Funerals

Every college English professor I ever had would tell the class, “If you make a statement, you need to support that statement with the sentences that follow. You cannot expect the reader to just accept what you’ve said.” Well, I frequently did and still do, which explains why my grades were not always what I’d like them to be. Hey, while my minor may have been English, it was because I excelled at reading, not at writing.

With that said, I felt guilty about announcing yesterday that my family drives the drama train without offering up any good stories. Now, I’m sure my mother is reading this and saying “Oh God” so to maintain some family peace, I won’t name names.

I’m going to skip over the holidays even though they’re fertile grounds for drama and include highlights like slurring drunks telling you exactly what they feel about you, your relatives, and your dating chances before stumbling and passing out on the floor or standing around applauding as someone belches out the National Anthem (very patriotic, Jethro – you’re a gift to the family and do us proud) or my all time favorite dialog from one sister to another, “ohhh, the baby is smiling” while the other hissed out a response, “no, that’s gas”. In fact, if someone is happy at one of our gatherings I think to myself, “she’s not happy, that’s just gas.”

Truly, my relatives do holidays well, but it’s the funerals where they really shine. I think I first noticed at my grandfather’s funeral when everyone arrived in flip-flops and shorts while my grandmother and I were the only pair to dress up. Now, I’m being a little unfair. We have a family graveyard and church and ain’t nobody gonna see you if you have a service there. Plus, my parents who had brought nice clothes were notified that it was going to be a bit more casual. We get to the church and find the boom box carrying the tape of funeral hits had been erased. The blame fell on the four year old for some reason. See, in small pockets of my family having the crazy aunt accuse you is as good as an eyewitness account; in fact it’s gospel. Never mind that the crazy aunt hadn’t bathed in days and was in serious need of anti-depressants. As the anger heated up and some relatives were really turning on the little girl, I had a moment. I stormed out of the church stomping all the way out of the door. I’d reached my breaking point for craziness and flip-flops. When I returned everyone was a bit calmer and my Dad and sister sang Ave Maria. The funeral ended with us standing in a circle around the burial site while everyone prayed. At the end, my grandmother picked up a bit of dirt, slammed it into the hole pelting the urn inside and said, “miserable old man, I guess even he deserves a prayer.”

During the lunch that followed, I learned from an uncle that there used to be an advanced race living on Earth before humans occupied this terra firma. I learned that they had things “greater than GameBoys and could fly! And they had communication systems better than cell phones”. Unfortunately, war tore them apart and they destroyed themselves. He also enlightened us about the reason NASA take pictures of astronauts before they go on a mission. Apparently, it’s done so NASA can use the photographs to monitor their health. I quietly choked down my bologna and mayonnaise sandwich while giving Dad the silent, “I need to get the hell out of East Texas – I’m going to start slamming my head on this table” signal.

The next memorable funeral ended with my grandmother started pleading for my aunt to get up out of the casket. That was more tragic and broke my heart than anything, but that quiet reverie of mine was broken when another aunt ran up and down the aisles shouting repeatedly, “Mother needs valium! Mother needs valium!”

When my grandmother passed away, I waited for the storm to strike again. I waited for a particular relative to put on her show and it didn’t happen. I was torn between feeling let down and this notion that we were going to have one of those “normal” funerals. Of course, we don’t do “normal”. My Dad pulled me aside and said, “Kid, you’ve probably noticed so-and-so isn’t here.” YES! “Well, last night she was picked up by the police and has been admitted to a mental hospital after assaulting another relative.” Of course. Why not? Still, God bless the men in the white coats for allowing me to grieve without the usual circus and party balloons.

Thankfully the funerals that have followed have been devoid of the craziness I’m accustomed to. Sure, some of the stories that have been told at the services were inappropriate, but that’s the worst thing I can say. In fact, the only bad thing I can say about the last one was a competition seemed to break out over who was the saddest. If I said, “I had to be sent home and cried for several days straight; it breaks my heart” then I’d get back, “I cried so much, I was hospitalized and had to have an IV thanks to the fluid loss.” For the record, my aunt and cousin won that match. They’re sadder than the lot of us thanks to being the only people who care. I’m sure the trophies will come out soon. I’ve already heard their acceptance speeches, so I may skip out on the actual ceremony. Oh, and you’re going to have to take that statement as fact.

Freedom From Want

Most members of my family will agree that we will never resemble a Norman Rockwell painting. While we may gather around a table for a major event, you can be certain it took some serious political maneuvering, a lot of diplomacy on the host’s part and probably some major negotiations that likely included phrases such as, “no, glaring is not on the table at this time” to get everyone there. I see our family in terms of the movie “Home for the Holidays” (my yearly holiday movie to put me in the mood) or on any other day, as “All My Children”, “The Young and the Restless” or any other soap opera you can think of that also includes the one about the supernatural and the creepy little puppet boy. I personally never saw that one, but I’m sure it applies. I’m related to witches so how could it not.

