Copper just isn't my color, I guess...

Officer: "Can you tell me why you were speeding?"...

Ummm... the speed limit is too low; I really wanted a Diet Coke; I was rushing to rescue my imaginary unborn child from a potentially burning building...

Me: "I'm sorry, I guess I just wasn't paying attention."

Officer: ..."So (insert small condescending cough here) do you come down Buffalo often?"

Me: "Um, I guess. A few times a week."

Well, first of all, I was going 38 in a 30 (sidenote: the speed detector on the side of the road said I was going 33) on Buffalo Speedway. That's Speedway. Not DriveLikeYourGreatGrandmaWay.

Secondly, can we stop pretending that by stopping me you are doing Houston a huge favor at 9 am on a Saturday morning? It's Houston not Pleasantville. Wait 2 minutes and catch someone blatantly running every stop light on this 2 mile stretch. Or going 25 over in a Lambo. Or about to mug the old lady with the shake-weight and fanny pack on the back-road you just abandoned to come out and teach me a lesson.
For the love.

Officer: "And where's your registration sticker, Miss?"

That's Mrs. to you, Mr. Officer. And my registration sticker? There's a sticker for that? You never hear an officer in a ticket-scene of a movie say, "License and proof of insurance, and good job getting your registration sticker on that windshield." I mean I did make the trip to the registration office TWICE-times during my workday to get it. I paid for it. I brought it home. The car is registered. But of course there is a sticker for that in the mountain of paperwork I was given. And I should know that it goes right below the state inspection sticker and right above the Texas star and right beside the Texas flag. And close to my heart.

Me: "Well, honestly officer I have no idea."

15 minutes later. Because yeah, it takes that long to decide what a reckless, sticker-less, speed-demon of a citizen I am.(Meanwhile, all the participants from a lawn party across the street have come over to see what the disturbance is and move their cars. Suckers thought the policeman was there to issue parking tickets. I would have laughed had it not been utterly humiliating having all those people circle my car and stare in my window as I tried and tried not to cry.)

Officer: "I'm gonna cut you a break. But not a big break..."

Oh good! I love not-so-big breaks! That's really the best kind, because we wouldn't want me getting cocky or spoiled or anything, right?

One "failure to display current registration" citation later...

Officer: "And SLOW DOWN on the road next time, okay?!"

I did my best to choke back the tears as I watched the next 3 weeks worth of grocery money fly out the window with all the bits and pieces of my weekend dreams.

Well, ya know what? I fought the law, and it kicked my butt.

But gosh-dang-it I got my stinkin' Diet Coke.

Who's yo daddy?

Disclaimer: This is in no way a slight on the public officials who serve to keep us protected, only on the flawed system that charges for every paper signed and then overcharges for every paper not displayed. And possibly on every officer who has ever pulled me over and treated me either like a 2 year old or like a hardened criminal. (That would exclude the very nice officer who gave me a ticket for going 20 over in a 25. But he inexplicably called for backup. Guess the 4 roommates in the passenger seats were too much for him to handle.)

Blah blah blah, Big Foot...

This is our living room. Well, this week anyways. I have this nervous tic that causes me to rearrange things monthly... at least. But I think this time I almost love it. I can almost leave it alone.

My camera has ghost-radar, so you'll have to ignore the floating sun spirits...  No big thang.

This table was purchased via Craigslist. It has a lovely story that goes along with its purchase featuring 2 hour-long drives, a house in the backwoods of Pasadena, a shirtless mystery man with lots of tats, a tattoo artist, bribe money, 2 ragamuffins, and some Windex.

Clint took me to one of my most favoritest of places this weekend (IKEA!!!) to purchase these peonies and the white table tray. And maybe 2 hotdogs, a large Pepsi, and a bag of Norwegian chips for under $5 (and there would have been frozen yogurt purchased if it hadn't been for a mechanical malfunction). But seriously, IKEA is the stuff dreams are made of, don't chya think so?

This little grouping is covering up some massive plugs leading to the back of the TV. It is the only part of the room I can't quite figure out. Any suggestions?

In other news-- I guess I have always known this, but this image just settles it...

Our future babies are gonna be HOT!

(FYI: The pic of Clint is during last night's haircut. He had no shirt on, so naturally I pixellated his chest for decency's sake. And because with all the hair I cut from his head now lying on his chest, he kinda looked like a yeti with a really cute face.)

I would love feedback from any and everyone regarding the living room. I feel so close to being done, but I know there is something missing. Curtains, for example. But what kind? And an area rug would be nice, but there are just so many out there. Unfortunately I have expended our decorating budget. It started at zero and it has now drifted into the negatives. So, I gots ta find it cheap. And by that I mean on the side of the road...

