Super Power

April is good about identifying and assigning her friends their “special super power”. My super power is “defeating internet hoaxes one e-mail at a time” according to April though I really think it’s “dispensing justice one nasty e-mail at a time”, but I’m not in charge of the designations. It started back in the day when I was actually respected in my job, back when people believed I could make things like copies without careful supervision and when something like “copy making” wasn’t a dimension on my evaluation. I was in charge of all things related to the Internet. I was the one and only IT gal at our PBS station and because of that, staff constantly flooded my e-mails with the latest thing that had been forwarded to them. Most of the things I received were just so silly you couldn’t believe anyone would buy into it. Still, it was my job to look into them and to help educate the staff. I mean it was the CIO/CFO and I who unleashed the “I love you” virus on the station. I do still stand by my reasoning for opening the e-mail though, I thought the CIO cared. That and I hadn’t followed the news that night to know a threat was lurking.

Needless to say I lived on both the Snopes and Symantec sites. I still live there today because despite my best “educational” efforts, which are sometimes known as mocking friends and family openly, I still receive some of the goofiest e-mails. My friends and family are goof-proof.

For example, yesterday I got a warning to beware of toilet seats. The e-mail encouraged me to lift the seats in all public restrooms to make sure deadly bottom biting spiders weren’t lurking under the seat waiting to nibble on my ample derrière. People were apparently dropping like flies or dropping like whatever it is toilet spiders like to consume. Now, I don’t know about you, but I see public restrooms as a last resort. It’s after lunch where you had one too many drink refills and you’re stranded in Best Buy for what will probably be hours. That’s when you finally break down and head for that restroom. I see them as a last resort because typically, despite the little “employee restroom checklist” on the back of the door, they’re gross and I have a hair trigger on my gag reflex. Once I’ve surrendered to the fact that I’m going to be in there I try to put a healthy layer of anything between me and that seat. Which also speaks to another phobia of mine getting “wet tail” – a condition where you sit on something wet in the public restroom. All of you women who magically miss, something that will always amaze and baffle me, should be strung up with herds bicyclists. Anyway, since I typically won’t touch the seat to begin with, I’m not about to lift the thing up and hunt for spiders.

The e-mail was ludicrous, but still I went to Snopes just in case there was a spider problem – you never know. Low and behold there’s the article on Snopes winking at me with a big “False” in large bolded letters.
Of course, later that day I did fall for marzipan babies, but they really did look real and creepy to boot. It turned out they were little statues – creepy little statues. I’m just glad no one is eating them.

Looking for Membership Director

That job listing drew me in while browsing Craig's List the other day (thank you April for introducing me to that site). Something you need to know about me is that I occasionally think I'm 100 times more capable than I actually am and the under fed optimist in me pops open the listing thinking "I bet they'll call me for an interview... this time."

I opened up this particular listing and saw the job is for my arch nemesis The Bicycle Coalition. Booo hissss. As I've noted before, I despise bicyclists especially when they swarm so of course the one job I find within a membership department is for this organization - a cruel tribute to the ironies in my life.

For fun, I go ahead and read the requirements still trying to see myself in this role and the one line "must be enthusiastic about bicycling" glares back at me. Oh, I'm enthusiastic about bicycling. I've written countless letters to the editor sharing my enthusiasm. I've made delightful, well thought out suggestions as to what we could do to solve the bicycling menace. I just don't know why the paper hasn't seen fit to publish them yet. I'm confident they're getting around to it - possibly saving it for a special feature.

Needless to say, it's back to the drawing board in the job hunt.

IRL Part Deux!

Now before you start here, you need to make sure you've caught up on Anna's post in her Arena: In Real Life
What I'm going to write isn't going to be so much a story as random anecdotes from that trip.

For starters, I knew Anna would remember the details on why Pete was a twerp. My mind thankfully deleted some of those entries to protect me and allow me to live in my bubble. Let me add that the little racist made me remember some things I find very painful about being from the South. See, he was a Virginia boy and I guess he thought that all Southerners and possibly Texans thought like he did. Now my family originally comes from Alabama, North Carolina and Georgia. In fact, some were present when Atlanta burned. My family did fight in the Civil War for the Confederates and to this day we do bash on Yankees. Now be that as it may, the Civil War ended in 1866. When I was born the Civil Rights movement was already going strong and Martin Luther King shared his Dream. I've never known segregation. In fact, I was a minority at my school and I wouldn't have had it any other way. In college, the speakers group I chaired worked with the Black Student Alliance and we brought Bobby Seale to campus. For those who don't know him, Bobby Seale was one of the leaders and co-founders of the Black Panthers and aside from Lady Bird he was one of the most impressive people I've ever had the priviledge to meet. When I say I'm proud to be a Texan and proud of my Southern heritage I am equally ashamed of the rampant racism that you still find today. So, being around Pete made my stomach do flip flops and wonder if anyone would really miss a midget racist if he accidentally washed up on the shores of the Mississippi.

