Quiznos vs. BSG

Speaking of all things geeky, I don't know if any of you happened to watch Battlestar Galactica's Razor episode, but without going into a lengthy critique of the show (or my disappointment that really none of the Pegasus crew were redeemable in my eyes) - I just want to say:

I am officially boycotting Quiznos. (I wish I knew who their advertising team was, so I could send nasty withering looks their way, too.)

With each commercial break, Captain Obvious would recap what we saw and basically plug the sandwich shop.
You just saw that Admiral Kane is a brunette!!!! Eat more sandwiches!!
The most baffling one came in the form of a supposed vote:
You all voted, and you knew that Admiral Kane flirted with a cylon!!! EAT MORE SANDWICHES!
It became a mocking point with each commercial break and what it seared into my brain is: I will never eat Quiznos sandwiches.

From my boards (I hope Jay doesn't mind, but he really made me laugh):

"I think they should have skipped the commercials and just had the crew enjoying
Quiznos sandwiches on the bridge.

Apollo (angsty, yet excited):
Launch nuclear strike!

Adama (grim):
Belay that order! Let's all have sandwiches brought to us by our sponsor.

Apollo (angsty, yet satisfied):
Mmm, mmm, that sure was a tasty sandwich. Oh, and thanks for de-balling me in front of my crew, Dad.

Adama (grim):
No problemo, son. You sure can't beat these toasted sandwiches from Quiznos.

Starbuck [from radio speakers] (whiney):
Do I smell sandwiches?

Adama (grim):
Better release those nukes after all, son. Haha.

Apollo (angsty, yet jocular):
You got it, pop! Haha.

Bridge Crew:
Haha."

Sorry, the Quiznos commercials were so particularly obnoxious they were worth nothing - they make the Christmas Hawk commercial seem hysterical.

Nerdvana

It's every geek's dream to reach newer, better, higher levels of Geekdom - whether you're the recognized national best Donkey Kong player or the humble owner of the local Dragon's Lair (shameless plug for our favorite gaming store) - through the right geek colored glasses you are held in awe.

Today, I salute my friend Lynn (aka Ravenhex) who has achieved every geek's dream - being immortalized in a comic book. Lynn appears on Jim Balent's Tarot, Witch of the Black Rose, Issue 47, page 1 (and also page 4). (VIEW LYNN'S COVER HERE) (She's the one to the right of the scantily clad red head.)

Lynn, you're sooooo my geek hero! ... and yes, I will continue to "use this information to beat up the lesser geeks". "Oh yeah, you stared down a cthuloid manifestation in the Pits of Doom? but you weren't on a comic book cover, were you? Mmm hmmm. That's what I thought!" (ahhhh... sweet geekdom, how I embrace thee)

...it almost makes me forget how you sputtered and lost control of yourself in front of Gene Simmons. Congratulations, Lynn!!!

And... (Wishlist pt. 2)

... I want a video of Anna rocking out on Guitar Hero on her Wii. I don't care who gives it to me.

All I Want for Christmas

Yeah, we've covered it before - I was born on Christmas... the day. (Why people always follow my announcement of being born on Christmas with the question "the day?" still baffles me "no, I mean "Christmas" the themepark ride; it was uncomfortable and the family doesn't like to talk about it much". And, I'll say it, it's my OH MY GOD I'M TURNING FORTY I'M MAKING METHUSELAH LOOK LIKE A TODDLER IT'S ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE landmark.

So, since the world is coming to an end as I know it in just one short month, it's ok for me to be greedy AND demanding (AND melodramatic). With that in mind, I'm posting my birthday wishlist. Some of you may have received it already in an e-mail, but just in case I zoned your e-mail address or you're too far away to come, I'm posting the "list" here, because I'd like everyone to participate.

It boils down to: I want a picture of you/your family and something personal "of" you - a note, a photo you've taken, a poem you've written, a picture you've drawn, a CD (originally my thinking was just TWO songs that represented you in this moment, but you can send more) - you get the idea and there are more ideas on THIS HERE LINK (the official ask for presents list).
For mailing instructions, send April an e-mail (included in the pdf) and she'll give you the address, etc.

Don't feel pressured in any way to participate just because I'LL BE DEAD IN FIVE SHORT YEARS THANKS TO MY ADVANCED AGE - you can live with the guilt. You're resilient. I won't curse your name... much. You probably like kicking puppies, too. Senior hatin' puppy kickers - go on, live with that knowledge. I HOPE YOU SLEEP WELL TONIGHT!

