proof i don't make this crap up - or - weird stuff i wish i had pictures of

One of these times I’m gonna get me a camera to keep with me at all times. I’m going to call it my “you are never gonna believe” camera. So many times when I’m out and about I see something unfathomable and I’ve got no witnesses! This camera shall act as my witness. You are all going to be so lucky when my photo album is done and you get to see all of the things I can’t believe! Cause let me tell you. If I can’t believe it, then it’s bad.

Like the extremely heavy woman that I saw at the mall wearing a blazer, denim shorts, and a sports bra. Not charming, not attractive, but I so wish I had a picture so that I could enjoy it over and over.

Or the hobo that looks exactly like Jerry Garcia. You should all get to see him in my album. For real.

Or the time I saw the man in the car behind me doing the cabbage patch while driving. I’m sure the picture would have been blurry, through my rear windshield, and his front windshield, but you would have gotten the idea.

Or the time I saw a boy from the youth group I was in as a kid (if you know me, ask who it was, I’ll tell you) stand in the parking lot of the church and, not knowing I was behind him, reach into his pants, pull lint from his bum, and let it blow away in the wind. Why do I not have that captured forever on film?

Or how about the one armed stripper who works at the Beaver Inn on 82nd? Okay, I have to tell the truth here. I’ve never actually seen her. But I’ve heard of her and if she exsists, I’m bound to prove it for all of your viewing pleasure.

In the meantime I’m on the lookout, and I’ll let you all know when I’ve found her! Besides, I really want to see her work that pole. (note to self, video camera may be in order)



arrivederci, rebecca marie

oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam.....

I had the occasion to be in Central Oregon this weekend. There is a potential relocation for me on the horizon, and I kinda wanted to spend the weekend making the scene (I don’t know if I made the scene or not, as I really don’t know what “making the scene” entails, but I liked the sound of it, so there you go). You sorta probably should check a place out before you go all like, moving there and stuff. Now, I don’t recall going through customs of any kind, and I’m pretty ‘bout sure I don’t even have a passport, but I swear I was in a foreign country.

See, I’m from Portland. Granted, Portland is no Manhattan, or Los Angeles, or Dallas, I admit it’s not even any Seattle. But it’s a city, nonetheless. Central Oregon has things called cities in it, but for someone used to an actual city, I’m hesitant to call what Central Oregon has, “a city.” I mean, there were stores, and gas stations and stuff, but Bend? 55000 people. That’s like, how many people are shopping at the grocery store near me on a Friday. That’s the biggest “city.” The next biggest? Redmond. Population 13500. Prineville…. Care to take a guess? 7800. I am not kidding. I felt like I should take up hunting or four-wheeling or something, it was crazy.

The most fascinating thing to me though, was the uncanny ability the people (I suppose I should be calling them “folks”) have to completely disregard the conventions of modern society (okay, I’ll go ahead and be a snob, what I mean is their disregard of what I think is acceptable). I saw more 1987 mall bangs than I’ve seen in a long time. Well, since 1987, if I’m honest. I think there were some acid washed jeans walking around strapped to some body's legs at the Safeway, too, if I’m not mistaken. And every second person, male and female was walking around with a rusty beer can to spit their chaw leavin’s into. I saw several children with mullets, male and female. I actually saw someone eat first chips and salsa, then a tamale with their dentures on the table.

Now, I’m at a very comfortable place on the “letting go scale.” I’d say I’m a good 35 to 40 percent “let go.” I’ve learned to drive through for coffee on Saturday mornings with jammie bottoms, a sweatshirt, a ponytail and some lip-gloss. I can put in piggie tails and wear a stocking cap in order to get another day out of my hair. I’ll even wear slacks that I’ve just pulled out of the dryer and not ironed. This is pretty darned “let go” if you ask me.

But, if I relocate? Watch out. I’m going to go to Mach 10 on the “letting go” scale and all ya’ll just better look the heck out! When in Rome……



arrivederci, rebecca marie

you people are never going to believe - or - tidy eyebrow follow up

First of all, read the previous post first or this will make no sense.

