Confessions

Guys, I'm going to need you all to sit down for this one. I've got something important to tell you that I just discovered about myself and I thought it would be better if it came from me (before you heard it from a friend) and that I told you all at the same time - in this very private forum. If you need to come to me afterwards and ask questions, express concerns or offer well wishes, then my mailbox is always open.

Guys, it seems that I'm fat.

I know, I know, it came as a huge shock to me, too and I'm here to tell you it's all going to be ok. I've had some time to really research what that term "fat" means (thanks to Google and some quality time on WebMD) and I think I'm finally coming to terms with it. Telling you all is the next step on my journey to well-being.

I'll be honest with you, like you, when I first heard the news, I thought, "you're WRONG! My high school prom dress (along with many other clothing items) progressively shrunk over the years - that's what old clothes do - it has something to do with the fibers contracting (you'll have to forgive me I was never good with Textile Science and didn't understand that this couldn't possibly be the case; I mean, I was a liberal arts major). Are you saying I'm NOT still a size 7? Seriously, I thought I was still a size 7! The clothing industry is just doing something hinky with the numbering these days in order to make me believe (silly them) that I was wearing bigger clothes. Whatever!"

But I was on the elevator leaving work and a co-worker cleared everything up for me. Apparently, my weight had to do with bad food choices!!! WHOA! Talk about lightning bulb going off. And a great example of those bad food choices were the items I had purchased for Christmas gifts and was carrying out to the car (chocolate covered caramel popcorn) "Tell me more!" I thought to myself and fortunately didn't have to vocalize, because I was followed into the parking lot as great wisdom belched forth. Get this, according to this weight loss guru this popcorn contained something called "HFCS" (for those not in the know as I was before this great enlightenment, that's High Fructose Corn Syrup - but if you're hip to the health lingo, they shorten that down into a nice little acronym - seems like it would sound like "hefcus" to me, which isn't particularly clever, but how often are you going to get a big hit like RADAR or SCUBA?)

I gleaned all sorts of health tips as I took what seemed to be a mile long hike to the car, and between you and me, I swear that vindictive little car moved further and further away with each step. THANK GOD is all I have to say, because I would have surely missed the part of the speech that dealt with binge eating once a week to "trick" your body (along with several other important tips that I can't get into because they might be copyrighted or cause a nutritionist's head to implode - either way, I can't share).

All in all, it was a darn fine lecture and now that I know I'm this thing called "fat" thanks to the elevator intervention (that was a close one - I could have had a quadruple bypass while slurping down a 3 liter bottle of soda and never known), I can move forward and make the right choices (which might involve a few hand gestures, but they're all nice and non-provocative - probably hard to tell with my pudgy little hands anyway).

Thank you all for your support and understanding. I know you're probably all reeling from the news - let it settle in - it'll be ok.

Wal-Mart Frenzies

For years now, Wal-Mart and I have had a sort of love-hate relationship. I remember in the 80's when it was all the rage and I lived in my small town; it was the biggest (and only) store that seemed to be open on a Sunday - oh sure, there was Hastings, but Hastings didn't have the zillion choices I craved in a shopping experience. Where I was typically able to avoid cruising the Dairy Queen for entertainment, I couldn't always resist the siren call of Wal-Mart, especially when I had a small allowance, an overwhelming desire to be a consumer and absolutely had to have a pre-molded plastic something to get me through the next semester.

Back in Austin, Wal-Mart and I hardly ever saw each other as my shopping habits changed. But our time apart was short lived. After I got married we were reintroduced as part of a horrific holiday ritual with the new in-laws called "let's get Beth up at 4am to get to the Wal-Mart for day after Christmas shopping" YAY! A couple of years of being slammed around by overeager, feisty, grabby post-Christmas shoppers and Wal-Mart and I had to have a final break-up. No longer would I get smacked by a shopping cart to have Crayola Christmas lights snatched from my hands. (Ok, that actually never happened, but people were still pretty awful in their frenzy to get deals. I actually own the discounted Crayola lights - if anyone wants them - unopened - yours free.)

I can now count on one hand the number of times I walked through its doors in the last two years. Once for a lawnmower, another to purchase Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream by Ben & Jerry's (it was worth the parking lot hassle) and yesterday. (Well, there may have been another time, but I can't remember the reason for being there other than trying to burn a lot of time while waiting on someone and being too far away from home to just hang out there.)

The thing I absolutely hate about Wal-Mart is it induces in me some sort of shopping daze where I go in empty handed and leave with a basket full of things I'm not sure I remember actually buying. Things I didn't realize I wanted until they were sitting in my trunk.

Yesterday's purchases: camp chairs (ok, I planned on those for April's Thanksgiving in the park), Pyrex portable (it's got a lid for the dish and thermal lining! and I am supposed to bring something to Thanksgiving that's best served warmish - another planned purchase), and then I went into a small frenzy. I "needed" a cover for the splattery food within the microwave - sure, I didn't want one before, but it was only $1.99! Then, looking at this thing that looked like a lid, I realized I needed a pie carrier for all those pies I never make. I find one and it has these nifty inserts - one insert can convert the carrier into a deviled egg carrier (for all the deviled eggs I never make) and one will make it a cupcake holder (again... don't really make cupcakes), but I was absolutely fascinating by it and had to own it. I even eyed a new blender, a rice cooker and espresso machine (because I don't drink coffee, but I did imagine it would make a great present and people like espresso, right?) Thankfully, I managed to keep my hands at my side and not walk out with these as well. Overall, it could have been worse. We also hit the grocery store side, but didn't stay there long thanks to HEB holding a bigger sway over me.

When I checked-out, snatching a copy of People because it had Barack Obama's face on the cover (look, there wasn't a copy of Time or Newsweek there - it was that or OK! magazine and I was still in "consume" mode) I stood back in awe as I saw over the lanes that I could also bank there, get new glasses, get a manicure, have my taxes done, have a family portrait and do all of this while enjoying a Big Mac. I swear, it was like country come to town - boy howdy, it was a consumer's dream come true in one single shopping experience.

Now, if I want to have any money ever again, I need to make a vow to stay away from that place or I'll end up tithing to it without even being aware.

Crazy

Back in the day, when you walked uphill in the snow barefoot both ways… when children labored in sweatshops and (no, wait…) errr… people still used leeches to cure the sniffles – umm err well, you know, back in the OLD days – a person could identify crazy. It was easy then, there was the eye spacing… I mean, c’mon everyone knows that if the space between your eyes happens to be larger than the size of one of your eyes, you’re obviously crazed – this has been well documented in many notable and, dare I say respectable, medical journals. Of course, there’s always the head bumps – as you also know, crazy causes all kinds of brain swelling and thankfully the skull is flexible enough so that it accommodates all sorts of bubbles and lumps brought on by lunacy – think of the skull as having the consistency of one of those balloons you can twist around and make animals out of – bone indeed – HAH! Still, the difficulty with identifying the lumps and bumps has always been in trying to get your subject to sit still enough to give them a good and thorough head rub. Oh, you thought your hairdresser was just working for a tip – silly you – she just throws in the neck rub so you don’t become suspicious when she later steps out of the room to phone the authorities. She’s a psychiatric police’s first line of defense to keep crazy off the streets. Finally, there’s all that incessant mumbling – like the guy who used to try court cases outside of one of the area coffee houses.