Thank You, Little Alien Family

I think every kid has a fantasy that they’re really adopted. They look into their family’s faces one day and find more resemblance to the neighbor’s cat. I know when I’d be particularly irritated at Mom, I’d question Dad “I’m really the milk woman’s daughter, aren’t I? I can take it; Dad I just need you to be honest right now.” And he would confess that it wasn’t the milk woman, it was the post gal and that was why I was particularly good at licking things and loved receiving mail. If I were irritated with both of them, I’d curse the malicious nurses who’d swapped me for that luckier kid – the one leading my perfect life, going to the perfect school, wearing the perfect clothes and driving the perfect car while I rode on the not so perfect bus wearing the softer side of Sears. Eventually, you get over it. You can’t deny that you do look kind of like them if you squint, it’s dark and you’re drunk and they can actually make you laugh on occasion if no one is looking. They can even not be embarrassing in public… if they’re distracted and your friends aren’t around.

Then one day, you grow up and you accept the fact that the whole “they’re aliens” thing probably isn’t true even though the signs are occasionally there and that’s why you have your friends.

I admit, that in our family we’re spread out all over the place and don’t really “know” each other. Sure, we could whip out each other’s full names if pressed and might be able to mention an interest or two, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that no one knows where the other one was born. They might be able to guess and be close, but with the exception of the aunts that were there, I’m willing to bet most of my relatives can’t name the city I was born in without help. The same goes for me; I haven’t got a clue. Dallas? Sure! That’s my final answer. I’m going to say 10 cousins were born there and 3 were born in Sweet Water or San Angelo – that’s my guess. (Quick aside: This is with the exception of my cousin Kim who is for all practical purposes my sister. I don’t care what the family tree shows; it’s wrong.)

So, if you’re me and occasionally stuck in front of a keyboard and are extremely bored, you start Googling names of relatives (I use Metacrawler personally speaking.) to see if you can glean something about these people – maybe there is one relative out there that is just like you. And what I’ve found is oftentimes entertaining, but it does more to reaffirm the whole “alien” theory I had when I was 12 than not. And it does explain why, at holiday gatherings, these people occasionally misstep when speaking to you in ways your friends would DIE if they heard (and you’ll tell them as soon as you can escape – I call this my “oh, I forgot to tell Jay I just arrived - I’ll be outside on the porch” time). You forgive these little transgressions because you read what they’re saying and you know you must be just as alien to them. (The movie that resonates with me is: Home for the Holidays – for this very reason.) Still, you swap presents (and you say THANK YOU because you weren’t raised by ingrates), stories, good times and photos (showing the marks that are the proof you needed all along about the abductions).

On this day, I give thanks to all of you little aliens. We may not always “get” each other, but I love you all just the same – you’re interesting, fun, funny (sometimes unintentionally, but you make good fodder when I go out with friends), kind, loving people. I may not have “chosen” you, but I love you and love it that you’re all a part of my family. I know your family on Rigel II must miss you very much.

Breasts

I’ll probably never be the poster girl for the feminist movement. I still use “his” or “he” in a sentence instead of “hers” or “theirs” or “its” – not that I mind those; it’s just my personal preference. And I shudder when I see combos like “his/hers” or someone tries to mix them all in: “It is every person’s right to express his views to her peers”. Please, choose one. I’m indifferent to which one you choose, but settle for just the gender - more than one pronoun and I think we’re talking about multiple people. I’m never going to be on the bandwagon to push to change our vocabulary to include “womankind” wherever there is “mankind”; I’m comfortable with “man” covering both genders. You see, I see “man” as neutral – we are a part of mankind – I don’t see it as saying “see those girls over there? They’re all penis baring she-males – true story – check out their package “mankind’ if you catch my drift, wink wink”.

Jay still opens the car door for me, pulls out my chair at restaurants and ensures all entry ways are opened as I approach them. To me, “Dutch” mistakenly refers to the people who settled in Pennsylvania back when we somehow couldn’t figure out what “Deutsch” meant. (Oh wait, this may go into the “I’m Cheap” post. Hrmm.) And to top it off, I would have never burned by bra – first, bras aren’t cheap (I am) and second, what kind of ecological footprint did that leave spewing who knows what up into the ozone – I wouldn’t set Aquanet on fire, either.

