Hi. You probably know me as hellohahanarf from my years of commenting around the world wide internetz, yet never having a blog. Well my friends, that has changed. Welcome to MY site.
Today at work I got an email from and aunt who is 66 years old. I think I told a story involving her before (“we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!“). Fun, intelligent, great sense of humor…terrific qualities in a person. So anyhow, her email announces a party coming up at the end of March. I love our family gatherings so I quickly reply, telling her how grateful I am that she is providing yet another opportunity for our large group to gather together.
She was still at her computer and shot me back an email asking me to a simple dinner at her house yesterday (Tuesday) because she knows I love chili. Oh. Hell. Yes. I am all about free, all about not cooking and all about hanging out with Auntie M. (Auntie M sounds so much better here than simply saying Aunt Marcia.)
I arrived around 7 PM, after spending some time at home with the boys, throwing a ball and just hanging out in the chilly sunshine. Small aside here…not only do my dogs keep the squirrels out of the yard, but birds are not even permitted to fly over the yard. Especially if the birds are crows. Both of my boys loose their shit when birds fly over.
Back to the point I was trying to make. I didn’t get home until midnight and I love it. We talked about the kinds of stuff I would discuss with K or Cinderella or Britt. Even though she is 66 she is still just like talking to a great friend. I find that incredibly cool. Why am I surprised that we can discuss food, camping with a man, alcohol, insecurities, football, communication being important in every relationship, Britt’s new site giving away a vibrator, 401k fears, hitting the Powerball, dogs, clit piercings, the Big East basketball tournament, family vacations, the perfect job description and more? Really I shouldn’t be surprised. Yet I pleasantly am. Never realized I was a little bit of an ageist before. Bad, bad Becky!
After work on Monday I did a quick run to the grocery store. Only needed a few items (basics like Townhouse crackers coz those little elves know what the hell they are doing, cheese, chips, salsa, granola bars and Dannon fruit on the bottom yogurt) so I was in a pretty good mood. Even though I was thisclose to my death bed (thanks, stupid bronchitis), I knew it would be a fast trip through the store and then I could get home to my couch, a comforter and two canine heaters. Guess I was in a pretty good mood even though I was sick.
I parked in a reasonably far away spot and enjoyed the cold air as I walked to the store. Apparently I was smiling because an adorable (and toothless) ancient dark, dark woman smiled at me. I nodded and we exchanged hellos. When I went for a cart a middle aged woman was doing the same. We also exchanged smiles and good afternoons. I must have had a goofy grin on my face because everyone I encountered in produce either nodded and smiled or simply smiled at me.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was having a terrific hair day, but I was all kinds of sick. My voice sounded like a man’s would if he were 80 and smoked two packs a day. The face was all kinds of red. Not a lick of makeup, unless you consider ChapStick makeup. We are talking not looking my best. Long, long way away from attractive.
And yet a good looking middle aged man in a suit kept smiling at me as he would come up the aisles I was in. I smiled the same hello that I had given everyone else. He started a conversation. Over the fucking peanut butter (I do give him credit for liking JIF) he starts small talk. Then he asks me out.
Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? I look like death on a stick, sound a lot like my grandfather on a bad day, am buying insane amounts of yogurt so that my antibiotics don’t jack up my feminine parts and he wants to ask me out?
Lemme go with no.
Took everything I had not to ask him why a woman would go out with a man who clearly has low standards. Don’t get me wrong, I am great and wonderful and all that jazz, but dude! Sick!
Why do men seem to flock to me on my worst days? Clearly they have issues. Can anyone explain the bizarre phenomenon? Anyone else encounter the same insanity?
(And no, I am not posting a photo of how crappy I look today. Just take my word on that one, k?)