Now here’s my beef. We’ve got all of these tried and true ways of properly identifying nuts and someone goes and gets the bright idea to make a blue tooth wireless thing that you pop into your ear – so you too can mumble to yourself. Oh sure, you’re thinking “Beth, way to get stuck in a writing rut, why don’t you write about that time you thought you were funny again. We know you don’t like blue tooth users. We know you probably teamed up with Lori on Dotopotamus to coin the phrase Blue Tool and mock us” - I personally take great offense to that, because I would never say anything that clever.

I’m just grousing because I was walking down the street and this seemingly normal looking gal (eyes the right width apart, head seemingly un-bumpy) came to a screeching halt in front of me and started hollering. Clearly, she showed one of the three signs of being nuts, but NOOOOO she had a blue tooth. And there she was acting crazy but not being crazy. It’s disconcerting. See, I like my crazy straight-up – no crazy posers, thank you.

So, I’m just here to tell you that I’m officially protesting the device (again). Forget that they look silly, forget the whole rant about focusing on driving (that’s so last year) – I simply can’t tell crazy people apart from normal people any more!

Signs

The thing I love about the workplace, and this applies to any workplace, not one in particular, is there is always someone hellbent on making a sign or three to ensure you're sitting up straight, not talking with your mouth full and keeping your hands to yourself.

First - There always seems to be the obligatory refrigerator sign - it may be laminated with clip art or scrawled on the back of some recycled retirement sign and haphazardly taped - but it's there glaring at you when you walk into the breakroom and making noise about how your mom doesn't work there (it's creepy how it knows these things) and it insists (sometimes in all caps) that at some pre-determined hour, usually on a Friday, a fridge troll is going to have a party with anything you left behind, then finish off by licking the insides clean. You will never see your treasured frozen turkey medallions again!! I've read these signs over and over again as I stood nuking some poor dish to death, because it's either that or the post about my rights as an employee - and really, the fridge thing is more exciting (but trust me, I've read them both thoroughly). On occasion, one of those little sign gems will have a typo, so you get the added entertainment of getting to read what the spelling police had to say thanks to some pent up rage, a ball point pen and the loss of some dearly beloved Tupperware. (Hey, it's not like you hear about those parties nowadays. How are you going to replace that? It's not like avocado green is always in fashion.)

Thankfully, these guys are fairly prolific upon realizing they have truly great and amazing skills at using both Word and a laminating machine and they like to spread the word - their word. The next thing you know, a host of signs spring up around the office declaring exactly how they'd like you to behave. (I'd really hate to see their house.)

Second - This is the one that's got me going right now - when the fridge guy migrates over to the bathroom to become the dreaded bathroom rules nazi. Fortunately, at our office, this person has limited themselves to one set of bathrooms. I suspect something terrible must have occurred in one of those stalls, because clearly this person's hackles have been raised and 36pt. bold font just isn't enough to thoroughly express their rage. The list, which swears at you while you're quietly secluded away, demands that you: "DON'T PEE ON THE SEAT". That made me uncomfortable. I mean, if they're that mad about it, does that mean there's a crazed seat pee-er running around rampant through the building? Should I be concerned if they decide to move onto something other than seats? like chairs? countertops? floors? Please, tell me they won't move on to floors!!!! Oh, the humanity! The note reminds you that not only is it "nasty", but it is also "unhygenic". I made notes: "seat peeing is nasty" - whew - now there was a faux pas waiting to happen - I'm glad we got that cleared up. The next one up on the list was something about watching everything swirl down through the plumbing system. By golly, you will stand there until the water has returned to a more placid (and clear) state. Ok, I know, peeing on seats and leaving "remnants" is not something I enjoy, but do we really need a huge sign? Finally, you break free of the angry little stall, wash your hands and race for the door and there's one last sign slapping you around which says something like "your co-workers like folks who take the time to wash their hands" - only it's a little nastier and more pointed. Great, so on this floor we have seat-peeing-remnant-leaving-potty-hands who are obviously too simple to know that all of the above is BAD. What kind of people work on this floor? I swear to you, I haven't been to those sets of restrooms again and when I am forced to be on that floor I eye the women who work in that area suspicously, because I know it's one of "them" - the "seat pee-er" - they probably just said "hi" or dear God, did they pass me paper? I need to go wash my hands! I suspect it's just a matter of time before the sign maker slaps the offender with a new and bigger sign declaring them the "Seat Pee-er!" with an arrow pointing straight at their head. They'll be forced to wear the scarlet... no make that golden letter "P" on their chests so we'll know them on sight.

Now, I realize I may be in the minority, but I really don't need a sign to tell me not to let my food fester in the fridge or not to stuff socks in the toilet or even how to share a communal bathroom or breakroom, but I think it's time I added my own special sign - at least to the bathroom. Here's what I think it will say:

Don't talk to yourself in the stalls; it's unnerving and a little weird.

Don't make noises. I don't like them; I'm sensitive.

Don't produce anything that will cause a smell; I'm sensitive.

Lysol doesn't cover anything; use it sparingly.

Seriously, you're going to answer that cell phone? Please don't. It gives me a shy bladder.

Be more like me; I'll like you better and please follow MY rules.

In fact, I think you could just replace all of the signs with just that last bullet - "Follow MY rules", which is really what I think they're aiming for... except for your nasty food - clean that up or we're pitching it.

And Speaking of Fits...

Monday I was in a snit, which really isn't all that remarkable. I live in a snit. While you were voted "Most Likely to Succeed" "Most Likely to be a Politician" (bless your heart), I was voted "Most Likely to be Offended". In fact, I can work my face into a small little knot in record time (and why this isn't recognized by Guiness is completely beyond me - I should be on the talk show circuit).

The problem is that when I'm in a full blown snit, I'm really not fit to be around other people and somedays that's not always an option. So, I had to haul myself outside and give myself a lecture, which went a lot like this:

YOU! Outside.
Why?
Because I said so.
You aren't the boss of me?
Actually, I am.
Fine.
Fine. Now what's wrong?
What's wrong?! I'm angry.
No, really?
If you're not going to take me seriously, I'll just go back in now.
No, no... go on.
I'm underappreciated.
Is that really true.
No.
What would make things better?
(long pause while my brain sat absolutely silent) a sign.
A sign?
Yes. A big sandwich board outside of my office that read "Beth is Great!" or "Awesome" - some really amazing adjectives - maybe multiple signs that could be switched out daily. What do you think?
You're kidding.
No. And I want a tiara.
A tiara???
Yes.
Now you're just being silly.
And?
Well, that's silly.
I'm ok with that. GET ME MY TIARA!

And this went back and forth until I composed myself and became more fit to be around the general public.

Yes, I'm proposing the best way to handle Mondays is to unleash your other personalities and let them have some play time.

Friends

Recently, I was having a discussion with a friend over what makes an "acquaintance" versus a "friend" and while we both could go down a list of names and agree that so-and-so was a friend while so-and-so was an acquaintance, we couldn't quite find a clear line that put a person more solidly in one category versus the other. Every attempt sounded like some lame e-mail chain with those dancing cartoons of Precious Moments figurines usually littered with the same kind of bad poetry your wrote when you were five and asked you to forward it on to 50 of your closest friend otherwise you were going straight to Hell and making Baby Jesus personally weep because he died so you could have friends AND bad poetry and you're clearly an unappreciative little ingrate.

