucked at it my free Photoshop trial hadn’t expired, I too would use it to make my own funny image additions here on my blog.
My mother is and always was into fashion, beauty products, make-up, and stuff of similar categories. This is why I do not understand how I was so beauticiously challenged growing up. I don’t remember her ever teaching me how to do things like put on my make-up, shave my legs, or pluck my eyebrows. I don’t think this is because she didn’t want to or try to, I was just too stubborn to wait for her to decide that I was old enough. I can’t blame her. I know she just wanted to see me as young and innocent forever, but come on, I was walking around with so much blonde hair on my middle school gams that it looked like Cousin It was humping my leg.
Because of my impatience, and therefore, lack of instruction and proper guidance, I had one too many beauty fails as an awkward 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16-year-old girl.
For starters, I was initially too afraid to shave using an actual razor, so I resorted to Nair. If you like to bathe in acid you should try it. Nair should be illegal.
Once I conquered my fear of the razor, I became adversely razor-happy and went on a razor binge. It started out innocently enough. You see, my hair is naturally curly (had you fooled didn’t I?). This means I had what I call whispies (also known as fly-aways) framing my face. I had a ton of them, and I wanted them gone. So, what did I do? I shaved my fucking hair-line. When that worked out dreadfully, of course I didn’t hesitate to moved on to my eyebrows. I am still trying to grow them back to their full volume to this day. Read the rest of this entry
[Hampton Beach sure did rock my world. That pun was just embarrassing. Can I get my groove back already?]
Northeast air seduced me from the moment I stepped out of Logan Airport. There was a blunt and intense sensation hitting me almost immediately that I could not ignore. I… I could breathe. The air was positively intoxicating as opposed to the suffocating sauna-like air that radiates the South. Instead of dragging around choking on the heat, I was frolicking about in a humidity-free trance. I couldn’t help but wonder how I might bottle it up and bring it home with me.
Rarely have I experienced a place with days warm enough to sport a tank top and shorts and nights that require a sweater (fleece jacket in my case). I always watched films in which this phenomenon occurred. The actress runs wildly in a bikini during the day scenes, and come nightfall, is cozied up in a big long-sleeved poncho on a porch somewhere. It always confused me. Now, I had full understanding of the different weather outside of Louisiana’s inferno. It is safe to say I fell in love with this aspect of the North, and I also must say my hair was looking mighty lustrous minus all the frizz action.
The beach in New Hampshire, where we spent a day before storming the city of Boston, was unlike any beach I’d ever seen. Read the rest of this entry
[Look! I have a really cheesy cover, and I am cheap, but it's what's on the inside that counts, right? Click my obnoxious cover to buy me on Amazon. Yay!
[Also, the title says "for grown-up girls", but that shouldn't stop the fellas from checking it out. Would I steer you wrong? Well, not intentionally at least.]
I returned to reality and a Sunday of cooking stuffed bell peppers with a new addition to slide onto my make-shift bookshelf. In her normal fashion, Booger handed down a book to me as an early Birthday present. Its title is The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-up Girls by Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas. Her name makes my jaw hurt a bit, and I didn’t even attempt saying it out loud. Filled with activities, projects, goal ideas, and new learning/experience opportunities, you could think of this book as a sort of generalized bucket list and guide. My initial appreciative reaction was quickly followed with eagerness to start flipping pages. Upon doing so, something unexpected happened.
The beginning of this year had me sulking in the realization of all the things I have yet to do in/with my life. I have a hard time being patient when on a quest. Nothing was helping, especially not seeing all the cool stuff other people around me were doing. Then, I began writing again and went from sulking to basking in the new-found determination I had to start doing things. New or different or scary or silly or constructive or whatever kind of things, it didn’t matter. No more ruts. Read the rest of this entry
[Let's pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven't even seen The Godfather. ]
You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.
Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.
All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry
[When you meet the right store, you just know. It means never having to ask, "Where is the Bounty?".]
One of the main reasons I moved in to the apartment I currently live in, was because of the central location to my favorite grocery store, gas stations, and the blessing that is CVS. CVS always has treated me kindly. It has my favorite wines at a decent price. They have not only one but two actually functioning Redbox machines. You’ve got to love movie vending machines. Add a slot for dispensing popcorn and M&M’s and it’s on (but only if mixed together). Also, it is much more convenient than weaving through the grocery store when all I need is a little lion food and tiger litter. I will dodge the grocery store every time if possible, unless I have a guided list and more than ten items for which to hunt.
The first few trips to my new haven were just as delightful as I imagined. As things were going so well already, I quickly found myself envisioning a lifelong future developing for CVS and I. The perfect consumer-retailer union. That’s when, as it usually plays out in relationships (mine at least), the true identity of my beloved store began to slip through the cracks of its sleek ruby exterior. We had a problem. My CVS had been concealing a Mr. Hyde. The cashier. Read the rest of this entry