I can't stress enough how Pete made me come to terms with how much a person could hide their true personality over the internet.

Just another quick note on Pete before we return to the trip. Pete had purchased a shirt with the names of many of the bars on Bourbon Street. He liked to think of it as his "hit list" and was on a mission to go to all the bars listed there. Anna and I each had an invisible "Ditch the Loser" t-shirt (or maybe that was our aura) but that became our own personal mission.

Some highlights from the trip: On Gretna, yes the taxi driver did kindly let us follow him up onto the highway to get back to Gretna after we drove around some of the scarier parts of New Orleans. Our elation about being back on the highway was soon replaced by a sinking feeling as we accidentally exited. I say "we" even though I wasn't the driver - I played the part of the useless navigator. Now how the homeless guy came to be in the car. Anna found a guy on the street selling $10 t-shirts that said something like "God Bless America" since this all took place post the Gulf War. One thing you should know about Anna is that she's one of the most giving people I know. I, on the other hand, tend to roll up my windows and lock my doors like a good uptight citizen when I find I'm sitting at a light where a homeless person is wielding a card board "Need help. God Bless!" sign. In fact, it's at the point where at Christmas when I pretend not to see the Salvation Army bell ringers at the mall, I think "What would Anna do?" The answer is always "Anna would give whatever cash she has on her to that nice bell ringer" and then I think, while tightly clutching my purse "that sure is nice of Anna." So, Anna bought a shirt and gave the guy a lift to his shelter and he supposedly gave us directions in exchange.

Like Anna said, when we finally made it back to the hotel we were so excited we were literally jumping up and down on the beds giggling.

The next day we told Pete the Midget Loser that we were leaving town then we promptly went back to the Quarter and had the best time.

Highlights from that trip for me:

• Sitting in Jackson Square watching some of the most amazing street acrobats.
• Anna's tarot reading. We never saw that guy again and I'm convinced there was something supernatural about him. I'm also completely convinced he just couldn't be a real person. If you've ever seen the HBO series Carnivale, the guy and the whole situation had that kind of other worldly air.
• Muffalettas - when you only have $50 that is quickly dwindling away, one sandwich will feed two for two meals.
• Every minute after we ditched Pete.

IRL

In Real Life

I've been around the internet for quite some time. Granted, I wasn't there at the inception of the ARPANET, but I have had an account of some sort since around 1991 when UNIX ruled and no one had yet seen the wonders Mosaic. What I'm trying to convey if you haven't quite gotten it is that I'm a huge geek from way back. (Psst, so are my friends.)

There really weren't a lot of ways to pass your time on the internet since there certainly wasn't "the web" and MMORPGs (yes, I'm going to make you look it up, this isn't Free Acronym Definition Day) came more in the form of Telnet connections to MUDs, MUshes and MOOs (don't put the tech dictionary away just yet). I personally fell for a form of online game called a MUD (Multiple User Dungeon - hey, I'll give you one for free) where I spent hours playing with my friend Jonathan and many strangers who went by names like Khan, Thrud and Pokey. Much to Anna's mother great disdain, we brought Anna into our lurid world of internet computer gaming.

Back in those days I also had a starry eyed view of the people I played with. Back then (to distinguish it from how I feel today) I genuinely thought it was a great way to see people for who they were on the inside because you would cut through making those harsh judgments based solely on someone's looks or idiosyncrasies. I believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny then, too. What can I tell you? With that adorable bit of naiveté I set about meeting some of these newly found kindred spirits and along for most of the ride (sometimes even manning the bus) was Anna.

One of the more memorable meetings was meeting a guy named Pete whose character's name on the MUsh was something like Ender (for the non-geeks, Ender is a character in the book by Orson Scott Card called Ender's Game). We decided to meet up in New Orleans. The thinking there and I swear this was the exact thing we said "no one can have a bad time in New Orleans." I'm here to tell you, they can.

