And then I yelled something slutty at the dentist and everyone laughed and laughed.....

Ok, so apparently when I posted on Friday that I had some exciting news to share in the coming weeks, that translated into about 20-30 texts and emails from friends and strangers who were all wondering if CB and I were either getting married, moving in together, or expecting a child out of wedlock. Also, one person asked me if I got a book deal, but I think that person was mistaking me for someone who can actually write a story longer than 400 words, and so the answer to all of the above is “No.”

Anyway, I’m quite sure that none of the boyfriend-related events will be occurring any time soon if I’m at all a good judge of face reading, which should totally be a thing (if it’s not) because I’m amazing at noticing every nuance. I mean, horror is a really hard thing to read on someone’s face, sometimes, but I totally got it loud and clear! And then I tried explaining to him that of course people would think this since I’m very obviously pure joy and sunshine at every waking moment, but somehow he still wasn’t convinced. Stunning, I know. But then I just fed him more wine and distracted him with my amazing ability to eat carbs by the boatload.

Moving on.

Remember how I told you guys that I was going to the dentist with Betty White on Friday? Well, it happened and Rose was absolutely no help when I accidentally made a sexual reference to the hygienist and the dentist while they were checking out my teeth. My bad.

Dentist: Can you open a bit wider?

Me: This is as wide as it goes, I think. (which is really hard to say while you’re trying to unhinge your jaw for a dental exam!)

Dentist: You have a really small mouth.

Me: Haha, that’s not what my boyfriend says!

And then I froze because my mind always immediately goes to whatever a 16 year old boy would think and so then I panicked that my new dentist would assume I was making a slutty reference, and so I, of course, had to correct myself and his dirty mind. Shame on you, Dr. Hotness.

Me: But I don’t mean it like that! Not like, you know, in the sexual way! I mean, not that you thought I meant that, and not that that’s what I meant or that there’s anything wrong with that, except I’d totally never say something like that to strangers. Well, not on purpose. Anyway, I wasn’t being slutty when I said that.

 And then I reminded myself about how someone once told me that thoughts are for the inside and how I still haven’t quite mastered that.  But what totally made the situation not weirder at all was the laughter from everyone in the room – and the entire office - and then the question from the patient next door who said: “What did she just say?”

Also, I think I should mention that my voice carries. It’s something that is constantly surprising to me but is pointed out by nearly everyone else around me, especially CB. Like the time I accidentally whisper-yelled “vulva” in a crowded restaurant. And I say “whisper-yelled” because I thought it was a whisper and everyone else turned when I said it…so perhaps I need to work on volume control. But since my boyfriend is obviously very used to this, he did a really smooth cover so that people just thought we were having a rousing conversation about cars.

CB: “Oh yeah, I don’t like those cars either. I prefer Saabs.”

Smooth cover, CB, smooth cover.

Don’t worry dad, I haven’t forgotten my roots. But there s no double entendre that rhymes with Ford, so it wouldn’t have fit very well into this story. Maybe next time. Also, I know it’s impossible to be any prouder of me than you are at this very moment.

Happy Monday!

Friday Funday Wrapup and why I want Betty White to come with me to the dentist today.

It’s Friday Funday everyone! Let’s get to it.

First of all, I’m going to the dentist this afternoon and just recovered from a full-on flop sweat because this just happened:

I’m trying a new dentist in the city today, and while I was filling out the new client form online, I noticed that the doctor who will be seeing me is kind of cute. And by “noticed,” I mean I looked him up and checked out some pictures to see if I should be embarrassed to be in a vulnerable position with him. I should be.

However, then I flashed back to the episode of The Golden Girls – obviously – when Rose gets felt-up by her dentist and he denies it and it’s a whole lesson-learning, don’t-go-to-the-dentist-and-get-knocked-out-and-then-felt-up, tear-jerker of an episode.  And my mind reeled, which lead to the sweaty panic because: (a) it should be a rule that you can’t be hot and a doctor of any kind, because that just makes everyone feel weird, and (b) I’m not the kind of girl a hot doc would feel up if he had to choose one, I’m pretty sure. And that made my heart cry.

Also, it’s possible that my boyfriend was right the other day when he said that I’ve never known a day of normal in my life.

Rose would know what to do.

Secondly, have you guys been watching the Olympics? Things are getting intense! First of all, did anyone think there’d be dirty play in…..Badminton? Also, I want to know what Gabby Douglas' secret is because, for real, that girl has the best smile! I wonder who her dentist is......

Thirdly, apparently the video I posted last week of the USA Olympic Swimming Team lip synching to “Call Me Maybe” was a hit. So if you missed it, check it out here.

