THERE'S NO STYLE LIKE NASHVILLE STYLE

Recently I traveled to Texas for a theatre conference. My first day there I ran into a Nashville acquaintance and the first thing she told me: "You look so Nashville!" This made me happy as I take that statement to mean that I have adapted to my new home in a sense and now reflect a bit of that in my everyday attire. No, I don't wear bling-ed out jeans and multi-colored cowboy boots, but I think I have picked up the essence of Nashville in a way. Nashville style is very unique and particular, and after spending a few months here I can earnestly say that if someone pushed me from a plane into an unknown city (and yes, they would have to PUSH me) and I landed in Nashville, I would know where I was. People here, for the most part, just LOOK Nashville. Of course, many people bend the rules but I am speaking about the majority.

Here are the rules about ladies' fashion I have perceived since moving here:

1. Long hair is a must. Just try to name one female country music star with short hair. Well, there's Reba, but she's really an anomaly. Wear it down, preferably with a slight curl. Hair extensions for the rich.

2. Accessorize. DO NOT even attempt to walk out of the house without jewelry, scarves, and a purse. The more, the better.

3. Makeup. Hello.

4. Layer your clothes. This may be more due to weather here, but keep it cute!

5. Own an adorable winter coat, all colors accepted.

6. Wear a dress to church, no matter the denomination. I believe this must be a Deep South tradition and I don't always follow it but I try to comply.

7. Cowboy boots accepted at all events for all reasons in all seasons. Cute shoes appropriate the rest of the time.

8. Old ladies must be dressed to the nines including accessories, makeup, and hair at all times. This is new... I was pleased if the old ladies in Waco wore bras.

9. Riding boots are extremely popular and they make sense here.

10. One word: BLING. Make yourself shiny!

Men's fashion is surprisingly... not much different. At least as far as country music musicians go. You can spot them anywhere: long hair (with blonde highlights, of course) that looks like they spent maybe juuuuuuust a little too much time looking in the mirror that morning. They also wear "vintage" bling-y t shirts and tight (tiiiiiiiiiight) fashion jeans. And boots, don't forget the boots. Think Rascal Flatts. Not very manly but likable just the same. Here are some pictures to show what I mean:

Interesting, isn't it? Well, take it or leave it, it's Nashville! :)

Hot Feet Syndrome

Some people suffer from cold feet, and I am not talking about that intense desire to run from the wedding altar like Julia Roberts' character in Runaway Bride. Literally, some people have poor circulation that causes their extremities, mainly their feet and hands, to lose blood and retain a sense of frigidity something akin to The Corpse Bride's appendages. Occasionally, this event does occur for me in my hands. When I discover this happening, I immediately have two goals: to warm my hands or to touch Scott so that he can appreciate my special power to turn hands into blocks of ice. At this point, he usually screams like a girl and calls me The Corpse Bride. This brings me much merriment, and the added laughter probably sends fresh, warm blood to my hands. It's really a win-win situation.

My feet, however, do not suffer such occasions. My feet are almost always, literally, hot. They are not, perhaps, warm to the touch, but I almost always want them to be uncovered and free to breath. From about March to October, I can barely stand to wear any closed-toe shoes and socks are just completely out of the question. I always wear socks and tennis shoes to work out, but you can bet your bottom dollar that as soon as I am finished I am peeling off my foot outerwear and looking for the nearest flip-flops. I just cannot stand to have hot feet. I don't like my feet under blankets, I often kick the bed covers off of them, and the thought of wearing Uggs makes me want to pass out (that and they are hideous). So the question is: anyone else out there feel this way? Anyone else suffering from Hot Feet Syndrome????

Oh, how I wish that someone would invent air shoes for the Beeki.

BABIES ARE ALIENS. But I want one.

Ok, so it's no secret that I have been feeling the maternal instinct kicking in for about a year now. I got married when I was 22, and immediately thereafter everyone began asking me when Scott and I were going to start a family. I had started teaching high school at the time and my students were strangely obsessed with me having a baby. I guess to them I was an "older" woman and it was just the understood course of nature. That and the fact that they were getting pregnant at the same time.

