A re-post while I re-boot....

Happy Thursday, everyone! I didn't post yesterday because I was en route back to the Northeast after spending 7 glorious days in the mitten with my family. And while I'll be back at you next week after the new year with brand new posts (you can hardly wait, I can tell!), I figured I'd keep you entertained in the meantime with some re-posts while I get settled back into real life.

Enjoy!

***

Today I accidentally rested my hand on a strange man’s behind for about 7 minutes. In my defense, I didn’t know I was doing it and it was very comfortable. Also, there were a billion people on the train and I was using his behind accidentally so as not to fall over every time the train lurched.

Yes, I just said “behind.”

Anyway, when I finally realized what I’d been doing, I apologized, took it off, fell into him, and then put it back. We had an unspoken agreement that feeling him up was better than knocking him over. Whatever, there are worse ways to start your work day. And again, it was very comfortable!

But this is on the heels of a conversation I had with CB last night where I told him that he’s lucky to be with me now and not when I was first learning how to interact with the opposite sex. Because, for real, I don’t know how I didn’t get diagnosed with some social disorder as a pre-teen. And if you think I’m exaggerating, just know this: even my own sister called me The Rain Man of Love for about 3 years at one point. We have a very close bond and never point out each other’s flaws. 

Who wouldn’t want all of this goodness? 
It’s a mystery. 

Ok, it’s not so much that I’m awkward if (a) I know you really well or (b) we’ve already established that we totally dig each other. It’s just all the stuff that comes before that really seems to throw me off. Or did. I’m totally down with how it all works now, so don’t hate the player. Also, don’t ask CB if that last part is true because sometimes he lies.

For example: when I was 13 or 14, I had a crush on a guy who played the french horn. I know, right? Who didn’t. Anyway, he was one of those dangerous french horn types who totally had a leather jacket when he wasn’t playing Mozart and I’m pretty sure he smoked cigarettes, which was just about the height of rebellion to me at that age.  

So obviously I decided that he should love me back and devised a really genius, fool-proof plan. I’d just go to where he went to school – you know, casually like people do - hang out and wait for him to come outside and then woo him with all of my skilz.

Inexplicably, that didn’t work out so well. I know, it’s really shocking.

I enlisted the help of a friend, who honestly must’ve thought either (a) I was way more skilled in this department than I actually was or (b) she’d be in for a good laugh. Either way, she was totally on board with the pre-internet stalking days of “casually” waiting around for someone for an hour so that you could bump into them. And we had a whole plan: he’d come out, see me, obviously be struck by the rom-com nature of this happenstance meeting, strike up a really witty conversation about brass instruments, and then we’d fall in love and have babies after he stopped smoking.

What actually happened went a little something like this:

Only three minutes 'til Wapner
 so let’s just sing this out so I can get home. 

French horn guy walks outside, sees me, and starts walking towards me. Friend jumps up and down really subtly in excitement. I get that weird, queasy feeling of love or food poisoning. French horn player approaches and says hello.

All normal up until this point, yes? Yes. Then I start singing “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors at him until he walks away really confused.

What? Yeah. That actually happened. I actually started singing a pop song at him instead of talking like a normal human person. And, hard as it is to believe, he wasn’t charmed.

I swear to all that is holy, to this day I still can’t figure out what the f I was thinking.

When I told CB this story last night he shook his head, didn’t look at all surprised, and said “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” And then he said a secret prayer of thanks to the Smoking French Horn player who totally missed out on all of this. He’s so lucky.

                                                           

Not your typical Monday post. It's my sister's birthday!

When I was little, I spent my days dressing up in tutu's, taking my imaginary husbands to family dinner (The Hulk, Jack from "Three's Company," you get the picture), and generally just living in a world that was filled with sparkles and dress-up and dancing around in my Wonder Woman underoos.

Meanwhile, my older sister was busy doing puzzles, dreaming about unicorns and werewolfs, and generally just living in a magical placed filled with fairies and Orks and dancing around in her Wonder Woman underoos. 

Also, don't think we were
restricted to just Wonder Woman.
We were multi-faceted awesome.

I mean, some things are just universal. 

And while at times we couldn't be more different to those peering in from the outside, my best friend sat right down there with me in the basement doing her puzzles while I busily flitted around her, pretending to wait tables while wearing my mom's high heels. 

But she was always thinking. She thought up ways to beat the system and spy on Santa Claus and convinced me to jump from the highest stair just as my mom or dad was walking by so that I got caught and was all like "What? I know, Becky totally takes all of these risks for no apparent reason. Super weird." 

However, if I'm being honest, it must be said that she was also the sister who told me I was adopted, and the only reason I was even in the family at all was because she totally chose me and mom and dad definitely didn't. And while it explained my unusual flare for all things Madonna and glitter, inexplicably unrecognized by the rest of my kin, I just kept looking at my parent's thinking "But they obviously must've wanted me. I mean, duh...right?" 

And then I spent way longer than a normal human should re-living fake memories via Little Orphan Annie and baring my sold during "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow." 

But whatever, I obviously got past that and never, ever think about it anymore. 

Anyway, as we got older and developed our own lives, moving hundreds of miles away from each other and spending scant days of the summer and winter catching up on all life threw at us that year, I began realizing that there are some bonds that just can't be broken by distance, or time, or the randomness of life. She knows my facial ticks, my raised eyebrows, and shares the understanding of dynamics only families know about one another. It's something you just can't measure. 

She was one of the loudest voices encouraging me to start this blog, and has been one of its biggest champions ever since. She's the sister who can look at her "Ice Loves Coco"-watching, celebrity tracking, sports-loving, meat-eating sister and see someone she actually calls a friend. I mean, granted, our paths might've never crossed were it not for our DNA, but it's a notion she embraces and, through some yoga/meditation/Ohmm-ing sort of way that I don't understand, finds the true beauty and love in that. And in a bunch of other stuff that I don't really understand because I've never really been able to sit through a 30 minute yoga session without getting anxiety over the fact that I don't know where my core is and I drank too much coffee that morning. 

