will the real rebecca please stand up

I never considered my life to be all that bizarre but the expressions on someone's face when I casually mention that I accidentally smashed my SUV into the broad side of a house trying to thwart off a spider that just belayed from my sun visor tell me that perhaps my existence is slightly more colorful than most.  It should be noted that the house belonged to an ex boyfriend and I had literally just finished telling him that I needed space, permanently. "Hey I don't really care to see your face anymore" but let me drive my car into your living space so that we can drag this out through uncomfortably forced interactions supervised by insurance adjusters.  Like I said, colorful.

The most recent development in my curious existence is that I'm a victim of identity theft. Started as completely basic stuff; some concerning credit alerts and obscene charges to my debit card, one of which was a donation to the American Red Cross.  Want to feel like an asshole?  File a dispute with a nonprofit humanitarian organization. I was only mildly inconvenienced and irritated until Netflix cancelled my membership due to non-payment. I suppose that's what happens when the card used to foot the bill has been compromised.  Go right ahead and send someone $160 worth of flowers from ftd.com at my expense and acquire a car loan using my social, be my guest, but DO NOT come between me and my Californication marathon or things will get ugly. I need my Marcy fix or I come completely unhinged.

Things didn't necessarily get ugly but they did go all Outer Limits when the alleged thief began texting a friend of mine posing as me.  Have I blown your mind yet?  

"Sexy mom"? Gross. Who in their right mind would possibly talk about themselves in a such a manner? I can handle the financial mess this person has left me in but don't impersonate me and then make me sound like such a vapid twat.  

Obviously I called the number only to get an automated message, no surprise really but I did receive a "Hi" text in response.  Fake-me messaging real-me. Cue theme from The Twilight Zone.  In short I told them to go live their own life, mine isn't for the taking; and I might have called them a psychopathic crack pot and threw in the knife emoji for good measure.  

snow day

Raising a child in Arkansas comes with it's own set of challenges; like having to dose the young one with prescribed flouride because the water in these parts remains untreated and knowing that the phrases "get me some" and "y'all" stand a strong chance of creeping their way into the bambino's vocabulary, and not in the clever "I'm particularly good at accents" way but in the way that leaves him sounding alarmingly uneducated.  

And then there's the fact even the faintest whisper of snow causes the entire state to close up shop.  Schools close for days at a time, I'm released from work early and Wal-Mart sells out of cat food and bread. You know, because nothing encourages you to eat a half a dozen sandwiches like a dusting of powder and on the off chance you're marooned for an extended period of time, the last thing you need to be bothered with is your cat making a serious run for the meat on your face. 

Sure I poke fun, but there was a time last winter where we were sequestered to our home for nearly six days. Snow removal isn't exactly Arkansas' forte. There simply aren't enough household activities to distract the terrible-twos for almost a week and I ran out of wine, gravely contemplating the effects of drinking rubbing alcohol. 

A lesson was learned, the hard way.  Now when the weatherman calls for snow I have a stockpile of wine and episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on hand to keep us both entertained and sane while the public works department is busy schooling itself in plowing.

if peacocks could dance

It's no secret that I teach dance.  Mostly contemporary classes, a little ballet, jazz on occasion and tap if the class is of the beginner variety or times are desperate.  My tap repertoire consists only of dancing along to Al Gilbert records and ceased when, at the age of 11, I was called upon to perform a tap solo to what I'm pretty sure was "Santa Baby" dressed in a sassy Ms. Claus outfit.  Think Mean Girls rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock" replacing their whore boots with white character heels outfitted with taps. I'm sure it was a little less seductive but definitely just as ridiculous.  

Being a dance educator comes with it's fair share of luxuries; I wear what could easily pass as pajamas to work, there's an abnormal amount of rolling around on the floor and Rinn gets complimentary preschool dance lessons. Let's not forget that what I do fills me with such elation that it seems hardly fair that I get paid to do so.  Doing what you love is a blessing, being able to do it in sweatpants, well, quite simply, there are no words.

There may come a time when Rinn complains about being carted off to a 10am dance class, whines about having to sit through hours of rehearsal or objects to spending his weekends surrounded by screaming girls in fake eyelashes who survive solely on rhinestones and aerosol hairspray; but if we're in agreement with the studies claiming a babies awareness of sound and movement commence early in the womb, he's probably predisposed to this life considering I taught well into my 35th week of pregnancy. It probably doesn't hurt that all this involves him being gushed over by 30-some-odd young ladies.   

Just as male peacocks use their brilliant feathers to attract a harem of hens, my son unabashedly uses impromptu song and dance routines to woo women of all ages.  Am I concerned that my 3-year-old already experiences impaired judgement when it comes to the fairer sex?  Absolutely.  But at least his courtship is kind of hilarious. 

musketeers pee in their pants

This may come as a surprise to most of you but this blog didn't exactly pay the bills.  To give you some perspective, I could probably afford the sales tax on a pack of gum with what I raked in writing this ridiculous thing.  Perhaps if I published a post more than once every 18 months I could swing a multipack. The point being, writing is a hobby; dance, whether it's teaching it or doing it, was always what kept the creditors at bay. 

However, it was brought to my attention on a recent getaway to my motherland that there are a few fans out there jonesing for a dose of "Hot Mess Mommy."  Also I lost a pair of used underwear somewhere between Target and my front door today and thought to myself "everyone in the online world MUST hear about this" so I'm throwing caution to the wind and staging a comeback.  

Underwear has always been kind of a struggle for me.  One day it's inside out, the next it's backwards and then there was the time that I took it off mid-outing with a former boyfriend in a horribly lame Basic Instinct rendition. Whoever decidedly stole my coat that evening ended up with an awkward bonus in the pocket.  Today's loss was substantially less sexy in that I just couldn't be bothered to put them back on after taking them off to tan. 

Don't judge, life is hard sometimes.

It would appear that my son is on par to have similar struggles considering he is freshly three and has yet to wear a pair because, boys and girls, we have yet to master potty training.  I have one of those strange children that finds using public toilets fascinating but when at home can't take a break from terrorizing the house with a foam pirate sword pretending to be a member of The Three Musketeers long enough to take a leak. 

After a few infuriating months I've succumbed to a more laissez-faire approach hoping that all those people who preach "one day it will just click" have a clue. I really don't want to someday be buying adult diapers for the both of us (which I'll undoubtedly put on backwards and inside out)

"Underwear be damned!"