Ok, also, I may get to meet Lauren this weekend, which is sort of awesome and also might make me a stalker. We were talking shop via email recently and then she mentioned coming to NYC this weekend for BlogHer. And then I made some comment about being a creepy stalker and, while being totally gracious and self-depricating, I’m pretty sure she’s now changing all of her weekend plans so that I don’t find her in Times Square and follow her around with my camera.

And lastly, I have two pieces of some pretty big news coming up in the next few weeks, so stay tuned. I know that’s a tease, but I promise it’ll be worth it!

Happy Friday everyone!

Confidential to Courtney because it's her birthday. Also, maybe don't ever let me take you shopping.

So there was a place in time where I wasn’t always the shining, glittery, totally-have-my-life-together being you see before you today. I know, right? The mind reels. But it’s true, and there are a handful of people out there who were with me during the not-so-awesome or glitteryyears. Like the years when I had the rockin’ bangs, the years when I wore sweatshirts that would fit Shaquille O'Neal , and the years that I thought it was totally appropriate to be an adult and own this t-shirt.

Also, there were the years that I used to wear bows in my hair that also doubled as wings.

And one of the people who has been there with me since basically Day One-ish (and also never pointed out that I looked ridiculous, even though it’s kind of totally out of character for her not to do so) is Courtney. And in honor of her birthday – or as we like to refer to it, the day she got even younger than last year – I am going to share with you one of my favorite all-time Courtney/Becky memories. There are a lot, as we all know, so it was hard to choose.  But here goes nothing.

A few years ago, Courtney decided that she didn’t believe me when I kept saying “No really, I’m fine!” and instead decided to fly from Michigan to New York a few days before Christmas so that I would have someone to drive back to Michigan with for the holidays.

I know, right? I’m not that nice, for the record. I don’t know where I find these people. However, her visit quickly turned into something that she very overly-dramatically calls “Hey, ‘member that time you tried to kill me in Chinatown?”

Anyway, since we had a few days to kill before the big drive through really interesting Pennsylvania, I decided to take her on a little sight-seeing tour. And by “tour,” I’m pretty sure I took her to, like, the Panera Bread down the street from my apartment, most likely the A&P, and then to Chinatown. You know, because that’s where anyone ever wants to go.

In my defense, she totally wanted to go there!

And she had a very specific purse in mind that she wanted to buy, and I was all like “Oh yeah, I see those everywhere, no problem, we’ll definitely find one.” And then two hours and a McDonald’s pit stop later, she was pretty convinced that I’d actually never been to Chinatown and maybe also didn’t even really live here.

But then it happened: we saw a very similar purse hanging outside of one of the billion storefronts, and so I immediately dove inside to ask the woman if she had the exact one Courtney wanted. And of course she did, but it was in the basement cellar – where all of the really good purses always are, you guys! – and she started going towards the back to retrieve it. And so I followed. Oh, also, the woman helping us didn’t speak any English, and so we were totally guessing that she actually had this purse in the cellar by deciphering all of the really fast hand gestures and words we didn’t understand. I saw no problem with this.

For some reason, though, Courtney was a bit hesitant to follow the totally up-and-up sales clerk into the cellar when she motioned for us to go downstairs with her. It made no sense to me, as the very obvious voice of reason between the two of us, and so I pushed Courtney in front of me towards the cellar stairs:

Me: “Go ahead, Court! Go get your purse! I’ll wait here. ”

Courtney, looking up at me as she got onto the first cellar step towards her death as the woman continued to enthusiastically hand gesture about purses: “I’m going to die in a cellar in Chinatown and you’re just going to stand there?”

And then I just laughed and laughed and laughed………

But whatever, she totally got her purse. Also, Courtney was obviously wrong that there were dead bodies in the purse cellar and that we would end up on the news. Well, not me, because there was no way I was going down there, but Courtney definitely would have been on the news and then maybe we’d be famous for being really, really stupid. Like the Kardashian’s.

Anyway, the moral of the story is this: Courtney is a much better friend than me in that she’s never actually tried to kill me in Chinatown – or anywhere, from what I can tell – and only sometimes tells me when I’m being totally stupid. Like the time I responded to something she said in the affirmative with “True ‘dat” in college and then she slapped me with her eyes and told me to never, ever, ever say that ever again because I was a pasty Irish girl from an upper-middleclass suburb in Michigan who knew how to speak English properly.

Also, Courtney sometimes thinks she’s the boss of me.

Happy birthday, Court!

How I almost starred in a Jennifer Aniston movie today and why eating at Chili's can make you famous.

So outside of my office building they sometimes film movie or television scenes, and it’s all very glamorous and exciting. Well, at least the Kraft Foodservice table looks very glamorous, as do the trailers they set up along the street, which I’m sure are filled with very glamorous and exciting things and people. And this morning was no exception, as I was there to fill a void in the casting call.