Second, I found the song!!!! I kid you not! It's by Mojo Nixon, who looks like this (oh how I wish I knew him! puh-leeze people!);



and the lyrics are (I'm only including some of it, for space);

Man, there's a lot of unexplained phenomenonout there in the world.Lot of things people sayWhat the heck's going on?Let me tell ya!Who built the pyramids?ELVIS!Who built Stonehenge?ELVIS!Yeah, man you see guyswalking down the streetpushing shopping cartsand you think they're talking to allah,they're talking to themself.Man, no they're talking to ELVIS!ELVIS! ELVIS!You know whats going on in that Bermuda Triangle?Down in the Bermuda TraingleElvis needs boats.Elvis needs boats.Elvis Elvis ElvisElvis Elvis ElvisElvis needs boats.Aahh! The Sailing Elvis!Captain Elvis!Commodore Elvis it is.Yeah man, you know people from outer space,people from outer space they come up to me.They don't look like like Doctor Spock.They don't look like Klingons,all that Star Trek jive.They look like Elvis.ELVIS!Everybody in outer space looks like Elvis.Cause Elvis is a perfect being.We are all moving in perfect peace and harmony towards ElvisnessSoon all will become Elvis.Everything everywhere will be Elvis.Why do you think they call it evolution anyway?It's really Elvislution!Elvislution!Elvis is everywhereElvis is everythingElvis is everybodyElvis is still the king.

And, you can WATCH THE VIDEO HERE!!!! watch video (after you go there, just click on "elvis is everywhere")

Seriously folks, clearly no one is getting the hundred bucks, as I delivered the video to myself, sorry ya'll. But doooood! I'm spending my whole paycheck on lottery tickets as this is my lucky day!!!!!



arrivederci, rebecca marie

he must have the tidiest eyebrows in latin america

A long time ago, years, I’d guess between fifteen and twenty, I saw the most amazing thing on television. An explanation of the Bermuda Triangle! Keep in mind that as I was anywhere from ten to fifteen-ish at the time, the explanation had to be fairly simple for it to not only make sense, but stick in a brain that was quickly filling up with information such as, the lyrics to “Parents Just Don’t Understand,” by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, or the concept of not wearing white after Labor Day, or what Tom Bain wore to school on the first day of eight grade (black levis, red, black and white plaid shirt). For something like an explanation of the Bermuda Triangle to find it's way into the melee and take root was nothing short of a miracle.

Here’s how it came about. One night, Janni Laine and I happened upon a video countdown of some kind. The host was Dr. Demento. The songs were, for the most part, a terrific waste of time. Songs like, “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,” and “Fish Heads.” But in the middle of all the garbage, there came this prize; “Elvis Needs Boats.”

According to this song (by the way, I will pay anyone one hundred dollars if they can deliver a copy of this video to me by February 5th, 2005, for Janni Laine’s birthday, email me at rebecca-marie@hotmail.com if you find it.), this is what happens to the boats that disappear in the Bermuda Triangle. Mmhmm. That’s right. I still recall the line “Ever wonder what happens to all of the boats that disappear in the Bermuda Triangle? Elvis needs Boats! Elvis needs Boats!” There was even video footage of Elvis rowing around in one of his stolen boats. I’m telling you. Parents who would not let their kids watch him on Ed Sullivan were on to something. He’s a criminal if I ever saw one.

What I’m wondering today is, why am I just now realizing that this is clearly what happens to lots of things. The other sock. The keys. The missing remote. Clearly Elvis needs these items. I’m fine with this arrangement. It’s not like he can walk into Best Buy and purchase a universal remote. Fine, take mine, it was only $9.95, I’ll buy another. What I’m having trouble understanding is this; does Elvis really need so many tweezers and nail clippers? Dude must bogart like three pairs of tweezers and seven sets of clippers from my house alone each year.