So, these past few weeks as I've been driving home listening to NPR, thinking about how this one trip just cost me enough in gas to feed several small developing nations and possibly a recently industrialized one to boot, I started trying to make a list of "friend qualities". Here's some that got tossed around (and mostly got tossed out).

A friend will call my house. Well no, that would make telemarketers my friends and while I'm sure there are a few I could get along with under different circumstances, we're not friends much less acquaintances. Plus, I don't like the phone and most of my friends respect that and don't try.

Friends come over to visit. Well again no, I've seen the UPS man at my house more than many of my friends and I feel closer to the pizza guy on some days. Hmm. My friends just never bring quality pizza (or subpar pizza, for that matter).

Friends share their most intimate thoughts. Ok, that had some promise, because you do share more with your friends (in theory) but then I started thinking about how I'm a world class freak magnet - to the extent that other people (usually my friends, who I obviously can't define) comment. In fact, if you've a stranger with serious problems, you're probably sitting on my doorstep right now waiting to unload your creepiest thoughts. Just remember that these doors don't open until 10am on Saturday. It's only fair to let Jay sleep.

Friends laugh with you, cry with you, [insert another cheesy Hallmark/e-spam sentiment] with you... and so will crazy people. I guess an argument could be made that my friends are nuts.

Friends will come get you when your car breaks down? And so will AAA. Granted, it's better when your friends get you (or are there when the crazy drunk slams into you while you're minding your own businss, following the rules, waiting for at a stoplight after bowling, and your friend hears it and doubles back because it might have been you - but I swear I'm not still bitter about the drunk lady who slammed into my car and said "all things happen for a reason" - nosirreee - like water under a bridge that moment is.)

I want to say "friends accept you for who you are", but that is almost gag inducing and it makes me afraid they might want to hug and all of my friends know I only hug on special occasions and my "real" friends actually know where that line is and could call me on it. I think my friends "accept me for who I am, but they also see room for improvement and sometimes aren't shy... hey people, a little more shy please!!"

I guess my conclusion is that I don't actually know what makes my friends my friends. (Probably a healthy dose of either bad taste, boredom or pity.) I could go down the list and point out the reasons, but each friend is different. If there are three things they all seem to have in common, they would be: "forgive me for being the mess I am... on occasion", "back me up even when I'm wrong" - (even though I suspect they get out of site and make faces - guys, I can sense those - and OMG wait until you're at least 5 miles away before calling your SOs to discuss "my crazy") and more importantly, "have walked the streets of New Orleans with me - and "offered" to beat people down in the street when they were "wrong" - true story... that's the way I remember it at least *cough* - how about that 4th of July firework display, eh?". Oh, and I suppose there's a 4th - "understand that you're way too lazy to install scanner software on your new computer at the moment, so you won't be scanning pictures to add to your blog that show proof that you might have friends - or at least know people who were too slow to get out of the picture with you - and really, I start posting some people's pictures and not others and the next thing you know there are riots in the streets and mayhem... don't forget the mayhem - I think there's a law about the mayhem".

And did I mention...

Are going to Dragon*Con 2008 August 29 - September 1 for my -0 1/2 birthday? I'm pretty sure that's a fifth. And it's not too late to get tickets. No pressure.

... and they never tell you when you've typo-ed on your blog - bless their hearts - they let you figure it out hours or weeks later.

Garage Sales

My aunt, my aunt's good friend Denise and my cousin are all garage sale pros and occasionally they let me tag along provided I'm willing to be reasonably functional and ready to go by 6:30 am. For me that means, getting up at 6, throwing on clothes and driving as fast as possible down the highway 30 miles to arrive on my aunt's porch on time (or if I'm lucky, having them come up my way and then I get to sleep until 7).

Here are some things I've learned from them (although they could make a much better list) and I'll pass them along as words of wisdom to garage sale havers and garage sale goers. (Again, my aunt is a pro at both.)

Havers: Your garage sale, the one you posted that starts at 8 am doesn't start at 8 am, it starts the moment you dare to step outside with an item and someone catches site of you. Most serious garage sale people/dealers have already drawn sophistated maps of garage sales in your area and they have a plan of attack, which starts at 7 am - not at 8 am or 9 am - 7 am. If you don't want to be swarmed, then keep the lights off and don't open the door until 7:59.

Havers: I know that beer dispenser that holds multiple bottles, spins and has an elaborate tubing system is a priceless heirloom that makes it difficult to part with, but go ahead and price it like the treasure it is: $5 and be willing to go to $3, because it's tacky even if you have the original box and all the styrofoam peanuts that came with it. See, if I wanted to pay $20, I'd go to Wal-Mart and buy a new one - one you probably haven't licked. Also, saying it's a "wine" dispenser while I'm looking over your shoulder at the Black Label beer in the picture, doesn't make it classier. I won't fall for your clever ruse!

Basically, if I can just pay a few bucks more to get it new. I'm going to do that. Who knows where your stuff has been. If you're really not ready to part with your precious items, then take them to a consignment store. This is a garage sale.

Havers: Sell coffee and sodas. I won't buy them, but lots of people will and it's a great way to get your bored pre-teen engaged. Chips are weird unless you're offering something to go with them. I'm never eyeing your used golf clubs and thinking, you know Funyuns would really hit the spot. Now if you're talking Dr. Pepper, the table wine of the south, that's an entirely different matter.

Havers: Be prepared to make change. Goers think you can break $100. I don't know why. It's just is the way it is.

Goers: Carry small denominations with you. Havers NEVER have change. Of course, remember you can dicker with them because of that. "Oh, you can't break a $1 - well, I've got $0.15 in in the ashtray. Sound good?"

Havers: Be ready to haggle. No one really expects to pay $5 for your DVDs but it's really cute you made up that little sign. Also, cookbooks are only $0.25 - I have that on the best authority.

Goers: Haggle. Did you see those prices? Oh please. Let them sit on that merchandise a good hour or more and they'll become a little more desperate as the day wears on and they realize they're just going to have to haul it all in. Of course, after an hour you've moved on to to another more promising neighborhood - so remind them early that they will be sitting on that item unless they take your offer. Scrunch up your face and shake your head a lot, too. Haggling is all in the performance.

Havers: Have a gimmick - like selling marijuana in planters. I've seen it work. I'm not kididng. Those people moved some plants!

Goers: Be on the lookout for undercover cops.

That's about it. I know there are better tips to be given, but I'm not a regular garage sale goer. Maybe as I become more and more convinced that wandering around in the wee hours of the morning is a fine idea, I can revisit this topic. Or just maybe I can get out of it by having my aunt and Denise come up with some real advice.

Tech Support

I hate tech support and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

By the time I've called tech support, I've unplugged, re-plugged, checked plugs, checked wires, swapped cables, rebooted, refreshed, recycled every thing I own attached to whatever it is that's giving me grief - whether it's the cable TV or the cable modem. Which means that when I call, I've moved down the road from "have you checked your power supply?"