We get to our hotel in Gretna (a note to travelers to New Orleans just stay in the Quarter, if you make it to Gretna once, you'll never make it there again - the highways don't really go there and the fact you got there in the first place was a miracle. It's the Brigadoon of the South and it only appears once every 100 years) and we immediately spot his truck. It's a teal truck (a color that should be outlawed for cars) with the license plate reading "Ryker 1". Anna and I just stood there and groaned. Then up walks this midget of a guy - I swear in stacked heels he was all of 5'2" - a real little feller.

We make small talk that burns some time then we head off to find some restaurant he's heard about that is supposed to be just fantastic. Two hours later after riding the Garden District trolley and being forced to march up and down a street we find the place. Anna's medicine had just eaten a hole in her stomach, the midget almost got his wallet stolen and we're very anxious to simply sit down and eat. Anna and I were dressed "Austin casual" meaning I have on rolled up denim shorts and a hot pink tie dye shirt while Anna is similarly dressed. Let me just say in our town, you can go almost anywhere dressed like that without raising a brow. We find the restaurant after finally getting Pete to agree that it's ok to ask people on the street even if they do work at other restaurants for directions. As we perused the menu Anna and I immediately realized we were completely in over our head. I think I may have brought $50 for the entire trip and Anna was about in the same boat but had the joys of car trouble to add to making the trip extra fun. The money I had was supposed to cover gas, a couple of day's worth of food, drinks and souvenirs. See, when you're really young, you're REALLY stupid about budgeting.

The restaurant was indeed one of New Orleans' finest. In fact, it was so fine that a police officer was standing outside the door where we were gaining attention for gawking at the menu. Well, we were really gawking at the prices and having to engage in low mumbled conversations about whether we could afford to split a salad. The officer asked if we were lost or at least he did in my memory because we certainly looked out of place. Pete chimed in with "well, the ladies aren't sure if they're dressed appropriately". For the record, neither was he. The officer was kind and said "well, you're still early and it will probably be ok." In we go where EVERYONE from the customers to the bar guy to the wait staff turned around and stared. You could hear a pin drop and I'm sure some eldery ladies screamed right before fainting. Anna and I had the decency to be completely embarrassed while Pete marched in with his head held high. At least high enough so he could be seen above the tables and chairs.

Anna and I were still trying to figure out if they charged for water when Pete grandly announced "Ladies, the meal is on me!" OH HELL YES IT IS - but that was more a few facial twitches that Anna and I shared. Bib boy then proceeded to have some lobster and who knows what else. I can't even remember my meal thanks to trying to melt underneath the table and avoid stares.

I realize that this doesn't convey that Pete was a twerp, but trust me when I say he was. In fact, I'm going to let Anna tell you all about that on her side of this Big Blue Mess.

Later that night we ended up at Pat O'Brien's like good tourists. $50 won't get you a nice meal at a fancy restaurant, but it will buy you a couple of fine Hurricanes and when you're dealing with an internet twerp you need a few. At first I started off fine, listening to Pete carry on about life as an overly tall ass whuppin' midget (pardon the language but "butt kicking" doesn't capture how over the top this guy was with his great killer instincts and boy did he carry on about how he could kill people). Some back story, Anna knows ASL (c'mon, you've got to know that one). She's studied sign language since she was in Elementary school and received her degree in Deaf Education - she's beyond finger spelling, which I am not. So, as Pete told us about his prowess as a Napoleon Complex riddled assassin, I spelled out my real thoughts with my fingers in my hair to Anna while nodding politely at Pete. I would subtlety cast my eyes Anna's way to make sure she understood. Well, turns out the more you drink the more you lose track of the spatial relationship between arms and hair so that I was finally finger spelling my thoughts out to the middle of the table and my slight glances to Anna turned into me turning my head directly at Anna and staring until she had to wave me off.

The evening ended with me staggering out to the middle of Bourbon Street where Anna refused to beat up some woman (who had it coming, I might add!!!) and some accident involving more drunken touriests and an ambulance. I remember Pete loudly commenting something like "I don't like rubber neckers" when we glanced over to see what was going on. Well that did it, you don't challenge Anna who then immediately became THE world champion rubber necker by standing up on a lamp post to get a better view. I staggered after the ambulance and we found Pete, humiliated by our antics, but still able to jam out with his air guitar against a building. Rock on, Pete!

