I’ll finally be able to type (efficiently) again by Tuesday, and all will be right with the universe once more. Talk to me in the comments to help me get through my last days with this splint okay? Cool. Thanks.
I’m the type of person who has absolutely no problem dining alone, and in fact, I rather enjoy it. It’s like meditation in the form of stuffing your face. No one is there to judge you for ordering that entree sized appetizer and an actual entree. You don’t have to worry about taking a bite right at the very moment that your dining mate asks you a pressing question, resulting in a very long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether. And you also don’t have to play checkbook table hockey to decide who is going to pick up the tab.
Dining alone is sublime if you ask me, but along with everything else in the world, there are a few downsides. Let me fill you in.
1. People will feel sorry for you. Especially and extremely so if you are over fifty. I don’t know why, but when I see an older man or woman dining alone I want to slit my wrists.
2. Your waiter will unintentionally make you feel inadequate by slowly taking away all of the other silverware on the table and saying something like, “Is it just you tonight?”
3. Remember those people who are feeling sorry for you? You will eventually succumb to their stares and whip out your smart phone to pretend you are handling important business emails, when you are really seeing how bad you look with a double chin on Fat Booth before you order that appetizer disguised as an entree.
4. At this point, your waiter has now joined in on the pity party for you, so you will have to deal with taking a bite right at the very moment that he asks you a pressing question about your refill, resulting in a very long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether.
5. You have to pay. Unless the entire staring restaurant forms a sympathy pool to pay for your pathetic dinner.
So let me fix my first paragraph about dining alone: No one is there to judge you for ordering that entree sized appetizer and an actual entree … except yourself. You don’t have to worry about taking a bite right at the very moment that your dining mate asks you a pressing question, resulting in a long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether… but your waiter will have the same bad timing. And you also don’t have to play checkbook table hockey to decide who is going to pick up the tab… but there is absolutely no chance you are getting a free meal.
So I meant it when I said that I enjoy dining alone. I enjoy dining alone in my living room while watching old episodes of The Office and secretly pining over Dwight. Don’t judge me.
Dining alone while reading this?! Let me give you more stuff to do on your smart phone so you don’t look so bored. Check out Not A Redhead on YouTube here.
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.
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.
Hello Flysters! It has been a hot minute, right? Well, I promise I have a good excuse. Probably the best, most relevant excuse in the history of 25toFly. I MOVED.
A whole month before the deadline I set for myself a year and three months ago, I finally moved. In light of the exciting news, I have revamped my about page, lined up some surprises, and launched the Boost YOUR Ideas page. Thank you for coming along this journey with me. I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement. Now on with the stuff that kept you reading in the first place…
If you aren’t up to speed with my versus experiment, you can check out Part One here. Basically, I have discovered that humans have absolutely no idea what we like or don’t like or why. My first set of versus observations involved food and beverage. Today, I have a few other categories to explore. Get a napkin before I blow your mind.
Broadcast Entertainment Vs. Owned Entertainment
My DVD collection isn’t exactly vast, and I cringe every time I see the face of Kristen Stewart blankly staring up at me from the special edition case of Twilight that my mom gave to me as a gift three years ago. Out of the few movies I do own, 99% of them were given to me or
accidentally stolen mysteriously manifested themselves on my DVD rack. This is because I do not buy movies. The only movie I have ever purchased in my life is Bridesmaids. This is because I do not watch movies more than once. And you can’t beat Maya Rudolph shitting in the street.
I don’t watch a movie more than once, unless of course it has carefully been selected by network television and airs back to back over a weekend. I’ve seen the movies Ghost and Dirty Dancing approximately 1,456 times… each. The Notebook is on FX you say? Get the fuck out of my chair and don’t touch my popcorn or else you will be the one with memory loss after a swift elbow to the noggin. If any Adam Sandler movie is on, you can basically assume that the TV has absorbed me like that little girl from Poltergeist. Oh yeah, poltergeist, that’s another one.
Had I owned any of these movies they would be collecting cat nip dust on a shelf. I guess I just can’t enjoy my movies without the painful interference of bad commercials and censored words like “BLEEP” and “BLEEP”.
Radio Vs. Ipod
Here we have a similar phenomenon. With an Ipod and Pandora Radio app on my Iphone, you would think I’d never run out of something to jam, right? Wrong. About a minute after I urgently cough up 99 cents for a must-have song that I will out play to the point of nausea, I am just as soon shuffling to the next crappy song to avoid puking on my steering wheel. Repeat cycle.
Pandora is a whole other beast. Whoever decided that you only get five skips within the hour is obviously the type of person who eats the same bowl of cereal for every meal. Gross.
Recently I bought and downloaded that song by Mumford & Sons and accidentally fell asleep with it on repeat. When I woke up, I felt as though the hemispheres of my brain had fused together and every time I tried to form a sentence all that would come out was, “I will wait, I will wait, I will wait”. Needless to say, I swore off the song forever. Ten minutes later, as I was driving to grab a smoothie, I realized I was beaming rays of kitten kisses out of my ears as I giddily sang along with the very song I had just banished from my life.
Your Cat Vs. My Cat
Speaking if kitten kisses, I will leave you with this last enigma. As everyone must know, I have a cat. He is quite famous actually…
Sure, I enjoy petting my cat (shut up), but for some reason it never compares to petting someone else’s cat (shut up!). Maybe it is the uncertainty of whether or not the unknown cat will enjoy my advances or try to slit my wrist with its claws. Maybe it is the excitement of newness and the unknown. Maybe I am just secretly resentful of Jack’s fame.
What kind of weird versus situations do you find yourself in?
Everyone do me a favor and follow @BlogInteractive on Twitter for updates and information on this year’s big meet up in Austin, TX. Even if you do not plan to attend, you can still live vicariously, or even organize a meet up of your own. We will feature it on the official site which will be launching SOON. Thank you!
- Pandora Excels At Personalized Radio Stations (viewpoints.com)
- Poltergeist Remake Confirmed! (perezhilton.com)