No, not really. I haven’t had any in years.
And by any, I mean Cheez Whiz. I make much better melty cheese on my own, especially with Hy-Vee’s version of Chipotle Ro-Tel. Yes, it comes from a can–I am the epitome of good taste. I am also too poor to be able to smoke my own jalapenos. (And I’ve never really gotten the hang of smoking them. Do I use a filter? Do I light the stem end?)
Anyway, the title is a reference to what passes for a lyric in Beck’s “Loser.” I’m not 100% clear on the history, but Beck apparently had some sort of bet about writing a song about nothing. Given the success of Seinfeld, whoever made the bet with Beck should have known that he or she was getting into a sucker bet.
Also, “Beck” is one of my nicknames, but I’m not a successful musician. I played the trombone anemically for a few years, and I like to pretend I know a little bit more than “Chopsticks” on the piano or “Au Clare De La Luna” on the recorder, but a wealthy musician I am not.
And Beck is a guy. While I’ve been accused of being mannish (fortunately not by Austin Powers), I am 100% female and have the offspring to prove it.
And my “Beck” is usually spelled “Bec.” Why? Because I believe in conserving letters. Someone might need that k to use in another word.
Always thinking of others–that’s me!
Also, please don’t ever call me Becky unless you’re a blood relative. That nickname reminds me of stuff I’d rather forget, and if you’re a blood relative, you know which stuff I’m talking about.
And does this rambling have a point?
And can I start a new paragraph with a letter other than “A?”
Yes and yes. The point is that I’m running down the rabbit hole because I’m anxious.
Ah! Another a-word!
Affirmative! A recent doctor visit uncovered some labs out of whack. A more recent doctor visit uncovered a goiter. (Basically, my thyroid’s attempting to remodel my neck. It hasn’t gotten far, though.) My most recent relationship failed because our priorities didn’t fit together as a couple’s should. I need to find a new home by August, or I’ll have to move back in with family, tail tucked firmly between my legs. I need to find a new home for my senior cat because he’s decided that he doesn’t like small children and thinks that my daughter needs a few new piercings. I need a job that actually pays me a living wage. (I’ve enjoyed following my heart and everything, but I would also enjoy being able to buy printer cartridges when I need them instead of trying to earn enough amazon gift cards to buy them online.)
I am also coated head to foot in a lotion designed by Satan himself to treat a rash on my forearms. I’m not fully convinced that my new IM doc likes me, but if it works, it works. Why head to foot? Because it makes sure that the rash is treated and can’t migrate somewhere else for funsies. It also forces me to do yoga to ensure my entire body gets covered. I’ve almost mastered the Pretzel pose, and I’ve been able to do the Oh Dear G_d I Don’t Think It’s Supposed to Move Like That pose for some time now…and I invariably miss parts of my back. One of the pitfalls of being single again, I suppose.
My daughter turned five and will be heading to Kindergarten in August, complete with her own paraprofessional. (I would send her to school with her own parachute, paramedic, and paratrooper, too, but she already likes to fill her backpack with random stuff.)
It’s also getting harder to play Wurm, and they’ve upped the premium price, so that kind of sucks all of the joy out of it. Wurm’s a MMORPG–the only time I run around roaring would be when I’m playing Tyrannosaurus Mom with my daughter…though I think that the spelling in that case would be Wyrm…maybe.
Sooo, I sit here, rambling, taking you with me as a fall down the rabbit hole and unravel everything that’s going on, preparing to like Penelope to weave it again until true love comes home.
Ah, who am I kidding? Even if I find true love, I would have a better shot at learning to play guitar with my left foot than I would at stopping myself from writing. Sure, I may not post it all here (and if it’s all like this post, that’s probably a good thing), but I write. I’ve got something like 60000 words in a file that tell a cohesive story, but I’m afraid to shop it around. Afraid it isn’t good enough.
Afraid I’m not good enough.
But it’s in my blood, and it’s in my heart. And there are people who love me and believe in my stories. They believe that this is what I was born to do. They have seen what I write, the stories I tell, and how I tell them, and they think it worthy.
Sadly, there’s been a lot of damage to me. Someone I loved and trusted stripped me to the bone before he tried to remake me in his own image, and I lost myself for a long time. I know my name, I know my face, and I know every feature of my body, from the roots of my calico hair to the soles of my flat feet.
I know my family stories, the histories spread from mouth to ear down the the generations of children sitting in their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and great aunts and great uncles and cousins’ laps.
I know the stories my mother and father read me, be they from the holy texts that shaped the faith I carry even now, or the mythologies and folk tales that made my eyes light up and fostered my curiosity about what makes people who and what they are, whether single or in groups.
And as I write this, I draw back a little, startled at the passion that “moves sun and moon” stirring in my heart as I talk about the old stories. It’s a spark that burns just as bright as when I’m researching something that has ignited my interest. There’s no thrill quite like running down the rabbit hole of knowledge, seeking, finding, reading, digesting…and understanding at last.
Run from it all we will, but our stories, our histories, our roots…they shape who we are, how we react, and who we become. The stories of others shape our understanding.
Before there was science, there were stories.
Before there were history books, there was the oral tradition.
And much was lost, since the oral tradition is like the longest game of “Telephone” in the world…but much remains, and it has worth, if only to understand what was.
Is there a point to all of this?
Eh, I imagine so. There’s a point to everything I write, even if it’s just to point me in the right direction.
And yes, this is a small sliver of how my mind works, when I slow down enough to write things down instead of just sliding down the rabbit hole of thought.
And I also wanted to see how far this thread of thought sparked by a goofy song lyric would take me. So far, it’s given me 1242 words of utter silliness.
I suppose I could say that I was deliberately shooting for a 1500 word blog entry, but that would be a lie, and I detest lying.
Besides, I think I’ve successfully achieved what I was aiming to do…which was to write a blog entry to finish on Monday. The semi-stream-of-consciousness wasn’t a deliberate effort on my part, but it was just too much fun to stop.
And really, if you start out with a title like, “Gettin’ Crazy With the Cheez Whiz,” where else can you go but insane?