But I digress. 

The moral of this story is simple: It's my sister's birthday today, and while she doesn't tend to make a spectacle of herself on this day, I'm pretty sure that's simply because she has a sister that she knows will totally do it for her. 

So happy birthday, my dear sister. And Namaste.

Friday Funday Wrapup!

So, it's snowing outside, holiday parties are in full bloom, and you're hopefully on your way out the door soon, not returning to your office until the new year! You know what that means? It must be Friday!

Also, this is likely going to be the lamest wrap-up ever because I'm currently typing this on my iPhone since the snowstorm knocked out power, we're on a generator, and my parent's Internet is down. Welcome to Michigan in December!

Sooooo...let's get right to the video of the week. A friend of mine sent this to me earlier in the week and I thought it was cute. Plus it's in the holiday spirit and everyone likes to kiss (right?) so...enjoy! And go kiss someone right on the mouth! (with their permission, of course).

Happy Friday!! And Merry Christmas!

And then I got into the holiday spirit and became a prisoner of war Marine who wears furry slippers and an eye mask.

So as you know, I've traveled home for Christmas, where I'm surrounded by nature, sparkling Christmas lights, endless glasses of wine....and terrorists. 

Wait, what?  

Yeah. Apparently my idea of a good, relaxing holiday funday in my homeland is to completely immerse myself in the phenomenon that is "Homeland." 

But ok, before I get into this, do you all know what I'm talking about? It's this show on Showtime that apparently everyone in the free world has seen but me, and it really started to get on my nerves. I don't know about you, but during both seasons I haven't been able to log onto Facebook without someone mentioning Carrie or some "shocking" thing that happened, and apparently even the Hollywood Foreign Press was in on this by continuing to hand out Golden Globes to Claire Danes and, like, everyone else who's ever even said the word "Homeland." 

So I prepped my parents ahead of time that I was going to be digging into the juiciness of the CIA and mood disorders, and they hopped right on board because, well, the apple hasn't fallen from the good times tree. So I settled in last night to watch as many episodes from Season 1 as I could before falling asleep. 

Dad: You know, you might want to spread it out because the show is pretty....intense.
Me: I think you've underestimated my marathon show watching abilities. I can handle back-to-back episodes of "Dexter," I can handle this.
Dad: Ok, all I'm saying is that each episode is...a lot. So I'm not sure how many you can make it through at once.
Me: I've got this.

And then he proceeded to leave the room because having an adult child is hard sometimes when you know you can't just send them to their room for being idiots. And so he sent himself to his room and I got right into Episode One. Done. Boom. Next. Episode two. Done. Boom. I'm a little spent but powering through. Episode three. Man, this is really complicated, I mean, maybe Brody switched to the other side, but also this nice Saudi Arabian prostitute is really being helpful and I think everything's going to turn out ok.......

Oh, my bad. 

And I was spent. So after three hours of taking in the intensity of Claire Danes and the POW guy who you're not sure you're supposed to empathize with or not, I called it a night. 

Grab the stuffed animals and RUN! 

Cut to: 3 a.m. when I found myself on the floor of my bedroom convinced that I was a prisoner of war who needed to escape my parent's house cloaked in the darkness of night. And my pink velvet eye mask. 

Internal Becky Thoughts: You need to escape before they find you.......but those are your stuffed animals over there on the bed, this is mom and dad's house......but if they find you they'll torture you!......I don't think prisoners of war wear furry slippers.....you're awake....you're in Michigan.....get off of the floor.....

My bad. 

So, um, apparently my marathon show watching abilities have been diminished to two episodes in one sitting so that I don't army crawl out of my parent's house wearing nothing but a bathrobe. Also, I apologize if you haven't seen the show and so you have no idea what I'm talking about and have made it through an entire blog post and are all like "What a waste of time." Eh, you can't win 'em all.

But for real, if you haven't already, you should start watching "Homeland," though I beg of you, do not start posting about it on Facebook until I'm all caught up! Which at this rate will be sometime in mid-2013 so that I'm not institutionalized. 

Happy Wednesday, everyone! 

A not-so-typical Monday post. Also, I can't move my neck and could really use any prescription meds you might have on hand.

I was struggling to write a post today that was witty and light but I’ve come up flat for two reasons: (1) I pulled a muscle in my neck last night that has left me virtually unable to do anything but writhe in pain and (2) I’m feeling a little somber. Go figure.

Walking to a Christmas party on Friday night, people commented on how the air was heavy, the mood was dampened, and nobody felt quite right. It wasn’t our child in that school, it wasn’t our brother or sister or mother or father locking their classroom doors and putting themselves in harm’s way for a first grader. And perhaps we’ve been lucky enough to not be personally affected by a tragedy like this one in the past. But for some reason, this event, this moment, at this time of year, struck a chord that’s been reverberating all weekend.

When I was six or seven years old, I could often be found in a tutu of some sort, wearing my mom’s high heels, dancing to a Madonna tape, and having completely rational conversations with my husband, The Hulk.

My sister and I would spend hours jumping from pillow to pillow to avoid the sharks in the water, building cabins with Lincoln Logs, and sending Barbie and Ken on date after date before realizing that maybe he just wasn’t that into her.  But whatever, she got to keep the pink Corvette and his underpants were glued to his body, so really, it was more his loss than hers.

I lived in a world of fantasy and sparkles and excitement, dreaming of the days when I wouldn’t be borrowing my mom’s make-up for play but actually wearing it out in public because I was grown up enough to know how to stay inside the lines.