Now when you get to be my age and have lived this life decade after decade, you find it’s a comforting disquieting rhythm. Sure, that may come off as a bit of an oxymoron if you’re not in my family, but trust me. You ride our family’s ship and after a few years you realize you just don’t need the Dramamine anymore. You can chuck that stuff off the port, because you’ve now earned your cast iron grit. If one of your relatives attempts to fling herself off a roof after years of stealing from your grandfather and sleeping her way through all her sibling’s spouses, you no longer bat an eye after years of initiation (indoctrinating?). You nod your head and accept this is just another day and that aunt will be outdone soon. It’s an unspoken rule, you don’t let anyone get the upper hand and outdo you in the drama department. In fact, it’s in your best interest to downplay the entire thing so that whatever you have planned next can come off as a little more shocking.

I truly dig the drama train my family’s engineers chuga chuga down our life’s track. I even embrace my role and can really dive into how everyone else’s lives are a complete mess, how their chosen spouses are the worst people to walk the earth, just what exactly are they thinking ruining their lives, their children’s lives, their pet’s lives and the lives of the geckos hunkered in the gardens. Most of it is very entertaining although some of it is truly just downright heart wrenching. I’d venture to say that a portion of my humor comes from making fun of them, but occasionally I do have to throw up the white flag and retreat into myself.

As fun as my family can be there’s still a bit of drama I love more - my friend’s drama. On the occasion that I get too bogged down in the more serious things going on in my family’s life, I find something going on with my friend’s family can center me a bit more. It’s the therapy I need to help come to terms with some of the wackiness we go through. In fact, you can tell my good friends from my good acquaintances based on the amount of drama they own up to – you guys know who you are. It’s not enough to say, “my aunt is nuts,” I require much more from my good friends. I need something I can sink my own teeth into and throw out my off-the-cuff, knee-jerk inspired, unsolicited and bad advice.

Personally, I’m truly envious of those of you who live Norman Rockwell’s idealized life. I don’t get you. I never will. But it sure seems like a lovely dream.

A personal note to my number one fan and supporter – I hope I’ve made you smile without taking away from the seriousness of the recent events happening around you. “All will be will, and all will be well and all manner of things will be well.” I love you.

Kite Runner

I'm actually going to recommend a book instead of sitting around abusing poor Dan Brown. It's roughly a story about redemption - the character redeeming himself to the readers and to himself. The back drop is Afghanistan prior to the Russian occupation and then returns to Afghanistan months before 9/11.

There are few books that I've read over the past couple of years that have really stuck out; this happens to be one of them. Most of you who know me and know my short list of recommended books include The Life of Pi and Memoirs of a Geisha.

If you get a chance, Kite Runner by Khalen Hosseini is a good read.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1594480001/sr=8-1/qid=1153499905/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-2438242-3578518?ie=UTF8

In fact, if you want to "Look Inside" you're going to have to click the above link since I'm mean and clicking on the picture of the cover won't get you anywhere. Well, you might get a bigger picture. For the record, I'm the kind of person who would make you use pliers to change the TV station, too. Of course, if you come to my house armed with pliers, don't let Jay see you and if you do get caught, definitely don't say anything close to, "Beth said it would be alright."

The Land of Pflugers

The only real thing I have on my plate of things to talk about this week seems to be the drivers in my new town. I’ve never seen such a large grouping of people who love a good stop sign like they do. In fact, they like to pull up, park and visually visit with all the other drivers at all the 4 way stops exchanging stories telepathically while I listen to the radio and quietly contemplate the thickness of the asphalt. If it had only happened once, I’d be a little more forgiving, but this happens at every 4 way. It’s not that I want them to do a rolling stop, I just want them to get to the stop sign, acknowledge it’s their turn and drive on. Instead, they pull up and sit a spell while occasionally flapping their arms about. It’s like they’re not sure what stop signs are – clearly, it’s not a “go” sign, so they’re obligated to settle in. Good law abiding folks in this town.

The other thing they can’t quite master is the middle turn lane. They’ll dart into it in order to get going left, but they don’t want to leave it. If you leave them plenty of room, they’ll slow down. They’re not going anywhere and you’d better not even think of trying to let them in.

The only thing they seem to feel confident about is they want to be in front of you if you’re swapping lanes. It’s a sticking point with them. If you’re half a car length ahead of them and start blinking, by golly if they need your lane they’re not about to let you cut in front of them. No sirree Billy Bob. It’s their right nay their duty to be in front of you when the lane swapping happens.

I hope my informational packet for Living in the Land of Pflugers arrives soon along with the paper work to change my name to Julie. I want to fit in!

