A Rant for Lynn; A Story for Tony: Tech Support

Tech Support Fact vs. Beth: I hate calling tech support and when I do call, I've moved beyond "Tier 1" and likely need someone who isn't flipping through a book looking for a script to match what I'm saying. I need a "real" tech support person, not a glorified telemarketer. One of our hotshot IT staff at work has tried to talk me off the ledge when I carry on about Tier 1 tech support and through a very long discussion, he has gotten me to agree to play nice as these folks work through their script. "Is the computer on?"

This past Wednesday, against my better judgment, I had to make a call for our Voice Over IP service. We'd gone two days with the line saying "Line in use" and while I do hate the phone in general, Thursday was Christmas and my birthday, which meant I'd be missing my favorite time of the year to get phone calls. The phone could be dead starting today and I'd be ok with that, but not on Christmas.

I call using my cell phone and "press or say" my way to the right department until I reach a live body who has some sort of initial combination for a name - DJ, RK, RB, BJ - something like that AND he also happens to have the most obnoxiously nasally voice in the history of voices. Not his fault. He mispronounces my name throughout this conversation, so now three things are wearing thin for me: my raging cold that reminds me of how much I resent people spreading germs when they should have stayed home, hatred of tech support, and hatred of folks who will not pronounce my name correctly despite having heard me say it. Slap onto that a hatred of people who giggle at the end of every statement. "What are you doing for Christmas Miss Doubty?" "I'm going to spend time with my family." "HEHE. Well, that's nice because I'm going to have to work tomorrow through the holidays and won't get to be with my family. HEHE."

... and that line started really mashing down on my crazy button. It's not that I'm not sympathetic, it just rings as an entirely inappropriate thing to announce.

From there we went to whether I had anything else to add regarding the problem. HEHE. I mention the initial set-up took a long time for the VOIP (four hours, which is not an exaggeration - the guy did other things in between, but he was here from 3:15 to 7:30) - I told Initials that the tech was having to go back and forth between the box where he punched down the cable multiple times and he finally got everything to work. "That's not the problem, Miss Doubty.... HEHE" and my ears turned off.

Before he relented that I was beyond his ability to help me, Initials had me do some minor troubleshooting things - one which took me a little longer than expected because I actually couldn't locate an outlet to test the phone in a new, exciting location. When I picked up my cell he was in the process of making a speech to the air and he hung up on me. That may have been what tipped me over the ledge.

He called back. "Miss Doubty, I didn't know where you went." "I told you, I was trying to locate an outlet and I was having a hard time finding one to set-up this test and STOP calling me Miss Doubty. That's not my name. You say it ...." "HEHE ok, Miss Beth". We got to the point where he agreed I needed someone out here to fix the problem and asked again, "is there anything you'd like to add, Miss Beth?" "YES. Whatever is happening is affecting our alarm system." (Alarm systems are typically tied into your phone in case of emergencies and since the phone started acting up so did our alarm. It didn't like not being able to find a line. Plus, the guy who did the set-up said he may have clipped that particular wire.) "HEHE I understand - that's not your problem because..." I set the phone on my lap and took a deep breath and then picked it back up and gave him a tech support lecture. He made a small attempt to try to talk over me, but I wouldn't shut up. "Ok, Miss Beth. I will put a note that the phone system may be interfering with your alarm system." "Good." "HEHE. Can I ask a question, Miss Beth?" I was hoping the question would be "Could I die slowly under your withering disapproving gaze for your amusement?" but no... "Miss Beth, sometimes our supervisors follow-up to see how we did answering your call. Would you say I was very satisfactory." "I will say you were satisfactory." because I was feeling nice and it's the day before Christmas. But here's my favorite part... "HEHE. I see Miss Beth and I won't hold that against you." "I appreciate that you won't hold that against me." "HEHE. Ok, you have a Merry Christmas." Then my brain imploded and left me screaming profanities into the air. (This got a a very disapproving beagle look who doesn't approve of ranty scream fests.)

The repair guy comes out - he's friendly - his name is Matthew - he's a dude. He looks at the inside, runs outside, runs back in and declares "DONE!" He validates what I said about the other guy having problems and explains that a lot of the guys are new on setting up VOIP, but this is his specialty. I ask about the alarm and he explained what happens there, again validating what I said about it, and adds "yep, that's fixed, too! Have a Merry Christmas!" then runs away.

HEHE. So there you have it, that's the story Tony. Lynn, there's a rant for you. My work here is done.

211 Degrees of Oh Please: The Missing Degree

I'll be honest with you, I'm not very "woo woo" or "touchy feely" and I'm not an easy sell on force-fed self-help crap (it's the force-fed part I'm against). Sure, I can admit that I'm being a little unfair (maybe a lot) since it seems to work for the masses, but for me most of it reads like a few common sense statements wrapped in a lovely package and geared to make one over-the-top, highly motivated, type A personality a lot of money by preying on lost souls.

I've had the rare priviledge of seeing many of these gurus repeatedly as I sat through countless hours of pledge drives (and let me say these shows are trotted out to raise big bucks for PBS and they never fail to deliver). I've seen a LOT of self-help folks come and go - those with one lick of charisma always seem to stay around the longest. You've got your highly popular folks like Dr. Andrew Weil, Deepak Chopra and Suze Orman with her financial advice. All of whom happen to be gifted speakers. And then there are those other folks promising you can live forever whose names get lost in the sea of other self-help would-be giants. I've always looked at self-help as a buffet - you take a few bits that you like and then pass on the rest of the stuff that's mostly there for garnish. My plate looks like I've barely had time to really hit the salad bar.

Every now and again, I've been in jobs where they've latched onto the latest craze (that involve multiple days of brainwashing activities that keep you away from your desk)- like the time we were all about the FISH Philosophy:

Play

Make Their Day

Be There [for Coworkers] (Often referred to as "Be Present" This is more to do with giving your full attention to a task or individual.)