My imagination swirled around all things adults could do with a flair for the dramatic that is far from unique to a first grader. And as I’ve watched my niece grow up into a sparkling, intelligent, gentle six year old, I can’t help but be transported back to those days and flooded with the memories of wanting to make my own rules, set my own agenda, and play with my Cabbage Patch Dolls until they just couldn’t take it anymore.

But now that I’m an adult I’ve realized that the jig is up. Because while we’ve set up our own rules and have made our own agendas, something has gone awry and we don’t know how to fix it. We sit with our peers and their children, shake our heads, point our fingers, and wonder when someone will do something to stop this.

We debate and we get enraged and we sling arrows.  We scream about policy and we blame the other guy and we tell our children that they’re safe and secure and we’ll never let anyone hurt them. And then we look in the mirror and reassure ourselves that that’s the truth.

I don’t claim to have the answers, and I’m pretty sure nobody would listen to the chick in glitter shoes anyway.  I also realize that this isn’t a typical post, but you’d be remiss to believe that it’s a political one. The last thing I’m interested in talking about is the politics behind a tragedy, because that seldom actually gets us anywhere. But if we don’t start talking and listening and doing, this will absolutely not be the last time this chord is struck.

I’ll be back at you on Wednesday, live from the mitten I call the homeland, and I promise you that, at the very least, I’ll be on some sort of pain relieving medication that will render me more entertaining and slightly less Debbie Downer than I am today.

Also, my parents totally want to make the blog as often as CB does, so I’m pretty sure they’ll be some killer stories to share in the week to come. So…stay tuned!

Happy Monday, everyone. 

Friday Funday Wrapup!

Happy Friday, everyone! We all know what happens on Friday....so let's get to it!

We'll get through this guys,
I promise. 

First of all I want to thank all of you who were concerned for me in the wake of the Ice and Coco kerfuffle. This is a hard time for all who are close to them and so I appreciate your support and letting me have my privacy in this, my time of despair. 

Also, if you don't know what I'm talking about, you clearly don't have your priorities in order. Or you're not friends with Ice and Coco on Twitter, which sort of boggles the mind and makes me reconsider this friendship we've been building. 

But you're not alone since last night CB revealed to me that he doesn't understand what Twitter is. This coming from the man who has never been on Facebook and still uses a handkerchief like all gentleman should. 

Anyway, I have faith in those two crazy kids and so I will choose to believe that they'll get through this. 

***

Moving on. 

So on 12/12/12 there was apparently a concert of some sort where some people got together and listened to music and raised some money for a good cause. 

What? Everyone in America had heard of this? That is correct. Except me, and so I went through the whole day hearing people referencing "the concert" and I would just nod along because I learned in elementary school that pretending you get it is the second best way to learn things. But finally that night, while in the car on our way to hang out with friends and watch "the concert," I finally decided the jig was up and I needed to get right on board with whatever it was that I was about to experience. 

Me: So is this some sort of concert because of the date?
CB: What? No, it's for hurricane relief.
Me: Oooooooooooh, that makes so much more sense! I was wondering why, like, the Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen all were so excited because the date was cool.
CB: Uh no. It's to raise money for that hurricane we went through last month, remember that?
Me: Well of course I remember that. Also, how long has this been a thing, because for real I had no idea about it until just now.
CB: That's not surprising. And it's been planned for a while.
Me: It's like I live in a box or something.
CB: Or something.

Whatever, I totally knew what I was about to watch at least 5 minutes before I watched it, so I count that as a win. 

Also, I'm still catching up on sleep from that 18 hour event and I didn't even make it to the end when the universes collided and Paul McCartney took over for Kurt Cobain! 

But what I did see was Kanye West wearing a leather skirt and leather jeggings. 

And this. 

WARNING: Depending on where you work, this might not be safe for work. Also, if you don't like slight vulgarity, you might just want to skip right on down to the next thing. Ok, my job here is done. 

***

In light of the fact that we're nearing the end of 2012 - which sort of boggles the mind and makes me panic-reflect, like, three weeks early, I've decided to highlight what were some of the more popular videos from the last 8 months on this little blog of ours. 

So, for this week's Video of the Week, I've started with a fan favorite from earlier this summer. Enjoy!

TGIF, everyone!!! Have a great weekend!

How I'm sometimes confused for Mariah Carey and why this isn't actually a real post.

Warning: This isn’t a real post because (a) nothing exciting has happened to me this week to blog about and (b) I didn’t sleep well last night and so my mind is on hiatus from creativity.

Also, it’s not a real post because it involves a lot of conversations about glitter and so, really, you guys can just stop reading now. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Ok, so I have a colleague at work who calls me “Glitter.” He refuses to call me anything but Glitter because of the following reasons:

The first time we had a group meeting, I may or may not have been wearing my glittershoes.

Colleague: Are your shoes sparkling?
Me, excitedly: Yes!!
Colleague: Wow.
Me: I know, right? Best

The second time we had a meeting, I may or may not have been wearing a sweater I was uniquely proud of.

Me: You see how there’s actual sparkling thread sewn throughout the sweater?
Colleague: Wow, there really is.
Me: But it’s subtle so it makes me both a professional and secretly sparkly.
Colleague: I don’t think it’s a secret.

And the third time we had a meeting, I may or may not have been wearing sparkle eye shadow.

Colleague: Do you have sparkles on your face?
Me: If by my face, you mean my eyelids, then the answer is obviously yes.
Colleague: You really do love to sparkle.
Me: It’s true.
Colleague: I think from now on I’m only going to refer to you as “Glitter.” For some reason it seems to suit you better than “Becky.”
Me: Ok, but I don’t want any vague or obvious references made to Mariah Carey or that terrible movie.
Colleague: I don’t even know what you’re talking about.
Me: Then you can confidently call me “Glitter” without accidentally insulting me.
Colleague: The fact that calling you Glitter in the first place doesn’t bother you at all is one of the main reasons I even talk to you.
Me: You do know, though, that there's a difference between glitter and just being sparkly, right?
Colleague: This conversation's already lasted longer than it should've.
Me: Fair enough.