Or so I thought.

As I was walking down the block towards my office, I found myself weaving in and out of various people doing various movie/tv/commercial-related things that looked super important and needed to be done in a hurry. Also, I walked underneath a ladder and panicked, because everyone knows that’s bad luck, and so then I re-walked under and then around it so as to un-do the bad luck and then pretend like it never happened in the first place.

Anyway, as I was panic-walking and re-walking, some guys were setting up lights and, though I had my headphones on quite loudly, I was sure that they were calling and waving to me to get my attention. Obviously they wanted to check the lighting on my alabaster, glistening skin. I mean, it’s only natural. Plus, they maybe needed extras who looked like hip New Yorkers in the background, but since they couldn’t find any, they were going to settle for me.

Also, I was 100% sure that I was going to be late for work because I needed to help them with the lighting, so I started to tuck my headphones into my bag and look around for a place to set down my coffee. What angle would be my best? Should I text my co-workers to let them know where I was in case something super-important came up at work that only I could deal with and they’d have to be all like “Oh, we have to go get Becky from ‘the set.’?” This was turning into a very dramatic and exciting day…in my mind. Which, to be fair, is where most of the drama in my life occurs anyway.

In a shocking turn of events, they weren’t talking to me at all. They were talking to some guy behind me who actually worked with them and was waiting for me to stop walking back and forth under the ladder so he could move it and set up some other lights. Whatever. I totally was almost in a movie/television show today, and when I re-tell this story to my grandchildren, that will be how it comes out. Also, it won’t matter because at that point I’ll be really old and maybe won’t be making any sense anyway, so they’ll definitely buy it.

And then I’ll show them this picture of me as a youth and they’ll be like “Our grandma was hot but definitely had that girl next door thing going on, too. We can totally see it.”

Unfortunately, this was not the first time I thought I’d for sure be on television. Which is an interesting mistake to make about yourself more than once, especially considering that I’m above target audience age and also live in New Jersey with my cat. But, the inside of my mind can sometimes be a scary, magical place and so ours is not to ask why.

Anyway, the first time this happened was back in college when my best friend and I had a really cool tradition of going to Fajita-rita Monday’s at Chili’s. I know, right? We really were exceptionally cool. But when you’re in college, the fajita/margarita combo for $10 is enticing. Also, and inexplicably, we weren’t getting asked out a lot by guys willing to spring the $10 on us. It was a weird phenomenon experienced through most of our college days.

If bangs were wrong, I didn’t want to be right. Also, no I’m not pregnant in this picture. It was a baggy thing I was trying. It obviously worked out really well.

So one night, we were happily sitting at our “usual” table (jealous yet?) and probably talking about something really important, like what was going to happen on “Ally McBeal” that night or why the guy with the really muscular back in my English class wasn’t asking me out. And just after bringing us the four plates of food (two were for the tortillas, relax) and our giant margaritas, the manager came over to our table.

Now this is where it gets interesting: without saying a word to each other, my friend and I both immediately thought “They want us to be in a commercial for Fajita-Rita Mondays.” Obviously. And so, as any two sane people would do, we immediately started to fix our hair and apply lip gloss so we’d really shine on camera.

Then this happened:

Manager: “Ladies, would you mind if we move you over there to that table? We have a four-top coming in and this is our only large table available.”

Us: Confused. You mean we’re not going to be on tv? “Uh…sure.”

And then we proceeded to move all of our plates and glasses and bags over to a super-small two-top. Granted, it’s a table for two, but we were eating for four, so this really cramped our style.

Me: “So was it just me or did you think…”

Friend: “-that we were going to be in a Chili’s commercial?”

Me: “Yes!!”

Friend: “Totally! That’s why I started to do my hair!”

And this is why we’re friends to this day. Also, Chili’s: call me!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Friday Funday Wrapup! Plus, how on EARTH Michael Jackson could be considered "the normal one."

Let’s get right to this Friday Funday Wrapup, shall we?

So it’s Olympics time! I only kind of care about the Olympics, but I do think they can be fun to watch. So, to honor them, I will share two Olympics-related posts.

The first is this guy.  Wow. Now that’s dedication.

The second is a tribute to pop culture AND the Olympics: win/win: Call Me Maybe - 2012 USA Olympic Swim Team

***

And lastly, something to make you all feel better about yourselves. Basically, because you’re not me.

Ok, so as I was having coffee yesterday with a co-worker and I commented on how everyone needed to relax about this whole Twilight saga.  First of all, I’ve never gotten into the whole Twilight craziness – probably because I’m not 11. Also, because I’m very busy with an important life of watching Bethenny Frankel and the Miss Advised Girls. I have standards, people.