On the work front, the brain trust are abuzz about Ken Lay’s faked death and how “weren’t” is a “hick” word. Poor conjunction never did anything to them.

Angels & Demons

I’ve been holding back on a book review, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help myself any longer. I’ve simply got to pick on Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons. I should probably put this in the Reviews section, but I think Jonathan would like to distance himself from all things Dan Brown in case anyone might accidentally believe that Jonathan would read Mr. Brown’s works.

Let me throw in a huge disclaimer: I am not a reviewer. I do not have the vocabulary and I do not speak in the particular language of reviewers. My views are from the heart or more from the knee and I tell stories.

The main thing that got me about Dan Brown’s book is how stupid he assumes the audience is and maybe they are, but he really seems to take special care to dumb down a book. So, I’m reading along and we’re introduced to one of the main bad guys and we learn about his background. It seems he comes from a long line of Hassasins. On and on Dan goes about the Hassassin culture and finally you hear the drum roll as Dan reveals “…you would know them today as assassins.” Really. I was fooled up until this point. Assassin has its origins in Hassassin? Now that’s just crazy talk. I called up Jay who was very sympathetic and asked, “why are you reading that book?” I ignore him and plow ahead.

The next bump I hit is where the main character is talking about heading off to the Vatican and nattering on about the Swiss. The female lead character, a devout Catholic whose father is a priest and has strong ties to the Vatican exclaims something like, “Robert, what do the Swiss have to do with the Vatican?” I audibly sigh and call up Jay again. “Beth, not everyone knows about the Swiss Guard. You shouldn’t assume that because you know it that it’s common knowledge. Why are you reading this book?” “So, I can complain.” And back to the book I go.

Then Dan introduces the Illuminati and makes references to Steve Jackson Games. This involves more calls and complaints about how Steve Jackson doesn’t have the particular game Dan is referencing and how ludicrous it is that the main character is citing an obscure gaming company’s supposed video game. “Beth, why are you reading the book?” “It’s like a train wreck! I can’t turn my head!”

Finally, Dan did my very favorite thing that he tends to do based on the two books I read. Yes, I’m daring to make a huge generalization based on two works. You’re nuts if you think I’d read more than two. Dan took the least likely character and made him the bad guy. As soon as I identified who the least likely candidate could be, I was able to wrap up the mystery. I went to Jay, of course, and declared my brilliance. Jay’s response “was it the Pope’s butler?” I punched him and walked away defeated.

The one thing I’ll give Dan Brown is he can write a fun book. While his novels tend to make my brain hemorrhage, they’re always enjoyable. I just hope not too many brain cells have committed suicide in protest.

That Time of the Month

There are a lot of phrases that I can’t stand to hear – some are clichés while the others tend to fall under the category of “excuses”. I’m sure I’ll be able to get several entries going on “excuses I can’t stand”, since the list is quite long and I’m never short on vitriol. The one I’m picking on today is the phrase, “it’s that time of the month.” You hear it offered up all the time as an excuse to explain woman’s behavior – sometimes it comes from the woman with the questionable behavior and other times it comes from someone trying to explain a woman’s behavior. Either way the saying induces a big ol’ eye roll on my part. Now, I could offer up a fairly feminist view on why that phrase annoys me, but I have faith that my readers are familiar with that discussion. So, that being said, let’s dive in.

As a woman, why would you ever say that? You’re giving away crucial information that people can now chart on a calendar and some people do, which is another one of those things in life that freaks me out. I keep no charts on anyone’s “time”, but if you want to you little freak, knock yourself out. Anyway, now someone can glance down at a calendar and nod knowingly as you have your little flip out. Personally, I like to keep people on their toes. I don’t have “a time” since I prefer people to keep guessing. “A time” for me could be “any time” and I want people around me to be on edge and to cower and wonder, “God, could it be today?” When their day passes without incident it makes them a little more nervous about tomorrow. I want people to approach my desk with extreme caution as they debate whether the pen they’re asking to borrow could send me into a rage. Come to think of it, people don’t come into my office to borrow things anymore. Note to self: plan is working.

If we can keep D-Day a secret, if Tom Cruise’s reincarnation of L. Ron can go unseen, if Jim Morrison’s real location can be kept under wraps then I have complete faith in your ability to not divulge this tiny bit of information. It’s the one strategic/tactical advantage you have over the enemy – that enemy being anyone who is not you when the chemicals in your body take you for a joy ride. Now, let’s all take a quiet moment to reflect on what I said and we’ll make a silent pact to not share, especially with me because you can’t be certain it’s not “my time”.