I always start the calls with "this is everything I've done" and while I know I've just jumped into the middle of their tech support script, I really am beyond the point of wanting to retry everything again while I listen to them loudly mouth breathe into my ear; it's just not sexy. I'm usually greeted with an exasperated sigh, "do you mind rebooting again?" Yes, yes I do. If I'm calling, I've rebooted more than once and thank you for asking, I am getting power. How can I tell? Well, things are on. GRR!

It's not that I don't understand the feeling that everyone who owns tech equipment is stupid. When I was IT I had my fair share of "Beth, if you don't receive this e-mail let me know" or "Beth, why can't I find the information on the disk" as I look and see the disk is laying on top of the computer. I've even had "Beth, the server is dead" only to find that someone had powered it off. I even created my "Wall of Shame" - a place where I pinned any e-mail that made me feel incredibly smart at someone else's expense. But when I call, I'm trying to give that "I'm not a complete moron vibe" which really comes off as the "I'm short-tempered, impatient and moments from losing it all over you" (which really inspires people to help).

What inspired this? Suddenlink. I can't say enough bad about them, but this time it genuinely isn't their fault (although, I'll work out how it is eventually). Our cable modem took a huge dump and died. The little power light was on and the PC/Activity light was on but it was done sending and receiving packets of information. There were at least two fun/stimulating calls with their help desk while I made low growling sounds. A tech was sent out and he declared the thing dead. Meanwhile, I twitched while trying to remember what it was I used to do before I had a computer. I was drawing a blank. (Jay suggested something called "reading" - seriously, way to step back in time 100 years.) So, yesterday I picked up a new cable modem, installed it and of course had to call tech support in order for Suddenlink to see it.

I got Sean the tech guy. I think Sean may now be my new favorite - everything to Sean was both "awesome" and "cool". Sean even played the "let's give every letter used in the MAC address a fruit name and every letter in the serial number a vegetable name". (I have to find ways to amuse myself on these calls, otherwise it's back to the low growling.) When we got to H and couldn't think of a fruit I offered up, "H... as in Banana" and Sean laughed at my corny joke and even made it sound sincere - bless his heart. For that, I had to write to his supervisors and send kudos his way for being the best tech support guy they had.

Sooo... I'm always going to dread tech support calls. I'm always going to make low growling sounds as I push in keys to get past "to set-up your email, press 1; to find the "any" key, press 2; to be stuck in this endless hell of key pushing, press 0 - your wait time is FORTY FIVE minutes, please hold while we play you this delightful music from Kenny G - we will interrupt it every 30 seconds to remind you you should have pressed 1 and you wouldn't be suffering - thank you!" At least, in speaking to Sean, there's some hope. Even if his name isn't really Sean but something unpronouncable with 12 more syllables.

Ringing Endorsement

"I like Obama because he doesn't use all them dictionary like words."
(NPR interview on All Things Considered, Feb. 27, 2008)

I'm sold!! Anyone who successfully runs a campaign without using words from the dictionary has my vote. I propose we institute The Jabberwocky Award for Excellence in Glossolalia (psst, your dictionary like word for the day - and you think you never learn anything here - you wound me).

Empathy

I have a condition – well, actually several and though I feel a little shy about presenting them in such a public forum, my hope is that some good will come of it. My conditions or issues or problems or whatever euphemism you want to apply to make yourself feel more comfortable usually manifest after I’ve read one too many news articles or journals or spoken with one too many people who have an ailment. I set down the paper, walk into the living room and demand from Jay, “Do you think I’m autistic?” “What?!” “Autistic! You know… am I autistic?” “Why do you think that?” “Well, it says here something about being adverse to strangers touching them and I don’t like stranger touching me. Do you think I’m autistic?” … and then Jay stares at me, because he knows deep-down that I misdiagnosed and I’m actually “retarded”.

I don’t think I’m alone in this either. In our endeavor to empathize – to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes – we come out wearing their entire skins – ailments and all. Combine that with the current trend where nothing is our fault (it’s our parents, our neighbors, our genes, our exposure to violence on TV) and you’ve got an excuse for being both an empathetic listener and schizophrenic all at once. Plus, it makes you a better conversationalist at parties.

Who hasn’t walked into a crowded room and heard “Well, I met the host after a raging case of athlete’s foot? I lost ELEVEN toe nails! It was awful! Mmmm hmmm!” Then your job, as the empathetic soul you are, is to come up with an equal or better story so the other person doesn’t feel so alone in their plight, “Oh, that’s terrible! I once had athlete’s elbow and it ATE MY DOG!” I was recently ostracized at a party from a conversation because I didn’t have the right pathological creds and though I tried, I couldn’t think of a single person who had anything related to the current debilitating ailment of conversation. I was relegated to sitting quietly and offering up lamely, “ummm, I’m mildly autistic? Self-diagnosed. Oh hey, appetizers!” Then I went to rock in place because that’s what they say someone in my condition is supposed to do on the bad TV dramas.

A friend once said she had a co-worker who spent a lot of time reading through the Merck Manual and eventually correctly identified a rare disease she had after several misses and getting a line in her general practitioner’s file that read something like “Approach with extreme caution. Have tazers at the ready.” I think what I was supposed to take away from that was “the girl is nuts” – instead I got, “with a little perseverance and careful reading you too don’t have to go to medical school to identify what ails you.” YAY!

So, today I make this pledge to my friends and family. To be a better friend, dinner guest and partygoer, I will do my best to identify as many psychological and physiological disorders (some of them brought on by my family tree, my neighbor’s dog and not having an iPhone to call my own) as I think apply and because I love you guys, I’ll even throw in some extras for debate.

Writer's Strike Pluses

Not everything about the writer’s strike is bad. Sure, some shows will be cut short, sure we’ll miss the old punch of late night talk shows, and then there’s award show season – the great thing about that is come this Sunday I won’t feel compelled to watch the Golden Globes and will not have to yell loudly at the TV as Dexter is overlooked yet again. Instead, I’ll just pick-up the online paper on Monday and make a few disapproving grunting sounds. Plus, no one will miss that obnoxious guy from People magazine carrying on about how the stars are dressed when usually he is the most exciting eyesore “don’t” on the red carpet. Come Oscar time, I might be a small bit crankier. I mean, Jon Stewart was supposed to host and since I bow at the altar that is Jon Stewart and will boldly state that he was one of the best hosts (yes, yes, the reviews from last time said otherwise), I was really looking forward to more people not getting it again.

But I’m not here to write about how the writer’s should get their fair share of internet profits. (Psst, AMPTP members – stop bragging about residuals from new media – it makes those writer guys go berserk.) I’m here to talk about some good that’s come from the strike. And that good comes in the form of:

American Gladiator

Now who isn’t delighted to see the return of this show? With gladiators named: Mayhem, Wolf, Chesty (I’m sure that’s her name) and my personal favorite, an Amazon with blonde braided pigtails named Helga, you just can’t go wrong – I think she may have yodeled - well, you could if you didn’t have events like the Gauntlet or that one where a beefy guy (or gal) gets to shoot tennis balls at you at high velocities, but all of the challenges are back. This is the adrenaline pumping action we’ve all been waiting for since learning that Vince McMahon wasn’t really blown up in his car by a disgruntled wrestler. I fell for it. I mean really, who didn’t?