Why does he need so many?



arrivederci, rebecca marie

bumper sticker free america

Bumper stickers fascinate me. I currently have one that is one of those window cling dealiebobs. It’s right above the brake light in my rear window. It looks like this;



I also used to have a Bush/Cheney sticker on my window. Yeah that’s right. But, I took it down the evening of the inauguration, as I don’t believe in gloating.

What I love though, are bumper stickers like "What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it’s all about?" or "If I didn’t own a horse, this would be a Rolls Royce," or "I’ve just never been the same since that house fell on my sister," or "Save the Whales! Harpoon a fat chick!" or "Sure, alchohol kills brain cells, but only the weak ones," or "Keep honking, I’m reloading." PEOPLE!! Is this really what you want glued to your car? Is this the personal statement that you wish to make to the world?

I can so go in for the "this is my favorite team/alma mater/policical hero" sticker. But some of these statements just crack me up! Don’t even get me started on people who tell you how they "do it." "Teachers do it with Class!" and "Jazz players do it with Style!" and "Bartenders do it All Night Long!" Mine would read "I do it in the privacy of my home and I don’t discuss it with other drivers."

I think we should all have bumper stickers that actually mean something. Like, "I have ADD real real bad so don’t follow me cause I’ll go like twenty places trying to get to just one place," or "I have road rage, and this isn’t just meant to be a cute bumper sticker, so watch out, you've been warned!" or "Chances are if you look into my car you’ll catch me picking my nose," or "I failed my drivers test three times, so I just use my cousins license, please don’t tell him I took it," or "I have narcolepsy, so steer clear." That would make a lot more sense to me.

Hmmmm. I wonder what mine would say?



arrivederci, rebecca marie

abradabracadabra, i wanna reach out and slap yah

First of all, sorry for pimping one of the worst songs ever for my blog title. None of you deserved that, please accept my most humble apology.

Second… I love magicians. I think sleight of hand is just about the coolest. I don’t understand how they do it, and I don’t really care. If you know me in the real world, I’ve prolly done my one sleight of hand trick for you, and I must say, it pretty ‘bout rocks. I get nearly hypnotized by a good magician. I don’t have much time for illusionists, however, just not the flavor of magic that I enjoy.

With one exception. David Blaine. You know, the freak show who like, bites quarters in half and levitates and stuff? You may have seen him living on a post it note sized piece of plywood 97 stories above Manhattan recently, pee peeing into an Evian bottle or something. Or maybe you caught his vacation in an ice coffin. He’s pretty vicious weird, but his "magic" tricks mystify me.

So yesterday, I was on the yakkety box with my friend Spamgirl (if you enjoy reality television, you’ve probably heard of her, if not, just ask) and she tells me a story about Mr. Blaine. I’ll probably get it mostly wrong, but you’ll get the gist.

So he goes and he writes some crazy book and the idea of it was to solve some crazy riddle, or figure out the scavenger hunt booty location, or something along those lines. You’d win like, an Evian bottle full of David Blaine’s Magic Potion or something (I think she said "bag of gems" but whatever). It was clearly very unwinable.

So some chick called Jet (she’s in a band and everything, rock on, Jet!) almost solves this thing. Right on Jet! She’s like thiiiiiis close. So she goes online and asks for help. All these people start sharing information, and right when Jet was hovering on the brink of her very own bottle of David Blaine’s Magic Potion, Mr. Blaine swooped in with a vanishing trick. Mmm hmm. That’s right. All of the information sharing posts were gone. Poof! Abracadabra, you can’t win.

Good trick Mr. Blaine. I usetah like you, but now I don’t want your book or your David Blaine’s Magic Potion.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

reckless abandon

I think that some of the most entertaining things that I deal with in my daily life are my impulses. And I don’t mean, impulse to go tee tee, or impulse to go to sleep when I’m sleepy. I’m talking about the impulse to yank the hair of the woman in front of me at the grocery store (I mean, yank, grab hold and really let fly). That just rocks.