ANYWAY, after two years of teaching I returned to school to pursue my master's degree, and at the same time Scott was working full-time and getting his own higher degree. This all worked out just fine because Scott and I still were not interested in adding to our brood at the time. My terminal master's degree took three years (the standard amount of time) and about the end of the last fall semester, I suddenly began feeling like something was missing from our lives. It feels like this: You are eating dinner with your husband, having a wonderful time, and then all of the sudden you begin to picture him as a dad and you can almost see the little tot running around the kitchen and you can feel in your heart that this is what you want most in the world and you no longer want to throw up when you think about having your own children. At least that's how it began for me. Then you start seeing babies everywhere, and all baby-related commercials make you cry. You start thinking about names and what the baby will look like and watching it sleep and taking him or her to visit grandparents and cleaning up puke and changing diapers and sharing memories and suddenly you want it all. The good and bad. Not the romanticized. The real.

There is one part of the "real" with which I am still not fully comfortable. Carrying a baby inside of my own body seems like an extremely foreign and absurd idea. It seriously reminds me of the movie "Aliens" starring Sigourney Weaver. I know that it is beautiful in it's own way, but something about feeling another human being kick me from the inside and then squeeze out my unmentionable area is, at best, surreal. I just don't want it to pop out of my stomach and sing "Hello My Honey" like the creature in Spaceballs. How about you ladies out there who have already had children? Did you feel the same way? Just curious.

And who knows, perhaps my child will burst out and start singing showtunes. I mean, after all, he or she will have theatre nerds for parents.

TODDLERS AND TIARAS AND THERAPY

I recently caught an episodes of TLC's "Toddlers and Tiaras" and I have to say that that it was more terrifying than any horror film ever made. In case you have never seen the show before, it's basically an inside look at beauty pageants for girls and boys about 6 years old and younger. The episode that I caught had one baby in the pageant who was two weeks old. No lie. Two weeks. I'm pretty sure that the baby should have been home working on basic things like breathing, eating, sleeping... but noooooooooo Mommy needed to show him off to an audience of strangers for hours. What was his talent, you ask? Well, he couldn't hold his head up, he didn't have any teeth, and he was probably gassy, so I'm guessing just sitting there looking at the audience and sending silent cries for help. The newborn baby, however, was not the saddest part of the show.

What really broke my heart was a pair of six-year-old fraternal twins, we'll call them 'A' and 'B', who were competing against each other. One of the little lasses, A, was clearly the golden child of the family. She was juuuuuust slightly prettier (by pageant standards) than her sister, and she very obviously enjoyed being on stage and showing off her personality. The other little girl, B, was so painfully introverted that it was hard to watch her suffer in front of the judges. She clearly didn't have the heart for pageantry, but since her insane mother felt that "competitive beauty" was more important than her daughter's happiness, the poor girl just had to endure the shame of it all. Needless to say, A (who turned out to be a huge brat) won 2nd place and B received a consolation prize. I could hardly bear seeing the pain in B's eyes. The only thing that makes this story worse: there are three more daughters in the family who will all likely be shoved into pageantry. Why aren't these children out enjoying life like other six-year-olds? What happened to swim parties and sleepovers and museum visits and sports and reading and culture?

Little girls will have all of high school to deal with competition, cattiness, and superficial beauty. Why not teach them when they are young that there is more to life than this?

Also, on a side note, why do all of the mothers of the pageant children seem to have "let themselves go"? I know that they would say it is a result of pouring all of their time, money, and energy into their children, but I think that it would be so much better to set an example of health wisdom, and beauty for their kids than to hypocritically scrutinize and demean their children at every turn.

And do you know the grand prize at these competitions? A $1000 Savings Bond. That's all. That amount of money does not even cover the cost of the ridiculous little dresses the girls wear. Well, all I can say is that I hope that these girls will be able to use the money for college, or at least therapy.

Thanks for listening to my rant. If I had any wish in the world it would be to end these debasing pageants. Or for World Peace. Whichever.

MARRIED TO MR. ETHICAL

It's official.

The price of food, drinks, and candy at the movie theatre has surpassed the limit of reason.

