Admittedly, my updates here have been sporadic of late. But what hasn't been sporadic is my composition of blog entries. I have four just from this month that I wrote and didn't - for whatever reason - publish.
I'm weird.
Because it's hot today, I thought I'd go ahead and post my entry about the heat, which I wrote June 7, and then left to languish in draft form...
I've been walking around for the last week saying to anyone who will listen, "It's too early to be this hot!" 'Cause it is fucking HOT.
And then yesterday I had this thought that it would be a fun blog entry to go back to my journal from last year and post whatever I'd written about this week in June. You know what I wrote in my journal? "It's fucking HOT already."
So there you go. Not only had I forgotten it was this hot this early this time last year, but that lapse in memory somehow made my current complaining seem slightly irrelevant.
***
After my tribute to my stellar goldfish, I bought two replacements, for I live by the goldfish-owner's adage, "Thou shalt buy two feeder fish for one shall perish soon after ye take him home."
Well, neither of my fish perished. They were very happy together and had a jolly good time in their bowl.
But then yesterday one of them died. :(
I blame the heat.
Next year when I start to complain about the heat I hope I will look back on this and remind myself that it's okay to complain when it's so hot your pets start dying.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
BeckyHeineke.com
Is NEW and IMPROVED. It's very exciting, for now if someone Googles my name, I have no reason to be ashamed at the lackluster crap an unsuspecting searcher would find there.
In other news...you would think after doing this blogging thing as long as I have, I'd be immune to most things. But I have never quite fully inured myself to the sting of indignity that comes when I visit the blog of someone who is doing a mundane job of it - writing about the most common things there are to write about in the most boring way imaginable - and that person is getting INSANE HITS. Hits that make my jaw drop.
I. Do. Not. Understand.
And the reason I even bring this up is not because I'm seeking more readers for this blog (everything I write here is a self-indulgence, meaning I'd most likely write it regardless of whether or not this blog existed) but because of something a friend said to me at last Thursday's Breakaway run. And that's that I could be a faster runner, but what defines me as a runner (and makes me truly unique - some might say "baffling" - among those I run with) is that I'm not competitive at all.
And he's right. When it comes to running, I'm not competitive. At all. I could care less what the person in front of me is doing. I could care less about catching up to someone. That doesn't mean I don't notice my slowness or frequently feel self-conscious about it, but whatever spark it would take for me kick it up a notch solely for the pleasure of beating someone else doesn't appear to exist...
It does exist, however, in other aspects of my life. Which is a big part of the reason why beckyheineke.com got its long-overdue facelift (as did imstalkingjake.com last week).
Others might be more successful than me, have more readers than me, even have more skill than me...but when it comes to blogging, no one - no one - should ever look better doing it than me.
The end.
In other news...you would think after doing this blogging thing as long as I have, I'd be immune to most things. But I have never quite fully inured myself to the sting of indignity that comes when I visit the blog of someone who is doing a mundane job of it - writing about the most common things there are to write about in the most boring way imaginable - and that person is getting INSANE HITS. Hits that make my jaw drop.
I. Do. Not. Understand.
And the reason I even bring this up is not because I'm seeking more readers for this blog (everything I write here is a self-indulgence, meaning I'd most likely write it regardless of whether or not this blog existed) but because of something a friend said to me at last Thursday's Breakaway run. And that's that I could be a faster runner, but what defines me as a runner (and makes me truly unique - some might say "baffling" - among those I run with) is that I'm not competitive at all.
And he's right. When it comes to running, I'm not competitive. At all. I could care less what the person in front of me is doing. I could care less about catching up to someone. That doesn't mean I don't notice my slowness or frequently feel self-conscious about it, but whatever spark it would take for me kick it up a notch solely for the pleasure of beating someone else doesn't appear to exist...
It does exist, however, in other aspects of my life. Which is a big part of the reason why beckyheineke.com got its long-overdue facelift (as did imstalkingjake.com last week).
Others might be more successful than me, have more readers than me, even have more skill than me...but when it comes to blogging, no one - no one - should ever look better doing it than me.
The end.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
I Can Count to Ten!
I wrote lots of books when I was a kid, my personal favorite being one about a boy named Peter who covets the black ink bottle of his friend Andy (what the hell) that I wrote and illustrated in second grade.