The other day, (well yesterday, actually) I had the impulse to cut my own cornea with scissors. I’m not joking. Now I did not act on this impulse, of course. And I’m sure most of you are now looking into having me committed, just know that I’m fine with you thinking I’m crazy. Now, this was in no way the desire to harm myself. I just had the mental image, and then I wondered what it would be like. Please don’t call the authorities, I promise it was a fleeting thought…

Sometimes I’ll be driving down the road and I’ll have the impulse to spit my gum out at the windshield. The reason that I don’t spit my gum out at the windshield is because I usually chew big girl gum that isn’t sticky, and the payoff would be lousy. Hopefully, someday I’ll have the impulse when I’ve got a big wad of bubblegum in my mouth. That would be great.

One time, Janni Laine had the impulse to slap me. Not because I deserved it, she just wanted to know what it would feel like to slap someone. She decided to tell me about it, and so I said "Oh, Janni Laine! Do it! Do it!" I mean really folks, how often can you help someone fulfill their impulse? So, she hauled off and slapped me. She was a bit disappointed with how it felt to carry out, but she was thrilled that I even let her. But I got it. I got the need.

What I want to see is National Impulse Day. And, I really really think it should be soon, onaccoutnabecause if it isn’t, I’ll probably forget about it. Here’re what I think the rules should be. No sin, no crime. Other than that, if you get the impulse do it. Pull hair. Cut stuff (not your cornea please, I probably over-shared). Slap your sister. Light a candle and after it burns for a while pour the wax out all over the kitchen table. Blow a spit wad at the nice lady who hands you your order at taco bell. Stab some of the produce at the store with your car keys. Do it! It’s National Impulse Day!

Now where’d I put my matches…..



arrivederci, rebecca marie

what comes around goes around

When I was like 5, I decided it would kinda rule to start giving gifts. I thought "hey, people give me crap and it makes me all warm and fuzzy like, so maybe I can give gifts and make them feel all warm and fuzzy like." Actually, I really doubt that I thought that. I know me, I’ve spent a real whole lot of time with me, and I bet it was more like "if I give people crap, they’ll dig me." But the first way sounded nicer, so just forget the other.

So Christmas was coming, and here’s what I did. I found this kind of weird looking not quite lime green stuffed animal turtle that I had gotten too dirty to play with anymore (prolly had achoo all over it too, I was five and all), under my bed. I wrapped it all up, and put a label on it. "To Janni Laine From Rebecca Marie." (Clever gift tag, eh? I was stretching the old writing muscle even then!)

So Janni Laine goes "hey, twerpie you. Tell me whatchoo got me for Christmas or I’ll give you a wicked bad Indian Burn on your arm." She didn’t say that. That was a lie. But I wanted to say that she did. The problem is? She’ll read this and out me.

So Janni Laine goes "hey! I’ve an idea! Let’s not wait till Christmas to find out what we’re getting! You tell me what you gave me, and I’ll tell you what I’m giving you! Deal?"

And I’m all like I go "Sweet! You know that nasty green turtle that feels like it’s full of beanbag beans? I wrapped that up and that’s what you’re getting! Now don’t you feel all warm and fuzzy like?"

And you know what that selfish selfish girl said?

"MOM!!!!! Rebecca Marie’s going around telling everyone about all the crap they are getting and now Christmas is gonna suck for REAL."

Dood. She is so not getting a birthday present this year. I’m so glad I remembered that in time.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

mmmmmmfrozen coke

I feel like a slurpee. Wait. Yeah, I really really do.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

alfred hitchcock would be so proud

A few years back, I decided to hang a bird feeder outside my kitchen window. I had these visions of little bitty birdies chirping around and having a grand time eating the cute little seeds I bought, all for my viewing pleasure (well, therapy, if I’m honest).