Wide-eyed Friday...

It's Friday. That glorious day which ushers in all of our weekend dreams. I can see the dreams; they are hovering over every person in this office building like a speech bubble ready to burst wide open.

And being that Friday is the most wonderful kind of day, I feel that maybe it should have its very own special something in this Parlor. It should be a day of discovery and fun findings. 

And so it shall be, for so it is written:

Friday is Wide-eyed and ready for adventure.

This Friday's wide-eyed discovery is one of inner strength--- which means... confession time. (Brace yourselves. It's gonna be a long one.) You see I have been going through what you might call an identity crisis. Since I was probably 5. The thing is, in my little span of life, I have moved about a bajillion times. Each time I moved somewhere new, I had an opportunity to become someone else. To be more or less or the person I was before. And so I did. And along the way I borrowed little bits and pieces from each place of residence to add to the character I was forming. 

School shopping became my favorite time of year, because that was when I got to pick out my costumes to complete the new me. (Plus, I'm a girl who loves me some clothes. Uh-huh! So I guess that's pretty natural.)

Anyways, I think this little crisis (if we can really call it that... maybe internal struggle is less dramatic and more fitting) really came to light when my awesome sister-in-law Jennifer said to me as we were rummaging through Target shoes "I saw these sandals the other day and thought of you. They are very Becky style." And I thought, I have a style? Soon thereafter my wonderful friend/coworker Mary came into the office with a new sweater she'd just purchased and said that when she bought it she thought that is so Becky. And I thought it is? (I did like the sweater very much, Mary!) And as I have been developing this little blog, those of you who actually read my ramblings may have noticed that the design has changed at least a trillion and one times. And when I was putting my profile together for the Blogger, I couldn't even think of what to put in the categories, ya know?! Pitiful!

At any rate, these little instances got me asking: Who is da Becky and what does she do? I mean I know I'm a child of God. I know I am a sister, a daughter, a wife, and a messy eater. I know about my preexistence and my post-existence. But what about now? What about me this very very second...?

(Is this making sense? I don't know. It doesn't really make sense in my head so much either. Ugh.)

So I have done some deep deep remembering and dredging up and examining of the soul and what-not, and it has been a tiresome journey through my history of foolishness and folly (with a  few moments of inspiration and ingenious thrown in there along the way). I recalled a lot of defining moments. I remembered my days of dress up. I remembered how much I loved putting on makeup. I remembered dreaming up how popular I would be at the next school I went to. I remembered trying so hard to figure out what it was that I needed to do to be like this person or that person. But one memory was the most poignant: I remembered how I tried for years to impress a single guy with the way I dressed and the way I wrote and the way I talked. I remember a particular time when we went out and about, and I had bought some new shoes for the occasion that did not fit right with the tights I was wearing. They kept sliding off the back of my feet. I felt awkward and embarrassed. But the very next time we went out, I probably wore a shirt that was a teensy bit too low. And a gaudy designer sweatshirt with designer jeans and a new leather handbag that I was so proud to have purchased all on my own. But I still felt awkward. And the thing was, he never seemed that impressed with me. And I wondered why.


Then it dawned on me, how could anyone be impressed with me when I wasn't being myself? And then it dawned on me that I just said "being myself." I MUST know what that means. In my innerest of cores I must know what being myself feels like. But it feels so jumbled up in the past and the future and all the gray area that is the present.

So I looked really deep down in that innerest of cores and stared it down and said, "Innerest core down there, what does it feel like to be myself?"

And here's what she said:

It feels like the first time I realized I was in love with Clint. It feels like every time I say something even slightly witty, and he looks at me like I am the champion of the world. It feels like being in the temple with family and good friends and being so full of joy that it all wells over and down my cheeks. It feels like Clint's pajama pants and his gray cotton t-shirt. It feels like late night runs for sweet treats and living room blanket forts and long walks and holding hands. It feels like Santa is real, and I want to be a secretary when I grow up. It feels like shower-songs and a 90s dance party. It feels like a shoulder to cry on and needing a shoulder to cry on. It feels like continually changing and growing but with a good foundation to rely on. It feels like creativity and happiness and lots of love.

So maybe it just doesn't matter if I have completely pegged what my style is. Maybe it's not all that bad if I change my mind and try to make things better and better and better. Maybe it's okay if we move a hundred thousand more times. Because knowing where I come from and where I'm going and who it's with is enough for me right now. I may be indecisive, and I may be young. But I have it all in the palm of my hand. The answers and the love and the magic. Every person I have ever been has brought me to this moment, and I have looked over the little self that is left and have entrusted its heart to someone who loves that self.

