Optimum optimism (all that I can muster)

I really, REALLY miss blogging. But instead of unloading the 1 MILLION reasons why I've been away, I'm celebrating the half-full glass from which I'm currently sipping.

Like right now -- guess where I am. Home? Nope. Office? Kinda. I'm "working" at a dress rehearsal of The Scarlet Pimpernel. No really.
And although it's 10 p.m. (at intermission) and I'm putting in some seriously long work hours, having clients like a theatre company, a swanky day spa and a luxury resort property on Laguna Beach makes it bearable. Oh and there's my largest project as executive producer/understudy performer/writer of a rock show/musical/school assembly program for kids. Working hard never felt so good!

Then there's the shoebox, ahem, APARTMENT we call home. You'll probably remember that it's located directly above heaven:
The good news is that I have an excuse to pop in "just to browse" anytime the spirit moves me. The bad news: even if I had extra cash, I could not possibly fit one more thin whisp of cotton in my sorry excuse for a closet (believe me, I've tried.) (And so help me, Chris, I'll keep trying!)

Speaking of the apartment, I'm very pleased with our bedroom decor:
Luckily, our queen-sized bed fits perfectly into the alcove in the bedroom. UNLUCKILY, our queen-sized bed fits perfectly into the alcove in the bedroom, which means making the bed is DIFFICULT! At least I get to look up at my happy yellow shade every night as I drift away to dreamland.

Which reminds me. Before we left D.C., Chris created a hybrid of my perfect dream man: Jermaine + ROB!
Oh Chris, you really know how to win over this girl! Even after (almost) seven years...

Print Page

BIRTHDAY WEEK: Can I please get some commiseration?

First thing's first:
Enter the BIG BIRTHDAY GIVEAWAY by clicking on the cupcake over there:

It all started with the words, "I want to take you to dinner for your birthday." I was turning 18. We'd been dating for two years. And although teenage romance is turbulent by nature, we were going through a relatively calm and happy spell. We were so in love.

If this had been any other birthday, I would have had to reschedule our dinner plans. My celebrations always lasted at least a full week and often involved elaborate parties (see examples here, here, here and here). But with my mom away at Girl's Camp and my friends otherwise disposed, we set out on the birthday date.

So there we were, munching on sweet and sour chicken, when out of the blue he said, "I think we should see other people. I want to break up."

I was stunned.

"Really?" I choked on a bite of chicken.

I wanted to scream, BUT IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!

He simply nodded. We ate in silence. Then, walking me to his truck after the depressing meal, he offered to take me to get ice cream.

Too stunned to decline, I agreed and we ate our ice cream on the sidewalk in the sweltering summer night heat.

Then he suggested mini golf. I numbly played along.

Three hours later, he dropped me off on my doorstep and wished me a happy birthday.

It was, hands down, the WORST birthday of my life. Even thinking about it makes me mad! Good thing I gave Chris my hand in marriage and him the "Dear John."

Your turn -- what was your worst birthday ever?

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 44
I’ve been there 1,750 times (to be inexact).

And it’s usually because I leave myself the minimum number of minutes to get to work on time in the morning.

But this is not intentional. Most days my hair is unwrangle-able. And I have NOTHING TO WEAR. And I pause to brush my teeth (unlike that one guy). And husband (my metro station chauffeur/chaperon) spends 20 minutes getting into his slip-on shoes.

So by the time I arrive AT the metro station, I have LESS than the minimum number of minutes to get to work on time.

I sprint down the escalator, two stairs at a time. Then I power walk across the hexagonal tile and, mid-stride and in one smooth motion, dab the sweat streaming down my forehead, snatch the fare card from my unfathomable purse and slash it over the station turnstile. I pause for two seconds while the gate s----l----o----w----l----y opens, peering over the railing to see a train with beckoning open doors.

Re-hoisting my purse squarely on my shoulder, I rush to the next escalator (my skirt blowing willy nilly in the windy tunnel). Just as I stumble down the last stair, the doors seal shut and the train speeds from the station, leaving me doubled over, panting, dripping with sweat and tugging on my gravity-afflicted pantyhose.

The same thing happened today, only I wasn't starring in the scene.