Choose Your Attitude

And we had to endure having "fish" themed posters, pens, post-its and what not around around the office to show we were all 100% behind this. We spent about 16 hours being indoctrinated and then a few months later, the push behind Fish! was let go from her position and the posters were torn down, the cheap fish pens lay at the bottom of a Glad bag and everyone went in search of something else to latch onto. Again, let me say that if Fish! works for you, that's great; it's not a bad philosphy. It's just not what motivates me.

In my years in the workforce I've had "The Vision", spent 8 hours learning not to say "Don't", found out I'm an INTJ, a blue/blue, a Hound (in Fox, Lion, Hound), learned about 212 Degrees (thank you, Brandi - I'll never be that extra degree) and also learned that under stressful situations I tend to bulldoze ahead instead of listening (which actually was the most enlightening thing I've learned). All of that equals a personality type that will sit in the back of a room and act like the most put-upon individual ever in the history of mankind.

Recently, I was invited to attend a function featuring a motivational speaker and I tried to be open-minded, realizing that as soon as I heard the "M" word, my brain immediately locked up. I went to the website, saw the stadium full of people seeming to be shouting wildly with their hands in the air, read testimonials and had to say "no". It was too "revival" for me and really, I'd rather be dragged across asphalt.

With all that said, I will make one small confession. John Bradshaw got to me once and together we discovered that my inner child and I really can't stand woo woo and that's ok. We blamed my social worker parents and their friends and then I hugged my inner child and told her things would be ok and we could just smile and watch from the sidelines.

DISCLAIMER: Social worker family and friends - I love you guys and I'm kidding. Well, I seriously do hate too much woo woo motivational stuff, but my inner child and I never talked about you guys... much. :)

Who is Dawn?

When I post on the Big Blue Mess I assume a certain level of geekery from my handful of readers and I completely forget that there are those of you who haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about. While I try to remember to include links, a few things get through the cracks and that brings me to this follow-up post.

Charla asked, “Who is Dawn?” And I’m going to have to say that I don’t actually know. Sure, I know she’s a comic book character and I happen to know that Joseph Michael Linsner is her creator. There’s usually a big display in one of the dealer rooms at Dragon*Con featuring her image, so I can say for certain that she’s buxom with an impossibly small waist and equally narrow hips. I’d imagine she’s prone to falling over… a LOT. I don’t know who publishes the series or if the series is still being written regularly. All I know is that there’s a look-alike contest and a lot of red heads (or wigged heads) come out wearing interesting outfits as they show-off their impressions of the character.

Another confession – I don’t know a lot about comics in general (well, maybe a lot more than the average person poking along down the street). I can talk to you a little about X-Men (the origins of the new team and by new, I mean Wolverine, Storm, Colossus, and Nightcrawler – not Jubilee, Marrow or Blink, but we can talk about them, too), I know the first two major story arcs of ElfQuest, the first Kabuki TPB (trade paperback), Quantum & Woody, and a little about Rising Stars (the last TPB is waiting for me). I tend to buy TPB’s (Gaiman’s The Sandman and Stardust, for example) and then I shove them away on a shelf never to be seen again. In the back of my head I still think of them as “funny pages” and associate them with Archie and Jughead, even though I actually know they’re considerably more sophisticated. I guess after about 5th grade I lost my dependency on pictures to help drive a story and there’s that defiant 5th grader saying, “I’m a big girl now. I don’t need illustrations.” I’m not slamming comics, mind you; it’s just my own personal barriers that make it hard for me to read them.

Plus, I have to confess it’s hard to get me excited about a character like Dawn (again, just judging by the art and not the story). What I see when I look at her display is a scantily clad, big bosomed gal wielding weapons - a 14 year old boy’s wet dream – and the same can be said about the artists who draw females for Marvel, Dark Horse, Top Cow and DC – so no matter how pro female they may be, they don’t speak to me. It’s the same argument surrounding strip clubs – are they about empowerment or exploitation? If it’s empowerment when it comes to comics, why is she always running around in thigh high boots and a thong while wielding a sword/gun/staff/what have you? Why does she look like she burst forth from a Boris Vallejo print? You can create a strong, powerful and still beautiful character without all the extra bimbo-iness, but the answer is obviously that their target demographic wouldn’t buy it and I am not their target demographic.

Anyway, in a nutshell since this accidentally turned into a pseudo rant, that’s all I know about Dawn and it will probably be the extent of my knowledge about that character.

Ask me about Kabuki.

Rant: Don't Talk About My Momma

I thought I'd take a moment to remind everyone (all ten of you) of the definition of a "rant". I know, I know... you already know, but it is one of the tags I use when I decide I just can't take it anymore and I can't think of one "near witty", "perilously close to being humorous", or "I kind of wiggled the edges of my mouth and thought "tee hee"" thing to say.

So, for those of you who saw the tag "rant" and sent me a note saying "you sounded angry to me" - here's the definition:

n.
Violent or extravagant speech or writing.
A speech or piece of writing that incites anger or violence: "The vast majority [of teenagers logged onto the Internet] did not encounter recipes for pipe bombs or deranged rants about white supremacy" (Daniel Okrent).

rant. (n.d.). The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Retrieved July 08, 2008, from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/rant

Whew, we got that cleared up. Now, if you don't mind I have a rant brewing.

My mother wasn't a saint or maybe she was, but to my knowledge she was never officially canonized nor beatified, but she was my Mom and on days when we weren't doing that thing that sometimes mothers and daughters do best, I kind of liked her and vice versa. I hold my Mom in high regard, because she deserves no less and I'm probably even more sensitive about that today since she isn't around to speak for nor defend herself.

So... let's get to it - the ranting - it's why you're still reading.

I'm at lunch yesterday and the subject of my Mom comes up - about how she always made a former co-worker of hers laugh. About how my Mom would tell a juicy story and get to the "good" part, the part told in low voices while checking to see if anyone is listening whom she didn't want to overhear and she'd whisper, "...and then we held hands... each others!" like she had divuldged something particularly risqué.

