Bander Cat

Tori (aka Toree, aka Bisschen, aka Wee or Wee Ebil – our favorite h8ling) sent me the following about her sister Beth’s cat, Bander Cat. Tori was kind enough (I’m sure lightning is striking the same place multiple times) to let me share:

I was reading your Big Blue Mess and stumbled on the story of Kitty Biscuit
... I know where he is!!! He’s gone home to be with Bander Cat ... full name
Bander Snatch (named after a bar in Tempe, AZ) ... AKA Bander Cat Black Bastard
Spawn of Satan ... This is/was Beth and Scott’s cat.

See ... Scott’s girlfriend got this cat. Scott hates cats. This sweet little
black cat with legs too short for his body and a even shorter tail got lost one
day; he was picked up by the fuzz fuzz. Kitty Jail! ... Scott being the good
boyfriend went and rescued this sweet kitten. Brought him home ... gave him some
milk and was thanked with a swarm of claws to his bare legs. What happened to
Bander in kitty jail we will never know, as he would never speak of it. He came
out a changed cat. Hardened and bitter and MEAN.

Bander loved half and half (who doesn’t?). He liked a dish for breakfast. He would come into the kitchen at coffee time and ask in his ever so sweet way ... /claw claw /bleed /bleed. You gave up the creamy goodness as fast as you could.

Bander also had a girlfriend - Beth’s very expensive huge fluffy
Victoria's Secret terry robe. Bander called it his "bitch" and he would use and
abuse the robe daily. If you tried to shake him off his girlfriend you were
clawed until you ran bleeding and screaming from the room. Bander
disappeared one day. Beth and Scott waited and waited for his return. After a
week they came to terms with the fact that Bander was gone. They rejoiced.

Another week rolls around and the couple across the street return from their two-week vacation. They open their garage door and out runs Bander.
Weak and pissy he runs across to his house.

Into the kitchen he goes ... Beth and Scott are stunned. Bander has been two weeks without food or water! Beth grabs the 1/2 & 1/2 bottle from the fridge and
/claw/claw /bleed/bleed ... Bander thanks her for the treat and the welcome
home.

Beth and Scott decide to move farther north and its moving day. Scott has the cat carriers hidden so Bander doesn’t get wise. We clean the house they are leaving ... spic and span. This place gleamed! I just finished the kitchen floor as the last thing done before we roll out of town when Scott runs in the back door pouring blood all over my spotless floor. He looks like he fought and lost to a piece of farm equipment! Chain Saw? Wood Chipper? Nope ... Bander. Seems he took offense to the whole cat carrier thing (kitty jail flashback?)

Years later Beth and Scott are moving back to AZ.
Bander is wise to this packing, moving truck, cleaning behind the fridge thing.
He up and disappears. It is minutes to take off. Three days drive ahead of us.
Still no Bander.

We leave a cat carrier with the new homeowners with a phone number to a local friend. “If Bander shows up please crate him /snicker and call this number. A friend will pick him up and mail his carcass to AZ.”

Off we go ... Three days drive. We get to AZ and our house isn’t ready ... OY ... Off we go to visit and crash at various houses of people we hadn’t seen in years. Scott parks the truck out in the desert to wait for unloading.

Four days go by and we get the nod to move in. Of course this is AZ in the summer and the average temp has been 102. We start unloading. Soooo Hooooot ... Muuust geeet beeer. As I sit my hinny on the back of the truck ... pretending to be pondering where the next item should go ... I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Yup, you guessed it ... Bander Cat

7 days ... no water ... no food (unless you count the hops from Scott’s home brewing being nibbled on but not eaten) 4 of those days in the back of a closed moving truck in 102 degree weather. He’s Alive! ... He’s the anti Christ! Why isn’t he dead? Oh yes ... this cat is EVIL!

To make a looong story shorter. Bander never forgave them for the truck thingy. He moved into the sewers of Mesa, AZ and made fast friends with the rats. He still
came home in the morning to tear legs to shreds for his morning cream, but other
then that he was sewer bound.

One day he never came home for his half and half. They assumed he finally went to be with his dark lord. Nobody is sure ... They still get calls from people who swear they have seen him ... Bander Cat ... Spawn of Satan ... Friend of Kitty Biscuit?