I love this town. Everyone knows that I bleed the Three Rivers. Or Black & Gold. When someone asks why black & gold, I am quick to inform them that Pittsburgh is the only city where every professional sportsteam wears the same colors. It is not unusual to find me raving about the fact that our Carnegie museum not only has one of Monet’s Water Lillies and one of the last paintings Van Gogh did before he shot himself, but it also has actual dinosaur bones (in addition to plaster casts like most museums). If we are driving around dahntahn you will be shown buildings made of glass (home of Pittsburgh Plate Glass, aka PPG), a building made of steel (home of U. S. Steel) and a building made of aluminum (former headquarters of the Aluminum Company of America, aka ALCOA). You would also hear about some of the many movies filmed here and probably find out that in the Gadget movie that Mathew Broderick did, the bad guy fell from the tallest of PPG’s all glass buildings (although tonight my guests heard about the ice skating rink that shows up in the center of PPG Place, a rink which I have heard is as big as the rink at Rockefeller Center, although I refuse to believe that NYC would have such a tiny rink). Every time I go kayaking I am sure to point out the house that was used in Silence of the Lambs (“It puts the lotion in the basket or else it gets the hose!”). Out of town guests are forced to go to Primanti Brothers for a sammich…the original hole in the wall down in the Strip, not one of their new restaurant locations. Old train stations that have been rehabilitated into fun destinations are pointed out. Our little Clipper Fleet is hard to miss as they cruise the three rivers, but I am always suggesting the old WWII duck boat tours because I have so much fun every time I do the tour. The church which was saved from demolition only to be converted to a microbrewery is even on my list of interesting experiences while in Pittsburgh. Of course I drag everyone up to Mt. Washington to look at the city at night because if it could make the top of a list of America’s most beautiful views, I’ll be damned if my guests miss it. Hell, for that matter I make them pay attention when we come through the Ft. Pitt Tunnel from the airport because there really aren’t other cities that have a window the way Pittsburgh does.
Damn, that was a runon paragraph. I really love this fucking town.
ANYhow, I was trying to say that I have two new coworkers in from out of town so I had the pleasure of showing them around a bit Tuesday evening after I grabbed them at the airport. They had so much fun that they asked me to take them out again on Wednesday after our long ass day of training. Should be fun!
P.S. Yes, I certainly could have added more links and more ‘yay, Pittsburgh’ stuff. Bite me!
I have never understood why *I* have to do my own annual review (which is then reviewed by management and discussed with me). In my head, you are my boss so you should know how and what I am doing. Seemed like laziness on their part.
But a few weeks ago I realized what my true problem with doing my own annual review actually is. Seems I have to say nice things about me. Turns out as freely as I give praise, it is difficult to praise myself. Don’t get me wrong, I think I am pretty great and I love me and all, but trying to put it to paper for someone else is rough! It would be so much easier if I could just say, “Dude, I rock. Gimme a raise.”
Yet that is frowned upon. The review form has actual questions which ask probing things such as what my strengths are, what unique things I am bringing to the company, how I can improve, etc. Fuck. What means the most to my employer? In my mind, my loyalty (I have turned down some pretty damn exciting jobs over the last 10 years so stay with my company) should be a big deal, as should the fact that I am dedicated (and will do whatever it takes to make our company successful), but the first thing that pops into my head is the fact that I don’t have a college education (something that means something to some people).
I struggled for days. Agonized. Stared at the white spaces on the review form. Shoved it aside. Saved it for the last minute. And then still didn’t know what to say. What makes me a good employee?
At the last hour I wrote a bunch of nice things about me. It wasn’t easy, but I filled up those empty white spaces and had something to turn in.
This past Wednesday my new boss sat me down behind a closed door and gave me the review he had done for me. He has only been with the company less than six months. Don’t you know he found it very easy to say terrific things about me? Even told me how easy it was to do my review. Said so much nice stuff that I shifted in my seat and blushed a little. I was thrilled.
And baffled. Why is it so rough for me to hear great things about me? Constantly I don’t hold back praise of others. It is so easy for me to tell a friend how smart they are, how funny they are, how gorgeous their eyes are, how I appreciate their intelligence. Put me in a professional position and have someone say nice things about me? Can’t handle it.