Johnny Penis, who was there for the conversation and who thinks he's God's potential gift to the gene pool had been talking about all the women who had wanted to "date" him from this old office - Mom's old office - where he'd started working at while my Mom was slowly dying at home. He never met her. He's also sleazy. And he was getting antsy that the conversation had turned from his penis, which happens to be his favorite topic when he's not busily denigrating women. He's adorable. Really, you should take him home to meet the parents.

"I'd wrap my tamale around your Mom." I blinked. "I'd do your Mom." ... and he made suggestive hand gestures just in case I misunderstood.

WTF?! Now I could do the back and forth dialog between me and Mr. Penis, but you can probably imagine how the conversation devolved - and once again, I could kick myself for holding back - I felt I couldn't just let someone completely have it in public (being reserved SUCKS) - my brain got tangled up in the self talk of, "oh no, there are people around and some are his friends, I shouldn't make a scene" which made me very angry at myself for not defending my Mom full force.

But seriously, who says that? We're talking about MY MOM. Even if she were alive, you don't say that about anyone's mom EVER unless you're (feel free to insert a slew of appropriate adjectives that would turn this post from PG-17 straight to X for vulgarity (no nudity here folks) - and if you can imagine those words and them coming out of my mouth while I bunched up my face and spit, then that's exactly how I finished that sentence). And in my head, while he made several disgustingly lewd and salacious remarks, I was playing out what Mom would have thought, which would have mostly been of the PG variety and involve words like "classless" (she was far and away classier than her daughter).

So, just to wrap it all up:
I'm ranting. I am, in fact, kind of angry about the whole thing - thus the tag below - and I am completely, totally, utterly (and every other applicable -ly) appalled . AND I'm mad because I have to still confront this person and tell an adult what is and is not appropriate behavior, something HIS mother should have done.
UGH!!!!

The Sum of All Men

One of the things I personally hate about bumping into people you haven't seen in awhile is that one obligatory question you always get, "What have you been up to?" Which really amounts to about three questions: Are you married? Do you have kids? and What is your job? Some how these are the three questions that seem to matter most and it's the information the person asking the question will immediately offer up. I always feel at a loss when I find I don't have a business card or résumé on hand and even apologetic, "no, we don't have kids", "no, my job is not important but I do know some people who do important things - I once worked with people who were important" (as if that some how makes it all better). I almost want to answer, "yes, it's only legal in California, but our love is real; you'll adore her. We have a daughter, God bless sperm donors and basters. I also own a quaint upscale restaurant downtown where I also act as head chef - my asparagus on a plate with the drizzle of yummy is $18; you'd die for it! Bring a camera." At least that would have some spin-off stories that might be interesting.

Instead I get online to gripe about it.

But really, why "these" questions? They don't tell you much or maybe it's that they don't tell "me" much. Ok, I'm married, I don't have kids and I work for the government. What did you just learn about me? I'm lazy? My uterus imploded? I drive around in a black car and intimidate people who say they've seen space craft?

I think I've learned more about people from some recent classes where each one opened with a question like: What do you do for fun? If your life were a movie, who would play you? (I personally voted for some script doctoring and asked for Linda Hamilton, but I think I'm now content to say Katherine Hepburn playing a similar character to the one she did in "Bringing Up Baby" - smart but a just tad goofy.) If you could travel anywhere, where would it be and why? If you were a superhero, who would you be? (Ok, I shouldn't have answered that one; it's a bit too revealing of the ultra geeky side I try not to show at work, but kudos to me for holding back a little and sticking with the mainstream with my declaration of "I'd choose Rogue" and not throwing out characters like Revanche, Domino or Kabuki - all of which I prefer to Rogue. And more kudos for not snorting when someone declared "there are no female superheroes". C'mon, guys draw these things and geeky guys LOVE to draw women; there are a TON of female super heroes. The comic book stores are crawling with stacks of trade paperbacks featuring tiny wasted girls with big boobs and big weapons. But I digress and boy did you just learn a lot about me.)

So, I guess I personally don't think the question "What have you been up to?" is a good question especially if you want to find out more about that person. It's merely a "polite" question rating up there with "How are you?" The kinds of questions you really don't want an answer to - you just want a "fine" or a "not much" and you want to get the hell out of the conversation as quickly as possible. And my feeling is: why bother asking? We could just grunt at each other in passing. Have that little flicker in our eyes of "I know you! Now get out of the way, I've got to make it to chips and soda aisle and your babbling is setting me behind. Oh, and your kid looks goofy. Take that picture away, I have a weak stomach. TATA! Let's do this again."

What am I up to? Not much. Thanks for asking.

Daylight Savings

...or Daylight Saving Time, if you prefer. I was informed the latter was the proper term, but really let's just cut to the chase. I hate it no matter what you call it.
You see, I'm not a morning person and getting up an extra hour early, even if it means I'm leaving less of a carbon footprint, makes me fussy. Fussy in the way that would inspire your parents to consider you a moment then ask in a cutesy little begging to be hurt voice "Does someone need a nap?" That kind of fussy. In fact, I went up to a co-worker today and demanded, "do I look like a train wreck?" "No." "Are you sure, because I feel like a train wreck and I'm pretty sure you can see it in my face." I'm pretty confident he's a bad liar and not to be trusted. I'll be keeping my paranoid-due-to-extreme-fatigue eye on him until my body sorts out this whole time adjustment thing.

Seriously, can someone just pick a time. I don't care which one - draw straws, pick a number between 1 and 2, flip a coin (and tell me that coin traveled 50 years to ultimately determine my bed time and the bed times of millions, I don't care - just flip it and someone call it).

For the record:
I'm also against Sundays and any day that is the last day of a vacation. I have the emotional IQ of a 14 year old. The internet told me. It tells me things... especially when I'm dangerously sleep deprived.

I need a nap.

Everything Happens for a Reason

WARNING: Yes, every now and again you get an actual warning before a post because I can feel something very un-ladylike is about to spew forth from my fingers – it’s when my writing becomes less whatever it is and more about channeling Louis Black. In other words, I’m ANGRY and on the edge of becoming completely unable to monitor my language.