It was some other lady.

She breezed past me, poking my side with her swinging purse. I was only halfway down the escalator as she impatiently paused at the turnstile. Then she broke into a full sprint, her pencil skirt straining with every stride.

Taking my pretty time, I boarded the final escalator and spotted her already on the platform below, flinging her body at the train's closing doors. In a desperate final attempt, she jabbed her knee between the doors.

And there she stood, caught.

With her left knee raised to the square at waist level and her hands desperately yanking the immovable doors apart, she wobbled unsteadily on one heel. Her face flamed with anger and I could almost hear the seam in the back of her skirt splitting, stitch by stitch.

The doors parted, but just long enough to release her leg from the pinch. She stood by and despondently watched the train vanish.

I almost hugged her, but she was really sweaty and besides, even the greenest metro rookie knows the doors open for nothing and no one.

My advice: save your skirt, breath, makeup and rage. There's a train barreling down the track in t-minus two minutes.

Print Page

I can relate!

Remix here.

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 39
I wish I had the shamelessness of a five-year-old. (Note that I said shamelessness, not maturity. I’m super mature – shut up!)

It’s no secret that certain odors cause uncontrollable giggles to rumble through my body (sometimes forcing unintended liquid to spurt from my nose).

(Am I overdoing the parentheses?)

But sometimes said odors do not inspire laughter. Sometimes they cause my eyes to fill with stinging, acidic tears. Sometimes the odors make my throat constrict, blocking my shallow breaths from reaching my pleading, desperate lungs. Sometimes they trigger my gag reflex and I feel the scalding burn of stomach acid at the back of my throat.

Let’s just say I wasn’t in giggle mode a few days ago.

I was, however, on the Metro, which may explain the problem. After 10 minutes on the train, I noticed a faint, sour odor. I mistakenly inhaled.

It was a fart.

A smelly, sticky, lethal fart. (Does toot work better for you? Sorry, this stinker was definitely a fart.)

The evil smell began to burgeon throughout the enclosed metro car, creeping up my nostrils and causing pools of sweat to puddle at my temples. In a matter of seconds I was enveloped in the gaseous cloud of death and began hallucinating as one does right before “the end.” Instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes, I was assaulted by swirling images of outhouses, rotten eggs, sewers and poop, all set to the soundtrack of rumbling rear noise.

I began wobbling back and forth as I fought unconsciousness. Somewhere through the thick cloud of stink a tiny garbled voice mumbled, “Doors are closing. Please move to the center of the car.”

I stumbled through the crowd and desperately flung my body toward the exit. Once in the station, I doubled over, gasping for air as the thick cloud slowly dissipated. I stumbled to the first escalator and rode until my legs regained their strength.

With my head cleared, I was suddenly enraged. Not only enraged, I was LIVID! I wanted to stomp back on board, channel my inner shameless five-year-old and call out the culprit. I wanted to point and scream, “YOU did it! YOU FARTED! You are SO GROSS!”

Then the remembrance of the smell overwhelmed my thoughts and I nearly tumbled down a 50-foot escalator. I quickly regained my footing and ran toward the clean fresh air, two stairs at a time.

Maybe next time I’ll just eat beans in advance and hope someone gets their dues.

Print Page

Dear U.S. Airways,

A free stay at this hotel and $10 food vouchers to Palms Restaurant (not to be confused with this place) does not compensate for my canceled flight and missed day of work.

Oh, and Dear Airport Inn Hotel -- your name is redundant.

Sincerely,
Disgruntled in D.C.

Print Page

OOTO (out of the office)

Bon voyage! I'm off to New Orleans to participate in a social experiment on the ability of stylish women to endure a week of sweat, tired feet and more sweat, aka work.

Image via.

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 38
I awoke supremely grouchy this morning, likely due to a new up-at-5 a.m-to-run routine. Or the after-midnight bedtime I’m embracing. Or large doses of hectic-ocity (new word – use it, own it!) at work.

Or maybe my husband beat me with a decorative (though deceptively treacherous) throw pillow while I slept.

Whatever the case, I departed for work with a less-than-sunny disposition.

Luckily, my metro train came without fanfare or delay. I boarded, cranked my iPod to rocking, cracked my book and slouched into a vacant seat.