Unfortunately, there's no date on the book below, but I'm almost positive it's my first, and the consensus is that I was 4 or 5 at the time. I wrote it on the back of draft pages of my dad's dissertation and though clearly I could neither spell, nor count (check out the number five), nor distinguish between the letters "n" and "u," the graphic layout of the inner cover makes me swell with pride to this day. What spacing!
I have no idea why I'm posting this, but here is I Can Count to Ten, by Becky (backwards J) Jane Heineke:
front cover:
inner cover:
loose inner pages:
Unfortunately, there's no date on the book below, but I'm almost positive it's my first, and the consensus is that I was 4 or 5 at the time. I wrote it on the back of draft pages of my dad's dissertation and though clearly I could neither spell, nor count (check out the number five), nor distinguish between the letters "n" and "u," the graphic layout of the inner cover makes me swell with pride to this day. What spacing!
I have no idea why I'm posting this, but here is I Can Count to Ten, by Becky (backwards J) Jane Heineke:
front cover:
loose inner pages:
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Stories About Elevator People
Over the years I have worked in many places and many settings, but never before three weeks ago had I worked in a large, high-rise office building.
Thus far, I have averaged four elevator trips a day, many of which have been solo, and several of which have been shared with complete strangers.
And one of which was shared with someone I went to elementary, middle, and high school with, and also college. I hadn't seen this person since we graduated; apparently without school to thrust us together, we were incapable of keeping in touch.
Until we met on the elevator.
"Becky?" he asked incredulously my first Friday on the job.
"Whoa, do you work here?" I asked.
The more I continue to ride the elevator, the more I see the potential for a regular blog feature. My God, the complexity of elevator etiquette alone is enough to fill volumes. For instance, I've noticed some people tell me to "have a nice day" as one of the two of us leaves the elevator and some don't. If they do, I usually respond in kind...though not always. Today, in fact, I was told to "have a nice day" by a woman exiting the elevator before me, but she never once looked at me and she growled the words under her breath so I didn't immediately understand what she said. By the time I'd worked it out, the doors had closed. I felt halfway guilty for not returning the sentiment...but then maybe not, because something tells me she wasn't being entirely genuine when she said it.
Another time, I got into the elevator on my way home and shared the ride to the parking garage with a strapping young lad who was staring intently at my purse. It was weird enough that I turned to look at him and he jerked his head up. "I was just looking at your bag!" he said, before resuming his staring.
I took the initiative that day. I told him to "have a nice day." But that was mainly because I wasn't quite sure what was going on there and thought perhaps I should do a good deed to override whatever bad karma had landed me in the elevator with him to begin with...
The more I think about it, the more awkward sharing an elevator is. It's a tiny space. The person (or people) with you spend every day in the same building, just like you do, but you have no idea who they are or where they go when they get off on their floor. Who was that guy who all but danced around in the waiting area after punching the "down" button today? What about the woman who primped her hair in the mirror for the entire ride and then sighed heavily as she left? Or the man who talked to me about the heat? Is he keeping up with watering his plants? I'd never recognize him if I saw again, but in half-a-minute's time, I learned without a shadow of a doubt that he is a man who loves his plants.
It's fascinating. Clearly, this will have to be a series...
Thus far, I have averaged four elevator trips a day, many of which have been solo, and several of which have been shared with complete strangers.
And one of which was shared with someone I went to elementary, middle, and high school with, and also college. I hadn't seen this person since we graduated; apparently without school to thrust us together, we were incapable of keeping in touch.
Until we met on the elevator.
"Becky?" he asked incredulously my first Friday on the job.
"Whoa, do you work here?" I asked.
The more I continue to ride the elevator, the more I see the potential for a regular blog feature. My God, the complexity of elevator etiquette alone is enough to fill volumes. For instance, I've noticed some people tell me to "have a nice day" as one of the two of us leaves the elevator and some don't. If they do, I usually respond in kind...though not always. Today, in fact, I was told to "have a nice day" by a woman exiting the elevator before me, but she never once looked at me and she growled the words under her breath so I didn't immediately understand what she said. By the time I'd worked it out, the doors had closed. I felt halfway guilty for not returning the sentiment...but then maybe not, because something tells me she wasn't being entirely genuine when she said it.