“Everything happens for a reason.” I don’t subscribe to this “theory”. There’s not some big master design where every little snowflake impacts the universe. I’m more the kind that thinks snowflakes happen because the conditions are right – a realist. That little flake didn’t fall on my nose to remind it was cold outside, to make me value nature more or remember the value of a good coat – it hit that spot because my honker was in the wrong place at the wrong time and that flake could have taken out an eye if I’d been in the wrong spot. The only theory I occasionally subscribe to is the one that declares the universe has a personal vendetta against me. I don’t know what I personally did to piss the universe off, but it’s gunning for me. Forget all the times when things are going right and I forget about the universe – that’s when it’s trying to lull me into thinking it’s safe to be outside again – and damn if I don’t fall for it every single time.

So, let’s back up a bit.

I’m at home. I’m at home on a work day. Why? It’s not that I don’t like being at home, but I was enjoying accruing leave. It’s because I can’t drive to work today. I can’t drive to work today because I don’t have a car and I need to spend the day chatting up insurance people. But thank GOD the woman who slammed into the back of it last night felt like “everything happens for a reason” and expressed that. She’s very lucky that I’m a calm person, because I just stared at her while thinking, “oh, is that reason that you’re a moron? Is that reason that you don’t understand that red lights and a series of brake lights means WE’RE NOT MOVING FORWARD MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T EITHER?”

Everything in my car flew forward – my glasses, everything in the little trays and the birthday cake my aunt saved for Jay. I hit the person in front of me (who hopped out, looked at his fender and then sped off). Then there was the sobbing mess of a person behind me and she had every right to be – her car was completely totaled with steam coming out and bits of car all over the road. Whereas, my car had a flapping bumper and a dislodged tail pipe. Let me say real quick “go little Honda Civic coups”.

I called the police and the response time was an amazing 15-20 minutes so I got to know the driver. She called every person she knew and declared through heavy sobbing, “I’ve been in a wreck, I’m going to jail.” Why? Well, a few phone calls later, “I’ve been drinking…” Of course you have. She’d just been off work for 9 days with pneumonia, her mode of transportation was destroyed and she was in the dead center of a personal meltdown. “My life is over.” Every few minutes she’d come hang on me to let me know it was her fault. “No, no, it was mine. I shouldn’t have been born and this whole ugly thing could have been avoided. I shouldn’t have left the house. I shouldn’t have been in front of you. My bad.” Then there was the whole “I have no defense” which in 40 degrees without a coat, in traffic and waiting on the police sounds just like “I have no insurance”. I just stared blankly. Of course you don’t. Just a quick note, I’m not your go-to girl when you’ve just trashed my precious car and most of you know how I love my car.

Fortunately, Kendra was two cars in front of me, heard the wreck, went up a block to see if I’d pass and then came back when I didn’t. She doesn’t blog, so you won’t get to read about what my meltdown looked like. Kendra had to clarify the whole “insurance” “defense” mix-up later.

The police came, information was exchanged, the woman wanted to hug on me more (bad in almost any situation, but REALLY bad when you’ve trashed my precious) and I failed to get the car home. Seems that bits flew off at Kendra as we were driving down the road and the bumper was waving around like mad – threatening all behind it.

The car is now sitting in a parking lot waiting for me to figure out what the hell I’m doing today. I really hate dealing with crap like this. I hate that I’m going to be stuck on the phone telling this story over and over and over again to some drone. I hate that my precious is going to a body shop and I’m really trying hard not to get into a serious funk over accidents and my cars, because when I start the whole “I was never meant to own anything nice or anything good” people get twitchy and feel like they need to convince me that isn’t so despite all of the obvious proof. If “everything happens for a reason”, then it’s for that reason alone.

Blog Housekeeping Notes

Hi all! I'm about two whole minutes from slumping over in my chair for no real good reason - lack of oxygen, lack of iron, Sam slobbered all over my pillow and left big gross soppy wet spots on it leaving me with an untested pillow, plus it's like what... the crack of 7pm. It's practically bed time and I still have things to do.

How that affects you? It doesn't. Well, it does mean I'm not proof reading because the screen is one black and white blur (I wish I were exaggerating - but let's all take a moment to thank my typing teacher for teaching me how to type blind).

Right... Housekeeping - seems I just titled my entry that, so I should probably make some reference to it. Some time ago I tried to update the template on this thing and I blew it. You may not have even noticed, but yesterday someone clicked on one of my links and the blog stats showed me where it sent them and I said WTH? (that's an acronym for: "oh my goodness" - which is a nicer acronym than one that's very similar which loosely translates to a more powerful "oh my stars and garters" - now you know what Hank McCoy really meant (yes, a shout out in this tired state to my geekiest readers)). I have since fixed that. So, if you're the one who clicked The Daily Coyoyte link and received an error, well... that's all fixed. You can also now see the other website I thought I posted. Right, lesson learned - next time I'll verify the changes.

Housekeeping 2
You might have attempted to get to my site over the last week and noticed it was down. You can thank people who write spam scripts for that. They broke my site by attacking the Guestbook. The Guestbook is now disabled, which of course caused me to have a big ugly fit that I acted out the entire day. Hrmm... could be why I'm tired; it was a really BIG, blood vessel popping fit.

See, spammers and virus writers that impact my life and make me cranky enough that I'm about to drop at 7 pm (because I'm the angriest person you've ever met; I was just raised to be impossibly polite and quiet) always put me in the mood to rant about judicial canings administered on the White House lawn and broadcast for the world as a warning. I'd like their pasty white hides dragged out of their momma's basement so they can be swatted like they were four years old before a national audience. I'd broadcast it on Fox, because that some how feels like the appropriate network. (Now, if I were a good blogger, I'd find the little blog I wrote about canings and have a link, but have I mentioned I'm tired?) This is all because I have to make changes to my site thanks to some (errr... I'm sure there's a good acronym that would work here, but I don't know it - anyway) ... some pasty white dork living in some third world country or just next door preventing me from enjoying my 14 little comments that make my day (like when I'm having a day that ends with people being harmed to set an example for all annoying little script writing spammers). And while I can still see the guestbook, I can never look forward to more than those 14 without making changes to the site and that really pisses me off. I suppose I've calmed down enough that we can forego removing the first joint of their pinkies, but I'm still sticking to having a Vin Diesel type poke them in the chest repeatedly with his big meaty index finger - maybe flipping up the bills of their hats - because they're probably those annoying little guys with their hats cocked to the side and those baggy pants. Of course, if the above offends you in any way, then I'm just kidding. Really. Spammers are just misunderstood and should be hugged. Maybe someone in the world would really like 200 postings about "male enhancement" aids and I'm just a bitter penis hater. Who am I to deprive them of future spam.