Swept away in a particularly awesome part of my particularly pleasurable read, I barely noticed when the train stopped between stations.

Then the “air conditioning” (as in air that only works under certain conditions, most often blowing cold air when it’s cold outside and hot air when it’s hot), became noticeably absent.

Huh.

I continued reading.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of someone walking through the tunnel outside the train.

Huh?

My seatmate and I swapped confused eyebrow raises.

Then a burly man in a neon yellow vest barreled through the aisle. People scattered like ants as the man hoisted a seat in the air, assessing gadgets below.

Er, huh?

Then the neon-clad man wordlessly stomped to the opposite side of the train where he twisted the screws on a wall panel displaying an ad for something like the National Association of Kites Entangled in Dumpsters (NAKED), opened the wall (?) and twisted a metal lever.

HUH???

He stomped through the door at the end of the train to the next car.

Then the train moved.

Huh.

We arrived at the next station and were forced to evacuate the train.

I stood on the platform, reading.

Suddenly my eyes froze on the page. I wasn’t annoyed or grumpy. I didn’t feel put-out or worried about whether I’d make it to work on time. I wasn’t fixated on my lack of sleep or sore legs. I wasn't concerned about the terrorists who may have been the cause of the train malfunctions. I didn’t care that I’d have to wedge myself on the next overflowing train and strain through a sea of arms for a holding place.

My sudden mood swing was as inexplicable as the yellow-vested, secret-lever-twisting, tunnel-walking burly guy. A smile crept across my face and if I had a mirror to see my own reflection, I'd say it was the most surprising thing I'd seen all morning.

Huh!

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 37
Few events provoke the life-sucking, soul-depleting, bang-my-head-against-my-desk DREAD I feel when I see a metro alert in my inbox. Alerts = major delays. Alerts are the equivalent of an awkward doctor exam involving a tiny paper nightgown and detailed, probing…questions.

They started popping up early Monday afternoon (the delays, not whatever you imagined when you read “paper nightgown”). Monday, as it happened, was also the day Mother Nature cranked the temperature and humidity levels so high that a mere glance out my window triggered glistening sweat droplets at my hairline. (I smartly applied liberal swipes of Secret in the morning. Just to be safe).

The first alert: delays due to mechanical difficulties.

Same with the second.

Then a third.

But by the fourth, the true story emerged – delays due to a train derailment. Shuttle service available...

Train. Derailment.

Shuttle. Service.

Crap!

Immediately, my office swirled into a frenzy of complaints, vows to NEVER RIDE THE METRO AGAIN!!!!! and alternative planning. When my boss, who was heading in the general direction of my house, offered a ride, my co-worker and I abandoned our e-mail message compositions mid-sentence and sprinted for the elevator. Metro catastrophe narrowly averted!

Then yesterday happened.

As I weighed the wording of a critical e-mail message (ie: forwarded a butt joke), the dreaded alert showed its scummy face in my inbox. I gingerly opened what was sure to be bad news -- “delay due to mechanical difficulties.”

Knowing I would spend at least an hour sweating in a muggy station squished between sweaty strangers, I mustered my courage and rushed to the metro.

Little did I know…

I approached the platform to see a train from another line beckoning passengers with its wide-open doors. Fifteen minutes and about 300 people crowding the platform later, the train triumphantly announced the doors were closing and it disappeared into the black tunnel.

Less than a minute later, my (very, very crowded) train arrived. As I maneuvered onboard, I was blindsided by a cloud of hot, sticky air mixed with sweat, b.o., breath and – pardon my French – toots.

You can imagine how awesome it was to straddle a girl seated on the floor and struggle to remain upright as a short woman with junk in her trunk pressed her "junk" against my hamstrings. My damp pole-holding hand shifted with every bump and turn and I was in a constant battle to keep my forehead sweat from dripping in my eyes or dripping on the girl seated below.

I didn’t realize how sweaty I was until I got home and looked in my mirror. I saw me (at least I think it was me), but my shirt was a completely different color.

It’s safe to say I’m driving for the rest of the week.

Print Page

Holy Mother of Absense!

I’m crying right now.