Not that I usually buy much. A typical movie snack for me used to be a small Diet Coke with no ice and sometimes a treat like Sour Patch Kids (not those nasty Sour Jacks). Not anymore, though! Such a small pleasure would cost me almost $8 or more. And although I am not much of a movie theatre popcorn person, I know that there are many, many of you out there. Well, here's to hoping that you will all rise with me and decry the obscenity of such lofty prices! I mean, we just paid $7-12 to get in to see a (most likely) craptastic film, so why not soften the blow of a sappy, plotless romantic comedy with a little free Icee? Why not comfort my bleeding eyes, which came about from some superfluously flawed epic that crushed my inner-historian, with a cheap and cheesy nacho number? WHY NOT GIVE ME FREE FOOD OF WHATEVER APPEARS IN THE MOVIE SO THAT I HAVE THE BEST EXPERIENCE POSSIBLE?! Okay, so this is just on my mind because I would like it while watching Julie & Julia. Cheese souffle, anyone?

I know what some of you rascals are thinking. You are secretly sending me messages to sneak in my own snacks and screw the whole system. I mean, tons of people do that, right? Well, if you really think that this is a possibility for me, then you have not met my husband. He's what some might call "SUPER-ETHICAL." The other day we were at a Greek deli and next to the soda machine there was a little bucket with a sign requesting $0.25 for all refills. Now, I had just overpaid for the drink with my lunch, and refills are usually free on such premises. I thought that the soda sign was completely ridiculous, but my husband would not let me get the refill sans payment. So, you can already see that Baker would certainly never let me hide a little treat in my purse for movie-going occasions. Ergo, there can be only one conclusion for me. I am not going to be buying movie theatre refreshments anymore.

It's a small price to pay for such ridiculous prices.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Everyone always wants to know how I got about spelling my name B-E-K-I (though I go by Beeki on the blogs). This question actually strikes me as odd since I didn't, contrary to popular belief, name myself. I suppose that some people do change the spellings of their names once they are 18, but if I had done that I would have dramatically altered my name to "Cleopatra" or something sassy like that. Anyway, to understand my name, one must know my legal first name: Rebekah. This is the King James spelling of my name, which is more special knowing that my brothers and I each have one Old Testament and one New Testament name:

Paul David

Mark Daniel

Rebekah Christine

I actually love my first name when it is spelled out. What makes it even cooler is that my last name (Baker) uses only letters found in my first name. Snazzy.

I have not always loved my nickname, though, which I have been called from birth. My parents got the idea to call me "Beki" as they had an artist friend who spelled her name that way and they liked it. They also liked spelling the name with four letters to match everyone else in the family, all of whom have four-letter names. I didn't mind everyone calling me Beki growing up, but that all changed in high school. You see, my freshman year I played on the basketball team, and it was tradition for the principal to share game stats over the loudspeaker during announcements. One day, the principal announced my number of steals from the previous night's game, but instead of calling me Beki, he said, "Beeki" (bee-key). This would not have been such a big deal at a small high school. Unfortunately, I went to a school of 3, 000. EVERYONE in the school all day called me "Beeki" and laughed at me. I was mortified, mainly because I was in high school and everything was such a big deal at the time. I came home with tears in my eyes, asking my mom, "Why did you name me Beeki??!"

Years later, Beeki has become a favored nickname for me (also Beeki Bear and Oh, Beeeeeeeki). I have come around to loving the name and feeling special when people call me by any of my nicknames. What matters most is the way in which the name is said: with love. After all, what's in a name? Apparently just letters and sounds.

GO FUG YOURSELF

Check out this website:

http://gofugyourself.celebuzz.com/

It's snarky.

It's funny.

It's too bad we aren't as rich as these people.

Why I'm in the Gym Bathroom Stall Eating a Creme-Filled Donut

Woman, 20s.

WOMAN: (TALKING TO DONUT.) You're probably wondering what I'm doing here, aren't you? I can feel your judgement. Or worse, your sympathy. You're thinking, "Oh, what's that poor girl doing?! Standing here, practically swallowing me whole when she should be out there sweating out the calories, burning the fat, building the endorphins! Sure, she may never look like those women in the cellulite cream commercials (you know, the ones who pretend to be shocked when their skinny jeans fit their size 2 asses) but she still has a chance to feel good about herself!" (SHOUTS AT DONUT.) Well, I won't take your judgment! And I won't let you look at me like that anymore! (BITES DONUT.) HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, BAVARIAN CREME?!!! (REACTS LIKE SOMEONE HAS ENTERED THE BATHROOM, RECOVERS TO A WHISPER.)