Right... to bed with me.

Value

A recent headline read “Nurse and Social Worker Among the Dead” and I had to wonder if I was supposed to be more upset because it was a nurse and a social worker versus a burger girl at the mall. Personally, if it were a place I frequented, I think I’d notice and miss the burger girl the most – the way she always made the correct change, the special way she undercooked my burger every single time and other little things like how she could never remember to throw a straw into my bag, but she could always manage a smile.

Is each life of equal value? If you ask your parents, your relatives or your friends, they’ll typically answer yes without thinking. (Assuming, you have a good relationship.). Sure, you may not be their favorite – they may love your brother more, their kids more, the mailman more, but you’re in there somewhere – and we are talking about a “life” being of equal value, not whether you’re better than everyone else at being on time to Thanksgiving. Still, your life, your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, and the memories you share probably matter more to these people than say the CEO of Frost Bank – so to them, you are equally as important, if not more so than an oil tycoons or a fallen celebrity.

We desperately want and need to believe that in this world, we are some how important – whether it’s to an individual or to a community. However, when we turn on the news there’s the ugly reminder that in a broader since we are not meaningful at all. When tragedy strikes, the death roles list people by their color, their status, their job and their gender (all of the little discriminatory distinctions we fought so hard against for centuries come screaming through the speakers on our TV to remind us we’re not exactly a “melting pot”) you even get bonus points if you’re a single parent whose kids are heading straight to the orphanage once the film crew stops shooting their sad little urchin faces. And then there’s you - what’s left over because you didn’t cut the mustard – you didn’t run for cheerleader of your neighborhood – you were single, poured tar into potholes – and while we all say that’s important and noble, you weren’t a nurse… you weren’t a social worker – you were a blue collar faceless nothing according to the reporter. Your entire family could be standing in the background, their hearts breaking, but because of who you were, the best you might get is your name thrown in as an afterthought.

It reminds me of the time I was in a malfunctioning elevator so many years ago. All I could think as it jerked and bumped and occasionally stalled out for no reason was – if this elevator plummets to the ground – the one carrying Lady Bird Johnson, her daughter Lucy, Jake Pickle (a former Congressman from my district) and I– the world would not lament a lowly non-profit membership director who happened to cushion the fall of Mrs. Johnson in her final moments. I would be remembered and reported as the unimportant splat in the elevator shaft – a whimsical footnote in a tragic story.

Every person is equally valuable. And while some lives are valued by individuals more than others, they’re not less valuable as a whole. So, let’s stop reporting them as if they are. If you have to say “a nurse”, then also say “the doorman on 5th Avenue who smiled every single morning as if he never had a bad day” or “the lady next door who was mostly a shut-in, but came out once a day to tend her rose garden” or even “the guy who always stood on the corner who could never seem to make ends meet.” They’re just as important. They’re just a valuable. What we do for a living makes up only a small part of who we are and in my mind doesn’t make us more or less valuable as a person.

Although, truth be told, I’ll still probably miss the waitress more.

The Return of "Quality" Suzuki (part 2)

I'm trying to pretend that I'm surprised, but I don't think I can really sell it to anyone but the most gullible. Suffice it to say that the car that was being shipped from Alabama, the one that was supposed to be here YESTERDAY, mysteriously didn't make it (no real reason was given). BUT hope was not completely lost, Jay was told they could order one directly from Suzuki. I'm sure it was from the CEO himself (or that may have come when the one from Suzuki fell through). I give the salesman points, he called this time. I'm not sure what came over him; he must have lost his mind.

On Saturday, we'll be hitting another dealership for more fun car sales shenannigans. We do lead the life.

"Quality" Suzuki

The Friday before Christmas, Jay was coming home from work when a kid hauling kegs off to celebrate his 21st birthday failed to check oncoming traffic and pulled out in front of Jay in a friend’s brand new truck. Jay t-boned the side of the truck and needless to say Jay’s car was totaled. I won’t rant about how I’ve found Plugerville drivers to be the worst in the United States nor carry on about how I’ve felt safer driving in both Manhattan and Boston than I do the two mile stretch of road that takes me off the highway and sends me home. Suffice it to say, these people can’t drive and it was just a matter of time before one of us got into a serious accident.

This means we’ve had to enjoy the fine company of various car salesmen. And I’m sure deep-down (really deep) they’re nice people, but let’s face it they’re up there with ambulance chasing lawyers and auditors. If they’re in your family, you talk about their occupations in whispers, “y’know, Betty’s boy Albert is a… well, I don’t want to say it, but he’s a car sales man” and someone will offer up a comforting pat to help quell the shame, “I’ll pray for him.”

We all hate car salesmen because we all know as we approach the dealership that we’re moments away from being swindled. And we have to make decisions like “is that protective sealant, the one that’s guaranteed to last 5 days after the warranty, self-polish the chrome on the tires and ward off the evil eye, and that’s ultimately going to be an extra $500 worth it? I mean it sounds like I’d be a complete idiot to turn it down. It IS the number one selling addition to the car, along with wheels, seats and windows – and the price on those didn’t seem to be too bad either.”