House Warming

For those of you who feel compelled to get me something - I want gift certificates to Lynn's house. If you feel gift certificates are a bit tacky, then just pop on over to Henderson, NV, grab something... anything... her dogs, the fuzzy curtains, oh alright, I'll let you choose - we want this to be a surprise and you really can't go wrong shopping at her place.

Lynn, would you mind adding yourself to Amazon? Thanks in advance for the Rising Stars prints. Tell Buddy he's the best!

Moving, Reunions, Mountains

I’ve really only got three things on my mind this morning – the house, the reunion, and a headline that reads, “boy finds Welsh mountains, wins 25k”.

The house – we’re closing tomorrow at noon. Everyone keeps asking if I’m excited and honestly I have to say that I’m not. We’ve got a big move and there’s just too much to do to get excited. I look at the sea of cardboard in our place and feel overwhelmed, and then I do just about anything to pretend the boxes aren’t there. Jay actually has to move things out of my line of site if I get a certain crazed and frustrated look on my face. In fact that frustration, which comes from an inability to focus, seeped into our big office lunch yesterday. One of the directors had to move something from in front of me because I was quietly freaking out. Of course, she did it with a smile and a “mama will take care of that.” Ugh. The more we pack, the more the junk in our place seems to multiply. I think it’s growing from some malicious intent to really push me over the edge. My real reprieve from boxes has been killing 15-year old kids online. “Take that little Brandon Born with a Controller in Your Hand, you’re up against a Pong master! Fear my X,Y oriented wrath.” I know, I know, I’m a menace. Now say that sentence like you’re channeling Ben Stein.

The reunion – wow, what can I say about it than hasn’t been said a million times by a million other people and doubtlessly better than I could say it. I heard from my friend Karen who sent me a note with the subject line of “Do you remember me?” Then I just felt bad because it reminded me of Tammy’s lament “no one will know me, why should I bother.” If I had forgotten Karen, I would have forgotten a big piece of my high school experience. Karen is my kind of geek. How do you forget the person you sat outside a theater waiting for the premiere of “The Wrath of Khan”? In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw the premiere of “Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom”. It was the only movie I’ve ever screamed in. Hey, I’m not a fan of bugs – don’t you judge me. I had such a fit I threw popcorn on the people behind me and got the look from Karen and a girl named Andrea. I was later admonished and told that Andrea’s mother didn’t like screaming in movies. Well, I’m glad she’s a big fan of bugs, but I’m not going to take them on the big screen sitting quietly.

The one funny theme I find is that everyone focuses on this kid Mark, including me. I don’t know why it is that he is the poster boy of what we don’t look forward to, but there’s no way around it; he just is. He was an athlete, popular, in all the honors classes, hung out with the “right” sort if there is such a thing and married his high school sweetheart. That last bit gives me the willies in major ways. High school sweetheart marriages are up there with kissing cousins in my book. I mean hey, it’s your right to never leave high school, but go out and experience the world. It’s a great thing that I’m not judgmental.

One of the people I do hope shows up is a gal named Lara. Some of you know the Lara story. She’s the one that pressured me into finding out what my class standing was in 9th grade – when it doesn’t matter. Lara was #4 and I’m sure she was hankering to gloat. I came back from the registrar’s office giddy and dropped the news on Lara “I’m in the top 3; they won’t tell me my place.” (That was the only time I ranked that high thanks to a year of Geometry.) Lara’s face crumbled and then she went onto explain how stupid and undeserving I was. Let’s just say that come graduation day when there was a close race for valedictorian and salutatorian and all three contenders had to write speeches I laughed in big ugly ways as Lara sniffled and blubbered her way across the stage. She came in 3rd. I’m a grudge holder – don’t you judge me. The valedictorian was the head cheerleader, which made Lara’s loss even more delicious and at least up until college Lara felt this girl had cheated her way to the top.

Anyway, I’m trying to stack the reunion so that people I like will be there. At the last one only Ernie showed up. Marco, Rocco’s brother, gave me the slip – the ol’ “I’m going to get a drink and be right back” only never to return. “Guy, I didn’t even want you within 30 feet of me, stop pretending like having you breathe air around me was some sort of special treat.” Really, the highlight for me was at the family picnic when a gal named Paula, who had been a model, sat dramatically by the pool with a big floppy hat while her scantily clad boy toy fanned her and slathered her with lotion. I don’t think she interacted with anyone, she just posed and got fanned.