But I commented to my friend that it was ridiculous how INSANE people have been getting over the fact that the girl who never smiles ever cheated on that British guy who everyone thinks is hot, inexplicably. And then we went on and talked about it for about two minutes before realizing that perhaps we knew a little bit too much about these people and needed lives so that we could look down on others without being hypocrites.

And then this happened as we were standing in line at Starbucks:

Co-worker: “But ok, can we talk about this Michael Jackson drama, too?”

Me: “I actually don’t know that much about it because I really have never cared about the Jacksons, they’re so crazy.”

Co-worker: “They are, but I can’t stop. I’ve never cared until this week and it’s just SO insane that I’m obsessed with reading about it.”

Me: “Yeah, it’s kind of like a car crash or something.”

Co-worker: “I mean, we’re not getting the whole story.”

Me: “Didn't they just take the kids away from the grandma?”

Co-worker: “Yes! Now they’re with TJ.”

Me: “Who the hell is TJ?”

Co-worker, through laughter because we’re both hearing ourselves now: “Tito Jr.”

Me: “Oh my God it just got better. So now Tito Jr is watching the kids?”

Co-worker: “Yeah while they go through the whole Will dispute. Also, did you know that Tito Jr. was Kim Kardashian’s prom date?”

Me: “WHAT???”

Co-worker: “Yep. And do you know who gets the kids if the grandma dies or doesn’t get them back?”

Now we’re both laughing uncontrollably while people stare because we used to be two intelligent women with actual interesting things to talk about until the Jackson’s lost their minds.

Me: “Oh God, who?”

Co-worker, uncontrollably laughing, taking a minute to actually spit it out: “Diana Ross!”

Me: “This can’t be real. Also, can we take a step back for a minute and realize what is happening? Do you know what this whole incident has proven?”

Co-worker: “What? That we’re awesome?”

Me: “That, and that Michael Jackson is looking like the NORMAL one in that family after all of this.”

And then the earth shifted on its axis.

Totally second on my list for guardianship over my cat, Oliver, should anything happen to his first guardian, Little Richard.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

The time I dated Jesus and why reading is dangerous.

So there was a period of time about five years ago where I found myself newly single and lovin’ it. Also, the lovin’ it part manifested itself by me being curled up in a ball on the floor for about 6 months until my friends finally said “Um, maybe you should brush your hair. And perhaps do your laundry. And maybe shower. Oh, and we all collectively agree that you should go on a date. You know, just to flex that dating muscle.”

Uh, not only couldn’t I find the dating muscle to flex because it was so atrophied, but I was quite sure I didn’t have that muscle to begin with. I was like one of those people born without the ability to smell….or without their pinky toe…or like one of those people who never, ever went on dates. Ever.

Wait, that’s a lie. I went on dates. I mean, who wouldn’t want to date this girl? There was that one time in between my on-and-off relationship in high school and college and the other relationship in my mid-late twenties, where I went on a date with a waiter at a restaurant where I worked for a summer in college. I don’t remember his name, I kind of remember what he looked like, and I definitely remember that he wore a giant gold chain and Jesus sandals with socks. You know, because I’m obviously the type of girl that you take out and dress to impress.

Obviously.

And so we went to Starbucks. No, I’m not kidding.

He reluctantly picked me up wearing his Jesus sandals, we drove 10 minutes to the Starbucks in the strip mall, and sat outside awkwardly for what was probably 30 minutes but felt like 3 hours until I think we both just kind of stared at each other, looked at our empty cups, and got back into his car without a word.

I honestly have no recollection of what we talked about or why on earth either of us thought this was a good idea. It may have been because he was one of two guys that worked at the restaurant that summer, and my best friend was going on a date with the other guy who was friends with this guy (I believe he took her to an arcade…) and she said something along the lines of “C’mon, go out with (insert name of Jesus Sandals here), it’ll be fun and maybe we can double-date if it all goes well!”

Uh, I never saw him again. Well, other than the next day at work. But we never spoke again, which is pretty much the same thing. Also, a tremendous loss for us both.

So I’m pretty sure my dating history at that point in time was the equivalent of someone lifting a can of soup for ten minutes and calling it an upper-body workout. That’s the dating muscle I flexed. That was it. I was the emotional dating equivalent of that really flabby arm you tried to work-out before prom a decade ago and gave up to watch 90210 and eat ice cream. And I’m pretty sure there wasn’t anyone else in there…and if there was, he was less memorable than Jesus Sandals, so let’s just call it a draw.

So, since I apparently needed to: (a) shower and (b) date, I figured “What the hell? How bad can it be?”