The stories go on, but you all need a break so go check out Anna's latest update.

The Kitties

A couple of you asked for a Hodi update. She's doing fine. She's going to have to keep her stitches in for another week and it looks like she may have some allergies which are causing her ears to be very itchy (which is what contributed to her little hematoma springing up). She's starting a new diet - duck and peas. Don't ask. I was told if I want to give her treats they should be duck and pea treats. Ummm... I'm sure she'll love me tossing peas to her. Here she is in all her bonnet glory.

I'd like to point out that we do not decorate in leopard print, nor do we have swords on our walls or collections of action figures. Honest, we're not geeks!


This other picture is of Sage. Sage is currently convinced her sister is an alien. Hodi smells weird, she doesn't clean her face, she has a shaved paw and what's up with that bonnet? Does she think she's a flower? Jay decided it was time to help Sage understand how it feels to have something stupid on your head, so she's been treated to playing "Reindeer Sage". Admittedly this picture is from Christmas, but she has donned the antlers a couple of times since then. Sage, who is really good natured puts up with the antlers because it means someone is spending time with her and touching her. She's honestly not being victimized unless you count having blue bonnet girl huffing around your house and sitting in all the wrong laps. I'm sure Sage is convinced Hodi just did this for attention.

Chiseling Away My 15 Minutes of Fame

I was reflecting on the Lady Bird story this morning and how I'm 100% certain I will die in some really stupid, front page worthy and ridiculous way. This lead me to thinking about the times I have actually made it into the media. I like to call this further proof that I'm destined for prat falls and circus clowns when my big moment arrives.

A few years ago I attended a convention in Las Vegas. Yes, it was a "geek" convention where you pull out your best pairs of Converse and throw on your Witchblade t-shirt and you pat yourself on the back as you think "hey, at least I'm not wearing that Chewbacca get-up" because it prooves that maybe you're NOT the geekiest of the geekies. There were several camera crews rolling about and thanks to my PBS pledge training, I'm simply not aware of them. (Thirty plus pledge drives and cameras begin to play the same roll in your life as your coat rack does to you.) A few weeks roll past and one of my co-workers at PBS says "Hey Beth, were you at that convention? I saw you on Tech TV." WOO HOO! I made Tech TV. It's like Nerd Nirvanna for me. My Dad watches Tech TV, we watch Tech TV. I've arrived! Off I go to look at the footage because deep in the back of my mind is "what if I did something stupid" and "when was I around a camera" but the optimist in me (which is like your appendix in you; it's mostly non-functioning and no one really knows what it's there for) says "maybe it's not that bad." The segment went on for some time and I'm combing the crowds looking for a shot of me "in action" maybe chatting people up or maybe running around looking nerdy yet smart. Then we find the cameras at the banguet and GREAT there I am at the head of the food buffet line with my plate loaded for bear - like I'd never seen food in my life. A portion of my 15 minutes burned on big slabs of meat, pasta salad and mounds of mashed potatoes (mmm). Kendra, whose hand was also in the shot... well, her plate was... has this gigantic plate and one tiny little thing in the middle. Great. I can tell you my thinking at the time was "I paid $89 for this convention and I'm getting my moneys worth!" but when I had that thought I didn't factor in all of America watching me indulge.

The next time I took another chunk out of my 15 minutes was in one of those moments where I thought I was being clever. This will always be my downfall. John Kelso, a local columnist and humorist, invited readers to make suggestions about renaming a particular block that was under development downtown. Kelso hates Californians, I hate Californians and as a Texan they teach you that in "How to Be a Better Texas 101" which you get around the time you get your hygiene and the differences between boys and girls lectures in gym class. I can't tell you why we hate Californians, it just is. It's like asking why do Southerners hate Yankees? Sure, the Civil War but these days it's just because that's the way it is... that and they have obnoxious attitudes, talk funny and think they're better. Come to think of it, that's why we hate Californians.

My suggestion to Kelso was "New Cali" - kind of like how we got "New York" or "New Jersey". It was my acknowlegement of the fact that we've been inundated with Californians and since this block was probably going to end up having 30 Starbucks (yes, I know they're from Seattle) and a couple of tofu houses and Yoga centers it should reflect the people who would doubtlessly frequent the place. I wrote this up and sent it to Kelso thinking maybe he'll get a chortle and indeed he wrote me back. It made my day. Then Kelso calls my house and says "Beth, I think I'm going to put that in an article". I mean, sure I was happy that Kelso thought I wrote something worth mentioning in his column, but really I wasn't being particularly clever when I wrote it. I was actually kind of being nasty about the whole thing. If I had known it was going to be in one of his columns I would have actually tried to be funny. So, it made the paper and it reads like someone threw a dead fish on the page. Great. More of my 15 minutes ticking away.