That’s my 2 cents on the reunion.

Kid Finds Welsh Mountains, Wins 25k – Were they lost? How did they misplace the Cambrian Mountains? Do people lose their job for that? People who write headlines that greet you like this first thing in the morning should be shot unless they forward along heavy doses of caffeine.

I’ll try to think of stories, but right at this moment no one is acting out. I’m out of anecdotes. Hopefully, after the move and closer to the reunion I’ll have something.

I will leave you all with one bit of advice – Let’s say you’re talking to people you used to go to school with and were maybe neighbors with and you’re thinking “ugh” – just mention that their brother is nuts and you frequently see him dancing in their family’s store window. Those people will go away. Don’t you judge me.

Token Blonde

We all have our badges of honor to bear. Lori is the diversion, April is the tumbler and I’m the token blonde. I earned my title and I’m proud. Ok, I’m not really “proud” it’s more the case that I’ve accepted it.

So Friday I call up Jay to give him the latest house update. As I finish punching in his numbers my cell phone starts ringing. I immediately hang up guessing it’s Jay trying to reach me. I don’t manage to get to the phone in time, but that’s not surprising – getting to my cell phone usually involves my purse exploding. I figure Jay realized I was calling him and hung up. I waited a couple of minutes to see if he was going to call back but then realized he was probably waiting for me. I call again. My cell phone starts ringing again. Hmph. I grab the cell phone while staying on the line and see it’s some number I don’t recognize. I click ignore to send the person to voice mail. I then get Jay’s voicemail. How rude! But I suppose he’s busy. The automated message starts, “The person you are calling…” and my voice chimes in with my name, “…is not available…” *CLICK* GRRRR!

It’s hard to be me. Just for the record though my work phone routes through a switch board so the number I saw was not my number. I didn’t recognize it at all. Also, Jay’s number is 1 number off from mine.

I called up Jay and told him I was too stupid to own a phone, then I called up April who was very sympathetic and busted out laughing at me. I live to please!

Kelso's Response

Thanks so much for the invite. I'll try to make it by. Big question:
Are Pinky and Punky going to be there?
Thanks again for thinking of me.
C. Frick

My Letter to Kelso

What follows is the e-mail I sent to Kelso regarding the upcoming reunion. For those of you not familiar with John Kelso, he's a columnist for the Austin American Statesman who writes humorous pieces focusing around Austin. In my 11th grade year John Kelso spent a week under the psuedonymn "Clarence Frick" at my high school. He wrote about what it was like to be a high school student at that time in his column.

Dear Clarence:

Your fellow Travis High alums would be honored if you'd attend your class' 20-year reunion. Your time at Travis was short but memorable and although we were a little hurt that you'd originally wanted to spend it at Crockett, we forgave you. Obviously the fates meant for you to be at our doors. You missed prom, the 10 year reunion, and the 15 year reunion. Quite frankly people were beginning to wonder, "what happened to that Clarence kid? You know, the one with all the facial hair that got the preferential treatment?"

Anyway, we'd love to have you at one or all of the events. We won't even make you go to the day spa and get gussied up before attending. (This is a reference to one of Kelso's recent articles where he went with his new wife and step-daughter to a day spa.)

The information is all contained on the website: www.travishighschool.org
- keep your speakers low, and the contrast on your monitor turned up high (I'm not sure of the whole red on grey thing; I'm sure I'll be booted from the reunion for remarking on it). I'm leaving the website's address on this post because it's truly an eye/ear sore. Something you all should take a special moment to gawk at.

Jason Spencer said if you had any questions, he'd love to talk to you. He's one of those "official" reunion coordinator types. He just put me in charge of the "Kelso wrangling" for having the bright idea and big mouth. He also said the reunion committee would waive the fee - magnanimous guy, he is! :)

Here's Jason's info (he's a good guy for being a George W man): (removed - I'm not giving you guy's Jason's personal information)
The reunion events are on June 16th & 17th. http://www.travishighschool.org/Event.html

We look forward to seeing you!