Ooooh universe, you saucy minx, you. You sure showed me!

First of all, I’m sure that some of you thought that this story was as bad as it could get. But you would be sorely mistaken and also probably have friends who like you and would only set you up with someone normal. Anyway, I decided to give it a go and got set up with a friend of a friend after having the really in-depth conversation about our compatibility: “You’re single and so is he! It’ll be perfect!” But don’t think that I gave in that easily. He also had a pulse, you guys! I mean….c’mon. A girl’s got standards.

From the start, he was a charmer who really swept me off my feet. When he showed up 15 minutes late throwing around homophobic slurs about the drivers in front of him, I was sold. OR, I grew up in the Midwest where we’re taught manners and also to never, ever, ever offend anyone, even if their mere presence is offensive to you. So I stayed. And the universe just laughed and laughed…….

Anyway, fast forward through the next very painful 30 minutes or so when he finally came up for air after talking all about his really awesome car and his super-interesting job. Also, I believe I ate an entire basket of bread (sexy) without speaking because, you know, a lady knows her place. But since he was raised right, he eventually, grudgingly asked me about my job at the time. And then it happened:

Me: “Oh, I work in publishing on chemistry books-“

GIANT MAN HAND IN MY FACE: “-Hold it right there! You work on chemistry books? Ok. Not only did I hate chemistry in high school, but I really don’t like reading, so we don’t have to go any further with this conversation.”

Yep. I know.

Shockingly, after he put his hand in my face a second date somehow fell through the cracks, inexplicably. But not before the really awesome text I got from him the next day:

Him: “Wanna go out again?”

Me: “I really didn’t feel any chemistry (YES PUN INTENDED), but thanks anyway.”

Him: “Weird. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

And that, my friends, is the story about how CB and I met.

JUST KIDDING! Oh man, if that were true, I’d insist that you all immediately stop reading this blog by virtue of the fact that I would be a complete and utter a-hole.

*I got a text from one of my best friends yesterday asking me what CB meant, so for those of you late to the party, you can find that storyhere. Also, she definitely reads every single blog entry and pays really close attention to the fascinating details of each story. The End.

If I Were a Boy I'd throw on what I wanted and go drink beer with the guys. Also, that's what I did this weekend.

So this weekend I officially became a guy. Ok, not officially – it’s not that kind of blog – but I guess I should say that I got a glimpse into what it’s like to be a guy, and I gotta’ say ladies, we got screwed! Being a guy is the best. That Y chromosome doesn’t mess around!

Let me explain.

I spent the weekend with CB and friends up in Boston, which was relaxing and fun and saw us eating bacon-infused hot dogs for breakfast, because that’s how we roll in Beantown. Also, and inexplicably, my pants are a bit tight today. Weird.

Anyway, we also found ourselves at Fenway Park to take in a Red Sox game, and that’s where the magic happened. You see, while there were eight of us, our seats were separated, four and four, and I ended up sitting with the guys while the girls enjoyed the polite and always respectful musings of the very sober individuals who inhabit the bleachers at a baseball game. So obviously they had a really terrific time up there. Meanwhile, down in The Man Zone, I decided that I was gonna’ go all in. When in Rome, right?

I think this is the closest I’ve ever come to dressing like a guy. And I looked fabulous!

First, let me say this: Rule #1 of being a guy? What happens in Guyland, stays in Guyland, so there are some specifics here that of course I can’t share or I risk having my Man Card revoked. Also, being a guy is apparently a lot like being in Vegas which is something I’ve never experienced but sounds like it involves a lot of alcohol and chicks. So the similarities are endless.

Anyway, here are a few things I learned:

1. There are some nuances to checking out women. One is a very subtle nudge to your buddy and then the both of you staring at her while she blatantly sees you. This is key, because otherwise you’d just be staring at someone who had no idea they were stare-worthy, and that’s just a waste. Caveat: You do not want to be creepy about this and stare too long or intensely. I learned this the hard way since I’m pretty sure I got pegged as a lesbian and not a dude by the middle of the second inning. Though I think lesbians have more subtleties than I since they’ve been doing this longer.
2. You don’t want to do “the nudge” for just any old girl. They have to be “exceptional.” This took me a second. The first nudge I invoked lead to us all checking out a 55-year-old woman who stayed out in the sun for too long yet looked pretty good from behind. I was informed that this is a rookie mistake and that I’d get the hang of it. The key is to never stop trying. So obviously, nudge two lead to us all checking out a 15-year-old. My bad. Caveat: The rule, apparently, is that if you have to err on the side of the 55-year-old or the 15-year-old, you always go young. This may seem creepy and highly inappropriate, but I rolled with it because, for real, 15-year-old girls look way older these days! It’s tough for guys out there, no joke.
3. You legitimately don’t feel bad about most small-medium things. And it’s awesome. You know how us women tend to over-think everything and we’re constantly worrying about how our friends will feel about our actions, concerned about even the most minor of perceived slights? Yeah, penis-havers don’t do that.