So I bought a bird feeder and filled it all the way up with birdseed, and hung it up outside my kitchen window, and a couple birds came, and then it rained, and the bird feeder filled up with rain and it molded and filled with these creepy maggoty worm things, and I threw it away.

The next year, I thought it still seemed like a pretty good idea, so I bought a bird feeder and filled it all the way up with birdseed, and hung it up outside my kitchen window, and a couple birds came, and then it rained, and the bird feeder filled up with rain and it molded and filled with these creepy maggoty worm things, and I got super mad and left it there.

This year, I discovered these bird feeders that have mesh walls. Sweet! I hope whoever invented this kind of bird feeder has like a real whole lot of money from it or something. I figure, if it rains in it, it’ll dry out, and if it grows creepy maggoty worm things, the birds can stick their beaks in and just pick ‘em out (don’t make me sing you “circle of life”).

So I filled it all the way up with birdseed, and hooo-boy. Party time at rebecca marie’s house. The little bitty birdies came and had a blast. They eat like nobodies business. I would sit, and watch, and think how great I was for doing my part to keep the birds happy all winter long. Then, the big birdies started to come. And attack the little birds. I’m telling you. Swarm! Swarm! Swarm! For the most part, the little birds are intimidated by the big birds, and they just fly away as soon as they see the big birds coming, so I never worried much.

Until last weekend, that is. We were having a wee bit of an ice storm and the feeder was pretty ‘bout empty onaccountabecause as it turns out, birds are greedy, selfish, ingrates, so I got to filling it up. Would you like to know what I found on it? Blood. Yeah. That’s right. Blood. Lots of it. Splatters of it. It was frozen, onaccountabecause of the ice storm, but when I had the feeder in on the window sill so that I could fill it up, some of it melted, and it had that weird thin look to it, and I wiped it up (some got on my hand, no no no no no) and it had that not quite red, maybe a little bit orangey brown color.

Now, I’m paying closer attention to what’s happening. Apparently my house is Fight Club. Birds suck. They actually try to kill each other. I shoulda known when they were too stinkin’ uppity to eat the moldy food and creepy maggoty worms. Stupid jerk faces.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

adventures in parenting - or - abandonment sans guilt

When I was in college, me and my roommate Tanya decided we wanted pets, even though we weren’t supposed to have pets. We thought we were above the law, man! So here’s what we did. We took our shiny new Capital One Student Visa cards (three hundred dollar limit, thank you very much) to the pet store and did us some shopping!

I bought an aquarium, and a butt-load of fish. Mike, Carol, Greg, Marcia, Peter, Jan, Bobby, Cindy, Alice, Sam, Oliver and Tiger were their names. I’m not kidding either. The only one I could tell apart from the others was Oliver. He was a gold fish, like all the rest, but he was kinda bumpy and had these weird not-quite-freckle marks all over him and I felt sorry for him, so he just had to be Oliver.

Well, they all died in like a week, and that was probably for the best, cause I sure wasn’t going to fit cleaning the tank in with all of the not going to class and not studying I had to cram in to my schedule.

We also bought two rats. They were the coolest. We named them Justin and Fivel. I have no idea if that’s how you spell Fivel, but he was the rat or mouse or whatever from An American Tale, and Justin was the best rat ever from The Secret of Nimh. We bought them all the stuff they needed to be happy. We played with them an awful lot. We hid them away nicely, just in time for room check. We were great rat moms.

But, when Fivel turned out to be a pregnant chick? We were not as happy. Tanya took her home over winter break, and when the babies were born, they became snake food (don’t make me sing you “circle of life”), and all was well once again.

Eventually however, we decided we were done being rat moms, and they had to go. This posed a bit of a problem, as the pet shop was like 2 miles away, and we had not going to class and not studying to do. So, here’s what we did instead. We opened up the window of our dorm room, and we put the rats outside. We figured they were rats, they would forage, or whatever rats do. We were happy with our decision and went about our not going to class and not studying.