Here is a copy of the yearbook page. Look for the kid on the 5th row - 3rd column. Pay no attention to the kid on the 3rd row - 1st column.

The Claw: Other Uses

Several of you reminded me that "the claw" could also be used on the head. It's a versatile manuever and always pain inducing! If you're not a professional, do not use this move!

Age Issues

For some reason (Crone’s Disease), I look older than I am. There were the plus sides when I was a teen like I was never carded and I could always see R rated movies. The downside was that in 8th grade the staff tried to help me find the class I was substituting for and in high school I had to constantly battle the lunch room people about whether I should pay the teacher’s rate for their plate lunches. I found in that case it was just easier to bring my lunch. I also remember problems at the public pools where there was a below 18 rate. I think the people finally just gave in because they couldn’t shake me out of my story of “no really, I’m 15”.

Back then, some adult thought they’d console me by repeating some trite phrase that likely rhymed which basically said if you look old as a child then you’ll look young as an adult. So, I’m here to report back on my findings now that I’m an adult. That person was on crack.

This week Kendra and I went to Arby’s, at a location I plan to never visit again. The checkout gal, someone who would have looked more comfortable at a truck stop dive, started babbling… incessantly… nattered on for days, in fact. The hole she was digging with her few remaining teeth was about how she liked to tell mothers and daughters that they looked like sisters – case in point, Kendra and me. I smiled my big Texas smile, the one where I’m barely keeping my lips over my teeth and let her carry on. She talked about how mothers and daughters found it flattering and she personally LOVED to be called her daughter’s sister. My eyes went wild as my face tried to hold the smile. Thankfully, she blathered on while heading away from me to process my card and then put in our order.

That’s cute. She thinks I look like I’m about 52. I’m sure it’s the wrinkles around my eyes… no, the deep lines around my lips… no, the crystal meth… well, something. Although, she’s not alone in thinking that so I shouldn’t be so harsh. About 8 years ago I received an AARP membership packet in the mail. I came to work squawking about it and one of the guys was baffled. “Why is that a problem? How old are you?” The guy is about 2-5 years older than me and had almost reached the end of his life in a few short breaths.

Now some of you are going to be tempted to send me a little word of encouragement and try to say that I don’t look like I’m 52. That’s sweet. It’s right up there with my Mom saying, “you’re pretty.” Hmph.

The Claw

In writing about my fun year in Dallas I remembered a story about one of the resulting front yard fights. First though, you have to understand one simple truth about growing up in Dallas – you live and breathe wrestling. Anyone in the late 1970’s who wasn’t familiar with wrestling particularly the wrestling royalty known as the Von Erichs was likely in a special home or awaiting a hug at the end of a finish line. Saturday nights were spent glued to the TV cheering and jeering as the theatrics played out. I remember when my Dad told me that most of the events were staged. I gave him the time honored look that most pre-teens reserve for their deranged, out of touch parents – staged, HAH! Dad obviously hadn’t seen the nail biting hair match!! Thank God Kevin Von Erich kept all his hair; it was a close one.

If you’re familiar with the Von Erichs, as we were at the time, then you know that the patriarch of the family, Fritz, perfected such moves at “the claw”. Now, “the claw” was one of those maneuvers administered to the groin of the opponent that would leave them sprawled out on the mat screaming in pain. You didn’t want to be on the bad end of “the claw”.

So, there we were waiting on the bus. My friend Sherry had joined us at that particular pick-up spot, which had turned the bullying tide in my favor. Sherry is one of those gals I expect today is ruling her cellblock with an iron fist. She’s the kind of gal that probably trades for at least 3-5 cartons of cigarettes. She was tough then and wasn’t fond of bullies and took delight in any opportunity that allowed her to smack them around. I was just the excuse she needed. Anyway, Mike, the kid that punched me multiple times the first day of school, was standing around being a jerk and Sherry took particular exception that morning.