Happy Wednesday, everyone! 

Also, it’s a special someone’s birthday today, so happy birthday Cousin Nikki! She’s not my actual cousin, but she’s CB’s cousin and she's one amazing chica that I'm lucky to call my friend. So when I asked her what I could call her on here, Cousin Nikki won the vote.

I hope you’re wearing something sparkly (or drinking something sparkly and bubbly….) and having a great day, CN! 

And then the New York Times did a story about how classy I am.

So this weekend we hung Christmas ornaments, made peppermint brownies, watched “Love Actually,” and may or may not have photo-bombed a New York Times story accidentally on purpose.

What, that’s not how you celebrate the holidays? Weird.

Anyway, on Friday we went out for a drink at a bar in downtown Hoboken. You know, just doing our part to boost the local economy since the storm. Also, they have $1 beers during happy hour.

So while we were sitting there observing how empty it was for a Friday night and commenting on how sad it was to see so many businesses struggling with the lack of foot traffic since the train is still in repair, CB noticed some guy with a camera outside of the bar taking pictures.

"Hi New York Times! I'm
Becky Amos! Spelled B-e-c...why
are you walking away? Weird."

Sidebar:  something you should probably know about me: I’m kind of a ham. I mean, there are times I definitely don’t want you to take my picture, but those moments are usually only when (a) I've just woken up, (b) I am deathly ill, or (c) I am having a bad hair day because of stupid New Jersey humidity. And really, the only reason I don’t want my picture taken during those moments is because it’d embarrass CB who sometimes has to remind me to look in the mirror before going outside. But whatever. 

So I turned around, saw the photographer, and decided that he probably just didn't realize he was missing out on some really lively shots of me making faces in the window. And so I did. For, like, much too long for a 30-something woman who should have much better social boundaries.

Slowly but surely, though, he lowered his camera, looked at me, and started to laugh.

Me: I totally made his day, I think.
CB: Yeah, I’m sure.
Bouncer: He’s from the New York Times.
Me: Uh…what?
Bouncer: He’s from the New York Times. He’s doing a story on the local economy since the storm.
Me: So…maybe I shouldn’t have thrown up peace signs and done the duck face at him through the window?
Bouncer: Hey, you never know, maybe you’ll be in the paper.
Me: My parents will be so proud.

And then I hung my head in pretend shame while also wondering if maybe I’ll now be famous, which would really help me out so that Ice and Coco won’t think I’m creepy when I start randomly hanging out with them at the indoor dog park. 

So, you know, keep an eye out, folks! I’m pretty sure he’ll definitely choose one of the pictures with me in it if he knows how to sell a story.

Obviously.

Happy Monday, everyone! 

Friday Funday Wrapup!

It's Friday, we're just a little more than two weeks away from Christmas, and I'm in the mood for some figgy pudding! It must be the Friday Funday Wrapup!

Also, I have no idea what figgy pudding is and, to be honest, it sounds kind of grody. But it is Friday, so part of that last sentence was factually accurate. Anyway....let's get to it!

***
Ok, so a lot of you seemed to enjoy Wednesday's post and I appreciate it. However, after I saw this video below, I just have one thing to say: I totally would've let him cut me in line!

***

So in true holiday spirit, CB and I spent this week decorating our tree (we have glitter bulbs - obviously - and then some non-glittery items as well) and listening to Christmas music.

Well, the other night we were listening to various songs, and Bing Crosby's "Winter Wonderland" came on. I was deep in thought and listening to the lyrics when all of a sudden I heard "Later on we'll conspire as we sit by the fire."

Uh, what?

Me: Wait, he says "Later on we'll conspire?"
CB: Yeah, why?
Me: No joke, my whole life up until this very moment, I thought it was "Later on we'll perspire as we sit by the fire."
CB, laughing: Well, perspire makes sense, too.
Me: Dude, how many people do you think have heard me sing "perspire?!"
CB: Millions. 

And then I played over and over again in my mind all of the various times I've sung "Winter Wonderland" in public and then hung my head in shame.

Also, it's not "Hold me close Tony Danza" for all of you Elton John fans out there. Nor is it "Tequila Mockingbird" as I once thought in middle school.

***

So, this is pretty awesome.

***

As is this. Noticing a theme? I'm so ashamed of myself for not knowing proper Christmas lyrics that I'm simply putting a bunch of Christmas-related videos in the place of words this week.

***

And one last one because even though Mariah Carey drives me up a wall, girl can sing. Plus, Jimmy Fallon, those kids, and the Roots make me smile. Also, this song always reminds me of Love Actually, which has to be one of the best Christmas movies that I'll totally be making CB watch this weekend. Truth.

***

And now for the video of the week! I want to start off by saying that I realize this has been a very Christmas-centric post. Uh, one, I celebrate Christmas. But two, it's 'cuz I was saving my Hanukkah-related video for the video of the week because, according to Google, it starts tomorrow! To be fair, I also had to Google when Christmas is this year, so I'm an equal opportunity space cadet.

So, happy Hanukkah to all who celebrate! Enjoy!

And then there's the time I took Snoop Dogg's advice and almost got shived on New Jersey Transit.

I sometimes mistake myself for someone who’s gangsta. Like when I’ve had too much to drink and I start singing and dancing along to a Jay-Z song like every other white girl in America? Totally gangsta. I mean, I make the gangsta face and everything just so that people will know how hood I am. Or like when random, vaguely trendy phrases come out of my mouth like “true ‘dat” or “for shizzle?” Totally gangsta.

