I’m not really one to make rules for myself. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I’ll try almost anything once, and I rarely freak if a risk I take doesn’t end in my favor. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain standards by which I live. Let me explain.
I don’t let just anyone or anything into my bedroom. My bed is a cone of trust. You don’t get to enter it, especially with me, unless I know that you won’t betray me. It’s a Becca law that I have always honored.
This being said, something has happened to this law. I have broken it.
It kind of felt like learning to walk again when I left. I felt exhilarated by my new-found separation from such a shaping relationship and simultaneously a little lost. The good kind of lost. The kind of lost that makes you feel like you are teaching yourself something new. Sure, I had pangs of homesickness, because he was what I considered home for as long as I could remember. But missing familiarity eventually turned into embracing change.
I met new people. I dabbled in new relationships. At first, it felt right. Like making an A on a test makes you feel right. Which felt good. New relationships were accomplishments in moving on, but not much more than that. After all, GPAs don’t matter much in the scheme of life. Nonetheless, the new relationships were fun and easy. I could feign attachment without skipping a beat of my own agenda. I almost fooled myself into thinking I was anything but detached. I liked it that way.
I strategically and forcefully changed all of my radio stations; a subconscious attempt at moving on. It was working splendidly until DJ Heavy Metal decided to throw in a little Tim McGraw for shits and giggles. My new guy quickly reached out at the exact moment as me… only he was reaching out to turn the station, and I was reaching out to turn up the volume. “I never liked country,” he said.
As I looked around, it was as if everything suspended for a brief moment, and in that moment, nothing looked right. Something shattered in me, and I immediately thought of him.
After that, I began to shell up even more. I would steam up the bathroom to mimic the humidity we used to bask in. I would pour a little too much on the rocks. I started cooking those savory meals again, and found myself seeking solace in my headphones, blasting nothing but country. I tried to transfer all of the things I loved about him, into my new relationships.
I’ll never forget the moment we reunited. The radio must have been on our side, because the perfect songs trickled in as we sat on the tailgate together in the damp air. I didn’t say anything, I just breathed him in. I never believed in the saying, “you never know what you have until its gone,” just as I never liked Country. But sometimes you just have to admit you were wrong. And that’s why I went back.
I missed you, Louisiana.
This two part post was inspired by A New Orleans Love Story by Joey Albanese about New Orleans.
The one that got away. Do we all experience it? That one ex that you didn’t know completed you until you left?
The longest relationship I have ever had took years to build and only two to demolish. All of the memories, the places, and the laughs. Our relationship was fickle and tumultuous, but extremely passionate. We would bitch endlessly over the thermostat one minute and then bask in the balmy humidity the next. We loved to savor our food together and never shamed each other for drinking a little too much. Occasionally, I would grow tired of lazy ways and become jealous of friends that were driven away, but then the radio would come on. Everything was butter. I never liked Country. The songs never sounded good with anyone else.
You see he wasn’t like anyone. He was one of a kind. And not in the cliché kind of way that people might describe a cheap pendant on QVC. He owned the phrase one of a kind, and he knew it despite the fact that I sometimes didn’t.
He loved the water, and even looked great covered in moss. When I was in his presence I felt I belonged to something special. We were our own little secret club. It’s weird though, because we never really had a honeymoon phase. As long as I could remember we had always just been together. There was no one before him.
Regardless, I knew ultimately something would happen to our smooth cruising. We eventually began to take each other for granted. This would be the beginning of the end. The more possessive and predictable he became, the more indifferent and unimpressed I was. I convinced myself that his simple ways were holding me back.
Eventually, I started refusing to go out on the water. The special meals we cooked tasted bland, as if my taste buds had become tired of the repetition. We didn’t drink together anymore, but I drank alone. I had built up so much resentment, though he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Then my eyes began to wander. I would leave town for weeks and see other people. I didn’t even try to hide it. Funny thing is, he must have known but didn’t seem to care. Maybe he secretly knew I was too far gone. He was intuitive like that. And one day, sure enough, I was gone. For good.
Blogger Interactive is next weekend! I can’t wait to meet everyone who is coming. You can keep up with all the festivities by following us on Twitter, Facebook, and now Instagram (@bloggerinteractive)! Be sure to use the hashtag #BI2013 for posting!
Do you remember Mr. OB? You should. Catch up here and here. I often wonder about the interpretation of our friendship from afar. A twenty-four year old girl enjoying drinks and conversation at a restaurant bar with a sixty something year old man. Maybe it is an odd friendship pairing to outside eyes, but I do firmly believe in the notion of age only being a number. I know some of my friends who are still in their twenties that are older than Mr. OB. Not only does Mr. OB provide me with continuous entertainment with his quirks and no-fucks-given attitude, but he also has some pretty incredible stories to share.
Why, just last week I had dinner with Mr. OB after an extended period of not having dinner with Mr. OB for no particular reason. He told me the hilarious story about the time that he hitch hiked from Mississippi to Illinois to stay with a friend when he was just 19 years old. He was kicked out of his college for being in a girl’s dorm after hours and decided to get out-of-town to avoid the heat from his parents. Shocker.