Who knows what was said, but a circle formed around Mike & Sherry. Mike hunkered down about 15 feet from Sherry and asked loudly, “should I do “the horse” or should I do “the claw””? No one answered, because at that point we were busily asking ourselves, “should I get bandages or should I get gauze?” Then Mike answered his own question, “I think I’ll do THE CLAW”. GADS! Not the CLAW! Mike’s hand curled into a little claw and he closed the distance between he and Sherry. About three feet in front of her he dove down to the ground, rolled over a few times, leapt up again and reached for her. Sherry looked at him, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and threw him to the ground. It’s by far the most ridiculous fight I’ve ever seen. I think Sherry then began to pound Mike for his trouble.

To add insult to injury and because the bullying by these fools was coming to a well-deserved end, I saw Mike playing outside with his buddy Sandy. I got around on the side of the house and taught my cousin Kim the dance that was Mike’s moment of shame. Kim ran to the front yard and shouted at the top of her 1st grade lungs, “Should I do the horse? Or should I do the claw? I think I’ll do the claw!” then she ran across the yard, threw herself down, jumped up, ran a bit more and then finally slammed herself back down on the ground screaming in pain. Kim did this repeatedly. Finally, Mike came over and said, “Beth, you better make her stop!” then stomped and pouted his way back across the street. Some moments you just savor.

The Reunion vs. Kelso

I contacted one of the guys working on the reunion committee yesterday. I had an idea – that John Kelso should be invited to the reunion. You all know I love writing John Kelso. It’s up there with sending letters to the editor about the bicycling menace that exists in our city. Hey, everyone needs a hobby and don’t think I’m not going to get his piece framed that says “Beth Doughty suggested…” That was good stuff! Ok, it wasn’t. I was just sending him a note and would have put some thought into it had I known he was going to use it.

Anyway, back in the day – about 21 years ago – John Kelso spent about 2 weeks in our high school as part of our class. He attended classes and then wrote up weekly articles about his time being an 11th grader named Clarence Frick. I never had him in a class – he was more into Latin, Trig/Calc classes while I was personally more a German, Physiology/Anatomy girl. Still, I remember him being there and I remember the articles. (It helps having a year book around that still chronicles the event, too.)

So, while I was/am (I’m undecided) planning to skip the reunion I thought this invitation was still a good idea. I mean, why not? John Kelso comes back and writes about the high school reunion. I think it’s a good idea. Hell, I think it’s a GREAT idea and need to pause while I pat myself on the back. One more sec, I’m blowing kisses to myself. I may be awhile.

I wrote to Jason. I’ve known Jason since 4th grade. He’s a smart, handsome guy and the kind of person who mingled with the popular crowd but never forgot his South Austin roots. Where some people would pretend not to know you if they bumped into you at the mall, Jason is the type that if you came into view he’d dash across the street to say hello. He’s a good guy. So, when I was looking up reunion contacts it was a no-brainer “contact Jason”. My other real choice was a kid named Chris. You all know I couldn’t hurt a flea if I tried, but Chris is the only person I’ve not only slammed against a wall and threatened (see previous article – one of us came out of Dallas with anger management issues), but I kind of assaulted one of his friends when they were picking on Chris’ brother. Anyway, we all know I’m a weenie and you can guess that Chris must have just let me get away with it. I even worked at Chris’ dad’s restaurant for 2-3 days and discovered at 14 I wasn’t waitress material; I’m sure Chris’ dad fired me but I’d like to think I quit. Needless to say, I felt a bit sheepish contacting Chris. I guess I could have contacted Marco, but I went out with his older brother Rocco briefly (they had a brother named Nicko and the running joke in the family was their sister was Debbo) and I’d personally rather gargle glass. Since you all know Rocco stories, I don’t need to repeat those here.

Anyway, Jason wrote back almost immediately because he’s just a good guy and said “good idea, I think you just volunteered.” If I had been drinking I would have spewed water across my monitor. Volunteered? GADS! I’m not sure I’m going. Volunteered?

Ok, who are we kidding? You all know I want to write to Kelso again. Anyway, I’m waiting to get the details and then I’ll be sending Kelso a note. You know if anything happens, I’ll be calling each of you up and getting frame #2 for that article. This time though, I’ll word my note more carefully keeping in mind that some part of it could appear in print. (Now back to kicking myself for that other one.)