No that’s not gangsta at all? You are correct. But in my defense, I only say those ironically. Except for the time I actually said “true dat” to Courtney in college because I thought it was cool and she still randomly texts that to me to this day and is like “Hey, remember when you aren’t cool?”

And so there’s that.

Practicing for my
thug life at an
early age. 

But then there are other moments in my life where the hood rat in me comes out full force, but instead of being all gangsta and threatening, it just comes across vaguely frustrated, repressed, and slightly school marm-y. 

Example: This commuting thing since the hurricane has really sort of sucked. But in the first few weeks post-Sandy, we all came together as a community, were accommodating and patient, and overall just behaved like civilized adults.

And then we got over it.

As weeks three, four, and five hit, people started cursing and pushing again and all was right with the world. Except instead of dealing with the hundreds of people per day you deal with during a normal commute, you’ve tripled the amount of people all using the same form of public transit and so it gets a bit dicey.

Which basically is to say that now all hell is breaking loose in very low level, passive aggressive ways that really grate on your nerves day after day. Like, someone throws an elbow to get ahead, you throw one back (subtly and very ladylike, of course). Tit for tat.

But where I draw the line is with the very clear, unspoken rules of humanity that say when you see a line of people waiting for a train that should only fit 100 people per car yet allows 256 people to get on, you wait your turn. It’s the law of the land. It’s how we operate and function without getting into fistfights on a daily basis. So when you cross that line, all bets are off.

Case in point: yesterday I was waiting on the platform with about 654 other people, conservatively, and we were all standing in self-imposed lines that indicated we’ve done this before and know how to properly push our way onto a crowded train in an organized fashion. And as the train approached, some woman around my age decided that the rules didn’t apply to her and that she shouldn’t have to wait in the 15 minute line behind us of people who got there before her.

So when the doors opened, she preceded to shove her way to the front of the line to get on the train.

Uh, homie don’t play that. Also, are the kids still saying that? No they’re not and never did? My mistake, let’s move on.

Me: Hey! Excuse me, you need to get to the back of the line.
Rude Lady rolls her eyes at me.
Me: No, excuse me, but do you see all of these people?
Motioning to the defeated people standing behind me.
Me: Yeah, they’ve been waiting for 15 minutes. You need to wait your turn.
Rude Lady: Whatever, bitch.

And then she went to get on the train and I went outside of my mind.

Me: Excuse me? What planet are you from where you think you don’t have to wait?
Rude Lady: What are you, the train police?
Me: No! I’m someone who’s been waiting here with all of these other people while two trains passed us by.

“Ding dong – stand clear of the closing doors”

She gets on the train. I get on next to her and all of the blood has rushed to my head because I don’t know how to process emotions properly.

Rude Lady: Too late now.
Me: You’re a terrible person.
Rude Lady: I’ll just have to live with that.
Me, ignoring her because now I don’t know what to say since that was the most I’d ever been confrontational with a stranger.
Rude Lady: Oh, you’ve got nothing to say now?
Me: Seriously? Who are you? You’re the reason people hate New Yorkers.
Rude Lady: I’m from New Jersey.
Me: That’s too bad.
Rude Lady: Why is that?
Me: Because I know a lot of people from New Jersey who are great, but you’re the reason everyone thinks New Jersey is just like the Jersey Shore.

Also, let’s keep in mind here that EVERYONE on the train is having to suffer through this mildly annoying confrontation between two crazy, stressed out 30-something’s. Also, I may or may not have been wearing my glitter shoes.

Rude Lady: You need to relax.
Me: You need manners.
Rude Lady: I’m fine.
Me: I’m just saying what everyone else on this train is thinking.
Rude Lady looks up at the guy squished up next to her who patiently waited in line: Is that true?
Squished Guy: Kind of, yeah. You should’ve waited your turn.
Rude Lady: You’re all f*cked.
Me: Nice. There are kids on this train.
Rude Lady: Go f yourself.
Me, turning around to face the other way while she mumbled vaguely threatening things about what she was going to do to me when I got off the train. And then I started to panic-sweat that I was going to get shived.

The good news? I totally didn’t get shived! The bad news? She walked behind me way too closely for, like, 30 seconds before I took a fake phone call from my mom.

You know, because talking to your mom on the phone for pretend is obviously the thug life thing to do. For shizzle.

Happy Wednesday, everyone! 

And then I became a Superhero and may have accidentally gone to an S&M club.

So when I was in college, my friends affectionately dubbed me “Captain Oblivion” because I’d often find myself in situations where the most obvious things were happening around me yet I was completely unaware of any of them. 

Cute guy hitting on me? Missed it. Car nearly ran me over? Didn’t even know I was in the road. Obviously it’s a blessing and a curse, but mainly it’s just endlessly entertaining for those around me.  

I've been preparing for this
moment my whole life. 
Also, it's possible that 
candy canes are my kryptonite. 

However, after this weekend I’m pretty sure I will officially become Knighted or Superhero’d or whatever it’s called as the official Captain Oblivion, which I’m guessing comes with some amazing perks? Like the ability to perhaps fly, wear a glitter cape, and maybe get me a movie deal? I’m just assuming here, I’m flexible and open to negotiating the official terms of the agreement.

But I think I’ve gotten ahead of myself, so let me bring you back to where this all began…..

Last Friday, CB took me out to dinner for a belated birthday celebration. I was 100% on board with the one week delay since we did some pretty awesome celebrating on the day of my actual birth and everyone who knows me is aware of how much I like to stretch out the festivities as long a possible. 

So I basically let the excitement build all week as we got closer and closer to the moment where I could finally partake in some pomegranate margaritas, the best guacamole you’ve ever tasted, and date night with the Smitten Kitten himself.

