Heavy Lifting

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:

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A Daunting Delivery

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.

This is an image depicting the answer to the riddle mentioned above.

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.

Can I use the embers of a burning phone book?

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…

YouTube Tuesday

I have mentioned before that I stopped doing most of the blog awards and such, but that I do enjoy answering the questions that come along with some of them. So this is my half ass participation for Twindaddy who tagged me. I feel like cattle, but I am going to answer all of your questions with a YouTube Video to pay homage to our weekday theme, YouTube Tuesday. And because you have survived on your snowflake for so long. Have fun.

1. Dogs shouldn’t snore.  Why the hell is my dog snoring? Would you rather this?
2. Describe the most embarrassing moment you ever endured. Usually involves autocorrect.
3. My butt’s numb from sitting here for so long.  Wait, that’s not a question.  You have a wedgie.  Do you take care of immediately or wait until no one will notice you taking care of it? Here is an option. Or ditch the undies all together.
4. A coworker has some nasty body odor.  How do you address the situation? Hire Terry Crews. There is no other option.
5. You just farted.  You are relieved that it wasn’t loud but it quickly becomes apparent that it was SBD.  Do you blame the dog? Ummm.
6. You don’t have a dog.  Who do you blame now? Obviously.
7. Who’s the most hilarious blogger you follow besides me? If you didn’t see this coming, you are dense. 
8. Some dude’s fly is down.  Do you do the considerate thing and tell him or are you too embarrassed to say anything because you’d have to admit you were looking at his junk? Don’t be afraid to basket shop.
9. What is the funniest movie EVAR?? The character named Becca is not me. Don’t freak out.
10. I got so drunk this one time that I actually…. Well if you must know. Just kidding! I haven’t thrown up since I was five. True story.
11. If you could be any species in that galaxy far away, which would it be (yes, I’m referring to Star Wars)? I challenge you with some classic extraterrestrialism. 

There. I made a post. I am off to pat myself on the back and feel accomplished.

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All Work and No Play Makes 25toFly a Dull Blog

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.

Here is an accurate depiction of what I would look like if I were human. I, Becca’s blog, would be a dude. See penis envy quote below.

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?

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Something Is Amiss

This past weekend was the Superbowl, but instead I went bear hunting. You read that correctly. I don’t have pictures to prove it, and I wasn’t actually hunting. You game wardens out there can calm down. So while you were watching Beyonce knock out the power with her bootyliciousness and extensions, I was searching for Winnie The Pooh. How do you feel about that?

Bear watching and tractors. Fuck yeah. Take that Superbowl.

I can’t get into detail about what happened to me out in those woods, but not because I did anything illegal. The real reason I can not properly tell you about my excursion is because there is something amiss with my blog. While attempting to wow you with a post about my Bear Grylls (no name-pun intended) antics, my blog started acting… funny. And not the normal kind of  hilarious funny.

For example:

When I attempted to click the “New Post” tab, a java script error popped up on my screen that said, “Oh, finally attempting a post? Haha, nope,” and my whole browser shut down on its own. I wasn’t even touching the mouse.

On my second attempt, as I tried to navigate back to the WordPress homepage, I kept getting redirected to the Creative Writing for Dummies Cheat Sheet. I knew there was something funky in the water at this point.

As a true test, I decided I would try to answer some comments that were being neglected. When I guided my cursor over the reply box, the faded default message, “Enter your comment here…” no longer existed. In its place was, “Peanut butter jelly time baby cakes…”. When I tried to erase it and type my own message, everything came out in Webdings font. This is when I opened the Jim Beam and closed the lap top.

I’m befuddled as to what has been happening to my blog. It took seventeen battles with my dashboard just to bang out this cry for help post for today. Have any of you been experiencing shenanigans on your blogs? Is WordPress just playing an early April fools joke on me, or is there something bigger at work here? Any insight is appreci B============D—–

What the fu ( . )( . )   ( . )( . )   ( . )( . )

HELP!