About a week later, Justin made a mad dash up Peter Barretts leg right outside the student center. Wanna know how me and Tanya handled it? We lied. Mmm hmm. That’s right. We looked everyone who asked in the eye and said “We took them to the pet store, they probably got fed to snakes.”

Yeah, I bet they bought it.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

i heart urban legends

You know what I love? Urban Legends. I mean seriously people. They are just a little bit of alright. I mean, the one about the woman who sees another woman in a sealed up car on a 100 degree day, and when she sees her there an hour later, gets worried and taps on the window and the woman in the car says "call 911! I’ve been shot in the head and I’m holding my brains in," and when the medics get there what happened was a roll of pillsbury biscuits exploded in the heat and hit her in the head and what she thought was brains was dough? That is awesome.

Or what about the one where you aren’t supposed to eat bananas because one of your co-workers cousins got an email from a friend from college who’s nephews fiancée ate some bananas that had a flesh eating bacteria in them and now she is horribly disfigured and the wedding is next week.

Or the one about the couple who used to live next door to your science teachers grandma, who went on vacation in Mexico and forgot their camera in their hotel room one day and when they got back the film was all used even though they thought they still had some pictures on it and when they get the film developed, there are pictures of the maids with the couples toothbrushes hanging out their butts.

Don't even get me started on all of the lowlifes in the mall carpark who want to chloroform you, slash your ankles, hack you up with a machette, steal your kidney or stuff your chihuahua with cocaine ....

There is just NOTHING wrong with that.

You know what I think? I think I’m gonna start making up Urban Legends. Yeah, that’s right. So, if I tell you a story in the near future? Prolly it’s not true.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

the decline of western civilization

So I saw this commercial for a car lot that I thought was pretty sweet. It wasn’t a big dealer, it was like Jim and his dad Bill and Bills cousin Randy and the kid from down the block who you give a job to in order to keep him from vandalizing your house, lets just call him Daryl. You know the place I mean.

So Daryl happens to be the spokesman for this particular ad. He’s standing there in front of the lot, and all the really really nice Honda CVCC’s and Toyota Celica’s and lowered Jimmy’s are all sparkly behind him.



He looks real handsome for the ad, too. A sorta ironed oxford style shirt, some faded dockers and a stylin’ skinny tie.

He looks into the camera, and says all sincere, "Come on down to Neighbor Bill’s Discount Lot where we got a deal for everyone. We offer financing to anyone the law allows, and we’ve got so many lenders that I'm almost sure there's a chance you'll get financing!"

Doooooood. I am not making this up. That is what Daryl said!

Well, listen up Daryl. At least guarantee the CHANCE of financing. Had you said that I’ve a chance at financing, maybe. But I could get there, and not even get the CHANCE for financing.

I really hope that someone reading this sees the irony that I see. What frightens me? And I’m serious; this kind of stuff can keep me up at night. What frightens me is that most of the general public will not even get my point.

I think I’m gonna cry.

arrivederci, rebecca marie

rad hang up

It's 4:11 on Wednesday, and somebody just called my direct line and then hung up on me. I'm sooooo not complaining, it kinda kicked butt. Whoever hung up let me hear some righteous back ground noise first. It was kind of a loud buzzing, some breathing, and then someone shouted something.

Score hanger upper.



arrivederci, rebecca marie

blurting rules

So I’ve got this pretty wicked blurting problem. Yeah that’s right. Blurting. I tried to name it something cute, but I don’t think that fixes it. I named it "I Think I Say," which is very accurate. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t think that I say things. I say the things that I think, and there is a very large difference. If I thought that I said things, then everyone should be scared, because if even I’m not sure whether or not I say things then we’re all in trouble. It’s most definitely the other. Whatever thought I have, eventually comes shooting out my mouth.