Now let me say that I do occasionally try to make the paper but usually not as a hater of all things Californian. I try to be known as a rabid bicyclist hater. I occasionally get inspired, whip up something full of bile about the swarms of bicyclists traveling in packs around town and I submit it to the paper. I usually get something back from the editor saying it is being considered and would I like my picture next to it. Of course I would. I want those bicyclists to know my face and make a path when I'm coming down the street. Then the days go by and my witty little editorials aren't printed. It's a shame.

I know this story is straying, but I live in the town of Lance Armstrong. We love Lance. I especially love Lance when he's winning again and again at the Tour de Lance, but as much as I love him, if he's heading down the street with 50 of his bicycling, road hogging friends I don't see Lance. I see 50 little road bumps between me and the grocery store.

So now it's a waiting game. I figure I've got another 13 minutes or so left of fame and I'm sure my next plunge into the media will be equally as humiliating or anti-climatic. It won't be me doing something great like saving puppies from alligators that were flushed into the sewer system. Say it with me now, "it's hard to be me".

Lady Bird

Again, this is an OLD story that everyone has heard some version of, but remember guys you told me to practice - you all and your silly notions that I'll get better with time.

Back in the day I worked for a PBS station in my home town. One of the joys of working in the non-profit world is attending non-profit events so you can kowtow to your social superiors in the desperate hopes they will rain money on your head. (See dictionary.com for other words I think suit those events when describing my job duties - words like "obsequious" and "servile". The word "prostrate" also works well in getting to the root of how I conceptualize my function at the station.)

This particular event was in an older building that had been renovated into a downtown loft. One of the old offices in the building (I'm sure a 2 bedroom/1 bath affair now) had formerly been occupied by President Johnson. That meant for this event, it was best to have Lady Bird along to bless it along with a pack of old Texas political cronies.

I was loitering in the lobby like a good staff peon making small talk and throwing the occasional fake smile about when I was told "Beth, you're going to be an elevator operator. The real operators are late." My face twitched as if they'd told me I was going to scrub the floors with a toothbrush. So, off I go to the elevators wondering when exactly people forgot how to press buttons on their very own. Although, again we're dealing with the rich and the rich don't press things for fear of straining a tendon in their fingers. (Get the impression I have "rich people" issues, yet?) I'm manning my elevator when my first gang of button challenged people arrives. Of course, it's Lady Bird Johnson. The first lady of Texas. Walking, talking, living history. With her was Jake Pickle (a well respected congressman from these parts who served in the House of Representatives for decades), Lucy (Lady Bird's denture clucking HD/AD daughter) and a pack of Lady Bird wranglers. I press "9" for the floor that Lady Bird is supposed to greet people on and am making mental notes to share stories with everyone. I mean, it's LADY BIRD on MY elevator!

The doors to the elevator closed... and didn't reopen... and the thing didn't move... Someone was having a bit of wicked fun with me that involved trapping me on the elevator with some very well respected and famous people so that when we all died, I'd be the footnote - the "oh, and at the bottom of the pile was some PBS nobody that was used as padding. We suspect cannibalism, but Lady Bird swears she gained weight BEFORE the trip".

I'm panicked at this point and so was spastic Lucy who proceeds to press ALL THE BUTTONS - every single button from 1-9. Funny how under stress even the most well-to-do can figure out how to make an elevator work. Finally, after several long and agonizing minutes the elevator moves. (Nice job architects that restored this building - way to scrimp funds on the elevator. I'm sure Otis is proud.) On the 2nd floor, Lucy hurls herself out of the elevator and beckons for the others to follow with a demanding "come on, mama!!!!". The thing is though that Lady Bird has seen one too many major events in her life to let a slow elevator rile her so she shakes her head at Lucy and insists on staying put. I'd like to think Lady Bird chose me over Lucy. Victory for me!

We stop on EVERY floor (thank you again, Lucy - I appreciate your button pushing skills) all the way up to the 9th, but the nicest thing about it was having Lady Bird along for the ride. She told stories about many of the floors and stories about LBJ. Again, she's an amazing lady and I'm really glad I wasn't a footnote in her obituary that day.