And let’s get real: if the entire night hinged on those three things, it would’ve been an outstanding success. Making my night when it comes to an evening out is a pretty low bar to clear. I mean, it’s not Shop Rite, but it’ll do.

However, we’d already decided that after dinner we’d grab a drink in the city before heading home, and so we walked about 15 minutes to some bar CB insisted we had to check out.

Me: But I’m cold and I have to go to the bathroom. Can’t we just stop at any of these other bars we’re passing?
CB: No, it’s not that much further.
Me: Or we could pop into one of these places for a drink, I could go to the bathroom, and then we could go to this other bar?
CB: No, just keep walking, it’s not that much further.

Also, sometimes CB likes to pretend he’s the boss of me.

But since I was still glowing (and walking slightly slower) from our rich, delicious meal and feeling all kinds of lucky that I got to celebrate my birthday twice, I didn’t fight it too much. Plus, he kept reminding me that the bar had a New Orleans theme, which meant Hurricanes, which meant CB would be carrying me back to New Jersey by 10:30 pm.

I was sold.

"Hands off, bitc...Kate,
is that you?"

So we finally got to the bar and I was endlessly pleased to get carded. It’s the little things in life as you make your way through your 30s, and so when the doors opened I was focused on two things:  Looking young enough to get carded and finding the bathroom.

It’s the ying and yang of being 35.

Anyway, as I made my way through the dark crowds, I felt someone grab my arm, looked up, and I swear to God this person was the spitting image of my friend Kate. But before I could get mad that a stranger was touching me, “Stranger Kate” became my actual friend Kate and I’m pretty sure I stared at her and muttered “What the…..” as I began to make my way through the sea of faces that all belonged to me!

Cut to: a lot of hugging, a lot of laughing, and a lot of me burying my face into CB’s chest so nobody would see me crying! I mean, this wasn’t like one of those cute cries you see people do in chick flicks where a drop glistens onto their cheek and sits there for the perfect amount of time while the camera focuses in on their flawless skin and perfectly applied eye makeup.

This was the Ugly Cry.

But I couldn’t help it. When it finally occurred to me that my and CB’s friends were all there for me and not just some random alternate universe where all of these people hang out without me at a random bar in the East Village, it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

Also, CB totally wins the Boyfriend of the Year award. Obviously. Sorry guys, you’ll have to re-apply next year.To be fair, though, he clearly had a leg up with the judges because he’s dating a Superhero and we have all kinds of mad pull when it comes to that stuff.

Anyway, the rest of the night was an amazing combination of laughing, drinking, dancing, and constantly pinching myself to make sure this was all real*.

Also, that’s how I check to see if maybe I’ve had too much to drink, but whatever.

Additionally, I think we may have found the only bar in New York that may as well have been reserved directly for us since we were the only people in it until 1 am when we left.  We had our very own DJ, a bartender, a popcorn machine, and a pool table. It was like your parent's basement in high school but with infinitely better hair. It was eerie but awesome and we decided not to question it too much.

However, there may have been some sort of dungeon downstairs where they take all of the patrons after hours and make them do all kinds of depraved deeds, but as far as I could tell they just made popcorn by the boatloads and played killer music with tasty beverages.

Also, when I say “killer music" I mean that I went up to the DJ and said “Will you play Beyonce, Jay-Z, Eminem and J-Lo?” and he literally laughed in my face. And then played every last one of ‘em.

BOOM. And that’s how you roll when you’re a Superhero.

Happy Monday!

(*Confidential to the following: Beth, Kate, Drew, Natalie, Becky, James, Caitlin, Cousin Nikki, Jen Wig, Trip, Brandi and CB – YEAR. MADE.)

Friday Funday Wrapup! Plus, please shave your faces, guys. For real.

It's Friday! Let's get to it.

First of all, thank you to everyone who submitted some HILARIOUS stories to my inbox yesterday after reading about my eventful trip to the doctor. While most of you admitted that I did make you feel better about your own personal experiences, I'm glad to know that at least some of you tend to think the way I do in these uncomfortable situations and for that, we should all be frightened.

***

Unless you're this guy, please shave.
And if you ARE this guy, please call me.

Alright, I know this is incredibly controversial stuff and that's why you tune in every Friday, but I need to take a stand against something taking over the nation:

Movember .

Now hear me out: I'm all for raising awareness for prostate cancer and think that it's a noble cause. However, I'm pretty sure if you ask the (conservatively) 200,000 men sporting non-ironic stupid moustaches in SoHo right now what it means, they'd have no clue.

Case in point: there's a guy at my gym who, best I can tell, sports this moustache every November in support of this cause. And since, up until yesterday, I didn't know what the "cause" was, I decided to ask him.

Me: Are you sporting that for Movember?
Him: Yep! I'm sort of sad I have to shave this weekend.
Me: Yeah....so what's the whole point behind Movember?
Him: Uh...what do you mean?
Me: I mean, why are guys sporting moustaches all month? Obviously it's not because it looks good, so....what is it?
Him: I don't know, I think it's just a thing.
Me: Uh, that doesn't make any sense. 

And then I googled it.

So perhaps Movember actually has been successful since it coerced me into researching why everyone in the Village looks like a 70s porn star though, to be fair, that's not that out of the ordinary...

Anyway, on this the last day in November, spread the word, take care of your health, and for God's sake - shave your faces already!

***

And since I clearly have nothing else going on to blog about this week, we'll get right to the Video of the Week!

I thought this might help us all get into the holiday spirit and hopefully have a good laugh, so enjoy!

Happy Friday, everyone! 

On how The Mindy Project gets you through tough times and why flashing strangers gets you a free meal.