I really must work on that. As confident as I am outside of the office, I need to carry it over into the professional setting. Sure, I think I am good at my job, but since it comes easily and naturally to me it isn’t difficult. Somehow I need to realize that I was born to be in a marketing position and that a job doesn’t need to be physical labor (where one can see the progress I have made) or sales (where it can be measured in actual profit to the company) to mean I have done it well.
You were all so wonderful yesterday and the day before. Thank you.
I have great news to report. Thursday evening I called my friend’s house. While my hands weren’t physically shaking, I kind of felt as though they were. Her husband answered and instead of normally talking to him like I always have, I asked for my friend. He began to tease me a bit (“Becky? Wow, I think I remember a Becky.”), although he eased quickly when he heard my voice quiver as I admitted I deserved that. The words “I am calling to tell her how sorry I am” brought a flood of tears that I certainly didn’t mean to unleash so it was a struggle to steady my words.
Turned out she was at a meeting so I had time to compose myself. Until my phone rang. Hot tears of frustration at myself for being such as ass burned my eyes and streaked my face when I answered. I tried to say how sorry I was for being a crappy friend and how much I loved her, how much I missed her. Thing was, she cut me off. Wouldn’t hear of any apology.
Yet her voice was gentle. And was there a little happiness that I heard? Dear Lord, is she truly happy to hear from me? I don’t deserve this.
Seconds into the phone call it was as though I had never been so stupid to not answer phone calls or emails. Minutes went by and we were waist high in major life issues. No more tears, just friends trying to solve all the issues in our lives. For 58 minutes and 12 seconds. And it felt like no time at all. It felt good. It felt right. In fact, it felt so comfortable that we agreed to get together Friday evening for a few hours while her husband is out with the kids. Although I do hope I get to see them as well.
I don’t deserve such an easy forgiveness, yet I am grateful for it.
Just as I am thankful for all of you holding up a mirror for me to look into while you encouraged and supported me. Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it, but that is all I have. Thank you.
P.S. When we hung up, I realized that I felt as happy as I would if I hit the lottery. Great feeling. Wish I could explain how my brain jumped to this video…
Might have been the fact that Aunt Tinkle Tom Tom made me a delicious PB&J when I was over earlier today (or it could be that I am batshit crazy).
Oh! Another great thing about Thursday…I had the pleasure of spending time with Cousin Sarah for a bit. Got to hold one week old baby Donnie Jordan and have Aunt Tinkle Tom Tom make me a sammich with Jif’s creamy goodness. All while wearing one of the Straight Not Narrow shirts I love so much…so much that I own three. (Yes, I did also buy one for my “get used to it” aunt. hehe)
Recently I have made a few really, really stupid decisions in an effort to spare my heart. For me, Denial is not just another river in Egypt. Problem is, as much as I try to hide or ignore people or things in an effort to “stay strong” I will never actually find the strength to just fucking deal in the first place if I don’t admit that there is a fucking problem. Dealing and acceptance are the only things that will make it all better, not hiding.
Huge, heavy sigh.
To anyone who listened to “Clearly You’re Retarded” last night, thanks for letting me say something that I have never said before. While I certainly didn’t expect that show to play shrink for me, I am glad I was apart of it. And I appreciated the gentle mirror, held up for me to look into.
I will do my best to make my wrongs right. If I can’t, I have no one to blame. If I can, it is because the others are much better friends than I deserve.
Speaking of friends, I really am grateful for all of you. Very thankful that you are in my life.
I mentioned that The Burgh Baby is promoting a “Christmas crazy” day and that day is today. Photos of whatever the Christmas crazy might be. I haven’t yet had a chance to take a photo of the house belonging to the lunatic down the hill, but I will. Tomorrow I will post their crazy. Today, however, I wanted to share a story from my Christmas crazy past. A different kind of crazy, but still, it counts coz it is about Christmas. Even if there aren’t photos.
