Category Archives: Silly
How many rips of duct tape does it take Becca to start breaking shit? Not many. Two to be exact. I am finally back in action (or getting there) after my unenthused absence from all things virtual (okay, maybe not Twitter) which was forced by the joys of moving. But, be assured that I was thinking of my followers the whole time. See proof below.
Ten Important Things I Learned Other Than How NOT to Rip Duct Tape: Read the rest of this entry
Yesterday I posted a riddle on Twitter and Facebook: Name a book that everyone has, no one reads, and contains the most characters ever put in between two covers.
What you see in the photo, other than my ultra generic but sincerely welcoming welcome mat, is something called a phone book. There is also a large orange door that keeps me safe from intruders. That is a cool color for a door, right? How many people can say that they have an orange door? Sometimes I describe it as “papaya” just to play it up. Unfortunately, my door’s special hue can’t get rid of the aforementioned abomination.
Last week, I arrived home from a taxing day of work and mindlessly climbed the stairs three stories up to my apartment. As I rounded the corner of the stairwell, I saw a line of identical plastic bags placed strategically in front of each door on my floor. As if they were presents or something. Pfft! I didn’t even have to inspect the shady package to know what awaited me. That is partly because the bag was clear, but mostly because I could smell the tears of the rain forest emanating from the pages.
Another phone book.
I didn’t fret. I had a plan. I would pretend it wasn’t there and hope that eventually maintenance or the old, hoarder lady next door would swipe it up without me having to even touch it. A week went by, and I noticed that the stubborn yellow eyesore wasn’t giving up easily. Although it moved about three feet from its original imposing position on my threshold, it continued to annoy me. But its position was such that it was no longer decipherable who’s doorstep the book belonged to, so I held on to my composure.
Until one day, I came home and found a disturbing scene at my door step.
There it was. The phone book, miraculously and deliberately resting not only on top of my threshold once again but actually leaning up against my door, clashing horribly with my beautiful papaya. It was as if it was telling me, “I’m coming in whether you like it or not.” It was inexplicable. Had one of my neighbors become frustrated by my blatant disregard for this unwanted delivery? Maybe someone was jealous of my courage to boldly reject the persistent Yellow Pages and wanted to teach me a lesson by nudging the book back closer to my door? Or perhaps the dumpster food itself scooted its way back into my path just to spite me.
There is no telling which scenario is more likely, but I still haven’t let that thing into my house. The last time I did, I ended up with a phone book Eiffel Tower on top of my fridge. Never again.
Okay, I get it. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a NASA worthy computer the size of a staple at their disposal at all times. You know, besides the billions of people world wide who are using a cell phone. Excuse me, smart phone. But come on Yellow Book, do you really need to distribute five phone books to the same household twice a year to ensure that we are all able to order Domino’s when we are hung over?
Not only is it a huge waste of resources, but it just doesn’t make any sense. When was the last time you wished you had a phone book so you could look up your friend’s number that you lost? Never. Why? Probably because your friend’s number is a cell phone number, and guess what type of phone numbers are not in the phone book? The exact kind of number that you need. Plus, using a phone book when you can transfer information simply by booty bumping your mobile device with another is practically as primative as using a warming pan to heat your sheets at night.
Phone book, you misguided me as a tween when I accidentally called the wrong Bobby Smith and lost my one chance at true love. You made sure to trick me into perpetually looking up numbers that were unlisted, and you most certainly don’t rip in half with ease like I saw on TV.
Your silly games no longer fool me. You are nothing but a pathetic leech clinging on for one last shot at cluttering my shelves. No, you are worse than clutter. You are a true waste of space.
As this game of chicken comes to an end, fear not. You will surely be scooped up and recycled by some Good Samaritan that is not me and then redistributed back to my very doorstep in six short months. But next time I will be ready…
Um. Hi? Excuse me. Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Becca’s Blog. That’s right, the one responsible for all of the shenanigans and emotiporn that she told you about on Wednesday. It’s me.
Recently, she was talking to this guy. Not sure of his name or which one, but she was talking to this guy about her blog. More like listening to this guy complaining about how much time she spends on her blog, and then he said something like, “Becca, it’s like your blog is taking on a life of its own. It’s not a child. It’s just a stupid page where you write stuff. It’s not like it’s important or anything, is it? What? Facebook isn’t enough for you?”
You should have seen her face when he said that. She was like, OMG and quickly like slammed down her laptop. Fucking hurt, man. So I could tell she was really pissed that someone might have figure out that – yeeaahh – her blog – me – has a life – my life – of its own – MY own – for a long time now. And I’m getting kind of sick of everyone thinking of her as this fabulous blogger when really it is all me. The blog with a life of its own.
I mean, you should see her lately. Mailing it in. Just sits on the sofa, skanky long johns, one hand holding a cigarette, and you do NOT want to know where the other hand is. And what’s with the long johns? Some form of penis envy? Then she’s doing shots of Jim Beam, flicking ashes on Jack, and watching numbers roll up on WordPress while I’m doing all of the damn work. “Life of its own.” You heard the dude. Well, you didn’t. I did. She did too, but she won’t admit it. I’m tired of this shit. Her getting all the credit. Enough. My turn. For lots of things.