Not to mention all of the other “fine” reality shows that will spring up. I’m pulling for one called “Sweatshop” where it follows several teams of small, underaged children as they make their way from their subway bunks to compete in a sewing competition in dimly lit and crowded conditions. Each kid will receive $0.001 per pound of clothes that can be used to purchase food (candy) for the month long competition. There will be fun competitions thrown in the mix like “Factory Fire”. Which team will get out in time before being consumed? You decide! All of their substantial earnings (that weren’t spent on candy) will then be placed in a trust fund the kids can use towards college. Nothing says Ivy League like $1.50 (hey, that represents a lot of clothes) Does anyone know who I can approach to make this pitch?

On second thought, could someone please pay the writers? I didn’t get the butt I have by not watching TV and personally seeing “Johnny Fairplay” return for another season of Survivor might make me take up jogging just to avoid the show.

DISCLAIMER: I realize a lot of people are targeting American Gladiator to highlight the issues with the Writer's Strike. It's just such an easy target, it's hard to leave alone. Plus, I really did watch it and cheered like mad for "the spider monkey" kid. Hey, I was brought up in Dallas where we take wrestling seriously and since I'm not a sports fan, this is the only kind of sporting event I can get behind. If they bring back "Battle of the Network Stars" featuring a pack of B list actors, I'll watch that, too... well, maybe just one episode just so I can write about it and how much we need writers.

Big Tis

Seriously, I'm jealous of Seth. You type in the phrase "DHL Sucks" in Google, and you find his site in the top 3. (I think it used to be #1, but it looks like a more dedicated rabid DHL hater has unseated his site for the moment.) Still, if I were to forget Seth's URL, one short little phrase will set me right again.

That inspired me to find out where the traffic to my website comes from, and do you want to know the #1 search on Google that will land you on my page? Big Tis - I have no idea what that means, and you really have to work through all the "big tis" hits on Google to get to anything I wrote - you have to be serious about your "big tis" hunt and there really isn't much big about the tis on my site! Even if there were, what does it mean? Big tis? Is there a small tis? An average sized tis? When I went to Metacrawler to try to figure out what it meant, I was questioned with "are you over 18?" So, I'm thinking it must be some sort of typo. Let's run with the typo notion then, let's say you're looking for something big and of the mistyped, augmented, quadruple D variety - how do you get distracted by my site? Anyway, the whole "big tis" thing is just going to have to remain a mystery unless one of those searchers cares to comment.

So, today I'm looking at where traffic came from expecting a couple "big tis's" and I find something new "sixteen candles smell good big boobs". Huh. My first thought was, "wow, my searches are really lame by comparison" followed by "Tarzan have access to internet, meet girl, watch movie." Again, you're trying to find your smell good big boobs with your sixteen candles and you say "hey, here's the place"??

I'm here to tell ya, there's just no "smell good big boobs" here and stop that sniffing! It's creepy. Also, learn to type. It's not tis, it's tits unless you're looking for a holiday site, and that's not here either.

Hey, Don't I Know You?

I really like the idea of reincarnation – the notion that maybe in a past life I was somehow cooler, played a minor role in history, or have always been around the same people over-and-over again (the ones I like, not those “other” ones) – that maybe my friend Jonathan was once my twin sister Helga and we merrily yodeled together in the alps while dancing our quaint dances and holding the occasional puppet show. My only problem with this idea is that it seems that everyone who believes in it, and who discusses it openly, seems to also believe that they were someone famous. This leaves me convinced that Cleopatra, bless her heart, must have become the most fractured soul in the universe. I was Cleopatra, our dog Sam was Cleopatra, the mailman… Cleopatra. In fact, I can’t throw an asp without hitting Cleopatra. This must be hell on the reincarnations of Julius Ceasar and Mark Antony. “Et tu, Cleo?” “Et tu?” “Et tu, et tu, at tu? Oh crap, I give up! Cleo, you’re like hangars and dust bunnies! I’m off to the local sports bar to find Octavius for a stiff drink. Steer clear of women throwing asps. Best of luck!”

I’ve riffed on this to friends earlier, but once upon a time I had my very own stalker. (Every girl should be so lucky!)

In college, my one and only stalker announced (right after sharing, "Beth, I know where you are every hour of every day") that he had known me in a former life. I was fascinated – someone knew little ol’ Egypt ruling me back in the day. But no, he didn’t know me when I was the infamous Queen of Egypt. On this particular go around I had been his concubine. Mmm hmm. I apparently fought at his back. (Very common in the middle ages - sword wielding females stomping through ick and gore on the battlefield, disemboweling, decapitating and removing pinky fingers. I doubtlessly wore a leather bikini and had skin, though supple and tanned, that could deflect nastiness such as arrows, swords and maces. I was probably both exceptionally hot and tough - a lethal combination in battle. Go me!) Let’s assume, for arguments sake, that this happened on a regular basis - that women were commonly found in battle, we are still talking "me" – see, there’s an inherent flaw in this notion – were I to mosey onto a battleground, I would get dirty and I would sweat and of course, there'd be all the stomach churning gore I was wading through. I don’t like any of those things and I’m pretty sure past life me didn’t care for them either. If we took the magic bus to crazyville and could see my past lives, I'm fairly certain they involved ridiculous ways in which I died - and if we're talking the Middle Ages - it was probably: plague, plague, plague, scarlet fever, plague, rat lovings, plague, badly abscessed tooth (when I wasn’t distracted by yodeling with Jonathan). People didn't live all that long back in the day, so I'm sure I had at least 10-20 misspent lives in that time period alone. So, to set the record straight, I’m certain I was no one's sword wielding concubine. (See, that can be the ugly side of being a full blown geek – all of your past life fantasies somehow resemble a Boris Vallejo oil painting. Psst geeks, Boris doesn’t typically paint historic figures.)

When I apply my reason to the whole thing, I have to face the fact that I might not have been Cleopatra (that was all of my readers) or a sword-wielding bimbo, but I’m still holding on to the dream that my name was once Heidi and I used to call to my sister Helga across the Swiss Alps while shepherding our flock of golden fleeced sheep and we once had adventures after growing this amazingly tall beanstalk… no wait, that was that other life.

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.

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.

I Could Have Been a Competitor

I love games, but I’ve never been a competitor; I’m more of a choke artist, but it doesn’t keep me from dreaming. My impersonation of anything athletic looks like something straight out of one of those “America’s Most Embarrassing...” or “America’s Klutziest…” as I lose my balance, watch softballs, volleyballs, kickballs land at my feet or have to be grabbed by the ankles and suspended upside down to do that perfect handstand. (Well, back in the day. You’re not going to catch me chasing balls these days as I refuse to be blindsided by another volleyball upside the head, lie immobile on the ground in an attempt to do a backbend or be yanked upside down by the ankles (God help the strongman who tried)).

Back in the day, I was a bit delusional and felt I was a great armchair Jeopardy champion. I’d hurl out my questions faster than the contestants, “What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow, Alex?” and I imagined him saying, “that is correct, Beth! Choose your next category.” “I’ll take Corny Monty Python Quotes for $800” and of course it would be the video daily double. I’d blush, bet it all and then double my winnings because that’s how those situations play out in my crazy little mind.