Now, on to the story…
My dad was a Pittsburgh k-9 cop who grew up on the rough city streets seeing all kinds of “interesting” things, then went into the military where he saw unspeakable things and eventually settled into the life of a police officer where he daily saw things I can’t even begin to image. The man had one hell of a hard outer shell. Some people considered him a miserable son of a bitch, a guy who wasn’t prejudiced because he hated everyone equally, but you could watch him with the dogs and see that he had a kind and gentle side buried in there. Dad was not a real touchy feely kind of man, but he was a great protector and provider. We never doubted that he loved us kids. He was very hardworking and generous, just not overly outgoing and funny.
Ok, enough background. I think you get the tough guy picture. So imagine a guy around six feet tall who was kind of built like a barrel. Strong, yet not overly muscular. Throw a robe on him and he was close to passing for Uncle Fester, but see him in a uniform or in his jeans and sweater and you instantly knew not to fuck with him.
Since Dad worked nights and wasn’t exactly all about quality whole family gathered together time, we usually decorated the house for Christmas when he wasn’t home. Lights everywhere, fake tree about six feet tall covered in more ornaments than should ever be on a tree, Christmas carols constantly playing, garland over everything that wasn’t moving, icicles where there weren’t ornaments and Mom even giving us fake snow stuff to stencil onto every damn window in the house. Tacky, but wildly wonderful for kids. Some years she would give us some sort of shoe polish and let us draw on the windows like little budding Michelangelos or something. We loved it. And we counted down the days until we were allowed to decorate. Pure joy.
Except one day I came home from school early only to hear blaring Christmas music. Seemed strange so I picked up the pace, racing up the stairs. There I found Dad alone, standing on the arms of the living room chair, gold garland wrapped around his neck as though it were a feather boa, sort of wiggling to the music while he was hammering nails into the wall so that he could hang lights and garland. While drinking Ouzo. I made a beeline to my room to drop off all of my stuff and get changed, then came flying back into the living room. And stopped dead in my tracks.
Dad was trimming the tree. Not trimming with decorations, but cutting the branches in an effort to secure the perfect triangle tree shape. I mentioned the tree was fake, right? Yeah, apparently he didn’t pay attention to the fact that the tips of the branches were color coded to match the holes they got inserted into. White tip? White hole on the “trunk” of the fake tree. Blue paint on the tip of the branch? Blue hole on the post/pole/trunk thingy. Not rocket science for an extremely intelligent man. Put the branches in the correct holes and the tree will look…surprise…like a tree.
Instead, Ouzo clouded his judgment and since there were no directions (not that he ever looked at directions regardless of a project’s scope and size!) he just shoved branches in any way they would fit. Then he went to the basement and grabbed the huge wire cutters. By the time I realized what he had done it was too late. Our full and perfect fake tree was now more than slightly skinnier than it should have been. At least it was tree shaped!
We all had a great laugh over the insanity and the next year we insisted on putting the tree together ourselves to insure that it was done properly. Problem with that brilliant logic was that the damn tree no longer fit the red tip in the red hole, blue tip in the blue hole pattern. When we put it together correctly it didn’t have the shape of a real tree due to Dad’s metal lumberjack skills. Long branches sticking out where short branches should have been. So you know we didn’t run out and buy another tree, right? Of course not! Instead out came the wire cutters. Two years in a row we trimmed a fake fucking tree.
Eventually we got rid of the by then Charlie Brown scraggly tree. But for us kids parting with it was almost, in some warped way, a sad event. To us, that crack skinny tree was a bizarre symbol of Dad’s soft side. The side that wanted to spend time with his family and desired to be a part of our quality family fun. To this day, fake trees make me happy. Even if I don’t break out the wire cutters.
Anyone else have any Christmas crazy they wanna share?
Oh yes, I went through with it. Again. And I stand by my original review: ouch.