And I've looked myself over, and I say it is good.

And I say for now, it is enough.

Happy weekend.

Why won't this mosquito just die?...

I mean I have killed it a katrillion times. At least! Ugh, the nerve of these bugs. And just yesterday a cockroach totally thought it could chill in my basket of recycling. I was like, Uh-uh. No, sir. Not at this administrative assistant's desk you don't!

And I dumped that sucker in the recycling bin where he was promptly smashed by heavier objects. Because I don't take no pris'nahs! (Please ignore that double-negative. It is cancelled out by the thugness.)

And ALSO a large spider made it's entrance into our place of residence last night. Right before our very eyes! We were just lounging on our bed, minding our own business, when the hairy bugger crawled right through the crack in the door. Like a--- well, like a hairy spider, actually. Because is there anything more terrifying than a hairy spider?

Nope. Well, maybe a hairy man climbing through the door-crack. Yep, that's scarier.

Well, needless to say, I smashed him. With my bare hands. (NO! Not with my bare hands, because I'm not Rambo, okay? Just with a fly swatter at a safe distance with every intention of screaming and running away should anything abnormal occur. Like if the spider started growing or if he decided to go all kamikaze on me and dive-bomb my face).

Anyways, please don't think I'm a horrible human being. I promise I am not usually a hard-hearted killer of living things. And I said a little prayer for each bug's tiny bug soul (that's a lie). But we can't let the bugs win, can w?! I think not.

In other news: I found a baby on the beach for you!!!

{courtesy of TripAdvisor}

Okay, the baby wasn't actually a sloth. But I didn't get a picture of my beach-baby, so I went to find one that resembled that baby on the Google. And this is what it gave me. I love me some three-toed sloths. (I really do, ya know? I used to stick my quarters in all the "Save the Three-toed Sloth" collection boxes at the zoo.)

But I digress.

Back to the real beach baby: Clint and I went to Galveston on Memorial Day morning. It was lovely. Sun a-blazin', all lotioned up, big beach bag full of all the essentials, warm water... perfect. And along came this little family of cuteness. The dad was tall and black and very friendly. The mom was white and full of spunk. And their baby. OH! Their baby was the cutest little thing you ever did see. Chunky little legs, skin like a chocolate creamsicle right out of the freezer, big eyes with long lashes, and the curliest little mop of gorgeous black hair you ever did see. But the most impressive thing about this angel-baby was that those chunky legs could RUN!

I am not even kidding. That girl could get places. 

If she had been going any faster, that baby woulda been flying. Seriously.


The first time we saw her sprint down the beach after her mom, Clint and I just sat there dazed and amazed. Then Clint said something like "Dang," and I was like "Yeah." 

Then she did it again. And again. And again.


You'd think it would get old after a while, but ya know what... it really didn't.

What did you do for Memorial Day?

Happy Wednesday-- which feels like a Tuesday but is so much better than a Tuesday because it's one day closer to FRIDAY! 

***Addition: Last night we got home very late and quickly stumbled (well I stumbled because I had fallen asleep in the car and refused to let Clint carry me up the stairs; Clint walked---dignified as always) into the house to escape the moth hovering around our door. Apparently our efforts weren't quite enough. This morning (pardon my next bit of crassness) as I departed from the toilet, a large moth flew out from under the rim of the toilet bowl. And can I just say---AHHH! Gross. Gross. Gross. I spent the next few minutes waiting for that spastic moth to calm the heck down. The next few minutes were spent fishing the fly swatter from behind the washing machine. Then I had to find that moth AGAIN, because it apparently had had too much coffee to drink for breakfast and just could NOT sit still. Once I found it (in the recesses of Clint's towel while drying my hands!), I stalked my evil prey for another few minutes, cornered it in the medicine cabinet, then again in the shower--- where it was promptly smashed.

5 minutes later.

I hear some rustling from the trash can where I had disposed of the demon moth corpse. Lo and behold, there's that pesky dude climbing up the trash bag like vampire from it's tomb (because vampires are kinda in right now, right?). So I speedy-quick grabbed up my sword of plastic mesh and whacked the whole trash bag down, down, down. Then- being the feisty blonde that I am and really needing the remaining 5 minutes before leaving for work to be uninterrupted by bugs- I tied that bag up. The moth monster was howling at the bottom of the bag, but I wasn't taking any more of his crap, ya know? I tossed that bag outside.