Armed with my untapped talent, I managed to talk three of my most gullible friends at my university into participating in College Bowl. We prepared by watching more Jeopardy and playing the Jeopardy board game. What else could you possibly need to know? I was the captain and my team was ready to rock through to the state finals… in my mind. I remember that day, sitting at a little table, buzzer in hand and staring down the graduate students… our competitors. Let’s just say on that day, I never hit the buzzer. Instead, I chose to drool, look glassy eyed as each question came out of the moderator’s mouth and feel the steady drain of my cockiness ebb away. On that day, the opposing team ended up with over 100 points while we managed a whopping 10. I don’t even remember the one question, but the answer was Pepsi. Tails between our legs, we slunk out of the room secretly hoping we’d never run into the opposing team again – maybe they wouldn’t recognize us, maybe it was time for that hair dye, how much could plastic surgery really cost and could we convince our parents of the medical necessity? “But MMOOOMMMM, they’ll mock us if they see our REAL faces?”

Now that I’m older and for arguments sake, let’s say “wiser”, I tend to not allow myself the luxury of thinking I’d be a great anything contestant on any show. Well, up until recently where I’ve found another cohort at work who has started fanning those competitive flames. The difference this time is we’re making a more realistic list - a list of contests that don’t rely on obscure trivial information or require us to sing or dance – a list that speaks to the common man.

Our list so far (and I’m really surprised some of these are real contests, but hey choke artists can’t be choosers):

Food eating – now this relies a lot on stamina and of course, it’s going to be hard to unseat the great Kobayashi (although recently his record on hamburgers was beaten). Still, I’m not a power eater.

Air guitar – now we’re talking, although I’d personally need private air guitar instructions having never held a real air guitar before – I mean, do I wear the air straps low? is this a bass air guitar? What if I’m better on rhythm air guitar? Do I need a pick? Is air banjo an option?

Rock, Paper, Scissors – I’m not kidding, this is a real competition and who hasn’t played this while waiting for the school bus? I think this may be the winner for me. I’ll study my opponent carefully. Does he always throw scissors? Is he more a paper guy trying to anticipate my rock? (All interested parties, please contact me for my local Rock, Paper, Scissors team.)

Pillow Fighting – now, this is almost up there with mud wrestling in my mind. Yes, I get why people would want to see this, but I can tell you after many a slumber party this quickly goes from girlish squealing and giggle-fits to poly-filled frenzies where you pin your opponent down and brain them a few times. You can really nail someone with a pillow if you’re short on sleep, your training bra is now frosty in the fridge and some how you now have whipped cream on your nose (never be the first to fall asleep at a slumber party).

With little encouragement, maybe I can redeem myself in one of those competitions. If not, I may be posting “Great tips for the perfect disguise”.

Beware the Banshee

I don’t believe in ghosts or leprechauns or fairy mounds. I’m a left-brained “everything under the sun can be explained if we have the proper tools and knowledge”. Ghosts can range from poor plumbing, old flooring, exposure to high EMF fields, and an overactive imagination. Their only use is to scare campers and movie-goers. My rational is what gets me through the day and it happens to apply to aliens, too. Can you say “weather balloon”?

Many, many years ago my hyper logical left side of my brain and I were driving back from Dallas with my cousin who was asleep in the passenger seat next to me. A low wailing sound began to claw its way into my consciousness.
Left brain: What is that?
Right: BANSHEE!
Left: DEAR GOD!
(the left side of my brain fled to hide behind some simple algebraic formulas to keep it occupied while rocking in place and nursing its binky)

Yes, the cry of the banshee. If you have any drop of Irish blood, you know her cry and you understand deep in the core of your soul what she heralds… death. In that moment, I understood absolutely that someone in my family was in jeopardy and here I was stuck somewhere between Dallas and Austin worrying. I panicked.

I woke up Kim to see if she could also hear her cry. After a few moments Kim could hear her, too. If Kim could hear her, that could only mean it was Mom’s side of the family. As her insistent wail continued, Kim pointed out a mist forming in front of the car – a mist that grew denser and spread along the hood threatening to block my view. What if the banshee was signaling that it was time for one of us to let go of this mortal coil? Take Kim! She’s the cute one! She’s got a great laugh! You’ll like her!

Kim: I think it’s coming from under your hood.
Me: ???

Stupid radiator.

So, I’m just here to tell you… I don’t believe in ghosts or leprechauns or fairy mounds or banshees… no sirree. Fearing the closet is natural. Clowns might pop out from under the bed at any moment. And who really knows what dolls are up to when you’re not looking? The best way to stuff down these irrational, easily explained fears late at night when strange noises come out of no where? Lots of lights! Because we all know that creepy things fear the light… if they existed… which they don’t… but a bundle of lit sage brush will drive out evil… so I’ve heard…

Why I Won't Be in Your Wedding

Please note: I didn’t title this one – “Why I won’t be in your STUPID wedding” and despite that, all of my friends saw the title and collectively gasped about the subject. See, they secretly believe (and some are not quite so secret about it) that I can’t write a post that’s not specific to the stupid wedding sideshow I refuse to be in (I get one freebie in the post). I consider this a challenge. They’ve thrown down the satin elbow gloves with pearl heart cutouts and I’m here to prove them wrong (to the best of my ability).

Let’s start with the basics:
1) I’ve been in all the weddings I care to be in and if you’re still single, God made the Justice of the Peace just for your special occasion. Trot him out to your backyard if a court house is too impersonal. I’ll be there.
2) Dresses – There was a time that I could be talked into petticoats or the occasional hoop skirt – a time when sea foam green with matching dyed satin shoes wouldn’t force my eyes into the back of my head. That time was 15 years ago. Unless you have a time machine, you’ve missed your window. In fact, the best dresses came from Anna & Jonathan’s weddinng. If I knew where those pictures were, I’d post them. (hint: Anna). So basically, you’d still have to have that time machine and you’d have to become Anna to get me into a bridesmaid dress and I’m fairly certain, Anna isn’t going to let you possess her body on that day – she’s got control issues.
3) Hair – I’m not getting it done. I’m not paying $100+ to have some sadistic hairdresser shellac my hair in Aquanet while stabbing me in the head with a million bobby pins to get that perfect up-do.
4) Nails – It will take an act of God to ever let anyone touch my nails again. The last time I tried to be “girly” I got my toe cut off. The attendant, or whatever you call those vicious little sharp instrument wielders, and I looked down at my gushing big toe in horror. Everyone who was there, including me, shared the same thought “oh shit, that’s it for Beth.” Plus, if we’re talking feet – it’s like putting make-up on the dog – there ain’t no point, these guys don’t get any cuter with polish. Now if we’re strictly talking fingers, suffice it to say I’m not masochistic enough to have anyone grind my nail beds down with a sander ever again. I accept that my hands look like I dig rocks for a living and you accept that super gluing ceramic anything to them won’t make them prettier. My hands look great digging up rocks, so unless you’re getting married in a quarry or a mine, don’t ask if I’ll stand up for you.
5) Hats – My big melon does not accommodate most dainty lady hats. (See analogy about make-up and your pet.)
6) The Beer Fountain and Goldfish – As lovely as that sounds, it will just be blog fodder. Please don’t force me to whip caterers around to make that happen. I’d rather be in the audience or gargling glass.
7) And the big one. I’m at an age where my friends got married and had kids – the stage where I’m waiting for graduation invitations so I can write a check, wait 4-5 more years and write another check. I’m moved past the “yay, I get to be in a wedding phase”.