Wednesday evening I rushed to the spa to pay a bucket of money to have pain inflicted on me. By choice! Full body waxing…legs, Brazilian, eyebrows and underarms. A little over an hour and a half of hot wax and ripping hair from me.
First time I tried this was early November and I vowed that no matter how much it hurt, I would not stop the technician, nor would I cry. For the most part I did alright, but I certainly yelped a bit every now and then.
Wednesday I was determined to do better. Everyone says waxing gets easier the more you do it, so dammit, I wasn’t gonna yelp again. Since I got out of work a little late I had to call and say I would most likely be about 15 minutes late. When I heard that H was running late with the client before me I sort of happily explained something about it being a great thing because I would have time to stop at the bar next door for a shot of tequila before my appointment. The owner laughed and told me not to bother because they had a bottle of tequila. Yay!
I had just arrived and was bullshitting with one of the employees when the owner came gliding out from the back, headed towards the front desk, with a wine glass that was almost half full of tequila. On the fly she handed me the tequila. While she was still within reach I had the contents consumed and was handing the glass back. Seems next time she’ll give me more tequila / Novocain since I “drink too fast.”
Thing is, I think it worked! The waxing didn’t hurt as much as I remembered. Yay, tequila!
Until over an hour into it when I had to turn over. Please take a moment and try to imagine hot wax on your ass. Not on the left side, not on the right side, but right in the middle. Fuck, that hurts! And this is before they rip the wax off. Deep breath! Now imagine that hot wax clinging to the few hairs around your sensitive asshole. Keep imagining…paper being pressed into the wax and riiiiiip!
Yeah, the deep breaths didn’t help. A gel squeezie ball that I brought with me sort of eased some of the pain by giving me something to focus on. So did distracting myself by taking photos of my face while my ass was being waxed…
Fucking crazy Brazilians and their waxing.
ANYhow, when these photos were taken, I was more than half nekkid so these totally count for today. To those of you who wanted me to video my experience, I might consider it for next month’s adventure. (However, you still would only see my face for that!)
So, anyone in the Pittsburgh area own a video camera?
So much is a happenin that I don’t have as much time as I would like to write here . Which means happy little bullets! Don’t complain. You know you love them. Gets you here and out quickly.
I might actually learn to cook if I didn’t like peanut butter and jelly so fucking much.
Daisies and sunflowers are my favorite flowers.
The traditional “He loves me, he loves me not” daisy, leucanthemum, is also known as a Becky daisy.
Year end push for business is on at work and days are brutal. Yet I love it.
I kind of miss bowling.
My cousin’s three year old gave me TWO lollipops and everyone else only one.
Neither of my dogs have my last name and I love where they came from (and their last names).
I am eagerly anticipating Saturday morning’s brunch, shopping, pedicure with K.
For Christmas, my family will get nothing as I am donating the money I would have spent to people who need it more than we do.
Kate Winslet was not “chubby” in Titanic.
The weather bastards lied…no snow here.
Tonight I chose to watch The Princess Bride instead of beginning to read Eclipse.
Confidence is sexy, arrogance is not.
I need a new bank.
The Nutcracker ballet makes me fall asleep EVERY time I try to go see it.
The musical Wicked brought tears to my eyes.
I considered writing a friend’s name on my breasts and emailing him photos.
Getting happy should really last longer than an hour on a weekday. Beer here! I’m happy!
I have never been partial to drugs, always preferring alcohol. In high school I tried to smoke marijuana a few times (ok, MORE than a few times…shhhh, this is my story). Unfortunately I never had the giggles and munchies that everyone else got, never got the deep, deep thinking. All smoking dope did for me was give me a headache and make everything taste way too sweet. In fact, when it almost ruined Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I think I may have given up my trying to like it.
ANYhow, I prefer booze. Love beer and vodka and all the alcohol goodness. Used to smoke cigarettes a lot also. Somehow I managed to quit them. My desire to drink and smoke prevented me from doing any harder drugs because I was afraid of liking them too much. That fear of enjoying them too much kept me pretty safe most of my life.