That's not the end, however. I have to goof on Lori. Later that night Lori and I were doing something highly important - namely, finding the free volunteer food on the 7th floor since the elevator manning had been quite taxing; it leaves one a little peckish. We're on the elevator and in rolls Liz Carpenter in her jogging suit and silver lamé sneakers. If you're not familiar with Ms. Carpenter, she was the White House staff director and press secretary to Lady Bird Johnson. Liz is a smart woman but a loud woman and she's mighty proud to be a Democrat. Liz's destination was that same 9th floor I'd dropped Lady Bird off on earlier that day. My thinking as she rolled into the elevator thus blocking any conceivable way out was that we'd skip the 7th floor and just come back down after.

Unwittingly, Liz had something to say about that. Liz, with her captive audience, began to carry on about being a Democrat, about voting Democrat and I'm sure something about getting Democrat tattooed on your nose when Lori hit her "Democrat chat" limit. Remember, these elevators redefined the meaning of slow so this Democrat talk and gone on for quite some time and when I say "captive" audience, I'm serious. The elevator doors finally opened on the 7th floor and I'm still on the "we'll wait plan" when Lori, who has these long legs, just steps over Liz from the back of the elevator. I'm sure the adrenaline driving Lori to get off the elevator at that moment made her legs stretch even longer, because I swear in one step she went from the back of the elevator, cleared Liz whose wheelchair took up at least 15 feet and was out of the door. Being a good friend, I couldn't just let Lori hang out alone so I have to start pressing through with the "excuse me's" "pardon me's" "oh, I'm sorry's". We were at long last elevator free or at least free enough that there aren't anymore elevator stories related to this event.

I have to confess that in a small way I do miss the PBS events like this. Lady Bird, or really anyone of her caliber, is highly unlikely to stroll through the doors at my lowly state offices. You just can't top the stories that came from working at PBS nor those brushes with fame and with living history.

Signs of Aging

I'm getting old. I know this not because I've given up Saturday cartoons (well, I have... but only because they're bad) nor is it because my teeth have all decided to mutiny and fall out of my head. It's because of a dream. I had THE best dream the other night about toothpaste. Yes, toothpaste. But you see, it was a really GREAT toothpaste. In my dream I picked it up from the pharmacist and had a fantastic teeth brushing. When I woke up I was so excited that my first thought wasn't "ugh, I'm dreaming about toothpaste - how lame", it was "WOW! I need to see if they have some of that at the pharmacy!" Step aside Brad Pitt you've got nothing on good dental care.

It's the little things that get me going these days.

Doggedly Loyal: A How To Guide

How to be a Better Girlfriend

Jonathan and I were having an email exchange today and he confessed to not knowing “when to say attagirl or she’s a (insert colorfully appropriate adjective)” in support of a female friend. Seeing that I’ve mastered the art, I created a little “how to” guide to help him along the way.

Here’s the key to being doggedly loyal when it comes to your friends. The most important rule to remember is there is no fence sitting on an issue. You always choose a side and the right side is the one your friend is standing on. If your friend says they were wronged, then it’s 100% gospel, they were wronged. Don’t even worry yourself with trying to see both sides. There are no two sides. There’s the one side. The one your friend is on and let me say again for emphasis, that’s the “right” side.

The only time you need to worry about offering an unbiased opinion is when the problem might split a good friendship. If you tap into your psychic powers where you can divine the future and that future is looking a tad bleak then you might timidly offer up your differing opinion. Do this only after the person has finished venting because differing opinions = bad 99% of the time. Do it in a meek way. Approach the friend quietly, keeping your head low and eyes averted to the ground. If the friend shows any signs of aggression, tuck into a little ball and cover your head. If that doesn’t work, roll onto your back and stick your arms and legs straight up into the air. There’s a good chance the friend will mistake you for dead and just move on.

Let’s assume you didn’t have to play dead and move on to the next tip. Another important thing to do while your friend is venting it to occasionally interject with supportive commentary that proves the friend’s points. You can never go wrong with phrases like “mmm hmmm”, “Amen” or “sing it, sister!” If they say someone is scum of the earth, then you can list types of scum (mold, mildew – anything that Tilex will clean up will do) to show your unwavering support. Don’t go overboard, though. This is VERY important to remember because you can find you’ve said something that your friend doesn’t agree with. Nothing makes you look less informed than interjecting something like “and they’re bad singers, too” only to find out your friend owns all their albums. The next thing you know you’ve stepped in the proverbial “it” and that friend’s anger has just turned on you.