Of course, with everything there is an exception. If you seriously want me to be in your wedding or your re-wedding, here’s the condition you have to meet: You must get married (re-married) at the Star Trek Hilton on the bridge of the Enterprise. You do that for me, and not only will I attend, I’ll dress for the occasion. I may come as an Andorran! You never know. Other than that, I’ll see you at your kid’s weddings – heck, I'm even willing to help out at those.

(Psst, How did I do?)

Sorry, I'm not Running Away

Jonathan and I were recently talking about people who want to “leave everything behind and just run away to the mountains” to escape their mundane existence, their horrible jobs, their extended family’s Christmas plans that suck up your own personal vacation time and leave you with a poorly fitting handmade sweater you have to feign delight in, some bad pictures and indigestion – you know that impulse, the one that says ‘you and me and the wilderness – now THAT would be living” The gist of it was that people want to escape their lives and this was a convenient way to express it. We agreed that for us, the lack of technology would always keep us close to home… or at least civilization.

I may dream of running away to some remote unreachable location, but the sad fact is I could never be out of reach of cable, internet service, air conditioning, pizza delivery or UPS. I recognize that I desperately depend on these things and that being in the middle of the jungle where I must machete path to my house isn’t conducive to my personal living style. Not to mention, if Orkin can’t reach it to spray down the tarantulas and wrestle the pythons, I have no business being there. I’m just not a fan of bugs, underbrush, wild animals and angry villagers AND I’m definitely not sleeping anywhere that requires buckets of Off and mosquito netting.

See, I wasn’t made of the same stuff that drove my ancestors out of Europe to settle places like Jamestown (the 2nd settlement) or board the Mayflower (true story). That gene that made people think loading up into a Conestoga wagon to answer the call of Manifest Destiny were long diluted by a recessive gene for weaniness. In fact, if you were to transport me back to the 1700’s and someone said “Elizabeth, go forth to ye ol’ Colonies” verily I would die before ever stepping onto some rickety boat – forget making it to the inevitable scalping (which would happen exactly 5 minutes after I survived the boat, because my life is nothing if not ironic.)

And with all that said, let me add that I also hate camping, which is a lot like running away to the mountains only you usually get to go home after two sleepless nights and one too many marshmallows. Blame one too many camping trips in Girl Scouts that finally tipped the scales or that trip to Inks Lake where it rained and the other campers insisted we eat gourmet food (hot dogs were too pedestrian for their tastes). But here are some facts about camping I’ve come to take to heart:
• When you pitch your tent, no matter how flat the land looks you’re always on top of some unperceivable hill - the apex of the hill will always be in the dead center of your tent so that when you go to lay out your sleeping bag, your head will ALWAYS be facing downhill. Nothing like a head rush to go with your lack of sleep.
• When you are laying your sleeping bag down that hill, you will also have failed to notice the large boulder you threw your tent over in the first place. You'll discover it in the dead center of your back when exhaustion forces you to go to sleep.
• If you camp at a KOA, you will end up with your sleeping bag in someone’s old, deep tire ruts. (Again, no matter how flat the land looked BEFORE you threw up the tent.)
• If you don’t pull the flaps down on your tent in a rainstorm but instead sit in wonder, your tent will flood. However, if you whine enough about your personal bedding being soaked and keep everyone else from sleeping, they’ll always share their dry bedding.
• If your flaps are down in the rainstorm, you’ll always mistakenly touch the sides of the tent which will again lead to a flood. Be sure to try to climb a muddy hill the next day that is greater than 45 degrees for some mudsliding adventures. Nothing says "I love camping" more than mudstreaks down your torso.
• The air never moves when you camp.
• Fire ants like camping, too. So do raccoons.
• Stories about Cthulhu told around the campfire are not scary. It’s best to snore and be disruptive.
• Stories about a young couple listening to the radio about a serial killer with a hook for one his arms who speed off from the make out spot only to later find a bloodied hook attached to their own car ARE scary and should be avoided.
• Smores are overrated.
• Burnt marshmallows with hangar coating are also overrated (unless they’re that perfect brown toasted gooey yumminess that your friend is enjoying after your blackened marsh-nub fell into the fire).
• Banana boats in the Girl Scout tradition are underrated. (Cut out a V shaped wedge out of the top of your banana, set the top to the side, fill the banana with mini marshmallows and chocolate chips, replace the wedge and wrap the banana in aluminum foil – stick into the heart of your fire and wait about 5-10 minutes – retrieve banana, pull back the peel of the wedge leaving the banana “meat” behind, grab a spoon and dig in!) (Ask me for more GREAT camping recipes! I have several that are both fun and yummy! Hey, Girl Scouts was good for something.)
• The natural habitat for a newt is the community toilet. (It is possible to go hours and hours without using the restroom upon this discovery – your kidneys and bladder love this kind of challenge. Oh and guys with their natural ability to pee standing up to avoid the rare Toilet Newt, suck.)
• Campgrounds typically don’t have wireless networks set-up for your disposal, Denny’s is not across the parking lot
• Building the world’s perfect bonfire while shooting cans from the hip on someone’s private property is the only perfect camping activity. Embrace your inner hick.
• If the smoke from the bonfire is hitting you in the face, it will follow you wherever you move. Your only salvation is to say "I hate rabbits". The smoke will head in a different direction because what self respecting smoke would bless a rabbit hater. It's true - try finding anything on Snopes to the contrary.

These days my preference for camping involves the words “4 star”, “pampered” or “luxury”. And where I used to mock people who brought out their big ol’ trailers, I now see the wisdom. The only camping or “running away” I want to do these days have the words “Motel 6” attached to them – where it’s a lot like roughing it in since they typically don’t offer a “continental breakfast” (which to La Quinta means bad coffee and donuts) and the cable choices are limited. However, you might get the “magic fingers” that you seldom find in the Hilton. God bless the mini-fridge!

The Pin Ups

My Mom was the athlete – she played tennis, volleyball, badminton, basketball and a little known game called speed ball. In high school, she lettered in several sports, received trophies and there’s more that one year book picture of her that’s an “action” shot. Unfortunately for Mom, the day I was born I came out with a pair of glasses and pale white skin (a color that has never changed) with an undiagnosed allergy to sweat. Sure Mom tried to enroll me in tennis lessons, swimming lessons, gymnastics, martial arts, softball, etc. but what she learned from many a coach was I was naturally ungifted. In fact, Mom had to fight to get most coaches to take me off the bench by waving the rule books at them. I know those people cursed her, “damn rule books letting wimps play… we’re getting an amendment next year! We’ll instate a non-wussy policy!” In fact, I can safely say our softball team wasn’t #1 because I spent a lot of time out on the field.

In contrast to my Mom, my yearbook showed me in German Club, National Honor Society (I’m not smart, they just had a vacancy and someone had to fill in), Mu Alpha Theta (get it… it’s the M-A-TH club – there’s even an old IBM computers in the shot – one of those original, you can kill a person with it, it’s so large varieties), and orchestra. For extra curricular activities, I had String Project, music camps in the summer and did a brief stint in Junior Achievement (we mass produced flashlights… wow.) All this to say that I was not the young Babe Didrikson that she had hoped for – I more closely resembled some of the pages from Dad’s yearbook where he’s smiling with the Chess and Slide Rule Club gang.