On the other hand, I do think I’m just as smart if not smarter than any “man”. I do think I should be paid equally, and get equal treatment (unless it’s a door and you can get that) and let’s face it, high heels were made for masochists who hate their feet.

We can’t get around our physical differences, though. I have breasts. Yes, I know – shocking. Granted, they’ve lost their 16 Candles perkiness and now look like something for the centerfold of a National Geographic article (I’m sure the story about the pale Anglo Saxons natives who inhabit central Texas” will be a real page turner – think geriatric Playboy). We’re talking old boobs that give directions to the area around my feet – boobs that need that bra to be un-singed so they give the appearance of being separate from my waistline and not just some amorphous torso blob. They’re really just boobs – nothing magical about them – a good percentage of the people you know have them – they come in all shapes, sizes and augmentations; they’re boobs. I have arms, too.

Where am I going with this? Well, last week I got to really meet my friend’s fiancé – a nice enough fellow – kind of a little guy (I think I’m a head taller), nervous thing, so I tried to draw him out – get him talking. I finally hit on the subject he enjoyed the most “magic” (he’s a professional magician) and he was off – he became very chatty and animated and started talking excitedly to my boobs – yes, my boobs. The guy talked to my breasts the entire time. Every time he opened his mouth, he addressed my breasts. I can’t even begin to repeat what he said to them, because I haven’t got a clue. My brain was stuck in a loop, “DUDE, you’re talking to my breasts!!! Eyes up here!”

Later, when people asked what he was like, all I could think was “he’s a breast talker!”

Now, while I may not be said poster girl for feminism, I still expect people to look me in the eyes when they’re talking to me… and get the door.

Reflections

For my friends and family - reflections on my mother's last day.

Anniversaries

(Not the best picture - I didn't think to bring something to wipe down the marker beforehand.)

The marker reads:
Overtures fade, stagelights
grow dim without you.
Per Aspera ad Astra

(Which is the motto for NASA and loosely translates to: Through Hardships to the Stars - something my mother would appreciate.)


I'll some rambling reflections about Mom later, but for now it's just a picture of the marker that was installed this past Friday.

Alone

“Beth, have you ever seen a dead body?”
I could wreck this person’s day with my tale.
I am stoic.
My face will not betray me.
“No.”

The clock has started.
In a few hours she’ll be in the hospital
Hoping to eat… hoping to sleep…
“I’m cold”
I get her a blanket
We wait

The moment I live in begins now.
I open the forbidden door of this memory wider.
Leaning against the doorframe.
I watch.
Alone.

I'm Talking to You, Fast Foodies!

Have you ever had one of those days where it starts off by everyone in your home town trying to cut you off, run you down or simply prevent you from accessing the highway. It’s the kind of day that when you finally bring the car to its resting place underneath the tree, the place you park for the shade, the prime spot, the tree now filled with birds who must have eaten something spicy last night because they’re sure decorating your car like something is disagreeing with them. You get inside, hoping you can now squeeze “car wash” into your plans before going home to get creamed by someone with road rage and everyone looks at you. You know “the look” the one that says “oh, we know what you did”, “we know about the bodies”, “I’m looking at you and I’m seeing “face lift” in YOUR future”. You head to the bathroom to stare, because you knew the bandage wouldn’t hide that third head you’ve been covering up for weeks only to find that you still look the same. So you reach out to your true friends who assure you “it’s just a bad day”, but what did you expect? They’re probably involved in the global conspiracy to wreck your day, too.

You miraculously make it to lunch, merrily sulking in your car in the drive way and finally it’s your turn to pull up to the little speaker. You order and instead of “that’ll be $4.92 ma’am, please pull up” you get educated. “We don’t put onions on the Bonzo Burger”. Well good, because I don’t want them just like I said.