There are times in your life that are life affirming and soul crushing. There are times in your life that you laugh so hard you cry, and cry so hard you laugh. And then there are the times in your life that you wish you could crawl under a table and die.

And those moments happen to me about once a week. Luckily for you, the most recent happened this morning and I’m choosing to share it with you because, well, it’ll make you all feel better about yourselves. And that’s what I’m here for.

So this morning I had an appointment with the doctor for my annual checkup. No prob, right? Totally. I got this. I’m all over my annual, and my doctor loves me. Mainly because every time I go to her she has a really fun talk with me about my age and rapidly dying reproductive organs. It’s a good time, we all have a good laugh, and I leave there feeling better about myself than when I walked through the door. 

Wait, what’s that? That’s not what happens at all? You are correct. That’s actually how I’m assuming she feels. I usually walk out of there and then have a panicked conversation with CB that makes him feel really uncomfortable and pretend he’s lost the ability to hear things.

Anyway, today I decided that I was going to do everything in my power to avoid the “geriatric pregnancy” conversation and you’ll all be glad to know that I succeeded. However, I now need to find a new doctor because what happened has rendered me unable to ever even walk by the office, let alone go back into it.

So there I am all ready to go, hanging out on the table and just generally enjoying life. The doctor comes in and I’m immediately taken off guard because it’s some dude in a sport coat I’ve never seen before. He introduces himself, starts making small talk about the weather and Thanksgiving, and because my brain works in overdrive when I have anxiety about uncomfortable situations, I decided to just go right ahead and make this as awkward as possible early on.

I mean, why not just cut to the chase?  We all know where this is going and so I’m just going to speed things along.

Me: So is it weird when you have new patients?
Doc: Weird?
Me: Yeah, I mean, we get pretty intimate pretty fast and we just met! Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?
Doc, getting super red: Uh…..
Me: I’m just kidding! I know that’s a really overused joke but it seemed appropriate.

You see now this is where, in most people’s minds, they’d just stop talking and let the appointment happen. But instead, I started rambling on about “The Mindy Project” and basically re-telling an entire episode to him as he started the exam, talking about “un-lamp-like feelings” and anything else I could remember.

Why? Because my brain betrays me at very inopportune times and also because I’m a panic-talker.

So finally this horrible conversation is over. Though, to be fair, when I say “conversation,” I actually mean “monologue” because I think he must’ve done one of those things that people do when they’re dying and sort of float outside of their own bodies so he could pretend this whole thing wasn’t happening. Because he literally didn’t say a word except one time when he half-heartedly asked me what “un-lamp-like feelings” meant and then I got into a tailspin explaining it and then he took off his gloves and left the room.

Also, and this is important, I think it’s possible that he mumbled something like “you can put your clothes back on.” However, I did not hear this mumble and so, instead, I sat in the quiet, stark room in my paper suit, waiting patiently for someone to come back in and tell me how to behave like a normal patient.

And so I waited. And waited. And finally just started reading the names aloud of random female body parts that were identified on the lady parts poster hanging in the room. And then I picked up the lady parts model sitting on the table and moved the uterus all over the place like a rubix cube.

What? That’s totally normal.

Anyway, by this point, no exaggeration, I’m pretty sure 5-10 minutes went by. And I started to wonder if we were done and if, perhaps, I should put my clothes back on. So I hopped off the table, turned around, and bent over to pick up my clothes from the chair...as the nurse brought another patient into the room.

Hello, Expectant Mother, I am Becky’s backside. Nice to meet you.

Someone shrieked – it may or may not have been me – and somehow the lady parts model ended up on the floor, uterus rolling across the tile as I scrambled for my underpants and to close the back of my “gown.” And I did that thing you do when you panic put on anything and I started just randomly shoving limbs into leg holes and had my underpants on backwards.

Also, can we just all get on board right now and agree that these need a new name? I’m not walking in a pageant or on the red carpet, I’m being violated by a stranger in a sport coat with a paper sheet across my front and confusing ties all over that never line up properly. So let’s leave the word “gown” behind and call it….paper dress. Deal?

Whatever, it’s totally fine. I mean, we’re all ladies, we’ve seen it before, and who doesn’t want to start off their Thursday morning looking at someone else’s Irish goods? I’m just saying, I mean, I’m a good time.

So finally I get clothed, sheepishly exit into the hallway where I can totally hear you all talking about me, and say “Ok, see you next year!” as if this was all totally normal.

But just as I was grabbing the handle to never set foot in this office again, Dr. Sport Coat said “Next time I’ll definitely buy you dinner first!”

Boom. Well played, Sport Coat, well played.

Happy Thursday, everyone! 

And then I got all deep and philosophical while maybe not wearing a bra on the train.

Ok so I like to consider myself all enlightened and worldly and a totally independent woman, akin to my soul sister Beyonce. But lately I’ve realized that I’m kind of none of those things when it comes to standing on a bus. Or a train. Or really doing anything that requires extra physical exertion during my daily commute while a man sits down and reads his paper all bragg-y and non-chivalrously.  And I'm really starting to get on my nerves.

I mean, dude. No contest. 

You see, I was raised knowing that, being a girl, I could pretty much do anything a guy could do, plus some. Like alright, a guy can probably, in general, lift heavier things than me. Unless it’s one of those hipster guys who has a moustache and wears ironic shirts around Brooklyn, in which case I can definitely lift heavier things than him and also not get on everyone’s nerves every waking moment of the day. Plus, I can totally have babies, theoretically, even though I haven’t proven that yet and everywhere I go people try to remind me that my clock is ticking and so I really should get on with it already.