Thoughts on the Reunion

My 20-year high school reunion is coming up this summer. I was planning on attending when I received a vitriolic e-mail from one of my friends saying she’d rather be dipped in gasoline and set on fire before she went. The e-mail went on at length about how she hated everyone from our school and then how it wouldn’t matter if she went anyway because no one knew her. It’s the kind of hate I usually reserve for telemarketers, auditors and that one pedicurist who stabbed my toe. Maybe I’m naïve (ok, who am I kidding, I AM naïve) but I never felt excluded at my high school. I was by no means popular, but I had my niche that I felt very comfortable niche-ing in.

See, I chose to be at my high school. I was bussed in, something a lot of people don’t know. I could have gone to the premiere school (ranked in the top 10 public high schools in the nation at the time) where I would have been in the top orchestra (hey, I was signed up for the music magnet in Dallas before we moved back here – orchestra was very important) and had the top teachers, but I coerced my parents into letting me go to Travis, my high school. Every day the bus made a special trek to my end of the world and brought me to school.

I made that choice because there was a brief shining moment where I spent 7th grade in one of the public schools in Dallas away from the people who had known me for years. On my first day of school I was punched repeatedly before getting on the bus. From that day forward, I was barked at in the halls by strangers, punched in the face and finally threatened with “if you ride this bus tomorrow, we will kill you”. I walked several miles to school the next day. I joined a gang, but managed to not be around when anything big went down, and many of my problems went away as the people who tormented me were “handled”. If you want to know why I swear like a sailor these days, well it started there. It’s amazing how far some foul language followed by a threat can take you and when you’re “the quiet girl” people snap to – quiet people who make threats really scare people. Some people smoke, others drink and I swear; it’s the security blanket that I can’t let go of to this day. Because of my experience in Dallas and even in Austin, I understand why people snap and shoot people. I’m not saying I agree with it, but spend some time being bullied when all you’re trying to do is go to school and you’d get it, too. Spend some time being told by your family and counselors that you’re not the victim, that you’re the cause of these people wanting to abuse you and you’ll understand. Anyway, that’s another topic for another day.

Almost as soon as I got back into Austin we moved into a new area of town. My parents asked “do you want to stay at Travis” and without hesitation I said “yes”. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice academically or the best choice for my music, but it was the best choice for me.

Travis wasn’t always a great place, but people knew me and accepted me as the nerdy, bad dresser with the bad hair that I was (err… that I still am). In 10th grade I started hanging out with my best-friend Julie and overall I thrived. I came into my own in college.

I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t have any ill feelings towards the people who made up my high school (well, one football player named Steve) and I’m baffled that someone whom I thought was really at their peak during that time absolutely loathes it. My memories are of plays, the renaissance festivals, being stuffed in a trash can (I had it coming and it was funny), Rocky Horror Picture Show, live music, being in the top orchestra at UT’s String Project, dancing to Footloose, Padre Island and all that good stuff – plus, countless hugs in the hall, lots of notes being passed, crushes and all that fun teenage drama that at the time isn’t funny, but kind of is now. :)

Karma

I wish I could remember whatever it was I did in a past life to deserve this one; it must have been hysterical.

The Wrong Kind of Attention

A group of us went to lunch this past week and I was reminded again that there’s some special quality I possess that draws all the wrong attention. I’ve never been able to quite put my finger on it because I’m not someone who stands out in a crowd. As a would be suitor once said “yer no Miss America, but I sure think yer purty.” So, maybe I’m a hit with the redneck set, but outside of those overall wearing, barefoot, no tooth havin’ souls I don’t turn heads one way or the other; I’m non-descript at best. So, there we are at lunch and everyone is telling off-colored stories, I had nothing on Jim or April but regardless the noise is pretty well kept to the table when an older gentleman turned around from his spot at the counter and glared specifically at me. I thought to myself, “Surely, he’s not staring at me.” Then sometime later the gentleman gets up to leave and pointedly stares at me on his way out. My friend Jim who was sitting next to me says, “Beth, that man was staring at you.” At least I wasn’t hallucinating.

See, I’m the gal that gets a potato placed at their table while some middle aged woman trying to cling to being twenty, the age we were when it happened, addresses the table while looking directly at me something like, “I hope you can put this to use.” What does that mean?