As a doggedly loyal friend, your job is to be a flame fanner – wave your arms around like a fool to keep things going, but keep a safe enough distance so that you’re not engulfed. If the flames start licking your way remember “play dead”. Fire heading your way = bad. Most fires are flash fires and burn out quickly. Just remember it’s best to let it burn rather than trying to stomp out a blaze in your tennis shoes (aka trying to make your friend “see reason”).

Something else to remember is that it’s not enough to go through the motions of being on your friend’s side by flapping your gums in support or putting on a supportive little puppet show, you’ve got to feel it in your gut.

Now off you go! You’re already a better friend!

And April, that woman better not cross my path any time soon because I’ll jerk her head so hard she’ll lose her mullet.

My Birthday

This is an old story... well, not quite Ice Cream Man old, but a couple of months. As the site gets going the stories will be fresher, but in the mean time I've got to keep Lori entertained. It's a job I take quite seriously.

Every year for my birthday I force my friends to go rollerskating; it's a goofy thing to do and nothing beats seeing your friends crawl around the rink looking like spastic tight-rope walkers without a net. (For those of you who missed it this year and didn't respond to my lovely and well-crafted invitation, I've made notes and you know how I can hold a grudge. Just because I don't acknowledge your birthdays is no reason not to acknowledge mine. You didn't do me the courtesy of being born on a holiday like I kindly did for you, which means I haven't a clue when your birthday really is.)

Aftwards, we typically go out to eat then we all go our separate ways and call it a night. This year those that could still walk went to Chili's. I wasn't in the mood, but I troopered through it. As I was standing in the entry way I reached back to give Jay a little tummy scritchin'. It's something I do to let him know that I know he's there behind me being a part of the activities. As I'm scritchin' away my index fingers picks up on the texture of his shirt - a bit ribbed - I didn't recall the shirt ever being ribbed, but I can't recall scritchin' that particular shirt. (Mind you, I'm talking to people this entire time. I'm making eye contact the whole time. These were people who SAW what I was doing. People who didn't stop me. The kind of people that would let you tuck your skirt into your hose and parade around a crowd, the kind of people who would let you wear gobs of ketchup on your face while spinach waved to the world from all your teeth - those kind of people. You call them "friends". I won't tell you what I call them. Back to the shirt - I'm still scritchin', talking to "friends" when my index finger discovers a breast. My index finger sends a signal to my brain that translates exactly into something like "???". And in that instant Jay, who was standing within inches of the ribbed shirt, grabs my hand, April shouts to the world "Beth, stop molesting me!!!" and everyone looks at me in horror while I attempt to melt into the floor and die. Unfortunately, "friends" don't let you die on the floor.

We make a few jokes about it and I'm thinking, ok the whole event has passed and in 45 years when I'm long dead I'll laugh about it. "No one is going to make a big deal about it unless you do, Beth" - that's what I try to console myself with. Then I hear back from April the following week. It seems that April is setting up re-enactments at home and work for those who missed out. (With complete strangers at the grocery store, people in the laundry mat, you get the picture.) The ol' "Ok, you stand here and you be me. I'm Beth and I'm like over here reaching back scratching your tummy. Oh, you come over here, you're Jay and you're doing this..." Don't think I don't know about the rest of you putting on the same performances, too. I hate you all. I mean that in a loving and supportive way. For those of you who think I'm just continuing to draw more attention to it when it has probably naturally died on its own, well I'm "taking control of the story". That's what I'm telling myself.

Kudos - Props

I just want to acknowledge April and all the hard work she's put into making the website really sizzle. April, you've done a bang-up job! It's better than I could have ever imagined it. I can't begin to express how grateful I am for your taking the time to make the website look so great. BRAVO!

Of course none of this would have ever happened if it weren't for Anna kick-starting the whole thing from hosting the domain to actually making me work on it. Thanks for recognizing my laziness and actually kicking me.

I could hug both of you, but could we just settle for a pat on the shoulder and some "that a girls"?