This is my shout-out to you fast foodies and your fast food “speak” since I have no control over my co-workers or fellow drivers. My degree is not in your menu nor did I take any electives. My fast food world is fairly black and white – either it’s a burger or it’s chicken or it’s pizza and my sizes come in small, medium and large. For starters, I was born with glasses and the prospect of my eyesight getting any better is not looking good. I can read your big words – the funny (aka clever) little names you call whatever combo you’re hawking at the moment. However, I have to rely on the pictures and my general knowledge of that product to guess its innards. In my mind, all burgers come with “lettuce, tomato, pickles and onions – cheese is optional” – my memory of the Big Mac song and my Big Mac t-shirt from the 70’s tell me this is true. So, when I ask for no onions, I’m not really looking for advanced knowledge about the bits on your burger. If they don’t come with onions just say “ok”, because the truth is I don’t know where I am. Your advertisements didn’t draw me in, you were convenient and when I drive off, I won’t remember that your special burger didn’t come with onions and I’ll just ask again. Unless you invite me to assemble the burger, I’m never going to be able to tell you what comes on it and I will truly build it like a Big Mac because McDonald’s prepared my generation to work on their burger lines. Now that’s clever! Your company, however, didn’t write a catchy jingle which means your only job at this point is to just say “ok”. If you keep insisting that I learn, I’ll start asking for “no sardines or deviled eggs on the #1 please”

Unless you have five different sizes, I don’t care to play the game of “we don’t have medium”. You do. You just call it “regular” or again something clever that changes from fast food place to fast food place. You know what I mean, so do us both a favor and pick the middle one to get me out of your line. We can go around all day trying to get me to say “I’d like the Tummy Tester 44” but I’m going to still say “large” just to spite you because I hate saying obnoxiously stupid things out loud.

I remember at one time Baskin Robbins had a flavor called Tony the Tiger Crunch. It looked good. I wanted it. However, I wasn’t about to say that name in public so I leaned into the server and whispered in a voice that’s usually reserved for “the deal is going down on 12th, Vinnie the Nose is going to take care of everything” and you wink then slink back into the darkness that birthed you. What I asked in the quietest voice I could muster was, “I’d like the Tony the Tiger Crunch” and I settled back down on my heels. “WHAT?!” I cleared my throat and leaned back in while pointing at the ice cream “Tony… Tiger… Crunch”. “OH! THE TONY THE TIGER CRUNCH ON A WAFFLE CONE?” I let out an enormous sigh, while looking up and down at the rest of the customers. “Yes.” And that was the last time I ordered something that sounded that stupid, because the truth is I’d rather eat homemade vanilla than repeat that moment again. I’m not playing your advertisement games.

In fact, I may become an advocate for the standardization of menus – maybe we could have a national menu that included standardized sizing – no “WhataSize’ “Biggie Size” “Super Size” – none of that. Of course, that smacks of “freedom fries” and we can’t have that either, so let me steal a phrase from Stephen Colbert and warn the fast food industry in the meantime “you’re on notice!” especially when I’m having one of “those” days.

A Letter to My Hero

Well, now I’ve gone and done it. I was at one of my favorite sites poking the author’s favorite site list looking for inspiration when I found a guy talking about personal heroes. Although, I don’t think he phrased it quite that way. Still, the idea was to approach the person you want to emulate and ask them for a few pointers.

The writer suggested a few novel ideas: that the person you were writing was indeed human. What? Oh no no no, mine didn’t get to where he was by being human, thank you and I appreciate you not humanizing him. Mine is a demagogue of humor and you don’t become a “dema” of anything by slumming with we silly mortals. Then, the writer went further to say something about how given the person is in fact human, that person would likely be open to a few questions. Oh please, now you’ve gone too far. This writer clearly has demonstrating his own sense of humor with this suggestion, but the problem is that my guy is far too busy thinking up amusing topics on top of his pedestal to answer a few questions – questions he’s likely posed on a daily basis from fan-girls like me. He suggested that you be brief, to the point and be ready for rejection. Now the rejection part, I was prepared for.

So, yesterday I decided “what the hell” and I wrote my local hero. I even threw out my website, why not? I was already being funny, why not extend my personal skit to include my blah-g. I tried to be brief, but in also trying to be humorous, I lost track of that whole brevity thing and found I had composed one of those crazy meandering e-mails my friends occasionally get. At some point I thought “ok, enough you nut – he’s going to think you’re going to start hanging around his yard if you keep it up” and paused long enough to finish with a big “Thank you for your time, Beth”.

As I always do, I called Jay and April to announce that I officially lost my mind. They’re sympathetic and understand that I am Lucy from “I Love Lucy”. And then I braced myself for the “rejection” phase the post I read talked about.

When I got home an e-mail sat in my box winking at me. “Beth, give me a call”.

Now, I’m stuck. Sometime between now and Monday, I have to think of some good questions (I’m back to that again) – things I want to know to help me improve my own writing without sounding like a complete goon. Wish me luck.