Of all the busyness polluting my life lately, the ONE. THING. I’ve wanted to do is blog (and eat a case of feel-better chocolate and quit my job to pursue a full-time shopping career and refurnish my entire apartment with gilded antique busts and Lucite candleholders).

Clearly, I’ve done none of the above.

Thus, tears.

But today I say NO! to running makeup. Today I BANISH my tissues and SNIFF BACK the gunk dripping from my nose.

TODAY, I BLOG!

[cue wild applause and cheering]

So, hi! How have you been?

Did I tell you about the world’s WORST 10-day houseguest? Yah, well I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Ask me in a few weeks when the wound scabs over.

Also, I nearly smashed our evil Faux-vo (aka fake TiVo) after suffering through two insipid hours of American Idol only to hear Ryan “Pause-a-lot” Seacrest announce, “And the winner…of American Idol…2008…..is……..David.”

CUT SCENE.

FauxVo: “Would you like to save or delete this recording?”
Me: “WHICH DAVID?! Where’s the option for MURDERING Ryan Seacrest?!”

Annoying!

Plus, I’m 99% certain Carrie Underwood purchased her outfit from a Mary Kay convention (minus the pleated, tapered-leg pants). Just ask the Fug Girls.

Let’s see. What else?

Um, we played tourist this weekend –- Eastern Market for Blue Bucks, Hirshhorn Modern Art Museum and the U.S. Botanic Garden. I'm sure you could guess that food, art and flowers, mixed with THEMOSTAMAZINGWEATHEREVER are ingredients for a perfect day at Casa Wickstrom.

We also enjoyed a lovely bar-b-que with friends (although I didn’t enjoy my blackened burger –- Note to Mr. Wickstrom: You’re fired!), then spent Monday scouring every Marshalls and TJ Maxx from here to eternity in search of luggage.

So, yah, there’s your re-cap.

I feel better, thanks for listening. I love you blog! You're just, like, always there for me. I'm as happy as if I'd actually eaten that case of chocolate.

(sniffle, sniffle)

Crap, where did I banish my box of tissue?

Print Page

Frazzled because

- I'm sick.
- I'm super busy at work (Capitol Hill receptions, magazine articles, mountains of press releases, video scripting...)
- I'm sadly counting the days 'till Chris leaves for Utah.
- I was going to write a commentary on last night's A.I., but I was too tired.
- I have a Misadventure on the Metro just BEGGING to be written.
- All I want to do is SUMMER!

This list is annoying. Just thought you should know where I've been.

Image via.

Print Page

Friday Favorites: Wrinkles

After only a week of marriage, Chris realized (to his dread) several of my quirky personal characteristics, which were previously hidden behind a veil of twitterpation. Like my need for black shoes (we’ve discussed this before). Or my propensity toward tears on uncooperative hair days. Or my socks-and-men’s-tee lounging habits.

Or how hot I look when I’m only wearing a smile!

But he was most blindsided by my bed-making rules. For no explainable reason, I have very particular feelings about the tucking of sheets, folding of blankets, placement of pillows, smoothing of covers, length of dustruffles----Alright, I’ll stop there.

My feelings on the subject are so particular, that when a bed-making assistant haphazardly slings the duvet or tosses the decorative pillows, I scream, cry, throw something, panic, breath into a paper bag, run around the room flailing my arms, threaten, wail, spit----Again, stopping myself.

Chris calls me the Bed Nazi.

(I call him a meanie potato husband).

Ironically I don’t make my bed everyday. Sometimes an entire week will pass before I smooth the covers.

But each night, I slip beneath the sheets and concurrently slip into meltdown mode.

Why is this bed not made?! I CAN’T SLEEP ON WRINKLED SHEETS. But I’m too tired to fix it. WHY?! Oh, I’m so tired. WRINKLED SHEETS! I'm MISERABLE!