The Vet

Just last week I had the vet drop by to check on my cats. Their vaccinations were long overdue and one of the cats was a bit under the weather. I couldn't find my old vet so I went with someone new who was listed under "mobile vets". Anyone who has ever tried to wrestle two cats into a cage or has had the joy of driving them around longer than 5 minutes realizes the great value of a vet that will stop by your place. Now this woman was totally lovely for a vet. She wasn't my Dr. J, who should be named St. J, but more that reedy Austin hippy-ish type that you typically find at folk festivals listening to Robert Earl Keene or Marcia Ball. She had a sweet little tech running around with her who had those scrubs with all the animals on them - a person you just want to hug. The tech wasn't introduced to me, but like I said she was certainly sweet and I liked her up to the point where she asked "can I see your litter box?" Errr... ok. Dr. J never wanted to visit the litter box, but maybe our bathroom was just that off-putting. I lead her to the litterbox where she proceeded to whip out a vial and nab one of my cat's stools. Maybe it's just me, but people don't typically come into my home to thieve one of my cat's special "presents". Fine, she was going to run some tests - I get that now. Honestly, I've never seen anyone so HAPPY about their latest acquisition. Happy in a really creepy and wrong way. HAPPY in an ALL CAPS kind of way. We're talking nearly singing a song and doing a dance kind of happy. Then she made off with it out of the house and disappeared for awhile leaving me with the vet while she was doing heaven knows what to it. The vet had to step out for a bit then returned later with the bill and results of some tests she ran. The bill read something like "stool float". Not to be overly crass, but I could have nabbed one of those little treasures myself and floated it for free. Of course, I would have never done it with such enthusiasm. By all means, you should love the job you do but let's not get weird about it.

Utopia

One of my gifts in this world is the ability to rant. Some of my friends are talented doctors, others are gifted techno-philes as well as scientists and the like. Me, I complain. It’s a God given gift that I can’t ignore because I feel that it would be wrong to deny my true nature. My gift has been handed down through the generations, and I’d like to think I’ve really made it into a finely honed talent; I’ve embraced it. With that in mind…

Jay and I were watching a recent “America’s Most Wanted”. Honestly, I haven’t watched the show in a good decade but it happened to precede something I did want to watch. The show featured a con man and pedophile who went by the name Stryder Starfyr, which sounded like Star Fire. He had a long list of incredible stories which included claiming to be from a long line of Celtic kings. With that, he managed to convince a group of people to follow him and begin to form a commune. Let’s just stop right there for my rant since I’m going to avoid all the criminal activities that soon followed.

His name is Stryder? Here you are a full grown adult and someone comes up to you and says “Hi, my name is Stryder.” At what point does your brain check-out and you say “now here’s someone I can trust”? Let’s just assume you’re not up on J.R. Tolkien’s work, do you at least pause when he adds the last name that sounds like Star Fire? Even still, he presses on and says “I’m from this long line of Kings and I want to start a new Kingdom here with you as my followers.” As an adult, what sort of drug induced naïve coma do you have to be in to say “hey, that sounds like a fine idea, in fact, the kids have got to see this!”? (Again, for emphasis sake I’m not blaming his very young victims; I’m just terribly surprised that this particular con worked.)

I mean I do get that part of the 1970’s where people dreamed of living in communes leading idyllic peace-filled utopian lives, but I thought the 1980’s made us a bit more jaded (and a tad more greedy). When I hear about people being reeled in by things like this these days it makes me want to give them a pat on the head and feed them a cookie, because you shouldn’t be mean or cruel to simple people.

I guess it ultimately may be just me. The kind of things that work on me are a lot different than this (I’ve known too many fantasy roleplayers in my life – heck, I’m sure I’ve been made their Geek Queen by now – all hail me!) and I’d like to pretend that cons that would work on me are a little more complex (like Beth, there's something on your mouth - works every time). Seriously, if you’ve just popped on over from the Shire, please just scamper on to the next Dunedain you come across or simply sail on West with Bilbo and the other Keepers of the Rings. I’m not buying your goofy little utopia here.

Work Stories

I just wanted to address some requests I've received about sharing my work stories. I know, I know, I know, you love 'em and people like Ed's Grandma feel like an old family friend by now; however, I just can't do those stories here. At least not the current stories about where I work these days. The best reason I can give is by definition/example:
To be Dooced
Basically, it's a great way to terminate your employment.

So, for the time being satirical bits about super heroes, people hiding in my office and others decorating their yards with fallen street signs will have to be left to e-mail. I'll still goof on them, don't you worry, but it won't be here.

On a positive note, I can't be fired from my family so they're open game as far as I see it.