Jay settled on a car from Quality Suzuki of Austin – the only Suzuki dealership in town. WARNING: The rest of this post is a warning to those in the Austin area to avoid this dealership. In fact, I’ll add we’ve had positive experiences at both South Point Nissan and First Texas Honda – I mean, they’re still dealerships filled with sleazy sales people, but at least I didn’t walk away from those wanting to spit on someone.

The story: First off, we drive up and there are all the salesmen sitting on the stoop hungrily looking at any car that seems like it’s going to stop. The last time I saw quality stoop sitting was in New York and I’d say these sales guys could give any native stoop haver a run for his money on the stoop front. We get out and are greeted by fastest of the pack. He explains he’s new to Suzuki as Jay is having to point out the car he wants – the name alone wasn’t enough to help the guy spot it on the lot. Jay crawls around in the car and asks a question about the rear folding seats – see, they can rotate forward and be pressed against the front seats to increase the carrying capacity in the back. Asher says he’s never heard of that, disappears and comes back “nope, they don’t do that”, then he hands us a brochure which illustrates exactly how they do that.(Image of rear folding seat NOT being folded up against the back of the front passenger seat)
We’re introduced to the sales manager whose hair is so tightly slicked back it’s making his eyes water. He tells us where the car is made, which differs completely from what Suzuki says, but I give him points for saying it with authority. We’re not impressed, but Jay really wants this car and eventually calls the sales guy up.

Of course, they don’t have exactly what Jay wants, but they’ll order it from San Antonio and it will be ready by Saturday. Saturday we get there… “hey guys, oh I got so busy I forgot to call – yeah, they like sold your car.” We drove 40 minutes and this guy says they sold the car but couldn’t be bothered to call. “Are you sure you really need THAT package? Are you sure you really have to have THAT transmission?” Yes. Yes. “Ok, like there are none in the whole wide world. Ok, like maybe there’s one and we’ll like have to fly this guy from here to go pick it up and he’ll like have to drive it back to ummm here and you’re going to pay for first class. Is that ok?” Well, maybe he didn’t say the first class part, I really couldn’t tell you because I was completely fixated on hitting him. They “work up the numbers” which we all know is complete and total bs, they’re looking at porn figuring out how to screw us over, but ultimately it fits into what Jay was planning to pay. Mind you, this guy is totally unapologetic – and why should he apologize, he’s being rewarded with a sale by virtue of being the only dealership in town (the other one that is close-by is apparently not open yet).

We’re then ushered into the finance guy’s office. (A quick note on the “offices” – hands down the worst interior of all the showrooms I’ve seen and one of their chairs actually fell apart on the main floor – they’re some of those cheesy office chairs from the mid 80’s on chrome casters with stained upholstery – and that describes ALL of the chairs there – they should be ashamed – I’ve seen Food Stamp offices that had more class and that, my friends, is not an exaggeration.) The finance guy was overly chipper and out to work Jay some more. At one point, he actually called Jay a liar when it came to how Jay’s bank was willing to finance the new car. Unbelievable. And he talked incessantly, “why aren’t you guys excited? It’s a BRAND NEW CAR! C’MON, everyone loves a BRAND NEW CAR!!!” “We’d be excited if you all hadn’t sold the car we were supposed to be picking up today.” “YEAH! But you’re getting ANOTHER one! That’s exciting, right? AMIRIGHT?!! Then he tried to match Jay’s bank’s deal, “Jay, look what your payments would be if we stretched it out over 30 years!” “HUH! Isn’t that GREAT! One time I bought a car and said I’d pay it off in FOUR and BOY I tell you WHAT that was sure a stretch on the old wallet. I wish I had said PAY IT OFF IN THIRTY! AMIRIGHT?!” (Err… 30 may actually be 6, but you get the idea.)

We left with another promise that come sometime this week ANOTHER car that we ordered will be ready for Jay to take home. I have serious doubts.

So, I say to you – if you’re set on a Suzuki, get a motorcycle or at least don’t go to Quality Suzuki of Austin. They don’t know their product, if you order your vehicle it won’t be a guarantee that you’ll get it (even with a deposit, which is what Jay had done) and it’s such an aesthetic nightmare you’ll only end up dry heaving in their showroom because your stomach can’t come to terms with how crappy it looks.

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.

Don't Say Anything at All

Remember when you were younger how grown-ups had to occasionally remind you, "if you can't say something nice..." And they reminded you because you just threw-up socially with your uncomfortable little bout of Tourette's or you spoke "the thought bubble" - the one you're supposed to keep under wraps in polite company.

Then, one sad day your family turned you loose on the rest of us and you had to be responsible for your own mouth. Sometimes the warning lights would make you pause, while other times you'd see the red light and floor-it only to realize it wasn't worth it after the bar brawls or the local gossip advertised your little embarrassing gaffe in neon to the rest of the world, sending you on your way to being a social outcast.

Well, I'm here to tell you that phrase didn't simply mean "don't say "ugly" things - it also covered the "non-compliment". Basically, the phrase literally amounts to say nothing, nada, zip if it's not "nice" - and by nice, we're not talking drooly, over-the-top, blathering flatter - it's just what it is, it's "nice".

With that in mind, I'd like to addres a few comments I've received this week regarding my hair (note all comments were not followed by anything resembling the phrase, "it looks nice"):

"Did you dye your hair?" No, this is what a week's worth of non-washing will get you. So far, I'm digging the results and the freedom from the shower. LIBERATING!

"Your hair is darker." CRAP! I distinctly remember saying "blonde". Seriously, is it not blonde?

"Did you do it on purpose?" Oh hell no, that hairdresser tied me down and made me pay. I'm filing assault and aggravated kidnapping charges and don't think I'll forget about the emotional distress. I need therapy!

"It matches your shirt." Oh hey, I thought I wore the black shirt - must have accidentally grabbed the chocolatey-eggplant one by mistake.

"Did you do it yourself?" Yes. Well, I had some help from an epileptic chimpanzee. We'd like to do yours next. Sleepover? You should see what we can do with a needle and some ice.

Seriously, if you can't say something nice (or at least not inane), don't say anything at all. Inane just doesn't count as "nice".