We began to discuss the differences between the times. Hitch hiking was common place and not surrounded by the qualms of abduction back then. At least not as much as now. He told me about the people who picked him up along the way.
Me: “So what were the people like? How many different people picked you up?”
Mr OB: “I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember this one hippy chick who picked me up” Read the rest of this entry
Don’t you hate it when people pronounce Valentine’s as Valentime’s? Don’t you hate it when you have to wait in line forever at the grocery store, because everyone is in front of you with last-minute flowers? Don’t you hate it when people talk about things they hate about Valentine’s Day?
Well me too, and you wont have to experience any of those things today. Or at least for the next four minutes and thirty-two seconds because…
IT’S TIME TO WITNESS THE V-DAY COLLABORATION OF TWO DESTINED BLOGGERS!
Who: Adam of My Right to Bitch (also known as: dashing) and me, Becca (also known as: many other nicknames involving the faux color of my hair)!
What: A virtual date!
Where: Right here on this blog, a diamond in the rough sands of this wasteland we call the internet!
When: Right when you click play!
How: Divine intervention!
I used approximately five exclamation marks just now. That is how you know I am beyond stoked about this. So, without further ado or anymore annoying punctuation, here is our vlog baby.
I tweeted yesterday that I was going to have an interactive post today. I had a really dope idea, but then WordPress slapped me in the face and said, “You can’t do that, lol sry”.
Instead, and to make up for the intended dopeness, I will give you another sexy story straight from Mr. OB himself. This one doesn’t include cat S&M, but there will be ducks. This is probably the first story he ever told me that crossed the line of what is considered to be a normal conversation between two bar guests of a forty-year age difference. Or, more accurately, the moment when too much information lost all meaning and an atypical friendship was born:
Sitting in our usual positions at the restaurant bar.
Mr OB: “Where are you going tonight?”
Me: “No where. Home.”
Mr. OB: “Yeah, sure. You’ll be at [secret bar name] smoking all those cigarettes.”
Me: “No really. I am going home to relax, may even take a bath.”
Mr. OB: “You got any champagne?”
Me: “Uh… you’re not invited.”
Mr. OB: “It’s not for me. It’s for the champagne bath.”
Me: “What the fuck is a champagne bath OB?” Read the rest of this entry
Fine. I’ll write a Halloween post.
Actually, this post was sparked by The Roller Giraffe and inspired by Halloween, but is really just about candy in general.
I have never been a candy fanatic. I enjoy chocolate from time to time, and I will have a Twizzlers binge once every five years, sure. In totality though, I always was pretty indifferent towards most of it. I said most of it. The following candies were exceptions to the rule for one reason or another.
Now and Later Candy – This was a typical case of wanting what you can’t have. First of all, eating Now and Laters leave your mouth stained and tasting like the selected flavor for hours (hence the name?). There isn’t enough water in the world to unstickyfy your mouth. Then there is the whole task of removing the pieces that become fused to your molars, which occurs simultaneously upon the slightest contact. They are truly an undesirable candy choice for practicality. Still, upon discovering those small blocks of sugar cement, I was always overcome with desire simply because I was forbidden to eat them. You should have gone with a little reverse psychology on that one Mom.
Werther’s Originals – I once befriended a neighbor kid because her mom kept Werther’s Originals in full stock year round in a generously sized crystal bowl in her living room. I didn’t even get along with the kid, and her mother kind of scared me with her monotone voice and general disinterest in everything. I wasn’t going to let that get in my way though. You better believe that my hooked-on-butterscotch ass was knocking on her door every chance that I got. I am not proud of this time in my life.
Peanut M&M’s – In high school, we were allowed to buy concessions at the end of each lunch period. There weren’t a plethora of options, but I do remember peanut M&Ms being the only candy that I would tolerate. I say tolerate, because I never really wanted to buy concessions. I had ulterior motives. I subjected myself to buy candy every day at exactly 12:35 pm in attempt to place myself in line behind my high school crush. Then I started getting chubby from all the M&M’s and blew my chances with him anyway. I was pretty smart.
NOTE: I have changed a lot since those days. For example, I am definitely not still going to the gym five days a week for a record-breaking eight weeks in a row in hopes to have an encounter with some boy in 301.
Pop Rocks – Everyone knows that pop rocks are cool, because they feel like a mini firework show in your mouth, minus the fire. It wasn’t until college that I heard of a much different manner in which these candies were imitating fireworks… in the bedroom. Apparently, the hot thing to do was to sprinkle some rocks on your girl’s lawn and start mowing. I tried to be subtle there. If you are still confused, fire up the Google search. What am I your sex ed teacher?
NOTE AGAIN: For the record, I was never cool enough to test it out, but I do enjoy the intended use of pop rocks. However, this doesn’t mean I won’t get a shit eating grin when I see them in the store.
I have had my fair share of candy obsessions, but mostly my kind of candy is adding blue cheese to my salad, drinking whiskey instead of a glass of wine, or dipping my french fries in honey. Everyone has their own indulgences. What are yours?
- Werther’s Original Caramel Apple Filled Hard Candies (tammysproductreviews.wordpress.com)
- Halloweaned. (sixuntilme.com)
- The Ghouls Are Coming: 12 Halloween Candies that Should Get Your House Egged (formatmag.com)