Six years of wrinkled-sheet-complaining later, Chris learned to endure my mania. Although I have no recollection of the following conversation, Chris swears this happened last week:

Becky: [groggy after falling asleep on the couch and being ushered to bed by Chris] Ohhh, honey! [sniffle, moan, voice jumps three octaves] The SHEETS ARE WRINKLED.
Chris: I know, but try to go to sleep.
Becky: [whiney] BUT THE SHEETS!
Chris: Are you really crying? [chuckles to himself]
Becky: Don’t laugh at me! [sniffle] The sheets are wrapped around my legs. I can’t sleep like this.
Chris: Are you serious? Fine, move your leg. I’ll fix the stupid sheets.

Clearly, smooth sheets are my favorite.

Image via.

Print Page

Tidbit

Becky: Dinner was so yummy last night.
Chris: Totally. But everyone probably thought I was a bad guy for pushing them out the door.
Becky: You weren't and you didn't. No one thought that.
Chris: We just had to get to our meetings.
Becky: Well not everyone in our family can be the favorite Wickstrom.
Chris: MEAN!
Becky: Or the favorite crazy bacon lover.

Speaking of bacon...
(possibly my favorite link of all time).

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 34
Today a train barreled into the station revealing a mass of twisted limbs, purses, hair-dos and jackets through every flashing window. I glanced at the station marquee.

Next train -- 7 minutes

Determined, I clamped one arm over my shoulder bag and headed for the doors. I somehow managed to squeeze down the isle to a pole in the middle of the train and after a minute, was engrossed in my book.

Suddenly a hip-checking bump caused me to wobble on one heel. My sideways glance was met with the icy stare of an older lady. I offered a polite "I'm-sorry-you-bumped-me" smile and continued reading.

As the train began moving, my right side crumpled under an unknown weight. I could feel my spine cracking and urgently looked over my shoulder. The lady grabbed the handle of my purse (my very beautiful, could-only-afford-it-on-sale purse) and was twisting and pulling to regain her balance.

I expected an embarrassed cough and apologetic smile. Instead, her accusing stare pierced my soul, marking me the violator.

"Excuse me," I offered.

"Excuse ME," she sarcastically retorted.

She jabbed her hand toward the pole, overlapping my fingers, which I quickly shifted downward. I moved to my left and she filled the space, rolling her eyes and huffing in exasperation.

Stunned, I replaced the (gorgeous) purse on my shoulder and fixed my eyes on my open book. As I peered over the pages, the lady removed her hand from the pole and lifted it to her mouth to cover two damp coughs. She resumed her grip and re-furrowed her brow.

Maybe next time I'll forego the middle isle for a crowded spot near the door (even at the risk of skirt danger). I love my purse (and health) too much for this abuse.

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 33
Last night was a fairly uneventful commute home – no unwelcome serenades, no sleazy pick-up lines, no nudity (that I know of). But then, like Pepe le Peu’s steaming trail of “love,” I caught whiff of a nostril-searing scent. I could tell it was bad, but as is often the case with unpleasant smells, I needed confirmation. I inhaled deeply.

Suddenly a familiar sourness pooled at the back of my throat. My eyes welled with tears. I swallowed hard.

Do I really smell vomit?

My stomach turned in confirmation. I held my breath (and stomach) for the remainder of the ride.

-----

This morning an ice storm ruined my day. While I had the boss’ blessing to arrive two hours late, I nearly died on the hockey-rink sidewalks.

When I reached the metro station, my train was pleasantly un-crowded, allowing me to find a seat and settle in for the ride.

Out of nowhere another stomach-turning musty smell began to overwhelm my airspace. I immediately ceased nose breathing and parted my lips, narrowly avoiding nausea.

Just then I glanced toward the closing doors and noticed the station sign. It should have read, “Hey, idiot. This is your stop! Why are you still on the train?”

Did I really miss my stop?

-----

After a minor detour, I made it back to my original destination. As I was exiting the station, I passed within a foot of a pigeon statue.

The statue adjusted its feathers.

Did I really just see a pigeon inside the depths of the metro station?

Weirder things have happened, I guess.

Print Page

I'll have the problem cleared up at half past never

What happens when you wear the CUTEST DRESS EVER (and shoes and earrings) and you document the occasion with camera phone photos, but can't send them because you're phone decides to take a sabbatical? You chat with AT&T tech support for THREE HOURS, rope your friend into trouble shooting, but end up begging for help at the local AT&T store for 30 minutes. After a decade of waiting, your phone is fixed and you take this miserable picture.