• Example Number One: For some reason the ladies, who were sitting in the bleachers, didn’t love having the threat of beer being poured on their heads while listening to Canadians and Bostonians trash-talk. First of all, really, Canada? Second of all, the girls barelywanted to be there in the first place, so this was a great reason to get the heck out of Fenway. Cut to: me panic-texting from CB’s phone to make sure they didn’t want to switch seats with us and then spending at least a full inning talking to CB about whether or not I should go, too, even though I was having a blast. This was the conversation:

Me: I mean, I don’t want them to think that I don’t want to hang out, or that I’m choosing hanging out with guys over them.

CB: Are you having fun?

Me: Yes.

CB: Then there you go.

Me: But-

CB: You’re way over-thinking this. Also, there are some times that are no-talking moments, and this is one of them (turning to watch the baseball game at the historic ballpark while I sat inside myself with my anxiety).

Also, this trend of letting people make their own choices without spending a lot of time and energy trying to figure out whether or not they’re going to be mad at you later, continued after the game.

• Example Number Two: On the walk home, we popped into a restaurant that serves some killer ramen – and this is not the stuff of poor college kids (or, you know, me). These noodles are legit. However, I started to get nervous because we had been talking about getting this ramen after the game all day long, so the fact that we were now walking into the restaurant without half of our crew caused me to panic-sweat. But bizarrely, this did not seem to affect those of us who actually possessed a Y chromosome. I was very perplexed, but tried to roll with it because I was really liking this whole “being a guy” thing! Of course, I decided that the best solution to this problem was to get take-out for the girls, so I texted them for their orders just in case – another rookie mistake. As it turned out, they didn’t do take-out. Enter: Panic Sweat #2. We sat down at the table and I started to talk about how I felt badly that the girls wouldn’t get the ramen, and how does a place not do take out, and should we just order a bunch and then ask for a doggie bag? Apparently this is not how we do things in Penis-land. Come again? You mean you don’t ruin a perfectly fun moment by creating anxiety over something you can’t control? I’m confused. But whatevs, an hour of chop-stick-learning and eel-eating later, I was in The Zone. And it felt great.

Side note: Guess what? None of the girls were even the slightest bit fazed by anything and really did just want to go home and drink wine on the roof. Win/win!

It should also be noted here that the three men I was with are really exceptional, kind, funny guys in long-term relationships who have been around the block of when to stress and when not to. Also, the “when not to” part seems to prevail quite often, but hey, don’t reinvent the wheel!

So when all was said and done, I must say that I had a blast stepping into The Man Zone for an evening, and I was welcomed with open arms. But at the end of the day, I’ve got a firm grasp on my V-Card with no end in sight, and I think CB is just fine with that, too.

Friday Funday Wrapup! And how Punky Brewster and Jordan Knight are changing our world forever.

TGIF everyone!

I know I've been pretty bad at doing the Friday Funday post for a few weeks, with various travels and whatnot, but I'm back, baby! So let's get to it.

First, a little follow-up to my post from earlier this week. When telling CB that he made an appearance on the blog - without even knowing the content of what I posted about - he asked if it was about "the two yahoos I was telling you about." Uh, what's that now, grandpa? The two yahoos? No. I didn't blog about that. But guess what I will blog about? The fact that my boyfriend uses the word "yahoos" as part of his normal vernacular. Also, a friend reminded me about the time we were at the bar and turned just in time to see CB taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his nose.

Uh, come again? You're from the 1930s. (don't ever change!)

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Wait, seriously?

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Also, uh, I'm no food connosuire but....REALLY????? 

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And finally, something awesome just happened, thanks to a few of you blog readers.  You see, the wonder of Google Analytics is that it shows me all sorts of fun facts about who reads this blog, where you guys are visiting from, and even how you came to find me in the first place.  Usually it’s pretty straightforward stuff, but then this morning I logged in and saw this:

Top Searches

1. (not provided) - 36 Visits
2. stories about my underpants - 24 Visits
3. becky amos blog - 1 Visits
4. is jordan knight mentally challenged - 1 Visits
5. how punky brewster traumatized the nation - 1 Visits

There are several things awesome about numbers 4 & 5, but just the fact that I was one of the search results that popped up? My life is now complete. Also, perhaps our focus is just slightly mis-directed if we are thinking that Punky Brewster traumatized the nation in some way.