I was in an accounting meeting the other week and my boss says to me he goes "We just bought another nursery and there isn’t anybody going to help you because we don’t care what your work load is like onaccountabecause you just magically do all your work and everyone gets all paid like." That’s not what he said exactly, but it was the gist. So, I go and I say "listen up accounting staff. I’m going to take vacation this year, and you all better just out. I’ve not taken vacation since 1998, unless you count the year I took off to regain my sanity, and I don’t count that as it was an unpaid sabbatical. And a day here and a day there just isn’t enough to recoup, ya dig?" And that pretty much isn’t a paraphrase, I’m telling you. It was blurting at it’s finest. It was met with some blank, and some horrified stares, and a more than awkward silence. Yeah, I think I made my point.

And another time? Last month? I was shopping with Janni Laine, and I hate shopping because it brings out my violent streak. All you girls who love shopping are nut jobs. Total whack jobs. There are better things to do ladies!! Read a book, knit, write love letters to your boyfriend, fix your toenails all pretty, anything but shopping! For the love of all things holy, get out of the mall and have a real life.

Anyway. It was Christmas time, and I do have some people in my life that expect a giftie or two. So, Janni Laine came over from Bend to hold my hand through the process. It was fairly painless, better than most shopping trips I’ve had, prolly cause she was with me. Toward the end though, I started to get antsy. Way antsy. That’s when the blurting incident occurred. We were at Target (my favorite place, if I have to shop, doooood, I heart Target), and I suddenly blurt out, "I hate everyone, all of you," and this real cute boy, maybe 18 whips his head around, totally astounded. So, I point to him, and say to Janni Laine "not him, of course, he looks nice."



Do you think that made up for it? I don’t really know. What I do know is that I’m probably not going to stop blurting anytime soon. I dig it. Word.

arrivederci, rebecca marie

devil book - or - catcher in the rye spoiler

So finally, at age 31, I read Catcher in the Rye. I know, I know. I should have read this in grade ten, like the rest of the world. Maybe if I had, I’d be recovered by now. I don’t know though, it really took its toll on me. It follows a 16-year-old man in training called Holden Caulfield through a blink of his life. It’s mostly internal dialogue. It’s mind bending.

I dare anyone to read this book and not be moved. I dare anyone to read this book and not relate to Holden. I’ve rarely encountered a character (I hate calling him a character, he’s way more complete than that) so raw, so real. He is lonely, and in so much pain. The scary thing is he thinks he knows how to fix it. Anyone who can read this book and not relate to Holden is too conceited to recognize their own frailties. I felt privileged to take a walk through his thoughts.

Don’t even get me started on the almost physical reaction that I had when I finally found out why the book is titled what it is. I won’t tell you how it made me feel, or what it means, I’m willing to spoil one part of the story, but by all means, not that.

That. Being. Said.



What in the world is wrong with the universe!!!! When asked, Lee Harvey Oswald sited Catcher in the Rye as the reason he assassinated Kennedy (okay, that's not true, he never said that, but urban legend has it that a copy of the book was found near where he suppposedly shot from, and I like to say he said it, because it makes this blog entry better, and frankly, lots and lots of people believe that he said it, and if enough people believe it, it almost makes it true, right?) (we’ll save the fact that Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t assassinate Kennedy for all you conspiracy theorists out there. See Seinfeld episode #34 "The Boyfriend –Part 1" for a beautiful demonstration of the ridiculousness of blaming Oswald. Had Oswald actually shot Kennedy, and had he not been shot later, by someone "protecting the public," and had he gone to trial, and had I been alive then, and had I been on the jury, I’d have wanted to know one thing. "What part made you go that crazy?"

And had he said "the fact that Holden ran from his non-flity teachers house," I’d’ve gone with guilty.

Or had he said "the fact that Holden never found out where the ducks were," I’d’ve gone with guilty.

Or had he said "the fact that I’m also afraid I’ll never stop falling," I’d’ve gone with guilty.

Or had he said "the fact that Phoebe never got to hear the record," I’d’ve gone with guilty.

But, had he said "Holden NEVER called Jane Gallagher…….." Oh. My. Word.