Autophilia

I’ve always thought naming your car was one step shy of goofy. Sure, my friends have named their cars and I accepted that – even my Mom had a little Datsun named Debbie at one point. I have personally managed to avoid that little tradition with one exception. Once I inherited Debbie, I started referring to it as “Junior”, but that was more out of a sense of propriety. Screaming “Junior, stop blowing billowing clouds of smoke from your exhaust” was more palatable to polite society than the words that actually went ripping through my brain. In computer terms, “Junior” was a macro for a much longer stream of expletives. (I’m such a nerd.)

The way I see it, I haven’t named the TV or my computer or even the couch and I enjoy all of those as much as my car and an argument could be made (and won) that I enjoy some of them more. Well, I guess the computer has a name since it’s identified on my network, but I don’t think of it in those terms, I think of it as “hoss” or big, shiny, metal box with 6 fans of cooling goodness rawr. Well, 1 ½ years ago it was “rawr” now it’s more like “mew” but I digress.

I figure guys like Michael Schumacher don’t name their Ferarri unless it’s something like “ch-ching” since his car is his livelihood. Who knows, I haven’t met him and I suppose his car could be named something like “meine Schätzen”.

Anyway, I don’t name my cars… until now. I have to admit that I have a big crush on my car. It’s not my first car or even my first new car but it’s the first car I’ve owned that I’ve genuinely liked, despite its short-coming of not being a bright yellow Nissan Xterra. I walk into the garage and glow and debate whether it’s right or wrong to hug a car, to carry pictures of it in my wallet. Can I go to jail for autophilia? If I start downloading pictures onto my i-Pod of other cars equally as cute, is that morally wrong? What if they’re in suggestive poses like “racing” or “parked with the doors open”? Not only do I have a great car but it’s obviously a philosophical gold mine.

Now you’re probably thinking I’m going to share my car’s name, but I’m going to have to let you down. It’s a super-secret name that’s something special between me and my car – a pet name that I can whisper to it as I’m patting the seats. I just can’t have people approaching my car and assuming some familiarity with it that simply isn’t there.

When you call the specialists today to fetch me, make sure they bring my car along. We’re a team!

Clerks 2: Train Wreck

Here we are in the middle of the summer movie blockbuster glut and NO ONE, not one of you, told me that Kevin Smith's "Clerks 2" was coming out. I'm sad. Disappointed. Heartbroken.
... and I have nothing to post about today.

For the rest of my fellow Clerks fans here is the link to the website:
http://www.clerks2.com/

It has Dante, my personal hero Randall, Jay & Silent Bob, Jason Lee, Ben Affleck (but the movie might survive him) and Marshall from Alias who has a real name that I honestly don't know and am too lazy to look it up. Does anyone REALLY know his real name anyway? Did I mention Randall is in it?

Comments On

Thanks to several of you asking about the comments, I've caved. I hope you're happy.

Just remember to play nice or as nice as you can without causing yourself an aneurysm. If you make me so much as twitch, please remember my friend Lynn lives in the Nevada desert and that CSI is just a TV show; Gill Grissom will never find you.

I reserve the right to moderate the comments. What that means is on this blog it's 1984 and I control my own spin. Your thoughtful comment of "Are you kidding? What were you thinking?" could end up as "Beth, your delightful commentary and reflections never cease to amuse me. I'm naming all my children, my car and my furniture after you. Would it be alright if I paid off your mortgage?"

Happy Commenting!

XXOO

Beth
PS I'm not kidding.

Super Chunk

This is from April's recent adventures while standing in line waiting to pick-up her Superman tickets. She kindly wrote it up for me.

Superman: 10:15 p.m. Tuesday, June 27 @ Alamo Drafthouse South Jimi and I are at the theatre about an hour before show time and position ourselves at the end of the line. We're right behind this indie-couple ‹- black T-shirts, guy with sleeve tattoos. They are sitting on the floor talking closely with each other. So cute and endearing. We're standing there for maybe 5 minutes when the indie-girl faints. She's now laying on the floor, the whole line is abuzz with the commotion. Her indie-boy says she just got too hot and the Drafthouse people go to get her a chair and some wet paper towels. Suddenly she sits up a bit, leaning on her elbow, and puke shoots out of her mouth. I have to back away because I'm one of those "dainty ladies" that start feeling nauseous when others puke. She vomits some more to make the puke-slick even larger.

Then out of no-where we hear "whoosh, whoosh, whoosh." It's Superman with a mop bucket! Superman is a skinny white dude with mused up greasy hair wearing one of those kid costumes with the padded chest. He continues making his "I'm flying" noise as he walks over to the pile of half-digested food. He begins to clean up the puke, but since he's Superman, he does it very dramatically. He's making a supernoise so that everyone know it's not just some shlub cleaning it's SUPERMAN. But this Superman did not know his own strength and so, with each whip of the mop, he sent chunks flinging through the air.

I love it that "Superman" stayed in character during the whole clean-up and merrily worked away while providing sound effects. Oh, and I love it that this happened to April. :)