But before you pop right off this page to frantically do those searches yourselves, let me save you the trouble – I have no idea how these people found me or how many pages of amazing Jordan Knight facts they had to go through before finding me because, not surprisingly, I spent about 10 minutes searching for myself using these parameters and came up empty. But whatever, it happened and just knowing that this occurred at some point this week totally makes my day.

The reason our unemployment rate is so high.

Enjoy your weekend!

How I almost made it onto Law and Order and why I'll totally help you find strip clubs in New Jersey.

When I got home from work last night, in the midst of a wicked thunderstorm, I discovered that my power went out. Oh, and it was 101 degrees and I think even my cat was sweating.  So I did what any sane, rational person would do: I filled a squirt bottle with water and preceded to mist myself and Ollie for 20 minutes until I decided that this is how we were going to die. So then I literally laid on my floor groaning while checking Facebook and thinking of a witty status update before my phone started to fade. If I was going to die, I wanted to die funny.

But then I fell asleep.

It’s important to note here that Ollie is not a Lassie Cat. He didn’t run for help when he thought his owner was dying from the heat and humidity. He literally was all like “Oh cool, we’re napping? I’ve got this.” and went and laid in the sink for the rest of the night. Also, there’s no better look than the one I had going on when the electric guy came to my door some time later to tell me they were working on the problem in our building.

To answer the first, and most obvious, question: yes, I had more than just my underpants on, I put on shorts before answering the door. I mean, I’m an adult, I learn from my mistakes. Regardless, though, I looked really good, all frizzy and covered in now-dried cat hair. Oh, and some chocolate that I saved from the refrigerator. I mean, it was going to melt anyway, I needed to eat it so it wouldn’t go to waste! Obviously.

And then this conversation with the electric guy happened:

EG: “….so it should be fixed within the hour, I’ll keep you guys all posted.”

Me: “Ok, no problem, I’ll probably just fall back asleep anyway.”

EG: “That’s a good way to pass the time.”

Me: “Yeah. I’d be terrible in the old timey days when people had to rely on their intellect to stimulate their brain activity. I just went on Facebook and fell asleep. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t make it during Laura Ingalls days.”

EG: “Hahaha oh I’m sure you’d be fine. Is that the girl from Little House on the Prairie?”

Me, impressed: “Yes! I used to dress up like her all the time.” Um, too much information, Beck.

EG: Blank stare because I’m being socially awkward.

Me: “Anyway, you can get back to work.” Because now I’m starting to realize that it’s dark and you’re a dude and maybe you want to do bad Law and Order: SVU stuff to me.

EG: “Yeah, my buddy is just giving the news to the people upstairs and then we’ll head back out.”

Me: Staring blankly because I’m flashing back to Mariska Hargitay scenes in my head and trying to figure out if I can get the mace from my purse in time to totally take this guy down.

EG: “Reminds me of some of the storms we used to get back in Ohio.”

Ohio! This guy’s totally not going to assault me, he’s from the Midwest! (I know, I know, it’s terrifying to think I’ve made it this far in my life.)

I literally rocked that Laura Ingalls hat for, like, a year.

Ok, let’s fast-forward through the next few minutes of me geeking out about the Midwest and cut to:

EG: “When my girlfriend and I first moved out here, we kept passing landmarks and stuff that we recognized from the Soprano’s. We both were huge fans of that show.”

Me: “Yeah, you see it everywhere. Have you gone by the Badda Bing?”

EG: “No! I don’t know where it is!”

Me: “My boyfriend drove me by it a few months ago, it’s right there off of Route 17 but it’s called something else. I think ‘Satin Dolls’ or something like that.”

EG: “That’s awesome! I’ll have to keep an eye out for it.”

Me: “Yeah, and you can tell your girlfriend that a customer told you about it, and I’m a girl, so it’s totally fine and not sleazy to drive by it.”

EG: “Hahaha somehow I don’t think she’ll see it that way, but I’ll give it a try!”

Me: “Totally. Maybe she’ll even let you take your picture out in front or something.”

EG: “Ha! Yeah right! Would you let your boyfriend do that?”

Me: “Uh, my boyfriend pointed it out to me. Also, it’s the Badda Bing! It’s iconic!”

EG: “Your boyfriend is a lucky guy.”

Me: “Hang on, let me just call him real quick so you can tell him that since he refuses to believe it when I say it…”

But then we got interrupted by him having to go back to doing his job and so CB will just have to take my word for it when I remind him daily that he’s the luckiest CB there is. Also,  that I’m pure joy and sunshine at every waking moment. The End.

I mean, I’m downright angelic, let’s just put it out there already.

The time I got my nails done with Kim Kardashian and why reading Glamour can be hazardous to your health.