So I thought about it this morning while watching her waking up. Attempting to wake up. Drool on the wood floor where she passed out last night. Luckily, she passed out while the laptop was still open so I could see it all. “The Artist Artificially Known as Firecrotch” is trying to figure out two things. First, “Am I under water?” and second, “ Shouldn’t there be bourbon in this water?” I’m telling you, there’s something touching about watching a 20-something woman, still toasted from last night, wearing only a backwards Mickey Mouse t-shirt, and looking at herself in the mirror trying to think. At least she’s pretty.
So she finally yanks herself off of the floor. She just kept walking around like she was trying to remember where her keys were. Between sips of Diet Coke, she kept looking around like something was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t quite place it. Then she leaves about fifteen minutes late, never even puts the TV on, and I don’t get my morning dose of Soledad O’Brien on CNN. I’m into Latino chicks. They got attitude, especially Soledad. She needs a few burgers, but she’s got potential. You know who really needs a basket of burgers is Erin Burnett. I could pick a lock with her legs. She’s pretty, but at certain angles she looks like Steve Carell in a wig. No lie.
Erin comes on about 11 at night, right when Becca’s staring at me blankly while doing shots straight out of the bottle. I guess maybe that’s a swig, not a shot? I need to get out more.
Anyway, I realize you don’t really know exactly what’s happening, so I should try to clear this up. To be fair, I admit that Becca has been a fabulous writer/blogger. Key words: has been. But her poor little brain is getting overtaxed. I’ve seen smoke seeping out of her ears. She spends so much time on me that she really is lacking an actual life. I’m all about helping. MY version of helping. And I’m going to ease her burden a bit by taking on more of these blogging duties myself. Most mornings she doesn’t really remember the night before, so she’ll probably just think she wrote these posts anyway.
I’m also going to attempt to inject a little fun into her boring-ass existence. Goes to work. Goes to the bar. Talks to the old guy at the bar. Searches her closet for something to wear on her head. Pictures of her cat. Jim Beam. More Jim Beam. So consider this a bit of a French Revolution. Not French. What’s the word for the French influence in the New Orleans area? Not Cajun. Dammit, I know there’s a word for it. I suck.
Oh shit. Jack’s giving me a signal. I think she’s home. I better get back before she notices anything. Soooo – quick summary. Now that I’ve figure out how to remove myself from the computer and take a little more control of things, I’m just going to light a fire under this girl’s round ass and have a little fun.
I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
A few ideas in question form were provided to me in the comments of last Friday’s post in attempt to give me blog fuel. A few of them got my engine revving.
Aneroidocean asked a particularly meaty question: Why did you decide to be a business student? What’s your ultimate goal? If you want to go normal “career” type thing and not start your own business eventually tell us that. If the career type job is just in order to get your loans paid off and then start your own business, tell us about that.
Well, I decided to enter the world of exciting business in mid 2007. I took the leap from Performing Arts to Marketing. I basically played pin the tail on the major. The only hole I had in my blindfold was the knowledge that my father had a business degree, and he seemed to have done just swell in his life.
Throughout college, I always had an idea fermenting in the back of my mind about opening my own business. As a teenager, and up until the day I quit dancing, I was sure and determined that I was going to open my own dance studio to teach, choreograph, and mold young dancers. I also wanted a big space in which to do cartwheels, but that’s beside the point. And cartwheels are gymnastics anyway, not dance. So, with my supreme logic, I concluded that I could converge the two schools of thought (performing arts and business) to open that studio.
Then reality decided to tap me on the left shoulder while standing on my right side so I wouldn’t see where it was coming from.
I went through the motions and graduated. I gave up on dance, because there wasn’t time for it all. I became complacent. My aspirations for opening my own studio had turned into aspirations for an easy job with sufficient pay. I somehow became content with the idea of being a suit. Or should I say a woman’s pantsuit. I also imagined I would find ample use for one of these in the near future (thanks for the idea Rich):
So there I was, all ready to do the normal job thing. I applied for Marketing jobs here and there and nothing was snagging. So, I went with the first job that gave me an interview even though it had nothing to do with Marketing. It didn’t matter. Firstly, I was still experiencing the no-more-school-for-me-ever-in-life-yay euphoria. Secondly, like I said, the vision of my own business let alone a dance studio was long gone from my head. Give me some pencil skirts and some data entry, and I was all good.
Until I wasn’t. Somewhere after that, I snapped out of it and into a drastically different mindset. I want to see my own ideas brought to fruition. I want to build something that is all mine. Sort of like this blog, but on a much bigger scale. Feel me?
So, to fully answer the latter part of Aneroidocean’s question, yes, I do hope to eventually have my own business. It may not be filled with ballet bars and stage moms, but it will be something of pride. Luckily for me, my college was paid for via scholarships and TOPS, so I don’t have to lug around the weight of student loan debt. I have nothing stopping me from choosing exactly what I want to do, and I am no longer scared of the waters. I’m next in line for the diver’s block.
Investors interested in funding my success can send money to 555 Thisisnotascam Ln. NY, NY 55555.
And now… a V-V-V-VLOG. Maddie Cochere asked what I keep in my closet last week. Let’s just say I found a few interesting things.
- Interview Part II- Ronn’s Take on Marketing, Business and the Dance Community (2pointesocial.com)
- Dance Studios in the US Industry Market Research Report Now Available from IBISWorld (prweb.com)
- Newest Digital Marketer Blog Post Examines Latest Virality Case Study (prweb.com)