Somewhere along the way Mom threw me into bowling leagues, which I took to better than most sports. Maybe it was the shirts or shoes I found appealing or even the smoke filled dens of beer and poorly made fried food, but I still feel at home in it today. Mind you, I’m by no means a good bowler. I can beat most small children and people with atrophied arms on a good day. Yet, today I find myself on a league with my aunt, cousin and a couple of family friends as the weak link.

The way I’ve decided to overcompensate for my lack of skill – obnoxious looking gear all in hot pink and black which includes my ball. All of the pieces can easily be paired with my Halloween bowling shirt that declares my name as “Roxy” on a team called the “Pink Ladies”.

Our team is called The Pin-ups (although, in hind site I think we should have gone with The Pin Downs because we’re living up to our name – those pins stay up a lot – vindictive things). We’re the only all girl team on a mixed league and they actually had to hold a vote to see if they’d allow all girls to play on a team. (Six people said no, but fortunately I wasn’t there to see who they were or I’d be forced to hold a life long grudge against each of them and life long grudges can be so tedious especially when my neighbor is my top grudge priority.) So far, all the teams have been really helpful and nice – they cheer for us, high five us when we hit pins, and give us all words of encouragement – although, I’m a little concerned that they all seem to tell us “well, at least you’re here for fun – that’s really what it’s all about… I mean, I used to be bad” (followed by an unspoken “too”) “until I played for several seasons and now I’m on the pro tour” (ok, that may not be exactly what they say, but it’s what I hear – there are some amazing bowlers and one guy really is on a bowling tour).

As the weakest link on the team I’ve managed to accomplish two amazing things. 1) After bowling my big 99, I followed-up with a 52 – forget I ended with a 108 – that 52 screams at me… I haven’t bowled a 52 since I was 10. 2) Last night, I pulled my butt in big stupid ways and had to sit out last night where instead of being the supportive team cheerleader, I through a pity party for one and whined – good one, Beth. But seriously, who pulls their butt? And my butt just gave out to boot – not just a pull – I can’t support my weight on that leg without acting like a huge baby. CLASSY!

This next week I need to focus on stretching said butt so at least Mom can be proud that I’m able to do something that is vaguely athletic. (Mom happened to be a fairly good bowler, too – there’s just no escaping that shadow.) And since I’m never going to be a good tennis player, golfer, basketball player, etc. – I have to hope that I can do ok in bowling. I may need to lower those goals next year and stick to sports like hopscotch – I can see a future for me there.

Dismissed Ideas

I know, I know, I'm supposed to let it go and surround myself with positive thoughts but everyone who knows me, knows that won't happen for years. (I mean, come on, I'm still bitter about a sleepover in 3rd grade although the anger has waned... a little... in the sense I don't lose much sleep over it... honest.)

So, to help make ourselves laugh yesterday after we'd finished discussing what a miserable person Evil Julie must be. We plotted and I think we ultimately came up with "the winner" of ideas. Adopting one of those unadoptable 17 year old kids who spent most of his life in some Juvi lockdown. The plan was that he'd be super grateful (we'd have to screen for super gratitude) and feel our Julie-pains enough to want to do something about it. We'd promise him presents like a Harley and help him remove the muffler. Teach him how to work on it at odd hours but well within the city's rules. We'd encourage him to loiter outside and smoke (when he wasn't becoming a better student). And say yes to things like "Can I have a tattoo?" "Can I get a few piercings?" "Can I play ear splitting punk music at 7?" (yes dear, the noise ordinance is from 10pm - 7am) "Can I go to the head shop?" (Of course, I don't know why you'd want to go but here's some cash, take your Harley and don't forget to keep your paraphenalia off of "our" lawn... and make sure your homework and chores are done! SATs before LSD! The kind of values all growing minds should have.)

Just think, it would be doing our part to help some poor kid out and in turn it would make the neighborhood a brighter place to be.

Discarded Blog Ideas

Some titles I've tossed around that won't make it past the livingroom to the blog:

Why Your Opinion Doesn't Matter: A Look at Movies, Books, Music and TV

Your Kid: She's Not Precocious, She's a Brat

Yes, You Are that Great: A Historical Look at the Yawn

No Question is Stupid Unless You Work in IT

NOTE: The story below contains an example of HTML code. I'm using a space in the code, to keep Blogger from interpreting it as real code.

In an ideal world there are no “stupid questions”. Every question presents an opportunity to impart knowledge…. unless you’re in IT. I know. I was part of that dark underbelly where you are the puppet master controlling the strings of the almighty network and thus the strings of many users who just want to get their job done. It’s a place where questions can frequently become fodder for the amusement of a socially challenged, intellectually condescending and arguably marginally gifted lot (don’t tell them the last part, their sense of superiority might become angered and I might feel their wrath). I know, I’m an IT offender. I used to have a “wall of shame” – a wall dedicated to questions from users that made me feel smarter – questions that made me smirk. My crowning e-mail sat on the top and read “Beth, if you don’t receive this e-mail please let me know.” In fact, on dark nights when I’m feeling low and unimportant, I think about that e-mail and feel a little better about myself. That’s IT.

I’m still a recovering User Abuser who tries to make up for their past sins by putting on my patient face and fighting the urge to mock every person I run across who hasn’t found their “any” key. It can be a struggle, but fortunately as people have become more comfortable and savvy around computers, it’s a manageable one. And I’m able to keep the demon inside me that chortles at their skills down. That was until two days ago.

I was helping someone with basic HTML code – how to bold, how to cause a break in a line, how to break for a paragraph – very basic. “Beth, how do you know this?” I just do. I couldn’t think of the how; it’s just something I know. I don’t remember a “beginning” only a “knowing”. I’m sure if I thought about it, it had to do with “view source” and an old program called Mosaic. Anyway, that’s unimportant – this was just a basic overview. What I needed her to type at that moment was < b> and I was happy to teach someone who had no experience with HTML something new and simple. Then she asked, “Beth, how do I get the “<>” keys.” I blinked rapidly, taking a moment to process the question and to shush the IT demon inside who just snorted loudly. “Well, you have to hit those keys there” and I pointed to the < and > on the keyboard.

This is where I need all of you to pause and take a good look at those keys – lower row, right hand side. Just look at them a few seconds and remember she was supposed to type < b>.

She typed “,b.” and then asked, “why did that happen?” And the sarcastic demon inside burst free and whispered to me as a response, “Beth can't answer you right now, every capillary in her brain just simultaneously exploded, she isn’t here. Please leave a message.” I literally couldn’t answer her for a few moments. After more blinking and a harsh look at my mocking demon I managed to get out, “you might have more luck if you hit the shift key” and I forced a smile that miraculously didn’t look like a grimace. She smiled and produced the < b> looking up at me for praise. “Good work! You’ve got the hang of it!!” I had to leave. I had to mock. I can’t help myself.

So, it’s back to the 12 step program for former IT people to take that first step again - Acknowledge that you are not intellectually superior to anyone. Step 2 – Realize no question is stupid when you’re teaching computer skills. It’s going to be hard. Does anyone want to volunteer to be my sponsor?