I'll tell you why I'm here right now. You see, it all started with my mom. I had colic as a baby so she took me to these classes called Baby Fart Aerobics. (PAUSE.) You'd think they could have assigned another name to it. Something cheesy like "Lickin' Away the Colic" or "Bouncing out the Bubbles." But noooo, I'll carry the shame of Baby Fart Aerobics forever. Anyway, since the class worked so well for me and I made so many new friends (or at least that's what my mom tells me since I was only 3 months old), mom's been on me to join another social exercise class. So, today I took the plunge and I signed up for step aerobics. I thought, "Hey, how hard could this be? I just have to keep in time with the music and step."

WRONG. I knew that it was going to be bad as soon as I entered the classroom. All of the women in their tight spandex and triple-stacked steps. I tried to find a good spot so as to see the instructor when a blonde chic with legs up to here (GESTURES.) told me that I was "in her spot." So, I quickly moved just as class started, and of course I was in the back of the room. The music began pumping at an alarming speed and immediately the teacher started using terms I didn't understand. She was just like, (IMITATES.) "Now Round the World and Grapevine for two, and Alternating V Step with a Straddle Down!" Hell, I didn't know if I was turning right or stepping left or spinning around. I was trying so hard to keep up that I tripped over my step and landed on the CD player cord, which of course ripped it out of the wall. Everyone turned to stare at me. As I quickly rushed out of the room in a swirl of apologies, I realized something: STEP AEROBICS IS THE SORORITY OF AEROBICS. I mean, c'mon, think about it! You're either in or your out. Everyone who's in knows what they are doing and most of them come from a line of women who also did it. They don't like newcomers, especially if you're awkward and sweaty. Really, stepping has to be in your blood. And you know what I discovered, oh great Long John of mine, the only thing in my blood is sugar. And I plan to keep it that way. (STUFFS ENTIRE DONUT INTO MOUTH AND SIGHS WITH BLISS.)

I LOVE RICKY GERVAIS

This is a teaser for a Ricky Gervais movie called Cemetery Junction. Gervais is the creative genius behind BBC's The Office and Extras (both written, directed, and starring him). He has also played roles in several American movies like Night at the Museum, Ghost Town, Stardust, and a film coming out in October called The Invention of Lying. He has won 18 awards, including a few Emmys and Golden Globes. If you do not know who he is, you should check him out. He is seriously one of the funniest comedians I have ever seen. Watching the Bonus Features on The Office and Extras is a must.

ADRENALINE'S A FUNNY THING

During my college years, I returned home to my parents' house once every couple of months to visit. Since my parents installed a pool AFTER I MOVED AWAY, I enjoyed going back home for visits (though I still rue the days I had to run through a sprinkler in the backyard). Since my parents lived in a developing area in the suburbs of Houston, every time I voyaged home the streets, buildings, and landscaping in the area were different, which confused me and caught me off-guard sometimes.

One day, I was driving with my mother through the back of her neighborhood, which at the time was a very winding and narrow set of streets. I was probably driving a little too fast, but I like to think of it as practicing for an emergency in case any one ever slips lead into my shoes. Anyway, I was rounding a bend a little too quickly, when (out of no where, in my opinion) a man appeared. He was talking a walk, probably enjoying the sunshine, when my red car came flashing around the corner. To save his own life, the man jumped, no LEAPED, onto the grass nearby. It all happened so quickly that I really didn't have time to slam on the breaks. It just happened, and then, I was like, "Whew, okay, well I didn't hit him!"

THIS IS THE BEST PART OF THE STORY. Then, one of the strangest things happened. I preface this by saying that when someone has a rush of adrenaline, and then the exciting or scary moment passes, it must be expressed in some manner. Screaming, crying, or sighing might all be ways to do this. What did I do, you ask? I laughed. Hard. The kind of cachinnation where I couldn't catch my breath. The bust-a-rib, tears-in-the-eyes, I-almost-killed-a-man-but-didn't laughing. It just bubbled up and I couldn't contain it. My mother thought that I had lost my mind. Scott still believes that I'm certifiable and he's a little terrified of me behind the wheel.