RANT: What My Dog is Worth

We own a lot of frivolous things – from the PlayStation that now only acts as the DVD player to our computers, computer subscriptions, DVD collection, etc. etc. ad nauseum. In fact, there are few things we have in our house that we actually “need”. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking all we really “need” is the bed (since I’m terrible about sleeping on the hard floor), the refrigerator and the stove – maybe a book or two to pass the time, but in the world of “need” you can eliminate a lot of stuff if you had to. But I choose to have the things I do around me, because I enjoy them and I don’t go over to your house and criticize your “needs” – we all accept them – home entertainment systems, pool tables, art – all potentially expensive – all arguably unnecessary.

So, let me get to my rant. My dog. She’s not a couch, a big screen TV, or china. She’s our dog and she’s our dog who is having a hard time right now. What makes me absolutely crazy is the person who says “wow, a neurologist… is she worth spending the money on?” Let me make this 100% clear. She’s worth it to me. She’s worth more than all of my possessions. My couch doesn’t care if I come home. It doesn’t care if I tell it it’s a good couch or a pretty couch. My couch doesn’t want treats when its performed well nor does it look up at me with a concerned pillowed face when I’m upset; that’s Sam.

My unfunny little rant today – if you don’t want me to critique the crap you buy to prop yourself up, don’t ask me if my dog is worth it ever again, because she’s worth more than every damn thing I own if she can smile again, if she can blink again, if she can perk up her ear one more time.

Blogging as Therapy

I need to do a bit of scanning for my next blog “concept” idea so instead on working on that (there are closets and sifting involved and I see this idea being ultimately shelved), Jay thought blogging about why I hate my neighbor might be therapeutic.

You all may remember that I live in suburban utopia with tons of rules surrounded by Julies. (The one April moved, which was sad. I liked the April.) And one of the Julies is a public nuisance – the one that filled me in on: birthing plans of each neighbor in our little circle (I don’t know these people, but I know their plans) the first day I met her, the difficulties of selling her house which was built by a premium builder while the ones behind her were constructed by a fat, lazy builder who presumably used Elmer’s glue and a staple gun, her problems with the neighbor’s dog that lived behind her (barking is bad), and we’re almost certain that she reported us on an edging violation. Yes, we didn’t edge for an entire month thus single-handedly driving the property values down for her house and were doubtlessly one step away from putting my car up on blocks in the front yard. I know that her husband works up to 80 hours a week (who wouldn’t want those hours – I almost did after talking to her for 5 minutes) and she stays at home lurking about worrying about each neighbor. They even made her our “block captain”. I don’t know about you, but I hear those two words together and I see her as a gentile making sure there are “keine Juden in deinem Dachboden” (no Jews in your attic) let alone your Home Owner’s Association. She’s like Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched without the laugh track.

I usually try to avoid her because she gives me that “vibe” and when I get that “vibe” I’m usually dead on. See, I honestly believe she’s off her meds and not in a funny way.

So, yesterday morning I’m outside with Sam who decided I’d slept in long enough and because she can pop her ears forward just so, stick out her tongue and wiggle her whole body I found myself sitting stunned on the back porch. (Sam has abandonment issues and won’t stay outside if you’re not there, too.). As I’m sitting there feeling like warmed over death I hear the howls of dogs rolling through the streets which almost always precede a siren of some sort. It’s an awesome yet spooky sound and I was caught in that moment when Sam took up the call. I’m not sure if she was responding or there was something REALLY interesting in the overgrown flower bed, but she was barking along with the other dogs.

Suddenly, I hear shrieking as the crazy one launches out of her house.
“BE QUIET! BE QUIET! YOU BE QUIET!”
I tried to become very, very small in my chair because 1) I know the lady is completely nuts and 2) this is playing into her whole barking pet peeve (she threatened some neighbors behind her with police calls and she was proud of that).
Then she hollers, and I don’t know how she knew I was there without peeking through the wooden fence, and that creeps me out a bit, “Can you PLEASE keep your dog quiet?!?!”
I responded in a fairly flip way because I don’t respond to being screamed at and Sam really isn’t a barker, “I will try!”
“You will try or I will call the police and ….” in her most indignant tone.
I didn’t hear the rest of what she said because she pushed every crazy button in me and I was starting to shake.
I managed a very loud, “OK!”
I have a pretty terrible temper and should probably go through some anger management training, but every time someone pushes me to the point where I think I need that I get angrier because they don’t feel compelled to go see a counselor to learn “how not to piss Beth off.” So needless to say, my “conversation” with Insane Julie was over because from that moment forward I was only capable of a few monosyllabic words (which is not a euphemism for swearing - although some of those words would have been colorful). When I’m that mad, I return to a more simple state where I can only speak a handful of sentences and facts go straight out the window (it’s something you’d have to see since I can’t describe it well). The best course of action for me at that point is to walk away.

In I come seething from the injustice of it all. In my mind, at least, I’m one of those “good neighbors” – I’m quiet, we take care of our yard and we generally don’t bother other people. We especially don’t bother with crazy Julie because she’s gossipy and generally one of those “negative” people you don’t need in your life – everything for her is miserable and trying and you don’t want to be a part of that. Also, in my mind, is that I have possibly the best dog in the world and as a new beagle mom, it pisses me off that anyone would suggest that Sam is nothing but lovely. Sure, she barks… she’s a dog, but she’s outside 4-5 times a day in 10-15 minute spurts and when she’s out there, we don’t let her go completely crazy with the barking and she generally doesn’t. She’s mostly out there sniffing around and wagging her tail quietly checking to make sure we haven’t snuck back into the house. Occasionally she catches a scent and does her hound thing (baying) as she sniffs it out and sometimes she does charge crazy Julie’s fence to bark at her poodle (that obscene beast that raced from their yard onto my porch snarling and snapping at Sam the first day I took her on a walk), but we typically don’t let Sam bark at that ratty thing because of crazy Julie.