So anyway, I already know that I’ve got this woman thing handled, and because of people like Gloria Steinem and Madonna, I can go both bra-less OR sport the cone bra and it doesn’t make me lesser than or better than or pretty much anything other than incredibly uncomfortable in both scenarios. So when I find myself getting irrationally annoyed with man strangers on a bus, I have very conflicted feelings about my frustration and then I get all confused, tired, hungry, and basically just take it out on some male co-worker for no reason at some point during the day.

See? Told you I was a woman.

But answer me this: is it possible to be both a feminist, without all of the weird, negative connotations attached to it, and also really want the 25 year old guy in a suit more expensive than everything I own to get up and offer me his seat on a crowded train?

No? Yes? I need answers, people! 

Perhaps it’s the years of realizing that I (or some other woman) am usually the one who offers my seat to the elderly person or pregnant woman on public transportation. And then the guilty guy next to me does the half get-up that he feels obligated to charade for all to see once he realizes that he was a complete a-hole for not doing this in the first place.

Thanks for fighting for my
right to be cray-cray.

So then obviously I do the polite thing and decline while secretly judging him for the rest of the ride and feeling superior for my selflessness. I mean, duh.

But if I was truly playing the equal-but-equal card, I should be no less inclined to get up off my keister than Gordon Gekko over there and not think twice about it, right? Is it possible to demand equality but also want the guy to sometimes hold the door for me and offer his seat to the ladies?

Is it insulting? Am I over-thinking this? Is it lunchtime yet? I’m exhausted.

Help me out here, what do you think? 

And then I got lost in a sea of Irish people and champagne.

Growing up in the Midwest with my sister and parents, I spent Thanksgiving reading quietly by the fire, eating really tasty turkey and birthday cake, playing a game of Taboo or Trivial Pursuit, and calling it a night before the 11 o’clock news came on.  We laughed, we ate, and we had enough quiet moments throughout the day to reflect on what we were thankful for and to, you know, nap.

Uh, I’m going out on a limb here now to say that no one in CB’s family has ever experienced a moment like this in their lives. Or have ever related to such a moment on, like, “Little House on the Prairie” or any other family drama that shows people sitting around quietly.

Oh also, just before Thanksgiving next year go ahead and buy a lot of stock in Moët – trust me. And you’re welcome.

Speaking of holding your own, you don't
even have to hold your own WINE in
this family! Also, nobody was actually
headless on Thanksgiving. 

However, I do want to sincerely thank CB's entire family for welcoming me with open arms, making me laugh until I cried, and teaching me how to hold my own in the biggest family I’ve ever seen outside of “19 Kids and Counting.” Also, they basically gave me enough material to fill the next several weeks on this blog, and so I will accept gifts in the form of cash or Sephora gift cards to bribe me into keeping quiet.

Anyway, this was my first Thanksgiving with this giant Irish clan and I must say that it lived up to the hype. Except that I survived, and it actually sounded as if I might not in the weeks leading up to the big day while various family members looked me up and down and said “No really…are you sure you want to do this?”

Um, no?

But I totally consider that a win for me because I’m pretty sure our relationship would’ve ended on Friday morning had I not been able to hang with this giant, raucous, insanely friendly, funny group of approximately 245 cousins. The fact that CB basically made me a family flow chart in the days before Thanksgiving gave me anxiety that rendered me unable to sleep for fear of forgetting which cousin belonged to which of his 72 aunts and uncles.

However, I was fortunate enough this year that I’d given his family way too much material to use against CB, therefore deflecting the attention off of me and letting it ricochet right on over to him.

I know, right? Girlfriend of the Year, ladies and gentleman.

You see, this little blog seems to have given CB’s family more than enough fodder to use against me, CB, and basically anyone else that is unlucky enough to find their way into one of my pants-less stories. Yet one in particular seemed to resonate throughout the sea of family members more than the rest, making its way to the Thanksgiving table as we dove into our green bean casserole.

Now to be fair, I totally knew something was up from the moment I walked into the house. While everyone was greeting each other, catching up, and basically just enjoying the day, I was being followed by the eerie feeling that CB’s Cousin Matt was being way too nice to me. He smiled, he hugged me, he said “Happy Thanksgiving” …

Something was definitely wrong.

I mean, when Cousin Nikki does that? She’s just being Nikki. When Matt does that? He’s up to something. And I was onto him.

Me: Uh, why is Matt being so weird?
CB: He’s being weird?
Me: Dude, he’s being way too nice. He hasn’t put me in a headlock ONCE and it’s been, like, an hour. He also hasn’t mentioned me eating in the garage. I’m telling you, he’s up to something.
CB: Nah, he’s probably just done giving you crap because you made it to Thanksgiving.
Me: He’s definitely not done giving me crap. I’m watching him.

Cut to: Sitting down at the incredibly long Thanksgiving table, saying grace, and digging in.

Me: Man, it’s really hot in here isn’t it?
Trip, sly smile coming across his face: You know, you’re right. It is hot in here. Isn’t it Matt?
Me, ignoring them both because I was distracted by food.

Ziiiiiiip. Ziiiiiiiip. Hoodies removed. And then it happened.

Also not an actual headless person.
Um, and photography isn't my strong suit.
I think I had one hand on the gravy bowl
when I took this. 

I glanced across the table to see Matt sitting there with a giant grin on his face and a t-shirt that said “Smitten Kitten.” Then Trip, sitting next to me, turned around to reveal the back: “CB is one cool cat.”

 And then I burst out laughing.

However, in between laughter I think I may have heard obscenities coming from my left, which is totally weird because that’s where CB was sitting.

Also, he’s really happy to be dating me and watching our lives unfold on a blog for his entire family to read about on a weekly basis.

But let’s get real, you guys, he’s totally a Smitten Kitten and has been since day one. So let’s see how we can figure out a way to top that story for next year’s family Thanksgiving, shall we?

Happy Monday, everyone, I hope you had a great holiday!