All I know is that the man who lived to tell the tale today is probably terrified of red Pontiac Grand Ams. Someone probably should warn him that I have a different car now.

Whirr Whirr Whirr Goes the Loom

Women, we have a giant loom in our heads that is constantly going, whether we're taking a shower, eating dinner, going for a jog, or simply enjoying a popsicle. Whirr, Whirr, Whirr. I like to picture our looms like the giant one used in the movie WANTED. Only we aren't twisting our threads to discover future assinations, we are weaving every element, encounter, or event of our lives together to make sense of the world. We women, in general, are ALWAYS thinking about something, whether inane or important, that may or may not be related to the task at hand. We are making to-do lists, reminding ourselves to call people back, pondering what exactly our boss meant when she laughed, smiling at the wonderous plot of the book we're reading, cursing ourselves for eating that chocolate cake last night. Whirr. We are constructing snarky retorts incase our co-workers bother us again, we are planning how to drop 15 pounds in a month, we are sighing at the loads of laundry waiting to be done. Whirr. We are thinking of ways to show our love to our families, brainstorming ideas of how to get that new job, and worst of all, pressuring ourselves to be superwomen. Whirr. Our looms are what make us women. There is something, however, that I have discovered: I AM THE MASTER OF MY LOOM.

A few months ago, I decided in the constant whirr to commit to working out three days a week at 5 am. I was faithful to go most every time, but I started noticing something as I hit the alarm at 4:50... my mind would instantly race into action. My loom weaved around things that I needed to accomplish in the day, foods that I needed to avoid, people that I needed to contact, etc. I became like an instant pressure cooker. I decided that this was unhealthy, and I began to do something I have noticed men can do: become a like a waffle full of empty squares and think about nothing. This was a magical new land filled with nothing. I loved it. I didn't have to plan anything or think about the gloriously skinny women working out around me. I could just enjoy working out.

Ladies everywhere, I invite you to be the masters of your looms today. Grab that shuttle like the delicious James McAvoy does in WANTED and then kick everyone else's asses. Ok, you don't have to really do that, just go into waffle-land and savor the sweet stillness of nothing.

EsChewing Snickers

I have been noting Snickers' latest ad campaign, which generally involves the word "chewing" in a not-t0-subtle manner. There's one particular advertisement within the campaign that makes ABSOLUTELY no sense to me. First, I saw the sign: "Get dunked on by Patrick Chewing." Although I am a basketball fan, I could not understand what Patrick Ewing had to do with Snickers. Did he eat Snickers before playing with the big leather pumpkin? Can he dunk because he eats Snickers? Would eating Snickers bring Patrick Ewing into my life? Why would I want a seven-foot sweaty giant dunking on me??? How did this relate to eating Snickers?

Then, I saw the commercial. I thought, "Finally, I'm going to get some answers! Now it will all make sense!" As I watched the commercial, fearing to blink that I may miss the one bit that would bring the campaign together, I realized the harsh reality: there IS no point. Basically, the advertisers are saying that if I eat a snickers, Patrick Ewing will dunk on me, which will undoubtedly throw me to the floor in an oozing puddle of his sweat. How does this make me want to eat Snickers?? Friends, all of you must run away in fear of all Snickers bars. If you must ingest them, try doing it in your closet. Stuff them in your mouth while in the bathroom stall. Better yet, gorge yourself on them in Saddam's old hiding place. Whatever you do, DO NOT eat them standing under a basketball hoop raised to standard height. Otherwise, you may end up eating sweaty nougat with a slight concussion. Be chewsy.

New Blog!

Greetings! I am starting a new blog here. I have to be honest: I hate writing. It is one of my least favorite things to do, which is funny considering that I just finished three grueling years working on my master's degree that ended in a 120+ page thesis. I figure, however, that now I can write my musings in a laid-back manner, and that hopefully no one is going to grade them! I want this blog to be a place where I can be honest, ridiculous, and painfully random. Come join me on this farcical journey. I promise that you will always be amused and that in general you will feel better about yourself like when you watch Jerry Springer shows. It will be like Candyland on acid dipped in sprinkles filled with sass rolled in confusion with a dash of intellectualism. On fire.