So I know this’ll come as a shock to all of you, but I do not, in fact, look like Kim Kardashian. I know, right? Spoiler alert. Let me explain.

The other day I decided to treat myself to a pedicure. Actually no, I wasn’t treating myself, I was treating the general public by getting my Bam-Bam feet worked on so that they were maybe slightly easier for passersby to look at without horror overcoming their faces. Maybe because there’s a nail salon on every corner here in NYC, things are done a tad differently than in other parts of the country,  but it’s very assembly line-esque in my hood. However, I go there enough to know the drill: walk in, randomly yell out “pedicure?” into the universe and then someone says “pick color!” and you move over to the wall of a billion choices of pink, pale pink, and traffic cone orange. It’s very in this season.

You pick. You grab a magazine. You sit down and wait, and then someone eventually comes over and, without saying anything, motions you towards a comfy leather chair where you sit in silence as someone takes horse tools out to work on your feet. It’s all very relaxing.

But my nail place is a tad different in that I’m reminded every time I walk through the door that the very same people de-crudding my feet, de-crudded Kim Kardashian’s not too long ago. That’s just how I roll.

Anyway, I know all of this because there’s photographic evidence everywhere you look: Kim posing with the nail technicians and owners, her autograph framed near the front door. It’s all very glamorous and I usually think nothing of it.

However, the other day as I was sitting down in the comfy chair, the pedicurist said “And you get your eyebrows done, too?” I was a little confused and worried that she’d mistaken me for someone else, so I said “Oh nope, just a pedicure! Thanks!” and then she stared at my face and said “No eyebrows?”

Uh….wait. Am I not taking the hint?  At this point I looked in the mirror to see what the hell was wrong with my face – had it grown lots of brow bush during the half block walk to the salon? Nope, looked the same to me.

Me: “Uh, no, just a pedicure……why, do I need my eyebrows done?”

Pedicurist: “You need shape.”

Me: “Shape?”

Pedicurist: “Yes. And lip?”

Me: “Wait, what? No! I don’t need my lip waxed!”

Pedicurist: “Oooooh…….ooooooooh….” shaking her head.

What the hell does that mean???

But since I totally have really good self-esteem and don’t let stuff like that get to me, I slinked down into my chair and put the magazine up in front of my Frida Kahlo face.

I mean, c’mon guys, this is obviously not me. I don’t even smoke!

Also, I definitely know what makes you feel better after being told that you need a dose of hot wax all over your face asap: reading Glamour magazine. What could be better?

It started off innocently enough, reading little tid bits about “Who Wore it Better” and stuff. Uh, obviously J-Lo. No brainer. Next page: “What bathing suit is best for your body?”

And this is where it started to go downhill.

First of all, does anyone know what body shape they have? I’m asking because I thought I knew until I started looking at the descriptions and diagrams. First of all, did you know that there are only four different body types? Almost 7 billion people on the planet and only four female body types? Fine, whatever, so which one am I, Glamour? Well, I’m tall. So I fit this one. But nope, I don’t look like that diagram of a person because my legs look like that other diagram and my chest looks like the other one. Oh, wait, the “athletic build!” Except no, I definitely have more of a situation happening up top, so maybe the plump diagram towards the bottom? No, unless I’m wearing my Booty Bump, I definitely don’t look like that one, either.

So wait, are you telling me that I need to wax my body and put on a Burqa? Because with my athletic, tall, curvy, flat, broad, slim build, a swimsuit with a skirt/Burqa mix seems to be the way to go.

And that’s when I flashed to Tina Fey. I know, right? Totally natural train of thought. But hear me out.

For those of you who haven’t read “Bossypants” (shame on you), let me fill you in on a part she discusses about how our society makes us feel about our bodies. This might be playgarism since I’m literally copying it from the book, but whatevs: if Tina Fey is reading this blog, I’m totally going to be famous and then can afford her attorneys anyway. Bring it:

 "But I think the first real change in women's body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them. And then, what felt like moments later, boom - Beyonce brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Ah ha ha. No. I'm totally messing with you. All Beyonce and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes." - Tina Fey, Bossypants

So I thought back to this passage, like you do with fine literature, and started to laugh at myself for ever even caring whether or not the pedicurist thought I needed my lip waxed or that I couldn’t pull off wearing a bikini without scaring small children and grown men. And then I glanced over at the picture of Kim on the wall and smiled. At which time the pedicurist saw me peeking out from behind the magazine and said:

“So you get lip wax now?”

And I just smiled and shook my head. And punched her in the face with my mind.

Maybe the problem is that this is still my go-to when I picture myself. I mean, who could mess with this kind of perfection? Look out, Kim K!