INNOCENT!!!!!

Why why why. Why does that crazy man Salinger not give me that! I needed that. I craved it. I almost cried. I actually threw the book and shouted "What a horrible book." Okay, now I don’t really think the book was horrible. I thought it was amazing. I actually am just taking a breather before I read it again because I can only imagine how much more I’ll get out of it the second time. And the third, and prolly the fourth, too.

So, if anyone reading this truly loves me…. Feel free to write me one more chapter. Write the phone call. Email it to me at rebecca-marie@hotmail.com. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Maybe not, too, but maybe.

arrivederci, rebecca marie

i have a pen name!

So I decided to make this here blog. I am so addicted to the internet and all that it has to offer. I really really am. I wish I weren’t, but I am. Okay. That was a lie. I don’t wish that. I mean please people. It’s just got so much going on! Yakkety boxes so that I can talk to my friends who live far away (lets face it, my coworkers too, we can talk about each other all day long and no one is the wiser). Google Images. All the news I can handle. Itunes. eBay. Oh. My. Word. eBay. I’m telling you, I’m a shameless internet groupie. If the internet has a concert, I’ll totally be selling homemade “I heart Internet” tee shirts from out my car boot. Oh! Maybe even bumper stickers too. I think I could do a mean “I brake for Intenet” sticker out of some white contact paper and a green sharpie (don’t even get me started on sharpies).

Wait. What was I saying? Oh, right. My blog.

So, here’s what I did. I made this blog for you all to read. It could get rude sometimes, so there’s your warning, and I expect no sass.

My first blog (this here one) will be all about why I named it what I did.

rebeccamariewinters. I can explain that easily. I tried rebecca marie winters, but it wouldn’t let me. Something about no spaces blah blah blah. Whatever, fine. So, rebeccamariewinters it is.

Marie. I know, some of you have been under the impression that my middle name is Lynn. And, up until recently, you would have been correct. Here’s a little story. I hated my middle name. “Lynn is a nice name, nothing wrong with that,” you may be saying to yourself. Maybe not, too, but maybe. Well, it is a fine name, but here’s why I hate it. My dad had an ex-girlfriend named Lynn. AND, my mother had an ex-boyfriend named Lynn. Uber Ick, right? Right. Now, they both claim that they didn’t mean this. Daddy-O says that “it’s just a pretty name.” Whatever, yeah. Most humans have their ex’s on a strict “do not name list.”

Oh, I got distracted. Anyway. I was complaining about this recently, as complaining is one of my hobbies. Feel free to join in at any time. I’ve got no exlusive rights. My Grandmother Jeanette over heard my miserable story. Let me tell you. I love my Grandma Jeanette. She was one of God’s very best ideas (thank you God for Grandma Jeanette). So she pipes in with “from here forward, your name will be Rebecca Marie onaccountabecause that’s my middle name and I love you.” That is an approximate paraphrase. Had I not been so overwhelmed by her generosity, I probably would have seen if the family stenographer would send me a transcript of her exact words, but those are the gist. The amazing thing? I’m not even a blood grandchild of this amazing woman. She just loves me that much anyway. And I love her that much back.

As for Winters. A while back, Roanna (my mother) asked me what my pen name was going to be. At first I thought it was a pretty dumb question (I was going to use a fancier word than dumb there, but I decided that it fit). I’m probably never going to finish the couple of books I’ve got going, so why bother with a pen name? But, the more I thought about it, the more fun it seemed to have one. So, Winters it is. You can ask me how I came up with Winters if you’d like, and maybe I’ll tell you. Maybe I wont, too, but maybe I will.

So there you have it. The story of Rebecca Marie Winters (I love that name). I’ll put nonsense words and babble talk down for you all to read as I think of it. A little bit for my own entertainment, but mostly onaccountabecause you have to “publish” your blog in order for it to show, and I really want to have at least some of my words published.



arrivederci, rebecca marie