1. My name is Rebecca, and I'm a Grammar Nazi.
You may think this is the lamest thing I could share about me, but if you were my brain reading WORDS and listening to people SPEAK, you would know how MAJOR it is. I love words. In fact, I went to college and received BA in English, so I basically have a degree in words. I love language. I love how language evolves over time. It's not a fixed thing stuck in place forever AND YET.... I cannot stand improper use of the language. Invent new words, sure, but use the old ones properly, and OBEY the RULES. Use an adjective as an adverb improperly, and I'll add the "-ly" for you under my breath or sometimes even aloud. My husband and my daughter have started doing the same thing. So, basically we're all becoming a-holes to everyone to whom we speak.
Okay, sometimes using language correctly can be a little clunky: see that last sentence. There are some rules even I can't stand, like the not starting sentences with a conjunction. Find the one(s) where I've done that. However, if I can teach you one thing today, it's this: please never ever never, never pluralize using an apostrophe. Your family is not the Smith's. You're the Smiths. You don't take the SAT's. You take the SATs. See? Easy peasy + less punctuation = win!
Now I say all that, and then I'll say this. I break the rules when I write. All the time. I leave off some commas here; put incomplete sentences there. I guess what you're learning in this section of the 5 things about me may be the most important thing of all: I'M A GIANT HYPOCRITE WHO EGREGIOUSLY USES THE CAPS LOCK KEY.
2. I Moved Around As a Kid. So many places.
I've lived a LOT of places in my life. My family lived on three continents before I even turned ten. And because I know you'll ask, no, my dad was not military. I describe him more as a nomad, a traveler, a flyer by the seat of his pants. Here, I'll illustrate how just one of those relocations occurred.
When I was nine, I came home one day from school, Loyal Heights Elementary, here in Seattle where we'd lived briefly since our return from Europe. My dad had been going to seminary, and that day on campus he'd seen a flyer on a bulletin board in one of the school building's lobbies. It basically read: "WANTED: Christian Radio needs on-air talent, lodging provided. Family preferred." It's just…this radio station? It was in North Pole. Not THE North Pole, mind you. Just plain ole regular North Pole, of the Alaskan variety. And so, that July of 1989, we each packed our bag. Singular. We each got ONE. The rest of our stuff had to go. That made six bags: one for my dad, my long-suffering mother, my first younger brother, who was born in a doctor's office in Colfax, Washington, my second younger brother, who was born on a water bed in our apartment in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and my baby sister, who was born in a proper hospital in Dublin, Ireland in 1987. Six bags. We packed those bags into the trunk of the gigantic sedan my dad was driving at the time and headed up to Alaska. To North Pole. To a log cabin on a commune.
3. I have a relationship with Mac n Cheese
My mom's Italian, so it's in my genes to love pasta, and I do, I REALLY do. Pasta of all shapes? I adore it. Then there's cheese. I mean, come on. Give me your brie, your gruyere, and all of your romano. You're with me, right? Except American cheese. That's not food. Neither is Miracle Whip, but that's a tale for another time. So, to recap: pasta? Great. Cheese? AMAZING. But, for some reason, put them together in a dish called Macaroni & Cheese, and you've triggered my gag reflex. It's a deep seated, aversion, folks, one that goes way back to my childhood. I'm deeply ashamed of it, because I really try not to be a picky eater (with the exception of American cheese, Miracle Whip and peanut butter & jelly sandwiches). In fact, I think this aversion is so deep that it's psychological rather than just palate related. I have pathetic memories of sitting at the dining room table in front of a cold, congealed bowl of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, nodding off to sleep in my chair in a stand off with my parents. I ultimately had to eat that bowl, and each bite was inevitably splashed by a salty tear as I brought it to my mouth. Since those days I've tried beautiful gourmet lobster mac n cheeses from restaurants in places like NYC and Las Vegas and all the home cook mac n cheeses I encounter everywhere from the South to Seattle, and no matter how many tries I give it, I can't with mac n cheese. I just can't.
4. I'm a Fast Walker / Slow Eater
Sigh. I can't help it, guys. I'm 5'10. My legs are long, and they were built for walking. FAST. I've got places to go, and I really want to get there. The leisurely stroll and I are not kindred spirits, not star-crossed lovers, just not a thing. I can't do them, and they can't do me. Walking slowly is akin to slivers under fingernails for me. I have no problem stopping to enjoy the sights, to snap a photo or 70, but once we get going again, we're going fast. I'm fully capable of enjoying my surroundings at 4.5mph, thank you very much. So, this fun fact feature of my personality may have lost me some friends and relationships…nearly. We mostly make up in the bar I reached first on my quickly walking legs where I have time to drink a full drink before they arrive. But don't worry, I ordered them one too, so all is well.
On the other side of the spectrum, my eating habits. I am a chewer who chews till all the chewing has been chewed.
I've been a slow eater for as long as I can remember to the extent that my dad would create eating contests at dinner. "The first kid to finish dinner gets two Whoppers (the malt ball covered in chocolate) instead of just one. READY, SET, GO!" The thing was, I was fine just getting one Whopper. That contest did not work for me. And now as an adult, eventually, the waiter approaches the table with the dessert menu and I'm all, "I'd love the tiramisu, good sir, but I have half a filet mignon to work through yet, so I guess just the check, please."
5. I'm not a dog person
Every Christmas and birthday during our stint in Alaska I would hope that one, just one, of my presents was going to have holes in it and move a bit signaling that I was FINALLY getting the puppy of my dreams. I didn't even have a breed in mind. I just wanted a puppy. GIMME THAT PUPPY!! Many years later, my first husband decided to make that childhood dream come true. It was Christmas, our first together, and there was a wrapped gift with holes and everything! Awwww, isn't that sweet? Yep, totally. Except that puppy was a Jack Russell, and I did not like it. I did not like my own dog. So, that was something I didn't know was even possible. I named her Bailey, and I kept her for 6 months, and then I got pregnant, and it gave me a reason not to have Bailey anymore. Before you hate me, know that all the research I did on the breed told me that it would chew my baby's face off. The internet is a SCARY place, friends! As a first time momma, I listened to everything it told me! As the years of my dog-free adulthood went by, I met lots of friends, many with dogs. I would pet those dogs and smile at them. Well, mostly I would pat them on the heads, and then immediately wash my hands, because dogs are gross and dirty and follow you everywhere and never let you be alone. I just want to be alone. Go away, dog!
Fast forward to nearly 3 years ago. I've bought a house with a fenced-in yard. I have a fiancé (who's now my husband). I have a teenager who has been begging me for a puppy since she could talk. My fiancé asks me to go for a walk, and we happen upon an adoption event a few blocks from our house. Crates are stacked upon crates, and little dogs sit in them. I peer in. Then a person walks by the event with a leashed dog. The crates go wild with barking and whining. All the crates save one. I immediately walked up to the silent crate where a dog lay in the back meeting my curious gaze. It was love, true love. We asked if we could hold her, and when we did, we knew she was for us. Joe, my now husband, says we have to leave her there, so Audrey can meet her before we commit. The next day we arrived right on time for the adoption event to open, paperwork in hand. Audrey fell as in love as I did, and the deal was sealed. I named her Indiana Bones AKA Indy, because one of the parts that always stuck out for me with the movie series was the damsels screaming his name Indyyyyyyyy, and it's the perfect name for her. She's as obsessed with me as I am with her. She's my baby, and I miss her more than anyone when I travel, but don't tell Joe and Aud.
So, I'm not a dog person. I'm an Indy person. I may like your dog, but I definitely don't like ALL dogs. It's a case-by-case basis thing. Sue me.