It has been quite a while since I have shared any conversations with my geriatric boyfriend Mr. OB. Since I can now type again, I can’t think of a better way to get back into the swing of posting than to give you some more disturbing pictures of his character. If you don’t know who Mr. OB is (short for Mr. Outback), I’ll tell you now, you won’t ever get an accurate bio of him. Here or anywhere for that matter. But you can infer what you will about him from my series of stories here and by reading the rest of this post.
Look closely, this is the most you will ever see of Mr. OB
I had the pleasure of another long overdue dinner and visitation with Mr. OB a few nights ago. It is yet to be determined if he was or was not stoned. Not that that serves as a logical reason that the following conversation occurred, but he seemed bit… paranoid.
We said our hellos first:
Mr. OB: “What’s wrong with you?”
Mr. OB: “Oh, you look funny”
Me: Well my arm was swallowed by a first aid kit, but other than that…
On topics of medical experiences, needles, and the like.
Me: ”Wait, so you think if you put a needle in your leg that you will accidentally pull back on the syringe and suck out your insides?”
Mr. OB: ”Well yeah, I don’t know what is in there!”
Me: ”You mean, in your body?”
Mr. OB: ”Yeah! And I don’t want to know.”
Me: ”You know, I don’t think needles work like plungers and turkey basters. Wait, why are you stabbing yourself with needles in the first place?”
Mr. OB: Mumbles something about bees and tractors running into trees
Mr. OB: “When that thing comes on at Outback, I am ducking behind the register. The blade is coming out of that thing and it’s flying across the bar and straight into my neck.” making dramatic throat slicing motion
Me: ”Because that blender blade has had it out for you since it found out you only drink wine, right?”
Mr. OB: ”I’ve seen it happen.”
Me: Well I am sure a lot of people “see” things that would never happen. Ever heard of intrusive thoughts? Hallucinations? Paranoia?
Mr. OB: “You just wait. I’m telling you. It’s gonna happen. I just hope it won’t be me. But it will probably be me.”
Me: to the bartender “Can I get a frozen margarita? Well blended please?”
Check out my latest vlog in the sidebar on the most obvious topic of all. The internet. ———————————————————————————->
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.
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. Read the rest of this entry
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.
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.