Except for that one time when I was yet again trying to like smoking weed. Hand carried back from Jamaica, fresh off the plane. Bowl after bowl. After bowl. The other two I was with were giggling and enjoying it right away and I felt nothing. Not a damn thing. The entire time we sat there I felt just as normal as I do right now.
Until I stood up to walk. Wow, talk about woozy. Took everything I had not to lay down and go to sleep, but we were in the middle of a really cool neighborhood with a lot of people around on a Friday night. Naturally the stoned folks I was with wanted to hit the diner right in the heart of everything. I quickly agreed, thankful for the opportunity to sit down and maybe nap off my clouded brain.
Except as I was walking into the restaurant my vision started to get black on the outside. The tunnel quickly narrowed and BAM, down I went without warning like a ton of bricks. Not sure how long I blacked out for, but when I woke up I had a circle of friends around me, blocking entrance to the restaurant. The first person I focused on was bent over me crying, thinking I was dying. Funny part was I thought I was already dead because I was viewing the most amazing glow around the crying girl. I smiled and said, “You’re an angel!”
Everyone helped me up and I realized that I wasn’t dead. I put my hand to my head because I figured I whacked it pretty hard on the bricks and when I pulled my hand away it was covered in red. Seems I was gushing blood from a gash on the left side of my head. I asked a friend to guide me to the bathroom, put one hand on her shoulder and walked through the diner. Did I mention this diner was a favorite of the local cops. Yeah.
So while using toilet paper to put pressure on my head I was trying to calm down all my freaking out friends when a woman walks in and identifies herself as a nurse. She looked at my head and told me I would need stitches. Fuck that, I’ll get some butterfly bandages and be fine. Get me outta here, friends.
We walk out the front door and right in front of the huge windows, in front of all those coffee drinking cops, the damn tunnel starts to return. Last thing I remember is a parked white Cadillac with dark windows rushing at me. Seems I feel into it and rolled off, again landing on the ground. Fuck!
When I came to (the second time!) there were people everywhere, but several cops hovering over me. I was able to calmly talk to them and explain the blackness coming in like a narrowing tunnel. They kept me on the sidewalk, flat on my back, and assessed what happened. I tried to give my friends the get the hell outta here signal and it seemed to work…they were able to blend in with the massive crowd surrounding me. The cop holding my hand recognized me and couldn’t place me. Didn’t take long for me to admit that I was a cop’s daughter and we had met recently. When he realized who my dad was he kind of freaked out, whispering to the other cops that they had to take care of me or my dad would kill them. And me. An ambulance was quickly called.
Although this event happened in high school, I still vividly remember telling the cop elevating my feet and legs that he was cute and could hold anything he wanted. I even promised not to tell my dad. Damn, how embarrassing. Sigh. (OK, back to the point of the story. Sorry.)
The ambulance gets me to the hospital where the assholes call my Mom. Sure, they had to, but still it was not what I wanted (no shit…I was still stoned off the bajeebers). Hospital people prep me for stitches. Then they go to inject me with Novocain and I don’t feel the needle, but I actually hear the medicine seeping into my brain. Couldn’t help it, I let out a “Coooooooooooool.” Shot after shot in the head, no feeling, just hearing. It really was cool.
Until my Mom accused me of being drunk. Ha! That gave me the ability to honestly say no.
Then the doc comes in. Takes the needle and pokes it into my head. Again, I feel nothing. But I hear the squish of the needle moving through my head. “Awwwwesome!” I know that I must have sounded just like Spicoli from Fast Times, but it was the most incredible sound and experience.
Five stitches were all it took to close me up. When I asked for more, Mom insisted I was drunk.
Again, an honest no.
(Yes, as an adult I came clean and told Mom that I really wasn’t drunk, that I was totally baked from smoking so much dope that I made both Cheech AND Chong proud. Her response? Laughter.)