I was mad all day, glaring at the TV and Jay would say things like, “Beth, don’t dwell, you’re just getting angrier” while I mumbled, “I’m not dwelling, I’m highly focused on this Cialis commercial” – he didn’t buy it. Then there was, “Beth, all of this energy is wasted – she can’t feel your anger” so I imagined putting all of my bad thoughts into a swirling black energy ball and bouncing it off her head. The bad side is we got so mad, that Sam was noticeably upset. There was lots of dropping to the floor trying to reassure her that she was a very good dog, but she wasn’t buying it.

The plan today is to go to the movies, get out of the house and not think about miserable Julie any more. If she calls the police, which we think is more of a threat than anything since we’re about 90% sure she’d be embarrassed to have them at her house, we’ll talk to them. (We researched our city’s ordinances and we’re very confident that we are in the right.) If she threatens again, we may call them out just to have them show up to verify Sam’s level of barking. (Why should they save the city when they can spend a few minutes listening to Sam?) Other than that, Jay says I can’t do anything more and I should probably stop thinking of my ideas as “great ideas”. L

If I try to put this all into perspective, I guess she’s not the worst neighbor. That honor goes to my friend Jerry whose downstairs neighbor came up to scream at he and his roommate for dripping poison on him through the floorboards of their apartment as the guy slept. Although, it makes me believe that Julie’s true love is out there waiting for her somewhere in Manhattan.

I still hate her though.

Beyond Please & Thank You

Beyond Please & Thank You

Where have our manners gone? Are they speeding towards some black hole in cyberspace replaced with “kk now thx’s” as we enjoy our newly found freedom to express each mental belch without fear of repercussions thanks to our online anonymity? And are these newly evolving online bad habits subsequently leaking into our real lives where we easily forget such niceties as a “please” or a “thank you” selfishly assuming life’s gifts are now our due? Is it time to reinvent and follow the teachings of a modern Miss Manners in the cyber age? And will the social elite be the final guardians for civility while we devolve into hunting the Ralph’s of the world with their quaint needs to cling to these archaic notions of proper behavior? Should we then set up a spike with a pig’s head (how appropriate) and get to worshipping? In lieu of Miss Manners, I offer this swift kick – my small list of manner adjustments in my preferred style “the rant”. It’s just some general advice to help you avoid your predestined, knuckle-dragging, rude end.

Say “thank you” even if you don’t want whatever it is, just be grateful that someone thought of undeserving you at all. I’m not saying you have to fold whatever it is up, make a hat out of it and wear it on your head – just a simple “thank you” will suffice. Teach your kids to say “thank you”. It helps ensure they continue to get gifts, graduation money and help with that first car. When kids can’t acknowledge a gift either by themselves or through the help of their parents, I don’t feel obliged to continue to send them since I’m not a toy dispenser for ingrates. Rude kids grow up to be rude adults.

Say “bless you” when someone sneezes. It’s ok that you’re not a member of the clergy and may not feel empowered to bless – just do it. You’ll still be welcome back to your faerie rings by invoking a blessing upon someone. And don’t embellish, enhance or otherwise modify the blessing. If you want to add “… and may Grunthor the Mighty Blow Sweet Dream Kisses into Your Eternal Night…” resist that urge. Say it in your little thought-bubble and move on.

Acknowledge major life events. You can occasionally slide on a birthday, but try to pretend to notice the big ones – births, deaths, marriages, certain people’s 40th birthday party plans in Dublin (hey, a girl can dream and how kick ass would it be if we all got together in a pub in Ireland) – send a card, an e-mail, make a phone call – anything. Otherwise, come Christmas, I won’t feel particularly obligated to sit at your table. Everyone who was there for me this past November 11th either virtually or physically, I would move the earth for you.

Respect your elders even if they’re crazy, drooling morons you bump into on the street and aren’t your cup of tea. It never hurts to be polite and move on. If your hairdresser can work 8 hours a day, 6 days a week listening to drivel from 100’s of clients without rolling her eyes, then you can listen to one adult’s story without visibly flinching. Teach your kids to respect their elders as well. Nothing makes my skin crawl more than some kid telling off an adult while their parents look on indulgently. I’m not suggesting you beat them on the spot, that’s why you have your own house. (NOTE: To the Child Protective Service workers among my friends and family who read my blog, I’m kidding – I don’t condone child abuse. You didn’t go wrong raising me.) Still, raise your child in a way that doesn’t make me ever question if a couple of years in a women’s prison with a cell mate/companion named Big Lolita might not be worth it to discipline your child. If you think your kid might be in jeopardy of being popped in the mouth for screaming at an adult particularly a relative, it’s time to act like a parent.

Learn to actively listen as people have listened to you. There are billions of stories to be told, learn to appreciate them for what they are. There is nothing more boorish than the one guy who constantly demands to be the center of attention – the guy who has no need for others, but insists they always listen to him. Try to remember that while you’re the lead actor in your own life’s play, you may just be an extra in someone else’s (and someone may not have bothered to give you any lines – suck it up).

Remember, how you do things is not always the way I do things. Sure, you may have the best way ever to wipe down a counter. In my house, I don’t care. If I make mud pie differently than you do, it’s still mud pie – don’t correct me on the preparation. If I drive in a way that you wouldn’t drive, shut up or get out of my car. Be thankful that I’m cleaning the counters, preparing dessert and not jeopardizing your life. See, it’s why you have friends so you can run home and tell them all about my little kitchen/driving oddities and rest assured I’ll be doing the same.

And finally my last pet peeve of the moment – house guests. If you plan to have people stay at your house, be prepared. Guests need things like drinks, food, sleeping accommodations, fresh linens, clean towels, soap in the shower and on occasion activities planned (although, I once showed in Manhattan just to be a bum and was told, “if I come home and you’re still bumming around on the couch, you’re in trouble” – that was the day I had the best time at the MOMA, but I digress). If you know what your guests drink, have it on hand. Have food available, people can’t live on multi-flavored candy canes for days on end while you head off to work (although, I do have it on the best authority they actually can).

I think I’m ranted out at the moment, but you get my drift. Please add your own manner pet peeves in the comments section below.