I’m the gal who picks up a poster outside a club and gets followed by the crazy man. When confronted and asked “sir, do you have a problem?” He nodded. “Do you have a problem with her?” The guy continued staring at me and nodded. “What’s your problem?” The guy only stared at me and continued following me. It took my friend Leonard finally turning around and shoving the guy back several feet to get him to leave me alone. Mind you, Ernie had bolted down the road at that point, but that’s another story.

In the past, I’ve been followed by store security when I was looking at dolls at a shop at the Big D Flea Market. See, I had my paltry allowance and I was always careful about my purchases. I made sure that I really wanted something before buying because I knew once that money left my hand that was it. So, I was in this shop with these dolls I loved and sat on the floor going through each one trying to decide which one was the best. Finally, I just got up and left just in case there was something out there I wanted more. I looked back and the storeowner had contacted the Flea Market security and he followed me throughout the place until I finally found my mother. I’m sure he died fully convinced that I’d ditched the doll in another stall.

Ernie once teased me because I had told him “don’t leave me, I have a freak magnet,” but it’s true. If I’m alone for more than a couple of minutes some bizarre person is going to come bother me; it’s why I don’t like going places by myself.

In college people would catch me cramming for a test before class to ask important questions like “have you ever been to a Star Trek convention?” Who are you?? At the local geek shop, I’m the girl the colostomy bag toting geek tries to impress with his imaginary feats of bravery. DUDE, it’s in your head, it ain’t you. SHOO. At the same shop a year later I get, “I write for (insert name of magazine you’ve NEVER heard of) and I want to interview you.” Mmmm hmmm, of course you do. “Do you like comics?” “No.” “Then why are you buying that catalog?” “It has pretty pictures and lots of cute animals.” The guy closed his note pad and ran away.

Honestly, I hate being me.

The Phone

I’m having to use the phone a lot these days thanks to our option period coming to an end with the house. I have to say that being on the phone is not something I enjoy. I hate the phone. We only have one in our house and it sits near the kitchen on the quietest ring setting available. Few people have my cell phone number and the cell phone is rarely on to begin with so good luck calling me on it. The phone only rings at inopportune times like during dinner, during the part of any TV show where they’re going to reveal whodunit and in the middle of the night when it’s only a FAX machine.

It hasn’t always been this way. I used to LOVE the phone. My very first phone was dark red and it was my “hot line”. My parents broke down and got me my own phone when they realized my conversations with my friend Angie were going to go for 8+ hours at a time. In fact, during those calls Dad would bring me lunch; it was a great arrangement.

Then I got into college and had roommates. Let’s just say you get enough creditors screaming at you claiming you’re your roommate or you’re your roommate’s wife and you start thinking, “hey, this phone thing sucks.” That’s about the time I stopped picking it up. This was pre-caller ID so I never knew what surprise waited for me at the other end of the line. I’m now convinced when I hear the phone screaming from the kitchen that it’s really bounty hunters tracking down the people I know and they’re about to mistake me for them. Honestly, years of shunning the phone have led me to one simple truth; the phone is evil.

So, here are my phone ground rules for those of you who still call. (“No” Lynn – that’s the answer to the question you’ve been asking me in regard to the phone and “yes” I still think it’s weird.)

1) If you plan on dying. Please call in the morning. I can’t hear the phone in the bedroom and won’t be able to help you in the middle of the night.
2) If you’re planning on having your car break down on the highway. Again, try to time it so it happens during the day. Otherwise, grab a blanket; it’s going to be a long night.
3) Don’t call after work. It only makes me giggle but never makes me pick up the phone.
4) Do call at 8am; it drives people out of my office who think it’s the watering hole, which is another beef of mine.
5) If you think I’m screening my calls, I probably am. Don’t take offense; you’re not special – I screen every call.
6) If you think I’m mad, calling me will push me over the edge – don’t.
7) If you’re tracking down my friends, please send an e-mail and I’ll forward all of their pertinent information along with instructions for how to get to their house.
8) If you’re Angie, none of these rules apply – well, maybe 1 & 2. I’m still good for more 4+ hour conversations.
9) If it’s about my former supervisor Dick expiring in a humorous way, call any time, leave a message and I’ll call you back immediately. I want all the horrific, amusing details.

I do still love e-mail however, so send away – any time day or night and I’ll likely answer.
Lynn, it’s just WEIRD.