Another time, I got into the elevator on my way home and shared the ride to the parking garage with a strapping young lad who was staring intently at my purse. It was weird enough that I turned to look at him and he jerked his head up. "I was just looking at your bag!" he said, before resuming his staring.
I took the initiative that day. I told him to "have a nice day." But that was mainly because I wasn't quite sure what was going on there and thought perhaps I should do a good deed to override whatever bad karma had landed me in the elevator with him to begin with...
The more I think about it, the more awkward sharing an elevator is. It's a tiny space. The person (or people) with you spend every day in the same building, just like you do, but you have no idea who they are or where they go when they get off on their floor. Who was that guy who all but danced around in the waiting area after punching the "down" button today? What about the woman who primped her hair in the mirror for the entire ride and then sighed heavily as she left? Or the man who talked to me about the heat? Is he keeping up with watering his plants? I'd never recognize him if I saw again, but in half-a-minute's time, I learned without a shadow of a doubt that he is a man who loves his plants.
It's fascinating. Clearly, this will have to be a series...
Friday, June 3, 2011
Cheap Beer of the Month Club (OH MY GOD, I remembered to do it on the right day this time.)
Oh ho, my friends! It's that time again, the first Friday of the month. And that can only mean one thing: It's time for Becky to forget to put up her Cheap Beer of the Month Club entry.
Well. NOT TODAY. Today, I am going to not forget to put up my Cheap Beer of the Month Club entry. And to honor this accomplishment on my part, our Cheap Beer this month will be a Cheap Beer that holds the special-est of special places in the part of my heart reserved for cheap beer.
Gas station or grocery store? It's the motherfucking CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS. (Which is to say, you buy it wherever you happen to run across it.)
Price: $8.49 at Kroger for a 12-pack, so even with tax, you're talking mid-seventy-cent-range per bottle (score!).
Swill quality: It's the motherfucking CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS. This isn't swill. This is sustenance for a more fulfilling life.
Packaging/label: Classy, old-time-y, and rightfully sporting a cowgirl sitting in the moon...or something...whatever, all I know is that the gold on the label matches the gold in the bottle and I like that in a beer.
Shame factor: Strangely low considering the price. Purely for experimental purposes, I have admitted my proclivity toward this particular beverage with something akin to hesitation when talking to other beer connoisseurs. Invariably, I have been stopped mid-apology and reminded that Miller High Life is the (motherfucking) CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS, and thus no apology is needed.
Overall: It's cheap, and there are points on the inside of the 12-pack boxes so you can save up and buy merchandise, and it's cheap. And it pretty much tastes like beer. One time, someone texted me, "I've got two words for you: High Life." And I texted back, "I've got two words in return: Hell yes."
That about sums it up.
Well. NOT TODAY. Today, I am going to not forget to put up my Cheap Beer of the Month Club entry. And to honor this accomplishment on my part, our Cheap Beer this month will be a Cheap Beer that holds the special-est of special places in the part of my heart reserved for cheap beer.
CHEAP BEER OF THE MONTH FOR JUNE 2011: MILLER HIGH LIFE
Gas station or grocery store? It's the motherfucking CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS. (Which is to say, you buy it wherever you happen to run across it.)
Price: $8.49 at Kroger for a 12-pack, so even with tax, you're talking mid-seventy-cent-range per bottle (score!).
Swill quality: It's the motherfucking CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS. This isn't swill. This is sustenance for a more fulfilling life.
Packaging/label: Classy, old-time-y, and rightfully sporting a cowgirl sitting in the moon...or something...whatever, all I know is that the gold on the label matches the gold in the bottle and I like that in a beer.
Shame factor: Strangely low considering the price. Purely for experimental purposes, I have admitted my proclivity toward this particular beverage with something akin to hesitation when talking to other beer connoisseurs. Invariably, I have been stopped mid-apology and reminded that Miller High Life is the (motherfucking) CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS, and thus no apology is needed.
Overall: It's cheap, and there are points on the inside of the 12-pack boxes so you can save up and buy merchandise, and it's cheap. And it pretty much tastes like beer. One time, someone texted me, "I've got two words for you: High Life." And I texted back, "I've got two words in return: Hell yes."
That about sums it up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)