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Letters to Those Involved

My phone miraculously disappeared at some point on the night of Saturday 01/26/2013. It’s whereabouts were finally recovered at approximately 6:30 pm Monday night. After I wrote this post…

Dear stranger and/or really bad friend who took my phone,

I hope you didn’t hack my Iphone security code, although it would have only taken you something like 15 million different guesses. I figure that you could have easily try 30 different combinations every minute, which means it would have only taken you a little less than a year to figure it out if the last number you guessed was the correct one. Obviously that doesn’t make any sense, even if it was correct math. But if you got lucky and gained access on your first try, there are things that you need to know:

I am not responsible for the last search in my internet browser. Any voice memos of singing are also a mystery and definitely not me. And, if you even try to tinker with my blog I will find you, and I will kill you. Got it?

Dear AT&T sales guy,

I do not usually look like a frantic homeless person. My hair was still pretty though, right? I was impressed.

I think it is ridiculous that you can not help me locate my Iphone using all of that technology stuff, but Facebook on the other hand, always knows precisely where I am and isn’t afraid to tell everyone without my discretion.

And just so you know, you probably made the easiest sale of your life Sunday morning. You can thank Jim Beam and the gay men of the Krewe of Apollo.

Dear Canes Chicken Fingers,

I have nothing bad to say about you. You were delicious, and for a brief moment while I was stuffing my face of you, I forgot about everything that I lost that day.

After writing such a dramatic post and finally finishing re-downloading all of my apps onto my new Iphone, I got the call that my phone was recovered. Shit happens.  

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Why Business? (Bonus Vlog Inside)

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):

Now you can buy TWO items instead of just buying a higher cut shirt in the first place!

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.

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Life Glitch

Inexplicable things happen every day. Glitches in the matrix. Coincidences. Alien invasions. Call it what you will.

I recently experienced this very phenomenon. I have no certain explanation for the events that I am about to describe to you. Welcome to the twilight zone. The good one that doesn’t involve shimmery vegan vampires.

Keanu with a banana phone. You can’t explain that.

It was Sunday, and rather than leaving myself winded from completing  tasks on my lengthy to-do list, I fucked off instead. Football was on. I don’t usually watch it unless the Saints are playing, but it was the perfect distraction on which to blame my lack of productivity. Plus, a friend of mine actually wanted to hang out. I thought I would give that a shot. Apparently, it is a popular thing to do among the internetless.

After a burger and a bloody mary, we were already in tears over attempting to sext a random number, which is actually quite a challenge. You can’t just start blurting out sexyness all over the place. You have to be mindful that four-year-olds have cell phones these days, and that some people simply do not appreciate a good sext. On top of that, you have to know how to properly woo your unsuspecting sextual partner. Don’t worry, chance sexting is not to be confused with full on text rape. But that’s enough of that.

Once I had been repeatedly shot down by what was probably a seventy year old woman, I slinked off home to face my to-do list, which now had an addendum that read: change telephone number.  Unfortunately for my to-do list, I caught wind of more friends (insanity!) at a different venue while driving to my apartment and veered off course yet again. This kind of shit just doesn’t happen every day. I had to take advantage.

Many waffle fries and not an ounce of shame later, I finally forced myself home. I walked into my room to spot my bare mattress and proceeded to throw a slight tantrum at the sight of it. I remember grabbing the sheet and pillow cases out of the dryer. I remember stuffing each pillow into its correct sham. I remember beating them smooth. I remember that the comforter was draped securely over the foot of my bed. I even remember laughing at Jack’s lack of disturbance by all of the dismantled bedding.

Then, nothing. No consciousness. No memory.

At some point, in what I assume was the early morning, I awoke. My clothes were on and I was laying backwards in my bed. My head was perfectly placed in the center of my pillow pile at the foot of the bed. I was half way underneath the sheet which never made it to its correctly tucked position. Jack was there,  oblivious as he slept. Groggy, I stood up feeling no sense of time. Where is my phone? Why are all of the lights on?

Then nothing again.

The next time I awoke, I was right side up in my bed with my cell phone neatly plugged into its charger on the dresser next to me but with no alarm set.

Luckily, I woke up naturally in time to dress for work, but the question still remains. What happened to me? I was not intoxicated, nor was I overly exhausted. I am also quite certain that I am not narcoleptic. Did I sleep walk? Did aliens abduct me for a while? Was I roofied by my friends? Where was Keanu? You tell me.

Thanks to everyone who contributed comments on the post in which I greedily begged for post ideas. Y’all are some deep thinking fools. Morpheus would be proud.  

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