Print Page

I'm awesome

I mailed these gems on January 17, 2008, which earns me 100 holiday demerits and 500 tacky points. At least it won't be lost among the throngs of on-time Christmas cards, right? RIGHT?!
Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 32
Today, I was that girl.

I was that girl who forgot her keys, most notably the key to the work building elevator. By the time I realized my mistake it was too late to turn back.

I was that girl who bumbled down the metro station escalator while stabbing at iPod buttons with sausage-sized gloved fingers. (I was also that girl who lives in constant fear of tripping on the escalator and plummeting to a grizzly death. This fear is particularly pronounced when I wear cuffed trousers because my friend Julia once caught her heel in her pant cuff and broke her leg. I had sympathy pains until her cast was removed). Sufficiently frustrated, I tore off the glove, made a few more accurate stabs and shoved the stupid thing in my purse.

My arrival at the train platform was accompanied by the tune of the three-note jingle just before, “The doors are closing. Please move to the center of the car.” I leapt forward and suddenly, I was that girl crushed between the closing doors.

The doors popped open and I was almost that girl who barely manages to squeeze on the train, but instead, I was that girl who trips and falls into the arms of two strangers near the doors. My embarrassed apologizes were met with exactly one knowing smile and one crusty glare.

Suddenly I was that girl who realizes too late that there are no places to hold. Then I was that wobbly girl nearly collapsing with every jolt of the train. Then I was that girl with throbbing feet, regretting the decision to pull a long-forgotten pair of shoes from the archives. And then I was that girl whose fingers were numb from pinching the metal molding around the door in an attempt to maintain balance.

Eventually I was that girl so pathetic that a stranger offers her his seat.

That girl is so annoying.

Print Page

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 31
I’d be lying to say it was unexpected. I mean, it was and it wasn’t.

When I was a Metro rookie, it was totally expected. Those were the days of heart palpitations at each station stop, desperate pole clinging and an evil internal voice whispering cautions like, “LOOK! See that normal-looking man over there? HE COULD BE A TERRORIST! Your life is in GRAVE DANGER.”

I slowly discovered that riding the exact. same. train. every. single. morning. eliminated the oh-NO!-what-station-is-this panic. And rather than fear stripper-pole balancing, I gained a new appreciation for the art. And I learned the stance (aka the dance) to prevent awkward spills (resulting in awkward flashes).

Then I became apathetic.

Mr. Average Joe with a curiously large black bag? I bet he’s—--RED SHOES! Whoa, check out that girl’s red shoes. Cute; I wonder if she got them on sale at Nordstrom.

“Next station Ros”—--do I have to make dinner tonight? Good thing I have a great recipe for cereal…

After the apathy came RAGE. The residual grumpiness emanating from 99.9 percent of my fellow Metro passengers started to ooze into my soul. All of a sudden, I was sighing loudly at people with the audacity to SPEAK while using public transportation.

This brings me to last Wednesday, where I found myself apathetically balancing on the stripper pole, involuntarily sighing at my neighbors and booked on a one-person cruise to iPodville, all the while juggling thoughts of cereal and shoes. I was nearing the end of my journey when it happened.

I almost pinched myself – really? It happened?

Too shocked to respond, I froze with a perplexed look on my face until I reached my stop and exited the train.

Finally, after six months of fear and two years of forgetting to fear, my toes were crushed under the stilettos of a wobbly fellow passenger.

The worst part (besides the searing pain)? I kid you not – the same thing happened on my way home, only this time the culprit was a 300-lb. man.

Print Page

How tacky (?)

It's January 3.

Ask me if I sent my Christmas cards yet.
Ask me if we took professional pictures so the Christmas card wouldn't be too scary.
Ask me if I ordered special "insert" cards to include a lengthy hand-written "message" for friends and family.
Ask me if Chris narrowly escaped death at my hands due to his incessant wining about hand-writing the message.
Ask me if I finished addressing the cards on the plane home from Colorado.
Ask me if there is a giant pile of white, card-shaped envelopes littering my coffee table.
P.S. Ask me if I have a massive, as-yet-unpacked suitcase on my kitchen floor.

Print Page