And THAT, my friends, is the reason why I will be buying my lunch today and have no eyeliner on.

Thank you.

To my family...

I want to tell you that I am feeling what you are feeling. That I am there even though I am not there. I know that I have begun my own little family, but I feel more a part of you than ever before. I see more clearly the ties that bind us. I feel more poignantly every hurt and rejoice more fully with every new obstacle overcome.

Today I am thinking of you. I am wishing I could have been with you during all the scary and difficult things you have had to deal with these past two years. And that I could be there now to see you moving forward. I am praying you will remember how much I love you. I am hoping you are receiving the peace that you need from the one person who has felt your pain before, has cried with you and for you, and has lived after death so that you know you can make it through.

Some things you should know:
Mom- I still ache to consult you about every decision.
Dad- I still need you, when things look ominous, to step in and make everything alright.
Megan- I still need you to be my best friend every single day.
McKay- I still need you to be the peace maker you were born to be--- maybe now more than I ever have before.


I am you, and you are me.We are small in numbers, but we are strong.

Aren't we?

Yes, I very much think we are.

Most of all--- I love you.

oh hi, hormones

Last night, I am sorry to report, my man-hunk and I watched the Heat vs. Bulls game. Clint, bless his heart, did everything a man should prior to watching a professional sports game with his woman. He gave me kisses upon my return from work, had the house clean, cooked a delicious dinner, and bought me (of his own accord and from his own loving man-heart {and wallet}) a big drink from the McDonalds and two boxes of kettle corn from the source of our weekly yumminess (Kroger).

It was all going so well.

Until... the unthinkable happened. And I can't go into it, because I kinda made a pact never to rehash the events of that game ever again.

But the whole event was very heated at our home (minus a small bit towards the beginning of the second half when I had finished the big drink and popcorn and felt that I might go to sleep). At any rate, something I had cared nothing about initially became a frenzied life-or-death matter. Needless to say there was a lot of screaming at the TV screen. I didn't even hold back when Clint was chatting with my father-in-law on the phone. I continued my ranting shamelessly.

But you see, despite the disgusting display sponsored by the NBA that we had just wasted 3 hours of our lives on and that I felt we had been deeply wounded by the unfairness of this increasingly crooked world and had been dealt a heavy blow by The Man, I still knew deep down that it was just a game that I didn't care all that much about.

So I knew when I got all crabby and silent right before bed that something was up. But I didn't know what it was. Universe, give me a sign, I thought as I brushed my teeth. I tried to talk it out with Clint, see if maybe the anger really was because of the game. But he just asked "What game?" in absolute denial and continued to brush.

And the more I brushed and flossed and couldn't figure out why I was suddenly so aggrivated, the more my aggrivation increased. And my vision was clouded even further. I even missed the hint from the end of those yellow pills and the beginning of the little white ones.

And the husband! Oh, that sweet, smart man. He either was unawares of what was going on due to his own internal struggles trying to forget the soul-distressing game we had just witnessed, or he chose to ignore it for his own good. Either way, I am quite sure he had no idea why I went to bed all taciturn with my brow furrowed and my folded arms and my huffy shuffle.

Poor guy.

So, I'm sitting at my desk at work today pondering the mysteries of last night when it dawns on me that I did have a reason for being all flustered last night. I am not actually a moody sports-psycho. Just one of the billions of weary endurers of the woes of womanhood.

The fact is, Patty May Suckerson has come to visit. That punk.

I know she has to come---once a month for the good of my uterus and in the name of the Circle of Life. I know it, and I embrace it. But I don't like it.

However, now that the dark cloud hovering overhead has been identified, it doesn't seem so dreary. Isn't that how it always works? The worst part is figuring out what the bad things are. Once you know... they aren't good persay; they just have less badness, ya know? It's like in 4th grade when you learn about negative numbers. You can add some positives and some more positives, but until you hit zero--- you're still in the negatives, baby.

I guess the point is:

Husband- I am sorry for my grouchy-premenstralness, but can you bring me some more kettle corn and a large Diet Coke, please?

Oh and a scrunchie, please, before I get all hormonal and pull out my hair!

Oh, and I love you VERY much.

K thanks!

When in Carolina...

Do what the Carolinians do.

It's Bo Time, baby!



We found THE Bojangles man. THE BOJANGLES MAN! If I thought he wouldn't have had a heart attack from fright, I might have gone and kissed him on the head for all he has done to make this world a
tastier--if slightly more obese--place.

Dang it, my stomach is growling.